𓊆박성훈 x fem reader𓊇 💌 cheating, doctor sunghoon, nurse yn, risky sex, exhibism, kissing, blowjob, doggy style, reverse cowgirl, creampie, shameless shameless people... not proofread!
𓆩♡𓆪 it's been a hot minute since i wrote cheating and a smut :") so i'm so sorry if this is half-assed/bad <//3 i'm kinda busy lately, so i'm only able to give you short-short reads like this :< if you love it, pls shower it with love!
“oh! sunghoon ah!”
mrs. kim sat up on bed, her face lighting up despite the iv drip attached to her hand. “my son in law finally came to see me. they said you’re so busy you couldn’t even come and see your mother.”
sunghoon smiled politely, closing the door behind him as he approached the bed. “of course not, mom. i’ve just been swamped back to back. what happened this time? the report said you were admitted for high blood pressure again?”
she sighed dramatically, reaching out to hold his hand. “you know how it is… my body gets so stressed these days. the doctor said my heart rate keeps spiking—but it’s only because i worry too much about this family.”
she gave his hand a gentle squeeze, her thumb brushing over his knuckle. “but seeing you now… i already feel much better.”
sunghoon let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “are you stressed again? you promised me last time you’d take it easy.” his voice dropped into that gentle, concerned son in law, half doctor tone. “you can’t keep ending here. i’ll have to start making house calls.”
the older woman just laughed softly, her eyes lingering on her daughter’s husband's handsome face. “sure, sure. sooha is so lucky to have such a caring husband like you, sunghoon.”
the doctor just chuckled, before turning slightly to face you standing there by the curtain—tablet in hand, wearing your pretty little pink fitted nurse uniform, hair neatly tied in a bun.
“oh,” he said smoothly, placing his larger hand lightly on your lower back to bring you forward. “this is my nurse, yn. i assigned her to your case so she can keep a close eye on you when i’m not around.”
his palm stayed pressed against your lower back the entire time, fingers subtle stroking the fabric of your uniform in small, slow circles no one else could see. the heat from his hand seeped through the thin material.
mrs. kim smiled at you, tilting her head. “aw, you’re such a young and pretty one. how old are you, dear? you look too fresh to be working here.”
you bowed your head, trying to ignore the way your doctor’s thumb was now slowly tracing your spine. “thank you, ma’am… i’m only in my mid 20’s now.”
“only? so young and already so capable,” she said kindly, though her attention quickly drifted back to sunghoon. “i should’ve told sooha to take nursing too…”
you and sunghoon gave each other a look.
sunghoon just hummed in response, his hand still not moving from your back. in fact, he stepped a little closer to you, his body heat now brushing against your side as he pretended to check the monitor beside the bed.
“right—yn’s very capable, mom,” he murmured, fingers brushing over the tubing. his other fingers pressed a little firmer into your lower back, almost possessively. “very attentive. she’ll take care of you well.”
the way he said the last word made your thighs clench involuntarily.
his mother in law only chuckled, completely unaware of the tension crackling between the two of you. “well, if that’s how it is—then i feel much safer now.”
sunghoon smiled, finally sliding his hand down a few inches before he pulled it away.
“then yn, i’ll leave her to your care,” he turned to you with a soft smile. with his eyes still on you, he hummed. “i’ll come back later at night to check up on you.”
——
later that night, the hospital corridor lights had dimmed to the soft glow. the ward was quiet except for occasional beep of monitors.
you were helping mrs. kim settle into bed for the night—fluffing her pillow, adjusting the bed level, making sure her iv line wasn’t tangled. not the usual nurse duty, but this is the mother in law of of the chairman’s grandson, for gods sakes.
she’d been restless for the past hour.
as you tucked the blanket to her, mrs. kim suddenly groaned in pain, her face twisting. “... my chest feels tight again. it hurts…”
you immediately moved closer, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. “it’s okay. take slow breaths for me—i’m right here.”
she let out another soft groan, clutching the blanket. you checked her vitals, then spoke in a calm, soothing voice: “i’ll be in this room the whole night, so don’t worry at all. if the pain gets worse or you need anything, just call my name. i’ll be sitting right there on the couch beside your bed, okay?”
mrs. kim exhaled shakily and gave you a smile. “thank you, hun.”
after giving her some pain relief medication as per the chart and dimming the bedside lamp, you moved to the small couch near the window—you sat down with your laptop, updating notes, doing tasks.
the room fell into a heavy silence, only accompanied by mrs. kim’s occasional soft groans as she fall asleep.
twenty minutes passed.
then the door to the private ward clicked openly.
sunghoon stepped inside, still in his white coat, tie slightly loosened. his eyes scanned the darkened room before they landed on you sitting on the couch. a smirk tugged at his lips when he saw you there—his pretty little nurse sitting there with your legs crossed.
he closed the door behind him with a soft click.
“everything alright?” he asked, voice low so as not to wake his mother in law.
you nodded. “i just gave her some acetaminophen earlier.”
sunghoon walked closer, stopping just inches away from where you’re sitting. his tall frame towered over yours as he glanced at his mother in law sleeping form, then back to you. the dim night light cast shadows across his face.
without a word, he leaned down, placing both hands on the armrests of the couch, caging you in. his face was close to yours, and you could smell his clean cologne mixed with the scent of hospital.
“well… what about you?” he murmured, voice deep.
you tilted your head slightly. “what about me?”
sunghoon’s gaze dropped to your lips for a second before returning to your eyes. his arms flexed slightly as he leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
“how are you doing?”
a small, shy smile tugged at your lips as you moved your head to whisper back, “aside form missing you… i’m just really bored, i guess.”
the moment the words left your mouth, you felt the shift in him. a low, satisfied hum rumbled in his chest before one of his hands slowly slid up your thigh, fingers slipping under the hem of your pink uniform.
“bored?” he breathed against your ear. “that’s a shame. i’ve been thinking about you all day.”
his fingers continued their slow ascent, teasing the soft skin of your inner thigh as his mother in law slept just a few meters away. his other hand stayed planted on the armrest, keeping you trapped beneath him.
“taking care of my mother in law like i asked…” his lips ghosted along your jaw. you brought your arms up to wrap around his neck, pulling him in. “maybe i should reward you for being so good.”
his hand moved higher, fingertips brushing close to the edge of your panties just beneath your waistband.
“tell me… how quiet can you be?”
without another word, sunghoon cupped your face with his other hand and kissed you.
it wasn’t gentle.
his lips claimed yours instantly, deep and desperate from the long hours of work—starving for you. you whimpered softly into his mouth as he tilted your head back, kissing you harder, tongue sliding against yours with wet, heated strokes. the quiet sounds of your lips meeting filled the dim room—soft and filthy.
“i missed you too,” your doctor whispered between kisses, voice rough. “fuck, i miss you every day, baby.”
sunghoon kissed you again, slower this time, pouring every unspoken feeling into it. his other hand slid into your hair, loosening your neat bun until strands fell around your face. you clutched the front of his white coat, pulling him closer, hearts bearing wildly against each other.
while his tongue tangled with yours, sunghoon’s slender fingers moved down to the front of your pink nurse uniform. one by one, he popped the buttons open, knuckles brushing over the swell of your breasts as the fabric parted. he groaned quietly into your mouth when he saw your lazy bra underneath.
“so fucking pretty…” he breathed, kissing you deeper as he tugged the uniform open wider, exposing your chest and stomach to the aircond. his palm slid inside, cupping your breast over the lace, thumb stroking your nipple until it hardened under his touch.
you moaned softly against his lips—and he swallowed the sound, kissing you like he wished to devour you whole.
“you have no idea how crazy you make me,” sunghoon kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, down your neck while his hands roamed freely over your bare skin. another button came undone—until your uniform was completely open down the front, hanging off your shoulders.
sunghoon pulled back to look at you—flushed, lips swollen, uniform undone, chest rising and falling. his gaze was full of love and lust.
“god, you’re mine,” he whispered, leaning in to kiss you again, pecking all over your cheek and jaw—eliciting a soft giggle out of you. “mine, aren’t you?” he hummed, lips brushing your ear as he kissed you there too. “say it, baby.”
“i’m yours,” you breathed, tipping your head back. “only yours, hoonie.”
even with his wife’s mother sleeping just a few feet away, there was no guilt in his eyes—only that shameless hunger he always had for you. you two had long stopped pretending this was just an affair—not when it felt real. too real.
sunghoon kissed you once more on the lips then stood up, straight in front of the couch. the bulge in his slacks was obvious, straining against the fabric. without saying a word, sunghoon looked down at you with dark, expectant eyes and slowly unbuckled his belt.
the quiet clink of metal made your tummy flutter.
you didn’t need instructions. you pulled his zipper down and freed his hard cock—it sprang out heavy and thick, the tip already glistening with precum.
“fuck… look at it—” he murmured, one hand gently cradling the back of your head. “look how hard i am for you.”
you leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the head before wrapping your lips around him, taking him into your warm, wet mouth. sunghoon let out a quiet, shaky breath, jaw clenching as you started sucking him slowly.
“that’s it, shit… just like that,” he whispered, stroking your hair. his other hand rested on your cheek, thumb brushing your skin tenderly. you hummed around his cock, the vibration making his hips twitch. he kept his eyes on you the entire time—watching your pretty lips stretch around him, lashes fluttering, eyes twitching as you tried taking him as deep as you could.
your uniform still wide open and exposing your tits as you move your head.
sunghoon gently began rocking his hips, fucking your mouth with slow, deep thrusts, whispering soft praises the whole time.
“my girl. shit—your mouth feels s’good.”
he groaned quietly, fingering tightening in your hair as you took him even deeper, eyes watering but never breaking eye contact. it’s always hard to give sunghoon a blowjob—not with his size, and now with how hard it is to fit him in your mouth fully.
his hips twitched as he fought the urge to thrust deeper down and fuck your throat. your warm mouth worked him so perfectly.
“baby—fuck, wait,” he brathed, gently pulling you off his cock with a wet pop. a string of saliva connected your swollen lips to his throbbing tip. your eyebrows pinched in confusion, looking up at him. sunghoon breathed in hard, tugging down on his lip. “not yet. i don’t wanna cum in your mouth tonight.”
he helped you up and kissed you filthily, tasting himself on your tongue as he walked you backward. in one motion, sunghoon turned you around and bent you over the armrest of the couch.
sunghoon pushed your chest down against the couch cushion, arching your back nicely so your ass was up and presented to him. he stood behind you, one hand gripping your hip while the other slowly pushed your pants and panties down your thighs.
the position was nasty—risky as hell. mrs. kim was sleeping just a few metres away, and if she woke up even a little, she’d have a clear, first hand view of her son in law fucking his nurse from behind like this.
holy fuck—that’s hot.
sunghoon wrapped his hand around the base, rubbing his thick cockhead between your wet folds, coating himself in your slick. they kissed like lovers too—a string of juice connected from the lips to the tip.
“‘m so wet for you, hoonie,” you moaned, pussy twitching in neediness. sunghoon chuckled, leaning over your back and pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades. “really?” he hummed in satisfactory, nudging his cockhead to your entrance.
“my pretty little nurse is this soaked just from sucking me off?”
he kept rubbing the head in slow, filthy circles, pressing it against your hole only to pull back again, making you whimper in frustration. you pushed your ass back against him.
“please…” you whispered, voice shaking. “i need you inside me already.”
sunghoon kissed the back of your neck, licking a stripe of it. “my mother in law’s sleeping just right there, baby,” he whispered against your neck, clearly enjoying how shameless you both were. “you really do love this cock more than anything, don’t you?”
you groaned softly, hips twitching. “s—stop teasing… i love you more, hoonie.”
with a soft grunt from him at that confession, he finally pushed the head in—stretching you open before pulling out again, repeating the motion until your thighs trembled, and until your pussy was ready to take him whole.
“fuck, you’re so cute when you’re this needy,” he whispered, burying himself deep inside you, stretching your walls around his thick length. you both moaned quietly—yours muffled into the couch cushion, his against the back of your neck.
“so big, you’re s’big,” you whimpered, fingers clutching the fabric. sunghoon groaned, pressing his lips against your skin. “no, baby—you’re just too tight… pussy made for me.”
your doctor started fucking you with deep, steady strokes, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, the wet sounds of your bodies connecting obscenely loud in the quiet hospital room.
your tits were pressed against the couch as he railed you from behind. sunghoon leaned over you, one hand gripping your hip while the other reached around to rub your clit in tight circles.
“you’re fucking dripping, baby,” he breathed hotly against your ear, hips snapping harder. “i can hear how sloppy your pussy is for me.”
you could only moan in response, pushing your ass back to meet his thrusts, just as horny and addicted as he was to you. every deep stroke hit that perfect spot inside, making your eyes roll back.
sunghoon bit down on your shoulder, leaving love and teeth marks as he picked up the pace, fucking you a little harder.
“i love you so much,” he rasped, pounding his confession into you. “i don’t give a fuck about anything else, right now.”
your pussy convulsed around his cock, wrapping around him like a vice. sunghoon straightened up slightly, gripping both your hips now as he started giving you nastier strokes—pulling you back onto his cock with every thrusts and watching the way your ass rippled against his pelvis.
you’re trying so hard to stay quiet, but it felt too good. “hoonie,, fuck—” you moaned breathily. “you’re so deep… i can feel you so deep inside me.”
“yeah?” he groaned, pounding into your harder until he swore the couch was going to move. “you like that, baby?”
before you could answer, mrs. kim let out a low groan in her sleep, shifting slightly under the blanket. you both froze for a second, hearts pounding. sunghoon didn’t pull out. instead, he stayed buried balls–deep inside you, slowly grinding his cock against your walls.
when his mother in law settled again, you whimpered desperately.
“hoonie, i’m so wet it’s dripping down,” you whispered, hips trembling. “i get so horny when you’re around.”
sunghoon cursed under his breath at your filthy words. he suddenly pulled out, making you whine at the emptiness—only to turn you around. he sat on the couch and pulled you onto his lap, back against his chest.
your eyes widened—legs spread wide over his thighs as he lined himself up and sank you back down onto his cock. the new position made him feel even bigger.
he wrapped one arm around your waist, the other groped your tits, squeezing and kneading them roughly as he started fucking up into you.
“fuck, i love these tits s’much,” he groaned, lips attacking your neck. he kissed you sloppily, tongue sliding into your mouth as he bounced you on his cock. “i get so pissed off when i think of you doing checkups on men,”
—which was the reason why you became his nurse.
you moaned into the kiss, grinding down on him. your hand held his arm around your waist, the other snaked up to cup his head. “hoonie, ngh—s—she’s going to wake up any time now,” you panted between kisses.
sunghoon shook his head. “it’s fine, she won’t.” he reassured so confidently, one hand massaging and pinching your nipples while the other slid between your legs to rub your clit.
the overstimulation was sending you up to the clouds—sunghoon kept hitting your cervix, his textured cock dragging against your velvety walls. “fuck, right there,” your head fall back against his shoulder. “i—i’m going to cum, hngh—babe”
“do it—cum on my cock,” he rasped against your ear, thrusting up harder. “let me feel this pussy squeeze me.”
“i love you—shit, i love you,” you whimpered, toes curling inwards.
sunghoon groaned deeply, fucking you deep and fast till your tits bounced in his hand.
“i’m close,” he panted, forehead against your shoulder. “‘m gonna cum inside you, baby. want me to fill this pretty pussy up?”
“yes—yesyesyesyes, please,” you whimpered, holding the back of your knees to steady yourself. “cum inside me, hoonie. want it so bad—want you s’bad.”
sunghoon squeezed your cheeks to make you face him—kissing you hard, tongues messily sliding together as his thrusts turned short, desperate, and deep. his other hand kept rubbing your clit, tugging the little pea.
mrs. kim groaned softly again in her sleep, but neither of you stopped. sunghoon just fucked you harder, the wet slapping sounds getting louder.
“fuck—i’m cumming,” he graoned against your mouth. “take it all, baby. take my cum—”
with a deep, shaky thrust, sunghoon buried himself as deep as possible and came hard. thick, warm ropes of cum spilled inside you, pulse after pulse, filling you up completely. he kept grinding, pushing his load deeper while kissing you through his orgasm, moaning into each others’ mouths.
you whimpered at the feeling of being so full, clenching around him as you came right after, pussy milking every last drop.
the doctor stayed inside you even after he finished, breathing heavily as he pressed soft kisses to the side of your cheek.
“i love you,” he hummed, nuzzling into the warmth of your neck. his cum slowly leaking out around his cock.
——
“alright—! you’re all good, mrs. kim!” you smiled, handing the papers to her. “blood pressure is stable, vitals are normal. you can go home today.”
sunghoon smiled as well, standing next to you. “no more being stressed over small things, yeah, mom?”
mrs. kim sighed in relief, but then her face scrunched up slightly.
“thank you, hun… but ugh… i think i had such a strange nightmare last night,” she muttered, rubbing her temple. “is this hospital haunted or something, sunghoon? i kept hearing weird sounds… it felt so real. did you hear it, yn?”
the two of you froze.
a brief, knowing look passed between you two. the corner of sunghoon’s lips twitched upward into the tiniest smirk before he quickly hid it with the back of his hand.
you bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from smiling.
“n—no? not at all… there were no such sounds, mrs. kim…” you replied, shaking your head.
sunghoon cleared his throat. “...ah, hospitals can be noisy at night. don’t worry about it, mom. get plenty of rest at home—i’ll come visit soon.”
she nodded obliviously, smiling.
“about time, hm? sooha’s always complaining how lonely she is,” she shook her head, teasing. then, mrs. kim turned to you, extending her arm to rub your forearm. “thank you for taking care of me. i’ll invite you to dinner, sometime soon.”
you nodded, blood creeping up your cheeks. you held her hand fondly, shaking it.
( 박성훈 ) ⓘ 𝑺𝑴𝑼𝑻! ⋆ handjob ⋆ implied fingering ⋆ teasing ⋆ praise ⋆ dirty talk ⋆ pet names ⋆ fwb!sunghoon vibes ⋆ swearing ⋆ first time : 554
──── in which ︵ bfs!sunghoon is teaching you how to give a handjob.
✩now playing -right here | justin bieber | - ✩viewmasterlist to check out my other works!
“just—juust like that, fuck, hold it a little tighter." sunghoon rasped, his hand covered yours over his shaft to guide your movements. "f-fuck--" his word trailed off into a low moan when you squeezed his shaft a bit more like he instructed, his lips parting to let out shaky breaths.
this all happened so abruptly.
you never would have thought a simple, jokingly asked, question about how to do a hand job would lead to this. sunghoon, himself, knew that he was getting too into it even though it was just to help you learn in a hands-on kind of way. his hips threatened to buck into your hand and his breathing grew shallower with each stroke.
"fuuuck." sunghoon breathed out, his eyes closing briefly before opening again, locking eyes with you. "w-wait i’m close." he tried to stop your hand, his fingers wrapping around your wrist, but you didn’t stop. your hand kept on pumping his length — hell, even faster than before.
a few seconds later, his resolve shattered and sunghoon couldn’t stop himself from fucking your fist. he was far too gone with pleasure to care about the little hitches in his breath or the needy sounds bubbling in his chest.
"fuck-fuc—" he choked out when he felt the bands in his abdomen grow increasingly taut; right on the verge of exploding.
"oh! sh-shit-shit-shit! m’gonna cum!" sunghoon gasped out quickly, his hand leaving your wrist to grip the couch cushions with both hands as his hips twitched and jerked erratically with each stroke of your hand on his swelling shaft.
his body tensed — stilling when he suddenly felt his orgasm crash over him. a low, drawn out moan left his lips as rope after rope of warm cum spurted out of his tip and onto your hand and his pelvis, making a sticky mess. his brows were furrowed in pleasure, eyes squeezed shut and mouth open in a small ‘o’. his hips gave weak thrusts into your hand as he rode out his high and the sight left your panties absolutely drenched.
a question slipped out before you could think twice.
"can you teach me how to finger myself?" sunghoon’s eyes snapped open at the sudden question, his jaw slowly dropping as he stared at you, trying to process what you just asked. you cursed at yourself internally at the absurdity and uncurled your fingers from his shaft, gently taking your hand away before taking a few tissues from the tissue box beside sunghoon to wipe your hands off of his cum.
after a few tense seconds, he finally spoke, his voice slightly hoarse from the intense orgasm you gave him. "well, since you… you know, gave me a handjob, i guess it’s only fair if i return it, no?" you blinked at him in surprise, not expecting him to actually say yes.
"well, then, get on the couch, sweetheart." sunghoon watched you comply, sitting down on the couch beside him. he took a few tissues and cleaned himself up before pulling his boxers and pants back up.
"oh, and take off those pretty little shorts — i’ll teach you everything i know." he cooed before sitting down beside you, ready to teach you whatever you wanted to learn.
pairing ⟡ vampire!sunghoon x f!reader & husband!jake x f!reader
summary ⟡ Despite the night terrors that have haunted you for years, you’ve achieved everything a God-honouring woman should want: a husband who loves you dearly, a white picket fence, and the certainty of a perfect future together in your new quiet little town. However, a certain pale-faced neighbour reminds you a little too much of the eerie presence that plagues your restless nights.
18+ mdni ⚠︎ smut with plot, gothic horror/thriller, angst, hurt/comfort, small town au, established relationship (jake), vampire/human relationship (sunghoon), implied major character death, religious imagery & trauma, bible quotes, traditional gender roles & marriage, purity culture critique, loss of faith, slightly patronizing partner dynamic, night terrors, ambiguous ending, sexually repressed reader, infidelity, soul bonds, mildly obsessive love, dubcon: sexual coercion (via soul-contract), biting, blood drinking, physical restraint, vampire venom as aphrodisiac, animal death mentioned, predator/prey dynamic, multiple smut scenes, p in v sex, unprotected sex, handjobs, fingering, loss of virginity, slight somnophilia, dacryphilia, choking, rough sex, praise kink, mild degradation kink
FEAT. niki as a vampire lore-obsessed teen
wc ⟡ 31.6k
inspo & creds ⟡ thank you so much to my lovely mutual @seongjesdoll who inspired me with their fic right here please go read it! this fic is also heavily inspired by Nosferatu.
a/n ⟡ this is very different from what I usually write but I adored experimenting with horror/thriller as a genre! this idea hit me like a truck months ago. this has been in the works for a while so I’m soso glad to finally share
please note ⟡ if you are uncomfortable with heavy subject matter such as dubcon, horror, death, themes of religion and purity culture… do not read this!
"...in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, do you promise to be faithful? To love him and to honour him all the days of your life?"
"I do."
You'd waited for it since you were a young girl. To walk down the aisle, daylight seeping through stained-glass, in a dress of pure white. You'd imagined your hand in his, fingers intertwined, warmly encompassed in safety and certainty—your shared kiss in the chapel, a declaration of your promise not only to him, but to God.
A husband, a family, love. The life every good girl prayed for. You prayed for it too, with your hands folded, head bowed, voice steady.
But what you imagined most, in the silence after the amen, was the thing no prayer could sanctify.
"...But each person is tempted when they are dragged away by their own evil desire and enticed. Then, after desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, gives birth to death."
Your Sunday school teacher had read the verse aloud with the patient severity of someone delivering a warning she hoped you'd never need. She'd looked at you, it seemed, and said that desire was a seed planted in the heart, that what began as a thought could grow into something monstrous, that a woman who let lust take root would one day reap a harvest of ruin.
You'd nodded, hands neatly folded on the desk, terrified by the image of something dark and living growing inside you. You'd tried not to think about the heat already stirring in places you had no name for, the tiny seed you could already feel pressing against the soil of your heart, waiting to split open.
The truth was that while other girls spoke of their desires for true love, for the miracle of childbirth, and motherhood, you desired something too shameful to say aloud.
Your mind always drifted to the impure. Instead of exchanging vows, you dreamed of how your future husband would lay you down the night after your wedding. You'd thought of how his hands would feel pressed against your bare skin, always hidden under long skirts and sleeves—his lips, worshiping you in places no good girl should dream of. How he'd relieve that ever present ache between your legs that never seemed to dissipate and claim your innocence.
You'd thought of it so much, it began to rot you from the inside.
Many times, you'd held back tears during Sunday service, ashamed of the filth that plagued your mind in the holy place of worship of all places. The hymns would rise around you—Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus Dominus Deus Sabaoth—and you'd mouth the words while your thoughts drifted to the heat of an imagined touch, the weight of a body you'd never felt. You'd clench your thighs beneath your Sunday dress and beg God, silently, desperately, to scrub your mind clean.
In your sleepless nights, to avoid temptation, you'd rise from the bed, hands clasped together in prayer before your bedroom window. You'd leave it wide open, in hopes that the frigid wind would cool down the heat inside you. And though you trembled in your nightgown, goosebumps on every surface of your skin, it could never quite quell the fire that never burned out.
At first, you prayed for it to stop. You prayed for purity. Then, you prayed for numbness, believing you'd rather feel nothing at all. Alas, God granted neither, and you began to question which of the two dawning terrors was more catastrophic: the possibility that He wasn't listening at all, or the possibility that He simply did not care.
You knelt until your knees were bruised, you whispered prayers until they turned into sobbing pleas for mercy. There was only so much you could take until you began to lose faith—not just in God, but in yourself.
It was only then, in a moment of desperation, of utter helplessness, that you pleaded for something else:
"I beg of you," you whispered into the night, and whether it reached God, or for something else entirely, you did not care anymore. "If you cannot make this feeling stop, then I beg for relief."
Through the white curtains, you felt a presence. There was no face, no silhouette, no sound other than the howling wind. Yet, you looked up, as if to meet someone's gaze. As if something stood there, watching you.
A chill ran down your spine, and not as a result of the winter air seeping into your bones.
You don't remember a voice. You do, however, remember a silent promise: relief, in exchange for you, eternally.
Eternity. You knew what it meant. Heaven. Hell. The soul's unending life before God or in exile from Him.
You were old enough to know better. Desperate enough not to care.
Every night, then after, he came to you in dreams. You envisioned bits and pieces: a tall silhouette, cold fingertips, an ever-present stare. You saw visions of your own blood dripping down your neck, staining your night clothes. You felt his sharp teeth pierce your flesh as he ravaged you, corrupted you, made a sin of your body and had you begging for more every single time.
Your eyes rolled back in ecstasy, your fingers curled around your bedsheets, and when it finished, you awoke in a cold sweat. You, alone. Your window, closed. And your body, still untouched, still sacred despite the obscene wetness between your thighs, and the way your body trembled from the aftermath of your high.
Relieved, you were, to no longer repress your lustful urges. Horrified, you were, to realize you'd given into your darkest desires, pleasure coaxed out of you by the hands of something sinister.
"Look at you. My beautiful wife."
Jake hovers atop you, the cross at his neck hovering just above your face. Everything was as god intended. Two untouched children of the lord, about to make love on their marital bed, in a home they should hope to raise a family in. For the first time in many nights, the moonlight didn't feel so unholy.
"My beautiful husband," you mirror his adoration, heart beating so fast you fear it might leap out of your chest. "I love you."
His fingers lace with yours, his palms clammy and shaking. He's nervous, as are you. He'd told you as much before you even reached the bed.
"I love you, too," he whispers.
He leans down to kiss you, different from the kiss you shared in the chapel. No longer did you have to settle for quick, chaste pecks. You feel his tongue, his desperation, years of pent-up desire reaching its limit.
Hand still interlocked with yours, he enters you slow and restrained, a gasp leaving his lips, as it does yours.
Everything is as it should be. As God said it should be. You should be overcome with joy. The world should still around you, heaven should open, and some sacred part of you should be remade forever.
It doesn't. The reality is much quieter. A body receiving another body, and nothing more.
Instead, you feel discomfort—sharp and immediate. And it’s not just the physical kind that mothers warn their daughters about before their wedding nights. Your skin crawls, your stomach tightens, and suddenly the world is collapsing. Everything aches. Your head, your heart, the space between your thighs where your body refuses to yield, refuses to feel, refuses to let you forget even for a moment that you belong to something else.
You can't help but think that your husband, basking in his euphoric glow, deserves someone untainted.
Tears stream down your cheeks before you can choke them back, and at the immediate sight of it, he pulls out of you. Cradling you in his arms, he soothes you, gently asks if he’s hurt you. If there’s anything he can do. You shake your head, your sobs turning to whispered apologies.
He holds you close all night, and you cling to him like you're trying to crawl under his skin, hoping Jake will shield you from the inevitable terrors of the night. Because you know, deep down, even after all of this, you'll still feel its presence in your dreams. Its cold, harsh grasp, its teeth, its predatory gaze.
But tonight, the boundary between dream and waking feels thin. As you lie awake, Jake softly snoring at your side, you feel it. That presence. That feeling you've never been able to explain, something better described as an instinct or a sixth sense.
Through the window, half-lidded and drifting, you search for reassurance. Instead, you find a pair of eyes in the dark. A shadow, watching you. You jerk upright, heart hammering, but in the blink of an eye, with a flicker of movement, you find nothing.
“Sweetheart?” You hear Jake's groggy voice at your side, an arm tugging at yours, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, just…” Your breath rises and falls, watching the tree branches drift with the howling wind, watching the snow pile up on the edge of the window. “Thought I saw something.”
He pulls you back down to the bed, kisses pressed to the back of your neck. You allow yourself to relax in his arms, the weight of slumber pulling you under.
You make it through the night. You always do. And this time, you wake up in a pair of warm, loving arms, rather than the shivering cold of your childhood twin bed, which you'd been accustomed to for years. You're thankful at least that in spite of your nightmares, your husband is a daydream.
A week was all you had for a honeymoon, if you could even call it that.
You'd told each other you didn't need a vacation. A honeymoon seemed frivolous when you already had everything you wanted: a house, a ring, a future together. You told each other there would be time for travel later. You have forever, after all.
So, straight into your new home you were, ready to build your life together. Your two weeks of time together were mostly spent unpacking boxes and pretending to help your husband build IKEA furniture. Really, you were mostly there to gawk at how attractive he looks when he gets mad at poorly designed instruction manuals.
Though the time slips through your fingers, and suddenly there are no more late mornings tangled in his arms, slow afternoons with nowhere to be, and evenings fumbling in the dark, learning the strange and sacred shape of intimacy.
You'd come to depend on the safety of his presence, the way his breathing beside you kept the dreams at bay. Selfishly, desperately, you did not want to lose it.
"Please don't leave," you whine like a child, rising from the bed.
He adjusts his tie in the full-length mirror at the corner of your bedroom, and your hands snake around his waist from behind, fingers clawing into the fabric of his shirt. You bury your face into his back, just breathing in his presence before you knew it'd inevitably slip away.
"And miss my first day at the office?" He chuckles, an amused smile playing at his lips.
Finished with his tie, he takes your hands, twirling you once before pulling you against him. His mouth finds your neck, then your jaw, then your lips. You melt into the shape of him, this body you're still learning, still marvelling at. But he pulls away all too soon.
"I can't support my wife and our future kids if I get myself fired."
"I know," you pout, following him out of the room, into the hall, hand still grasping his. "But what am I supposed to do here all alone?"
The question is smaller than the fear beneath it. While it is true that here, alone in a new neighbourhood without any real housework to be done yet, you're at a loss with what to do with your time, you both know the real reason why you're gripping his fingers like a child at the school gates: Your terrors, your anxieties and your skittish nature, once soothed and coddled by your parents, had now become Jake's responsibility to tend to, and you are petrified of being alone with your thoughts for the first time in your life.
"You could call your family?" He glances back at you as you both descend the stairs, his hand sliding along the banister.
"My mom has called me every day since the wedding," you deadpan.
He huffs a laugh and turns into the front hall. You reach the coat rack before he does, fetching his coat while he sits on the bench to lace his boots.
"You could go into town?"
"By myself?" You try to make it sound like a joke. It doesn't work.
He stands. You hold the coat open behind him, and he slides his arms in with a small, grateful sound. Then his gaze drifts past you, through the glass of the front door, to the house across the street. A mother is sending her children off, their school bags bright against the white, snowy morning.
"What if you go around and meet the neighbours?"
It isn't a terrible idea. In fact, trying to make new friends in the neighbourhood is what you should be trying to do, as a new couple looking to start their life there. And though ideally, you'd prefer to have your much more socially competent husband alongside you to do the task, you suppose it's about time you start facing your fears alone.
One messy kitchen and a batch of cookies later, you're wrapping up a small bag for each house on your small, quiet street, smiling behind your wool scarf as you ring the bell to the house across the street.
The first house is easy. A middle-aged couple, grateful and brief. The second is an elderly man who mistakes you for a door-to-door salesman. The third, a woman with six cats and one furious white Persian that hisses at you through the screen door until you retreat.
It all blurs together until you reach the end of the street, with only one bag and one house remaining.
You'd be lying if you said you hadn't saved this house for last. Something about it triggered that feeling inside you that you'd grown used to. A dark curiosity that you'd come to fear.
It isn't just the architecture either. Every home on this street is old. That was part of the appeal, why you and Jake had chosen to live here. You preferred something real, something with history. This one, however, feels like the kind of history you don't want to pry into. The kind of spookiness that children sense from the sidewalk and dare their friends to go up to, just to knock on the door and run before anyone answers.
It towers over the neighbouring roofs as if to assert its dominance, shouldering them aside. You don't like the way the entire premise was encompassed by a black, metal gate, and you like it even less now as the sun begins to set—one of the many unfortunate parts about winter; how the sun sets late afternoon, allowing the dark to creep up on you too soon. You hate the dark.
It's all just in your head, surely. Every house in this neighbourhood has an older look and feel, and you're certain that the people living in there are nothing but normal—perhaps even kind. All you have to do is ring the bell, give them the cookies, and leave. It's no big deal.
You nearly laugh at yourself out loud. You're a grown adult, for god's sake, there is no reason to be scared.
With a falsely confident stride, you push past the gates, walking across a jagged cobblestone path. Though you tremble with each step.
Something doesn't feel right, but you remind yourself it's as real as your nightmares—which is to say, not real at all. Your nightmares, the years of psychological torment, it's all in your head. It always has been.
With the sun just about dipping below the horizon, you ring the doorbell, standing before the heavy double doors. You then knock and, for a second, you are relieved to hear nothing back until the doors open with a loud groan. Though you don't see anyone at all, eyes carefully scanning the dimly lit entryway. Your hands curl around the bag in your hands.
"Hello?" You call out, not yet taking a step. "I'm the new neighbour from across the street.”
Silence.
“I… I made cookies.” Your voice echoes into the hall, and you swallow your nerves. “But, if you don't want to be bothered, I totally understand. I can just leave here and be on my way."
You wait a few seconds, hovering in the doorway, and the silence stretches.
You want to leave. Every part of you is screaming at you to turn on your heel and run far, far away. But they'd opened the door for you. You'd made your presence known already. You're standing right there with the cookies in your hand, for God's sake. You can’t just leave now.
Briefly, you wonder what Jake would do. He'd probably walk in with a confident stride and a smile. He'd charm them easily, have them laughing in minutes and get swept up in conversation for hours.
Stupid, you think. You're fine. Completely fine. Just go inside.
You glance around again. The shoe room is empty, save for a small table that stands just beside the door, close enough. And in a split second, you devise your plan: You’ll set them down and immediately leave with your obligations fulfilled, and avoid seeming like a rude, doorbell-ditching neighbour. It’s perfect. Foolproof. Simple.
You step forward, arm extending toward the table, already planning your retreat.
Then the door slams shut behind you.
"Welcome."
The voice comes from directly behind you. You spin, a strangled sound catching in your throat, and there he is—a silhouette pooled in the darkness beside the doorframe, so close you don't understand how you missed him. He must have opened the door. He must have been standing there the whole time, shielded by the shadow of the door, watching you step past him.
"My apologies," he says, stepping aside, the candlelight giving you a proper view of his face. "I've just woken up, and my eyes are sensitive to the sun. I did not mean to startle you,"
Though your heart is pounding through your chest, and you feel like your legs will give out at any moment, you are oddly comforted by his the sight of him. A young man, tall and pale, not much older than yourself and quite strikingly beautiful. You've never seen his face before, though you think it looks strangely familiar, as if you've known him a long time. You’re staring. And though you are aware of it, you don’t tear your gaze away.
"Are these for me?" He looks down at your hand, where you hold your cookies close to your chest.
Wordlessly, you nod, extending your hand. Though you don't expect him to lower his head, his face dipping towards your outstretched hand, the tip of his nose barely grazing the pulse at your wrist.
He inhales.
The sound is soft, barely audible, and his eyes close for a fraction of a second.
They open again, and they find yours, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. There’s a sharpness to his gaze, and it cuts straight through the cold, a dull, traitorous warmth blooming in your lower stomach.
"Smells delicious."
"Thank you," you squeak, shrinking under his gaze.
"My dear," his head tilts, brows furrowing, "You're trembling. You must've been out in the cold a while."
"Yes, well..." You glance toward the door. "Well, I—"
"I would hate to send you back out there." He takes the bag from your hands before you can finish, the motion smooth, unhurried. "Why don't you stay for tea?"
"Oh! Gosh, no, I couldn't possibly impose—"
"I insist."
As if he were commanding you, you find yourself staying, seated on an old-looking couch, the fireplace cackling, warming your chilled hands. Though it does nothing to ease your trembling. The grandfather clock in the corner ticks every second.
Soon, a small teacup is set down in front of you, as he pours both of you a cup from the pot. You look up as he sits himself across from you, face to face, and your palms dig into the couch cushion.
"I must admit, I'm quite delighted to have a visitor," he crosses one leg over the other, his posture upright, poised. It makes you straighten yourself out, embarrassed by your poor manners. "It's been a very long time. You said you moved here across the street?"
"Ah, Yes. My husband and I just moved." You raised your hand to show your ring finger. "Actually, we also just got married."
"Newlyweds. Congratulations," his voice is smooth, "What made the two of you move here?"
"Well, we're not from too far. Just across the southern river. And we looked at houses closer to home but... Something about this neighbourhood felt right. So we decided to start our life here." you smile briefly at the memory, "It's quieter here. Better for raising children—well, eventually, of course. Hopefully."
You falter, the mention of children suddenly feeling far too intimate for a conversation with a man you met three minutes ago. There's a brief, expressionless pause before his mouth curves into a smile.
"It is a nice neighbourhood." He hums in agreement, "Very safe."
"Exactly."
The conversation lulls, and you use the moment to glance around the room. It's grand, immaculate, every piece of furniture polished to a dark gleam. There's no clutter. No photographs on the mantle. No second mug drying on the drainboard. The silence of the house surrounds you, deep and undisturbed.
Your eyes drift back to him. His hands were folded neatly around his teacup. Pale, long-fingered, ever so still. No ring.
It catches you off guard. A man like this, who is wealthy, well-spoken, and irrefutably beautiful in a way that makes your stomach feel strange, and yet he lives alone in a house like this. There should be a wife. There should be children.
Unless there's something wrong with him.
The thought surfaces before you can stop it. You're being judgmental. He's been nothing but polite. He invited you in from the cold. He made you tea. If he's a bachelor, that's his business. Maybe he's shy, maybe he prefers solitude, maybe he's simply never found the right person.
You don't ask. A married woman doesn't comment on another man’s status. The whole line of thought is dangerous, a door you shouldn’t open.
His eyes are on you now, steady and watchful. Too watchful.
You drop your gaze to your untouched teacup to distract yourself, and the grandfather clock ticks.
Then, he laughs. Sheepishly, you watch as he takes a sip of his tea.
"I did not poison it, I promise,” he says, setting the cup down with a clink.
"Oh!" You gape, "No, no. I did not think—I mean, I did not mean to offend you, Mr. ...?"
"Please, call me Sunghoon."
"Sunghoon, then," you let out a sigh, "I'm sorry. I'm easily startled or, as my husband would say, 'a bit of a scaredy-cat,' but I really do appreciate you inviting me in."
"No offence taken. I understand. This is a pretty scary house," he laughs lightly, his voice dropping ever slightly, "and you are a vulnerable young lady."
You laugh nervously at his last comment, certain that he intended well. But it only makes you feel uneasy. Instinctively, your hand goes to the dainty cross at your neck. A habit you'd developed over the years.
"That is to say, you have every right to have your suspicions. And if I were your husband, I wouldn't take your safety so lightly." You don't miss the way his eyes move from you, down to your neck, "He is a very lucky man."
His eyes remain on your throat. You can feel them there, cool and steady, like a fingertip resting just above your pulse. The cross seems to warm under his attention—or perhaps that's your skin, flushing with a heat you don't want to name. Your fingers stay wrapped around the little gold chain, clutching it as if it can shield you from something you can't quite see.
Stop it, you tell your body. Stop it, stop it, stop it.
You hold it so tightly the edges bite into your palm. A penance. A reminder. You are a woman of God. You are pure. You are—
"A woman of faith, I see."
The fire pops, and a log shifts, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. You flinch. He doesn't react. In fact, you aren't sure that you've seen him move at all, his body as still as a statue.
"Of course," you reply as naturally as you can sound, "...aren't you?"
"If I say I am not," he raises a brow, "What then?"
You pause, drawing a breath that feels too shallow and force your lips into something resembling a smile.
"Well," you swallow, "God did say to love your neighbour."
"Ah, Mark twelve, verse thirty-three." Sunghoon's smile doesn't waver. "To love him with all your heart, with all your understanding and with all your strength, and to love your neighbour as yourself is more important than all burnt offerings and sacrifices."
The verse hangs in the air, complete and precise, and the tension in your shoulders eases, if only a little.
"So you are a believer."
"I believe in many things." His voice is soft, almost musing. "I believe in life after death. I believe in sinners and saints. I believe some of us, while we may try to convince ourselves otherwise, do not belong in the light."
He then pauses, and you swear you watch his smile curl into something wicked, before he continues.
"I believe prayers can be answered. Especially the ones laced with shame, whispered breathlessly in the night."
Your teacup rattles, the sound too loud in the quiet room. You set it down, but your fingers are shaking so badly the porcelain nearly slips. The cold that has been hovering at the edges of you since you walked through the door now settles deep in your bones.
You look at Sunghoon, your eyes meeting his lingering, far too intense stare. The horrible ache inside of you, the one you've come to know all too well, the one that has haunted your dreams for years, begins to wake from its slumber.
Something is wrong. His demeanour. The way he doesn't seem to breathe or blink or move at all. His presence. The way he looks at you like he owns you, and how that look makes your thighs clench, an inexplicable heat overtaking you.
You nearly jump out of your skin when the grandfather clock strikes the sixth hour.
"Oh!" You laugh nervously, an attempt to conceal the small yelp that escaped you. "Look at the time! I should really go."
"So soon?"
"Yes! My husband should be arriving soon, so..."
You are scrambling for the door, heart thumping in your chest as he follows close behind. Picking up the pace, you grab your coat from the rack near the door. But before you can grab the knob and swing the door open, you feel his presence behind you, cold and seemingly lifeless. You turn.
"It was lovely meeting you," he takes your trembling hand in his, "I hope to see you again, soon."
He lifts your hand as if to kiss it. Though he doesn't. Not yet.
You hear the soft sound of an inhale, barely there, but unmistakable, a slow, shuddering breath. His eyes flutter half-closed, and you blink, frozen in fear, wondering for a brief second if your mind is playing tricks on you, or if he really just sniffed you like some kind of animal.
He then kisses your hand, his lips just barely grazing your knuckles, featherlight. You should feel horror. You should feel disgust. Both are there, you suppose, but beneath it lies something far more shameful.
In the still, empty silence, you let out the tiniest, neediest whimper.
It lingers long enough for both of you to process what exactly you had just done.
He looks up at you through his lashes with a grin, like the most beautiful predator you'd ever laid your eyes on. And, though you can't quite tell in the dim candlelight, you think the canines peeking out the edge of his smile look rather sharp.
With that look permanently etched into your mind, you run. No other words exchanged, no farewell. You’re sprinting back down the street to your place, as fast as your feet can take you, not sparing a single glance behind.
A sigh of relief, though it sounds more like a sob, escapes you when you see Jake’s car in the driveway.
Your hands tremble so violently the keys skitter against the lock, and when the door gives, you throw yourself inside, slam it shut, press your spine to the wood like you're holding back a flood. You breathe in and out. In and out. Chest rising and falling with every breath. Exactly how Jake had taught you to do every time your fears crept up on you too quickly.
"Jake?"
The house is completely dark, and only the silence whispers back. You take off your boots, your coat, throwing them to the side without care as you move. The floorboards creak beneath your feet, and the panic you had only just quelled begins to rise again.
"Jake, where are you?" You try again, this time a bit louder.
You check the living room. The dining room. The kitchen. Then, on shaky legs, you carry yourself upstairs, hand sliding against the railing as you make your way to the bedroom. Still, not a soul to be found. Your hands grip the doorway, nails digging into the wooden frame as you choke down your heavy breaths, blinking away the tears that threaten your eyes.
A pair of arms wrap around you from behind, and the scream that leaves you is almost inhuman.
"It's just me!"
You thrash around in his grasp, and Jake immediately lets go.
He steps back, palms raised, face slack with shock and guilt. You're shaking violently now, heaving as a single tear falls from your eyes.
"Just me, sweetheart." His voice drops, taking your hand in his and guiding you to the edge of the bed. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have scared you like that. That's my fault, I'm—"
You don't let him finish. You collapse into him, and he catches you without hesitation, his arms folding around your trembling form as you curl into his lap. He presses his lips to the crown of your head.
"Don't ever do that again."
"I won't." He murmurs into your hair, "Cross my heart, I never will."
You're sobbing into his chest as he whispers I'm sorries and I love yous—Over and over, until the words blur into a rhythm as steady as his heartbeat beneath your ear. You latch onto him like he's your lifeline. He is warm and solid and alive, and you cling to him with a desperation that should embarrass you but doesn't.
Only when your breathing steadies do you finally find the strength to speak.
"I missed you so much."
"I missed you, too."
"I missed you more." Your voice cracks on the last word, and you feel the tears threatening again.
"Shh. It's okay. I'm right here. It's okay." He smooths a hand down your hair, your back. "What happened, sweetheart? Did something happen? Why were you outside?"
"I..." you trail off, unsure how to even proceed as you sniffle. "I went to meet the neighbours... and... the house at the corner. The man there, he..."
It sounds ridiculous when you try to rationalize it in your head, and would probably sound even more ridiculous if you tried to say it out loud.
Sunghoon didn't technically do anything wrong. He only looked at you in ways that made you feel wrong. He said some things that could be interpreted as threatening, though he said it in a polite tone. He kissed your hand and had maybe sniffed you, if you even remember it properly, or if that's just your terrified, panicked brain making things up. He also made you whimper, but that certainly isn't something you can tell your husband.
The memory of it makes you let out another sob, feeling utterly pathetic and ashamed in his arms.
"Hey, talk to me," his voice drops, "What did he do?"
Swallowing your guilt, you pick up the pieces of the truth you can stomach to say aloud.
"The way he was looking at me, it was—he kissed my hand, and—" you stammer, "I don't know. I don't know how to explain."
You can feel Jake exhale.
"Okay," he says calmly, matter-of-factly, taking in the information, "A creepy neighbour tried to hit on you? Is that it?"
Hitting on you. The phrase doesn't quite capture the feeling of being hunted, like a lamb who wandered aimlessly within a predator's reach.
You don't correct him, though. You nod your head, breathing heavy into his grasp as he smooths down the back of your head, holding you tight.
"I'm sorry," you feel the vibration of his voice against his chest. "You want me to talk to him? Scare him off, a bit?"
You picture that predatory gaze, the eyes of something sinister—something demonic. Then you look to your husband: warm and bright and too good for this world. Your husband is the safest, strongest, and most capable man you know. Still, you are strangely terrified at the thought of letting him go there alone.
"I just want you to stay here. With me." You say, simply, "That's all I want."
"I'll always be here. Forever," he hums, circling your wedding ring, dragging your palm flat along his chest until it rests just above his heart, "That's what I promised to you. 'Til death do us part."
You close your eyes. You try to let the steady thrum of his heartbeat drown out everything else. Safe, you tell yourself. I'm safe. He's here. I'm safe.
It doesn't work. What exactly are you safe from? From a man who only looked at you? From a feeling that had started long before you ever set foot in that house?
The heat is still there, coiled low in your belly, waiting. It doesn't care that you're in your husband's arms. It doesn't care that you want it gone. It's been awakened, and it won't be going back to sleep.
You press your thighs together. You're still hot. Too hot. Jake doesn't notice right away, holding you in his arms, his hand still covering yours above his heart.
Your husband pulls back, cupping your face in his hands.
"You're burning up." He says gently, brows furrowed in pure-hearted concern. "You're really warm. Are you getting sick? You were out in the cold for a while, weren't you?"
You open your mouth to answer, but he beats you to it.
"Maybe we should just order takeout tonight. You should rest. I'll warm you a bath, and we can rent a movie. How does that sound?" His thumb traces the curve of your jaw, his eyes searching your face for clues he doesn't know how to read. "I can call in sick tomorrow, and—"
"Jake."
Your eyes drop to his lips. You're still curled in his lap, your breath shallow, your thighs pressed together beneath your skirt. It takes him a second or two for his expression to shift.
Your mouth is on his before he can speak, hot and heavy, desperate to suppress the dark, deviant desire that refuses to leave you alone. You can't help yourself. Not when you're sitting in his lap like this, your arousal and guilt unrelenting.
He goes rigid, a startled sound catching in his throat. This isn't how you kiss. You never kissed him like this before you were married, and you certainly hadn't after, either.
Every night you've shared so far has been nothing but gentle and loving, always handling you with the care one would give a porcelain doll. He had learned of your fragility and your fears long before he ever learned your body, and made love to you the only way he knew how: carefully, tenderly. As if your pleasure was a gift to be earned and not a hunger you already carry.
Tonight, though, you kiss him with the kind of hunger a sexually repressed Catholic boy can only dream of—the kind he was taught to repent for, to pray away. You moan against his lips, the sound raw and almost wounded, clawing open his shirt and grinding against his hips like it's the only thing you need right now.
"Hey—hey, slow down." His hands close gently over yours, stilling them. His eyes search your face, wide and careful. "We don't have to—are you okay? You were just crying, and I don't want you to feel like—"
You shake your head. All you want is that horrible ache inside you to be gone, fucked away by the man you love, the man you married. You pull your hands free and push him back onto the bed. He goes willingly, propped on his elbows, still watching you with that tender, uncertain concern.
"Baby, I'm serious." Jake's voice cracks. His hands hover at your waist, twitching and uncertain. "I don't need—ah—are you sure you want this right now?" The words tumble out of him, broken and breathless, even as his hips rise to meet yours. His body knows what it wants. His mind is still catching up. "You don't have to do this for me—"
"It's for me." Your voice is low, almost like a growl, and his eyes widen.
You reach for the hem of your own dress first and pull it over your head. The fabric catches for a moment on your ear, on your elbow, and the clumsiness of it makes you want to scream. Then it's gone, discarded somewhere on the floor, and you're working at the clasp of your bra while Jake stares up at you with parted lips and dawning disbelief.
He reaches up again, hand hovering a moment before moving to yours, trying to still or slow your moments, but this time you slap them away. Your hands make quick work of his pants, as you do your own, and without a second to spare, you're staring down at his half-hard length, holding the weight of him in your clumsy, still inexperienced hand. You carefully watch his expression, brows knitted, lips parted, and when you tighten your grip ever slightly as you stroke him, he's thrusting up into your hand.
"Shit." He breathes.
You shift forward, lining him up with your entrance. Your underwear is still on—you realize this too late, and the awkwardness of shoving the damp fabric aside makes your face flush. But you don't stop. You sink down onto him, and the stretch steals your breath.
You sigh at the stretch, not used to taking all of him so quickly—not used to being on top, either, and your eagerness momentarily subsides, taking a moment to adjust. Then, with the awkwardness you'd expect of two adults who only started having sex a few weeks ago, you start to move, hands pressed down against his chest. He gazes up in awe, hands twitching at his sides before moving to your hips.
"Holy shit," he manages, the words repeating in broken moans, desperately containing himself from falling apart right there as he watches you, his gorgeous wife, take him with a newfound hunger. He looks wrecked already, his jaw tight with the effort of holding back. "If you keep moving like that—"
His hands tighten, slowing you. He's trying to pace you, trying to protect you from yourself, and the unbearable, oblivious tenderness of it is the last thing you can stand.
"Jake." Your voice comes out sharp, breathless, a frown tugging at your lips. "For God's sake. I'm not going to break. Just fuck me."
There's a moment of pure shock that lingers, and he goes still. Very still. A part of you almost regrets it. Maybe you frightened him. Maybe you've shown a side of yourself that you were never supposed to show, and now he'll never look at you the same.
He exhales a long, shaky breath.
His hands slide from your hips to your waist, then down to your thighs, gripping with an ownership he's never allowed himself before. He thrusts up into you once, testing, and when you gasp, he does it again. Harder. Your head falls back. A moan spills from your lips, and the sound seems to unlock something in him.
"Fuck," he breathes.
His fingers dig into your skin as he moves you, setting a rhythm that is no longer careful, no longer restrained. You try to match it, but you're still clumsy, still learning, and after a few desperate, off-beat thrusts, he makes a low sound in his throat and flips you onto the mattress.
Your face falls into the pillow. His hand presses between your shoulder blades, arching your back, and then he's inside you again—deeper this time, fuller. The moan you let out is almost a sob. He pulls back and slams into you, and you feel the curve of his grin against the shell of your ear.
"You like this?" His voice is low, but still laced with that concern he always wears. There's a genuine curiosity to his question, a disbelief that lingers. "You like it rough?"
"Please," your desperate voice is muffled in the pillow, "harder, please."
He makes a sound, something between a laugh and a guttural groan, and his hand spreads warm across the small of your back.
"Look at you," he murmurs, almost to himself. "God, look at you. My wife."
He pulls back slowly, letting you feel every inch of him leaving you, and the anticipation is its own kind of torment. When he thrusts back in, it's deep and full, and the gasp you let out is his name. He does it again. And again.
His hand fists the sheets beside your head. His forehead drops to the curve of your neck.
"Fuck—" His voice is ragged, almost disbelieving. "You're really—I can't—"
His thrusts grow deeper, harder, his hand pressing into the arch of your back as he drives into you with an indulgence he's never allowed himself. You can feel the tension, the pressure building. His name falls from your lips in fragments, and he answers with his body—faster, deeper, more.
"That's it," he breathes, and the pride in his voice is new, too. He's proud of this. Proud of what he's doing to you. Proud of you. "I've got you."
You clench around him, crying out when he hits that spot inside you just right, clawing at the pillows beneath you. The orgasm seizes you and doesn't let go, and he feels it. Every pulse, every shudder. His rhythm falters and then breaks entirely.
His voice cracks, high and wrecked, and he buries himself to the hilt and stills, his whole body going rigid against your back. Then he's coming, too. Deep inside you, his hips jerking with each pulse, his groan a long, ragged thing that vibrates through you. He keeps thrusting, fucking his cum back into you, riding it out until he's shaking, until he's spent, until his forehead drops to the nape of your neck and his breath comes in great heaving gasps against your sweat-damp skin.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. He's still inside you, and you can feel his cum between your thighs, still draped over you, his chest pressed to your back so you can feel the hammer of his heart. Your body hums. The world is quiet. The only sound is your breathing, slowly finding the same rhythm.
Then he laughs.
It starts as a breathless little thing against your neck, almost disbelieving, until it blooms into something utterly delighted. His arms slide around your waist, and he pulls you with him as he rolls onto his side, still buried inside you, his face pressed to the curve of your shoulder.
"Who are you," he breathes, "and what have you done with my wife?"
He's grinning. You can feel it against your skin. His hand is flat across your stomach, holding you close, and he presses a kiss to the crook of your neck.
"Seriously. What was—what's gotten into you?"
You turn in his arms, just enough to see his face. He's flushed, pleased, his eyes half-lidded and warm.
You snuggle into his chest, pressing your cheek to the warm plane of his sternum, and his arms fold around you automatically.
"Missed you," you whisper.
"Clearly." The word is thick with satisfaction, his voice still rough and low. He presses a kiss to the crown of your head. "Must've been real lonely, huh? Waiting for me to come home."
“Never leave again. Please."
He laughs softly, pulling you tighter against his chest. The sound rumbling through his chest beneath your ear. His hand moves in slow, soothing strokes down your spine.
"Sweetheart, if this is what I come home to, you couldn't drag me out that door." He presses a kiss to your hair. "I'll quit tomorrow. Become a stay-at-home husband. Live right here in this bed forever."
His breathing deepens, slows. His hand stills on your back. Within minutes, he's asleep, his lips still curved in the ghost of that grin, his body warm and heavy and trusting against yours.
You don't sleep. You can't. The satisfaction is already fading, replaced by the old familiar ache—a low thrum beneath the surface, waiting. You know the dreams will come tonight. You know what waits for you in the dark. But for now, you let yourself be held. For now, his heartbeat under your ear is louder than the guilt. For now, that's enough.
Like clockwork, the dream arrives. Tangled in your husband's arms, you glance to the window, feeling that same presence you always do, tainting your mind with lustful images you could not escape.
Except that tonight, the shadow has a face.
You've never seen a face in your dreams before. For years, the presence has been nothing but sensation—cold hands, sharp teeth, a voice without sound. A silhouette at the edge of your sleeping vision, tall and still. Never eyes you could look into.
Sunghoon's face materializes out of the dark. First the eyes, dark and depthless, then the sharp planes of his face, then the mouth that curved against your knuckles and made you whimper. He looks exactly as he did in the candlelight. Beautiful. Predatory. Waiting.
Why him? You wonder, visions of his lips at your neck invading your mind. Why now?
Though in your dreaming state, you don't have much time to ponder such questions. You're too consumed by the image of those sharp canines that you swore you saw, sinking into your flesh, his hands wandering the length of your body. You don't flinch. In the dream, you arch toward him. You offer him your neck. You come undone with his name on your lips, only a whisper in the night.
You wake with a gasp, still tangled in your husband's embrace, slick between your legs. Though Jake doesn't stir. His breathing is deep and even, his body warm and trusting against yours.
The ghost of your dream lingers, and you press your palm to your mouth to hold back the sob building in your chest.
Dawn comes pale and grey through the curtains, but you're already awake. You couldn't go back to sleep, no matter how hard you tried. So you stop trying. You slip carefully from the bed and pad barefoot to the shower.
You rinse yourself under scalding hot water as if scrubbing every inch of yourself could wash the dream away. You fold Jake's work clothes into a neat pile on the dresser—a reminder that you are a loving, faithful wife and not whatever your dreams make you out to be.
In the kitchen, the coffee machine clicks and hisses. You stand at the window with your empty mug in your hands, and before you've made the conscious decision to look, your eyes have found it. The house. His house.
Just looking at it makes your blood run cold.
You can't help but wonder why every curtain remains drawn, despite the large, beautiful windows. You wonder why he mentioned having "just woken up," though you'd visited him late afternoon—almost evening—yesterday. You think of the way he looked at you, sharp, calculated, like a predator who'd caught its prey. And those teeth, which now that you're thinking back, most certainly had to be sharp, like the ones in your dreams.
Curtains drawn. Cold hands. Sharp teeth.
"Morning, baby," Jake's groggy voice is heard from the hallway, heavy footsteps pattering into the kitchen.
You turn to greet your husband with a broken smile. He chases your lips for a kiss, hands at your waist as they slide down the length of your nightgown with a newfound ease—remnants of last night's confidence still lingering in his touch. You jump in his grasp, a sound of surprise caught in your throat, but you both turn your heads at the beep of the coffee machine.
He pours you a cup first, and you try to focus on his words, you really do. However, his complaints of a passive-aggressive boss and abundantly vague emails fall on deaf ears as your hands tighten around the warmth of your coffee mug, eyes unwillingly and unhelpfully drifting to the window every few seconds.
You hear your name on his lips, but only process it once his hand reaches out to rest atop yours.
"You're spacing out." His thumb moves in slow circles over your knuckles, "Everything alright? Or am I just talking your ear off?"
"Just... tired."
"That makes two of us," he smiles, the two of you sharing a playful look. But he's still watching you, still reading the tension in your shoulders. "Talk to me, sweetheart. I'm here."
Your thumb traces the rim of your mug, and then, before you can talk yourself out of it.
"Do you believe in supernatural things?" You start hesitantly, "Not just God, obviously, but... other things...?"
Your husband takes a slow, pensive sip of his coffee.
"This is about your dreams again, isn't it?"
He gives you that look. The same one your mother and father used to give you at the mention of your nightmares. Sympathetic, but doubtful.
You look down, and he sighs, lifting your hand to his lips. The kiss is gentle and warm, though you shudder regardless.
"Remind me. How long have you been having these dreams, again?"
"Years."
"Years," he echoes, "And how many times, in all these years, have any of your dreams ever hurt you? Really hurt you?"
You sigh, shoulders slumping, a quiet relief blooming in your chest at the sight of his easy, gentle smile. The sunrise peeks through the window just enough to cast a golden glow across his face. His brown eyes and honey skin, now illuminated, were warm and familiar like the fresh cup of coffee in front of you that you had yet to touch.
"They haven't."
"Then I think it's safe to say that whatever it is you're afraid of, that's just your extra creative brain coming up with new reasons to freak out." he taps your head, and you roll your eyes, cracking a smile of your own. "None of it is real. It can't hurt you."
You kiss him goodbye at the door, your worries soothed momentarily as you watch his car disappear around the corner. But soon after, as you're reaching into the sink to work on a day-old pile of dishes, you can't help but watch the house at the corner. You watch all morning. Not a single soul exits or enters the home.
The town library is exactly what you'd expect. The air is stiff, the scent of old books and dust, and an old woman behind the front counter glares at you over the rims of her glasses, like she’s waiting for a reason to shush you.
You hadn't meant to come here. You were going to do errands. That's what you told yourself, anyway. But your feet carried you straight past the grocery store and straight through the heavy oak doors of the town library. And now, you wandered aimlessly through the aisles, unsure of what exactly you're looking for.
Dreams. You find a nonfiction book on dreams. You pull it from the shelf and flip to a chapter on nightmares. The author theorizes that our deepest fears materialize in our sleep, that the subconscious paints faces onto the things that frighten us most. A stranger who unsettled you. A presence that made you feel unsafe. The brain takes what it can't process during the day and works through it at night.
It makes sense. It's rational. He frightened you with that unsettling look in his eyes and his words, and your dreams gave him a form. It's a natural psychological response.
Then the book goes on to list common nightmare archetypes. The falling dream. The dream of being chased. The dream of being naked in public. Nowhere does it mention the dream where a stranger touches you between your legs, their lips on yours, then at your neck, or why you might envision them sinking their teeth into your flesh and drinking your blood. Nowhere does it account for the way your body responded.
Snapping the book shut and shoving it back on the shelf, you continue drifting with a little more purpose now. Past Town Records. Past Local Histories. Past a whole shelf of sermon collections by long-dead Reverends. Your fingers trail the spines, but you don't stop.
You turn down a narrow aisle in the back corner, away from the windows, away from the light.
The titles swimming into focus are older, darker, their spines cracked and their pages yellowed. Supernatural Histories. The Undead: A Historical Overview. Vampires Among Us.
Your hand reaches for one before your mind can stop it, failing to notice the pair of legs, long and lanky, stretched across the aisle, which blocks your path.
"Oh—!" You nearly trip, steadying yourself against the shelf.
A teenager is wedged between the shelves and the wall. He doesn't even look up. His head is bowed over a thick, hardcover book that looks older than time itself, and the sound of heavy drums and electric guitar bleeds from the headphones clamped over his ears. His school uniform is rumpled, tie loose, blazer nowhere in sight. His hair is jet-black except for a single bleached strand.
You clear your throat.
Nothing.
You clear it again, louder.
He turns a page.
"Excuse me…." You say a little more sternly this time, hands at your hips. "Shouldn't you be in school...?” You pause, glancing at his open backpack, at the name on his notebooks. "…Niki?"
He takes his time glancing up, eyes dragging over you with the lazy, unimpressed scrutiny only a teenager can manage. He takes in the sensible skirt. The ironed blouse. The cross at your neck. One pierced eyebrow lifts a fraction. He pulls his headphones down to his neck, his music a low hum.
"Shouldn't you be in the erotica section, or something?" He retorts, rolling his eyes.
"What?" You gape.
"Just saying." He gestures vaguely at you. "You've got the whole... repressed housewife look."
"You—" You give up halfway through your sentence, deciding your time shouldn't be spent exchanging comebacks with a boy who hasn't even graduated yet.
He goes back to his book, a ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You step over his legs, which he doesn't move an inch, and try to ignore him, scanning the shelf in front of you until you find the book you had your eyes on before. Locating it, you reach.
"Isn't the occult, like, the devil to you people?"
Your hand stops mid-air, and you turn. He's watching you now, the book in his lap forgotten.
"I'm just looking."
"Sure. Just looking." He closes his book finally, giving you his full attention for the first time, and you immediately wish he hadn't. "Listen, lady. Vampire smut's two aisles down. No judgment. I'm not your pastor."
"I already said—" The flush crawls up your neck. "I'm not—I would never—"
"You'd never," he repeats, flat. "Right. So what are you looking for in this section? A cookbook?"
Your hand is still frozen in the air, fingers hovering over the spine of a book with a lurid, painted cover. A woman in a torn nightgown, fainting into the arms of a dark figure with glowing eyes.
"I wanted to... research something.”
"Research.”
You nod weakly.
He pauses a moment, like he’s analyzing you. Then his whole expression shifts.
"Wait. For real? You're not just messing with me?" His eyes are wide now, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. It makes him appear even younger than he is, his mood brightening with childlike excitement. "You're actually researching vampires? Like, the lore? The real stuff? You're not just looking for sexy billionaire novels?"
"I don't know anything about sexy billionaires—"
"Oh my god." He scrambles to his feet, all gangly limbs and sudden, startling height, and you take an instinctive step back. His face is absolutely alight. "Oh my god, that's sick. That's actually so sick. Nobody in this town cares about this stuff. Everybody here just thinks I'm some freak who—" He stops himself, clears his throat. "Okay. Okay. So. What do you want to know?"
He's already pulling books off the shelf before you can come up with an answer, scanning spines with the practiced eye of someone who has memorized every title.
"Okay, so. First of all, don't touch that one." He jabs a finger at the book you'd been reaching for. "Complete garbage. The guy just makes stuff up. Zero sources."
"You've read it?"
"I've read everything on this shelf." He says it with pride and a slight shrug. He pulls down a thick volume bound in dark blue cloth, its cover embossed with a faded silver symbol you don't recognize. "You want this one. Written by a Victorian occultist. Genuine primary sources. He gets into the super niche stuff most modern books ignore."
"Niche stuff?"
"Yeah, like. The running water barrier—they can't cross it. Like rivers and lakes. Which is wild. And the mirror thing? It's not that they don't have reflections, it's that old mirrors were backed with silver, and silver's purifying. So the reflection was there, just corrupted. Sort of." He's talking faster now, words tripping over each other. "And then there's the soul-contract stuff, which is the real deep lore. Most people don't even know about it."
"Soul-contracts?"
"Oh, you have to hear about this." He grins, clearly delighted to have an audience. "Okay, so—vampires need blood, right? And most of them have to hunt for it. Every meal. Every night. That's a lot of work. So some of them, the older ones, the smart ones, they figured out a more... efficient system."
He flips through the book, looking for a page.
"They find a human who's desperate. Like, really desperate. And they make a deal. The human offers themselves up—their blood, their life force, whatever—and in exchange, the vampire gives them something that they want."
Your stomach tightens.
"Oh! That's..." You struggle to find your words, but force your voice to stay steady. "What kind of something, exactly?"
"Anything. Revenge, protection, a cure for some disease. Whatever the human needs so badly, they'd trade their soul for it." He finds the page, runs a finger down the text. "But the key thing is, the vampire can't just take. The human has to give permission. Willingly. Otherwise, the bond doesn't form. Hence, the contract part of the soul-contract."
"The bond?"
"Yep. The bond is formed only if it is totally, one-hundred percent mutual. The vampire is tied to the human just as much as the human is tied to the vampire. It's not a master-servant thing. It's..." He pauses, searching for the word. "Permanent. The connection can never be broken, like some eternally messed-up, toxic situationship."
Your hand has found the cross at your throat. You don't remember reaching for it.
"What I don't get," he continues, frowning at the page, "is how the whole thing starts. Like, how does the vampire hear the human in the first place? The book says it answers a call. Not literally a call, though. The words are weird. It says: 'A plea uttered from the deepest well of the soul, often in a state of such desperation that it transcends the mortal sphere.'"
"What kind of plea?" Your voice comes out as a whisper.
"Doesn't say exactly. But the book keeps comparing it to..." He squints at the footnote, then pauses, turns the page. "Huh. That's weird."
"What?"
"The language it uses. It says 'a prayer inverted.'" He traces his finger down the margin. "'Not all prayers reach the kingdom of heaven. Some are intercepted by hungrier ears.' Spooky, right?"
You can't breathe.
The cross burns against your palm. You press it harder, trying to ground yourself, but the world narrows to a single point: a memory. Your bedroom window. The winter wind on your wet cheeks. Your knees bruised against the floorboards.
I beg of you. If you cannot make this feeling stop, then I beg for relief.
"Hey." Niki's voice cuts through the static in your head. "You good? You look like you're gonna, uh... hurl. Or pass out."
"I'm fine."
"Yeah, no." He sets the book aside, straightening up, eyes narrowing. "You're definitely not fine. Was it something I said? I have a habit of—I mean, my mom's always telling me I don't know when to shut up, so if I—"
"You didn't do anything." You shake your head, swallowing hard. "I just need some air."
“Wait!”
You step back, your heel catching on the leg he's stretched across the aisle again. You stumble, and he scrambles to his feet, catches your elbow—a quick, awkward gesture.
"Sorry. Didn't mean to—I just—" He pulls back immediately, shoving both hands in his pockets like he's been burned. He drops his voice to a whisper, then he stares straight at you. “You’ve met a vampire, haven’t you?”
You blink.
"No." You shake your head too fast, an unconvincing laugh escaping your lips before you ramble on, "What? No. That’s ridiculous. Vampires aren't real. Aren’t you too old to believe in these things? Please.”
“But—”
“I'm just... I'm bored. And…” You swallow, “I need to get home before my husband is back."
There’s a pause. A long one.
"Oh… I get it.” He gives you a knowing look. “You can't tell anyone. Vampire confidentiality. Right?" He shifts his weight, suddenly looking less like a brooding delinquent and more like a kid who's spent too many lunch periods eating alone. You open your mouth to protest, but he continues. "Then, if you do see one. Hypothetically. Could you... ask something for me?"
You take in his wide-eyed, hopeful stare.
"The garlic thing. Is it true? Everyone's always arguing about it, but I think it's just complete crap.”
You let out a sigh.
"I'll keep that in mind."
He beams, looking like he’s about to jump up and down with joy, but quickly reins himself in, dropping his voice an octave and shrugging the excitement away.
"Cool... cool. Alright. I'll see you later, then, vampire research lady. I'm always here, so come and find me whenever you wanna, like. Hang out or something...You'll come back, right?"
You don't process any of it. Still shaken, you turn and walk. Past the shelves. Past the desk, where the old librarian still watches you with narrowed eyes. Past the heavy oak doors and into the cold, gray afternoon.
Not all prayers reach the kingdom of heaven.
You pull your coat tighter and start walking, not home just yet. You need to let yourself breathe before you go back to the house with the kitchen window that faces his door, before you have to look your husband in the eye and pretend the conversation you just had never happened.
Teenagers believe anything. You tell yourself with every heavy step, fresh snow crunching underfoot. None of it is real. It can't hurt you.
A thick snowfall arrives on a Friday afternoon, the following week. Schools and stores close, and a company-wide email advises everyone to stay inside. Jake stood at the bedroom window when he read it, watching the storm howl past the glass, and felt two things at once: a quiet disappointment that winter is nowhere near its end, and a much louder, much more immediate gratitude that he doesn't have to leave you today.
He's been worried about you. That's nothing new, actually. He's been worried about you since the day you met, when you laughed at one of his jokes only to screech at the sound of a twig snapping under your step two seconds later. He recognized something in you then.
To call it skittishness would be an understatement. There was a weight behind your wide-eyed stare. The look of someone who has been carrying something heavy for a very long time and has never asked anyone to help her hold it. You told him about your night terrors a month into the relationship. Sat him down, explained it like a warning, as if it could ever scare him off from pursuing you. He wanted to be the one to help. He still does. It's the quiet purpose of his life.
He was foolishly optimistic back then. The reality of what it means to live with you, alongside your fears, is not an easy responsibility to carry. You smile when you're sad. You deflect when he asks questions. You say I'm fine and change the subject and slide into his lap, and he lets you, because he loves you, because he doesn't always know the right thing to say, and maybe because some part of him is afraid that if he pushes too hard, he'll be devastated to find there's far more he doesn't understand about you than he realizes.
He holds you in the ways you ask him to. He soothes your fears without knowing what they are. He plays the role he's resigned himself to—husband, protector, warm body in the dark—and tries not to notice the moments when your eyes go distant, when your hands tremble for no reason, when you stare into nothing like something else is there, staring right back.
It wears on him. He doesn't resent it. He could never resent you. But there are nights when he wakes up beside you, listening to you stir in your sleep and feels a loneliness he can't explain. Sometimes it feels like there is a part of you he cannot reach, a room inside you where he is not invited.
So he does what he can. He goes to work. He comes home. He holds you when you let him. He prays for you, even on the days when his own faith wavers. And when you reach for him, pulling him into bed with that desperate, devouring hunger that has become the new rhythm of your marriage, he gives you everything you ask for. He gives you more. Because in those moments, you are fully present—your attention is on him and not lost somewhere else. In those moments, he is not your caretaker or your protector. He is simply yours.
It's a relief he didn't know he needed. To be wanted. Not needed—wanted. There's a difference.
Jake's always been good at being needed. Being helpful. At smiling, nodding and letting others feel heard. It's something he carried into adulthood. Into his faith. Into his marriage, where his wife's fragility gave him a role he recognized: the steady one. The unneedy one. The one who holds and is never held.
But desire—real, shameless, take-me-now desire—was never something he imagined being on the receiving end of. He was taught that sex was a service a wife provided to her husband. A duty. A kindness. Something to be accepted with gratitude and restraint. He was prepared to be grateful. He was not prepared for you.
These past weeks, you've become something else entirely. You pull him in by the belt before he's shrugged off his coat. You beg him to be rough, to be merciless, to stop treating you like something fragile. The first time you said it, after the initial disbelief subsided, he nearly wept from relief. From the sudden, staggering realization that you wanted him the way he had always secretly wanted you. That the hunger was mutual. That he was allowed to be hungry at all.
He's been enjoying it more than he probably should. He knows that. Some old, stubborn guilt stirs in him every time he pins your wrists above your head, every time he hears you moan his name like a prayer. He used to repent for thoughts far milder than the things you do together now. But the guilt is quieter than it used to be. Quieter than the sound of your breath hitching. Quieter than the way you say harder and please and fuck me right now.
He assumes it's a side effect of your clinginess. You spend all day alone, trapped by the cold, left to the mercy of your own thoughts. Of course, you reach for him the moment he walks through the door. Of course, you want to be touched, held, filled with something other than the silence of an empty house. He's happy to be that for you. He's happy to be whatever you need.
He doesn't understand the whole of you. He'll never understand what keeps you up at night, and why it does. But he understands the curve of your hip, and the sound of your laugh, and the way your body answers his in the dark. And for now, with the snow piled high against the windows and the fire crackling in the next room and you warm and real and wanting in his arms, that is enough. It's more than enough. It's everything he didn't know he was allowed to ask for.
The neglected part of his heart that spent years believing desire was something to be managed, not felt—that accepted loneliness as the price of being steady, that tucked itself away in the front pew and never asked for more—that part is wide awake, and it reaches for you helplessly.
All of that to say is: being holed up with you inside on a cold evening, he does the only thing that makes sense. He finds you in the kitchen, wraps his arms around your waist from behind, and presses his lips to the curve of your neck.
You giggle, leaning back into him, the wooden spoon still in your hand.
"You want me to burn dinner?"
"I want you," He punctuates each word with a kiss to your shoulder, your jaw, then your neck. "Want you all the time. Everyday. Every second."
"You're insatiable." You swat at his arm, but your voice is fond. "And a distraction."
"What's wrong with being distracted?"
"Jake." You roll your eyes, your tone playful but stern, "Go find something else to do."
"Like what?" He pouts, resting his chin on your shoulder, peering down at the pot.
"Maybe, shovelling the driveway?"
He groans. "I'll do that in the—"
"Morning? You sleep like a log. Besides..." You turn in his arms, your free hand coming up to toy with the collar of his shirt, and a suggestive grin tugs at your lips, "You won't have the energy to."
"Oh?" His eyebrows lift, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Well, if that's the case..."
He presses a kiss to your cheek and pulls away.
"Don't miss me too much," He calls out as he makes his way down the hall, dreading having to bundle up for the cold.
"No promises."
He dreads it even more once he's actually outside, scrunching his nose as the icy cold hits him, like little needles against his skin. But seeing you move about the kitchen from where he shovels makes it all worth it. It's always worth it.
He's watched you sleep enough nights to know how hard you fight just to stay still. The way you squirm and pant and clutch at him, sweat beading at your brow, tortured by something he can't see and you can't name. He's learned not to wake you—it only makes it worse. So he holds you instead.
But morning always comes. You always smile at him over coffee, tired and brave, pushing through the day like the night never happened. Like you haven't spent eight hours running from something he can't fight for you.
So, really, the least he could do as a husband was shovel the driveway without complaining. Even if his back was beginning to ache as if he were a middle aged dad. He can clear a path. He can make one thing easier for you, even if it's just the driveway.
"Hello."
Jake lets out an embarrassingly high-pitched scream and nearly topples over into the snow, managing to brace himself with his shovel. He turns, letting out a sigh of relief when his eyes land on the tall, pale-looking man, who greets him with a closed-mouth smile.
"Man, you scared the crap out of me," Jake laughs, which dissolves into nervous laughter when he notices how the man does not laugh with him. He stands still, almost statuesque.
"My apologies. Jake, yes?"
"That's me." He adjusts his grip on the shovel and extends his free hand, tilting his head. "Do we know each other? I'm sorry, I'm terrible with faces."
"Sunghoon." The hand that meets his is cold, even through both their gloves. The grip is brief and precise. "A pleasure. I live at the corner. Your wife made my acquaintance last Monday."
Jake pauses a moment, his hand freezing mid-shake.
The house at the corner. The weirdo. The hand-kissing, too-long-staring, made-you-uncomfortable neighbour you'd come home crying about last week.
His brows furrow at the realization that this was the guy you were talking about. Although he was imagining someone much older and creepier. Not a polished, perfectly composed, and frankly quite handsome—if Jake is being honest—guy his own age.
"You're the neighbour, huh?" Jake deadpans, shoving his shovel into the snow and standing up straight. He looks Sunghoon up and down, taking his time, letting his gaze drag. Sizing him up. He's taller. That's annoying.
"Yes. We had a lovely conversation. I wish to extend my gratitude."
"How kind. But not necessary."
"Oh, but it is."
"But it really isn't."
"I insist."
"Okay. Look, man. I'll give it to you straight," Jake frowns, eyes narrowing, "I know my wife is beautiful and perfect and all. That's why I married her. You got that? So, I think it's best if you leave her alone."
Sunghoon stares, wordless and expressionless, for a moment. Jake holds his ground, though the silence is starting to get uncomfortable.
Maybe he'd been too confrontational. Too harsh. Of course, you and your safety are his number one concerns, but from the way the man's face softens so earnestly, the fear of having possibly misjudged the entire situation starts to creep up on him.
"My apologies. It seems I gave you the wrong impression," His tone is bashful and all too disarming, and he clears his throat as he reaches for his pocket. "You see, ever since I lost my wife, I've become a bit of a hermit. But for a pair of friendly neighbours, I thought I might try getting myself out of my shell."
Jake's frown drops. He stands there in the snow, feeling like a complete and total asshole. He'd been ready to defend your honour, all puffed up and protective and righteous, and instead he'd just threatened a lonely widower who was only being kind. His mother would be appalled. His pastor would probably have words: Lord, we lift up Jake, who apparently forgot every single thing we taught him about loving thy neighbor.
Sunghoon extends an envelope, wax-sealed and dignified, held out with a leather-gloved hand.
"Oh." Jake takes it, and the wax seal feels like a personal indictment. "I'm so sorry for your loss. I didn't mean to—I wasn't trying to—really, I just—I'm so sorry."
"It was a long time ago." Sunghoon waves him off with a gentle grace that makes Jake feel even worse, somehow. "I take no offence. I was also quite protective in my first year of marriage."
Jake nods, grateful for the absolution, and sighs.
"When you really love someone, it’s like you'd do anything for them. You know. Move mountains. Fight a bear. Or—" He gestures at the shovel, at his own puffed-up posture. "Accost a stranger in your own driveway, apparently."
"It's true." Sunghoon's mouth curves. "I once threatened a man on the street because he looked at my wife too long. She was mortified. I was unrepentant."
Jake laughs. "And she scolded you for it, I'll bet."
"Absolutely." Sunghoon's expression is something fond, something distant. "But you know..."
"The wife is always right," they say in unison.
"But we love them anyway."
"We do."
Jake smiles. It's the first time since moving here that he's felt something like this. The kind of easy conversation he used to have with friends back home, before the marriage, the move, the new job.
Sunghoon. An odd neighbour. He speaks as if he could be from another generation, hands out wax-sealed letters, and lives in a mysteriously large house all on his own.
Jake could understand why it might be off-putting. But Jake also remembers when you used to scream at the sight of your own shadow. When you'd cling to him at social gatherings in college and glare at every person in the room like they were trying to hurt you.
You've always been afraid. Of the dark. Of strangers. Of everything. He's learned to calibrate for it, to filter the world through the lens of your anxiety and adjust accordingly.
It's not intentionally dismissive. He listens. He tries to. But this time, he should've known that when you crawled into his arms crying over a neighbour who only did so much as look at you, that it would be what it always is: another false alarm.
A part of him still ponders what he could possibly mean by "a long time" when the man before him doesn't look a day over thirty. And even if he were, say, in his mid to late thirties... late thirties...? That's still too young to have lost a wife and had plenty of time to get over it. He does not dare to ask, though. You know, considering he's already accused the guy of hitting on his wife. Following that up with so, exactly how long has your dead wife been dead? feels like it might not improve the situation.
Sunghoon's gaze drifts. Past Jake, over his shoulder. Jake follows it to the kitchen window, where the curtain twitches. There's a flash of movement, quickly stilled. You've been watching the entire time.
"She mentioned being a bit timid," Sunghoon smiles a little, gaze torn away from the window. "If not both of you, perhaps just yourself? I would be glad to host regardless."
"He's weird, sure. But he went out of his way to invite us. I think he's just trying to be friendly in his own, you know, awkward sort of way." Jake rambles to himself over dinner. "A lot of the other couples on this block are a lot older than us. It would be nice to make friends with a guy my own age."
The dinner invitation sits open between you on the kitchen table, its wax seal broken, its cursive script elegant and old-fashioned. You stare at the words on the page, and all you can see is the way he looked at you through the window. The slow, knowing smile. The way his eyes had found yours through the glass, like he'd known exactly where you'd be.
"I think we should accept." Jake's tone of voice is unfortunately optimistic. And a part of you cannot believe half of what you're hearing, but the other part of you knows this is who you married: Jake, a man who assumes the best in everyone, who never enters a room expecting danger, who extends undeserved kindness to every stranger he meets. "Worst case, we learn to stay away. Best case, you have nothing to worry about. Either way, it will put your mind at ease."
Put your mind at ease. You nearly snort aloud. As if an evening in that house with that man could do anything but the opposite. Jake doesn't notice. He's already picturing the dinner party, already imagining a new friendship.
"...I'm not sure. Maybe we should think on it."
His smile falters. You know that look. It's the closest Jake ever gets to exasperation.
"Come on." He sets his fork down, and you feel the weight of his stare. "He lost his wife, and he lives in that creepy mansion all alone. Don't you feel a little bit bad?"
You offer no response, picking at your food. He gives you a few seconds, letting the tension-filled silence linger, and when it becomes clear you're not going to budge, he sighs.
"Well." He picks up his fork again, his jaw set with a gentle stubbornness. "You can think on it. I'm going."
"What?" Your fork is clattering against the table. "No. You can't go alone."
He blinks at you, fork hovering halfway to his mouth, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and the beginnings of a laugh. His brow furrows.
"Didn't know I needed supervision." The words come out light, almost teasing, but his eyes are still searching your face. He's trying to find the joke. When the smile doesn't come, the teasing edge fades from his voice. "I'm just going across the street, baby. What do you think is going to happen to me?"
"I'm just being cautious."
"Cautious?” He scoffs, “What, you think he’s an axe murderer or something?”
He waits for you to laugh, to roll your eyes, to admit you're exaggerating.
"Sweetheart.” His voice drops, frustration building up. “Be realistic. Seriously."
"I am realistic. He told me I looked vulnerable. Like it was a threat. Like I was in danger, I...” Your words are tumbling out faster now, more frantic, “He sniffed me. That's not normal, Jake. He—”
“Sure he did.”
It lingers in the air a moment, and you stare, suspended in disbelief at how he’s looking at you as if you are a child describing a monster in the closet.
“You think I’m making it up.”
The dismissal is worse than the doubt. He's not even taking it seriously enough to disbelieve. Your hands are trembling. You press them flat against the table.
"I didn’t mean it like that,” He starts, “Sweetheart—”
“You don’t believe me.”
"I believe…" He stops, taking a moment to reel in his thoughts. He lowers his voice to a tone that's more gentle and patient, acutely aware of how your breathing is growing uneven. "Maybe these nightmares are warping your perception of the people around you. Which is making you act a little judgmental."
He reaches across the table. His palm hovers over your knuckles, an offering. But you swat his hand away before it lands. It's a small gesture, but the impact of it lingers.
"You don't believe me." You repeat.
His frown is no longer patient.
"Do you even believe yourself?"
Jake looks at you, searching for something neither of you can name. For an answer. For understanding. For anything at all. You can't help the shame that creeps up on you, rotting you from the inside.
You don't know what you believe. All you know is that your dreams have a face now. The face lives at the end of your street and has invited you to dinner.
It would be so easy to say you're afraid of him. It wouldn't be a lie. But the truer explanation is also the most shameful: you want your neighbour. You've wanted him since he looked at you in the candlelight and made you feel like prey that was begging to be caught. But admitting that would mean admitting that the rot inside you was never his fault—That all of this has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the woman you've been trying not to be since you were old enough to know better.
You don't let yourself finish the thought. You never do.
Through the corner of your eye, through the kitchen window, a passing car's headlights reveal the sight of something in your yard. Something red, in contrast to the stark white snow, and you freeze.
"Listen, I’m not trying to argue. I'm really not. I'm just trying to help. You can’t be afraid of every stranger you—"
"I just saw something." The words leave your mouth before you've decided to say them. "Out there."
Jake stops. His eyes follow yours to the window, where the dark has settled back over the yard like a curtain drawn shut. When he looks back at you, his frown is firm.
Holding Jake's hand, you walk with him through ankle-deep snow, his flashlight flickering ever so slightly. The beam is weak but steady enough to catch the trail he's tracking: small animal footprints, evenly spaced, leading toward the hedge at the edge of the yard.
"There," you whisper, though you don't know why you're whispering. "Behind the bush."
He angles the light. For a moment, the snow is just white and clean and untouched. Then the beam catches it. A bright splash of red, vivid against the pale. It's fresh. Still wet.
"Oh my god." Your hand flies to your mouth.
Jake crouches, his jaw tight, and pushes aside the lowest branch. The cat lies curled beneath the hedge, its fluffy white coat matted with blood. Its neck is torn, and two small punctures sit just above the collar, neat, precise, too deliberate to be random. You'd seen it in movies. You'd seen it in the book Niki flipped through at the library.
That night, after Jake calls the old woman across the street and breaks the news that her beloved house pet lies lifeless in your front yard, you find yourself curled up against Jake's chest. Your violent shaking and panicked breathing had now simmered down into quiet breaths and subtle trembling.
"There were no other footprints around."
"Hm?" His voice is thick with the sleep he's been fighting off.
"The cat."
Jake doesn't sigh, but the way his chest rises and falls tells you he was hiding his frustration for your sake.
"It was dark." His hand resumes its slow circles on your back. "We probably just missed it."
"I know what I saw."
"What do you think it was then, hm?" He teases lazily, thoughtlessly. "A scary cat-killing monster with no footsteps?"
He means it as a joke. Mostly. But you don't miss the edge in his voice, how it's sharper than it would have been an hour ago, before the argument at the kitchen table, before the cold trek through the snow to find a dead cat in your yard.
"A vampire."
The word lands in the dark between you and just sits there. Jake goes still. Then, slowly, he shifts upright, disentangling himself from you. The loss of his warmth is immediate.
He looks at you. Really looks at you.
"Okay. What is going on with you?"
"You don't think it could be?" You try, “Two marks, side-by-side, at its neck. What kind of wild animal does that?”
"Is that a serious question?" He blinks at you, "Baby. Look at me. Please tell me you aren't serious."
You don't answer.
This time, he does sigh loudly, and with a small "come here," he's pulling you in his arms again. He settles back against the pillows, tucking you against his chest.
"Let's pretend, hypothetically, that your little conspiracy theories are real. All the vampires and the cat-killing monsters and the creepy neighbours with sharp teeth..." His voice is warm and tired and almost teasing. But mostly just exhausted. "Then I promise I'll protect you from all the big, bad, scary things out there. Okay? Does that make you feel better?"
It should. But all you can think about is the cat beneath the hedge. The two neat punctures above its collar. The way Sunghoon looked at Jake, curious and patient, eyes at his neck when he wasn't looking.
You don't need Jake to protect you. You need him to stay the hell away from that house. You need him somewhere the monster can't reach.
But he won't stay. He's made that clear.
"Jake?"
"Mm?" He's already drifting, the exhaustion finally pulling him under.
"I'll come with you."
You walk the short distance to the house at the corner hand in hand with your husband, his palm warm and steady around yours. The snow has stopped falling, leaving the street hushed and still, though you feel anything but peace. Jake's thumb traces small circles over your knuckles, a nervous habit he doesn't seem to notice.
"You're squeezing," you murmur.
"Am I?" He loosens his grip, shooting you a sheepish smile. "Sorry. I just want this to go well."
You know why. It's not just about making a good impression or redeeming himself for the confrontation in the driveway. He's trying to give you peace of mind, even if he has to manufacture it. A successful evening means a normal neighbour. A normal neighbour means your fears were just fears. He needs that to be true. For you and for himself.
The gate groans when Jake pushes it open, the iron scrollwork black and wet with melted frost. The cobblestone path is uneven beneath your boots, the same path you fled down some time ago with your heart in your throat and the phantom heat of a stranger's lips still burning on your knuckles. The house looms above you, every window dark, the curtains drawn against the fading afternoon light.
"Nice place, right?" Jake says under his breath. It's such a desperately optimistic read of the looming dark house in front of you. You'd call it a generous lie if you didn't know your husband any better.
The heavy double doors open before Jake can knock.
Sunghoon stands in the shadow of the threshold, tall and pale and composed. His smile is closed-lipped, polite, his eyes moving from Jake to you with an unhurried grace.
"Welcome." He steps aside, gesturing you in. "Please, come in out of the cold."
"I'd shake your hand, but my fingers are still thawing." Jake laughs, "Seriously though. Thanks so much for having us."
"The pleasure is mine. It's been a very long time since this house has had guests." Sunghoon guides the pair of you inside, and you don't miss the way his hand brushes your back. His gaze flicks to you, and the corner of his mouth lifts just slightly. "Welcome back."
You murmur something that might be thank you. The warmth of the foyer wraps around you as the door swings shut, but it does nothing to stop the chill working its way down your spine.
"Man, this place is insane. You could fit our whole house in this entryway." Jake is still shrugging off his coat, glancing around the foyer with wide, earnest eyes. He elbows you gently, grinning. "Why didn't we buy a creepy old mansion, babe?"
You don't answer, shedding your own coat, avoiding Sunghoon's stare.
"It's too much house for one person, I'm afraid. But it does have its charms." Sunghoon turns, gesturing toward the hall ahead. "Shall I give you the tour?"
"Yes, please." Jake nods enthusiastically, following him into the hall.
You trail behind.
Each room is just as beautiful as the last. The parlour with its heavy velvet drapes and furniture draped in dusty sheets. The study, lined floor to ceiling with books, a massive oak desk sitting dark and unused in the center. The dining room, where a long table has been set for three—candles flickering, silver gleaming. The formality of it all makes you feel like you've stepped into another century.
"My wife had a fondness for entertaining," Sunghoon says, noticing your gaze. "I'm afraid I've let the tradition lapse. You'll have to forgive me if I'm out of practice."
"Are you kidding? This is incredible." Jake claps him on the shoulder, already at ease. "Our dining table is just a couple of sad IKEA chairs."
It's in the music room that Jake stops dead in his tracks.
The grand piano sits in front of the large, draped windows. It's an ancient-looking thing, the legs intricately carved and the body engraved with winding patterns, with candelabras on either side, their wax frozen mid-drip. The ivory keys are yellowed with age, but the dark wood gleams, suggesting it's been properly maintained over the years.
Jake drifts toward it. His hand lifts before he seems to realize it, hovering just above the closed lid.
"No way," he breathes. "You play?"
"Occasionally. Though my wife was far better. It belonged to her." Sunghoon comes to stand beside him. "And you?"
"No, no. I just..." Jake runs a reverent hand over the closed lid. "I used to play guitar. Nothing fancy. Mostly in youth group, you know? Worship nights, that kind of thing."
"Ah, yes." Sunghoon's smile deepens. "A man of faith. Your wife mentioned it."
"Born and raised." Jake glances back at you, his expression bright with the pleasure of finding common ground. "Actually, I used to sing in the choir too, back when I was a kid. Drove the conductor insane because I could never remember the Latin verses."
"A church choir. Now that brings back memories." He hums, soft and almost wistful, "I sang as a child, too. Soprano, if you can believe it. Before my voice dropped and they had no more use for me."
"No way." Jake laughs, delighted. "Small world, huh? What denomination?"
"The details blur after a while." Sunghoon waves a hand, "Though I'm afraid my faith hasn't weathered the years as well as yours."
"Hey, I get it. Life has a way of testing you." Jake's hand finds yours, squeezing, as if to say, see? He's just a guy. A normal, lonely guy. "But the door's always open, right?"
"So I've heard."
You stand a few paces behind them, your hand limp in Jake's grip, listening to the easy rhythm of their conversation. It should be a comfort—your husband, making a friend, building the life you'd both imagined for yourselves in this new town. But all you can feel is the way Sunghoon's gaze keeps drifting toward you even as he speaks to Jake. The way his smile never quite reaches his eyes.
You drift away, taking in the rest of the room while their voices fade behind you.
The bookshelf is built into the far wall, floor to ceiling, packed with old volumes in dark, cracked leather. You let your eyes trace the spines without really seeing them—something to do, somewhere to look that isn't the two of them. Most of the titles are in languages you don't recognize. Latin, maybe. Something older.
Then your gaze snags.
A book bound in dark blue cloth, its cover embossed with a faded silver symbol you recognize instantly. You've seen it before. In the narrow library aisle, in the hands of a bored teenager. Instinctively, your hand reaches.
"Have you read it?"
The voice comes from directly behind you, close enough that you feel the words stir the hair at the nape of your neck. You flinch, spinning on your heel, and find Sunghoon standing less than an arm's length away. You hadn't heard him move. You hadn't heard anything at all.
You look around frantically. Jake. Where is Jake? Where did he—?
"It's local history, mostly. Folklore. Old superstitions." He reaches past you, his sleeve brushing your shoulder, and pulls the volume from the shelf. He turns it over in his hands, long pale fingers tracing the embossed symbol. "You don't strike me as the type to believe in such."
"I don't." You say too quickly, "I just find it interesting. The stories. The history."
"So you have read it."
His eyes meet yours. The candlelight catches them strangely, deepening the dark, and for a moment, you can't look away. You don’t want to. Nor do you want to keep trying to convince yourself that the way he looks at you is anything normal.
"What about you?" You tilt your chin up. "Do you believe any of it is real?"
"I think I’ve told you before. I believe in many things." He slides the book back onto the shelf. "They say curiosity is a dangerous thing. It can be. Though I think a curious mind, who is drawn to things they cannot explain, is putting themselves in far more danger by resisting their nature."
"One might call it resistance. One might also call it none of your concern."
The words come out sharper than you intended. Sunghoon smiles, slow and knowing.
"The scaredy cat has claws." He doesn't step back. His gaze doesn't waver.
Against your will, your mind flashes back to the cat in your front yard, lying bloody and lifeless in the snow. A shudder runs through you.
Jake's footsteps echo in the hallway, and Sunghoon steps back, the space between you reasserting itself as if it had never closed.
"Anyway." Sunghoon's voice lifts, smooth and easy, perfectly timed to Jake's reappearance in the doorway. "It's quite an interesting read, even for a skeptic."
"Sorry about that." He says, expression half sheepish. "I kind of got lost on the way to the bathroom. This house is—yeah. What'd I miss?"
"Your wife was admiring my library," Sunghoon replies. "She has excellent taste."
The three of you sit at one end of the long dining room table, silverware grasped in your unsteady hands, your wine glass untouched. Sunghoon brought out the first course—something rich and dark, red wine sauce pooling on porcelain. It smells delicious, and you watch Jake dig into it thoughtlessly. You move the food around your plate instead. Your mother would scold you for bad table manners, but you don't owe this man any manners. Not when he’s charming your husband to his face, and cornering you when he’s out of sight.
"So only a few weeks," Sunghoon says, refilling Jake's glass with a bottle that had no label. "Married, moved in, new job. You've been busy."
"Busy doesn't even cover it." Jake is already reaching for his glass, his shoulders loosening with each sip. "I barely have time to do anything like this anymore. Socializing, I mean. As much as I love being cooped up with my other half..." He shoots you a wink. "This is nice. Really nice."
"It is." Sunghoon hums in agreement. "I remember what it was like. The demands on a new husband can feel endless. The pressure to build something lasting, to be enough for someone who's given you everything."
"Yeah." Jake exhales, something in his posture softening. "Exactly. It's a lot sometimes."
Sunghoon's gaze drifts to yours.
"Of course, it's hard on the wives, too. I'm sure." He says. "The adjustment can be difficult. Old habits. Old fears. They don't disappear just because there's a ring on your finger."
Jake doesn't seem to notice how you shift in discomfort. He’s already nodding, already raising his glass in a loose, tipsy agreement. He doesn't hear the implication. He doesn't see the way Sunghoon's eyes haven't left your face. He doesn’t listen to you when you tell him to stop drinking, either.
One bottle turned into two, and you don't know how many glasses you've watched your husband down, but you know with certainty that he's far gone as you sit in the living room, stiff and silent while the men chat away. You don't listen. You're too busy noticing how your heart beats faster than the ticking grandfather clock in the corner, eagerly waiting to leave.
The fire has burned down to embers, a low red pulse that makes the shadows stretch along the walls. The record crackles to life, piano drifting through the air. Something slow and minor.
"My wife adored Chopin's nocturnes, but I preferred his sonatas. Though one could argue that everything he composed was excellent." Sunghoon places the record sleeve down, the edges worn. "I used to listen to this one to clear my head."
Jake stirs against you, lifting his head with visible effort.
"Oh yeah?" His voice is thick, syrupy. He squints at the record sleeve in Sunghoon's hands, then back at you. "I know someone who could use that."
He looks straight at you. His eyes are glassy, fond, and painfully oblivious. You glare.
"I'm just teasing, baby." His hand finds your thigh, squeezing. A drunken peace offering. It doesn't help at all. "Just teasing."
"Careful." Sunghoon's voice is closer now, light and teasing as he slides into the couch across from you two. "You'll end up sleeping on the couch tonight."
Jake snorts, and you watch something loosen in his shoulders—watch him lean into the camaraderie of it, the easy, too-easy understanding that passes between them. He gestures with his glass, the dregs of wine sloshing against the crystal.
