[hooncifer]

-- 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗛𝗜𝗗𝗗𝗘𝗡 𝗧𝗥𝗨𝗧𝗛 .ᐟ ft. park sunghoon

PAIRING bad boy!sunghoon ✩ best friend!reader

𐚁 SYNOPSIS.

park sunghoon is your college’s infamous heartthrob. despite his terrible reputation as a player and his empty pockets, girls still fall for his countless charms, hoping to be the one to make him change.

two years ago, after a ridiculous rescue, you’ve somehow become sunghoon’s best friend; something that left people confused, constantly asking you the same questions: what are you doing in the life of a guy like that and why did he spare you?

when jake, another cute popular guy, seriously starts hitting on you, your friendship with sunghoon unexpectedly turns sour. hidden within that bitterness lies two truths: your two-year long celibacy was perhaps never your fault and that your best friend may have never really been your best friend at all.

｡tags: best friends to lovers, bad boy x “cool” reader, hints of humor, angst, happy ending, side jake, jake is the boyfriend reader actually deserves, jungwon cameo, wonyoung as sunghoon’s ex, jay as sunghoon’s best friend, sunghoon gets better.

｡warning: MDNI, explicit (smut), sunghoon is manipulative and a liar, sunghoon is jealous and possessive, sunghoon is broke, sunghoon isn’t a good student, sugar boy sunghoon, parental abuse (sunghoon’s mum), sunghoon smokes and drinks.

｡smut tags: (it's my first smut so it's a mess) dom sunghoon, bratty awkward reader, unprotected sex (wrap it everyone), dubcon (sunghoon kinda does whatever he wants), bit of dirty talk, she swears at him a lot, fingering, chocking, missionary, spooning, cockwarming, marking.

｡word count: 24K 🗝

｡playlist: i get this feeling (maden lane), 'til u cry (kwn), get a little freaky with me (fantasy).

｡taglist: (sorry i couldn't reply to everyone but thank you so much for asking to be tagged,i hope the fic won't disappoint you ♡ ) @chyukiz, @bunnyhoon, @simpkuno, @enharized, @savageislandanchor, @hoonievan, @briefcopheroprofessor-blog, @gummypeaches1, @jong-caprio, @en-muse, @kkuroumi, @msrmimi, @lovesocide, @chokoominto, @raininthemorphsis, @esz13, @stillillies, @honeymoonave777, @veemegatron, @geniejunn, @whippedhoon, @zoe1love

｡permanent: @luvpocket, @minhxvn ❤︎

｡disclaimer: this is a fictional work for entertainment purposes. nothing reflects on the real enhypen members!

as the night wears on, everything starts to feel nauseating: the aftertaste of alcohol lingering on the tip of your tongue, the relentless bass that continues to pulse beneath your skin. even the outfit you spent way too long picking out has become suffocating, sticking to your body, pleading to be taken off.

4AM.

that’s what your phone's screen displays, drawing a weary sigh from your lips. it’s not that you dislike partying, but as you've sobered up more than once now, fatigue has ultimately settled into every part of you; you want to go home.

you watch enviously as the college students gradually quit the mansion, undoubtedly belonging to some spoiled rich dude who throws expensive parties, in the desperate aim of getting popular.

especially with women.

something that irks you—not exactly because you find that random dude's tactics pathetic, but because if you can't slip away into the comfort of your pajamas, you have someone cut from the same cloth to thank for it.

but in his case, he doesn’t need money to have women lining up for him. despite being fully aware of the toxic mess he is, women would still pay for one chance to go on date with him, for the slimmest possibility of winning his untouchable heart.

all because this man's face and body cards are… priceless. absolutely priceless. the kind of otherworldly beauty and effortless sensuality that makes every penny worth it.

but that’s far from the whole story.

regarding his bedroom affairs, rumors describe him as one of a kind, the promise of an unforgettable experience that every woman apparently has to try before she dies. he may be deep in student debt and struggle to make ends meet every month, but the man is filthy rich in other departments.

anyway, stuffs that you've heard against your will. in every hallway, girls can't help but chatter about him and his hot bestie jay. shallow gossips that has half the women of your college buzzing, whereas they make you roll your eyes.

that kind of guy… no, just no.

the thrill of push & pull with hearttrobs can be entertaining, sexy, whatever, sure, but for you, as years pass, you now long for a genuine, stress-free relationship, an authentic romance; uncomplicated and sweet, one where you don't have to guess your partner's hidden intentions.

that's why earlier, during the party, when a girl, that you saw around in classes, approached you—knowing your relationship with him, you responded without a second thought.

“aren't you worried?” she inquired out of curiosity, probably a bit drunk.

you frowned, unsure. “worried? about what?”

“you know, to be his next target.” upon hearing this, you couldn't hold back the humorless laugh that came out, immediately knowing who she was talking about; as always, they all come to you for him, because of him.

“i'm not.” you assured her with a little chuckle, almost baffled that she could even wonder such a thing. “he’d never do that with me, and to be honest, nothing he could try would work on me.”

because finding someone attractive is one thing, desiring them is another. and in your eyes, aside his appearance, nothing about sunghoon… is dateable.

you know him too well, way too well. what he truly is beneath his perfect looks, beyond the mere red flag stories that no one ever takes seriously, the countless “i can change him” attempts that end in major heartbreaks: his unredeemable self. all those girls, blinded by their delusions and romantic hearts, want to be the one for him. and he lets them believe that they can.

“really? so if the park sunghoon tries to hit on you, you wouldn't be tempted even a little?”

full of confidence, voice even tinged with a hint of contempt. maybe a bit too loud.

“that's right, i’d never be.”

indeed, park sunghoon is your average fuckboy; a label perhaps even too mild for him. he does the regular stuffs; sleeping around and getting taken home by various pretty girls he meets (and never the other way around since his place... well), flirting with multiple women at once—always keeping his options open as a true strategist.

but that's not his specialty. what he excels at is the chase: the thrill of pursuing, the satisfaction of winning, and then the inevitable break. chase and break.

it doesn’t take him long to charm someone. one night, one week. two for the most resilient ones. his entire being seemingly crafted by the heavens and carefully perfected by his own self.

no one can help but notice sunghoon’s tall and charismatic figure when he walks into a room, a man that stands out even from a distance.

he has naturally thick black hair, the kind that makes you want to run your fingers through it just to see if it’s as silky as it looks.

he wears a subtle, masculine fragrance, a scent that lingers in your mind long after you’ve parted ways.

his eyes are deep and mesmerizing, the kind you have to look away from if he tries to draw you in with them.

he even has an unexpectedly cute charm: a bright eye smile with two little fangs that peek out.

despite his cool beauty, sunghoon carries a warm aura. he has a natural talent for striking up conversations, making women laugh and feel comfortable enough to let their guard down. even men fall victim to his charm.

at first, sunghoon will sympathize, listen patiently to your problems. then, he will get comfortable with you: an arm casually draped over your shoulder, fingers gently playing with your hair in a comforting gesture, a knee brushing against yours "without meaning to". the kind of touch that catches you off guard at first, only to become something you gradually get used to.

giving his all to make you question everything you’ve heard about him and eventually disregard his record as a total bastard.

looks like an angel, but he's a trauma in the flesh.

[…]

a few meters away.

the bathroom is thick with steam and cloying perfumes. two bodies press together, mouths locked in messy kisses. one aches with desire, while the other trembles with repressed anger ; her teeth graze his skin, desperate to make him hers, her hands pull his hair, whereas he’s groping her curves coarsely, slowly venturing into her secret sanctuary, with no hesitation whatsoever.

“sunghoon,” the girl whispers feverishly the next instant, as his skilled right-hand fingers already send her to seventh heaven, his left hand quietly rummaging through her purse. “what did you say your dad did for a living? ” the girl writhers in pleasure, her moans echoing the dimly lit room. “pl-plastic surgeon”, barely managing to reply between her gaps. her response makes him nod approvingly, with a slight pout of his bottom lip.

after getting his hands on one of her credit cards, sunghoon calmly slips it into the back pocket of his jeans, as if he were doing this every day. “tell me your name again” between uneven breaths, she replies, “gi-giselle”.

sunghoon chuckles, curling his fingers against her sensitive spot and making her cry louder, “okay, pretty giselle”, he teases with a hint of disdain, cupping her cheeks with his free hand, “show me what those big lips of yours can do then,” in no time, the sharp clink of a belt being unbuckled and the rasp of a zipper sliding open echo through the walls.

[…]

if anyone wonders how sunghoon, despite his broke ass, always wears designer clothes, owns expensive watches, glasses, caps and a whole drawer of calvin klein underwear… well, it's because they're all gifts from his ex fucks, whether they get them for him or he gets them himself using their card.

hidden within his easygoing nature lies deceit.

sunghoon drives women crazy, especially the rich ones spoiled by their parents, likely pursuing them out of envy and convenience.

he's known for his love-bombing: the excessive affection, the clinginess, the jealousy that makes them feel special. he buries them under attention, sweet words and intoxicing intimacy.

he effortlessly has these girls crawl at his feet, wrapped around his finger, all while never committing. and it has to be said: sunghoon leaves them no real way out. should one of them ever try to walk way before he decided, he'd become as harmless as a lamb to talk her out of it.

sunghoon always wins, because that’s the moment they realize just how deeply in love they are, how emotionally dependent they've become of his attention. and he takes advantage of it: for weeks, sometimes months, sunghoon basks in their care, affection and wealth; a true sugar boy.

then, just as suddenly as it began, it’s over.

he ends things before any of these girls can understand anything, beg him to reconsider. the moment he’s gotten what he wants and found his next pretty wealthy girl to pursue, sunghoon disappears. his early warmth immediately vanishing, replaced by the coldness of his haunting absence. and if there is one thing about park sunghoon, he never comes back. never.

what does sunghoon exactly want?

easy money? a fleeting connection? a semblance of power? no one knows and he never told you, probably doesn’t know himself. so it remains a mystery, one worth a pile of broken hearts, with the answer buried in the intricacies of his wounded soul.

one time, you two were resting beneath a tree on the college lawn. his head was laying comfortably on your lap and your fingers were absentmindedly running through his soft hair; a proximity deemed normal between you.

during that peaceful moment, sunghoon mentioned that he's actually incapable of falling in love with someone. a statement that made you raise an eyebrow, curious and sceptical, because… you don’t believe that.

what could your best friend possibly know when he's never given himself a chance to experience love? always running away the moment his heart emits a hint of genuine tenderness—not the tenderness he’s learned to feign so perfectly on the surface, but the very one that makes him feel attached and vulnerable.

in your eyes, sunghoon is scared. trapped by his traumas, as cliché as it sounds. you would never say that to him though; his ego wouldn't be able take it, so the words remain anchored in your chest.

the only thing you do know is what started it all. that endless, vicious circle, he keeps drowning in without ever trying to resurface: the aftermath of growing up in an abusive household—visible and invisible scars left etched across his being, wounds that he choose to conceal rather than heal.

a story he narrated while drunk (again). muscled arms wrapped around your hips, holding you tightly with a tint of despair and loneliness. his head heavy resting in your neck, his unsteady breath skimming over your skin.

and you weren't unbothered by his behavior, right? you were simply lending him an ear:

a father who had run away with his mistress and never cared for his existence. a mother who had fallen into gambling and habitual drunkenness, taking her anger out on the son who carried the same face as her cheating ex-husband:

“adeul, your own mom hates you, so how could any woman ever truly love you?”

painful words that made you understand what drove sunghoon to hurt innocent women, one by one.

when one feels worthless, they can become heartless.

still.

nothing could ever justify his trash behavior. and to make things worse, sunghoon is the kind of asshole who doesn’t feel an ounce of remorse.

he even lets you deal with the consequences of his brutal separations: you're the one wiping the hot tears from his ex lovers' flushed cheeks, telling them the words they need to hear so they don't completely fall apart.

although sunghoon wants you to believe he's busy with something important, every time he ends things with yet another girl, you're aware that those recurring "coincidences" are nothing but blatant lies.

still, you always assumed that if he leaves you to deal with his girls, it’s because he only knows how to break things, not how to fix them. no one ever taught him, so, you just do it for him.

after all, how could a mechanic repair a car without ever learning how?

that's when folks begin to wonder: what are you doing in the life of a guy like that and why did he spare you?

all things considered, you'd say you're a fairly pretty girl, not breathtakingly beautiful but one who usually receive sweet compliments upon first meeting.

you're not loaded, but your family is well-off. thanks to your excellent grades, which you work hard for, you earn a scholarship and live comfortably in a single student apartment.

your relationship with your parents is a good one too. they call you often to check on you, send you money without you even asking—their bank transfers, always accompanied by a lovely note: "for our lovely daughter ♡". they show you love through many different ways.

things sunghoon clearly envies, among many others.

in short, you've never had a particularly difficult life and you check quite a few boxes on his target type. like, to be precise, you are sunghoon's type. so why not... you?

it all started one fine morning, two years ago. you had pulled over to the roadside in a quiet residential area near the university, just like every morning. after grabbing your coffee on the way, you sat on the hood of your car, sipping it slowly as you tried to wake yourself up properly.

but that's when your peaceful morning was disrupted.

furious shouts from a man suddenly erupted from the building across, voice booming as he yelled at someone to “get the fuck out of there, little bastard.” a loud bang followed, the sound of door being thrown open, along a feminine voice seemingly whining about the situation, and unmistakable sounds of a heated pursuit.

then you saw a guy in his twenties stumbling down the building's stairs. black hair, a plausibly handsome face, and a well-built body, because, yeah, the most noticeable thing… naked. he was completely naked, with nothing but a pair of jeans barely covering his private parts.

while he was panicking, glancing over his shoulder at the beefy guy chasing after him and unsure which way to run along the sidewalk, that was when he spotted you.

your eyes met and your fates were sealed.

a glimmer of hope flashed across his face, his gaze immediately painting you as his savior. but you were no heroine, you just wanted to drink your coffee in peace before heading to class. you certainly didn't want to get involved into his mess as well, so you broke eye contact and looked away, pretending you hadn't seen him.

surely, any passerby would come to your aid if they witnessed the scene: a 180cm tall guy, bare as a newborn chick, standing in the middle of the street, about to inconvenience you.

unfortunately, that wasn't enough to keep him from approaching you. you learned that day that he was a persistent man.

seeing him more closely, extra careful not to look lower, you noticed that his face was familiar to you: wasn't that the campus hottie begging you right now?

“please help me, i'll repay you five times over,” was the first thing sunghoon ever said to you.

even though you didn't feel like helping him—something telling you he was far from being a helpless victim, you had to admit you were weak when it came to lost-puppy eyes, especially when they belonged to a guy as fine as him.

you also knew that his repeated pleas (and that chiseled torso) would stay on your mind if you drove away without helping.

besides, it wasn't exactly unpleasant to have the college's heartthrob indebted to you.

when you caught sight of what you later learned was the girl's enraged father nearby, you made your decision. with an amused sigh and a slight clearing of your throat, you locked eyes with sunghoon and gave a quick nod toward the passenger door of your car.

the look of relief had barely crossed his pale face before the door slammed shut, sunghoon already having taken refuge inside your car.

after drinking the last drop of your coffee and tossing the cup into the trash beside you, you didn't waste another second: you rushed to the driver's side and started the engine without delay, the father's threatening shouts echoing from behind as the car quickly drove away.

that was how your first encounter with sunghoon went: his bare cheeks on your seat, the sound of your laughter filling the car as he told you the full story. worth mentioning that you arrived late that day for class because your passenger princess obviously had the nerve to ask you to stop by his place so he could grab some clothes; just another thing he owed you.

anyway, something was born between you that day. a strange friendship, an impenetrable bond, a connection that shouldn't exist.

you've become the closest woman in his life, his female best friend (since jay is there for the male representation), the one sunghoon trusts completely aside from jay.

ironically, rescuing him thay day earned you a very special place in his unfathomable heart.

and after two years of friendship, sunghoon has never once made a move on you. you always assumed, out of gratitude or something along those lines, which is why you're confident he never would.

even if things have never been said out loud, it has somehow been established that you're simply his best friend and nothing more.

if your values regarding love don't align at all, friendship is different. sunghoon is precious to you. you're both fun and chill, you bicker constantly but never had a serious fight. you love his cheery presence, his quirky sense of humor, but also the way he stays up late just to let you rant about your day, making sure you've let go of all your stress before going to sleep. or the way sunghoon somehow always knows when you need one of his huge, heartwarming hugs.

beyond the popular red flag who breaks girls' hearts, sunghoon remains a friend worth cherishing, after being torn apart by his dysfunctional family. especially after hearing his past and seeing him at his lowest, the thought of abandoning your best friend and cutting ties with him has become unthinkable.

even though you can't fix him, you've made it your personal mission to warm his cold heart as best you can.

nevertheless, much to your regret, the car incident also made you his accomplice in all his mischief with girls, somehow turning you into his unofficial relationship manager.

calling him out on his behavior and coaxing him to stop were things you used to do, but as your words always went in one ear and out the other a second later, you eventually gave up and accepted your fate.

sunghoon doesn't care, no matter how many times you try.

to ease your guilt about being best friends with a massive player, you sometimes try to sabotage his plans—cockblocking him, behind his back; secretly warning the girls, giving him the wrong address for his dates...

however, it hardly ever works because first, sunghoon is somehow always one step ahead of you. second, his girls often end up thinking you're… jealous, which makes you sigh every time.

they only realize later, when you're the one comforting them, instead of the man they want, with a look that says, “i told you so”… because sunghoon doesn't even bother leaving them on read. after the breakup, he deletes their number and texts straight away.

back to the present, the party.

speak of the devil, here he is at last: the finest student on campus, its infamous don juan and your one and only best friend, park sunghoon.

or rather, what is left of him at this moment. he emerges from a dark corridor, trying to walk properly, with dignity.

alas, he only looks like a disheveled mess who’d a very good time: red lipstick smears the corner of his fleshy lips, a few hickeys ravage his neck, and his hair is slightly disheveled from obviously being pulled, not to mention under his leather jacket, his shirt is almost wide open, held together by a single, overworked button.

once again, he looks like a mess, but undoubtedly the most beautiful mess.

of course, as soon as sunghoon spotted you leaning lazily against the bar, his unsteady steps instinctively led him toward you, as if drawn by a magnet. because he knows you're waiting for him, like the perfect bestie that you are. you wouldn’t let him go home alone, not when he is in such a drunken state.

and even if you ever dare to leave without him (which you've done before… twice), he would find his way to your apartment, one way or another. no matter what time it is, he'd ring your doorbell until you finally open the door. then he’d win as you always let him in before your neighbors complain or call the cops.

when sunghoon gets near you, your eyes meet with a spark of playfulness. regardless of how tired and fed up you are from waiting for him, you can't help but laugh when he winks and flashes that stupid smug smirk; silly shameless man.

“cinderella, midnight struck long ago; it's time to go home.” you tease him with a weary smile.

“sorry, fairy godmother, a demure and lovely lady didn’t want to let me go,“ he replies, now standing before you. he slightly shifts his head, exposing his neck to prove his point, showing you the hickeys you've already noticed.

you roll your eyes and chuckle, “i don't need to ask if you enjoyed your night out, huh?” you don't wait for his answer, only hearing him snicker, before reaching out your hand, “give me the keys to your junk” not bothering to be polite and simply gesturing him with your fingers.

like an obedient puppy, sunghoon listens and slips the car keys into your palm. then, as if he were on an invisible leash, he naturally follows you when you start heading toward the doorway; words are no longer necessary between the two of you.

when you step outside, the winter chill immediately catches up with you. you still take a deep breath, relieved to finally escape the heavy smell of cigarettes and alcohol. however, your relief is short-lived.

as you both walk over to sunghoon's car, you notice a girl leaning against its rusty bodywork, waiting.

you slow your pace, sighing in annoyance because you know her: wonyoung.

you've spoken to her several times, consoling her each time, yet it seems like nothing is ever enough for her to forget sunghoon.

and of course, at that exact moment, the familiar click of a lighter echoes behind you: sunghoon. that coward has conveniently stopped in his tracks to light a cigarette. in other words, he also spotted his ex situationship and doesn't want to deal with her.

“what are you doing waiting outside in this weather, wonyoung… just go home before you catch a cold,” you throw as you walk toward her, your eyes linger on her chanel coat.

she glances at the man behind you, who pointedly ignores her. “can i just have a word with him? please.” her voice trembles and glisten with unshed tears.

you sigh again, both frustrated and embarrassed. “do i really need to tell you that he has nothing to say to you? i think you can figure that out yourself.”

normally you're nicer, but it's almost 5 a.m., and there is only one thing you want: going home. like now is not the time.

“look,” you continue, lowering your voice so that nosy ass sunghoon can't overhear. “you're such a beautiful girl who deserves better… than this guy. i swear, you'll soon find someone who genuinely cherish you. sunghoon isn't worth your tears,” as she starts sobbing in front of you, making you shift uncomfortably. “you know very well how it works with him: once it's over, it's over for good,” you said, giving her shoulder a sympathetic pat.

you think you've wrapped it up nicely, yet your words seem to trigger something in her, since she snaps the next moment. “you talk as if it were easy to move on.” amid her tears, wonyoung lets out a nerve-wracked, bitter laugh. “you can't understand because he never tried anything with you.”

she slaps your hand off her shoulder. “but now that i know him better, i'm sure of it. y/n, instead of comforting all his exes, you should be watching out for yourself.”

after those blunt words, wonyoung finally storms off, leaving you… more than a little perplexed, your eyebrows knit together as you watch her silhouette fade into the night. you let out a nervous laugh.

what is she on? wonyoung only said that to get back at you... right? like, blowing off some steam?

you don't have time to dwell on her words before you feel warm breath on your neck.

“sunghoon isn't worth your tears?”

you jump at the familiar deep voice repeating your words right beside your ear.

spinning around, you smack sunghoon's chest, making him stumble back a few steps as his laughter rings through the quiet street.

“if you're so interested in the things i say to your ex fuck, next time you can say them yourself.”

you head toward the driver's door, your annoyance making every movement sharper than necessary; something sunghoon notices right away as he slips into the passenger seat.

“hey, why are you mad? i'm the one who got insulted.” he raises an eyebrow, still teasing you, knowing you'll eventually cool off if he makes you laugh.

you don't turn to him as he hopes though and instead start the engine.

still, you can't help wondering why you're suddenly so irritated. sure, sunghoon has the audacity to tease you right after you'd finished yet another emotionally taxing conversation with one of his ex fucks—a conversation where you got chewed out because of him.

but you shouldn't be worked up since he does this shit (annoying you and startling you at the most random moments) all the time.

deep down, though, you can probably guess what's really bothering you; if sunghoon overheard what you said under your breath, then he must have heard what wonyoung before storming off too. and yet... he pretends of nothing, doesn't react.

you've been driving in silence for a few minutes now, and you feel sunghoon fidgeting in his seat; he hates it when you go quiet on him, give him the cold shoulder.

“when we get to your house, i'll cook you ramen, y/n. stop ignoring me,” he complains in the most childish way. is his grown ass really doing aegyo?

you immediately recall the last overcooked bowls of ramen sungoon made for you and start chuckling.

at the sound of your laughter, sunghoon's features melt into a warm, smug expression, revealing his precious eye smile; he managed to make you laugh, just as he hoped.

“i comfort girls crying because of you, and all you have to give me in return is soggy ramen?” you tease, throwing his words back to him.

his face twists into an offended expression, holding his chest, pretending to be hurt by what you said. “i cooked these ramen with my whole heart and that’s what you think of it? damn, girls are so heartless.”

a bemused scoff slips past your lips. “wow, you really have no shame, mr. park.”

you shake your head at his nonsense, laughing along with him. “and what do you mean, my house? you’re sleeping in your own bed tonight.”

another round of complaints comes out off sunghoon. “y/n, i’m too drunk to go back” he whines. from his furrowed eyebrows to exaggerated pout and pleading voice, he tries really hard to soften you up.

“but i thought i was heartless?” sunghoon instantly drops the fake whining and leans closer, placing his hand on the driver's seat.

his woody fragrance mixed with the faint smell of cigarettes lit earlier suddenly fills your senses. without realizing, your back tenses slightly.

you like that scent, because it’s familiar, because it's his, and somehow, you can tell he's very aware of it.

“i was joking; you’re the most marvelous girl, y/n. just let me sleep at your place.” you quickly shoot him an annoyed glance, only to get caught in his steady gaze. you clear your throat and turn your attention back to the road.

“please,” he adds in a sickeningly sweet tone, one he knows you’ll eventually yield to.

“fine.” you can feel his smile right beside your neck.

this little shit. he pulls away, sitting properly back into his seat, now that he got what he wanted—as always.

you've stopped counting the number of times sunghoon has crashed at your place, your couch being his bed of choice, to the point where the leather has molded to the shape of his body.

his part-time job in a shady bar helps pay for his tuition. since his grades are barely average, he doesn't qualify for scholarships and can't afford student housing.

so, technically, even though sunghoon claims he doesn't have a home, he still lives with his horrible mother. if he had his own place, he’d know his mom would show up constantly, pestering him for money.

besides, it's convenient that none of his fucks know his actual address, avoiding any more confrontation after the breakups. so in a way, it's a blessing in disguise.

because, yeah, the two persons who end up pay for this lifestyle are jay and you.

you both have an unwanted roommate, who is repeatedly staying over, eating your food in the fridge, doing his laundry without contributing to anything. you're honestly getting a little tired of drying his calvin klein underwear…

but you let him anyway, because the only thing of real value sunghoon owns (aside from the gifts from his girls) is his car, a sentimental inheritance from his late grandfather, which breaks down more often than it runs.

for an ill-fated guy, sunghoon does have golden best friends.

and so, the road to your home carries on, cocooned in the warmth of your laughs and bickerings… completely oblivious to sunghoon's calculative gaze, lingering discreetly on you. because little did you know, even walls have ears.

the days, weeks and months pass by in the same familiar routine: you sleep, wake up, buy your coffee on the way to campus, often with sunghoon by your side. you attend class together (when he isn’t somewhere skipping them), eat lunch together and then part ways when it comes to study, sunghoon always coming up with some excuse to escape.

you spend most of your days with your best friend, sometimes with jay too, when neither of them os busy "dating" girls. saturday nights are often marked by parties (dragged by sunghoon), though you always make sure you're up to date with your studying before you go.

to sum it up, nothing unusual happens.

but you don't know why. sometimes, in the middle of class, your mind wanders. ever since that eventful evening one month ago, wonyoung's words have lingered in your mind, leaving behind a curiosity that won’t let you rest: what did she hear or notice that made her tell you to watch out?

you also remember the random girl who approached you a few hours earlier and asked you if you were worried that he might try to hit on you one day.

like, twice in the same night, something is off.

is it just a coincidence? just girls into sunghoon, perhaps envious of how close you are to him? or is there really something you’ve failed to notice?

after two years of being best friends, you know almost everything about him, or at least you think you do. did they say those things because of how physically close you are? in the sense that cuddling, tickling, resting his head on your lap, stomach or shoulder are have always been normal between the two of you, but maybe not to anyone else?

to you, it's no big deal, especially since sunghoon has never crossed the line: no inappropriate touches, no attempts to kiss or anything like that, even though he had so many opportunities, with the number of times he's gotten drunk and could have easily blamed it on a “mistake”.

there must be something else, something you're missing. to be honest, you kind of hate yourself for doubting sunghoon when he’s never done anything wrong, at least not to you.

but anyway, let's call it female intuition. after all, your bestie is no regular guy, and if other girls noticed something, there’s definitely a reason for it.

however, you decide to put these doubts aside for now, especially since they might be completely infounded.

valentine’s day is coming up, and this year, you don't want to spend it alone.

you’ve had boyfriends before, three, to be exact. but none of these relationships lasted, since it was never true love. your reasoning was simple: once the initial spark faded, there’s no point in holding on to a relationship that’s bound to fall apart sooner or later.

but ever since your last boyfriend two years ago, you have to confess: you've been struggling on the dating scene.

the boys look at you with interested, especially at student parties. but strangely enough, they rarely ever approach you. you assume it's probably a generational thing, like these days men wait for women to make the first move instead of the other way around. still, it's safe to say you’ll never be the one to approach a guy first, as a proud old-school girlie.

it bums you to think that the last time you kissed a really cute guy was a year ago. jungwon, that was his name you recall. you were in a party and you had danced together, had a great chat. the chemistry was there, the kiss was hot. you could’ve definitely gone home together, and who knows, maybe even have tried dating afterwards, considering he seemed like a genuinely good boy.

but when jungwon went to refill your empty glasses, he never came back. you ended up spending the rest of the night alone, waiting for sunghoon as always, before ultimately heading back to your apartment with him instead.

on the way home, you had yapped to sunghoon about it, laughing awkwardly as you did. you joked that maybe jungwon simply didn't like you that much and had come up with an excuse to run away, or perhaps you’d forgotten know how to kiss someone properly.

sunghoon hadn't reacted much, merely letting out a quiet laugh at your story. all he’d muttered was that the guy was an idiot who didn't know what he was missing. you'd answered with a smile, “yup, that’s right,” more to boost your own spirits than anything else, before quickly moving on. you had exams to focus on then, so it didn't really matter.

but now, after last year's failure, your longing for a handsome, kind boyfriend is becoming harder and harder to ignore. like, you miss having with a sweet guy to go on simple dates with, someone to cuddle up with at home in front of a movie while the fireplace crackles beside you.

especially with the season of love around the corner and all the little things that makes you wish you weren't single.

and as if cupid had heard your lonely prayers, just a few days later, the love bell came knocking at your door.

as you're putting your things away in your locker, you notice a tall figure standing behind the small metal door. glancing down, you spot a pair of black sneakers and expect to see sunghoon, who'd left a few minutes earlier after telling you to wait for him.

however, when you shut your locker, you're met not by the familiar handsome face of your best friend, but by another man who's just as fine in an entirely different way.

you've seen him around before, whether on campus or at parties, but more than anything, you've heard about him. sim jake, a name that's just as often on the lips of college girls. but unlike sunghoon, it's for all the right reasons: kind, studious, loyal, wealthy, while also being undeniably sexy. in short, the whole package.

you arch an eyebrow, intrigued by what the golden boy could possibly want from you.

“hey, i'm jake,” he opens the conversation smoothly, without a trace of shyness, offering you a perfect smile.

“hi jake.” you reply with a subtle, flirtatious smile. even if he came to see you for something else entirely, having the sim jake right in front of you, looking so scrumptious, isn't something that happens every day. so, for once, you decide to drop the whole waiting-for-him-to-make-the-first-move thing and take the initiative. “i already know who you are, but do you know who i am?”

“of course i do, y/n,” he says, spelling your name out with his attractive australian accent, a charming laugh escaping his lips, coupled with a devastating smirk.

your heart skips a beat. is he flirting back? unsure, you try to keep your composure, making sure you don't starting blushing like a fool, although you're already melting like chocolate inside.

“so, what brings sim jake to my locker?” you ask sweetly, letting his name linger on your tongue like a piece of candy, your interest in him now impossible to hide.