"She wouldn't let me. Who else is going to protect her from all the scary monsters and the dark?" He rolls his eyes, affectionately dismissive.
"Jake." It comes out as a whisper, a plea.
"You're scared of the dark?"
"She's scared of everything." Jake interrupts, his words slurring. "Scared of the dark. Scared of being alone. Scared of herself, even." He raises his hands in surrender, palms out, the gesture loose and exaggerated. "Don't ask me why. Nobody knows why. I've been trying to figure it out since we met, and I've got nothing."
He lets his hands drop, gazing at you with a sad, broken look in his eyes. Something only alcohol could drag out of him, and something he'll hate himself for in the morning.
"I don't know how to help." He continues, "I don't know what to do. I never know what to—"
"Jake, stop it."
He blinks at you, the awareness that he's crossed a line he definitely shouldn't have dawning on him all at once. His shoulders hunch, invisible weight pressing down on him.
"Right. I should shut my mouth. I know, I know." He sets his glass down on the side table, clumsy, the stem rattling. His hand finds your knee and pats it twice, a sloppy apology. "I don't know what I'm saying. I'm not trying to be mean, sweetheart. I just… don't understand you."
"I know."
"I try. I promise, I try."
"I know you do." You soothe him, feeling his weight press against you. You turn to Sunghoon. "I think he's had too much to drink. We should probably—"
"I try, just..." He exhales, long and slow, the last of the fight going out of him. "Just... can't..."
His head dips forward. His shoulders go slack. The weight of him against your side becomes dead weight, heavy and still.
"Jake?" Your hand moves to his chest, shaking gently. Nothing.
His breathing remains deep and even, but there's no flicker of consciousness beneath his eyelids, no reflexive squeeze of his hand where it lies slack in yours.
"Your husband." Sunghoon hasn't moved from his chair. The firelight catches the pale angle of his jaw, the dark gleam of his eyes. "He's lovely."
"He is." The words come out defensive.
His gaze then drops to your throat.
Your hand twitches up. Beneath your blouse, the cross rests against your heated skin. You wore it like this on purpose, tucked away so you wouldn't be tempted to reach for it, so he wouldn't have the satisfaction of seeing you clutch it like a shield. Still, your muscle memory betrays you.
"Though, not quite as lovely as you."
You dart your gaze away immediately, redirecting your attention to Jake. You shake him with less care and more urgency.
"Jake." You hiss his name under your breath, a prayer and a plea. "Jake, wake up."
He returns nothing. Not a twitch. Not a flicker of consciousness.
"Please." Your voice is rising now, shedding its careful composure. "Please, Jake—"
"He's not going to wake up."
Sunghoon's voice is certain.
Your hand stills on Jake's shoulder.
"What did you do to him?" Your voice is low. Gone was the politeness you'd faked for your husband's sake.
He smiles.
"Nothing. He drank my wine. Enjoyed good company. That's all." Sunghoon states plainly, "He's exhausted. You've noticed it, haven't you? The dark circles. The way he collapses the moment he's home."
Your gaze drops to Jake's face. To the shadows pooled beneath his eyes. The way his hand, even in sleep, rests on your thigh like he's still trying to anchor you. Your throat tightens. You've done this to him. Your fears. Your clinging. And—
"And the nightmares," Sunghoon continues, his head tilting. "The things you call nightmares. They must be so tiring for him to tend to."
A slow, creeping horror spreads through your chest as you stare back at him.
"But they're not really nightmares." His voice drops, low and intimate. "They never have been."
You move before you can think.
"Jake." Your hand closes around Jake's arm. You pull, trying to drag him upright, trying to haul his dead weight off the couch. "Jake, get up. We're leaving. We're leaving right now—"
His body is heavy and uncooperative, slumping against you, and you're not strong enough, but you try regardless. You try because you can see Sunghoon start to rise from where he's seated from the corner of your eye.
You reach to set down your wine glass. You need both hands. You need to grip Jake properly and drag him out of this house, even if you have to crawl. But your hands are shaking, and the glass comes down too fast.
It shatters.
The sound is obscene in the quiet—a bright, crystalline burst, shards scattering across your hand, across the coffee table and onto the carpet.
Immediately, the pain rises through your palm, and you hiss, jerking your hand back. You watch the blood well up—dark in the low light, beading along the cut and spilling over, sliding down the curve of your wrist.
A single drop falls to the carpet.
Then you hear it. A low, ragged inhale, shuddering and deep, as if the air itself has become something to be devoured. Your head lifts before you can stop it.
He's already above you, his presence caging you into the couch, and the expression on his face has changed. His eyes are dark. His lips have parted. His whole body is still, but it is not the stillness of composure. It is the stillness of a predator in the moment before the strike.
He reaches down. Takes your wrist. The motion is nothing gentle, but there is a restraint in his grip that makes your pulse hammer against his fingers. He draws your bleeding hand toward his face, eyes fixed on the red tracing its way down your palm. He lowers his mouth to it.
"Sunghoon—"
He inhales, and the groan that escapes him is low and guttural, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. It is pure hunger, pure want, and it makes your thighs press together where you sit, a traitorous heat blooming low in your belly that you cannot control.
"What are you?" Your voice is a mere whisper, weak and trembling. "What do you want from me?"
"You know what I am. You've known me a very long time." His fangs catch the firelight, sharp and unmistakable. He turns your wrist over, watching a bead of blood trace down your palm. "As for what I want... All I've ever wanted is what you promised me all those years ago."
The memories come back to you all at once: The dreams. The cold hands on your bare skin. The sharp teeth sinking into your neck while you begged for it, night after night, year after year. The presence at your window that was never a nightmare at all.
It's always been him.
"For so long, I've waited." He shudders, and the sound is almost pained. "For even just a taste of what is mine."
You watch, frozen, as his lips close around your fingers. His tongue moves against your wounded hand, lapping at the blood with a hunger that feels obscene. His eyes flutter shut. A tremor runs through him, and you feel it echoed in your own body.
Your husband lies sleeping three feet away, a monster is drinking from your hand like a man dying of thirst, and you cannot speak. You cannot do anything but watch and feel the shameful heat pooling between your thighs, the ache you've spent a lifetime trying to pray away now so acute it nearly doubles you over.
A whimper catches in your throat. You try to swallow it back, but it escapes anyway, small and utterly pathetic. His eyes open at the sound, fixed on yours as you watch the slow movement of his throat as he swallows. Your breath is coming short, and you nearly forget how to breathe entirely when his knee comes up to the couch, just between your thighs as he leans over you. Your free hand is pressed flat against your thigh to keep it from reaching for him.
When he finally pulls his mouth from your fingers, a thin strand of saliva, stained with your blood, connects his lower lip to your skin.
"Just a taste..." he breathes, the words ragged. His grip on your wrist tightens, not enough to hurt, but enough to make clear he is holding himself back by a thread. "It's not enough."
"Please," You shake your head. "Please, I don't—"
"Don't you remember? The way you kneeled before me. How I answered your call." His voice drops. "I promised you relief—in exchange for you. For your blood. Your flesh. Your soul. Your innocence. We made a deal."
The soul-contract.
Permanent. Mutual. Even if the vampire dies, the connection doesn't break.
You had hoped it was all folklore. Even after you saw his fangs, after he tasted your blood. Some small part of you clung to the belief that the promise you made at your window was nothing more than a desperate girl's cry into the dark.
But the deal was real. Your marriage, your faith, your husband's gentle love—none of it could change what you'd already given away.
"Why now?" Your voice cracks. "Why me. Why—"
"You have no idea how torturous it was. To be bound to someone I could not reach." His voice is ragged now, stripped of its usual composure. "To feel your wanting every night. Your dreams, your shame. To be unable to touch you. To be unable to drink you. Unable to even stand at your window and watch you."
His eyes find yours, and the hurt in them is so raw, so genuine, that for a moment you forget he's a monster.
"And then you moved across the river. Across the street. I thought—finally. Finally, she's come to me." His expression hardens. "But you came with him. You let another man touch what was already mine. How could you do that to me?"
The running water barrier—they can't cross it.
You remember when you viewed the house in this neighbourhood. The unmistakable, almost unsettlingly strong pull you'd felt. You'd taken it as a sign from God that this place was right. That your future belonged here.
So you left your childhood home behind. You crossed the southern river. You brought yourself within his reach, and you brought your husband with you.
God. He hadn't been the one to answer your prayers. He hadn't guided you on the right path, either. Perhaps you'd let him down too many times. Perhaps your faith was too bleak, too fragile. Or perhaps he'd stopped listening altogether the night you knelt at your window and begged for something He couldn't give.
"I felt everything. Every touch. Every kiss. His name on your lips." His gaze cuts to Jake's sleeping form, a strange sort of understanding surfacing beneath his frown. "I even felt your love for him."
He is quiet for a long moment, and so are you. Then, his gaze returns to you.
"I cannot understand how you could love someone else. Though, I also cannot blame you for needing someone in my absence."
His mouth is at your throat now. You feel the graze of his fangs against the thin skin over your pulse, the place where your blood beats closest to the surface.
"But I am here now. Do not deny me any longer." His voice is a murmur against your neck, each word a brush of cool lips. "I've been so patient, my love."
Your pulse is racing, warm and alive under his cold touch. Your blood sings to him, practically begging to be taken. Though he doesn't bite.
You remember why before you can question it: The soul-contract requires permission.
Your body is screaming for you to give in. Your hand wants to curl into his hair and press him closer to your neck, to offer yourself and enjoy every second of it, the way you have done so in every dream you've ever had of him. You are trembling with the effort of holding yourself still as you imagine the pleasure, the relief.
Then you look to Jake, the peaceful look on his face, his soft breathing.
"Don't."
His hand stills. Then it withdraws entirely. The loss of contact is almost worse than the touch—your skin aching where his palm had rested, your pulse hammering against nothing.
His expression shifts, tenderness replaced with something wounded.
"That night." Your voice trembles, but you force the words out. "It was a mistake. I was young. And desperate. That's all it was."
"You can lie to your husband. You can even lie to yourself. But you cannot lie to me." He frowns. "I can smell your desire from down the street. It reeks."
"I don't desire this. I don't. I don't want it. I just want to be left alone." You shake your head as the words fall out, painfully unconvincing. The tears come before you can stop them, spilling over your cheeks. "Please. Please leave me alone."
He watches you weep, ever so still and silent. Then, his hand rises, near your face. For a moment, you let yourself lean into the possibility of the touch, the cold comfort of his fingertips.
"These tears." His voice is barely a whisper as a single finger traces the track of your tears. "You only cry because you continue to deny yourself."
You sniffle. Blink. Meet his gaze through the wet blur of your lashes.
"You've tormented me for years." You try to sound angry. Your voice doesn't obey. "You've ruined me. And now you're ruining my marriage."
"Tormented?" His brows furrow, and he studies your face—the parted lips, the flushed cheeks, the wet gleam of your eyes. His hand remains at your cheek. His touch is cold. It soothes, momentarily, the all-consuming heat inside you. "You have it all wrong. I've loved you for years."
"Love." You'd laugh if you weren't crying, "You're not in love. You're hungry."
"Hunger is the purest form of love. It doesn't think. It doesn't negotiate. It simply wants." He tilts his head. "You know that. You've been hungry your whole life. You hunger for something only I can give you. Something only we can share."
You think of the ache. The one that never goes away. The one you've tried to pray away, fuck away, hide away in the deepest part of yourself. It pulses now, insistently, and you know he could make it stop.
You pull away regardless. Your body screams, but you ignore it. You will not give in to temptation. You will resist.
"Stay away from me."
His expression doesn't change, but the air between you feels as if it does. He looks at you for a long, unreadable moment. Then he inclines his head.
"Very well."
The firelight catches his face—his terribly beautiful face. It hurts to even look at him.
"You're stubborn." His hand drifts from your neck, his gaze longing. "So was I."
He brings his palm to your forehead, and your eyelids grow heavy. The weight of slumber threatens to pull you under, and you try to fight it, but your body is no longer yours to command. It hasn't been for a long time.
"But you know, my dear..." His voice is the last thing you hear, "A vampire still needs to feed."
His gaze shifts past you. Toward the couch. Toward Jake.
You aren't able to protest.
The record still plays, the second sonata in its third movement, and it lulls you, allowing the darkness to swallow you whole.
You wake slowly, your body rising before your mind can follow. The first thing you register is warmth. The second is wetness, a slick, shameful heat between your thighs that tells you the dreams have come again even if you can't remember them.
The third is the press of your husband's body against your back. Hard. Insistent.
"Shit, baby." Jake's voice is rough, his arm tightening around your waist. "You're killing me."
Your husband.
You lurch forward, twisting in his grip, your hands finding his shoulders and pushing him flat against the mattress so you can climb over him. Your heart is pounding from the images that linger at the edge of your memory like a flickering candle flame. His face. His teeth. Your blood on his lips. The way your husband slumped against the couch, and how he moved towards him.
"Jake!" The name tears out of you. Your hands cup his face, thumbs pressing into his cheekbones, tilting his head left and right. "Jake, you're alive."
He blinks up at you, squinting against the pale morning light. His hair is a mess, flattened on one side, and there's a crease from the pillow pressed into his cheek.
"Ugh. Barely." He groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. "How much did I drink last night? I feel like I got hit by a truck."
Your hands are still on his face, your eyes still searching.
"Do you... do you remember anything?"
"Uh..." He hums, his brow furrowing with the effort of recollection. "The meal was amazing. And the wine. A lot of wine. And..." He shifts, adjusting himself with a wince. "I remember thinking our neighbour's a really cool guy."
Your heart drops into your stomach.
"I could see myself being friends with him."
Friends. With him. With that monster. You bite your tongue.
"Do you remember anything else?" You ask a little quieter this time.
"Should I be remembering something else?" He props himself up on his elbows, his expression shifting from groggy to concerned. "Did something happen?"
"Do you remember passing out on his couch?"
His eyes widen.
"I did? Shit. That's... so embarrassing." His hands come up to his face, a half-groan, half-laugh leaving him. "It was fun, though. You had a good time too, right?"
You don't answer. Your gaze drifts to his neck, to the skin just below his jaw. There they are. Two small punctures, red and slightly raised, the skin around them faintly bruised.
A vampire needs to feed.
You reach, your fingertips brushing the wounds. Jake flinches.
"What is that?" He twists away from your touch, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and stumbling toward the mirror above the dresser. He tilts his chin, squinting at his reflection. "Huh. Looks like mosquito bites or something. Weird time of year for bugs."
"Vampire bite."
Jake's eyes meet yours in the mirror. For a moment, his expression is unreadable—caught somewhere between confusion and a smile, like he's waiting for the punchline. Then his face settles into something flatter. Tired.
"Ha. Yeah, right. Very funny." He turns from the mirror, reaching for a T-shirt on the floor. "Don't tell me you're still serious about that."
"I am serious."
He pauses, one arm in his sleeve, the other still free. He turns to look at you over his shoulder, his expression wholeheartedly, genuinely, bewildered with disbelief.
"Baby." He pulls the shirt the rest of the way on. His voice is groggy, too tired to give your seeming absurdity any real argument. "Come on."
"You don't understand, you—" At the fuzzy recollection of the previous night—the glass shattering in your hand, and the wound he licked clean, you scramble to show Jake your hand, holding out your right palm. "Look. I cut my hand and he..."
Your voice trails off, seeing your hand. You turn your hand over, flexing your fingers. You know you didn't imagine the pain of the glass piercing your skin. You know you watched him devour the blood from your open wound. And yet, there isn't a single mark. Not even a faint scar. Not a trace of proof to show him.
"Sweetheart. Look at me." Jake says slowly, calmly. "Are you actually suggesting that our neighbour—who, by the way, invited us into his home and made us dinner—is a vampire?" He waits, watching you. Watches how you don't answer, how you ignore him and continue to inspect your hand for proof that isn't there. "You can't be serious. Vampires aren't real. They're Halloween costumes. They're shitty movies. They're— "
"Jake. Just—look at your neck." You gesture, and his hand flies up instinctively to the wound. "It's literally right there. We're both looking at it."
"These are—I don't know what they are. An allergic reaction. A spider bite. I don't know. But it's not..." He stops himself, shaking his head. "You believe this. You actually, genuinely believe that Sunghoon is a vampire?"
"He is."
Neither of you moves.
Jake stares at you. You stare back. And for a long, strange moment, you're both just standing there in your bedroom looking at each other like you've each just discovered the other is speaking a foreign language.
"I don't..." He passes a hand over his face. "I don't even know what to say to that."
"Say you believe me."
"I don't." He exhales, long and slow. "Baby, you're asking me to believe in actual, literal monsters who drink blood and sleep in a coffin and turn into bats."
"He doesn't turn into a bat, or—"
"Oh, well, that's reassuring. Thank you for clarifying." He scoffs. "I can't believe what I'm hearing. I can't—it's too early for this."
"Jake," you plead, "I know it sounds crazy. But I know what I saw."
"What did you see?"
The question hangs in the air between you. He poses it the same way he always does, when he asks about your nightmares. And you realize, with a sinking, gut-wrenching clarity, that there is no answer you can give that he will believe.
You could describe the fangs—sharp and white and gleaming in the firelight. You could describe the sound he made when he smelled your blood, animalistic and starving. You could describe the way his mouth closed around your fingers, the way his tongue moved against your skin as he drank from your hand.
You could spend hours, talking in circles, trying to explain it. It doesn't matter. Jake didn't see it. He would only look at you with those patient, loving eyes and say you had a nightmare or you were scared and the wine got to your head.
"Hey." His voice softens. He crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed beside you, his hand finding yours. "I'm not trying to make you feel bad."
"I know."
"Where is this coming from?" He asks, "The vampire talk. Is it your dreams?"
You nod. It's true, even if not the whole truth.
"Tell me about them." His thumb traces your hand. "I know you don't like talking about your dreams. But I can't help you if you don't tell me."
Jake waits. When nothing comes, he squeezes your hand.
"Please. I want to understand. Please give me something." His fingers lace through yours, intertwined with his hand, "I'm your husband. You can tell me anything."
The words are right there. My dreams, my sins, the things I prayed for in the dark, the monster that answered. But they don't come. Saying them out loud means admitting what you'd done, what you brought into your marriage and haunts the space between your thighs when you wake in the dark. What you still, in the deepest and most secret part of yourself, want.
He wouldn't see the woman he thought he married. He'd see filth. Sin. Your rotting, corrupted soul. A woman who begged evil to touch her.
"I don't think my dreams are just dreams anymore." The words come out barely a whisper. You can't bring yourself to tell him the rest. "I'm so scared, Jake."
The sob that follows is ugly and raw. You crawl into his lap like you did a few weeks ago, your fingers twisting into the fabric of his shirt, your face pressed to the warm hollow of his throat. And he holds you. Like he always does. Like he's come to expect.
"Okay," he murmurs into your hair. "Okay. I've got you. It's okay."
But it's not okay. Even now, with his arms around you and his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, you feel it. That hunger. A ravenous void inside you, hot and insistent and utterly indifferent to the tears still drying on your cheeks. It never leaves. It's always there.
Your hand moves before you can stop it. Sliding up his chest. Curling into the collar of his shirt. Your mouth finds his.
He lets you kiss him, his lips parting under yours, a small sound of surprise caught in his throat. His hands come up to your waist, steadying you, and for a moment it's like every other time—the familiar heat, the familiar hunger, the familiar way your body presses into his like he's the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.
You climb deeper into his lap, your knees bracketing his hips. You roll against him, a slow, desperate grind, chasing the friction that might quiet the ache for even a few seconds.
You need him to be enough. You need him to be the answer, the cure, the thing that scares the monster out of you.
"Baby." His voice is breathless, his hands tightening on your waist. "Slow down."
You don't—you can't. Slowing down means thinking, and thinking means remembering the cold hands, the sharp teeth, his mouth on your fingers while your husband slept three feet away. So you kiss him harder. You grind down against the pressure in his underwear, a desperate little sound escaping your throat.
"Hey." His grip shifts, trying to tame you. "Hey, slow down. Just—"
Your hand drops to grasp him, but he's quicker than you. He closes around your wrists, and your back hits the mattress, his weight settling over you, his knees bracketing your hips. He keeps your hands pinned down on either side of your head, breathing heavy above your form.
You thrash. Not playfully, either. Not with a smile or a giggle or a pout. It's a full-body thrash, fuelled by a sharp and sudden frustration, verging on genuine anger. You twist beneath him, trying to free your hands, trying to arch up into the heat of his body.
"Stop." His voice is quiet. "Just stop. For a second."
You thrash again. You hiss his name, and you even try to kick him, but he shifts his weight enough to keep you fully restrained. He doesn't budge. His grip on your wrists is secure, his weight solid and unmovable.
It's only when you feel your tears sliding from your temples into your hairline that you realize you're still crying. You must look insane. You must look like exactly what you are: a woman trying to fuck her way out of her own damnation.
"Please." The word comes out broken, barely a whisper. You don't know if you're asking him to let go or to never let go.
"No." He shakes his head. "We're not doing this."
"Why not?"
"Every time you get scared, or something upsets you, you climb into my lap and kiss me. I don't know what you're trying to do or why, but..." His voice isn't quite as steady as it usually is. A hitch in his breath, a flicker of something else. He swallows. "I can't just fuck the hurt out of you. It's not right."
"It helps." Your voice cracks. "Please. Just help me."
He stares down at you. His eyes are so tired. So unbearably, impossibly tired. And beneath the exhaustion, there's something you've never seen before.
"Sweetheart." He whispers. "You're scaring me."
Your body goes slack beneath him, but his grip doesn't loosen. He still holds your wrists against the mattress, still keeps his weight braced above you, still watches you with those wide, careful eyes. Like you've gone rabid.
He shouldn't have to hold me down, you think. A good wife doesn't need to be restrained.
A good wife doesn't claw at her husband while she's still crying. A good wife doesn't grind against him like a bitch in heat, chasing a relief he can't give her, chasing a hunger that has nothing to do with love. A good wife doesn't show her burning desire. Desire belongs to the husband. It's his to wield and use, and for her to accept it.
But here you are. Pinned to your own marriage bed for all the wrong reasons, your face wet with tears you can't explain, your body still aching with a want he didn't ask for—a want to be consumed, to be devoured without shame, without guilt. Of course he doesn't know what to do with it. You crave something he cannot give you.
The fight drains out of you all at once, leaving nothing but the hollow ache and the shame and the terrible, traitorous thought that rises up before you can stop it.
Sunghoon wouldn't stop.
Sunghoon wouldn't be scared. He would see the hunger on your face and recognize it. He would give you exactly what you were asking for. He would pin you to the mattress and sink his teeth into your throat and make the ache disappear. He wouldn't try to save you. He would let you drown.
"Baby?"
Jake's voice cuts through the dark. You blink, and the fantasy recedes, with Sunghoon's face dissolving, the cold hands retreating, the sharp teeth fading back into the shadows where they belong.
Your husband is still there. Still hovering over you with that furrow between his brows, that gentle, worried look he's been wearing for weeks. He's been talking. You haven't been listening.
"I think I know what's going on."
You look up.
"We haven't been to church in weeks. Either of us. Ever since the wedding, we've just... let it slip." His voice is so certain. "You're losing touch with God, and it's scaring you."
Losing touch.
Your eyes land on the cross around his neck, catching the pale light from the window. It's the same one he was wearing when you met him all those years ago. You've never seen him without it.
Jake is a good Christian. He always has been. His faith has never wavered, never faltered, never turned its back on him the way yours turned its back on you.
Foolishly, you'd once hoped that his goodness might rub off on you, that marrying a man who loved God so easily might help you remember how to do the same. Now you wonder if you're doing the opposite. If you're the one dragging him away from the light.
"I'm not saying it's the whole answer. I'm just saying... maybe it's a start." He presses a kiss to your head. "Let's go. Together. It can't hurt, right?"
The hope in your chest is as steady as a single lit candle in the wind. Somehow, it still burns—It flickers, it wavers, but it still burns. You don't know if it's because you're too stubborn to let it go out, or if you only cling to it because it's the only thing you know.
"Yeah," You nod. You try a smile, though it feels stiff against your cheeks. "Let's go."
The church is small and quaint, an old-fashioned-looking chapel. Stained glass windows filter in colour from the grey winter light, and the air smells of incense and old wood and the faint, sweet perfume of the elderly women who fill the front pews.
You sit near the back, and Jake holds your hand throughout the opening prayers, his thumb tracing those same familiar circles. When the choir rises to sing, he glances at you with a small, encouraging smile. See? the smile says. This is where we belong.
You try to feel it. You close your eyes. You bow your head. You let the Latin verses wash over you, the same ones Jake joked about forgetting as a boy—Gloria in excelsis Deo, et in terra pax hominibus bonae voluntatis—and wait for the peace that is supposed to follow.
The prayers feel hollow in your mouth, words without meaning. The hymns rise and fall, but they bring you no peace. The stained glass saints stare down at you with flat, judgmental eyes, and you feel the weight of their disapproval.
You don't belong here. You are sitting in the house of God with the stain of your dreams still fresh on your skin, with the memory of a monster's eyes and sharp teeth and the wet heat of your own arousal clinging to you beneath your skirt. You are filthy.
Jake squeezes your hand, and you flinch.
"You okay?" he whispers.
You look at him, his smile, his earnest concern.
You don't belong. You are filthy, you are damned. But you are trying. God help you, you are trying.
Returning the squeeze of his hand, you nod.
The service drags on. The priest's homily is about faith in times of trial, about holding fast to belief when the world grows dark around you. You sit with your hands folded in your lap, your spine rigid, listening to the words but taking in none of it.
When the final blessing is given, and the congregation rises to leave, you feel like you've been holding your breath for an hour and only just now remembered how to exhale.
"See?" Jake says, his arm slipping around your waist as you walk toward the doors. "That was nice, right?"
"Hey, lady!"
The voice echoes through the vestibule, bright and unmistakable, and you freeze. Jake turns, his arm still around you, and you watch his expression shift from confusion to surprise as a lanky figure in a rumpled button-up shirt comes bounding toward you through the thinning crowd.
Niki. From the library. The collar of his shirt askew. His hair looks like it hasn't seen a comb since last Sunday. And he's grinning like you're the most exciting thing to happen to him all week.
"Hey, lady! And sir—" He glances at Jake, giving him a quick, awkward nod. "Lady's husband. Hi."
"We need to go," you say quickly, your hand tightening on Jake's arm. "Sorry, Niki, we're—"
"What's this?" Jake's free hand has already reached out, plucking a slim paperback from the boy's grip before either of you can react. He turns it over, reading the cover. "Vampire lore, huh?"
Jake turns the book toward you. The cover shows a shadowed figure with glowing eyes, looming over a sleeping woman. The Old World Vampire: A Study of Belief, Burial, and Blood.
"I keep it in the Bible during service," Niki grabs it back, oblivious to how Jake's expression flickers with all the shock, scandal, and the distant horror of a youth group alumnus at the thought of someone tucking something so unholy between the pages of Scripture. "Please don't tell my mom. She'd kill me if she knew I was reading this stuff in church."
Jake doesn't respond to Niki. He's looking at you now, and the lightness in his voice is a thin veneer over something sharper.
"Sweetheart." He waits until you meet his eyes. "How exactly do you know this kid?"
"We met at the library. A few weeks ago."
"Dude." Niki is staring at Jake now with unbearable sincerity. "Your wife is so cool."
Jake blinks, the exhaustion in his face flickering. His brow lifts almost imperceptibly as he glances at you, a question forming at the corner of his mouth. Something in his expression is almost amused.
"She's the only person in this entire town who cares about this stuff. My mom literally tried to get the pastor to purify me one time because of my 'satanic theories' but she—" He jabs a finger toward you, his face alight. "She gets it."
The amusement dies.
"What stuff?"
You can feel Jake's stare now, the weight of it pressing against the side of your face. You don't return it.
Niki opens his mouth to answer, but Jake raises a hand.
"I'm asking her."
The silence that follows has Niki's grin faltering. He looks at you, then at Jake, just catching up to the tension in the room.
"History. Folklore." You swallow, "The occult—"
"Vampires." Jake finishes for you, flatly. Then turns to Niki. "My wife talks to you about vampires, is that it?"
Niki blinks, nodding enthusiastically. "You're so lucky, man. Seriously. I've got no one to talk to about this stuff and you just, like, get to be married to her. That's insane."
"Yeah. Lucky me."
"We should go," you say quickly. "Goodbye — "
"Wait!" Niki is already digging in his pocket, his fingers closing around a crumpled scrap of paper. "I wanted to give you this. My Discord."
He points at the username scrawled across the paper:
xX_vampK1_Xx
"I kept waiting for you to come back to the library, but you never did, so..." He thrusts it toward you, his expression almost painfully eager. "Message me? Please?"
From the distance, a woman's voice calls out. "Niki! Car. Now."
"That's my mom." He shoves the paper into your hand, his fingers cold and quick. "Okay, bye lady! Bye, lady's husband!"
And then he's gone, swallowed by the crowd of departing church-goers, leaving you standing in the vestibule with a scrap of paper in your fist and your husband staring at the side of your face.
The drive home is quiet.
Jake doesn't speak until you're through the front door, until his keys are tossed onto the hall table and his coat is shed. You shed yourself of your own coat, the small paper Niki had handed you still folded in its pocket.
"When I said go out to town and make friends," he says, his voice carefully level, "I didn't think you'd go befriending... emo teenagers."
You don't answer. You smooth the sleeve of your coat, align it on the hanger and close the closet door with a soft click.
"Kid gave you his Discord in front of me. At church. Ballsy, I'll give him that." A laugh, but there's nothing funny about his tone. "Must've really charmed him with all that vampire talk."
"Don't tell me you're jealous of a high schooler." You turn to face him finally, your back against the closet door.
"You know that's not it." His arms cross over his chest. "You never told me you went to the library. You never told me you were—what, researching? Talking with some kid who hides monster books inside his Bible?"
You push off the door and walk past him, into the kitchen. Away from the hurt in his eyes that you can't quite bear to witness.
"You're keeping secrets from me." He raises his voice ever so slightly, not enough to startle you, but enough to be heard from down the hall. "You're not going to explain yourself?"
His footsteps trail behind you. You reach the sink and turn on the faucet, letting the water run for no reason at all. Just sound. Something to drown out the shame.
"I went to the library to read about vampires. Because I thought—Because I know our neighbour is a vampire." You say, "And I didn't tell you because I knew you would look at me like... this."
Jake exhales, a long, measured breath.
You turn off the faucet, eyes glued to the tub of hot water, but you don't reach for any dishes.
"You don't believe me. So why would I tell you?"
His hands find your shoulders, warm and steady, and he turns you gently away from the sink. Away from the dirty dishes and the pretense that any of this is normal.
"I believe that you believe it." His thumbs trace the curve of your shoulders. "I believe you're scared. I believe something is wrong. I just don't think it's what you think it is."
"That's not the same thing."
"No. It's not."
He's quiet for a moment. Then, with a sigh, he guides you. His hand finds the small of your back. He pulls out a chair at the kitchen table and waits until you sit. Then he sits across from you and takes both your hands in his.
"Don't keep things from me." His voice is low, but it sounds like a plea. "I don't care how crazy it is. Even if you became a madwoman, I would never leave you. Never." He squeezes your hands. "Please. Don't hide. Don't push me away."
"I'm sorry," you look down at your joined hands. "I'm sorry that I'm like this. I'm sorry I can't just be normal."
"Stop. Don't apologize." He lifts one hand to your chin, tilting your face up until you meet his eyes. "I love you. I'll love you 'til the day I die."
You nod, sucking in a breath. You think you would be crying if you hadn't already shed all your tears earlier that morning.
"I love you too."
He nods, but the furrow in his brow doesn't smooth. His thumb traces a slow arc across your knuckles, and you can feel him preparing himself for whatever he's about to say.
"I want you to see someone. A therapist, or a counsellor. Someone who can actually help you work through all of this.” His voice is gentle, but there's no hesitation in it. He's been thinking about this. Maybe for a while. "These fears. The nightmares. It's not healthy. You can't spend the rest of your life like this."
A therapist. Your eyes drop to Jake's neck, where you know a vampire's bite hides beneath his collar.
"It won't help."
"It might." He squeezes your hands, willing you to meet him halfway. "You don't know unless you try. Even if it doesn't, at least we tried."
He lifts your hands to his lips and presses a kiss to your knuckles. His eyes are full of love, but tired. So very tired. You can see it in his movements, in the slight hunch of his shoulders.
You could argue. You could try to explain why it's a waste of money and time. But that's not what he needs to hear.
"Okay." You say. "I'll go."
His eyes widen, like he'd braced himself for a fight and doesn't quite know what to do now. Then he pushes back his chair and stands, pulling you up with him. His arms wrap around you before you've even found your footing, one hand splayed across your spine, the other cradling the back of your head. You feel his breath against your hair, warm and unsteady, and you feel his smile.
"Thank you," he murmurs. "Thank you."
He pulls back just enough to kiss your forehead. Then your cheek. Then the bridge of your nose, clumsy and reverent, and you almost laugh despite everything. He's already talking about a counsellor his mother knows, a name he'll look up, a number he'll call in the morning, but the words blur together, lost in the rhythm of his heart against your ear.
Being held is not the same as being saved, but you close your eyes and accept his embrace anyway. His arms are warm, and his heart is steady, and for now, that's enough. It's all you have left.
The call comes Monday afternoon.
You've been at your laptop for the better part of an hour, filling out a self-assessment form for the counsellor Jake's mother recommended.
On a scale of one to ten, how often do you feel overwhelmed by daily tasks?
Do you experience intrusive thoughts?
Have you ever felt disconnected from reality?
The last question is taking you longer than it should, when your phone buzzes against the kitchen table. The number is one you don't recognize, and you almost let it ring. But then you look back at your screen, and decide you'd rather do anything else than pick out numbers on a scale that can't measure what's actually wrong with you.
"Mrs. Sim?"
Your hand tightens around the phone. Jake's boss explains something about how he looks terrible, how he nearly collapsed getting up from his desk, how someone needs to come get him immediately.
"I told him he should have stayed home," the boss's gruff voice says over the phone, "He kept saying he didn't want to let anyone down. Is he always this stubborn?"
You find him at his desk, pale and half-slumped, a coworker hovering uncertainly at his elbow. Between the two of you, you get him to the car. He doesn't argue. That's how you know it's bad. And you watch him from the corner of your eye the whole drive home, his head against the window as he fights his own exhaustion.
"It's nothing. Really." His words slur together as you guide him down the hall, his arm heavy across your shoulders. "Probably just a cold. I'll be fine in the morning."
You ease him onto the mattress. He sinks into it, his body going slack the moment his head touches the pillow. His eyes close. His breathing evens out, shallow but steady.
You bring him soup, which he doesn't eat. You bring him water, which he barely sips. You sit on the edge of the bed and watch the shallow rise and fall of his chest, and the whole time your mind is spinning through the past few weeks like a reel of film you can't stop.
Every night you've woken gasping from dreams you can't confess to. Every morning he's held you through the aftermath, whispering reassurances into your hair while the shadows under his eyes grew darker and darker. Every time he's said I'm trying, baby, I'm trying so hard—and you've let him. You've let him carry you, let him comfort you, let him pour himself out trying to understand something you can't explain.
And what have you given him in return? Tears. Secrets. A hand squeezing his at church while you both pretended everything was fine. Late nights where he held you instead of sleeping, early mornings where he made you coffee and asked gentle questions and got nothing back but silence.
You look at him now, with his work shirt still half-unbuttoned, his face slack, his fingers twitching faintly against the blanket and feel the guilt settle over you. He's spent every ounce of himself trying to save you from a monster he doesn't believe in.
"I'm sorry," you whisper to the quiet room. He doesn't stir.
The next day, he is worse.
You can't get him to lift his head for more than a few seconds. The medicine you brought sits untouched on the nightstand. His skin has taken on a translucence that makes your blood run cold, and when you press a cool cloth to his forehead, he barely seems to register the touch.
"Just need to sleep," he murmurs, the words slurring together. "Don't worry. You worry too much."
You don't leave his side.
You watch the hours crawl past, the gray morning fading into a grayer afternoon, the light at the window never quite brightening, and try to convince yourself it's a fever. A winter bug that hit him harder than most. But even as you tell yourself these things, your eyes keep drifting to the collar of his shirt, to the pale skin beneath, to the two small marks you know are there, still healing. You don't see any other marks, but the thought lingers.
By the third day, he can barely open his eyes.
You've stopped leaving the room except to refill the water glass he can't drink from. You've stopped pretending this is something you can fix with soup and cold compresses and whispered prayers. You sit in the chair beside the bed, your knees drawn up to your chest, and watch him fade.
It's around noon when you notice it. The sun is high in the sky today, not a single cloud, and the light illuminates the blood stain on his pillowcase, clear as day.
A small stain, rust-brown and drying, near the nape of his neck. Your hands are shaking as you reach for him, as you ease him onto his side and lift the hem of his shirt.
The marks are everywhere. Some are fresh—bright red, the skin around them inflamed and angry. Others have scabbed over, dark and ugly and bruised. Bite marks. Dozens of them. Clustered between his shoulder blades, and trailing down like a map of slow consumption.
You don't realize you're crying until a tear falls, mingling with the dried blood on his skin.
The sound you make must wake him, because his fingers twitch against the blanket, and his voice, thin and weak, drifts up from the pillow.
"Hey." A long pause. He doesn't have the strength to turn his head. "Don't cry."
You help him lie back against the pillows, your hands trembling so badly you can barely manage it. His eyes find yours—still that same warm brown, still impossibly gentle, even now, even after everything—and the tears come harder. He opens his mouth, as if to say something, but doesn't. Whether he can't find the strength or the words, you aren't sure. But you aren't about to let him finish, even if he could.
"I have to tell you something." You say quick and certain, though you feel anything but. "Please just listen."
He blinks, slow and heavy. Barely aware, barely awake.
"When I was younger. Before I met you. Before I even knew what I was doing. I prayed for something God couldn't give me. Something sinful. Something—" You swallow, force yourself to continue. "Lustful. Shameful. Every night. Every prayer. It was consuming me."
Jake's brow furrows. His hand moves across the blanket, searching for yours.
"My prayers were answered," you keep going. "But not by God. By something else. Something evil. These nightmares didn't appear out of nowhere. They're the consequence of what I did. It came to me in my dreams. It tempted me. It tainted me. For years. And now..."
You can't look at him. You stare at the blanket, at the pattern of the quilt, at the pale shape of his hand still reaching for yours.
"I've dragged you into the darkness with me." You grip his hand, "I'm sorry, Jake."
Silence. A long, stretching silence, broken only by the rasp of his breathing.
Then his fingers find yours.
"Baby."
You look up. His eyelids are heavy, his brow furrowed with an effort that seems to take everything he has left. The slow, laboured machinery of a mind trying to surface and failing.
"Baby, you are the light of my life." His voice is barely a whisper now, each word an effort. "I know you. I know your heart. It's pure. The purest of them all. Don't say scary stuff like that."
"You don't understand." You shake your head, the tears sliding hot and fast down your cheeks.
"I know." A ghost of a smile crosses his lips. He strokes the back of your hand, the motion so familiar, so tender, that it makes your chest ache. "But you understand me either."
The room is quiet. The light through the window has shifted—the gray afternoon giving way to the pale gold of a winter sunset, slanting through the glass and spilling across the bed.
Jake's gaze drifts to your face, and something in his expression changes. Softens. Opens.
"If only you could see yourself right now." His voice is barely audible, but there is a warmth in it that remains. "The way the light hits you. You're so beautiful." His fingers tighten around yours. It's the last of his strength, poured into a single gesture. "You look like an angel."
Your heart swells.
He doesn't see it. Even as you confess words you'd never dared to even think about out loud, he doesn't see the rot, the sin, the stain that has been spreading through you since long before you ever met him.
"You should see yourself," he murmurs again, his eyes already drifting closed. "So pretty. My pretty wife. I love you so much."
"I love you more." You whisper, watching the rise and fall of his chest.
He doesn't understand what you've told him. Or maybe he does. Maybe the truth is too big, too impossible, too far outside the world he believes in. All you know is that even now, when your sins are quite literally bleeding him dry, he looks at you and sees something worth loving.
You lay your head against his chest, closing your eyes. You listen to the fading rhythm of his heart, like a ticking clock.
You will not let time run out.
"Hello? Who is—wait." A pause. A sharp inhale. "Lady? Is that you? You actually made a Discord!"
Niki's voice crackles through your laptop speakers, tinny and incredulous. In the background, you can hear the faint, distorted blast of music, which cuts off abruptly as he slams a button. A desk chair creaks.
"This is amazing. I didn't think you'd actually call me. I mean, I hoped, but I've been checking my Discord every day since church."
You stare at the Discord interface, feeling decades older than you are. Jake lies down the hall, silent and still. You made sure he was asleep, though that wasn't hard to ensure. He hadn't done so much as open his eyes since the afternoon.
"I need your help."
"Help. Yeah. Okay. Um. Help with what, exactly?" His voice drops to a theatrical whisper. "Is it a vampire thing?"
You take in a breath.
"I need to know how to kill one." The silence on the other end stretches so long you think the call has dropped. Then you add, "Hypothetically."
"Oh. My. God." A drawer opens. Pages ruffle. "Okay. So. Classic methods. A wooden stake through the heart works, but the wood matters—hawthorn, ash, some sources say rowan. Decapitation is more reliable, but that's hard to pull off unless you have a sword, which I'm guessing you don't."
"I don't."
"Sunlight. Direct, full exposure. Not just a cloudy day—like, dawn, clear sky, no shade. Fire works on basically everything, but you'd have to trap it somehow." He's speaking faster now, the words tumbling over each other. "There's also holy water and consecrated ground, but the research on that is mixed—"
"That's enough. Thank you."
"What? No. Wait. I have so much more. I have an entire notebook. I have—" He stops. His voice changes, sharpens. "Wait a second. Why do you need to know this?"
"Goodbye, Niki—"
"No, hang on—You're literally asking how to kill a vampire." His voice cracks, and he clears his throat, the words still returning with a squeak as they come out in a rush. "Holy shit. You do know a vampire. I knew it. Is it in town? Is it drinking people's blood? Did it attack you? Are you in danger?"
You sigh, a hand to your temple. He's talking so fast, you can't find a proper opening to leave, and though you know you should probably just hang up, some part of you doesn't want to leave the poor boy in a state of panic.
"I’m not in any danger. I'm—”
"I can help, you know. I'm not just some kid. I know so much about this stuff. More than anyone. I've read every book in that library twice. I've read books that aren't even in the library. I know lore that isn't even translated yet. You need a vampire taken down? I'm your guy. I mean, I've never done it, but I could probably figure it out."
"That's sweet of you, really, but—"
"And you're just a housewife—not saying that housewives can't kick ass! I'm sure you could. Maybe. But you're not exactly, like, a vampire hunter." He sucks in a breath so sharp you hear it whistle through his teeth. "Wait. Shouldn't your husband be protecting you? Why isn't he—does he even know about this?"
You close your eyes.
"He doesn't know," Niki gasps in horror. His voice drops to a horrified whisper. "That's why you were asking about soul-contracts in the library. That's why you looked like you were going to throw up when I read that passage. You're in a soul-bond with a vampire, and your husband doesn't know."
Your head is in your hands now, his voice rambling through the laptop speaker.
"That's—that's insane. That's literally insane." He sputters, the words tangling in his mouth. "Isn't that like—I mean, a soul-contract, isn't that kind of like—isn't that like cheating? Like, spiritually? Eternally? Your husband thinks he's married to you, but you're already—"
"I have to go."
"Wait!"
You end the call.
The laptop screen glows, Niki's profile picture still visible in the corner—some anime character with a stupid hairstyle, smirking at nothing. A notification pops up. Then another. Then a string of them, rapid-fire, the little red badge counting up.
xX_vampK1_Xx: wait
xX_vampK1_Xx: pls dont hang up
xX_vampK1_Xx: or die
You don't read them all, closing the laptop instead.
Wooden stake.
Fire.
Sunlight.
You wait for him.
Curtains drawn back, the window open. The winter air slips through the gap, cold enough to make you shiver in your nightgown, but you remain there, facing the open night. You wait the way you used to wait—on your knees, on the floor, praying for something that God refused to give you.
Down the hall, Jake lies in the guest bedroom. The room you'd once hoped would become a nursery. It seems like a distant dream now, a life that belonged to someone else. You'd moved him there before the sun had set, his body heavy, unconscious, and blissfully unaware. He doesn't know what you're about to do. You hope he never will.
When the silhouette appears, it's almost a relief.
He steps through the parted curtains, and the moonlight reveals him. He's too pale, too still, his dark eyes already fixed on you before you've even found your voice.
He's beautiful. He's always been beautiful, and you hate that he is. It would be so much easier if he were grotesque—if his skin were rotting flesh and his eyes were hollow and vacant pits belonging to something long dead, you could recoil. You could run. Instead, you stare, almost forgetting your true intentions for a moment.
"Now, this brings back memories." He looms over you, unmoving. His eyes drift to the bed, where your husband is absent. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"You're killing my husband."
He doesn't flinch. Of course he doesn't. He stands there in the center of your bedroom, hands at his sides, and regards you with an expression that teeters on amusement.
"Believe me." His gaze drops to your throat, to the cross trembling against your collarbone. A faint smile tugs at his lips. "I would much prefer to have you."
There's a silence before you scoff.
"Taking the life of the man I love won't make me want you."
"Indeed, it won't. You already want me. Yet foolishly, you continue to deny yourself."
He is silent for a moment as he watches you clutch helplessly at the cross at your neck.
"Look at you. You waited here. Alone, in the dark, to face something that could destroy you in seconds. And you still clutch that thing." His lips curls into a frown. "As if God could ever save you."
He takes a few steps forward, leaning down until his lips are at your ear.
"But you're a smart girl. You know that He can't." He says, leaning down. One hand reaches for your chin, lifting it to properly meet his gaze. "That's why you prayed to me instead."
"I prayed to God." You hiss.
"And as always, God did not answer."
He drops your chin. Then he moves past you, toward the window. His fingers brush the curtain, and he looks out at the dark street, the bare trees, the distant glint of the river just visible beyond the rooftops.
"I was once like you." He says, "I prayed. I prayed for her to heal. I prayed every waking hour at her bedside."
His wife. You assume that's who he means. You think of the house he keeps tidy in her memory, the piano that stays tuned for her, but you don't ask. His tone tells you the grief is old, smoothed by the centuries past, no longer a wound but a scar.
You swallow the bitter taste in your throat. Selfishly, you dislike the idea of him loving anyone else. The thought is irrational, and deeply shameful, but it surfaces before you can push it back down.
"Please do not fret, my love." He says it all too quickly, as if he sensed the shift in you before you felt it yourself. "It was a very long time ago."
You open your mouth to protest but the words die on your tongue. He's looking at you with that quiet, knowing expression, and you realize there is no point in lying to a creature who can read your emotions before you've even named them.
"I was merely a fragile human. Hopeful enough to offer God everything. Foolish enough to believe he would answer with anything other than silence." The breeze howls past the window, brushing his hair from his face. "So I found another way. And I have been what I am ever since."
"You were once human, too?" Your voice is soft, curious, and more sincere than you wish it was.
He finally turns to face you again, this time with a hint of a smile.
"We are more alike than you know." he holds out a hand to you, and you take it. You let him help you stand, your nightgown catching the wind as you look up at him. "I can smell the shame in you. I've always been able to. It's the same shame I carried centuries ago."
A monster, comparing himself to you. You should feel offended by the way he looks at you, right through you, past the skin and bone, into the soul you've spent a lifetime trying to scrub clean. Though, you suppose he's earned the right. He's been in your dreams for years. He's seen every thought you tried to drown, every aching desire you tried to bury, and how it rots you from the inside. He's seen all of it, and he does not recoil.
A man can judge you. A monster cannot.
You're horrified to find relief in that thought.
"The difference between you and me, however, is that I've stopped pretending to be something I'm not."
Your eyes wander to the door briefly, knowing your husband lays peacefully down the hall.
"Jake still looks at me as if I'm pure. As if I'm worthy of his love. Even after everything I've done." Your eyes burn, and you blink hard against the sting. "That's all I have, and you're taking it away."
"Because I needed to feed. Because you have not given me permission. I cannot take what is mine unless it is offered freely. So I took what was available to me. Your scent on his skin. Your proximity." His eyes hold yours. "Do you understand what that is like? To be bound to someone, to feel their wanting every night, to taste it in the air, and to not be allowed to have them? The blood of animals does nothing. The blood of your husband is unsatisfying. I am ravenous."
He steps closer. The space between you shrinks to almost nothing.
"It is not merely blood that you promised me. You offered me your soul. Your life. Your eternal presence. That is what I hunger for—not the taste of you on my tongue, but the whole of you, bound to me as you were always meant to be." His voice drops to a whisper. "Every second I have waited has been a small death. I have died a thousand times since you made your promise."
You know what that hunger feels like. You've carried it your whole life, coiled low in your belly, hot and insistent, never fully quieted. You tried to fill it with prayer. You tried to fill it with your husband's body. Nothing worked. Nothing ever works.
"He is innocent." Your voice splinters. "He doesn't deserve this."
Sunghoon is silent for a long moment. Then he sighs—a soft, tired sound.
"Innocent. Pure of heart. Kind—too kind for a human, if you ask me." He says. "You're terrified of what he'd think. You don't believe his love is unconditional."
"How could anyone love this?"
A tear slips down your cheek. You had no idea you were on the verge of crying, but you feel it now. The uncontrollable trembling of your body, the sob threatens to escape your throat. Sunghoon's hand rises. His fingers brush your jaw, cool and smooth, tilting your chin upward. You open your eyes.
It's the first time you've seen him this close, the moonlight casting a soft glow over his features. His expression is nothing cruel. It's something almost tender, which is far more devastating.
"I do." He says. "I love your scent. Your shame. The way you whisper my name in the dark."
Your lower lip trembles, and his thumb traces it, feather-light. In fact, all of you trembles. You've stopped trying to decide whether it's out of fear, want, or the draft of winter air.
"You offered me your soul long before you ever gave him your hand. That is a promise no ring can compare to." His eyes hold yours, unrelenting. "I love you eternally."
His hand trails down your throat. His fingers curl, lightly, around the column of your neck, just holding it, just relishing your pulse beneath his fingertips. The cross dangles between you, and you feel his gaze flicker to it.
"Please understand. I have only ever wanted you. He was merely the vessel I drank from because I could not drink from you." his voice drops to a murmur. "Give me what you promised me. What you've been promising me every night for years. I'm patient. I've waited long, and I can wait longer. Your husband, however..." his eyes drift to the door, an acknowledgement of his fading life down the hall, "He doesn't have the luxury of patience."
"If I refuse, he dies."
Sunghoon doesn't blink. "Yes."
No hesitation. The truth, cold and simple. You feel your hands tighten into fists at your sides.
"That's not a choice. That's not 'asking for permission.' That's a threat."
He only laughs in response.
"You made a deal with a monster. Did you expect him to play fair?" Sunghoon tilts his head. "I'd argue I've been rather generous. I could have drained him on your wedding night, when he laid hands on what was already mine. Could have left him in your bed, cold and lifeless. But I didn't. I let him live. I even offered him my wine."
He wears the slightest grin, cruel and merciless, and his fangs catch the light. "Aren't I kind?"
"You are vile." You spit. "You are despicable. Awful. And—"
"And you still want me."
The space between you shrinks as he leans closer, until you can feel the chill radiating off his skin, until you can see the faint gleam of the moonlight on his pupils.
"He is not the reason you will say yes."
His voice is quieter now.
"You will say yes because you have been starving for as long as you can remember. Because you have tried to fill that hunger with prayer and penance and the body of a man who loves you but cannot understand you. Because you knelt at your window and begged for relief, and I am the only one who has ever offered it to you. I am the only one who can give it to you."
His fingers brush your jaw. Feather-light.
"So, go on." He nods, "Tell me what you want."
"I want you to leave Jake alone." You hiss. It only makes him grin. You expect nothing less.
"And what else?"
"I want you to stop making me feel like this."
"How do you want me to do that, exactly?"
You open your eyes. He's so close now. Your body is trembling—not from the cold, not from fear, but from the unbearable, humiliating effort of holding yourself back. Your thighs press together beneath your nightgown, a needy, restless friction that does nothing to ease the ache. Your pulse hammers in your throat. Between your legs, you're soaked.
You've been soaked since he stepped through the curtains.
Every inch of you is screaming for relief. Every inch of you has been screaming for years.
It's not really a choice. If you pull away, you're letting your husband die and spending the rest of your life mourning a man you loved but couldn't save.
Regardless, your body doesn't want to pull away. It made its own choice the moment you knelt at your window all those years ago. Everything since then has been the long, torturous process of coming to accept it. The prayers. The shame. The dreams you woke from, wet and wanting. All of it leading here. To him.
"I want you to touch me," you whisper. The words come out ragged, half a sob, half a plea. "I need you to relieve me from this torment. I can't—I can't take it anymore. Please."
His hand tightens just barely at your throat.His hand rests at your throat, cool and steady. His touch remains ever patient, and his eyes flicker from yours to your neck like he cannot decide which is more precious to him in this moment.
"Say it properly."
And you do.
"I give you permission. My blood. My body. My soul. Take it. It's all yours. It's always been yours."
He exhales—a shuddering, both reverent and ravenous sound.
His hand tightens around your throat, fingers digging into the vulnerable flesh, feeling the pulse hammering beneath his touch, the rush of blood through your veins. He dips his head into the curve of your neck, and the breath he takes in, the groan that rumbles against your skin—they are not the sounds of a man. They belong to a predator who has caught its prey at last and is trying very hard not to devour it all at once.
Your eyes flutter shut.
"If only you could smell yourself right now." His voice comes out rough, almost like a growl, "Your terror, your desperation. Your arousal."
He lifts you in a single, clean sweep, as if you weigh no more than a feather. Your feet are off the ground, your body helpless in his grasp, and you don't have the time to react as he throws you down on the marital bed with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs. You barely have time to register the impact before his body is over yours. His knee rises between your thighs, spreading you open beneath him and his hand fists your hair, tilting your head back, baring your throat to the moonlight and his teeth.
His gaze drifts down the length of your body, catching on the way your nightgown has ridden up your thighs, on the rise and fall of your chest. He leans forward.
"My stubborn, sinful girl. You were never meant for heaven." His fangs press against your pulse, not yet sinking in, but with enough pressure that it makes your breath catch and your body go rigid beneath him. "You were always meant for me."
One hand grips your throat, fingers digging into the flesh just beneath your jaw, holding your head in place with a force that borders on bruising. The other rests over your heart, palm flat, enough to feel the frantic rhythm.
"So fearful that nobody could love you in the dark, when I have loved you for years."
His fangs sink into you, and a cry is torn from your throat, gasping into the dark and your body arches into him without your permission. The sounds he makes are equally as ungraceful and unrestrained— a growl that sounds like it belongs to an animal, a groan that sounds so guttural and almost pained, as if tasting you after all this time is a relief so profound it hurts. You writhe beneath him, but his body holds you steady, his grasp so harsh that it's sure to bruise.
The pull of his mouth is rhythmic, hypnotic, each draw of your blood sending a fresh wave of heat spiraling through your core. You are dizzy with it. You are alive with it. You are his, and you have always been his, and the acceptance of that truth is the single most liberating thing you have ever felt.
Disgust is a distant flicker, extinguished before it can catch. The pain is already gone. In its place, a pleasure so sharp and bright it borders on agony races through your veins. You shake with it, every inch of you raw and exposed, the sheets a torment against your feverish skin. Your hands find his back and hold on, clawing at his shirt.
"What is—?" Your voice is a whiny, pathetic sound, piercing through heavy, laboured breaths. The ache between your legs from before is now throbbing with a sort of want you couldn't even begin to describe. Something unnatural, feverish and all-consuming. "Why do I feel like—?"
"It feels good, doesn't it?" His fangs retract, but his mouth stays, kissing the wound he left behind, lapping up every last drop of your blood. "The venom. It immobilizes prey. Turns pain into pleasure. Though you didn't need much convincing, did you?"
A broken sound tears from your throat as his tongue drags down the column of your neck, chasing a stray bead of blood. His hand rips your nightgown higher, baring you to the cold air, and he finds you soaked. You can feel his grin at your neck.
"You were begging to be fucked long before I ever bit you," he whispers, "Long before your nice little husband ever put his hands on you."
"Please, Sunghoon," The words tumble out before your pride can catch them. It's wrecked, shameless, and entirely honest. "Just touch me. Please."
He obliges without a word. Your panties are eased down your thighs, the cold air a brief shock against your overheated skin, and then he finds you—slick and aching and desperately ready. A single, long finger slips inside with no resistance at all, and the sound that escapes you is almost a sob. You might cry from just that alone, graciously accepting any kind of touch at this point. You might already be crying, though you don't have the sense to think about it. You're lost in the sensation, clenching around him, your hips rolling forward of their own accord, chasing more.
"It feels so much better when you give in." His voice is soft, almost crooning, as his finger moves inside you with excruciating slowness, a rhythm designed to tease rather than satisfy. "When you stop denying yourself."
A frustrated sound catches in your throat. Your hips lift, chasing his hand, and he hums in quiet approval. Then a second finger slides in beside the first, stretching you, and the cry that escapes you is louder than before. Your head falls back against the pillow. Your fingers twist in the sheets.
And then his fangs are at your throat again—a sharp, searing sting that melts almost instantly into heat. He drinks as his fingers move inside you, a slow, devastating counterpoint: the pull of his mouth, the thrust of his hand, the weight of his body pinning you to the mattress. You are caught between pleasure and surrender, and you have stopped caring which is which.
"My sweet little sinner." He pulls back just enough to speak, his lips stained, his breath cool against the wound he left behind. His fingers curl inside you, finding a place that makes your vision blur.
"What would he think if he saw you like this? His fragile, innocent wife, offering herself to a monster, begging for more." He thrusts deeper, and your back arches off the bed. "Would it break him? Would it shatter that pure, simple love he carries for you?"
The tears come before you can stop them, spilling down your temples and into your hair. A sob tears free, raw and ugly, and you shake your head against the pillow.
"No?" His voice is soft, almost tender. His thumb traces your cheek, smearing the tears there. "Use your words, my love."
"I don't care." The words rip out of you, jagged and desperate, louder than you intended. Your hips are still rolling against his hand, chasing the climax he keeps just out of reach. "I don't care what he thinks. I just want this."
You feel the pressure building, the tightening in your belly, rushing toward the edge faster than you can outrun it.
"Please." The word is barely a whisper now, your voice wrecked and trembling. "Please take me. I can't—I need—please."
His fingers still inside you. You cry out at the loss, at the empty ache he leaves behind, and when you open your eyes, he is looking down at you with something like awe. Something like triumph. Something like love, if a monster is capable of love, as he claims.
He grabs the front of your nightgown and rips it open. The fabric splits with a sound like a scream. You gasp, arms flying up to cover yourself, but he seizes your wrists and wrenches them away. Forces your hand down between your bodies, pressing your palm against the hard, aching length of him.
He releases you to tear at his own clothes. His shirt. His pants. Then he is bare above you, and the sight is almost too much—the blood on his mouth, the pale plane of his chest, and his eyes, how they devour the sight of you whole, looking at you in all your filth and finding you holy.
"I'm going to ruin you." You feel the tip of him at your entrance, and your body stiffens. His eyes hold yours, dark and depthless and full of terrible tenderness. "Just like you begged me to."
He sinks into you in one slow, devastating thrust, and your mouth falls open on a sound that might be his name, but before it can escape, his lips find yours. He swallows your cry the way he swallowed your blood, consuming it, claiming it as his own. His tongue sliding against yours, and you taste your own blood on his lips. His mouth never leaves yours, as if he would drink every sound you make, as if there is no part of you he does not intend to devour.
You start to cry. Not because it hurts. Not because you're being ruined, though you are, though you've wanted to be. You cry because it's better than your dreams ever were. Because every fantasy you spent years repenting for, every shameful vision that drove you to your knees at the window, was a pale shadow of this.
He pulls back to look at you, and the expression on his face is rapture. His hand is wrapped around your throat, holding you steady for each forceful thrust, pinning you to the mattress, to the moment, to him. The rhythm of his hips is relentless and perfect. Every drag of him inside you eases the ache you've carried for so long it has become a part of you, and at the same time deepens it, feeds it, stokes it into something insatiable. The venom only heightens the feeling—pleasure easing your hunger, each stroke pushing you closer to an edge you no longer want to escape.
He is the most beautiful creature you have ever seen.
You think it without flinching. You think it while tears stream down your temples and into your hair, while your body arches to meet his, while you give yourself over to the monster who answered when God wouldn't. He is beautiful. He is yours. You are his. And you have never felt less like pretending otherwise.
He fills you in a way your husband never could. It's terrible and entirely the truth. You have spent weeks trying to use Jake as a remedy—his body, his love, his gentle, faithful hands—and it worked, for a few hours at a time. But the hunger you carry was never something he could satisfy. He was never meant to. That was never the deal you made.
This is what you bargained for. What you knelt at the window and begged to feel.
You lose yourself in the rhythm of him. The thick, unrelenting drive of his cock. The weight of his body pinning you to the mattress. The way he takes and takes and takes, and still watches you like you are something sacred. His dark eyes hold yours with something that looks like awe. Something that looks like devotion. Something that looks, impossibly, like love. If you even believe that a creature like him can feel love. Though love is the furthest thing from your mind right now.
"That's it." His voice is a low growl, rough with pleasure and hunger and the effort of holding himself back. "Cry for me. Let me see you fall apart."
Your nails rake down his back. Your thighs tremble around his hips. The tears are still falling, streaming into your hair, but you don't hold them back. You don't try to hide. You let him watch. You let him see all of it. The surrender, the pleasure, the relief at last.
You finish, your high crashing through your body in pulses that leave you gasping, clenching around him, your back bowing off the bed. You cry out his name, and he groans as he feels you break around him, his rhythm faltering for just a moment before he drives deeper, harder, more.
You barely have time to come down before his fangs find your throat again. The bite is sharp and sweet, and the venom floods your veins anew—reigniting the fire that had just begun to go out, pulling you back toward the edge you just tumbled over.
"More," you plead. The word is raw, scraped clean of pride. "More."
He gives you more. He gives you everything. And you take it all of it with your eyes open and your soul laid bare beneath him.
More. More. More.
The night folded in on itself, a long, delirious rhythm of hunger and satiation, of teeth and hands and the slick press of bodies moving together in the dark. He would drink until you grew faint, then pull back, laving the wound with a tenderness that made your chest ache, and wait for your eyes to flutter open, for your hips to lift in silent, desperate invitation. And then he would begin again.
You lost count. It didn't matter. Time had become a thing that happened to other people.
You remember, dimly, the sound of your own voice sobbing his name into the hollow of his throat. You remember the weight of him, the cold press of his skin slowly warming with each swallow of your blood. You remember his mouth tracing the length of your collarbone, his fingers mapping the dip of your waist, his voice murmuring things against your flesh.
The window stood open through all of it. The curtains drifted. The winter air slipped in, cooling the sweat on your skin, but you never felt cold. You felt nothing but him. Nothing but the slow, spreading heat of the venom and the terrible peace of finally letting go.
The pale, gray light starts to rise in the distance. The hush of early morning. The distant, muffled quiet of a world still half-asleep.
He is still inside you. Still moving a slow, grinding rhythm, more reflex now than urgency, the last shivering aftershocks of a night that had no end. His face is buried in the curve of your neck, his lips parted against the wound that hasn't closed, and his hips roll against yours in a lazy, hypnotic pulse that feels less like fucking and more like breathing.
Your hand is in his hair. Your fingers are tangled in the dark silk of it, your thumb tracing the shell of his ear, and the gesture feels so natural, so intimate, that your throat tightens with something you refuse to name.
Then the light shifts.
It spills through the open window, pale gold, the first true ray of a winter dawn. It creeps across the floorboards, slow and searching, and climbs the edge of the bed. It touches your bare ankle. It warms the tangled sheets. It reaches, like a blessing or a blade, for the man in your arms.
You watch it happen.
It finds his shoulder first. The light glistens, a luminous sheen on the marble of his skin catching the ridge of his shoulder blade, the curve of his spine, the place where your nails have left their marks across his back. He doesn't notice. His mouth is still at your throat, his body still moving against yours, lost in the rhythm of consumption.
"Sunghoon."
He lifts his head.
His eyes are black, pupils blown, the irises reduced to thin rings of dark amber. Your blood is on his lips. Your blood everywhere. All over your own lips, all over your neck, your chest and the sheets beneath you. And his skin, his beautiful, terrible skin, is beginning to gleam in the morning light.
Every plane of his face limned in gold, the sharp angle of his jaw, the impossible symmetry of his features. He looks like something that fell from heaven and landed wrong.
He looks at you. And you see the moment he understands.
The light is spreading. It touches his temple. The curve of his ear. The column of his throat. And where it touches, his skin begins to change—taking on a strange, crystalline shimmer, like the surface of fresh snow catching the first light of dawn. It starts to unmake him.
He doesn't move. He doesn't flee. He just looks at you, old and tired and almost, almost human.
Your hand is still in his hair. You don't pull it back.
A broken growl, low but softened, escapes him, and his forehead drops to yours. His eyes close, and for a long, suspended moment, you lie there together in the path of the rising sun.
It starts at the edges, before the shimmer spreads a slow, glittering dissolution, like diamonds fracturing along the surface of him. The places where the sun touches him turn luminous, iridescent, and then they begin to separate. He is coming apart in fine fragments, a mist of dust that catches the light and holds it, suspended, before drifting upward on the morning air.
His eyes find yours one last time. There's no fear in them. No anger. Just that same dark, depthless devotion. That same hunger.
Your body is still humming with the aftermath of pleasure, your thighs slick, your throat aching with the memory of his hands around it.
You close your eyes. They're too heavy to keep open.
"More."
The last thing you feel is his hand returning to your neck, and his teeth sinking into your flesh once more. The last thing you hear is the sound of his growl as he savours his last meal.
Tangled with death, you lay, lips parted in pleasure.
You thought you’d moved on. You had Heeseung now, sweet, safe, perfect. Sunghoon had Sooha, bubbly, convenient.
But the fire between you never died. It only waited.
One rooftop party, too much alcohol, and a slow R&B song was all it took. Now you’re grinding on your ex’s hard cock in the middle of the crowd, his fingers knuckle-deep in your soaked pussy while your boyfriend chats nearby. From there? A locked bathroom, messy blowjob on your knees, getting fucked raw and creampied over the sink like the desperate little slut you are for the one man you shouldn’t want.
Old habits fuck hardest.
pairing: ex!sunghoon x reader !
warnings: cheating (both hoon and reader) betrayal strong language possessiveness jealousy alcohol infedilty complete mess for their exes porn with no plot
warnings (smut): cheating (reader on Heeseung, Sunghoon on Sooha) risky semi public sex heavy sexual tension consented sex even if drunk mutual masturbation blowjob fingering grinding doggy style mirror sex creampie tit play nipple play choking multiple orgasms degradation praise
playlist: Drive You Insane by Daniel Di Angelo [] Sweater Weather by The Neighbourhood [] Call Out My Name by The Weeknd [] Into It by Chase Atlantic []
likes and reblogs for a cookie!
☆ WORD COUNT: 5.2k!
(Masterlist)
YOU AND PARK SUNGHOON HAD BEEN TOGETHER FOR ALMOST TWO YEARS BEFORE IT ENDED.
The breakup was mutual but painful, two young, passionate people who burned too hot and too fast. Careers, schedules, jealousy, and the weight of keeping everything secret had worn you both down. One rainy night in his dorm, after another argument about time and attention, you both agreed it was better to let go. The last kiss you shared tasted like salt from tears. Heeseung, Sunghoon’s best friend, had been there through the aftermath, listening to you vent late at night when the pain felt unbearable. Slowly, comfort turned into something deeper. Six months after the breakup, you and Heeseung started seeing each other. It felt right, safe, warm, steady. Heeseung was attentive, funny, and deeply caring. You fell for him hard.
Meanwhile, Sunghoon started dating one of your close friends, Sooha. She was sweet, bubbly, and had always gotten along with him during group hangouts. Seeing them together at first stung like hell, but you told yourself it was for the best. Everyone moved on. Or so it seemed.
The problem was the friend group. You all ran in the same circle, mutual friends from the industry, trainees, dancers, and staff who loved throwing parties, dinners, and weekend getaways. No matter how hard you tried, you and Sunghoon kept crossing paths. At first, it was awkward. Polite nods, short conversations, avoiding eye contact. But the tension never died. It only grew.
Every time you saw him, memories flooded back. The way his large hands used to grip your hips. How he’d pin you against the wall and kiss you until your knees buckled. The low groan he made when he was deep inside you. The way he’d look at you with those sharp, dark eyes right before he made you come. And you knew he felt it too. You’d catch him staring at your legs in short dresses, or the curve of your ass when you bent over. His jaw would tighten, and he’d quickly look away, especially when Heeseung was right beside you with an arm around your waist, or when Sooha was laughing and clinging to his arm.
The air between you two was always thick, charged and dangerous.
It started small. A house party six months after you and Heeseung became official. Sunghoon and Sooha had been dating for three months. The music was loud, drinks were flowing. You were in a tight dress that hugged every curve. Sunghoon couldn’t stop glancing at you. When you passed each other in the narrow hallway on the way to the bathroom, your bodies brushed. Just shoulders and hips, but it was enough. You felt him, hard, warm, familiar, and your breath hitched. He froze for half a second, eyes darkening, before muttering a low “sorry” and continuing. That night you rode Heeseung like you were possessed, but it was Sunghoon’s face you saw when you came.
Another time, at a beach trip with the whole group. Sunghoon was shirtless in the water, water dripping down his toned abs and sharp v-line. You were in a bikini. Heeseung was building sandcastles with friends, Sooha was napping under an umbrella. You and Sunghoon ended up wading in the shallows at the same time. The waves pushed you closer. His hand accidentally grazed your waist as he steadied you. Electricity shot through your body. Your nipples hardened instantly under the thin fabric. You saw the bulge in his swim trunks grow. Neither of you said a word. You both swam away, hearts pounding, bodies aching.
These encounters kept happening. Birthday parties, award after-parties, late-night karaoke sessions. Every time, you’d leave the function wet and throbbing, panties soaked, thighs clenched. You knew he was going home hard too, probably fucking Sooha while thinking about you. The guilt was there, but the desire was stronger.
One particular night, it became unbearable.
It was a small, intimate gathering at a friend’s luxurious apartment. Only twelve people. Heeseung was there, sitting beside you on the couch, his hand resting possessively on your thigh. Sunghoon and Sooha were across the room. The lights were dim, music soft. Someone suggested truth or dare. Stupid idea. When it was your turn, someone dared you to sit on Sunghoon’s lap for three minutes. The room erupted in laughter. “For old times’ sake!” they joked, not knowing how deep the cut went.
You hesitated. Heeseung chuckled and nodded, thinking it was harmless. Sooha looked a little uncomfortable but played along. Sunghoon’s eyes met yours, dark, warning, hungry.
You sat on his lap.
The moment your ass settled over his crotch, you felt him. He was already half-hard. As the timer started, his hands rested lightly on your hips to “steady” you. His cock twitched beneath you, growing thicker and harder against the thin fabric of your dress and his pants. You were wearing nothing but a tiny thong underneath. You could feel every inch of him pressing right against your clothed cunt. Heat flooded you. Your clit throbbed. You shifted slightly, “accidentally,” grinding down on him. He exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers tightening on your hips. His cock was fully hard now, thick and long, the same shape you remembered so well. You were soaking through your thong, your juices starting to wet the front of his pants.
Three minutes felt like eternity. Torture. Bliss. When the timer ended, you stood up on shaky legs. Sunghoon’s eyes were nearly black. A small wet spot was visible on his thigh where you’d been sitting. He quickly adjusted himself. You excused yourself to the bathroom, locked the door, and leaned against it, breathing hard, your pussy was dripping, you wanted to cum so badly it hurt.
That night, after the party, Heeseung fucked you in his car before you even got home. You came twice, but it wasn’t enough.
Two days later, you were alone in your apartment. Heeseung was away for a schedule. The memory of sitting on Sunghoon’s lap had been haunting you. You took a long shower, trying to calm down, but your body was on fire. After drying off, you opened your drawer and found it, the pale pink satin slip Sunghoon used to love.
It was short, silky, with thin straps and a deep neckline. The hem barely covered your ass. There was a high slit on the left side that went almost to your hip. He used to push the strap down, suck on your tits while fucking you in it. You hadn’t worn it since the breakup.
Tonight, you slipped it on. The fabric felt cool and luxurious against your heated skin. Your nipples were already stiff, poking obviously through the thin material. You stood in front of the full-length mirror in your bedroom, dim lights on. The slip clung to your body, the hem riding up to show the bottom curve of your ass.
You climbed onto your bed, heart racing with guilt and excitement. This was wrong. So fucking wrong. Heeseung was your boyfriend. Sunghoon was his best friend. He was dating Sooha, your friend. But you couldn’t stop.
You lay back against the pillows, knees bent, legs slightly spread. Your hand slowly trailed up your body. You cupped one breast through the satin, squeezing it gently. A soft moan escaped your lips. You imagined Sunghoon’s large hand instead, bigger, rougher. You pinched your nipple, rolling it between your fingers the way he used to. The sensation shot straight to your core.
“Oh god…” you whispered.
Your other hand slid down, pushing the hem of the slip higher. The slit on the side made it easy. You parted your thighs wider, exposing your bare, dripping pussy. You were soaked. Your fingers brushed over your swollen clit, and your hips jerked.
In your mind, it was Sunghoon touching you.
You pictured his sharp jaw, his intense eyes looking down at you. The way he’d smirk when he felt how wet you were for him. You imagined his long fingers replacing yours, two thick digits sliding inside you while his thumb circled your clit. You pushed two fingers into your tight heat, moaning louder. The slick sounds filled the room as you pumped them slowly, curling them just right.
Your other hand kept playing with your tits, pulling the strap down so one breast spilled out. You pinched and tugged your nipple harder, imagining Sunghoon’s mouth on it, sucking, biting, licking.
“Sunghoon…” you breathed, even though you knew you shouldn’t say his name. It felt too good. You added a third finger, stretching yourself, fucking yourself deeper. Your hips rolled, grinding against your hand. The satin slip bunched around your waist now. You were completely exposed, legs spread obscenely, fingers plunging in and out of your creamy pussy.
You thought about that night on his lap. How hard he’d been. How big he felt. You imagined pulling his cock out right there in front of everyone, sinking down on it, riding him while the party continued. You imagined him bending you over in the bathroom after, slamming into you from behind, hand over your mouth to keep you quiet while he filled you up.
Your fingers moved faster. The heel of your palm rubbed your clit with every thrust. Your other hand switched to your other breast, squeezing hard, twisting the nipple. Pleasure built rapidly, hot and intense.
You were so close.
In your fantasy, Sunghoon was on top of you, thrusting deep, whispering how much he missed your tight pussy, how no one fucked him like you did. You imagined his hips snapping harder, his balls slapping against you, his cock hitting that perfect spot inside.
“Fuck—Sunghoon—yes—” you moaned, voice breaking.
Your orgasm crashed over you violently. Your back arched off the bed, thighs shaking. Your pussy clenched hard around your fingers, gushing wetly. You kept fingering yourself through it, drawing it out, riding every wave. Juices dripped down your ass onto the sheets. The slip was ruined with sweat and your arousal.
Even after you came, you kept your fingers inside, gently stroking as the aftershocks rolled through you. Your chest heaved. Guilt tried to creep in, but the pleasure was too strong, too addictive.
You knew you’d do this again. You couldn’t help it. The tension between you and Sunghoon was only getting worse. Sooner or later, something was going to break.
But for now, in the quiet of your room, wearing the slip he used to love, you let yourself drift in the fantasy of him, your ex, your boyfriend’s best friend, your friend’s boyfriend, fucking you senseless the way only he knew how.
—
A few weeks had passed since that night you spent alone in your apartment. The guilt had lingered for days afterward, especially when Heeseung came back from his schedule and kissed you so sweetly, completely unaware of whose name you’d moaned. But the ache between your legs never fully went away. Every time you saw Sunghoon in the group chat or caught a glimpse of him at a quick schedule overlap, the memory of his hardened cock pressing against you during truth or dare flooded back.
Tonight was another mutual friend’s birthday party, held at a spacious rooftop venue. The city lights glittered below like scattered diamonds, and the air was warm with late spring humidity. Fairy lights and soft neon accents bathed the space in a seductive glow. Music pulsed from hidden speakers, R&B and deep house tracks that made bodies move instinctively. About thirty people were there: dancers, idols, staff, and close industry friends. The drinks flowed freely, champagne, soju cocktails, whiskey on ice.
You arrived with Heeseung, dressed in a dangerously short, deep burgundy silk dress that clung to your curves and ended high on your thighs. The thin straps left your shoulders bare, and the low back dipped dangerously close to the curve of your ass. Heeseung had complimented you endlessly in the car, his hand sliding up your leg the whole ride. But the moment you stepped onto the rooftop, your eyes found Sunghoon across the crowd.
He looked devastating. Black button-up shirt with the top few buttons undone, revealing the sharp lines of his collarbones and the beginning of his toned chest. Tailored black pants that hugged his long legs and narrow waist. His dark hair was styled messily, falling over his sharp eyes. Sooha wasn’t there, she’d texted the group earlier saying she felt sick and was staying home. Heeseung, oblivious as ever, spotted Jay and Jake almost immediately and gave your waist a quick squeeze. “I’ll be back in a bit, baby. They want to talk about the new choreography.” He kissed your cheek and disappeared into a group of guys near the bar.
You were alone, and Sunghoon noticed. The tension started immediately.
You felt his gaze like a physical touch the second you walked toward the open bar. When you turned to order a drink, a strong soju cocktail with peach, he was already watching you from a few meters away, leaning against a high table with a glass in his hand. His eyes dragged slowly down your body: lingering on the way the silk hugged your breasts, the exposed skin of your thighs, the way your hips swayed when you walked. You met his stare boldly, heart racing, and took a long sip. The alcohol burned pleasantly down your throat.
For the next hour, it was a game of stolen glances and near-misses.
You danced with some girlfriends on the makeshift dance floor, laughing as you moved your hips to the rhythm. But every time you turned or dipped low, you felt him. Sunghoon stayed on the edge of the crowd, talking to a few guys, but his attention never left you. You caught him staring at your ass when you bent slightly to adjust your heel. His jaw clenched. When you licked a drop of drink from your lower lip, his eyes darkened.
You grew tipsy. Then drunk. The cocktails hit harder than expected, warmth spreading through your veins, loosening your limbs, making your skin feel hypersensitive. Your cheeks flushed. Your pussy already felt warm and slick just from the weight of his gaze.
Heeseung was still deep in conversation with Jay and Jake on the far side of the rooftop, laughing loudly, safe, distracted.
Sunghoon finally moved closer during a slower song. You were at the bar getting another drink when he appeared beside you, ordering a whiskey. His arm brushed yours. The contact sent electricity shooting through your body.
“Looking dangerous tonight,” he murmured, voice low enough that only you could hear. His breath ghosted over your bare shoulder.
You turned your head, lips parted. “You’re one to talk.”
Your eyes locked. The air between you crackled. For a moment, it felt like the rest of the party disappeared. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lower, watching your chest rise and fall. You pressed your thighs together, already feeling yourself getting wet.
The night blurred deliciously after that.
You danced again, this time with a mixed group. Sunghoon joined casually, keeping a safe distance at first. But the music grew slower, more sensual. Bodies moved closer. You swayed your hips, feeling the alcohol make you bold. Every time you turned, your eyes met his. He watched the way your dress rode up your thighs. You watched the way his shirt stretched across his broad shoulders when he moved.
Another song, you danced near him, shoulders brushed, then hips. He smelled like whiskey and that familiar cologne that used to drive you crazy, your head felt light, body hot.
Finally, the moment broke. A slow, heavy R&B track started playing. The kind that made people grind without shame. Most of the group had paired off or were lost in their own conversations. Heeseung was still occupied. Sunghoon stepped behind you without a word.
You didn’t resist. His tall frame pressed against your back as you both started swaying to the music. Your ass nestled perfectly against his crotch. Even through the layers of fabric, you could feel him, already semi-hard, thickening rapidly as you moved together.
“Fuck…” he breathed against your ear, so quietly it was almost lost in the music.
His hands settled on your hips at first, guiding you. The dance was filthy. You rolled your body against him, grinding slowly, deliberately. His cock grew fully hard, long and thick, pressing right between your ass cheeks through his pants. You bit your lip to hold back a moan.
The crowd around you was drunk and distracted. No one was paying attention to the exes dancing far too intimately. Sunghoon grew bolder.
One of his hands trailed down your side, fingers brushing the hem of your short dress. He leaned his head down, lips grazing the side of your neck. Not quite kissing, just hot breath and the faintest brush of his mouth. Your skin erupted in goosebumps.
“You’re driving me insane,” he whispered, voice rough with lust. “Been hard since I saw you in this dress.”
You pushed back against him harder, feeling his cock throb. “Then do something about it.”
His hand slipped lower. While your bodies continued swaying sensually to the slow beat, your ass grinding in slow circles against his erection, his fingers crept under the hem of your dress from behind. The rooftop was dimly lit here, and his tall frame mostly shielded you.
He found the edge of your tiny black lace panties. You were soaked. Dripping. His middle finger traced the wet fabric covering your pussy, pressing lightly against your swollen folds through the lace.
You gasped softly, knees weakening.
Sunghoon’s lips finally pressed against your neck, open-mouthed, hot and wet. He sucked gently, then harder, teeth grazing your skin as his finger pushed the lace aside. The pad of his long finger slid directly along your slick pussy lips, parting them, collecting your arousal.
“Shit, you’re drenched,” he groaned quietly against your neck, voice vibrating through you. “This pussy still gets this wet for me?”
You nodded frantically, biting back moans as you kept swaying with him, pretending it was just a dance. His cock was rock-hard, grinding slowly against your ass in time with the music.
He pushed one thick finger inside you without warning. Your walls clenched around it instantly, sucking him deeper. The wet sound was faint but filthy under the music. He added a second finger, stretching you, curling them perfectly against that spot he knew so well.
His mouth worked on your neck, kissing, licking, sucking hard enough to leave marks you’d have to hide later. His free hand gripped your hip tightly, holding you against him as he fingered you deeper, faster. His palm rubbed against your clit with every thrust of his fingers.
You were trembling. Pleasure built rapidly, hot and overwhelming. Your juices coated his hand, dripping down his wrist. The silk of your dress bunched up further. Anyone looking closely might have seen, but the risk only made it hotter. “Sunghoon…” you whimpered under your breath.
He bit your earlobe. “Missed this tight little cunt. Missed how you fall apart for me.”
His fingers pumped faster, curling relentlessly. The heel of his hand ground against your swollen clit. Your orgasm crashed into you without mercy, hard, sudden, devastating. Your pussy spasmed violently around his fingers, gushing slick arousal down his hand and onto your thighs. You moaned softly, body shaking as he held you upright, still swaying slowly to the music like nothing was happening.
He didn’t stop. He kept fingering you through it, drawing out every wave until your legs felt like jelly. When it finally subsided, he slowly withdrew his fingers, bringing them up to his mouth behind you. You heard him suck them clean with a low, satisfied groan.
The song ended. You turned in his arms, flushed, breathing hard, eyes glassy with lust and alcohol. His eyes were nearly black with desire, lips parted, chest rising fast. His cock was straining obscenely against his pants. Neither of you spoke. The tension had finally snapped.
You both knew this was only the beginning of the night.
The song faded out, but the heat between you didn’t. Your legs were still shaky from the orgasm he’d just pulled from you on the dance floor. Sunghoon’s chest was pressed flush against your back, his breath hot against your ear as he spoke in a low, rough whisper.
“We need to go somewhere private. Right now.” His voice was strained with barely contained lust. “Before I bend you over in front of everyone.”
You didn’t even hesitate. The alcohol and adrenaline made you bold. You gave him the smallest nod, and he immediately took your hand, guiding you through the crowd with purposeful strides. Heeseung was still laughing with Jay and Jake near the bar, completely unaware. Sooha was safe at home. No one noticed as the two of you slipped inside the luxurious indoor section of the venue.
The bathroom was a single, spacious unisex room, dimly lit, marble counters, a large mirror above the sink. The second the door clicked shut and locked, all restraint vanished.
Sunghoon was on you instantly. He spun you around and pulled your back flush against his chest, positioning both of you in front of the mirror. Your eyes met in the reflection, his dark and feral, yours glassy and desperate. His hands were rough with urgency as he yanked the hem of your short burgundy dress up over your hips in one swift motion, bunching the silk around your waist.
“Fuck,” he growled, staring at your reflection. Your tiny black lace panties were soaked through, the fabric clinging obscenely to your swollen pussy lips.
His right hand slid down immediately, fingers slipping under the waistband of your panties. Two long, thick fingers dragged through your slick folds, parting them, coating themselves in your wetness. He pressed them against your clit first, rubbing slow, firm circles that made your hips jerk.
A broken moan spilled from your lips. “Ah—Sunghoon…”
He relished it. His eyes darkened further in the mirror as he watched your face contort in pleasure. “That’s it. Let me hear you moan for me again.”
He pushed those two fingers deep inside you without warning, burying them to the knuckle in your dripping heat. Your walls clenched hard around the intrusion, still sensitive from the earlier orgasm on the dance floor. He curled them instantly, stroking that perfect spot he knew better than anyone.
Your head fell back against his shoulder, another loud moan escaping you. The wet, obscene sounds of his fingers pumping into your soaked pussy filled the bathroom.
Your hands moved behind you with frantic need. You palmed the massive bulge straining against his tailored pants, feeling how hard and hot he was. Sunghoon hissed sharply as you squeezed him through the fabric. With trembling fingers, you tugged his zipper down, reaching inside to pull his thick cock out.
He was rock hard, veins pulsing, the head already glistening with precum. The familiar weight and girth made your mouth water. You wrapped your hand around him, stroking from base to tip in long, firm pumps exactly the way he liked it.
“Shit—yes,” he groaned, hips bucking into your fist. His fingers fucked you harder, faster, plunging in and out while his palm rubbed relentlessly against your clit. The mirror gave you both a perfect view of everything, your flushed face, your tits nearly spilling out of your dress, his hand disappearing between your thighs, your smaller hand working his cock desperately.
You pumped him faster, twisting your wrist at the head, spreading his precum down his shaft. Every time you squeezed him, his fingers would thrust deeper into you, like a filthy feedback loop. Your moans mixed with his low grunts.
“Look at yourself,” he demanded, voice hoarse. His free hand came up to grip your jaw, forcing you to watch your reflection. “Look how fucking desperate you are for me. Dripping all over my fingers while your boyfriend’s right outside.”
The words only made you wetter. You whimpered loudly, stroking him quicker, feeling his cock throb and twitch in your hand. His fingers curled and scissored inside you, stretching you open, hitting that spot over and over until your thighs started shaking.
You were both lost in it, driven by pure, pent-up lust. The sound of his fingers plunging into your creamy pussy mixed with the slick sound of your hand jerking his cock. Your juices were dripping down his wrist and onto the marble floor.
“I’m gonna—fuck, Sunghoon—I’m close again,” you gasped, eyes half-lidded in the mirror.
He leaned down, biting the side of your neck hard as his fingers sped up. “Cum for me, baby. Cum all over my fingers like the dirty little slut you are for your ex.”
Your orgasm hit you like a freight train.
Your mouth fell open in a silent scream, then a loud, broken moan tore from your throat as your pussy clenched violently around his fingers, gushing slick arousal all over his hand. Your knees buckled, but he held you up, still fucking you through it with his fingers while you frantically stroked his cock.
Sunghoon groaned deeply, hips stuttering as your orgasm pushed him over the edge too. Thick ropes of cum shot from his cock, spilling over your hand and onto the sink counter as he came hard. For a few long seconds, the only sounds were heavy breathing and the faint bass of the music outside.
You both stared at each other in the mirror, flushed, messy, and still hungry.
This wasn’t going to end here. The bathroom air was thick with the scent of sex, your arousal and his cum. You were both still panting, staring at each other through the mirror. Sunghoon’s fingers were still buried inside you, lazily stroking through the aftershocks while your hand was covered in his release.
Without a word, you slowly turned around and sank to your knees on the cool marble floor in front of him. His cock was still hard, glistening with cum and your spit from earlier strokes. You looked up at him with hazy, lust-drunk eyes as you wrapped your fingers around the base.
You leaned forward and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his swollen tip, tasting the salty remnants of his orgasm. Sunghoon’s breath hitched sharply, one hand immediately threading into your hair.
“Fuck… you’re really gonna do this?” he rasped, voice wrecked.
You answered by parting your lips and taking him into your mouth. You sucked on the head first, swirling your tongue around it, cleaning every drop of cum. Then you sank deeper, relaxing your throat to take as much of his thick length as you could. The familiar stretch of your lips around him made you moan around his cock.
Sunghoon groaned loudly, hips twitching. “That’s it… just like that, baby.”
You bobbed your head, sucking him eagerly, hollowing your cheeks. Your hand worked what you couldn’t fit in your mouth, stroking him in time with your movements. The wet, sloppy sounds echoed obscenely in the bathroom as you deepthroated him again and again, eyes watering, spit dripping down your chin.
He watched you through the mirror above, the sight of you on your knees in that tiny burgundy dress driving him crazy. His grip tightened in your hair as he started fucking your throat gently.
“Missed this pretty mouth so fucking much,” he growled.
You moaned around him, the vibration making his thighs tense. You could feel him throbbing against your tongue, growing even harder. His breathing turned ragged.
“Shit—I’m gonna cum again—”
You didn’t pull away. You took him as deep as possible, looking up at him with teary eyes. Sunghoon cursed loudly as he came down your throat, thick spurts of hot cum shooting straight into your stomach. You swallowed every drop, milking him until he was shuddering and oversensitive.
He pulled you up roughly by your arms and spun you around, bending you over the marble sink. Your hands braced against the counter, eyes locked on your own reflection, flushed face, swollen lips, messy hair. Sunghoon yanked your dress up again and ripped your soaked panties down your thighs in one motion.
He rubbed his still-hard cock between your dripping folds, teasing your entrance. Then he pushed in, one long, powerful thrust and he buried himself to the hilt inside you.
Both of you moaned loudly at the same time. “Oh my god! Sunghoon…” you cried out, the stretch overwhelming after so long apart.
“Fuck—your pussy… still so tight,” he groaned through gritted teeth, eyes squeezed shut for a moment. The feeling of your warm, velvety walls clenching around him made his knees weak. “I missed this so fucking bad.”
He gave you only a second to adjust before he started moving, deep, hard strokes that slammed into you with every thrust. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the bathroom as he fucked you against the sink. Your tits bounced heavily inside your dress with every powerful snap of his hips.
Sunghoon reached around and yanked the front of your dress down, letting your breasts spill free. His large hands immediately grabbed them, squeezing and kneading roughly just like he used to. His fingers pinched and rolled your sensitive nipples, tugging them as he pounded into you harder.
“Look in the mirror,” he demanded, voice low and filthy. “Watch how I’m fucking you.”
You obeyed, eyes glazed with pleasure as you watched his reflection. His sharp jaw was clenched, dark eyes burning into yours through the glass. One hand stayed on your tit, playing with it possessively, while the other gripped your hip hard enough to bruise.
He fucked you relentlessly, cock dragging against every sweet spot inside you. The angle had him hitting so deep you felt him in your stomach. Your moans were loud and broken, impossible to hold back.
“Sunghoon—ahh—fuck, you’re so deep—”
He leaned over you, biting your shoulder as he played with your tits and slammed into you. “This pussy is mine. Always been mine.”
The pleasure built fast and brutal. Your second orgasm ripped through you without warning, your walls fluttering and clenching around his cock like a vice. You cried out his name as you came, juices dripping down your thighs.
The feeling pushed Sunghoon over the edge right after you.
With a deep, guttural groan, he buried himself as deep as possible and came hard inside you. Thick ropes of cum flooded your pussy, filling you up completely. He kept thrusting through it, pushing his load deeper, claiming you in the most primal way.
For a long moment, you both stayed like that, his cock still buried inside you, his hands still groping your tits, both of you breathing heavily as you stared at each other in the mirror.
Reality slowly crept back in. Heeseung was somewhere outside. Sooha was waiting at home. But neither of you could bring yourselves to care yet. Sunghoon pressed a messy kiss to the back of your neck, still twitching inside your cum-filled pussy.
“We’re not done tonight,” he whispered darkly. “Not even close.”
ପ(⑅ˊᵕˋ⑅)ଓ 𓂃𓂃𓂃 your cupcake has been delivered.ᐟ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱
⋮ ⌗ ┆概要 ⨾ the never-ending question of 'what to eat for dinner?' draws you to exhaustion, a symptom of the adulthood you've come into. luckily for you, sunghoon knows exactly what will satisfy you.
⋮ ⌗ ┆便条 ⨾ the first of your requests done for my follower event! ٩(^ᗜ^ )و this was a nice way to ease back into writing after some minor burnout suffered over my break 😵💫 however, this has made a madman for hoon because he's just so (loud clattering sounds) anyways 😁 i hope you enjoy this as much as i loved writing this, feel free to send in more requests and i will get to them as soon as time allows! much loveeeeee! <333
"Hm, smells good!"
Over the stark midnight induction stovetop, steam dances under the sunset stove hood light, bubbles crackling in the pot of pasta you brew, competing with the soft sounds of your playlist ─ your picture of serenity. Tossed over your shoulder, your lips line into a smile at your incoming roommate, Sunoo, sauntering through the living room with his arms braced against the back of a kitchen stool, whiskered smile on full display.
"I haven't even gotten to the sauce yet," you dash a wink, slightly turned to whisk your tortellini in its pot. "I'll save you some though."
"You're a godsend," his palms clasps together, joy plentiful. "That'll save me making hashbrowns when I get back."
"You mean those hockey pucks?" Laughter bubbles out of you two, fondness painting over the amusing memory. "They were frozen in the middle and you had the audacity to say,"
"Your hashbrowns have been served!"
He collapses in a fit of giggles, you halfway there as you back away from the stove, clutching your stomach at the resurfaced memory, Sunoo so happy to serve you frozen hashbrowns after a night out. While thoughtful, it did prompt ready-made food to be stored away for such occasions.
"You know I'm no good in the kitchen, how much more drunk," he comments, index finger dabbing away acute tears.
"Yeah, that actually might have been my bad," offering a sidelong glance, your teeth bite back your mirthed grin. "It made for a good memory, though. That I can't complain about,"
"Even if you threw up whole hasbrowns the next day?"
Eyes clamped shut, your shoulders shake with amusement, the boil of pasta subduing poor attempts to backtrack muffled snickers.
"Even if so." you decide on, looking back at him with the kind of fondness your friendship thrives on, the same mirrored back at you.
On the stool's back, his elbow balances on its edge, palm holding his chin as his back extends, lips settled into a small pout. "Did you make cocktails too?"
"I would have but," a flush gnaws at your neck's nape, a sudden flash of heat blowing towards your face. "I didn't have any time."
"Too busy with other cock…"
"You know what!"
His body collapses under the weight of familiar laughter, eyes moon crescents as your spatula's raised, accusingly pointed in his direction as timidity keeps your smile downturned, flush alive and well in your bunched cheeks.
"I've had just enough of you!'
His arms shape into a W, eyes flared with a knowing smirk. "Am I wrong?"
Eyes rolling, you revert your attention back to your pasta, shaking your head along with your stirs. "Insufferable."
"Your moans were insufferable, I'll tell you that."
A near gasp attempts an offended launch, embarrassment heavy in your furiously burned cheeks ultimately falling with the closure of your mouth, displeased groans having to suffice.
"Where's your boy toy anyways? Did he leave yet?"
Absently, you answer. "He's napping in mine."
"He's still here?!" you can hear his eyes bulge out his skull, eyes cutting to the ticking kitchen clock, speaking of the late hour. "It's like, 7 in the evening. He's been here this whole time?"
"Don't ask how." Cause you're better off not thinking about it.
"You fixing him a plate too?"
Your lack of a response is answer enough.
"Holy fuck, I'm losing my best veteran!"
Past the point of ridiculousness, your head swivels back to him, an accusatory spaculta raised. "Don't you have a pres to go to?"
In your view, Sunoo plays up his scowl, retreating into himself as he strings a zip-up hoodie across his arm. "I'm going, I'm going."
With his back turned, making a start for the door, you think you'll regain some semblance of peace if not for his last remarks.
"Shame you didn't get to those cocktails," he starts. "Well, tails I should say."
"Goodbye, Sunoo!"
He hollers his goodbye back, door unlocking and locking behind him, the slam of the door your signal for peace and quiet. Despite the heavy exhale out your chest, your lips can't help settle into one hinting at leftover laughter, your conversation re-run as you dwindle the heat down on the stove.
Regardless of his dramatics, Sunoo's reaction is well warranted because he knows anything about you, it's that your casual hook-ups never extend to this. In your bed past daybreak, a hot plate of food waiting for them hours later. They're not even allowed in your bedroom period, their poor excuse of a bedroom settled for because if they don't take up space in your room, there's less chance of mind-real estate taken up once they're onto the next shiny toy.
Somehow, Sunghoon separates himself from the rest. Meant to be a one-time fling you could have bragging rights over, only for him to become a constant. A chanced at outreach turning into a preference, the gamble of an orgasm not considered when it's guaranteed with him. He's never made things complicated too, toeing the arm's length you've kept him at without any complaints. It should make you happy ─ it does ─ but somehow, in the frequent trips over to his (that don't feel like camping), you've gotten lax.
In no rush to leave his cloud-like mattress, eating and mingling with his roommates when you've would've dodged them otherwise, inviting him into your room ─ your space ─ and well, now that he's spent a near 24 hours over at yours, you're not sure what to make of things. If this still constitutes as casual or if you'll have to complicate things for yourself weighing out pros and cons of his loss.
As you're about to stop your impending spiral, turning off the stove, warmth envelopes the expanse of your back, swaddled arms wrapping around your waist with tenderness. Fresh linen and sandalwood makes its way into your senses, unwinding your shoulders into the embrace you subconsciously slump into, the grain of Sunghoon's chin settling against your shoulder.
Your hand overlaps his before you stop yourself. "You're awake."
"Yeah," he muses, voice coarse with afternoon's slumber, taken with permission after how ever manage rounds you'd managed to fit in between a late-night text. "I heard you were cooking, so I came out to help."
The aimless pats over his crossed over hands still mid-air, brain pinpointing to the obvious. "You heard us?"
His beat of silence doesn't inspire much confidence. "Partially,"
The groan you do is immediate, laughed over as your body sags with the half-hearted dread, unsure of what's worse ─ Sunghoon hearing your conversation or the lack of apprehension in having those two parts of your life start intersecting.
"It was funny ─ hush," he surmises, the kiss placed to your cheek starting something funny in your chest. "You're making tortellini?"
"Yeah," you confirm, the sudden lump in your throat cueing the clear of your throat as your body grows rigid. "Did you want some?"
Again, he plagues you with a pause, a thoughtful hum given vibrating against your skin, aligning the fragments of your spine. "I could have a bite."
He chooses then to sink his teeth into your earlobe, a surprised yelp pried out your throat as you tug your head the other direction, only amplifying the dull stretch.
"You're sick," is your harmless retort, his hands canvasing the perimeters of your waist, underneath your tank top's flimsy material where hairs stand to attention. "You'll have to wait. Gotta drain this and make the sauce first."
You swear you hear the sound of his smirk, his lips stretching far and wide as they hover over your ear's shell, a crane into him at the proximity.
"I've got something else you can drain."
His embraces grows tighter, pulling you into the firmness of his chest which isn't the sole thing firm about him. Against the curve of your ass, through the thin layers of shared clothing, the outline of his cock makes itself known, hitching the breath lodged in your throat, a rush of adrenaline coursing through you.
As if he didn't put you through the mattress only hours before.
Perhaps that's why you're so well-suited for each other. You can't stop fucking like rabbits.
"Do you want me to get knocked up?" You joke, an act of incredulous performed as your neck cranes to meet his gaze. "My birth control's working overtime here."
He gives a laugh too, a hum resonating in the fabric of your skin as his hands continue to roam, intimacy dialled tenfold as his fingertips tease with possession, a middle finger drawn above the waistband of your sleep shorts.
"I want you filled," he says, voice doused in the desire rife in your bodies, the languid graze of his fingertip unearthing a mewl from your quickly crumbling body. "Don't you want it too? Or have you forgotten how much you've begged for it?"
Nails sink into his hands, bucked hips following in hot pursuit as you will yourself a sliver of self-restraint. "Hoon,"
"Come on, princess," all he does is entice, nosing along the column of your neck, phantom bites eliciting the muffle of your moans, willpower waning. "I've got something better to fill your mouth with anyways."
Gentle hands manoeuvre you in his direction, as if you weren't on your way down to your knees already, the same mischievous glint matched in your eyes as you're face to face. While your descent to your knees is already predestined, what you don't anticipate is the kiss he pulls you into, possessive hand clasped in the curve of your nape to eat at the distance.
Searing with claim is how his kiss feels, committed to memorizing every line and hump of your lips, your nails dragging down the sides of his torso, a desperate plunge over clothes before your fingers hook into his sweatpants' waistband, pulling him flush against you. The impact with its friction breathes relieved sighs in between, an over-extension of your greed earning the subtle reminder of your place, sharpened canines settling into the ghost of previous markings, the melted moan you do making him smile against you. In his last brush of demise, his tongue glosses over the vague dents, saliva edging over into your mouth that you hum at, parting from him with the lick of your lips.
Usually, you'd make a show of what lies ahead ─ graze fingertips short of his waistband like he did, trail slow-moving hands down his thighs, nose along his print before you kiss into the twitch of his cock, chest fluttering as your teeth puncture into the waistband, going for a pull coupled with your helping hands. But you're impatient, pressed to swallow him whole, like you are most times as seen when your hands hook into his sweatpants and underwear, nails scraping with the tug you do thereafter.
His cock stands tall, filled in and flushed, tip beaded with precome pooling saliva in your mouth at the sight. The plane of his stomach is almost unfair in the dimmed light, warmth emphasising the shadows of the abs your finger helplessly drag down between, loving the shiver he does as the motion ripples through him, precome pooling to the point of overflow.
You're quick to catch its fall, a hand wrapped around his base as the flat of your tongue swirls slowly around his tip, saving the best for last as his come reunites with your taste buds, the salt and musk of him prompting lightheadedness in your muddled mind. Above you, you hear a groan, chest-harboured but evident enough, fingers carding into your hair to make you look up.
"See how hard you make me, hm princess?" his head is tilted, an overcast in his eyes as his hips jut forward to paint precome to your lips, canines shown when your lips run over the trail. "You want it, don't you?"
You clench at nothing, nodding with the brush of your lips against his tip. His lip catches between his teeth, firmness in his fingers, a tug at your scalp as he says,
"Then get to it."
Diving in, you greed pushes you to accept him all at once, mouth closing around his length, trimmed pelvis hair trickled against the tip of your nose, huffed out of as a hissed inhale sounds from above. Keeping yourself there, you let the weight of him hang on your tongue, savouring the taste and feel before a shallow thrust tickles near the back of your throat, throat constricting around his tip. On your tongue, his length twitches again, a shaken sigh escaping him as precome beads back into your throat, closing to capture every drop.
The saliva collecting around him lends itself as your hand's compensation, head dragging yourself back to his tip to accommodate for the fist folding over his cock, clutching with the pressure he loves, tongue grazed over engorged veins on your way back. Coldness creeps into the knees braced against arctic kitchen floor, paid no mind in the face of the thrill of this, letting your mouth and hand do sloppy work of Sunghoon's cock in a place anyone could chance upon. The same thought seems to occur to the man above, a weathered moan coming with the involuntary buck of his hips, the hardness around your mouth throbbing like the situation pains him, leniency given to him as your hand swirls up to meet your lips, tunnel kissed before moving in tandem.
The twisting motion is chased after the warmth of your mouth, eager to please and be filled as you feed him down to your throat, unearthed moan blending into his skin. The sensation earns a tug of your locks, smiled to as your head bobs, filthy slick sounds filling the dimmed room.
"Right where you belong, hm sweet girl?" Sunghoon muses, a dark lick to his words swirling the pool of arousal in your belly, the hum you do around him slowly picking at his crumbling composure. "You're sin on your knees."
Brushed out your face, he gets a better view of your work, kicking in your mouth at the pleasure bloomed over features he's been obsessed with.
"Bet you've soaked through those pretty panties you've got on," he smirks. "You know they're no use when I'm round."
Your hips seek him, bucked forward with no gratification except the closer draw of your thighs, rubbed together to ease the ache between them. Your tongue swirls over his tip, flat and unhurried as your hand squeezes around him, coaxing more precome into the mess of saliva coating him, the shadow of his labouring chest peeking into your vision.
"I'd take you anywhere, wouldn't care who sees because I know─" he chokes on a pant, fingers taut within your hair. "I know you'd want it too."
"Don't you, princess?" he asks, already knowing the answer but making you beg for it, adding fuel to the fire conjured in your stomach, pathetic mewl closing your throat around him. "Don't you wanna be fucked wherever? Used like the slut you are?"
You're useless in the face of your own desires, pushing yourself for more as your mouth ventures further down his generous length, lips brushed against the bunch of your hand at his pelvis, forcing breaths through your nose. There's an impossible squeeze of your thighs, so desperate for friction, pressure will have to suffice, slick echoed as your hole goes for clenches met with nothing but slick.
"Hm, that's it princess. Take my cock," he coos, tenderness in the palm of his hand as he marvels down at you, head thrown back with a throaty groan. "Know how much you love choking on it."
The whine strung out of you hovers on the border of pathetic, ending in a broken sob as you force more of him into you, pushing through the gags his breath hitches at.
Despite the fact, he's sweet as can be, fingers coming up for oxygen as a lone palm is soothed over your sculp, a sliver of comfort contrasting the raging fire consuming your body.
"There you go, all the way down. Nice and easy," his deep timber has you mewling through tears, gathered in the clump of your lashes as your chest sizzles, nagging for the shallow breaths taken through your nose. Your senses overflow with him, drunk on the heady scent enveloping you, arousal strong enough to taste as a few more gags give to accommodate his size. "Look so pretty choking around my cock like that. Look up for me, pretty."
Too far gone, his voice sings to you like a siren, luring the uplift of your head, cock pushed back further at the angle that makes you choke, eyes forced shut then pried open. Even in subtle darkness, light illuminates him, his figure haloed as every piece of your filthy imagination constructs in a picture of him, rosiness hinted beneath the porcelain of his skin, a lone drop of sweat beading down his temple down to the angular cut of his jaw. His chest's heaved but his smile sickening, the high keen you do nothing but a mere consequence of your compliance.
"There she is," syrup drowns the onslaught of his words, sugary sweetness held in the honey of his eyes as they focus on nothing but you, stuffed full like you always beg him to be. "All teary-eyed too. Is it too much for you, baby? My cock's too big for your little mouth?"
Body restless, you squirm in skin constricting three sizes too small, nails scrapping at whatever expanse available, claw marks carved into the skin of his hip bones. His tongue pokes into the interior of his cheek, scarred but enjoying every minute of your idea of heaven, no attempt made to move your head ─ simply indulging in the comfort of him in your mouth, tip edged further down than your poor throat can take.
"Hm, too bad, baby. You wanted this," Sunghoon only affirms, the condescending dip of his words only making you clench harder, high strung on nothing but walls caught in your grasp. "Because that's what you love most ─ nothing but my cock swarming that pretty head of yours."
You make a sound that's meant to be confirmation, or a plea ─ whatever it is, it's gargled mess against him, spit bypassing the plush of your lips, mini bubbles forming at the breath you attempt, lungs scorched, desperate for more oxygen.
Relentless, your hands don't seek a tap on Sunghoon's thighs for refuge, his fingers moving into your hair to grasp on the sides of your head, a hint for actions leaving you leaking down your thighs.
"Lemme bruise your throat a bit, lemme fuck you," and you let him, rigid in place as he teases you with a few shallow thrusts, only rewarded with the makeshift nod given. Hands stapled at his hips, he drags himself the long way back, leaving only his tip kissed by your lips before thrusting in again, quick to build speed, generating the curses he heaves. "Shit,"
He starts to build a rhythm, punishing and deep just how you prefer, tears clouding your vision as you keep your mouth firm despite the moans it begs to release, tongue catching the underside of his cock, picking away at the pieces of your restraint. Saliva pools at their feel, further encouraged by the angry throb of his cock, veins coursed over as Sunghoon's laboured pants compete with the gags amplified by his reach at the back of your throat.
"You sound so fucking filthy, princess," he swears, halfway torn apart as a gasp wrestles out his own throat. "Gonna make me come sounding like that. That's what you want, right? Me filling you?"
The friction of your feverish gargles and his incessant pistons come alongside your shared pained moans, a near growl liberated from his chest as his hips gather more speed, held onto in desperation as he works at making your wishes come true.
"So good for me, pretty. I'll give it to you, I'll give you what you want," his words come out in a muddled rush, his release hinging you on the edge of delirium, the slump of your body only prevented by his steady grip. "And after this, I'm filling you properly."
His promise squeaks you against the lathered skin of his cock, his broken moan your satisfaction as your body shivers and shakes, his length removed with a wet pop, echoing far and wide.
Immediately, his hands fold over the mess your mouth's made, fisting his cock with the presence of a madman as his world narrows down to you and your mouth.
"Open. Up."
The command hits you deep in your core, the low graft of his voice expelling more mess into your soiled panties and down your thighs, jaw unhinging with a creak as you follow through.
The yield to his command pushes him over the edge, tip weighted down on your tongue as spurts of come shoot down the tunnel of your mouth, some askew and straying around the perimeters around your lips. It works out better for Sunghoon, the borderline-gone groan he gives brewed from the depths of his toned stomach as he watches his masterpiece unfold, it's final piece being the sack of bones you fold into after he gives you his last, inflamed throat gulping down his hot stream of come.
Fatigue submerges your figures in an endless wave, the tide only pulled back long after your pasta is forgotten, the fog cleared when your fawn-enabled body is hauled up in strength Sunghoon reserves for you.
His hand clasps around the back of your head, your chin tucked into his shoulder as your feet scramble for the floor, arms swaddled around him for safety.
"I'm fucking you. You'll get those sorry excuse underwear off and spread yourself on the bed for me," his command grates into your eardrums, spine straightening in the possessive hold his other hand kneads into the the flesh of your ass. "I'm eating you for dinner."
thank you for reading! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡
comments, reblogs and likes are much appreciated.ᐟ ᰔ
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professor!sunghoon x TA!y/n, slow burn, MDNI, university au, fake dating au, ex!sim jaeyun, smut with a lot of plot, slight angst, fluff, jealousy, yearning (mutual), oral s*x (both receiving and giving), petnames (princess, baby, angel), n!pple play, slight dirty talk, f!ngering, riding, unsafe s*x (don’t do this), creampi*s, aftercare, multiple org*sms, begging, soft dom!hoon, angst with a happy ending
tags: @satorus-slut @yunlazia @iouven @gardenwonn
wc: 13.3k (idk how it got like this… anyway enjoy)
an: this kinda links into my other fic as heeseung’s TA appears in his fic! you don’t rlly need to read that to understand this but the fic is all part of my future series i’m currently writing for :) that fic is here. thanks to my absolute sweetest best friends for beta reading and helping me through this process i couldn’t have done it without you!!! @luvvjongs and @irlmymelodyy i love youuu <3
“we need rules.”
“such as?”
“holding hands. keeping me close. maybe kissing if my ex is watching.”
sunghoon nods once like this is all perfectly reasonable.
why had you agreed to this again?
or;
the fake dating fic where heeseung sets you up with professor park sunghoon, who agrees to be your fake boyfriend to a birthday party only for him to realise:
your ex is sim jaeyun.
jaeyun is his best friend.
he’s been in love with you since you were both TA’s
when heeseung told you he had found you a date, you had thought the worst.
that he had found one of his grad friends that he had told you were complete losers.
or that he had gotten sunoo, who would have treated the whole thing as a joke.
the last thing you had expected was park sunghoon.
you nearly dropped the croissant that was in your hand as he entered the cafe.
tall, composed and dressed impeccably as always. he had dressed in dark colours and wore a coat that fit the autumn weather outside. sunghoon looked the same as he always had: intimidating and a little untouchable. which showed as his students would always straighten in their seats, the moment he would walk in to a lecture hall.
professor park sunghoon.
though you had known him when you were both just TA’s, he was different back then. he was a little softer, but he was still quieter and reserved. that softer side only managed to come out when he was with you, but you had never let yourself dwell on that.
you remembered late nights spent with sunghoon in the faculty office, helping professor kang mark papers. there were 200 students in the class, so you would compare marks and try to stay up. there was one particular night where you couldn’t focus, and as you felt yourself drifting to sleep, a coffee cup was gently placed in front of you. sunghoon wordlessly sat down and continued working, and you quietly thanked him. you hadn’t mentioned how poorly you slept the night before, but sunghoon had noticed.
he had somehow noticed everything when it came to you. from picking up the marks you forgot to tally, to the time you came in with a high fever, and he took one look before demanding you go home and rest. but that was all it was. he never made any other effort to take it further; it was always like he was holding himself back.
and then he became professor park sunghoon.
it was like a line was drawn. he was being professional, you had thought. and though there was distance, and you were now heeseung’s TA, you still found his gaze landing on you whenever you entered the room.
but sometimes you did catch glimpses of the old park sunghoon, in the way he bit the tip of his pen as he marked his papers, and the cute thing he did when he talked about something he was really passionate about. you found his gaze lingering on you a second longer than it usually would, which is why this was so dangerous.
your stomach tightened as he walked up to the coffee table.
“you’re late,” heeseung said casually, getting up from his seat with his drink in hand.
“by 2 minutes,” sunghoon muttered, his cheeks flushed from the cold air.
“that’s late for you.”
sunghoon’s eyes now landed on you.
his eyes look at you expectantly.
“hi,” you said, carefully.
“hi.” his voice was so calm and firm, it made your legs clench together.
“well! my work here is done.” heeseung laughed as he moved to leave from his seat.
“wait-” you started.
“you two talk.” he said, walking towards the door where mina, his girlfriend, stood waiting for him. “i’m leaving before this gets weird.” he shouted behind him.
“it already is weird-” the slam of the cafe door interrupted your words.
you sat in a slight awkward silence, sipping on your drink. clearing your throat, you finally spoke.
“well, first, i wanted to say thank you for agreeing to this.” you fiddled with your rings, as you spoke.
“… agree to what?” sunghoon asked, his face blank.
you paused. “the fake dating thing?” silence descended upon you again.
“…fake dating?” his genuine confusion only made you feel worse.
“yes?” you squeaked, now entirely unsure of yourself and what you were doing.
his eyebrows furrowed. “heeseung hyung told me i had a date.”
now you were confused. “a date for the party.”
“yes,” he said slowly, trying to piece things together.
you stared at each other. realisation hit you right in the face.
“oh my god.” you slapped your forehead in disbelief. “he didn’t explain anything to you, did he?”
“…apparently not.”
heat rushed into your cheeks. of course heeseung would do this. letting out a heavy sigh, you forced yourself to explain the situation.
“i need a fake date.” you blurted out, “my ex is going to be at the party, and heeseung thought it would help me if i had one.”
the moment the word ‘ex’ left your mouth, sunghoon stiffened.
“…i see.” he said politely.
god, you wanted to crawl into a hole and hide forever.
you completely missed the way his jaw tightened, and how he quickly schooled his disappointment. sunghoon had walked in expecting a whole different conversation, and now had realised he had misunderstood everything.
“it’s stupid i know.” you began, “you definitely don’t have to do it if you’re uncomfortable, but i thought we should go through some ground rules if we are.”
“rules?” he said flatly.
“yeah! like no unnecessary touching, no mixed signals, no-”
“no.”
you stopped.
“what?”
sunghoon remained calm.
“i don’t think this is a good idea.”
the rejection hits harder than you thought it would.
“oh.”
you look down now, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
“that makes sense.”
he felt guilty right away and suddenly wanted to take everything back.
but he stayed silent.
what was he supposed to say? that the thought of having you only for pretend made him feel so irrationally annoyed? or that the thought of being used to make your ex jealous was destroying him inside?
he had felt so stupid for even thinking heeseung was even trying to set the two of you up.
you forced a smile, “it’s okay,”
“i’ll try find someone else.”
and there it was again, the change in his expression. annoyance at your words.
“you’ll find someone else?” he repeated.
you were getting annoyed at this point.
“well yes.”
you watched as he leaned back in his chair his gaze focused solely on you.
“you’re comfortable asking just anyone?” he questioned.
“it’s not just anyone.” you huffed, “and it’s only for one night.”
“one night.” he echoed.
you didn’t understand why he was so hung up on that, or why he was so bothered at you bringing someone else when it was clear he didn’t want to do it.
finally, you sighed, “please just forget about this,” you grabbed your bag and tried to leave, but then he spoke.
“wait…” he lifted his hand to stop you, “i’ll do it.”
you stared at him as if he had just told you a joke.
“…what?”
“i said i’ll do it.” he said matter of factly.
you brain scrambled for a second.
“you… just said no?”
“well, i changed my mind.”
“that fast?” you asked incredulously.
“yes.” he says smoothly.
you narrowed your eyes at him, “that’s not concerning at all.”
you watch his eyes gleam with slight amusement.
“it’s practical.” he explained.
“fake dating your coworker is practical?” you ask.
“you said it was only one night.”
“you didn’t sound so happy about that before.”
his gaze held yours steadily, “i reconsidered.”
that explained absolutely nothing about his sudden change in attitude.
he checked his watch suddenly and his face became serious.
“my office hours begin in 15 minutes.”
you nodded, “so… you’re serious?”
“yes.”
“so you’re not gonna back out?” you asked, carefully.
“you’re weirdly calm.” you laugh.
“i’m trying to be.” he breathed.
before you could ponder on his words, sunghoon continued.
“if we’re doing this, we should discuss things properly.”
“rules.” you nodded.
“yes.” he agreed, “rules.” he tested on his lips.
you smiled slightly at his expression.
“i don’t have time now, but is there a better time to meet soon?”
“you’re scheduling fake dating preparations?” you giggled.
“you wanted structure.” he smiled, you felt your heart skip at the rare sight.
suddenly he looked fond, and it reminded you briefly of how he used to look at you.
he picked up his bag and stood, “how do you feel about tomorrow? after work.”
“yeah that should work. my place?” you asked.
“yeah.” he said softly, he didn’t move.
both of you waited.
you cleared your throat quickly, “well, good luck with your office hours.”
he nodded and held your eyes for one lingering second.
“try not to find someone else before tomorrow.” he teased.
your breath caught.
underneath his joke, you could feel the possessive edge in his voice.
before you could respond, he had already left the cafe.
fuck. what had you gotten yourself into?
—
you heard a loud knock at your door the next day at 4:30pm exactly. not a second later, which was what you expected from sunghoon.
you were nervous. you didn’t know what to do with yourself. the outfit you were wearing was what you had settled on after trying three different outfits. why had you bothered so much when it was just park sunghoon? but that was the issue, it was him and that’s why you had felt so bothered.
you smoothed your dress as you opened the door.
and there he was. stood, tall and composed as ever. his hair windswept, but neatly kept. his coat engulfed him and in his hand was a drink holder with two drinks.
“hi,” you breathed.
“hi.” he smiled as he raised the cup to hand it to you.
It was your favourite drink.
“how did you know?” you ask genuinely.
“i noticed you drink it a lot.” he said simply.
he had noticed your drink order, whether this was from your TA days or from recently you didn’t know, but it had made your heart feel warm.
you smiled as you drank, it was still as good as always. he had even remembered the extra shot of vanilla that you had always added.
you guided sunghoon to sit on your sofa and you sat next to him.
a quiet, comforting silence fell as you both sipped on your drinks.
“well… we should probably discuss how we’re gonna do things.” you started, picking up your journal which you had scribbled a few notes onto.
“you made notes for fake dating?” a gentle smile tugged at his lips.
“don’t blame me for wanting to be organised.” you laughed as you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, a nervous habit of yours.
“rule one: no excessive pda. i think we can both agree on that one.”
“and what do you mean by excessive?” he questioned.
“like being overly touchy, it will look like too much.” he nodded at your words.
“so… what pda are we allowing?” and then he continued, “hugging?”
“when necessary, yes.” you nervously said, gauging his response.
he seemed calm and just agreed as if it was the easiest thing in the world.
“holding hands?”
“yes.”
“arm around your waist?”
your breath caught at that.
“yeah, that’s fine.” but internally you thought this was the worst idea you have ever gone through with.
sunghoon nodded as if this was an academic discussion and he was agreeing with your idea.
“anything else?” he asked.
“no mixed signals.” you finally settled on.
“what do you mean by that?”
“this is fake and we should keep it that way.” you looked down as you said it and missed how sunghoon gritted his teeth at that.
“understood.”
“also, we probably shouldn’t date anyone else while we do this…” you spoke softly.
his eyes snapped towards yours.
“agreed.” the answer came so suddenly and quickly.
you blinked, “it would just make things complicated.”
“it would.” his voice lowered and you felt your legs clench. this was no good. how would you get through this when even his voice was affecting you?
you looked at your journal and paused.
“so…” he noticed your hesitation but waited patiently for you to continue.
“there’s one more issue…” you began, “kissing…”
and suddenly it was so tense you could cut it with a knife.
“...right.” he says after a short moment.
because of course there would be kissing. couples kissed all the time and that’s what people would expect of you both.
the thought alone made your stomach twist.
“well… we don’t have to exactly-” you started, trying to explain your rationale.
“i know.”
“but if we do it at the party and it looks awkward-” your cheeks flush as you continue.
“it’ll look fake.” he finishes now understanding the issue.
your eyes meet his.
“exactly.” you laughed nervously.
“we should practice.” the words leave his mouth calmly. as if he didn’t just turn your whole world upside down with that one sentence.
“...practice.” you say weakly, this was a horrible idea. why were you torturing yourself in such a way?
“yes.” he stared directly at you.
your heart was racing now.
“this is either a very good idea or a bad idea.” you chuckled nervously.
“i haven’t decided yet.” sunghoon said deep in thought.
The honesty made you feel worse.
you swallowed hard and before you could change your mind you nodded, “okay.”
sunghoon’s expression shifted for the quickest second, you suddenly became aware of the lack of space between you two.
he looks into your eyes before his gaze drops quickly to your lips for the briefest moment.
your legs brushed against his and you suddenly became aware of the faint smell of his cologne coming from him. a cool, musky clean scent that only made you want him closer to you.
he slowly raised his hand as if he was testing your reaction. his fingers gently brushed against your cheek, warm against your skin. his touch was gentle and smooth and you breath trembled as you leaned into his touch.
and for one moment it looked as if sunghoon looked completely undone by that alone.
his thumb rested near your jaw as he simply held you for a moment. you could not bring yourself to remind him that this was just practice and that was all it would be.
instead you nuzzled into his touch and felt his sudden inhale. his fingers trembled slightly as they drifted to trace your bottom lip gently with the pad of his finger, his gaze darkening as he watched intently.
“tell me to stop if you don’t want this.” he warned, giving you a reason to back out but you just nodded.
your eyes closed, a shaky breath left you and that snapped what little control sunghoon had left.
he pulled you closer and pressed his lips to yours.
slowly at first, but the moment yours moved against his, the kiss deepened. it became needier, your hands pressed at his chest as he kissed you as if you were the oxygen he needed to breathe. his tongue teased you, and you couldn’t help but let out a little moan at his ministrations on you.
when he finally pulled away he rested his forehead against yours now breathless.
you stared at each other, your lips swollen and pink and your eyes wide.
“that… was-” he breathlessly started.
“yeah…” you said, closing your eyes.
“pretty convincing.” sunghoon said quietly.
“right. practice.” you had remembered what had really happened. you were just practicing. none of this was real yet that had felt like the most realest thing you had ever experienced.
“practice.” he repeated, almost as if he was also trying to convince himself.
how were you going to survive on saturday?
—
you stared at yourself in the mirror as you fixed a strand of hair that had come loose. you spritzed your perfume and grabbed your phone and clutch. it wasn’t easy to calm your nerves down.
after what happened on your sofa, you weren’t so sure this was a good idea anymore but you couldn’t back out now.
your thoughts were disrupted by a sharp knock at your door.
you opened the door and exhaled.
it was as if you forgot how to breathe.
sunghoon stood dressed all in black.
his tailored suit clung to his body, a blue tie sat around his neck which suspiciously matched the colour of the dress you were wearing. he smelt like his cologne, it felt familiar already. his glasses sat on his nose and his hair was swept to the side.
the second he saw you he froze.
his eyes shamelessly followed the blue dress you were wearing that fit you perfectly.
the silence made your cheeks grow hotter.
“you okay?” you asked gently.
sunghoon just blinked, “you look… beautiful.”
your heart thumped in your chest.
“oh…” you breathed, “thank you.” you smoothed out your dress and nervously giggled.
“you look..” you started but your thoughts left your mind.
“…good.” you say weakly.
this sunghoon was affecting you so badly you didn’t know you would survive.
a faint smile reached his lips, “good?”
“you know what i mean.”
“i do.” he cleared his throat and held out his arm.
“ready?”
you nodded and grabbed his arm. it felt warm and strong and you couldn’t wrap your full arm around it. he definitely worked out… you thought to yourself.
—
the drive was quiet but not uncomfortable, sunghoon’s playlist played quietly through the speakers.
you sat beside him, and you felt his gaze on you occasionally before he focused on the road again.
“okay…” you began, “lets go over everything one more time.”
“debriefing on our fake dating rules…” sunghoon’s lips had the faint trace of amusement playing on it.
“we need to look believable.” you explained, “we can’t look forced.”
“we already do look believable.” sunghoon muttered.
you blushed at his words.
“you can hold my hand, put your arm around my waist and we can… kiss.” you said the last part in a rush but sunghoon just nodded.
“and our cover story is we met as ta’s and fell for each other.” you added.
“jake might wanna talk at some point, but i’m not sure if i want to yet.” sunghoon’s tight expression was not missed.
“how long were you together?” he asks.
“a few years in high school…” he nodded slowly taking in the information you had told him.
“that’s serious.”
“it was a long time ago… i just need to show him i’ve moved on.” your chest tightened at your words.
jake had known a version of you that had felt so long ago. you were no longer that wide eyed girl from high school that followed him around. a part of you thought you might never move on from jake. he was your first love after all. your first boyfriend, first kiss, all your firsts were with him. which is why it broke your heart when he had told you it wouldn’t work out. you were going to college in different parts of the country and he wasn’t willing to make the long distance relationship work.
it had taken you a long time to be okay. but even then a part of you longed for it again. sometimes you wondered whether it was jake you missed, or the idea of being in love. you hadn’t exactly figured it out with your string of failed first dates which didn’t lead to anywhere.
the closest you had felt to moving on was recently… not that you’d admit it. deep down, sunghoon had moved your heart in a way you hadn’t felt since… jake. if you had thought about it really hard, you had waited for him to make a move when you both had started out but he never did. then the doubt creeped in. he probably didn’t feel a thing towards you. in fact, it was perhaps your mind playing tricks on you, he was just nice. but then he had become a professor, and it had all ended. yeah you had spoke on the occasion, but it was never the same. you had never thought in your wildest dreams that you would be here today acting as his fake girlfriend.
it was as if you had to keep reminding yourself that this wasn’t real. he was just helping you out because he was nice. that’s all there was to it. and yes, you might have had a kiss that had changed the trajectory of your life, but that hadn’t meant that anything had changed. you still felt somewhat of a distance between you and sunghoon.
“oh god.” you whispered to yourself as sunghoon parked the car.
“you’re panicking…” sunghoon’s hand reached over to hold yours gently. “it’s going to be okay, y/n.” he finger rubbed gentle circles into your hand and you felt like you were going to melt there and then. he had no idea what he was doing to you.
you looked into his eyes and noticed his gaze was dropping to your lips.
“wait a moment…” he leaned over and used his finger to swipe the corner of your lips.
“lipgloss.” he said, now looking up to see your struck face.
he had leaned so close, you were certain he was going to kiss you again. his eyes widen for a moment before he starts to lean in for real this time.
“we should get going.” you say, breaking the moment immediately. sunghoon looks away for a moment and you miss how his hand clenches at the missed opportunity.
“yeah…” he gets out of the car, shutting his door and swiftly opens your car door, offering his arm to guide you out.
you gracefully take his arm and steady yourself on him with the heels you were wearing.
“hey, we’ve got this.” sunghoon reassures you as he loops your arm through his. You grip his arm as he guides you to the door.
–
the party had already started by the time you had gotten inside. people were mingling, champagne chutes in their hands as the soft jazz music played.
“you were invited to jay’s party too, weren’t you?” you question sunghoon as he guides you to the drinks.
“yeah, he’s head of faculty which is why i’m here, but i heard it’s not the same for you?” sunghoon asks.
“me and jay used to go to high school together.” you confess, “we’ve known each other for years.”
“oh so that’s how you know him… and that’s why your ex is here?” sunghoon concludes.
you nod, “we were all high school friends, and we’ve all ended up in the education sector which is kind of funny when you think about.”
you notice that sunghoon’s gaze is now preoccupied. he’s staring in the opposite direction and when you look, your heart stops.
sim jaeyun.
jake.
he looks as beautiful as ever, his tailored suit clung to him well, and his soft brown hair curled behind his ears. his glasses rested at his nose and suddenly his eyes caught yours and he froze. his eyes drifted down to sunghoon’s arm around your waist and an expression of hurt flashed across his face before it became unreadable. he began to walk towards you and you felt as if your heart was in your throat.
“that’s him. jake.” you pointed out to sunghoon as he quietly watched jake approach.
“...sunghoon?” jake looked to sunghoon and you gaped.
“you know each other?” you asked in disbelief.
“sunghoon is one of my best friends.” jake said, confused at the two of you.
“jake.” sunghoon looked equally confused. how small was the world that your ex jake, was sim jaeyun, his good university friend?
fuck. you were so screwed.
how could you pretend to be dating when he clearly knows the both of you?
you felt sunghoon’s grip tighten on your arm and then he began.
he smiled slowly at jake and pulled you closer to his side his arm now slung around your waist, “this is my girlfriend, y/n.” you could feel tingles up your arm and you could only look at him.
“...hi jake.” you said quietly, you gasped as you felt a quick press of sunghoon’s lips to your forehead. a sweet kiss that would be normal for couples but you felt as if you were going crazy.
he had called you his girlfriend and then had kissed you in front of jake too. how had he recovered so quickly? It was as if it was so natural to him, as if loving you was as easy as breathing. your heart clenched at his actions, this was getting worse for your heart. you knew already going into this of your lingering feelings towards sunghoon, and now this had blown everything all open. how could you go back to being friends when you had already felt the taste of his lips? you were utterly screwed.
“when did this happen?” jake asks pointing to sunghoon’s arm around you.
“we fell for each other when we were ta’s.” you explain, looking lovingly into sunghoon’s eyes.
“i fell for y/n the moment i saw her, and i think i have been falling ever since.” sunghoon’s words echoed in your mind. this wasn’t real. what he said wasn’t true. it couldn’t be. he couldn’t have been in love with you this whole time. he had drifted from your cover story, why had he done that?
it’s almost as if he can notice you spiraling at his words and swiftly changes the subject.
“have you seen heeseung hyung yet?” sunghoon asked jake.
“yes, he came in with mina earlier.” so somehow jake knew heeseung too. how did things get this twisted? you sighed at the thought.
sunghoon was now just holding your hand but rubbing gentle circles like he did in the car. it was calming you down, it had felt so warm you didn’t want to let go.
already your rule of excessive pda had been broken. but how could you stop? sunghoon’s touch felt so loving and it wasn’t as if he was bothered. you were making excuses but it didn’t matter. that could be dealt with later.
“so you’re still working in busan?” sunghoon asked politely, snapping you out of your daydream.
“not anymore actually.” jake replied, you listened intently.
“sunghoon, i was actually gonna let you know with the guys, but jay got me in contact with professor yang.” he explained animatedly with his hands like he always used to.
“i’m joining the physics department next week.” jake looks pleased but you couldn’t stop the horrified expression from coming on your face.
your stomach dropped.
he was joining the university.
that meant faculty meetings, lunchtimes, he would be there. and so would you and sunghoon. were you supposed to act at work now too?
you felt sunghoon’s hand grip yours a bit tighter at his words.
“guess i’ll be seeing you guys a lot more soon.” jake smiled genuinely. god you were gonna be sick. how had this all gone so terribly wrong?
this wasn’t just one night anymore. this suddenly had consequences.
“that’s good news.” sunghoon quickly replied, patting jake on the back.
“yeah i’m excited. it’ll be nice having some familiar faces around.” jake grinned at you as he said it.
sunghoon’s silence became obvious. jake cleared his throat, “well.”
“i better get going, gotta greet the birthday boy.” he laughed and walked away into the crowd.
you immediately let go of sunghoon’s hand and let your arms drop to your side.
“he’s joining the university.”
“i heard.”
“we can’t stop.” your words came tumbling out before you could stop them.
if you had stopped this now there would be too many questions. you would have to explain it to jake and you didn’t want to do that.
“do you want to stop?” sunghoon suddenly asks, making your head snap in his direction.
he’s giving you an out.
“i don’t know…” you admitted.
“we’ll figure this out, y/n.” the low reassurance in his voice made you feel better but somehow you were realising how you didn’t want this to end at all.
–
on monday morning, you entered campus with sunghoon by your side. trying to not let it freak you out, that he was holding your coffee and standing close next to you.
people started to notice and of course they began to chatter.
the infamously, cold park sunghoon was carrying coffee and trailing after you. The students could not believe it. how was this the same professor who would coldly stare someone down for talking in the middle of his seminar? he actually looked… happy.
he mindlessly spoke about his day, and how he was looking forward to doing his seminar on chaucer for his second years. you watched as he quietly described how the students had prepared presentations last week, they had actually done better than he had expected. it was so easy to watch him speak about the things he was passionate about. you could really tell how much he loved his job and it just made you like him even more.
“you know everyone is staring at us.” you whisper.
“that’s the whole point.” he whispered back.
you walked into the faculty building together and heeseung spotted you right away.
at first he did a double take at your closeness and then grew smug.
“oh my god…” he whispered, “did you guys actually hit it off?”
you blushed instantly, “stop!”
sunghoon remained unbothered as he sipped on his coffee.
“oh yeah jake is starting today, did you hear sunghoon?” heeseung said absentmindedly, fiddling with his rings.
“yeah, he told me last night.” sunghoon muttered.
“lee heeseung.” you started. heeseung looked up in alarm. you never called him by his full name.
“when were you going to tell me that jake is in fact sim jaeyun?” you grit your teeth together.
“yeah that’s his real name, what about it?” heeseung asked confusedly.
“sim jaeyun is my jake.” you breathed, “my ex.”
sunghoon froze at your words but schooled his expression.
“he’s what?!” he shouted, “did you know about this?” he gestured to sunghoon.
“i found out at the party.” sunghoon shrugged.
“what do you mean your ex boyfriend is his best friend?” heeseung pointed out.
“i know.” you sighed.
“oh that’s sick actually… you’re fake dating your ex’s best friend.” heeseung teased.
“that makes it sound really bad.”
“it really is bad…
heeseung continued, “no but this is insane…” he continued, “i expected awkwardness and maybe some flirting but not… this.” he said pointing to your arms that were touching closely.
“wow first year TA y/n would be going crazy.” heeseung laughed and you slapped his arm angrily.
heeseung’s held his arm in pain as you gave him your best ‘don’t test me’ face.
sunghoon blinked at your antics.
“hey! what was that for?” he rubbed his arm where you had hit it.
“watch what you say.” you hissed under your breath.
“what does he mean?” sunghoon asked, and then you wanted to jump into a hole and hide forever.
“he doesnt-“
“well you see in her first year y/n had like the bigggggest-“ you elbow heeseung so hard in the stomach he lets out a wheeze and dramatically holds onto his stomach and lets out a yell.
“oh my god.” sunghoon checks on heeseung but he’s already up.
“she elbowed me.” he croaked, still getting his breath back.
“you deserved it.”
“i was going to say biggest academic rivalry!” heeseung spat.
you rolled your eyes, “you’re a liar.”
“you just tried to kill me!” he laughed as he held his belly.
“you’ll survive.” you say dryly.
sunghoon cracked a rare smile at your behaviour and you felt your heart burst.
“and what was he trying to say now?” he asked, intently looking for your answer.
“nothing!” you blurted immediately.
“that reaction says the opposite.” heeseung wheezed. you threw your death glare and he finally shut up.
“i can’t believe you attacked your supervisor, TWICE. i could get you fired, you know!” heeseung dramatically rubbed his stomach and arm.
you ignored him.
“you know what? fine! keep your secrets.” he pointed at you gingerly, “but when this turns into a 200k slow burn fake dating to lovers, i will take all the credit!”
sunghoon laughs quietly under his breath.
you and heeseung gaped at his laughter that usually wouldn’t show.
“oh yeah he’s gone gone.” heeseung pointed.
“leave.” sunghoon said flatly.
your face burned even hotter as he scurried away with his office hours starting in 5 minutes.
“so… what was that about?” sunghoon genuinely asks and you don’t even know what you should say.
“it’s nothing…” you try explain but how could you?
“it sounded like he was going to say crush.” sunghoon said thoughtfully.
you choked on your gulp of coffee and coughed, “what?”
sunghoon looked at you again, calmly, “he said biggest and only a crush would make sense.”
your heartbeat thumps in your throat.
“well thats-” you start, “…nothing.” you say weakly.
sunghoon leans in closer, “you know you get really violent when someone tries to reveal a secret about you.”
your eyes widened.
“i dont know what you’re talking about.” you deflected.
“liar.” he whispered in your ear.
the word came out teasingly. softer. and that made it worse.
because now sunghoon was looking at you and you could tell all your first year memories were flowing through his mind. all your late night conversations, every stare and moment.
he just smiled.
then his gaze focused on whatever was behind you both.
his expression changed slightly before he grabbed your hand, slightly squeezing it as if he was preparing you.
it was jake.
he looked unfairly good, his wavy brown hair tucked behind his ears, and his thick frames that sit on his face. he wore a dark coat, coffee in one hand as he held his books in the other.
he scanned the room and his eyes landed on you.
his eyes softened and then he smiled.
his breathtaking smile. the one you had fallen for all those years ago.
“hey.” the words echoed through the hallway as he made his way to you both.
sunghoon went still. he just watched.
your hand was still in his. his thumb was rubbing gentle circles into it and you hadn’t realised till now.
he had pulled you closer to his body and jake had noticed too.
something unreadable flashed across his face but then came his easy smile.
“there you are.” jake said casually, “i was looking for you, i got lost 3 times on campus already!”
“that sounds like you,” sunghoon said wryly.
jake scoffed, “you’re very unsympathetic for someone who convinced me to apply for this job.”
“you signed the contract.” sunghoon shrugged slightly.
the atmosphere shifted slightly at sunghoon’s coldness.
jake looked towards you now, “we didn’t get to talk much the other night but it’s good to see you, y/n” his voice soft as ever.
jake was still as kind as ever.
“it’s good to see you too.” you smiled.
sunghoon’s thumb stopped moving and you noticed immediately.
“maybe we could get coffee sometimes?” jake shrugged, “catch up together.”
your eyes widened.
“oh-”
“she’s busy.” the answer came from sunghoon who now sounded colder. flat, a hint of possessiveness lying underneath.
jake blinked, “i… didn’t ask you.”
“she still doesn’t have time.”
you stared at sunghoon and his reaction, “you don’t know my schedule.”
“i know you’re busy.” sunghoon stared at you carefully.
jake let out a little laugh at you both.
“you two are pretty close.”
“we’re dating.” sunghoon said smoothly.
“yeah. i can see.” jake nodded towards your intertwined hands and general closeness. his tone feels a bit defeated but before you can think about that too much sunghoon catches your attention again.
he brings your hand close to his lips and presses a soft kiss to your hand.
jake looks at you both, “well, i’ll stop interrupting your morning.”
“you’re not.”
“thanks.”
you both answered at the same time. you furrowed your eyebrows at sunghoon’s words.
jake just laughed softly under his breath.
that only made things worse, because now sunghoon looked annoyed.
“i’ll see you both around.” sunghoon nodded, but you noticed that jake’s eyes lingered on you for a moment.
he looked down at your hands that were interlocked with sunghoon’s and his smile dropped for the quickest moment before he smiled again and walked away.
—
it had been two weeks of fake dating and you were dying. It was as if sunghoon was really your boyfriend. you came to school with each other, ate lunch, spent your free periods together and it didn’t just end there.
you had started going out together, it had began with going to see the newest adaptation of jane eyre in cinema. there wasn’t anyone to go with and sunghoon had offered.
it ended up being a great time, you had both bickered over the film’s portrayal of mr rochester but enjoyed how well it had stuck with its original source. what was interesting was how sunghoon kept his arm around you the whole night despite there being no reason to do so. you hadn’t mentioned it, but even you were becoming more aware of how domestic this was beginning to get.
but it wasn’t just that. the intensity of his touches had you going insane. how were you supposed to be okay, when he was leading you with his arm slung around your waist? his touch ignited something inside you and it could be felt by sunghoon undoubtedly. it was noticed, especially in the way he reacted one night when you had opened your door in just your shorts and tank top not expecting company. his eyes had darkened at the sight of you and he had muttered out an apology before trying to leave.
“wait… do you want to come inside for a drink?” you had asked him, opening the door to invite him in.
you knew what you were doing, you were wearing your tiny shorts and a tank top that was surely showing your body off.
“…okay.” he murmured as he entered your place.
you guided him to the sofa you had kissed on just weeks ago and went to get him a drink from the fridge.
when you came back, his coat was slung on a nearby chair and he was sat in his tight white button down and black slacks that made your mouth water.
you settled his drink in front of him and sat close to him.
you felt his breath stop as he felt your bare leg against his.
neither of you touched your drinks and the air got heavy in your silence.
you exhaled slowly, “we’ve been dancing around this for a while haven’t we?”
sunghoon’s eyes landed on you, “what do you mean by that?”
you laughed nervously, “i mean…” you began, “…maybe we should just get this out of our systems.”
sunghoon stared at you. he gulped.
you swallowed, “we should sleep together.”
sunghoon’s eyes grew heavier and darker, “you think that will fix this?”
“probably not…” you admitted.
“then why suggest it?”
because you’re all i think about? because everytime you touch me i feel like i’m flying? because i have never wanted someone as bad as i want you.
instead you whisper, “because i don’t know what else to do.”
sunghoon’s eyes widened and then softened at you.
his jaw clenched as if he was trying to control himself but it wasn’t working anymore.
“you have no idea how hard this has been for me.” he growled lowly.
you felt your belly pool with heat.
“say it again.” sunghoon demanded, now staring into your eyes closely.
your throat felt dry, “what?”
“tell me what you want.”
“i… want you.” you declared breathlessly.
sunghoon moved instantly, pulling your face close to press his lips to yours. this time it was heated, his tongue slipped into yours and you were both making obscene noises.
his hands roamed all over your body from your waist back to your chest. he brushed against your breasts with his thumbs, and you moaned into his mouth.
you tangled your hands into his soft, black hair pulling him closer.
sunghoon pulled apart reluctantly, his hair fell into his eyes. “please tell me you’ve wanted this as much as i have?
you nodded, “i wanted this so badly.”
he kissed you even deeper and this time took off your shirt to expose your breasts to the cold air. he palmed your chest with his warm hands. your nipples immediately hardened at the contact. he circled it with his thumbs and watched as your head rolled back. this time he attacked your neck with kisses and bites as he tweaked with your hardened tits.
“yes, fuck that feels so good.” you moaned into his ear.
he looked up as he popped one of your nipples in his mouth. you nodded as he began sucking hard and massaging the other with his hand.
“your tits are perfect. made just for me.” he groaned.
he teased and bit you till your breasts looked swollen and puffy from his attention.
“i’ve been dreaming about this. for so long.” sunghoon revealed, you were so hazy from the lust you couldn’t even focus on his words.
“please touch me…” you begged.
“where? tell me where?” he growled.
“here…” your hands drifted to your panties before he slapped them out of the way.
“use your words, princess.” he demanded.
“please touch my pussy,” sunghoon pulled your shorts and panties off at an alarming speed.
he dipped his fingers inside, moaning when he found you drenched. his fingers slid in through your arousal collecting all your juices.
“fuck. you’re so wet for me. it’s like this pussy was made for me.” he groaned as he found your clit and began rubbing tight circles, watching as your mouth opened. carefully waiting, before he pushed two fingers inside slowly and deliberately.
you moaned loudly as he curled his fingers hitting that spot that made you see stars. gripping his hand as his thumb rubbed your clit, you were getting so close. he latched his mouth to your nipple at the same time and you felt like you were close.
the pressure kept building and building till he added a third finger stretching you out completely.
“fuck, you’re gonna cum all over my fingers aren’t you.” he whispered in your ear.
you nodded quickly, crying as you came all around him. he pulled out his hand gently and brought his fingers to his lips. he sucked them and moaned at the sweet taste of you.
“tastes so good. even better than i imagined.” he confessed.
you sat up this time now panting heavily as you pushed sunghoon back on his side of the sofa. he landed with a thud and watched with hazy eyes as your hands trailed up to his pants and onto his belt. you made quick work of his belt and pulled his pants half way down. you crawled right between his legs and looked up into his eyes as you took his huge, leaky cock into your hand.
sunghoon hissed as he watched you pump it up and down with your fingers, spitting on it to get it all ready.
“how bad do you want it?” you teased, looking sunghoon into his eyes as your fingers grazed his leaky slit.
“so bad. need you so bad.” he begged now playing with the strands of your hair.
you leaned down and took him into your mouth. his head fell back as you started slow. just licking the head and swirling your tongue around it before taking him deeper in your mouth. your hand pumped the base as you moved up and down sucking harder. he was thick, hot and filling your throat so well you were moaning as you took him down your throat.
his hands threaded through your hair as he he gripped it tightly and began bobbing your head on his cock.
“just like that. fuck.” he panted as he watched you gag on his dick from taking him all the way down. you picked up the pace and let sunghoon fuck your face and felt him pulse on your tongue.
“i’m close angel, tell me where you want it?” sunghoon asked breathlessly.
you didn’t pull off, you looked at him. your eyes now watering and kept sucking. he came with a loud moan and noticed how you swallowed every drop of his cum.
“fuck you’re so perfect for me.” sunghoon stared, his chest now heaving.
you smiled, “let’s take this to the bedroom.”
he nodded and gathered you into his arms carrying you to your bed.
dropping you onto the mattress, he ripped off his shirt and watched as you stripped out of what you had left on. sunghoon knelt at the bed and dragged your legs closer to him.
“it’s my turn to taste you, baby.”
he buried his face in between your thighs, his tongue flat against your clit licking up all your juices. you were wet again from sucking him off and he couldn’t believe how lucky he was.
you cried out as he thrust his tongue inside and licked like his life depended on it. your gripped his hair tightly as you felt yourself coming again. you screamed as you came for the second time that night.
you rose up this time and pulled him closer to you. you pushed his body against your headboard and positioned yourself over him. you looked into his eyes as you reached down between yourselves. wrapping your fingers around his shaft, you felt it pulsing as you guided the head to your entrance. you teased it with your folds flicking it through your folds and then you sank down.
“fuck.” he grunted as you took him inch by inch, your tight walls stretching to accommodate his girth. sunghoon’s hands rested at your waist, fingers digging into your hips as you bottomed out, his cock now buried into you.
“you feel so fucking good, hoonie.” you moaned as you began to move. you rose till the head rested at your hole and slid back with a wet and deliberate slowness that made you both shudder. now you took control and set a rhythm that was deep, you rolled your hips as you grinded down onto his cock.
sunghoon’s hands roamed around your body, sliding from your hips to your tits. fingers tweaking at your nipples that made them even harder. you leaned forward and wrapped your arms around sunghoon, and wrapped your legs taking him even deeper into you. sunghoon could feel your breasts pressed completely against him as you bounced on his dick. he moaned and didn’t hesitate as you began to slow as you got tired.
he took over and gripped your ass with both hands as he began to thrust upwards, hitting you in places that had never been reached before. sweat slicked on your skins as you melted into one body. your legs tightened against his body holding him closely as he fucked into you.
his mouth found yours and the kiss felt hungry and desperate. nothing like what you had practiced. he swallowed you up and bit against your lips as he moaned. he chased your peaks and got faster and faster, his kisses had now turned into bruises at your neck as he got closer.
“i’m so close. fuck.” he groaned against your lips.
“me too, don’t stop hoonie please.” you begged as you let him use you completely.
he drove into you with everything he had, his hands gripping so tightly they were definitely leaving bruises. locking your legs around him as your buried your face into his shoulder. moans muffled as you the wave crashed over you. your pussy clenched around him, milking him as he began to empty himself inside you. hot ropes of his cum filled you up as he held you closely to himself. his face breathing in the gentle scent of your shampoo as he pressed his face into your hair.
you both stayed like that for a moment, tangled together and breathing deeply. his cock softened inside you as it recovered from the residual tremors of your walls around him.
finally you lifted your head and smiled, “you good?”
“yeah… i’m good.” sunghoon laughed as he pressed a quick kiss to your lips that you weren’t expecting.
he pulled out slowly as you collapsed against his chest. your body now limp and leaking his cum all over your thighs.
“you’re incredible.” he murmured into your hair, “so perfect.”
you smiled against his chest, “you were so good to me.”
he held you closely and you felt yourself drifting to sleep. you felt him stroking your hair, praising you, calling you his. when you felt yourself stirring, he kissed your shoulder and rubbed your back till you felt yourself falling asleep again. he had gotten a warm cloth and had cleaned you as you slept.
when you woke up again, you felt your head resting against sunghoon’s chest. his fingers traced shapes against your shoulder as he felt his slow breathing match yours.
you both didn’t say much.
sunghoon lazily traced his fingers against your arms before shifting slightly.
“you should go pee.” he nagged.
you lazily looked up, “hmm?”
“i don’t want you getting sick.” his expression stayed serious.
a sleepy laugh escaped you as you nodded.
you smiled as you forced yourself out of bed with a groan. you shivered at the feeling of cold against your naked skin. you looked around seeing if there was anything around you could put on. spotting sunghoon’s discarded white button down, you lazily put it on not thinking much as you did the buttons.
it smelled like sunghoon, like his faint cologne and detergent, just him.
then you quickly slip to the bathroom not realising the effect you just had on sunghoon.
he stayed still and tried not to think about how fucking good you looked wearing his shirt.
he had failed so badly.
because when you returned a few minutes later rubbing your eyes, sunghoon felt his soul leave his body.
the oversized shirt slung off the side of your shoulder the sleeves covering your hands. your bare legs peeked out, hair still messy and your neck littered in marks thanks to him.
you stopped halfway to the bed when you noticed him staring, “what?” you asked self-consciously touching your face in case you had something on it.
sunghoon blinked slowly as he’d gotten caught. then his eyes dragged over you again before he could stop himself.
“you’re wearing my shirt…” he pointed out, his voice sounding rougher than before.
“i was cold.” you said nervously rubbing your arms.
“i can see.” he gazed at your perky tits that were poking through his white shirt.
you blushed as you wrapped you arms around yourself.
“come here.” he says suddenly.
sunghoon lifted the duvet beside him and invited you to come in.
you crawled into bed slowly but the second you settled beside him his arm wrapped around your waist pulling you closer to him. you breathed out as sunghoon carefully tucked you into the blanket. you went still as his hands slipped past and rested at your stomach. he was hugging you.
“are you feeling warmer?” he asked.
“yes… thank you.” you nodded softly and found yourself getting sleepy again.
sunghoon began humming gently, he started to sing a song that had sounded vaguely familiar to you. his voice sounded so sweet you could only rest your head against his chest as you drifted to sleep.
“i love you…” he whispered. but you had already fallen asleep. he pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead and let the words that were said to linger in the air.
–
you had said it was a one time thing. just something to get the tension out of your systems, so you could go back to normal.
except things didn’t go back to normal, because three days later you found yourself at sunghoon’s apartment with food and somehow ended up in his lap again.
the next week, you couldn’t keep your hands off each other and he then bent you over his desk.
it had gotten to the point where you were casually sleeping together and even though you’d both whispered it would be the last time it never was. you never talked about what you were. you still fake dated, but now you’d be finding any excuse to be close to him. it was as if this had started a chain reaction. once you had it, you couldn’t get enough of it. you thought sunghoon probably felt the same, with the way he so eagerly kissed you back everytime you knocked at his door.
but now things started getting blurry.
sunghoon started keeping your favourite drinks in his apartment fridge.
he had bought his spare toothbrush and stuck it in your bathroom without a word.
he had started texting you every morning without you realising it. in fact, you found yourself missing him when he wasn’t around.
and then there was jake.
it really did feel harmless at first. jake had always been thoughtful and kind.
there was a reason you had fallen for him all of those years ago.
he remembered things, small details that others would forget.
like how you hated cucumbers, and how he had pointed it out one lunch, when you were eating a salad bowl sunghoon had bought for you.
“she doesn’t eat cucumbers.” jake pointed out, grabbing the cucumber and popping it into his mouth.
sunghoon looked at you with confusion, “you don’t?”
your cheeks flushed, “i don’t but you bought it for me so of course i’d eat them.”
“i’ll remember that for next time…” sunghoon said, quietly.
and then jake began bringing you coffee when you were in the faculty office.
“just dropping this off,” jake smiled as he placed the cup in front of you.
“oh my god!” you gasped bringing the coffee to your lips and taking a sip.
“you looked tired earlier,” he admitted casually, grinning at your response.
“you remembered?” you said excitedly.
“the extra shot of vanilla.” jake laughed.
–
sunghoon felt like he was intruding. he was just sat on the desk nearby watching it all unfold. he knew that. that you liked an extra shot of vanilla. so why did it hurt to know that jake knew it too?
he watched as you both laughed at a memory jake had bought up, and felt a pit of jealousy start to grow.
he had started to notice it, the way jake was doing these little things for you.
he had even seen him handing you your favourite snack after a meeting because “you always used to eat these while studying.”
he had heard from you that jake would walk you out from the faculty building because “it was dark out.”
none of it had crossed any lines but it bothered sunghoon more than he would like to admit.
sunghoon could notice the years of familiarity around each other, the way you had even finished each other’s sentences off, and the way jake had made you laugh like sunghoon had never seen before. it was so natural that it made him feel worse, because all you had was a fake relationship and words that were left unsaid.
it finally got to him one evening when jake had asked sunghoon out for drinks.
heeseung had already left saying he was picking up his girlfriend, jay had left then too citing his busy work schedule that was piling up. sunoo had tapped out quickly, he was meeting up with jungwon and riki for karaoke and didn’t want to miss out. which left jake and sunghoon sat together alone nursing their beers.
jake stared at his drink before he spoke, “you really like her, don’t you?”
sunghoon looked over immediately.
“we’re dating.”
jake gave him a look, “that’s not what i mean.”
sunghoon looked away first.
jake exhaled, “you know, seeing her again felt really nostalgic.”
he smiled softly, “she still laughs the same,”
“buys too many books that she can’t finish, still gets too quiet when she gets overwhelmed.”
every word felt like stab in his chest.
jake knew everything about you.
“and i know it’s terrible of me, but seeing you guys together made me realise i never truly got over her.”
sunghoon felt his jaw tighten.
“and i think i owe it to her to say it,” jake said finally.
“you had years to say something.” sunghoon said cooly.
jake nodded, “i know.”
“when we broke up in high school, i handled it really badly.” jake started.
“she loved me a lot back then, and i left things unfinished because i thought one day we would find our way back to each other.”
jake shook his head, “that wasn’t fair to her.”
sunghoon breathed deeply as he kept listening.
“and then being close to her again, seeing her like i used to bought all these feelings rushing back. i realised i’m still in love with her.” the words landed heavy.
gripping his bottle tightly, he felt suddenly like he couldn’t breathe.
“but i’m not telling you this because i expect something to happen,” he said quickly, “i know she’s with you.”
that only made sunghoon’s heart ache even more.
if only jake knew the truth, and whether he knew how complicated this was all getting.
jake rubbed at his neck, “i just think she deserves honesty from me for once.”
sunghoon cleared his throat, ”and if she doesn’t feel the same?”
“then she doesn’t” he said sadly.
“i just needed to tell you first sunghoonie, i’m not trying to ruin things but i just think this is what i need to do.” he said finally.
sunghoon breathed in deeply then nodded.
how could he fight this? jake wasn’t doing this maliciously. he was truly in love with y/n which was what made this hurt more.
“she’s probably over me…” jake said bitterly, taking a swig of his beer.
sunghoon couldn’t say a word, he couldn’t answer for you. for all he knew, this might be the thing you were waiting for. he had loved you this whole time, you both had history. how could he even compete?
sunghoon swallowed, “are you going to tell her?”
jake was silent for a short moment, “...yes.”
–
that night, sunghoon could not sleep. he tossed and turned and thought about what jake had told him. he had thought about all the time you had spent together. your relationship was not even real, it would never even equate to what you had with jake and he knew it. sunghoon was just a fake boyfriend who had stupidly been in love with you this whole time. he just didn’t know how to tell you.
so he didn’t.
he began pulling away slightly.
not answering your texts right away like he usually did. skipping nights at yours because he was ‘busy’. making excuses to not have you over like you used to. and of course you noticed. you started thinking he was getting bored of you. that he was getting tired of playing your boyfriend but you were to scared to say anything. it was scary, you didn’t want this all to implode just when you had started to understand your own feelings.
you had fallen for sunghoon, you think you had all those years ago, and now you were finally admitting it. he made you feel good truly, like you were the only person in his orbit. it was as if you had forgotten the true reason for getting into a fake relationship in the first place. how could you even look at someone else when sunghoon had captured your heart in such a way?
but telling him felt wrong, he came into this expecting a fake relationship, you had broken one of the many rules you had laid down in the first place. so you let it fester, even though he was pulling back you couldn’t find it in yourself to bring it up.
your phone buzzed one saturday morning, you checked it quickly hoping it was sunghoon.
JAKE: hey y/n, would you wanna get that coffee now?
your heart deflated. it was just jake. you had no plans so you quickly typed a response.
Y/N: sure, at our local spot?
JAKE: yes, see you there y/n!!!!!
he seemed excited. it was nice to catch up with jake these days, it reminded you a lot of your high school days. but a part of you wanted to know what sunghoon was doing. whether he was busy or perhaps meeting with friends. you just wanted to know everything about him.
as you grabbed your keys, you tugged on your coat and prepared yourself for the cold walk. it took you longer than usual, you entered the cafe and looked around.
sitting in the corner of the cafe, with his drink piping hot in front of him, was jake.
he wore a soft jumper and jeans, his brown hair was styled with the long parts tucked behind his ears. his thick framed glasses sat on the bridge of his nose, and you watched as he tapped a finger against his mug. he was nervous, you had noticed, it was one of his tells. he smiled as you approached and stood up quickly to help you into your chair. You thanked him and sat and saw a steaming mug of coffee in front of you. he had ordered for you already, you sipped on it politely but made a face at the sweetness of it.
“i put 2 sugars in, it’s how you usually take it.” jake tells you now concerned.
“oh… i don’t take sugar in my coffee anymore.” you said softly.
“i didn’t realise, sorry y/n. should i get you a new mug?” he stood up but you quickly reassured him it was okay.
“i think sunghoon has rubbed off on me.” you smiled, you didn’t notice how jake’s smile flickered slightly.
silence filled the air as you both sipped on your drinks.
“i think i made a mistake.” jake began.
you looked up in shook at his words.
“when we broke up in high school, i thought i was doing the right thing.” jake laughed softly.
you stayed silent.
rain had started to fall against the cafe windows.
“we were young.” he murmured, “i always thought if we ever broke up, we’d find our way back to each other.”
once upon a time, you had believed the same.
“and seeing you again…” he paused, “i realised i never stopped loving you.”
for a second you could have sworn sim jaeyun had just told you he was in love with you.
you blinked.
“i know the timing sucks.” he admitted, “and i know you’re with sunghoon.” his fingers gripped his cup, “i just needed to tell you the truth.”
your throat tightened, because you knew it was too late. your heartbroken teen self longed to hear this but it was far too late. he was your first love, your first heartbreak. a part of you believed he’d always have a place in your heart. but the hurt you were feeling was because you hated hurting him, not because you wanted him.
you looked down at your drink, “jake…”
he immediately knew from your tone.
you swallowed, “i did love you, a lot.”
jake had noticed how you had used past tense to talk about your love.
“and maybe a part of me always will hold you in my heart.”
you continued, “but i don’t think you’re truly in love with me.”
jake blinked in confusion.
“i think you’re in love with what we had.” you admit.
his expression shifted, he looked wounded at your words.
“you miss us.” you say quietly, “what we had, the comfort, the ease. the way we loved each other back then. but we’re not those people anymore.”
jake looked away.
“i loved you, i truly did.” you confess.
his face only shows hurt.
“loved…” he says bitterly.
“but i’ve fallen for someone else.” your mouth now feels dry, as you say the words that have been sitting in your mouth for weeks.
“i really fell for sunghoon.” you say softly, “it started out as this fake relationship, but along the way i found myself truly falling for him.”
a faint sad smile stayed on jake’s face.
“i found myself wanting to tell him everything about my day, i wanted to hold his hand when no one was around, and i found myself wanting to be with him even on my worst days.” the words come spilling out, as if you can no longer control them.
“i figured.” jake admitted, now looking down into his drink.
“you knew this was fake?” you questioned.
“I mean, it was kind of obvious, y/n.” he sighed, “i know you and him so well. sunghoon would have surely told me if he had started to date his crush of multiple years.”
you gaped at his words, “his… what?”
jake looks genuinely surprised, “you didn’t know? sunghoon always spoke of this TA that he really liked but was too nervous to make a move on. i just never knew it was you till that night.”
you’re still reeling from his words. “crush of multiple years.” sunghoon had fallen for you that long ago? was that why he had gone along with this stupid plan of yours despite having his reservations in the first place? you felt your heart swell at the thought, but that came crushing down.
he had been ignoring you. if anything he had grown bored of you and your relationship. there was no chance he felt the same way. especially now that you had used him. it wasn’t even to make jake jealous, you had just wanted to show him you had moved on but he had definitely assumed you were still in love with jake.
you look stricken for a moment and jake asks what’s wrong.
“i need to tell him.” you say suddenly, rising from your seat.
you grabbed your coat as jake looked at you in confusion and hurt.
“i’m sorry, jake.” you said softly.
jake could only smile sadly.
“i know.”
“i really hope you find someone who loves you the way you deserve.” your words are honest and he nods.
and then you’re heading for the door. your heart pounding, but knowing that soon enough sunghoon will know the truth fills you with relief.
you head towards campus, sunghoon’s class should have finished. he’s either packing his things away in the classroom or in the faculty office.
deciding to head for his classroom first, you take a quick pace. the sky is grey and the clouds ready to cry tears of rain. the air feels cold against your skin, you feel alive. although, your palms feel sweaty and your knees ache, you force yourself to continue. if you don’t do this now, you may never get the chance to do it again. that is what spurs your forward, to the door of sunghoon’s classroom. you stop at the door and take a deep breath. what would you even say? you hadn’t planned this far and yet you were here.
you needed to tell him before it all went wrong, before he pulled away completely and this strange distance became permanent. because now you didn’t know how to live your life without sunghoon by your side.
the lights were still on, relief hit you instantly. it meant he hadn’t left just yet.
your stomach turned as you peaked through the open doorway. then you froze.
a grad student stood at sunghoon’s desk. they huddled over her laptop facing the opposite direction to you.
she was pretty. confident and laughing softly while leaning closer to sunghoon more than what was necessary.
sunghoon stood beside her looking down at the papers next to him, sleeves rolled up and his glasses sliding down his nose.
you watched as she casually touched his arm while smiling and you felt your chest ache.
the jealousy hit you so fast you felt silly.
what right did you have feeling like this?
there was nothing between you and sunghoon, there was no label.
but seeing him with another girl so comfortably made you feel so horrible inside.
especially after he spent weeks avoiding you.
you took a step back instinctively but it was too late. sunghoon turned around at exactly the wrong moment.
your eyes met instantly, you watched as his eyes softened, “y/n?”
it was too late, you turned around and walked away fast before he could say another word.
–
the light drizzle of rain had now turned into pellets against the windows as you rushed past the corridor.
this was terrible. you hated this, hated how much it hurt, hated how jealous you sounded about a student who you know sunghoon wouldn’t mess around with. most of all, you hated how much you loved sunghoon. and how it had hurt you so.
you burst through the doors and headed out into the rain, cold water soaked through your clothes while hot tears burned at the corner of your eyes.
“y/n!”
you kept walking.
“wait!”
wiping away your angry tears, you kept moving without looking back.
then suddenly, warm fingers wrapped around your wrist.
you gasped as sunghoon pulled you towards him under the arches near the literature building.
rain poured around you as sunghoon stood in front of you breathing heavily from chasing you.
his hair was damp and slightly curling at the edges, glasses splattered in rain.
“what happened?” he asked, immediately.
“nothing.” you say automatically.
“that’s obviously not true.”
“she’s pretty.” you laughed pathetically under your breath.
sunghoon blinked, “what?”
“your grad student.” you said ruefully.
“oh my god.” he ran a hand through the wet strands of his hair, “please, y/n she’s just my student.”
you stayed silent.
“it doesn’t mean anything.” he added quickly trying to explain himself, “i don’t think of her in that way.”
“well it doesn’t matter.” you exhale.
sunghoon frowned immediately, “what do you mean it doesn’t matter?”
“what we had wasn’t even real anyway, right?” you say laughing bitterly.
“don’t say that.” he demands. his expression now looked as if he had been hurt.
good.
maybe he could feel the absolute pain you had been feeling all these weeks.
“but it’s true.”
“y/n-”
“you’ve been pulling away from me for weeks.” the hurt in your voice shows.
sunghoon went still as he watched you wipe away your tears.
“if you wanted to end this eventually,” you began shakily, “i just wish you would have said something sooner.”
sunghoon looks confused, “end this?”
“you stopped staying over sunghoon,” you say helplessly, “you barely even touch me anymore and now there’s some pretty grad student flirting with you and-”
“she’s nothing to me.” he pleads.
you laugh weakly, “she’s beautiful.”
sunghoon just stares for a moment before his eyes soften.
“…you’re jealous.” he says, finally.
heat rushes to your cheeks.
“obviously, i’m jealous.” you spat.
sunghoon’s eyes widened as you continued, “i have been in love with you this whole time.”
the rain pounded on the floor nearby.
your voice trembled, “and this whole time i was falling for you, you just kept getting further away from me.”
sunghoon is stunned, “you’re… in love with me?”
“yes.” you cry, miserably.
“the way you held me after that night, the way you took care of me like i really mattered- no one has ever treated me that way.” you whispered.
sunghoon stared at you like he couldn’t comprehend what you were saying.
“what about jake?” he whispered.
“what?” you blinked.
sunghoon’s jaw tightened, “he told you how he felt.”
oh. oh.
sunghoon had known about his confession.
“i know he did.” you carefully admit.
“and?” sunghoon questions, his eyes searching for an answer.
your heart shattered. is that what had happened? the distance sunghoon had created was because he knew about jake’s feelings?
he thought jake still had a chance?
“sunghoon.” you step forward and closer to him now.
you grab his hand and hold it tightly in yours, “it was never jake.”
you shake your head, “i loved him a long time ago, but that’s not what this is.”
“it’s you,” you whisper, “you’re the one i want, sunghoon.”
sunghoon pulls you towards him, his hands reaching for your face as he pulls you into a bruising kiss.
one hand tangles into the wet strands of your hair while the other holds your face gently like he can’t let go of you ever again.
it was messy, full of relief and you gasped as he kissed you deeper. like he needed to prove this was real and that he couldn’t believe you had chosen him.
he parts from you reluctantly and rests his forehead against yours.
“i have been in love with you since we were TA’s.” he confesses breathlessly.
your breath caught at his words.
“i was a coward and didn’t know how to ask you out. and then you came to me with that proposal…” he says thoughtfully, “how could i have ever said no? but then being near you again and being the way we used to made me realise how i never wanted to let you go.” he presses a sweet kiss to your forehead.
“i know i did this all wrong, but will you please give me a chance and allow me to be your boyfriend?” he pleads, waiting for your answer.
“you idiot.” you whisper tearfully.
a smile finally breaks on his face, “i would love that.”
and then he kissed you again.
this time it was filled with love, happiness and relief.
sunghoon kissed you like he loved you. with everything in his body, all the soft touches, careful moments and every look he gave when he thought you hadn't noticed. it was all there.
he kissed you like you were really his. and now you were.
—
heeseung had found out completely accidentally.
which only offended him even more.
“you couldn’t have told me?” he demanded stood in front of you both.
sunghoon was grading papers in the faculty office and you were sat closely next to him. your head leaned against sunghoon’s as you listened to heeseung complain.
sunghoon barely reacted.
“you’re being too loud.”
“i introduced you two!” heeseung looks betrayed.
“i deserve the truth!”
“you don’t deserve anything.” sunghoon muttered under his breath.
“i am taking credit for this, if i didn’t do it y/n would have been yearning for another few years.” heeseung shot back smugly.
sunghoon looked at you smiling, “you were yearning for me?”
your cheeks flushed, “you know that… i had the biggest crush on you.”
heeseung looks disgusted as you lean over to kiss your boyfriend.
“good for you guys. but i’m out of here.” heeseung quickly turned away as sunghoon’s kisses got hotter.
“i love you, y/n.” sunghoon whispered.
“i love you too.” you smiled as you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer to you. he was all yours. for real this time.
—
on the other side of town, jake was drunk.
not blackout drunk.
just emotionally reckless and ready to make mistakes that he can never take back.
which was how he found himself sitting in a dimly lit bar at one in the morning drinking his sorrows away.
the bartender had already cut him off. he didn’t know what else to do.
at 12:27am, jake calls his best friend.
she almost doesn’t pick up.
mostly because she knew exactly what state jake would be in if he was calling this late.
still, she sighed softly before picking up her phone, “hello?”
she can hear music and laughter in the background and then,
“soojin.”
he’s drunk. she closed her eyes briefly.
“oh my god.”
jake laughed weakly, “that obvious?”
“you sound terrible.” she grabbed her keys quickly, “where are you jake?”
jake muttered the name of the bar he was sat at.
“i’m coming to get you.” soojin spoke, “stay where you are.”
—
by the time she made it there jake was slumped over his chair.
his head lifted as he saw her.
“you came…”
soojin snorted as she lifted his arm up to help him stand.
he stumbled into her and leaned into her. she carefully guided him to the exit.
“you smell really nice.” he mumbled tiredly, breathing in your scent.
“you’re drunk.” she dragged him quickly to the car.
as she put his seatbelt on, she could feel his gaze on her.
“she loves him.” he said miserably.
soojin just listened as he continued.
“i knew even before she said it.” jake played with his fingers.
“i think i waited too long.” soojin frowned bitterly at his words, she knew exactly how that felt.
“you’ll be okay, jake.” she whispered.
he nodded.
they drove in silence until she parked outside his house.
he looked tired. so soojin leaned over to unbuckle his seatbelt.
“let’s get you inside, big guy.” she muttered to herself.
the click of the seatbelt sounded loudly in the quiet car.
soojin’s hands brushed against jake’s chest as placed the seatbelt back in its place.
she then paused. she could feel jake staring at her.
her stomach tightened at the sight.
“jake.” she called out carefully.
his eyes dropped to her lips. she was so close to him she could smell the whiskey on his breath.
“you’re really pretty, soojin. you’ve always been here.” he spoke gently.
soojin shifted back slightly but then jake softly grabbed her wrist.
he then leaned in and kissed her.
she froze. soft lips, his hand that was tracing circles into her wrist, the faint taste of alcohol on his lips.
she almost wanted to savour it, she had waited so long for this moment.
for one terrible moment she kissed him back. jake made a sound and kissed her deeper, and that snapped her back to reality.
soojin pulled back quickly, breathing unevenly as she placed a hand against jake’s chest.
“no.”
jake blinked at her slowly confused.
“soojin…”
“i’m not gonna be a substitute for y/n.” she said sternly.
the words stun him into silence.
jake frowned, “that’s not-”
“it feels like it.”
“i would never use you like that.” jake carefully explains.
“maybe not on purpose.” soojin swallowed, silence filled the car once more.
“you’re hurting and lonely, and you miss her.” she cried.
“… i’m sorry.” jake’s words hung in the air.
and somehow that hurt worse.
because soojin had loved him all these years and she knew he meant it.
“let’s get you upstairs.” she whispered softly.
jake followed her quietly.
all soojin could think was how she couldn’t do this anymore. she would no longer love sim jaeyun.
a/n: look forward to jake’s story because that will be next!!!
If you asked your friends how many times you and Sunghoon broke up, they wouldn’t be able to give you an exact answer. At best, they’d exchange a look, hesitate for a second, and then settle on something vague like “too many.”
A few days of silence would pass, sometimes a week if both of you were stubborn enough. Then, without fail, he would reach out. A message late at night, pleading for you back with a string of apologies. And no matter how determined you had been, no matter how much you told yourself and your friends that you were done, you would always find yourself replying.
Sunoo had seen every version of it. He had become so used to the routine that your dramatic entrances into his room no longer surprised him. Exasperated, you’d flop down onto Sunoo’s beanbag, mumbling the same words every time,
“Sunghoon and I broke up.”
He would barely react anymore, mustering up a pitiful smile at most. Sometimes he wouldn’t even look up immediately; he’d just sigh quietly and reach for his phone.
“Do you want me to be honest?” he’d ask, already knowing your answer.
“No,” you’d mumble.
“Okay,” he’d reply flatly. “He’s the worst, and you really do deserve better. This is definitely the last time.”
And then, after a pause, “Should I order food?”
You always said yes.
And that was it. That was the cycle. You would cry, you would complain, and then you would wait. Because somewhere deep down, you always knew how it would end. Sunghoon would come back, and you would let him back in with open arms.
So when it’s been forty days since the last breakup, Sunoo doesn’t take it that seriously. It plays out like it always has, a dramatic faceplant into his bed, your sobs coming out in choked gasps, the way your whole body shakes like this is the worst it’s ever been, even though, historically, it never really is. His hand moves absentmindedly against your back, comforting you yet again.
“Sunghoon and I broke up,” you mumble into the mattress.
“Mm,” Sunoo replies, not even looking up. His thumb is already halfway through unlocking his phone. “Do you want me to be honest or—”
“No.”
“Okay. He’s a fucking douchebag. You could so get with somebody better.”
The room stays silent for a second.
“Should I order food?”
You sniff. “Yeah.”
He nods absentmindedly. “Forty days, though. That's probably the longest so far.”
“You’re acting like you’ve been waiting for this,” you groan, rolling slightly over so you can breathe properly.
“I mean,” he shrugs, “I don’t even have to wait that long.”
You kick him lightly. He ignores it.
“I’m done this time,” you say, sitting up a bit now, your hair a tangled mess from lying there too long and your wet, matted eyelashes sticking together in uneven spikes.
Sunoo deliberately pauses. “You said that last time.”
“This time I actually mean it.”
“You also meant it last last time, and the time before that, and even before that—”
“I get it!” you cut in quickly, voice rising just a bit, “but it’s different this time. I’m actually moving on. I’m talking to someone new. I’m not going to do this again.”
Sunoo finally looks at you properly. “Really?…Someone new?”
“Yes.” You say matter-of-factly.
He nods slowly, not convinced. “Okay.”
“I’m serious.”
PARTY 1:
They weren’t lying when they said that saying something is easier than actually doing it. You thought it’d be simple, and you’d even made yourself a mental checklist
Find someone new to talk to
Move on
BONUS: Maybe even do what Sunoo casually called “get some new dick up in your system.”
In reality, it was proving to be… not that.
You weren’t even sure what kind of party this was supposed to be. The house was too loud in a sticky, suffocating way. Your dress kept rising no matter how many times you fixed it, and your heels, clearly not broken in, made every step feel like hell on earth.
Somewhere in the corner, there was a livestream happening. Some random frat guy being followed around by a whole crew, while a few people hovered around him like this was a completely normal thing to witness at a party.
Sunoo had called him Clavicular, like that was a real name that someone would actually have. You were starting to think Sunoo just made words up when he got bored.
Your phone sat face down on your thigh. You hadn’t checked it in twenty-three minutes, which honestly deserved some kind of award considering the circumstances.
“Hey.”
Your eyes shot up to find a guy standing in front of you. He was cute, definitely tall. But not taller than Sunghoon. A baseball cap pulled low over his eyes and the kind of easy smile that usually worked its charm on people immediately.
“You’re Sunoo’s friend, right?” He asked, a grin stretching across his face.
“Mhm.” You hummed.
“I’m Minjae.”
You introduced yourself politely, shifting slightly on the couch to make room when he sat beside you. He leaned close enough for you to smell the alcohol and expensive cologne radiating from him. Normally, this kind of thing would’ve distracted you.
“So,” Minjae asked casually, “are you here with someone?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
Minjae kept talking, and you really did try listening! You nodded at the right moments. Smiled when you were supposed to. But your attention drifted embarrassingly fast.
You wondered if Sunghoon had eaten dinner yet.
You wondered if he was still sleeping on the left side of the bed, even though there was no one occupying the right anymore.
You wondered if he still reached across the mattress half-asleep before remembering you weren’t there.
The thought made something ache painfully inside your chest.
God.
This was pathetic. You were so pathetic.
“You okay?” Minjae asked suddenly.
You blinked hard, fake eyelashes fluttering. “Huh?”
“You looked kinda sad just then.”
“Oh.” You forced out a laugh. “That’s just my face.”
Thankfully, he laughed too, accepting your answer easily.
Around you, the party only got louder. The music rattled through the walls hard enough to vibrate beneath your heels while people squeezed past each other carrying drinks that sloshed onto the floor. Somewhere near the staircase, somebody screamed over a game, followed by an automated “you just died.” The entire house smelled like sweat, cheap liquor, and somebody’s overly sweet vanilla perfume.
And somehow, all you could think about was how different this felt from being with Sunghoon.
You missed the stupid things the most. The tiny things you never noticed while they were happening, only in the wake of their aftermath. The way he’d tug you into his lap absentmindedly while scrolling through his phone. The way his hand would always find your waist automatically in crowded places, like his body just expected yours to be there.
You hated how vividly you remembered it all.
“You want another drink?” Minjae asked.
“Oh— sure.”
“I’ll be back.”
The second he disappeared into the crowd, you hurriedly grabbed your phone.
No notifications.
A heavy ache unfurled through your chest so suddenly it almost made you angry with yourself.
Forty days.
Forty fucking days.
Usually, Sunghoon would’ve cracked by now. Usually, there would’ve been late-night paragraphs, a few missed calls at two in the morning, a series of voice messages full of exhausted apologies and “baby, please just talk to me.”
But there’d been nothing.
Your thumb hovered over his contact before you could stop yourself.
hoonie
He was still pinned. Still stupidly pinned.
You stared at the chat, eyes boring into the screen. The last message was from him.
i’ll leave you alone if that’s what you really want.
You remembered sitting on the cold tiles of your bathroom floor, reading it over and over again five weeks ago, tears running down your face while you waited for another message to appear underneath it.
It never did.
Your throat tightened at the recollection of the memory.
“You’re kidding me.”
Sunoo dropped onto the couch beside you, holding a half-open bag of chips, before narrowing his eyes immediately. “Why do you look like someone just died?”
You locked your phone instantly. “Nobody died.”
“You were staring at your screen like you got a funeral notice.”
“Shut up.”
His eyes widened dramatically. “Oh, my god. You miss him.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
You opened your mouth to argue before stopping.
Sunoo stared at you for a second longer before his face softened.
“…Oh,” he said, quieter this time. “Wait. You actually miss him.”
Your silence answered for you.
And somehow that expression on Sunoo’s face got worse. “You know,” he said carefully, “you guys break up so often that sometimes I forget you’re actually in love.”
That was the problem, wasn’t it? It would’ve been easier if you didn’t love him anymore. If the relationship had ended nicely because one of you just stopped caring. But every breakup with Sunghoon felt less like falling out of love and more like drowning in it.
“You should text him,” Sunoo said quietly.
You laughed immediately. “Absolutely not.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m trying to move on.”
“Are you?”
You looked away.
Across the room, a couple leaned into each other lazily. Somebody else kissed near the staircase like they were alone.
And suddenly the entire party felt unbearable.
You missed him. You really fucking missed him, in the most humiliating way possible. You missed calling him when something funny happened. You missed hearing the jingle of his keys outside your apartment before he walked in without knocking. You even missed your screaming fights with him.
Sunoo watched your expression carefully.
Then his phone buzzed. He checked it once and physically froze.
“Oh,” he muttered to himself.
Your stomach dropped instantly. “What?”
“…Nothing.”
“Kim Sunoo.”
He slowly turned the screen toward you.
sunghoon: is she there
Your heart actually stuttered.
Below it, another message appeared.
sunghoon: don’t tell her i asked
sunghoon: just tell me if she’s okay
The room suddenly feels too warm, wrapping around your neck and suffocating you.
You hate how quickly your body remembers him before your brain can catch up. The tightness in your chest. The way your stomach flips over itself. The instinctive urge to answer him immediately, even after all the nights you spent crying because of him.
Sunoo watches your expression carefully from beside you, his lips parting like he wants to say something before deciding against it. Instead, he pulls the phone back toward himself slowly, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
“Don’t reply yet,” you say quickly.
“I literally wasn’t doing anything.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“I am thinking about it,” he admits shamelessly. “Because this is the longest you two have gone without speaking since, like, the invention of electricity.”
You glare weakly at him, but there’s no real energy behind it.
just tell me if she’s okay
The worst part is that you can hear his voice saying it.
Because despite everything, despite all the arguments and slammed doors and tearful “maybe we just shouldn’t do this anymore” conversations at two in the morning, you know he loved you. Maybe badly sometimes. Maybe in ways that damaged both of you more than either of you wanted to admit.
But he loved you.
“You should answer him,” Sunoo says again, softer this time.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
Because if you answer him, everything starts again.
That’s the problem.
One message turns into a conversation. The conversation turns into him calling you late at night because he “just wanted to hear your voice for a second.” Then suddenly, he’s outside your apartment holding your favourite drink and a bouquet of your favourite flowers, like muscle memory alone just carried him there on its own.
And the worst part?
You always let him in.
Every single time.
It wasn’t because you were weak, and definitely not because you enjoyed heartbreak. It was because loving Sunghoon had never left room for pride. It seemed like the one thing you truly knew how to do.
You look down at your hands. Your nails are chipped. One of your rings sits crooked on your finger because you’ve been twisting it unconsciously all night.
“You know what’s embarrassing?” you murmur.
Sunoo hums beside you, urging you to continue.
“I genuinely thought I’d be okay without him this time.”
The words come out smaller than intended.
For a second, Sunoo doesn’t joke around. He doesn’t tease you. He doesn’t laugh and pat you on the back. He just leans back into the couch cushions with an exasperated sigh.
“I think,” he says carefully, “you guys keep trying to act like the problem is that you love each other too much.”
You frown slightly.
“I think you both just don’t know how to stop hurting each other. It’s too toxic, y/n”
Your chest tightens.
Because maybe he’s right.
You and Sunghoon had always loved each other desperately. Every emotion between you became enormous. Fights escalated too quickly. Small misunderstandings turned into unbearable conversations that lasted until the sun rose. Neither of you knew when to stop talking once you were upset. Neither of you knew how to let things go.
But somehow, even your worst moments with him still felt more real than anyone else.
That was the sick part. No matter how exhausting it became, nobody ever compared to him.
Not the random people Sunoo tried setting you up with. Not the awkward conversations at parties. Not the pretty strangers smiling at you across the crowded rooms.
Nobody looked at you the way Sunghoon did, like he was terrified of losing you even while he was actively ruining things.
Across the room, Minjae finally reappears holding two drinks. The second he notices your expression, his smile falters slightly.
“You okay?”
You blink like you’d forgotten he existed. You probably had forgotten.
“Oh. Yeah.”
It sounds fake even to you.
He hands you the drink anyway, before sitting beside the armrest this time instead of directly next to you. He probably sensed he had walked into something.
Sunoo suddenly stands up.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” he announces suspiciously.
You narrow your eyes immediately. “Don’t text him.”
“I’m literally peeing.”
“You’re evil.”
He flashes you his white pearls, and then he disappears into the crowd before you can stop him.
You sink further into the couch with a groan, covering your face with your hands as if it could shield you from everything.
Minjae laughs softly beside you. “Rough night?”
“You have no idea.”
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
The music changes again, the bass vibrating through the floorboards hard enough to rattle the cups on the table. Someone nearby starts singing horribly off-key. And suddenly, all you want is to go home.
Not because the party is bad. Because Sunghoon would’ve noticed ten minutes ago that you were uncomfortable. He always noticed.
He would’ve tugged you somewhere quieter without making a big deal out of it, fingers brushing against your wrist gently as he pulled you through the crowd. Then he’d look down at you with that stupidly sincere expression he only ever wore around you and ask, “You wanna leave?
Like leaving together was the most obvious thing in the world.
Your chest aches so suddenly that you almost feel angry about it.
Forty days.
And somehow you still miss him in every room you enter.
PARTY 2:
You convinced yourself that the first party after the breakup was a trial run. You would surely move on and find a rebound this time! You were sure of it!
Because that’s what you were supposed to do, right? Keep going out, keep meeting people, keep proving to yourself that Sunghoon wasn’t supposed to be the centre of everything anymore.
“You cannot spend another weekend rotting in bed watching relationship tarot readings,” Sunoo had said, practically doing your own makeup for you for the party.
“They were accurate.”
“You believe some woman called MoonPrincess444?”
“She understands me!”
Sunoo ignored you completely, already sifting through your closet. “Wear the black dress.”
“The short one?”
“The hot one.”
Exactly an hour later, you’re standing in another overcrowded house filled with strangers and flashing lights.
At first, it feels exactly like last time. The same sticky heat in the air. The same bass vibrating through your ribs like it’s trying to rearrange something inside your chest.
You stayed near Sunoo at first, letting him lead you through the crowd like he always did, but even that didn’t last long. He kept getting pulled away by people he knew, conversations swallowing him whole until you were left standing slightly off to the side, holding a drink you didn’t remember agreeing to take.
You tried at first. You really did. You talked when people talked to you. You smiled when it felt appropriate. You even laughed once or twice just to prove to yourself that you still knew how to. But it never quite really stuck.
Your attention kept slipping in ways you couldn’t control. Every interaction felt slightly out of focus, like your mind was watching it from somewhere behind your body instead of inside it.
This guy laughs too loudly. Sunghoon used to laugh as it caught him off guard.
This one looks at his phone while you’re speaking. Sunghoon used to look at you like everything else in the room didn’t exist.
At some point, Sunoo vanished again into the crowd, leaving you alone near the edge of the kitchen area. You stayed there for a while, not really moving. The drink in your hand had gone warm. You weren’t even sure when you stopped noticing the music properly.
You were staring down into the swirls of your drink when it happened.
Your body reacted before your thoughts could catch up. A tightening in your chest, a shift in your breathing. Slowly, you turned your head.
And everything stopped.
Sunghoon was standing at the entrance.
He was wearing your his favourite hoodie, his hair falling in front of his cheekbones, his hands tucked strictly into his pockets as if he was holding himself together. There was something about the way he stood there that felt different from every other person in the room, not because he was doing anything noticeable, but because the space around him seemed to respond to him, as if the atmosphere itself had adjusted.
He had not seen you yet.
But you had already seen him.
And that alone was enough to make your chest tighten in a way that felt almost painful.
Then his eyes glanced up.
And he saw you. Your eyes diverted immediately
The recognition was immediate and absolute, like there had never been any real distance between you at all, like the forty days had not stretched or faded anything, but had simply been waiting for this exact second to collapse back into itself.
Your fingers tightened around your cup without you meaning to, the pressure building into the bones of your hand as your body reacted faster than your mind could intervene.
Around you, the party continued as if nothing had changed. People kept talking, laughing, and moving through the space without even noticing what had happened to you.
Because Sunghoon was still looking at you.
And in his expression, something changed in real time.
His gaze flickered briefly, and then, just for a moment, past you.
And that was when you realised.
Someone had been talking to you earlier. Standing too close that you could still feel the warmth radiating off his body. Close enough that it looked harmless to anyone else but Sunghoon.
Sunghoon’s jaw tightened further as his attention returned fully to you. There was a heaviness in the way he looked now, as if seeing you here, like this, in a room that was not his, next to people who were not him, was something he had not prepared himself for, even if he had known he might eventually have to.
And that was the part that made something in him snap.
Because Sunghoon did not come here tonight expecting peace. He did not come here expecting healing or acceptance or any of the things people pretended happened after breakups when they were trying to sound mature about it. He came because forty days of silence had slowly stopped feeling like space and started feeling like divine punishment from God, and because the last words of “I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you want” had begun to rot in his chest the longer you did not come back.
He had told himself he would be normal about it. That he would walk in, act like he did not care, maybe have a drink, maybe talk to a few people, maybe convince himself that seeing you again would finally mean nothing. At least, that's what Jake said would happen.
It did the fucking opposite.
Because the moment his eyes found you across the room, everything in him reacted like it had been waiting for that exact sight. The way you stood there, holding your drink as if you belonged somewhere else entirely, your expression soft in a way he used to be the only one who got to see up close, made something in his chest tighten so much it almost hurt.
His jaw tightened before he could even think about it. His grip on his phone shifted in his pocket, fingers curling hard enough that he almost forgot he was holding anything at all. He watched the angle of your body without meaning to, the way you were facing slightly away from the guy but not moving away either, and his mind filled in the gaps faster than he could stop it.
You looked fine.
That was the worst part.
You looked like you were completely okay here.
Like you had adjusted just fine.
Like you were not waiting for anything anymore, that you weren’t waiting for him anymore.
And that thought, more than anything else, made his chest tighten in an almost unbearable way.
He started walking before he fully decided to.
The music got louder as he moved deeper into the room, but it felt miles away to him now. People brushed past him, scoffing at his abrupt movements. Jay called his name, some girl laughed too loudly near his shoulder, but none of it mattered to him. His focus wasn’t on them; it stayed on you.
On the way, you had looked away like you’d been caught.
On the way, you still had not moved.
On the way, someone else still stood too close to you.
By the time he was only a few steps away, he could finally see your face properly again. He saw the way your expression had changed slightly, as you had finally noticed something was different in the room, even before you turned fully. He saw the small hesitation in your posture, the way your attention was no longer fully anchored to the conversation beside you.
And then, slowly, you turned.
And everything stopped for him again, too.
Up close, it was worse.
Because now there was no distance. No crowd to hide behind. Just you, standing there, looking at him like you were not sure whether he belonged here or in your memory.
For a second, neither of you said anything.
Forty days sat between you, like some sort of physical barrier.
Then Sunghoon looked past you again, just briefly, just enough to confirm what he already did not like. The guy was still there, now watching the interaction with obvious confusion, like he could tell something was wrong, but didn’t understand what.
Sunghoon felt his expression change before he could control it.
When he looked back at you, his voice came out lower than usual.
“You’re serious?”
The words were simple, but the way he said them was not. There was something underneath them that sounded almost disbelieving.
You did not answer immediately, and that hesitation alone did something to him.
Because he knew you, he knew exactly what your silence usually meant.
The jealousy didn’t feel rational anymore. It was not just some guy. It was about everything he was suddenly seeing all at once. You laughing with someone else. You standing comfortably without him. You existing in a space where he was not automatically the centre of your attention.
He took a breath, slower this time, forcing his expression to steady, but his eyes did not soften.
Instead, they stayed on you.
“I leave you alone for a month,” he said finally, quieter again, “and this is what it looks like?”
There was no accusation in it. And for the first time since he walked in, Sunghoon did not look like someone trying to act normal. He looked like someone who had just realised that maybe he was not the only one still stuck in the same place. And for a second, it felt like neither of you knew what to do with that.
Because that was the truth that neither of you had said out loud yet. Not in forty days, not during the breakup, not in any of the arguments that had ended with slammed doors and messages left on read until they stopped meaning anything.
Sunghoon had not moved on.
Not even slightly.
And seeing you here, like this, made that fact unbearable in a way he did not have the words for.
“You’re not answering,” he pressed.
“I don’t need to,” you replied, and your voice was steadier than you expected it to be.
That steadiness made something in him crack further.
Because it was wrong. Wrong in every single way, it disrupted the version of you he still held in his head. The version who always looked at him first in a room. The version of you who would beam at him, ushering him to your side. The version that never made him feel replaceable.
But you weren’t doing that now.
You were just standing there, completely still, completely fine without him. And it made him feel ridiculous for assuming anything would be the same.
“You’re really just going to stand here like I didn’t just walk in and see—” he stopped himself, as if he had reached a dead end and didn’t know how to navigate a way out.
“You don’t get to act like that,” you sighed, everything that had been kept bottled up over the forty days pouring out, “You don’t get to break up with me, disappear for forty fucking days, and then walk in here like you still have the right to—”
You swallowed your words.
His eyes stayed locked on yours in that way that always used to make you feel like the rest of the world didn’t exist. As if he only existed in your orbit.
“You don’t get to show up,” you continued, voice shaking now despite your best effort, “and act like I’m doing something wrong just because I’m here.”
The guy behind you shifted awkwardly, suddenly very aware of himself, of his proximity, of the fact that he had become a detail in something much larger and much more volatile than a casual conversation at a party. He muttered something under his breath and took a step back, disappearing into the crowd in a blink.
Sunghoon laughs, actually fucking laughs. “You think I left?” he repeats, like the idea itself is insulting.
“You literally said you’d leave me alone,” you remind him, voice rising now, your throat tightening. “You said it. You wrote it. You made it sound so final, like I was supposed to just, what? Wait for you?”
“No,” he says quietly. “I said I’d leave you alone if that’s what you wanted.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“It’s not.”
It is. It is. It is.
You shake your head slightly, frustrated in a way that feels familiar and humiliating all at once.
AFTER PARTY
You really did try not to succumb to Sunghoon’s touch. You should have pushed him away—should have reminded him that whatever this was ended a month ago—but the familiar heat of his palms through your dress made your breath catch. His fingers tightened slightly, testing your resolve, and you hated how easily your body still responded to him.
Without a word, he guided you away from the crowded living room, his grip firm enough that no one would question whether you were following willingly. The noise of the party dulled as you moved down the hall, replaced by the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. People blurred past, but you barely registered them. Not when Sunghoon’s thumb was tracing slow circles against the dip of your waist through the thin fabric of your dress.
"You're thinking too much," he murmured, his breath warm against your ear as he nudged open the bathroom door. The click of the lock was deafening.
Your body registers that you're being set down on the bathroom sink top before your mind does.
"You said you'd leave me alone," you repeated, voice breaking on the last word.
Sunghoon's fingers traced idle patterns along your hipbone beneath the hem of your dress. "I did." His thumb brushed the sensitive skin just above your thigh. "And then you showed up here looking like this."
Within seconds, he’s bunching your dress up around your hips. 40 days apart hadn't changed the way your bodies fit together—his cock hard against your core, your nails already digging into his shoulders.
Your panties were gone before you could protest, tossed carelessly to the floor, and then his fingers were there—stroking, teasing—just long enough to make your hips jerk toward him.
"Still wet for me," he noted, voice thick with amusement as he pressed the head of his cock against your entrance. "Even after all this time."
You grip onto the bathroom counter as you feel him push inside of you, the stretch so deliciously intoxicating, your jaw slack. He groaned when you clenched around him, his forehead dropping to yours as he bottomed out. "Fuck, you feel—"
"Don't," you cut him off, even as your legs hooked around his waist to pull him deeper. "This doesn't mean anything."
Sunghoon laughed darkly, pulling out almost entirely before slamming back in hard enough to make you cry out. "Keep telling yourself that," he taunted, his hands gripping your hips to keep you still as he set a punishing rhythm. "Your body knows the truth."
His thumb found your clit, rubbing rough circles just the way you liked, and you hated how quickly you unraveled under his touch. The pleasure coiled tighter, your back arching off the sink as he fucked you through it, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer you didn’t mean to say.
Sunghoon’s breath hitched when you came, his thrusts turning erratic as he chased his own release. "Missed this," he gritted out, fingers digging into your thighs. "Missed you."
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t, when his cock was still buried inside you, when every nerve in your body was alight with the aftershocks.
“I don’t miss you.” His large hand moves, slapping the meat of your ass as a response. The sting of his palm against your flesh makes you gasp, your back arching further as he picks up the pace. His hips snap into yours with ruthless precision, each thrust hitting that sweet spot deep inside you until your thighs tremble. You bite your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing you break—but your body betrays you. Your nails dig into the cold marble countertop, leaving faint crescent marks as pleasure coils tighter in your core.
Sunghoon’s breath is hot against your ear, dripping with lust. "Still lying to yourself, huh?" His fingers tighten around your hips, holding you in place as he drives into you harder, the slap of skin echoing off the tiled walls. "Your pussy's begging for me. Always has."
A moan claws its way out of your throat when his thumb circles your clit again, pressing just enough to make your vision blur. You hate how easily he unravels you, how your body remembers every filthy thing he can do to it.
"Say it," he growls, punctuating the demand with another sharp thrust. "Tell me you missed this."
You shake your head stubbornly, but your hips rock back against him anyway, taking him deeper. The bathroom mirror fogs with the heat between you, obscuring your reflection—just as well, because you can't bear to see how wrecked you look beneath him.
Sunghoon laughs darkly, dragging his teeth over your shoulder. "Yeah, that's what I thought."
His hand wraps around your throat, not enough to cut off your air but enough to make your pulse leap wildly beneath his fingers. The pressure sends a dizzying rush through you, your body tightening around his cock in helpless response. "Look at you," he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Always so fucking perfect when you’re mine."
The words shouldn’t unravel you—but they do. Your resolve crumbles with every punishing thrust, every filthy whisper against your skin. His free hand slides down your stomach, fingertips skimming lower until they find you throbbing and soaked, your clit swollen under his touch.
"Sunghoon—"
His hips jerk forward, slamming into you so deep your back bows off the counter. "Say it."
You choke back a sob as pleasure fractures through you, your body clenching around him in helpless waves. He doesn’t let up, fucking you through it until your legs go weak and your hands scramble for purchase against the slick sink.
The last thing you feel before everything goes white is his mouth on your neck, teeth sinking in as he groans your name.
id go back to my ex if it was sunghoon too.... this has been in the drafts for like a month and its only slightly proof read im too tried rn! YES the title is a weeknd reference i listened to only him while writing this
SUMMARY: Sunghoon was an up-and-coming figure skater with a bright future, but he threw it all away to marry you. Thirteen years later, your marriage has failed, the kids don’t respect him one bit, and all his friends are wildly successful in life except him. He gets a chance to correct the mistakes of his past and change his life when he is miraculously transported back in time, before he even met you. But changing the past might cost him everything.
A/N: This took me so long to finish y'all I started considering actually taking ice skating lessons. PLEASE read for my sake. (Some scenes inspired by the movie 17 Again!)
thirteen years ago.
Sunghoon took a deep breath as the chill air of the rink, even from where he sat in the locker room, sent shivers down his spine. His thin black blouse with rhinestoned sleeves did nothing to shield him from the cold.
He should have been used to it by now. But today would be the most important skate of his life.
The World Championships. The event that would decide his place at the next Olympics.
Just a few years ago, he had missed out on competing completely due to a knee injury. Sunghoon was determined this time to make his dreams come true. His seniors always said that Olympic ice felt different, more real. This would be it. His last chance before the younger, more talented skaters took his spot later down the line.