“well, i'll be direct. i've been trying to approach for a while this pretty girl i'm talking with right now. i'd like to go on a date with her you know, to see if we match or something.”

you chuckle at his words and play along with him. “for a while, really? interesting. if she is who i think she is, i think she might be fine with that.”

although he still has a playful gleam in his gaze, you see jake’s lips tremble slightly; he looks hesitant. “but is it fine to him tho?”

your smile slowly fades, leaving behind only but m a thin, bittersweet line.

you understand immediately who he's referring to, and you don't like how quickly the realization hits you, like the way it's so obvious to you.

in fact, it's quite bothersome.

in the early months of your friendship, people did misunderstand you as sunghoon’s girlfriend—or more like, his fwb. but after two years, most of people around the campus know now that you’re friends, only friends. so someone like jake, #popular, has to know.

still, you pretend to half know. “him?” you scoff, “you mean park sunghoon?”

he nods without saying a word.

“we're only friends, why would he have an issue with this?” you retort, your voice tinged with amused curiosity.

jake's smile lingers, but his eyes narrow slightly, silently asking, are you serious?

“have you really not noticed, or have you noticed and you're just pretending you haven't?”

you remain silent, chuckling under your breath as you shake your head in quiet confusion.

again.

when you don't respond, jake continues, a little flustered.

“sorry, that was a bit rude of me. let's just… focus on us, if you allow me.”

you nod thoughtfully. without answering his previous question, you skip straight to, “where and what time?” decisively changing topic, no longer beating around the bush.

jake instinctively runs a hand through his thick brown hair, visibly relieved that he hasn't ruined everything.

“are you free tonight? i know this australian bar, they serve excellent beers and burgers. it's cozy, nothing too fancy, we can chill, have a few drinks and chat.”

you absolutely love the date idea, and are about to say yes without a second thought.

then, you remember that you reluctantly promised to help sunghoon study tonight, after he begged you at least fifteen times. with no surprise, he failed several exams in a row and is now at risk of repeating the year, something he absolutely can't afford financially.

“not tonight, i have to study for an upcoming exam,” you lie, keeping to yourself that you'll actually be playing professor for a certain someone else instead, though you don't understand why you chose to hide it.

you notice the disappointment on his adorable puppy face, so you rush to reassure him: “but tomorrow, yeah, i'd really like to.” his big smile returns at the mention of it, and you find yourself smiling back warmly. both of your eyes light up with excitement as you exchange numbers.

and once again, you remain unaware of the man nearby, watching the entire exchange, leaning against a locker, a pissed-off look on his face.

in the dim light of your living room, class materials are scattered everywhere; your computer sits on the corner of the coffee table, while sunghoon's textbooks and exam papers are covered in your neat handwriting. you spent the evening studying together, explaining the parts he didn't understand or had completely missed.

you sat beside each other, bodies close enough that you could feel his warmth against your skin, shoulders and fingers brushing every now and then. but again, none of this, this kind of closeness, feels unusual for you guys.

the only thing on your mind is that you clearly deserve to be paid for your tutoring, but then again, hey, sunghoon is your beloved, broke, and irresponsible best friend.

you decide that's enough for today and suggest taking a break to relax in front of the tv, which sunghoon immediately agrees to.

while waiting for the food you ordered, with your own money of course, your eyes remain fixed on the netflix page, as you try to pick a movie to watch.

you're both sitting on the thick, fluffy rug, with your backs against the sofa—yes, the very one that sunghoon has claimed as his bed.

you list movie titles for sunghoon, only to be met with a mere “mmh” every single time, which is absolutely no help at all. after several long minutes of this, you feel your patience wearing thin.

sensing his insistent gaze on you rather than the screen, you turn toward him, determined to annoy him in the same way.

“how long are you planning on giving me the same useless answer sunghoon? you don't feel like watching a movie anymore?”

he looks at you thoughtfully, as if carefully considering what he's about to say.

you simply shrug, your expression saying, well? are you going to make up your mind?

“when was the last time you had a boyfriend y/n?”

confusion immediately spreads across your face as his question registers. “huh?” you sputter, totally caught off guard.

“just answer the question,” he insists casually, though you notice something off about him, like a suble tension.

your gazes meet, and from the look in his eyes, you already know he won't give up until he gets his answer. fuck, he really takes pride in being annoying, isn't he?

you let out a nervous laugh and give in anyway, “okay, but help me decide for real which movie to watch next.”

since you happen to have been thinking about his question recently, you quickly answer, mumbling. “two years, why?”

to which sunghoon responds with nothing more than just another shitty “hmm”.

if his goal tonight is to get on your nerves, well done, mission accomplished.

still, you try to keep your cool, meeting his unbothered gaze with your miffed one.

“got any other random questions for me tonight while we're at it?”

“are you going to meet jake?” sunghoon drops the question casually, as if he hadn't just asked something he had no business knowing about.

you were right, sunghoon really is moving weird tonight. however, you choose to play dumb, pretending not to notice anything unusual with his behavior. “yeah, tomorrow. did you see him talking to me today?”

it isn't a real question, and he knows it. so finally, he doesn't even bother responding with his usual lame “hmm”. instead, he breaks eye contact and turns his attention to the tv.

since sunghoon is already trying to avoid confrontation, as usual, before you move on from whatever this is, you might as well take your chance to dispel your doubts or… confirm them.

“what’s up, park? are you bothered by something perhaps?” or someone, you'd like to add.

you shift to face him more directly, resting your elbow on the sofa in a deliberately provocative manner. the tables have turned, you're the one stirring shit while sunghoon is now the one feeling your persistent gaze.

though, he doesn't take his eyes off the screen, suddenly very interested in the movie catalog. however, the tight grin on his face gives him away : you've bruised his ego. good.

“why didn’t you just come and jump in the chat instead of, i assume, watching us from afar?”

your question makes him chuckle derisively, but you can sense the nervousness underneath it. you've known him for two years; his ass can't fool you.

yet, you notice his uneasiness, too quickly, fading away as he responds with unsettling confidence; a true top scorer in men’s field.

“why would i intrude such a sweet moment when you’ve been single for so long?” you can't tell wether he's being normal or sarcastic. however, you place your bet on the latter.

then he finally turns to face you, his newfound insolence matching your provocation, “i wouldn’t want you accusing me of being the reason you don't get laid." he says, clearing his throat, as if ready to twist the knife, “especially after all this time.”

on god. this asshole.

you laugh humourlessly, about to respond with a scathing retort, when the doorbell cuts you off.

lucky bastard, saved by the bell.

sunghoon wastes no time and jumps to his feet. with an unconcerned sigh, he strolls to the door and collects your order from the delivery man.

this might be the first time you've ever felt such a strong urge to stranggle your best friend.

especially when sunghoon re-enters your apartment, placing the bag of food on the coffee table nonchalantly. he arranges everything you ordered in front of you, looking throughly pleased, even humming to himself. even though he can clearly feel your murderous glare, a low laugh rumbles from sunghoon’s chest as he simply grins at you, "let's eat, y/n."

you don't answer, silently accepting the chopsticks he holds out to you. you watch him as he turns his attention back to the television, finally settling on a movie. this time, the silent treatment you’re giving him doesn't trouble him the slightest.

as you pick up a piece of meat and chew it with your jaw clenched, your mind drifts back to his dickish remark, or rather the way he said it: being the reason you don’t get laid?

really? did he actually say that?

you're not the type of girl who takes things to heart. even when people tease you, you usually just laugh it off, but this clearly isn't just playful banter, it's downright rude. and that’s so unlike him, so unlike the sunghoon you know.

fuck.

if you weren't best friends, you might actually think that sunghoon is… jealous of jake.

it doesn’t make any damn sense…

yet ?

it suddenly pops into your head: what if either that random girl, wonyoung or even jake was right? that there is more than meets the eye?

the rest of your evening is weighted down by this shitty, tense atmosphere. sunghoon keeps talking for the sake of talking while you barely respond, forcing fake smiles whenever you have to.

and you hate all of this, every second of it. you and sunghoon rarely argue like that, if not never.

that night, you’re tossing and turning in bed. your thoughts keep circling back to the person lying on your couch, peacefully sleeping, while you’re unable to find sleep because of him: your best friend, park sunghoon.

australian rock music plays in the background, mingling with the lively noise of restaurant and the various conversations happening at each table—including yours, with handsome jake.

you're in the middle of your meal, already on your third beer, because all this talking is making y'all thirsty. there are teasing smiles exchanged, eyes sparkling with interest; the date is going wonderfully.

yet you have a knot in your stomach. not because of jake, who's doing his best to ease the tension without knowing it, but your best friend.

you hate thinking about another man during such a lovely moment, but you can't help but reminiscing about his asshole behavior the night before; you're still not over it.

besides, sunghoon left before you this morning, when you always have to fight to get him out of bed, off your sofa. you also didn't catch sight of him again during the day, not even in class.

since last night, he's been acting so strangely, and it's spoiling your good mood. if you let your intrusive thoughts get the better of you, you'd believe sunghoon did all of this on purpose, so you'd think about him when you're on your date with jake. but that's not the case, is it?

so after finishing your plates, with jake having started his fourth pint of beer, which should have left him a little tipsy and therefore make it less suspicious, you let intrusive-sunghoon-thought win and ask jake what's been on your mind all night.

“by the way, yesterday, when you said i didn't notice anything about sunghoon, what did you mean by that?”

his smile tenses a little, nibbling his lips, slightly furrowing his eyebrows. “are you sure you want to talk about that now?”

you give jake an innocent look while you nod playfully, “sorry, just too nosy.” you chuckle, hoping to not ruin everything with this topic.

“when i said i’ve been trying to approach you for a while i was serious. it’s just sunghoon makes things a bit complicated.” jake confesses.

you remain quiet, digesting what he's saying with growing unhealthy curiosity.

“everyone knows you're just friends, but it’s like, it doesn’t matter to him, he’s keeping you to himself and has made that very clear to the other guys at uni.”

your blood temperature drops slightly. “seriously?”

jake nods and continues. “if i remember correctly, there was even a story where he threatened a guy who hit on you at a party. according to some versions, they even got physical. ”

jungwon. you directly think of him, but there is no way this is true ?

in front of your bewildered face, jake hastens to add “i'm not trying to ruin your friendship with him y/n, i'm just telling you what i saw and heard. also experienced.” he swallows and then smiles bitterly as he recalls the scene. “i already tried to approach you at a student party some months ago, but i barely had time to take a few steps toward you before i felt a hand holding me back by the shoulder. it was sunghoon.” he reveals and wow, you're blown away.

even if you don’t want to trust any of the word you’re hearing, something tells you that jake likely isn't lying. but how come in all that time, two whole years, you never caught wind of this? are you this oblivious or is sunghoon just that good at concealing everything?

in your head, and from what you've always seen at parties, sunghoon has always been busy picking up girls, like he doesn’t have a single second to spare for you. so, keeping guys from getting close to you?

and even if that is the case, to what end?

you know you're beating around the bush. you know it perfectly well, but you really don't want to believe…. whatever this is:

that your best friend has been eyeing you up all this time and purposely sabotaging your love life.

you sense unease welling up inside you, so you decide to forget about sunghoon and concentrate on jake again.

even if all this bullshit might be true, so what?

it's not like you're interested in sunghoon in any way other than as a friend. or so you tell yourself.

“so what i’m getting from that, my best friend might beat your ass later, but you still decided to try your luck with me again?”

jake is a little taken aback, not expecting this kind of silly response from you after everything he just shared. nevertheless, he's greatly relieved and lets you know with yet one more of his signature (perfect) smile.

“right, that’s right. at first i chickened out when i saw him all over you; i didn’t want to meddle in your whatever is going on between you”. he sighs softly before continuing, “but i don't know, you're the only girl at uni who actually makes my eyes linger, no one else really catches my attention. and since sunghoon doesn't seem ready to take things to the next level with you, i figured i might as well go for it.”

his words warm your heart as much as they cold it with the part involving sunghoon, but you stay focused on the positive, which is jake.

“also, even though i’ve rarely fought in my life, i’m not afraid anyway. i think you’re worth the fight.” he adds.

that part makes you giggle and blush, nearly making you choke on the beer you're drinking in one gulp. you awkwardly wipe your lips, before going back to flirting with him.

“okay, that’s kinda sexy mr. sim”

he laughs heartily and thanks you playfully with one hand on his heart, thus completing your date with him.

jake insists on paying for the whole dinner since he's the one who invited you, and you realize that you're no longer used to such gesture since you're always the one who pays for sunghoon.

for a man who promised to repay you five times over, the amount of things he owes you keeps piling up.

the drive back to your place is just as nice and melodic as the date.

jake's car is big, shiny, and smells brand-new—a perfect reflection of his income. you feel at ease with him, and your eyes feast on his perfectly sculpted profile.

once you arrive in front of your building, he hurries to open the door for you like a gentleman, offering his hand as he helps you out. but even after he closes the door, your hands remain linked.

you walk toward the front door together at a slow pace, both of you quietly trying to stretch the date until the very last minute.

at the front door, your footsteps falter and your bodies naturally turn toward each other. you can tell from the gentle pressure on your fingers that jake doesn’t want to let you go. you give each other nervous smiles and bright-eyed glances, and jake finally breaks the sweet silence.

“if that’s okay with you, i’d really like us to go on a second date. something more romantic this time.”

you feel like you're walking on air, your heart is pounding: it's everything you've been hoping for over the past two years. obviously you immediately agree to his invitation: “that sounds wonderful, i’d really love to,” as you reciprocate the soft pressure of his hand, interlacing your fingers with his.

the warm tension suddenly builds; you don't need to say the words—your eyes say it all. his head moves closer to yours just as you slightly stand on your tiptoes, your lips irresistibly drawing nearer and nearer.

you’re about to kiss when a certain cough suddenly interrupts the romantic moment.

your eyelids, which had slowly closed during the moment, flutter open, making you frown slightly. but you notice jake staring intently at your lips, determined to kiss you, so you attempt to get back into the mood and shut your eyes again. but the cough resumes, this time much louder, definitively ruining the kiss.

sighing in exasperation, you both look up to see who’s fucking interrupting.

when you recognize sunghoon’s familiar features on the balcony of your apartment, staring right into your soul, completely ignoring jake just a few inches away, your eyes widen.

for a second, you think you’re hallucinating: what the hell is that little bastard doing there and what exactly does he think he’s doing right now?

seeing your face contort with frustration and your gaze that could kill sunghoon a hundred times over, jake draws you back to him by shaking your hand. he tries to reassure you sweetly, “it’s alright, next time, okay.” but his eyes seem to say, “see how right i was about him?” which only makes you even more furious inside.

after one last squeeze of your fingers and a tender smile that pierces your chest, jake lets go of your hand and starts stepping away from you. “see you at college, y/n,” he calls over his shoulder.

your stomach twists with regret as you watch him get back into his car, start the engine, and drive away from your place.

your little bubble has just burst into a thousand pieces because of sunghoon, and when you look back at your balcony, his figure has vanished. of course, once he got what he wanted.

you rush toward the entrance, your keys rattling in time with your frantic mood; you don't even wait for the elevator and storm up the three flights of stairs.

your door is already ajar; sunghoon is waiting patiently for you and your wrath. you regret giving him your code as you slam the door behind you.

he's smoking a cigarette on your leather couch, his designated bed, acting like he doesn't give a damn when deep down you know now jealousy is eating him up; he can't run away from the truth anymore, not after the shit he pulled.

“didn't you tell me yesterday that you didn't want to be the reason i don’t get laid?” repeating his damn line, word for word.

sunghoon doesn't answer; he just stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray nearby, blowing smoke without meeting your furious gaze.

“i haven't seen you all day sunghoon, you were nowhere to be found, didn’t open my texts, didn’t pick up my calls, but suddenly you show up? at my place, without even letting me know? what kind of game are you playing?”

he stands up at last, measuredly draging himself towards your figure. towering over you, sunghoon locks his black piercing eyes with yours. “i’m playing no games y/n, not with you.”

you let out a dry, humorless laugh. carried away by your emotions, and reminiscing about your discussion with jake, you decide to spill everything, exposing the harsh truth he'd been hiding from you.

“i was told you’ve been having fun pulling the strings of my love life for the past two years and you have the fucking nerve to say that?”

realizing that you know everything, sunghoon freezes for a few seconds.

then, unconsciously, he takes another step closer to you.

the urge to put some distance between you is overwhelming, but you don't budge an inch. you refuse to let him know how much his words and actions mess with your head.

“every time i see any guy near you, it drives me fucking insane” the seriousness in his voice and the possessiveness in his gaze tell you he's not fucking joking.

sunghoon means every word, and that only makes everything worse.

you gasp in disbelief that he would admit so openly, just like that, and let out another cold laugh right to his face.

“but what gives you the right to do that? we're just best friends, sunghoon, best friends,” you insist. “why won't you let me be with someone?”

now it's sunghoon's turn to let out a low, amused chuckle, his gaze never leaving yours. “do you really need me to answer that, y/n?" he murmurs, his voice quieter this time. you feel him move closer again, until the distance between you becomes almost nonexistent.

his warmth surrounds you, the one you’ve been foolishly cherishing for over twenty four months. "i'm sure you already know what this is all about.”

you're speechless. for real.

you can't believe what's happening.

for two long years you thought you were on the same page as your best friend, fully trusting him when it comes to you, when all this time his intentions toward you were… wrong, completely wrong.

did sunghoon ever consider you a friend ?

you feel played, you feel toyed.

perhaps that's what you deserve for deciding to befriend a womanizer. you feel stupid for thinking you were different in his eyes, that you were just purely his friend.

such a good actor. perhaps he should consider making a career out of acting instead of wasting his time failing his studies.

your so-called best friend had you completely fooled; played his part perfectly, earning your utmost trust, while he was romantically screwing you over without you knowing.

and you realize, how naive you were.

not only did he want you like any other girl, but you were also probably the biggest fish he’d been trying to catch.

“okay, okay.” everything is too much, you take a step back from him, barely holding yourself together. you laugh nervously to yourself, running your hand through your hair in frustration.

you kinda want to cry, throw a massive fit in your apartment, but you hold back your tears because that jerk doesn't deserve them. “so tell me now sunghoon, what exactly do you want from me?”

you don't even dare look at sunghoon anymore, feeling ridiculous.

you should have stepped back further from him, because his left hand manages to gently take hold of your fingers, burning away the inches between you once more; while his right one shamelessly reaches for your cheek, his long fingers lightly brushing against it.

“all this time, i’ve been only wanting one thing y/n” he whispers, “you, just you“ his voice is far too intimate, far too tempting. you hate the way his words gets under your skin, hate that, despite everything, your body betrays you.

you feel shivers running down your skin, your heartbeat racing in your chest, your cheeks flushing a red tinged with nervousness and... anger.

anger that takes hold of you and you abruptly yank sunghoon's hand away, shoving him back.

“but it's not mutual, sunghoon. why would i want you when i literally know everything about you?" you're harsh, with a touch of contempt, forcing yourself to remain fierce and convincing, because… it's true, damn it.

“i don’t want to end up as one of your desperate fucks, i don’t even want to give you a chance! do you understand that!?” your voice rises, you feel yourself getting carried away. perhaps more than you should... perhaps, betraying an unknowable part of your heart, one that has subconsciously already envisioned sunghoon as more than just your best friend, but knew it was useless to even consider.

after those cold but warranted words, silence falls over the room, disrupted only by the sound of your heavy breathing. his complete lack of reaction forces you to look at him.

you expect him to be hurt or look offended, but no... this bastard is smiling?

your eyebrows arch and your face contorts with disbelief. “what’s so funny? have you lost it? are you crazy?”

his smile turns into a quiet chuckle, without any real malice, “crazy for you? maybe.”

you purse your lips, close your eyes in frustration as you let out a heavy sigh of exasperation. he’s not serious, he’s not fucking serious.

“stop this shit sunghoon, i’m begging.”

you wish you could turn back time to before all this arguing, before all this confessing happened. you were much better off not knowing anything about his true intentions.

“let's just stay friends.” your voice comes out almost pained. “why do you have to ruin everything? wasn't what we had nice?”

you bury your face in your hands for a few seconds, not knowing what to do about all this whole mess, about him.

being the persistent, pretty man that he is, once again, you sense sunghoon trying to close the distance between you again.

you straighten up right away, taking more than one step back this time, shielding yourself safe from him in every possible way.

“anyway, let's stop here sunghoon, let’s take some distance.”

“y/n listen, i waited two years-“ sunghoon begins, in a serious tone as he tries to explain himself.

but you cut him off right away, raising a limp hand between the two of you, refusing to meet his eyes. you don’t believe he’s being sincere with you, and even if he were, you don’t want him. not like this.

“come back to me when you’re ready to be my best friend again.”

you walk toward the door decisively and open it for him; your emotionally drained demeanor signals to him the way out—not just from your home, but also from your life, for now.

you can't bear to look at him anymore because you know you could get swayed by his pleading puppy eyes, especially when you can feel sunghoon unwavering gaze on your vulnerable silhouette.

sunghoon lets out frustrated sounds, his eyebrows furrowing as his knuckles ache. he bites the inside of his cheek, just like he does whenever things don't work out the way he wants.

you sense that he wants to fight back, doesn’t want to leave before making things clear with you.

but your refusal is plain, and your best friend knows that if he doesn’t want to lose you for good, he can’t be any more disrespectful.

although sunghoon is the one walking out the door reluctantly, this time it's not him who's running away, but you.

you try to go about your life as usual: you wake up, grab your coffee before heading to college, focus deeply on your classes, study hard for the upcoming end-of-year exams. you try to convince yourself that everything is fine. fine.

but after two long weeks, you now have to conceal the dark circles under your eyes every morning, deal with migraines that torment you almost every day.

getting out of bed is tough, the coffee you drink leaves a bitter taste on your lips. you're bored in class and only pay attention because you have to, for your scholarship. you tell your parents that the reason they haven't heard from you lately is because you're busy studying hard for your final exams, when the truth is that you're spending entire evenings drowning in your studies just so you don't have to think about that night, don't have to think about him.

sunghoon.

you knew you spent most of your time with him, but you had no idea just how much of a part of your daily life he was, nor how much his absence from your days would leave such a void. he played the role of your best friend so well that you’ve long since drifted away from your first acquaintances at college. you just… didn’t need them when you had him (and jay), but now ? now.

you’re alone, so tremendously alone, the loneliness making you dwell everything. your heart aches.

your best friend's betrayal is too much to handle, feels like a breakup. you’re starting to regret it; perhaps you shouldn’t have kicked him out of your home without letting him explain himself, perhaps you shouldn’t have pushed him out of your life when you had every reason to…

for god's sake, for two years sunghoon had been dishonest, screwed up your love life behind your back out of unwarranted possessiveness.

before you cut him, sunghoon mentioned that he had waited two years. but two years for which reason? what result?

didn’t he say himself, with his own very mouth, that he’s incapable of falling in love? are you just supposed to consciously give yourself to a player and trust him to treat you right, when he never behaved correctly before with any of his countless lovers? like ok you might have been naive about his intentions toward you, but you’re not that stupid yet to become one more body count.

honestly, you can't even possibly imagine that sunghoon would want anything from you other than to keep his bed warm (or in this case, your damn bed) until he found his next girl.

you can't picture a scenario where he'd actually want to go out with you properly, with the respect and love you seek, without a looming deadline the moment he starts developing feelings for you.

so why does remorse gnaw at your stomach so much?

it’s easy, it’s simple… because despite knowing the harsh truth, despite the broken trust, you miss sunghoon. a lot.

everything hurts, your daily life is dull, devoid of any fun. of him.

however, you're nowhere near ready to admit that you miss this pretty asshole.

a pretty asshole whom you haven't really run into much since your argument, if you can even call that an argument since it was pretty much one-sided on your end.

in any case, you've noticed that sunghoon skips class even more often, rarely seeing him there. since you know him so well (or so you thought), you're aware he's not avoiding you because he wants to, but because you asked him to.

you sometimes catch a glimpse of him from afar with jay. you have no idea how he’s been doing, and it’s eating away at you more than you’d like.

you've also caught wind of gossip, that he seems to have taken a break from… women. and since you stopped partying on saturday nights, you have even fewer chances to run into him and ask him. (even though that's currently the worst thing you could do if you want to maintain your little crushed dignity.)

however, the more days go by, the more you lose confidence in yourself, in what remains of your friendship; you can no longer tell if he plans to come back into your life when he's ready, or if he's actually decided to walk away from you for good. and you won’t lie, that last possibility is killing you inside.

in the midst of your emotional distress, that’s when jake appeared like an angel, or rather, reappeared. because he sent you a bunch of texts, and you replied but only halfheartedly. three words at most.

you had no energy and he obviously sensed it. that’s why, after two weeks of noticing that you were alone and not doing well even though you try to keep up a normal facade, jake came to your locker, just like the first time he approached you.

he took the liberty of intertwining his fingers with yours to take you somewhere else, to take your mind off things.

jake is such a nice guy, an extra nice guy. but the more time you spend with him, the more you feel like you don't deserve a guy like him. because you ended up going on other dates after he sweetly asked, and you finally kissed. in fact, you do it every now and then, when the mood feels right; quick pecks, deeper kisses. but unlike the night of your first date, you don't feel that rush, you don't have butterflies in your stomach.

you had convinced yourself before that a simple, risk-free romantic relationship was what you needed.

so why is your heart refusing to cooperate with your head?

it makes you sad, frustrated because despite your repeated attempts, you can’t reciprocate jake’s enthusiasm, jake's loveliness. it remains unspoken between you, but you both know very well whose fault it is.

you weren't even dating him, you were just his best friend, so why do you have this ridiculous feeling in your chest !?

and the worst part is that jake is perfectly aware, yet he doesn’t push to define your relationship, respecting your emotional state. which only makes you feel even more guilty toward him: you feel like you’re using him to get over a certain someone, and he’s willingly letting you do it.

especially that one night on saturday, when jake invited you to a party, figuring you needed to have some fun. but fun was over the moment you saw him.

sunghoon.

as soon as you walked into the house holding jake's hand, as if you were a magnet, his magnet, sunghoon dark eyes fell on you, then on your intertwined fingers. there was barely any emotion in his gaze, just a chilling emptiness, with a faint trace of jealousy buried beneath it.

and yet, as you watched him move away from his little corner by the wall and disappear into the mass of folks dancing and drinking, probably to find jay, you still had that nagging feeling that you were being unfaithful to him… even though it didn't make any fucking sense.

you started coming up with crazy theories, like, one of sunghoon's girls must have been a witch and had cast a curse on you. because ever since your argument, you hadn't been yourself, like you had been really really absurd, especially when it came to him.

was that what it meant to be in denial?

you were sneering at your own misfortune.

had you fallen in love with sunghoon over the past two years, but had just pushed those ideas out of your healthy mental system because, in your eyes, it was inconceivable for the two of you to be together? for you to be into that kind of erratic person? too unbelievable that your steady self could be drawn to a such a troubling man?

maybe you had this savior complex within all along and it just went unnoticed by you.

what a mess.

and you didn't know why, possibly because the sudden realization was so uncomfortable, clutching your chest tightly, that you decided to be a real stupid bitch to feel better (or worse), letting your impulsiveness and drunkenness take control of the situation.

you were sitting on the couch with jake, responding to the conversation he was leading with a half-baked smile, because you were doing your best to ignore yet another sunghoon’s insistent gaze as he stood in a new corner of the party room, his eyes practically screaming, “i want to talk to you.” and your feminine self, currently devoid of dignity, wanted to stupidly give in.

you couldn't help but sneak a discreet peek at your (ex) best friend, noticing that he was politely turning down every girl who came up to talk to him (and there were tons of them, 100 times prettier than you). but the moment he let one of them get a little too close to his ear, likely whispering some trivial stuff to each other, anyway, the mere sight of their faces just a few centimeters apart had you losing your shit for the first time.

there's no way the guy responsible for messing with your brain would try to flirt with a pretty girl right in front of you—not in a million years. it was okay before, you couldn't care less when you were still normal best friends, but after all that selfish confession? no fucking way.

so, without warning, you grabbed jake by the collar, cutting him off mid-sentence, and pressed your lips against his, catching him off guard. it was one of those really dirty kisses to piss off someone, where you nibbled on his lower lip and slipped your tongue into his mouth just as he gave out a little moan. you let yourself go completely, without holding back.

at first, jake went along with it, because he is, after all, a man and specifically one who's really into you. but he had to pull himself back to reality, because he knew that if you were suddenly acting like this, turning him on in open space, it was for a reason—and, alas, he wasn't that reason.

you were taking advantage of his liking for you, but jake didn't want to take advantage of your distress, any longer, so he gently pats you on the back of the head, signaling for you to stop. at his gentle, indicative gesture, you pulled your lips away from his, opened your eyes again, and there—what you saw: the acceptance in his gaze, the silent pain.

it hit you so hard, you felt terrible, incredibly guilty. jake had always been so good to you, and yet, you… you.

seeing your sudden panic, jake had started stroking the back of your head softly again. “you don’t have to feel sorry, y/n. i’m not to be pitied, not at all.” he let out a small, sad laugh, one that souded like someone who realized he had lost you even before anything concrete could take shape between you. “we can't control our hearts, okay?”

you felt like crying because jake was so perfect, the dream boyfriend you'd always wanted and he was literally at your door. it was so frustrating to watch him walking away from your sentimental house because feelings aren't something you can choose.

your foolish heart had visibly set its sights instead on that unreliable, broke guy who broke hearts as if he were paid to do it.

“maybe, at some point, there will be a time for us—or maybe not. anyway, let's stay friends for now, y/n,” he continued, ending your situationship in the most delicate way imaginable. you nodded weakly in agreement, letting yourself be soothed by the gentle caress of his hand.

“as my first act as your official friend,” jake said, still smiling, though his eyes glistened with annoyance, his fingers reluctantly letting go of the back of your head, “believe me, it hurts to give you this advice, especially since this fucker doesn’t deserve it.” you giggled at his remark, able to guess what he was about to say: “go talk to him, but… don’t do it for him—do it for yourself, and think about what you really want.” and with one last bittersweet sigh of resignation, jake turned the final page of your brief love story.

and you’d taken jake’s advice; your uneasy, heavy footsteps had led you toward the restroom, because you knew sunghoon had seen the whole thing: the messy kiss to piss him off. you knew he was tracking signs like a dog, that he’d follow your trail because the chance to talk to you had finally presented itself to him like a gift from heaven (or more like hell).

and before you’d even reached the restroom (you’d never actually planned to go there), you felt a large hand grab you roughly and drag you from behind, drawing you into an adjacent room, what appeared to be a sort of mini-library, completely empty and far from the hustle of the party.

just like on the night of your argument, all you could hear right now was the sound of your breathing. you were still facing away from him, and he still hadn't let go of your hand, holding it as if it were something precious.

despite the earlier unease, in the end, his familiar presence was relaxing, and his signature woody scent, so uniquely his, helped calm your nerves.

sunghoon.