He was picking at his nails with his teeth, a habit he so desperately needed to let go of. Even with ten competitors ahead of him, Sunghoon was already on edge. You, his good luck charm, had not arrived yet. It wasn't typical of you. In your three years of dating, you never missed the opening skate of any competition he'd been in.
It’s where you first met. You had been in the stands, taping your phone number onto a penguin plushie he’d caught after his award-winning skate. Since then, it's been tradition for you to sit in the same exact seat during local competitions.
His left leg bounced impatiently as he sat on the locker room bench. Sunghoon has sent about 16 texts to your phone already. He shook his head, unlocking his phone for the umpteenth time. Crickets. His phone screen photo of you blowing a kiss into the camera was taunting him now.
Where the hell were you?
Coach Jung patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t think too much. You're gonna psych yourself out.”
“I'm not nervous,” Sunghoon replied, unconvincingly. “It's just cold.”
Coach Jung rolled his eyes.
“You're not new to this, kid,” he doubted the young man. “You're gonna do great out there. This is what you've been dreaming of. Just don't mess it up.”
Sunghoon didn't know if that was meant to be motivating or not, but when Coach Jung left, he felt a pit in his stomach start to form. It's been years in the making. Blood, sweat, and tears were poured into this. The time he could've spent going on longer dates with you all went to extra hours practicing quads in the rink. He couldn't let his sacrifices go to waste. It would be a disservice to both of you.
He put his hands to his face and repeated a mantra of self-affirmations.
‘You got this, you got this, you-’’
“Hoon?” He heard your sweet voice call out. Your head poked through the locker room door before entering cautiously. Audience members weren’t typically allowed in here, but you always managed to sneak your way in.
He dropped his hands immediately, a wave of relief washing over him.
“There you are,” Sunghoon whispered to himself, rushing to you as fast as he could with skates on the carpet. You let out a small sound as he picked you up by the waist, spinning you around like a princess.
“Where have you been?” Sunghoon sighed happily, setting you down with a kiss to your temple. “I was blowing up your phone! I thought you died.”
You smiled, but he noticed how tight it looked. The light didn't quite reach your eyes, and your lips twitched as if it was almost painful to maintain. He brushed a stray hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear.
“Everything okay?”
You nodded, resting your hand on his as his thumb drew small circles on your cheek.
“I…” you trailed off. You were looking at the ground, at the ceiling, and even at the trash cans. Anywhere but him. “I want to talk to you about something.”
He raised a brow. Your fingers were quivering, and he noticed redness in the whites of your eyes. Were you crying?
“Of course, baby. You can tell me anything.”
Sunghoon is worried now as he took both of your hands into his. He felt how cold they were, even more so than his.
“Can the remaining five acts please be on stand-by?” the overhead speaker blared into the locker room. That was him. He was one of the last five.
He pursed his lips as he looked towards the door and back at you. Your mouth opened, just as flustered by the announcement.
“Let's wait,” you said in a rush, noticing the sweatiness of his palms. “It can wait.”
Sunghoon shook his head. Your voice faltered. He knew better now not to let these things linger.
“No, [Y/N]. Tell me what's wrong.” He stood his ground. Your eyes were watering, his gaze unmoving from yours. As you spoke, it was like the world around him went still. His chest felt heavy, throat so constricted he thought he would choke.
“I'm pregnant.”
No, he thought. It can’t be.
“H-how? We never– That’s impossible– We always use-”
His voice trailed off, afraid that if he said anything out loud, it would become more real. You pursed your lips, biting your top lip so hard that it drew blood.
“Don’t you remember?”
two months ago.
You were laughing, he was laughing. You both looked insane, obnoxiously cackling at nothing, in the dimly lit streets that led to his apartment. You were drinking with the guys at a new bar, underestimating the power of tequila compared to the usual shots of soju.
Sunghoon's arm was wrapped around your waist, putting his weight on you to prevent himself from faceplanting on the ground. He had lost too many hands in poker with Jay and Jake, and instead of betting money, he took an extra four shots as punishment. It was a big mistake.
“They got lucky,” he blabbered, “If we played Go Fish, I would have wiped the floor with them.”
He was hiccuping, and that sent you into a further spiral of giggles. Sunghoon was always so darn cute when drunk, so different from his icy exterior. His cheeks were tinged with red, and his pupils dilated. You weren't doing all that well either, with your body so warm from the alcohol that you had shed your jacket on the ground just a few minutes earlier. Where that jacket was now is lost on you.
“Hoon!” you exclaimed, pointing at his apartment gate. “We did it!”
Sunghoon stumbled to get his keys from his pocket. Opening the gate and then going up the steps felt like an hour-long operation with how you two struggled. When he slid down the wall by the entrance of his apartment, you collapsed with him.
The two of you, by his coat rank, staring into each other with heavy-lidded gazes and too far gone to even turn the lights on. By then, your movements were already out of your control.
You traced the moles on his face like divine art, cradling his jaw with such care. Even in the drunkest of states, he looked so heavenly. He was so pretty in the moonlight.
You pressed your lips against his, slowly at first, tugging at the rolled-up sleeves of his button-up shirt. Sunghoon made a noise of shock before deepening the kiss, hands roaming everywhere until they met your waist. His lips were so plush against yours, hungry to taste every inch of you. Your tongues danced with an urgency you've never felt before. Nipping at your bottom lip, he coaxed small sounds out of you.
Sunghoon lifted you, firm hands on your bum to sit you atop him.
He broke the kiss to bury himself in the junction between your neck and shoulder. Sunghoon's lips found your pulse point, suctioning around it like he was drawing your heartbeat out of your body. You gripped his soft hair and tilted your head back to give him better access. He lapped at your neck, your collar bone, anywhere his tongue could access. He was addicted to the taste of your skin, to the taste of you. You always smelled so good, had him so riled up even in the most unassuming of moments. He remembered how you looked in the bar with this sparkly red dress. Remembered how it rode up every time you sat down next to him. Fuck.
You felt him then. The tent of his pants and the friction of his hips as they hopelessly jut up to meet yours.
You whined at the contact. He was palming your ass now with both hands, massaging as he moved you up and down on the tightness of his jeans.
“Hoon,” you gasp. “Not here-”
He lifted his head to look at you, eyes so dark and full of lust. He wasn’t having it; you could see it in his face. His deliciously tense jawline. The bead of sweat running down his temple. You felt yourself clench around nothing just at the sight. How could a man be so gorgeous?
“Can't wait,” he hummed. “Need you now.”
He pushed your dress up your body, the material bunched at your waist.
You purse your lips in anticipation. He’s rock hard by now, and you can’t help but take it as an invitation to feel him. Your hands find his bulge, ghosting over his form. It jumped in response when you finally took hold, squeezing cautiously. Your cheeks warmed at the sight of the front of his jeans already damp with your fluids. Sunghoon enjoyed the view just as much as you did, his head tilted back to relish in your ministrations. He couldn’t hold back any longer.
Sunghoon’s hand, large and veiny, moved your panties to the side impatiently.
"Hoon-" you gasped at the skin-to-skin contact.
His fingers traced the slit of your folds up and down, covering his digits with your slick. You found his swollen lips again to suppress your whimpers, saliva running down your joined mouths as you unzipped his painful-looking jeans. He was already prepping you for him, index finger cautiously pushing its way inside your plush walls. He groaned at the feeling of your fluttering warmth. Already, you were sucking him in.
“Always so fucking wet,” he muttered on your lips. You couldn’t help but grind down on him, a roundabout way of telling him to apply more pressure. To go harder. Rougher. To ruin you. He chuckled at your frustration. Needed to see more of it, more of you begging.
Sunghoon tested the waters and pushed in a second. Your moans were drowned out again by his merciless mouth. Tongues shoved so far down each other's throats, you swore you could feel him at the back of your neck.
He was fucking you onto his hand now, his palm making contact with your clit after every thrust. His forearm was tense, pace so relentless. Animalistic. You were practically bouncing on him, hands digging into his shoulder blades to chase your release. He loved the sight, wanting to hear you come undone just from his measly fingers in your dripping pussy.
“So desperate,” he hummed into your mouth. “Who's making you like this?”
Sunghoon was never this mouthy during sex, usually because he didn’t want the apartment next door to hear through the thin walls. But he had let go of all his inhibitions, the tequila still sitting fresh in his stomach.
“You, Hoon,” you cried out, legs shaking from the harsh pace of his fingers and your incessant grinding. “Please-”
You didn't know exactly what you were begging for, but you knew he could give it to you. Knew he was the only one who could. Your mind was filled with Sunghoon and Sunghoon only. The effects of the alcohol had made you a bumbling mess, pleading and begging for more. Your back arches to meet his fingers better, but it wasn’t not enough.
He added a third to relieve you, watching as your mouth opened into a silent scream.
“Hoon– Need it– Please– I need–”
You couldn't find the right words, couldn’t even keep yourself upright without his support. Sunghoon’s hands roamed up your body as one made its way to the back of your neck. With his thumb, he pressed down gently on the pulse point he was nipping at just earlier. His eyes were heavy on you, watching you so intently. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, as your airways slowly constricted, as his thumb pushed against you. God, you loved the feeling.
“Enjoying yourself, baby?”
Lightheaded, you were practically gripping his bulge at this point. The sounds between your legs were borderline pornographic, his fingers drawing out every wet squelch as they sank and twisted in and out of you. You felt so full of him, three fingers so deep inside you. But you could take more; you wanted to take more.
“Speak up,” he drawled, his voice slurring from the tequila. “Tell me what you want, or I'll stop.”
You sobbed, clawing at his clothed chest as he let go of your neck to let you talk. You gasped for air as you let yourself fall onto him.
“Need you inside me,” you cried as he pistoned his fingers into you harder. You wished he could just rip your underwear so you could feel his rough palm grind onto your bare clit. “Please, please, pl-”
"I am inside you," he teased. And all you could do was wail, shaking your head out of distress.
"Hoon-"
Your movements were forced to stop as Sunghoon's free hand gripped your thigh. His fingers were curved into you, stroking that spongy spot that he always managed to find. He massaged your G-spot at a steady pace, anticipating your climax. You wanted to move, but he held you down roughly. Your eyes were forced to look into his, and you felt the floodgates of your release start to open.
“No-,” you whined.
You were close, so close. But your mind was made up. Well, at least what was left of it.
“Wanna cum with you. Can I, Hoonie? Please?” you beg.
“Fuck-”
His grip on you loosened. His hand slowly left your tight folds, and he admired the slick that coated his long fingers. He brought them to your mouth, motioning you to taste the juices he coaxed out of you. With your doe eyes looking straight at him, you swallowed around him. Tongue flattened and bringing him in deeper.
His other hand reached into the back of his pocket, fiddling around to find his emergency condom. The one that became a necessity to bring around you.
Sunghoon's mind was all over the place. Your tongue lapped at his fingers, sucking them so harshly. He'd have given anything right now to see your lips wrapped around his cock instead.
He'd almost grabbed the condom until you pulled his boxers down. Your mouth released his fingers with a small ‘pop’ as his painfully hard member slapped his stomach. You positioned yourself closer, adjusting so that his thickness slid against your soiled, clothed pussy. You cursed your stupid underwear for getting in the way again.
“B-baby-” Sunghoon stuttered out as you moved your panties to the side once more, his raw cock lined up to your aching hole. “Just give me a second-”
His hand tried to reach for his wallet again, but you interlocked them with yours instead. You shook your head, grinding against him cautiously. You don't know what's gotten into you. It's like the tequila was letting you act out your deepest, darkest dreams — ones of him fucking his cum so deeply into you that you were dripping wet with his fluids.
“Please?” you asked hopelessly. Your breath hitched. His cock met your clit, his precum spread all over your folds. Fuck it. You were too far gone. “I-I wanna feel you.”
Sunghoon would like to think he had self-control. Would like to believe that he was calmer than most. But the way your pleading eyes looked at him, and how your legs trembled in excitement. His intoxicated brain couldn't tell right from wrong. He wanted to give you everything you asked for.
“Fuck, are you sure?” he groaned as you aligned his cock to your entrance, pushing down slightly to envelop his tip. He lets out a hiss, teeth gritting from the feeling. You were so tight, so fucking perfect for him.
“Mhm,” you mustered, wrapping your arms around his neck as his large hands met your ass again. “It's okay…”
You were sinking onto him now, his head buried into your neck from the sensation. You two had never done it without a condom before, always so careful. But he wondered, as his large cock was slowly sucked into your soaked pussy, why he'd never fucked you raw before. Sunghoon swore under his breath as he felt you clench around him. Fucking you with a condom was ruined for him forever. He could never put one on again.
“Fuck, baby,” he willed himself not to move too fast. The stinging stretch of him had you withering above him, but you didn’t care. Not one bit. You clutched his hair as you impaled yourself on him, so lost in the feeling of him penetrating you so slowly.
He was fully sheathed inside you now. Sunghoon needed a second to recuperate, but you were making it so difficult for him.
"Fuck-" he inhaled sharply as you grinded down on his pulsating cock. You were so impatient, already so worked up from his fingers.
You were suctioning him, trapping him in your walls like you would never let him go. His grip on your hips tightened as he growled into your collarbone.
“Baby,” he said sternly this time, finding some semblance of sanity. “Don't.”
You whined, your hips stuttering through his tight grip on your ass cheeks. You wanted him to plow into you like you were his personal toy. Was there anything wrong with that?
“Why?” you drawled out, desperate for movement, for anything. Your eyes met his, and even through your drunken haze, you understood. He was close, already so on edge from feeling your raw pussy. And that made you want him even more.
You swore your hips moved on their own. You lifted yourself, shallowly thrusting yourself against him as he tried to hinder your attempts.
“N-no,” he grunted. “Too soon-”
You giggled as his hands were on your back now. Despite your protests, he did not stop you in any meaningful way.
His grip on your ass was replaced with him pulling the straps down of your dress and bra to free your bouncing tits. He cupped them as you raised yourself higher, until just the very tip of him was left inside you. You took a deep breath, pushing yourself down on him without assistance. You moaned, feeling his heaviness in your lower stomach.
“Fuck-” he cried through clenched teeth. Sunghoon’s head was against the wall now, hands massaging your breasts so eagerly.
He tugged at your nipples, pinching them between his index finger and thumb. Such a sight for sore eyes, seeing him so fucked out underneath you as you bounced on his cock. You wished you could engrave this in your memory. His parted lips and glistening forehead.
You grinded your hips so helplessly against him, hands on his knees as you squeezed him through every downward thrust.
“Baby, s-slow down.”
You're determined now, even as you start to feel that fluttering ache in your core. You wanted to do good for him, wanted to make him lose control like you would whenever he had you pinned to the bed and crying.
“Hoon, speak up,” you teased, mimicking his earlier words. “Tell me what you want or I-”
You couldn't finish your sentence as his hand meets the back of your neck, crashing his lips onto yours. His hands traveled down to your thighs, squeezing them roughly.
He thrusted up into you harshly, his grip on you guiding his movements. His pace was even more merciless than yours, not giving you time to catch your breath as you felt your inner walls contract around him.
No!
He needed to cum first. It was always you who came undone before him. You just needed to hold out, just for a few more seconds-
And in perfect timing, he found it. That part of you that had you practically screaming into his mouth. He smirked against your lips and hoisted you closer, fucking up into you as his fingers pressed firmly into the flesh of your thighs. Your insides churned with a tingling feeling, like something needed to be released. You pulled yourself away from his lips.
"No… Hoon-"
"Take it," he grunted. "You want it, right?”
You cried as his thrusts grazed your G-spot over and over again, his tip kissing your cervix at the right angles.
“So fucking take it."
Your eyes roll back, the sensation was stronger and stronger until-
"Oh my god-"
Your climax hit you like a ton of bricks, crashing down on you so unexpectedly that your walls wanted to hold his raw length in place. Sunghoon continued his thrusts, not caring for the tears that threatened to spill from your eyes. You had your fun. Now, let him have his.
His hands spread your ass cheeks apart, guiding you down onto his painfully hard cock with fervor. Sunghoon felt his high inching closer as he pumped in and out of your wetness, ignoring your cries of overstimulation.
“So fucking tight,” he groaned into your neck. He's there. He felt it. You braced yourself for his sweet release.
“Need to pull out...”
Your eyebrows furrowed, expression laced in devastation. As if on instinct, you clenched around him. You wanted it. Whatever ‘it’ was.
“In me,” you babbled through strained moans. “Please, Hoonie?”
He grit his teeth. That damn pet name. You were evil, so fucking evil. With your pretty tits and batting eyelashes. Who was he to deny you? His thrusts were erratic, admiring as your breasts bounced to the rhythm of his thrusts.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fu-”
His hips stuttered up into you. White, hot spurts met your cervix as you reached another orgasm from the sheer feeling of his release, mouth wide open. Your hips gyrated against his, easing both of you through your releases. His head rolled back, jaw clenched, and eyes wired shut as he felt you milk his cock of everything he was worth.
You watched as a white ring formed around his cock was buried deep in you, still a little hard. You rested your body against his. Your eyelids were heavy, so content and warm in ways that only Sunghoon could bring out in you.
“I love you,” he sighed into your hair, his own lethargy getting the best of him. “So fucking much.”
“I love you too.”
And as ridiculous as it sounds, the two of you slept in that position for hours. Two bodies connected at the entrance way of Sunghoon's studio apartment. When the sun came up and you realized what was done in your drunken states, you two panicked for the wrong reason. Did the neighbors hear? What happened to your jacket? Were you gonna get a UTI?
Sunghoon's cheeks reddened from the memory. It had to have been that night.
“A-are you sure?” he stuttered.
You nodded solemnly. You knew it wouldn't be good news for him. It wasn't for you either.
You were almost done with university. It’s supposed to be the year you figured out what you wanted out of a career. So when your first wave of morning sickness hit you just a week earlier, you knew every plan that you had would be forever ripped from your fingers.
To travel the world. To start new hobbies. It would all have to wait. This would be your life now.
When you told your mother, tears streamed down her face. She called you everything underneath the sun. But she knew what it was like to carry a life unexpectedly, so she hugged you through it. Your dad’s reaction was worse. He hadn’t spoken to you yet.
“Two months along,” you whispered. Though he could never regret that night, he realized now how stupid it must have been to ignore the alarm bells in his head. He knew better. You knew better. Why the fuck did it end up like this?
“So…” He gulped. He didn’t know what to say. “What now?”
“I…” you started. Heaving a deep breath, you felt him tense up.
“I want to keep the baby,” you swallowed. Sunghoon’s mouth was parted, and his eyes were blank of emotion.
It made you anxious, his lack of response.
When he didn't reply, you started again. “What should we-”
“Sunghoon Park. Sunghoon Park. Please be on stand-by,” the overhead speaker rang out. He didn't mean to, but like muscle memory, his hand let go of yours. Guilt crashed over him, and he couldn't bring himself to look into your wavering eyes as he walked past you.
The competition. This was his last chance. Coach Jung's voice resounded in his head. Don't mess it up.
“Hoon-”
Your voice fell on deaf ears. His hands covered his face again, trying to refocus. He couldn't throw this away. Years. It took him years to get to this point. He couldn't. He had to skate.
Tears spilled over as you watched his back retreat away from you. You should have waited to tell him, but he had asked. He said he wanted to know.
Your back slumped against the wall of lockers, clutching your stomach as you cried. You couldn't bring yourself to go to the stands and watch him perform.
You knew it was dumb. You weren’t ready, not even close. But still… You wanted to try.
But him. Sunghoon.
You leaned your head back against the cold wall, breath faltering through your tears. What did you even expect? That he'd be happy? Excited?
You let out a shaky laugh.
Of course not. It's not like you were either.
You stood up, dusting yourself off.
You'd figure out a way to do this, you convinced yourself. If it meant that you were by yourself, that was fine. He didn't have to be there. He had big dreams, ones that predated you. You understood, even though it hurt.
“Next to skate, representing the People's Republic of Korea. Sunghoon Park!”
The cheers that ensued soon after made your chest constrict just a little more. You just couldn’t bear to watch him skate now. It was all too much.
You trudged towards the ice rink's exit, arms crossed around you like you were holding yourself. You were proud of him, so proud. He worked so tirelessly for an opportunity like this. Missed sleep and took a gap year from college to pursue this. He wanted it so bad, and though it was heartbreaking to watch him walk away, you knew why. You could talk later, you convinced yourself.
But the thoughts still echoed in your head.
A professional figure skater couldn’t be a father—not now, not at his age. You knew that. God, you hated that you knew it so well. His life wasn’t what most people imagined. There was no glamor in it.
It was practices at the crack of dawn in freezing rinks and endless flights to cities he barely saw beyond hotel rooms. He could only fund basic living expenses with what little he earned from winning. He had a part-time job working the graveyard shift at a convenience store to even afford competition fees and dates with you.
He gave everything for this dream—his body, his sanity, his youth.
But he tried. In everything he did, he tried. That was the worst part.
Because even with all that trying, you still knew. That there would be no space in his life for the tiny heartbeat inside you.
You knew he'd have to quit. There was no way around it. Raising a child takes too much time away from the rink.
If he stayed, if he chose to be in this child's life, he'd have to give it all up.And it would be because of you.
But this was your life too. Your body. Your future. And no matter how tightly you clung to the image of him at your side, holding your hand in the delivery room, learning how to hold a newborn with trembling fingers—you had to be honest with yourself.
You wanted this baby. Even if it meant letting him go, even if that meant standing alone with a life you never planned for, you’d do it.
Because you knew that if it ever came down to choosing between his dream and you, it would always be-
“[Y/N], wait!”
You stopped in your tracks, stunned to hear his voice so close. Like he was here and not on the ice. You didn’t even notice that music stopped permeating the walls of the rink, that the announcer had moved on to the next contestant. He was running to you, socks thumping on the ground like he had taken his skates off only a moment before.
No. It couldn't be.
He reached you, his arms wrapped around you from behind. You heard his shaky breath against the back of your head. His thumb rubbed your forearms, planting a small kiss on your hair.
“We'll figure it out,” Sunghoon blurted out when he felt like the silence between you two was suffocating. “Together.”
You turned around to face him, panicked.
“Sunghoon, no,” you tried to push him away, but he pulled you in closer. “You need to go-”
“No.”
You looked at him, pain etched in every part of his beautiful face.
“But that's your future,” you cried out, mustering everything in yourself to not melt in his embrace. He was making a mistake. He'd hate you for the rest of your life if he-
“No,” he said again, much clearer. More determined. “It’s you.”
His hand drifted to your stomach, and he smiled this time as he looked into your teary eyes.
“You're my future.”
You shook your head incessantly. “Hoon, you're not thinking straight. I should've waited to tell you. You're not in your right mind. You need to go back and-”
He silenced you with his lips, so soft—like it might break you if he were any less gentle. You fell into his touch, unknowingly pulling him closer. He kissed you again and again, hands holding yours until your tremors faded with his touch.
“I love you,” he would say between each peck. “I'm not letting you do this alone.”
And you smiled, a real, genuine smile.
“I love you too.”
You moved in with him in that tiny studio apartment, shortly after, sharing a bed that barely even fit his tall frame. The cradle he built took up the majority of the living area.
But it was nice, waking up with him every day. He talked in his sleep, would whisper your name in that sweet voice of his so lovingly. Some days, Sunghoon wouldn't let you lift a finger, would insist that you needed as much rest as possible before your due date. You had to convince him that your job as a receptionist was certainly not so physically taxing that he had to follow you to it every day.
You also got married. It was simple. Just Sunghoon and you in a courthouse with Jake and Jay, trying not to stifle their laughter as witnesses to your marriage ceremony. You wore the white dress your mother wore, and Sunghoon wore his best suit, tie tied by you.
“Say cheese!” Jake chimed as you two posed with your signed certificate. The two of them cooed at your growing belly.
You were showing now, a small bump that Sunghoon admired each time he saw you do your online classes on the kitchen counter. He never got around to buying a desk, even though he was also back in school full-time.
He had that dreaded conversation with Coach Jung beneath the dim lights of an empty rink. Sunghoon told him quietly, almost like an apology, that he’d be hanging up his skates until further notice. He wanted to be there for you at every step of the pregnancy. If he was going to stick beside you, he was going to do it right.
Coach didn’t yell. He didn’t need to. The disappointment on his face said everything.
And so Sunghoon hadn’t touched the ice since.
He couldn’t bear to set foot in that rink anymore. Not when he knew he’d only be watching from the stands.
Not when the sound of blades carving through the ice was coming from someone else’s skates.
Not when he used to relish in the cold air passing through his body. Now, the only wind on his face came from passing cars as he biked to his second job.
He picked up a shift at a nearby restaurant. Just as a server. The kind of job that reminded him how painfully ordinary he was without his skates. Sometimes, when no one’s looking, he’ll shift his weight just right and practice his landings in the break room, arms out, knees bent.
Other times, he scrolls through YouTube during his graveyard shift at the convenience store, searching up his own name with trembling fingers, watching old performances through a phone screen. Reading comments. Trying to remember what it felt like to matter to people he never met.
You noticed, probably more than you let on. You just tried not to pry. He would get distant when you mentioned it, like that part of himself needed to be tucked away and out of his sight. You knew he was afraid, terrified to look back and see everything he gave up.
But when Sunghee was born, it was like his world started to make sense again. He held her like she was made of glass. Sobbed so loudly the first time he saw her, you thought he was in pain.
But no, he was just overwhelmed. Taken by the way her tiny hand curled around his finger, how her cries quieted the moment he held her close.
He’d protect her, he swore to himself. That this—her—wrapped up in the pink hospital blanket, was his life now.
And maybe, for a moment, he believed that was enough.
But the thoughts never stopped. His eyes would flicker toward the old duffel bag in the closet, where his skates were still packed away. He gave that up. For you. For her. And he’d never say he regretted it. But you knew.
You understood what he was grieving. Because you grieved too.
That girl who used to dream of making art, she felt like a ghost now. Someone you used to know.
Your passions, the things that once lit a fire in you, now sat gathering dust. All shelved quietly the moment your body became a home for Sunghee.
And your parents. You were still trying to reassemble the broken pieces of your relationship with them. Your mother tried to be there for you in her own way, but her disappointment was loud in the quietest moments between you two. And your father… well, he still hadn’t really looked you in the eye since the day you told him.
And though she was born healthy, Sunghee came into the world screaming. She was a loud baby, inconsolable most nights, and the exhaustion had tested Sunghoon and you.
You took turns because you had to. He’d rock her until sunrise, then stumble to his classes. He started falling asleep during his breaks at work, cheek pressed against cold metal tables.
He didn’t care much for his own health, but the bags beneath your eyes pained him. Your face, once bright and curious, had dimmed under all the sleepless nights and rising costs of diapers. You were both burnt out.
He dropped Sunghee off with his parents for one night and dragged you out to see your friends. It was Jake's going-away dinner.
“It’s so hard to meet nowadays,” you sighed. “Feels like I’ve been nursing a migraine for the past three months.”
Jake laughed.
“Sad I won’t get to see her grow up,” he said as he poured himself a beer. “Make sure to bring her to Australia one day. She deserves to see her coolest uncle play football.”
Niki rolled his eyes.
“No one’s paying for that long-ass flight to see you benchwarm,” Niki mumbled, chewing on some chips. “Have her come see me dance instead. At least I’ll be in the center.”
Jake smacks his friend on the back of the head.
“No need for any of that,” Jay chimed in. “She won’t have time for either of you. Papa bear here probably already has her future all mapped out. Skates on before she can walk.”
An awkward silence filled the room. The joke was lighthearted, but it landed too close to a wound no one had dared to touch in the past year. Sunghoon gave a quiet laugh, a hollow one without warmth. He brought the bottle to his lips and didn’t look at anyone when he spoke.
“Yeah... she’ll be a star.”
He eyed the ceiling, pondering what she would look like. Maybe just like him. Graceful. Passionate. “Olympic-worthy. Could probably win gold if we find the right coach early enough.”
You pursed your lips and stared at the condensation running down your glass.
Sunoo cleared his throat, noticing the tense atmosphere. He raised his glass with forced enthusiasm. “To our beautiful Sunghee,” he cheered. “And to Jake’s success!”
Sunghoon smiled, but not really. He was happy for his friend, sure. But behind his facade, envy sat heavy on his tongue.
‘This night could have been for you. They could have been congratulating you. And you gave it all up. Now look at you. You’re a nobody.’
You couldn’t help but watch him throughout the night as he grew quieter, his sips of beer more like chugs now. You rubbed circles on his back like you always did when he got like this, hoping to bring him back into the conversation. But his eyes stayed glued to the back corner of the bar.
As you patted him, he pulled your wrist away. Not harshly. Not angrily. Just a simple tug. He set your hand back on your lap, his gaze straight ahead and away from you.
“I’m okay,” he assured you, but you didn’t believe him. Not then.
Not ever, really.
Though time passed, life never got easier. The weight of responsibility pressed harder on your shoulders with each passing year. And while you both smiled through milestones and made do with the small hiccups in your relationship, you were content with this life. Doing laundry on lazy Sundays, Sunghoon singing nursery rhymes to Sunghee before school.
But after the birth of your second child, Sungjae, it had all started to rot.
Sunghoon’s longing for his old life never faded. It stewed in him, creeping into his thoughts at his corporate job after finishing university, haunting him on bus rides home.
The bills piled higher. Your patience wore thinner. Conversations turned into quiet disagreements and tired sighs. You no longer fought. You didn’t even have the energy for that. Just two ghosts of your former selves moving through the same rooms, sleeping in the same bed, wondering what could’ve been.
thirteen years later. the present.
Sunghoon adjusts his tie, furrowing his brows as he sees how crooked it is from the reflection of the mirror. He gives up halfway through. Fuck it, it would be a no-tie kind of day. He exits the bedroom, his footsteps making loud echoes on the way down the spiral staircase and towards the all-marble kitchen. He inhales slowly as he smells the fragrance of smoked spices dancing around his nostrils. It was enough to make his mouth water.
“What's cooking, good-looking?” he says, entering the kitchen with a wide grin on his face.
“Ew,” a voice rang out, soft and disgruntled. Sunghoon turns the corner and almost laughs at the sight.
“Shut up,” Sunoo scoffs, clad in an apron and silk pajamas. “Don’t say corny shit like that in my house until you get your act together.”
Sunghoon takes a seat on the barstool of the kitchen counter. He watches Sunoo maneuver the wide expanse of the kitchen like an expert.
“I'm a dad,” Sunghoon sighs out. “That’s kind of our thing.”
“Yeah, one going through a divorce,” Sunoo snaps back, monitoring his frittata closely on the stove.
Sunghoon's shoulders slump. Of course, the only friend willing to let him stay for an indefinite amount of time was the one most critical of his life choices. Sunoo insisted, in fact. Said his place was “feeling empty” anyway.
“So,” Sunoo coughs, acknowledging he might have taken it too far with his earlier comment. “Any word from her about the court date yet?”
Sunghoon shrugs, eyes on his watch as it nears 8:30 a.m. He'd have to leave soon to get to work. His boring, dull job as a fiscal manager at blah blah blah corporation. Even he barely knows what he does for a living.
“Can I borrow your car?” Sunghoon asks, ignoring his friend's question. He doesn't like to talk about it. Doesn't want to speak anything into existence, even if it was already happening.
You asked for it two weeks ago. A divorce.
He's been living with (mooching off of) Sunoo since.
“Which one? The Bugatti or the Ferrari?”
Sunghoon gives Sunoo a side-eye, and the younger fails to stifle a laugh. He never wastes a second to flex on his friend, the only one out of their friend group who worked at a 9-5 job in total and absolute misery.
Heeseung's a streamer, Jay took over as CEO of his father's company, Jake was still playing football in Australia, Jungwon started his own Taekwondo studio, and Niki was traveling the world as a choreographer. And of course, Sunoo wound up in a big old mansion with his modeling career.
Sunghoon thought he'd end up like them. He got the right experience after university to find a stable job that didn't involve slaving away at customer service gigs like he did before.
He thought he'd move up higher in his company by now. Have a team to call his own, like Jungwon had, or make “small, high-impact decisions” like Jay claims he does. But none of that ever came. His heart was never in it.
Sunghoon sighs.
“Whatever gets me from Point A to Point B,” he mutters. Sunoo cuts a piece of frittata from the skillet and plates it. He slides it over to his older friend and tosses a key from his pocket.
“Take the Kia Soul.”
Sunghoon groans. “You're fucking with me.”
“Mr. Park,” his coworker chirps into his ear. “I was wondering how your KPIs were this week…”
Sunghoon lets him drone on as he types on his computer. No private office, just a cubicle by the elevators. He hates how people tend to gravitate towards him for small talk. He's not very good at it. Never has been. It was a common joke within his family that he skated more than he spoke growing up.
You dragged him out of his shell when you met, cracked him open with your bright-eyed gazes and addictive laughter. He’d planned to keep his head down when he was younger. No distractions and no detours. Just figure skating.
But how could he not fall in love with you?
He shakes his head, trying to push the thoughts aside before it settles in too deeply. He reminisces too much.
It’s like the past is all his mind drifts off to these days.
He leaves work on time. Gets stuck in traffic, like usual. And drives to the home you two once shared. A routine he's used to by now.
He sees your car in the driveway and groans. He knew if he sees you, you'd bring up the papers again. Those stupid fucking papers.
“Hey, kiddo,” he says as he enters the once-familiar home. You've made changes to it since he's been gone. He squints to get a better look. In just two weeks, the kitchen's completely repainted with a soft green instead of gray. The living room was completely rearranged, and family pictures were taken down from the walls.
Sungjae is sitting on the couch, playing with his iPad. He only looks up for a second before he gets back into whatever is playing on his device. Sunghoon knew he should have hidden that thing before he left. Or, he guesses, before you kicked him out.
“Where's your sister?” he asks, practically into the void.
As if on cue, Sunghee walks down the stairs. Her eyes are already rolling, and she's still wearing her pink pajamas and bunny slippers.
“Get dressed, princess. We're gonna be late for your practice!”
Sunghee tsks.
“C'mon,” Sunghoon adds with a forced smile. “You missed the last two practices already. You're gonna fall behind-”
“Dad, I already told you I want to quit,” she cuts in. “Can't you just take a freaking hint?”
Sunghoon stares blankly at his daughter, trying to hold back the irritation bubbling beneath the surface. Sunghoon doesn’t know where she gets the attitude comes from. It's like when Sunghee hit the age of 13, she morphed into a walking stick of dynamite with a terribly short fuse.
“Well,” he begins, voice tight but even. “Why don't we push through it for today, hm? You know, back in my day, I wasn't always up for the challenge, but-”
“We get it dad!” she groans. “'Back in my day' this, 'if I were you' that. No one cares!"
It stings him more than he cares to admit.
"Sunghee," he says, slower this time, the edge creeping into his voice.
She just scoffs at her father's serious expression. She's never been scared of him when he's angry. That was always your role.
"I’m not going," she stands her ground, crossing her arms. "You can't make me. If you wanna go so bad, then go to that stupid ice rink by yourself.”
Sunghoon inhales sharply, planting his hands on his hips to seem more assertive.
From the couch, seven-year-old Sungjae snickers.
“Listen here, young lady-”
“Listen here, young lady…” Sungjae mocks, in a tone much like his father's. Sunghoon whips his head to his iPad kid.
“And you, young man-”
“Sunghoon,” you say sternly as you appear at the staircase. “I already called to cancel. Indefinitely. Even if you take her now, she won't even be able to join the other kids.”
Sunghee sticks her tongue out at her father, prancing to the couch to pinch her younger brother's cheeks.
He blinks, brows knitting together. “What? Why would you do that without telling me?”
"Sorry, was that a decision that needed your approval?" you ask sarcastically. "You can't make her do something she doesn't want to do."
Sunghoon scoffs, pointing an accusatory finger at you. But he stops himself. His gaze flickers to the kids, who pretend like they're not watching from the living room.
He swallows down whatever instinct tells him to argue right here, right now. You two never fought in front of them, an unspoken rule. Even if you were technically separated, he would not break that now.
“Let's talk in our room,” he whispers closely, and you roll your eyes.
“My room,” you correct, already turning to head back up. You don’t see it, but he tries not to flinch at your harshness.
He closes the door behind you two, the air thick with tension. He starts again.
“Why are you making decisions without me already?” he asks, trying to keep his tone level. “You cancel her figure skating classes and repaint the kitchen? Why are you-”
You sigh, already tired.
“We've been talking about repainting that ugly kitchen for years, Sunghoon,” you sigh. "You never wanted to actually get started on it. Sorry, I actually make time for the things I want."
So this is the direction you wanted the conversation to go in? Fine. He can be passive-aggressive, too.
"And Sunghee? Didn't you think to run that by me when I’m the one that pays for those lessons?"
You grit your teeth. He sees where Sunghee gets it from now, your hands crossed over your chest in disdain.
"Have you tried listening to her about practices? She gets injured all the time! Coach Jung is horrible to her. She’s miserable-”
His jaw tightens. “You don't think I was too? Half the time, I hated skating! But that’s what it takes. You think greatness just feels good all the time?! And the kitchen was fine. I don’t get why—”
"She's not trying to be great, Sunghoon!" you cry exasperatedly, your hands thrown up into the air. "She's not trying to be you."
You point your finger at his chest. “And you always think everything's fine. Until it's too late.”
Your words hung in the air, his eyes meeting yours.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he says finally, quieter this time.
You retract your hand, nervous under his gaze. It’s intense, familiar in a way that still sends sparks throughout your body, even now. Even after everything.
“Stop trying to force your dreams onto her,” you finally let out, and you see his eyes waver. "Just because it didn't work out for you doesn't mean you can try again through her."
“That's not what-”
“Look,” you interrupt him, turning away from him to face the wall. “All I'm saying is that maybe this is your wake-up call. Things change. Not everything that you want is going to happen. Maybe learn to change with it.”
He scoffs.
You turn back around to face him. He's angry, but his face doesn’t give it away. It’s his trembling hands, how his posture straightens just a little too stiffly.
“A little too late to change when my whole life was already laid out for me,” he says through bated breaths. “It’s not like I ever had a choice where I’d end up.”
Your heart sinks. “And it's all my fault, right?”
Sunghoon’s eyes flicker, his gaze softening at your hurt expression.
“I didn't say that-”
“But it's what you think, right?” You try to look strong. You think of all the nights he lay awake replaying his old skating clips in the glow of his phone screen. The way he cheered for Sunghee during competitions, like his voice alone could ignite the passion she didn’t have. The muffled sniffles from the shower after the last Winter Olympics ended. You saw it all. You always did.
Sunghoon is silent, and you fight the sting in your eyes.
“I never asked you to marry me,” you say as low as a whisper, cutting through the silence.
“But I did,” Sunghoon says quickly. Desperately. “And I wanted to.”
You draw out a laugh, bitterness dripping through.
“I'm so sorry, Sunghoon,” you say, sarcasm spilling over your lips. “I'm sorry this isn't the life you wanted. But newsflash: you're not the only one living with regrets. ”
He steps forward, but you move back. The weight of everything presses against your chest now that the words are out. Now that it’s not just his pain taking up space in your relationship.
“You act like you’re the only one who lost something,” you say, softer now. “But I gave up things, too. I had dreams too.”
You don’t mean it cruelly, and he doesn’t take it that way. But it hurts, still.
"And I'm done walking on eggshells around you just because you can't stand the fact that you aren't living the life you wanted.”
You take a deep breath and continue.
“If I knew this was how we'd end up, we should have never even met-"
His hand hovers over your cheek. His lips, so dangerously close to yours. “Stop it.”
His voice is shaky.
“Don’t say things you don’t mean.”
You don't pull away, but your gaze does not waver. “I mean it. Genuinely.”
You don’t see Sunghoon’s heart break at that moment. But he feels it. Feels the tightness in his chest, the way his throat closes up, like your words were enough to kill him.
“When did you become so cruel?” Hurt laced his voice.
“And when did you start resenting me?” you bite back, but the words barely escape your throat.
He doesn’t answer, just leans in and kisses you. And you let him.
Because maybe this is the last time you’ll feel him like this. Maybe this is the last tender moment you two will share.
His hand lingers at your jaw, thumb brushing gently over your cheek. You feel your own breath catch, and for a second, you almost melt into him.
“I love you,” Sunghoon says, but it sparks nothing in you.
Instead, you hear everything he didn’t say. He didn’t say no or that you were wrong. So maybe he really does, you thought to yourself.
His kisses almost make you forget. Almost enough to blur out the long winters and how distant he gets. How painfully silent he is at the dinner table, eyes always somewhere else.
His lips guide you through it all, each kiss igniting a memory.
How his shoulders sagged the day he started that full-time job. How his smile, once so quick to bring out of him, turned into something you had to search for. How the light in his eyes, so blinding when he was on the ice, dimmed, little by little.
His hands trail under your shirt now as he peppers kisses down your throat.
“I miss you,” he sighs.
How he’ll wake up in the middle of the night and leave without a word, how you’ll see his location is at the ice rink, probably watching the Zamboni circle around. But he'd never bring his skates with him.
His lips meet yours again, deeper this time. His knee finds its way in between your legs.
You couldn’t do this anymore. It’s been far too many times, letting him wiggle his way back into your good graces. This was it. You would choose yourself this time.
Your fingers close around his wrists, gentle but firm. The warmth of his skin against yours nearly breaks your resolve, but you force yourself to meet his eyes. Even though it hurts.
“I think you should leave.”
You release yourself from his hold. Sunghoon's expression is unreadable, but you know by now it's a facade.
You could not carry his pain with you any longer. You needed him to let you go, just as much as you needed to let him go.
“Baby...” he starts, voice fragile.
“Don't,” you say quickly, lips pressed tight. “You can't call me that anymore, Sunghoon.”
His heart aches. He was supposed to be Hoon to you. Your Hoon. When did that change?
But he doesn't ask. He just watches you, eyes dark and full of all the things he never figured out how to say until it was already too late.
“The papers...” you pause, swallowing hard. You see a flicker of panic flash across his face.
“They're on the kitchen counter. Take them before you leave.”
Sunghoon did not take the papers.
In fact, just like Sunghee suggested, he went to the so-called “stupid” ice rink by himself.
He sits in the highest row of the stands, arms crossed, jaw clenched. The kids glide around the ice below. Parents he used to talk to are filming on the sidelines, their laughter echoing faintly off the cold, hard walls.
Envy coats his skin.
Coach Jung is barking commands at the kids. He sneaks glances up at Sunghoon every so often, trying to be subtle. But he knows what that look means. It’s pity.
At one point, Coach Jung had pulled him aside to tell him that Sunghee wasn't built for the sport. Not like Sunghoon was. She was too stiff, too in her own head about spinning in the air. She never cracked a smile when she was on the ice. She always kept her head low and movements small, as if it was still scary for her after years of practicing.
It's not like Sunghoon didn't notice, but he always thought she’d come around to it. He was pushed into figure skating by his parents, much like he was doing for her. It wasn’t like his passions ignited overnight. ‘It could be her dream if she let it be,’ he thought to himself.
Why couldn’t she let it? Why wouldn’t she even try?
Sunghoon sits in the stands, even after the kids pour out one by one and the lights start to dim. Coach Jung offers one last, forced smile before disappearing into the locker rooms. Sunghoon stays until he’s the only one left under the lights.
The Zamboni comes in, shaving and washing the ice to be used for the next day. When the machine finishes, the driver climbs out and heads up toward the stands. He's in his early twenties with blonde hair and dark eyes. He's moving towards Sunghoon with a smile.
Sunghoon stands up, a little intimidated by the younger man. His back turns to go up the stairs and to the exit, wanting to avoid a conversation.
“You're always here at night, sir,” the guy calls out. “Do you have a special connection to this place?”
Sunghoon stops in his tracks. He used to get recognized all the time. On the streets and in this very place. He used to mean something.
He turns around and gives a polite smile to the young man. He points at one of the many banners that hang from the ice rink walls. “Park Sunghoon” was in bright gold colors on each one.
“I used to train here,” he says, with a hint of pride. “National champion for ten straight years, from when I was 11 up until I was 21.”
The guy whistles softly, impressed.
“We could use you, you know?" he says. "I think they’re looking for a new coach. Heard the old one's retiring soon.”
Sunghoon flinches. “Coach Jung? He hasn't told me yet. My daughter trains with him.”
He can't bring himself to use the past tense with her just yet.
The young man just nods. "I think he's planning to announce it after the next competition."
Sunghoon feels his chest constrict. He shakes his head. Another person leaving.
“I guess everything’s changing…” he whispers, but it did not fall on deaf ears. The stranger moves closer to him. "We're all so old now."
The stranger sighs. “Youth can be so cruel, can't it?”
Sunghoon, in his confusion, scoffs.
“The opposite, actually,” he argues. “Life's easier when you're young. Anything was possible back then.”
He takes a second to continue.
“And it all can be taken from you,” he mutters, more to himself. “Before you even realize it.”
“That's the worst, isn't it?” The young man chimes in. He's sitting where Sunghoon was earlier. “When you wonder what could've been…”
Sunghoon’s mouth twists into something like a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“That's all I think about,” he said, surprised at himself for opening up to a stranger. And it's true.
What if he hadn’t stopped skating? What if you hadn’t gotten pregnant?
He sits back down, next to the Zamboni driver.
“We all have regrets,” the young man says, looking ahead, voice soft.
Sunghoon stares up at the ceiling and lets out a breathless laugh through the silence. Flashes of you overcame his vision. Nights of hushed arguments and facing away from each other on the bed. Nothing went his way after the World Championships. He lost it all. His passion. His dreams. You.
“Why does it have to be that way?” he asks no one in particular.
A silence fills the room. The blonde turns his head to face him. “Maybe you could live a life without one, Park Sunghoon.”
He stills for a second.
“How did you know my na-” And as Sunghoon turns to face the stranger, he is met with nothing. Like the man was never there in the first place.
He's driving in that ugly, neon green Kia Soul, making his way back to Sunoo's egregiously large mansion.
Sunghoon's grip on the steering wheel tightens every time he checks the rearview mirror. He can’t shake the feeling like he’s being watched. That guy… the way he talked, like he knew him. Not just his name, but everything underneath.
But screw that guy and whatever cryptic bullshit he was spouting. Screw his perfect friends, rich and successful. Every time they reunite, it’s like a reminder of everything Sunghoon’s not.
And screw the way Sunghee and Sungjae don’t even look at him like he matters. He tries. God knows he does. But they don’t know him. Don't know who either of you were outside of being their parents.
And you know what? Screw you and those damn papers too-
SCRREEEEE.
In an instant, his world is spinning out of control. Airbags deploy as Sunghoon jostles in a car that tumbles with him. The last thing he remembers is flashing lights and the loud sound of a crash. A sharp pain shoots through the left side of his body, and he feels as if he is coming in and out of consciousness.
Sunghoon's eyes blink open, but he's not lying where he thinks he should be. It’s not the inside of a casket, nor is it a hospital room ceiling. He lies there with a cold and familiar feeling.
Ice.
Instead of the wrinkled suit he threw on that morning, he’s wearing sweatpants and a fitted black top. Not a scratch on him. No blood, no bruises.
Was he dead?
“Is just one axel hard for you now, kid?” a voice calls out.
He recognizes it almost immediately. Coach Jung. Sunghoon sits up, yanking his gloved hands from the coldness. What the fuck was happening?
“Get your ass back up and do it again,” Coach Jung shouts from the sidelines. The music starts again. Sunghoon’s eyes flutter shut, and he swears it's muscle memory. He knows this routine. The one from that night. The night he met you.
He moves. Instinct takes over. Jumps, spins, the sharp sound of his blades cutting clean into the ice. Every turn and landing exactly where it should be. He’s smiling from ear to ear now, almost childlike.
And if he were dead and this was the last thing he'd ever experience, then maybe dying wasn't so bad. He’d stayed off the ice for years, terrified that if he felt this weightless feeling again, that his regrets would consume him.
“Perform like that and you'll win no matter what,” Coach Jung calls out as the music fades. Even breathless, Sunghoon felt like he could do ten more spins across the ice. His heart was racing. Everything felt so real. The soreness of his muscles, the cold air against his skin, the echoes of Coach's voice.
“What day is it today?” Sunghoon asks abruptly. "And what year?"
He’s pinching his wrist now, nails digging in and almost drawing blood. He flinched. It hurt like hell. Was this not a dream?
“Kid, did you hit your head when you fell?” Coach Jung laughs.
And when he says the exact date, Sunghoon's confused. It wasn’t like today was anything special. Just a random Tuesday. So why would this moment, 16 years ago, be where he ended up after crashing his car?
Looking at the reflection of his younger, more athletic self in the mirror, he just couldn't believe it. No matter how much he slapped his face or banged his head against the locker room door, he was still here. In this younger body.
He's walking home from practice now. His phone buzzes in his pocket of the boys’ group chat, the old one they used to fill with dumb inside jokes before you and the other significant others joined the group. But your name is yet to be in his contacts.
And then he remembers. It’s three days before you’re in the stands of the smaller national competition he won many years ago.
He’s not one to panic, but his thoughts are running in circles. Did he actually go back in time, or is this all in his head?
He sees someone in his periphery. A man around his age, standing near the curb, waving. Casual. Like they’ve met before. And they have.
The Zamboni driver.
He has a sinister smile, one that sends shivers down Sunghoon’s spine. Sunghoon doesn’t hesitate. He marches forward and grabs him by the collar. “Who the fuck are you? Is this happening because of you?”
The man smirks, clearly amused.
“You wanted to try, right? A life without regrets?”
Sunghoon glares at him, confused. “What?”
“Park Sunghoon,” the blonde says sternly. “This is your last chance. Use it wisely.”
Before he can respond, the man shoves him back.
“What are you talk-”
And as he blinks, the stranger disappears. His head starts throbbing uncontrollably, and ringing sets in his ears. He hears a voice then, yet he can’t recognize it.
“What will you choose in this life?”
Even as the reality of everything he left behind starts to settle, he feels a strange sense of calm wash over his grief.
He knows what to do.
three days later.
Sunghoon sees you in the corner of his eye as he’s tightening his skates. You’re sitting with your friends, ones who had encouraged you to come and watch him. Back then, he was all anyone on campus could talk about. The quiet freshman with Olympic dreams who just missed his opportunity last year. He was skating harder than ever, pushing himself to the edge. Skipping classes. Shutting out everything but the rink.
Until you came along.
He remembers your first date. He'd asked awkwardly, “How come you like me?” because he genuinely didn’t understand.
It’s not like the plushie you threw was the first with a phone number taped to it. Not even the tenth. He got plenty of confessions growing up, but he wanted to know why. What made anyone interested in an introverted and one-track-minded guy like him? He had no hobbies outside of figure skating, no real conversation skills that went past awkward greetings.
Yet, you teased him with that Cheshire grin of yours.
“How could I not?" you say so casually as his heart bloomed. "I’ve never seen someone pour so much love into what they do until I met you. You know what you want. I admire that.”
Your words stuck with him. He’d never forgotten it. And even now, those words echo in his chest as he skates to the center of the ice.
The music starts, and he lets himself get lost in the rhythm. As he glides across the ice, there is nothing on his mind. He just takes it all in. The roar of the audience. The sound of skates hitting ice. It’s all he ever wanted.
The routine, like in the past, was met with a standing ovation. The screams of those in the stands overwhelm him. He goes to each section of the rink, bowing as tears threaten to spill over. It’s all too much. And not enough.
Then, he reaches yours. Sunghoon finds you in the sea of people like he did before. Your hair is down, and your face is softer. He chokes back on his tears, so enthralled by your beauty. He couldn’t take his eyes off you.
He bows, more deeply than to the other sections.
You throw that stuffed penguin through the air at the perfect time as it lands by his feet. And as Sunghoon rises from the bow, your eyes are on him again. Expectant.
You don’t know him yet. Not really. You aren't aware of the pain to come. The fights. The distance. The way he’ll drain all the color from your life.
As he turns to move to the final section, he catches a flicker of sadness in your eyes. A frown is present on your beautiful face. He wants to make it go away, but he can’t. Not in this life.
And so the penguin sits on the ice, lifeless, as he skates off the rink.
That night, he skips the afterparty. He goes straight to his shitty studio apartment, the one with the thin walls and peeling paint, and collapses on the bed.
He buries his face into the sheets, the fabric dampening his sobs. The crowd’s cheers still ring faintly in his ears, but now it all sounds hollow. He screams then, into the mattress, at the thought of Sunghee and Sungjae. His babies. The only pieces outside of you in his old life that made it worth fighting for. Would they ever exist in this version of his life?
He tries to steady himself. Tells himself this was for the best. That your life would be easier without him as your words echoed in his head.
"If I knew this was how we'd end up, we should have never even met."
No years wasted, no sacrifices stacked on top of each other until they became resentment. No nights spent worried about bills or appeasing your parents, who never really quite liked him.
He wants to believe he’s doing you a favor.
But the tears don’t stop. Not when he thinks about the weight of Sunghee in his arms the first time he held her. Not when he remembers teaching Sungjae how to read with his tiny hands clutching the book, his eyes lighting up at each new word.
He’s letting it all go. All of it.
This was supposed to be his second chance. To live his dream without regrets. To see what it felt like.
And it felt like hell.
The next few nights were abysmal. Practice became unbearable. He wasn’t eating. He wasn’t sleeping. His body hit the ice harder whenever he missed a spin, which was every time at this point. Coach Jung eventually pulled him aside, clearly frustrated.
“Go home, Sunghoon. Straighten yourself out and get the hell off my ice.”
But home didn’t feel real. None of this did.
He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t keep skating like this, not when every turn reminded him of you.
Sunghoon had to see you. Just once. Just enough to know you were okay. He told himself the kids would still exist somehow, even if your love story started differently in this version of life. That thought was the only thing holding him together.
He freshens himself up to go to campus, not having touched his backpack in weeks. He remembers your route like the back of his hand. Morning coffee at the cafe just off campus, right before your 9 AM. He will intercept you here, at this corner of the street.
Sunghoon's in a black turtleneck, wearing the glasses you would always steal off of him. The one that made you squirm under his intense gaze. The air was chilled, and his hands were buried deep in his navy jeans. He sees you coming into view, and he almost extends a hand to wave.
But he sees him, too.
Beomgyu. Your ex. The one who would ask your friends how you were doing, knowing full well that you were married with kids. The one who eventually became a guitarist for a band he would pretend not to like. Sunghoon had asked you to block him from everything before, and you complied. It hurt to admit that his insecurities were still present even now, in another life.
Sunghoon hides behind a tree as he watches you two struggle through the cold. Your shoulders are close but not quite touching. He feels his heart rate accelerate, his lips pursed to prevent himself from saying anything that would compromise his hiding spot.
“Beomgyu, you don’t have to walk me to class,” he overheard you say with a laugh. “I’m okay, really.”
Sunghoon’s hands balled into fists. Why did your voice sound an octave higher than it usually does?
Beomgyu had the nerve to laugh, and it took Sunghoon everything in himself not to jump out.
You once told him that Beomgyu was your first love. Your high school boyfriend. You had ended things on good terms at the end of high school to find yourselves in college.
“Good,” Sunghoon once said. “Because you found me.”
And now here you were, looking happy. Grinning from ear to ear. What was there to smile about?
“Doesn’t this remind you of old times? You used to stuff your hands in my pockets-”
And though Sunghoon almost wills himself to leave the spot behind the tree, he doesn’t. Because he needed to watch this. Needed to watch you live the life you would’ve had without him. The easier one.
He sees it now in the way your nose would scrunch to laugh at Beomgyu’s jokes. How you playfully hit the boy’s shoulder and hide your giggles with the sleeve of your puffer jacket.
Maybe that’s why the stranger had chosen this year. To taunt him.
Look how happy someone else could make her. Was he the only reason why you were miserable? How much did he really hold you back?
And so Sunghoon steps aside, shoving his hands back in his jeans. The icy wind cuts through his reddened cheeks. He asked for this. And he’ll have to live with it in this life.
Sunghoon turns around to give you one last look. But he also sees Sunghee, in her Elsa costume for Halloween. Sungjae asking for a mountain of kimchi at every restaurant. Your hand reaching for his across the dinner table.
He’ll have to live with it.
In the next three years, Sunghoon put his all into skating. He is consumed by it. Throws himself into it like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.
His professors have to send him emails to remind him not to neglect his studies. His mother scolds him for missing holidays at home because he travels so much for competitions. But Sunghoon doesn’t care.
He loves figure skating. Loves the endless cheers from the crowd when he lands a clean program. Loves the headlines, the trophies lining his apartment shelves, the constant buzz of being "the nation's pride." It’s everything he knew he wanted.
But, there’s always that one seat in the stands. The one you used to sit in during his competitions, holding up a handmade banner and shouting his name louder than anyone.
Now, the face in that seat changes all the time. Some new fan. Some stranger holding a sign that doesn't mean anything to him.
He tells himself the past doesn’t matter. That this version of you, the one who laughs in cafes with Beomgyu, who’s always posting photos from new cities, new hobbies, new lives, wouldn’t even recognize the girl he remembers.
The girl who used to sit cross-legged on his couch, studying while he iced his ankle. Who wept with joy the night he won first at an international competition.
Now you’re in a photography club. A painting class. Pottery? Really?
You travel more now than you two ever did in your 16 years together. He scrolls past your updates with a numb thumb, telling himself he’s glad. He guesses that he did the right thing.
And every time he walks past you with Beomgyu, smiling with all your teeth, it lingers. Those damn words are repeating in his head again.
"If I knew this was how we'd end up, we should have never even met."
Now he gets it. He guessed that he held you back from so much. Look at you with your wonderful friends and the amazing life you live without him! He scoffs. You deserve it.
You adjusted to him and his demanding training schedule, canceling plans with people so that you could maximize the time you had with him in the rare chance that he was in town. Maybe Beomgyu never would’ve asked you to sacrifice like that. Maybe he would’ve waited for you to come home from your clubs, instead of dragging you to cold rinks and rushed meals together in between practice sessions.
Sunghoon's fine. He swears on it.
Wake up. Go to class (if he feels like it). Skate for hours. Push through the pain. Go home. Cry into his pillow. Rinse and repeat.
The Olympics are a year away. The World Championships are in two months.
And the night you two conceived Sunghee is tomorrow.
tomorrow.
He wills himself to stay home, even when the boys suggest he hit up a few bars and clubs. It's the weekend after all.
But Sunghoon is used to making excuses by now. Blames it on his training schedule, his diet, Coach Jung. Whatever would get Jake off his back.
So when Sunghoon hears a knock at his door, and three boys pull up already reeking of alcohol, he’s surprised that he finds himself in that exact bar where he promised himself he wouldn’t be.
It’s just like before. Same music, same sickening smell of spilled tequila and too much cologne from Heeseung. And, as always, he’s bad at poker. Worse than he remembers. He’s downing a shot after every loss until his head is spinning and he can’t remember the rules anymore.
“I’m gonna… go… pee…” he tries to say, but his words get lost in mumbles and drooping eyes. He miraculously stumbles towards the restroom and does his business in the urinal. He’s dousing his face with water after barely washing his hands, and he smiles at his reflection. God, why didn’t he want to go out again?
Sunghoon exits the restroom, shaking his wrists to expel the water from his hands. And his breath catches. He sees you.
Your back’s to him at first, your sparkly red dress riding up on the stool just like it was that night. You’re laughing at something the bartender says. And he swears for a second, time stops.
Maybe it’s the alcohol. Or maybe it’s the years of missing you bottled up too tight. But he starts walking over before he can stop himself.
“Hey,” he says plainly, elbow hitting the bar. You turn towards him, eyebrows raised in curiosity.
He'll be different in his first impressions this time. More experienced and confident than the shy fool he was when he met you. He'd match this new version of you, too. Show you what you were missing out on.
There’s a confused smile on your face.
“Hi.” He looks at you more clearly, his vision impaired from leaving his glasses at home and the tequila shots in his system.
“You come here often?” He’s too out of his senses to stop himself from saying it. But he doesn’t regret it because you laugh. He does too.
“You say that to every girl, Park Sunghoon?”
His heart skips a beat. “You know my name?”
You roll your eyes, taking a sip of the cocktail that the bartender just handed you.
“Call me a fan,” you smile up at him, and he swears he could have melted right then and there. “Your face is everywhere.”
Sunghoon licks his lips, his mouth suddenly dry.
“I wish I could see more of yours,” he grins. “I think I’d skate ten times better if I saw you in the crowd.”
You scoff jokingly. “And here I thought winning was enough for you.”
It should be. It was supposed to be.
He promised himself he wouldn’t do this. That he’d leave you alone. He would let you go about your life, forget him, and be who you wanted to be. Who you should have been before he came to your life.
But here you are, impossibly close, and every part of him is begging not to let you go.
"You... you single?" he asks, trying to be casual. But his voice catches at the end. He wants to know. Needs to hear from your own lips if you actually chose Beomgyu in this life.
Relief washes over him when you shake your head.
"Wouldn't be talking to you if I was," you say with a teasing grin. Electricity shoots through him as he watches you. Too bright, too much. This short conversation, one he never planned on having, could never satisfy him. He could never get enough of you.
“Do you wanna get out of here?” he asks before he could stop himself, arm outstretched for you to take. Your face stiffens, and he almost thinks you’d say no until your fingers wrap around his arm.
“Where to?”
You barely make it past his front door before he has you up against it. His hands hold yours above your head, pinning your body against his. Sunghoon’s lips move against you ferociously, an unending battle between your tongues. You try to match his movements, but he is starved beyond belief.
You have no idea how badly he missed this.
Three years since he last heard you speak to him. Three years since he’s felt your lips. And the last time was when you asked him to pick up some stupid divorce papers from the kitchen counter. He needs this. Needs this more than breathing, more than eating, more than skating.
Sunghoon lifts you to wrap your legs around his middle. His hands find your bottom, giving a gentle squeeze that has you arching into him. He didn’t want to scare you, but he couldn’t will himself to stop. Your scent was too intoxicating for his mouth to ever leave yours.
You tap at his chest to push him away softly. With bruised lips, you whisper, “Can we go to your bed?”
He could almost moan just from the sound of you. His sweet, beautiful wife. Still so perfect for him.
His grip on your ass tightens as he maneuvers you through the studio apartment you once shared, laying you softly on the bed. Sunghoon wonders why you two just went at it like animals at the entrance way when the bed was only a few steps away back then. This time, he would savor it. Savor you.
He follows you down as he trails kisses on your neck. You crane it for him like you used to, giving him access to your most sensitive spots. His hands trail underneath your dress, teasing the hem of your panties. He looks up at you, silently asking for permission. All you could do was nod, opening your legs wide for him to continue. His dick twitches in his pants. You drive him insane.
Sunghoon peppers a few more kisses on your collarbone as his index finger prods carefully at your clothed pussy.
“Already soaked,” he whispers into your skin, pressing the pads of his fingers onto your underwear. Liquid courage still very much in his system.
He feels bold right now, eager to impress. He doesn't know who you've been with in this life, but he'll make you forget them all. Fuck you so good that you forget those experiences. Remind you that he's your husband for a reason. His fingers hook the side of your ruby red panties, gliding them down your plush thighs.
“I bet I’d go in so easily, huh?” his drunken voice slurs out. "So fucking wet."
When you nod again, he tsks. So silent, and for what? His fingers find your clit, ghosting over it. You arch to lean into his touch, but his hand retracts.
“Use your words, baby,” he says darkly. “Whatever you want, I can give it to you.”
You groan, eyes shut in frustration. “Can’t you just fuck me?”
He laughs. Always so uncharacteristically vulgar when horny. He loves it. He loves you.
“Can’t I get a taste first, baby?” he says, his face already inching downwards. He pulls your dress all the way off you, so that your breasts are finally exposed. Your satin red bra matched your panties like they were made to be seen tonight. He didn’t know why that fired him up so badly.
Would another man have you like this if he didn't make a move?
He dips his head between your thighs, latching his mouth onto your clit. You gasp at the suddenness, not knowing how much you’ve angered him just from your underwear choices. His tongue moves downwards, lapping at your folds like a man dying of thirst. His hands pinned your legs to open even wider, and you writhed underneath him.
“Please-” you beg, hands gripping his hair as his tongue plunges into your wetness. Sunghoon’s eyes roll to the back of his head at the sensation. He could never, ever forget this taste.
He pushes his tongue in and out as deeply as he can with his curled tongue, grinding against the mattress for any semblance of stimulation.
He would make love to you tonight. Until you remember who he was. Until you remember the life you built together.
His tongue does one agonizing lick all the way up to your clit, and your back arches just to feel him better. He’s sucking it harshly, tongue flicking at it in all the right ways.
“Sunghoon-” you cry out, your feet digging into the mattress to push your hips up to meet his ravenous lips. He pulls away and glares up at you. Your hips fall.
“Why’d you stop?” you whine, pushing his hair back down to your core. It takes everything in him not to laugh. He adores you like this. Desperate for him. Needy for him. Shaking in pleasure for whom? Him.
“Don’t call me that,” he whispers into your inner thigh, nipping at it slightly. He chuckles at your confused expression. “Hoon. If you’re gonna moan my name while I fuck you, I need you to say it properly.”
Your cheeks warmed. Heaving out a groan, you nod your head anyway.
“H-hoon,” you test out. “Can you please continue?”
He smiles mischievously. “With what?”
You huff out in frustration. “I swear if you don’t fucking make me cum right now I’m going to-”
And his lips smash down on yours to shut you up. His hands replace his tongue as his middle finger draws figure-8s on your clit. He pulls your slickness from your folds and up to that sweet spot, relishing in the indecent noises between your legs.
Your moans are muffled by his tongue, body twitching underneath his. You taste yourself, so sweet on his lips as he caresses the most inner parts of your mouth. So dirty and so wet. He knew every part of you. Knew what made you cry, knew what made you scream. And fuck, he will make you scream.
He pulls away from you to admire his ruthless pace on your clit.
You are clenching around nothing as your nails dig into his shoulders. He coaxes a gasp out of you as a coil in your stomach starts to form.
“Want me so fucking bad, don't you?” he teases, his other hand on the nape of your neck. Sunghoon tilts your head down to show you the mess you were making.
His sheets are stained with your arousal, and his fingers are drawing circles on your bundle of nerves with such fervor. You catch a glimpse of his painfully clothed member.
He was right. You wanted him so desperately, wanted to feel him inside you at that very moment. Your breath hitches. Fuck. You felt something building.
Your hips start to rise again, and it’s hard to formulate a sentence.
“Hoon! Oh my god– Fuck it’s– It’s–” You cry out as Sunghoon’s pace quickens, motivated by the sound of your moans. His other hand tries to anchor your thighs down. You feel it as you start to lose vision in your eyes. His thumb is rubbing so intensely that it draws a whine right out of you.
The coil inside of you snaps.
“Fuuuck…Ngh…”
A wave of pleasure washes over you, and you feel your juices coat your folds, dripping more than before.
You're squirming underneath him, thighs twitching from the stimulation. He slows his pace, drawing out your orgasm for as long as possible.
His cock was in pain, desperate for it to make contact with any part of you. In this life, one thing he developed over the past three years of watching you in the shadows was patience. And you had none.
“God, just put it in,” you groan so casually, resting your forearm to shield your eyes away from him. You were so fucked out. Hair splayed all over the pillow in messy waves. Lips bruised, your cherry gloss staining your chin and his cheek.
So eager to just have him take you. If he were a weaker man (maybe Beomgyu), he would have listened. But like he said earlier. He would savor this.
His fingers travel down to your folds, one dancing at your entrance to tease you. Sunghoon smirks as you whimper. He pushes a finger in and bites his lip at the feeling. He hasn’t felt you, or anyone for that matter, in ages. In these past three years, he couldn't bring himself to even talk to another woman who wasn't you. It didn't feel right.
All the lonely, and frankly sad, nights touching himself to thoughts of you. Fucking himself on his wrist as he remembers all the nights you’ve shared in your 13 years of marriage. He had plenty of material to work with, with all of your past escapades, but it was nothing like the real thing. Nothing like feeling you again.
“Sunghoon, stop teasing me-”
His finger stilled, and you thought about cursing him out. He pulls your forearm away from your eyes, forcing you to look into his.
“Want to try that again?” he says, threateningly slow. The darkness of his gaze was enough to have you pliant and doe-eyed.
“Hoon?” He smiles, kissing you on the forehead softly.
“Good girl.” And just like that, he dips another finger in, scissoring them into you with precision. You’re a mess underneath him, overstimulated beyond belief, but he honestly couldn’t give less of a fuck. He needed you to be ready for him. His heaviness was throbbing painfully just thinking about how you'd take him after all this time.
How long would it take you to adjust to his size?
Sunghoon’s fingers squelch with each thrust, finding the soft spot he was so familiar with. He’s obsessed, drinking in the sight of your eyelashes fluttering, your hands gripping at his shoulders like your life depended on it. You were so wrapped up in your own pleasure, fucking yourself onto his fingers. Grinding up at him without a care in the world.
“Look at you,” he laughs. “So needy.”
Sunghoon pulls his fingers out of you before he brings them to his lips. He hums, relishing the taste. He’d have to go down on you again later tonight. Taste you after his cock has had its fill.
You watch him in anticipation as he takes his pants off. You follow his lead as you unhook your bra, throwing it across his floor, sighing at the feeling of cool air hitting your nipples. Sunghoon pulls his throbbing member out of his briefs, pumping himself languidly.
Sunghoon's eyes meet yours for a second before they go back to your cunt. He's churning something in his mouth, and you almost ask him what he was doing until he positions his mouth just above your folds.
With sultry eyes directly gazing up at yours, Sunghoon lets his saliva drip down onto your pussy.
You throw your head back on the pillow from the sight. Fuck, that was hot. He moves back up to you, guiding his hand to spread his spit with the tip of his leaking cock.
His dick smears your joined liquid in an up-and-down motion, pushing in ever-so-slightly. You gasp and clutch his chest, nails digging in enough to get his attention. He stops.
“I’m not on birth control,” you mutter, like you’re scared to tell him.
“Should I stop?” he asks, even with his tip pulsing so desperately between your folds. You avoid eye contact, though he doesn’t know why.
“Look at me.” he growls.
Sunghoon tilts your chin to face him, and with glossy eyes, you shake your head. He smiles, and a tinge of sadness hits him. You look so soft underneath him, so fucking beautiful.
He’s spent three years stuck in this version of his life, crying over you to avoid this very moment. But he just wanted you so bad. Wanted to feel you at least once again. Then, he’ll let go, he swears. This will be the first and last.
“Use your w-”
You interrupt him with a kiss, wrapping your legs around him to push him deeper into you. He groans, collapsing onto his elbows. You dig your heels into his back as you pull him in deeper. Sunghoon's lips leave you to lay his forehead against yours. His breathing grows heavy, so lost in how your hole sucks him in.
“So fucking tight,” he groans, testing the waters with a small thrust after bottoming out. You squeak in response. “Fuck, baby.”
He wraps you in a tight hold, propping his knees underneath your thighs into a mating press. He fucks into you at an agonizing pace. It's so slow, you could feel every part of his rigid cock. His large size. His thick veins. The soft pulsing. It's so slow that you almost flip him over to ride him instead. But the desperation in his eyes stops you. His head buries deep in your hair, and you could hear the shakiness of his breath as he pulls out of you and plunges back in.
Sunghoon relishes the way you clench around him, your tight warmth pulling him deeper and deeper with each thrust. He drives himself into you with languid, but strong thrusts. He wants to engrave his place inside you so that you are ruined for anyone who might come after him. And again, he angers himself.
"You only this good for me?" he asks, searching your eyes for reassurance. But you aren't listening. You meet his thrusts, grinding yourself onto him. You want more. More of his touch. More of his length. Just more of him.
“Faster–” you whine, thighs pushing into his sides with each hard thrust. He was reaching the deepest part of you, your cervix kissing his tip ever so deliciously. Sunghoon doesn’t abide, so you take what he gives you.
"You this desperate for everyone, baby?" he whispers into your ear darkly. You shake your head, tears forming in your eyes.
"No..." you muster out. "Just you."
And even through all the tequila and the self-restraint not to jackhammer into you, he believes you.
His hands are on your tits now, catching them as they bounce with the strength of his slow thrusts. He twists a nipple between his fingers, coaxing a moan out of you. He tugs and pulls, and it's enough to have you moaning underneath him.
You feel that familiar fire build inside of you. An ember that burned in your lower stomach and traveled down to the very tip of your toes.
“Hoon! Please- Fuck- I need... I need-”
You couldn’t form full sentences. His thrusts were so harsh and still so painstakingly slow. His eyes never left your face. He basked in the way your brows furrowed for him. How your lips formed silent screams as he hit that certain spot within you. Again and again.
“Tell me what you want,” he whispers hoarsely, his lips so close to yours. “Tell me who you need.”
“You!” you cry out. "Only you!"
He smashes his lips against yours as he finally thrusts into you hard and fast. His hands on your breast travel down to your waist, locking you onto the mattress as he fuck into you.
You feel something pooling, feel the tingling of your toes intensify with his breath against your face. His moans are just as loud as yours, grunting in your hair like a beast.
“You feel so fucking good–” his hips piston forward, brushing against that spot with every movement. Your chest is pressed into his as you claw at his back. The sensation builds and builds as your stomach starts to tighten.
“Hoon- Oh my god- I’m-Angh!”
Your second orgasm rips through you, the tension within snapping like a chord. It's so much stronger than your first one. It hits you in waves as you weep through it, your hips grinding up to meet his unending thrusts. You were so sore, so sensitive, but his pace stayed so relentless.
“Close– So fucking close, baby–” he moans into your hair.
He clutches your hips, driving into you with reckless abandon. Even if you had no idea who he was, he would have your body remember him. Sunghoon, in this life, would be your best one-night stand. He swears on it.
He grunts as he feels you clench around him harder, his hips stuttering against yours.
“I’m gonna–” He tries to pull out, tries to push you away. Tries not to repeat the same mistakes. But your arms pull him downward as legs wrap sternly around his waist. You push him in deeper.
And he comes. Hard.
“Fuck-”
Sunghoon plants an open-mouthed kiss on your lips, drowning out his sweet noises as he feels his raw cock twitch deep inside. His hot cum spills deep inside you with thick spurts. Your lips parted at the warm feeling, and he could tell you enjoyed every bit of milking him dry.
Sunghoon pulls away from you with a soft groan. He watches as his cum spills out of you. He brings his finger to your folds, pushing his fluids into you.
As he meets your eyes, he’s shocked to see how concerned you look. Because unbeknownst to him, there were tears streaking down his face. And before he can fully sober up and stop himself, he says it.
"I love you."
You’re gone before he wakes up.
Sunghoon screams into his pillow, recalling his words like a bad nightmare. Stupid. So stupid. This was supposed to be different. He was supposed to be different.
That stranger, whoever he was, said this was his last chance. And what did he do? He threw away three years of silent pining just to chase you down on the very night the troubles in your relationship had begun.
Was he a fucking idiot?
You never even said goodbye, never even replied to his confession last night. Didn’t even leave a trace of what last night meant to you—if it meant anything at all. He must’ve looked insane.
Sunghoon grips the back of his neck, exhaling hard. You don’t know him. You aren’t the same girl from his past life. You're different now. Three years. That’s how long you’ve had to become someone else.
And him? He hasn’t changed at all. He’s still chasing ghosts. If it wasn't figure skating in his past life, it would be you in this one.
He sighs and sits up. Practice. He should go to practice.
two months later.
“Are you messing around, kid, or do you actually want to win this thing?!” Coach Jung shouts after Sunghoon falls on his ass for the umpteenth time. His palms sting from the fall, but he barely feels it.
The World Championships are in a week, and he hasn’t heard a single peep from you since you left his apartment. Hasn’t seen you on campus in his usual routes to watch you from afar. He knew he had reached a new level of patheticness when he actually went up to Beomgyu to ask how you were.
Turns out, you two weren't even as close as he thought you were. He smiled to himself after that, but frowned when he realized that it truly was as if you had disappeared.
“Sorry,” he huffs, out of breath from the demanding routine. “One more time?”
Coach Jung pinches the bridge of his nose. “How about ten more, you punk? Get your act together.”
Coach mutters something under his breath and storms off, leaving Sunghoon alone with the cold silence of the rink. He tries again. Falls again. He smacks his gloved hand against the ice, hard enough that the sharp sting shoots up his arm. He should’ve known. The moment he got a taste of you, he knew this would happen.
No matter when or how, he would always bother you. He would always lose himself. He would always manage to ruin everything.
“Are you living the life you wanted, Park Sunghoon?” a voice echoes behind him. He spins on his skates.
There he is again. The blonde prick. Somehow, he’s in his sneakers and standing still on the ice. His hands are smug in his coat pockets.
Sunghoon doesn’t take the time to question it until he’s skating at breakneck speed towards him.
He swings at him, but the stranger disappears into smoke.
“Or do you still have regrets?” the voice is behind him again. Sunghoon turns around to the stranger, giving him that annoying, shiteating grin.
“I want out,” Sunghoon says with a strained jaw. “Bring me back. To Sunghee. To Sungjae. To her. Now.”
The blonde laughs. “You haven’t even done what you set out to do yet. Wasn't this what you wanted?”
Sunghoon lets out a bitter sigh, chest tight.
“I get it, okay?" he says with wavering breaths. "I was selfish. I asked for too much. I get it now. So just... please. Please, send me back.”
The boy steps forward. His sneakers make no sound on the ice. Inches away from Sunghoon now, just a little taller than him.
“You don’t always get what you want in life,” the stranger says with that sick, twisted grin. It sends a rush of dread through Sunghoon's body.
“I thought you would have learned that by now.”
the world championships.
He’s in the locker room. His left leg is bouncing up and down, nail splitting as he gnaws at it incessantly. Only ten contestants ahead of him, but he has the time to panic. Just like he did before.
Coach Jung pats him on the shoulder. “Don’t think too much. You're gonna psych yourself out.”
Sunghoon shakes his head, unlocking his phone to check the time. The lockscreen, snow falling past a dark streetlight, holds his gaze longer than it should. He sighs.
“I'm not nervous,” Sunghoon replies, unconvincingly. “It's just cold.”
Coach Jung rolls his eyes.
“You're not new to this, kid,” he doubts the young man. “You're gonna do great out there. This is what you've been dreaming of. Just don't mess it up.”
And when Coach Jung shuts the door behind him, Sunghoon puts his hands to his face. And instead of self-affirmations, he is trembling. Barely breathing, he replays the memory again. Of him spinning you in his arms. Of your kind smile.
Sunghoon told himself not to expect you. In this lifetime, you'd only met once. Only fucked once. But he still thought... maybe the universe would be kind. Maybe you’d show up like you did back then.
“Can the remaining five acts please be on stand-by?” the overhead speaker blares into the locker room. That's him. He's one of the last five.
There’s no one to hold him back this time. No distractions. Just an aching in his chest.
Sunghoon's by the stands now. He watches with shaky hands as the crowd ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ at his competitors’ routines. He hates watching before his turn.
His eyes naturally fall on a seat in the stands. He blinks, rubbing his eyes to check if he was hallucinating.
Someone sits there. Not a stranger. Not this time. It's you. Your brows furrowed like you were forcing yourself not to enjoy his competitor’s performance. Wearing the same outfit. He huffs a laugh under his breath. What are you doing here?
As the routines passed one by one, he could not take his eyes off you. Even from afar, your eyes glisten so beautifully. The same eyes that once glowed, helping the kids with homework. The same eyes that looked at him across the table after long days and short tempers. His wife. The mother of his children. The version of life he gave up for this one.
Now, he would have to settle for this. Longing stares and a heartbeat he could hear in his ears.
“Next to skate, representing the People's Republic of Korea. Sunghoon Park!”
He steps onto the ice with a big smile on his face. He forces it out, forces himself to act fine when you cheer at the sound of his name. He takes his pose at the center of the ice.
The music begins. His edges wobble, nerves bleeding into the blade. He practiced day and night, no distractions. Not even you. So why… Why was this happening?
He takes in a deep breath as he prepares himself for the first spin. He’s skating backwards, building up momentum. He pushes off the ice. Toe pick hits.
Sunghoon rose high. He spots himself. One. Two. Three. Almost four– but his shoulders tilt, the axis too loose. The rotation slows. A half-second of weightlessness gives way to gravity, and he’s tumbling onto the ice hard.
Gasps echo through the arena, and then applause as he brushes himself back up and onto his skates again.
He gets up. He keeps going. Muscle memory takes over. The rest of the routine is clean. Almost perfect, but not enough.
The first quad... He fucked it up. He bows, head down, as if apologizing for even trying.
And when the score is announced while he's sitting on the sidelines, his body is limp. He barely reacts, face blank with emotion.
He could blame you for it. Pretend you were the reason why his routine didn't score high. But the truth is, he stopped believing in excuses a long time ago.
Years of hating himself led here. All this time, resenting the path he took, only to fuck this one up, too.
Sunghoon had to laugh. He deserves it. Of course he did. The low score. You leaving him. The heartache.
Everything he thought he was capable of, everything he pushed aside to have this moment. None of it mattered without you.
As he rises from his seat on the floor, he searches for you in the endless crowd of faces. The other competitors pass by him with pity; he sees it in everyone’s faces. But they don't matter.
Because you're gone. Your seat is empty.
"Kid-"
He pushes past Coach Jung without looking back. There's nothing left to say.
Sunghoon pulls his skates off skillfully, breaking into a sprint towards the exit. He runs with only socks separating him from the floor.
Then he sees you, clutching your stomach and moving toward the exit. His breath catches. Somehow, he knows. He's seen it all play out before.
“[Y/N], wait!”
You stop in your tracks, hands trembling. You turn around, and he is already clutching your face, kissing you so deeply. You would have every right to push him away, to call him a creep and spit every insult at him. But you don’t, and he doesn’t understand why.
Instead, you lean into his touch, fingers fisting the thin fabric of his blouse. He’s the first to pull away, forehead resting against yours.
“Why are you here?” he asks. It’s not the only question he has, but it’s the first that comes out. You’re crying now, eyes wide, mouth parted. But why?
“I was just…” You try, but you fail to find the right words. “I just came to support you?”
Sunghoon shakes his head. He doesn't buy it. Not for a second. Your voice faltered. He knew better now not to let things linger.
“You came to tell me something,” he says knowingly, replaying the scene of the past in his head as it happens right in front of him. He smiles sadly, wiping a stray tear from your cheek. “What is it?”
You flinch.
“I can’t,” you whisper, the first barrage of tears falling down your face. “It'll ruin you.”
He laughs then. Quiet. Tired. Even in this life, you were so selfless. He doesn’t deserve you. Never did.
“You always say that. Even now.”
He takes your hands into his.
“Are you pregnant?” he asks, taking the words right out of your lips. Your mouth opens in shock.
“How did you-?”
“We'll figure it out,” Sunghoon interrupts softly. He was smiling now. Sunghee was here. She was growing inside you. “Together.”
For a moment, something shifts. You search his face like you’re looking for confirmation. And just like that, you pull away. What? It stings.
This didn't happen before. Why were you-
“You went back," you say. "Didn’t you?” Your voice sounds foreign now, laced with hurt. It’s his turn to look confused.
“What do you mean?” he asks, hands reaching for yours again. You avoid them, and he feels a sharp pain in his chest. “What are you talking about?”
“You… You went back in time like I did, right?” Sunghoon’s eyes widened. “That’s how you knew.”
He freezes.
It clicks. Like cold water hitting his skin. He remembers the first time he saw you in this life. How carefully he avoided you. How he left the penguin plushie behind, just like before. How badly you’d looked at him after that. It all makes sense now.
“I didn’t want to avoid you,” he musters. “I had every intention of finding you again. I passed by that damn cafe every day just to see you-”
You shake your head, but he keeps going, vomiting out word after word.
“I even tried to talk to you, but you looked so happy. All I could think about was the last time we spoke. How you said you regretted us. Watching you with Beomgyu, or whatever his name is-"
“Sunghoon-”
“I was fucking miserable-” His voice cracks.
“Sunghoon-” You’ve never heard him talk this much. Never seen him look so broken.
“And I couldn’t even fight the guy who dragged me into this mess. I was stuck. Thinking about you. About us. About Sunghee. Sungjae. God, I missed you all so fucking much it hurt to breathe—”
“Sunghoon, please—”
“And I should’ve just caught that stupid penguin. I should've just relived our memories together. I should’ve been a better man, a better husband, a better father. But I just keep fucking it up. Every single time, even now-”
“Hoon!” you shout, grabbing his face with your hands. His words die off. He finally breathes. You don’t look angry, not at him at least.
“I know,” you say quietly. “Because I didn’t put my number on the penguin.”
His mouth parts slightly. "Wha-"
"I thought I was the one who messed it all up," you confess. “When you didn’t pick up the plush, I thought it was because of me. Because I tried to change things.”
You swallow back your tears as he listens to you intently, your hands sliding to his chest.
“I thought you’d be better off without me, too.”
You let out a bitter laugh.
“I tried to fill the space,” you continue. “Tried to pick up things I couldn't before. But all I think about was Sunghee and Sungjae."
Your eyes waver, lips pressed together tightly.
"And you," you breathe out. "I saw you skating, training so hard, and you looked happy. I couldn’t bring myself to take it away from you again.”
You pause, lips trembling.
“So I made a plan. I thought—if I could just get Sunghee back, maybe one day I’d find you again for Sungjae.”
You both let out a shaky laugh.
"So then I went to the bar," you sigh. "I wore that red dress and I just hoped you would find your way to me again-”
“Of course I would,” Sunghoon interrupts, kissing your temple. “I always do.”
“And it worked.” You look at the ground like you're ashamed. “The test was positive. I wasn’t planning on telling you.”
Sunghoon takes your hands, forcing you to look at him. His eyes assure you.
“And then you fell during your routine,” you whisper, a sad laugh slipping out. "I thought… I avoided you all this time for nothing.”
He laughs too. “I wasn’t even going to win anyway.”
Sunghoon pulls you back into a hug, stroking your hair ever-so-softly.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “For making you ever feel like I regretted choosing you.”
And you didn’t know you needed to hear those exact words until you sob into his chest.
Sunghoon soothes you. He’s had enough crying. All he is now is grateful. The pain, the mourning. It all led him here.
“This time we’ll do it right,” he assures you. “I love you. I’m not letting you do this alone.”
You pull away from him, eyes wet but smiling.
“I love you too.”
And you tilt your head as he reaches down to kiss you. With your eyes both closed, the world around you spins. Just you and him. In each other’s arms. His lips are soft against yours.
And a voice unfamiliar to both of you echoes in the air.
“I hope you can live a life without regrets.”
Sunghoon’s eyes open groggily, pain shooting through his spine almost immediately. All he sees are sterile hospital walls and Jay and Sunoo’s concerned faces.
They hover over the foot of his bed, their faces a mix of worry and irritation.
He blinks, scanning the room. Wires. A blood pressure cuff. An IV drip. Another bed. Then your eyes flutter open too.
“You know, with how the divorce is going, we thought you two crashed into each other on purpose,” Sunoo chirps, unempathetic to the dazed state of his friends. Jay smacks him on the shoulder.
“You’re lucky I managed to get you both a private room,” Jay mutters. “The nurses kept whispering about you two in the ICU.”
Sunghoon turns his head slowly, wincing. You’re awake now, alert, your expression matching his. His chest tightens. And almost in a panicked daze, his head snaps back to his friends.
“Sunghee and Sungjae–” he strains out, pain shooting through his lungs. “Where are they?”
Jay furrows his brows.
“They weren’t in the car with [Y/N], if that’s what you’re worried about,” he starts. “They’re looking for a vending machine with Heeseung and Jungwon-”
You both let out a shaky breath. For a second, relief replaces pain. Your eyes meet his for just a second before the door bursts open.
“Mom! Dad!” Sunghee's voice cries out. She’s running towards you two now, but Heeseung stops them.
“Whoa there, princess. They’re fragile.”
Her eyes are red, as if she had just finished crying. Sungjae's behind Heeseung, tugging at his jacket, worry etched across his little face.
“You didn’t do it on purpose, did you?” Sunghee blurts in your direction. Sunghoon has to bite the inside of his cheek to stifle a laugh. “They don’t have it on camera, but they said your car hit Daddy’s!”
He feels something warm bloom in his chest. It’s been a while since Sunghee sounded so protective of him.
You shake your head frantically. “No, darling. My brakes stopped working! I could never hurt your dad. He and I love each other very much-”
You stop yourself, but it's too late—cheeks already warming at the shifting gazes of the four grown men in the room. Jungwon fakes a cough.
“Love? As in, present tense?” he teases.
Sunghoon has the biggest grin on his face, and Sunoo scoffs as his eyes pivot between the two of you.
“Did you both hit your head in the accident?”
Heeseung clears his throat. “So, why don’t we take the kiddos to dinner, hm? Looks like Mom and Dad have some catching up to do.”
Sungjae nods excitedly. “Please! They're so icky.”
The adults usher the kids out, and Jay gives one last wink to the two of you before the doors close. The room falls quiet except for the not-so-steady beeping of the monitors. Sunghoon is the first to speak.
“So... when do you want me to pick up the papers again?”
You laugh softly.
“Oh! I guess if you want to go through with it…”
“No!” Sunghoon shouts, eyes huge. 'He’s so cute when he doesn’t mean to be,' you think to yourself.
You tilt your head, smiling. “Then don’t even think about getting them.”
Your bed is near enough for you to inch your hand towards his forearm. Your touch is featherlight against his skin. It takes all of his strength to intertwine your fingers with his.
“So what does this mean for us?” you say through bated breath. He ponders for a second.
“It means… maybe I can build you an art studio in our garage?” he says cautiously. “And maybe I quit my job? Become a figure skating coach? How does that sound?”
You let out a stronger laugh this time, one that aches in your ribs but still feels good. And in this version of you, older and wiser. He still thinks you’re so beautiful.
“I don’t resent you,” he whispers. And your heart skips a beat, in a way that it hadn’t in a long time. You smile at him. And finally, you find the courage to say it in this life too.
“I love you.”
He brings your fingers to his lips and plants gentle kisses on your knuckles.
In every lifetime, Sunghoon knows. He could be standing on the Olympic stage, the roar of thousands echoing in his ears. He could have everything he ever thought he wanted. But none of it would matter. Not if you weren’t there.
“I love you too," he replies, quietly.
And in every lifetime, he will always find his way back to you. And he will choose you. Over and over again.
epilogue.
Sungjae is on the garage floor, legs crisscrossed as he watches something on his iPad. Sunghoon is installing shelves for your future artist corner while Sungjae's video is strangely on mute.
“What you watching, son?” he asks, trying to distract himself from the tight pull in his lower back.
Sungjae doesn’t look up. “Your skating videos.”
Sunghoon nearly drops the shelf on his eye. “W-what?”
Sungjae shrugs.
“Looks interesting,” he mutters. “Wish I could fly like that.”
Sunghoon sets the shelf down carefully, then crosses the room to crouch beside Sungjaee. On the screen, a much younger version of himself soars across the ice. He remembers that routine. His first national win.
“Didn't think you'd be into it,” he ruffles his son’s hair.
Sungjae shrugs again, but pink tinges his cheeks.
“You never asked.”
The words hit him. He never really did. Not even with Sunghee.
“Do you want to try?” Sunghoon asks slowly. “Figure skating?”
Sungjae finally looks up, eyes wide. “Can I?”
Sunghoon feels tears well up in his eyes, and he coughs them away. What was up with him and crying these days?
“Of course, son,” he says, pulling him into a gentle side hug. “You'll be my first student.”
PLOT! AITA for using my best friends inner thoughts to fuck with him throughout the week until he is forced to admit his feelings for me out loud?
CONTENT! Sunghoon/Fem!Reader, Fluff, Reader can hear thoughts, Bestie!Sunghoon, Sunghoon acts nonchalant, His thoughts tell a different story, SMUT minors ++ ageless blogs dni, Top!Sunghoon, Soft Dom!Sunghoon, Desperate!Sunghoon, P in V, Unprotected Sex (pls wrap b4 u tap), Oral (f receiving), Yearner!Sunghoon, I believe this is considered psychological warfare, Y/n is a literal menace.
AUTHORS NOTE! got this plot from a randomr eddit video i saw on tiktok where the girl was married to this nonchalant guy and she could suddenly hear his thoughts and he was such a loser who wanted her so badd OOOOH sunghoon ur perfect for this bend over.
WORD COUNT! 7.2k!!!
It was a cold January night when it first happened.
You were on the couch, watching Silence of the Lambs (aka the most absurd movie ever) with your best friend, Park Sunghoon. It was your weekly movie night, and last time was at his place, so this time was at yours.
The setup was the same as always. Blanket split unevenly between the two of you—his fault, it’s always his fault—your legs tucked underneath you, his stretched out across the coffee table like he owned the place. Which, at this point, was basically true. Sunghoon had a key. He knew where the good snacks were hidden. He’d argued with you about your IKEA furniture assembly and been right about it. If that didn’t make someone a co-owner, nothing did.
“This movie is not scary,” he said flatly, reaching into the popcorn bowl on your lap without looking away from the screen.
“I never said it was scary. I said it was disturbing. There’s a difference.”
“Well it’s neither.”
“A man is making a suit out of human skin, Sunghoon.”
“I’ve seen worse.”
You looked at him. “Where?”
He paused. “Nature documentaries.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself, and something shifted in his expression. Barely anything, just the faintest softening in the corner of his eyes. It was so quick you almost missed it. Almost.
That was the thing about Park Sunghoon. On the outside, he was the picture of composure. Unhurried. Unbothered. The kind of person who could be late to his own birthday party and somehow make everyone else feel like they’d arrived too early. He was like that in class, too. Front row, never frantic, taking notes in that annoyingly neat handwriting of his while everyone around him was three lectures behind and quietly spiraling.
You had met him in your first year, in a mandatory elective neither of you wanted to be in. He’d sat next to you because it was the only seat left, and when the professor had asked everyone to introduce themselves to the person beside them, he had looked at you and said—very seriously—"How fast do you think we could get through this syllabus if we actually tried?”
You had been best friends ever since.
It made sense, in the way that certain things just did. You moved at the same pace. You thought the same things were funny. You could sit in silence for hours and it never felt like anything needed to be filled. He was the person you called when something went wrong and also when something went right. Somewhere along the way those two categories had quietly expanded to include everything in between.
Which was fine. Completely fine. You were not in love with your best friend.
You were almost certain.
On screen, Clarice was walking into the dark. You shifted on the couch, tugging the blanket back toward your side, and Sunghoon let you without comment. This meant he wasn’t paying attention. You glanced over at him.
He was looking at the TV, jaw resting on his hand, expression perfectly neutral. His hair was a little messy—he had come straight from practice, changed into a hoodie in your bathroom, and left his back by the door like he always did. There was something easy about having him here. Something that had started feeling dangerously close to necessary.
You looked back at the screen.
That was when it happened.
No warning. No build-up. No cinematic crack of lightning or sudden ringing in your ears. One moment there was the sound of Clarice's heavy breathing, the low ambient noise of your apartment, the rustle of the blanket—
And then there was a voice.
She always laughs like that when she’s actually surprised. Like she tried to hold it in and lost.
You froze.
The voice was his. Not out loud. His mouth hadn’t moved, you looked right at him. But it was unmistakably Sunghoon’s voice, low and even, like he was narrating a novel.
You didn’t move.
She’s been using the same shampoo since second year. I don’t know why I know that.
Your heart stopped. You turned very slowly to look at him. He was still watching the movie. Completely still, completely unaware. The popcorn bowl was between you and he reached into it again without looking and his arm brushed yours and—
Don’t make it weird. Don’t make it weird. You’re fine. She’s just… A pause. She’s right there.
You stared at him, but he didn’t stare back. He watched Anthony Hopkins monologue as if absolutely nothing was happening, as if his internal voice had not just short-circuited your entire brain, and you sat there in the blue light of your TV thinking: what the fuck.
You didn’t sleep well that night.
Not because of the movie. The movie was fine. Buffalo Bill was unsettling on a conceptual level but you’d watched it twice before and you had a high threshold for cinematic weirdness. No, you didn’t sleep because you laid in bed staring at the ceiling and replayed every single thing you’d heard for the remaining forty minutes of the film.
And there had been a lot.
Her apartment always smells like that candle. I should figure out what scent it is. For no reason.
She’s cold. She’s not going to say anything. She’ll just suffer. I should—and then he’d shifted and tugged part of the blanket over to your side without a word, like he’d just decided something.
Two more weeks until her birthday. I already know what I’m getting her. I’ve known for three months. That’s normal… that's a normal amount of time to know
She’s laughing again. Okay. Cool. I’m fine.
You rolled over and pressed your face into the pillow.
Park Sunghoon. Your best friend. The most unreadable person you had ever met in our life, who apparently had an entire internal monologue dedicated to noticing things about you. Your laugh, your shampoo, your candle, the way you got cold and didn’t say so. And he never let any of it reach his face.
For how long? How long had this been happening?
You thought about the soft look he’d tried to hide when you laughed. You thought about the blanket. You thought about I’ve known for three months, that’s normal—
You groaned into your pillow. This was a lot of information to receive on a Tuesday.
The next morning, you tested it.
Sunghoon had a habit of coming over early on Wednesdays because you both had the same 10 am lecture and he lived closer to your building than campus. It was an arrangement that had started practically and continued sentimentally, which was very on-brand for your entire friendship.
You knocked at 8:52. You opened the door in your oversized sweatshirt and immediately, before he’d even said hello—
She looks good in the mornings. She always looks good in the mornings. Fuck, thats extremly inconvenient.
You felt your face do something. You couldn’t control it.
“What?” he said.
“Nothing.” You stepped back. “I made coffee.”
He came in, dropped his bag, accepted the mug you handed him, and leaned against your kitchen counter with the air of someone who had never experienced a chaotic thought in his life. You watched him over the rim of your own mug and waited.
She’s staring.
It’s fine. She stares sometimes. It means nothing. Don’t read into it.
… She’s still staring.
“I’m not staring,” you said, more like blurted.
He looked at you. “I didn’t say you were.”
Fuck. “You were thinking it.” You said, which was technically true in the most unhinged way possible.
Sunghoon looked at you for a moment longer than necessary. Then he took a sip of his coffee. “Okay,” he said, in a tone that meant he had filed this away and would return to it later.
You needed a plan.
Here’s what you knew:
Sunghoon was not going to say anything. That was simply not how he worked. He could think about your shampoo and memorize your candle scent and spend three months deciding on a birthday gift and still show up every Wednesday looking like a man without a single complicated feeling. He would do this indefinitely. He would probably take it to his grave.
And you—you, who had spent the better part of a year trying very hard not to notice the way he looked at you sometimes—were not going to wait for a grave.
So you made a decision.
You were going to give Park Sunghoon exactly what he wanted. Piece by piece. Situation by situation, all of it carefully constructed so that he thought it was happening naturally. And at the end of it, he was going to have no choice but to say it out loud.
All you had to do was listen.
It started small.
Friday night, you invited him to the convenience store. Normal enough, you did this roughly once a week, usually for ramen and whatever snack had rotated its way onto the seasonal shelf. But this time, on the way back, you chose the path along the river instead of the shortcut through the carpark.
It was cold enough that your breath fogged the air. The streetlights caught in the water. You had your hands tucked into your sleeves, thinking that this had been a good idea when Sunghoon’s voice materialized quietly in your head.
I always want to walk this way. She never wants to walk this way.
You looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Isn’t this nicer?”
A beat passed. “Yeah.” He said. He was looking ahead, but something in his shoulders had settled. “It is.”
She remembered.
He didn’t say it out loud, of course he didn’t. But you heard it, warm and quiet, and you had to look away before your face gave you away completely.
The next one was trickier.
You were in the library, 3rd floor, your usual table by the window. While you worked through problem sets, Sunghoon arrived twenty minutes later and folded himself into the seat next to you. He unpacked in silence, which was normal. Then he went quiet in that particular way he had where he was trying to figure something out and didn’t want to ask for help, which you also knew, because you knew all of his silences.
You waited.
I could just ask her. She’d explain it without making me feel stupid. She never makes me feel stupid.
But then she’ll know I didn’t understand the lecture and she’ll—
She won’t care. She genuinely will not give two shits.
Obviously I know that. That’s not the issue, the issue is that shes—
A pause.
She’s the only person I actually want help from. Is that a weird thing to feel this strongly about?