“look at me,” he asked in a low, hoarse voice—a tone that suggested he hadn't been well for some time.

and you weren't difficult at that moment.

you listened and turned around, because you wanted to, and jake told you to think about what you wanted.

seeing his gorgeous face again up close after 21 days immediately lifted a weight off your heart; those three weeks had felt like three months, it had genuinely been so emotionally draining to you.

you moved a little closer, your fingers naturally lacing with his. now that you could see his eyes closely, you could tell he was just as tired as you were.

you wanted to ask him, “was it all worth it?” but in reality, yes, it probably was. or at least, that’s what you hoped.

you didn’t even know anymore.

then your tired tender gaze fell on his right cheek, drawn to those unsightly colours that were gradually fading: a bruise that was a few days old. "is it her again?" he nodded silently, a bitter smile on his face, then explained. "jay got a girlfriend, so i went to my mom. she's as charming as ever."

your heart sank immediately, and you felt sorry. if sunghoon had been beaten again by that horrible woman, it was indirectly your fault. you’d kicked him out of your house too hastily, without thinking it through properly, and if he didn't have jay's, all he had left was her nightmarish place.

“y/n, please, don't make that face. don't take the blame for my mom's actions. ”

but your chest grew even heavier, so without thinking, the alcohol easing your restraint slightly, you pulled sunghoon toward you and pushed him into your arms. caught off guard, his tall frame fell heavily on top of you. but within seconds, he hurried to lift himself up and give you a tight, proper hug.

sunghoon immediately breathed in the scent of your hair, feeding on that scent as if it were oxygen. finally.

"i missed you", he whispered sincerely in your ear.

you had missed him too. so much.

instead of answering him out loud, you burried your cheek against his muscular, comforting chest.

for what felt like a long minute, you held each other tight, reconnecting in every sense of the word.

after that, there was an awkward silence. you could feel sunghoon tensing up slightly as you held each other.

then, clearing his throat softly, he tentatively asked you, "can i be your best friend again?"

your eyes widened slightly; you weren't expecting that, especially not after coming to terms with your feelings for him.

knowing sunghoon's persistence though, you knew he had no intention of giving up (someone like him wouldn't change personality in three weeks, let's be real) yet the fact that he respected your wish from that night, no matter how long he'd last, melted your heart in that very moment.

you were fully aware that after all this, things could never go back to the way they were before between you, but whatever, you wanted to see how long his little best friend charade would last, perhaps it was your turn to have the upper hand.

in any case, you’d already decided to stake everything on what he hadn't promised you yet. like an moth flying straight into the flames and nonetheless, you no longer cared because… as stupid as it sounds, it felt good. you felt good.

after your heartfelt reunion, you decided to sneak out of the party, snatching two bottles of hard liquor along the way.

you walked back to your place like drunken teenagers (since you’d come in jake’s car and sunghoon had ridden on jay’s motorcycle). luckily, it was only a 30-minute walk to your apartment. you spent half the walk on his back, when you weren’t busy challenging each other to finish the bottle or play-fighting like two idiotic kids.

you didn't know how you'd managed to get home in one piece, since you couldn't walk without his support. but the thing is, sunghoon was pretty wasted too, so when he stumbled right in the middle of your living room, struggling to leave your shoes by the entrance, the two of you crashed heavily onto the plush carpet.

half on top of each other on the floor, your drunken laughter echoed through the room. crushing sunghoon with all your weight even though it didn't bother him—quite the contrary, you struggled to lift yourself off him before rolling over with a small thud, your back finally resting against the mat as well.

your laughter began to fade, lingering as slight, euphoric smiles on your rosy-cheeked faces.

at the same time, as if in some kind of psychic connection, you both turned to face each other.

staring into each other’s eyes with tendress, your chest rising and falling softly, you lost yourself in the beauty of your best friend, sublimated by the glow of the streetlights reflecting through your apartment window : his soulful eyes, his long lashes, his sculpted nose, his graceful moles. even his bruised cheek was taking nothing away from his beauty. then there were his luscious lips, so perfectly shaped, stretched into a loving smile.

it was no surprise that all these beautiful women were fighting over this man.

could he one day truly be yours?

lost in your daydreams, you could feel fatigue setting in—not just from the evening, but also… sunghoon. you didn’t know if you’d have a happy ending together.

but it was useless to overthink everything and give yourself more headaches; there was no turning back.

you had no idea just how alive sunghoon felt at that moment. after three weeks of feeling dead inside, deprived of you. deprived of your easygoing company, your little “i-know-it-all” smiles, your carefree laughs, your refreshing honesty.

it had been two years now, and you were the only one who’d managed to warm his heart when no one else did. and he’d never known how to deal with… with this. he couldn’t even put a name to it at first: feelings, feelings of… possession? love?

and when he finally figured it out, came to terms with, it was even worse. because sunghoon had convinced himself he was incapable of falling in love, had even confidently confessed it to you.

his mother had successfully damaged him. sunghoon refused to open up to anyone, to hand over the keys to his heart to someone. he didn’t trust women but still needed their affection. and their money; the vain, wealthy daughters being the ones around whom he felt least guilty about being a total scum.

but you, you were clearly different.

sunghoon didn't feel that fear around you. he could be vulnerable without worry.

maybe because you knew every little thing about him, the good but especially the bad. yet, the thought of ever abandoning him had never crossed your mind.

however, a woman like you would never want a man like him.

despite your cool appareance and laid-back personality, you were fairly kind of flawless (it’s possible you weren’t, and that his affection for you clouded his judgment but he didn’t care).

whereas, he was the very embodiment of failure. you’d already told him everything about the dream boyfriend you wanted, and sunghoon was so far from it, thousands of kilometers away in hell.

since he didn’t know how to change, how to become the right one for you, sunghoon acted like a dick. that was the easiest, and weakest, way to deal with his own frustration.

he was nasty, he was selfish, he was insecure, he was a rainbow of flaws. he couldn’t bear to see other guys showing interest in the girl who should have been his, if fate hadn't decided to torment him.

sunghoon had always wanted to be more than just your best friend, yes. sunghoon had gone behind your back when his misguided heart was consumed by jealousy and sourness, yes.

all of this was true and he still couldn’t feel any remorse. that was simply his rotten nature: a bad man, without redeeming qualities, that you had accepted into your life, for better or for worse.

but no matter how many beautiful women he had in his pathetic life, you were the most beautiful in his eyes, the most radiant.

a shadow drawn to a soothing light.

sunghoon only wanted you.

over those two years, he'd done his fucking best to restrain himself, having no idea where he found the strength not to never attempt to do something, to never try kissing your pretty lips.

sunghoon knew damn well he didn’t deserve you even slightest, but fortunately for him and unfortunately for you, his selfishness was strong enough to no longer care about that (the final straw being jake—thanks dude).

sunghoon had enough love experience to be certain of one thing now: if it weren't you, it’d never work.

lulled by the sublime features of your best friend and his warm aura radiating off you, far from the chaos of his thoughts regarding you, your eyelids began to close peacefully.

but before you fell completely asleep, you heard sunghoon, in a relieved voice, whispering to you, "thank you y/n, for giving me a chance."

your heavy slumber is shattered by the smell of something cooking—or rather, something burning.

opening your eyes is a struggle, your head throbbing right away. the previous night's excesses have left their aftermath.

when your eyelids eventually open, a view of your room comes into focus; your last memories are yourself lying drunk on your soft rug, staring at… sunghoon.

sunghoon.

is he the one who carried your sleeping self to your room and put you to bed?

you decide to find out the answer by dragging yourself out of bed and heading to the living room. but before you do, you notice a glass of water and a pill that is probably meant to relieve your headache. you also note that you're in your usual pajamas.

did sunghoon do all this?

you swallow the pill and slip on your slippers. you head to the bathroom for a minute, then, you let the smell of food lead the way.

you come across a scene of your best friend at the stove, holding a frying pan and apparently cooking eggs. you notice his black tank top, gray sweatpants and black cap worn backwards; clothes he’d left at your place.

you almost laugh at yourself over the fact that hoe didn’t waste any time settling in again.

focused on the eggs, sunghoon doesn't hear you approaching. so you sneak up behind him silently to surprise him. now facing his broad back, you suddenly imgine how nice it'd feel to wrap your arms around his slim waist. especially every morning—confirming your real and shameful attraction to your best friend.

"you know how to cook eggs?" sunghoon instantly jumps at the sound of your voice, his eyes following your every movement as you step over to stand beside him at the stove, giggling cutely. your gaze falls on the gentle smile playing on his lips, then lingers on the manly stubble dusting his chin.

sunghoon feels like he's in heaven, surrounded by an angel. the way you've grown comfortable around him again makes his heart swell with joy.

he can barely believe you've actually forgiven him, and he wonders if you aren't some kind of divine gift, his redemption after all these years wandering in the dark.

"know is a big word, i'm trying my best to make breakfast for my perfect… best friend."

he hesitates over his last few words, and and you look at him with quiet amusement; you're genuinely curious to see how long sunghoon will last before his patience shatters into a thousand pieces.

and you have no intention of making it easy for him.

after setting aside the overcooked eggs, sunghoon gets everything ready to cook some bacon.

you watch him silently, and when you feel the strap of your tank top slip, you just let it fall.

you drift closer to sunghoon again, your arm lightly brushing his, as if by accident. he stays calm on the surface, though the slight tension in his shoulders already gives him away.

as your petty game continues, you rest both arms on the kitchen counter and draw them in just enough that the movement presses your breasts together, making them peek out from the neckline of your tank top.

you pretend to be attentive on what he’s making, letting your breath linger against his shoulder. you notice him lose his concentration slightly: sunghoon eyes wander between the bacon in the pan and your much more appetizing cleavage.

he clears his throat and does his best to stay focused.

how amusing.

but sunghoon is far from oblivious, especially in this regard. so before the bacon ends up burning because of you, he immediately turns off the stove.

you look at him curiously, your eyes sparkling with mischief and a look that says, “why did you stop cooking?”

but instead of answering, your best friend looks at you and asks : "y/n, what are you doing?"

you bite back a laugh, keeping your expression as innocent as possible. "mh? what do you mean?”  you murmur, clearly enjoying his reaction.

but then, unable to resist the urge to provoke him, you lean further into the game and openly tease sunghoon with a knowing smile. “i'm just doing what you're the best at… i guess."

you feel content, you feel smart. but this lasts only 5 seconds. as soon as what you said sinks into his brain, sunghoon’s demeanor shifts. his eyebrows arch playfully, he runs his tongue against the inside of his cheek, while he straightens his shoulders.

without looking at you, the corners of his mouth start to turn up in a predatory smile, revealing his two fangs.

you swallow.

dangerous territory you shouldn’t have ventured into—the dormant wolf has just woken up and… it’s time for you to escape.

you adjust your shoulder strap casually and take a few quiet steps toward the living room, but sunghoon, who’s been eying you closely, grabs your wrist right way and pulls you flush against him.

“where do you think you’re going?”

an arm wraps around your upper body, trapping you against his muscular chest. you have an incredible view of his delicious bicep, but you force yourself to stay focused, as your pride is still on the line.

"let me go sunghoon", you try to break free, however, truth is, you're exactly where you want to be.

"i won't, not this time" sunghoon says in your ear unwavering, his lips brushing against your earlobe.

"don't make me repeat myself", you attempt to sound persuasive, even biting his arm—letting your intrusive thoughts winning over, to get him to release you.

without success.

sunghoon hisses a bit but lets you have your way with his bicep. “i lied yesterday, i'm not ready to be your friend again".

at his shameless words, your jaw loosens, releasing the skin off his arm, and you stop your feigned struggling.

wow, less than 24 hours. you’d expected sunghoon would last a bit more than that, but nope.

"of course you're not", you chuckle softly, tinged with sarcasm. "and you'll never be ready by the way. you've been my best friend for two years and you think i don't know how that brain of yours work ?"

sunghoon lets you go at once and grips your shoulders, turning you to face him. his eyebrows lift in surprise, and his dark eyes widen.

this might be the first time you've seen sunghoon with such a solemn expression, but the amused smile on your face doesn't fade nonetheless. you're enjoying your brief dominance over the situation. you feel kind of good, in a strangely satisfying way, after you were left with no choice to quickly digest how he has been behaving behind your back for the past two years.

"are you playing with me right now ?"

a question that hits a little too close to home… and you deliberately don't answer him right away, giving him a taste of his own medicine with a wry look that says, “what do you think?”

he takes a deep breath and continues his questioning. you can sense that the rope of his patience is about to snap.

“didn't you say you'd never fall for me?”

and now it's your turn to widen your eyes in surprise, as you recall the scene with that random nosy girl who was wondering about the two of you at a party. "how do you know that?"

sunghoon gives a faint shake of his head, as if recalling the memory, a bitter smile tugging at his lips: “i was just behind you at that time. was about to ask you to dance with me. but then i heard what you said and.. i got upset, so i just went to find some girl and well, you know what happened after.”

you immediately tap his chest, unable to hide the fond amusement in your expression despite your exasperation. “park sunghoon, you’re really hopeless.”

the mention of his full name makes him giggle, and his features melt into an adorable eye smile. but then, sunghoon’s face turns serious again, “i have a lot to say; listen to me till the end ok?”

his hands travel down from your shoulders delicately along your arms to intertwine your fingers together, as if he were ready to intertwine your destinies.

“that night, i said i waited two years for you… well, when you came into my life, everything was normal at first. you were my new confidante, my partner in crime” sunghoon begins, chucking softly. “nothing more i promise you. but i got so comfortable around you, let my guard down like i never did with any woman before, and before i could realize i started to want more.”

you look into sunghoon eyes and squeeze your joined hands tightly. you want to believe what he’s saying, you want to trust the shimmer in his orb; you sincerely pray he isn't deceiving you.

“you were so good to me despite all my flaws, and my brain kept repeating—where else would i find someone like you ? the shit my mum said before, that no one could truly ever love me. i knew you could this person, the one to prove her wrong.”

you can feel the heaviness in his heart, and it weighs down yours.

“however, i couldn’t do shit about it so i tried to drop… this whole idea. you know, i thought it was just a physical attraction that i could repress and would eventually fade, but then when i saw those men hungry for you, when i watched you kiss that guy,”

that guy… jungwon right.

“with how pissed i was, i figured out that what i was feeling was way more serious. but anyway, you only liked me as a friend, and you’d never in a million years want a scumbag like me for anything else. so i was in a dead end, forcing myself to keep playing your bestie despite how crazy i was for you.”

you listen to him silently and breathe out; the intensity of his confession making you feel like you're racing a marathon.

“running after girls was originally a way to feel better about how miserable my mum made me. but later, it became a way to release my frustration since i couldn’t… have you. and since i’m literally the worse,” sunghoon sneers bitterly as he recounts his own mischief. “it wasn’t enough so i just started to wreck your love life, keeping all these bastards far from you, because if i couldn’t have you then, no one else could”

well damn. that was a lot to take.

“to be honest, i don’t know what made you change your mind about me because i’m still my irredeemable self, but i want you to know that none of these women were right because they weren't you.”

this time you’re breathing in deeply. oh.

“y/n, i want to try something with you, will you give me that chance ?”

you swallow nervously and feel your heart pounding in your eardrums.

few weeks ago, you had spat your venom right in sunghoon’s face, swearing that you would never give him a chance to someone like him. you don’t exactly regret what you said because your feelings were valid, but the irony of it all makes you feel a little ridiculous, since it’s painfully obvious that you’ve already changed your mind.

so you decide to muster up your courage and confront sunghoon about your more than justified worries.

“you dropped so many girls, many that weren’t even bad persons and were, for sure, willing to love you entirely. why exactly would i be different ?”

your best friend brings one of your hands to his lips, plants a chaste kiss on it, and then presses it against his chest, where his heart beats loudly for you.

“because what i feel for you is different.”

he got game, sunghoon got game. for a man who doesn’t do romance, he truly has a way with words.

your eyebrows furrow and your head starts to ache. it's so hard, so damn hard to think carefully. particularly after his heartfelt, raw declaration.

and above all, when sunghoon looks at you with those eyes: so deep, so full of hope, glowing so beautifully…. standing before you is a man who knows exactly how to use every of his features to convince someone.

sunghoon is clouding your judgement, as he has done so many times before.

so, can you really trust him ?

faced with your deafening silence and your obvious inner turmoil, sunghoon promises.

“may i end like my mum if i lied today”

you let out an exasperated sigh when you hear that, and can't help but snicker. there's really something wrong with his head. but still, by saying that, sunghoon is probably not lying. but the question now is, how can you know he won't change his mind later?

“you’re crazy.”

“yes, crazy for you.”

again this corny reply. you drop his left hand and give him a nudge in the stomach.

after biting back the little groan of pain, sunghoon laughs freely.

then you watch his gaze drifts away from your eyes to focus on your parched lips.

you feel heat creeping up your neck. this clever bastard really plans to win you over with his greatest asset.

“can i kiss you ? and if you don’t like it, i’ll leave you alone ?”

as expected.

you chuckle again. as if he’d leave you alone after tasting the forbidden fruit he has denied himself all this time.

you nod cautiously, but you're caught off guard because not even a second goes by before sunghoon grabs your nape to meet your lips, the motion causing his cap to fall to the floor.

oh. he was really hungry.

sunghoon's lips are soft and plump, pressing perfectly against yours; he tries to restrain himself, but through every touch, you can feel his despair, his longing. he's been dying to kiss you for way too long.

quickly, sunghoon grows greedier, claiming your mouth entirely, barely allowing you to breathe.

your knees grow faint and lose your balance. he pulls you closer, wrapping his arm smoothly around your waist. sunghoon bites your lower lip without mercy, and the moment you let out a little whimper of pain, he pushes his tongue into the heat of your mouth.

the kiss gets messy, saliva mixes sloppily almost obscenely. he bites your flesh, bites your tongue, again and again. sunghoon explores your mouth hungrily and you feel lightheaded from the lack of oxygen.

the rumors were right, he's really good at his stuff. fuck.

after what feels like forever, he finally releases your lips. you can already feel them swelling from how roughly he kissed you.

sunghoon really put those two years of craving into that first kiss.

“so, how was it?”

still trapped in his embrace, his sculpted nose brushing against yours, you try to regain your composure. embarrassedly, you wipe the excess drool from your lower lip with your thumb.

“i excepted a bit better from you bro”, you tease him, blatantly lying to his face because it’s obviously the best kiss you’ve ever had.

sunghoon arches his eyebrows, “bro?” pretending to be annoyed by the label, he uses it as an excuse to smack your lips. “who’s your bro?”

you don't answer and instead just cackle in cheekily. in retaliation, sunghoon playfully yanks your hair back and exposes your neck to his eager eyes.

from then on, he starts planting countless tingling kisses—behind your ear, on your collarbone, on your racing heartbeat, all the way down to the curve of your chest.

“am i still your bro?” sunghoon breathes against your skin before resuming his passionate endeavor and moving to the other side of your neck.

you can feel his tongue glide eagerly over the sensitive area, as your skin was as sweet as candy, making your toes curl.

when it’s wet enough, sunghoon finally sucks the little skin between his teeth, stifling a groan of pain mixed with desire in your throat.

“you’re not, but you could be my boyfriend tho.” you give it a shot, your voice a little shaky, probably setting yourself up since sunghoon never committed before.

yet, you unexpectedly feel his smile against your skin, “it means you’d be my girl, right?” stating the obvious, but you nod regardless.

“then yes, i’ll be your boyfriend y/n, i’ll be anything you want me to be if you can be mine.”

your eyes widen because did you just change and officialize your relationship with the park sunghoon? in that position? you seem to be the only one troubled by this detail, since your now boyfriend keeps doing whatever.

as if you were his canvas, he’s painting fiercely numerous love bites; all over your neck, all the way down to your chest, each hickey trailing down to your secret place. you have the mental of a saint not to close your legs and making him notice.

once your skin looks like a garden full of red buds, sunghoon inhales your sweet scent one last time and straightens up. your face is all flushed and you can tell from the possessive look in his eyes that he’s pleased by the new appearance of your skin, covered with marks, his marks. yet that glimmer of hunger hasn't gone away, not even remotely.

you swallow hard because you already know what's coming.

“park sunghoon, if you break my heart, you better run fast because i'll beat your fucking ass” you state in all seriousness.

in response, sunghoon grabs your ass boldly and presses you against his hardening length. “sounds good to me”, offering you his a cocky grin and his infamous bed eyes.

what even have you gotten yourself into?

you officially erase the line of your friendship, letting yourself get lost in the unknown of sunghoon’s promises, not knowing if his intentions are sincere or if, in the end, you’ll just be another woman on his playground.

feels like gambling with the devil, but the most beautiful devil of all.

sunghoon kisses you again, just as eagerly but more delicately, as if trying to entice you. you close your eyes, letting him take control, surrendering yourself to his sensuous invitation. his hands, still on your backside, slide underneath to guide you and wrap your legs around his waist, feeling his bulge right against your heat.

without ever letting go of your lips, sunghoon carries you to your bedroom, not even needing to watch where he’s going since he knows the way by heart.

you're back in your bed, which you left not that long ago, but now with sunghoon's weight pressing heavily against you.

the situation still doesn't seem real. what do you mean, you're kissing park sunghoon in your bed and you're about to… have sex?

if someone had told you that two years ago, you'd have laughed until your tummy hurt.

but your little train of thought is cut short when sunghoon starts rubbing his hardness against your sensitive heat, freeing your lips so he can listen to you whimper for him.

fuck. it's so embarrassing.

you close your mouth and bite your lips hard to muffle your desperate sounds. you look to the side with no real focus, only to avoid his piercing gaze. but sunghoon is having none of that and grabs your chin with his fingers to force you to look at him, pressing his thumb against your lower lip to hear how much you're getting off on him.

“i’d never have guessed you’d be the shy type in bed, y/n” his eyes are full of affection and desire, but his lips are twisted into a lewd, teasing smile.

you need to summon all the strength within your body to deliver the next insult as dignifiedly as possible. "bitch, fuck you".

but you can tell from his evil chuckle that you've just handed him your downfall. "don't worry babe, i'm about to."

putting his words into action, sunghoon props himself up and takes off his tank top, letting you admire the view. you’d already glimpsed sunghoon shirtless a few times; back then, on the very first day you met, while he was running away… and when he’d stayed over at your place and ended up taking a shower there. however, you weren’t remotely interested in your best friend, so you’d never paid much attention.

like, you know he's fine, but you haven't really checked him out more than that… until now. because wow. sunghoon is broad, the kind of broad that makes you yearn, with slightly defined pecs. now that he’s repositioning himself above you, with both arms on either side of your head, his biceps looks even more prominent. his abs are naturally sculpted, just the way you like it. then, your eyes linger on the vein that extends further down and.

great.

you were already quit damp down there, now even your mouth starts to water.

judging by his sly grin, he knows exactly the effect he has on you.

“you’ve studied me enough, your turn."

you feel robbed because you haven't even had a chance to touch him yet that sunghoon already has his hands under your shirt, expertly pulling it off to toss it off the bed.

before you even have a chance to blink, your chest is exposed to his hungry gaze. you’ve never been nervous around your exes, but sunghoon, god sunghoon, his intensity is too much to handle, you just want to hide.

as if he could read your mind, sunghoon quickly grabs both your wrists with one deft hand and pins them above your head, before you could do anything.

he takes on a somewhat nostalgic tone while his eyes are full of wicked desire, “i've been wanting to play with these two for so long.”

“l-long ?!” you really want to punch him, but that bastard’s strength makes it impossible to break free from his grip. and the more you struggle, the more you jiggle your boobs, much to his delight.

so all you can do is give him death glares.

sunghoon has always teased you relentlessly, bordering between playful and downright annoying, but now that you’re officially dating, he has free rein to be insufferable and a total hornball.

you're more laid-back when it comes to sex, preferring subtle teasing, while sunghoon is obviously a freak in the sheets, with a dirty mouth.

he notices the annoyance on your face, but it only makes him snicker. little do you know, sunghoon is silently making plans to turn you into a naughty, insatiable lover who will crave for every filthy thing he’ll do to you.

let’s say that where romance is your expertise, sex is his domain.

sunghoon wastes no more time and claims your pretty swollen lips once more, offering you yet another one of those deep kisses that steal your breath away and numb your mind.

his plump lips brush against your cheek, then travel down your neck, kissing and nibbling every part again, enough to make you forget why you were upset.

then, finally, sunghoon trails down to the curve of your chest and sinuously traces each line of one of your bosom with his tongue.

when he feels you squirm nervously beneath him, he gets ruthless with it, drawing in. the effect is immediate; you groan loudly. the more he torment your right breast, the more your back arches involuntary against him, giving him even better access.

his free hand begins to take care gently of the neglected perk, but his teeth suddenly inflict a bite on the right one. the contrast makes you cry out, whether from pain or pleasure, you don't even know.

sunghoon lingers on your chest for endless minutes, torturing both peaks until they become ultra sensitive and you can’t take it anymore.

it must be said that two years without sleeping with anyone have taken a toll on your stamina, whereas sunghoon has been diligently training his.

in this brief moment of respite he grants you, sunghoon looks at you mischievously with his head nestled between your breasts full of bites. “already tired?” he whispers, as his breath caresses painfully against your sore tits.

“get off me beast” you’re panting and already feel worn out, when he’s only just getting started.

knowing that your energy is already waning, he softly releases your wrists and pushes himself up until he’s above your shoulders.

face to face, sunghoon closes the last few centimeters between you, grazing your nose with his and planting a cute peck on your lips. he rests his forehead against yours and fixes you with his deep playful gaze that always seems to probe your soul.

“your beast” he emphasizes with a grin.

he's really into this whole possessive thing, isn't he?

pretty boy whose trauma shapes his need to belong.

lost in his beauty, sunghoon uses your daze to slide his hand down your stomach, exploring with his tender touch the parts of you he wasn’t allowed before; grabbing your hip greedily, before trailing it down to your clothed core. or to be more precise, your clothed wet core.

your breath catches in your throat.

unfortunately, your sleep shorts are loose and thin, doing little to hide the lace panties beneath them, especially when your two legs are somehow still wrapped around sunghoon.

“all that, when all i did was kiss you and play with your nipples?” you feel your cheeks flush with embarrassment again but still snap back at him.

“that’s funny you say that while you’ve been hard even before we reached the bedroom”, you scoff at him, raising an eyebrow.

“yeah, talk back to me.” he presses a loud kiss against your cheek and leans in close to your ear to murmur in a low suggestive voice, the smirk never leaving lips, “makes me even harder.”

fake-angry, you push sunghoon head away from yours, perhaps a bit too harshly. you see him sit up without looking at you and think he might feel miffed…

until he swiftly grabs your knees, hoists them onto his shoulder, eliciting a startled cry from you. his nimble fingers grab your shorts and panties altogether and take them off in one smooth, unhesitating motion. the kind of motion that is nothing but muscle memory for him.

you watch him dumbfounded toss your garments on the ground, then sunghoon shifts back his focus to you, or to be more specific, your nude silhouette.

under his voracious gaze, you feel so fucking awkward. you shiver slightly, still not fully comfortable with sleeping with your best friend turned boyfriend 2 min ago.

even more so when sunghoon asks you intimate shit: “have you been taking care of yourself all this whole time?” hinting your two-year lack of partners in the process.

you let out an irritated, nervous laugh, “and whose fault is that exactly?” but you answer truthfully anyway, clearing your throat a little in embarrassment. “mhh, yeah sometimes.”

sunghoon gives a low, playful laugh, then slowly traces his deft fingers along your skin. “that’s okay, i'm here now.” and you chuckle at his nonsense.

he gently places your two legs back on either side of his waist, but while doing so, exposes your naked core. instinctively, you squeeze your thighs together.

“y/n, it's really funny to see you shy like this right now.” as he catches the hollow of your knees and puts them back in place, “but i can tell you that, later, you'll spread your legs without me even asking", tapping your ankles in a way that implies “you're not allowed to move them from here again”.

you want to fire back a sharp retort to counter his cockiness, but sunghoon suddenly presses two of his fingers right along your slit, and you feel your breath catch in your chest.

that bastard loves to catch you off guard, huh? nothing will ever change with him, except, apparently, the nature of your relationship.

he begins a torturously slow massage across the sensitive flesh, unhurriedly gliding up and down, tracing the soft entrance of you, without ever going in.

to your embarrassment, you feel yourself getting wetter and wetter too quickly, increasingly unable to control the moans escaping between your clenched teeth.

he repeats the motion all over and it feels so good that you let yourself go for a few seconds, closing your lids in bliss.

but as if sunghoon didn't want to give you a moment's respite, he suddenly moves back up toward your pearl and rubs it roughly in circle with his thumb, causing you to open your eyes wide and let out a sharp cry.

instantly, your gazes meet, and you can read a mischievous amusement in his pupils: sunghoon isn't satisfied with just hearing you scream for him, because of him, he wants to see you fully give in him.

obviously, that bruised ego of his needs to be appeased.

you want to push his hand away, but the way he's tormenting your tender lips so deliciously… pleasure takes over and you let him have his way, frowning in annoyance, trying to stifle your moans not to let him win too easily.

so when he abruptly halts, you let out a frustrated groan, your gaze filled with confusion.

then, you see sunghoon bring his fingers, drenched in your essence, to his lips. you stop him right away, grabbing his wrist. you don't really know why you want to stop him; maybe you're embarrassed, maybe you hate the way he does whatever he wants with you without any awkwardness.

but you see him smiling at your resistance, and your grip is no match for his. he still forces his fingers up to his mouth and tastes you with a completely feral look in his eyes.

you quickly let go of his wrist, as if his skin had become scorching hot. you frown at the sounds he makes with his mouth, as if he were savoring a delicacy. "i really love your taste y/n". sunghoon whispers your name teasingly, and you feel the blood rush to your cheeks, all the way up to your ears.