You looked up from your notes. “Do you want me to walk you through the regression model? I had to redo it like twice before it clicked.” Not technically a lie.
Sunghoon looked up at you.
“I’m serious,” you said, keeping your face carefully neutral. “It’s faster if we do it together.”
Something moved behind his eyes. Not readable: it never quite was. But it was there. He slid his notebook across the table toward you. “Okay.”
You worked through it side by side, your handwriting appearing in the margins of his notes, carefully avoiding his various doodles across the page. Your shoulders pressed close together so you could feel the warmth of him. And under everything, you could hear him thinking:
This is my favorite way to study. This is my favorite way to do a lot of things.
Then came the party.
Jungwon’s birthday parties had a reputation. What started as a small gathering with a reasonable headcount always turned into something completely different by 11 pm. More people, more noise, more empty bottles lined up along the windowsill like a timeline of bad decisions. You had been to enough of them to know to eat beforehand.
You arrived a little after 10. Sunghoon was already there—you found him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a drink in his hand, talking to someone from his major with the energy of a person attending a very calm business lunch. Completely unbothered. Completely composed.
You felt him notice you before he looked up.
There she is.
Warm. Immediate. Like a reflex he’d long stopped trying to correct.
You made your way over and he handed you a drink without being asked, already knowing. Smirnoff Ice Raspberry. What a gentleman.
“How long have you been here?” You asked him.
“An hour.”
“An hour and you’re already relaxed?” You say, gesturing to what you can clearly tell is not his first drink of the night.
“I’m always relaxed.”
I am not relaxed. Her outfit is so small and I’ve been here an hour just wondering when she would show up and she shows up in that!
You took a sip of your drink to hide your expression.
By eleven, the party had done its inevitable thing. The hallway was full, the music was louder, and someone had started a game in the living room that you’d opted out of on principle. You weren’t really in the mood to kiss random men when you had one pining over you in his head.
You were on your 3rd drink, warm at the edges, feeling the particular looseness that came from just enough and not too much.
Sunghoon was on something closer to his fifth.
You could tell only because you knew him. To anyone else, he looked exactly the same. Same posture, same unhurried delivery, same expression that gave away absolutely nothing. He was holding his cup with the same quiet authority he held everything. Responding to people in full, measured sentences.
But his thoughts.
She laughed at something. I didn’t hear what it was. Doesn’t matter, I’d listen to her laugh for an unreasonable amount of time and never get tired. I’ve accepted that.
You pressed your lips together and did your best to bite back the blush running towards your cheeks.
Her drink is almost empty. I should—a pause, like he was negotiating with himself—no. That’s too obvious. She can get her own. She doesn’t need me to—
You watched him glance at your cup from across the room, completely imperceptibly, and then look away.
Fuck this. I can’t let anyone here think she’s single. Even though she is. Fuck.
He appeared by your side sixty seconds later and held one out. You took it.
“Thank you!” You said.
“Mhm.” He looked at the room.
She smells like that candle again. She must’ve been home before this. God I’m pathetic.
You stared very hard at a window across the room and reminded yourself to breathe normally.
It got worse—better, actually—as the night went on.
You found a quieter corner of the apartment, as you usually did, and the party moved around you while you stayed still. This was your pattern. Your orbit. Sunghoon stood close enough that your shoulders almost touched and talked to you in that low, even voice of his about nothing important—a lecture, a teammate, something Sunoo had said earlier that had mildly irritated him.
I think about telling her all the time. Like, constantly. It’s become a problem. I’ll be in the middle of something completely unrelated and I’ll just—think about her. The way she argued about things she cares about. The way she falls asleep during movies and then insists she wasn’t sleeping.
She’s always sleeping. I never say anything. I let her have it. I’d let her have everything if that’s what she wanted
Later, the crowd thinned. Someone swapped the music for something slower and the kitchen light cast everything in a warm gold. You were feeling pretty drunk, loose and light and devious, if you were 100% honest.
Because here’s the thing. You had spent the past 2 hours listening to Sunghoon’s internal monologue short-circuit in real time, and the drinks had made you brave, and you decided you were going to have fun.
You turned to face him fully and leaned your shoulder against the wall so you were looking up at him. Close. Closer than you’d normally stand.
“You’ve been quiet.”
“I’m always quiet.”
“More than usual.”
He looked at you. Said nothing, of course. His face was perfectly, infuriatingly composed.
She’s standing really close. Okay, that’s fine. She does that sometimes. It doesn’t mean any—she’s looking at me like that again.
You smiled, slow and deliberate, and watched his jaw shift almost imperceptibly.
“What?” He asked.
“Nothing.” You reached over and fixed the collar of his shirt—it didn’t need fixing. You just did it. Fingers brushing the side of his neck for half a second before you pull your hand back.
The thought that hit you was instantaneous.
Oh. A pause. Don’t. Do not.
His expression didn’t change. He simply looked at you with the same unhurried calm he looked at everything with and said “Thanks” in a voice that gave you nothing.
You were going to lose your mind. Give me something, asshole!
You shifted closer under the pretense of someone passing behind you and didn’t shift back. Your hand was on his arm now, you could feel the warmth of him through his sleeve.
She’s not moving. She’s not moving and I cant—I need to—Fuck she looks so good tonight. She always looks so good—I’m going to need a cold shower tonight.
“Cold?” He asked.
You tried not to laugh at how well it connected to his thoughts. “A little.” You lied.
He didn’t say anything, but he turned very slightly so his body was angled towards yours, the smallest possible adjustment, like he was trying to do so without admitting he was doing it.
Keep talking, his thoughts said, unprompted. Just keep talking to me. I don’t care what you say, I just wanna—
“Tell me something.” You say.
“Like what?”
“Anything.”
He considered this with great seriousness of someone preparing for war. You watching him think and heard the entire thing unravel. I want to tell her so many things. I want to tell her that I think about her all the time. I want to tell her she’s the first person I want to call when anything bad happens. I want to tell her to touch me and never stop.
“Jungwon’s playlist sucks.” Is what he chose instead.
You laughed. You couldn’t help it. The contrast of his thoughts to the words coming out of his mouth was just too hilarious for you to handle. He watched you laugh and his thought arrived soft and immediate:
There it is.
You looked back up at him, still smiling, and let the moment stretch. Then, slowly, you reached out and took the cup from his hand—just to take a sip, just as an excuse—your fingers overlapping his for a second before he let go.
His entire internal monologue went briefly nonverbal for a moment.
Fuck she has no idea what she’s doing to me. She genuinely cannot know. If she knew she would—she wouldn’t—she doesn’t—
A pause. A long one, actually.
Does she know?
You handed the cup back. Your fingers brushed him again on the pass. Deliberate. Completely deliberate.
I want you so bad.
The thought arrived and made you almost choke on air. It was so helplessly honest that it made your stomach flip. Not chaotic, necessarily, just true. Simple and overwhelming and incredibly sincere and raw.
I’ve wanted you for so long and you’re just standing here and I can’t tell you! Not like this.
But please don’t move.
You don’t move. Sunghoon stood beside you looking unbothered.
This, you thought, was the most fun you had ever had in your entire life.
Your shared 10 am was held in a wide tiered lecture hall that fit about two hundred students and smell permanently of coffee and resignation. You sat in the same spot every week, middle left. Close enough to see the slides, far enough to feel like you had options. Sunghoon always sat next to you.
You go there first on Tuesday. When he arrived, he dropped into the seat next to you and pulled out his notebook. You were ready.
You chose to wait until the lecture started, until he was settled. Pen in hand, paying attention the way he always did.
Then you leaned over, close enough that your shoulder pressed into his and whispered “Can I borrow a pen?”
You had 3 in your bag. He didn’t know that.
He reached into his case without looking and held one out. Your fingers closed around it slowly, over his, just for a second longer than necessary.
Don’t fucking look at her. Look at the slide. There is a slide, dammit.
You settled back into your seat and uncapped the pen like nothing happened. Ten minutes later you leaned in again. “What did he say? I missed it.” Your lips were approximately four inches from his ear. You felt him go very still and you smiled.
She smells so good. Why does she always—focus! He’s talking about monetary policy. Monetary policy. That’s what's important right now.
“Quantitative easing.” he said, in a voice that was completely level. Not even a crack.
“Thanks,” you murmured, and sat back.
I cannot believe I’m this affected by quantitative easing.
Sunghoon played like he did everything else, with total composure and quiet precision. Like the game was simply a problem being solved in real time. You had been to his matches before but usually with a group. This time you came alone and found a spot near the front and he saw you during warm ups.
You waved.
His expression softened the slightest bit. She’s wearing my hoodie.
You were, in fact, wearing his hoodie. The one he’d left at your place three weeks ago and you’d simply never given it back. You had put it on this morning with full awareness of what you were doing and zero remorse.
That’s my hoodie on her and she looks—I have a game. I have a game in four minutes. Get your fucking shit together.
He focused on the game. You watched him be extraordinary at it with the detached calm of someone who had done it a thousand times, and every few minutes a thought would surface.
Is she still here? She is. Good.
At halftime he jogged to the sideline and grabbed his water bottle and glanced at you once. It was brief, but you smiled as always and tucked your hands into the front pocket of his hoodie.
She’s so cute.
Then he went back to playing.
After the final whistle—they won, 2-1, Sunghoon had assisted in both goals with the energy of a man doing his grocery shopping—he found you at the edge of the field. Hair slightly damp, still catching his breath, looking at you with a gaze like you were the only girl in the world.
“You played great!”
“Thank you.” He said breathlessly.
You reached up and fixed a part of his hair that had fallen across his forehead, the same way you fixed his collar at the party. Easy and unbothered.
I’m so in love with her it’s embarrassing. And she’s still touching my hair. I will stand here forever. I will stand on this field until the groundskeepers kick me off.
It was a Saturday when it stopped being a game.
Not because you decided it. Not because anything dramatic happened to signal a shift. It was a Saturday and you were making dinner and Sunghoon was in your kitchen, and somewhere between the two of you it just became too much.
It had started normally enough. He texted at five asking if you’d eaten. You hadn’t. He showed up twenty minutes later with groceries and no further explanation, which was so perfectly, infuriatingly him that you hadn’t even questioned it. This was just a thing he did. This was just how he was with you.
The kitchen was warm. You had music on low—something ambient and unhurried. Sunghoon had taken over the stove with the quiet authority he applied to everything while you sat at the counter and handled the easier tasks: chopping, stirring, handing things over when he asked.
It was comfortable, it was always comfortable with him.
But you had spent a week being deliberate about every point of contact and now you were tired and warm and a little undone by the Friday couch moment still sitting in your chest, and tonight you weren't being strategic. Tonight things just kept — happening.
Like the way you leaned over to check on the pan and your arm slid along his. The way he reached past you for the salt and didn't move back immediately. The way the kitchen was small and you were both in it and neither of you seemed to be trying very hard to maintain any kind of distance.
She's everywhere in this apartment, he thought, while stirring something and looking straight ahead. Everything here is her. I come here and it just — feels like her. I don't know what to do with that.
You handed him a spoon without being asked and your fingers touched and the thought that followed was short and unadorned:
I love her.
Not feral. Not desperate. Just true, the way facts were true, the way gravity was true, delivered in the same internal voice he used to note the weather or remember an appointment.
I love her and I don't know how much longer I can—
"You're quiet," you said.
"I'm always quiet."
"Different quiet."
He glanced at you. "You say that a lot."
"Because it keeps being true."
He looked at you for a moment, something unreadable moving behind his eyes, and then looked back at the stove.
You watched him. The line of his shoulders, the careful way he moved, the complete and total composure he maintained at all times like it cost him nothing when you knew — you knew now — exactly what it cost.
You slid off the counter and moved to stand beside him. Not for any reason. Just to be closer.
She's right next to me. She keeps doing this. She's been doing this all week and I—I don't know if she knows what she's doing. I think she might know. Does she know?
You reached past him to adjust the heat on the burner — he was standing right there, you had to reach across him to get to it, your arm brushing his chest for a half second — and when you pulled back you turned your head and found his face much closer than you'd anticipated.
Neither of you moved.
Okay, his brain said, with a kind of strained calm. Okay. This is—She's right there. She's looking at me. I have been in love with her for over a year and she is right there and I—
"Y/N."
His voice came out different. Lower. The composure was still there but something underneath it that wasn't, some thread pulled just tight enough that you could hear it.
"Yeah?" you said.
He looked at you. Really looked — the way he had on the couch on Friday, no pretense, no performance, just Sunghoon looking at you like you were something he'd stopped being able to look away from.
"What are you doing?" he said.
It wasn't accusatory. It was quiet. Genuine. Like he actually needed to know.
And here was the thing — here was the part you hadn't planned for — you opened your mouth to say something easy and deflecting and instead what came out was the truth.
"I don't know anymore," you said. "I think I stopped doing anything on purpose about three days ago."
Something in his face shifted. The last careful layer of it, the one he always kept in reserve, the one you'd never seen him let go of before.
"Three days ago," he repeated.
"The game," you said. "Friday. You were just — you were just being you and I—" you stopped. Laughed a little, helplessly. "I've been driving myself crazy, Sunghoon."
She—
His thought didn't finish. Like his brain had simply stopped processing and switched to something else entirely.
"You've been driving yourself crazy," he said, and something in his voice had shifted too, something dry and disbelieving and warm underneath it. "You've been driving me crazy for a week. You know that, right?"
You looked at him. "Have I?"
"In lecture," he said. "The couch. The game." A pause. "The collar." He said the last one quietly, like it had been living in him since the party and had just now been let out.
"The collar," you repeated innocently.
"You knew what you were doing."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Y/N."
"Sunghoon."
He looked at you for a long moment, this boy who never cracked, who never rushed, who kept everything behind his eyes until he decided otherwise — and then he decided otherwise.
"I'm in love with you," he said. Simple. Direct. Like he'd taken aim and let go. "I have been for a long time and this week has been the most unhinged experience of my life so if you have something to tell me I really think you should tell me now."
The most unhinged experience of my life. You almost laughed again. He had no idea. "I'm in love with you too," you said. "I have been. For a long time, I think."
He exhaled.
Not dramatically — this was Sunghoon, nothing was ever dramatic — just a slow breath out, like something he'd been holding had finally been set down. His hand came up and found your jaw, tilted your face up toward his, and he looked at you for one long, unhurried moment the way he did everything.
There she is, he thought, soft and certain and final. There she is.
Then he kissed you.
It was warm and quiet and careful and then — when you kissed him back, when your hand found the front of his shirt — not careful at all. His other hand found your waist and pulled you closer and you went, and the food on the stove went briefly unattended, and the music played on low in the background of your apartment that smelled like his candle and yours combined now, that had his bag by the door and his key on the hook, that had been halfway his for a long time already.
His last coherent thought, before everything else: Finally.
He kissed you like a man starved, and after everything you had heard the past couple of weeks, he was starved. His hands tightened on your waist the slightest bit, almost as if he was afraid you would leave.
You wouldn’t dream of it.
Your hands dragged up his shirt and towards the back of his neck, pushing him closer and playing with his hair. Sunghoon let out a shaky breath, which made you smile into the kiss.
“Shut.” Kiss. “Up.” Another kiss. His voice was so low that it shocked you, but you were too busy to even fully notice.
“I didn’t say anything.” You say in between his kisses. Eventually you force yourself to pull away. His face looks like you just slapped him, but you caress his face. “I’m just turning off the stove.”
Sunghoon pursed his lips together. “Right. I forgot. I was kinda distracted.”
You stare at him for a moment, taking him in. His flushed cheeks, his glossy eyes, his hands that refuse to leave your waist. “At the risk of sounding too forward—”
“Be forward. That’s all I’ve wanted this entire week.”
You nod. “Well.. we can go to my room…?”
You barely got the chance to hear his brain fry itself when he smashes his lips back down onto yours. He seems hungrier now, and the thought has you reeling. All you can hear are bits and pieces. Please, and I’m obsessed with you, cross his mind over and over again, but you’re too involved in him to care.
“Is that a yes?”
“It’s a please.”
Sunghoon keeps kissing you as the two of you walk (awkwardly. It’s surprisingly hard to keep a straight line of direction when a man is kissing the shit out of you) to your bedroom. The door was already open, and your bed was already made. The two of you just flopped onto the mattress, not bothering to stop.
He laid above you, moving from your lips to everywhere else. “I’ve been in love with you,” a kiss on the cheek, “since that IKEA argument,” a kiss on your jaw, “when you were wearing that stupid,” kiss on the neck, “fucking,” kiss on your collarbone, “shirt.” He keeps kissing you, mumbling more. “It was the tiniest shirt in existence and you wore it around me.”
“It was the first shirt I saw that day.”
“Well it made me really hard.” He says, looking down at you.
“Oh, did it now?” You say, a playful smirk on your face.
He wipes that smirk off with a kiss, trailing back down to the collarbone, sucking on various spots. You choose not to think about how much of a pain it will be to whisk those out of your skin before your shift. Instead, you choose to live in the moment.
His hands trail from your waist to your sides. “Can I?” He asks, hands incredibly still. You nod, but that’s not enough for him. “Please say it.”
“Yes, Sunghoon.”
He wastes no time in taking your shirt off, throwing it somewhere in your room for you to find later. “So beautiful.” He mumbles, almost incoherently. “Wanted this for so long. You for so long.”
Every word, every kiss, every touch sends sparks up and down your body. You don’t know how you’ve lived without this, but now that you have it you won’t ever give it up. You run your hands under his shirt and on his bare skin, feeling the warmth of the man on top of you.
It’s barely even a touch, and yet he folds completely. Head in your neck, holding you tightly. You feel the outline of abs and a strong v line, hands going lower and lower. Instead of the obvious, you choose to grab the hem of his shirt and pull it. He instantly moves, allowing you to pull the shirt off him—with his help of course.
You had seen him shirtless before. Sophomore year pool party hosted by Jake. But this is completely different. 2 years of soccer and consistent working out has made this man built. And you were not complaining.
You grab his jeans and pull him back in, but he stops himself.
“I wanna try something.”
You give him a nod, and he moves to pull down your sweatpants, leaving you in just a bra and underwear. Sunghoons eyes rake over your body in a way that screams adoration. If you had ever thought he didn’t like you, his actions now change your mind immediately.
“Tell me if you want me to stop, okay?”
“Okay.” You say quietly, unsure of what's to come.
He starts kissing your neck once more, moving down to your collarbone, then shoulder, then sternum. He makes it his mission to kiss every part of you. Your tits, your stomach, your hips. You don’t even realize how far down he is until he plants a kiss right above your underwear.
He goes to one hip, then the other, planting kisses on both. But instead of going where you want him, he goes to your thighs. He starts at the left, gentle kisses up and down your inner thigh, making you squirm. At the right, his kisses are still gentle, but they're closer now. Closer to where you want him. To where he wants to be.
“So beautiful.” He murmurs, finally pressing a kiss to your clothed heat. A delicate kiss, yet it made you squirm. God, this man is the devil.
“Please…” You sigh, not even realizing that you said it.
“Whatever you want.” He hooks a finger around your underwear, dragging the lavender cloth down your legs slowly. He makes sure to actually take them off, and not let them pool around your ankles, and then spreads your legs just a bit. “Are you sure?”
You nod. “I’m sure.”
That's all he needed before he put his mouth on you. Soft kisses that drive you crazy, hands grasping the duvet and teeth biting your lip. The pace is brutally slow, testing the waters. But he speeds up a bit. One hand under your leg, pulling you closer, the other on your clit, making slow circles as he eats you out.
If you thought he kissed you like a man starved, then you would be surprised at how he is once he truly tastes you. Hands grip you tightly, moving faster and faster as his tongue makes you cry out. He laps at your folds, tongue going in and out of you on occasion. You close your legs around his head, and he groans like you just gave him dessert.
You’re so close, you can feel it. And he can too. But he pulls away at the last moment, wiping at his mouth.
Sunghoon takes a moment to admire you. Naked from the waist down, a simple bra covering you. You’re panting, desperate to reach the orgasm that was cruelly ripped away from you by the man who almost gave you it.
You give him a look, and he gives you one back. “I’ll eat you out as many times as you want later, but right now I just wanna fuck you.”
“I’m on the pill.” You say.
He closes his eyes for a moment. “Is that enough for you? Cause I’ll go get condoms—”
“It’s enough.” You interrupt him, hand on the buckle of his jeans, slowly unworking it. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted something more than you want him right now. Maybe that’s insane to say, but you don’t care. Not when the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen is about to fuck you.
The two of you waste no time in taking off his jeans, and then his boxers. He also makes sure to take your bra off too.
You aren’t new to sex. It’s a very straightforward process. But sex with Sunghoon seems different. There's nothing wrong with him, it's just the fact you’ve known him for so long and he’s your best friend, and what if this ruins things?
“Hey.” He says, snapping you out of the trainwreck that is your thoughts. “Are you 100% sure? If you say no then I’ll stop, I promise.”
“It’s not that,” You pause, avoiding eye contact with him and his naked lower half. “I just don’t want this to ruin things.”
His hand goes to your waist, gentle and comforting. “This won’t ruin anything. I’ll still be in love with you after this, probably even more than I am right now.”
You think for a second before nodding. “Okay.”
“You still want this?”
“Yes, Sunghoon.” You say with a faux-annoyed face.
He gives you the most genuine smile as he presses his tip against you. The feeling sends a shock straight to your core, and you’ve never wanted anything more than you do right now. He rubs his tip up and down your folds, letting the pre-cum mix with the wetness that was pooling out of you.
“I’ll go slow, okay?” Sunghoon pushes in slowly, true to his word. You wince, but not in pain. In pleasure. You’re completely engulfing his tip, and he’s looking at it like it’s the Mona Lisa. “Jesus Christ." His voice is low, gravely, and possibly the sexiest thing you’ve ever heard.
He continues to push, letting your pussy swallow him whole. When he’s finally in, he looks at you first to make sure you’re ready and that you’re still okay. It’s sweet, but you aren’t in the mood for sweet.
And somehow, he hears you loud and clear. He pulls back almost all the way, until it’s just the tip again, and slams into you.
It has you gasping for air, grabbing the blanket, the pillow, him. He keeps up the pace. Brutal, yet slow. A harsh slam in, a slow drag out. It’s simultaneously too much and not enough.
“Sunghoon…” You whine.
“You want more?”
You nod, and he obliges immediately, snapping his hips into yours faster. You're moaning and writhing underneath him but he doesn’t stop. After all, this is what you wanted.
It smells of sex, and the only sound you can hear is skin slapping, your whines, and his little groans. Back and forth and back and forth, it’s too much.
You can feel a pool in your core tightening, and in a moment of pure lust you wrap your legs around him and pull him closer. “You’re fucking evil.” He almost growls, going faster if that was even possible.
Sunghoon’s as desperate as you are, slamming his hips into yours with strength and precision of a man who worked for this his entire life. You can barely form words, just moans as he goes in and out of you.
You tighten around him and he whines, and it’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard. But you don’t get a chance to focus on that.
“I know honey, I know. Me too, sweet girl.”
His hips stutter, but he’s back on track, fucking you the way you deserve after weeks of psychological torture and cold showers on his part. He’s dreamed of this more times than you could imagine. But this is better than any dream of his. Because you’re under him, eyes shut in pleasure as he fucks the shit out of you the way he’s wanted for so long.
“I’m close.” You manage, hands grabbing on his biceps.
He speeds up. “You wanna cum?” You nod, a tear falling out of your eye from how good everything feels. As he drags himself in and out of you, a hand falls to your clit, rubbing fast circles. You let out a loud moan, only enticing him to keep going. “Come on honey, cum with me.”
He plays with your folds for a few more seconds before your hips buck without warning, teeth digging into your bottom lip as you come undone over his dick. Your legs shake around his abdomen, and you let out a silent cry.
“Good girl. I’m so close okay? Where do you want me?” He asks, slowing down just a bit.
You’re still reeling from your orgasm and the fact he’s still fucking you. “Anywhere.”
He places both of his hands around you, caging you in as he pounds into you with no remorse, desperate for a release. He can feel you clenching around him, and that’s what sends him over the edge.
“Fuck!” His hips stutter for the final time, pressing into you fully. His head drops down, almost heavy from the week long torture. As he cums in you, his head drops down, almost heavy. You both don’t move for a bit, just staying still
It’s quiet. The only sound being breathing coming from the both of you.
“Did it ruin it?” He asks, breathlessly with a smirk.
“Fuck off!” You reply, lightly slapping his chest.
It was that very moment where you realized you couldn’t hear his thoughts anymore. You would miss the frantic array of thoughts that would show up when you did something miniscule to him, but you weren’t upset.
Maybe it means he finally said all that he needed to say.
synopsis: in which you post about the most insufferable guy in your class on an AITA thread, only to find someone in the comments defending him a little too passionately.
genre: enemies to lovers??
pairing: insufferable!sunghoon x menace!reader
warnings: sexual tension, so many gawddamn arguments, some eye fucking from sunghoon’s behalf, lowkey bratty!reader, dom!hoon, semi-public sex, washroom sex, spitting, choking, oral (m rec.), fingering, biting, mirror sex, so much degrading, begging, spanking, slapping, teasing, unprotected p in v (don’t do it…), creampie, light cum play…i think that’s it…
wc: 13k
a/n: i love me some enemies to lovers i feel ashamed 😔😋 anyways after almost 3 months ya gurl is back w anotha banger 😛😛 warning, this isn’t edited properly i did like a quick read over or 2 and ran out of patience. ill sit down months later to revise it (no i wont). as always, notes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. enjoy :p
˙𐃷˙
the literature lecture hall buzzed quietly with the usual sounds of a monday morning class—keyboard typing, coffee lids snapping shut, chairs dragging lazily across the floor.
rain streaked against the tall windows beside you, grey light spilling across rows of half-awake university students while professor choi clicked through his lecture slides at the front.
this class was your last pick and you were barely listening until the next discussion question appeared on the board.
what does meursault's emotional detachment represent?
professor choi adjusted his thick framed circle glasses.
"thoughts?"
and then, unfortunately, park sunghoon raised his hand.
you already knew this was about to piss you off. your face twisting into one of pure disgust before the man even opened his mouth.
sunghoon sat three rows ahead of you, posture relaxed, one arm slung over the back of his chair like he owned the lecture hall. he didn't even look interested in the discussion, which somehow made it more annoying whenever he spoke and everyone listened anyway.
professor choi nodded toward him."go ahead."
sunghoon spoke evenly, like a corrupt politician who was going to promise world peace. like he was delivering some groundbreaking intellectual revelation instead of absolute nonsense.
"i think the novel critiques performative emotion more than emotional detachment itself."
you narrowed your eyes immediately. all you could hear was blah blah blah meh meh meh.
sunghoon continued, his tongue jutting out to wet his lips so the bullshit he was going to spew would come out smoother.
"society condemns meursault not because he committed murder, but because he doesn't react the way people expect him to emotionally. he refuses to fake grief, guilt, remorse—"
"because he doesn't have any," you interrupted flatly.
a few heads turned instantly, students giving each other knowing looks. sunghoon glanced over his shoulder at you.
not irritated. oh no no, worse. he was amused.
"that's an oversimplification." he clicked, leaning his head back to the front to give professor choi a lazy look that basically said 'you see what's happening here?'
"no," you said. "you're just romanticizing emotional incompetence because the author used fancy wording."
a quiet snort came from somewhere behind you causing sunghoon to turn fully in his seat now. "you think the entire point of the novel is that he's a bad person?"
"i think the point is that detachment isn't inherently profound just because a man is quiet."
that got a reaction, small and subtle. a couple students trying not to laugh, their binders going up to hide their facial expressions as professor choi gave them a warning look.
sunghoon's eyes narrowed slightly for the first time.
finally.
"you're reducing existentialism to a personality flaw."
"and you're treating basic human empathy like it's optional."
professor choi opened his mouth and closed it again. probably deciding it was safer not to interfere yet.
sunghoon rested his arm against the desk beside him.
"the novel literally argues that societal expectations of emotion are artificial."
"okay, but there's a difference between rejecting social performance and acting like a disconnected freak."
sunghoon gave you a look at the last word, "interesting choice of wording."
"oh please," you scoffed. "you're acting like meursault is some misunderstood visionary when really he's just emotionally constipated."
someone coughed to hide a laugh and sunghoon's jaw ticked slightly.
barely noticeable, but you noticed. because you notice everything about park sunghoon, the good and the bad. unfortunately, more of the good which was all physical. nothing mental of course, the man had an IQ of a turnip.
arguing with park sunghoon had become a skill you'd accidentally perfected over the past two years. he always looked composed, always calm. but there were little tells and small cracks. tiny expressions that appeared when you pushed hard enough.
and right now? he was getting annoyed.
good.
"you're too emotionally reactive to engage with the text objectively," he said, his dark eyes boring into your own as if he was trying to get under your skin.
which, to be fair, he was. you knew that, and he definitely knew that.
you let out a short laugh. "and you think sounding detached makes you intelligent."
his gaze held yours for a second too long. steady and sharp. "maybe i just know how to separate emotion from analysis."
"maybe you just enjoy hearing yourself talk."
sunghoon tilted his head slightly, "you've interrupted me four times."
"because every sentence somehow gets worse."
a few quiet laughs spread through the room again. you saw professor choi pinch the bridge of his nose from the corner of your eye.
sunghoon looked entirely unbothered by the class watching. if anything, he looked more focused now.
like he enjoyed this, he enjoyed the attention he was receiving. the perfect spotlight to argue with a classmate. which made you irrationally angrier. "you're intentionally ignoring nuance."
"and you're intentionally making this deeper than it actually is."
"literature is supposed to be analyzed deeply."
"not every quiet man with a god complex is philosophically revolutionary, sunghoon."
that one landed, hard. his brows lifted slightly and the room went quieter. you could practically feel everyone pretending not to listen now.
sunghoon leaned back slowly in his chair. still staring at you, not daring to break eye contact.
"you know," he said lightly, "for someone who claims i'm insufferable, you spend an impressive amount of time thinking about my opinions."
your stomach flipped in annoyance. strictly annoyance.
"trust me," you replied sweetly, "criticizing you is not a difficult intellectual exercise."
the corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile. which only irritated you more because why did he look entertained right now?
"you get weirdly passionate whenever i disagree with you."
"because you say insane things with unnecessary confidence."
"and yet you always argue back."
you opened your mouth immediately. "because someone has to humble you."
sunghoon's eyes flicked briefly down toward your mouth before returning to your eyes so quickly you almost thought you imagined it.
almost.
then he said quietly, "you've been trying for two years."
your heartbeat stumbled once, completely involuntary by the way. and judging by the sudden silence in the lecture hall, several other people noticed the shift too.
professor choi finally sighed loudly enough to cut through the tension.
"well," he muttered dryly, "this has certainly been more engaging than most of your discussion contributions."
a few students laughed softly.
you tore your gaze away from sunghoon first, reaching for your pen like your pulse hadn't just betrayed you for absolutely no reason.
meanwhile, across the room, sunghoon leaned back in his chair again.
looking entirely too pleased with himself.
˙𐃷˙
by the time professor choi dismissed the class, the atmosphere in the lecture hall felt weirdly charged.
like everyone had just witnessed something they definitely shouldn't have.
chairs scraped against the floor as students packed up their bags, conversations immediately erupting around the room.
you shoved your laptop into your tote aggressively, muttering curses about the boy who shall not be named.
mostly because you could still feel park sunghoon's smug expression somewhere in your peripheral vision.
you hated him and his stupid fucking beautiful face.
the worst part was that he never even looked genuinely angry during your arguments. no matter how heated things got, sunghoon always stayed calm—relaxed posture, steady voice, slightly amused expression like he was watching you self-destruct for entertainment.
it was infuriating.
sunoo appeared beside your desk, slinging his bag over one shoulder. "you know," he said casually, "that was kind of the highlight of my week."
you glared at your so called best friend, "you're sick."
"no seriously," sunoo grinned. "when you called him emotionally constipated i almost started clapping."
you huffed, standing up. "he deserved worse." together, you and sunoo started toward the lecture hall doors with the crowd of students funneling out into the hallway.
except—someone was standing near the exit.
waiting, wearing a black hoodie. arms crossed loosely.
park sunghoon.
of course he was, because the argument that had erupted during class just wasn't enough for this troll doll. your steps slowed instinctively and sunoo noticed immediately, his smile widened, ear to ear.
fucking traitor.
sunghoon's eyes found yours through the crowd almost instantly. calm as ever and annoyingly unreadable.
then, as you got closer, he pushed himself off the wall.
you already knew he was about to say something irritating, you could feel it.
sunghoon stepped aside just enough to let other students pass before leaning slightly closer toward you.
close enough that you caught the clean scent of his cologne beneath the lingering smell of coffee and rain.
"for someone who hates my opinions," he murmured quietly, "you seem obsessed with hearing them."
you stopped walking and slowly turned your head toward him. you hated how you had to crank your head up to make eye contact with him, the height difference between you two surrendering your loss.
"and for someone who claims to be emotionally detached," you replied sweetly, "you sure spend a lot of time trying to get my attention."
sunghoon's mouth twitched, that stupid almost-smile again. he looked down at you at with this look that you couldn't quite identify.
"see you monday." you hope one of you don't make it to monday, preferably him.
you stared at him for one long second, really stared. at his stupid face. his stupid sharp jawline. his stupid pretty mouth that constantly said the most unbearable things imaginable.
then you walked away before you committed a felony.
sunoo was already laughing beside you. "OH my god," he breathed. "you two are unbelievable."
"he's unbelievable," you snapped immediately, a faint flush covering your face and neck.
sunoo hummed, clearly unconvinced. he was your best friend since elementary school, he knew exactly what this was.
the hallway buzzed with students moving between lectures while rain hammered softly against the windows lining the corridor. you shoved through the doors toward the outside courtyard, irritation simmering hotter with every passing second.
"i genuinely cannot wait until i graduate," you muttered. "the second i get my degree i'm never seeing that freak again."
sunoo snorted, looking at your pink tinted cheeks with a grin. "you still have two years left."
your eye twitched at the realization.
right.
two more years.
two more years of literature classes and discussion boards and seeing park sunghoon sitting three rows ahead of you looking annoyingly composed all the time.
you groaned dramatically. "i can't do this anymore."
sunoo bumped your shoulder lightly. "you've survived two years already."
"barely."
the more you thought about him, the angrier you got.
because sunghoon was the exact type of person that's easy to hate.
too calm. too smug. too aware of how intelligent he was.
and worst of all—too attractive for absolutely no reason.
everything about him irritated you.
his stupid perfect smile whenever he thought he'd won an argument. his stupidly long fingers tapping against his desk during lectures. the way his hoodies stretched across his broad shoulders.
the fact that he somehow looked composed even when everyone else looked exhausted during midterms.
it was deeply, deeply annoying.
you physically smacked yourself in the forehead.
sunoo blinked at your sudden outburst. "what was that for?"
"nothing."
sunoo narrowed his eyes. then slowly—dangerously—he smiled. "oh my god."
you frowned immediately, not liking the way he was smiling down at you. "what."
"i think you might be the issue."
you stopped walking so abruptly someone nearly walked into your shoulder. "excuse me?"
sunoo shrugged innocently. "i'm just saying."
"how the hell am i the issue?"
"you do start a lot of the arguments."
you stared at him in betrayal. "because he says ridiculous things."
"sometimes."
"all the time."
sunoo hummed thoughtfully, not agreeing, which was offensive. why is your best friend not blindly supporting you even when you're probably wrong, which you aren't, but even if you were—the fuck?
you scoffed loudly. "sunghoon is literally the one who started this whole thing."
and he had, freshman year. first semester.
he'd corrected one of your points during a class discussion with that calm, mildly condescending tone of his and something inside you had immediately gone: absolutely not.
listen you can take criticism, just not from that man specifically.
ever since then, every interaction between you had turned into some kind of competition. you couldn't help it. sunghoon always acted so composed, so polished, so annoyingly perfect that it made you want to knock him down a level, or several.
sunoo shoved his hands into his pockets. "okay but maybe if you stopped interacting with him—"
"impossible."
"you didn't even let me finish."
"because you're wrong."
sunoo laughed softly, knowing damn well that nothing he was going to say would penetrate through your thick skull. "you could just ignore him."
you looked at him like he'd suggested murder.
ignore park sunghoon? absolutely not.
that sounded suspiciously like losing. sunoo noticed your expression immediately and burst out laughing. "see? that's exactly what i mean."
you crossed your arms. "i am not the problem here."
sunoo just gave you a look. one of those deeply irritating best friend looks that implied he knew you better than you knew yourself.
which, unfortunately, he probably did.
you pulled your phone out of your pocket causing sunoo to raise a brow.
"what are you doing?"
"i'm getting unbiased opinions."
"from who?"
you opened reddit with complete confidence and sunoo immediately groaned.
"oh no."
˙𐃷˙
your dorm room was suspiciously quiet except for the aggressive tapping of your keyboard.
sunoo sat cross-legged at the end of your bed eating gummy bears straight from the bag while watching you with the exact same expression people have witnessing a public breakup.
concern mixed with entertainment.
you ignored him. because right now you were busy crafting the most objectively accurate reddit post ever written.
the glow from your laptop lit your face as you reread the title for the fifth time.
AITA for telling a guy in my class to shut up because he thinks he's always right?
perfect. concise. truthful.
you cracked your knuckles dramatically before continuing to type. sunoo snorted from the other side, picking out all the red gummies before stuffing them into his mouth.
-
there's this guy in one of my university classes and he is genuinely one of the most irritating people i've ever met.
he's quiet but in a pretentious way? like he thinks being emotionally constipated makes him intelligent. he corrects EVERYONE during discussions and somehow always sounds smug even when he's technically being polite.
the worst part is that he's annoyingly good at everything. presentations? perfect. essays? perfect. participation? professor's favourite somehow.
one time i got a question wrong during class and this man literally smirked at me. SMIRKED. like a disney villain.
today we got into an argument during lecture because he was saying some pseudo intellectual nonsense and i told him to shut up because nobody cares about his superiority complex anymore.
now some people are saying i overreacted but i genuinely think he needed to be humbled.
AITA?
-
you hit post.
then immediately grabbed your phone while bouncing slightly in your seat.
sunoo stared at you with mild distaste. "you look like you just launched a cyber attack."
"i'm right and soon the public will confirm it."
sunoo snorted. "you're insane."
the first comment appeared almost instantly.
you gasped dramatically. "OH MY GOD." sunoo leaned over slightly as you opened it, rolling his eyes as soon as he read the first word.
-
NTA
this guy sounds like if a philosophy podcast became a person.
-
you slapped sunoo's arm excitedly."SEE?"
another comment appeared.
-
girl stand UP. why are you letting a man who's probably named after a victorian disease humble you in public
-
you folded over laughing, sunghoon was a disease alright. a disease that would rot and corrupt your brain before leading you to your own destruction.
sunoo grabbed your laptop before you dropped it off the bed. "okay that one was funny."
more comments flooded in rapidly and sunoo watched as your expression morphed into one of pure joy. like a kid who had just walked into a candy shop with an unlimited budget and no parental supervision.
-
NTA
he sounds insufferable.
-
ESH
you both sound annoying but in a sexual tension way.
-
you frowned, "what does that even mean?"
sunoo looked away suspiciously fast, hiding his smirk.
another one.
-
i know EXACTLY the type of man you're talking about. probably wears silver jewelry and thinks eye contact is a personality trait.
-
your jaw dropped. "THEY GET ME."
sunoo popped another gummy bear into his mouth, eyeing you. "or maybe you're describing every business major ever."
you ignored him because the comments were getting better by the second.
-
does he perchance look like this:
🗿
-
"OH MY GOD." he totally does.
-
girl he likes you.
⤷
no literally this sounds like academic enemies to lovers fanfiction.
-
"okay why does everyone keep saying that," you muttered, a deep frown now etched on your face. you were beginning to not like where these comments were headed.
sunoo made a noncommittal noise. you narrowed your eyes at him briefly before scrolling again.
-
i'm crying at "emotionally constipated." please cook him again.
-
next class hit him with "you're not beating the pretentious allegations."
-
ask him if he learned emotional intelligence from patrick bateman edits and sigma bro podcasts lol.
-
you physically wheezed, your body folding over in laughter. sunoo shook his head slowly, watching you upvote every single comment that dissed sunghoon.
"you're enjoying this way too much."
"because i'm finally being validated."
you pointed accusingly at him. "unlike SOME people."
sunoo rolled his eyes before muttering, "whatever bitch."
another comment appeared.
-
INFO: is he actually arrogant or are you just threatened because he's smarter than you?
-
your smile vanished instantly. "BOOOOO."
you downvoted it immediately, sunoo burst out laughing. "you are NOT supposed to interact emotionally with the comments."
"they interacted emotionally with ME first."
you kept scrolling, feeling increasingly euphoric as strangers across the internet continued confirming what you'd known all along: park sunghoon was deeply irritating.
the comments only got more ridiculous from there.
-
"he smirked at you after you got a question wrong" oh huny he wants you BAD.
-
this sounds less like hatred and more like unresolved yearning.
-
enemies to lovers ahh post.
-
"unresolved yearning?" you repeated aloud in horror.
oh fuck no.
sunoo was smiling now. not laughing. no no, he was smiling.
which was somehow worse, you turned your head slowly to shoot him a glare, "what."
he shrugged. "nothing."
you narrowed your eyes suspiciously then looked back at your screen.
another comment. this one longer.
-
honestly i think you're leaving out context. from your own description, it sounds like he was trying to engage in discussion normally and you took it personally because you already dislike him.
-
your smile faltered slightly.
who the fuck was this? and why the fuck do they think they know the situation?
the comment continued:
-
correcting people during literary discussions isn't arrogance if he's contributing meaningful analysis. also, calling someone "emotionally constipated" because they interpret a book differently than you is kind of ironic.
-
you scoffed loudly. "OH BROTHER." get a load of this guy, why don't they just go and suck sunghoon's dick at this point.
sunoo leaned closer, reading the comment out loud "wait that one kinda—"
"no."
you clicked reply immediately, your fingers flying across the keyboard.
-
if you defend people like this i just KNOW nobody likes you in real life.
-
sunoo let out a disbelieving laugh. "you're fighting civilians now?"
"they started it."
your reply posted and within less than thirty seconds—
the person responded.
-
bold assumption coming from someone who wrote an entire essay about a classmate because he annoyed her.
-
you froze and slowly sat up straighter. you felt your face tense in what you can only identify as pure raw anger.
sunoo noticed instantly when your face went from. mildly annoyed to baboon ass red. "what."
your eyes narrowed at the screen. something about the reply irritated you immediately. the tone. calm. slightly condescending. annoyingly articulate.
...absolutely not. no way.
you started typing again with renewed aggression. you stared at the username with pure hatred.
notniceprince02
your eye twitched, something about it already annoyed you. the reply sat there on your screen like a personal attack.
calm and smug. condescending in a weirdly articulate way that made you want to throw your laptop across the room.
sunoo leaned closer from beside you. "what happened?"
you pointed aggressively at the screen. "this person thinks i'm the problem."
sunoo made a face. "well..."
you slowly turned toward him eyes like slits and your mouth scrunched. "choose your next words carefully."
sunoo immediately looked back down at his gummy bears.
fucking coward.
you cracked your fingers dramatically before typing a response.
-
sorry i didn't realize his defense attorney was in the comments section. should i call you next time he starts acting like a rejected sherlock holmes adaptation?
-
you hit reply with satisfaction, finally letting out the breath of anger you had taken earlier,
sunoo blinked. "you type like you're in a duel."
"because i am."
less than a minute later—another response.
-
maybe people correct you often because you're wrong often.
-
you gasped so loudly sunoo nearly dropped the gummy bear bag. "OH this bitch."
you didn't know who this person was but you are not the one to be fucked with like this. your fingers flew over the keyboard with new found passion.
-
and maybe you defend emotionally detached weirdos online because you see yourself in him.
-
reply posted and the response came back almost immediately.
-
emotionally detached = calm
emotional instability = writing reddit essays because a guy disagreed with you in class
-
sunoo physically leaned forward now the gummy bears had been abandoned.
"okay wait," he said slowly. "this is getting good."
you ignored him, mostly because your blood pressure was rising.
-
if being calm means acting like a pretentious AI generated philosophy quote then congratulations i guess.
-
reply and instant response.
-
if being intelligent sounds pretentious to you that might be a personal issue.
-
your jaw dropped. "PERSONAL ISSUE?"
sunoo was trying not to laugh, badly. you glared at him before pushing at his shoulder hard enough to have him almost fall of your bed. unlucky for you, he managed to catch his balance and stay seated next to you with a dumb grin on his face.
"i'm sorry but they kinda cooked you there."
"whose side are you on?" fucking twink.
"the entertainment's."
traitor.
you sat up straighter on the bed, narrowing your eyes at the screen like notniceprince02 had personally wronged your entire bloodline.
-
you sound exactly like the guy i'm talking about btw. same superiority complex. same "i think i'm the smartest person in every room" energy.
-
the response appeared almost immediately, which somehow irritated you more. did this person have no life? fighting with strangers on the internet like a loser.
this doesn't apply to you of course.
-
maybe you're just intimidated by people who challenge you intellectually.
-
you stared at the screen in disbelief.
sunoo let out a quiet whistle. "they hit a nerve?"
"i'm going to hit THEM."
you typed furiously, your thumbs cramping up but you don't let weak things like this stop you.
-
intellectually challenge me? please. this man raises his hand in class like he's announcing a new world order then says the most pseudo intellectual nonsense you've ever heard.
-
response.
-
interesting. you seem to remember his class participation very vividly.
-
you froze for like half a second and then scoffed loudly.
because it's TRAUMATIZING. not because you care enough to remember, but because it's shocked itself into the crevices of your brain.
sunoo snorted while you kept going.
-
he literally smirks when people get answers wrong. do you know how deeply punchable that is?
-
response.
-
maybe he smirks because your reactions are dramatic.
-
you narrowed your eyes dangerously. this conversation, more like argument, felt more natural that you'd like to admit.
-
okay now i KNOW you're him.
-
sunoo's brows shot up immediately. hold on...
you pointed at the screen frantically. "LOOK AT HOW HE TYPES."
sunoo leaned closer, the two of you stared silently at the replies for a moment. then—sunoo slowly looked at you. "that actually does sound like him."
"THANK YOU." validation surged through your body instantly. you pointed aggressively at the laptop. "RIGHT? the annoying calmness? the fake intellectual wording? the superiority complex?"
sunoo tilted his head, a shit eating grin plastered on his porcelain face. "you know him disturbingly well."
"unfortunately."
another reply appeared.
-
i think it's funny how much attention you pay to someone you supposedly dislike.
-
you barked out a laugh, completely humorless.
-
oh my god. you ARE him.
-
response.
-
and if i was?
-
you sat there, staring. sunoo sat there too, also staring.
the room suddenly felt strangely quiet as you squinted at the screen.
"why did that make me mad."
sunoo was smiling again, that knowing smile. you hated that smile.
"because you think it might actually be him."
"it's not him."
"mhm."
"it's just some annoying reddit user." another response appeared before you could keep ranting.
-
for the record, if this guy really is as arrogant as you claim, why do you keep engaging with him?
-
you rolled your eyes instantly.
-
because someone has to humble him.
-
reply.
-
sounds more like obsession.
-
you gasped, like actually gasped. you? obsessed with sunghoon? out of all the people in this world? fuck no.
sunoo folded over laughing. "OH MY GOD."
"OBSESSION?" you typed so aggressively the keyboard started clacking violently.
-
you people see a man and woman arguing and immediately think there's romantic tension. have you considered that i simply think he's irritating and unfortunate-looking?
-
sunoo looked at you, slowly. "unfortunate-looking?"
you avoided eye contact because unfortunately that part wasn't true. at all. which was deeply annoying. you hated how you couldn't get away with dissing his appearance because as much as you hate to admit it, there was nothing to pick at.
another reply.
-
unfortunate-looking yet you described his facial expressions in detail.
-
you froze. sunoo froze. your eyes slowly widened as you stared at sunoo who looked equally as surprised as you.
"..."
sunoo pointed at the screen. "THAT IS ABSOLUTELY HIM."
"SHUT UP."
˙𐃷˙
by the next morning, your hatred for user notniceprince02 had evolved into something genuinely concerning.
your phone had been vibrating nonstop since eight in the morning.
every. two. seconds.
ping.
ping.
PING.
another reply. another argument. another smug paragraph typed in that calm, annoyingly articulate tone that made your blood pressure spike on sight.
you sat in the student lounge with your laptop open and your phone in your hand simultaneously, responding across two devices like a woman fighting in active warfare.
sunoo sat across from you, fully invested now. having the thread opened on his laptop as he watched you type out responses like it was war.
classes? irrelevant.
education? secondary.
this reddit argument had become the main event.
"you've replied to him thirty-seven times just in this past hour " sunoo said.
"thirty-eight." you hit send aggressively and sunoo blinked in pure shock.
"that was immediate."
"because he's wrong." your phone buzzed again and you looked down instantly.
-
notniceprince02:
"you keep proving my point by reacting emotionally to everything."
-
you scoffed so loudly the two people at the next table glanced over.
"OH my god." your fingers slammed against the keyboard.
-
sorry i forgot being emotionally unavailable is apparently a personality trait now.
-
send.
and would you look at that, a response within seconds.
-
no, but making hating one guy your entire personality definitely is.
-
you stared at the screen with a scowl etched on your face. offended, deeply offended.
sunoo leaned over your shoulder to see you clutching your phone was a grip that would shatter your screen.
then immediately started laughing. "okay no because why does this genuinely sound like sunghoon."
"it's NOT him."
"__."
"it's just some weird sigma male ass kisser who probably listens to podcasts hosted by divorced men."
you ignored him because your phone buzzed again—another reply.
-
you seem weirdly committed to misunderstanding him.
-
you rolled your eyes so hard it physically hurt. at this point you wondered how many people at the library thought something was mentally wrong with you.
-
and you seem weirdly committed to defending him. is this his burner account or are you just in love with him?
-
send.
sunoo nearly choked. "OH?"
"what?"
"you're spiraling."
"i'm WINNING."
sunoo pointed at your screen, a thread of reddit beef that's exceeded an appropriate limit. "this does not look like winning."
you frowned at the ongoing thread. unfortunately, it had become one of the top comments under your post. people were fully invested now with random users jumping into the argument just to spectate.
some were taking sides while others were making it worse, much worse.
-
y'all are literally flirting.
-
this is the most enemies to lovers thing i've ever read.
-
somebody invite me to the wedding.
-
"irl academic rivals is CRAZY."
-
you physically recoiled at the thought of being shipped with that garden troll of a man. "what is WRONG with people?"
sunoo looked way too entertained. "they kinda have a point."
"they absolutely do not."
another comment:
-
at this point just kiss and get it over with.
⤷
i would rather chew denim.
-
you typed immediately, brows furrowed and jaw clenched. this was the last thing you had expected as an outcome when you posted on reddit.
sunoo burst out laughing. "chew denim?"
"i'm emotional."
your phone buzzed again.
-
notniceprince02:
"that's dramatic."
-
your eye twitched as you read the message out loud. "HE KEEPS SAYING THAT." people had now physically turned on their seats to look at the two of you with curious and annoyed looks in their eyes.
sunoo pointed accusingly at you while gives others a apologetic smile. "because you ARE dramatic." he whispered to you harshly all while motioning you to shut the fuck up.
"you're both against me."
"no," sunoo corrected. "i just think this is the funniest thing that's happened all semester."
you glared at him before standing abruptly, grabbing your phone. "i'm going to the washroom."
if sunoo wasn't going to appreciate this properly, then some girl in the stall next to you will. sunoo hummed absently. "tell your boyfriend i said hi if he replies again."
"die."
you walked off before he could keep talking.
the hallways buzzed with students moving between lectures, conversations overlapping with the sound of footsteps and lockers shutting nearby.
your phone buzzed again and without looking up, you immediately started typing.
-
no, because at this point you're defending him like you want him carnally.
-
send.
you turned the corner toward the washrooms—and slammed directly into someone.
hard.
your shoulder collided with a solid chest and your phone nearly flew out of your hand.
"shit—"
steady hands caught your arms before you stumbled backward. familiar hands. long fingers curling briefly around your sleeves.
your stomach dropped instantly, because of course.
of fucking COURSE.
park sunghoon looked down at you with mild surprise, dark hair slightly messy like he'd been running his hands through it all morning. a pair of headphones rested around his neck, black hoodie sleeves pushed to his forearms.
and unfortunately—unfairly—he looked really good today.
which immediately irritated you, because how dare he have a shit personality and look good while ruining your mood by just breathing in your vicinity.
sunghoon glanced at your death grip on your phone before meeting your eyes again, a small smirk playing on his pink plush lips.
"you should probably watch where you're going." his voice was calm, low and slightly amused.
you narrowed your eyes instantly. "maybe people would move if they weren't standing in the middle of hallways like decorative statues."
one corner of his mouth lifted slightly. there it was, that stupid almost-smile. you hated that stupid almost-smile.
sunghoon's gaze flicked downward briefly. to your phone screen which was still open to reddit. your heart stopped for half a second because the thread was visible. very visible. and at the top of the screen sat a fresh notification from—notniceprince02 replied to your comment
sunghoon's eyes lingered on the notification then slowly lifted back to yours.
silence. your brain short-circuited instantly, no. absolutely not. there was no way. sunghoon looked at you for one long second before asking casually, "still fighting with strangers online?"
your entire body went still, just for a second. because there was absolutely no way—no actual way.
sunghoon stood there holding your arm loosely, thumb brushing the fabric of your sleeve while your phone screen glowed between you both like evidence in a criminal investigation.
notniceprince02 replied to your comment.
your brain was buffering. loading. malfunctioning.
sunghoon's expression remained frustratingly neutral but there was something there. something subtle: amusement.
your eyes narrowed immediately. "why are you looking at my phone?"
smooth. good recovery. yup yup.
sunghoon let go of your arm slowly, way too slowly. "hard not to when you almost tackled me with it."
you scoffed, "you were standing in my way."
"you walked directly into me."
"semantics."
sunghoon hummed quietly as his gaze flicked toward your screen again and then back to you.
"so," he said lightly, "what stranger online managed to upset you this badly?"
your grip tightened around your phone instantly. absolutely not. you were NOT about to entertain sunoo's ridiculous theory.
"nobody."
sunghoon raised a brow, "you look homicidal."
"maybe that's just your effect on people." you retorted back almost automatically. you wonder if you've ever responded to sunghoon in a normal way.
that stupid almost-smile appeared again. small and annoyingly attractive. you hated it, like actually hated it.
sunghoon tilted his head slightly. "you know," he murmured, "you get strangely defensive whenever i ask simple questions."
your stomach flipped in irritation, strictly irritation. "and you get strangely nosy for someone who acts emotionally detached all the time."
his eyes held yours for a second longer than necessary, steady and focused. like he was trying to figure something out.
the hallway around you blurred into noise and somehow you were still standing there.
too close to him, way too close.
you noticed stupid things at the worst possible times, like the faint scent of his cologne or the tiny mole near his neck. or the fact that his hair fell into his eyes slightly when he looked down at you like this.
deeply irritating.
sunghoon's gaze flicked briefly toward your mouth before returning upward so quickly you almost thought you imagined it.
almost.
"what?" you snapped immediately. you could feel a small flush cover your cheeks and neck at the thought of sunghoon sneaking glances at your lips. maybe he thought you looked really slapable right now, or really kissable. it hurt your ego to think that either one of those things were deemed acceptable to you.
his brows lifted slightly. "nothing."
liar.
you narrowed your eyes harder. "you're being weird."
"you say that every time you don't know how to respond."
your jaw dropped at his audacity. "i always know how to respond."
"mhm."
that stupid calm tone again. you wanted to bite him. which—bad wording. very bad wording.
sunghoon watched your expression shift in real time and something in his face changed slightly. like he noticed the exact moment your thoughts betrayed you.
horrifying. absolutely horrifying.
you recovered immediately, sort of. "why are you even talking to me right now?" you asked. "don't you have some freshmen discussion group to intellectually terrorize?"
sunghoon laughed quietly under his breath—actually laughed. and it caught you so off guard that you momentarily forgot to stay angry.
which made you angrier. "you're the one who ran into me."
"unfortunately."
"yet you're still standing here."
you opened your mouth then closed it. sunghoon noticed, of course he noticed. the only thing he doesn't seem to notice is his mouth opening and closing with cow noises spilling out during class.
the corner of his mouth twitched again. "that's new," he said softly.
"what is?"
"you being speechless." your face heated instantly, not because of him.
obviously.
you crossed your arms defensively. "you're unbelievably annoying."
"and yet," sunghoon said calmly, stepping slightly closer, "you keep talking to me."
your heartbeat stumbled. just once. which was unacceptable.
because now he was close enough that you could see every tiny detail in his expression—the faint curve of amusement in his eyes, the way his lips kept threatening to smile fully.
he looked way too pleased with himself. you hated that too. a group of students walked past nearby and one of them whispered: "there's no way they're not dating."
you whipped your head around instantly. "WE'RE NOT—"
sunghoon's hand suddenly landed lightly against the wall beside your head. not trapping you, but enough to make your words catch awkwardly in your throat.
his expression remained perfectly calm which somehow made the gesture worse. "you're loud when you're flustered," he said quietly.
your brain short-circuited. flustered? FLUSTERED?
you stared at him in disbelief. "i am not flustered."
sunghoon hummed, completely unconvinced as he reached into his pocket to slip out his phone. your pulse was going insane now for reasons you refused to examine.
then—your phone buzzed loudly between you both.
the notification lit up the screen and your head snapped down, unlocking your phone to see something that only made your heart drop to your gut.
-
notniceprince02:
"you still haven't answered my question."
-
silence.
sunghoon looked down at the notification then slowly back up at you. and this time—this time he smiled properly.
small. sharp. dangerous.
your stomach dropped straight to hell. because suddenly—suddenly you knew.
oh my god.
it WAS him.
your soul briefly left your body. there was no other explanation for the horrifying full-body shutdown you experienced standing there in the middle of the hallway.
because park sunghoon was smiling at you. actually smiling. not the tiny smug almost-smirk he usually wore during arguments.
a real smile. sharp at the edges. dangerously entertained. and your phone was still glowing between you both with the notification from: notniceprince02
oh my god. OH my god.
you stared at him, sunghoon stared back. this fucker was playing with you this entire time and he had the audacity to look calm, composed and completely evil all at the same time.
your voice came out accusing immediately. "you're insane." sunghoon's smile widened slightly. which honestly should've been illegal because why did he suddenly look—no.
absolutely not.
"that's a strong reaction," he said mildly.
"you've been fighting with me online for like fourteen hours."
"thirteen, actually."
you blinked up at him, horrified.
sunghoon tilted his head slightly. "you stopped replying around three in the morning."
your jaw physically dropped. "YOU KEPT TRACK?"
"you type aggressively when you're tired."
you looked genuinely offended. "that is such a weird thing to notice."
"you notice weird things about me too."
silence. dangerous silence. because unfortunately—unfortunately he was right. and judging by the look on his face? he knew he was right too.
you recovered immediately or at least attempted to. "okay first of all," you started, pointing at him aggressively, "using a burner account to argue with me on reddit is psychotic behavior."
sunghoon crossed his arms loosely still way too relaxed. "you made an entire public post about me."
"i didn't SAY your name."
"you described me like a wanted criminal."
"because you're irritating."
"it was weirdly detailed."
your eye twitched. "you're unbelievable."
sunghoon leaned slightly closer, close enough that your stupid heart started acting weird again. "you wrote three paragraphs about my facial expressions."
heat crawled up your neck instantly. because in hindsight—mentioning the smirking might've been a mistake.
"that was for CONTEXT."
sunghoon hummed not buying it for a second. "right....right"
you hated how calm he sounded. like this entire situation entertained him more than anything else. which made sense, considering the man apparently spent his free time anonymously provoking you online.
actual freak behavior.
"and YOU," you shot back, "were defending yourself in the comments like a loser."
sunghoon's brows lifted. "i was defending myself because you compared me to a podcast for divorced men."
"because you talk like one."
"you literally accused me of wanting attention 'carnally.'" your face heated instantly, sunghoon looked way too pleased saying that out loud. "that was BEFORE i knew it was you."
"does that make it better?"
"a little."
his mouth twitched again. you wanted to throw him into traffic. respectfully.
sunghoon glanced down at your phone screen where the reddit thread was still open. hundreds of notifications flooded the post now. people were still replying, still arguing and still shipping you both for reasons you refused to acknowledge.
sunghoon read one of the comments over your shoulder, then laughed quietly. "someone said we have 'academic rivals to lovers tension.'"
you looked horrified, shooting him a quick glare before downvoting on the comment. "don't read those."
"why not?" he asked lightly. "they seem passionate about us."
"there is no 'us.'" you snapped back.
sunghoon's gaze flicked back to yours, steady—focused.
"you sure?"
your stomach dropped. hard. something about the way he said it felt unfairly intentional. like he knew exactly what he was doing now. which—he probably did.
you crossed your arms tighter, defensive. "you're enjoying this way too much."
"you started it."
"you kept replying."
"so did you."
"because i don't lose arguments."
sunghoon stepped closer again, just slightly. enough that your back nearly brushed the wall behind you.
"is that what this is?" he asked softly.
you frowned. "what."
"you needing to win." his voice had gotten quieter somehow, lower and suddenly the hallway noise around you felt distant again.
students walked past constantly but it barely registered.
because sunghoon was standing too close and looking at you like he'd figured something out.
you swallowed once, annoyed at yourself for even noticing. "obviously," you replied.
sunghoon watched you for another second. then, "i think you just like arguing with me."
you let out a disbelieving laugh immediately. "that is genuinely the dumbest thing you've ever said."
"is it?"
"yes."
"then why do you always look excited before you disagree with me?"
your mouth opened. closed. opened again. nothing came out. because that was—that was not the point. like fuck, you caught me i guess.
sunghoon noticed your silence instantly, of course he did. his expression shifted into something smugger and more dangerous. "there it is again."
"what."
"speechless."
you hated him, like actually hated him. especially because he looked so unfairly good right now standing there with messy dark hair and that stupid smug expression like he'd won something.
you narrowed your eyes. "you know what? maybe people only think you're smart because you say things confidently."
sunghoon leaned one shoulder casually against the wall beside you. completely cornering you now without actually touching you.
"maybe," he said calmly, "you only argue with me because i'm the only person who argues back."
your heartbeat betrayed you again. you stared at him, sunghoon stared back. then—your phone buzzed loudly again between you both.
another reddit notification, sunghoon glanced down before taking your phone into his own hands then read aloud: "'just kiss already and save us all the trouble.'"
you lunged for your phone instantly. "give me that."
sunghoon lifted it out of reach easily and your eyes widened. "park sunghoon."
he looked down at you with blatant amusement. "that's the first time you've said my full name without sounding homicidal."
"i AM homicidal."
"mhm."
you reached for your phone again, sunghoon caught your wrist lightly before you could grab it. everything stopped. your breath. your thoughts. your functioning nervous system.
his fingers wrapped loosely around your wrist, warm and firm. and suddenly you became painfully aware of how close he actually was.
sunghoon looked down briefly at where he was holding you and then back at your face. his expression changed slightly, less teasing and more—dangerous.
your pulse went absolutely insane. then quietly—way too quietly—he said, "you know... you're a lot less mean when you're flustered."
your brain completely stopped functioning. like genuinely. because park sunghoon was still holding your wrist, still standing way too close, still looking at you with that horribly calm expression while your pulse was actively trying to kill you.
and the worst part? he knew. you could tell he knew. his thumb shifted slightly against your wrist and your stomach flipped so violently it made you angry.
sunghoon's eyes flicked briefly to your mouth again. then back up, slowly and deliberately.
"you know," he murmured, "the comments might be onto something."
your brows furrowed instantly. "what comments."
his mouth twitched. "'just kiss already and save us all the trouble.'"
you stared at him in disbelief. "absolutely not."
"why not?"
"because i'd rather die."
sunghoon hummed thoughtfully. "dramatic."
"you make me dramatic." that slipped out before you could stop it, the silence was thick.
sunghoon's expression shifted almost imperceptibly. something darker settling beneath the amusement. your face heated instantly. great. excellent. love that for you.
you tried pulling your wrist back but he didn't let go. not fully, he just loosened his grip slightly. enough to remind you he could let go if he wanted to, but wasn't.
"you know what i think?" he asked quietly.
"i don't care."
"i think you enjoy this."
you scoffed immediately. "arguing with you is psychologically damaging."
"yet you keep doing it."
"because someone needs to humble you."
sunghoon smiled slowly, that smile should've come with a warning label. "you've been saying that for two years, i don't think you're making much progress, __."
your stomach twisted, you hated how softly he said it. like he'd been thinking about it too, absolutely disgusting.
you crossed your arms tighter, or tried to. hard to look intimidating when he still had your wrist trapped loosely in his hand. "you're weirdly obsessed with me for someone who acts emotionally detached all the time."
sunghoon tilted his head slightly. "says the girl who wrote a public essay about me." at this point the both of you were repeating yourselves for the nth time, none of you progressing anywhere.
"because you're irritating."
"and handsome?"
you nearly choked. "WHEN did i say that?"
"you didn't have to."
you looked genuinely appalled, sunghoon laughed quietly under his breath. the sound went straight through you in the most irritating way imaginable.
you hated that too, everything about him irritated you. his stupid voice, his stupid face, his stupidly long fingers still wrapped around your wrist.
"you're insufferable."
"you like that word."
"because it applies to you constantly." you say sweetly, batting your eyelashes in the most dramatic way you could possibly pull off.
sunghoon leaned closer, close enough that your back finally brushed against the wall behind you.
you swallowed hard, annoyed. deeply annoyed.
"you know," he said softly, "for someone who claims to hate me, you stare at me a lot."
your jaw dropped. "you stare at ME."
"because you're loud."
"and you're annoying."
"yet here we are."
your heart was beating so hard you were convinced he could hear it. which was humiliating, especially because he looked entirely unaffected.
calm. steady. composed. which is what his heart monitor would read after you ran him over with your car. you wanted to ruin that composure so badly. sunghoon's gaze dropped to your mouth again, this time slower and less subtle. your breathing hitched involuntarily and that smug bastard noticed immediately.
his eyes darkened slightly. "there it is," he murmured.
"what."
"that look."
"what look?"
sunghoon smiled faintly. "the one you get before you start losing an argument."
you pushed against his shoulder instantly, hard. or at least hard enough to make a point but sunghoon barely moved. which only irritated you more. "i never lose."
"sure."
"i'm serious."
"mhm."
you glared at him, sunghoon stared back. then quietly—
way too calmly—he said, "maybe we should give people what they want."
your stomach dropped. "what."
his fingers tightened slightly around your wrist before he stepped closer again, completely boxing you in now.
"the comments seem very invested in us."
"there is no 'us.'" you repeated for the nth time.
"you keep saying that."
"because it's true."
sunghoon looked at you for one long second, then his voice dropped lower, dangerously soft. "then how about we start with the kiss?"
your brain short-circuited so violently you physically stopped breathing. "excuse me?"
sunghoon's expression remained infuriatingly calm. but his eyes—his eyes looked anything but calm now. "you heard me."
heat exploded across your face instantly. "you are OUT of your mind."
"probably."
"i would never kiss you."
sunghoon leaned down slightly, close enough that his voice brushed against your skin. "you keep saying things your body language disagrees with."
your stomach flipped violently. you hated him, because he sounded so certain, so unfairly confident. you opened your mouth to argue again but footsteps echoed nearby and a group of students rounded the corner laughing loudly.
both of you glanced over instinctively, the moment broke slightly. just enough, except sunghoon didn't move away. instead, his gaze flicked briefly down the hall toward the nearby family washroom.
then back to you and your pulse spiked instantly. "sunghoon—"
before you could finish, he tugged lightly on your wrist.
your breath caught as he pulled you forward down the hall.
"what are you DOING?"
sunghoon glanced back at you once, that same dangerous almost-smile pulling at his mouth.
"proving a point."
your stomach dropped straight to hell. your sneakers squeaked slightly against the floor as sunghoon pulled you down the hallway.
not fast enough to look suspicious, which somehow made it worse. his hand stayed wrapped around your wrist the entire time—warm, firm, steady—like he already knew you wouldn't actually pull away.
which was irritating, deeply irritating. "park sunghoon—"
"you say my full name a lot when you're nervous."
"i'm not nervous." he glanced back at you briefly, that smug look again.
"sure."
you swore out his entire bloodline at this moment as your heart was currently beating like you'd just sprinted across campus. sunghoon stopped outside the family washroom and pushed the door open casually before looking back at you expectantly.
your eyes widened immediately. "oh my god."
"what?"
"you're insane."
"you've said that already."
"because you keep proving it."
sunghoon's mouth twitched then he gently tugged your wrist again. you should've walked away, seriously. you should've told him to go to hell and left immediately.
instead—you followed him inside. which honestly felt like a personal failure.
the door clicked shut behind you.
the washroom was too bright and too small. and now sunghoon was standing directly in front of you with nowhere to escape to, hoodie sleeves pushed up his forearms and dark hair slightly falling into his eyes.
you became painfully aware of every inch of space between you both, which unfortunately (fortunately) wasn't much.
your pulse went insane. sunghoon leaned back lightly against the sink counter, still watching you with that same unreadable expression. except now there was something sharper underneath it, something heated.
you crossed your arms immediately, defensive. "if you murder me in here i'm haunting you."
sunghoon laughed quietly, the sound bounced softly off the tiled walls. "you think i'd need to drag you into a bathroom to kill you?"
"probably not. you'd do it in a psychologically manipulative way."
"interesting that you've thought about it."
"i think about punching you constantly."
sunghoon hummed. "violent."
"you bring it out in me."
his gaze held yours for a second too long. then, "i know."
your stomach flipped, you hated how low his voice sounded in here. hated how every tiny expression felt amplified now that you were alone. you needed to regain control of this conversation immediately.
"so what exactly was your master plan here?" you asked. "corner me in a public washroom and continue being annoying?"
sunghoon tilted his head slightly. "you came willingly."
well, he got you there. "against my better judgment."
"yet still willingly."
you rolled your eyes aggressively. "you're obsessed with having the last word."
"that's rich coming from you."
"i'm right most of the time." sunghoon smiled slowly, there it was again. that stupid smile that made you irrationally aware of how attractive he was.
you hated that too, everything about him was annoying.
the way he stood, the way he talked. the way his hands and forearms looked resting against the sink behind him—okay.
you needed to stop thinking immediately. sunghoon noticed your brief lapse in concentration. his eyes narrowed slightly, amused.
"what happened?" he asked softly. "lost your train of thought?"
"i'm deciding how much jail time i'd get for assault." good cover up!
"probably less if you looked this cute during the mugshot."
your brain completely blue-screened, you stared at him.
sunghoon stared back. completely calm after saying the most insane thing imaginable.
"you—" nothing, your thoughts evaporated.
sunghoon pushed off the sink slowly, one step closer.
then another. your back instinctively hit the door behind you.
oh my god.
"what?" he asked quietly. you swallowed hard, annoyed at yourself.
"you can't just say things like that."
"why not?"
"because it's weird."
"you're flustered again."
"I AM NOT FLUSTERED."
sunghoon looked down at you for a long second then his gaze flicked to your mouth again. slowly and deliberately. your stomach twisted so hard it physically hurt and you wondered what would happen if you just threw up your guts onto him. how pretty would he look with a bacon egg and cheese splashed onto him?
"you know," he murmured, "for someone who claims to hate me, you let me get very close to you."
"you cornered me." you snap.
"you could move." you opened your mouth then closed it. because—well technically. he wasn't wrong. you absolutely could move, but instead you stayed exactly where you were.
sunghoon noticed immediately, that smug look returned. "there it is."
"stop saying that."
"then stop proving me right."
you glared at him, he stared back. neither of you moved.
the tension in the room felt ridiculous now. thick enough to choke on.
and the worst part? sunghoon still looked calm. slightly amused, even. like he was waiting for you to figure something out.
your phone buzzed loudly in your pocket. both of you glanced downward instinctively. another reddit notification, causing sunghoon laughed softly. "they're probably asking if we kissed yet."
your face heated instantly. "they're delusional."
"mhm."
"stop doing that."
"doing what?"
"looking at me like that."
his brows lifted slightly. "like what?"
you gestured vaguely, frustrated. "like you know something i don't."
sunghoon stepped closer again, barely any space left between you now. his voice dropped lower, quieter.
"maybe i do."
your breath caught, his hand lifted slowly toward your face. you froze up, completely. sunghoon's fingers brushed lightly against your jaw, gentle and careful.
somehow that made it worse. your heartbeat was so loud you were convinced the entire campus could hear it.
sunghoon looked at you for one long second. then quietly—almost teasing—he murmured "still think you'd rather die than kiss me?"
your brain was screaming because park sunghoon's hand was on your jaw right now. his thumb resting lightly against your skin while he looked at you like this —calm on the surface, but with something much more dangerous underneath.
and the worst part? you still hadn't moved away.
your back pressed against the door behind you as your pulse absolutely lost its mind. sunghoon waited patiently for an answer.
that smug bastard. "well?" he murmured softly. you swallowed hard. "you're very confident for someone who uses reddit burner accounts."
the corner of his mouth lifted immediately. there you were, finally talking again.
"deflecting already?"
"i'm not deflecting."
"mhm."
you hated that sound. hated how he kept looking at you like he could see directly through every thought in your head. because right now those thoughts were actively betraying you.
you were suddenly hyperaware of everything, the warmth of his hand, the faint scent of his cologne, the way his hoodie sleeves stretched around his forearms when he shifted closer.
deeply irritating. you narrowed your eyes, trying desperately to regain control of the situation.
"you know what your problem is?"
sunghoon hummed softly, looking down at you with an unreadable glint in his dark eyes. "you think everyone secretly likes you."
"not everyone."
his thumb brushed your jaw slightly as he spoke and your stomach flipped violently.
"just you."
your breath caught embarrassingly fast. sunghoon noticed instantly and his eyes darkened slightly. suddenly the teasing atmosphere shifted into something heavier, quieter.
you hated how good he was at this. "you're unbelievable," you muttered.
"you've said that too."
"because you keep acting insane."
sunghoon leaned down slightly, close enough now that his voice felt warm against your skin.
"you haven't told me to stop."
your brain short-circuited. because—because technically—you hadn't. you opened your mouth immediately. "stop."
sunghoon smiled faintly, but didn't move. "that sounded forced."
you glared at him. "you're annoying."
"and yet you're still here." he kept doing that. kept pointing out things you didn't want to acknowledge.
like the fact that you could absolutely shove him away right now if you wanted to.
except you didn't, which felt like a massive personal failure. your phone buzzed again in your pocket making sunghoon laughed quietly under his breath. "persistent audience."
"they need hobbies."
"says the girl who argued with me online for thirteen hours."
"because you were WRONG."
"about what exactly?"
"everything."
sunghoon's brows lifted slightly. "including the part where you're obviously attracted to me?"
your jaw dropped. silence. violent silence. your entire nervous system shut down. "you—"
nothing came out and sunghoon looked way too pleased with himself. "there it is again."
"if you say 'speechless' one more time i'm calling campus security."
he laughed again, soft and genuine. and it hit you in the chest in the most irritating way imaginable because you'd never heard him laugh like this before.
not during class, not during arguments. this was different, warmer, more relaxed. like he was actually enjoying himself.
you stared at him suspiciously, sunghoon noticed immediately. "what?"
"why are you smiling like that."
"like what?"
"like you're having fun." his gaze held yours for a second, then, "i am."
your stomach twisted again, it felt as if your body was actively betraying you . you looked away first this time, suddenly very interested in the tiled floor beneath you. sunghoon's hand shifted slightly, fingers brushing gently beneath your chin.
guiding your attention back to him and your heart nearly exploded.
"don't do that," you muttered weakly.
"do what?"
"that."
"very descriptive."
you glared at him, or attempted to. hard to look intimidating when your face was hot and your heartbeat sounded like a construction site.
sunghoon studied your expression quietly for a moment.
then smiled slightly, smaller this time and less teasing. "you know what i think?"
"i think you should stop thinking entirely." you spat out weakly.
"i think," he continued calmly ignoring what you just said, "you've spent two years picking fights with me because it's the only time you stop pretending not to care what i think."
your stomach dropped straight to hell you stared at him only to see him look at you with a look you were afraid to identify. and somehow that was worse than the teasing, because he sounded genuine now.
which felt unfair.
you recovered immediately through anger, your favorite defense mechanism.
"oh my god you are SO full of yourself."
"am i wrong?"
"yes."
"then why are you blushing?"
you slapped your hands over your face instantly, and sunghoon actually laughed. fully this time and the sound was so unexpectedly attractive it made you want to walk directly into traffic.
"stop laughing."
"you're cute when you're angry."
"you're making me angrier."
"i know." his voice softened slightly on the last two words, your hands slowly lowered from your face.
sunghoon was still standing impossibly close. still looking at you like he wanted to see what you'd do next.
your heartbeat wouldn't calm down and neither would your thoughts.
and then his gaze dropped to your mouth again, slowly—intentionally.
your breath caught again and sunghoon noticed. again.
his hand slid lightly from your jaw to the side of your neck.
you completely stopped functioning. "sunghoon," you whispered, first name only this time. this was probably the first time in the two years you knew him that you had said his name with such softness.
something shifted in his expression immediately and his eyes darkened. his thumb pressed lightly against your neck.
"yeah?" he murmured.
oh.
oh this was bad.
his thumb pressed gently against the pulse hammering in your throat. that single point of contact felt like a live wire.
"yeah?" he murmured again, his voice dropping into a register you'd never heard, low and rough and utterly dismantling. you had no witty retort, no clever insult. your brain was static, every neuron firing toward the heat of his hand, the dark focus in his eyes.
he saw the surrender you hadn't even voiced. his other hand came up, fingers threading through your hair to cradle the back of your head, and then he was closing the last inch of space.
his mouth was on yours.
it wasn't tentative. it wasn't a question. it was a firm, smooth claim that stole the breath from your lungs and the strength from your knees. his lips moved against yours with a confident pressure that was instantly dizzying. he tasted like mint and something darker, something uniquely him.
a soft, surprised sound escaped you, swallowed immediately by his kiss. he angled your head, deepening it, his tongue sweeping past your lips to tangle with yours.
it was an argument you couldn't win, a debate settled with a devastating, sensual finality. your hands, which had been balled into fists at your sides, came up to clutch at the fabric of his hoodie.
he broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against your swollen lips, "finally." then he was moving again, his body pressing you firmly back against the cool door. you felt your heart pounding in your chest like you had ran a mile, his one word stealing the strength from your legs.
in one fluid, shockingly strong motion, he captured both your wrists in one of his large hands and pinned them above your head. you gasped, a thrill of helplessness shooting straight to your core. his other hand returned to your throat, not squeezing, just holding, a dominant, possessive weight.
"always so loud," he breathed, his lips trailing down your jaw. "so much to say." you could feel the hard, undeniable ridge of his dick pressing against your stomach through both your clothes. the evidence of his desire was a shockwave that made you whimper. he smirked against your skin. "what's wrong? no clever comeback?"
he leaned in again, but instead of kissing you, he hovered. his gaze locked on yours, dark and intense. then he gathered a bit of saliva on his tongue and let it fall, slow and deliberate, past his own lips and onto yours.
the warm, wet intimacy of it made your eyes flutter closed for a second. "open," he commanded softly. dazed, you did. he sealed his mouth over yours again, sharing the wetness, the kiss turning filthy and deep.
you drank him in, your earlier defiance melting into a desperate, aching need. you could feel your underwear stick to you uncomfortably, shifting slighting only to have sunghoon's large body pin you against the door harder. his bulge pushing into your stomach firmer, you could feel him grind against you.
he pulled back, his breathing slightly ragged, and began to mouth down the column of your throat. his teeth scraped lightly, then bit down, not hard enough to truly hurt, but enough to make you cry out and arch against him. he soothed the spot with his tongue before sucking hard, leaving a brand you knew would bloom purple.
he admired his work, then the dizzy, wrecked look on your face. "look at you. all that fire, reduced to this."
his free hand slid down, grabbing the hem of your shirt. "all those essays about my emotional incompetence," he said, tugging the fabric up. you shivered as cool air hit your stomach.
"all that time you spent thinking about me." the shirt went over your head, discarded somewhere on the floor. his eyes raked over your bra. "and for what? to end up here."
"you're—you're still insufferable," you managed to pant, even as you pressed your chest toward him—urging him to take it off.
"i know," he said, his fingers deftly finding the clasp of your bra. it came undone. "and you're still obsessed." the bra straps slid down your arms, still trapped in his grasp. he let go of your wrists just long enough to pull the garment away and toss it aside. immediately, his hand returned, clamping back down.
you used your momentary freedom to grab the bottom of his hoodie, pushing it up. he helped, releasing you to yank it and his shirt off in one impatient move.
then he was back on you, skin to searing skin. he was a biter, just as you'd imagined. his mouth latched onto the swell of your breast, teeth grazing your nipple before he sucked it deep.
you cried out, your head thumping back against the door. "if you can do it," you gasped, twisting to reach his shoulder with your mouth. you sank your teeth into the hard muscle there, a retaliatory claim. "then i can too."
"fuck." he groaned, the sound vibrating through your entire body. you think you just gushed and ruined your panties.
a competition of marks began. he left a trail of bruises and blooming red patches down your chest, over your ribs. you reciprocated on his neck, his collarbone, his pectoral, each bite earning a sharper gasp or a low, approving growl from him.
the pain was a bright, sharp pleasure, a physical manifestation of all your tangled, furious energy.
suddenly, he was pushing you down. a firm hand on your shoulder guided you to your knees on the cold tile.
you looked up at him, dazed. he loomed over you, his expression one of dark, predatory amusement. he undid his belt buckle, the click obscenely loud in the small room.
"i wonder," he mused, his voice thick, "how much shit you can talk with your mouth full of me."
he popped the button of his jeans, lowered the zipper. the outline of his cock straining against his boxers made your mouth water. "hands behind your back," he ordered.
you hesitated, glaring up at him. with a frustrated noise, you reached for his waistband. he caught your wrist instantly. "ah-ah." his other hand came up and delivered a firm, almost casual pat against your cheek. it wasn't a hard slap, but it was a stinging, dominant correction that made your eyes widen and your clit throb. "i said, no hands."
swallowing your pride, you leaned forward. you nuzzled against the fabric of his boxers, feeling the hard heat beneath. using your teeth, you caught the elastic waistband and tugged it down, revealing him.
he was thick and fully hard, the tip already glistening. you licked a slow stripe from base to tip, looking up at him through your lashes. his jaw tightened as you took him into your mouth, slowly, relishing the salty, clean taste of him, the way his hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk.
he let you set the pace for a moment, his hands fisting in your hair. "that's it," he breathed, his composure fraying. "all that attitude... fucking gone." you hollowed your cheeks, taking him deeper, until he hit the back of your throat.
you relaxed, letting him slide further, tears pricking your eyes. the rhythm became faster, harder, driven by the soft, choked sounds he was making above you. his grip in your hair tightened, guiding you.
you could feel his hips shudder and his pace falter as he peered down to see his cock disappear in your mouth. he felt his chest swell just at the sight of you, eyes watering and face red.
"gonna cum," he warned, his voice ragged. you didn't pull away. with a sharp, guttural groan, he spilled hot and bitter over your tongue and across your chest, painting stripes over your skin.
he took a second to admire the mess he had made of you, your skin flushed a pretty pink with his cum coating you like icing on a cake.
he pulled you to your feet, his own legs seemingly unsteady. he pushed your pants and panties down in one rough motion, his fingers immediately finding your slick heat.
he pushed your soaked underwear aside, sliding two fingers through your folds. "so wet," he laughed, a dark, triumphant sound. he brought his glistening fingers to your lips. "and for me. after all that."
he turned you around, bending you over the sink. your reflection was a shock—flushed face, bruised lips, hair a mess, his marks covering your skin. he positioned himself behind you, one hand wrapping around your throat again, pulling you back against his chest. the other hand rubbed tight, demanding circles over your clit.
"look," he whispered harshly in your ear, nodding at the mirror. "look at how silly you look. falling apart on my fingers when just hours ago you were calling me a 'rejected sherlock holmes adaptation' on the internet."
the overstimulation was maddening. pleasure coiled tight in your belly.
"the comments... were idiots," you panted, even as you pushed back against his fingers trying to get him to slip them inside your needy weeping hole.
he chuckled, the sound vibrating against your back. "they saw right through you." he pushed a finger inside you, then another, curling them. you gasped, your knees buckling. "admit it. you wanted this every time you picked a fight."
"i wanted to win," you moaned, the words torn from you. he hooked his fingers in you, rubbing your gummy walls while his thumb continued to rub circles against your needy clit.
"you are winning," he breathed, nipping your earlobe. "look at you. you won my full, undivided attention." he removed his fingers, and you felt the blunt, hot pressure of his cock at your entrance.
he pushed in, slowly, inch by devastating inch, filling you completely. the stretch was divine. he held you there, both of you panting, watching in the mirror. he almost came at the sight of your fucked out face, his hands gripping your waist with pressure that would surely bruise.
he began to move, a slow, filthy grind that had you seeing stars. his hand on your throat kept you upright, the other hand sliding around to rub your clit in time with his thrusts. "beg for it," he murmured, his eyes locked on yours in the reflection. "beg me to let you cum."
you didn't answer, trying to avoid his gaze in the mirror only for a particularly rough thrust and his blunt nails digging into your face to swiftly put you back in your place.
"no," you gritted out, even as your body shook.
he spanked you once, hard, on the ass cheek. the sharp sting made you cry out and clench around him. "beg."
"sunghoon—"
another spank. his fingers on your clit became relentless. you were so close, teetering on the edge, but he held you there, his thrusts measured and deep.
"you're so stubborn. just like online. all that typing." he punctuated each word with a thrust. "just. give. in."
the pleasure was a tidal wave, held back by his will alone. you were so overstimulated, so desperate, your pride the only thing left. he leaned forward, his mouth at your ear. "come on, sweetheart. let go. tell me you need it."
as much as it killed you to beg, it also killed you to not cum all over his stupidly thick cock. you could feel the coil in your stomach tighten up as you try to push yourself back to meet his strong and unrelenting thrusts.
sunghoon smirks when he notices your desperation, slowing down on purpose. "c'mon, sweetheart. you don't wanna cum f'me?"
the pet name, the raw need in his own voice, broke you. "please," you sobbed, the word barely audible. "please, sunghoon, let me cum."
"good girl," he purred, and his rhythm became punishing and his fingers began to rub punishingly against your swollen clit. "now."
the orgasm ripped through you, blinding and violent. you screamed, your body convulsing around him as he fucked you through it, his own groans joining yours.
you felt his warm cum flood your cunt as you twitched with the aftershocks of your high. he watched you fall apart in the mirror, his expression one of fierce, possessive satisfaction.
as your spasms began to subside, he slowed, still buried deep inside you. he was breathing heavily against your neck.
he planted soft kisses on your shoulder blade and neck, his dick still in you—twitching. your body trembled slightly, refusing to look into the mirror because then you would see the aftermath of what sunghoon had done to you.
the silence afterward felt strange.
not awkward. not exactly.
just... different.
like something between you had shifted permanently and neither of you quite knew how to deal with it yet.
the fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead while rain tapped faintly against the tiny washroom window. your heart still hadn't calmed down properly, which was deeply irritating considering park sunghoon looked entirely too composed standing in front of you when you had finally found your guts to look.
his dark hair was messy now, lips pink from kissing you. his body was covered in a thin layer of sweat that gave his pale skin a beautiful glow.
which—you immediately looked away.
absolutely not.
sunghoon noticed, of course. he noticed everything.
"you're quiet," he said softly.
you scoffed weakly, body twitching when you feel sunghoon grow hard in you. "this is emotionally traumatic for me."
the corner of his mouth lifted, that stupid almost-smile again. except now it looked softer somehow and less smug.
you attempted to move only for his body to keep you caged between the sink and him. you looked down for a moment to see his cum that had escaped from you dripping down your thigh, a shaky breath leaving your bruised lips.
"don't look at me like that."
"like what?"
"like you just won something, you didn't win shit."
sunghoon leaned back lightly against the door of the washroom eyes still fixed on you. "maybe i did."
your stomach flipped and you frowned immediately, just because you two fucked doesn't mean that you would admit defeat to sunghoon and his annoying antics. "you're so annoying."
"you keep saying that."
"because you keep being annoying."
sunghoon laughed quietly under his breath, shaking his head slightly. the sound hit you straight in the chest in the most irritating way imaginable.
silence settled again for a moment, except this time it didn't feel sharp or tense like your usual arguments.
it felt warm, which was arguably more terrifying.
your eyes narrowed suddenly. "sunoo is never letting me live this down."
sunghoon's smile widened immediately. "he already thought you liked me."
"he's delusional."
"mhm."
you pointed at him instantly. "stop doing that."
"doing what?" he snickers as he finally pulls out, a small whimper escaping your parted lips and sunghoon swears he could cum from that little sound alone.
"that fake calm thing."
"it's not fake."
"that somehow makes it worse."
sunghoon pushed himself off of you before turning you around so your back faced the mirror and stepped closer again.
not cornering you this time, just close enough that your pulse started acting stupid all over again. his gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then your thighs that were trembling before returning to your eyes.
"so what now?" he asked quietly, his hands coming out to grab on to your hips.
you folded your arms tighter, defensive reflex.
"what do you mean."
"are you still gonna argue with me in class?"
you stared at him like that was the dumbest question ever asked.
"obviously."
sunghoon laughed softly. "figured."
"just because i fucked you doesn't mean your opinions suddenly got better."
"ouch."
"you still sound pretentious."
"and you still interrupt me constantly."
"because you're wrong constantly."
sunghoon shook his head, smiling now. his hand reaching down to push the cum that was trailing down your inner thigh back up—rubbing your swollen cunt with his remnants.
you squeaked out at the feeling, grabbing a hold of his wrist as he watched you with a lazy smile. you hated how much better he looked when he smiled properly.
your phone buzzed loudly against the counter beside you.
then again and again.
you looked down at the endless reddit notifications flooding your screen and groaned dramatically.
"i genuinely hate everyone on that app." sunghoon glanced at your phone before looking back at you, his fingers leaving your cunt to rest back on your hips again much to your dismay.
amusement flickered across his face immediately. "they were pretty accurate though."
"don't start."
"'enemies to lovers' seemed popular."
"they're unemployed."
sunghoon laughed again and you stared at him suspiciously for a second, then narrowed your eyes. "you know this is all your fault."
"interesting argument."
"you replied first."
"you made the post first."
"because you're irritating."
"and yet here you are."
your face heated instantly, sunghoon noticed. his expression softened slightly after that, teasing fading into something quieter.
more careful, he looked at you for a long second close enough that your heartbeat immediately betrayed you again. then, with that same smug little smile returning to his mouth, he tilted his head slightly and murmured, "so."
you narrowed your eyes immediately. "so what."
sunghoon's gaze held yours, steady, amused and dangerously warm.
"do you still think i'm the asshole?"
— enjoy this fic? check out my other ones right here!
Since freshman year, you’ve run the university’s anonymous gossip blog, Kiss & Tell. You’ve seen it all: cheating allegations, toxic situationships and at least forty-seven complaints about the cafeteria chicken. But nothing floods your inbox more than posts about PARK SUNGHOON — the university’s resident fuckboy and walking bad decision. So for the blog’s final exposé, you decide to write about him. Too bad Sunghoon’s already in the middle of a bet with his friends: to keep a girl for thirteen days. And somehow, the anonymous girl tearing him apart online becomes the only one he can’t stop thinking about.
pairings. fuckboy!sunghoon x female!reader ┃ wc. 13.2k
content warnings. dual pov · hidden motives · miscommunication · fake dating adjacent · emotional manipulation · pining (both sides, they’re so stupid) · explicit sexual content — oral f. receiving, fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, size kink, praise kink, dirty talk, light possessiveness, marking · dramatic irony · this will hurt you and I’m not apologising for it
laceys note // the fic I’ve been most nervous to post… there is SO much happening in this one and I genuinely don’t know how yall are going to react 😋 yes this is heavily inspired by How To Lose A Guy and Gossip Girl x anyway hope yall enjoy and as always thank you for reading 🥰
🤍 kiss & tell
This year I’m giving you something special.
You’ve been asking for it since freshman year. The tips have been piling up in my inbox for three years running — do a piece on him, Kiss & Tell, someone needs to say something, Kiss & Tell, he did it again, Kiss & Tell, Kiss & Tell, Kiss & Tell.
Ask and you shall receive, darlings.
Introducing: 13 Ways To Lose Your Certified Campus Fuckboy.
Thirteen tips. Thirteen days. One subject who has absolutely no idea what’s coming.
We begin next week. You didn’t hear it from me though, because I don’t kiss & tell. x
[1,204 readers. 47 comments.]
FINALLY.
is it who I think it is.
kiss & tell if you’re reading this I have THREE submissions about this man please check ur inbox.
—
The thing about Park Sunghoon is that he is, by every available metric, exactly what the submissions said he was.
You’ve done your research. Three weeks of it, thorough and methodical, the kind of research you’d do for an actual piece — which this is, you’ve decided, this absolutely counts as journalism, your professor would probably disagree but your professor also gave you a C minus on your piece about the university’s dining hall monopoly which was genuinely your best work so his opinion is noted and filed in the bin.
You have a google doc. It has sections. There’s a tab called subjects and a tab called timeline and a tab called tips (working) and another one called notes which is mostly just screenshots of anonymous submissions that all say some version of the same thing: he’s charming, he’s beautiful, he made me feel like the only person in the room, and then he was gone, and I’m fairly certain he didn’t know my name by the end of it.
Seventeen submissions. Seventeen different girls. One name, consistent, at the centre of all of them.
Park Sunghoon. Figure skating scholarship. Second year Humanities, now final year. Shares a house off campus with Jay Park and Lee Heeseung, both of whom feature in the submissions as background characters — his friends were there, they seemed nice, Jay remembered my name even if Sunghoon didn’t appearing in three separate accounts with the specific poignancy of a detail nobody coordinated.
He has a type, according to the submissions. Which is to say he doesn’t have a type. He’ll talk to anyone, charm anyone, make anyone feel chosen — and then the choosing stops, and he moves on, and the girl is left standing in the aftermath wondering what she did wrong when the answer is nothing, the answer is that’s just what he does, the answer is you were never going to be the exception because Park Sunghoon doesn’t do exceptions.
He does this, you’ve established, approximately once every two to three weeks. He’s been doing it since freshman year. He has never, by any account you can find, caught feelings. He has never once, to anyone’s knowledge, repeated a girl.
He is, in short, a certified campus fuckboy, and he has been getting away with it for three years because he’s beautiful and charming and genuinely good company right up until the moment he isn’t, and by then it’s too late.
Not anymore.
You have a plan. The plan is elegant and slightly unhinged and Minji — your best friend, Kiss & Tell’s only reader who knows the writer — has called it both those things and also added extremely on brand for you which you take as the highest possible compliment.
Thirteen tips. The clingy, overwhelming, emotionally catastrophic playbook of everything a man like Sunghoon runs from. You’re going to deploy every single one, document it in real time, post it to the blog, and by day thirteen he’ll have run screaming and Kiss & Tell will have its most-read piece of the year and you’ll have actually done something with your journalism degree that matters.
The only thing you need is an in.
Which is, currently, the one gap in the plan.
You’ve been thinking about this for three days when Minji texts you at 9PM on a Friday: jisoo’s having people over. sunghoon will be there. i heard jay mention it.
You look at the message.
You look at your google doc.
You close your laptop, get up, and start getting dressed.
Jisoo’s apartment is the kind of place that fits thirty people comfortably and currently has approximately sixty, which means the music is too loud and the drinks are wherever you can find them and the air has that particular quality of a Friday night that’s fully committed to itself.
You arrive with Minji at ten, already knowing the layout — Jisoo’s place is a known quantity, you’ve been here before, the kitchen is to the left and the living room is straight ahead and the back patio is where people go when the inside gets too much.
You find a drink. You find a wall. You survey the room with the practiced efficiency of someone who has been reporting on this campus for three years.
You find him in four seconds.
He’s not hard to find. That’s the first thing — he doesn’t try to be found, he doesn’t need to, he simply exists in a room and the room orients around him without being asked. He’s tall, which you knew, and he’s wearing something simple, which you didn’t expect, dark jeans and a plain shirt and the specific ease of someone who has never once had to try very hard.
He’s laughing at something Jay said — Jay, beside him, is grinning with the energy of someone who said something very funny and knows it — and the laugh is real, you can tell from here, unperformed, and this is information you file away because it matters. The charm is one thing. The realness underneath it is something else.
You’ve been looking at him for approximately thirty seconds before Minji says, very quietly, “you’re staring.”
“I’m researching,” you say.
“You have a look on your face.”
“It’s my research face.”
“It’s not your research face,” Minji says, and takes a sip of her drink with the serenity of someone who is going to be right about this and knows it and is content to wait.
Three hours earlier, Jisoo’s apartment is already filling up when Jay Park has his idea.
This is, historically, how most problems begin.
He’s standing with Sunghoon near the back wall, both of them with drinks, watching the room do what rooms do on Friday nights — fill up, get louder, become the kind of atmosphere where things happen that people talk about on Monday.
Jay is on his second drink. Sunghoon is on his first. This ratio is relevant.
“Can I ask you something,” Jay says.
“No,” Sunghoon says.
“When’s the last time you actually—” Jay makes a vague gesture that encompasses a significant amount of meaning. “You know. Stayed.”
Sunghoon looks at him flatly. “What.”
“With someone. Longer than — you know. The usual.”
“I don’t have a usual.”
“You absolutely have a usual,” Jay says. “8 days maximum. You don’t learn their names by the end. You move on. It’s a whole thing.” He tilts his head. “When’s the last time you actually kept someone around?”
Sunghoon is quiet for a moment. He drinks his drink.
“Why,” he says, which is not an answer.
“I was just thinking,” Jay says, with the careful casualness of a man who has been thinking about this for longer than just now, “that it’s been a while. And I was thinking about whether you actually could. If you tried.”
“Could what?”
“Keep someone.” Jay looks at him. “Like. Actually keep her. Not the thing you do. The real version.”
“I keep people.”
“Sunghoon.”
“I do.”
“You kept Chaewon for seven days in second year and forgot her name on day four,” Jay says. “She was in three of my seminars. It was a whole thing.”
Sunghoon says nothing.
“Thirteen days,” Jay says, and the number arrives in the air between them with the particular weight of a challenge that’s been building to its own conclusion. “That’s what I’m saying. Thirteen days. One girl. You actually try. I don’t think you can do it.”
And there it is.
Sunghoon looks at him.
Jay looks back with the grin of someone who has just deployed the one thing that has never once failed to work on Park Sunghoon, which is I don’t think you can.
It goes all the way back to when they were seventeen and Jay said I don’t think you can land that triple and Sunghoon landed it, and then again at eighteen when Jay said I don’t think you can get into that programme and Sunghoon got into that programme, and now they are twenty-two and standing at a party on a Friday night and Jay has said I don’t think you can and the outcome is, as always, inevitable.
“Thirteen days,” Sunghoon says.
“Thirteen days.”
“Fine.”
Jay blinks. Even knowing it was coming, even having built to it, the speed of it catches him off guard. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Sunghoon finishes his drink. Sets the glass down. “Fine.”
Jay opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again with the expression of a man who has just heard the trap click shut and has only just registered that he was also standing in it.
“Great,” he says, slightly less certainly than he’d like. “That’s — yeah. Great.”
“Who loses,” Sunghoon says.
“What?”
“If I lose. What do I owe you.”
“I—” Jay hadn’t gotten this far. “I don’t know. Bragging rights.”
“Bragging rights,” Sunghoon repeats, unimpressed.
“And you do my laundry for a month.”
“And if I win?”
“You won’t.”
“Jay.”
“Fine. If you win I’ll do your laundry for a month and I’ll admit in front of Heeseung that you were right about the Ateez album.”
A pause.
“Deal,” Sunghoon says immediately.
They shake on it. Jay watches him scan the room with the quiet, unhurried focus of someone who has just been given a task and is already approaching it systematically, and feels, somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach, the specific sensation of having made a decision he doesn’t fully understand yet.
He takes a long drink.
He tells himself it’ll be fine.
—
“He’s at the drinks table,” Minji says. “Corner of the kitchen. Jay’s with him but Jay just got pulled into something in the living room so Sunghoon’s alone.”
You look at her.
“You’ve been tracking him,” you say.
“I’ve been observing,” she says. “Go. And look like you’re going for a drink, not like you’re going for him.”
“I know how to walk into a kitchen, Minji.”
“You know how to walk into a kitchen like a journalist on an assignment,” she says. “Which is different. Relax your face.”
You relax your face.
“More,” she says.
You relax it more.
“Good. Go.”
You go.
The kitchen is quieter than the living room, the particular relief of a party room that isn’t the main event — a handful of people, the counter lined with bottles, the window cracked open letting in the cold October air.
He’s exactly where Minji said he’d be.
You clock him in your peripheral vision and do not look directly at him, which is a skill you have developed specifically for this kind of thing — the journalistic sidelong awareness, present without being obvious. You move toward the drinks table with the energy of someone who wants a drink and only a drink and has no awareness whatsoever of the person three feet to her left.
You reach for a bottle.
He reaches for the same one.
Your hands arrive at the neck of it at the same moment.
You look up.
He looks down.
Up close he is — and you’re going to note this for the record and then never think about it again — significantly more than his submissions prepared you for. Which is saying something, because the submissions were not understating it. But there is a difference between objectively good looking as a reported fact and objectively good looking as a thing happening to you personally at close range on a Friday night, and the difference is considerable and you are a journalist and this is a story and you absolutely clock it and file it away and move on.
“Sorry,” you both say, at the same time.
A beat.
He takes his hand off the bottle. “Go ahead.”
“No, it’s—” You gesture. “You were here first.”
“I wasn’t, actually.” Something in his expression is doing a thing — a quiet recalibration, the kind of look that assesses and concludes and moves forward. “I just got here.”
“Same time, then,” you say.
“Same time,” he agrees. He picks up the bottle. Pours two glasses without asking. Hands one to you.
You look at it.
“Bold,” you say.
“You were reaching for it,” he says simply. “Seemed like you wanted it.”
You take the glass. You drink. It’s good — he poured the right thing, which means he clocked what you were reaching for in the half second before you both arrived at it simultaneously, which means he notices things, which is information you file immediately in the subject tab of your mental google doc.
“Sunghoon,” he says.
“I know,” you say, and then catch it. “I think Jisoo mentioned you. She mentioned a few people.”
He looks at you with an expression that suggests he’s heard this kind of recovery before and found it charming rather than annoying, which is somehow worse than if he’d called you out directly.
“Y/N,” you say.
He says your name back, once, quietly. Just to himself. Like he’s storing it.
Something in your chest does something completely unauthorised and you attribute it to the drink.
“Final year?” he asks.
“Journalism,” you say. “You?”
“Literature.” He leans against the counter — not performing it, just settling, the ease of someone completely comfortable in any room he’s in. “And the rink. Early mornings.”
“Figure skating,” you say, as if you’re learning this for the first time, as if it isn’t highlighted in yellow in tab one of the google doc.
“Don’t,” he says.
“Don’t what?”
“Whatever you were about to say.”
“I was going to say it sounds peaceful,” you say. “Early mornings. Quiet rink.”
He looks at you for a moment. Like he was braced for something and got something else instead. “Yeah,” he says, and his voice is slightly different. “It is.”
The kitchen moves around you — people coming in, going out, the ambient noise of a party in full swing — and neither of you moves.
“Can I ask you something,” he says.
“You just did,” you say.
The corner of his mouth does something. Not a smile exactly — the precursor to one, the thing that happens before the decision is made. “Fair,” he says. “Can I ask you something else.”
“Depends what it is.”
“What are you doing tomorrow.”
You look at him. He’s looking back with the steady patience of someone who is used to waiting for things he’s decided he wants, and underneath it something that wasn’t in any of the seventeen submissions — a directness that isn’t performance. He’s not deploying the charm right now. He’s just asking.
You are a journalist. This is a story. Day one begins tomorrow and tip one requires a pet name and you need his number to deploy it.
“I might be free,” you say.
“Might be.”
“Probably am.”
“Can I have your number,” he says, no preamble, just the question, and you think about seventeen girls who probably said yes to this exact question in this exact tone of voice and you think about the google doc and the thirteen tips and the fact that you are not going to be number eighteen.
You are going to be something else entirely.
“Sure,” you say, and take his phone when he hands it over.
You type your number. You type your name. You hand it back.
He looks at the screen. “Just Y/N?”
“You don’t need my last name yet,” you say.
“Yet,” he repeats, and the corner of his mouth commits this time, the full thing, and it gets out before he decides to let it and you think that this specific smile — the unguarded one, the one that isn’t the charm — is going to be the most dangerous part of this entire assignment.
You file it. You move on.
“Goodnight, Sunghoon,” you say, and you take your drink and you leave the kitchen and you do not look back.
In the living room, Minji is waiting with the expression of someone who has been watching through the kitchen doorway for the last four minutes and has formed approximately forty seven opinions.
“Well,” she says.
“I’m in,” you say.
“And?”
You look at your drink.
“He’s worse than the submissions,” you say.
Minji opens her mouth.
“Don’t,” you say.
She closes it. She has the expression of someone who is going to be right about something and has infinite patience.
You drink your drink.
Across the room, through the kitchen doorway, Sunghoon is looking at his phone. You watch him save your contact. Watch him type something. Delete it. Type something else.
Your phone buzzes.
unknown number: it was good to meet you tonight
You save the contact immediately. You stare at what you’ve typed for a moment, then change it.
hoonie 🤍
—
that night, 1:47AM:
hoonie 🤍: it was good to meet you tonight
you: who’s this
hoonie 🤍: you know who this is
you: I might need a reminder
hoonie 🤍: I owe you a drink
you: the one you poured me was actually really good so I think we’re even
A pause. Three dots. Gone. Back again.
hoonie 🤍: what are you doing tomorrow
you: why
hoonie 🤍: no reason. just asking.
you: I’m probably free
hoonie 🤍: I’ll pick you up at 12
you: bold of you to assume you have my address
hoonie 🤍: do I not?
you: …I’ll send it to you
hoonie 🤍: good
you: goodnight
hoonie 🤍: goodnight Y/N
—
🤍 kiss & tell
tip 01: give him a pet name. immediately.
Here’s what nobody tells you about a man who runs on charm — he’s built his whole personality around the way his name sounds in other people’s mouths. He knows how it lands. He’s been watching it land for years.
So take it away.
Give him something else. Something soft and slightly ridiculous, something completely at odds with everything he’s spent three years carefully constructing. Don’t ask permission. Don’t explain it. Just deploy it, directly, and watch what happens to his face.
The goal isn’t to annoy him. The goal is to see who he is when the thing he relies on gets gently, cheerfully removed.
Results to follow
You didn’t hear it from me. x
[1,847 readers overnight. 63 comments.]
she’s actually doing it.
KISS AND TELL THE WAY I SCREAMED.
I know exactly who this is about and I have never felt more seen in my life.
—
He picks you up at twelve.
This is the first thing that surprises you, which you don’t let show — that he said twelve and it’s twelve, exactly, his car pulling up outside your building at eleven fifty-eight and him not texting to say here or outside or any of the things people say when they arrive, just waiting, engine running, until you come out.
You clock this on the way down the stairs. Filed under: he’s punctual. he waited. he didn’t announce himself.
The car is clean. This is the second thing. Not aggressively clean, not the sterile cleanliness of someone performing tidiness — just maintained, looked after, the cleanliness of someone who takes quiet care of things they own. There’s a jacket on the back seat and a reusable coffee cup in the holder and a small air freshener hanging from the mirror that smells like cedar and you are absolutely not going to find this endearing.
“Hey,” he says, when you get in.
“Hi, hoonie,” you say.
A pause.
He looks at you.
You look back.
“Hoonie,” he repeats.
“Mm.”
“That’s—” He stops. Starts again. “Where did that come from.”
“I don’t know,” you say cheerfully. “It just suits you.”
“It doesn’t suit me.”
“I think it really does.”
He looks at you for another moment with an expression that is trying to be flat and not fully succeeding — there’s something underneath it, something that might be the effort of not reacting, which means he is reacting and choosing not to show it, which is more interesting than if he’d just been annoyed.
He puts the car in drive.
“Where are we going?” you ask.
“There’s a place,” he says. “Near the rink. Good food. You’ll like it.”
“How do you know what I’ll like.”
“I don’t,” he says simply. “But if you don’t, we’ll go somewhere else.”
You look at the side of his face.
Filed under: he has a contingency. he’s already thought about what happens if the first plan doesn’t work.
You face forward.
“Hoonie,” you say again, conversationally, and watch his jaw do something in your peripheral vision.
“Please,” he says.
“Please what?”
“Stop.”
“Stop what?”
He glances at you. You are the picture of innocence. He looks back at the road.
“You’re going to keep doing it,” he says. It’s not a question.
“Probably,” you say.
A pause.
“Fine,” he says, and there’s something in it — resigned, but underneath the resignation something else, something that sounds almost like he finds this funny and is refusing to admit it.
You face forward and smile at the windscreen where he can’t see it.
Tip one: deployed.
The place near the rink is small and warm and the food is exactly what he said it would be, which you note because it means he knows what good food is and he knew enough about you after one conversation to make an accurate prediction.
You eat across from each other at a small table by the window and it’s — easy. That’s the thing that keeps catching you off guard, the thing that wasn’t in the submissions. The submissions covered charm, the warmth, the way he makes you feel like the only person in the room. What they didn’t cover was this — the version of him that exists when he’s not performing anything. The version that eats his food without making it an event and asks questions that are short and real and actually listens to the answers.
He asks about journalism. Not oh cool what’s that like but specific things — what you want to do with it, what kind of writing you actually care about, whether you think print is dead or just resting.
“Resting,” you say, firmly.
“Resting,” he repeats, like he’s testing whether he agrees. “Why.”
“Because people still want stories. They just want them differently. The format changed, not the hunger.”
He looks at you across the table. “What do you write?”
“Pieces,” you say. “Long form, mostly. Campus stuff. Culture, people, the way things work underneath the way they look.”
“Anything published?”
“The university paper. Some external stuff.” You take a sip of water. “Nothing that’s set the world on fire yet.”
“Yet,” he says, giving you your own word back, and the corner of his mouth does the thing.
You look at your plate.
Filed under: he pays attention to the exact words you use. he remembers them. he deploys them back.
This is, you think, how he does it. Not the obvious charm — the specific attention. The making-you-feel-like-your-words-matter thing. You’ve been watching for the playbook and this is it, this is the whole thing, and knowing what it is should make it easier to withstand.
It does not make it easier to withstand.
“What about the skating,” you say, because you need to redirect. “How long?”
“Since I was seven,” he says.
“Competitions?”
“Through high school. Regionals, a few nationals.” He says it the way people say things they’re proud of but have learned not to lead with. “Scholarship for university. Now it’s just — mornings. Keeping it.”
“Do you miss competing?”
He’s quiet for a moment. Longer than the other answers.
“Sometimes,” he says. “Not the competing. The clarity of it. When you’re on the ice and there’s a programme to execute, everything else goes quiet.” He looks at his water glass. “I miss the quiet.”
You look at him.
He seems to realise he’s said something more than he meant to, because he looks up and recalibrates slightly — not retreating, just adjusting. “Sorry. That was—”
“Don’t apologise,” you say.
He looks at you.
“It was a real answer,” you say. “Those are better than the other kind.”
Something in his expression shifts. The recalibration stops. He holds your gaze for a moment with the look of someone encountering something unexpected in a place they thought they knew the map of.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I guess they are.” You are a journalist. This is a story. You eat your food.
He drives you back at two-thirty.
Outside your building he doesn’t turn the engine off, just parks, and you sit there for a moment in the particular quality of the end of a first — not a date, this is not a date, this is day one of thirteen and you have twelve tips left to deploy.
“I had a good time,” he says.
“Me too,” you say, which is true, which is fine, which is completely consistent with the plan.
“Tomorrow?” he says.
“What about it.”
“Are you free.”
You look at him. “Why, hoonie?”
The jaw thing again. “Because I’d like to see you again. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” you repeat.
“Is that a yes?”
“That’s a probably,” you say, and get out of the car, and don’t look back, and get into the lift, and press your floor, and the second the doors close you take out your phone and open the google doc.
Day 1 — complete. Tip 1 deployed. He hates the nickname.
You pause.
He also doesn’t hate the nickname.
You close the google doc. You open the blog dashboard. You start writing.
In the car outside your building, Sunghoon sits for a moment after you go in.
He looks at the building entrance.
He thinks about real answers are better than the other kind said with the particular directness of someone who means exactly what they say and has no interest in softening it.
He thinks about hoonie delivered with complete sincerity and zero apology and the way he couldn’t find a single thing to do with it.
He picks up his phone. He opens the text thread.
tomorrow works. I’ll come to you this time.
He looks at what he’s typed. He sends it. He puts the car in drive.
Across town, your phone buzzes.
hoonie 🤍: tomorrow works. I’ll come to you this time.
You stare at the contact name.
You type back: okay. noon again.
You put the phone down.
You pick up your notebook.
You write: tip two. the move-in. start small. a candle.
—
He comes at noon the next day.
You’ve been up since nine preparing, which is not something you will ever admit to Minji, who would make a face that would live in your memory for years. You’ve done your reading and drafted a column and had two coffees and told yourself that the preparation is logistical, it’s for the piece, it has nothing to do with the fact that someone is coming over at noon and you’d like the flat to look — not different exactly. Considered. Like you live here intentionally.
He arrives at noon exactly. Same as yesterday. You are starting to understand that this is just who he is — the punctuality, the quiet reliability of it — and you are filing it accordingly and not finding it anything other than useful data.
He’s in a different hoodie today. Still simple, still worn-in, still somehow doing more than it should.
You let him in.
He looks around your flat with the attention he gives everything — quiet, unhurried, taking it in properly rather than performing interest. He looks at your books, your desk, the organised chaos of a final year journalism student who lives primarily in her own head.
“Nice,” he says, which from him means something because he doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean.
“Thanks,” you say. “Make yourself at home.”
He sits on your sofa.
You go to the kitchen.
You come back with two coffees — his black, which you know from Minji’s intelligence and are absolutely not going to reveal that you know — and a candle, which you set on the coffee table with the ease of someone simply adding to their space, nothing deliberate about it, just a girl putting a candle in her own flat.
He looks at the candle.
“Cedarwood,” he says.
“Mm.”
“That’s—” He pauses. “That’s what my car smells like.”
You meet his eyes with complete innocence. “Is it? I’ve had this one for ages.”
He looks at you.
You hand him his coffee.
He takes it, still looking at you, with the expression of someone who is doing a calculation and arriving at a result he finds interesting.
“Hoonie,” you say, sitting beside him. “What do you want to do today?”
The jaw thing. “Stop calling me that.”
“I genuinely don’t know what you mean,” you say.
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“Sunghoon is a lot of syllables,” you say. “Hoonie is efficient.”
“It’s two syllables.”
“Exactly. Same as Sunghoon. But softer.” You look at him with perfect sincerity. “It suits you.”
“It doesn’t—” He stops. Closes his mouth. Opens it again. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
“Doing what?”
“I don’t know yet,” he says, and his voice is different — not suspicious, more like genuinely curious, the specific tone of someone encountering a puzzle they actually want to solve. “But you’re doing something.”
“I’m drinking my coffee,” you say. “In my flat. That I’ve lived in for two years.”
He looks at the candle. Then at you.
Then, slowly, he smiles. Not the charm one. The real one, the unguarded one, the one that got out before he decided whether to let it. “Okay,” he says.
“Okay,” you agree. You drink your coffees.
He stays for four hours.
This is not planned. The plan was two hours maximum — enough to establish presence, enough to deploy the beginning of tip two’s territorial creep, enough to leave him wanting more rather than enough. Four hours is not strategic.
Four hours happens because he mentions a book on your shelf — something you’ve had since first year, annotated to within an inch of its life — and you end up in an argument about whether the narrator is unreliable or just mistaken, which are different things, which he agrees they’re different things but disagrees on which one applies, and the argument is so genuinely enjoyable that you don’t notice the time until the light through your window has gone from afternoon to early evening and you’ve both moved from the sofa to the floor at some point without registering the transition.
“Unreliable implies intention,” you say, for the fourth time. “He’s not lying. He just doesn’t know.”
“Not knowing is a form of unreliability,” he says, also for the fourth time, from the other side of the coffee table. “Your perception shapes what you report. An unreliable perception makes an unreliable narrator regardless of intent.”
“That’s a really broad definition of unreliable.”
“It’s the correct definition.”
“According to who?”
“According to the text,” he says, and picks up the book and reads you a passage with the ease of someone who has it half-memorised, which means he’s read this book before, which means he recognised it on your shelf, which means—
You stop that thought.
“That passage supports my reading,” you say.
“It supports mine.”
“It doesn’t—”
“It—”
“Hoonie.”
He stops. Looks at you. Something in his expression does the thing — the almost, the precursor — and then he looks back at the book and says, very calmly, “I will concede the passage is ambiguous.”
“That’s not the same as conceding the argument.”
“No,” he agrees. “It’s not.”
You look at him across the coffee table, the cedarwood candle burning between you, your annotated book in his hands, and you think about seventeen submissions and thirteen tips and the google doc with its four tabs and the fifth one you opened and immediately closed.
“It’s nearly six,” he says, checking his phone.
“Is it?”
“I should go.” But he doesn’t move. “Jay’s making dinner. He does this thing on Sundays where he decides he can cook and Heeseung and I have to either eat whatever it is or pretend we had plans.”
“Do you ever just tell him he can’t cook?”
“Every time.” He stands, finally, handing you back the book. “He does it anyway.”
You walk him to the door.
He picks up his jacket from the hook — he hung it up when he came in, you noticed, without being asked — and pauses.
“Tomorrow,” he says.
“What about it.”
“I have the rink in the morning. But after.” He looks at you. “Come to ours. Jay will make too much food regardless.”
“You’re inviting me to dinner at your house,” you say.
“Jay’s inviting you to dinner at our house,” he says. “Jay just doesn’t know it yet.”
You look at him.
“So that’s a yes?” he says.
You think about tip two. Move your stuff in. Start small. Establish presence in his space.
“Sure,” you say. “What time?”
“Seven.” He opens the door. Pauses. “Bring the candle.”
He says it completely straight-faced and leaves before you can respond, and you stand in your doorway watching him go down the hall and thinking that Park Sunghoon just made a joke about the candle, which means he knows about the candle, which means he’s paying attention to everything, which means this is going to be significantly more complicated than the google doc accounted for.
You close the door.
You pick up your notebook.
tip two update: he invited me to the house. didn’t even have to engineer it. he did it himself.
You pause. Read it back.
this is either going really well or really badly and I can’t tell which.
That night, after Jay’s food — which was aggressively fine, not bad, not good, aggressively fine — and two hours on their sofa watching something none of you were really watching, you leave the candle on their kitchen counter.
You do it on the way out, smooth and casual, setting it down like you’re just putting something down while you put your jacket on.
Heeseung sees you do it.
He says nothing.
You say goodnight and leave.
In the kitchen, Jay looks at the candle.
“Is that—”
“Don’t,” Sunghoon says.
“I’m just asking—”
“I know what you’re asking.”
“It smells nice,” Jay says. “That’s all I was going to say. It smells nice.”
Heeseung, from the sofa, turns a page of whatever he’s reading.
“She left it on purpose,” he says, to the page.
“Obviously,” Sunghoon says.
Jay looks between them. “And that’s—”
“Fine,” Sunghoon says. “It’s fine.”
He goes to his room.
Jay looks at the candle. Looks at Heeseung. Looks at the candle again.
“He likes her,” Jay says.
“I know,” Heeseung says.
“It’s day two.”
“I know,” Heeseung says again.
Jay pulls out his phone. Looks at the bet, the text thread, the terms. Puts the phone back in his pocket.
“We’re fine,” he says, to nobody in particular. Heeseung turns another page.
hoonie 🤍: you left your candle
you: did I? I didn’t notice
hoonie 🤍: you noticed
you: I’ll pick it up next time
hoonie 🤍: or I could bring it when I see you tomorrow
you: you’re seeing me tomorrow?
hoonie 🤍: apparently
you: bold assumption
hoonie 🤍: is it wrong
A pause. You look at the ceiling of your room. You look at your notebook, open on the bed beside you, tip two update written in your handwriting.
you: no
hoonie 🤍: goodnight Y/N
you: goodnight hoonie
Three dots. Gone.
Then:
hoonie 🤍: I’m not calling you anything back
you: I know. goodnight.
hoonie 🤍: …goodnight.
—
🤍 kiss & tell
tip 02: start moving your stuff in. casually. let him notice slowly.
Don’t announce it. Don’t make it an event. Just — leave things. Small things first. A candle. A jacket over a chair. Let the object do the work while you do nothing at all.
The goal isn’t possession. The goal is presence. The goal is to become a feature of his space so gradually that by the time he notices, you’re already there.
Did it work? He texted me about the candle.
Draw your own conclusions.
You didn’t hear it from me. x
[2,341 readers. 81 comments.]
the CANDLE.
she’s an evil genius and I mean that with full respect.
anonymous: I recognise this man’s entire behavioural pattern and Kiss & Tell you are doing the lord’s work.
—
🤍 kiss & tell
tip 03: cry. in front of him about something small.
Not a breakdown. Not a scene. Something small and genuine and completely disproportionate to the situation — a sad video, a dog, a song that comes on at the wrong moment.
The objective is simple. Men like this have spent years perfecting the art of emotional unavailability. They’ve built entire personalities around not being the one who feels things in public. So you introduce feelings — small, manageable, completely non-threatening feelings — and you watch what they do with them.
Do they run? Do they freeze? Do they do the stiff-shoulder-pat of a man who has never once been asked to sit with someone else’s emotions?
Results to follow.
You didn’t hear it from me. x
—
Day three arrives with the particular energy of something that has already decided what it’s going to be.
You know this before you’re fully awake — the specific quality of the morning, October light coming through your curtains in the thin gold way it does when the weather can’t commit to itself, and your phone already buzzing on the nightstand with a text that came in at seven forty-two AM from a contact saved as hoonie 🤍 which is, you think, perhaps a sign that day three has opinions.
hoonie 🤍: rink was good this morning. you’re up?
You stare at this message for a moment.
He texted you at seven forty-two in the morning, voluntarily, to tell you the rink was good.
You file this.
you: I am now
hoonie 🤍: sorry
you: don’t be. what made it good
A pause. Longer than his usual response time, which you’ve already clocked is short — he’s not a leave-it-on-read person, he responds when he sees it, which means he has his phone nearby most of the time, which means the deliberate pauses are deliberate.
hoonie 🤍: landed something I’ve been working on for two weeks
you: the triple?
hoonie 🤍: you know about the triple
You freeze.
you: you mentioned it. yesterday. when you were talking about the programme.
This is a lie. He did not mention it yesterday. It is in tab one of the google doc, sourced from a submission sent in by a girl who went to one of his morning sessions three months ago and described watching him attempt a triple axel for forty minutes with the specific admiration of someone who has been thoroughly won over against their will.
Three dots. Then:
hoonie 🤍: I don’t think I mentioned it
you: you definitely did
hoonie 🤍: …okay
He doesn’t push it. You exhale.
you: so you landed it?
hoonie 🤍: yeah
you: how does it feel
hoonie 🤍: like the ice gave me permission
You read this three times. You put your phone face down on the pillow. You pick it up again.
you: that’s a really good way to put it
hoonie 🤍: I’m a literature student
you: is that your excuse for everything
hoonie 🤍: it’s not an excuse it’s a qualification
You laugh, alone in your room at seven fifty AM, at a joke made by a boy you are assigned to lose over thirteen days, and you file this too — he’s funny. not performed funny. actually funny. — and you do not examine the filing too closely.
you: come over later?
You send it before you can think about whether it’s too eager, too fast, inconsistent with the planned arc of tip deployment. It doesn’t matter. It’s day three. The scrapbook is day four. Today is the crying, which requires proximity, which requires him to be here.
That’s why you sent it.
hoonie 🤍: what time
you: whenever. I’ll be in all day.
hoonie 🤍: two?
you: two works
hoonie 🤍: see you at two Y/N
You put the phone down. You open the google doc. You open a new document — not a tab, a separate one, private, not part of the Kiss & Tell infrastructure — and you write:
he said the ice gave me permission. I don’t know what to do with that.
You close it without saving.
He arrives at two with food.
Not a lot — just things, from the place near the rink, the good one, without being asked, without announcing it. He comes through the door and sets a paper bag on your counter and shrugs off his jacket and hangs it on the hook, which he does automatically now, second time and already automatic, and you think about establish presence from your own tip and feel the specific irony of him doing it back to you without knowing.
“You didn’t have to,” you say, nodding at the bag.
“You had food here last time,” he says. “Fair’s fair.”
“I had coffee.”
“And a candle.”
“The candle was already here.”
He gives you a look that says he absolutely knows the candle was not already there and is choosing not to press it, which is its own kind of move — letting you have the small fictions, not calling them out, keeping the game friendly.
You are a journalist. This is a story. You find this extremely interesting and nothing else.
You eat the food he brought at your kitchen counter, standing, which turns into sitting on the floor with your backs against the sofa because your flat is small and the counter doesn’t have stools and somehow the floor is just where you both end up, plates balanced, talking about — nothing. The specific nothing of two people who are finding out that they can fill time with each other without effort, which is either the most ordinary thing in the world or the most significant, depending on who you are.
He’s telling you about Jay’s latest cooking disaster — something involving rice and a confidence level that was not supported by the actual skill — when your phone, face up on the coffee table, plays a video.
Autoplay. Something from your feed. You’d been scrolling before he arrived and left it open.
You both look at the screen.
It’s a dog. A golden retriever, elderly, being reunited with a soldier coming home. The dog sees the soldier and its whole back half starts wagging and it makes a sound — a specific, desperate, you’re back you’re back you’re back sound — and the soldier gets down on his knees on the tarmac and the dog practically climbs into him.
You watch it for four seconds.
Your eyes fill up.
This is not entirely the plan. The plan was to deploy the crying strategically, with a video you’d pre-selected, at a moment you’d engineered. What is happening instead is that the video arrived without warning and you are apparently the kind of person who cries at dog videos at two forty-five in the afternoon in front of someone you are professionally obligated to remain detached from.
You blink. Hard. Once.
Too late.
Sunghoon looks at you.
He looks at the phone. Looks back at you. Looks at the tear that has made it approximately halfway down your cheek before you get a hand up to intercept it.
“Are you,” he starts.
“I’m fine,” you say. “It’s a dog.”
“I can see it’s a dog.”
“He was so happy,” you say, which is not a sentence you planned to say, which arrives from somewhere entirely outside the tip deployment framework. “He didn’t even — the sound he made—”
“Okay,” Sunghoon says.
“I’m not crying,” you say.
“You’re definitely crying.”
“It’s a dog,” you say again, as if this is a complete explanation, which to you it is.
He is quiet for a moment.
Then he does something you did not put in the google doc, which is that he reaches over and hands you a napkin from the food bag — not with ceremony, not with the performance of someone doing a kind thing, just hands it over, plain and practical, the way you’d hand someone a napkin — and goes back to his food.
He doesn’t say anything else about it.
He doesn’t make it weird.
He doesn’t do the stiff-shoulder-pat. He doesn’t freeze. He doesn’t make a joke or look uncomfortable or redirect the conversation with the energy of someone escaping a situation they don’t know how to be in.
He hands you a napkin and goes back to his food and lets the moment be exactly what it is — small, genuine, completely disproportionate — without making it anything more.
You wipe your face.
You go back to your food.
“He was really happy,” Sunghoon says, after a moment, to his plate.
You look at him.
He is very focused on his food. The tips of his ears are faintly pink.
“Yeah,” you say. “He was.”
You do not put this in the blog post.
You write the tip. You write the strategic version, the one about emotional unavailability and the shoulder-pat and watching what he does with feelings he didn’t expect to encounter. You write it with the detachment of a journalist who has the story under control.
You do not write about the napkin.
You do not write about his ears.
You open the private document — the separate one, the one that isn’t part of the Kiss & Tell infrastructure — and you write:
he handed me a napkin and didn’t make it weird. that’s it. that’s the whole thing. I don’t know why I’m writing this down.
You stare at it.
You close it without saving. Again.
—
Day four arrives and you have a scrapbook to make.
You’ve been thinking about the scrapbook since you planned the tips. It’s the most unhinged one — the most deliberately, strategically overwhelming — and it requires actual effort. You need photos, which means you need photos from the last three days, which means you’ve been taking them.
You have, it turns out, taken more photos than you planned.
The food from the place near the rink, the brown paper bag with its logo. A screenshot of a text exchange that made you laugh. The view from his car window on day one, which you took while he wasn’t looking because the light was doing something through the glass that you wanted to keep. His jacket on your hook — just the jacket, the empty shape of it against the door, which you took on day two after he left and have not examined why.
You print them at the campus print shop on Wednesday morning. You buy a scrapbook from the art supplies place next door — not a nice one, not a proper one, the kind with a flimsy cover and pages that are slightly too thick, which is exactly right. You buy stickers, because of course you do, and some tape, and a marker, and you sit at your kitchen table for an hour and make something that is objectively both ridiculous and, somewhere underneath the ridiculousness, completely genuine.
Because the photos are real. You actually took them. The light through his car window is actually beautiful. The jacket on the hook is actually — it looks like it belongs there, which is the thing you noticed when you took the photo, the way it looked like it had always been there, and that’s why you took it, and you are a journalist and this is a story.
You close the scrapbook.
You put it in your bag.
He comes over at noon. He’s in the hoodie again — different one this time, grey, slightly older, and you’ve started to understand that the hoodies are his version of comfortable, that he dresses for other people sometimes and for himself other times and the hoodie version is the himself version.
“Hoonie,” you say, letting him in.
“Y/N,” he says, with the patience of someone who has accepted this is simply going to happen.
You make coffee. You bring it to the sofa. You sit beside him with your bag and he’s looking at his phone, something about the rink schedule, and you pull the scrapbook out and set it on the coffee table.
He looks at it.
Then at you.
“What’s that,” he says.
“A scrapbook,” you say.
“Of.”
“Us,” you say. “Mostly. The last few days.”
He is very still.
“We’ve known each other for four days,” he says.
“Three and a half,” you correct. “But a lot happened.”
He looks at the scrapbook. At the cover, which has a sticker on it — a small gold star, because you had the stickers and it felt right — and his name written in marker in your handwriting, hoonie, which you did partly for the tip and partly because by the time you were making it you’d stopped thinking about the tip.
“Can I—” he starts.
“Go ahead,” you say.
He picks it up.
He opens it.
You watch him.
He goes through it slowly, which you didn’t expect — you expected a quick flip, the polite skim of someone who doesn’t know how to receive something like this and is looking for the exit. Instead he takes his time. Each page. The food bag photo. The text screenshot. The light through the car window.
He stops on that one.
“When did you take this,” he says.
“Day one. On the way to lunch.”
“I didn’t see you take it.”
“You were driving.”
He looks at the photo. At the light through the glass, the way it caught and scattered, the particular quality of it that made you reach for your phone without thinking.
“It’s good,” he says, quietly. Not performing it.
“I know,” you say. “That’s why I took it.”
He turns the page.
He finds the jacket photo.
He’s quiet for a long moment. Long enough that you stop watching him and look at the coffee table instead, the cedarwood candle — his candle now, in their kitchen, you brought a new one for yours — and the two coffees going slowly cold.
“You took a photo of my jacket,” he says.
“It looked nice on the hook,” you say.
“On your hook.”
“On my hook. Yes.”
He closes the scrapbook. Sets it on the table. Picks up his coffee.
You wait.
“You’ve known me for four days,” he says again.
“Three and a half.”
“Y/N.”
“Sunghoon.”
He looks at you. And here is the thing — here is the thing you didn’t put in the google doc and couldn’t have — he doesn’t look unsettled. He doesn’t look like a man encountering an overwhelming situation and calculating his exit. He looks like a man encountering something he doesn’t have a category for and finding, to his own apparent surprise, that he’s not looking for one.
“You’re something,” he says.
“I’ve been told,” you say.
“I don’t mean it like that.”
“How do you mean it.”
He looks at the scrapbook on the table. At the gold star sticker on the cover. At hoonie in your handwriting.
“I don’t know yet,” he says honestly. “I’ll tell you when I do.”
You look at him for a long moment.
Filed under —
You don’t file it.
For the first time since the google doc, since the seventeen submissions, since the plan that is elegant and slightly unhinged, you look at Park Sunghoon sitting on your sofa holding his coffee with the scrapbook of three and a half days on the table between you and you don’t file it.
You just look at him.
“Okay,” you say.
“Okay,” he says.
You drink your coffees.
He leaves at four. He picks up the scrapbook on the way out, without asking, and you watch him tuck it under his arm like it’s something he’s taking home, which it is, which means it worked, which means tip four is complete.
You should feel like you won something. You mostly feel like you did something real.
“Tomorrow,” he says, at the door.
“Tomorrow,” you agree.
He goes.
You close the door.
You go to your desk. You open your laptop. You open the blog dashboard and you write the tip post — the strategic version, the scrapbook-as-weapon version, the this-is-how-you-overwhelm-a-man-who-runs-from-feelings version.
Then you open the private document.
You stare at the blank page.
You type: he took it home.
Four words. You look at them.
he took it home and I don’t know if that’s the tip working or something else and I think the problem is I’m not sure it matters anymore which one it is.
You close it.
This time you save it.
In the house off campus, Jay finds the scrapbook.
Not snooping — it’s on the kitchen counter, which is where Sunghoon put it when he came in, and Jay sees it because he goes to the kitchen for water and it’s just there, and he picks it up because it has a gold star sticker on it and he’s curious.
He opens it.
He looks at the photos. The food bag. The text screenshot. The light through the car window. The jacket on the hook.
He closes it.
He goes to the living room where Heeseung is reading.
“Heeseung,” he says.
“Mm.”
“We have a problem.”
Heeseung turns a page. “I know.”
“She made him a scrapbook.”
“I know.”
“It’s day four.”
“I know, Jay.”
Jay sits down heavily on the sofa. He looks at the ceiling. He thinks about the bet — the text thread, the terms, thirteen days, one girl, you actually try — and he thinks about Sunghoon’s face when he came home, which was not the face of a man who is running a bet.
It was the face of a man who took a scrapbook home and is not entirely sure why and is not entirely bothered by not being sure.
“We should say something,” Jay says.
“Should we,” Heeseung says, not looking up.
“One of us should—”
“Which one of us,” Heeseung says, “is going to walk into Sunghoon’s room and tell him that the girl who made him a scrapbook on day four is doing it on purpose, and also that you made a bet, and also that we’ve both been watching this happen and said nothing?”
Jay opens his mouth.
“Which one of us,” Heeseung continues, turning another page, “is going to do that.”
Jay closes his mouth.
He looks at the ceiling.
“We’ll give it a few more days,” he says.
Heeseung says nothing.
Which is, Jay is beginning to understand, Heeseung’s way of saying you have made a catastrophic error and I am going to let you arrive at that conclusion yourself.
Jay goes back to the kitchen.
He looks at the scrapbook on the counter.
He gets his water.
He goes to bed.
—
🤍 kiss & tell
tip 04: make a scrapbook. day four. show him.
Physical evidence of a relationship that is three and a half days old.
Print the photos. Buy the stickers. Write his name on the cover in your own handwriting. Make it real enough that he can’t dismiss it and ridiculous enough that he should want to.
The goal is overwhelm. The goal is to be too much, too fast, too sincere — to deploy the kind of gesture that sends men like this running for the nearest exit.
Here’s what happened instead… he took it home.
I don’t have a tip for that. I’ll get back to you.
You didn’t hear it from me. x
[3,102 readers. 114 comments.]
SHE DOESN’T HAVE A TIP FOR THAT I’M LOSING MY MIND.
kiss & tell are you okay.
anonymous: I know who this is and I need everyone to understand that this man has never once taken anything home in three years.
⤷ from Kiss & Tell: …noted.
—
🤍 kiss & tell
tip 05: name it. (as in his penis ;))
Give it a full name. Something formal. Something that requires introduction. Deploy it with complete sincerity and maintain eye contact with him while you do it.
The objective here is simple — men who have built entire personalities around being untouchable tend to have one specific vulnerability, which is being caught completely off guard in a situation where charm is not a useful tool.
This is that situation.
Results to follow.
You didn’t hear it from me. x
—
Day five starts with a text at seven AM.
hoonie 🤍: rink. triple again. landed it cleaner.
You read this lying on your back in the dark of your room, phone screen bright in the early morning, and you think about like the ice gave me permission and the private document you’ve been saving things to and the fact that he texts you about the rink now, voluntarily, without prompting, like you’re the person he tells things to.
You’ve been the person he tells things to for five days.
you: cleaner how
hoonie 🤍: the landing. rotation was right last time but the landing was off. today it was right.
you: what does a right landing feel like
The pause is longer this time. The deliberate kind.
hoonie 🤍: like the ground caught you on purpose
You stare at this message.
You type: that’s a really good sentence
hoonie 🤍: I told you. literature student.
you: qualification not excuse
hoonie 🤍: exactly
you: come over tonight?
You send it before you think about it, which is becoming a pattern you haven’t fully addressed. The plan accounts for frequency of contact — it’s in the timeline tab, maintain consistent but not overwhelming presence, let him initiate where possible. You have been initiating more than the timeline accounts for.
You file this under logistical adjustment and move on.
hoonie 🤍: yeah. eight?
you: eight works
hoonie 🤍: I’ll bring food
you: you don’t have to keep doing that
hoonie 🤍: I know
You put your phone down.
You open the google doc.
You open the private document instead.
he said like the ground caught you on purpose. I’ve been thinking about it for twenty minutes. I should probably stop thinking about it. I’m not going to stop thinking about it.
You close it.
He arrives at eight with food from a different place this time — further from campus, somewhere you don’t recognise the bag from, which means he went out of his way, which you note and do not remark on.
He’s in the grey hoodie again. The himself one.
You’re in your flat in your own version of the himself thing — an old university shirt, jeans, hair that’s been up since this morning and is making its own decisions at this point — and when you open the door he looks at you with the expression he gets sometimes, the brief unguarded one, before he recalibrates into easy and casual.
“Hi, hoonie,” you say.
“Hi,” he says, with the patient resignation of a man who has stopped arguing about the nickname and is choosing to interpret this as winning.
You eat on the floor again. This is simply where you eat now, apparently — sofa abandoned in favour of the rug, backs against the coffee table, food between you. You’ve stopped thinking about whether this is strategic. It’s just comfortable.
He tells you about the rink. About the programme he’s been working on for three months, the one the triple is part of, the way the whole thing builds toward a specific feeling he’s been chasing.
“What feeling,” you ask.
“Like it’s inevitable,” he says. “Like every element was always going to be in that order. Like the programme is just — uncovering something that was already there.”
You look at him.
“That’s what good writing feels like,” you say. “When it works. Like you’re not inventing it, just finding it.”
He looks back at you.
“Yeah,” he says. “Exactly like that.”
The room is quiet for a moment. The good kind, the kind that doesn’t require filling.
You are a journalist. This is a story.
“So,” you say, and something in your voice shifts, and he hears it — you see him hear it, the slight attention change, the orientation. “I’ve been thinking.”
“About.”
“About the fact that it’s day five,” you say, “and we’ve been spending a significant amount of time together.”
“We have,” he agrees, carefully.
“And I think—” You look at him with complete sincerity. “I think it’s time we took the next step.”
He goes very still.
“The next—”
“I want to,” you say, and you hold his gaze, “if you want to.”
A pause.
He looks at you. You look at him. The space between you on the rug is not very large and the lamp is doing something warm with the light and he’s in his grey hoodie and his hair is doing the unstyled thing and his expression is—
“Yeah,” he says, quietly. “Okay.”
The thing about Park Sunghoon, which was in the submissions but which the submissions did not adequately convey, is that he is extremely good at this.
Not in the way you expected.
You expected the practiced version — efficient, warm in a generalised way, the kind of good that comes from having done something enough times that it stops requiring thought. You expected charm applied to a physical situation. You expected to feel, somewhere underneath everything, the low hum of being processed. Another girl. Another night. Another name he wouldn’t remember by the end.
What you get is the opposite of all of that.
He notices things.
He gets your shirt off and looks at you with that expression — the brief unguarded one, the one you’ve been cataloguing — and it doesn’t recalibrate this time. He just looks. Openly, unhurriedly, like you’re something he hasn’t finished figuring out and is in no rush to.
His eyes move over you slowly. Your face. Your throat. Lower.
“Hi,” he says quietly, and it sounds like something else entirely.
“Hi, hoonie,” you say, because you can’t help it, and he makes a sound that is almost a laugh and presses his mouth to your collarbone.
And then he takes you apart.
He gets your bra off and looks at your tits with the focused attention of someone making a decision, and then his hands are on them — cupping, thumbs brushing your nipples — and you inhale sharply and he does it again, watching your face while he does it, filing away the reaction.
“Sensitive,” he says. Not a question.
“Shut up,” you say.
The corner of his mouth does the thing. He lowers his head and closes his mouth over your nipple and your hand goes into his hair immediately, gripping, and the sound you make is embarrassingly immediate. He works them with his mouth and hands — unhurried, thorough, learning what makes you twitch versus what makes you actually make noise — and by the time he starts moving down your body you are already significantly less composed than you planned to be.
He gets your jeans off and looks at you and says “fuck” quietly, to himself, like it got out before he decided to let it, and that single unguarded profanity is what tips you from oriented into something else. Because it’s real. Because he means it. Because Park Sunghoon, looking at you in the lamplight of his room, forgot for one second to manage his expression.
You were not prepared for him to mean it.
He gets your underwear off and puts his mouth on your pussy and you stop being a journalist completely.
He eats you out the way he does everything — with complete attention, unhurried, like there’s a right answer here and he’s going to find it. His tongue works through your folds slowly and then finds your clit and stays there and you grip his hair and he takes that as information and presses closer. Two fingers push into your pussy and curl and you arch off the bed.
“Sunghoon —”
“Mm,” he says against you, which is not words, which is just sound, and somehow that’s worse.
He learns you methodically — finding the specific pressure on your clit that makes your thighs shake, the angle of his fingers against your walls that makes you lose language, and then staying there, patient and relentless, not moving on until he’s got exactly the response he was looking for. You have both hands in his hair and you’re not being careful about how hard you’re pulling and he seems to actively prefer this, his fingers curling deeper when you do.
The first orgasm hits harder than you expected. You cry out properly — loud enough to echo off the walls of his quiet house — and he works you through every second of it and then keeps going and you try to pull him up by the hair.
He ignores you.
“More,” he says against your pussy, simply, like it’s obvious.
“Sunghoon —”
“More.” He looks up at you over your body and his eyes are completely dark and the composed literary student is entirely gone and something about the specific way he’s looking at you — focused, certain, like you are a problem he is enjoying solving — makes heat bloom all the way up your chest. “I want to hear it again.”
You give it to him. The second one builds slower and hits differently — deeper, rolling through you in long waves — and you’re shaking by the end of it, thighs clamped around his head, and he pulls back and looks at you and his mouth is slick and his expression is thoroughly satisfied.
He moves up your body. Looks at you. Checks — actually checks, the same care underneath everything.
“Yeah?” he says.
“Yeah,” you say. “Obviously yeah —”
He kisses you and you taste yourself on his mouth and pull him closer and he makes a low sound and reaches over to the nightstand and then he’s back and lining up and pushing into your pussy slow and —
You understand immediately why seventeen girls kept coming back.
It’s not just the size, though that’s — relevant information, significant information, information you are filing carefully. It’s the way he’s completely there. No part of him is somewhere else. His forehead drops to yours and he gives you a moment, feeling your walls adjust around his cock, and when he starts to move the sound he makes against your neck is low and genuine and nothing like performance.
“Fuck,” he breathes. His hips drive forward and you arch up and he groans. “You feel so good.” He pulls back and pushes in deeper and you make a sound that has no consonants in it. “Yeah.” His mouth finds your ear. “Just like that.”
“Sunghoon —”
“I’ve got you,” he says. “Relax.”
He sets a pace that is deep and thorough and completely unhurried — long strokes that drag against your walls perfectly, his cock filling you on every thrust in a way that keeps short-circuiting coherent thought. His hands move over you while he moves — your waist, your hips, sliding up to your tits and gripping before moving back down — like he wants to touch all of you and is working through the logistics of it.
You are loud. You were not planning to be loud. You are very loud.
“There,” he says, when you make a specific sound, and adjusts his angle and does it again. “Right there?”
“Yes —” Your hands grab his shoulders. “Yes, right —”
“Good girl.” He stays at that angle. His thumb finds your clit and you cry out. “So good for me.”
The words land somewhere that surprises you with how directly they land. Your whole body responds to them — clenching around his cock — and he groans at the feeling and his composure slips a fraction.
“Tight,” he says against your throat. “Tight fucking pussy —” His hips snap forward and you cry out again. “You feel that?”
“Yes —”
“Yeah.” His thumb keeps working your clit, small and precise, and his cock is deep and his mouth is at your jaw and your ear and your throat. “Take it.” He drives in harder. “Just like that. Take it.”
You come on his cock with your nails in his shoulders and your head thrown back and a sound that you will think about with some embarrassment tomorrow and he works you through every second of it — hips maintaining that deep steady rhythm, thumb relentless on your clit — until you’re grabbing his wrist and making incoherent noises.
“Too much —” you manage. “Too —”
“One more,” he says. Not unkind. Just certain, the way he’s certain about everything. “Give me one more.”
“Sunghoon I literally —”
“One more,” he says, and shifts his angle, and you sob, and give him one more.
He comes shortly after, buried deep, his forehead to your shoulder, groaning low against your skin with his hips pressed flush against yours and his cock pulsing and staying buried while he rides it out. His hand at your hip is tight enough to leave something tomorrow and neither of you are thinking about tomorrow.
He stays there after. Breathing. Not rushing the aftermath.
You are not going to put all this in your blog. What you are going to put in the blog is what happens approximately forty minutes in, when you are in his bed — you ended up at his, Heeseung and Jay both absent, the house quiet and warm — and things have arrived at a natural pause, and you look at him and the tip, the one you’ve been planning since the google doc, arrives.
“Hi,” you say.
He looks at you. “Hi.”
You look down. Then back up. Very seriously.
“Hi, Gerald,” you say.
The silence is immediate and total.
Sunghoon stares at you.
You maintain eye contact.
“What,” he says.
“Gerald,” you say. “I think it suits him.”
“You—” He stops. “You just—”
“Formally,” you say. “I wanted to do it formally.”
He stares at you for a long moment. Something is happening in his face — a sequence of things, moving through quickly, surprise and bafflement and something else underneath both of them, something that is fighting very hard not to become what it wants to become.
It loses the fight.
He laughs.
Not a small laugh, not the quiet almost-laugh you’ve catalogued — a real one, full, the kind that takes him by surprise, that gets out before he can decide whether to let it, that turns into another one before the first one’s finished, and he puts a hand over his face and laughs into his palm and you watch this happen and feel something in your chest that is completely outside the scope of the assignment.
“Gerald,” he says, from behind his hand.
“Strong name,” you say. “Classic.”
“You planned that,” he says.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You one hundred percent planned that.”
“I acted on instinct.”
He looks at you from behind his hand, eyes visible above his fingers, still doing the aftermath of the laugh — the residual warmth of it, the particular quality of someone who has just laughed properly and the room is different because of it. “Instinct,” he repeats.
“It felt right,” you say.
He drops his hand. Looks at you properly.
And here is the thing that doesn’t go in the blog, that goes in the private document, that you will think about at seven AM tomorrow when he texts you about the rink: he looks at you like you are the most interesting thing that has happened to him in years. Not in the charming way, not the way he probably looks at everyone. In a specific way. The way you look at something that keeps being different from what you expected and you’ve stopped expecting it to stop.
“Gerald,” he says again, quieter.
“Do you hate it?” you ask.
“Yes,” he says.
“Good,” you say.
He laughs again, smaller this time, and pulls you back in, and the rest of the night is — the rest of the night goes in the private document, not the blog.
What goes in the blog is the tip. The strategic version. The maintained-eye-contact version.
What goes in the private document, at one forty-seven AM, lying in his bed while he’s asleep, phone screen dim so it doesn’t wake him:
he laughed. the real one, the full one, not the almost. I’ve been cataloguing the almost-laughs for five days and tonight I got the real one and it happened because of Gerald and I think I need to be honest with myself about something.
I think I need to be honest with myself about something and then a long blank space where you couldn’t find the words, and then:
the ground caught you on purpose. that’s what he said this morning. and I keep thinking about it and I think I’m starting to understand what he means and I don’t know what to do with that.
You save it.
You put the phone down.
Beside you, Sunghoon sleeps with the specific quality of someone who is completely comfortable, one hand near yours on the pillow, not touching but close, and the lamp is still on because neither of you got up to turn it off and the room is warm and the scrapbook is on his desk, the gold star sticker catching the light, and outside the window the campus goes about its late night and inside this room everything is—
You don’t finish the sentence.
You close your eyes.
In the morning you wake up before him.
This surprises you — you expected him to be the early one, the rink-at-five-AM one, and he will be tomorrow and the day after, but today is not a rink morning and so he’s asleep when the light comes through the curtains and you lie there for a moment in the particular disorientation of waking somewhere that isn’t your room.
Then it lands.
Right. Yes.
You turn your head.
He’s asleep on his back, one arm at his side, hair doing something completely unmanaged, and he looks — he looks like himself. The version underneath everything else. Without the careful ease, without the recalibration, just him, and you lie there and look at him and think about seventeen submissions and the google doc and the private document and Gerald and the laugh and the ground caught you on purpose.
He opens his eyes.
Finds you immediately, without looking — just turns his head and you’re there and he looks at you with the specific expression of someone waking up and finding exactly what they were hoping to find and not trying to manage that expression at all.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi, hoonie,” you say.
He closes his eyes again, briefly. “You’re doing that in the morning now.”
“I do it all the time.”
“It’s worse in the morning.”
“Because you’re less defended.”
He opens his eyes. Looks at you. “Yeah,” he says, quietly. “Maybe.”
The room is morning-quiet. The lamp is still on, pale now against the daylight. His desk has the scrapbook on it, gold star, hoonie in your handwriting.
“Rink tomorrow,” he says.
“I know.”
“Early.”
“I know.”
“You could—” He stops.
“Could what,” you say.
“Come,” he says. “If you wanted. It’s early. You probably don’t want to.”
You look at him.
“What time,” you say.
Something in his face does the thing. “Five-thirty.”
“I’ll be there at five-twenty,” you say. “To be annoying.”
He looks at the ceiling. But his mouth is doing the thing and he doesn’t try to stop it, not this morning, not in this room.
“Obviously,” he says.
Jay is in the kitchen when Sunghoon comes downstairs at nine.
He’s making coffee with the focused energy of someone who has been awake for a while and has been thinking about things and has decided to make coffee because it’s better than the alternative. He looks up when Sunghoon comes in. Clocks his expression. Looks at the scrapbook, which has migrated from the counter to the kitchen table at some point. Looks back at Sunghoon.
“Good night?” Jay says, with the careful neutrality of a man defusing a situation.
“Yeah,” Sunghoon says. He opens the fridge. Gets juice. “You?”
“Fine.” Jay pours two coffees without being asked and sets one on the counter. “She go home?”
“Earlier.”
“Right.” A pause. “She’s—” Jay stops.
“What.”
“Nothing,” Jay says. “She seems good. She’s good.”
Sunghoon looks at him.
Jay picks up his coffee.
“What,” Sunghoon says again.
“Nothing,” Jay says. “I just—” He stops again. He has the expression of a man standing at the entrance to a conversation he should have two days ago and is finding the door very heavy. “I just think she’s good. That’s all. I like her.”
“Okay,” Sunghoon says slowly.
“Okay,” Jay says.
Sunghoon picks up his coffee. Looks at Jay for a moment with the particular look of someone who knows a conversation is being avoided and is choosing, for now, not to push it.
He takes his coffee upstairs.
Jay stands in the kitchen alone.
He looks at the scrapbook on the table. At hoonie in someone else’s handwriting. At the gold star sticker.
He takes out his phone. He opens the bet thread. He stares at it. He puts his phone back in his pocket. He drinks his coffee.
—
🤍 kiss & tell
tip 05: name it.
Full name. Formal introduction. Complete sincerity. Maintained eye contact.
Here’s what I can tell you: it worked. The overwhelm landed. He was, briefly, completely caught off guard in a situation where charm was not a useful tool.
Here’s what I can’t tell you: what happened after.
Not because it isn’t relevant. Because some things are happening in this story that I didn’t plan for and I’m a journalist and I know when a story is going somewhere I didn’t map out and I need a minute to figure out what that means before I report on it.
Tip six is boys night. I’ll be there Thursday.
You didn’t hear it from me. x
[4,891 readers. 203 comments.]
KISS AND TELL WHAT DO YOU MEAN SOME THINGS ARE HAPPENING THAT YOU DIDN’T PLAN FOR.
she’s in trouble.
⤷ we’re all in trouble.
the name reveal is going to be in the comments for the rest of time.
anonymous: I go to this campus. I know who this is about. I need everyone to understand that this man smiled at someone in the humanities building yesterday and it was not his normal smile.
⤷ from Kiss & Tell: …I’m going to need you to expand on that.
laceys note // if you guys made it to the end thank u! and yes before yall ask i do have part 2 in the making 😉
summary — Sunghoon is good at exactly two things: gaming and being ridiculously, unbelievably hot. Nothing matters to him more than leading the school's esports team to victory at regionals this year, but a certain summer course is getting in the way of all his practice time. Luckily, he thinks he's found himself the cheat code to an easy A and a clear schedule: you, a project partner so easily flustered by his presence that you'll happily take on all the work.
18+ mdni ⚠︎ smut with plot, humour, very mild angst, college au, slowburn, sunghoon pov, in which his face card is the only thing saving him, valorant, e-sports, gaming terms used, toxic gaming culture, emotional manipulation, morally grey characters, misogynistic themes & language, extremely possessive!sunghoon, objectification, sex as an apology, corruption kink, loss of virginity, virgin!reader, dom!Hoon, verbal consent, size kink, big dick hoon (couldn't help myself sorry), big dick=big ego, begging, multiple smut scenes, multiple positions, multiple orgasms, handjobs, fingering, p in v, unprotected sex (pull-out method), oral (f receiving), rough sex, hair pulling, light choking, scratching, slapping, spanking, heavy praise kink, light degradation, please guys do not lose your virginity like this
FEAT. hyung line as roomies
wc — 30.7k
a/n — ah, what a treat it was to return to my comp sci major sunghoon roots. i love writing about losers and uh... i kinda went insane with this one. this is inspired by a comment left by @m-hypen on my other fic ♡ takes place in the same au but this is entirely a standalone. i might make more for the rest of the hyung line eventually? but we’ll see. happy reading!
"Sunghoon!"
Headshot, headshot, assist—that's all that's being processed when the front door bursts open hard enough to rattle the empty energy drink cans on Sunghoon's desk. He doesn't blink, even as one of them falls over, rolling around on the floor. He doesn't even stop to think about the remaining drop left in the can that's probably leaking onto the carpet somewhere.
"Sunghoon, get your ass out here!"
He's in game mode, and nobody stops him when he's like that. Not even his roommates, whose approaching footsteps he fails to register. The only thing that matters is the screen in front of him as he lines up his next shot, just waiting for the remaining enemy teammate to peek around the corner. His prey is right there. Right behind that wall. All they have to do is walk into his trap.
Just peek already, you little pussy bitch—
"Sunghoon!"
He yelps when a hand clamps on his shoulder. His arm jerks, aim twitching, and the enemy peeks at that very moment, landing a clean headshot on him. His teammates start cursing at him in the voice chat. A lovely, overlapping chorus of "kill yourself" and "delete the game" as if he hadn't carried them for the past two rounds.
Sunghoon mutes the mic and pulls his headphones down around his neck, glaring behind him at Heeseung, who is practically dragging him up from his seat. He tries to yank his arm away, but then another pair of hands is hauling him out of his seat. He directs his glare back at Jay.
"What the f—"
"Don't act surprised. I literally told you we needed your help an hour ago. It's your fault for queueing a ranked game," Jay states, patting his shoulder. Sunghoon is now on his feet, blinking at him. Annoyed, but... ultimately unable to argue back, given he had ignored all his texts.
"Can't you just get Jake or something?" He mutters.
Jay is already leaving his bedroom, and Heeseung nudges him forward, forcing him to follow. Sunghoon rolls his eyes, a heavy sigh escaping him. He moves with begrudging footsteps out into the hallway.
"It's a four-man job. Turns out my grandma's coffee table is heavy as shit."
"Your grandma's coffee table...?"
He's not exaggerating. The thing is solid oak—masterfully crafted, intricately carved, and so extremely fucking heavy that by the time they've wrestled it through the front door, all four of them go down, collapsing to the couch. Jake, already muttering something about needing a drink, Heeseung describing his physical decline in real time, and Jay, heaving in silence.
Sunghoon sinks into the cushions, and his vision blurs, wondering which is more to blame for it: the summer heat or the fact that he's been skipping the gym to play ranked and living off microwave ramen for the past few weeks. His headset is still around his neck, and he can hear his teammates losing without him. He doesn't care. He can't feel his arms.
"Fuck, I'm gonna feel that in my back for weeks," Heeseung announces to the ceiling, then his head lifts, "but look at that—really ties the place together, right?"
He gestures to the room. Sunghoon's eyes glaze over the sight. Bare white walls, curtainless windows, a TV that sits directly on the floor, and a trash bag in the corner full of takeout containers and red solo cups—and of course, now, the beautiful table, sticking out like a sore thumb amid the room's college-boy barrenness.
"We've lived here a whole year now," Sunghoon starts between breaths, not enough energy in him to glare at his roommates. "Not once has any one of us said, 'Oh no, where will I put my cup of coffee?'"
"Who says we have to use it for coffee?"
He blinks. He doesn't know when Jake left the room, but he's now returning with a six-pack of beer, setting it down on the new table. He cracks one open immediately, settling next to him on the couch.
"My grandma's downsizing." Jay reaches forward, patting the table's surface with genuine affection. "She gave it to us for free. You don't say no to a free coffee table."
"Well, it looks stupid." Sunghoon folds his arms, "Really helps the whole we have nothing aesthetic."
"Come on. We're adults now." Heeseung perks up, "Adults have coffee tables. It's about presentation. Besides, I heard chicks dig it. Something about owning real furniture and bed frames just does it for them."
"None of us are bringing girls home," Sunghoon starts, looking at each of them. He sees Jake's mouth open to protest, "And no, your weird situationship does not count."
"Maybe that's 'cause we didn't have a coffee table before," Jay shrugs.
"Yeah, tell the ladies all about your grandma's furniture. I'm sure they'll start lining up the block."
Sunghoon feels a headache starting behind his left eye, and when he hears the game end through his headset at his shoulders, he rips the device from his neck, shoving it to the cushion at his side.
"Shitty ass game," He mutters.
A sweat had gathered at his brow, and he now moves to wipe it as he's reaching for a beer, cracking it open and taking a large gulp like it's water.
"Rough match?"
"Nah. Would've been an easy match," Sunghoon replies, groaning, "Just stressed. Coach has been pressuring me, plus there's that stupid course I have to retake this semester."
"Tough life being Captain of the E-sports team, huh?" Heeseung jokes, "Or what is it you were called that one time? The school's biggest virgin?"
Captain of the E-sports team. A title Heeseung delivers like a punchline. Most people do. Sunghoon, on the other hand, wears it with pride, and had long since stopped trying to explain himself—both the fact that being the best player in the whole school is a legitimate accomplishment, and the fact that he is not a virgin. Effectively explaining either of those things would require Heeseung to actually care, which he doesn't.
Sunghoon had spent his whole life refining his skills for that sort of recognition. He shoots with precision and wins. He reads his opponents to filth, predicting their every move, and annihilates them with ease. He plays Valorant at a level that makes his teammates worship him like a god, and the enemy team start inventing new slurs to type in the chat. That is to say, he was very, very good at it. And very serious about it.
It's precisely why he doesn't have time for moving coffee tables. Or sitting around like this. Or—
His phone buzzes.
His is summer course. Right.
The one he'd failed last semester, that his academic advisor had gently but firmly informed him he needed to retake if he wanted to graduate on time. He'd registered for it in a fog of dismissive irritation back in March, figuring it would be easy enough. And then the syllabus had dropped with the word group project, and he'd been assigned a project partner who had emailed him four times before the first week of classes had even ended, asking about meeting up weeks before the deliverable due dates.
He reaches for his phone, scrolling through the feed of missed notifications from you: One shared document link, more than a couple missed messages, and—he squints—a voice memo. Who the fuck sends voice memos about code?
"Is that the project partner you keep complaining about?" Heeseung leans over his shoulder, snatching the phone away, "She sends voice memos. How adorable. Don't tell me you're ignoring those?"
"Give it back."
He doesn't; instead, he hits play, raising the volume to the max so the whole room can hear it.
"Hey, Sunghoon. How are you? Um... I'm here at the library now. I know we agreed to meet at three o'clock, but I got here a little early," he hears you laugh a bit nervously through the speaker. You have one of those that's just a little too sweet, a little too apologetic for no reason in particular. "I booked a study room, so text me when you're here. And... that's all for now. Bye, Sunghoon."
The boys sit there in silence. Glaring in disbelief at their friend.
"Oh my god," Heeseung groans, "Sweet Jesus, your partner sounds like this, and you've been ignoring her?"
Jay snatched the phone, glaring at it, then glaring at Sunghoon, "She sounds like an angel. What the fuck is wrong with you? Like, medically. What kind of mental illness does a guy have to have to end up like this?"
"That's the long-term psychological damage of being a Valorant player," Jake scoffs, and Sunghoon rolls his eyes.
"Play it again," Heeseung demands, and Jay rewinds it a bit, just to hear the breathing and that nervous little laugh through the speaker, a smile forming on his lips, "Is she cute? She sounds cute. She's got the voice. You know the one that some girls have, that makes you think about what other noises they could—"
"I don't know. I haven't even met her—yet." Sunghoon snatches the device back, "She's annoying. She sends like twenty messages a day."
"Twenty messages a day," Heeseung looks at him, "From a girl who sounds like she whimpers when she's nervous. You know what I'd do with twenty messages a day? I'd be jacking off to the typing indicators."
"That's disgusting. Keep that shit to yourself."
"What's disgusting is you having a girl sending you personalized audio content, saying your name like that, and choosing to ignore it."
"Bet he's got it all in a folder somewhere," Jay snorts, "Keeps it hidden away, playing on loop while he queues ranked. Jacks off between rounds."
"I've never even listened to any of these," Sunghoon says flatly, "She sends so many. Seriously. She's like an organized freak. The kind who start projects early and shit."
"Oh, so she's one of those girls?" Jake grins, "super nervous, apologizes for nothing... You know the type?"
"I don't." Sunghoon deadpans, feeling like his friend is about to start describing a porno category rather than an actual person, given the smirk on his face.
"The type that acts all innocent and sweet on the surface," Heeseung nudges him, "you know what they say about them, right? That they're total freaks in bed. Shit, if a girl like that booked me a study room I'd—"
"Actually finish your degree and graduate?" Jake offers.
"I'd graduate with honours."
"She's probably been waiting in the library for how long, now?" Jay shakes his head, "She got there early. Early. She's probably sitting there with her little notes and highlighters and her 'bye Sunghoon' voice, checking her phone every thirty seconds, and you're here drinking beer and complaining."
Today. The meeting was today. He checks the time—forty minutes ago.
"Shit," Sunghoon's on his feet, sprinting towards his room, "Shit, shit, shit."
He starts digging around for his backpack in his room, under piles of laundry, and nearly trips on the can he forgot to pick up on his floor.
"Guys, the library!" he calls out in a panic, "I'm supposed to be at the library. I need a ride. Now. Jay?"
"Not my problem."
"Jake?"
"Nope."
Sunghoon grabs his bag and stumbles back to the living room, bracing himself against the doorframe. Heeseung is already looking at him with that slow, insufferable smile, sprawled on the couch like he's been waiting for this exact moment.
"I dunno," Heeseung says, stretching his arms over his head with a theatrical groan. "I'm feeling pretty tired. That table was heavy."
"I helped."
"You complained the whole time."
"I did not—"
"And you kept voice memos hidden from me. From all of us. That's a betrayal of household trust."
"I didn't hide anything. You're just a nosy degenerate." Sunghoon's grip tightens on the doorframe. "Are you driving me or not?"
"Hm." Heeseung taps his chin. "Maybe if you ask me nicely..."
Sunghoon takes a breath. Swallows his pride.
"Heeseung." He says through gritted teeth, "Can you please drive me?"
"Ah, I like the sound of that." Heeseung pushes off the couch and brushes past him with infuriating slowness. "Fine. But you owe me. I wanna hear more of cute-girl's voice notes, so be nice to her."
"Okay. Whatever, you fucking pervert." Sunghoon scoffs, watching him snag his keys off the hook by the door. "Just drive."
The library's fairly empty. It's expected, given it's the middle of summer on a weekend, but it's still jarring as ever to walk past empty tables where people would go to war to get a spot during finals season. And, for the first time in a while, he's thankful to be in an air-conditioned building.
"Hi Sunghoon!" you greet him as soon as he enters the room, seemingly startled by the suddenness of his arrival. He watches you for a moment, how your back straightens, and your immediate, almost rehearsed smile.
She's got the voice. Heeseung's words ring in his mind as he takes you in, you know the one that some girls have, that makes you think about what other noises they could—
"Hi," he answers, slipping into the seat next to you, "Sorry for making you wait. Roommate stuff. Had to move a coffee table. Very adult."
You laugh a little too quickly, and he notes the way your hands tremble in your lap. He also notes the way you refuse to meet his eyes.
"That's okay," you glance towards your phone, which was still face-up with its messages open. You fumble with it, tucking it away. "I was just worried maybe, like, you got lost or something."
Lost? He has to resist the urge to scoff. He's late, and instead of being upset, you decided to make up lousy excuses for him.
He looks you up and down again. You're cute, like you sounded over the phone. A nervous-looking mess. The type of thing his roommates would call endearing. Sunghoon, on the other hand, finds it frustratingly pathetic.
"So." You're already turning your laptop to face him, "I've been working on the backend structure. I commented everything, so it should be pretty straightforward. Here's the API setup, and the database schema..."
You click through files as you talk, your voice picking up speed, and he doesn't listen. He tries to. He swears, he does. But his eyes instead follow your posture, and how you sit uptight, spine straight. Your hands fumble around, twitching like you can't keep them still, and your knees bounce under the desk like a nervous habit.
Good god, you look like you'll crumble to pieces any moment. He can feel a headache creeping up on him already. It's exhausting just looking at you.
"...What do you think?"
"Huh?" He blinks, taking in whatever you're pointing to on your screen. You're looking at him all bright-eyed and earnest, as if his opinion would add any sort of valuable insight here. "I... think it looks good. You did well."
"Really?"
"Yeah, I mean," he shrugs, "Why do you sound so surprised?"
His question catches you off guard. He suspected it would, that's why he asked it. Not that he was trying to prod around in your anxious little head. Just that you seemed predictable. Now he knows you are.
"I just..." You're tapping the desk now. "I wanted it to be up to your standards. I didn't want to disappoint you."
"My standards?" He repeats. Then, unexpectedly, he laughs. Not at you—well, maybe a little at you. But mostly at the absurdity of the most competent person in the room, asking for his approval. "You're something else, you know that?"
You blink. "What does that—?"
"Here," He's still smiling. The headache from earlier has faded. He's not sure when. "Let me show you what you're working with."
He opens his laptop and spins it toward you. His frontend code sits there in all its tragic glory—bare bones, placeholder text, a CSS file with plenty of questionable styling decisions. Your take it all in, and for a split second, you forget to hide the horrified expression on your face.
"See? Trash. Actual garbage. I don't even show up to class. I'm not the guy whose 'standards' you should be worried about. Besides..." He leans back. "You're probably the best student in the whole class."
"I'm sure I'm not," you say, almost bashful, brushing it off as if it were a compliment. It wasn't. He was stating a fact. But you're too self-deprecating to know the difference, he supposes. "And your code isn't trash—"
"It is. We both know it's ass. You don't have to be polite."
"It's... disorganized. And a little rushed..." You hesitate, "Were you busy with something—?"
"Oh my god, you have no idea," he tilts his head back, a sigh of frustration leaving him almost immediately. "Regionals. Scrims every night. Coach breathing down my neck. I'm pretty sure I heard someone call for a flank in my dream last night, and I don't even think I was asleep. Or maybe that was just my roommates fucking with me again..."
You nod along as if you understand, though you definitely don't. You probably don't even know what half those words mean, but you're listening, and for some reason, that's less annoying than it was ten minutes ago.
"Anyway. I know it's rough. But like I said. Don't worry your head over anything else. I'll get to it, I swear."
"I'm not worried. I trust you. We still have another week, so it's not like it's last-minute. We just need to clean up some things here," You nod sweetly, then angle the screen toward him and lean in, your shoulder nearly brushing his. "The class labelling in the HTML is messing with the CSS styling. If you restructure the divs here, it should resolve most of the layout issues. And then here..."
You start explaining—specificity, nesting, the cascade. Your voice is steady now, in your element. You point at the screen with a capped highlighter like a tiny lecturer. He catches maybe sixty percent of it.
What he catches more of is your instinctive forgiveness. He shows up an hour late with half-done work that looks like a middle schooler's first project, and you're already pivoting to reassurance mode. It's okay. It's a good start. We can fix it.
It's spineless. A little sad, honestly.
It's also nice. You're a nice person. No bite, no sarcasm, no passive-aggressiveness, just pure, unearned kindness.
He sighs, leaning back in his chair, settling in as you continue. He makes himself comfortable as best he can in his plastic library chair, and subconsciously, his legs spread, his knee drifting outward until it presses against yours under the table.
It wasn't intentional, and he's about to mutter a quick apology and draw his leg back, but then you pause completely. Your mouth is still half-open around whatever you were about to say, but nothing comes out. Your eyes drop to the table. Your fingers freeze over the trackpad.
He notices. He absolutely notices all of it. The way you swallow, the way your lip trembles trying to find your next word, the way you glance at him from the side in a panic, checking to see his reaction.
She gets flustered when I touch her, he thinks, filing the thought away like data, interesting.
He doesn't move his knee. Doesn't say anything or make any sort of face. He just watches you scramble, suddenly feeling a lot less bored than he'd felt a few seconds ago.
"I—" You shake your head, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. "Sorry, what was I—the bullet points. Right. I'll email you."
You clear your throat. Find your place in your notes again, though your hands are fumbling slightly, your crisp efficiency gone. You're scrambling to recover, to be useful again, to reassert the order you're using as a crutch.
"Anyway," you manage, "That's everything from my end. We're in good shape."
You're already packing up. The laptop closed with a decisive click. Highlighters swept into your bag in a single motion. Notebook stacked on top. The organized girl, reassembling her armour. Trying to pretend the last thirty seconds didn't happen.
"You in a hurry?" He has to hold back a teasing grin as you scramble for your words.
"No! I mean—yeah. Just. Gotta go, so... yeah. See you next week. Or something."
"Yeah. Or something."
He doesn't move. He's thinking about the bus. The long, slow route across campus. The forty-minute wait. Maybe Jay will pick up if he calls. Maybe Heeseung will text him something unhelpful, like walk it builds character.
You're standing, bag over your shoulder, then you pause, noticing he hasn't gotten up. "You're staying?"
"Hm? Just deciding if I want to beg my roommates for a ride, or suck it up and take the bus."
"Oh..." you adjust the strap of your bag, watching him thoughtfully.
Your hand is already at the door, ready to go. But you don't. Your mouth hangs open slightly, hesitating on your next word.
"Do you maybe want a ride? I have my car. If you want."
He looks at you. Still shrinking yourself. Still avoiding direct eye contact. And you're offering him a ride he didn't ask for. You're offering favours for him—a stranger you don't know. He files that fact away, too.
"Yeah." He stands, slinging his bag over one shoulder. "A ride would be great, actually."
You smile like he's the one doing you a favour, and he smiles back. Not for the same reason. Just because he's feeling really fucking lucky that his project partner is this nice to him.
What a stupid, stupid idea. Really, what on earth were you thinking? Having him, of all people, in your car? In your passenger seat?
Park Sunghoon. You'd read the name about a hundred times in email threads and shared documents. Now that same man is here, in your car, looking out the window with his jawline catching the late afternoon light like it's trying to blind you. Your blood pressure is rising by the second, trying to keep your focus on the road, while your heart threatens to beat out of your chest.
Admittedly, you were annoyed at first. You'd spend an hour in the library, checking your phone, re-reading the room booking confirmation, composing and deleting increasingly pathetic messages. Hey, just checking in! No rush!
You even practiced in your head the polite-but-firm speech you'd planned to deliver. It's a new thing you've been trying to do where you don't let people walk all over you—where you set boundaries and explain that your time is valuable.
Then he'd walked in.
To call him hot would be an understatement. That man right there is not simply hot. Hot is a word for attractive people who still seem human. Sunghoon, on the other hand, looks like someone photoshopped a male model into your web programming course as a prank.
His hair is dark and slightly messy, like he just rolled out of bed and somehow falls perfectly into place. His jawline, so sharp it could kill you, and when he flashed that dimpled smile at you—that lazy, unbothered, gorgeous smile—your brain had performed a full system shutdown.
You don't offer people rides. You don't even like having your friends in your car. You get stressed by the thought of someone else in your space, watching you drive, listening to your playlist. And now he's in the passenger seat of your car, looking so gorgeous that you're wondering if he's even real, and you're freaking the fuck out.
His knee bounces idly as he stares out the window, and your eyes snag on the movement—the way his hand, large and sprawled out, rests loose on his knee. You snap your gaze back to the road.
Deep breaths, you tell yourself, sparing him another glance from the corner of your eye. Stop thinking about weird stuff. Stop being weird. Just make conversation or something.
"So," you manage, and the fact that you manage to say it while sounding almost normal is a small victory. "You said you were busy? With, like, a summer internship or something?"
"Nah." He's still looking out the window, nodding his head slowly to the music. You don't even know what song you have playing. The sound of your own thoughts is too loud for you to notice, but a warmth floods your cheeks at the mere idea that he's enjoying your music. "E-sports. I'm on the school team. We've got regionals coming up."
You blink.
E-sports. You suppose it makes sense. He is in computer science, like you. Most guys in your program are into the whole video gaming thing. It's just hard to imagine him as one of them.
You try to picture it in your head: The E-sports team. A group of socially awkward loners who sit in darkened rooms with headsets, shouting at each other. And then there’s Sunghoon who, beneath the old hoodie and messy hair, looks like he's one photoshoot away from a skincare campaign.
"That's—" You search for the right word. "Cool. I didn't realize the school had an E-sports team."
"Most people don't." He shrugs, glancing over at you. "It's not exactly a spectator sport. But we're good. Made regionals last season. Coach says if we podium this year, we might actually get real funding."
He says it less with arrogance, and more in that matter-of-fact tone he seems to always have. There's something about the way he doesn't perform humility or pride, how he states his truth and moves on. It seems easy. You admire that. You also find it deeply unfair that his voice is making you feel all sorts of things while he's just... talking.
"What game?" you ask.
"Valorant. The shooter. With the agents and the abilities?" He glances at you. "You've heard of it?"
"Oh! My younger cousin plays." You think back, laughing a little at the recollection of the time he made you download it to your laptop. "I'm terrible at it. Like, genuinely embarrassingly bad. I panic and shoot at the floor."
He laughs. It's a real laugh, short and surprised, and a heat creeps to your cheeks. "Everyone's bad at first. It's all just practice."
"Right. Practice." You're smiling now, "I'll add it to my schedule. Between the project and avoiding my parents' calls."
"Your parents?"
"Strict. They mean well, but..." You shake your head, letting your words trail off.
You feel the weight of his stare, a soft hum leaving his lips. The intersection ahead goes yellow. You slow to a stop, grateful for the excuse to look away from him.
"So." You pivot, "E-sports. You must be practicing a lot then, right?"
"It's a lot of pressure," he says, and his voice has shifted slightly. Less casual. His brows scrunch together, and he's looking out the window again, passing streetlights catching the angles of his sharp, beautiful profile. "Coach says if we don't podium, our funding might get cut. Again. So I've been practicing nonstop. Scrims every night. VOD reviews."
Scrims. VOD reviews. Words that do not exist in your vocabulary, but you nod your head along like you understand. You think you get the idea, anyway.
"And then there's this course." He gestures vaguely at you, at the car, at everything. "This bullshit that I have to retake it."
"You failed web programming?"
"I was carrying the team through the playoffs. Sacrificed my homework for practice." He rubs the back of his neck, and your eyes track the shift of his shoulder, the way his fingers press into the muscle there, the brief glimpse of his collarbone where his hoodie shifts. You look away before he catches you staring. "Didn't think I'd end up failing, but. Here we are."
You think about his half-finished frontend. The skeleton components. The CSS file, full of god knows what. He'd shown it to you with the sheepish shrug of someone who knew exactly how bad it was and hated it. He hadn't tried to convince you it was better than it looked.
"But it's okay. It's worth it to make it to regionals." He's smiling to himself, "I'll fucking destroy those losers. They won't know what hit them."
You laugh, but he doesn't. You realize it's not a joke very quickly, and so you clear your throat instead.
"And I'll get my work done, of course," he tips his head towards you, his posture shifting. "Can't guarantee my portion will be as good as yours. But you can blame it on me in the group review doc."
"I'm sure you'll do great," you hear yourself say. "Not just the project. The tournament, too."
He turns to look at you. The late afternoon light catches the side of his face, and you have to force your eyes back to the road.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." You clear your throat. "I mean, I don't know anything about E-sports. But you're the captain, right?"
"Yeah."
"So you must be good. Like, actually good."
He doesn't answer right away. When you glance over, he's not looking at the road—he's looking at you, head tilted slightly, like he's trying to figure you out.
"I am. I'm the best player on the team." He says it with that matter-of-fact tone again.
You pull up to his place. It's a student housing unit—one of those rundown ones that nobody cares about enough to fix up. Someone inside is yelling, the way guys yell when they're playing video games. You shift into park.
"Thanks," he says, unbuckling his seatbelt. "For the ride. And for... You know. Not being pissed about the code. Or the being late thing."
"It's fine," you smile. "Really. Don't worry about it."
He pauses with his hand on the door. Looks at you. There's something in his expression you can't read, the hint of a smile that you think might be lazy amusement, though you're not sure what he's amused by.
He stops. Shakes his head slightly. "See you soon?"
"Yeah! I'll send the invite. And the notes."
He smiles. That damn smile. And then he's gone, walking up the path to his door, and you're sitting in your parked car with your heart doing something stupid in your chest.
You watch him disappear inside.
You're warm all over, and there's no good reason for it either. All he did was sit there and talk to you like a normal person, and yet you're here, feeling a deeply humiliating sort of heat forming in your lower stomach the more you think about it.
Through the front window, you can see movement—someone on a couch, the blue glow of a TV. His roommates, probably. You wonder if he'll tell them about you. You wonder if they even know you exist.
Then you realize you're still parked outside his apartment, staring at his front door like a creep, and you pull away from the curb.
You have to drive all the way back to campus. It's a route you know by heart, familiar enough that your brain has permission to drift. And drift it does—back to the study room, the way he'd leaned back in his chair, the way his knee had pressed against yours. You'd frozen. Completely, mortifyingly frozen. You'd forgotten your own sentence and stammered through the recovery.
And then he'd smiled at you in the car. And now you're smiling.
You're smiling at a red light with no one else in the car, like an idiot, and you can't stop.
It's late, past two in the morning, and the place has gone quiet—Heeseung retreated to his room hours ago, Jake's been dead to the world the moment he got home from his summer job, and Jay's probably doomscrolling, given the amount of Instagram reels he keeps sending to the roommates group chat. The only light is the fridge, a dull white glow illuminating Sunghoon’s tired gaze.
Sunghoon stands in front of it, scanning the contents inside, none of it looking particularly enticing, but he just lost a ranked game, and he needs to eat his feelings.
Leftover takeout. Someone's half-eaten burrito. A case of energy drinks. He grabs a container that looks decent enough—day-old noodles, probably Jay’s because nobody else in the house bothers to cook. Deciding that dealing with the aftermath of stealing his food is a problem for tomorrow, he shoves it in the microwave.
"Sup."
The floorboards creak behind him, and Sunghoon turns around to glare. Heeseung. Of course.
The microwave beeps, and Sunghoon grabs the container, shoving his chopsticks around. It’s still cold in the center.
"Why do you always choose to enter the kitchen when I'm here?"
"Because we run on the same sleepless schedule," Heeseung moves to the sink, waterbottle held under the faucet and turns on the tap. His hair is a disaster, his shirt inside-out, and he watches Sunghoon eat Jay’s leftover noodles straight from the container, too lazy to comment on it. "And 'cause I wanna hear about your little library date. Was she cute?"
"Not a date."
"She drove you home. So it clearly went well." He turns off the tap and fastens the cap back on the plastic bottle. "Were you nice to her?"
"I was nice."
"You better have been. Most women would've called you a loser for being a grown ass man with no driver's license."
"Whatever."
"No, not whatever. I can't believe you." Heeseung points the water bottle at him, frowning, "I can't believe what I'm hearing. She waited an hour for you. Then she gave you a ride home.”
"I know. Real nice of her, right?"
"Too nice of her." Heeseung stares at him, watching him shove noodles into his mouth. "Jay's right. We really should do a scan of your brain. Admit you to a psych ward or some shit."
He doesn't want to talk about it. He doesn't want to think about it. But his brain, unhelpfully, is already thinking about it.
The project. He should really start working on the project. That's the thought he keeps trying to hold onto. Not because he actually wants to do it, but because of you.
You'd been kind. Genuinely kind. You'd asked about regionals like you gave a single shit. You'd nodded along while he talked about Valorant, even though you don't understand any of it.
Then there was his code—his shitty ass code that he knew was trash, that you knew was trash, too. There was no lecture. No guilt trip. Not even a hint of disdain. You just showed him how to fix it. Carefully explained it, even sent him an email after with an organized bullet-point list of all the steps he needed to implement.
An angel. That's what you are. Or a doormat. It’s the same thing, in his mind.
A worse person would take advantage of that, wouldn't they?
His phone buzzes on the counter: One new email. An attachment. Then a second notification—a voice memo.
Heeseung's eyes immediately drop to the screen.
"Is that her?"
"Can you not—?"
Heeseung snatches the phone. Again. Sunghoon is too tired to fight him.
"She sent you another voice memo. At 2am." Heeseung's thumb hovers over the play button. "You know what girls send voice memos at 2am for, right?"
He's grinning as he presses play, and Sunghoon digs his chopsticks further into his noodles, ignoring his crude commentary.
"Hi, Sunghoon. Um. Okay, so I was thinking about earlier—about the whole esports thing, and how stressed you seemed about the tournament? And I just... I had some extra time, so I finished up the code. It wasn’t a big deal, really. Only took a few hours.” There’s a nervous laugh, then a pause like you’d forgotten your next words, “Hopefully, this helps? So you can focus on practice and not have to worry about the project on top of everything else… yeah. Just. Let me know if you have questions. I'm always happy to help. Okay. This is getting long. Sorry. Bye, Sunghoon.”
Heeseung sets the phone down on the counter, the movement slow and careful, like he’d just handled a sacred artifact.
"Dude."
"I know."
"This is insane."
"I know."
"You've got a girl doing all your work for you. At two in the morning. Because you mentioned you were stressed about a Valorant tournament. Said she’s always happy to help."
"I said I know. She's nice. Now leave me alone."
"No, I don't think you understand. Do you even realize what this is?" Heeseung is pacing now, the kitchen too small for his indignation. "This is the literal definition of pretty privilege. You literally just sit there, and she’s doing things for you—Holy shit, it's like when Jake was doing some hot chick's homework for an entire semester 'cause he was begging for a crumb of pussy—"
"Jake was manipulated." Sunghoon sets his leftovers down. "I'm not manipulating anyone. I didn't even—I never asked for this."
"Yeah." Heeseung stops pacing and looks at him. "But you could've. That's the fucked up part. You could ask her to come over right now and do your dirty laundry, and she'd say yes. She'd probably bring her own detergent."
Sunghoon wants to retort that, but... You would, wouldn't you? He drags two hands down his face, sighing as his roommate's mouth continues to run.
"Life's so unfair." Heeseung throws his hands up. "I send a girl one message. One. And she leaves me on read for three days. You ignore a girl for a week, and she's doing your homework, giving you rides home, and sending you audio porn. What is wrong with the world?"
Sunghoon's looking at his phone.
He should type something. Thanks, maybe. Or sorry—sorry you’re doing his work at 2am, sorry he didn't do it himself, sorry he's probably going to keep disappointing you. His thumb hovers over the keyboard.
thanks. you didn't have to do that.
Deletes it.
seriously thank you. i owe you.
Deletes it.
He pockets his phone and walks past Heeseung, leaving the leftovers container behind.
"Where are you going?"
"Bed."
"You're not going to respond? You're just going to leave her on read?" He half-calls out, "You're really gonna act like you're not interested at all?"
He shuts his door. Sits on the edge of his bed, the room dark except for the blue glow of his monitor in sleep mode and with a heavy sigh, he opens the voice recorder. A hand runs through his hair, and he clears his throat, feeling like an idiot. Then he presses record.
"Hey. Got your email. Thanks. You seriously didn't have to do that." A pause. He doesn't know how to end these things. Your voice memos always ended with ‘bye Sunghoon,’ all soft and hesitant-sounding, but he thinks something like that would just sound awkward in his own voice. He then realizes he’s still recording and stammers, "I'll—yeah. I'll make it up to you. Goodnight."
He hits send before he can delete it and stares at it for longer than he should.
Girls like that shit, right? The whole voice memo thing. He's not sure. He just felt like you deserve a little more than a thank-you text for doing his work for him.
He tosses his phone onto his nightstand and lies back on his bed, long limbs stretched out from a long day of doing mostly nothing (apart from moving that damn coffee table).
His brain, unhelpfully, drifts back to the library. The way you'd frozen when his knee touched yours. The way you'd stammered through the rest of your sentence and then offered him a ride anyway. The way you'd looked at him in the car, wide-eyed and nervous. It's been a while since he'd seen anyone look at him like that.
Not that he's inexperienced with women—unlike what his roommates' constant teasing would imply. It's a lack of interest, something he had discovered about himself in high school with his first whopping three-month-long relationship. He'd gotten bored of her in the first month, and when she asked him to choose “me, or your stupid game,” it really wasn’t a difficult choice to make.
Then there was the odd fling here and there in his first year of college. Again, never lasted long. He didn't have the time or energy to commit. In his defence, he was upfront about his intentions. It's not his fault they never listened.
He stopped bothering after that. Girls are drama. They get clingy and weird. They pout and whine over not getting enough attention, trying to drag him away from his game. That shit is annoying. And he doesn't put up with annoying shit.
A part of him wonders if you'd be the same. You're cute, but insecure. The type to get attached too quickly, he'd assume. But you also listened when he talked about his game. You did his code so he could practice more and asked for nothing in return. That's maybe the most supportive any woman has ever been of his future E-sports career.
You could probably ask her to come over right now and do your dirty laundry, and she'd say yes.
He scoffs at Heeseung's voice in his head. Then, a much crueller thought enters his mind:
I could probably get her to do the whole project, too.
It's sharp and invasive—so much so that he's rolling over with a groan, burying his face into the pillows.
Sunghoon's a lot of things. A shitty project partner being somewhere near the top of that list, but he is not a freeloading whore.
He'll be grateful and move on. He'll do his work, he'll win regionals, and when the semester is done, he'll never see your face again.
Sunghoon did not, in fact, do his work.
He tried to—if opening up an empty file and staring at it for five minutes before queuing another ranked Valorant game counts as trying.
Bless your heart, you even sent him reminders. Texts of encouragement with little smiley faces, offers to help, to which he replied with empty promises. Don't worry, I'm working on it tomorrow. I've got it. All good.
All of that, until he woke up the next week with a calendar notification:
deliverable 2 meeting today
It's a weekday, which means Jay took his car to work. Which means he has to take the bus to the library. Which means he won't have time to string something together at the last minute for when he's supposed to meet you.
Sunghoon: can we meet at my place?
Sunghoon: got no ride today
You: sure :)
He grins at the text. Perfect. That's perfect. All he has to do is sit down, write some bullshit, and hope that you offer to fix it—which he's sure you will. You're nice like that. You're understanding.
But then he's at his computer, and he's looking at the Valorant icon in the corner of his home screen. And then he's queuing another game. Then another. And another... and—
The doorbell rings.
Hours. He'd just spent hours playing instead of doing his work like a fucking idiot. And now he's in the middle of a ranked game, clutching up another round.
"Heeseung!" He yells, "Get the door!"
No response. Of course, there's no response.
Luckily, the last remaining enemy peeks, and he finishes the round with another win. With that, he's sprinting to the door. Swings it wide open. A wave of muggy outdoor air hits him, the summer sun beaming down, and you're there smiling slightly, hands gripping the strap of your bag. He doesn't have time to process you.
"Come in," he gestures, sprinting back towards his room. He calls out over his shoulder, "Sorry, I'm in a game. Ranked. Can't leave. Make yourself at home."
He's sliding back into his seat, and your footsteps follow tentatively behind him.
“Ranked?”
“Like, if I leave, I’ll be penalized and lose ranked points.”
“Ah.”
You stand behind him, a polite distance away, still gripping your bag. You shift your weight where you stand, squinting at the screen.
"I'll be done soon, don't worry. These guys are easy."
"Okay..." You sound a little confused, leaning over his shoulder, watching him move through the map.
Somehow, the feeling of your eyes on him as he plays feels like a power boost. And something in him feels the urge to show off just a little bit. You watch him easily take out two enemies with precision, and he smiles, cockily.
"Told you. Easy."
A voice perks up in the lobby chat. The enemy team. "Reported for aimbotting. This is fucking bullshit."
Sunghoon presses the button on his mic to talk, "Nah. I'm just better."
The voice on the other end proceeds to start cussing him out, mouth close enough to the mic that it cuts out every few words, calling him every slur and cuss word under the sun and from the corner of his eye, he sees your face drop in horror. He mutes himself for a second.
"It's just trash talk. Don't worry. Happens all the time."
"All the time?"
“Gaming culture. It’s not for the weak.”
He gets another headshot, and another voice joins in, "Yo, asshole, how does it feel being a basement-dwelling, virgin?"
"Wouldn't know.” Sunghoon quickly unmutes again, firing back, “Why don't you tell me about it?"
A third voice, "Don't bother with him. This guy probably jerks off to his own highlight clips. I guarantee he's never felt the touch of a woman."
Sunghoon's about to respond, but then you're leaning forward in one confident stride.
"Oh? You guarantee that?"
The mic picks up your voice loud and clear, and the lobby explodes. Both the enemy team and his own.
"NO WAY."
“WHO IS THAT?"
"Bro has a whole woman in his room, and he's playing Valorant right now."
"She sounds hot as fuck."
"Dude, I'll forfeit if you get her to moan in the mic."
"Can we get a whimper if we win the next round?" His teammate says.
“Fuck off,” He says immediately, glancing over at you. You’re shifting your weight, your arms around yourself, looking incredibly embarrassed, but you’re grinning proudly. He grins right back, unable to resist the urge to rub this moment in on every other loser in the lobby. “She’s a little busy under the desk right now.”
Your eyes go wide at the implication, and the voice chat explodes.
“WHAT THE FUCK DOES HE MEAN BY—”
The whole lobby talks over each other, and when he gets his final shot, VICTORY printed across his screen, he leans back in his chair.
"Anyway, she’s waiting for me," He glances over at you, his voice terribly smug, and you visibly embarrassed. "Later incels."
The post-game stats load, and finally, there is silence in his headset. He lets it fall to his neck, still grinning.
"Sorry." You start, "I didn't mean to—"
"Sorry?" He raises a brow, "Sorry for what? That was badass. You just destroyed them. Now those guys have to cope with losing and being bitchless. They're gonna be crying over it for the next year, at least."
"Well... good. They deserve it." You say a little proudly, watching him report the guy who called him slurs for bullying. "I don't understand. How can people get so mad over a game?"
"Sore losers," he says simply, "they're mad because they're bad."
"Or they're mad because you're really good," you offer a smile, "I didn't see you miss a single shot. How is that possible?"
He opens his mouth to answer, but the words don't come. Instead, he’s blinking, really taking you in for a moment, because if his eyes don’t deceive him, you actually seem… impressed. Genuine admiration. The kind he only gets from his teammates and other losers in game.
"Practice," he starts, letting his gaze drop, taking you in. The skirt that rides up your thighs, your hands clasped in your lap, and those wide, attentive eyes of yours. "Years of aim training. Game sense. Good instincts."
Something stirs in him, and suddenly he’s thinking about how good you’d look underneath him, making that same wide-eyed expression for an entirely different reason. How nervous that little voice of yours would sound making other kinds of noises for him, what you’d actually look like if you were under his desk on your knees.
You'd give in so easy.
“Anyone can learn it.” He finally says, the intensity of his gaze half-wiped, replaced with something more polite. “It just takes dedication."
"I'm a lost cause with this stuff. Trust me," you laugh, "Anyway. We should probably get to the project."
Ah. The project.
The thing he has nothing to show for on his end because he didn't do anything.
“There's a lot more ground we have to cover this time. There are a lot more features that need to be implemented this time and..."
You ramble on as you seat yourself at the edge of his bed, opening up your bag, and Sunghoon gulps.
He could rip off the band-aid and admit it right now. "Sorry, I'm an idiot, and I played ranked instead of doing my work, but I'll get it done in the next week, I swear."
But you already did his work last week. Already spent a whole week sending him reminders and sending sweet little voice notes—all of which he'd responded to with empty promises. He swears he never meant for those promises to become empty. He planned on doing his work. He just... didn't.
Instinctively, he stands, and mid-sentence, he's placing his headset on your head, adjusting it. You freeze up like last time, and look up at him with the most helpless gaze, all train of thought just gone. His train of thought is rather lost, too, if he's being honest.
"Better idea," he says, "What if I teach you how to play?"
"But—"
"You defended my honour in a Valorant lobby. That kind of bravery deserves a reward.” He pulls out his chair for you, "Sit."
You hesitate. He can see the war happening behind your eyes—the good, responsible side of you trying to fight the flustered one that wishes to give in.
"Just one game. For me?" He reaches out and nudges your shoulder. He lets the touch linger a second longer than it needs to, and he watches your breath hitch.
"Just one.”
The gaming chair swallows your frame, and he pushes it in, hovering just a little too close as he leans over you. He puts you in practice mode to start.
"Alright. Basics first. This is how you move." He guides your hand to the keyboard, his fingers deliberately brushing yours. "WASD. Forward, left, back, right. You know that already?"
You nod weakly, moving around, not quite with ease, but at least you know how to do it. He laughs a little at the jerky movements, and your flustered demeanour from him being this close. He's enjoying this.
"Good. Now shooting." His hand covers yours on the mouse. "Left click. Aim for the head."
The bot appears. You click. Miss entirely. Click again. Hit the shoulder.
"See? You're already better than half my ranked teammates."
"Don't make fun of me."
"I'm not, I swear."
He lets you get comfortable with the practice range. You're clumsy but getting the hang of it, your movements less awkward, your aim less panicked. By the time he queues you into a real match—comms and text chat both disabled, he's not having a repeat of earlier—you're at least facing the right direction.
He drags a chair from the kitchen and sits next to you.
"Real game now. Real players. They're going to be better than the bots."
The first few rounds are rough. You die early in the first. Then the second. By the fourth round, you've done exactly zero damage, and the enemy team is up 3-1. Your teammates are probably flaming you. He's glad he muted them before the round started.
"See? I told you I'm terrible."
"No talking. Just play."
Round five. Your teammates are dropping around you. It's a disaster—your teammates rushed in too soon, leaving you behind. And then it's just you. One versus two.
"Stay behind the corner," Sunghoon says, his voice low near your ear. "Wait for them to come to you."
"But our team is supposed to be attacking, right?"
"Yeah, but these players are stupid. They're playing too aggressively. They'll come to you."
His hand lands on your shoulder, and your hands are trembling slightly on the keyboard.
"Keep your crosshair at head level. Right there."
He adjusts your mouse, and you nod. In your ears, you hear footsteps. Then, the enemy peeks. You click. The headshot sound is unmistakable—a clean, crisp dink that echoes through the headphones. One enemy down. Pings explode from your dead teammates.
"Holy shit!" Sunghoon leans forward, grinning. "Look at that! You got a headshot!"
"I—I did?"
"You did. One tap. Clean as hell," he's beaming, "Now, don't lose focus yet. One more to go."
You're staring at the screen like you can't quite believe it. Your hands are still trembling, but you're smiling now—a real smile, wide and bright and unguarded.
Though you don’t have time to celebrate, because a body shot hits from behind you, not enough to kill you, but enough that you scream. You move behind the wall, frantically moving the mouse around.
"Don't panic. They're coming to you. Just wait—"
The enemy appears, and you click, your bullets spraying clumsily, and by some miracle, you outlive them with barely any health left—but you won. You won the 1v2.
"That's my girl!" He's grinning wide, "You're a natural, you see that?"
You play terribly the rest of the game, but your team locks in, their hope reignited by your clutch up, and carries you to a win. VICTORY. It appears in big letters across your screen.
You take off the headset, your smile unwavering, your cheeks warm. "That was... actually kind of fun."
"See? Told you."
"I still mostly did nothing."
"You won. Stop being humble." He nudges your shoulder, allowing the touch to linger. "Most people don't win their first game. Bet I can help you win your second, too."
"Sunghoon." You laugh, gently moving his arm away as he tries to queue another game. "We have to do the project."
"We can do that another time."
"We can do this another time. We need to work."
"Do we really need to?"
"Yes."
He pauses a moment. A beat of silence passes, and your gaze lingers on him.
"Sunghoon," you say again, gently, carefully. Like you already understand where this is going, "If your work is a little messy like last time, I don't mind. I just want to make sure we're on the same page."
"I just..."
He looks at you. Still in his chair, still wearing his headset around your neck now, and the way you're looking at him—half-flustered, half-stubborn, trying so hard to be responsible and even going so far as to push back—makes him realize he'll have to try harder than he thought to distract you.
"I just think with you, it's always: Project this. Project that. You work so hard. You know it's okay to relax sometimes, right?"
"I—"
"You know what your problem is? You worry too much. Whenever I see you, you're always worrying. What's up with that?"
He leans back in his chair, arms folded over his chest. Your eyes follow them, how his biceps strain in his shirt, and his knee bumps yours. He stays watchful, analyzing the way your breathing picks up. The way your eyes go wide again.
"I don't know... I've always been..." you manage, shaking your head, "My parents were strict growing up, so..."
"I don't see your parents anywhere."
"Right. I know it's silly, but sometimes it's like I still hear them in my head," you laugh nervously, avoiding his gaze, "it was always study, study, study. No fun, no friends, no boys—"
"No boys?"
All of a sudden, it clicks for him. The shyness. The stuttering. The way you'd frozen in the library when his knee touched yours—not just flustered, but genuinely short-circuited, like your brain had no protocol for what to do. The way you'd offered him a ride, even though you could barely look at him. The way you'd defended him in voice chat, fierce and uncalculated, with no idea of the attention it would bring.
It all makes sense now. Every single thing.
You're not just anxious or sheltered. You're completely, profoundly inexperienced. He's likely the first guy who's ever been this close to you—and you’re here, in his room, wearing his headset. Every reaction you've had, every flush and stammer and nervous laugh, it's all because you've never done this before.
He smiles, enjoying the thought more than he should. A lot more.
"No boys," he repeats, and his voice comes out slow and deliberate. "What does that mean, exactly?"