"do you really need to do all that?" you play hard to please, even though deep down it turns you crazily on that such a fine sexy man behaves like that with you.

you watch him swiftly remove his pants and underwear and take another look at his apollo-like figure; even his thighs are alluring and worth leaving bite marks.

as you are now both bare, you instantly feel more at ease, closer to sunghoon. but you still look away shyly so you don’t catch a direct glimpse of his hard length; you suppress a laugh because you still don’t realize how insane this, what you’re doing with the one man you least wanted to date in your life.

sunghoon lies back down on top of you, his knees on either side of your hips and his arms stretched out above your head. as he lovingly brushes aside the few strands of hair falling across your flushed face, you find yourself marveling at his chiseled jawline and adam’s apple; you wonder what it would feel like to run your tongue all over.

but you're snapped out of your reverie when you hear him reply: "no need to be jealous y/n, i'll let you taste me next time."

to back up what he's saying, sunghoon’s fingers encircle your neck and tightens his grip, just enough to steal a breath. he runs his thumb over your throat and continues in a whisper, "can't wait to feel myself here". and you're left speechless, with nothing to counter this time. his eyes burn into your soul, and you let him consume you.

noticing the newfound dominance he has over you, sunghoon captures your mouth in a kiss—or rather, he feeds on your lips. your boyfriend murmurs, his hot mouth over yours, “today i'll ruin you with my fingers y/n. next time, you’ll suck my dick and i’ll show you how good i am with my mouth. what do you think? do you like that?”

you’re torn between wanting to shut him up and complying like a good girl.

however, the mood just feels so right, so hot, you just don’t want to ruin it; so the latter option… wins out.

as if enticed, you nod obediently at sunghoon and take the initiative to kiss him for the first time.

your covetous hands finally wander down to his built chest, and you feel him smile in satisfaction against your lips. as you play freely with his tongue, nibble on the flesh of his plump lips with your teeth, you’re distracted and don’t catch him slyly sliding his hand down between your thighs.

so when he sinks his index finger into your core without warning, you moan in surprise into his mouth. sunghoon sucks in the sound, feasting on it. “so tight babe, going to stretch you for me.”

you can't even dwell on the filthy comment because your mind is too overwhelmed by his sudden finger inside you, pumping in and out relentlessly. he bites your lower lip so hard that you can't even hold back the cry that escapes you when sunghoon already pushes in a second finger and scissors you.

alright, he really doesn't wanna chill in bed.

your heart is pounding, your breath is uneven, you keep whining. when he presses his thumb against your bud again, your head falls back onto the pillow. sunghoon takes the opportunity to plant new kisses and adds bites to your exposed neck, still so eager.

when he effortlessly finds the spongy texture in your heat, sunghoon curles his fingers against it, making you see stars and scream. "f-fuck."

his torture goes on, and you feel the tightness in your stomach slowly start to warm.

no way, no way park sunghoon is about to make you… come. you can’t believe it and it gets worse as you feel your core widening for him; this treacherous body.

obviously, he immediately slides in a third finger, working you open. air gets stuck in your lungs as you feel the stretch, exquisitely painful.

with three fingers inside you and his thumb working your bud in a merciless rhythm, you know you won’t last much longer, and sunghoon can tell by the way you’re trembling beneath him. “give it to me, y/n,” no need to say more asshole, your walls clench around his fingers. a few moment later. the invisible rope shatters, making you cry out.

he accompanies you throughout your climax, moving his fingers back and forth deeply, in a slower pace.

once you snap out of your daze, you realize just how sensitive your center is now and grabs his wrist weakly to motion for him to take his fingers out.

sunghoon listens to you reluctantly, withdrawing his digets from your sticky warmth and in the moment you feel relieved.

but shortly after you feel empty down there, and you want…more, you want more.

as if he could read your mind, your growing hunger, your boyfriend grabs your hand and places it intimately on the heavy fullness of him, holding it with you. you feel sunghoon’s width, the veins, just how hard he is for you.

as your fingers travel curiously his entire shaft, you know that with that shape, he’ll reach places that will make you… well.

“do you want it, my beautiful girl?” the nickname takes you aback for a moment. however, the shivers on your skin quickly reveal that you don't really dislike… any of it. wether the soft endearment, or the filthy question hanging between you.

as your gaze, heavy with desire, find each other once more, you get lost in his depth and surrender to its pull. you barely recognize yourself when you see your own head instinctively nodding.

but nothing is ever simple with a player like sunghoon. this time, he wants to hear you say it out loud, so he lets go of your hand and taps your cheek, “say it”, sunghoon commands.

even though your thumb is already tracing… the bead of moisture at his tip, slowly spreading his fluid all over his length right now, your lingering dignity stands in the way, preventing you from speaking.

sunghoon decides to shatter it to dust by teasing your entrance again with his fingers, cruelly stroking it in circles without ever sinking them. “say it,” he repeats, his smiling face replaced by a feral look.

your walls keep clenching around emptiness, leaving you craving for sunghoon. you unintentionally squeeze his hardness between your fingers, drawing a low curse from his lips and making him even more eager to sink into you.

after what feels like an eternity of torture, leaving you feverish and drenched, already sensing the slow build of another climax taking shape, you stop resisting and give in to your desires, “yes, i want you, park sunghoon, i want you so bad,” you blurt out breathless, your cheeks burning with shame.

that line totally takes away the edge from his features, softening him up.

seeing the genuine delight on his face, you realize that he’s been wanting to hear you say this, for long two years. for too many months, too many days, sunghoon has been wishing that you'd want him as much as he wants you.

a fond smile blooms across your face.

“i love you, y/n.”

you hold your breath as his confession falls between you; his eyes are intensely fixed on yours. the silence surrounding you is heavy, broken only by the sound of your frantic heartbeat, which feels as though it might burst from your chest.

you really want to believe his words, for heaven’s sake. so you kiss him again, pouring your hopes in that touch, and he kisses you back with the same longing.

this kiss is different from the others, softer; unspoken feelings—yours, linger within it as you savor each other’s taste.

feeling your heart racing for him, he starts rubbing his hard heat between your folds again, soaking it with your arousal. you whimper into his mouth and sunghoon gets excited all over again like a puppy, spreading your legs even wider. making your stiff, unused joints ache a little.

he skillfully guides his tip towards your center and the sensation drives you insane.

and finally, the moment he’d been waiting for.

sunghoon starts pushing in, the strech is immediate. your cry is drawn in by his lips while he growls in yours, savoring the clench.

you don’t remember being this tight, it’s just that this asshole is manifestly… too hung.

inch by inch, you feel your warmth swallow him, and the deeper he buries, the more you struggle to catch air.

your core gets progressively wetter, adjusting to his size. sunghoon releases your lips, unable to hold back his groans of pleasure. he watches his length disappear into your body with a proud, possessive smile, while you keep swearing under your breath from the intrusive sensation.

after a moment, he finally buries deep inside you and you let your head fall back onto the pillow.

it’s too much, way too much.

you didn’t expect sunghoon to fill you up so much. every vein, every twich of his girth is felt between your walls.

you feel stuffed, you feel owned.

after letting your depths softened a bit and grew accustomed to him, sunghoon pulls out almost entirely… just to thrust back roughly, bottoming out. you cry so damn loud, while he lets out a primal growl.

“sunghoon, i can’t,” you say, desperately fighting for breath.

he grabs your chin with his fingers and forces you to look at him. “you can, y/n, you can” he kisses you fiercely and starts pounding you, setting a ruthless tempo, making your chest bounce with every thrust.

with his other hand, your boyfriend lifts your hips to position you at his preferred angle and sinks even deeper, reaching your sweet spot with a masterstroke. your scream rips from your chest.

“you will take everything i give you". sunghoon's thrusts get erratic, having the time of his life, reveling in it.

tears well in your eyes as you can’t handle the overwhelming pleasure blooming deep within, only able to reply, "fuck you", between choked sobs, as the sound of smacking flesh fills the room. he laughs devilishly, "i fucking am, love", wiping away the tear at the corner of your eye and tasting it from his thumb.

in retaliation, you grab cling to his back and let your fingernails dig into his skin, making him wince. if sunghoon leaves his marks on you, there’s no reason you shouldn’t leave yours on him.

however, it doesn’t deter him, quite the opposite. and sunghoon numbs your mind with another powerful stroke, feeling him in your throat.

you have no idea how much time has passed; you only know that sunghoon is fucking you like a dog in heat and that your third climax is slowly mounting.

sunghoon gave you no time to savour the second climax, never stopping the possessive rolls, wanting to make you come again and again until you become boneless beneath him.

and you can already feel it in your stomach, this orgasm is going to be ruthless, going to tear you apart completely.

you won’t be able to walk tomorrow and only one person will be responsible for that.

a drop of sweat falls on you, sunghoon; your boyfriend is all sweaty as he has yet to come, denying himself to keep his entire focus on you, on wrecking you.

he eventually reaches his limits, his balls hurting and his thrusts losing in precision: he’s close.

but that’s when it hits you: sunghoon didn’t use protection.

creampie, that’s what this asshole wants, isn’t he ?

“wait, wait, don’t come inside… i’m not on the pill.” sunghoon’s eyes widen, his steamy dream getting shattered. reluctantly and without ever slowing down his rhythm, he asks you, “where do you want it then?” you stare at him in surprise; you have no fucking idea, you can’t think straight because… because of him, omg.

your used walls contract around his length, making sunghoon grunts, “fuck y/n don’t squeeze me like that or i won’t be able to control myself in time”.

but as soon as he utters those words, your boyfriend successfully brushes against your spongy spot and you tighten around him “y/n ” he dares to raise his voice.

you snap back, “you fucking idiot, maybe stop thrusting into me and let me think” but sunghoon shakes his head: “can’t,” and proves it with another deep stroke that hits your cervix, making you arch your back and almost roll your eyes, “asshole,” your voice cracks, as you can no longer hold back.

you melt into a painful ecstasy, body quivering as your orgasm ravages every nerve ending; you had to let go of his back to grip the sheets tightly instead, your joints aching.

“tell me where, y/n,” sunghoon asks again as your walls spasm around his length and his hips stutter. but you're basking in the afterglow and you neither want to nor can think about it, so you simply mumble: “if i get pregnant i’ll kill you park sunghoon,” that bastard chuckles breathlessly and capture your lips in a kiss, “my lovely girl.”

sunghoon gives one last overwhelming thrust, that draws a broken sound from you and then, and paints you with his seed. he growls while shooting so much cum and you already start praying in your head that a damn baby isn’t already on the way.

sunghoon collapses heavily on top of you, resting his head on your chest. he doesn’t care that he’s crushing you with weight, because it feels so good lying there, right where he belongs; on your breasts covered in his marks, his hot fluid inside you, listening to the racing of your heart. racing for him.

you're limp and winded on your wet sheet, body shaking with tremors, feeling his release mingle intimately with your essence.

it’s obvious that sunghoon doesn’t want to withdraw from your core, finding solace in it. but after a quiet moment, he still ends up pulling out, and you feel all his seed running out of you, making you wince in discomfort.

with what little energy remains, sunghoon finally lifts himself off you, sounding like a tired grandpa and rolls over next to you in the bed. then, he wraps his big arms around you, needing to hold you close, engulfing you with his entire frame. he grabs the sheets and covers your two naked, sweaty bodies.

you think sunghoon is acting affectionate, ready to cuddle and rest with you, and you like every minute of it.

until you feel him shift your position so your ass is against his shaft. you’re completely unwary and drained, so you don't react in time.

sunghoon swiftly grabs both your butt cheeks and spreads them apart, sinking his half-hard length deep inside you once more and sending his cum up along your sensitive walls.

you groan in discomfort and want to escape his overwhelming embrace, but he holds you even tighter between his arms. “didn't you say you love my hug?,” your boyfriend says, twisting words you said long ago.

he plants a smoosh on your temple, another on your cheek, then one last one on your shoulder. “bitch, let me go,” but sunghoon is already pretending to sleep, resting his head in the curve of your neck, while molding your inside to his shape. you try to pull away again, but his biceps lock you in too tightly.

after several seconds of pointless struggle you give up, feeling him smile against your skin. you drift off to sleep in the most uncomfortable position ever, but still feeling warm inside; sunghoon having claimed not only of your heart, but also every part of you.

fuck.

few weeks later.

it’s hard to believe, but the person who took you to a restaurant for valentine’s day this year… is sunghoon, none other than the campus heartthrob, park sunghoon.

and unexpectedly, your ex best friend turned boyfriend gives you everything you’ve been searching for.

your days are filled with laughter and tokens of affection, your nights are filled with whispers and possessive embraces. there is an unique spark in your eyes, one that reveals a deep complicity, born from your years of friendship, and that only the two of you can understand (and maybe jay, just a little).

but that's exactly why, even though your soul is overflowing with love for park sunghoon, you have a knot in your stomach.

the more you fall for him and his antics, the more anxious you become.

what if he ultimately breaks your heart, just like he did with all the girls before you?

who exactly would come to mend your heart when you were the one wiping away his girls' tears?

despite the happiness your relationship brings you, you don’t fully trust him yet. as a way of protecting yourself, you lower your expectations and somehow prepare yourself to be disappointed.

you tell yourself that this way, if he does end up crushing you, you'll be able to forgive him someday and be friends with him again.

so, unconsciously, you wait for the day when you’ll wake up to a cold bed, empty of his presence.

but every morning, you wake up to sheets still warm from him, because he has gotten up to make you breakfast (and, through daily practice, has actually learned how to make eggs).

and every sunday, park sunghoon leaves a fresh rose on your pillow because he knows how much romance means to you.

few months later.

surprisingly, sunghoon managed to pass his year; barely, but he made it. he's still his usual self (slacker and uninterested), but you forced him to study with you or else you wouldn't have sex with him: an effective academic approach.

sunghoon quit his job at that shady bar the day he was cast by a modeling agency (about time his unreal looks get noticed), and now he’s the one paying for your dates; he’s so proud of it and it makes you chuckle every time.

what’s less funny though, is that you’re still providing for half his lifestyle, especially his whimsical cravings for designer clothes. that bastard thinks you haven’t noticed him steal your card.

a sugar boy one day, a sugar boy forever.

he also decided to cut ties with his mom and moved in with you. it's fair to say sunghoon didn't really give you a choice, since jay apparently never opened the door (and rightfully). luckily for him, you're in love and you won’t let him stay in a that hellhole a second longer.

your couch has returned to its normal shape now that your boyfriend only wants to sleep in your bed. although you did force him back onto the sofa, the few times he wouldn’t stop rubbing against your butt and playing with your bossoms the night before exams.

three years later.

you’re both college graduates—sunghoon succeeded thanks to you, of course. you started working at a big firm with an impressive salary.

sunghoon continued modeling and makes a good living. however, he keeps a low p rofile because he doesn’t want to be chased by women.

who would’ve thought the campus heartthrob would age like this?

in fact, his new goal is to save up enough so you two can start a business together. sunghoon finds that you spend too much time at the office and misses you greatly; that’s partly the reason, because you can tell he hates seeing so many men among your coworkers

and yes, park sunghoon is still your boyfriend—much to everyone’s surprise at the annual alumni meeting: jay’s, jungwon’s, wonyoung’s (oops), and jake’s.

jake still gets on sunghoon’s nerves by the way. you’ve stayed close friends, and he lets you hang out with him. and you wouldn’t fucking care even if sunghoon didn’t want to anyway, he can just sulk in his little corner.

though let is a pretty big word when, after every outing with jake, sunghoon ties you up and makes you pay in bed. the stings of his jealousy covers your skin with love bites, so everyone knows you’re his, and makes you climax over and over until your body is too sore to get out of sheets the next day.

to this day, you’re still not 100% convinced that you were right to give him a chance that day, to put your trust in him; the silver ring you found beneath the bed carrying the weight of both a promise and a threat.

because… can old habits really disappear completely?

but the more time passes, the more certain you become that you’re willing spend the rest of your life intertwined to the irredeemable park sunghoon.

for better or for worse.

the end.

NOTES so i started writing this fic 7 months ago, took me approximately 6 months to write 6k words and 7 days to write 18k…. so if you feel like some parts of this are good and some awful well, that’s normal, my state of mind went through a lot during all this time ajdjdj. the hidden truth was supposed to be a quick oneshot, something set in a normal college setting to change my mind from my main fic, but at some point i really thought i wouldn’t see the end of it. bad boy fics never get old so i wanted to write mine, but i have no idea how it became a friends to lovers dynamic (since im not really found of the genre lol). i didn’t know if i should continue writing it since i had initially visioned a real red flag sunghoon and a relationship way more angsty, but it came off a lot more soft than intended (to my standards at least). however i had written way too much to give up. it was supposed to be an open ending as well but you can guess the happy ending with the last sentence. it was my first time (feeling shy) writing smut and it took me whole 4 days omg. i still tried to write it in my own style while including stuffs that readers usually enjoy… idk if it blended well, but i tried my best. anyway, english isn’t my first language so a lot of phrasing will be straight pee and poop i’m so sorry, i tried to check for typos but well such a long fic… hard to notice everything. i hope you enjoyed reading it, i put my whole hoonp heart in it. ❤︎❤︎❤︎

© hooncifer copyrights, please don't copy or repost my works ౨ৎ

[luvpocket]

unsent (park sunghoon) ꣑ৎ

pairing: situationship!sunghoon x fem!reader

content: toxic situationship, angst, smut. plot with porn.

warnings: mdni! sexual content, reader is pathetic! (this is fiction pls. if you don't like it, don't read it!), yearning, insecurity, mean sunghoon, p in v, degradation, unprotected sex (don't), toxic dynamic, oral sex (m. receiving), rough sex, overstimulation, crying after sex, manipulative sunghoon, unreliable narrator (kinda), sunghoon is an asshole, reader crashes out.

wc: 18.9k

note: nobody asked for this, i know. but i’m so sad i needed to write it 😆 trying to tell myself idc if this is corny because i believe everything i do is cringe anyway so….. at this point why should i care ? plsplspls never be like reader irl, you don't deserve that shit. enjoy !!

(i made a small playlist) two ghosts (metropolis studios version) - harry styles / the moon - the microphones / recuerdas (acústico) - manuel carrasco / i think of you - rodríguez / living room - not for radio / con las ganas - zahara / to wish impossible things - the cure / cigarette smoke (again) - olivia rodrigo / aphasia - pinegrove / i bet on losing dogs - mitski

permanent taglist (you can comment!): @kristynaaah @hooniella @gentlestpour @heelvcr @heesvnqie @kazehee @rikigirr @cherishmoka @hoonieslove @sulkybunnysstuff @addictedtohobi @nyawon @sh33pg4rden @sinforsim @daysweetdreams @nonsochenomemettere0 @ronromiiws @jollypredatorscarab @sunsunisty @cumtrov3rsy @mashiimashii15 @yjwpout @ningsies @lawjakesim @brocconi @2dolcee @heebunnii

reblogs and feedback are always appreciated ! 💌

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

Dear Sunghoon, Although I know you will never read this, it is still for you. Consider this my desperate attempt to finally let out all the things I have left unsaid. I have never been too good with words, but then again, neither are you. I wish communication weren’t so off-limits between us. When did that even start? When did we even make that silent deal? I think I am addicted to what you make me feel. I don’t think I would call it affection, let alone love. But somehow, every time I see you, I get this overwhelming feeling that nothing else matters. Those fleeting few hours make the heavy buzz in my head quiet down, but how do you even do that? I mean, we barely talk. The silence kills me a little more every time, because I want to know you so deeply. I have always wanted to know you, Sunghoon. I just wish you trusted me enough to let me see more, to see past the kisses, the marks and the sex. To be honest, I don’t even know what love is supposed to feel like. Maybe it is this ache. Maybe this is it. Much love? Y/N

you didn’t even think you remembered the exact color of his eyes. looking at sunghoon — really looking at him — was rare. eye contact wasn’t ever really your thing, but the fact that he was the one actively choosing to avoid it hurt more than you would ever admit.

there were too many things you couldn’t admit. not to yourself, and definitely not to him. you were constantly trapped in a lie you hadn’t even planned on building. it just happened.

it happened somewhere between all your casual hookups and that silent promise you made to keep things strictly casual. why would you get attached when you didn’t even truly know him? the empty pit in your stomach every time he thrust into you one last time seemed to give you the answer you were trying so hard to ignore.

was it just the attention? was it the years of being invisible, of not being touched, held, or even spoken to? or was it something real? the questions consumed you every night before you fell asleep, pulling you into an endless spiral of pure insecurity. you felt like you were the textbook definition of pathetic.

because the worst part wasn’t even the way he looked right through you, it was how easily you let him do it. you would lie there long after his footsteps echoed down the hallway, your skin still feeling warm where his fingers had pressed into your hips. you wanted to hate him for making it so easy for himself. no soft morning light, no hushed “text me when you get home”, no gentle lingering after the high wore off. just a plain shirt pulled over his head, a brief nod toward the door and that familiar silence settling back into the room.

but you couldn't hate him. how could you, when you were the one who signed up for this unspoken contract? you were the one who answered his late night texts in minutes, pretending you were still awake, pretending you didn't mind being his only when the rest of his world went dark.

you would swallow the lump in your throat, pull the cold sheets up over your bare shoulders and breathe in what was left of his scent on the pillow. you were starving for something he was never going to offer, yet you kept begging for the crumbs.

daylight was always the cruelest part. during the day, sunghoon belonged to the rest of the world. he belonged to his friends, to his laughter across crowded rooms, to the effortless composure he wore like a second skin around people who actually got to hear him. when your paths crossed in broad daylight under the harsh glare of real life, he didn't even flinch. his gaze would glide right past you, brushing over you as if you were nothing more than a shadow he had learnt to walk around.

and you played your part perfectly. you would mould your face into something cold and indifferent, pretending your ribs weren’t pressing uncomfortably tight against your chest every time.

that was the unspoken rule, wasn't it? sunlight erased whatever happened between you two. daylight rendered every bruise, every gasp and every tangled limb. you would sit alone in your room afterward, nursing the quiet anger in your chest. you would make promises to the empty air. this is it. next time he reaches out, i’m ignoring it. i’m going to block him. you would repeat it over and over until you almost believed you had control.

but then midnight would creep in. your phone would buzz against the nightstand. a plain “you home?” that took him three seconds to type.

and before your brain could even process the indignity of it, your fingers were already moving. you would send back a compliant “yeah”, hating yourself for the sudden pulse of adrenaline in your veins as you unlocked your front door and waited for his figure to fill the doorway.

because as long as he kept coming back, you could pretend he needed you. and even if he only wanted you when the rest of the world went quiet, even if he only loved the silence you kept for him, it felt safer than being nothing to him at all. you were drowning in him, but at least his hands were the ones holding you under.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

Dear Sunghoon, Another day of being a pathetic loser and doing this. But I just need to get all of this off my chest, and putting pen to paper is somehow the only way I know how to do it. Remember that one brief conversation we had? Someone called at three in the morning and you declined it without a second thought. You looked over at me and said you just preferred texting over calling. Although I knew that was probably not the reason why you didn’t pick up, I felt ridiculously happy about you giving me an explanation at all. Even if it wasn’t entirely honest, you considered the possibility of me wondering about it, and that was enough. It also showed me we have something in common, which is the reason why I’m doing this at all. I wish I could speak up, Sunghoon. Not just with you, but in general. My voice has always felt like a stone trapped at the bottom of my throat, but especially when I am around you. Every time I am lying next to you in the dark, there are a million things pressing against the back of my teeth. I want to ask you about your day. I want to know what scares you, what keeps you awake when I’m not there, what song you listen to when you are driving alone. But instead, I stay quiet. I swallow every word, every question, every confession until my throat burns with everything I am holding back. Because speaking out loud means making it real, it means risking the fragile arrangement we have. I know that if I open my mouth and demand anything more than the bare minimum, you might just turn around and walk out. Sadly, I am too terrified of losing these hours with you to ever take that chance. So I will handwrite it all instead. I will pour my voice onto paper where you will never have to hear it, so that it can’t burden you. It’s stupid, isn’t it? Celebrating a half-baked lie about a missed phone call just because it meant you acknowledged me. But when you are starving, even the smallest crumb feels like a feast. I will keep hiding behind these quiet letters, Sunghoon. Because as long as I stay silent, I still get to keep whatever little piece of you you are willing to leave behind. Yours truly, Y/N

the ice in jay’s glass had completely melted, watering down his drink until it was barely touched, but neither of you had made a move to leave. the diner was almost empty, as jay had spent the last ten minutes watching you shred a paper napkin into tiny pieces.

when he finally spoke, his voice cut straight through the low hum of the refrigerator behind the counter. "you actually need to let it go, y/n." he pushed his glass aside and leaned across the table, resting his forearms on the sticky vinyl. "remember, he’s my friend. i’ve known him for years. that’s my brother, but… let’s be honest. he’s being an asshole."

"you just… wouldn’t understand." you muttered, refusing to look up from the pile of white paper shreds scattered between your hands.

"i understand that you have this weird hyperfixation on him, y/n." jay said, his voice dropping an octave, sounding full of concern. "i’m not blind."

"we’re just having sex, jay!" your voice pitched higher than you intended, echoing slightly in the quiet diner. the bell above the entrance jingled as a stranger walked in, making you wince, pulling your shoulders in and dropping your voice to a harsh whisper. "why is it so bad if i sleep with someone? you do it all the time and no one bats an eye!"

jay leaned back, watching you with a look of exhausted frustration that made your stomach twist. "do i really have to explain to you why it’s different?"

you bit the inside of your cheek until you tasted copper as your fingers froze over the torn napkin. you couldn't meet his eyes, because you knew if you looked at him, he would see the tears stinging in the back of your lids.

so you stayed silent.

"that’s what i thought." jay sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he was nursing a headache you had given him.

the silence stretched out. you hated that jay was the one sitting across from you right now. he was the bridge between you and sunghoon — jay was the one who had introduced you at a chaotic house party, back when sunghoon was just a handsome stranger you didn’t even think of approaching. jay felt responsible for the wreck you were turning into.

"you know the last time he and i actually talked about something real?" jay asked softly, his anger draining out, replaced by quiet pity. "a real conversation. not just about sports or clothes or plans for the weekend."

you didn't answer, but your chest tightened.

"it was about his ex." jay said.

you didn't flinch. you didn't gasp or snap your head up in shock. you just kept staring at the shredded paper, your knuckles turning white where you gripped the edge of the table.

you weren't surprised, not even a little bit.

in a twisted way, it felt like the final piece of a puzzle settling into place. you already knew about their messy breakup, but hearing it out loud now, it explained the hollow look in sunghoon's eyes when he held you down. it explained why he never asked about your day, why he hurried to put his shirt back on before the sun came up, why he maintained that thick wall between you. you probably weren't a person to him. you were just a ghost to keep another ghost company. a body to fill the quiet so he didn't have to hear his own thoughts.

"he's clearly not over her, y/n." jay continued, reaching across the table to gently pull the torn napkin away from your trembling fingers. "he's nowhere near over her. and you’re letting him use you to fill a spot that isn't yours. you're going to destroy yourself trying to warm up someone who's still freezing over someone else."

"i know." you whispered. the confession scraped against your throat.

jay blinked, caught off guard by how easily you gave in. "you know? then why the hell are you still doing this to yourself?"

you finally looked up, your vision blurring around the edges as you met jay's concerned eyes. "because even if he's thinking of her…" you whispered, your voice shaking uncontrollably. "he's still coming to my room. and right now... i'd rather be his second choice than nothing at all."

"y/n…"

"i’m just being honest. you snapped weakly, wiping a stray tear with the back of your sleeve. "i know it’s pathetic, okay? you don't have to say it."

"look… why don’t you just try to talk to him?" jay pushed. "he’s not a bad person after all. if he knows this is something that actually matters to you, he might give you some kind of reassurance. explanations, maybe?"

"sunghoon is not exactly the kind of guy to give me “explanations”, you know?" you let out a dry laugh, totally humorless. "he doesn't do that shit with me, jay. you know that better than anyone. the moment i open my mouth and demand clarity, it's over."

"and would that really be the worst thing?" jay countered, leaning closer across the table until you couldn't avoid his stare. "because from where i'm sitting, you're already breaking into pieces. you’re so terrified of losing the bare minimum that you’re letting him hollow you out from the inside. you think you're keeping him, but you're just watching yourself drown in slow motion."

you bit your lip so hard you felt the faint copper sting of blood again. "you don't understand..."

"i do understand." jay interrupted gently. "he doesn't talk about her to you because you've made it so easy for him to pretend everything is fine. you answer his texts at two in the morning and you never ask for anything. he has no idea how much this is killing you because you act like you're completely fine with being a secret."

the words hit you like a violent wave. jay was right, and that was the most terrifying part. you had built a prison out of your own silence, convincing yourself it was the only way to stay close to sunghoon.

"if you talk to him," jay said softly. "at least you'll know. if he cares about you, even a little bit, he’ll hear you out. and if he doesn't..." jay hesitated, his eyes full of a preoccupied pity. "...then at least you stop wasting your heart on that."

you stared down at the wet ring left on the table by your melting glass. the thought of confronting sunghoon made your stomach twist into sick knots. you could already imagine his unreadable expression, the way his jaw would tighten, the sudden chill that would fill the air before he turned and walked out your door for good.

you knew how it would end. you knew it was a disaster waiting to happen.

but as you sat there under the diner lights, looking at the broken bits of paper scattered between your hands, you realized you couldn't keep living in the dark forever.

"fine." you breathed out, the word barely a whisper, yet heavy enough to break whatever was left of your composure. "i'll talk to him."

jay reached across the table and squeezed your wrist, offering a reassuring nod. "it's going to be okay, y/n."

you nodded back, pretending to believe him, dread settling deep in your chest. because deep down, you knew the moment you asked sunghoon to choose you for a second, you were going to lose him forever.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

Dear Sunghoon, I am writing this on the day I probably, completely fuck it all up. No matter how much I have worked on accepting reality, people always say hope is the last thing you lose. I know you don’t feel the same way about me, I know it. But a stupid part of me keeps asking: what if? What if you have slowly grown to care about my presence, even if it is just the smallest piece of you? “El roce hace el cariño”, my mom used to tell me. Closeness breeds affection. The belief that if you share enough space with someone — if you touch them enough, hold them in the dark, and breathe the same air long enough — something soft and real is bound to grow between you. I have been clinging to that proverb for months, praying that my warmth would eventually rub off on your cold edges. You probably understand that kind of desperation better than anyone. After all, why is it that you keep trying to go back to her, if not because of hope? Why do you keep running back to a ghost, if not for the foolish belief that things might turn out differently this time? We aren't so different, Sunghoon. We are both just tragic fools holding onto people who are already miles away from us. You are anchored to someone who left you in the past, and I am anchored to a version of you that doesn't even exist outside my own head. Jay told me that I need to speak up. He thinks that if I finally ask you for clarity, maybe you will give me something to hold onto. But Jay doesn't see the way your eyes go completely hollow the second things get too real. He doesn't realize that the only reason I have lasted this long in your life is because I made myself as quiet and undemanding as possible. I know what is going to happen tonight. I know that the second I break our unspoken rule of silence, the fragile illusion we built will shatter. You will pull your walls back up, grab your coat and walk out my door. And yet, here I am, getting ready to ask you anyway. Because starving like this is slowly destroying me, Sunghoon. I would rather let you break my heart all at once tonight than spend another month watching it erode into nothing. If this is the last time you ever come to my room... at least I will know I tried. Yours, even at the end, Y/N

he was already on the sofa with you, his cold fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt, his breath hot against your neck. it was the same routine it had been for months: no prelude, no softly whispered greetings, just the immediate dive into the dark where you didn't have to talk.

every nerve in your body screamed at you to just yield. your mind spun into a dizzying spiral of panic. shut up, a loud voice in your head begged. just close your eyes and let him touch you. if you say a single word, you ruin it. you lose him. just take what he’s giving you. you knew how delicate this fragile agreement was. one wrong step, one wrong sentence, and it all would shatter into dust.

but beneath the sheer terror of losing him was a small burn of indignity. you were a human being, sitting on your own couch, letting someone who barely looked you in the eye use your body to quiet down his problems. didn't you deserve five minutes of honesty? didn't you deserve to be listened to, just once, before you let him drown out your thoughts again?

before you could stop yourself, your hands pushed firmly against his chest. "wait, sunghoon."

he paused, pulling back just an inch. for a second, he looked genuinely confused, his eyes blinking down at you as if his brain was trying to process why the routine had suddenly broken. it was an alien look on him — he wasn't used to you doing this.

"i wanted to talk about something first." you whispered, your heart hammering violently against your ribs.

"what…?" the cold edge that instantly entered his tone made your breath hitch. the tiny spark of courage you had been clinging to disintegrated in a fraction of a second. the sheer power he held over you hit like a physical weight. just a single word from his lips made you want to drop your hands, apologize, and pretend you had never spoken.