"It means no boys. Like." You're flustered already, and he hasn't even moved. "No dating. My parents were really strict about it, and I just—I never really—"
"Never really what?"
He knows exactly what you're trying to say. He just wants to hear you try to say it.
"Never really... dated?" he offers, tilting his head. "Never really had a boyfriend?"
You shake your head, barely a movement.
"Never really..." He lets the pause stretch. Watches you squirm. "...anything?"
You can't manage another word, so you don't speak. You don't have to. The silence speaks for itself.
"You've never done anything?"
The question hangs in the air. He watches you process it—the implication, and how you can’t hide from it.
"Never even been kissed?"
"No." There it is. The confession, small and brave. "It's embarrassing. I know. I never really—"
"It's cute, actually."
You look at him, wordless. Maybe he should feel bad. He should feel guilty for prying this out of you, for enjoying how uncomfortable you are and filing all of this away as useful information. Some distant, rational part of his brain knows that. Instead, he's thinking about how nobody has ever touched you. How he’s the first one now to have been close enough to see you all flustered and vulnerable and completely unguarded.
His hand finds your knee. It's innocent enough, not drifting any higher than above it, his thumb moving in slow circles, and he watches in real time as your mind goes completely blank.
He's going to kiss you. Honestly, he knew he was going to kiss you the moment he understood what "no boys" meant, and while part of him is still trying to distract you from the project by getting you all hot and bothered like this, another part of him wants to do it just because he can. Just because you're there, in his chair, looking at him like that, reacting to his touch like this. That kind of power is a drug. It only makes him want to see just how far he can push you.
"Sunghoon," Your voice comes out thin, breathless. Your hand flutters up, not pushing him away, just hovering, like you're not sure what to do with it. "The project. We really need to—"
"The project." He says it flat, like the word itself is a chore. "The project will be fine. It'll get done. Right?"
He tilts his head, lets the implication hang there: You did the last one. You'll do this one, too.
Your mouth opens, but whatever argument you'd prepared dissolves the second his hand moves. It slides up from your knee to the edge of your skirt, his fingers tracing the hem where it brushes your thigh, and you go absolutely still beneath his touch.
"You look cute today, by the way." His voice is low, and his eyes look you up and down. "I like this."
He toys with the hem of the fabric, his knuckle grazing bare skin. Your thighs press together involuntarily, and he catches it. The movement. The sharp little inhale. The way your hands grip the armrests, fingers curling into them.
A sound escapes your throat, something small and embarrassing. A whimper you clearly didn't mean to make. His eyes flick up to your face. Your lips are parted, and you're looking at him like you've forgotten how words work.
"That's it," he murmurs, "You'll be good for me, right?"
Your eyes drop to his lips. You nod. It's a tiny, helpless movement, and the last of your resistance crumbles.
His free hand comes up to cup your chin, tilting your face toward his. He's close enough now to feel your breath, shallow and uneven. Close enough to know that no one has ever touched you like this before, and you're terrified, but you're not pulling away.
He leans in, slowly inching forward, closer and closer and—
"Sunghoon!" The door bursts open, "Have you seen my charger? I think..."
Heeseung's voice trails off as he takes in the sight. You. Sunghoon. The proximity between you. His hand on your thigh. Valorant open on his PC.
"Well, well, well..." he grins, leaning against the doorframe, "do my eyes deceive me, or is that a girl? In your bedroom? Sitting on your throne?"
"Leave."
"And you're making the poor thing play your stupid game. That's no way to treat a lady," he gestures around, then looks to you, "You. Don't tell me you're pretending to be impressed by his KDA ratio?"
You shrink under his gaze, looking like you wished to flee any second.
"Listen, I get it.” He raises his hands in surrender, “He's a good-looking guy. But his personality?" He shakes his head, "He’s a walking red flag. And not in the hot bad boy way. In like, a discord-moderating, redditor way."
"Seriously, get out."
Sunghoon is on his feet now, jaw tight. But you're already up, already grabbing your bag, already not looking at anyone.
"Actually, I should go."
"You don't have to—"
"I'll see you soon." The words tumble out.
You duck past Heeseung, out of the bedroom, into the hall. Your footsteps go fast—past the living room where the coffee table sits in all its carved, solid-oak glory.
Heeseung follows you as far as the hallway, leaning against the wall with the lazy confidence of someone who knows he ruined something, but has no idea what.
"Wait!" he calls after you. "Before you leave, what do you think of the coffee table? Real craftsmanship, right?"
The front door slams. Hard enough to rattle the empty energy drink cans still scattered on Sunghoon's desk.
Heeseung turns back to the bedroom doorway, where Sunghoon is standing rigid, hands at his sides.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Sunghoon spits.
"Me? What's wrong with you?" He strides on into his room, taking his lost phone charger from the port near his bedside. The one he took yesterday without asking, "You steal my shit, you get cockblocked. Sorry."
"You know that was my project partner, right?"
"I know who it was." Heeseung wraps the cord around his hand, watching Sunghoon with an expression that's sharper than before. "The one with the voice. The one who did your work at two in the morning. I guess now she comes over to stroke your ego too, huh?"
"I was this close to—"
"This close to what?" Heeseung quips, raising a brow. "Finish the sentence."
"This close to... to taking her mind off of worrying. She's a chronic worrier. It's annoying. It's..." his voice trails off.
Silence. Sunghoon notices the look in his roommate’s eyes: disapproving, doubtful.
"You know what I think?" Heeseung says slowly, "I think you're getting a little too comfortable with the amount of kindness she gives you."
"I don't know what you mean."
“The walls are thin, and I’m nosy. I know what I heard,” he scoffs, heading toward the door. "You’re pushing your luck. And trying to tongue your project partner so she can do your work for you is a new low. Even for you."
Sunghoon then gapes at the offensive, downright defamatory implications his roommate is making towards him.
"I didn't—" Heeseung leaves before he can defend himself. And Sunghoon stumbles to the hallway, calling out after him. "I didn't do anything wrong!"
Sunghoon slams the door shut on him, taking a second to breathe. There's a ping on his phone. A new voice note. He clicks it immediately, your voice rushed, the sound of your car running in the background.
"Hey Sunghoon. Sorry for leaving like that. I got kinda nervous when your roommate walked in. But I had a really good time with the game! And with you. And... oh, and about deliverable 2." You pause, then a sigh escapes you—heavy, but hesitant. "I've thought about it, and I know your tournament is coming up really soon, so I don't mind taking it off your hands. Anyway, goodbye for now, Sunghoon."
Sunghoon sinks into his gaming chair. Relief morphs into glee, a short laugh escaping him. He can’t believe it. He can’t believe you.
Whatever guilt Heeseung was trying to make him feel fades instantly—easily. Too easily.
He queues another game.
The basement is quiet. Still. Peaceful. Just Sunghoon, the ironing board, and his team jersey, steam hissing in the silence.
His gamer tag stares up at him from the back of the jersey, crisp and clean. Tomorrow he'll be wearing it on stage. Tomorrow it's game time. Tomorrow, he's locked the fuck in, with his team at his side and everyone there to watch him take that victory.
He's in the zone. Has been all night. Showered, prepped, head clear. No distractions. No thoughts about the final project deliverable due next week that he definitely hasn't started, or thoughts about Heeseung's accusations, or thoughts about you, and your wide eyes, and the way you looked at his lips right before—Nope. He’s not thinking about it.
The basement door groans open, followed by footsteps. Sunghoon doesn't bother turning around. He knows it’s Jay, judging by the heaviness of the tread, and because he’s the only one of them who regularly uses the washer instead of letting clothes pile up until they smell.
"Game's tomorrow?"
"Yep." Steam hisses. Sunghoon runs the iron along a sleeve. "You're still driving me, right?"
There’s a pause. Too long a pause. Sunghoon turns. Jay's standing by the washer, suddenly fascinated by the lint trap.
"Jay."
"Huh?"
"The tournament," Sunghoon says it slower this time, the iron forgotten in his hand. "The thing I gave you the date for a month ago. The thing you swore you'd drive me to. Ringing any bells?"
"Right, right." Jay shuts the washer door. Doesn't meet his eyes. "Well."
"Jay."
"Thing is," Jay scrubs the back of his neck, "my grandma's moving. Already told my mom I'd help tomorrow morning."
“Dude.” Sunghoon blinks, gaping at him, "You promised me first."
"Sorry, man. Grandma over you."
"I gave you a month's notice."
"And my grandma gave me twenty-two years of birthday money." Jay shrugs, already turning toward the stairs. "Can't put a price on that."
Sunghoon sets the iron down with a little more force than necessary. "You could've said something before tonight."
"It's not the end of the world. Just take the bus."
"It's an hour drive. Longer by bus. On a Sunday. That's—"
"Tough luck."
"Jay." Sunghoon's voice sharpens. "This is the biggest day of my—"
But Jay's already halfway up, and the basement door clicks shut behind him. The washing machine hums into the silence. Sunghoon stares at the empty staircase.
The bus is not an option. Absolutely not. He didn't grind all season to show up to regionals late, all sweaty from sprinting across a transit terminal because the Sunday schedule runs once every forty-five minutes if he's lucky.
And his teammates? He could squeeze into someone's car, knee to chest, listening to them argue about team comps and whose mom packed snacks. He'd rather walk.
But… there is another option.
Someone who's given him a ride before. Someone who is always happy to help. Someone who did his code, who defended him in a Valorant voice chat, who can't resist him, no matter how many times he's proven himself incompetent.
He pulls out his phone.
It seems like a shitty thing to do. He knows that. But, it's mutually beneficial, isn't it? He gets a favour, you get to see him. It's a win-win, really.
Besides, it's not like he's only calling for the ride. He genuinely does like the idea of you there, front row, cheering his name. Watching him destroy the enemy team live instead of from his bedroom. You'd get all confused, trying to follow the game, and then he'd win, and you'd be proud even though you don't really understand what you're proud of and—hell, maybe he'd finally get to give you that kiss. Maybe more.
It's been on his mind too much lately. Your eager, parted lips, your thigh tense beneath his touch, the way you leaned into it like a good little plaything. Always so desperate to please—you'd make him feel like a real champion, wouldn't you? All nervous and untouched and entirely his. His prize, his to guide, his to take.
It's a perverse fantasy. It's also not entirely impossible. Though, he shakes his head at himself, not erasing the thought, but putting it back on the shelf.
The ride. That's the priority now. Having a pretty girl at his arm is just a bonus.
You press submit.
Deliverable two, done. Your portion, pristine, commented, tested, and complete. His portion—the portion you told yourself you wouldn't do—also complete. Also entirely yours.
You close the laptop and sit there in the dark of your dorm room.
This is getting out of hand. You know it is. It's been out of hand, actually, ever since the library and the first deliverable that you fixed—the thing you should’ve never done in the first place but did anyway.
He didn't do his work again, and this time he didn't even try to pretend otherwise. He just looked at you with those eyes, said ‘It will be fine,’ and you let the subject drop because his hand was on your thigh, your brain had stopped working, and the only thing on your mind was not wanting to let him down.
But what about him letting you down? It’s happened twice now. Not enough times to call it a pattern of behaviour yet, but enough to imply something about his character and where his priorities lie. He's unreliable. Lazy. Probably manipulative, if your best friend's theories are true. That's not the kind of guy you want. That's not the kind of guy anyone should want. You should be furious, actually. You should send him a firm email. You should stand your ground.
He’s hot, though, your brain unhelpfully reminds you. Stupidly, impossibly hot, and he almost kissed you—you think. Sometimes you replay it in your head, and you're certain of it. Other times, you wonder if you imagined the leaning in, the pause, and the way his voice dropped when he said you'll be good for me, right?
You sigh, hand twitching against your thigh. When you close your eyes, it's like you can still feel him touching you there. Every time you think about it, your whole body goes hot, and you think about it a lot—not just about what happened but what could've happened if his roommate hadn't walked in. You can't even keep track of the amount of times you've lied awake, drenched in your own sweat, thighs pressed together, just thinking about his hand slipping further up your skirt and relieving you of the torturous, wound-up feeling that's had you in a chokehold all summer.
Your phone buzzes.
Incoming video call: Sunghoon
You stare at the screen, still recovering from your fantasy. It takes you a minute to actually process that it is, in fact, him calling you and not a figment of your imagination. He's never called you before. Not once. All summer, it's been voice memos and texts and the occasional thumbs-up emoji.
It rings again, and you fumble reaching for it, nearly dropping it on the floor. You pick up, and as soon as you see the FaceTime video loading, you click to turn off your camera.
Your eyes are glued to the screen as you take in the sight of him. He's lying in bed, his hoodie pulled up over his head, shadows cutting across his jaw, and his hair falls over his eyes. You're almost pissed at the fact that someone can look that good so casually.
"Hey." His voice comes through your earbuds low and rough, and it travels down your spine. Your whole body shivers.
"Hi," you manage, small and a little breathless.
"How's my girl doing?"
My girl. That's the second time he's called you that. The first was during the game, when you landed the headshot. You'd assumed it was adrenaline, or a reflex. Something guys said to their duo partners, like "my man" or "my guy". But he's not gaming now. He's in bed. Talking to you.
"I'm good—fine." You swallow. "What about—?"
"Can I see you?"
"See me?" You glance down at yourself. Old t-shirt. Not a trace of makeup. Yeah. That's not happening. "I'm in bed. It's dark. There's nothing to see, so..."
"Hm," he sighs, and you hear the rustling of fabric as he adjusts himself. "Too bad."
"What's up?" You're trying to sound normal, clearing your throat, "Why'd you call?"
"Just wanted to chat."
His free hand finds the drawstring of his hoodie, twisting it idly around one finger. Your eyes follow the movement, staring at the veins, the size of his hand, the length of his fingers and—you drag your eyes back to his face.
"About?"
"You free tomorrow?"
He shifts again, and the camera jostles, this time a light groan escaping him.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow you have—nothing. You have absolutely nothing. And even if you did have something, you'd still say you have nothing because it's him who's asking. Your heart skips a beat, a stupid smile breaking on your face.
"Yes," you say, immediately trying to downplay the eagerness in your voice. "Yeah, I'm free. Why?"
"And you can drive?"
"Sure. Why—?"
"Good." He ignores the question again. "Then I'm taking you out."
Your heart does a full stop. "Where?"
"Surprise.” He smiles. “Just wear something cute, m'kay?"
Wear something cute.
What does that mean exactly? Cute how? Cute like a dress? Or is a dress too much? Maybe a skirt. He said he liked your skirt last week. He toyed with the hem and said I like this and you made a sound you're still embarrassed to remember.
"Sleep well," he then says, breaking the long, silent pause with a slight chuckle, "See ya."
And before you can get another word in, he's gone. The reflection of yourself stares back at you in the darkened screen.
Maybe you should call him back and ask what 'cute' means. What kind of 'cute'? Dinner cute? Coffee cute? Hanging out at his house, cute? But after a long time of staring at his contact, debating how to even ask, you decide it's too late.
You shower, scrubbing every inch of yourself. Exfoliate. Shave—you shave everything—carefully, methodically, in places you don't normally bother with because usually you're thinking "who's going to see?" But if his hand travels further than it did last time, you do not want to be stuck in your own head worrying about it, so you do it just in case. Just to be prepared.
Then you stand in front of your closet for forty minutes trying on everything you own, trying to decide what feels like too much, and what feels like not enough. You don't know.
Eventually, you settle. A skirt you usually avoid because it rides up your thighs too much. A top that's nice without trying too hard. You look at yourself in the mirror. You feel pretty. Normally, you feel clean, or presentable, or fine. But today, you feel pretty.
It's a dangerous feeling. You're getting dressed up for a boy who hasn't done a single assignment all summer. You're shaving your legs for him when technically you're still not sure what "taking you out" implies. But your heart is racing, and your cheeks are warm, and you find yourself smiling at your reflection in the mirror like an idiot, anyway.
So what if you dressed up for him? You're allowed to feel pretty. You're allowed to want him. You're allowed to hope.
You're shaking when you pull up to his place. Not visibly, at least, as you’re gripping the steering wheel hard enough to hide it.
You’ve been talking to yourself under your breath for the last three blocks. Be normal. Be cool. Which would be a lot easier to do if this weren't the first time a boy had asked to "take you out" and you’ve been alone with your own anxious thoughts for so long now that you're starting to dwell on what that might mean again.
Dinner, maybe? The thought simultaneously makes your heart flutter and your stomach churn. You're so nervous, you're not sure you could hold down any food. What if he asks why you're not eating—?
You're getting ahead of yourself. Maybe he's right. You do worry too much. You don't even know where you're going yet, and you're already jumping to conclusions.
Predictably, you're early. Of course you are. You'd left your dorm with an extra twenty minutes because you couldn't stand to pace around your room anymore, and now you're pulling up at the curb feeling like an idiot. But, to your surprise, he's already waiting on the porch.
He spots your car before you even have time to honk, jogging down the steps, and you roll down the window, smiling bright and stupid and probably too eager. Then...
Then your eyes drop to his chest.
The jersey. The school's E-sports team jersey, to be precise. You know what it looks like because you've stalked the team's Instagram page about a hundred times just to stare at the photos of him on there until they were permanently burned into your retinas forever.
"Hey," he says, pulling open the passenger door. "Right on time."
"Hi," you swallow, smiling politely. "What are you wearing?"
"Team gear." He slides into the seat, dropping his bag at his feet. "Regionals are today. Didn't I tell you?"
Your blood runs cold.
No. No, he did not. He said I'm taking you out. He said to wear something cute. He said it was a surprise.
"Regionals," you repeat. "Right. The tournament."
"Yeah. It's at the convention centre. About an hour drive." He's buckling his seatbelt, "Coach said we could bring anyone we want. Figured I should bring my number one supporter, right?"
So it's not a date. Not at all what you were thinking when he called you late at night with his voice all low and asking if you were available—asking if you could drive.
Still, you smile. You smile because even if your heart has sunk into your stomach, you know it's your own fault for thinking this would be anything more than it was.
And, well, this matters to him. This is the thing he's been neglecting the project for. The thing he told you he’d been practicing for, talking about it in the car that first day you met him. He’s choosing to bring you to his thing. That alone must mean something... right?
"That sounds fun," you say, and the words feel like they belong to someone else. "I've never been to an E-sports thing before."
"You'll love it. You'll finally see me play for real. Not just some ranked lobby."
"Yeah." Your smile starts to hurt your cheeks. It strains and fails to reach your eyes. "Can't wait."
The drive is an hour. You spend most of it listening. He talks about the bracket, the teams they're facing, and some enemy team player who's been trash-talking him online. He talks about comps and strats and something called a meta. You nod, you smile. You ask questions. You try to seem engaged.
In a way, you are a little. Not because you care about the game, but because it's hard not to feel warm in the face when you see him like this. He's barely able to sit still in the passenger seat, gesturing with his hands, more animated than you've ever seen him, smirking with the kind of confidence you'd expect a star player to have. This is his thing. This is what he's good at. He invited you.
That has to mean something—you're certain of it now. Even if it's not what you thought. Even if you spent an hour getting ready, shaving everywhere and trying on countless different outfits just to sit in a convention centre folding chair.
You glance down at your skirt and your pretty top. All that effort you put into looking like you hadn't put in effort now feels wasted.
Maybe people dress up nice for these things, you tell yourself. You've never been to an E-sports tournament, so you wouldn't know.
At least, that's what you tell yourself, refusing to believe that he chose those words on purpose, knowing how they'd come across, knowing how they'd affect you.
"You look pretty, by the way."
Your head snaps toward him. He's looking out the window, and the words slipped out of him so casually that you almost don't catch it. Your heart furiously pounds in your chest, all doubt in your mind momentarily forgotten.
"You too." The words tumble out before your brain can catch up, and immediately you want to grab them and shove them back in your mouth. You too? "I mean—you look good. The jersey. It suits you."
There's a hint of a smile on his lips, and yours tug into one too—something small and hopeful.
You keep driving, trying to focus less on the quiet ache in your chest and more on the fact that he is here right now, in your car, bringing you into his world.
The convention center is freezing, the kind of cold that seeps through your thin top and settles into your bones. The air conditioning is blasting, likely to prepare for the body heat of the crowd that'll pack this place in a few hours. But right now, it's just you and a handful of other early arrivals and staff members scattered across folding chairs, listening to the distant sound of someone testing a microphone.
He didn't introduce you to his team. Didn't even glance back. Just pointed at the front row and said, "Sit there," and then he was gone—swallowed by a cluster of matching jerseys and equipment bags. You'd stood there for a moment, awkward, watching him disappear, arms wrapped around yourself against the cold.
That was hours ago. Hours in a hard plastic chair, scrolling through every app on your phone until you'd seen every post, every story, every notification that wasn't there. You got up once to buy an iced coffee from the convention center cafe—watery, gone in ten minutes. It did nothing to quiet the growling in your stomach.
You're cold. You're hungry. You're bored. You're wearing a skirt and a cute top in a convention centre full of strangers who smell like they don't shower, and you feel stupid. So, so stupid. But when he jogs over to you, twenty minutes before the tournament starts, everything brightens. Like you're not freezing to death where you sit. Like it all makes sense now, why, against your better judgment, you decided to stay.
He's got his headset looped around his neck, and his eyes have that focused, sharp kind of intensity you witnessed the first time you saw him play in his bedroom. He carries himself like he’s already won. It’s the kind of easy confidence—or arrogance, rather—that others would call obnoxious. To you, however, it’s captivating.
"Hey!" He squeezes your shoulder, just once. The warmth of his hand cuts through the chill. "Still awake?"
You blink up at him, smiling before you can stop yourself. Your head is foggy from too much fluorescent light and not enough food, but suddenly none of that registers.
"Barely.” You laugh, “But still alive. What about you?"
"I’m ready." He grins, that cocky, unbothered grin. "More than ready, knowing that you're here."
Your breath catches. Stupid. It's such a small thing yet the warmth that blooms in your chest catches you off guard, and for a moment you forget about the miserable afternoon you've just had. You just smile back at him, helplessly.
"Don't get too sleepy. I want to hear you cheer. Loud."
"I will." You say without hesitation.
"Good."
He flashes you one last smile, and then he's gone, slipping back toward the stage. You call after him, "Good luck!" He doesn't turn around. Just raises a hand in acknowledgment.
You sink back into your chair, still smiling, still warm from the brief press of his fingers on your shoulder. It's pathetic, honestly. You know it's pathetic. One touch, one sentence, and suddenly the hours of waiting and the overpriced coffee and the cold that's still seeping through your clothes don't feel like such a big deal anymore.
When the tournament starts, you come to realize you know a lot less about this game than you thought. There's a lot of terminology that flies past your head. Strategies you don’t understand. Names you don’t recognize. But you know enough that you understand when his team is winning, and when he's the last one alive on his team, wiping out the enemy team like they're nothing, and you definitely understand why the crowd cheers loudly when he clutches a 1v5.
They win. Easily. It’s not even close, and when the final round ends and the casters are screaming, and his teammates are out of their chairs—you're on your feet too. Clapping until your hands sting. Cheering, though you're certain you'll lose your voice for it.
He finds you the moment his team filters off the stage. One second you're standing alone, scanning the crowd of jerseys; the next, his hand is at your waist, fingers curling against the fabric of your top, pulling you into his side like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like he's done it a hundred times. His palm is warm through the thin material, his thumb pressed just above your hip, and he's wearing the world's biggest grin.
The hall is chaos—people talking in every direction, the music playing too loudly, a coach yelling something across the room. You can't really hear what he's saying, just the rumble of his voice near your ear, the occasional word breaking through: ...killed it... ...see that clutch?... You nod, smiling, hyperaware of the heat of his hand and the way his fingers tighten whenever someone jostles past. He steers you toward his teammates with that grip on your waist, guiding you through the crowd like you're an extension of his victory.
The other boys are clapping him on the back, shouting over each other. Every time someone congratulates him, his hand flexes against your hip—not quite pulling you closer, but not letting you drift either.
"...You good with sushi?"
"Hm?" You furrow your brows, not quite catching his words still.
"Post-game celebration. Coach is treating us," he leans in right next to your ear this time, his words a little clearer. He grabs your arm. "Let's go."
The sushi place is in a strip mall across the parking lot from the convention centre. Laminated menus, lighting that's too bright for a celebration, and employees who look like they're regretting every life choice that led them to this shift. The sheer amount of noise coming from the table doesn't help.
The team has been going around making speeches—thanking the coach, thanking their friends, thanking Sunghoon, their number one captain and player. He soaks it up like a sponge, leaning back in his chair with the ease of a star player who knows he killed it. The table goes a little quieter when it’s finally his turn.
"I'd like to thank my team, of course, for putting their best foot forward. Coach, for keeping us in line. But most importantly..." He turns to you. His arm slides from the back of your chair to your shoulders. "I'd like to thank this one right here. For the support. For cheering me on louder than anyone." He squeezes your shoulder. "You made my life a hell of a lot easier this semester."
Easier.
You're not sure why that choice of words doesn't sit right. Maybe because it felt too cold, or detached. He could've said you made his life better, brighter, happier… and maybe you're reading too much into it. You’re probably overthinking it and jumping to conclusions that aren’t there, like you always do. But easier implies convenience, nothing else, and you don’t really like the way that makes you feel.
He's being nice, you tell yourself. He’s thanking you in front of everyone. It's a good thing.
"Oh, and I got you something." He reaches into his bag and pulls out a jersey. Identical to his own. "My spare jersey. Since you know. I couldn't have done it without you."
You take it, the fabric stiff and unfamiliar in your hands. You open your mouth to say something—thank you, maybe, or you didn't have to—but nothing comes out.
"Put it on."
You do, and the shirt swallows your frame, the hem only a few centimetres above where your skirt ends. His gamertag is printed in bold letters on the back, and on you, it feels like a brand—a mark of his claim. You hold your breath, too overwhelmed by the scent of him, and your stomach does that flipping thing it always seems to when he gives you crumbs of affection like this, except this time with a newfound heaviness resting uncomfortably somewhere within you.
"Looks good," He hums, pleased, nodding to the rest of his team, "Right guys?"
The team cheers, someone whistling while the guy sitting next to him claps his back, and he takes it all in with pride, while you look down at your lap.
"Hey. Don't be shy." He leans in, voice dropping just for you. His knee bumps yours under the table. "I meant it. You do look pretty today."
The heaviness lifts. Just a little. Just enough to put on your brave face again, and the wait staff starts serving up whatever platters they ordered earlier. The boys descend like hawks, piling their dishes high, chopsticks clacking. Two of them fight over the remaining spicy salmon rolls, and someone orders another round of sake; meanwhile, Sunghoon is already talking about the next tournament.
You stare at your plate.
You were hungry earlier. Starving, actually—your stomach had been growling through the final matches, but now you just poke at a piece of nigiri with your chopsticks, turning it over and over, watching the rice fall apart.
This isn't exactly what you had in mind when he said he was taking you out… but he thanked you in front of the team. Gave you a jersey. Called you pretty. And his knee keeps bumping yours under the table, making an embarrassing flush creep to your cheeks every time.
He wants you here. That should be enough. That should make you happy. So why do you still feel so hollow?
"Excuse me," a voice appears behind you both. You and Sunghoon turn to face him. "I'm with the school paper. Mind if I grab a few quotes?"
A guy with a press badge and a notebook is standing beside the table. You'd seen him earlier, sitting in the same section near the front as you. Reserved seating. It makes sense. Regionals are a big deal for your school; this is probably the most interesting story they've had in years.
"Yeah, sure."
"Just a few questions about the match. The clutch in finals—what was going through your head?"
"Oh. Easy. I locked the fuck in," he breaks into a smug grin.
Sunghoon talks about game sense. Instincts. Reading the enemy. The reporter scribbles notes, asks a few more questions. Asks about his training schedule, the responsibilities of being the team captain, and the pressure.
You continue to poke at your food, assuming none of it involves you, until he glances at you.
"And I see your girlfriend is here. How does it feel to have that kind of support showing up for you?"
Your heart skips. Sunghoon glances at you, but his gaze isn't nearly as panicked as your own
"Oh. She's not my girlfriend." He says it casually. Like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Like the idea had never even occurred to him.
Suddenly, the table is a little quieter, like everyone had hushed their conversations just to overhear. Feeling the weight of everyone's eyes, your fingers tremble around your chopsticks.
"Ah." The reporter looks at you—the jersey, the arm around your shoulder—then offers an apologetic smile, "Sorry, I just assumed—"
"She's more like..." He tilts his head, considering. "My lucky charm."
Lucky charm. Not a girlfriend. Not a friend. Not even my project partner, who gave me a ride here and did all my work for me. A lucky charm. Something you carry around for good fortune and toss in a drawer when you no longer need it.
"Or maybe," he starts again, "She's like my prize. You know, you win the tournament, you get the trophy. She's kind of both. Good luck and a good reward. You know what I mean?"
You hear a snicker from across the table, and he laughs too. He laughs. His arm is still around your shoulder, heavy and warm, and his thumb is tracing idle circles against your sleeve like nothing is wrong. Like he didn't just reduce you to an object in front of a reporter and his whole team.
"I'm just teasing. But, really, the closer I keep her, the easier my life becomes. So, you asked how it feels, right? I'd say it feels pretty damn good," he pulls you closer for a second, giving your shoulder another squeeze, "I was telling the whole team earlier. It's all thanks to her."
"Wait, so she's single?" One of his teammates leans over, "Dude, you've been gatekeeping her all night—"
"Fuck off." He snaps, turning back to the reporter, "Next question."
The interview fades to background noise.
Lucky charm. You want to laugh. Or maybe cry.
As if luck had anything to do with it. The only reason he's here, celebrating, getting interviewed, is because of the labour, time and energy that you freely offered him like a fool. And now he's calling it luck.
You sit there in your seat, his arm heavy around you like he owns you. You realize only then that it means nothing. Absolutely nothing.
You slide out from under it. "Bathroom," you murmur, already on your feet.
He doesn't look up. His hand drops to the back of the empty chair without pause, and the reporter is already asking the next question.
You walk toward the door, and the bell chimes as you leave.
The parking lot is hot. The heat, humid and suffocating, rises off the asphalt, and the air feels thick in your lungs. Your car is at the far end. Too far away, you think, as you make your way. You walk fast, the jersey still hanging off your shoulders, and it feels like the weight of it is slowing you down. You hate that you're still wearing it.
Behind you, the restaurant door opens, and heavy footsteps follow. "Hey! Hey, wait up—"
You don't wait. Obviously. But he catches up very easily, hand on your shoulder to halt your frantic steps.
"What's going on?" He catches up, slightly out of breath. "You just left. What gives?"
You spin around. "I'm a lucky charm? A prize?"
"What?" His expression shifts—not guilty, but confused. Like he genuinely doesn't understand. He takes a moment to gather himself. "Yeah. Like, it's a compliment. Like, I'm lucky to have you here with me. I mean, what did you want me to say? Project partner? Female friend?"
"Listen." Your voice is shaking. "I'm happy for you. You won. Congratulations. But I want to go home now."
"But why? We were having fun, right? And the team loves you—"
"No." You cut him off. "Your team loves you."
"Yeah, and you're with me."
"I'm with you?" The words catch in your throat. "What is that supposed to mean?"
Your heart thuds, watching him carefully. You hold your breath, hoping—desperately, pathetically—to hear something other than a lucky charm this time. Something meaningful. Something more.
"It means..." his voice is careful, processing every word in his head before he decides to say it, "You're wearing a shirt with my name on it, and I'll be the one taking you home after—"
A laugh escapes you. Not because any of this is entertaining, but because you truly cannot fathom how that is the best response he could come up with.
"You're taking me home?"
"You know what I mean."
"Sunghoon." Your voice drops. The frustration is bleeding out, leaving something softer behind. Something that hurts more. Your hands are trembling. "You told me to wear something cute. You said you were taking me out."
"So that's it?" He asks. You don’t know when he moved closer, or how you allowed him to, but suddenly his hand is at your shoulder again. He rubs it as if to comfort you, and his words tumble out, a little more frantic than he usually sounds, "You wanna go out? We can go out. We can go out right now. Just tell me where you want to go. I'll take you—”
"We aren't going anywhere." You say a little firmer this time, brushing his hand away. "I'm leaving."
You walk toward your car, but he doesn't relent. He came here with you, and his ride is standing in front of him, keys in hand, about to disappear. He can't let that happen.
"Wait."
He grabs your arm, his hand warm and familiar. You hate that it still makes your breath catch.
"Please." His voice is different now. Lower. The arrogance is gone—or maybe just hidden. "Don't go. I'm sorry. Okay?"
"Sorry for what?"
"For..." He runs a hand through his hair. "Calling you a lucky charm? And not taking you on a date? Whatever I did. Just… don't leave me here. Please."
"You don't even know what you're apologizing for," You hiss, your hand curling tighter around your car keys.
"Yeah. Because I'm confused." He tries, "I was being nice all night. I gave you the jersey. I don't know what I did wrong, so tell me. I'll do whatever you want. I'll fix it."
"Sunghoon," you frown, taking in a breath. You're going to do it. This is the moment where you stand your ground. "I am not some doll that exists to give you free rides whenever you want. Or do all your work. Or sit through your gaming tournaments and make you look good in front of your teammates."
"You're not—" his brows furrow, "That's not what you are."
"Then what am I?"
You try to step back, but your back meets your car door.
Now you're cornered, and he still hasn't answered. Instead, his hand comes up. Hesitant, not quite sure if he's allowed, or if it's the right choice to make currently in the heat of the moment, but he does it regardless. His fingers brush your jaw, featherlight, just tracing it and his thumb settles under your chin. Everything else around you ceases to exist.
"Tell me what you want me to say." His voice is rough, and he tilts your face up, "What do you want from me? I don't understand what you want."
"Sunghoon—"
"I keep thinking about last week," He exhales, something between a laugh and a breath. His other hand finds your hip, fingers curling into the fabric of the jersey. "What we never got to finish. I know you think about it too."
His forehead nearly touches yours. His thumb still rests under your chin, holding you in place, and his eyes drop to your lips.
"One last time," he asks, "What do you want?"
You realize he's doing it again. The thing where you try to talk about something serious—the project, the way he's been treating you—and weaponizes his irresistibility against you. You wonder if he even realizes that he's doing it.
Regardless, you can’t help how you stare. He's just so... beautiful. So incredibly irresistible. The warm press of his body, caging yours to the car. The intense look in his eyes. His height, and how he towers over you. It's too much.
"You know what I want,” your voice comes out smaller than you intended.
There it is. The part where you give in. You always do. How could you not? You’re just a girl, caged between the hottest man you've ever seen and your car door.
Your eyes drop to his lips.
"That's all you had to say," he murmurs.
He kisses you. Your first kiss. It's not gentle. It's hungry, desperate, his hand sliding into your hair, his body pressing against yours. Your brain shuts off entirely. Your hands come up to his chest, and instead of pushing him away like you should, you're gripping his jersey, pulling him closer. You have no idea what you're doing, but the feeling of his tongue in your mouth and his hands all over you has you whimpering under his touch, melting into his arms.
"You're with me." He says against your lips, rough and unrelenting. "Stay here with me."
His hand slides from your hip to the car door behind you.
"Let me make it up to you. I'll treat you so well. I promise."
Your whole body is trembling. He's so close and so warm, and you've wanted this for weeks and—fuck, who are you kidding?
The back seat of your car is cramped, but he doesn't seem to mind. He's above you, his body a warm weight, kissing you, worshipping you with his tongue and his mouth, kissing along your neck. He takes his time, letting you get familiar with the shape of him atop you, his hard cock pressed against your thigh through his pants.
You're embarrassed with the amount of slick between your legs and how your skirt has ridden up all the way at your hips to reveal it all. If you thought you could ever try to hide what he does to you before, you certainly can’t do it now.
"Look at you," he murmurs against your mouth. His fingers find the hem of the jersey—his jersey. "You look so good in this. So fucking good."
You can't speak. Your voice is gone. His hand slides up your thigh, pushing the jersey higher. Then he pauses. Looks down. A slow grin spreads across his face. His hand traces over your underwear, smooth skin separated by thin fabric.
"You prepped for this?" Your face burns. "All this?" His fingers thumb the lace edge of your panties, "For me?"
"I didn't—I wasn't—"
"You were expecting something." His voice is teasing. "Weren't you? All dressed up. All smooth." He kisses your throat. "Fuck, that's so cute."
A sound escapes you—a whimper you didn't mean to make—and he chuckles, the vibration of it travelling down your neck. His hand is still on your thigh, thumb tracing idle circles against bare skin just above the hem of your skirt. You can feel the heat of his palm, the way his fingers splay wide like he's claiming territory. Your hips shift without permission, angling toward him, chasing the pressure he isn't giving you.
Then his hand retreats. Slides back to your waist. His lips capture yours in another open-mouthed kiss, and you make a frustrated little sound against his mouth—half protest, half plea. Your fingers wrap around his wrist and guide it back down, pressing his palm right where you need it, your thighs parting in invitation.
“Hm?” He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyebrows raised, lips still slick. There's genuine surprise underneath his evident amusement. "You want—?"
“More.”
The word comes out sounding more certain than you expected. His expression flickers, both taken aback and deeply, thoroughly pleased, then his hand resumes its position, palm pressing flat against the lace of your underwear. He doesn't slip beneath the fabric, rubbing only slow, deliberate circles over it, letting the friction build until your hips are rolling into his touch.
It's a lot. The pressure, the heat, the way he watches your face the whole time like he's studying you. You're so sensitive that even just his hand over fabric has your breath catching in your throat.
"Like that?" he murmurs.
You nod, not trusting your voice. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his sleeve, holding on.
"I've never—"
"I know." There's a teasing lilt to his voice, his lips curving against your throat. He likes this. Likes the way you're coming apart beneath him, all trembling and flushed and brand-new. His fingers don't slow. "You want to stop?"
It's a dare. He already knows the answer. His thumb presses down just a little harder, drawing another broken sound from your lips.
"No." The word is torn from your throat too fast.
Stopping is actually the opposite of what you want. You've been dreaming of his touch all summer. Even if he's a complete asshole, he's a beautiful asshole, and the ache between your thighs knows where its priorities lie.
"Yeah?" His voice drops, words brushing against your ear, "Then tell me what you want."
"Sunghoon..." you trail off, his thumb still circling your clit over your underwear, "I don't know. Just touch me more, please."
“Begging already?” He smiles against your mouth, and then his hand slides back down, dipping beneath the waistband of your panties. His fingers are warm as they brush through your slick folds, gathering the wetness that's been building since he first kissed you. He doesn't push in yet—he circles your entrance lazily, teasing, letting you feel the pressure without the invasion. "You're too good to me."
It's been a while since he's done any of this, but he's always been good with his hands. It’s like facing an opponent: The technique is muscle memory, and the strategy is played by ear. He just has to watch you, learn your weaknesses, and exploit them until he wins. Though when it comes to you, he's learning that you're weak to pretty much everything he does, watching your lips part and your brows scrunch together without his fingers even inside you yet.
“So wet. So worked up. You really wanted this, didn't you?" he whispers, "Don't worry. I've got you."
He pushes one finger inside you—slow, deliberate, sinking deep until his knuckle presses against your entrance. Your back arches, a sharp gasp escaping your throat, and he watches your face as he curls that finger, searching, finding the spot that makes your eyes flutter shut.
"That's it," he breathes. "That's my girl."
He adds a second finger, stretching you, and the wet, slick sound of your body accepting him fills the foggy car. He pumps them in and out, his thumb pressing circles against your clit, and you feel yourself clenching around him, your hips rolling to meet his rhythm. Your hands grip his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.
"Feels good?" His voice is in your ear, low and rough. You nod, unable to respond. Breath catching in your throat because you can barely breathe, think or do anything coherent. "Is this all you wanted? Needy girl just wanted my attention?"
In the midst of the fog, it catches your eye again. His cock, hard and untouched in his pants. You want to see him. All of him. And you reach out for the waistband, desperate to feel the weight of him in your hands.
"Wanna touch you, too," you manage, and his fingers slow inside you for a moment.
"Yeah?" He grins, watching you pull the waistband down and palm him through his boxers. He just watches you fumble around, looking up with that awestruck, wide-eyed gaze. "You sure?"
You pull him free anyway. And then you stop, staring for what you're sure is way too long. Because he's—well. He's big. Not that you have any real-life experience to compare him to, but still. It didn't take a genius to figure out that he's impossibly, unfairly big. So much that it makes you wonder if the universe just decided to give him everything: the face, the hands, the voice, and now this. Maybe you should've expected that the literal embodiment of the genetic lottery would have a pornstar cock.
"What's the matter?" He laughs, propping himself up on one elbow to get a better view of your face. "Nervous?"
“No.” You swallow, still staring. "You're just really—"
"Big?" He says it for you, clearly enjoying himself. "Yeah. I know."
The bigger the dick, the bigger the ego, huh?
You watch him grin down at you, and you really do want to pretend like you're not affected by it, but it's actually kind of terrifying and a lot more than you bargained for.
“Don’t think about that right now,” He takes his free hand and encloses it around yours, around him, not showing you how to do it. Just guiding you. “I’m enjoying this.”
Your fingers are gentle and trembling and completely unsure, but he doesn't mind. He takes in the sight, watching you try to please him with your hand while you fall apart on his fingers. You clench around him as he presses inside, finding the right spot that makes your eyes roll back, and you can't help the cry that leaves your parted lips.
"That’s it," he murmurs. "Good girl. Just let go."
You unravel around his fingers, back arching off the leather seat, and he has to press his free hand flat across your hipbones to keep you from bucking against his palm. Your thighs clamp around his wrist, trembling, and his name, broken and breathless, catches in your throat. It’s the most beautiful sound he's ever heard you make. He watches it happen, watches your mouth fall open, and your lashes flutter, watches the tension seize through your body and then release, all at once, around his fingers.
When you come back to yourself, you're still gripping him. Your fingers are wrapped around his cock, loose now, your palm slick with the precome that's gathered at the tip. He's still hard and aching. His breathing is ragged, his chest heaving, and for a long moment, he doesn't move—just stares down at the way your hand looks wrapped around him, your delicate fingers against the flushed, heavy weight of his length. Then his jaw tightens, and his hand closes over yours, repositioning your grip.
"Like this," he guides you, pumping your hand up and down his shaft. He tries to show you the rhythm, the pressure, the speed. And to your credit, you're trying. You are. And if he were in the mood to be a little more patient, he'd let you play with him. But currently, he doesn't have it in himself to torture himself any longer.
He closes his fist around yours, harder. Then he's moving, fucking into your hand with short, desperate thrusts. The sound of it fills the cramped car, skin on skin, his hips snapping forward in a rhythm that's too fast, too ragged to be anything but pure need. You watch him, still dazed from your own release, still sprawled across the back seat with your skirt bunched at your waist and his jersey twisted around your torso. Your chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, and your eyes—wide, glassy, utterly fixed on where his cock slides through your palm—are the only thing he can look at.
"Fuck, look at you," he groans. His head drops forward, hair falling into his eyes, but he forces himself to keep watching his length disappear and reappear through your grip. "All spread out for me. My cute little reward. My prize. All mine."
His rhythm breaks. His hips stutter, and then he's spilling across the jersey with a low, broken groan, something primal and possessive curling in his gut at the sight. You lie there, still catching your breath, wearing his name and his release.
He braces himself above you, breathing hard. His forehead nearly touches yours. The windows are fogged opaque, sealing you both inside this cramped, humid quiet.
Your skirt is bunched at your hips. The jersey is twisted around your torso, damp and clinging to your sweat. You don't move. Don't speak. Just lie there beneath him, wearing the evidence of what just happened, still recovering.
He exhales, long and slow, and his eyes trace over you.
"Shit," he breathes, sounding almost in awe. "You're really something, you know that?"
You don't answer. You're still catching your breath, floating somewhere between the high and the slow, creeping return of reality.
He doesn't notice. He's too busy looking at you and the jersey he's made a mess of—at the way you're sprawled beneath him with something between satisfaction and wonder. All of his doing.
"So," he murmurs, propping himself up on one elbow. His free hand traces a lazy line down your arm. "You forgive me?"
"Hm?" Your eyes finally meet his, blinking up.
"The tournament. The project. The stuff I said. Or did." He presses his lips to your jaw, peppering kisses until he meets the shell of your ear. His thumb draws a slow circle on your hip. "You're not still mad, right?"
Your chest rises and falls, not quite finding the words just yet.
"Because I meant what I said. You're with me. This—" he gestures between you, "—this thing we have. I like this."
His eyes are on you—his unfairly beautiful eyes.
It would be so easy to forget the whole night ever happened. Your hands twitch where you hold onto him, warm and solid, and the part of you that's still deeply infatuated with the sight of him like this wants so badly to pull him back down and discover all the other ways he could take you to heaven and back.
But then you look down at the jersey. His jersey. At the stain already drying on the fabric. He'd marked his territory and tried to present it to you as a gift, and you think the worst part of it all is that he really, truly does believe it's something to be grateful for.
He presses a kiss to your forehead, and you close your eyes. Your throat tightens. For a moment, you almost let it go. You almost fall back in.
"Also, like... you’ll still drive me back, right?"
Your eyes snap open.
You glare up at him. At his perfect, oblivious face. At the faint smile still lingering at the corner of his mouth. He's still braced above you, still warm, still inside the afterglow you were both supposed to be sharing. And for a moment, you wonder who’s more stupid: him or you.
"Get out."
He lifts his head, "Huh?"
"Get out of my car."
"We just—hold on," He pushes himself up, still dazed. "I made you—you literally just—"
"You made me cum. Great job." You shove at his chest until his back hits the door, and he fumbles with his pants. "You’re still an asshole. Now get out of my face."
"You're kicking me out?" He gapes, "You can’t do that to me.”
"There's a bus stop nearby."
Your hand reaches for the door behind him, shoving him out, and he stumbles onto the asphalt. His brows furrow.
"I'm not taking the fucking bus."
"Not my problem." You yank the jersey over your head. Ball it up. Throw it at his chest, and he catches it on reflex—his own name, crumpled, damp, ruined. "Find your own way home."
You slam the door and climb into the driver's seat, ignoring the way he pleads outside the window, knocking on the glass. He's frantic, still recovering from the whiplash, but you don't stop.
You start the engine and back out of the parking spot, speeding away and in the rearview mirror, he's still standing there. Jersey in one hand, watching you disappear.
The ride back to your dorm is quiet. Radio off. Just you and your thoughts, the sun bleeding orange across the horizon.
People always say your first kiss is supposed to be special or that your first time is supposed to mean something. Meanwhile, your first kiss was followed by getting fingered in the backseat of your car in a strip mall parking lot with a boy who treats you like trash, wearing his cum-stained E-sports jersey.
It's a tale as old as time: a girl who doesn't know any better gives everything to a boy who couldn't care less. Maybe you should feel used or ashamed. Maybe it should feel wrong, or cheap, or degrading. Yet, it doesn't really. Because honestly? You'd wanted it all summer. His hands on you, his voice in your ear, touching you in places you've never been touched before. It wasn't special. It wasn't romantic. But it was yours, and you took it.
There is a heaviness in your chest. You can't deny that. But there is something else that shines brighter, that courses through your veins, head to toe.
Satisfied. You feel satisfied. A little giddy, even.
Park Sunghoon. Brilliant esports player. Terrible project partner—and terrible person, really. But fuck, if he wasn't good with his hands. And body. And words. And face.
You grin to yourself at the memory of it all, free of the anxiety that used to cripple you every time you thought of him. All those hours you'd spent wondering what he thought of you, if he liked you back. You don't give a shit what he thinks anymore.
He debated for a while who to call. Not Jay, obviously. Jay would take one look at the crumpled fabric in his hand and drive in the opposite direction. He could've called Jake—Jake wouldn't judge him for his sexual failures, given his pathetic history with women, but Jake would certainly judge everything else about the situation. Also, there’s no way he would drive an hour out on a whim just to pick him up.
That left Heeseung. The one most likely to actually pick up, only because he’s a nosy little shit and he'll absolutely never let Sunghoon live it down.
Sunghoon finds himself sitting in the passenger seat, jersey crumpled in his lap, staring out the window, and Heeseung takes a loud, dramatic sniff.
"You smell like jizz." He glances at the jersey. "The fuck did you do with that?"
"None of your business."
"None of my business, my ass." Heeseung pulls out of the lot. "I'm doing you a big favour. Think I deserve to know."
"I don't get it. I mean, I don't get her. I was doing everything right. I gave her the jersey. I told the team I couldn't have won without her. I made her feel good. Really good. Like, screaming-my-name kind of good." He pauses. "Not to brag. But I blew her fucking mind. And then suddenly it's 'get out of my car,' and she throws the jersey at my chest and drives off."
He turns to Heeseung, genuinely bewildered. "What am I missing?"
"Let me get this straight," Heeseung changes lanes. Checks his blind spot. "She drove you to your game? On top of all the project shit she did for you?"
"She wanted to."
"Did she?"
"...Well, she wanted to see me." He folds his arms, "She had a good time. So I don't get the problem—"
"Sunghoon. Dude." Heeseung sighs, "The whole seduction manipulation thing you're trying to do? It only works if you're hot and smart enough to pull it off. You're just hot."
"I'm not manipulating her."
"Sure you're not."
"I'm not. I'm just trying to keep her happy. Which, judging by how hard she came, I thought I was doing my job right."
Heeseung snorts. "Your job?"
"What?"
"You're treating her like a resource. Like a side quest. Keep her happy, get the rewards. She's a human being, not an NPC, dumbass."
"That's not—" The denial dies halfway out of his mouth. Sunghoon stops, brows furrowing at his roommate's words. "That's not what she is. No, she's nice to me. Like, genuinely nice." The corner of his lip tugs, almost involuntary. "She's fun to be around. Laughs at my jokes. She listens when I talk about Valorant. She has this look, like she's all impressed, even though she probably doesn't understand any of it. And man, you should've seen the way she cheered for me. It was like... the best feeling in the world."
He stops a moment, sighing, the memory of you beneath him in the car resurfacing itself. You, falling apart for him.
"She's cute," he says, and the words feels a little too innocent for what he actually means, but he probably shouldn't say anything more in front of Heeseung anyways. "She's really cute."
He stops. Blinks. His own words catch up to him, and suddenly the inside of the car feels very small.
Suddenly, he feels warm. These days, he always seems to feel that way when he thinks about you. It's annoying. It's distracting. It's—
"Hold the fuck on." The car comes to a screeching halt at a red light, and Heeseung turns. "You like her."
"What?" It comes out too fast. "Yeah, right. You know I don't do dating. Or any of that bullshit. It's a waste of—"
"I didn't ask if you wanted to marry her. I asked if you liked her."
Sunghoon looks out the window, streetlights passing.
He thinks about you. Your laugh, your smile, the voice notes you always leave and how he sometimes finds himself listening to them late at night when he has nothing better to do. He thinks about the way you looked in the crowd, sitting there for him. The way you always show up when he needs you and let him treat you like trash.
For a while, he told himself he was only getting close to you for convenience. Though there’s nothing convenient about the jittery feeling in his stomach right now, is there? He shoves it back down.
"No," he folds his arms. "Obviously no."
Heeseung gives him a long look. A very long look. Then he turns back to the road.
"Then stop bothering the poor girl and do your damn project."
Heeseung turns up the radio. The highway hums beneath them.
Sunghoon stays silent. The jitteriness in his stomach fades into something new. Something that aches. A terrible feeling—an awful one. He wonders how you might feel right now. Worse than him, he's sure.
"I will," he suddenly says. "I'll stop."
He'll do his work. He'll make things right. And next time, when you inevitably come back around, he'll apologize properly.
Sunghoon opens the project folder. Stares at the empty files, the frontend he never built. The CSS that's still mostly placeholder comments.
This should be easy. He'd always told himself I could pass this class in my sleep if I actually tried. But now he's trying, and his brain is a blank wall.
He types a line, deletes it, types again. Wrong syntax. The error at the bottom of the screen glares red and refuses to explain itself. He opens google, checks Stack Overflow, which presents and answer he doesn't understand. He copies the code anyway, slots it in, and five more errors bloom where one used to be.
This is bad. Severely bad. If he fails this course again, his GPA risks dropping below the minimum threshold for athletic eligibility. No GPA, no team. No team, no playing next season. And if Sunghoon can’t play next season, the team loses the tournament, and they lose funding. No funding means the program folds, which means he can kiss his E-sports career goodbye.
His hand twitches toward his phone. It's become a reflex now—reach for you the moment something goes wrong, except now you won’t help him. Because he fucked that up and asked for too much too quickly and made you feel used. And now he’s stuck, watching the errors keep piling up, knowing the deadline is three days away.
Leave the poor girl alone.
He grabs his phone anyway.
He can't do it without you. He doesn't know the syntax, doesn't know the structure. You were always there, filling the gaps, smoothing the edges, making it look easy. And he let you. He counted on it. He counted on you, and he didn't even realize it until you were gone.
He needs you. He opens your chat and looks at his messages. Still unanswered. Still unread.
Sunghoon: hey. i'm sorry.
Sunghoon: i know you're mad but
Sunghoon: idk how to do this without you
sent three days ago
Sunghoon: hey
Sunghoon: i don’t wanna bother you again
Sunghoon: but i really am trying
Sunghoon: and im stuck
Sunghoon: please
sent two days ago
"Hey. It's me. I don't know if you're listening to these anymore." He clears his throat, eyes on the timer of the voice recording. He’s sent a lot of these over the past few days, and he’s long since stopped hoping you’ll respond. He treats it almost like a confessional instead. "I'm sorry. For everything. I really am. I tried to do the project. Like, actually tried. And I can't. I don't know how. I never went to class, and I never—I know it's all my fault. And that I've dug my own grave. Just... I hope you know I'm trying. And..."
A long silence. The recording meter ticks.
"...I miss you—fuck. Sorry. Just. Yeah. Sorry"
He hits send, immediately shoving the device aside and burying his face in his hands. He keeps telling himself he doesn't want to bother you. That he can figure this out on his own. That he should leave you alone. But the cursor's still blinking on an empty file, and his phone's still dark, and the lie is getting harder to hold onto every time he reaches for it. He needs you.
Sunghoon waits outside the lecture hall.
He's never even been to this building before, even had to look up the room number, the time, and the building itself. But now he’s there, leaning against the wall, hood pulled over his head, arms crossed, watching the doors like he's holding an angle. Students trickle out in pairs and clusters. He scans every face.
Then he sees you.
You're near the back of the crowd, and you're not alone. Some guy is walking beside you—boring and forgettable. He's leaning in as you talk, nodding at whatever you're saying, and smiling at you, and Sunghoon wants to call him pathetic, but you're smiling back at the guy. His jaw tightens.
You haven't noticed him yet. You're still talking, gesturing with one hand, your bag slung over your shoulder, looking strangely relaxed. You never looked like that with him. He only knows you as the flustered girl who froze in the library when he knee touched yours. You, who melted into his touch in the backseat of his car. Not... this.
The guy says something, and you laugh, making Sunghoon's fingers dig into his own arm.
Then your eyes sweep the hall, landing on him. You hold for half a second before immediately looking away, starting to walk faster. You brush past him like he doesn’t exist, but Sunghoon’s already pushing himself off the wall, falling into step beside you.
"Hey." His hood falls back over his shoulders. "Can we talk?"
"I have somewhere to be."
"Five minutes. Please."
"Pretty sure she said no," The other guy frowns, then looks at you. "Everything okay? You know him?"
"She's my project partner," Sunghoon practically seethes, not looking at him. His eyes are on you. "Now leave us alone."
"Think that's up to her to decide—"
"She's with me." Sunghoon's voice is flat and final. "Right?"
You stop walking. Your shoulders square and you turn to face him, chin lifting, and for a split second, there's something almost amused flickering at the corner of your mouth. Like you'd been expecting this. Still, your eyes are cold, your jaw set. You’re pissed. He’s never seen you truly, completely pissed. You always hid it beneath a smile.
"It's fine," you say to the guy, your voice calm. "I'll catch up with you later."
The guy hesitates. Looks at Sunghoon, then back at you. He's probably weighing his options, and Sunghoon watches him do the math in real time.
"Yeah. Okay." He scoffs, walking off, "Later."
Sunghoon turns back to you immediately, his jaw still tight from watching that guy disappear around the corner.
"Who was that?"
"Classmate." You say it flat. You’re already walking again, your pace hurried.
"Yeah, right." He scoffs, falling into step beside you. "Does he know that? That he's just a classmate?"
"Why does it matter to you?"
"You're ignoring my messages." He avoids the question.
"Okay." You don't slow down. Don't even glance at him. "And?"
"And I'm kind of desperate here," His voice is rising now, frustration bleeding through the cracks. "I've been trying to reach you for days. I need your help."
You stop at the stairwell door, hand on the push bar, and finally, you look at him. Your expression is unreadable, but there's something almost pitying in the tilt of your head.
"You always need things, don't you?"
He blinks, and you're already pushing through the door, your footsteps echoing up the concrete stairwell. He hesitates for half a second, one hand braced against the doorframe, watching you climb, and then he's following, the door slamming shut behind him.
"You're greedy, Sunghoon. I've already given you so much."
"I know." His own footsteps fall heavy behind yours. "I know I don't deserve anything."
"Then stop wasting my time." You snap back.
You shove through the fire door at the top of the stairs, and suddenly you're both outside—the heat hitting him like a wall after the stale cool of the lecture hall, sunlight glaring off the sidewalk. You cut across the quad, weaving between clusters of students without slowing, and he stays on your heels like a shadow. You know he’s there, but you keep walking. Past the fountain. Past the library.
By the time you reach your dorm building, you're both breathing harder from the pace, and when you push through the glass doors into the air-conditioned lobby, he slips through behind you. Slowly, you turn.
"Why are you still following me?" Your frown cuts deep, brows furrowed. "Seriously, this is stalker behaviour."
Sunghoon doesn't flinch. Doesn't even have the decency to look ashamed.
"I won't leave until you help me."
"I dare you to tell that to campus security." You retort, chin tilted up, eyes locked on his.
Then you exhale through your nose, sharp and dismissive, and turn on your heel toward the elevator. You jab the call button with your thumb, harder than necessary.
"I dare you to call campus security." Suddenly, he stands beside you, hands in his pockets, shoulder nearly brushing yours, a ghost of that infuriating smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You won't."
The elevator dings, soft and cheerful, utterly indifferent to the tension coiled in the tiny space between your bodies. He steps in and stands close enough that you catch the familiar scent of him, and the doors slide shut, sealing you both inside.
"Because you don't scare me," you say, prodding a finger at his chest. He glances down at it, then back up at you, eyebrow raised. "You're like a whiny little toddler. Throwing a tantrum just because I won't give you what you want this time."
He doesn't step back. If anything, he leans into the prod, just slightly, letting your finger press into the fabric of his hoodie.
"Please," he says, and his voice has shifted—lower, stripped of the smirk. "The project is due in three days. None of my code works. I tried. I actually tried. I wanted to do better. But I don't know how to do this. I never learned, because you were always—"
"Always doing it for you." You stare at the elevator doors. "Yeah. I know."
"I'm sorry, okay? I know I fucked up. The tournament. The jersey. The lucky charm thing. All of it." He huffs, a short, humourless laugh at his own expense. "It wasn't very feminist of me. I shouldn't have treated you like an object, or something."
"No." Your voice is flat. "You shouldn't have."
The elevator dings, and you step out fast, keys already in your hand. Still, he's right behind you. His footsteps fall heavy on the carpet, matching your pace, refusing to give you even a stride of distance.
"Stop following me." You say again, firmer this time.
"I told you I won't."
"Well, you can cry in the hallway, then. I'm not dealing with this." You reach your door, and the keys jingle sharply as you slot them into the lock, missing the first time because your hands are not quite steady. You twist the knob and slip inside, already rolling your eyes, already swinging the door shut. "Bye—"
His hand catches it. Palm flat against the wood, fingers curling around the edge, arm braced. The door stops dead, half-open, and you're left gripping the handle on your side.
You stare at his hand. Then at him.
He pushes, though not very hard, and he steps through the gap, his body filling the frame and then clearing it. The door clicks shut behind him, and he leans back against it, his chest rising and falling with breaths that are just a little too fast to hide, like he’s equally as shocked as you are that he just forced himself inside your dorm room.
Your keys are still in your hand. Your knuckles are white around them, and you back up a few steps. Your chest is rising and falling to match his now, and the room feels suddenly very, very small.
“Listen, I just want to—”
"Get the fuck out of my room, or I swear to god I will actually call security."
"What do you want from me?" His voice comes out raw, louder than he meant. He pushes off the door, one step forward, then stops himself. "I apologized. I've tried to do my work. I'm trying to make things right. You want me to get on my knees and beg? 'Cause I will. I'll fucking do it."
"Sunghoon—"
He drops.
The movement is sudden and unceremonious. His knees hit the carpet with a dull thud, and for a second, he just stays there, head bowed, hair falling forward into his eyes, probably in need of a haircut. Then he looks up at you from the floor, hands clasped together.
"Please." His voice cracks. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."
You stare down at him, distraught. A little horrified. Kind of cringing to yourself, honestly. And for a moment, you just watch him apologize over and over again. He mutters the same things he texted you about already. Missing you. Wanting to be better. Wanting to fix things. Needing to pass the class.
You drop your keys on your bedside table. The clatter breaks the rhythm of his apologies, and he goes silent. His head lifts, tracking the sound, tracking you as you take a step toward him. Then another. He doesn't move. Doesn't breathe, it seems like.
Stopping just in front of him, his clasped hands loosen, fingers uncurling, and then he's reaching for yours instead—slow, uncertain, like he's not sure he's allowed. His palms are warm, a little clammy. His fingers wrap around your knuckles and squeeze, and you can feel the tremor in his grasp. You think this is the first time you've ever seen this man experience any sort of real fear.
You lift his chin with your free hand, fingers pressing into his jaw, tilting his face up. The movement isn’t gentle or kind, as if the frown on your lips wasn't indicative enough of your displeasure with whatever this display is.
"You're pathetic."
"I know."
"You're an entitled, egotistical, manipulative loser."
"I know."
"Get up."
He does, and now you're the one craning your neck to look at him.
"For the last time." You say it slowly, "Leave me alone."
He doesn't move. His eyes trace your face. Your throat. The line of your collarbone. Your lips, still pulled into a tight frown.
"I can't do that." A silence follows. "You don't want me to do that either."
"I do."
"Maybe you do," he clarifies, hand finally reaching out until his fingers meet your throat, grazing your skin until they meet your chin. You lean into the touch. It’s your weakness. Your fatal flaw. You can say whatever you want, but when he has his hands on you, you crumble in his grasp. "But your body wants something else."
His thumb brushes your lower lip. Your mouth parts without permission.
You hold his gaze. Your breathing is shallow, your pulse hammering at the base of your throat where his fingers just were. You hate the way you can't pull yourself away.
“Tell me what you want,” He rests leans in closer, his voice rough. "I can make it up to you. I'll make you forget what you were even upset about. You just have to—"
You kiss him. Hard enough to shut him up. Hard enough that he makes a small, surprised sound against your mouth before his hand tightens in your hair and he kisses you back.
It's different from the parking lot. Slower, a little hesitant because you're still learning how this all works. Desperate still, but less immediately urgent. His hand cradles the back of your head, and his lips work yours like they have something to prove. Your hands come up to his chest, and this time you don't push him away.
When you break apart, you're both breathing hard. His forehead presses to yours, his eyes dark and a little dazed. The look of someone who knows they're about to get exactly what they wanted. You despise it.
"Are you really whoring yourself out for grades?" Your voice comes out breathless, undermining the bite you'd intended.
He laughs, low and warm against your mouth.
"If I'm whoring myself out for anything, it's forgiveness." His hand drops to your waist, his thumb tracing the curve of your hip. "I meant it when I said I missed you."
"Oh, I'm sure you do." You laugh bitterly, but his lips are already trailing down your jaw. "I'm sure you miss the way I did all your work and drove you around and—"
"I miss when you were mine." He says it against your throat, the words vibrating against your skin. His hand tightens on your hip. "And not laughing at some other asshole's jokes."
You can feel the shift in him, his possessiveness bleeding through the charm.
"Seriously, who was that guy?"
"Told you. Nobody." Your head tips back as his mouth finds the hollow beneath your ear. "Just a classmate."
"Did you do anything with—?"
"No. Obviously, no." The sigh that escapes you is half-frustration, half-surrender. "Just you. You know it's just you."
"That's right." He pulls back just enough to look at you, and there's satisfaction in his eyes—warm and smug and entirely undeserved. "Just me."
His hand slides from your hip to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him.
"What we did in the parking lot was just the start." His lips brush your ear, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. "I can do so much more for you. You know I can."
Your back suddenly hits the mattress. You didn't feel him walking you there—didn't register the steps, the turn, the careful way he lowered you down. But now he's above you, braced on his forearms, looking at you with a kind of hunger and hope.
"Let me apologize properly." He squeezes your hand, his thumb brushing your knuckles. "Will you?"
You look up at him. At his jaw. His mouth. His dark, beautiful eyes. You nod without questioning it.
His lips find your throat first. Soft. Slow. He traces the line of your pulse with his mouth, feeling it flutter beneath his attention. Then lower—your collarbone, the hollow at the base of your throat, the warm skin just above the neckline of your shirt. He pushes the fabric aside, just enough, and presses a kiss there. Then another. Then lower.
His hands move with the same precision he brings to his game, but slower. Like he's memorizing the landscape of you as he strips you of your clothes. His mouth traces a slow path down your stomach. You’re near-bare when his fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, and he pauses, looking up at you through his lashes.
"Just lay back."
You nod again, not trusting your voice.
He pulls the fabric down. His breath is warm against the inside of your thigh. Then his mouth is there—gentle at first, testing, learning what makes you gasp and what makes you go still. His hands hold your hips, thumbs tracing circles into your skin, steadying you.
"Too much?" He murmurs against you, the vibration of his voice sending a shiver up your spine.
"No," You swallow. "Don't stop."
With that, he's grinning, lowering himself between your thighs.
He takes you apart slowly. Thoroughly. His tongue works in patterns you can't track, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your thighs, his voice a low murmur of praise against your skin. So good for me. So pretty. Just like that.
When he feels you getting close, he doesn't speed up. He holds the rhythm steady, deliberate, drawing it out until your hands are fisted in his hair and your back is arching off the mattress and his name is the only word left in your vocabulary.
"Who's making you feel this good?" His voice is rough, muffled against your skin. "Tell me."
"Sunghoon."
"Say it again."
"Sunghoon—please—!"
You shatter. The wave crashes through you, and he works you through every second of it—his mouth never stopping, his hands grounding you, holding you together even as you fall apart. When the last tremor leaves your body, you're gasping, your fingers still twisted in his hair.
He kisses his way back up. Your hip. Your ribs. The curve of your shoulder.
"All mine," he murmurs against your skin, pressing the words into you like a claim.
Finally, his lips find yours. Still slow, none of that frantic hunger that had him pressed against you before you could think in the back of your car. His hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone, and his mouth moves against yours like an apology he doesn't know how to put into words.
But you're not done with him yet. Not even close.
Your hands drop from his chest to his waistband, fingers finding the drawstring and tugging. You fumble—too eager, too impatient—and the knot catches, your knuckles pressing into the hard plane of his stomach as you work at it. His abs tense under your touch. He pulls back, eyes wide, lips still swollen.
"What are you doing?" His voice is rough, caught between surprise and something else. His hand hovers over yours, but doesn't stop you.
"Want you." You meet his eyes and hold them, your chin tilting up. "Inside me."
He nearly groans at the sound of that, dick twitching in his pants. But, for the first time, he hesitates. Even now—even with you laid out beneath him, even with the taste of you still on his lips—there's a flicker of concern in his expression. "You sure?"
"You want forgiveness." Your voice is steadier than you feel. "Show me how sorry you are."
He stares at you for a beat. Something in his expression shifts—surprise giving way to something darker, more amused, thoroughly impressed. A low chuckle escapes him, warm and rough, and he shakes his head like he can't quite believe you.
"You want it that bad, huh?"
You push his hoodie up over his shoulders, suddenly self-conscious of how much skin you’re showing compared to him. He finishes the job for you, peeling off the hoodie and shirt beneath it in one motion, and then he’s reaching for the waistband.
You barely notice how his sweatpants are gone in a single impatient shove, too focused on him; the broad sweep of his chest, the tight lines of his stomach, the way his arms flex as he braces himself above you. Your hands flatten against his chest without second thought.
"How the hell are you so..." You trail off, too stunned to finish.
"Gym. Sometimes." He shrugs, "What? I'm not a complete loser."
"You're worse than a loser." You retort, but your words betray your actions as you find the waistband of his boxers.
"I am?" He's grinning now, watching your hands fumble, "You don't seem to mind."
He shifts his weight as you pull them down, and then you have him—hard, bare and intimidating, grinding against the inside of your thigh. Your breath catches.
"I'm serious, though." His voice drops. His forehead presses to yours, and his hips still. "You sure you want this? It feels sort of wrong. Like..."
"Like what?"
He doesn't answer right away. His thumb traces a slow line along your hip, grounding himself, grounding you. Like you should save it for someone else, he thinks. Someone more deserving. The thought makes him shudder. He can't stand it—the image of someone else's hands on you. Someone else seeing you like this, all flushed and open and unguarded. He's too obsessed with the way you react to his touch. Too greedy to give it up.
"Sunghoon," you sigh, "I literally don't care. Just put it in."
He sucks in a breath.
"Well, I care." He presses closer, and you feel him at your entrance. He doesn’t push in yet, just rests there, heavy and warm. His eyes find yours. "So tell me if it hurts. Tell me—" He pushes in just barely, just the head of him, and your mouth falls open. "—fuck, you're gorgeous."
He's not fully in yet—just working his way inside, pausing to let you adjust to each inch. His thumb strokes the back of your hand in slow, soothing circles. And yet still—
"So big," you whimper, glancing down between your bodies, almost disbelieving. You already feel so impossibly full of him. Your fingers squeeze around his, your other hand gripping the back of his neck. "So much..."
"I know." He whispers it, and you catch the corner of his mouth twitching—trying not to smile too smugly, trying not to let it get to his head. But he's still just a guy, and the way you're looking at him, all wide-eyed and overwhelmed, is doing things to his ego he can't quite suppress. "Too much for you?"
You shake your head in denial, your nails pressing little crescents into his shoulder blade as he sinks in deeper. The stretch is intense, almost too much, but the thought of him stopping is worse.
"I know it's a lot." There's a trace of that smugness in his voice now, but it's tempered by something softer. Something almost tender. "But it feels good when you get used to it, angel. I swear."
He's fully in now. You feel him everywhere—a deep, satisfying fullness that borders on overwhelming. His palm presses flat against your lower belly, and you watch his jaw go slack as he feels himself there, buried inside you, just beneath his hand.
"Fuck," he breathes, almost to himself. "Feel that? That's me. Right there."
You can't speak. You can only nod, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your body still adjusting to the size of him.
You feel him in your guts, an almost unbearable fullness that borders on pain before it tips into something else. When he starts moving, shallow and careful, it's like your whole body shakes with the sensation. Want. Need. Anticipation. You've wanted him so badly. All summer, every night, every time his knee brushed yours or his voice dropped low. And now here he is inside you, above you, finally, and you're barely able to handle it. The frustration prickles at the edges of your bliss.
A strained sound escapes you with each shallow thrust. Your face is still tight, your body still struggling to accommodate him, but you are so, so determined.
"More," you manage, the word half-demand, half-plea. "You can go harder. Faster. I won't break."
He just laughs, Low and warm.
"Not yet." He purrs. "Not this time. You'll take it like this."
He fucks you slow and deep. His thumb finds your clit and circles it in a lazy rhythm, matching the roll of his hips. The discomfort lingers at the edges from the stretch of him that still borders on too much, but then he shifts, angling your leg slightly higher, and something inside you ignites.
A raw, involuntary noise escapes you, and he catches it immediately.
"Right there, huh?" He does it again, same angle, same depth. You bite back a cry. "Feels good?"
"So good." Your nails rake down his back. "Fuck, it’s so—"
You don't finish the sentence. You cum around him, rather abruptly, a broken cry on your lips, your back arching. He groans, low and strained, and rocks you through every pulse of it, his hips rolling gently, letting you ride out your high.
When your eyes blink open, hazy and unfocused, you stare up at him. At the sharp cut of his jaw. His mouth, still slightly parted. The dark hair falling over his gorgeous eyes. He looks like a fucking pornstar—it's actually unbelievable. Every inch of him is perfect, and it just makes you even more pissed.
And he hasn't finished yet. Still hard. Still inside you. Still watching you with that smug, knowing look, like he's got all the time in the world.
That also makes you pissed.
With a single-minded focus, you’re pushing him to his back, mounting him, your legs still shaking from the aftermath of your orgasm.
“What are you—” His voice is genuinely startled. His hands come up to your hips on instinct, not guiding, just holding, like he's bracing for impact. His eyes are wide, fixed on your face.
You lower yourself onto him, slowly. Sinking down until you’re fully seated there. It’s a lot. A lot more than it was trying to take him from just lying down. You feel all of him, even deeper than before, filling you to the brim, and your eyes squeeze shut, trying to swallow the slight discomfort that still lingers.
“I don’t know if you should—” His voice is strained. He's trying to be decent. Trying to hold still. You can feel the tension in his thighs beneath you, the effort it's taking him not to thrust up into the heat of you.
You start to move. Mostly to shut him up. There’s no rhyme or rhythm. No technique. Only directionless desire. Your hips rock in a shallow, uneven pace because you can't really handle what you're trying to take—the angle is different, and every downward stroke punches a gasp from your lungs. Your thighs burn with the effort. Your balance wavers. But you don't stop.
"Fuck." The word tears out of him, strangled and reverent. He's leaning back against your pillows now, propped on his elbows, watching you with helpless awe. "Just take it. Take what you want. It's yours."
Your nails drag down his chest, leaving angry red lines in their wake. The sting makes him hiss, but he doesn't stop you—doesn't grab your wrists, doesn't flip you over. He just watches, enthralled, as you claw at him like you're trying to leave a mark he'll feel for days.
You're cursing at him under your breath. Asshole. Entitled. Selfish. Using me. Words he can't quite catch but definitely deserves. Your rhythm stutters and breaks, your hips faltering as the pleasure builds too fast, too intense, and you can't keep the pace steady when every nerve in your body is screaming.
Maybe he should feel terrified that you're clawing at him like an animal, cursing his name with the same breath you use to moan it. But he's captivated. He's never been more attracted to anyone in his life. Your lips are parted, your chest bare and heaving, and you're riding him with zero grace and a summer’s worth of pent-up fury and sexual frustration.
"Shit," he breathes, his hands sliding up from your hips to your waist, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above your hipbones. "Look at you. So fucking hot when you're mad. Maybe I should—"
You slap him across the face.
As hard as you can.
It shocks you, even.
It’s not very hard—he's basically a wall of muscle—but the sting is real, and the crack of it echoes in the room.
For one suspended second, he doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. His head is still turned from the impact, a faint pink bloom already rising on his cheek. Still trying to wrap his head around the fact that you—the girl who stutters over her words and whimpers from a single touch—just slapped him across the face while riding him.
His eyes find yours.
"Shut the fuck up." You hiss.
He should probably feel pissed, right? Offended, maybe? He's never been slapped in his life—not by a girlfriend, not even by his roommates, though he’s sure sometimes they want to. And yet the sting on his cheek is radiating down his neck, into his chest, settling low in his gut where it twists into something insatiable.
His dick twitches, and a sound he's never made escapes him—which he does not have the time to unpack currently. He'll think about it later, probably, when he's alone and confused and trying to figure out what the hell just happened to him.
A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"Make me."
You slap him again, and his smile only widens.
His cheek is definitely pink now. He can feel the heat of it, the slight throb, and it's doing something to him. His hands tighten on your hips, not to restrain you, just to keep you there, like this. Steadying your hips.
You're breathing hard, staring down at him, the stretch of him wearing you thin. He splits you open in a way that borders on too much, your body still struggling to accommodate the sheer size of him even now, even after everything. Every inch is a presence you can't ignore, and for a dizzying second, you wonder if this is what it feels like to be completely consumed. Still, you take him. You take what you want.
You finish with a broken cry, your rhythm shattering completely. Your hips stutter, lose their pace, and then you're collapsing forward, forehead pressed to his chest, your whole body seizing and releasing around him in waves that don't seem to stop. His hands find your hips and hold you steady through it, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above your hipbones, grounding you while you shudder apart on top of him.
For a moment, he lets you rest there. His hand cradles the back of your head. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek. He's still hard—achingly, painfully hard—and the feeling of you fluttering around him, spent and trembling, is almost enough to finish him right there.
But not quite.
He flips you onto your back.
It's fast. One arm wraps around your waist, and then the world tilts, and suddenly you're beneath him again, your back sinking into the mattress, your legs falling open around his hips. He doesn't give you time to adjust—doesn't give himself time to think. He just drives back into you, burying himself to the hilt in one desperate thrust.
"Hoon—!”
"Take it," he chokes out, hand reaching for your neck, "Don't tap out on me, now. Fucking take it like a good girl."
The pace is different now, a lot less considerate. He's been holding back all night—letting you adjust, letting you set the rhythm, letting you take what you wanted. But now he's wound too tight, every thrust driven by a pure, animalistic need.
His breath goes ragged. His jaw clenches so tight it aches. The hand around your neck tightens, not enough to choke you, but enough to keep you in place, and he fucks into you like he's trying to outrun something—the guilt, the fear, the dawning realization that this isn't just about getting off anymore and that it probably hasn't been for a while.
"I'm—" His rhythm breaks, stutters, and then he's pulling out at the last possible second. His hand wraps around himself. He finishes on your stomach with a low, broken groan that sounds like it's been dragged out of him against his will, and he stares at the image of it all: You, covered in his cum. Finally his again.
He stays there for a moment, braced above you, his arms trembling. His head hangs low, breath coming in ragged gasps. The mess between you is warm and slick, pooling on your skin, and neither of you moves to clean it up. Not yet, anyway.
The room goes quiet, the two of you only breathing.
He blinks down at you. At the mess. The way you're still catching your breath, still flushed, still looking up at him with those wide, unreadable eyes. Something flickers across his face—something almost tender, almost frightened—and then it's gone, replaced by the ghost of that infuriating grin.
"Shit," he breathes, and it comes out half-laugh, half-apology. "Come here."
He kisses you. Soft. Gentle. Nothing like the desperate, driving intensity of a few minutes ago. This kiss says something different—something he can't quite put into words and isn't sure he's ready to. His lips linger on yours for a beat longer than necessary before he pulls back.
"You got anything to clean up with?"
You point him to the drawer at your bedside, and he reaches over. A pack of wet wipes. He cleans you up with careful, methodical hands, wiping the mess from your stomach, between your thighs, his touch efficient but gentle. Like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like he's done it a hundred times.
He tosses the wipes toward the garbage bin in the corner. It lands short. He doesn't pick it up. Instead, he climbs back onto the bed and lies down beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours.
"Does it hurt anywhere?" He turns his head on the pillow to look at you. His hair is a disaster, still damp with sweat at the temples. "I was trying to be careful, but you were kind of intense. You were a virgin, like, two hours ago."
"A little sore." Your voice comes out hoarse. "I'll survive."
"You sure? I can get you Advil." He's already half-propped up on one elbow, ready to go searching through your bathroom cabinets. "I don't know where you keep your Advil."
"I'm sure."
He nods, settling back down. His arm finds its way around your waist, pulling you closer until your head rests against his shoulder. His hand traces idle patterns on your hip—slow, absent shapes, like he's not even aware he's doing it.
"You're staying?"
He looks down at you. The question catches him off guard—not the words, but the way they sound to him. Soft and Uncertain, like you're bracing for him to leave. Clingy already, he thinks, but the thought makes him smile, rather than feel annoyed.
"Come on." He presses a kiss to the top of your head. "I'm not a complete asshole."
"You're not?"
"I'm staying." Another kiss, softer this time. "I'm not going anywhere."
You hum, a sigh leaving your body, head settled against his chest. His heart does something inconvenient in his ribcage—a flutter, a stutter, something he refuses to name. He pulls you a little closer anyway.
"I mean it," he says, and the words start coming faster now, tumbling out in a ramble he hadn't planned. The afterglow loosened something in his chest. "I'm gonna make it up to you. For real this time. Not like the parking lot. I know I said that then, but I mean it now. I'm gonna take you out. An actual date. No tournaments. No sushi—unless you want sushi? But a nicer place than that one. Just you and me. A real restaurant. Not some strip mall junk."
You're quiet, your thumb drawing lazy circles against his chest. It's a soothing, steady rhythm that has his eyes growing heavy.
"And I'll stop calling you a lucky charm or prize or whatever. That was stupid. I shouldn't have said that. I don't even know why I said it. I was just—the reporter was there, and I was still hyped from the match, and my teammates were all listening." He presses another kiss to your hair. "You're not any of that. You're good to me. Really good to me."
Still no response. Your thumb keeps tracing those slow circles, but you haven't looked up at him. You must be tired. Poor thing.
"Oh, and I'll teach you," he adds, a chuckle escaping him. "How to ride me. Properly. Not that I'm complaining. It was cute watching you struggle up there."
A yawn cracks his jaw. He tries to smother it, but it's too late. His body reminds him that he got zero sleep trying to work on the project, and that he just made you finish three times. The adrenaline is gone. What's left is heavy, dragging exhaustion. Almost peaceful.
"Anyway," he mumbles, eyes closing. "I'll be better. I swear. Actual date. No name-calling. Riding lessons. Sunghoon 2.0. The redeem—" Another yawn. "The redemption arc."
You turn your head on his chest. Your voice cuts through the haze of his exhaustion.
"Sunghoon."
"Mm?"
"What did I say about shutting up?"
He blinks. The question catches him off guard, and then a laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep in his chest—genuine, surprised, a little bit giddy. A laugh only you seem to be able to pull out of him.
"Yes, ma'am," he says, grinning. "Shutting up now."
You settle back against his chest. Your hand resumes its position over his ribs, but the circles have stopped. He doesn't notice. He's already sinking, the warmth of you pulling him under.
He closes his eyes. The weight of you against his chest is warm and solid and real. His, some quiet, possessive part of him whispers. And the taste of you still lingers on his lips, tasting a lot like victory.
It's been two weeks. Sunghoon has learned a few things about you.
He's learned that you're insatiable—and that Heeseung was right when he said something about the innocent ones being the freakiest in bed. He's learned that you like it when he pulls your hair—not hard, just enough. He's learned that you like to pull his hair and dig your nails into him and cuss him out, while begging him to go harder and faster.
He's also learned that you still won't let him take you on an actual date. And trust him, he's tried.
"Let me take you out," he'll say, and you're cutting him off with your sweet, irresistible lips.
"I'm serious," he'll insist, and your hand is down his pants, teasing him for being hard already.
"I'll buy you dinner. Anything you want," he'll try, and you're sinking to your knees, taking his dick down your throat like it’s nothing.
Then he forgets whatever he's arguing about.
It bothers him. Not the sex part, obviously—he enjoys that more than he's ever enjoyed anything—but he doesn't want you to think that's all he wants. He's been trying to prove otherwise. Trying to show you that he actually gives a shit. That he's not an asshole. That he's changed.
You don't seem to believe him—that's the only reason he can think of why you keep avoiding his advances, anyway. Every time he brings up a real date, you dodge, distract and deflect with your hands and your mouth and the warm press of your body.
He's determined to prove you wrong.
Today is no different. You're in his bed, head pressed into the pillows as he fucks you from behind, and he's covered in a layer of sweat.
"Shit," he seethes, watching himself disappear inside you, your greedy cunt taking all of him. "So fucking gorgeous."
"Faster," you whine, predictably. He almost laughs.
"Let me take you out." He slows deliberately, his cock dragging along your walls at an agonizing pace—so slow you can feel every inch of him, the thick ridge of his head catching on just the right spot before he pulls back again. "Tomorrow. Dinner. Real restaurant."
"Sunghoon." His name is muffled against the pillow, half-moan, half-protest. Your fingers twist in the sheets.
"Somewhere nice." He rolls his hips, just barely, just enough to make you gasp. "No sex. Not before. Not after. Not even a little. Just talking."
"You're already talking right now." You push back against him, trying to take him deeper, but his hands tighten on your hips, holding you still. "And it's very annoying."
"I'm serious."
"So am I. Now faster."
"No."
A squeal escapes you as his palm connects with your ass—not hard, just a sharp little crack that makes you jolt forward. The sting blooms warm across your skin. He rubs the spot immediately, his palm soothing over the heat he left behind, and the contrast makes you shudder.
"Just say yes." He leans over you, his chest brushing your spine, and you can feel the heat of him, the slick slide of his skin against yours. His lips find the shell of your ear. "Lemme hear it, and I'll fuck you right."
His hips rock forward—barely an inch—and you moan at the shallow stretch. Then he pulls back again, leaving you empty and aching.
"Fine," you huff, "Maybe."
He stops moving entirely. You wait for the next thrust, the next tease, but nothing comes. Then he's pulling out completely, his hands leaving your hips, and the sudden absence of him is so jarring you actually whimper.
"What are you—?"
"No date, no dick."
You crane your neck to glare at him over your shoulder. He's kneeling behind you, cock slick and ready, one hand wrapped lazily around himself. He strokes himself, just watching you squirm.
"That's not fair."
"It's completely fair." Trying not to grin, seeing the look of frustration on your face, "Seriously, what am I, a piece of meat to you?"
"Yes," you don't even hesitate, "So put your dick back inside me and stop talking."
"So demanding," he raises a brow, hands leaving his cock to return to your hips. You whine when you feel the tip of him tease along your slick heat, absolutely dripping for him.
You huff, dropping your forehead to the pillow. Your body is aching. Empty. You can feel how wet you are, how ready, and he's just kneeling there, smug and gorgeous and utterly infuriating.
"Please." Your voice drops, softening. "Please give it to me."
He bites his lip, hands gripping your hips tighter as he grinds against you. The begging. You know he can't resist the begging. He sucks in a breath. Don’t give in, don’t give in, don’t—
"Want it so bad." You push back onto your elbows, arching your back, presenting yourself to him. "Need you inside me. Need you to fill me up. Please, Sunghoon. Please."
"Fuck." He stutters and lines himself up, the head of him pressing against your entrance—just barely, just enough to make you gasp and push back—and then he sheathes himself in one brutal, devastating thrust. "So fucking needy."
You cry out, face buried in the pillow, your whole body jerking forward as he sheathes himself to the hilt. He doesn't give you time to adjust, nor does he give himself time to be careful. His hand presses flat between your shoulder blades, pinning you to the mattress, and his other hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise.
The headboard slams against the wall in a frantic rhythm, his pace punishing. Your fingers curl into the sheets, twisting the fabric, trying to anchor yourself against the force of him. Every thrust punches a broken sound from your throat—half gasp, half moan, muffled by the pillow. He watches himself disappear into you, the slick glide of his length, the way your body stretches to accommodate him, the way you push back against him even now, even pinned, even helpless.
"That's it," he grits out, his voice wrecked. "Take it. Take all of it."
You're babbling something into the pillow—his name, maybe, or just incoherent pleading. He can feel you tightening around him, your walls fluttering, the telltale tremble in your thighs. He reaches around, finds your clit, and the sound you make when he touches you there is almost enough to finish him on the spot.
"Come for me," he breathes, his rhythm stuttering as his own control starts to fray. "Let go. I've got you."
You shatter. He feels it—the clench, the pulse, the way your whole body seizes and releases. Your cry is muffled by the pillow, but he hears it anyway, feels it in the way you grip him, in the way you shudder beneath him. He fucks you through it, chasing his own release now, and when it hits him, a low, broken groan is torn from his chest as he spills inside you.
He collapses forward, bracing himself on his forearms so he doesn't crush you. His forehead presses to the space between your shoulder blades, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your damp skin. Beneath him, you're still trembling—small aftershocks rippling through you. The room is quiet now, just the sound of breathing and the distant hum of his PC.
He stays there for a long moment, letting his heart rate settle, letting the sweat cool on his back. Then he shifts, pressing a kiss to the center of your spine. Then another, higher. Then another, at the nape of your neck. He works his way up slowly, reverently, like he's memorizing the landscape of you.
"Come here." His voice is wrecked, barely more than a rasp. He eases out of you gently and tugs you down onto the pillows with him, pulling your back against his chest. His arm drapes across your waist, heavy and warm. His nose brushes the curve of your ear. But then he’s watching you slip from the bed, and he can’t help but frown. The sheets pool around his waist as he sits up, reaching for you. His fingers catch your arm before you can stand.
"Where are you going?"
"Back to my place?”
“Why?”
“Because.” You break from his grasp, “I’m busy.”
"With?"
"Studying. Work. Social life." You're pulling on your clothes with that efficient, no-nonsense energy he's come to recognize—underwear, shirt, the quick twist of your hair into something presentable. "Some of us care about our lives."
He ignores the jab, tugging you back toward him. You stumble, one knee landing on the mattress, and he takes the opening—his mouth finding the curve of your neck, pressing slow, deliberate kisses along your throat.
"Sunghoon..." Your voice wavers, a warning and a surrender all at once.
"I want to take you out." He murmurs it against your skin, his hand sliding up your arm. "Wanna do more than just this. Wanna do this right."
You pull back just enough to look at him. Your expression is hard to read—something between exasperation and something softer you won't name. "This is fine. I like this."
"I know. I like it too." His thumb traces your jaw. "But—"
"I have to go." You lean down and kiss him. Brief. Almost dismissive. Then you're pulling away, grabbing your bag, and he's left in the bed, still warm from your body, still tasting you on his lips.
He groans, dragging himself upright. Hastily, he’s tugging his sweatpants on, and throwing a hoodie over his head, and he follows you down the hallway, catching up just as you reach the living room.
The usual suspects are in position—Heeseung on the couch, Jake in the armchair, Jay sprawled on the floor doing something on his phone that's making him smirk. Three heads lift in unison as you pass.
"Leaving so soon?" Heeseung calls, not looking up from his phone. "Not even cuddling? Sunghoon, man, don't tell me you fumbled that bad?"
"I have places I need to be," you reply simply, not breaking your stride, "Bye, guys—"
He catches you at the door. His hand finds your waist, spinning you back toward him, and then he's kissing you—not the brief, dismissive peck you tried to give him in the bedroom, but something a lot more intentional.
He ignores the wolf whistle from the couch and the “get a room!” comment, his fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt at the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, and when they part on a surprised breath, he deepens the kiss without hesitation.
You make a sound against his mouth—half embarrassment, half something else—and he grins into the kiss, pleased with himself.
"Sunghoon—" You pull back, hand pressed to his chest.
"Next time." His voice is low, meant only for you, his forehead nearly touching yours. "I'm taking you out. Even if I have to keep my hands to myself the whole night."
"Sure," Your smile is unreadable, but you don't pull away. "Next time."
Then you're gone. The door clicks shut, and Sunghoon turns to face the room. Three stares bore into him.
"Bro," Jake says, "That was disgusting."
"Downright pornographic," Jay agrees from the floor.
Heeseung just shakes his head slowly, "You're down bad. Like, down bad, down bad."
"Catastrophically down bad."
"You guys don't get it." Sunghoon flops onto the couch. "She's perfect. Like, actually perfect. She's smart, and she's funny, and she puts up with my shit. And..." he cracks a smile as he gestures to his bedroom, "You know."
"We know," the three of them say in unison, flatly.
His head falls back, and he sighs, the scent of your perfume still lingering on him. The one trace of you that stays behind whenever you leave too soon.
"But," He pauses, his brows scrunched, "I don't think she believes me when I say I want more. I think that she thinks that I'm just trying to get in her pants."
"To be fair," Jake says, "you have been in her pants. Multiple times."
"And you literally spent the first half of the summer ignoring her while she did your coursework," Jay adds.
"And you made her take you to your E-sports tournament, then came on her—" Heeseung starts.
"I know. I did a lot of shitty things I regret." He stares at the ceiling. "It’s different now. I want to show her I actually care. That I'm not using her for her body or something. But every time I try, she changes the subject. Or distracts me. Or—"
"Distracts you with sex?" Heeseung raises an eyebrow. "That must be terrible for you. Imagine that? Trying to take a girl out for dinner, and she just wants one order of your load down her throat instead. How awful."
"I’m serious."
"Sunghoon." Heeseung puts a hand on his shoulder. "You're complaining that a girl who's hot and smart and good in bed won't let you take her to Olive Garden. Do you hear yourself right now?"
"She's got you whipped," Jay says, not looking up from his phone. "Never thought I'd see the day. The guy who once said 'relationships are a debuff' is now begging for a dinner reservation."
"I'm not whipped." He retorts. "I just want her to know that I care. That's all."
"Simp," Jake coughs.
Sunghoon's head snaps toward him. "Oh, you did not just say that—"
"Right message, wrong messenger," Heeseung interrupts him, "You are objectively a simp now. You, the guy who famously chose video games over his last relationship, who once said 'dating is a distraction from the grind'—"
"The grind is still important."
"—is now begging a woman to let him buy her overpriced appetizers."
Sunghoon would normally fire back with some well-aimed jab about Heeseung and Jay's own nonexistent love life or Jake's shit show of a dating history. But he's distracted. Thinking about you. About next time. About how he's finally going to convince you that he means it.
"I am," he says simply, a smile on his face, "I'd buy her everything on the menu if she asked me to."
A beat of horrified silence passes, the three boys sharing glances with each other.
"Seriously, what happened to him?" Jay whispers to Jake, who shrugs in response, matching his look, "This is terrifying."
"I'd almost rather hear him screaming at his ranked teammates."
"Or cry over a broken Nintendo Switch controller."
"Or talking to himself in the mirror before games. 'You got this, Sunghoon. You're him. You're cracked.'"
"It's hard to believe," Heeseung says, lowering his head between them and pulling them into an impromptu huddle, their voices dropping to stage whispers, "but maybe love really did change him."
"He's not in love," Jake rolls his eyes. "He's in heat or something."
"Yeah, well, it's the closest he's gotten to love in like, what, years?" Heeseung replies, "Look at what he's wearing. That's a brand new hoodie. Clean, pristine condition, not a single stain or wrinkle. When's the last time you saw him in something that didn't come out of the laundry pile?"
"It’s like when male birds start doing those weird dances to impress the females," Jay shudders, "Puffing up their chests. Spinning in circles. Except it's Sunghoon doing it. Which just feels—"
"Gross?" Jake offers.
"Unnatural.”
"Wrong.”
"A crime against nature."
"You know I can hear you guys, right?" Sunghoon deadpans. "Literally everything."
"We know," Heeseung says without turning around. "We don’t care. Go back to daydreaming."
Sunghoon opens his mouth to fire back, but his phone buzzes on the cushion beside him. A notification. He glances down, expecting your name on the screen—a text, maybe, or one of those voice notes he's learned to listen to the moment they arrive. His lips quirk up. Then he reads it.
Transcript Updated:
Summer Semester — Web Programming
Final Grade: F
The smile freezes on his face like a video paused on a single frame.
"What?" Heeseung leans over, trying to see the screen. "What's that face? You look like you just watched your favourite vandal skin get vaulted."
Sunghoon doesn't answer. He opens the grade portal. Opens the project submission page. There it is: The final project. Submitted. Your name, alone. His? Nowhere to be seen.
"I failed." His voice is small, hollow. "The class. She took my name off the project." Silence.
Then Jay starts laughing. A sharp, incredulous bark. Heeseung joins in, his shoulders shaking. Jake sets down his controller with the slow deliberation of a man who wants to fully savour what's about to happen.
"No way," Heeseung manages between breaths. "She didn't."
"She did."
"Oh, this is beautiful." Jay wipes his eyes. "This is the most beautiful thing I've ever witnessed."
“So dicking her down didn’t get you anywhere after all,” Heeseung is grinning widely, “Tried to use her for grades, then caught feelings.”
"That's not—”
"You thought you had it all, huh? The A, the tournament win, the girl—" He wheezes, "You thought you were out here playing her, and she played you."
"I told you it wasn't like that—"
"Bro." Jake sets down his controller. "It was exactly like that."
Sunghoon stares at the screen. At the F. At your name, alone on the submission page. His chest feels strange. Hollow. Like someone reached in and scooped something out and left a Sunghoon-shaped shell on the couch. He doesn't even have the energy to fight his roommates anymore.
He stands up from the couch, words dying on his lips. One moment he’s there, staring at his phone, and the next he’s walking—feet carrying him down the hallway toward his room. The laughter of his roommates fades behind him, muffled by the closing door.
His room is dark except for the blue glow of his monitor. The Valorant home screen stares back at him, waiting for a queue that won’t come. He sits at the edge of his bed and stares at the transcript notification again, as if looking at it long enough might change the grade.
His thumb hovers over your contact. The last message from you—a short, simple text from earlier that day. On my way. He'd smiled when he read it then.
He presses the call button.
"Sunghoon." You pick up after a few rings, "What's up?"
"What's up?" His voice comes out strangled. "You failed me. You took my name off the project. I thought—I thought we were—"
There’s a laugh on the other line.
"You thought what?" You ask, clearly amused. "You really thought that because you fucked me, suddenly I'd decide to let you keep your name on a project you didn't contribute to?"
"No, I—" He's stammering. "Not like that. But you made me think—"
"I didn't make you do anything."
"You let me believe—" He runs his hand through his hair, pacing. "Had me under the impression we were good. With each other. That things were fixed. That I apologized and you forgave me."
"Oh? Do you feel misled?" You tease, a content sigh, then leaving you, "I never promised you anything, Sunghoon. It's not my fault you assumed things."
His stomach drops. He sits there, in the middle of his dark room, phone pressed to his ear, and the silence stretches long enough that he's not sure why you haven’t hung up on him yet.
"I like you." The words tumble out before he can stop them, earnest and vulnerable and nothing like how he usually is. "I wasn't just trying to get in your pants. I want to take you out. I've been trying to take you out for weeks. I wanted to show you—"
"Oh, I know. You made that very clear."
"Then why—"
"But I'm sorry to break it to you," you continue, "I don't date guys who can't fix their own broken code."
He swallows, phone trembling in his grasp.
"Call me when you want to fuck again, 'kay? That's all you're really good for." You say. It’s not smug or cruel. It’s just honest. "Bye, Sunghoon."
note ✰.ᐟ this work exists in the same au as this fic here
Heyaaaa you’re one of my FAVORITE enha writer 🫶 NOW WRITE SOMETHING ABOUT YOUR ENHA BIAS!!!! I really want to see what you will come up with 🙈
Back of the club - Park Sunghoon
Pairing: ex!sunghoon x nepobaby!fem!reader
Genre: oneshot, toxic, smut MDNI
Synopsis: He was your addiction. A gang chief, manipulator, toxic jerk who fucks like a god. You were his favorite prey. Six months ago, you ran. And tonight, at a club, he corners you against a wall and says he's not here for friendship.
Warnings: toxic!relationship, emotional manipulation, sextape (mentionned), unprotected!sex, fingering, edging, baby!trapping (mentionned), murdering (mentionned), swearing, alcohol, dom!sunghoon
WC: 4k
Note: I’m working on the wips I have it’s gonna take so long (especially rn since I’m pretty busy and I’m having a writer’s block) but I will post the requests when I can 🙂↕️🥲
🎧 Back of the club - kwn now playing
The thing about being a nepo baby is that you learn early: image is everything. The right dress, the right friends, the right table at the right club. And tonight, you're giving them a masterclass. Six months post-breakup, and you're a phoenix in a Prada mini dress, all sharp angles and liquid silver that catches the light like broken glass. Your friends are a blur of expensive alcohol, giggles and compliments in the car. It's been 183 days since you deleted his number. An entire summer of pretending the ghost of his touch wasn't tattooed on your skin.
Your parents had been more than happy to erase Park Sunghoon from the family narrative. The scandal had been brutal, a sextape he’s sent to your parents and leaked to the media to punish you. A grainy video of you two in the back of his car, your head thrown back, his hand a possessive claw on your jaw, and his cock deep inside you, the internet eating it up like candy while your mother wept with the publicist on speed dial. They didn't understand. They saw a threat to the brand, a dangerous man ruling the night world with perfect ease. You saw a man who touched you like he was trying to start a fire and burn down the whole world, just for the two of you. But even you, high on the fumes of toxic, obsessive lust, knew a sinking ship when you were drowning on it. You couldn’t possibly forgive him for this one…so you jumped. You ghosted. You healed. Or so you tell yourself.
The club is a sensory overload, just how you need it. The bass vibrates up through the soles of your heels, a filthy beat that makes your hips want to move on their own. Your crew has the best VIP booth, perched like a throne above the sweating, pulsing mass below. Bottles of Hennesy and Don Julio sparkle on the table, and you're laughing at a joke you didn't even hear, your head tipped back, the perfect picture of devil-may-care. This is your kingdom. You're fine.
And then, the air shifts. It's a primal thing, a sudden drop in pressure that your body recognizes long before your mind can catch up. Your laugh dies in your throat. You feel it, a laser focus, a heat on your skin that has nothing to do with the club lights. You look.
He's in the DJ booth.
Not just by it, but in it, leaning against the equipment with a god-like nonchalance, a pair of headphones slung around his neck. The DJ, some hype-beast with face tattoos, is dapping him up like he's a damn king. And he is. Sunghoon. His hair is a little longer, falling in dark, silken strands over his thick brows. His fit is aggressively simple, a white tank top showing off his biceps paired with jeans, a silver chain catching the light. His aloof, unbothered expression is perfectly in place as he surveys the crowd, his crowd.
And then his eyes find yours.
It’s not a casual glance. It's a collision. The eye contact after 6 months of starvation hits you right in the gut, a full-body flush of pure adrenaline. Forget your heartbeat fluttering, your heart just stops, then restarts at double time, a frantic drum against your ribs. There's no surprise in his gaze, no shock. Just a slow, deliberate burn. His bedroom eyes, those dark, infinitely deep pools, travel from your face, down the length of your neck, over the cling of your dress, all the way to your thighs, and back up again. He's devouring you. Without shame. Without blinking. A ghost of a smirk plays on his lips, and you know…you know he remembers everything. The sound you make when he bites that spot on your collarbone. The way your nails raked down his back. The video. This man is a mind player, a total bastard, and with one look, he's already won.
"Y/N?! Is that Sunghoon? In the flesh?" Mina’s voice is a distant, horrified shriek. "Oh my god, Y/N, do not make eye contact!"
Too late. The entire booth has clocked him. And more importantly, him clocking you. The tension at your table turns thick and panicked, but it’s nothing compared to the tension arcing across the club between you two. You force yourself to turn away, your movements feeling jerky and unnatural. "I’m fine," you say, your voice too bright, your smile a plastic, brittle thing. "Old news. Pour me a drink."
You try. God, you try to enjoy the night. You dance with your girls, your body moving on autopilot. You knock back your drink, the expensive alcohol doing nothing to douse the fire he’s lit in your belly. But it’s a performance now, and the only audience member who matters is that predator in the DJ booth. Your body is a traitor, a finely tuned instrument that only recognizes his frequency. Every stolen glance feels like a hit of a drug you’ve been forced to quit. You catch the back of his head and remember the silk of his hair between your fingers. You see his long fingers drumming on the table and your thighs clench, a muscle memory of them gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.
The memories aren't just in your mind; they're physical, visceral. The way Sunghoon used to kiss you wasn't just a kiss, it was a claim, a statement, his tongue a hot, invasive promise that left you breathless and stupid. He was a master of delayed gratification, the kind of toxic manipulator who would spend an hour working you up with whispered filth in your ear at a party, only to ignore you the second you tried to touch him back. He got off on your desperation. And you, the spoiled, bossy princess everyone catered to, got off on being denied. The sex was a battlefield where he'd break you down and build you back up again in the same breath, and you were an addict for the demolition process. The memory of a specific night in his penthouse crashes over you, you'd been wearing a necklace, nothing else, and he'd used the cold chain as a leash. "You think you run things out there, princess?" he'd murmured against your thigh, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. "In here, you're my good girl. Say it." A hot wave of nausea and need rolls through you. You feel sick with wanting him. You’re a goner.
He knows what he's doing. His toxic aura is working you with such ease it was infuriating. His eyes never leaving you, a silent promise. He's not approaching you. He's just… there. A constant, magnetic pull. Reeling you in without lifting a finger. He's the predator who lurks before attacking, and this, this right here, watching you squirm and melt from across a packed room, this is the lurking.
You're in the middle of a conversation you've completely lost track of when you feel it, a shift in the energy behind you, a familiar scent of dark amber and danger cutting through the sticky-sweet air of the club. He doesn't tap you on the shoulder. He doesn't say "excuse me." He just walks through your group of friends like they're made of smoke, their protests dying in their throats under the weight of his sheer, aloof presence. And then he's there, right beside you, leaning his hip against the VIP table. The world goes silent, or maybe you just go deaf from the thunder of your own pulse.
He doesn't look at you directly, at first. He just picks up your glass, the one with your lipstick stain on the rim, and takes a slow, deliberate sip. His lips go right where yours were. A claim. A statement.
Finally, he turns his head, and his eyes pin you in place. Up close, the impact is devastating. He looks tired, but in that dark, romantic, "I haven't slept since you left" way. His expression is pure, unbothered arrogance. He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, and the club’s noise just vanishes. The heat of him, the solid, alive reality of Sunghoon an inch away, makes you dizzy.
"Back of the club. Now." It's not a question. His voice is a low, cocky command that travels straight from your ear to the juncture of your thighs. It's the tone he used to use when he was done with foreplay. He pulls back just enough to look at you, a nonchalant nod gesturing toward a dark, curtained-off corridor near the emergency exit. His eyes are black holes of want, and his smirk is the most infuriating, beautiful, bastardly thing you've ever seen. He knows you'll follow. He has no doubt.
And he's right. The spoiled nepo baby who swore she was done? She evaporates. What's left is the goner. The one who's too down bad for Park Sunghoon to function. You don't even give your friends an explanation. You just slip off your barstool and follow him, a moth to a goddamn flamethrower. The world narrows to the broad line of his back as he walks ahead of you, not even looking back to see if you're there. Of course you're there.
He pushes through a heavy black curtain into a dim, plush hallway lined with the club's offices, the music instantly muffled, the air cool on your over-heated skin. Dirty. Private. He leans against the exposed brick wall, arms crossed, one ankle hooked over the other. He looks you up and down again, slowly, a predator finally examining the prey he's cornered.
"So," he says, the word dripping with smug, venomous honey. He pushes off the wall and takes a step toward you, and you instinctively take a step back, hitting the opposite wall. His smile is a slow, dangerous dawn. You're exactly where he wants you. One hand comes up, planting itself flat on the wall beside your head. He’s caging you in, his entire, overwhelming presence blotting out the rest of the world.
"Six months." He says it like a curse. His other hand comes up, and he trails a single, cold knuckle from your temple, down your cheek, to the corner of your mouth. "No texts. No calls. You didn't even come to say hi after so long. I'm a little… offended." His thumb traces your lower lip, tugging it down slightly.
You flinch away from his touch, trying to summon the cold, strong-willed woman you're supposed to be. "Didn't think there was anything to say. We're not friends, Sunghoon."
His head tilts back, and a short, mocking laugh escapes him. It's not a nice laugh. "Friends?" He leans in, his mouth hovering over yours, not kissing, just sharing breath. "Baby, I didn't drag you back here to catch up about your semester. Let's not play dumb. It doesn't suit you." His eyes drop to your lips. "I'm not here for friendship." He says it like it’s the most obvious, fundamental law of the universe. The bastard knows exactly what you want, what you've been dying for, and he's going to make you choke on it. And god, you don't want to be saved.
His words hang in the air between you, a challenge and a promise all at once. "I'm not here for friendship." The arrogance of it, the sheer certainty that he knows your body better than you know your own mind, should make you slap him. It should make you push past him and march back to your friends, head held high, leaving him in the dusty shadows.
But you don't.
You can't.
Because he's right. And the worst part is, he knows you know he's right.
A slow, wicked smile spreads across his face, and before you can form another coherent thought, his patience snaps. He moves. It's not a kiss; it's an ambush. His hands are suddenly on your face, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your cheeks, thumbs pressing into the hinge of your jaw. He holds you captive, forcing your head back against the cool brick. There's no escape. There's no room to breathe, let alone protest. Then his mouth crashes down on yours.
This isn't a reunion kiss. This is a punishment. It's sloppy, nasty, and utterly consuming. His lips are demanding, bruising, and he doesn't wait for an invitation. His tongue shoves past your teeth, a hot, invasive force that tastes of tequila, mint, and pure, unadulterated Sunghoon. It's a kiss designed to erase the last six months, to remind you of exactly who owns this territory. He licks into your mouth, claiming every corner, swallowing your gasp. You try to turn your head, a token resistance from your pride, but his grip is like iron. He just follows your movement, a predator who refuses to let his prey wriggle away. Your hands, which had been clenched into fists at your sides, come up to push against his chest, but the moment they make contact with the solid warmth of his tank top, they betray you. Your fingers curl, clutching the fabric instead of shoving him away. You're drowning, and you're grabbing onto the lifeline that's pulling you under.
He pulls back just enough to speak, his lips brushing yours, his breath hot and ragged. "Missed this mouth," he growls, his voice a low, guttural thing that vibrates straight through your bones. "Missed these smartass lips wrapped around my cock." He punctuates the filthy words by biting your lower lip, a sharp, stinging nip that makes you whimper. "So fucking pretty when you know nothing but moaning."
Before you can process the insult, his right hand leaves your face. You have a split second of relief before he brings his index and middle fingers to your own lips. "Open," he commands, his tone leaving no room for argument. When you hesitate, a flicker of that old bratty defiance in your eyes, he just smirks. "Don't make me ask again, princess. You know how this ends."
With a shuddering breath, you part your lips. He pushes his fingers into your mouth, sliding them over your tongue. "That's it," he murmurs, his eyes darkening as he watches you. "Get them wet for me. Show me how good you can be." Your tongue swirls around his digits, your saliva coating them, the act so intimate, it makes your knees weak. You're trapped between the wall and his body, his fingers in your mouth, his gaze pinning you down. It's a position of complete submission, and your body is humming with a sick, thrilled electricity.
He seems satisfied. He pulls his fingers from your mouth with a wet, obscene pop, a string of saliva connecting them to your lips for a moment before breaking. "Good girl," he whispers, and the praise, so condescending and so needed, makes a fresh wave of arousal pool in your panties.
Then his hand disappears under the hem of your dress. The liquid silver fabric bunches around his wrist as his fingers, slick with your own spit, find the soaked lace of your thong. He doesn't tease. He doesn't wait. He pushes the fabric aside and slides two fingers directly into your folds. A choked moan escapes you at the sudden, shocking contact. He's not gentle. He strokes you with the same rough, possessive energy as his kiss, his fingers circling your clit once, twice, before plunging inside you. The stretch is immediate, a perfect, familiar burn that your body instantly craves more of.
"Still so fucking tight," he grunts against your ear, his breath hot. "Like this pussy was waiting for me." He sets a punishing rhythm, his fingers curling inside you, stroking that sensitive spot that makes your vision go blurry. "Tried to forget me, didn't you? Tried to fuck your feelings away with some trust fund prick who doesn't know how to make you scream?"
"No," you gasp, the lie tasting like ash in your mouth. "I haven't-"
"Don't lie to me," he snarls, his thumb pressing down hard on your clit as his fingers pump faster. The dual stimulation is overwhelming, pleasure so sharp it borders on pain. "I can feel you. I can feel how much you missed this. This greedy little cunt is soaking my hand. Tell me you missed it."
"Sunghoon, stop," you whimper, trying to sound authoritative, but it comes out as a breathy plea. Your hips are moving against his hand now, a desperate, grinding motion you can't control. You're trying to stand your ground, to maintain some semblance of the strong woman you're supposed to be, but your body is a traitor, arching into his touch, silently begging for more.
He laughs, a dark, cruel sound. "Stop? Baby, I'm just getting started." He leans in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice a low, hypnotic whisper that bypasses all your defenses. "You know, I thought about you every night. In my bed. Alone. I thought about your stupid designer clothes. I thought about ripping them off you and bending you over the nearest surface. I thought about how you'd look crying my name, begging me to let you come." He licks a slow, deliberate stripe up the curve of your ear, and the sensation is so intimate, so filthy, it makes you shudder violently. "But you left me. You ghosted me. Made me look like a fool. So I think you need to be punished for that, don't you?"
He punctuates his question by suddenly withdrawing his fingers completely. The emptiness is a jarring, cold shock. You cry out at the loss, your body trembling with unfulfilled need. "Please," you whisper, the word tearing from your throat before you can stop it.
"Please what?" he taunts, his hand resting possessively on your mound, his fingers so close yet so far away. "Use your words, princess. You're so good with them when you're acting like a bitch. Use them now."
"Please… touch me," you manage to say, your voice cracking with humiliation and want.
"Where?" he asks, his voice dripping with false innocence. He's edging you, playing your body like an instrument, and he knows every note.
"My… my pussy," you choke out, the words humiliating and electrifying all at once.
He rewards you by sliding just one finger back inside you, a slow, maddening tease. "Like this?"
"No," you whimper, frustrated beyond belief. "More. Please, Sunghoon."
"Tell me you love me," he demands, his voice suddenly hard, his mask of playful cruelty dropping to reveal the raw, obsessive need underneath. He's not playing anymore. This is the real demand. The core of it all. He starts pumping that single finger in and out, a slow, deliberate rhythm designed to drive you insane. "Say it. Say you love me, and I'll give you what you want. Say you're sorry you left."
Tears of frustration prick at your eyes. You're caught in a web of pleasure and pain, of humiliation and desperate need. He's breaking you down, piece by piece, just like he always did. The logical part of your brain is screaming at you to fight, to run, but the part of you that's been starving for him for six months is desperate to give in.
"I… I hate you," you sob, a last, futile attempt at defiance.
His smile is a flash of white teeth in the dim light. "No, you don't." He adds a second finger, stretching you again, and his thumb finds your clit, rubbing it in tight, relentless circles. The pleasure builds, a tidal wave rising inside you, threatening to pull you under. "You love this. You love me. Now say it, Y/N. Say it or I'll leave you here. Wet. Alone. Unsatisfied." He leans in, his voice a venomous promise right against your ear. "I'll walk away and find someone else. Someone who appreciates what I can give her. I'll make her scream the way you used to."
The threat is the final blow. The image of him with someone else, of him giving this, this intense, consuming, perfect torture, to another woman, is more than you can bear. It shatters what's left of your resistance.
"Okay!" you cry out, your voice ragged. "Okay! I love you! I love you, Sunghoon, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please!"
The words are barely out of your mouth before he rewards you. His fingers plunge back into you, deep and hard, and his thumb works your clit with an expert, relentless pressure. The dam breaks.
The orgasm rips through you with the force of a detonation, a blinding, deafening wave of pleasure that erases every thought, every memory, every regret. Your body convulses as you clamp down around his fingers. A strangled cry tears from your throat, a raw sound of pure release. For a moment, the world goes white, and all that exists is the overwhelming, all-consuming bliss of coming apart in his arms.
When you slowly drift back to reality, you're slumped against the wall, boneless and trembling. Sunghoon doesn't pull his fingers out immediately. Instead, he keeps them buried deep inside you, feeling the aftershocks as your walls flutter and clench around him. A slow, smug, utterly satisfied smile curves his lips. He brings his other hand up, and you watch through hazy, half-lidded eyes as he drags his fingers through your slickness, gathering your cum on his fingertips.
"Look at this mess," he murmurs, his voice a low, appreciative rumble. He holds his glistening fingers up in the dim light, a testament to your surrender. "So fucking pretty. Soaked for me after all this time." He brings his fingers to his own lips, his eyes locked on yours as he slowly, deliberately licks them clean. A jolt of renewed arousal, goes through you at the sight. "Tastes just like I remembered. Sweet and desperate. We were so addicted to this, weren't we? Remember that week in Jeju? Barely left the hotel room. Just ordered room service and fucked until we couldn't stand. You were insatiable. My little nympho."
His words are a poison, a toxic cocktail of degradation and nostalgia that goes straight to your head. He's manipulating you, rewriting your history to paint a picture of mutual obsession, and the worst part is how desperately you want to believe it. You want to go back to being that girl, the one who existed only in his orbit, whose only purpose was to please him and be pleased in return.
He finally pulls his fingers from you, and the emptiness is a fresh ache. He doesn't give you time to mourn the loss. With a fluid motion, he undoes his belt and the button of his jeans. The metallic clink of his zipper is loud in the quiet hallway. He frees his cock, and the sight of it, hard, thick, and weeping at the tip makes your mouth water.
He doesn't enter you. Not yet. He just takes himself in hand and rubs the thick, blunt head of his cock through your soaked folds. The sensation is exquisite torture. He coats himself in your wetness, sliding against your clit, over your entrance, a teasing, maddening friction that has you whimpering and arching your hips, trying to draw him in.
"Sunghoon, please," you beg, your voice a pathetic, breathy thing.
"Please what?" he taunts, a total jerk, enjoying your desperation. He hooks one of your legs over his hip, opening you up completely, changing the angle so his cock slides perfectly against your most sensitive spots. "Tell me what you want, princess. Use that smart mouth of yours for something useful for once."
He leans in and kisses you again, a deep, possessive kiss that's all tongue and teeth. It's messy, and you start to move against him, a desperate, instinctive humping, your clothed body rubbing against his, your slick pussy grinding against the hard length of his cock. The friction builds, a hot, tight coil of need winding in your belly. You're so close, but he won't let you have it.
Then he does something that makes you gasp. He pulls back slightly, spits into his own palm, and slicks it over his cock. The wet, obscene sound of him stroking himself, the sight of him making himself even wetter for you, is so debasing and so incredibly hot that it nearly pushes you over the edge.
"Fuck, you like that, don't you?" he growls, his voice thick with lust. "You like it when I'm nasty. When I'm a dirty bastard for you." He continues to rub himself against you, the added wetness making every slide slicker, every touch more intense. "You want me to fuck you, don't you? Want me to split you open on this cock? Want me to remind you who you belong to?"
"Yes," you sob, tears of frustration and need streaming down your face. "Yes, please, Sunghoon, fuck me. I need it. I need you."
He's edging you, pushing you to the absolute limit of your sanity, and it's working. He's breaking you, mind-fucking you so thoroughly that you can't remember why you ever left. You're a mess, disheveled, tear-streaked, and so turned on you can't think straight.
"Look at you," he says, his voice a mix of triumph and something that sounds suspiciously like affection. "So beautiful when you're broken for me." He finally seems satisfied with your begging. With one smooth, powerful thrust, he sinks into you.
The feeling of being completely filled by him after so long is a revelation. It's a stretch, a burn, a perfect, homecoming ache that steals your breath. He doesn't give you time to adjust. He starts to move, his hips snapping against yours in a hard, deep rhythm that's immediately overwhelming. This isn't the teasing, maddening friction from before. This is a fucking. A raw, passionate claiming.
His demeanor shifts. The taunting, cruel edge softens slightly, replaced by an almost frightening intensity. He buries his face in your neck, his thrusts becoming deeper, more purposeful. "I love you," he pants against your skin, the words a shocking, desperate confession. "God help me, I fucking love you." He licks a hot stripe into your ear, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "And if you ever leave me again, I'll destroy you. I'll burn your entire world to the ground until there's nothing left but me. Do you understand?"
You can only nod, your head thrashing against the brick as he pounds into you, his words a terrifying thrill that only heightens your pleasure.
"I'm serious," he growls, his hand gripping your hip, holding you in place for his deep, punishing strokes. "I'll knock you up. Put a baby in you so you can never leave. Tie you to me forever." The thought is so insane, so horrifying, and yet it sends a fresh gush of arousal through you. "Or maybe I'll just kill your parents. Get them out of the way. They never liked me anyway. Then it'll just be you and me. Forever."
"Sunghoon," you moan, his name a prayer and a curse on your lips. The dirty talk, the threats, the possessiveness, it's all a twisted aphrodisiac, and you're completely under its spell. "I love you. I love you so much."
He groans, your words seeming to push him closer to the edge. He fucks you harder, faster, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the hallway. His hand snakes between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing it in tight, hard circles that match the rhythm of his hips. It's too much. The pleasure builds again, higher and higher than before, a wave of ecstasy that threatens to drown you completely.
"Come for me," he commands, his voice harsh and demanding. "Come all over my cock like a good girl. Show me you're mine."
And you do. The second orgasm is even more powerful than the first, a full-body convulsion of pure, unadulterated bliss. You scream his name, your vision blurring, your body clamping down around him like a vise. The feel of you coming undone sends him over the edge with a guttural roar. He thrusts deep one last time, and you feel the hot, powerful pulse of his cum as he spills inside you, marking you from the inside out.
For a long moment, you just stand there, tangled together, breathing heavily in the aftermath. He's still inside you, a heavy, comforting weight. He gently kisses you, a soft, lingering kiss that's a stark contrast to the brutal passion of moments before. It's almost tender.
Finally, he pulls out, and you feel the slow trickle of his cum mixed with yours running down your thigh. He tucks himself back into his jeans, then looks down at you, his expression unreadable in the dim light. He reaches out and gently wipes a tear-streak from your cheek with his thumb.
"Come home with me tonight," he says. It's not a question. It's a statement. A command.
And even though a small, rational part of your brain is screaming at you, telling you that this is a mistake, that going home with him means slipping right back into the toxic, all-consuming relationship you barely escaped, you know you're going to say yes. You know it means more fucking, more fighting, more of the beautiful, destructive obsession that defines you both. But you also know, with a certainty that settles in your bones, that you can't say no. You're his. You always have been.
You nod, your voice barely a whisper. "Okay."
He takes your hand, his fingers lacing through yours, and leads you out.
𝒇.reader ⁕ fingering ⁕ unprotected p in v ⁕ rough sex ⁕ slight dub-con ⁕ mean sunghoon ⁕ dacryphilia ⁕ use of pet names (baby, angel, pretty girl etc.)
The argument ended more than two hours ago.
Still, Sunghoon hasn’t heard a word leave your pretty little mouth. Not to mention that the argument was absolutely stupid. His nerves were already frayed by the constant nagging of his manager, a headache throbbing behind his eyelids from sitting in front of the computer screen for too long, mood ruined by that stale coffee the barista served him this morning and called it the best creation of his time. And you. Sweet, perfect, concerned you just happened to be there at the wrong time.
He was being an asshole, that much he admits. He shouldn’t have yelled at you or called you dumb, but you were the softest target with your clinginess and sweet voice. Now, you are giving him the ultimate cold shoulder. He has tried apologizing, tried talking to you, to make it up to you, yet you remain steadfast in your determination to ignore him. It was frustrating, really, though you look absolutely lovely sulking on the couch, big eyes swimming with tears you could barely keep at bay.
Sunghoon’s heart cracks a little at the sight but a small part of him is thrilled that he can get to you so well. You have always been a sensitive little thing, just one mean word or raising his voice a few octaves would leave you a sniffling, sobbing mess.
Just like how you’re sobbing right now. Sunghoon had initially thought that he’d coax you to talk to him again by murmuring apologies in your ear, but you had other plans. The second Sunghoon sits down beside you, you were getting up, sniffling as if he had wronged you (he has). That made his remaining patience snap like a thread.
Before you could even utter a word of protest, you were being bent over the arm of the couch, his large hand pushing your face into the cushions, thick fingers ripping your panties and tossing them off somewhere. He could have been more vocal and gentlemanly, though you don’t look like you were in the mood for it. Besides, he already knows what will get you speaking really fast.
“We’ll do it your way,” Sunghoon mutters, leaning over you, his chest brushing against your back. His lips pressed on the side of your neck in a feather-light kiss that didn’t match the roughness of his hands.
His hand palms your ass, squeezing the flesh roughly before sneaking down to brush over your folds. He isn’t gentle by any means, no, his thumb rubs up and down your slit, gathering the syrupy slick and circling your clit once, twice, thrice, and again until you are squirming from the stimulation.
“Nu-uh, baby. Don’t squirm now,” he coos, pressing a kiss to your jaw. You were about to relax, to melt into his familiar touch, but of course Sunghoon wasn’t nice. Before you could relax, three thick fingers are sinking down to knuckles, cold metal of his rings bumping against your heated skin.
You jerk, a sharp cry leaving your lips at the suddenness of the intrusion. Sunghoon watches as tears drip down your sweet face, staining your ruddy cheeks, and making your bottom lip tremble oh-so-sweetly. Fuck, you were so pretty, so, so dear to him it was ridiculous. He gives you enough time to adjust by squirming and clamping around his digits before pulling them out, feeling your walls flutter, and then stretching deliciously when he thrusts them back in.
Sobs are already falling past your lips, back arched as slick drips down his digits and coats his hand in thick sheen. “Still not speaking?” He murmurs, warm lips brushing over your dampened cheek, tongue flicking out to lick a tear. “I did say sorry, didn’t I?”
You’re immediately shaking your head, strands of hair sticking to your damp skin. “No, y-you didn’t, Hoonie.”
Oh, how Sunghoon melts at the way you whimper out that little nickname. He grins against your cheek, crooking his fingers juuust slightly to hit that spongey spot. Your body jerks, toes curling from pleasure as you let out a choked moan.
“I didn’t?” He muses, pulling his fingers out with a wet squelch. “That’s really bad of me, isn’t it?”
He was mocking you, you could tell by the slight taunting lilt of his voice. You were ready to beg him to put his fingers back, already feeling empty and distressed from the loss of orgasm. But then you feel him moving back, the sound of metal clinking, and the sound of a zipper reaches your ears. You tense—from anticipation or from nervousness, you couldn’t tell. Though your cunt clenched ‘round nothing, dripping like it has been waiting for this exact moment. And perhaps, Sunghoon thinks, she has. After all, his pretty girl was just so ready for him whenever he needed her.
He pulls his pants and boxers down to his thighs, just enough to free his aching erection. It springs free with a jerk, tip glistening with pre-cum. Spitting on his palm, Sunghoon fists his shaft, pumping his plumpy girth once, twice, thrice before lining himself up with your weeping cunt.
His one hand pushes down on your back to make you arch while the other guides the bulbous head to part your folds and sink into your heat. He watches, entranced, as your puffy lips parted around his mushroom tip, your walls stretching around his girth as he feeds you inch after thick inch. He has to hold himself back from just rutting into you like an animal, to relish in the damning, velvety heat of your cunt.
“S—Sunghoon—” you gasp, gummy insides swallowing him whole. The way he fills you up is almost sinful, and all you could do is push your hips back, grind your ass against his pelvis
“Mm, fuck, baby,” Sunghoon rasps, his other hand coming to pull both of your arms behind your back, holding your wrists with one hand while the other settles on the dip of your waist to anchor you to him. “Feels like coming home. Literally.”
He gives you a second to adjust—just a second, and then he is pulling his hips back, thick head dragging along your walls almost heavenly before snapping forward.
He sets a punishing pace almost immediately once he was sure you could take it. His hips slap against your plump ass, grip tight on your wrists as he thrusts, thrusts, thrusts, each one forcing his cock a little deeper than the last. “That’s what you get for goin’ silent on me,” Sunghoon groans, his length swabbing into every nook and cranny you thought didn’t even exist.
“Nngh, t—too fast,” you slur out, head pushed into the couch cushions, its case now damp with your drool and tears, and bend over the armrest with your ass and feet up. The position wasn’t new, though the circumstances sure were. And Sunghoon doesn’t look like he is in the mood for playing nice and gentle for you, at least not tonight.
“Clearly not fast enough if ya’ can still speak, pretty girl,” and then he is changing the angle, just slightly so, but it made stars burst behind your eyes all the same. He bends his knees, pulling at your wrists to force your back into a deeper arch and that has his cock ramming into that sweet, hidden spot.
“Oh—” you squeal, thighs clamping shut.
That, that wasn’t something Sunghoon liked, clearly, because one second his hand is pinning your wrists behind your back, and the next you feel a sharp smack landing right on your pussy.
You yelp, more slick gushing around his cock as his roughened tips press down onto your puffy clit. “You’re always throwin’ a tantrum and being messy, hm?” His low voice was enough to pull a whimper from your throat, the stinging of the smack barely subsiding before he is drilling into you.
“I—I wasn’t—” you start, but your words are soon dissolving into sobs when he twists your clit, his larger, broader frame hovering behind you when he leans down.
“H-Ha, you so were, baby,” he drawl out. You were a firm one, Sunghoon knew that much. Even if you were on your limits, you wouldn’t admit it. Such foolishness in a small body was almost expected, really, though it didn’t dim his admiration for you. If anything, your stubbornness to admit your weakness and vulnerability made him want to crush you.
And he expected that whiny denial anyways. He’d have to bully out a few orgasms for you to actually sob out a complaint.
You were just so beautiful when you were being tunneled by his cock, all stupid and whiny with tears and drool all over your face.
Stubborn and a whole lot sensitive, but you were his, every inch. And while he might have yelled at you because of his stupid stress, he knows how to make it up to you all too well.
So, in no time, he is burrowing his cock deeper into your cunt until the round head slams into your cervix. You don’t get the time to even register the sensation at first before he is bashing that spot, the impact and pleasure making your eyes cross and for unashamed moans to spill out.
“Mhm-hm, look at ‘er, angel,” he grunts, “Grippin’ me so sweetly.”
Each snap of his hips sent your body jolting forward, face pressing into the cushions and wetting them with your spit and tears. Usually Sunghoon is much more loving and considerate, however, right now he has lost all of his patience. The sound of skin slapping against skin, and the wet, filthy plap, plap, plap filled the living room along with his ragged breathing.
He felt your walls fluttering, saw the way your knees gave away and you bit the pillowcase to muffle your cries, and he knew you were close. Too close. A little bit more and you’d be dumb enough to forget about the argument altogether.
His hand snakes down, thick fingers prodding at your swollen folds before finding your clit and drawing slow, tight circles over the sensitive bud. Your body twitched, a broken sound spilling past your lips, sounding strangely like a breathy gasp of his name. Sunghoon didn’t stop his relentless assault, if anything, his thrusts became more forceful, more intentional to drive you to the brink of insanity.
“You’re close, pretty girl,” Sunghoon murmurs, not a question, rather a statement. He knew your body better than you knew it yourself, knew which buttons to press to get you all stubborn and defensive and what strings to pull to make you melt in his hands.
You merely managed a dumb nod, sniffling and hiccuping, and it was just so pathetic. You were barely coherent, probably not even listening to half the things he spewed out. His cock gave a traitorous jerk, balls drawing up as his own climax approached.
“Sunghoon,” you choke out, the knot in your tummy unraveling with each thrust. “P—Please, don’t stop.” Pleasure spreads down to your toes like an inferno, consuming you whole until all thoughts and memories of previous argument melted from your head.
The “please” sounded so good from your lips, but then again, you’ve always looked prettier when you begged.
“Please what?” He slows down like the annoying asshole he was, and a shudder ran through you. You didn’t speak—couldn’t, not when he was railing you into another week. He, however, doesn’t care if he had rendered you speechless. He wanted—no, needed—you to continue your mindless babbling. He leaned over you, chest brushing against your back and he was so warm, like a furnace. “I said, please what, angel, hm? Please let you cum? Please fuck you harder? Or please stop? Which one is it?”
The thought of him stopping was painful. You didn’t want that, not when you were so, so close. You shake your head immediately, lifting your head a little to peer at him from over your shoulders, your wet eyes meeting his.
“Please let me cum,” you whimper, and Sunghoon feels the wetness of your tears when you press your cheek against his jaw.
And, just like that, he was absolutely done for. His hips snapped forward with more force than necessary and you bit back a choked cry.
“Fuck, you’re so good,” he rasped, lips ghosting over your soft damp cheek in feather-light kisses. “Too good.”
The squelching sound of your wetness ricocheted off of the walls along with the slap of skin against skin. Your eyes rolled back, breath hitching as the pleasure mounted—hot and white. Your grip on the cushions tightened, nails tearing into the cheap pillowcase.
Your thighs shook, entire body seizing with the force of your orgasm as you came around his cock. It was abrupt, intense, and numbing. You feel Sunghoon stilling inside you, big, warm hands settling on your waist. You squeezed him, and the tightness had him choking back a moan. He pulled out, fist closing around the base of his cock in a firm grip. He knew if he continues, he’d cum, and he had something much important to take care of before granting himself that pleasure.
He watched as you came down from your high, body still trembling with the aftershocks of it all, the fire dying down and leaving behind dazzles of pleasure.
“You alright?” He whispered, voice gentler now as he rubbed your back.
You stayed quiet for a moment, catching your breath before speaking. “You were mean to me,” you whisper, voice undeniably sulky despite your piss-poor attempt to mask it.
Sunghoon huffed, a sound somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle, though you weren’t sure. He moved away, the warmth of his body disappearing and you almost found your footing back when he is hauling you up and settling down on the couch, sitting you on his lap.
“Oh, I know,” he sighed, hands finding purchase on your bare hips and he felt the familiar spark of arousal igniting low in his guts. He dark eyes catch yours, a small, almost mocking smile pulling at his lips. “But I know how to make it much better, yeah?”
If the lustful glint in his eyes wasn’t enough to convey his implications, the hardness of his arousal pressing against your inner thigh made his intentions much, much clear. And despite how much you want to hold on to your anger, you couldn’t. Not when he was looking at you like you were the most beautiful person to exist in his world, and especially not when you could feel yourself already beginning to drip.
I bring you a request for your next story, I'd like it to be smut. I want to see Sunghoon as a prince and a bathtub as the main scenario... I give you total creative freedom with the story, I fully trust your imagination.
𑁍ࠬܓ𝑆𝑖𝑙𝑘 '𝑛𝑑 𝑆𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑚: 𝑃.𝑆𝐻
᭄Crown Prince! Sunghoon x Crown Princess! Reader: fiancée, bath sex, fingering, P in V, first time, creampie, power dynamic, size kink, possessive tones, historical setting (Joseon AU), MDNI.
Hi mai lop @heesngirl ~ 💕 It is such an honor that you’be my first request. Here is what you asked for—I truly hope you like it.
There was nothing Sunghoon cherished more than those fleeting moments of solitude. They were his only refuge, far from the endless parade of eunuchs and court ladies who escorted him at every step, devoted to the task of serving and protecting the future sun of Joseon. Sometimes, he wished the bathing ritual would last forever; it was one of the few occasions when he could persuade his entourage to leave him, earning barely an hour of freedom behind the walls of the steam chamber.
Sunghoon closed his eyes and stretched his arms over the edge of the tub. He sank slightly into the soothing warmth of the hot water, letting the scent of the floating petals intoxicate his senses. However, that oasis of calm shattered with the creak of the door opening, followed by a stifled gasp pressed against a palm.
Prince Park opened his eyes immediately. Fury ignited in his pupils, ready to punish whoever dared to profane his sacred isolation. Yet, the severity of his features softened instantly when he found your figure. It was you—his daring fiancée—who was now clumsily trying to retreat in a desperate attempt to flee.
“Stop right there. Close the door and don’t you dare leave,” he ordered.
Though his voice still carried the firmness of a royal command, a trace of dark amusement began to seep into his expression. He watched you lower your head and close your eyes in silent lament, doing everything possible to avoid looking at his bare torso.
“Tell me, slippery princess. How did you get here without being seen?” Sunghoon said, his tone mockingly serious while one corner of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly.
He wasn’t angry at all. On the contrary, the sight of your flushed cheeks was the best spectacle he had witnessed in years. He valued his solitude, yes, but there was something disturbingly exciting about the idea that you were the one invading his most intimate space.
“Forgive me, Your Highness. I… I was bored in my chambers and decided to explore the palace a little,” you managed to articulate, still without opening your eyes.
“And your ladies? Did you escape from them?” He let out a low chuckle, fascinated by your audacity. “Princess, you should be grateful you ran into me. Opening doors at random in this place is a dangerous game. Others would not be so… indulgent.”
“I didn’t see anyone guarding the area. I thought the hall was empty. Forgive me, Your Highness. I’ll return to my chambers and promise it won’t happen again.”
You took a step back, but before your hand could reach the doorknob, the splash of water stopped you cold. Sunghoon moved within the bath, resting his elbows on the edge and letting drops of water slide down his broad, defined shoulders.
“Who said you have permission to leave?” His voice dropped an octave, becoming deeper, almost a whisper that filled the space between you. “The least you can do is stay and explain how you intend to compensate for this interruption.”
His gaze was not that of a prince punishing an intruder; it was the gaze of a man who had just found a far more interesting distraction than silence.
“Compensate you?” you blurted out, confused, raising an eyebrow slightly as curiosity began to win over your embarrassment. “Do you want me to… scrub your back?”
Sunghoon let out a laugh and shook his head, making an imperious gesture with his finger for you to come closer, until your feet stood at the edge of the damp stone.
“Take off your clothes and get in,” he said without a hint of doubt.
You froze. Your eyes, which had avoided his figure just seconds before, widened, meeting his dark, fixed gaze. Your heart lurched. You felt drawn to him like a moth unable to resist the embrace of fire. Though your body screamed for you to take that step, your mind shouted every lesson of etiquette that had been drilled into you since childhood.
“Highness… is this… is this okay?” you whispered, your voice barely audible, glancing toward the closed door as if expecting protocol itself to walk in and judge you. “I don’t think so. We’re engaged, but the morals of the court… if anyone saw us…”
He didn’t even flinch. He rested his chin on his hand, observing you with an intensity that made you feel small and, at the same time, the most desired woman in all of Joseon. The steam rising from the scented water seemed to create a barrier with the outside world, inviting you to leave behind the tedious rules that governed your life beyond these walls.
“Does that really matter to you right now?” he asked, tilting his head. His eyes traced the line of your neck, where your pulse betrayed you. “There is no court or laws here. Only you and me. Tell me, princess… didn’t you enjoy that kiss in the lotus pavilion?” His voice dropped to a whisper that seemed to vibrate in your chest. “If a simple brush of lips was enough to steal your breath, don’t you feel curious to discover there are other ways to make you feel… more?”
Almost hypnotized by the memory, you nodded and began to undo the ties of your nightclothes. Sunghoon leaned back as before, resting his back against the stone edge and stretching his arms. He enjoyed the show, memorizing every inch of skin that began to appear.
Your fingers, clumsy from the mixture of nervousness and desire, pulled at the first silk ribbon. The sleeping hanbok began to give way, sliding off your shoulders with a soft hiss that seemed to echo in the silence of the hall. Sunghoon didn’t blink; his eyes darkened, turning into two deep pools that devoured the way the fabric fell, revealing the smoothness of your shoulders under the flickering candlelight.
When the outer garment hit the stone floor with a dull thud, the steam from the bath caressed your bare skin, but it was his gaze that truly burned you. With torturous slowness, you finished removing the inner layers. Every movement of yours was followed by the slight bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, though his face remained a mask of absolute control. The tension in his body betrayed the battle he was fighting not to pounce on you.
Finally, the last silks pooled at your feet. You stood there, trembling from the exposure, completely surrendered before the future king.
“Come here,” he demanded. His voice was no longer a royal command, but a hungry plea.
You took a step toward the edge of the bath, and the hot water welcomed your feet. Sunghoon, unable to wait another second, reached out and wrapped his hand around your waist with possessive firmness, making you gasp. He pulled you toward him, forcing you to descend until the water covered your shoulders and your body inevitably collided with his. A shared sigh filled the space between you, both of you shivering at the contact.
Then his hand rose to your nape, fingers tangling in your hair as he tilted your head toward him. The first kiss was sweet, just like the one in the lotus pavilion. His lips moved against yours with patience, exploring, savoring. But soon the kiss deepened naturally; your mouths opened, and your tongues met in a timid brush that made you both shiver from the intensity of the sensation. It wasn’t a clash—it was a mutual discovery, slow and curious. Sunghoon let out a low, husky sound from his chest, as if holding back something much greater, and his tongue caressed yours with more confidence, inviting you to follow.
As you kissed, his hands roamed your back, tracing the curve of your spine. He felt your trembling and responded with soothing caresses.
Without breaking the kiss, he lifted you slightly and settled you straddling his lap, your knees resting on the stone bottom of the tub on either side of his thighs.
That was when you felt it.
Hard, hot, and thick, his erection pressed insistently against your lower belly, right where your bodies met. The surprise made you gasp against his mouth, breaking the kiss for a moment. Your eyes flew open and your cheeks burned even hotter. It was impossible to ignore his size, his throbbing rigidity pressing against your skin.
“Shh… easy,” he murmured against your lips. “It’s just my body reacting to you… to how beautiful you are.”
He kissed you again—a comforting brush of lips—before deepening it once more, letting you decide how far to go. His right hand slid down your side, caressing your skin until it rested on your thigh. He gave you space, waiting for you to grow accustomed to the feeling of his body against yours.
Only then did his hand slip between your bodies. His long, skilled fingers first brushed the inside of your thigh, moving upward with soft, exploratory caresses. When he reached your sex, he stroked you with an open palm, grazing your wet heat, then parted your folds with two fingers.
“You’re so wet and hot for me, princess,” he growled against your mouth, clearly pleased.
He began to touch you. At first, only light, circular strokes around your clit, discovering what pressure and rhythm made you sigh louder. He adjusted every movement according to your reactions, according to how your body arched or trembled against him.
Then, his middle finger pressed gently against your entrance, rubbing slowly without entering yet, only teasing you with the promise of more. At the same time, his thumb traced circles over your clit.
“Do you want me to keep going?” he asked, never stopping the expert movement of his fingers. “Tell me how you feel… I want to give you exactly what you need. Do you like it?”
“Yes… I love it,” you whispered, nodding with an almost frantic motion of your head, your voice broken by the sighs you couldn’t contain.
Only then did his middle finger slide carefully inside you. He opened you with exquisite slowness, allowing your body to adjust to the intrusion. When he was fully inside, he curled his finger slightly upward, brushing that sensitive spot with a precision that drew a trembling moan from you.
Sunghoon smiled against your lips, a satisfied expression, and began moving his finger at a steady rhythm, sliding in and out with mastery while his thumb continued drawing those circles over your clit. Then the pleasure began to spill through your entire body, making your thighs tremble around his hips.
At the same time, he kissed you. First he captured your mouth in deep, wet kisses, savoring every sigh you gave him; then he moved down the line of your neck, leaving a trail of hot kisses and bites that made you arch against him. Every time your voice broke into a moan, he responded with a low, vibrating growl from deep in his throat, barely increasing the rhythm of his fingers—just enough to take you higher without overwhelming you.
Soon he added a second finger, sliding it in with the same careful slowness. The stretching sensation made you whimper with pleasure.
“That’s it… let me hear you,” he murmured against your neck, biting the sensitive skin before soothing it with his tongue. “I want to feel how you clench around my fingers, princess. I want to know exactly how you’re going to squeeze me later, when I’m inside you.”
His fingers kept working you, curling at the perfect angle to brush that spot that made you see stars. The pleasure built quickly and thickly, spreading from your belly to the tips of your fingers. Your hips began to move instinctively against his hand, seeking more.
“You’re so close…” he whispered against your parted lips. “Let go for me, beautiful.”
The rhythm became a little more insistent. His fingers plunged deep, rubbing that inner spot over and over while his thumb pressed and circled your clit with fervor.
Then the orgasm hit you—intense and overwhelming. Your body tightened around his fingers, clenching them hard as waves of pure pleasure coursed through you. A long, broken moan escaped your throat, and Sunghoon captured your mouth in a kiss, swallowing every sound while he continued moving his fingers inside you, prolonging your climax until your legs trembled uncontrollably and your head fell limply against his shoulder.
Only when your tremors began to subside did he carefully withdraw his fingers and hold you against his chest, letting you catch your breath.
“You did so well…” he murmured against your ear, his lips brushing your cheek. “You’re ready for me now.”
His erection remained hard, thick, and throbbing against your belly—a constant reminder of how aroused he was. He didn’t pressure you, but he didn’t hide his impatience either. His hand caressed your back, tracing invisible lines with his fingertips, giving you time… though his rigid body betrayed how much it cost him to hold back.
When you lifted your head from his shoulder and looked at him with eyes still glazed, Sunghoon gave you a wolfish smile. His gaze dropped for a moment to your swollen lips before returning to yours.
“How…? What can I do for you?” you asked, your voice still shaky.
“Everything you just felt with my fingers…” he said in a deep voice, digging his fingers into your hip, “I want to repeat with my cock. I want to stretch you, fill you, and make you moan my name.”
He adjusted you better on his lap, making the thick head of his erection press right against your entrance without entering yet. His eyes shone with restrained desire as he waited for you to decide the next step.
“But… we’re supposed to wait until we’re married for that,” you replied shyly, a thread of hesitation in your voice. “I could get pregnant… that’s what they explained to me.”
Sunghoon didn’t look away or ease the pressure of his cock against you. Instead, noticing your eyes falter, he raised his free hand to your chin, forcing you to lift your gaze to meet his again.
“You will be my wife in three weeks, and nothing and no one is going to change that. You’re mine.” He leaned a little closer, his lips brushing yours as he spoke. “I don’t care about the court’s protocol, with servants watching behind the door while we ‘consummate’ our union as if it were a spectacle. I want this to happen here, now… just you and me. No prying eyes. No protocols. Just us.”
Sunghoon’s words echoed in your head. You knew what he was proposing was irreversible. Once you crossed that line, there would be no turning back. The weight of the court’s teachings, the warnings about honor and decorum, tried to rise again in your mind in one last desperate attempt at righteousness; an internal struggle to remember who you were supposed to be.
However, that wall of morality crumbled once more before the reality of his closeness. The heat of his body against yours and the trail of fire his fingers had left on your skin were, once again, far stronger than any protocol. In the end, he was right: your fates were already sealed. If your entire life already belonged to him, what did it really matter if you stole a few nights early?
With flushed cheeks and a racing pulse, you made your decision. Without saying anything else, you leaned forward, breaking the final barrier as you were the one to initiate the kiss.
Your lips met his with a mixture of nervousness and desire. At first it was a tentative, almost shy kiss, but soon you gave yourself over more fully, deepening it. Sunghoon let out a low sound of surprise and approval, responding to the kiss with hunger. His hand on your chin slid to your nape, holding you as his mouth moved against yours with greater intensity.
The moment you pulled back just a few centimeters to catch your breath, you gave him your final answer.
“Okay,” you whispered. “I want this. I want it to be here and now.”
Sunghoon growled against your mouth, clearly pleased with your response.
“Good choice, my princess,” he murmured with a smile you barely managed to return before your breathing became erratic.
Guided by Sunghoon and instinct, you lifted yourself slightly and then sank down slowly. The sensation was immediate and overwhelming; you felt the firm, clear pressure against your entrance, opening you little by little.
Since it was your first time, your body instinctively asked for a pause, but Sunghoon’s heat and the way he held you gave you the courage to keep lowering yourself onto him, inch by inch. The feeling was incredibly intense—a slow, stretching invasion that seemed to fill every corner of your being.
Sunghoon let out a low, husky groan, clenching his teeth as he felt your tight interior envelop him and adapt to him with a delicious resistance that nearly made him lose control.
He didn’t thrust or force the union. Understanding the delicacy of the moment, he gave you absolute control of the pace, limiting himself to holding you. His hands sank into your skin as he helped steady you, whispering words of encouragement against your lips while he waited for you to get used to the fullness of finally having him inside you.
“That’s it… slowly,” he encouraged you. “Breathe, princess. You’re doing so well.”
Little by little, you began to move. At first they were small, timid movements, rising and falling slowly as you grew accustomed to the sensation. Each descent sent sparks of pleasure up your spine. Sunghoon accompanied you with his hands on your hips, guiding you, helping you find a rhythm that felt good.
His low groans mixed with yours. When you found the angle that made your toes curl, you moved a little faster, letting the pleasure build. Sunghoon, sensing the change, began to participate from below. His hands tightened on your hips as he thrust upward with deep, controlled strokes, perfectly synchronizing with your movements. Every time you sank down, he rose to meet you, burying himself to the hilt with a precise, delicious thrust that drew louder moans from you.
“Just like that… exactly like that,” he panted.
The pleasure grew more intense with every second. You felt every inch of him sliding in and out of you. The friction was perfect, and each thrust sent hot waves that mercilessly built in your lower belly. Your nails dug hard into his broad shoulders as you rode him, the water splashing noisily with every collision of your bodies.
Suddenly, Sunghoon raised one hand to your breast, caressing your nipple with his thumb before pinching it between his fingers, sending a fresh jolt of pleasure straight to your clit.
“Look at me,” he demanded, his voice rough yet commanding, his dark eyes locked on yours while his other hand gripped your hips more firmly, guiding your movements with greater intensity. “I want you to look into my eyes when you reach your peak.”
You obeyed, leaning forward and bracing your hands on his chest for better support. The new angle made his cock brush even deeper inside you, hitting that sensitive spot with every descent. A long, broken moan escaped your throat.
The wet, obscene sound of your bodies colliding filled the bathing hall, mingling with your ragged breaths and muffled moans. Drops of sweat and water slid down your skin as you moved together, growing more desperate.
“Yes, just like that,” Sunghoon praised, teeth clenched, never breaking eye contact for a second. “Faster, princess. I know you’re close, I can feeling it.”
Your breathing turned erratic. He was right. The pleasure burned hot in your lower belly; every thrust brought you closer to the edge. Your nails dug into his chest as you bounced on him, chasing the release you could already feel approaching.
And then, the sensation became unbearable. Your thighs trembled uncontrollably and you felt your insides begin to contract, clenching feverishly around his thickness in an instinctive attempt to hold him inside.
“Sung…ah…” you moaned, your voice broken, unable to finish the sentence.
“That’s it… do it for me,” he ordered, thrusting deeper and faster.
In that instant, your body tensed violently, gripping him with rhythmic contractions as blinding pleasure coursed through you. You cried out his name, eyes fixed on his just as he had asked. Sunghoon let out a deep, husky groan and thrust one final time to the hilt as he spilled inside you with hot, powerful pulses, his body trembling against yours while you both reached orgasm at the same time.
The silence that followed the climax was absolute, broken only by the sound of your ragged breathing and the water still rippling rhythmically against the walls of the tub. Sunghoon kept you pressed to his chest, his face hidden in the crook of your neck, savoring the weight of your body on his under the dimming light of the candles that were already beginning to burn out.
You felt like you were floating. Your body still trembled slightly, sensitive and full of him.
“Are you okay?” he asked attentively. “Does it hurt?”
You shook your head, still unable to speak. Your cheeks burned, but it wasn’t just from shame. It was the certainty that you would never look at him the same way again.
He smiled and kissed your forehead with tenderness.
“Good,” he whispered. “Because this has only been the beginning, my princess.”
Just then, the echo of hurried footsteps shattered the bubble. Three firm knocks resonated on the door.
“Your Highness!” It was the voice of the prince’s personal eunuch. “The hour has concluded. The guards must secure the pavilion and the royal physician awaits for your rest examination. Please prepare to exit.”
The scare made you jump slightly on him, but Sunghoon didn’t even flinch. His hands remained anchored at your waist, though his jaw tightened with irritation before he tilted his head back and projected his voice with that natural authority that froze anyone in place.
“I’m not finished,” he declared coldly. “Inform them that the prince desires another half hour alone. I don’t want to hear a single breath near this door until I order it.”
“But, your Highness… the security protocol—”
“Have I not been clear?” Sunghoon interrupted with a tone so icy that silence fell instantly on the other side. “Leave.”
After a few seconds of tension, the sound of footsteps retreating confirmed they were alone again. Sunghoon let out a heavy sigh, reached under the water to find your hand, and intertwined his fingers with yours.
“I’ll help you escape through the rear garden exit; the guards avoid that route at this hour,” he said, letting his head fall back against the cold stone edge as he closed his eyes. “But I want you here tomorrow. Same time.”
“I won’t come,” you protested immediately, in a desperate attempt to cling to the little sanity you had left.
However, the words sounded unconvincing even to your own ears. Sunghoon didn’t move, but a small, crooked smile formed on his lips, as if he could read the desire pulsing beneath your skin. You couldn’t hide it; he had awakened something in you that the court’s lessons had never mentioned—a hunger of your own, a craving to repeat every sensation. You had always believed your role would be that of an instrument for his pleasure, but you had never imagined you could burn for him like this too.
“I will… I’ll come. But promise me no one will discover our secret.”
He opened his eyes then, fixing his gaze on you.
“No one will know,” he affirmed with that absolute authority that allowed no argument. “What happens between us stays within these walls. I protect what is mine—have no doubt about that.”
Tomorrow you would return. And the day after. And every night you could steal from the court… until there was no longer any need to hide.
Hi everyone!
How you can see, my requests are open 🙈. If you have any ideas involving the 02z line boys, please don't hesitate to share them with me. I'd be more than happy to read them!
─── in which park sunghoon decides that the best time and place to consummate your new marriage is inside the bridal suite during your wedding reception.
park sunghoon x fem!reader ; wc: 2.9k. MDNI. oneshot. smut. semi-public sex. newlyweds. nicknames. overstimulation. p in v. almost getting caught. soft dom hoon. oral (f receiving). lots of begging. quickie.
my masterlist.
elle's thoughts :: this was so fun to write! and hot, omg. this is a second unrelated part to my jake fic, "quick release." maybe i'll turn this into a series where every member gets their own wedding-related smut oneshot. lmk your thoughts, and pls enjoy!
When Park Sunghoon looked at you from across the reception hall, you knew everything was perfect.
You and Sunghoon had been married for exactly 3 hours. The ceremony had started at 5 p.m. on the dot, and by 5:30, you and Sunghoon belonged to each other in every way possible. The only thing left to solidify your union was the part you were perhaps the most excited about: consummation.
Every time Sunghoon’s eyes found yours during the last few hours, you could see the undercurrent of desire there. To an onlooker, he probably appeared as any groom smitten with their bride. However, you knew from his hard gaze that you wouldn't be able to walk tomorrow.
“Y/n?” a voice came. You snapped your gaze away from your husband, instead looking at your photographer, who was now standing in front of you. “The sun is about to set, so if you'd like to get any golden hour photos, this is the time.”
“Oh, of course. Let me find Sunghoon so we can do that.”
She nodded and bowed before stepping away, promising to meet you by the entrance of the reception hall in three minutes.
You and Sunghoon had spared no expense on your wedding, and it was evident as the setting sun illuminated the lavish space through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Intricate white florals decorated every centimetre of the hall, accompanied by tiered chandeliers and glittering lights strung from wall to wall. You sighed happily as you grabbed the skirt of your form-fitting gown and lifted it, allowing you to step forward.
As you made your way to where Sunghoon was talking to some distant you didn't know, a variety of guests congratulated you on your union as well as marveled at how beautiful the decor was. You flashed them all a gracious smile, a chorus of thank yous leaving your parted lips.
“Sunghoon, my love,” you said once you reached your husband. A large smile broke across his face at your presence, and he pulled you in for a kiss.
“My beautiful bride,” he murmured against your lips. "Do I get to enjoy the pleasure of your presence?"
You tried to conceal the fact that you had turned a brilliant shade of scarlet red from your guests by using Sunghoon’s shoulder to hide you. “Our photographer said we need to head outside for our final couple’s portraits.”
He nodded, grabbing your hand in his before leading you through the crowded hall toward the large glass doors that led outside. Once you two found your way there, you greeted your photographer with a smile and allowed her to lead you out into the warm May evening.
“I went looking for photo locations earlier,” she said, directing you and Sunghoon down a tree-lined path. “At the end of this path is a pond, and you can see the orchards and hills in the background. How does that sound?”
“It sounds lovely,” you told her, your hand still tightly grasped in Sunghoon’s. And as you rounded the corner to finally catch a glimpse of the spot, you saw just how lovely it truly was.
No words could have done the view justice. You gasped softly as you took in the orchards and the lush green hills that rose above them, reaching upwards and brushing the orange sky. The cool water of the pond caught and reflected the light of the setting sun, and you immediately knew that these photos would perfectly capture the beauty of your wedding and the love you and Sunghoon shared.
“I’d like you guys to stand here,” the photographer said. You and Sunghoon followed her direction, going through a variety of poses in a few different locations along the pond. You noticed that, the whole time you took photos, Sunghoon barely looked away from you. He repeatedly took in the way your gown hugged your body, and you could see in his eyes that he was already mentally undressing you. You had no idea how either of you were going to survive the next few hours before you reached your hotel.
After roughly twenty minutes, your photographer decided that she was satisfied with the photos she had captured. “These look amazing! Now, I would hate to keep you both from your reception for any longer, so let's head back.”
“You look absolutely stunning,” Sunghoon murmured against your ear as you began walking back up the path. His warm hand was pressed to the small of your back. “I can't keep my eyes off of you.”
“I noticed,” you said quietly. “I spent a lot of money to look this good.”
“You could've worn a trash bag tonight, and you still would've looked incredible.” Sunghoon’s voice dropped slightly as he lowered his hand so that it was barely grazing your ass. “You're the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen—no matter the makeup, hair, or outfit. But I will say that this dress fits you very well, Mrs. Park.”
“Does it?” you hummed, noting the lusty haze that had settled across his eyes. You were passing the bridal suite, a small cottage in which you had gotten ready earlier that day. “I figured you might like it.”
“I fucking love it,” Sunghoon said, his voice gravelly. “I don't know how I'm going to keep my hands off of you until tonight.”
Then, he paused, and you stopped walking too, gazing up at him. You knew from the look in his eyes that an idea had crossed his mind. A slow, mischievous grin spread across Sunghoon’s face.
“What?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Is there anyone in the bridal suite?” he asked. He glanced ahead to make sure that your photographer had returned to the reception hall.
“Sunghoon, we can't!” you hissed under your breath. “Everyone will know we're gone.”
“We’ll be quick,” he said, pressing a hungry kiss to your lips. “Promise.”
You quickly glanced over your shoulder to see if anyone was watching from the reception hall. Luckily, it seemed as if everyone was occupied by the delicious food and alcohol.
“Fine,” you said, looking around one last time. Sunghoon immediately smiled as he pulled you off the path and towards the bridal suite. Luckily, it was unlocked, and he pulled you inside and barely shut the door before kissing you with a fervor you had never experienced in your years with Sunghoon.
“You know a marriage isn't official until it's been consummated, right?” Sunghoon asked in between kisses. “I just really want to make sure our marriage starts off on the right foot.”
“I’m sure you do.”
The bridal suite wasn't particularly large, but you didn't need it to be for what you were about to do. On the far wall, a row of vanities stretched from side to side, covered in a variety of makeup, hair products, and other miscellaneous things your bridal party had needed to get ready.
“You look so fucking hot,” Sunghoon groaned against your lips. His hand traced down the open back of your gown until he found your ass yet again, and he squeezed it roughly in his hands. You moaned at the touch, which only seemed to encourage him to continue. “God, I love this dress. I love you.”
As Sunghoon’s tongue made its way into your mouth, you grasped his firm biceps with your manicured fingers. You loved the way the white of your nails contrasted against the black of his perfectly tailored suit.
“I need to be inside you so bad,” Sunghoon stuttered, his mouth roaming down to your jaw and neck. “I need your pussy so bad, Mrs. Park.”
“It's all yours,” you told Sunghoon, tilting your head back in pleasure to expose more of your skin to him. “It belongs to you. All of me.”
These words seemed to activate something primal in Sunghoon. He roughly connected your lips again before backing you towards the vanities, and he used one hand to shove all of the makeup and various hair products onto the floor. The clatter of the items hitting the ground was loud, but not as loud as your desperate moans as Sunghoon lifted you up and placed you on the vanity.
Without breaking the kiss, Sunghoon gathered the skirt of your dress in his hands before pushing it up your legs. The silky fabric gathered around your waist, and Sunghoon let out a growl as he took in the lacy white thong you were wearing. You had been saving it to be a surprise for your wedding night, but it was evident now that neither of you could wait that long.
“Hoon, please,” you begged as he moved his fingers along the damp lace. “I need your mouth on me.”
“Greedy, are we?” Sunghoon laughed lowly. “You need my mouth on your pussy, baby?”
“Yes, please,” you breathed.
“Only because you asked so nicely.”
Before you knew it, Sunghoon was between your legs. He used his finger to pull your panties to the side to allow him access to your glistening folds, and the first contact of his mouth with your wetness had your back arching as you cried out his name.
“Hoonie, oh fuck,” you gasped, rolling your hips against his mouth as he flicked his tongue rapidly against your clit. He grasped your thigh in one hand as the other continued to keep your soaked panties out of the way, and you couldn't help but stare down at your husband through half-lidded eyes. He fit so perfectly between your legs, his elegant suit and effortlessly styled hair turning you on more than you cared to admit. You couldn't believe that it was the middle of your wedding, and your husband was eating you out like his life depended on it. Just the thought that all the guests were here for you, yet nobody knew what you two were doing, was incredibly hot.
“Hoonie, baby—mmph, fuck—please.” You were beginning to unravel, the movement of his tongue coupled with the suction of his lips becoming more and more intense until you could hardly stand it. Your legs began to quiver as your orgasm rose within you, and you let out a cry as you found your release against his tongue. Sunghoon continued working you as you rode out your high, and when he knew that you were well and truly wrecked, he pulled away and stood.
You watched as Sunghoon’s hands immediately began to undo his belt and zipper, and you inhaled sharply when he pulled his pants down just enough to allow his hardened cock to spring free.
“You want me inside you, Mrs. Park?” Sunghoon asked, lazily pumping his hand up and down along his shaft.
“More than anything.”
Sunghoon roughly grabbed your hips and pulled you toward the edge of the vanity. “Should I put my cock in your pussy?”
“Hoon, please.”
Sunghoon held out his hand. “Spit.”
You did as he commanded, and he groaned at the wetness on his hand. He then wrapped his moistened fingers around his cock, rubbing slowly and smirking at the desperation on your face.
“My beautiful wife needs my cock,” he murmured, pressing his tip against your entrance. “She needs me to fill her up so badly.”
You could barely speak. Your entire body cried out desperately for Sunghoon, and he knew just how much you wanted him—needed him. He loved when you got this way, as it was so rare for you to lose control.
Sunghoon watched your face carefully as he slowly pushed himself inside you, and you swore viciously at how it felt for him to fill your aching core. You were so turned on that you had begun to feel a sharp sensation inside you, and Sunghoon’s cock splitting through your walls was the only thing that brought you relief.
“So fucking big,” you sighed as Sunghoon bottomed out, buried to the hilt inside you. “I fucking love your dick, Hoonie."
“Do you?” he asked, slowly beginning to thrust into you. “I’m not going to keep fucking you unless you tell me how much you love this cock.”
“I love it more than anything,” you whined, squeezing your eyes shut and throwing your head back. “Your cock fills me up, I never want you to stop. Please fuck me forever and ever—please baby.”
As you continued to ramble on, a string of senseless words leaving your lips, Sunghoon continued burying himself as deep inside you as he could. Every word you said was music to his ears, and he never wanted you to stop. It was if every word was giving him the energy he needed to keep thrusting into you harder than ever before.
After a moment, Sunghoon quickened the pace of his hips snapping into you as he tightly grasped your chin in one hand. His other hand held your hip in place, his fingers digging into the soft flesh there. “How much do you love me, Mrs. Park?”
“I love you more than anything,” you whimpered, trying to use your hands to brace yourself against the ruthless pace Sunghoon had set. “I love you so fucking much, Hoon. I-I love being y-your wife.”
The word "wife" leaving your lips seemed to turn him on even more, and his eyebrows furrowed as he continued fucking you with a level of intensity that made you feel as if you were about to burst. However, at that moment, you both heard voices.
“Shit,” Sunghoon whispered, but to your surprise, he did not stop thrusting into you. He simply covered your mouth and continued.
“They didn't come back from the pond after their photos,” you heard a female voice say—most likely your photographer. “Last time I saw them, they were still down there.”
“Let's check there first, then,” another voice came, this time male.
Sunghoon glanced over his shoulder, still burying himself inside you, as he watched them walk away through the window. He continued to stifle your moans with his hand, and you did everything you could not to make the loud noises you desperately wanted to.
“Hoonie, fuck,” you breathed when he finally femoved his hand from your swollen lips. “Please, it's so good.”
“You want me to cum inside you, Mrs. Park?” Sunghoon growled. You nodded, dizzy, as you stared down at the spot where his length repeatedly disappeared inside you.
“Please cum in me, Hoon,” you said. "I need your cum, baby."
As Sunghoon’s hips continued rolling into yours, he grasped your chin in his hand again, lifting it. “I want you to look at me when I fill you with my cum, baby.”
You nodded, and you watched with baited breath as Sunghoon began to unravel. His eyes rolled back as you felt his cock begin to pulse within you, and he shuddered, a series of low grunts leaving him as he emptied his load deep within you.
After a few seconds, both of you panting, Sunghoon looked over his shoulder again. “They'll be back soon.”
“Yeah, we should get back out there,” you told him, beginning to shift your dress back down. However, Sunghoon stopped you.
“Not yet.”
“What? But you know they're going to check in here next!”
Instead of responding, Sunghoon began to rub your clit again, his pace frantic. He kept glancing between you and the window, making sure they couldn't see what he was doing.
“Sunghoon,” you gasped between moans. “They're c-coming back. Baby, p-please.”
Sunghoon only increased the speed of his fingers as they rubbed against your most sensitive spot. From the way your breathing changed, he could tell that you were about to cum again, so he clasped his hand across your mouth once more to stifle the sounds you could no longer control.
As the small group of people turned onto the path, you came against Sunghoon’s fingers with a cry that you were glad he covered. You had never had an orgasm as intense as the one you were experiencing, and you glared at Sunghoon for forcing you to recover from it so quickly. You only had seconds until the group reached the cottage.
Once your orgasm had subsided, you jumped off the vanity, tried to put your panties back in place, and shoved your dress back down. Sunghoon sucked his fingers, still covered in your slick, as he adjusted his suit.
“Hello?” a voice called out, and you heard the doorknob turn. “Y/n? Sunghoon?”
“Hi,” Sunghoon said with that effortless smile of his. “Sorry, we were on our way back from the pond when the wind messed up Y/n’s hair, so we came in here to find some pins.”
You smiled sheepishly, and you desperately hoped they didn't notice the pile of beauty products strewn across the floor from your moment of passion.
“Ah, I understand that, my dear,” one of Sunghoon’s aunts said. She glanced at the floor, and you noticed that a look of recognition had flashed across her face, but she said nothing. Instead, she gave you an understanding smile and said, “There's some pins over here. Let me help you.”
As the elderly woman focused on fixing your hair, you glanced at your husband, who was effortlessly conversing with your search party as if hadn't been buried inside you three minutes ago.
Once your hair was fixed and the search party had exited the cottage, Sunghoon laced his fingers with yours and pressed a brief yet deep kiss to your lips.
“You're crazy, you know that?” you murmured.
Sunghoon laughed, lowering his lips to your ear. “If you think that was crazy, just wait until tonight. This was just a hint of what’s to come.”
You felt a familiar heat in your core again at these words, and you couldn't wait until you were finally alone with your husband later that evening. Then, the real fun would begin.
PLOT! AITA for using my best friends inner thoughts to fuck with him throughout the week until he is forced to admit his feelings for me out loud?
CONTENT! Sunghoon/Fem!Reader, Fluff, Reader can hear thoughts, Bestie!Sunghoon, Sunghoon acts nonchalant, His thoughts tell a different story, SMUT (MDNI), Top!Sunghoon, Soft Dom!Sunghoon, Desperate!Sunghoon, P in V, Unprotected Sex (pls wrap b4 u tap), Oral (f receiving), Yearner!Sunghoon, I believe this is considered psychological warfare, Y/n is a literal menace.
AUTHORS NOTE! got this plot from a randomr eddit video i saw on tiktok where the girl was married to this nonchalant guy and she could suddenly hear his thoughts and he was such a loser who wanted her so badd OOOOH sunghoon ur perfect for this bend over.
WORD COUNT! 7.2k!!!
It was a cold January night when it first happened.
You were on the couch, watching Silence of the Lambs (aka the most absurd movie ever) with your best friend, Park Sunghoon. It was your weekly movie night, and last time was at his place, so this time was at yours.
The setup was the same as always. Blanket split unevenly between the two of you—his fault, it’s always his fault—your legs tucked underneath you, his stretched out across the coffee table like he owned the place. Which, at this point, was basically true. Sunghoon had a key. He knew where the good snacks were hidden. He’d argued with you about your IKEA furniture assembly and been right about it. If that didn’t make someone a co-owner, nothing did.
“This movie is not scary,” he said flatly, reaching into the popcorn bowl on your lap without looking away from the screen.
“I never said it was scary. I said it was disturbing. There’s a difference.”
“Well it’s neither.”
“A man is making a suit out of human skin, Sunghoon.”
“I’ve seen worse.”
You looked at him. “Where?”
He paused. “Nature documentaries.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself, and something shifted in his expression. Barely anything, just the faintest softening in the corner of his eyes. It was so quick you almost missed it. Almost.
That was the thing about Park Sunghoon. On the outside, he was the picture of composure. Unhurried. Unbothered. The kind of person who could be late to his own birthday party and somehow make everyone else feel like they’d arrived too early. He was like that in class, too. Front row, never frantic, taking notes in that annoyingly neat handwriting of his while everyone around him was three lectures behind and quietly spiraling.
You had met him in your first year, in a mandatory elective neither of you wanted to be in. He’d sat next to you because it was the only seat left, and when the professor had asked everyone to introduce themselves to the person beside them, he had looked at you and said—very seriously—"How fast do you think we could get through this syllabus if we actually tried?”
You had been best friends ever since.
It made sense, in the way that certain things just did. You moved at the same pace. You thought the same things were funny. You could sit in silence for hours and it never felt like anything needed to be filled. He was the person you called when something went wrong and also when something went right. Somewhere along the way those two categories had quietly expanded to include everything in between.
Which was fine. Completely fine. You were not in love with your best friend.
You were almost certain.
On screen, Clarice was walking into the dark. You shifted on the couch, tugging the blanket back toward your side, and Sunghoon let you without comment. This meant he wasn’t paying attention. You glanced over at him.
He was looking at the TV, jaw resting on his hand, expression perfectly neutral. His hair was a little messy—he had come straight from practice, changed into a hoodie in your bathroom, and left his back by the door like he always did. There was something easy about having him here. Something that had started feeling dangerously close to necessary.
You looked back at the screen.
That was when it happened.
No warning. No build-up. No cinematic crack of lightning or sudden ringing in your ears. One moment there was the sound of Clarice's heavy breathing, the low ambient noise of your apartment, the rustle of the blanket—
And then there was a voice.
She always laughs like that when she’s actually surprised. Like she tried to hold it in and lost.
You froze.
The voice was his. Not out loud. His mouth hadn’t moved, you looked right at him. But it was unmistakably Sunghoon’s voice, low and even, like he was narrating a novel.
You didn’t move.
She’s been using the same shampoo since second year. I don’t know why I know that.
Your heart stopped. You turned very slowly to look at him. He was still watching the movie. Completely still, completely unaware. The popcorn bowl was between you and he reached into it again without looking and his arm brushed yours and—
Don’t make it weird. Don’t make it weird. You’re fine. She’s just… A pause. She’s right there.
You stared at him, but he didn’t stare back. He watched Anthony Hopkins monologue as if absolutely nothing was happening, as if his internal voice had not just short-circuited your entire brain, and you sat there in the blue light of your TV thinking: what the fuck.
You didn’t sleep well that night.
Not because of the movie. The movie was fine. Buffalo Bill was unsettling on a conceptual level but you’d watched it twice before and you had a high threshold for cinematic weirdness. No, you didn’t sleep because you laid in bed staring at the ceiling and replayed every single thing you’d heard for the remaining forty minutes of the film.
And there had been a lot.
Her apartment always smells like that candle. I should figure out what scent it is. For no reason.
She’s cold. She’s not going to say anything. She’ll just suffer. I should—and then he’d shifted and tugged part of the blanket over to your side without a word, like he’d just decided something.
Two more weeks until her birthday. I already know what I’m getting her. I’ve known for three months. That’s normal… that's a normal amount of time to know
She’s laughing again. Okay. Cool. I’m fine.
You rolled over and pressed your face into the pillow.
Park Sunghoon. Your best friend. The most unreadable person you had ever met in our life, who apparently had an entire internal monologue dedicated to noticing things about you. Your laugh, your shampoo, your candle, the way you got cold and didn’t say so. And he never let any of it reach his face.
For how long? How long had this been happening?
You thought about the soft look he’d tried to hide when you laughed. You thought about the blanket. You thought about I’ve known for three months, that’s normal—
You groaned into your pillow. This was a lot of information to receive on a Tuesday.
The next morning, you tested it.
Sunghoon had a habit of coming over early on Wednesdays because you both had the same 10 am lecture and he lived closer to your building than campus. It was an arrangement that had started practically and continued sentimentally, which was very on-brand for your entire friendship.
You knocked at 8:52. You opened the door in your oversized sweatshirt and immediately, before he’d even said hello—
She looks good in the mornings. She always looks good in the mornings. Fuck, thats extremly inconvenient.
You felt your face do something. You couldn’t control it.
“What?” he said.
“Nothing.” You stepped back. “I made coffee.”
He came in, dropped his bag, accepted the mug you handed him, and leaned against your kitchen counter with the air of someone who had never experienced a chaotic thought in his life. You watched him over the rim of your own mug and waited.
She’s staring.
It’s fine. She stares sometimes. It means nothing. Don’t read into it.
… She’s still staring.
“I’m not staring,” you said, more like blurted.
He looked at you. “I didn’t say you were.”
Fuck. “You were thinking it.” You said, which was technically true in the most unhinged way possible.
Sunghoon looked at you for a moment longer than necessary. Then he took a sip of his coffee. “Okay,” he said, in a tone that meant he had filed this away and would return to it later.
You needed a plan.
Here’s what you knew:
Sunghoon was not going to say anything. That was simply not how he worked. He could think about your shampoo and memorize your candle scent and spend three months deciding on a birthday gift and still show up every Wednesday looking like a man without a single complicated feeling. He would do this indefinitely. He would probably take it to his grave.
And you—you, who had spent the better part of a year trying very hard not to notice the way he looked at you sometimes—were not going to wait for a grave.
So you made a decision.
You were going to give Park Sunghoon exactly what he wanted. Piece by piece. Situation by situation, all of it carefully constructed so that he thought it was happening naturally. And at the end of it, he was going to have no choice but to say it out loud.
All you had to do was listen.
It started small.
Friday night, you invited him to the convenience store. Normal enough, you did this roughly once a week, usually for ramen and whatever snack had rotated its way onto the seasonal shelf. But this time, on the way back, you chose the path along the river instead of the shortcut through the carpark.
It was cold enough that your breath fogged the air. The streetlights caught in the water. You had your hands tucked into your sleeves, thinking that this had been a good idea when Sunghoon’s voice materialized quietly in your head.
I always want to walk this way. She never wants to walk this way.
You looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Isn’t this nicer?”
A beat passed. “Yeah.” He said. He was looking ahead, but something in his shoulders had settled. “It is.”
She remembered.
He didn’t say it out loud, of course he didn’t. But you heard it, warm and quiet, and you had to look away before your face gave you away completely.
The next one was trickier.
You were in the library, 3rd floor, your usual table by the window. While you worked through problem sets, Sunghoon arrived twenty minutes later and folded himself into the seat next to you. He unpacked in silence, which was normal. Then he went quiet in that particular way he had where he was trying to figure something out and didn’t want to ask for help, which you also knew, because you knew all of his silences.
You waited.
I could just ask her. She’d explain it without making me feel stupid. She never makes me feel stupid.
But then she’ll know I didn’t understand the lecture and she’ll—
She won’t care. She genuinely will not give two shits.
Obviously I know that. That’s not the issue, the issue is that shes—
A pause.
She’s the only person I actually want help from. Is that a weird thing to feel this strongly about?
You looked up from your notes. “Do you want me to walk you through the regression model? I had to redo it like twice before it clicked.” Not technically a lie.
Sunghoon looked up at you.
“I’m serious,” you said, keeping your face carefully neutral. “It’s faster if we do it together.”
Something moved behind his eyes. Not readable: it never quite was. But it was there. He slid his notebook across the table toward you. “Okay.”
You worked through it side by side, your handwriting appearing in the margins of his notes, carefully avoiding his various doodles across the page. Your shoulders pressed close together so you could feel the warmth of him. And under everything, you could hear him thinking:
This is my favorite way to study. This is my favorite way to do a lot of things.
Then came the party.
Jungwon’s birthday parties had a reputation. What started as a small gathering with a reasonable headcount always turned into something completely different by 11 pm. More people, more noise, more empty bottles lined up along the windowsill like a timeline of bad decisions. You had been to enough of them to know to eat beforehand.
You arrived a little after 10. Sunghoon was already there—you found him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a drink in his hand, talking to someone from his major with the energy of a person attending a very calm business lunch. Completely unbothered. Completely composed.
You felt him notice you before he looked up.
There she is.
Warm. Immediate. Like a reflex he’d long stopped trying to correct.
You made your way over and he handed you a drink without being asked, already knowing. Smirnoff Ice Raspberry. What a gentleman.
“How long have you been here?” You asked him.
“An hour.”
“An hour and you’re already relaxed?” You say, gesturing to what you can clearly tell is not his first drink of the night.
“I’m always relaxed.”
I am not relaxed. Her outfit is so small and I’ve been here an hour just wondering when she would show up and she shows up in that!
You took a sip of your drink to hide your expression.
By eleven, the party had done its inevitable thing. The hallway was full, the music was louder, and someone had started a game in the living room that you’d opted out of on principle. You weren’t really in the mood to kiss random men when you had one pining over you in his head.
You were on your 3rd drink, warm at the edges, feeling the particular looseness that came from just enough and not too much.
Sunghoon was on something closer to his fifth.
You could tell only because you knew him. To anyone else, he looked exactly the same. Same posture, same unhurried delivery, same expression that gave away absolutely nothing. He was holding his cup with the same quiet authority he held everything. Responding to people in full, measured sentences.
But his thoughts.
She laughed at something. I didn’t hear what it was. Doesn’t matter, I’d listen to her laugh for an unreasonable amount of time and never get tired. I’ve accepted that.
You pressed your lips together and did your best to bite back the blush running towards your cheeks.
Her drink is almost empty. I should—a pause, like he was negotiating with himself—no. That’s too obvious. She can get her own. She doesn’t need me to—
You watched him glance at your cup from across the room, completely imperceptibly, and then look away.
Fuck this. I can’t let anyone here think she’s single. Even though she is. Fuck.
He appeared by your side sixty seconds later and held one out. You took it.
“Thank you!” You said.
“Mhm.” He looked at the room.
She smells like that candle again. She must’ve been home before this. God I’m pathetic.
You stared very hard at a window across the room and reminded yourself to breathe normally.
It got worse—better, actually—as the night went on.
You found a quieter corner of the apartment, as you usually did, and the party moved around you while you stayed still. This was your pattern. Your orbit. Sunghoon stood close enough that your shoulders almost touched and talked to you in that low, even voice of his about nothing important—a lecture, a teammate, something Sunoo had said earlier that had mildly irritated him.
I think about telling her all the time. Like, constantly. It’s become a problem. I’ll be in the middle of something completely unrelated and I’ll just—think about her. The way she argued about things she cares about. The way she falls asleep during movies and then insists she wasn’t sleeping.
She’s always sleeping. I never say anything. I let her have it. I’d let her have everything if that’s what she wanted
Later, the crowd thinned. Someone swapped the music for something slower and the kitchen light cast everything in a warm gold. You were feeling pretty drunk, loose and light and devious, if you were 100% honest.
Because here’s the thing. You had spent the past 2 hours listening to Sunghoon’s internal monologue short-circuit in real time, and the drinks had made you brave, and you decided you were going to have fun.
You turned to face him fully and leaned your shoulder against the wall so you were looking up at him. Close. Closer than you’d normally stand.
“You’ve been quiet.”
“I’m always quiet.”
“More than usual.”
He looked at you. Said nothing, of course. His face was perfectly, infuriatingly composed.
She’s standing really close. Okay, that’s fine. She does that sometimes. It doesn’t mean any—she’s looking at me like that again.
You smiled, slow and deliberate, and watched his jaw shift almost imperceptibly.
“What?” He asked.
“Nothing.” You reached over and fixed the collar of his shirt—it didn’t need fixing. You just did it. Fingers brushing the side of his neck for half a second before you pull your hand back.
The thought that hit you was instantaneous.
Oh. A pause. Don’t. Do not.
His expression didn’t change. He simply looked at you with the same unhurried calm he looked at everything with and said “Thanks” in a voice that gave you nothing.
You were going to lose your mind. Give me something, asshole!
You shifted closer under the pretense of someone passing behind you and didn’t shift back. Your hand was on his arm now, you could feel the warmth of him through his sleeve.
She’s not moving. She’s not moving and I cant—I need to—Fuck she looks so good tonight. She always looks so good—I’m going to need a cold shower tonight.
“Cold?” He asked.
You tried not to laugh at how well it connected to his thoughts. “A little.” You lied.
He didn’t say anything, but he turned very slightly so his body was angled towards yours, the smallest possible adjustment, like he was trying to do so without admitting he was doing it.
Keep talking, his thoughts said, unprompted. Just keep talking to me. I don’t care what you say, I just wanna—
“Tell me something.” You say.
“Like what?”
“Anything.”
He considered this with great seriousness of someone preparing for war. You watching him think and heard the entire thing unravel. I want to tell her so many things. I want to tell her that I think about her all the time. I want to tell her she’s the first person I want to call when anything bad happens. I want to tell her to touch me and never stop.
“Jungwon’s playlist sucks.” Is what he chose instead.
You laughed. You couldn’t help it. The contrast of his thoughts to the words coming out of his mouth was just too hilarious for you to handle. He watched you laugh and his thought arrived soft and immediate:
There it is.
You looked back up at him, still smiling, and let the moment stretch. Then, slowly, you reached out and took the cup from his hand—just to take a sip, just as an excuse—your fingers overlapping his for a second before he let go.
His entire internal monologue went briefly nonverbal for a moment.
Fuck she has no idea what she’s doing to me. She genuinely cannot know. If she knew she would—she wouldn’t—she doesn’t—
A pause. A long one, actually.
Does she know?
You handed the cup back. Your fingers brushed him again on the pass. Deliberate. Completely deliberate.
I want you so bad.
The thought arrived and made you almost choke on air. It was so helplessly honest that it made your stomach flip. Not chaotic, necessarily, just true. Simple and overwhelming and incredibly sincere and raw.
I’ve wanted you for so long and you’re just standing here and I can’t tell you! Not like this.
But please don’t move.
You don’t move. Sunghoon stood beside you looking unbothered.
This, you thought, was the most fun you had ever had in your entire life.
Your shared 10 am was held in a wide tiered lecture hall that fit about two hundred students and smell permanently of coffee and resignation. You sat in the same spot every week, middle left. Close enough to see the slides, far enough to feel like you had options. Sunghoon always sat next to you.
You go there first on Tuesday. When he arrived, he dropped into the seat next to you and pulled out his notebook. You were ready.
You chose to wait until the lecture started, until he was settled. Pen in hand, paying attention the way he always did.
Then you leaned over, close enough that your shoulder pressed into his and whispered “Can I borrow a pen?”
You had 3 in your bag. He didn’t know that.
He reached into his case without looking and held one out. Your fingers closed around it slowly, over his, just for a second longer than necessary.
Don’t fucking look at her. Look at the slide. There is a slide, dammit.
You settled back into your seat and uncapped the pen like nothing happened. Ten minutes later you leaned in again. “What did he say? I missed it.” Your lips were approximately four inches from his ear. You felt him go very still and you smiled.
She smells so good. Why does she always—focus! He’s talking about monetary policy. Monetary policy. That’s what's important right now.
“Quantitative easing.” he said, in a voice that was completely level. Not even a crack.
“Thanks,” you murmured, and sat back.
I cannot believe I’m this affected by quantitative easing.
Sunghoon played like he did everything else, with total composure and quiet precision. Like the game was simply a problem being solved in real time. You had been to his matches before but usually with a group. This time you came alone and found a spot near the front and he saw you during warm ups.
You waved.
His expression softened the slightest bit. She’s wearing my hoodie.
You were, in fact, wearing his hoodie. The one he’d left at your place three weeks ago and you’d simply never given it back. You had put it on this morning with full awareness of what you were doing and zero remorse.
That’s my hoodie on her and she looks—I have a game. I have a game in four minutes. Get your fucking shit together.
He focused on the game. You watched him be extraordinary at it with the detached calm of someone who had done it a thousand times, and every few minutes a thought would surface.
Is she still here? She is. Good.
At halftime he jogged to the sideline and grabbed his water bottle and glanced at you once. It was brief, but you smiled as always and tucked your hands into the front pocket of his hoodie.
She’s so cute.
Then he went back to playing.
After the final whistle—they won, 2-1, Sunghoon had assisted in both goals with the energy of a man doing his grocery shopping—he found you at the edge of the field. Hair slightly damp, still catching his breath, looking at you with a gaze like you were the only girl in the world.
“You played great!”
“Thank you.” He said breathlessly.
You reached up and fixed a part of his hair that had fallen across his forehead, the same way you fixed his collar at the party. Easy and unbothered.
I’m so in love with her it’s embarrassing. And she’s still touching my hair. I will stand here forever. I will stand on this field until the groundskeepers kick me off.
It was a Saturday when it stopped being a game.
Not because you decided it. Not because anything dramatic happened to signal a shift. It was a Saturday and you were making dinner and Sunghoon was in your kitchen, and somewhere between the two of you it just became too much.
It had started normally enough. He texted at five asking if you’d eaten. You hadn’t. He showed up twenty minutes later with groceries and no further explanation, which was so perfectly, infuriatingly him that you hadn’t even questioned it. This was just a thing he did. This was just how he was with you.
The kitchen was warm. You had music on low—something ambient and unhurried. Sunghoon had taken over the stove with the quiet authority he applied to everything while you sat at the counter and handled the easier tasks: chopping, stirring, handing things over when he asked.
It was comfortable, it was always comfortable with him.
But you had spent a week being deliberate about every point of contact and now you were tired and warm and a little undone by the Friday couch moment still sitting in your chest, and tonight you weren't being strategic. Tonight things just kept — happening.
Like the way you leaned over to check on the pan and your arm slid along his. The way he reached past you for the salt and didn't move back immediately. The way the kitchen was small and you were both in it and neither of you seemed to be trying very hard to maintain any kind of distance.
She's everywhere in this apartment, he thought, while stirring something and looking straight ahead. Everything here is her. I come here and it just — feels like her. I don't know what to do with that.
You handed him a spoon without being asked and your fingers touched and the thought that followed was short and unadorned:
I love her.
Not feral. Not desperate. Just true, the way facts were true, the way gravity was true, delivered in the same internal voice he used to note the weather or remember an appointment.
I love her and I don't know how much longer I can—
"You're quiet," you said.
"I'm always quiet."
"Different quiet."
He glanced at you. "You say that a lot."
"Because it keeps being true."
He looked at you for a moment, something unreadable moving behind his eyes, and then looked back at the stove.
You watched him. The line of his shoulders, the careful way he moved, the complete and total composure he maintained at all times like it cost him nothing when you knew — you knew now — exactly what it cost.
You slid off the counter and moved to stand beside him. Not for any reason. Just to be closer.
She's right next to me. She keeps doing this. She's been doing this all week and I—I don't know if she knows what she's doing. I think she might know. Does she know?
You reached past him to adjust the heat on the burner — he was standing right there, you had to reach across him to get to it, your arm brushing his chest for a half second — and when you pulled back you turned your head and found his face much closer than you'd anticipated.
Neither of you moved.
Okay, his brain said, with a kind of strained calm. Okay. This is—She's right there. She's looking at me. I have been in love with her for over a year and she is right there and I—
"Y/N."
His voice came out different. Lower. The composure was still there but something underneath it that wasn't, some thread pulled just tight enough that you could hear it.
"Yeah?" you said.
He looked at you. Really looked — the way he had on the couch on Friday, no pretense, no performance, just Sunghoon looking at you like you were something he'd stopped being able to look away from.
"What are you doing?" he said.
It wasn't accusatory. It was quiet. Genuine. Like he actually needed to know.
And here was the thing — here was the part you hadn't planned for — you opened your mouth to say something easy and deflecting and instead what came out was the truth.
"I don't know anymore," you said. "I think I stopped doing anything on purpose about three days ago."
Something in his face shifted. The last careful layer of it, the one he always kept in reserve, the one you'd never seen him let go of before.
"Three days ago," he repeated.
"The game," you said. "Friday. You were just — you were just being you and I—" you stopped. Laughed a little, helplessly. "I've been driving myself crazy, Sunghoon."
She—
His thought didn't finish. Like his brain had simply stopped processing and switched to something else entirely.
"You've been driving yourself crazy," he said, and something in his voice had shifted too, something dry and disbelieving and warm underneath it. "You've been driving me crazy for a week. You know that, right?"
You looked at him. "Have I?"
"In lecture," he said. "The couch. The game." A pause. "The collar." He said the last one quietly, like it had been living in him since the party and had just now been let out.
"The collar," you repeated innocently.
"You knew what you were doing."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Y/N."
"Sunghoon."
He looked at you for a long moment, this boy who never cracked, who never rushed, who kept everything behind his eyes until he decided otherwise — and then he decided otherwise.
"I'm in love with you," he said. Simple. Direct. Like he'd taken aim and let go. "I have been for a long time and this week has been the most unhinged experience of my life so if you have something to tell me I really think you should tell me now."
The most unhinged experience of my life. You almost laughed again. He had no idea. "I'm in love with you too," you said. "I have been. For a long time, I think."
He exhaled.
Not dramatically — this was Sunghoon, nothing was ever dramatic — just a slow breath out, like something he'd been holding had finally been set down. His hand came up and found your jaw, tilted your face up toward his, and he looked at you for one long, unhurried moment the way he did everything.
There she is, he thought, soft and certain and final. There she is.
Then he kissed you.
It was warm and quiet and careful and then — when you kissed him back, when your hand found the front of his shirt — not careful at all. His other hand found your waist and pulled you closer and you went, and the food on the stove went briefly unattended, and the music played on low in the background of your apartment that smelled like his candle and yours combined now, that had his bag by the door and his key on the hook, that had been halfway his for a long time already.
His last coherent thought, before everything else: Finally.
He kissed you like a man starved, and after everything you had heard the past couple of weeks, he was starved. His hands tightened on your waist the slightest bit, almost as if he was afraid you would leave.
You wouldn’t dream of it.
Your hands dragged up his shirt and towards the back of his neck, pushing him closer and playing with his hair. Sunghoon let out a shaky breath, which made you smile into the kiss.
“Shut.” Kiss. “Up.” Another kiss. His voice was so low that it shocked you, but you were too busy to even fully notice.
“I didn’t say anything.” You say in between his kisses. Eventually you force yourself to pull away. His face looks like you just slapped him, but you caress his face. “I’m just turning off the stove.”
Sunghoon pursed his lips together. “Right. I forgot. I was kinda distracted.”
You stare at him for a moment, taking him in. His flushed cheeks, his glossy eyes, his hands that refuse to leave your waist. “At the risk of sounding too forward—”
“Be forward. That’s all I’ve wanted this entire week.”
You nod. “Well.. we can go to my room…?”
You barely got the chance to hear his brain fry itself when he smashes his lips back down onto yours. He seems hungrier now, and the thought has you reeling. All you can hear are bits and pieces. Please, and I’m obsessed with you, cross his mind over and over again, but you’re too involved in him to care.
“Is that a yes?”
“It’s a please.”
Sunghoon keeps kissing you as the two of you walk (awkwardly. It’s surprisingly hard to keep a straight line of direction when a man is kissing the shit out of you) to your bedroom. The door was already open, and your bed was already made. The two of you just flopped onto the mattress, not bothering to stop.
He laid above you, moving from your lips to everywhere else. “I’ve been in love with you,” a kiss on the cheek, “since that IKEA argument,” a kiss on your jaw, “when you were wearing that stupid,” kiss on the neck, “fucking,” kiss on your collarbone, “shirt.” He keeps kissing you, mumbling more. “It was the tiniest shirt in existence and you wore it around me.”
“It was the first shirt I saw that day.”
“Well it made me really hard.” He says, looking down at you.
“Oh, did it now?” You say, a playful smirk on your face.
He wipes that smirk off with a kiss, trailing back down to the collarbone, sucking on various spots. You choose not to think about how much of a pain it will be to whisk those out of your skin before your shift. Instead, you choose to live in the moment.
His hands trail from your waist to your sides. “Can I?” He asks, hands incredibly still. You nod, but that’s not enough for him. “Please say it.”
“Yes, Sunghoon.”
He wastes no time in taking your shirt off, throwing it somewhere in your room for you to find later. “So beautiful.” He mumbles, almost incoherently. “Wanted this for so long. You for so long.”
Every word, every kiss, every touch sends sparks up and down your body. You don’t know how you’ve lived without this, but now that you have it you won’t ever give it up. You run your hands under his shirt and on his bare skin, feeling the warmth of the man on top of you.
It’s barely even a touch, and yet he folds completely. Head in your neck, holding you tightly. You feel the outline of abs and a strong v line, hands going lower and lower. Instead of the obvious, you choose to grab the hem of his shirt and pull it. He instantly moves, allowing you to pull the shirt off him—with his help of course.
You had seen him shirtless before. Sophomore year pool party hosted by Jake. But this is completely different. 2 years of soccer and consistent working out has made this man built. And you were not complaining.
You grab his jeans and pull him back in, but he stops himself.
“I wanna try something.”
You give him a nod, and he moves to pull down your sweatpants, leaving you in just a bra and underwear. Sunghoons eyes rake over your body in a way that screams adoration. If you had ever thought he didn’t like you, his actions now change your mind immediately.
“Tell me if you want me to stop, okay?”
“Okay.” You say quietly, unsure of what's to come.
He starts kissing your neck once more, moving down to your collarbone, then shoulder, then sternum. He makes it his mission to kiss every part of you. Your tits, your stomach, your hips. You don’t even realize how far down he is until he plants a kiss right above your underwear.
He goes to one hip, then the other, planting kisses on both. But instead of going where you want him, he goes to your thighs. He starts at the left, gentle kisses up and down your inner thigh, making you squirm. At the right, his kisses are still gentle, but they're closer now. Closer to where you want him. To where he wants to be.
“So beautiful.” He murmurs, finally pressing a kiss to your clothed heat. A delicate kiss, yet it made you squirm. God, this man is the devil.
“Please…” You sigh, not even realizing that you said it.
“Whatever you want.” He hooks a finger around your underwear, dragging the lavender cloth down your legs slowly. He makes sure to actually take them off, and not let them pool around your ankles, and then spreads your legs just a bit. “Are you sure?”
You nod. “I’m sure.”
That's all he needed before he put his mouth on you. Soft kisses that drive you crazy, hands grasping the duvet and teeth biting your lip. The pace is brutally slow, testing the waters. But he speeds up a bit. One hand under your leg, pulling you closer, the other on your clit, making slow circles as he eats you out.
If you thought he kissed you like a man starved, then you would be surprised at how he is once he truly tastes you. Hands grip you tightly, moving faster and faster as his tongue makes you cry out. He laps at your folds, tongue going in and out of you on occasion. You close your legs around his head, and he groans like you just gave him dessert.
You’re so close, you can feel it. And he can too. But he pulls away at the last moment, wiping at his mouth.
Sunghoon takes a moment to admire you. Naked from the waist down, a simple bra covering you. You’re panting, desperate to reach the orgasm that was cruelly ripped away from you by the man who almost gave you it.
You give him a look, and he gives you one back. “I’ll eat you out as many times as you want later, but right now I just wanna fuck you.”
“I’m on the pill.” You say.
He closes his eyes for a moment. “Is that enough for you? Cause I’ll go get condoms—”
“It’s enough.” You interrupt him, hand on the buckle of his jeans, slowly unworking it. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted something more than you want him right now. Maybe that’s insane to say, but you don’t care. Not when the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen is about to fuck you.
The two of you waste no time in taking off his jeans, and then his boxers. He also makes sure to take your bra off too.
You aren’t new to sex. It’s a very straightforward process. But sex with Sunghoon seems different. There's nothing wrong with him, it's just the fact you’ve known him for so long and he’s your best friend, and what if this ruins things?
“Hey.” He says, snapping you out of the trainwreck that is your thoughts. “Are you 100% sure? If you say no then I’ll stop, I promise.”
“It’s not that,” You pause, avoiding eye contact with him and his naked lower half. “I just don’t want this to ruin things.”
His hand goes to your waist, gentle and comforting. “This won’t ruin anything. I’ll still be in love with you after this, probably even more than I am right now.”
You think for a second before nodding. “Okay.”
“You still want this?”
“Yes, Sunghoon.” You say with a faux-annoyed face.
He gives you the most genuine smile as he presses his tip against you. The feeling sends a shock straight to your core, and you’ve never wanted anything more than you do right now. He rubs his tip up and down your folds, letting the pre-cum mix with the wetness that was pooling out of you.
“I’ll go slow, okay?” Sunghoon pushes in slowly, true to his word. You wince, but not in pain. In pleasure. You’re completely engulfing his tip, and he’s looking at it like it’s the Mona Lisa. “Jesus Christ." His voice is low, gravely, and possibly the sexiest thing you’ve ever heard.
He continues to push, letting your pussy swallow him whole. When he’s finally in, he looks at you first to make sure you’re ready and that you’re still okay. It’s sweet, but you aren’t in the mood for sweet.
And somehow, he hears you loud and clear. He pulls back almost all the way, until it’s just the tip again, and slams into you.
It has you gasping for air, grabbing the blanket, the pillow, him. He keeps up the pace. Brutal, yet slow. A harsh slam in, a slow drag out. It’s simultaneously too much and not enough.
“Sunghoon…” You whine.
“You want more?”
You nod, and he obliges immediately, snapping his hips into yours faster. You're moaning and writhing underneath him but he doesn’t stop. After all, this is what you wanted.
It smells of sex, and the only sound you can hear is skin slapping, your whines, and his little groans. Back and forth and back and forth, it’s too much.
You can feel a pool in your core tightening, and in a moment of pure lust you wrap your legs around him and pull him closer. “You’re fucking evil.” He almost growls, going faster if that was even possible.
Sunghoon’s as desperate as you are, slamming his hips into yours with strength and precision of a man who worked for this his entire life. You can barely form words, just moans as he goes in and out of you.
You tighten around him and he whines, and it’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard. But you don’t get a chance to focus on that.
“I know honey, I know. Me too, sweet girl.”
His hips stutter, but he’s back on track, fucking you the way you deserve after weeks of psychological torture and cold showers on his part. He’s dreamed of this more times than you could imagine. But this is better than any dream of his. Because you’re under him, eyes shut in pleasure as he fucks the shit out of you the way he’s wanted for so long.
“I’m close.” You manage, hands grabbing on his biceps.
He speeds up. “You wanna cum?” You nod, a tear falling out of your eye from how good everything feels. As he drags himself in and out of you, a hand falls to your clit, rubbing fast circles. You let out a loud moan, only enticing him to keep going. “Come on honey, cum with me.”
He plays with your folds for a few more seconds before your hips buck without warning, teeth digging into your bottom lip as you come undone over his dick. Your legs shake around his abdomen, and you let out a silent cry.
“Good girl. I’m so close okay? Where do you want me?” He asks, slowing down just a bit.
You’re still reeling from your orgasm and the fact he’s still fucking you. “Anywhere.”
He places both of his hands around you, caging you in as he pounds into you with no remorse, desperate for a release. He can feel you clenching around him, and that’s what sends him over the edge.
“Fuck!” His hips stutter for the final time, pressing into you fully. His head drops down, almost heavy from the week long torture. As he cums in you, his head drops down, almost heavy. You both don’t move for a bit, just staying still
It’s quiet. The only sound being breathing coming from the both of you.
“Did it ruin it?” He asks, breathlessly with a smirk.
“Fuck off!” You reply, lightly slapping his chest.
It was that very moment where you realized you couldn’t hear his thoughts anymore. You would miss the frantic array of thoughts that would show up when you did something miniscule to him, but you weren’t upset. This just meant he finally said all that he needed to say.