"about…" you swallowed hard, forcing the words out past the tight lump in your throat. "i-i talked to jay today."

"so?"

"i mean… we talked about you." you stumbled, unable to hold his gaze. "about you and your ex, to be exact."

the momentary confusion on sunghoon’s face vanished, replaced by an abrupt spark of realization that hardened into icy annoyance. he pulled away from you, sitting back on the couch cushion and staring at you like you had crossed an unforgivable line.

"and why the fuck are you two talking about that?" he asked, his voice low and chillingly quiet.

"jay is my friend too." you insisted, your fingers twisting frantically into the fabric of your jeans. "he’s just looking out for me."

"there is nothing to look out for, y/n." he let out a harsh breath, tilting his head up toward the ceiling before looking back at you. "i don’t get how my relationship with my ex has anything to do with you."

the words cut right through you, exposing the pathetic truth of your standing in his life. you felt exposed, naked and small sitting next to him on the sofa, but the bitter ache in your chest forced you to keep pushing.

"i-i mean… sunghoon, i don’t want to be in the middle if you’re going to get back together." you stammered, your voice trembling as you reached for any sliver of self-respect. "i think… i think if we’re doing this, then i deserve a… an explanation?"

sunghoon fell completely silent. the quiet that settled over the living room was suffocating. he just stared at you, his face a completely unreadable mask, before his jaw tightened.

"you’re not in the middle." he said evenly, every syllable laced with detached finality. "you are not between anybody. don’t… let’s not fucking do this. when we get back together, i will tell you."

you froze. it was like the air had been sucked straight out of your lungs and the entire world had stopped moving. you hadn't realized how much the simple grammar of a sentence could completely tear a person apart until that exact moment.

there was no conditional in his voice. no “if”. when. it wasn't a distant thought. it was a guaranteed outcome, a future he had already mapped out in his head, it was a reality where he was going back to her, and you were just the temporary space-filler on his way there.

sunghoon pushed himself off the sofa, grabbing his jacket off the armrest in one motion. "i’m leaving, y/n." he snapped, refusing to look at you as he threw the coat over his shoulders. "you know damn well this is not what we are about."

"no! sunghoon, wait!"

panic seized you, completely obliterating whatever dignity you had tried to defend. you scrambled off the couch, your hands reaching out instinctively to catch his sleeve, completely terrified of the cold distance growing between you.

"no, please, sunghoon, wait." you begged, tears burning hot behind your eyes. "i just meant… i don’t want to cause trouble. and i… i know what this is about, i know how it goes, but… i have feelings too, you know?"

sunghoon stopped, but he didn't turn around to comfort you. he just looked down at your hands clutching his sleeve, his expression deadened, like you were a stranger making a pathetic scene in public.

"that's your problem, y/n." he said, his voice void of a single drop of warmth. "i never asked you to feel anything. i never lied to you." he yanked his arm back, loosening your grip effortlessly. "if you can't handle this, then we're done."

the words tasted like ash in your mouth. a white-hot flare of rage exploded inside you — blinding anger at him for being so disgustingly cold, but even more so at yourself for standing there like a pathetic loser. you wanted to scream at him, you wanted to slap that detached look right off his face. you wanted to push him out the door, slam it shut, and tear down every single memory of him. you hated him. god, you hated him so much in that moment it made your throat burn.

but as he turned his heel toward the door, panic instantly swallowed the rage whole.

the thought of him walking out that door, leaving you alone with the deafening silence of your empty apartment, terrified you far more than any humiliation ever could. if he left tonight, he would never come back. you would just become another mistake he erased from his head on his way back to her.

you couldn't let him leave. you were too weak, too pathetic, too addicted to the poison he fed you.

so before he could reach the doorknob, you stepped in front of him, blocking his path. "sunghoon." you choked out. your voice trembled, but you forced the tears back. you couldn't be needy right now, needy got you abandoned. you had to be useful, you had to be what he wanted.

you reached up, your fingers shaking violently as they brushed the cold collar of his jacket. you couldn't bring yourself to look at his face, couldn't bear to see the sheer indifference in his eyes, so you stared at the base of his throat.

"i'm sorry." you whispered, hating yourself with every fiber of your being as the words spilled out. "forget i said anything. i don't care. i don't care about an explanation."

you slid the jacket off his shoulders, letting it fall onto the floor between you. sunghoon didn't stop you, but he didn't help you either. he just stood there, watching you with that suffocating silence, testing how much you would degrade yourself just to keep him in the room.

your hands moved down to his waist, unbuckling his belt with rushed movements. you stepped closer until your chest was flush against his shirt, lifting your chin to press your lips against the familiar line of his jaw.

"please." you breathed into his skin, your heart breaking into a million jagged pieces with every word. "just stay. you don't have to talk. you don't have to explain anything. just stay with me."

sunghoon let out a exhale through his nose. for an agonizing second, he didn't move. then, with a sudden, rough grip, his hands slammed onto your waist, pulling you flush against him until there wasn't a single inch of space left between your bodies.

there was no tenderness in it. no soft kiss to reassure you, no gentle touch to ease the ache. he backed you up until your thighs hit the sofa, shoving you down onto the cushions and completely crowding over you.

his mouth smashed against yours — not to comfort you, but to shut you up. the kiss was demanding, and you opened your lips instantly, drinking him in as if you were a dying person in a desert. you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him down harder, needing the sheer physical weight of him to crush the unbearable agony in your chest.

he pulled back just an inch, his chest rising and falling against yours, but he didn't let you go. his fingers tangled roughly into the hair at the nape of your neck, yanking your head back until you had no choice but to look up into his eyes. there was an almost mocking glint in his gaze — a cruel amusement that made your stomach twist into a knot of humiliation.

"what happened to all those questions, y/n?" he murmured, his voice low. his thumb pressed hard against your bottom lip, dragging it down until your mouth parted. "i thought you wanted an explanation. i thought you had feelings."

the word sounded disgusting coming out of his mouth. a weapon he was throwing right back in your face. you swallowed hard, another fresh burn stinging behind your eyes. he was mocking you when you were already on your knees. but the threat of him walking out was still hanging in the air like a blade, and you were too much of a coward to test it again.

"i don't." you rasped out, hating yourself so much the words almost choked you. "i don't care about any of that."

"liar." sunghoon whispered against your skin, letting out a humorless breath that brushed over your cheek. his grip on your hair tightened just enough to make a helpless sound escape your throat.

he shifted his weight, crowding over you so heavily that your back sank deeper into the sofa cushions. his free hand slid down your front, his long fingers hooking into the waistband of your pants and tugging them down with a single pull that tore a quiet gasp from your lips.

"you're so pathetic." he muttered, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he pulled your clothes away, leaving your skin exposed to the cool living room air. "you'll let me do whatever i want as long as i stay, won't you?"

every single word was a deliberate slap, but your body betrayed you anyway. a shiver ran down your spine at the touch of his cold knuckles dragging up the inside of your thigh. you hated how your pulse hammered in your ears, hated how desperately your core throbbed for the distraction, for the release he held over you like a leash.

"yes." you whispered into the dark, completely surrendering the last shred of pride you possessed. "just... please, sunghoon."

"say it properly." he commanded softly, his hand pressing flat against your bare stomach, forcing a ragged breath out of you. his tone wasn't gentle. it was demanding, a test to see how far into the dirt you would drag yourself just to keep his hands on you. "tell me what you want."

your fingers dug into his shoulders, feeling the lean muscle beneath his shirt as you dragged him closer, unable to look him in the eye as you admitted it out loud. "i want you." you choked out, your voice breaking. "please... touch me."

a low sound rumbled in his chest. not satisfaction, but the cruel validation of a man who knew he owned you completely. instead of giving you what you wanted, he abruptly caught both of your wrists in one hand, pinning them against the back of the sofa. he pulled away, sitting up and looking down at you with terrifying detachment.

"you don't get to ask for anything, y/n." he released your wrists, shifting his weight back until he was sitting up on the edge of the cushions. he looked down at you as he gestured toward the floor in front of him with a single tilt of his chin. "if you want me to stay tonight, you’re going to have to earn it."

the words hung in the quiet living room. a wave of nausea hit you, instantly freezing whatever heat had built up in your body. he wasn't even going to give you the delusion of shared touch, he literally wanted you on your knees. he wanted you completely broken down, serving him just to prove how little self-respect you had left.

your stomach churned with a blinding rage. get up, your mind shrieked. tell him to go to hell. push him out and lock the door. but as your eyes drifted up to his face, seeing his posture already shifting like he was seconds away from standing up and walking out forever, the anger vanished into terror. you couldn't do it.

with trembling limbs, you slid off the sofa, dropping onto your knees on the cold floor right between his legs. the sheer humiliation of it made your throat feel like it was closing up.

sunghoon didn't smile, he didn't look pleased. he just sat back, staring down at you with those unreadable eyes as he fully unfastened his belt. "well?" he murmured, his voice laced with cruel impatience.

you moved before your mind could protest, hurriedly freeing him from his underwear. he was already fully hard, a slick drop gleaming at the tip. it was the silent proof that he had anticipated your surrender long before you gave it, he knew you would break with quiet certainty.

your trembling hands took hold of him, stroking his cock with a steady rhythm, using his pre-cum to keep the movement fluid. every part of you was striving to give him a reason — any reason — to keep you in his head. sunghoon watched your submission with his heavy gaze before lightly slapping his hot length across your cheek, leaving a wet streak against your burning skin. you felt filthy, knowing you were degrading yourself purely for his amusement.

"open." sunghoon commanded, his voice a low rumble that vibrated right through you.

the moment your lips parted, he showed zero mercy. he didn't give your throat a single second to adjust, taking control instantly as his palm clamped around the back of your head, forcing you down to take all of him at once. a low groan broke from his chest, his fingers tangling tightly into your hair without a shred of gentleness, anchoring you in place as he dictated your every breath.

he set a ruthless pace, using your throat with absolute authority. tears pricked the corners of your eyes, blurring the sight of his beautiful face. he looked so pristine sitting back while you knelt on the cold floor at his feet, completely undone.

you tried to breathe through your nose, your hands clutching weakly at his thighs for leverage, but he didn't soften his pace for a second. he wanted you to know that while your dignity was disintegrating in that room, he was barely breaking a sweat.

"i know you like being treated like this." he whispered, his thumb coming up to press firmly into the pulse point at your neck. "so desperate to stay relevant to me."

he pulled back just enough to let you gasp for a second, only to drive back in deeper, choking out a muffled sob from your chest. sunghoon let out a breathy chuckle, the sound so devastatingly casual it made your heart shatter all over again.

"what an obedient slut." he murmured, his hips thrusting upward as his grip in your hair turned iron-clad.

without warning, he yanked your head back, causing a harsh gag to tear from your throat as he roughly pulled his cock out of your mouth. "on the couch. now."

his command left zero room for hesitation. there was no patience in his touch, no slow foreplay to ease you into it. his fingers grazed your slick center for one fleeting second — a cruel gesture meant purely to mock how deeply your body betrayed you — before he lined himself up.

"you brought this on yourself." he whispered against the skin of your neck, his breath hot, right before he drove straight inside you in one ruthless thrust.

the sudden stretch hit you so hard your back arched off the sofa, a breathless scream catching in the back of your throat. it was overwhelming enough to erase every single thought in your head.

sunghoon didn't pause to let you adjust. he immediately set a punishing rhythm, his hips snapping forward against yours with a hard rhythm that echoed through the quiet room. his fingers dug brutally into your hips, anchoring you to the cushions as he took everything you had just offered him.

"sunghoon-" you whimpered, your head rolling back against the armrest as he hit deep spots inside you.

he didn't answer. he kept his jaw clenched, his eyes fixated on the wall above your head, checked out emotionally even as his body used yours with practiced precision. he was using the friction to drown out whatever mess was inside his own head, completely unbothered by the fact that he was breaking you in the process.

and the worst part — the most sickening, pathetic part of it all — was that as his weight pressed you down and his body filled yours over and over, the panic in your chest finally started to quiet down.

you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling his cold face down into the crook of your shoulder, holding on for dear life as he drove you higher and higher towards an edge you didn't even deserve. you took every rough push, every callous bite of his teeth against your skin, swallowing the bitter taste of your own guilt just to feel him close.

it was a humiliating conflict. deep in your chest, a wave of self-loathing washed over you. you had never felt smaller, kneeling to his whims and letting him reduce you to a convenience right after you had tried to finally speak up.

yet, beneath the crushing weight of your ruined pride, your body was betraying you completely. every brutal thrust sent an embarrassing surge of heat pooling straight into your gut. your slick center clamped desperately around him with every impact, completely traitorous to the grief in your chest. you hated how good it felt. you hated that the friction was perfect, that your hips involuntarily twitched upward to meet his weight, seeking the very pleasure that was destroying you.

a choked whimper slipped past your lips, a sound so needy and small it made your stomach churn with disgust at yourself. you were weeping from the degradation, yet your body was begging for every single inch he offered.

sunghoon didn't offer a single word of comfort. his hand shifted down, his thumb pressing with precise intent right against your swollen center. the sudden stimulation shattered the last of your restraint. a gasp tore from your throat as your spine arched, the pathetic contrast of tears streaming down your face while your body chased the peak making your heart break all over again.

"fuck, y/n. you’re always so fucking needy." he rasped softly, his voice lacking affection. he wasn't looking at your face, his eyes now fixed purely on the mess between your thighs, watching your total submission. "so fucking wet for being such a demanding girl. come on my cock, come on."

your orgasm didn't bring relief, but a sudden rush of sensory overload. at first, the climax rippled through you in a blinding wave, making your body snap taut. your breath caught in your chest, your fingers digging into the seam of the couch as your center pulsated around him in tight spasms. for one fleeting second, you waited for the wave to recede so you could drag air back into your lungs.

but instead, sunghoon kept pushing. he didn't slow his hips, and he didn't lift his thumb from your swollen clit. he simply maintained that precise pressure, grinding straight through the peak.

a desperate sound broke from your throat as the pleasure instantly turned into an agonizing sensation. every microscopic movement of his thumb felt like a spark against raw skin, almost crossing the line into sensory torture.

"sunghoon, wait-" you gasped out, the word muffled instantly as you shoved your face deep into the cushion. you couldn't let him hear the full extent of the humiliating whimpers escaping you.

you hated your body for reacting like this. you hated that even as your heart was shattering under the weight of his coldness, your slick center was still twitching helplessly against him, betraying every ounce of dignity you had left.

instinctively, you tried to pull away. you twitched your hips back just a fraction of an inch, trying to escape the unbearable friction against your center.

sunghoon’s response was immediate. his fingers dug brutally into the skin above your hipbones, his iron grip anchoring you to the cushions so firmly you couldn't move a single millimeter. he didn't speak, he didn't offer a soft word or check to see if you were okay. he simply held you pinned down and drove his hips forward in another excruciating thrust.

"ah- no, please-" you wept, your back arching off the couch in a desperate attempt to diffuse the sensation. it was too much, every inch he slid inside feeling magnified ten times over.

you were completely at his mercy, weeping from the sheer humiliation of being so thoroughly used, yet completely paralyzed by the involuntary heat pulsing through your body.

sunghoon let out a gravelly breath against your shoulder. you could feel every spasm of your walls milking him, forced into continuous contractions by the overstimulation.

his pace picked up, each thrust driving deep into your hyper-sensitive core, eliciting a small sob from your lips every single time his cock fully went inside you. your thighs trembled uncontrollably, your toes curling as your body remained trapped in an endless loop of overstimulated release. you couldn't tell where the pleasure ended and the ache began, becoming just a shivering mess beneath his hands.

"this is what you wanted. so fucking take it." with three final thrusts, sunghoon went rigid above you. a guttural groan tore from his chest as his body shuddered, burying his full length inside your slick heat as he spilled himself deep into you.

he stayed there for a long moment, his weight pinning you down while his labored breath rattled against your ear. you lay completely still beneath him, your body continuing to twitch with tiny residual pulses that made you squeeze your eyes shut against the tears.

then, without a word, he pulled out. the sudden rush of cool living room air against your exposed skin felt like a slap.

you didn't move, you couldn't. you just lay there, face pressed into the damp sofa cushion, your chest heaving in shallow hitches. your thighs were still shaking, your muscles aching from the strain, but the physical sensation was already fading into numbness.

behind you, you heard the rustle of fabric. the metallic click of his belt buckle. the efficient sound of sunghoon dressing himself like he was packing up after a business transaction. he didn't check on you, he didn't reach down to cover your bare legs with the blanket nearby. he didn't even look at you.

he just existed in the room with you, completely untainted by the mess he had just made of your body and your heart.

you squeezed your eyes shut as the floorboards creaked under his body. every movement he made felt like he was erasing himself from your apartment in real time. you wanted to turn around, wanted to look at him to see if there was even a fraction of emotion in his eyes, a single crack in his composure. but you were too terrified of finding nothing at all.

"i'm leaving now." he said. his voice was even, completely devoid of any lingering heat or feelings.

you swallowed the bitter lump in your throat. you couldn't bring yourself to answer. you couldn't say okay, and you certainly couldn't say goodnight.

his footsteps drifted down the hallway toward the front door. you heard the soft slide of his jacket over his shoulders, the quiet jingle of his keys, and the door opening.

and then there was only silence.

the suffocating quiet settled over your apartment until it pressed down on your chest, making breathing feel like a chore. you slowly pulled your knees up to your chest, shivering as the cold settled into your bones. your body felt spent, stained with the physical proof of your total surrender. you had given up every single shred of self-respect you had left. you had let him degrade you, mock you, and use you until you were completely empty — and for what?

he was still gone. he was still going back to her.

a ragged sob tore through your throat, spilling over into the quiet room. you buried your face in your knees, finally letting the humiliation wash over you in full force. you hated him with everything inside you. but as you sat there alone in the dark, breathing in the faint trace of his cologne on your sofa, the most terrifying thought of all hit you.

if he texted you again tomorrow night, you knew you would still open the door.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

Dear Sunghoon, And the cycle repeats. Jay has nagged me so many times, I have lost count. You should probably repay me for that added damage, too. I have a genuine question for you — do you hate me? I ask this not as a hopeless girl who won’t ever be reciprocated by her sneaky link, but more as a person with fragile humanity. Someone who bleeds, who feels, and who sits alone in the dark long after you close my front door. Because the way you look at me when I ask for the bare minimum... it feels like disgust. It feels like you are offended by the fact that I exist, that I have a pulse, that I dare to ache when you bruise me. Why do you treat someone who gives you everything like they are dirty just for offering it? I know I do all of this to myself because of how painfully insecure I am, because I don’t respect myself enough to believe I deserve better. But Sunghoon, I have come to the certain conclusion that being aware of something does not make it easier for you to change it. Knowing that I am destroying myself doesn't give me the strength to stop. Knowing that you are using me to fill a spot that isn't mine doesn't stop my hands from reaching for you. Self-awareness isn't a cure; it is just a front row seat to watch my own pathetic ruin. I am watching myself drown in real time, and I still can't pull my head above the water. To be honest, I do enjoy the sex. It isn’t only about the fact that you are way too good at it. It is also because those quiet hours on my apartment are the only times I ever get to hold you. Even when you are rough, even when you are mean, even when you are using my body to quiet the noise in your own head — for those few hours, you are actually here. Your skin is against mine, your heart is beating against my chest. You are in my room, breathing my air, not anybody else’s. I let you break me because even your coldness feels like warmth when I have been freezing for so long. You left a little while ago. The apartment is freezing, my body still aches from the weight of you, and my face is still wet. The physical trace you leave behind makes me hate myself. But God help me, I think I hate the thought of an empty room even more. Yours, regardless, Y/N

as time went by, you kept your conversation with jay long lost in the back of your mind. there was no space for personal feelings in your transaction with sunghoon, and you couldn't afford to let anyone else's logic wake you up from the high. so things went back to normal. or at least, the version of normal you had forced yourself to digest.

but you could feel the presence of her more and more every single day.

it was in the tiny moments that used to seemingly be yours. it was the way sunghoon’s eyes flicked to his phone screen the second he sat up, his thumb swiping across the glass before he even reached for his shirt. it was the subtle shift in his posture when a notification lit up the dark room — a softness in his face that never, ever belonged to you. he was drifting further into the past with every passing week, and you were just the temporary anchor keeping him grounded while he waited for her to take him back.

you tried to get better. god, you tried so hard. you bought psychology books you couldn't bring yourself to finish, listened to jay’s gentle lectures about self-respect, and made endless mental lists of all the reasons you should hate sunghoon. you told yourself that tomorrow would be the day you finally blocked his number. tomorrow you would pick up the pieces.

but tomorrow always came with the terrifying reality of his absence, and your courage evaporated into nothing.

awareness was a useless weapon against an addiction. your self-worth was so thoroughly rotted, so completely tied to his touch, that without it, you felt like you didn't even exist. you were trapped in a loop: hate him, hate yourself more, crave his validation to erase the self-hatred, and end up hating yourself twice as much when he walked out the door.

it was another lonely thursday night in which he didn't come over. he didn't text. he didn't even send a one word message to tell you he was busy.

the quiet in your apartment felt suffocating. to stop the noise in your head, you opened a bottle of wine. and when that wasn't enough, you dragged out a half-empty bottle of cheap gin buried in the back of your pantry, drinking it straight from the glass just to feel the burn.

but alcohol didn't numb you the way you desperately hoped it would. instead, it just stripped away the fragile lie you maintained when you were sober. it made the insecurity scream.

by midnight, you were completely plastered, stumbling into the bathroom and leaning clumsily against the sink. you stared at your reflection in the mirror, your eyes glassed over, the rims of your eyelids raw and red. you hated what you saw. you hated your face, hated your body, hated the pathetic posture of a girl who spent her nights staring at her phone, waiting for a man who wouldn't even acknowledge her on the street.

you slumped down onto the cold tile floor, pulling your knees to your chest as the room spun around you. he is never going to love you, the liquor whispered, cold through the haze in your brain. she has his heart, his memories, his future. you're just the trash he steps on while he waits for her.

a sudden sob tore from your throat, echoing against the bathroom tiles. it wasn't just sadness, it was realization. you were dying in this apartment. piece by piece, night by night, you were sacrificing every single atom of your soul for a man who didn't even care if you were breathing after he left.

a dark wave of liquor-fueled clarity washed over you. you couldn't do this anymore. if you stayed in this loop for another month, there would be nothing left of you to save. so with trembling fingers, you reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. the screen blinded you in the dark. your thumb hovered over sunghoon’s name, your pulse hammering violently in your throat.

the alcohol gave you a reckless burst of courage — the kind born out of pure rock bottom. you didn't care about the rules anymore, you didn't care about playing it cool. you were going to force an end to this tonight, even if it destroyed you in the process.

you didn't press call. a text could be swiped away. a phone call could be ignored or muted with a flick of his thumb. you knew how easily he could dismiss your existence when you were just words on a screen. if you were going to burn this down, if you were going to force him to look at the wreckage he created, you couldn't do it from the safety of your bathroom floor. he had to finally look you in the eye.

with clumsy movements, your thumb tapped open the uber app. with your vision blurred from the alcohol and dried tears, you managed to type in his address — a place you had only been to a handful of times, always late at night, always under the strict rule that you were only an invited guest, never a surprise.

you didn't care about his rules anymore. his rules were a cage designed to keep you small and convenient.

you dragged yourself up from the tile, swaying violently as a wave of nausea rolled through your stomach. you didn't check the mirror again. you didn't fix your hair or wipe away the faint black smudges of mascara beneath your eyes. you just grabbed your coat off the rack, shoved your feet into the nearest pair of shoes, and practically stumbled out into the cold night air.

the uber ride was a nauseating blur. the city lights smeared through the window, the warmth of the car making your head spin even faster. sitting in the back seat, your mind lashed out at you in brutal waves. turn back, a terrified voice pleaded. you are out of your mind. if you show up at his apartment drunk like this, he will never speak to you again. he will look at you like you are insane.

but the alcohol in your blood spoke louder. let him look at you like you are insane. let him hate you. anything is better than being his dirty secret. you gripped the edge of the seat, your chest tight with a mix of drunk rage and suicidal bravery.

when the car pulled up to his building, you almost threw up right there on the pavement. you stumbled out into the chill of the night, your legs feeling heavy and detached from the rest of your body. you slipped through the doors of the lobby behind a resident who didn't even turn around, stepping into the carpeted elevator with your heart hammering so hard it felt like it was going to burst.

floor eight. the elevator chimed softly. the doors slid open, revealing the silent hallway. every step toward apartment 805 felt like your last. the courage that had fueled you in your bathroom was beginning to sour, leaving behind a sickening dread. the smell of cheap alcohol was noticeable on your breath, your clothes were messy, and your entire body was trembling uncontrollably.

what are you doing? your mind screamed as you stopped in front of his door. go home. please, just go home before you destroy what is left of yourself.

you reached out. your finger hovered over the metal button of the doorbell. you thought about every cold phrase he had ever said to you. when we get back together, i will tell you. you thought about how he treated you like a nuisance every time you dared to act like a human being with a heart. you thought about how much you hated him, and how much more you hated yourself.

so you pressed the button. the melodic chime echoed through the hallway.

you froze, holding your breath, your heart lodging in your throat. a second passed, then two. for a terrible moment, you thought he wasn't home, that you had traveled all this way just to break down in an empty hallway.

then, the faint sound of footsteps approached the door. a lock clicked.

you squeezed your eyes shut for half a second, bracing yourself to look at sunghoon, to say whatever reckless words were burning a hole in your chest.

the door swung open.

"sunghoon, i-"

the words died in your throat. the air evaporated from your lungs. it wasn't sunghoon.

standing in the soft light of his entryway was a girl. she was beautiful — effortlessly so, wearing an oversized grey hoodie that clearly belonged to him, her hair pulled up in a loose bun that spoke of absolute familiarity. she looked completely at home, completely secure, holding a glass of water in her hand as she blinked at you in confused surprise.

it was her. you immediately knew it was her.

she looked down at your disheveled clothes, taking in your glassy, tear-stained eyes and the lingering smell of alcohol clinging to you.

"can i help you?" she asked, her voice polite and completely unbothered.

the floor beneath your feet felt like it was dissolving into thin air. every drop of gin in your bloodstream instantly turned to ice. the drunken rage that had carried you into this building vanished, replaced by a shame so profound it made your knees buckle. you were standing in the hallway of his nice apartment, smelling of cheap liquor and dried tears, looking at a girl who looked like she belonged there.

she was wearing his clothes, she was drinking his water. she was standing inside his home like she had every right in the world to be there, while you were huddled outside on the doormat in the dark.

before your throat could force out a single word, a familiar voice drifted from inside the apartment.

"em, who is it?"

sunghoon walked into view. he was wearing sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt, his hair soft and unstyled — the relaxed, domestic version of him you had only ever been allowed to see in the pitch black hours of the night.

then his eyes landed on you. for a split second, his face went completely blank. then, a dark shift hardened his features, his jaw tightening so hard you could hear the snap of his teeth from where you stood.

"go back inside for a second, em." sunghoon said softly to her. his tone was gentle — a protective tenderness he had never once used on you.

the girl gave you one last look of quiet pity before stepping back. sunghoon slipped out into the hallway, pulling his front door shut behind him until the latch clicked into place, locking his real life safely away from the pathetic mess standing in front of him.

"what the fuck are you doing here, y/n?" he asked, his voice a venomous whisper that sliced straight through the quiet hall.

you swallowed hard, but your throat was completely dry. the overhead lights exposed every flaw, every smudge of makeup, every violent tremor in your hands. you felt naked. you felt insane.

"you..." your voice broke, a high squeak. you cleared your throat, trying desperately to anchor yourself against the wall as another wave of nausea hit you. "you lied to me."

sunghoon crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at you with an expression of pure annoyance. "i didn't lie about anything. are you drunk? go home before you make even more of an idiot of yourself."

"no." you choked out, the bitter tears finally spilling hot and heavy down your cheeks. "no, sunghoon, listen to me. you said... you said when you got back together with her, you would tell me." the words hung between you in the quiet corridor, small and pathetic. "you promised." you whispered, your fingers clutching the fabric of your coat. "you said, “when we get back together, i will tell you”. those were your exact words. why... why didn't you tell me then?"

you weren't asking because you expected an apology. you were asking because some broken part of you needed to know why you hadn't even earned a thirty second text message. why he had let you sit alone in your apartment, spiraling and drinking yourself blind, while he was inside playing house with her.

sunghoon stared at you. there was no guilt in his eyes. no regret, no hesitation. "because it's none of your business." he said evenly, every syllable delivered with brutal precision. "i don't owe you a timeline, y/n. i don't owe you a courtesy call. we weren’t together."

the sentence hit your chest like a physical blow, knocking whatever little air you had left straight out of your lungs.

"you weren't supposed to show up at my door like this." he continued, taking a half-step closer. "this is exactly why i kept you at a distance."

the words didn't even sting anymore. they just settled deep into your bones, joining the black pool of self-hatred you had been drowning in for months.

"i just wanted... a text." you whispered, your voice barely audible. "just a text so i didn't have to find out like this."

his expression was terrifyingly neutral, his posture completely relaxed, as if he were explaining a simple mathematical fact to a child who kept getting the answer wrong. "texting you would imply there was an expectation of accountability." he said, his voice smooth. "we never had that, y/n. we were two people who kept each other company when it was convenient. sending you a text to announce my personal decisions would have suggested there was something to break off. there wasn't." he leaned slightly against the doorframe, crossing his arms, looking down at you with a logical clarity that cut deeper than any insult ever could.

"you can't just say that." you rasped, a sudden surge of heat breaking through the ice in your chest. "you can't just stand there and pretend like there was nothing. sunghoon, we spent months together. you came to my apartment, you stayed in my bed, you put your hands on me. you… you can't just act like i'm a stranger who hallucinated all of it! even if we weren't official, even if it was just physical to you... there was something between us. a person deserves at least a text out of basic human decency."

sunghoon didn't flinch. he just stared at you, his eyes blank. "you're confusing physical proximity with emotional obligation, y/n." he said quietly, his voice steady. "you opened your door every time i came over. you let me stay. but i never promised you a title, i never promised you a future, and i certainly never promised you updates on my personal life."

he tilted his head slightly, taking in your trembling frame with a look that wasn't even angry anymore — it was worse. it was clinical pity. "i was transparent with you. you knew what this was." he continued, every word delivered with calm precision. "if you chose to attach romantic weight to sex, that was your decision, not mine. you can't hold me accountable for expectations you created in your own head."

the hallway seemed to tilt on its axis. his logic was so clean, so airtight, that it felt like a physical blow crushing your chest. was he right? had you made it all up? were all those quiet hours on your apartment just a delusion you had manufactured because you were too pathetic to accept reality?

you felt a dizzying sensation in your brain — like your own memories were rotting into lies right in front of you. he didn't even have to raise his voice or call you crazy. he just stated his facts, and in doing so, he made you look at yourself through his eyes: an unstable girl who had shown up drunk at his door, demanding emotional tax for a transaction she had willingly offered.

you were crazy, you had to be. you had taken his coldness and convinced yourself it was intimacy just so you wouldn't feel so alone.

"i'm ordering you a ride." sunghoon said, pulling his phone from his pocket and tapping the screen without an ounce of hesitation. "you need to go home, sober up, and stop this."

"sunghoon..." your voice was barely a whisper now, completely stripped of any remaining fight.

"it's done, y/n." he murmured, his thumb swiping across the glass. "the car will be downstairs in three minutes. please, don't come back."

he backed into his apartment, his fingers resting on the edge of the door. he didn't slam it. he just closed it softly, with a deliberate click that sealed his real life away from you forever.

the silence of the hallway crashed down on you. you stood there alone, your hands shaking so hard you couldn't even shove them into your coat pockets. you turned around on numb legs, stumbling down the long corridor and into the elevator. in the polished metal reflection of the elevator walls, you looked completely unhinged — standing in a building where you had never belonged.

when you stepped out into the night, the car was already there. you slid into the back seat of the silver sedan waiting at the curb, staring blankly out the window as the driver pulled away.

the ride home was a silent nightmare. every time you closed your eyes, sunghoon's voice echoed in your head, calm and reasonable, tearing down every boundary you had tried to set.

you can't hold me accountable for expectations you created in your own head.

he was right, and that was the most brutal part of the entire night. you had dragged yourself through the dirt, sacrificed your dignity, and let him break you open over and over again, all for a lie that you had written. you were the architect of your own ruin.

when you finally unlocked the door to your quiet apartment, the air felt thick. you didn't turn on the lights and you didn't take off your damp coat. you just walked into the living room and collapsed onto the sofa, curling into a ball against the cold cushions.

the tears didn't come in a dramatic storm. they just spilled silently, soaking into the fabric beneath your cheek. you lay there in the dark, shivering from the alcohol leaving your system, listening to the deafening silence of the room.

you had gone to his apartment to force an end, to demand answers, to make him acknowledge your pain. but instead, you had returned home with the absolute certainty that you were completely unlovable.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

Dear Sunghoon, You didn’t even have to raise your voice to make me feel like I was insane. I keep sitting here in the dark, staring at the front door of my apartment, hearing your voice repeat in my head like a loop I can’t turn off. “You are confusing physical proximity with emotional obligation”. You said it so calmly, so logically. And the worst part is that you were probably right. You never promised me anything. You never held my hand in the daylight, you never said you loved me. You just came over when you were bored, took whatever you wanted from my body, left me bleeding on my own sofa, and walked out into the night. But I was the one who wrote the story. I was the one who took your coldness and called it passion because the alternative, accepting that I meant literally nothing to you, was too terrifying to bear. I convinced myself that if I endured enough pain, if I let you degrade me enough, if I became quiet and convenient enough, I would eventually earn a place in your life. What a pathetic delusion. When she opened your door, wearing your hoodie and holding your glass of water in the warm light of your hallway, I felt every single atom of my soul collapse. She looked like she belonged there, she looked safe. And when you walked up behind her, your voice was soft. You spoke to her with a gentle warmth that I didn't even know you had inside. You saved all your tenderness for others, Sunghoon. For me, you only ever had the dark. You only ever had hard hands, sharp words, and the cold snap of your belt buckle before you left me alone in the quiet. I went to your apartment because I wanted to hurt you the way you hurt me. I wanted to demand an explanation, to make you feel an ounce of the guilt that was eating me alive. But you didn't even give me the dignity of a fight. You just looked at me like an inconvenience, an awkward little mess you had to sweep off your doorstep so you could get back to your real life. You dismantled my entire existence in two minutes without even trying. You made me realize that to you, I was never a heartbreak, or a mistake, or even a guilty pleasure. I was just a temporary fix until the person you actually wanted came back. I hate you for doing this to me. I hate you for every time you looked at me with disgust while your hands were on my skin. I hate you for making me feel like a dirty secret. But Sunghoon, I will always hate myself so much more. I hate myself for getting on my knees, for begging you to stay, for drinking until my liver burned just to get the courage to stand in your hallway and be tossed out like trash. I knew what you were doing to me every single step of the way, and I still let you do it because I thought having a ruined version of you was better than having nothing at all. I don't think I will ever forgive myself for what I let you turn me into. You told me not to come back, and you don't have to worry, because I won't. You win. You get to go back inside your warm apartment, hold her, and completely erase my name from your head. You get to walk away untouched while I am left sitting here in the dark, trying to figure out how to live with the empty shell of a person that was left behind. I hope she gives you everything you need and deserve, Sunghoon. And I hope you never have to know what it feels like to stand outside a locked door, realizing you destroyed yourself for someone who didn't even bother to learn your heart. Goodbye, Sunghoon, Y/N

letting go wasn't a single dramatic moment. it didn't happen the night you went home, and it didn't happen when you wrote a letter. it was a slow bleed that dragged out over weeks.

the first few days felt like physical withdrawal. your brain was so used to the volatile highs and lows of his existence that the sudden deafening quiet of your life felt like torture. every time your phone buzzed on the nightstand, your chest would leap with an instinctual spike of adrenaline before reality crashed back in. he was never going to text you again. you had finally become invisible to him, exactly as he had wanted.

for almost a week, you barely left your bed, only leaving on the days when work required you to be in the office. the living room felt tainted, the sofa cushions still holding the ghost of every humiliation you had endured just to keep him in the room.

jay was the one who finally broke the lock on your front door. he didn't lecture you. he didn't give you a self-righteous “i told you so”, even though he had every right to. he just walked into your dark apartment, picked up the empty alcohol bottles off the kitchen counter, and opened the blinds to let the morning sun sweep across the floor.

"you're allowed to mourn it." jay said softly, setting a cup of warm coffee on the coffee table in front of you. "even if it was toxic. even if he treated you like garbage, you still lost something you cared about, y/n. but just don't die in this room."

jay stayed for hours. he didn't force you to talk, he just sat on the rug, working on his laptop while you stared blankly out the window, anchored simply by the presence of someone who actually cared whether you were breathing.

the hardest part was the non-linear nature of recovery. some days, you felt a flickering spark of anger — a burning rage that made you want to scrub your skin until it was raw and throw away every shirt he had ever laid his hands on. on those days, you felt almost powerful.

but then came the nights. at two am, the loneliness would creep back into your bones. you would find yourself opening his contact card, staring at his chat thread, your thumb hovering over the call button. the muscle memory of your desperation was terrifying. your mind would bargain with you: just one call. just to see if he picks up, just to hear his voice. even if he is mean, even if he hates you.

it took every ounce of strength you had left not to surrender. but one night, as you were sitting on your bed while holding your phone, you stared at sunghoon's profile picture. you realized with sickening clarity that as long as his name remained in your phone, a pathetic part of you would always be waiting for a notification that was never coming. you were keeping the leash around your own neck.

so, with trembling fingers and a throat so tight it hurt to breathe, you tapped the three small dots at the top of the screen.

block contact.

a pop-up window appeared, asking if you were sure. your heart hammered against your ribs. blocking him felt like severing the final thread linking you to the person you had spent months destroying yourself for. it meant accepting that the story was irreversibly over.

you pressed the screen. just like that, his name vanished from your recent messages. you buried your face in your pillow and wept until your chest burned, mourning the girl who had let herself be brought so low, and mourning the illusion of the man you had tried so hard to save.

blocking his number gave you a brief illusion of control. for a few hours, you felt a strange triumph — as if tapping a screen could magically erase months of degradation and pull out the roots he had planted deep inside your brain.

but reality set in by the next morning. erasing his contact details didn't delete his voice from your mind. it didn't wash away the ghost of his hands on your hips, and it certainly didn't fix the broken foundation of who you were before he ever walked through the door. sunghoon hadn't created your insecurities, he had simply found the bleeding wounds you already had and poured salt into them until you were addicted to the sting.

going back to your usual work routine was a lesson in how ruined you actually felt.

you put on real clothes, applied enough concealer to hide the dark circles carved under your eyes, and forced yourself into the light of the outside world. but you walked through the office like a ghost. every interaction was filtered through the toxic lens of the self-hatred he had reinforced.

when a coworker took a second too long to reply to your email, your brain instantly spiraled: they hate you. you're annoying them. you're burdening everyone around you. when someone dropped their tone slightly in conversation, you immediately shrank back, convinced you had done something wrong, that you were naturally repulsive to the people around you.

the dynamic you had accepted with sunghoon — where you had to shrink yourself, compromise your dignity, and accept crumbs just to be tolerated — had leaked into every single corner of your life.

you couldn't look in the mirror without picking yourself apart. you would stare at your face under the bathroom lighting, tracing the lines of your cheekbones, wondering what it was about you that made you so easy to discard. she was worth keeping. she earned his soft voice, his quiet protectiveness, his home.

the hardest part of trying to get better was realizing that the enemy wasn't sunghoon anymore. he was gone, living his life without a single thought reserved for you. the enemy was the person sitting in your own skin — the part of you that still believed his cruel logic was the absolute truth.

jay kept checking in on you, bringing groceries, forcing you to step outside for fresh air, listening patiently when you talked. but even around jay, a dark thought lingered in the back of your brain: how long until he gets tired of you, too? how long until he realizes how broken and exhausting you are?

you were trapped in a cage of your own making, terrified of being alone yet convinced that anyone who got close to you would eventually see how worthless you were and walk away.

so recovery wasn't a sudden breakthrough or a grand moment of self-love, it was more like an unglamorous chore. it was forcing yourself to eat three meals a day even when your stomach almost killed you. it was stopping your hand every time you reflexively reached for your phone to check if maybe, somehow, an unknown number had popped up. it was catching yourself in the mirror, mid-critique, and forcing your eyes away before you dragged yourself down into another spiral.

you hadn't healed. the wounds were still raw and throbbing beneath the surface of your daily routine. but as you sat at your desk, going through the motions of a normal afternoon, you held onto one small thought.

you were miserable, but for the first time in months, you were miserable on your own terms. not kneeling on a cold floor, waiting for a man who didn't even care if you survived the night.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

Dear Sunghoon, I hope this is the last letter I ever write you, but I am not going to promise anything yet. My track record with keeping promises to myself where you are concerned has always been pathetic, and I am finally done lying to myself. It has been months now. Three or four, I have stopped counting the days like a prison sentence, which I suppose is some kind of progress. The seasons changed, the cold rain gave way to milder air, and the city moved on. A lot has happened since the night I stood on your doormat, smelling like cheap alcohol and looking like a mess. I blocked your number, just like I knew I had to. I stopped re-reading our old text threads. I let Jay pull me out of the apartment until the four walls of my living room stopped feeling like a crime scene. I even bought a new cover for the sofa, a warm shade that covers up the worn fabric where your body used to press mine down into the cushions. From the outside, it looks like a clean recovery story. People at work tell me I look healthy. Jay smiles when he sees me actually finishing a meal. But the truth is much uglier than that. You left scars that time hasn't quite figured out how to smooth over yet. The insecurities you fed didn't disappear when I blocked your phone number, they just took up permanent residence inside my head. I still catch myself shrinking in rooms I have every right to stand in. I still brace myself for sudden cruelty every time someone treats me with patience, convinced that quiet kindness is just a trap waiting to spring. Every time someone shows interest in me, my brain instantly asks the same sick question you answered for me in that hallway: how long until they realize how disposable I am? I don't even hate you anymore, I don't have the energy for it. When I look back at us now, the burning rage is gone, replaced by sadness for the girl who dropped to her knees on the floor between your legs, begging for a life you were saving for someone else. You weren't a monster, Sunghoon. You were just a man who didn't love me, and I was a person who hated herself enough to think that was acceptable. I don't know if I will ever fully fix what was broken before I met you, or what broke while I was with you. But I survived the silence that came after you closed your front door. I survived the late night withdrawal when I thought the urge to call you would literally split my chest open. I am writing this not because I want you to read it, but because I need to leave you here, in these pages, in these past months that have already slipped away into memory. I hope you are happy with her. And I hope, eventually, I learn how to live in my own skin without feeling like I need to apologize just for taking up space. Goodbye, Sunghoon. For real this time, Y/N

as months slipped by, the sharpest edges of your grief started to round off. the constant weight in your chest slowly dissolved into a more manageable hum in the background of your life. for the first time in what felt like years, you were not just surviving the hours between sunset and dawn.

you were actually having fun sometimes, too. it was a chilly friday evening when your coworkers dragged you out to a cozy pub down the street from the office to celebrate the end of a project. normally, you would have made up an excuse to retreat back to the safety of your bed. but lately, you had been saying yes.

and for two whole hours, you slowly forgot. you sat in a worn velvet booth surrounded by the warm glow of the lights, the clinking of beer glasses, and the mindless chatter of people who momentarily loved their lives. you let out genuine laugh that started in your stomach and crinkled the corners of your eyes. you looked down at your hands resting on the table and realized they weren't trembling. you weren't constantly checking your screen for a notification that would never come, and you weren't picking apart your reflection in the glass.

you were just a normal girl, having a drink with her coworkers, finally feeling at ease. the relief of it was almost intoxicating. you took a sip of your drink, leaning back against your seat, letting the warmth of the room wash over your skin. you were rebuilding. maybe, you were going to be okay.

your phone buzzed on the table, making the screen light up. Jay :D was displayed in white letters across the display.

an involuntary smile touched your lips. jay was your safe harbor, the person who had pulled you out of the wreckage without ever asking for a single thing in return. assuming he was just calling to check if you needed a ride home or to tease you about finally going out, you grabbed your coat.

"sorry, guys, i gotta take this. it's my friend jay." you said, offering an apologetic wave to the table.

"tell him we said hi!" one of your coworkers called out over the noise of the bar.

you pushed your way through the crowded pub, slipping through the front door and stepping out onto the quiet street. the cold night air hit your cheeks, contrasting pleasantly with the warmth of the bar inside.

you swiped the screen and pressed the warm screen against your ear. "hey, jay." you said, your voice light and completely unguarded. "what's up? i'm actually still at the pub with my coworkers."

silence met you on the other end. it wasn’t the static-filled silence of a dropped call, but a deliberate quiet. you heard the faint rustle of a jacket moving, followed by a ragged exhale that sounded too close to the microphone.

your smile faltered. the playful warmth in your chest instantly curdled into a cold sensation. "jay?" you asked, taking the phone away from your ear for a split second to make sure his name was still on the screen. it was. Jay :D - Calling...

you put the phone back to your ear, your breath catching in your throat as a sudden sense of dread began to bleed through your veins. "jay, is everything okay? why aren't you speaking?"

there was a long pause. and then, through the speaker of jay's phone, a low voice spoke — a voice that was rougher and far more broken than you had ever heard it before.

"hey, y/n."

every drop of blood drained from your face in a single second. the noise of the city street vanished, drowned out by the deafening roar of your own heart hammering wildly against your ribs.

that wasn't jay.

the air in your lungs vanished. a sickening cold washed over you, plunging straight into your stomach. for a few seconds, you couldn't move, you couldn't breathe. the world shrank down to the dark street, the glowing screen pressed against your cheek, and the sound of his ragged breathing on the line.

"sunghoon?" your voice came out cracked, shaking so hard it barely sounded like you. "where is jay? why do you have his phone?"

a slurred laugh drifted through the speaker. it was bitter and seemingly heavy with liquor — a far cry from the logical man who had shut his door in your face months ago.

"he's in the bathroom." sunghoon muttered. "left his keys and his phone here. didn't take much to slip it into my pocket when he turned around."

you gripped the phone tightly, the initial wave of paralyzing shock instantly igniting into a blinding fury. he had invaded jay's privacy, he had stolen his phone. he was standing in some bar or apartment right now, using the only safe person left in your life as a backdoor entry into yours.

"are you fucking insane?" you spat, your voice trembling with a rage you didn't even know you were capable of holding. "give the phone back to jay. don't you ever-"

"i actually waited, y/n." sunghoon interrupted, his tone dropping into a spiteful murmur. the words were venomous, meant to cut you down, but beneath the cruelty, the slurring of his speech betrayed something else. "i honestly thought you’d call me a day after. i thought you'd send one of your pathetic little paragraphs, begging me to listen to you. begging me to let you come over." a harsh laugh escaped his throat. "i didn't think you had it in you to block me." he rasped, the sentence dripping with wounded entitlement. "who the fuck gave you the right to block my number?"

he had been waiting for you to beg. he had spent weeks expecting you to crawl back like you always did, feeding his ego with your suffering. the anger burning inside your chest solidified into something deadly. you felt utterly disgusted.

"you are sick." you whispered. "you stood in your hallway and told me i was nothing to you. you told me you didn't owe me a text, a courtesy call, or an explanation. and now you're stealing jay's phone like a coward because you wanted me to be miserable?"

"miserable?" sunghoon echoed. "you were already miserable, y/n. you were crying on the floor long before i ever said a word to you."

the anger that had flared in your chest suddenly gave out beneath you, collapsing into an aching void. the tears you had been fighting off spilled over your eyelashes, stinging against the chill of the street air.

you hated how easily he could do this. you hated that after months of agonizing work, after trying so hard to build a life where his name didn't haunt every shadow, a single sentence from him could strip you down to that same helpless girl begging on his doormat.

"do you think that's fair?" you choked out, your voice breaking right down the middle, thick with a sadness so deep it made your heart ache. "do you honestly think any of this is fair to me?" you wrapped your free arm tightly around your waist, shivering as the cold seeped straight into your bones. "i gave you everything. i let you tear down every single piece of dignity i had left because i thought... i thought if i stayed long enough, you would see me. but you treated me like trash. and even after you tossed me out, even after you got what you wanted... you still couldn't just let me bleed in peace?"

a heavy silence hung on the line. "do you hate me?" you whispered, the question barely louder than the breeze rustling the trees along the pavement. "is that what this is? do you hate me so much that you can't bear the thought of me moving on?"

sunghoon let out a bitter scoff, but the speed of his response betrayed the raw nerve you had just touched. "i don't hate you." he said, his tone dripping with a calculated malice meant to protect his own bruised ego. "hating you would mean you actually mattered enough to leave an impression."

the words were designed to destroy you. they were meant to leave you broken on the pavement, just like that night at his apartment. but as you stood there, wiping a tear from your cheek with a trembling hand, the brutal truth hit you through the haze of your grief.

he was saying the cruelest things he could think of. he was trying to reduce you to nothing, trying to make you feel small and worthless again. and yet, he was the one holding the phone.

he was the one who had watched jay walk away, who had taken his friend’s phone without permission, who had searched through a contact list just to dial a number he claimed to have forgotten.

"if i mattered so little..." you murmured, your voice trembling with tears, yet laced with clarity. "then why are you holding jay's phone right now, sunghoon?"

there was no quick comeback, no smooth reasoning. just a sudden stillness on the other end of the line.

"you can say whatever mean things you want to hurt me." you whispered, your heart breaking all over again for the girl who had begged him. "but you called me. you took his phone, and you called me. and that's the most pathetic thing you've ever done."

before he could force out another cruel word to save his pride, you pulled the phone away from your ear and pressed the red end call button.

the street went dead quiet again. the tears kept flowing, soaking into the collar of your coat as you stood alone in the chill of the night. it hurt so much it felt like your chest was going to cave in.

but you knew the truth now. he hadn't called because he didn't care. he had called because he couldn't stand the fact that you were finally slipping away.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

Dear Sunghoon, It wasn't my last letter, but somehow, it finally isn't my fault. You stole Jay’s phone. You actually took his property and dialed my number in the dark just because you couldn't handle the silence. It makes me so furious I can barely breathe. You stood in your hallway months ago and told me I meant nothing, that you owed me no timeline. You told me to go home and stop embarrassing myself. And yet, the second I actually obeyed you, the second I stopped crying on the sofa and blocked your number, it drove you out of your mind. You didn't call me because you missed me, you called because you missed your high. You missed having someone so thoroughly broken beneath your hands that it made you feel powerful. You were waiting for me to keep feeding your sickening ego, you wanted me to stay permanently ruined for you so you could feel important. And what terrifies me, what makes me hate myself even more than I hate you, is that it still hurts so fucking much. I want to tell you that I am completely over it. I want to pretend that hearing your slurred voice through the speaker didn't instantly pull me right back down to the cold tile floor of my bathroom. But it did. My heart still leaped when I realized it was you. I hate that my feelings didn't vanish the second you proved yourself to be like this. I hate that despite every cold word you have ever thrown at my head, a small part of me still longs for the warmth I convinced myself you had. The feelings are still there, I can't magically erase them overnight. But I am going to fight them. Every single hour, every single time my chest aches for you, every time my thumb hovers over a blank screen, I will fight it until there is nothing left of you inside me. You wanted me to stay trapped in that loop forever, waiting in the dark until you needed a distraction. But you don't get to have me anymore. I am still bleeding, Sunghoon. But I am never going to beg you again. Y/N

when you hung up that night, you braced yourself for the absolute worst. you expected to wake up the next morning completely unraveled, waiting for a relapse. you were terrified that hearing his voice again would strip away every inch of progress you had fought so hard for.

but as the initial shock wore off and the adrenaline began to fade, something completely unexpected took its place. clarity.

for months, you had kept sunghoon on a pedestal in your mind. you had viewed him as this untouchable figure who held all the power, while you were just the needy person at his mercy. but that phone call had completely shattered the illusion, he wasn't untouchable. he was just a bitter man, so desperate for an ego boost that he had resorted to stealing his friend's phone, slurring his words like a child throwing a tantrum because you had finally stopped begging.

for the first time, you saw how he truly saw you: a guaranteed source of validation. the moment you stopped playing the role of the tragic girl waiting on his doorstep, his composure crumbled. ironically, the call you thought would break you ended up being the thing that saved you.

a few days later, your phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.

Jay :D: hey Jay :D: im having a few people over at my place tonight, nothing crazy Jay :D: just pizza, drinks and some music Jay :D: you should come. i wanna see you

your chest tightened instinctively at the thought of jay's apartment. even though jay was your closest friend, the fear was still so raw. what if sunghoon was there? what if he tried to drop by with her?

you couldn't just text back. your hands were shaking slightly as you tapped jay's name and brought the phone to your ear.

he picked up on the second ring. "hey." jay said, his voice instantly warm and easy. "did you get my message?"

"yeah, i got it." you said softly, leaning your head against the wall. you hesitated, the lingering anxiety making your throat feel tight. "jay... i want to come. but i need to ask you something first."

"anything." he replied softly.

"is sunghoon going to be there?"

there was a pause on the line. "no." jay said softly, his tone reassuring. "i made sure of it, y/n. he and em aren't coming over tonight."

he took a quiet breath before continuing. "i promise you're completely safe here. it's just us, some good food and people who genuinely want to hang out with you."

a deep exhale left your chest. the fear wasn't going to dictate your answer. "okay." you murmured, a small smile finally touching your lips. "i'll be there."

getting ready wasn't the agonizing chore it used to be. you played music in your bedroom, picking out an oversized sweater that made you feel comfortable and bright. you weren't trying to prove your worth to a man who didn't care. you were just getting dressed up for yourself and for the simple joy of going out and having fun.

when you stepped out of the uber in front of jay's apartment building, the cool night air felt refreshing. you practically bounced up the stairs to the third floor, a brown paper bag with two bottles of wine tucked safely under your arm.

you reached apartment 302 and knocked on the door with a playful tempo. you could hear music playing inside and the lively chatter of people already there. but when the lock clicked, the door opened only a few inches.

jay was standing in the narrow opening, and the warm smile you were expecting was nowhere on his face. he looked completely pale, his eyes wide with frantic panic. a faint sheen of sweat was on his forehead, and his hand was gripping the edge of the door.

"y/n." jay breathed out, his voice unnaturally tight.

"hey!" you said, your grin genuine, completely oblivious to his posture. you held up the paper bag. "i brought the wine! am i late, or-"

"listen, y/n." jay interrupted, stepping forward just enough to block the crack with his shoulders, his voice strained beneath the ambient music coming from inside. "don't come in yet. actually... let's just go."

you blinked, an amused laugh escaping your lips. "go where? jay, the hangout is literally happening right behind you."

"it's way too crowded in here." jay said quickly, his words tumbling over each other as he glanced nervously over his shoulder toward the living room. "the vibe is terrible. let's just leave. i'll take you to that late night diner down the street, okay? my treat. let me just grab my coat and we can go right now." he reached out, gently putting a hand on your arm, trying to nudge you back toward the stairs.

you laughed, assuming he was just being dramatic and stressing over host duties. "jay, stop being absurd. since when do you care about a crowd? i'm starving and i promised i would come hang out."

"no, y/n, seriously. just wait a second-"

"move, you weirdo." you teased, stepping forward and lightly bumping your shoulder against his to push past. "i'm coming in."

"y/n, wait-" jay reached for your wrist, his voice cracking with sudden edge, but it was too late. you had already pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold into his warm living room.

the playful words died in your throat. the music from the speakers suddenly sounded like it was playing underwater.

standing near the kitchen counter, holding a drink and looking toward the doorway, was sunghoon. and right beside him, was her.

every drop of excitement, every ounce of warmth and every single mile of progress you had built over the past weeks seem to instantly evaporate. you went horrifyingly still. your sight narrowed down to sunghoon’s face — the slight freeze in his posture, the way his fingers tightened around his drink, the brief flash of something unreadable crossing his features before he masked it.

the shock in your chest instantly twisted into a sharp sting of betrayal. you whirled around on your heel, stepping right back toward the hallway and pulling jay with you by the arm.

"you promised me." you whispered, your voice cracking, thick with a mix of fury and heartbreak. you looked up at jay, your hands trembling as you gestured toward the living room. "you literally promised me he wouldn't be here. you swore they weren’t coming!"

"y/n, i swear to god i didn't invite them." jay pleaded, completely sick with guilt. he grabbed both of your hands, his fingers shaking. "they showed up unannounced literally four minutes ago. i was about to tell him to leave when your knock came on the door. i didn't even have thirty seconds to text you."

jay looked back toward his own living room, then straight into your eyes. "we're leaving." jay said without hesitation. "fuck the party, fuck my apartment. we're going somewhere else right now. we can go to that diner, or a quiet bar downtown, or we can just grab takeout and go sit in your living room. anywhere you want. i don't care that it's my place. i am not letting you sit through this."

he reached for his coat hanging on the wall rack, ready to walk out his own front door. you stared at him, your breath coming in shallow hitches. every instinct in your body screamed at you to take the exit. but as you stood there, watching jay panic for your sake, something else sparked beneath the fear.

a burning anger. if you turned around and left, what would that prove? it would prove that sunghoon still owned every room you walked into. it would prove that he could still chase you out of your safe spaces without even opening his mouth.

you thought about his slurred voice on the phone. you thought about him stealing jay's phone, begging for a reaction, throwing a drunken tantrum because you had stopped giving him power over you.

he wasn't a god, he was just a man. and you were done letting him run your life.

"no." you said softly.

jay stopped, his hand pausing on his coat zipper. "what?"

"i'm not leaving." you said, your voice growing firmer, grounding itself as the panic slowly drained out of your veins. "you threw this party for your friends. i bought wine, i dressed up, and i came here to have fun with you."

"y/n, you don't have to force yourself to be brave-"

"i'm not forcing anything." you interrupted, offering him a reassuring nudge with your shoulder. "he doesn't get to drive me out of your apartment, jay. he doesn't get to dictate whether i get to have a good night or not."

jay looked at you for a long moment, searching your face to see if you were lying. when he saw the steady resolve settling into your eyes, the tension in his shoulders finally eased just a fraction. "are you sure?" he asked softly. "if it gets too much, even for a second, you tell me and we kick them out or leave. deal?"

"deal." you murmured.

you handed him the paper bag with the bottles of wine and turned back toward the living room. sunghoon’s eyes followed you as you walked straight past him to the kitchen counter, but you forced your gaze forward, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a second look.

you poured yourself a glass of wine, turned around, and threw yourself into a group of jay's friends sitting near the living room rug. you forced yourself to talk, to listen, to pour another drink. and slowly, beneath the initial spike of anxiety, you actually started having fun.

but you were still human. every now and then, despite your best efforts, your eyes would involuntarily drift across the room. they were standing by jay’s bookshelf, talking softly. she was leaning into his side, holding a cup, looking up at him with effortless ease. and sunghoon... sunghoon looked happy. he was looking down at her with attentive warmth — a soft expression you had spent months destroying yourself trying to earn. he spoke to her like she was precious, like she was something to be protected.

it felt like a physical knife turning in your chest. the familiar insecurities instantly rushed back to flood your brain, whispering everything you hated about yourself: look at her. she is worthy, you are not.

your chest ached so deeply you thought you might choke on your next breath. but this time, you didn't run to the bathroom to cry. you didn't get blind drunk to numb the sting. you just squeezed your eyes shut for a brief second, took a grounding breath, and let the pain sit there.

it hurt terribly, but acknowledging the hurt was different than letting it ruin you. you were changing, you were learning how to hold your own hand through the heartbreak instead of begging him to hold it.

around midnight, the music and the crowded room began to feel a bit too much, too loud and warm. needing a moment to breathe, you slipped away from the group and pushed open the front door.

the cold night air hit your face like a splash of ice water. you pulled a cigarette from your pocket, flicked your lighter, and took a long drag. leaning your elbows against the metal railing, you looked out over the quiet street below, watching the trail of grey smoke curl up into the night.

you thought about everything that had happened — the night at his apartment, the agonizing weeks in the dark, his voice on jay's phone, and now tonight. you were still so insecure, still so deeply bruised by him. but standing out there under the stars, you realized you hadn't collapsed. you were still standing.

a fragile sense of pride flickered in your chest. and then, the door behind you suddenly squeaked on its tracks.

a slightly unsteady step hit the concrete floor, accompanied by the sharp smell of hard liquor. you took another slow drag of your cigarette before you saw a heavily intoxicated sunghoon stepping out and letting the door slide shut behind him.

for a long moment, neither of you said a word. the only sound was the muffled bass of the music coming from inside jay's apartment and the uneven rhythm of sunghoon’s breathing beside you.

"didn't know you smoked." he said, his voice thick with alcohol. it was meant to sound casual, maybe a little condescending, but the slight slurring of his words stripped it of any real authority.

you took another slow drag, letting the silence stretch out. "you didn't know a lot of things about me, sunghoon." you said quietly. "mostly because you never bothered to ask."

a bitter scoff escaped his lips. he leaned his elbows against the railing, stepping just a little too close.

"you’ve changed so much, right?" he muttered, turning his head to glare at you sideways. his eyes were bloodshot and heavy with defensive edge. "you are now playing the composed survivor. like you didn't spend months practically dying on my arms."

it was meant to draw blood. it was meant to drag you back down to the floor, to make you cry, to make you defend yourself like you always used to. months ago, it would have worked. but tonight, you just turned your head and looked at him.

up close, without the loving filter you used to view him through, he didn't look so superior. he looked messy. his hair was slightly disheveled, his jaw was tense, and beneath the mean tilt of his chin, there was a frantic restlessness in his eyes.

"is that why you came out here?" you asked softly, your tone almost conversational. "to check if i was still ruined? to see if you still owned me?"

sunghoon’s knuckles turned white against the metal railing. "don't flatter yourself." he snapped, his voice dropping into a harsh whisper. "you’re the one who blocked my number. you made everything into a fucking tragedy, y/n. i never promised you anything."

"i know." you said. the simplicity of your answer caught him off guard. his mouth opened slightly, a flicker of confusion crossing his features before he caught himself and scowled. "i know you didn't." you continued, looking back out at the dark street. "i made up the story. i stayed because i was terrified of being alone, and because i genuinely believed that if i endured enough of your cruelty, you would eventually stay."

you took a shaky breath, letting the hurt show in your eyes without letting it break your posture. "and the worst part was thinking you were just incapable of loving anyone. i convinced myself you were just broken and distant." you gestured vaguely toward the door behind you, where she was still inside. "but you're not cold, are you? you're soft with her. you smile at her."

sunghoon’s breath hitched. "she doesn't suffocate me." he spat. "she doesn't sit on the couch crying, demanding things i can't give. she doesn't make everything exhausting."

it was the meanest thing he had ever said to you. it was a direct hit straight to the core of your deepest insecurities. a single tear finally escaped your eye, tracking down your cheek. but you didn't hide it, you didn't bow your head.

"you're right." you murmured, wiping the tear away with the back of your hand. "she doesn't. because you treat her like a human being. you gave her a reason to be soft, sunghoon. for me, you only ever gave me closed doors and silence."

sunghoon stared at you, his chest heaving. he opened his mouth to hurl another insult, to twist the knife again, but as he looked at your sorrowful face, the liquor in his system couldn't mask the ugly truth hanging between you.

he had gotten everything he claimed he wanted. he had his peace. so why was he standing out in the freezing cold, drunk off his mind, chasing you down?

"if i was so exhausting… then why did you steal jay's phone, sunghoon? why did you call me at midnight? why did you follow me out here tonight?"

sunghoon flinched as if you had slapped him. the mean mask he had worn all night finally fractured right down the middle. for a split second, the cruelty vanished, replaced by a raw look in his eyes.

"you were supposed to keep waiting." he rasped out, the truth slipping out past his pride in a whisper before he could stop it. "you weren't supposed to just... erase me."

there it was, the ugly heart of it all. he didn't love you, but he loved the way you loved him. he loved knowing that somewhere in the city, a girl was weeping over his memory, keeping him on a pedestal, waiting. and your silence, your recovery, had starved him of the only power he had over you.

a profound sadness settled over your chest, but beneath it, the last lingering embers of your devotion finally died out. "well, i'm not waiting anymore." you said softly.

sunghoon swallowed hard, his jaw clenching as he tried desperately to pull his mask back over his face. the booze in his system made his composure sloppy, but his pride refused to let him fall apart completely in front of you.

he looked away toward the dark street before glaring back at you. "you think you're over it?" he muttered, his voice tight, trying to regain his footing. "you think walking back through that door means you get to pretend none of it happened?"

"it happened." you murmured, watching the way he gripped the metal railing just to stay upright. "i'm not pretending it didn't. i'm just not letting you use it to keep me small anymore."

you dropped the rest of your cigarette onto the concrete floor and stepped on it with the heel of your boot. sunghoon watched the motion. as you turned to leave, his hand moved on instinct, his fingers reaching out and catching the edge of your coat sleeve.

"y/n." he said, his voice dropping into a strained tone. it wasn't a grand, cinematic plea. it was just a quiet command from a man who couldn't stomach the thought of you walking away first.

you stopped and looked down at where his hand held your fabric. you didn't yank away or raise your voice. you just looked up at his face and spoke. "let go, sunghoon." you said gently.

he held on for one more second, his pride warring violently with the sudden realization that he was losing the last thread. then, his fingers slowly loosened, slipping off your sleeve.

he didn't beg, he didn't run after you. he just stood there, leaning back against the railing, turning his head away to stare out at the night air as if he couldn't bear to watch you walk through the doorway.

"go back inside." you whispered softly. "she's waiting for you."

you slid the door open, the sound of music and laughter instantly spilling out to wrap around you. you stepped over the threshold and pulled the door closed behind you, shutting out the freezing wind and the ghost of the man who had kept you in the dark for so long.

jay met you near the edge of the kitchen, his eyes immediately searching your face with quiet concern. "you okay?" he asked softly, offering you a fresh drink.

you looked at jay, then took a slow breath. your chest still ached — and it would probably ache for a while — but the air finally reached your lungs.

"yeah." you said, a small and entirely genuine smile on your lips. "i'm actually okay."

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

Dear Sunghoon, You were right about one thing: I will never erase what happened. But I don't have any long paragraphs left for you, and I don't need you to give me permission to move on anymore. Thank you for taking Jay's phone. Thank you for following me out there. You finally gave me the one thing I couldn't give myself: the truth. I am letting you go now, for real this time. This is the last time your name will ever appear in my handwriting. Goodbye, Sunghoon.

the end ⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

[soulenha]

Ribbons ✴︎ 박성훈

𑣲⋆ Park Sunghoon ❤︎ Fem!reader ✴︎ smut reader is obsessed with ribbons Sunghoon loves reader tying ribbons on him dom!Sunghoon.

💭 𓂃 𓈒𓏸  1539  ⋆˚࿔   ꒰  smut  ꒱ 💌 | Heeseung | Jay | Jake | Sunghoon | Sunoo | Jungwon | Riki |

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐈𝐍 ✴︎ Your fantasy to tie a ribbon on your husband's cock, took you to him where he gave you the permission to do it, but also made the ribbon tied on him hit your nose every time you deepthroated him.

Warning : 𝑬𝒙𝒑𝒍𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒕 𝒔𝒆𝒙𝒖𝒂𝒍 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕 : oral [m rec] ribbon tying on dick teasing blowjob deepthroating gagging cum eating rough sunghoon face fucking praises size kink

🪷°      Haze' notes : Yall- don't judge me after reading this- I just love a rough hubby Sunghoon. Happy reading!!

You had always loved ribbons. They were the one thing you were completely obsessed with. Ribbons on your hair, on your wrist, on your dresses, and sometimes when you dress up like a doll for Sunghoon, you like wearing ribbons on your neck too.

You have had that obsession since you were little. Finding them incredibly fascinating. In your eyes, ribbons could be transformed into anything you like. Ties, bows, laces, ropes, and so many more things.

So when you started dating Sunghoon, it was no secret that you loved ribbons. Your entire apartment was decorated with them. Sunghoon loved them of course. Finding them to be uniquely you. And after the both of you got married a year ago, his house was now transformed and decorated with ribbons everywhere.

What you loved the most about ribbons was how you could tie them up on Sunghoon's biceps. It had been a little fantasy of yours that came to light a few months after you both had started dating. When you shyly asked him if he would let you tie ribbons on his bicep.

Sunghoon was delighted with the idea, having no problem with it. Since that day, it had become a little ritual between the two of you. But at times, your mind wandered to images of how his cock would look like with a soft pink ribbon.

About how it would feel when you would deepthroat him. Your nose rubbing against your own ribbon which you tied on him. Your ribbon. Your mark. “Hoon?” You slowly open the door to his study, peeking your head inside to look at him.

He was working on his laptop, eyebrows frowned with focus. He was wearing a simple black tee with gray pants, your favourite combination on him. “Hmm?” He didn't look up from the screen, fingers flying on the keyboard as he replied to you.

“Can you.. take a rest for a while?” You slowly walked in, shutting the door behind you gently to not disturb the peace of the room. “Doll, I have to finish this ‘mkay?” He gave you a quick smile, his eyes darting to the small link ribbon bows on your hair. “You look pretty.”

The compliment bloomed warmth inside you but the husk in his voice shot pleasure straight to your core. You slightly squirm on the spot before walking beside his desk, placing your hand on top of his on the keyboard to stop him from typing.

“Please hoon? I miss you..” You pout, your fingers curling in his. You knew he could never deny when you plead with him, always giving into your cuteness. “I want to tie a ribbon on your cock..” As soon as those words left your lips, your husband choked on air uncontrollably. “What?!”

“Doll you can't say things like that if you won't follow through.”

“Who says I won't? I really want to..” You felt Sunghoon freeze under your touch, his breath hitched. He looked up to read your face, making sure you weren't joking and actually wanted to do it. “Ok.. do it.” You squeak and hug him tightly, murmuring quick thank yous before you push his desk chair back slightly so you get enough space to kneel before him.

Sunghoon's fingers tightened on the hand of the chair, his heart pounding. He had dreamt of this for so long, wondering how you would look with his cock deep in your mouth. Your lips parted to their maximum at his size and your nose nuzzling with the base of his shaft, where your ribbon would reside.

“Baby lift your hips,” You squeak excitedly, your hands trembling with pure joy as you pull the pink ribbon from your back pocket and tug his pants down till it hits the floor. Your mouth watered at the sight of his bulge. “May I?” You whisper, not taking your eyes off his bulge. With a single hum from him, you pull his boxers down enough so his cock springs out.

You gasp looking at its size. He was honestly very big and that at times has left you feeling extremely nervous about taking him. But he has trained you enough so you could wrap your mouth around him without choking. You gently play with the base of his skin, feeling it twitch by your touch.

“Are you excited, hoon?” You smile eerily, looking up to meet his eyes. He groaned at the view in front of him. You are on your knees, between his thighs with his massive shaft right in your face. It was too much for him. “Yes, baby—” You chuckle and bring the ribbon forward to play with his cock, rubbing it at the base. He let out a low groan, throwing his head back.

His eyes squeezed shut as his cock twitched at the touch and friction of your ribbon. “Fuck—you are so cute—” You giggle playfully and press a teasing kiss on the tip, tasting the salty precum. His hands twitched to grab your head, force your mouth open and just shove his cock down your throat but held back so you could do what you wanted to do.

You wrap the silk around the base of his shaft, lining it up perfectly as you tied the ribbon into a bow. Wrapping your fingers around his cock while teasing him with light brushes of your fingertips. “Baby, stop teasin’” You hear Sunghoon hiss, his hips jerking into your face.

“I’m just making this bow look pretty~ Look hubby,” He simply didn’t care anymore. He had his angry cock right in your face, red and throbbing while all you thought about was the bow? “Open your mouth.” The low vibration from his voice sent electricity straight down your core, making you squirm uncomfortably.

You obediently opened your mouth, sticking out your tongue just like how he likes it. You lick the base of his cock, his hands wrapping around the base of his dick, playing with your ribbon as he slaps it on your tongue. “Fuck, just like that—” You wrap your lips around the head, looking up to make eye contact with him. His face was flushed and needy, pupils blown out with his thick eyebrow frowned.

You smile and push deeper, hollowing your cheeks to suck him, your mouth already aching at the size. “Fuckk—you look s’ good baby.” You picked up your pace at his praises, your pussy already drenched with need. You place your hands on his thigh as you bob your head faster, swirling your tongue around this throbbing shaft, driving him insane.

Without warning, he grabbed your hair in his fist and started thrusting in your mouth, throwing his head back with deep grunts, chasing his pleasure. Your throat burned at the friction he was using you with, your eyes tearing up. But determined to please him, you take him even deeper, relaxing your throat until your nose nuzzled with the ribbon you had tied.

He picked up pace, using you like a plastic toy, hitting the back of your throat repeatedly while spewing praises towards you, a complete contrast to how his cock pistoned in and out of your warm mouth. You gagged around his length, gripping his thighs so you could be balanced while your own wetness leaked down your thigh.

“Fuc—honey ‘m close. Don’t you dare pull back,” Not like you could even if you wanted to. He had his hands on your hair, trapping you between his knees. Your eyes rolled to the back of your mind, saliva leaking down the corner of your lips as you tried to take breaths from your nose.

You felt him tense up under your fingertips, his moans getting louder and his movements getting sloppier. “Fuck—‘m comin’!” Before you could realize, his body tensed under your fingertips as he exploded inside your mouth. Hot spurts of cum filled your mouth as he kept pumping, pushing his release to the back of your throat as you gag violently around him.

Few drops escaped your mouth, leaking from the side of your lips as he slumped back on the chair of his desk, pulling out his now softening cock out your mouth. “Such a good mouth.. Always ready to be filled” You swallowed it all down, your tears falling from the abuse your mouth just went through.

“My wife.. Come here, love.” He picked you up from the floor and placed you on his lap, wiping his cum off your lips with his thumb before he pushed it back in your mouth. “Don’t waste anythin’, you look so pretty being cock drunk, love..” You moan and clean his finger, his thumb leaving your mouth with a pop.

His cock rested on your stomach and you whimpered and leaned in to kiss him, “My wish is complete..” he smiled and kissed you back, his thighs flexing beneath you. “I’m glad, love.. I will always give in to your fantasies.” He gave you a wink, making you shy. “Now come on, I have to take care of my beautiful wife now, I need to make her watch as my cock enters her pussy, even the ribbon she tied.”

You were in for a longgg night.

🏷️Gen taglist : @wooyoungmybelovedhusband @en-injang @h-eva-n @rikisdiheater @heelvcr @heeddungi @boundlesselixirflux @kristynaaah @mybeloveddiary @daydreamer231 @en-muse @wonderikii @firstclassjaylee @rikisblog @nikisleftside @ttamna @hoonieslove @he-even [18/50]   ,   Join?

©Soulenha 2026 | All rights reserved.

[rikanescence]

metamorphosis

in other words: sunghoon is the one who deserves to change you !

wc ( 7,350 ) ｡‧˚ʚɞ˚‧｡ warnings: dubcon, mdni, angst, fem!reader author's note : i wrote the latter half of this while rewatching silent hill three, i think that gave me superpowers. and i wrote all of this with one hand. this is an au of condensation, please read the og for added context （＾◡＾）♡

in the moment, he had rejected it, but it wasn't like he could say he hated it. if the idea of it was that repulsive to him, he wouldn't need to spend the first minutes of every day dealing with morning wood. if he truly disliked it, those black garters would not flash into his mind whenever his eyes closed. the outfit that was so foreign for you was, conversely, familiar to his fantasies. these days, sunghoon thought the look would be perfected by a collar. you would be complete by belonging to him.

as c-four’s comeback approached, and sunghoon realised that there was nothing he could do to stop it, he decided the next best thing would be to prepare you for it. after all, he was supposed to be your mentor. it was his unspoken responsibility to give you all the guidance he could. he owed you that much, at least, seeing as you were his sole reason for living. if the change was inevitable, he at least wanted to decide its outcome. he had the power to make it mutually beneficial.

 -♡-

you were both sitting up on the mattress. you had cracked the window open, so the sounds of traffic or birds chirping filled any silent gaps in your conversation. like right now, when you had gone quiet after sunghoon asked how you were feeling about your comeback.

“why that face? you look nervous,” he noted, lowering his brows.

his head faced what was to its front, like yours, but his gaze was to the side. it was on you. your head leaned back on the apartment wall, a strange curve to your mouth as you stared ahead. your hands patted your knees, almost drumming on them, though it didn't seem to relax you.

“i… kinda am,” you admitted, words hushed like you wanted to hide them, “i'm, uh, scared i'll mess up.”

“poor thing. you don't know what to do?”

sunghoon fought his smile as you responded with slow, hesitant nods. the puppy who was always paralysed when not being led by a leash.

“do you need help? i can help you,” he offered, his head now turned to you.

this was not his first time back in your apartment after you had revealed c-four’s new concept, but it was your first time having an actual discussion about it. you were so ashamed after the initial ordeal, sending him a million text message apologies, so sunghoon made the polite decision to act as though it never happened. an act, however, was just that. his body could not forget. his chin still felt the warmth of your fingers, weeks later. his mind consisted of that moment alone, looping as if he could remember nothing else but your expectant gaze and smokey eyeshadow. 

it could make him clench his fist, to think that he had you in the palm of his hand and pushed you away. he was a fool to think you could stay the same forever, to not realise that he could love every version of you. at your core, no matter what, you would be his.

“help me?”

sunghoon hummed as he nodded, taking your hand from your leg and connecting your fingers. he ran his thumb over your knuckles.

“yes. i’m your seonbae, right? is there anyone you trust more than me?”

that felt like the sort of question you were meant to pause before answering, so you did. you tried to make a list of people you trusted. there was sunghoon… and there was not anyone else, so you shook your head.

“i, um, i t-trust you the most, hoon.”

there were times when you regretted the things you said, for reasons unbeknownst to yourself, and the downcast feeling would only leave when sunghoon smiled in response. that smile told you it was okay, that he didn’t hate you like the others.

“thank you for trusting me. i trust you, too,” he spoke, “so i know you’ll listen to me well.”

“yeah, i’ll, uh, do my best,” you promised.

“good,” he laughed, “because you are too clueless. you would be a real mess if i wasn’t here to help you.”

he knew his words stung, but he needed them to. once you realised that your only hope was in sunghoon, there would be nothing you would not do for him.

“you’ve never even kissed a guy before, have you?”

you looked to a corner of the room, biting your lip and furrowing your brows. the humiliated look on your face said enough on its own, there was no need for you to speak.

“you see, angel? you’re clueless,” he chided, “so i’ll have to teach you, won’t i?”

sunghoon’s large palm pressed onto your cheek, turning your head to face his own. you didn’t remember him being this close when you had looked away. at this proximity, you could see the tiny mole beside his mouth– and even count his eyelashes. his smile had dropped. now, his soft-looking lips were a little parted.

“don’t you want to kiss me?”

your heart dropped at the question, but its rate rose. you had been spending all your free time with sunghoon for a while now, but you weren’t dating. he was your friend, not your boyfriend, so it would be a little weird to kiss him. however, he was right. you had been wanting to be more than friends with him, you had just never felt brave enough to admit it, had never known if it was alright for you to want him that way. so you hovered on the thin line, where he could hold your hand and feed you food, but not get any cozier. hearing him ask that, you thought that you could finally step past that boundary.

“y-yes, please,” you admitted, looking right into his dark pupils.

his eyes flicked from yours to your lips (you wondered if running to the bathroom to re-apply your lipgloss would ruin the moment) and he grinned at you, running his tongue over his bottom lip.

“i knew it, that’s my girl.”

his face approached yours until your noses touched. you could see each speck in his irises. your breaths tickled each other’s skin and it made you giggle.

“close your eyes, baby.”

he took it slow, and his lips were as soft as they had looked. his hand grasped the back of your head, giving you gentle pets as he kissed you. it almost surprised him, how sweet indulgence tasted. he had spent all this time holding back, and for what? if your label wanted to take advantage of you, he deserved to do the same. at least with him, it was out of love. fragile things were made to be destroyed, and you were worth the wait. it was only when a glass had been shattered to pieces that it could be arranged into something new, something even more beautiful.

sunghoon pushed your back against the wall, his hand cushioning your head from the impact, and you broke the kiss with a gasp. fingers cupping your jaw, he groaned as he slipped his tongue into your mouth. he licked the pink muscle that poked out between your lips, delighting in your high-pitched whimpers, before closing his mouth around yours once more. again and again. all he could hear was your soft breathing and the faint noises from your lips as they connected or pulled apart. he thought that he could do this forever, just keep tasting your sweet saliva and feeling the ridges of your mouth.

his hand lowered from your head to your right above your hip, giving your soft flesh a firm squeeze before he brought you in closer to him. he was sure your heart was right by his own. if he really tried to, he could probably hear it beating. 

catching the edge of your lip with his teeth, sunghoon tugged it forward before releasing. he soothed the sting with his tongue, running it over the place he’d abused, then pushing it into your wet cave. you squirmed in his hold as his tongue travelled as far as it could reach, gagging around it and barely able to breathe, but he only held you firmer. he could get lost in you. in fact, he already was. he wished that every part of you could fit into his mouth. sunghoon put away his tongue and placed feverish kisses on every inch of your mouth.

“mine,” he muttered as his lips pressed onto yours repeatedly, “mine, mine, mine.”

each kiss was a promise. a promise that you were only his, that you would take whatever he gave you, that you would give whatever wished to take from you. each kiss was a seal, proof that you could never let him leave your side. this way, he could do whatever he wanted with you.

overwhelmed by the onslaught of kisses, you turned your head away from his. sunghoon followed without hesitation. your lips were bright and bite-swollen, glossy from his saliva, and you were light-headed from the warmth of everything. by this point, sunghoon had been both your first and your five hundredth kiss. you had gotten wet for him some time ago. it was only natural with how his tongue had been exploring your mouth and how his low groans had settled in your belly. you needed more and didn’t know how to ask for it. you never thought that kissing could feel like this. it was too much for you.

“no,” you mumbled, barely louder than the sound of his mouth on yours, “no… more…”

“no? but i want more, baby,” he pouted, still unable to pull away from you.

he was sure that he didn’t have to– you could never say no to him– but you sounded truly spent. he pushed his lips onto yours one last time, steady and forceful, before finally retracting. you collapsed onto the mattress the second he pulled back his arms.

“i’m sorry,” he sighed, “you’re just too cute, i wanna eat you right up.”

he lowered himself, lying beside you on the mattress, his chest to your back. sunghoon wrapped his arms around you and drew you in even closer, resting his chin above your shoulder. now that you’d kissed him, he didn’t see the big deal in sleeping over at your place. however, the sunghoon of tomorrow would have to think of a good explanation for his absence from the dorms. too bad for him.

with each slow breath he took, his ribcage rising as his thorax expanded, sunghoon inhaled your scent. your perfume had dried down on your skin, so only the hints of caramel lingered. he pondered on how long it would take for the same to happen to you. after how long, he asked himself, would nothing of your former self remain?

 -♡-

you hadn’t been able to get it out of your mind, what you and sunghoon had done. you knew that these kinds of things had a path. some method of progression. you would follow the breadcrumbs from hugs to kisses, and then to a point where you would lose your way. the point where you would look back and see that the forest birds had eaten your trail, not leaving a single trace behind. you reminded yourself that that kind of thing only happened to people who were all alone, and that was not you. you had sunghoon’s warm hands to hold as he led the way forward.

you looked at nothing but your feet as you walked home from the station. as per usual, you had fallen asleep on the ride home. you felt your own drool wetting your nose beneath the black face mask you wore. the second you got into your apartment, you would take a shower and wash away all these gross feelings. the hour after that, sunghoon’s familiar, forceful knocks would be heard at your door. you sort of missed the more public outings, but it was safer for him to only meet up with you at your place these days. if you were to get caught fooling around, taking a romantic stroll by han river or hopping between cafés, it would be a huge scandal. the murder-suicide of your careers.

you liked having him over, though, liked how he didn’t need to disguise himself and how you no longer felt alone. your apartment must have been like a second home to him, by now. the world around you wasn’t too loud, just your footsteps on the stone walkway and the occasional ‘nyeom’ as a motorbike raced past, and you smiled to yourself in this peaceful journey to the home you shared with sunghoon. he would be coming over, so you had something to be excited about.

 -♡-

you sat cross-legged on the floor, across from him, marvelling at the glistening meat before you and the smoke that was rising from it. the smell of steaming-hot bulgogi was irresistible, you were quick to swallow before you could openly drool.

“surprise,” sunghoon grinned, spreading ssamjang on his lettuce, “i wanted to treat you.”

he had ordered the perfect treat, the delicious barbeque before you. of course, the food was always tastier at an actual restaurant (and for some reason, the sauces never tasted the same), but you would definitely enjoy it either way. especially because you were sharing the meal with sunghoon.

“th-thank you so much,” you chirped, looking at him with stars in your eyes, and he returned your cheerful expression.

the two of you made idle conversation on your days as you ate, and you made sure not to speak while you were still chewing– no matter how excited a topic made you. afterwards, sunghoon cleaned everything away. the plastic take-out boxes made a grating noise as he crushed them and put them in the trash.

you walked next to sunghoon, waiting for him to finish washing his hands before you could do the same, and thanked him once more. this time, however, sunghoon looked at you without a smile. his hoodie was a shade of grey light enough to be called white. he tugged its sleeves back down after drying his hands. his full eyebrows were right above the thin-frames of the glasses he wore today. this look of his was a bit different. it felt, somehow, more mature.

“don’t you think actions are more important than words?”

the question had you tilting your head, waiting for him to elaborate.

“you say ‘thank you’ a lot, but you don’t really show it,” he commented, his gaze centred on you.

“i’m… sorry?”

sunghoon shook his head as he held his chin, canines flashing as his tongue swept over his lip.

“no, not like that, baby,” he replied, smiling at the confusion in your expression, “i want to teach you how to say ‘thank you’ like an adult, okay? it can even be an apology, sometimes.”

your eyebrows pushed together and sunghoon fought to not squish your cute face. you didn’t know a thing in the world, did you?

“get on your knees.”

the sudden command was enough to render you speechless. you blinked at him, but he only stared back. waiting with his mouth a straight line, his eyes dark enough for you to get lost in. a tiny ‘oof’ left your lips as your kneecaps hit the wooden floor. now, you were at eye-level with the bulge in his sweats. you dropped your gaze to the floor immediately, heat rising from your neck to your face.

sunghoon found this view of the top of your head to be more beautiful than he’d imagined. your eyelashes curled beneath your brows and your nose nearly brushing against his pants. it was also a nice angle to see your cleavage from.

“look at me.”

with your head tilted up, sunghoon could easily see how your eyes were wide with apprehension. your mouth was curved into a minor frown, one of discomfort and not frustration.

“do you know what i want you to do?”

he raised your arm as you shook your head, clasping your hand as he pulled down his pants. you gasped when the fabric pooled around his shoes. sunghoon cupped your jaw, made sure you were still looking as he tugged down his boxers, made sure he could see the surprise on your face once you saw his dick. you did not disappoint. your raised brows wrinkled your forehead and your mouth hung open. it was like you already knew what to do.

“yeah, like that,” he approved, “but you have to open a little wider, baby.”

“huh?”

sunghoon pushed his thumb into your mouth, resting its pad on your tongue.

“wider, open wider.”

you stretched your mouth open as best as you could, looking up at him as you waited for his approval.

“that’s good, angel, perfect.”

if you could close your mouth, you would have smiled. 

“now, stick your tongue out.”

sunghoon held his length as he guided it to your waiting tongue, dropping its thick mass onto your saliva-coated muscle. the cool sensation had him sucking in a breath through his teeth. sunghoon’s fingers delved into your hair and he couldn’t believe that it felt this good already. your label was right to make you a sex symbol, or it would have really been wasted potential. he was having more fun ruining you than he had ever had protecting you.

“get it nice and wet for me,” he directed, “use your tongue, come on.”

a shiver ran down his spine as you lapped at the tangy precum that oozed from his flushed tip. each stroke of your tongue earned low, breathy moans from him.

“fuck, you’re a natural.”

he pushed further into your mouth, letting its warmth envelope him, shuddering at the light scrape from your teeth. you moaned around him, bringing your hands to encase the length that had yet to push past your lips. you did your best to make him happy, tongue and lips on his tip like you were fucking making out with it. making use of what he’d already taught you. you would give a big lick, then press your lips to it in wet kisses before slipping him back into your mouth, all while looking right into his eyes. you wanted to see each expression he made, proof of the pleasure you were giving him. you bobbed your head and tried to swallow more, wincing at your lack of air.

“you have to breathe through your nose, silly, don’t take too much at–”

he cut himself off with a groan as you hollowed your cheeks, sucking him in harder as if apologising for not being skilled enough. your hands squeezed around him and your eyebrows were furrowed in pure concentration. tears stinging your eyes, you relaxed your throat and brought him in until your nose brushed his pelvic bone. you were able to maintain your position for all of five seconds before you began to gag, attempting to pull your head back.

sunghoon didn’t let you. he placed both hands on your head and brought it forward. you had done enough, he would take it from here. if you wouldn’t listen to him, you’d have to learn your lesson the hard way. sunghoon thrust into your mouth, letting his dick hit the back of your throat each time. it was clear you were struggling to breathe from the gurgling you were doing and the streaks of tears on your face, but it felt too good when your throat constricted around him. he was close, and you were close to throwing up. it wouldn’t really be a turn off for him, if he was honest.

your hands rose to push his lower abdomen, basically slapping his stomach to get him to slow down. sunghoon’s hand wrapped tight around both your wrists, the other still moving your head over his dick. he looked deep into your glossy eyes and came into your mouth. the salty flood filled your mouth before he pulled away, leaving you to gasp for air, his cum mixing with your saliva and falling from your mouth. it made a puddle on the wood below you.

“aw, no, baby,” he frowned, “i really wanted you to swallow. maybe next time.”

he pet your head, then pulled you up to stand, admiring your bruised knees.

“it’s okay, you still did such a good job for me. i’m really proud of you.”

you smiled as your hand held your heaving chest. that was terrifying, if you were to tell the truth, but it made him glad with you. if saying ‘thank you’ this way honestly made sunghoon happy, then it was worth it. he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and planted a kiss on your forehead.

 “you’re welcome.” 

 -♡-

as you did vocal warmups in the recording booth, you started to think that you had made a big mistake yesterday. your voice was not in its best condition. your throat felt raw and scratchy, despite your continued attempts at massaging it, but what could you tell the producer? that you were sorry, but you were too busy sucking dick the other day and now you couldn’t sing? that thought alone made you shudder. 

“okay, let’s start with the bridge,” the producer called out. he was leaning back in his chair, cap pulled low over his face. the sight felt a little reminiscent of something– someone– you knew well.

you nodded your head and gave a thumbs up, adjusting your headphones to sit perfectly above your ears. you heard the reference track, it was yoona’s angelic voice, and tried to let the melody sink into your mind.

“don’t hold back, boy, i know you want more,” you sang, testing out the line under your breath until you felt ready to record it.

“okay, good,” he approved, “could you just try to draw out the ‘boy’ a little more? it’s an invitation,” he explained, “you’re not a kitty anymore, you’re a fox.”

you redid the bridge with his direction, stretching the word as if you were moaning it, eyes flicking to the producer. you hoped you had done it right, because you were already feeling pretty awkward.

“yes, perfect,” he cheered, “the raspy voice you’re doing sounds nice, too, i’ll see if i can get the others to replicate it.”

that was unexpected. your skin warmed not just from the praise, but also as you recalled the reason behind the current texture of your voice. you smiled nonetheless. everything sunghoon did was helping you be a better idol. you were truly grateful for him.

“th-thank you…”

“oh-kay,” he pronounced with a click of his tongue, “i think that’s okay for now. mina is next, let her come in if she’s ready. thank you.”

you let out a happy little hum as you took off the headphones and exited the booth.

“u-um, you’re next,” you muttered, tapping mina on the shoulder.

she nodded and walked past you, without a single word.

“hey…”

you turned your head to the voice at your side, surprised to see another one of your members, hyejin, looking right at you. was there something on your face?

“hey?”

she was leaned against the wall, and she gestured for you to come to her side and do the same. once you had done so, she tilted her head to face you and smiled. when you first debuted, her hair had been long and plain black, accentuating the graceful and wise personality that her name promised. for your comeback, however, she had been instructed to cut it short and dye it blonde. she looked more rebellious this way. the label should have known it was risky to mess with her charm. she was the least popular member, seeing as– much like you– she was exceptional at neither singing nor dancing. unfortunately for her, she was without a sunghoon to boost her reputation.

“hey,” she repeated, “don’t you think this song is kind of… heavy-handed?”

“huh?”

“you know,” she shrugged, her expression seeming to drop at the realisation that she may have been alone in her perspective, “we were all cute before, right? now we need to be super sexy. it’s like we’re trying to break a record for the number of online discussions praising our duality.”

hyejin always closed her eyes when she laughed, as if she were savouring whatever she had found humour in. there were dimples in her slim cheeks, and she had the kind of smile that could make anything feel a little funny.

“i, uhm, i dunno,” you mumbled, mind going back to how sunghoon’s eyes closed when you had him in your mouth, “i think i’m– think i’m kind of good at, uh, being sexy.”

her smile grew to be lopsided. she gave you a knowing look, the sort of look someone would give you if they had seen you stumbling out of a toilet and adjusting your skirt.

“i bet you are,” she giggled, “your boyfriend is one lucky guy.”

“i don’t– don’t have a boyfriend,” you refuted, shaking your head with a panicked expression that only strengthened her laughter.

what was she thinking, saying something like that? was she trying to get you in trouble? you were lucky no one else was around.

“okay, maybe you don’t have a boyfriend–” she made air quotes when saying ‘boyfriend’. “–but you have a boyfriend, come on.”

she narrowed her gaze, pushing her face closer to yours.

“or are you saying you’ve been ditching us for no reason? you know, there are four of us,” she pointed out, “c-four. it’s in the name, but sometimes it feels like it’s just three. you’re always too busy with your not-boyfriend to hang out with us.”

hyejin took a deep breath before she continued speaking. the words came out rushed, but structured, like she’d had them on her mind for a while.

“you didn’t show up during yoona’s live last night. i know it was spontaneous, but these kind of things matter when we’re such a small group. it’s how we make a strong bond with our fans. some comments were asking for you and we just had to say you were sleeping, but you don’t even live at the dorms with us!”

 you hung your head low. it was hard to hear this much hatred at once. you told yourself that even if the entire universe hated you, sunghoon’s love for you would remain.

“i’m, um, i’m so sorry.”

“you don’t have to be sorry,” she clarified, shaking her head, “i’m not trying to be preachy, here. i just want you to remember we’re a team, because it kind of feels like you resent us sometimes. don’t you want to be an idol with us?”

 the question– and her audacity to ask such a thing– jolted you. couldn’t she see how much effort you were putting in? or did she think all the extra time you spent practicing was just for fun? sunghoon was helping you improve your skills, it wasn’t like you had been doing all that stuff for no reason.

“of course i do,” you exclaimed, your head shooting up, “i want to be an idol more than anything, everything i do is for this, it’s my dream!”

“it’s our dream,” hyejin corrected, lifting her fist in the air, “don’t get mad at me, come on.”

slowly losing your scowl, you bumped her fist with your own, then pulled away with wiggling fingers.

“boom,” you both said, hands dropping back to your sides.

“fighting for our comeback,” hyejin smiled, “i’m sure you’ll do a great job, sexy kitty.”

once again, she was laughing at her own joke. you paid no mind to it. all you could think of was getting home and telling sunghoon what had happened.

 -♡-

“– and then, then she said i was– i was too busy spending time with you instead of them!”

“why should you spend time with them? aren’t they the same girls who were starting rumours that you fucked your way into debuting?”

you hesitated before answering. it hadn’t exactly been like that…

“well, um–”

“do you remember what i told you in the café, when we first became friends?”

of course you remembered. it was one of your happiest memories. your heart felt warm and fuzzy each time you relived it in your mind.

“i told you not to listen to them,” he reminded, “you don’t need them. do you think they care about you the same way that i do?”

you didn’t wait before shaking your head, almost insulted by him asking that.

“no, no, not at all!”

“that’s what i thought.”

sunghoon brought you into a hug, a frown falling on his face once it was out of your sight. they were trying to take you away from him. he had spent all this time, teaching you– training you– to become your ideal self. now that he was almost done, everyone’s grubby hands were stretching towards you and trying to pull you from his side. he dug his fingers into your shoulders like claws, wishing you could just stay by him and never leave, you suppressed a whimper.

“th-thank you for, uh, helping me understand, hoonie.”

you withdrew from his vice-like grip and smiled at him before a look of recognition befell you.

“oh! i– i almost forgot. actions, not words, r-right?”

you fell to your knees in an instant, your fingers undoing the drawstrings of his sweats. the sight was sweet enough to rid sunghoon of all his previous frustrations. you obeyed him like he owned you. it was as easy as that. you were easier to train than a puppy.

 -♡-

it was paradise for sunghoon to see you these days. whether it was you in the flesh, or the gallery of pictures he’d taken of you. he could only smile when he swiped through the folder he had dedicated to you, the odd video giving him a pleasant surprise every now and then. you on your knees, smiling at him; you with your shirt lifted up, giving the camera a worried look; you with your face covered in his cum like it was wax. it was more of a treasure chest than a folder.

when he thought back to the first time he’d wanted to spoil you, reading through forum posts like a man possessed, he became so proud of his handiwork. all because of him, you had bloomed from a blushing virgin– unable to handle even his kisses– into the docile dame whose mouth he could fuck whenever he’d had an annoying day.

he’d turned you into a butterfly. now all he needed to do was to pin you by the wings and put you in a picture frame. somewhere that only he had access to. with the lingerie he had bought you and the mascara that drew attention to your pretty eyes, you were truly a sight to behold now that you were all grown up. well, almost. there was still one last thing he had to do.

sunghoon felt you smiling against his lips before he pulled back. he loved how you could get drunk on his kisses alone, but you could give him more than this, now.

“aren’t you bored of this,” he asked, smiling as you shook your head and tried to kiss him once more.

he cupped your face and moved it away from his own. you pouted at him.

“but don’t you want more?”

this time, your response was a shaky hum. you loved kissing sunghoon, you revered it, yet it was true that more would be better. he always left your lips satisfied, but the hot ache below your waist was thoroughly neglected.

“let me have you this way. if you give me a little more, you’ll be a star this comeback,” he promised, “everyone will love you.”

his words were sticky honey and you were already trapped in their sweetness. how could you say no to being loved?

“uh, okay…”

sunghoon peeled off your clothes. the summer heat overpowered your measly air conditioning, and sweat gave a sheen to your bare skin. bare, nothing besides your truest self. this was now, also, in sunghoon’s clammy hands. he brought them to your breasts, pushing them together and watching how they jiggled after he released them. then, his right hand landed on your stomach. he dragged it down, let his fingers spread over your mound before he pushed one inside.

“ah,” you breathed, biting your lip in anticipation as his long finger entered your hole.

the intrusion felt unusual, but you liked it enough to ask for more. of course, he listened. his ring finger joined his middle finger, and he made scissor-like motions using them. you moaned at the feeling of him stretching you out, his fingers being wet by your arousal. if you weren’t so dazed by sunghoon’s fingers thrusting into your pussy, you would have been embarrassed by the obnoxiously loud squelching noises, rivaled only by your own mewls.

“does it feel good, baby?”

you nodded quickly, your pupils dilated as you watched sunghoon’s fingers moving inside of you. you raised your hips as if helping him, but you were really just chasing his touch, wanting more of him deeper inside you. your toes curled and you whimpered as the tension from his touches built up.

sunghoon had pure love in his eyes as he looked at you as you writhed beneath him. your fluttering lashes and your parted lips. he could place his delicate kisses all over you, but he chose to plant them across your strained neck.

“lower your head, it’s okay,” he whispered, holding your head as it lowered onto your pillow, “you’ll see it later.”

he wasn’t lying. his left hand pulled his phone from his pocket as his right one continued to pleasure you. his thumb pressed down on your clit as he tapped the red circle on his screen to begin recording. his forefinger and pinky pushed into either of your thighs as his middle ones curled inside your gummy walls.

you still weren’t used to making lewd videos with sunghoon, didn’t know how to feel about it. the closest thing you’d ever done to it was letting your landlord take upskirt photos of you for cheaper rent, but you never wanted to think about that after the fact. it wasn’t you.

“you look so good on camera, angel,” he admired, “you’re so, so pretty. let me see you fall apart.”

he had a steady hold of his phone as he captured you coming undone, your back arching off the mattress and his fingers being coated in your transparent mess. your loud moans soothed into quiet whimpers, your legs still shaking as he pulled his hand out from between your thighs.

without waiting for you to fully ride out your orgasm, sunghoon stuck his hand below his waistband and pulled out his dick. your tongue lolled out as if on instinct. his dumb, cute puppy. sunghoon stroked your cheek, then let you suck on his thumb. it was more work to line his dick up with your entrance, seeing as both his hands were occupied, but he had good body control. he was an idol, after all. 

he was grateful that the first time he entered your pussy would have everlasting videographic evidence, but there was no amount of pixels that could capture the feeling. your tight hole that he had laboured to stretch out and prepare, yet he could hardly push past its opening.

“shit,” he groaned, hand dropping from your face to your thigh as he spread your legs further. it was a close fit as he pushed inside, your walls hugging him like you never wanted him to leave. that was fine with him. he could stay snug inside you forever. he lowered his phone to the bulge in your belly, stroking it with his palm before pressing down. you squeaked and clenched around him, making it hard for him to pull out, but he managed.

your breaths were hurried, as if you were preparing to have the wind knocked out of you once he re-entered. you were right to get ready. sunghoon made sure to film your pretty face as he pushed back inside of you. it almost burned, and you bit your lip not to yelp. he thrust into you slow, his hand sliding up to massage your breast. he pinched your nipple before slapping it, making you gasp in pained pleasure.

it was so good, but he wanted more. he dropped his phone and lifted your head to his, tongue diving into your open mouth. your body shook in his hold, his dick pushing against your cervix from how hard he was thrusting. he wanted to have all of you, all at once. he broke the kiss and bit into your throat, the action hardly able to conceal his loud groans. his sharp teeth hurt as they dug into your flesh, but the sensation only made your eyes roll back. he apologised by licking your skin, indented by his bite mark, the slimy feeling of his saliva making your toes curl.

“hoon, hoon,” you cried, close to snapping.

each time his dick slammed into you, into your most sensitive spot, you yelped his name and tightened around it.

“i’m close, too, angel, it’s okay.”

your thighs squeezed around his waist as his hips slapped against yours. sunghoon had this love-crazed look to him, wisps of his black hair scattered about or sticking to the sweat on his forehead, and it was the sight you witnessed before your vision went white. you came hard, grabbing him like a lifeline before flopping onto your mattress.

sunghoon thought of how far you’d come, how much you had changed for him, and he shot his thick approval into your womb. he filled you up with his release and it made him reluctant to pull out. he didn’t want a single drop going to waste.

“you did such a good job. did you like it,” he asked without letting you answer, (seeing your fucked-out face made it clear you woudn’t have been able to) “i know you did.”

sunghoon watched the rise and fall of your chest, the subtle twitching of your eyes as you struggled with sleep, and placed his hand above your heart. he felt its beating slow as it vibrated up his arm. it was okay for you to rest now, he’d taught you all that you needed to know. he had made you perfect for him.

“i think you’re ready for your comeback now, baby.”

 -♡-

the cheering crowd was bigger than you’d anticipated, but you weren’t too scared to stand before them. in fact, you were excited to show of all the tricks sunghoon had taught you. or at least, the general idea behind them.

“everyone, c-four’s comeback is finally here!”

the cheers amplified as mina spoke into the microphone, she beamed as she passed it to you.

“y-yes! it’s been some time since, um, since we released ‘heart explosion!’ and–” your mention of c-four’s most popular track seemed to send a bolt of electricity through the audience, a few excited yells making you pause before continuing, “this time, we– we really wanted to show a new side to us, a, uh, whole new colour of c-four!”

 hyejin gently grasped your hand as she took the microphone from you.

“get ready for our new song– ‘triple touch’– make some noise!”

finally, yoona took the microphone and performed the intro to the song. you were more than prepared. it felt not like a performance, but like an exploration of your new self. it felt like being alive. the choreography, that had you kneeling on the stage floor and arching your back, was nothing you were not already used to. only this time, it was for more than just sunghoon.

it didn’t matter what your family would think, it didn’t matter what anyone would think, because you didn’t need them anymore. you needed sunghoon, and he said that you were great at this. you were a natural.

you smiled from your heart as you danced and sang, your raspy vocals a new signature. a scream of your name from the crowd raced to reach you, your bruised knees on the floor and your ass in the air, the sound waves hitting your ears like another kind of music. everything you had ever done was worth it, because just like sunghoon had promised, now everyone loved you.

 -♡-

your members had invited you to have karaoke with them, to celebrate a successful comeback stage, but you declined with the excuse that your voice was too hoarse. in reality, you rushed home knowing that sunghoon was waiting for you at your apartment, opening the door and running up to him.

“hoonie, it– it went amazing!”

you hugged him tight and squealed in joy, even jumping in your excitement.

“you h-have to watch my fancams when they release, okay? i really… really wish you could have come to the concert.”

sunghoon recoiled at the idea, pulling back from the hug so you could look into his eyes and see their lack of mirth.

“actually, that’s what i wanted to talk to you about,” he began, watching the fervor fade from your face, “i don’t…”

he was not sure how best to word it. all he knew was that your stupid crowd didn’t deserve you. they hadn’t worked to make you the perfect vixen, he had. they hadn’t taken the time to train you slowly, to turn you into who you were today. they had no right to behold you this way.

“you don’t…?”

“you’re mine, right? so it doesn’t really make me happy to see you performing for all those people.”

“but– but i’m an… i’m an idol, it’s my job…”

“that’s what i was thinking, baby, maybe you shouldn’t be an idol anymore.”

“what?”

the lone word trembled as it fell from your lips. soon, they also began to tremble. you shook your head in confusion, and continued shaking it as tears streamed from your big eyes.

“i– i don’t understand. i– i’m an idol, sunghoon, this is m-my job, this is my d-dream,” you whimpered, “i’ve worked so hard for th-this… why?”

“that’s not your only purpose, though, angel. the thing you’re best at, in the whole world, is making me happy. you’re the only person who can do that.”

sunghoon stroked your head as your sobs shook your entire body.

“don’t cry, baby, you did so good. you did so good, it was the perfect send-off. now everyone will remember you well, yeah?”

it took you some time to calm down, but eventually you did, sniffling and nodding.

“i knew you’d understand. now, go wash your face,” he uttered, “do you need me to help?”

“no,” you mumbled, turning around and walking to your bathroom. the sound of the door shutting was soft. you turned on the tap and watched the water run before intercepting the stream with your quivering hands. the wetness on your face, once from tears, was now from the sink. you lifted your gaze from the faucet’s flowing water to the mirror. for a good amount of time, you stared at your reflection and tried to find one part of it that you could recognise. there wasn’t a single thing. he had taken all of you.

you didn’t have time to think about that, however, sunghoon was waiting for you just outside the bathroom. he probably wanted you to say ‘thank you’, seeing how well your performance went. that was only because of him.

you dried your face and accepted who you saw in the mirror. this was you know. maybe you weren’t who you used to be, but you were who sunghoon needed you to be. you would open the door and spread your legs for him again. that was enough to make you happy.

okay yay that's it !! thank u for reading (⸝⸝´꒳⸝⸝) im rlly so grateful to you, sending lots of kisses!!

💌 : @tojiworshipper it makes me happy knowing theres someone like you who loves my works, please enjoy this one also bby !!

[taty-02z]

ok ok I have an idea. (any member you want) Reader and him have a fight before going to like a get together/dinner with family friends. On the ride there, he ignores her and doesn’t talk the whole time. Even when they get there, he doesn’t sit next to her but across but then a guy sits with her instead. Since their boyfriend is ignoring her, she talks to the guy instead. Then obviously he gets mad and he snaps when he sees her hand brush against the guy’s arm. Then he decides to like “accidentally” spill his drink over her dress so that she HAS to excuse herself and then he follows after her and then in the bathroom together… smut… yk

loved you recent fic sm, you ate up

࣪˖ ִֶָ𝑻𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝑶𝒖𝒕: 𝑷.𝑺𝑯

𖹭.ᐟPunctual and Orderly Bf! Sunghoon × Always Late Gf! Reader: established relationship, opposites attract, cold war couple, jealousy and possessive behavior, family pressure, make-up sex, public sex, slight dom!Sunghoon, P in V, multiple orgasms, context, MDNI.

I'm so incredibly grateful for your trust in letting me bring your idea 🥺💕. I honestly hope you like how it turned out!

For Sunghoon, order and punctuality were not mere habits: they were his life philosophy. You, on the other hand, processed the world at your own pace. That was why, whenever your two worlds collided under the pressure of a clock, the result was never an explosion, but a cold war.

“Less than half an hour until dinner starts,” Sunghoon announced from the doorway.

He spoke the words in a voice so flat and devoid of emotion it bordered on intimidating. His immaculate appearance seemed armored against the chaos of the room; he wore a perfectly pressed dress shirt and dark trousers, not a single wrinkle out of place. Meanwhile, the metallic jingle of the keys in his right hand acted as a second hand, a constant reminder that the clock was ticking against you.

“I know, Hoon. I know,” you murmured. Your fingers felt numb from stress as you tried to keep your hand steady while lining your eyes.

Knowing he was already ready and waiting only made your movements clumsier. In your rush to find the right accessories, you had knocked over a jewelry box on the dresser, sending a couple of earrings rolling under the bed. To make matters worse, the bathroom floor was still wet and your dress was still completely open at the back.

Sunghoon let out a slow sigh. Without saying a word, he crouched down to pick up the earrings from the floor. He placed them beside you on the vanity, perfectly aligned. Then he turned to fold the towel you had left forgotten on the bed.

This silent way of “cleaning up your mess” was shredding your nerves. It felt condescending, as if every object he straightened was proof of your incompetence.

“Please, don’t do that,” you asked, lowering the eyeliner with a frustrated sigh. “I feel like you’re judging me with every single thing you touch, and it’s keeping me from getting anywhere.”

Sunghoon froze mid-fold, the towel still between his hands. He stared at you through the mirror’s reflection; his dark eyes carried deep exhaustion and a contained frustration he was trying not to let escape.

“I’m just trying to help so we can leave already,” he said with rehearsed calm, though the stiffness in his shoulders betrayed him. “I know it stresses you out when I pressure you, so I’m not saying anything. I’m just reminding you that you promised we’d leave on time this time. But seeing this… it feels like this dinner with my family doesn’t matter to you. Besides, you’re not planning to leave the room looking like this, are you?”

“It does matter,” you replied, turning in your chair to face him directly. “That’s why I’ve been trying for almost two hours to make everything perfect—I really want to make a good impression on your family. But the more you look at me with that disappointed face and tidy things around me like I’m a little girl, the clumsier I get.”

“I don’t see you as a little girl,” he replied, placing the towel over the back of the chair. “But I have a hard time understanding why, if you say you care so much about this event, you couldn’t have planned ahead better. It’s unfair that I have to measure every one of my reactions so I don’t overwhelm you while time keeps running. I get stressed too, you know? If a time is set and agreed upon, it should be kept. It’s that simple.”

“Well, I’m sorry I don’t have your perfect self-control, Sunghoon,” you snapped, a sting of guilt quickly turning into wounded pride. “We’re only fifteen minutes behind. It’s not the end of the world.”

You turned abruptly to try to zip up your dress. However, your fingers—damp from nerves and shaky from anxiety—kept slipping on the fabric, trapped in a useless struggle against the metal zipper on your back.

Through the mirror, you saw Sunghoon take a step forward. For a moment, his gaze softened and he seemed about to reach out to help you. But the barrier that had risen between you was too high; he seemed to remember how much your defensive insistence on doing things alone frustrated him. He held back, let out a sigh, and slipped the keys into his pocket, cutting off any bridge of reconciliation.

“Something can always come up on the way,” he concluded in a neutral voice. “I’ll wait for you in the car. Take all the time you need; it doesn’t matter anymore if we’re late.”

With eyes misty from a mix of anger and frustration, you forced yourself to breathe deeply, refusing to blink so you wouldn’t ruin the makeup you had worked so hard on. With an awkward and painful contortion, you finally managed to hook the damn zipper and finished the last details as best you could. Truly, the night had started in the worst possible way.

When you finally went downstairs and stepped out into the mild night, the car was already waiting with the engine running, its headlights illuminating the driveway.

You opened the passenger door and slid into the seat under his indifference. Sunghoon didn’t even turn his head to look at you; hands on the wheel, he waited for the click of the seatbelt before shifting gears and pulling out onto the main avenue without wasting a second. Thus began a journey that, under other circumstances, would have been filled with laughter, stories from the day, or some music in the background—but now it was an absolute desert of words.

From the corner of your eye, you couldn’t help but observe him. His profile looked ethereal under the intermittent glow of the streetlights filtering into the cabin. Yet the beauty of his features was hardened; his jaw remained tense and his eyes stayed fixed on the road, completely focused on driving. It was as if you had become a ghost occupying the seat beside him.

In a desperate attempt to dispel the heaviness in the air, you reached out to turn on the radio. But before your fingers touched the screen, Sunghoon beat you to it and lowered the volume from the steering wheel controls, reducing the music to an inaudible whisper.

“I prefer to drive in silence, please,” he said. His voice held no anger; it was flat, polite, and painfully formal. The voice of a stranger.

Shit. You slowly withdrew your hand, feeling a mix of humiliation and defiance. Seeing on the screen that the trip was taking more than the expected fifteen minutes began to feed your anxiety, and that sepulchral silence didn’t help at all.

Tired of the emotional distance, you swallowed your pride. You had to acknowledge your part in this if you wanted to save the night.

“I’m sorry, Sunghoon. I really should have chosen what to wear earlier, and the makeup took longer than I estimated…” you said, but your voice faded, losing strength in the face of his lack of response.

He didn’t interrupt you or cut you off harshly, but his total refusal to turn his face, to give you even a sideways glance or a simple nod that validated your effort to fix things, stopped the words in your throat. Exhaustion and pride won the battle; you gave up, swallowed the rest of your apology, rested your head against the window, and abandoned any further attempt at a truce.

The dashboard map showed eight minutes late. Insignificant to anyone else. Catastrophic in Sunghoon’s world, especially tonight. The host of the dinner was his grandfather, the stern patriarch of the family; an old-school man who considered even the slightest delay a personal insult. The old man didn’t hesitate to use any detail, no matter how small, to belittle others, and Sunghoon flatly refused to let you become the target of his biting comments—much less be compared to those “exemplary girlfriends” he always brought up. You didn’t deserve that.

He hadn’t told you any of this so as not to scare you or add more pressure to your nerves, but the truth was that the old man’s approval was the most important family filter for any future steps you wanted to take.

As the car moved forward, Sunghoon’s mind worked at full speed, calculating how to enter the restaurant, what excuse to give, and how to divert his grandfather’s attention so that not a single uncomfortable question would touch you. But you, unable to read the protective chaos brewing behind his eyes fixed on the road, could only interpret his silence as the tantrum of a stubborn, inflexible man who cared far more about the hands of the clock than about your feelings.

The vehicle finally came to a stop in front of the restaurant’s façade. As the valet opened your door, you forced yourself to take a deep breath and soften your expression. The moment you stepped onto the asphalt, Sunghoon was already there, offering you his arm with chivalry; however, you knew perfectly well that the contact was nothing more than cold courtesy to keep up appearances.

That was how, as you crossed the threshold into the private room, the murmur of family conversations died instantly. At the head of the long table, the grandfather’s figure stood out like a judge on his bench. His sharp, calculating eyes scanned them from head to toe before glancing sideways at the watch on his wrist.

“Good evening,” Sunghoon said, bowing slightly. You imitated the gesture, feeling a knot of nerves in your throat as you greeted the rest of the table.

“You’re late,” the old man stated. His voice scraped the air of the room, cutting. “You’re never late, Sunghoon. What happened? Did your…friend delay you?”

The word “friend” hung in the air with poorly disguised contempt. Suddenly, the absurd gravity of those eight minutes of delay materialized before you, revealing the true nature of the environment you had just stepped into. Just as you were about to open your mouth to apologize, Sunghoon stepped forward, drawing all the old man’s attention to himself.

“There was an accident on the road near her house, Grandfather,” he lied without blinking, keeping his gaze fixed on the elder to absorb all the pressure. “My apologies. It won’t happen again.”

The old man nodded. After all, Sunghoon had the enormous advantage of being the favorite grandson, his pride. With a slight wave of his hand, he allowed them to join the gathering and signaled the rest of the table to resume their conversations.

“I’ll sit with Grandfather for a while. You can take a seat wherever you prefer,” Sunghoon murmured to you before turning his back and taking the chair next to the old man.

You were left with words in your mouth. There was no space for you beside him, so you had no choice but to sit directly across from him. You took the seat next to his younger sister, leaving an empty chair to your right—a place you secretly hoped Sunghoon would occupy at some point during the night once the tension eased. However, as you tried to strike up a conversation with your sister-in-law to hide your discomfort, a low, drawling voice beside you interrupted your thoughts.

“Hi, can I sit here?”

Before you could say a word, Hyuk Jae had already slid into the empty chair. He was Sunghoon’s cousin, the black sheep of the family; an attractive guy with a cynical smile, slightly messy hair, and subtly rolled-up sleeves that revealed the start of dark tattoos on his forearms. Hyuk Jae was the living image of rebellion against family protocol; a face you knew all too well, since in the past he had deployed his entire arsenal of seduction to try to win you over, becoming Sunghoon’s greatest threat before you decided to make things official with him.

The exact moment Sunghoon caught the scene from the other end of the table, he had to make a superhuman effort not to roll his eyes in pure frustration. He knew perfectly well that the idiot was doing it on purpose. Sunghoon’s original plan had been to first test the waters with his grandfather, speak to him cautiously about you to dispel any hostility, and then take that empty seat to spend the rest of the night by your side. But his foolish cousin had beaten him to it with irritating audacity. Just what he needed.

“I guess everyone has their methods, but I would never have left you alone to go kiss the old man’s ass,” Hyuk Jae said close to your ear after exchanging a look with his cousin. “How have you been, sweetheart? Happy with your life choices?”

You shifted slightly in your chair, marking a prudent physical distance before turning to give him a warning look.

“I’m wonderful, thanks. Better than ever. And you?”

“Mmm, I doubt it, but I’ll pretend to believe you,” he replied with a sly smile. “How’s your debut with our ‘charming’ family? At least no one can deny you’re beautiful.”

“You complain about your cousin but you’re flattering his girlfriend?” You raised an eyebrow, downplaying his comment with a purely friendly tone, and let a small polite smile escape.

Talking to Hyuk Jae actually gave you a bit of relief. His relaxed and irreverent attitude was the only thing allowing you to breathe amid so much formality. He didn’t bother you, and at least following a light, inconsequential chat served as a shield so you wouldn’t feel exposed under the scrutiny of the other relatives.

But from the other end of the table, Sunghoon’s composure hung by a thread. Trapped in his role as the perfect grandson, nodding politely at his grandfather’s monologues, he felt like his jaw was going to break from the tension. Seeing your posture—which until recently had remained closed and distant—finally soften, and watching you smile at the man who had always tried to come between you, was the final trigger for his peace; especially after everything that had happened between you just before arriving.

And Hyuk Jae is chaos, he is freedom, he is the antithesis of Sunghoon. That's why the threat felt so real and visceral: what if his world ended up exhausting you? The mere idea that you might see in his cousin’s lightness a refuge far more tempting than his love filled him with absolute, almost physical panic.

Sunghoon was fully aware that Hyuk Jae didn’t play fair; he was a predator who knew exactly which strings to pull to get your attention. Park held his breath, knuckles white from gripping the stem of his glass so tightly, tempted to interrupt his grandfather just to stand up and reclaim the place that belonged at your side.

Unaware of the storm of jealousy raging in your boyfriend, you simply continued the conversation.

“I see you’ve gotten some new things since last time,” you commented casually, gesturing lightly toward his arms to steer the topic, forcing him to talk about himself and stop his double-entendre comments about you.

“Ah, these?” Hyuk Jae saw the perfect opportunity to annoy Sunghoon even more. “Yeah, I got a couple a few months ago. Look, this one is the best…”

With a casualness bordering on shamelessness, he rested his forearm on the table, subtly invading your personal space and forcing you to lean slightly toward him to appreciate the dark ink on his skin.

“Oh…” you exclaimed, suddenly feeling cornered by the closeness of his display. “Yes, it’s really nice.”

You pointed at the tattoo with your index finger, offering the compliment out of mere courtesy and with the secret hope that he would withdraw his arm. However, the space between you was already too narrow. With an almost imperceptible movement from Hyuk Jae, your finger not only pointed at the design but the pad and back of your hand brushed directly against his arm.

It was contact lasting barely a few seconds—an innocent, accidental brush on your part, but deliberately provoked by him. The exact instant Sunghoon’s eyes caught the gesture, a blind impulse took complete control before he could rationalize it. His body reacted on pure reflex, overriding years of impeccable self-control; in one movement, he knocked over his wine glass.

The crystal wobbled before tipping, splashing straight onto Hyuk Jae’s forearm and then spilling over to soak your dress.

Sunghoon froze in his chair for a moment, staring at the mess. His heart pounded violently against his ribs. After all, he—who controlled every gesture—had just caused a scandal at a formal dinner. He was completely thrown by his own impulsive action; yet that emotion that had forced him to act so uncharacteristically still burned in his chest, searing him inside as he watched his cousin mutter a curse between his teeth while futilely trying to save his shirt.

“Oh God, I’m sorry!” Sunghoon exclaimed immediately.

You looked at him slightly stunned. Hyuk Jae, beside you, huffed as he rubbed his wet arm with an annoyed grimace, but when your eyes met your boyfriend’s, you understood everything. Despite his apparent apologetic tone, you could see by the subtle way he raised an eyebrow and the darkly possessive gleam in his gaze that he didn’t feel sorry at all.

“How careless of me, darling. Forgive me,” he added, holding your gaze.

The commotion at the table started instantly. Relatives hurried to offer napkins to contain the spreading stain, but you had already stood up, feeling the cold wine soak through the fabric against your thighs and your mind in absolute chaos from Sunghoon’s unprecedented reaction.

“Don’t worry, really, I’m fine,” you said hurriedly, needing to get out of there urgently to process what had just happened. “I’ll go to the restroom.”

Without wasting a second, you quickly left, fleeing the dinner down the restaurant hallway. Once inside the bathroom, you leaned against the sink with your chest heaving and turned on the faucet. You immediately wet a paper towel and lathered it with soap to rub the stain, but your hands were shaking so much with anger that you could barely coordinate the movement.

That was when the main bathroom door opened.

You jumped and lifted your gaze to the mirror. Through the reflection, you saw Sunghoon’s silhouette slip inside. Without taking his eyes off you, he reached back, grabbed the handle, and turned the lock. Faced with his brazen presence, the anger you had been holding back finally overflowed.

“No, go away. Look, it’s crystal clear that you can’t stand me anymore. You could have told me in the car before making me go through this embarrassment in front of your family,” you snapped, desperately rubbing the dress while watching him advance through the mirror instead of stepping back. “Go away!”

“Go away?” Sunghoon repeated in a rough whisper, completely ignoring your words.

Far from retreating, he advanced until there was no trace of distance left between you. His imposing frame, charged with a burning aura, completely cornered you against the sink.

Your words of reproach died in your throat the moment his hands settled on your hips with a firm, almost possessive grip. The contrast of his hot fingers pressing through the damp fabric of your dress made you release a broken gasp as you felt his chest press against your back. Immediately after, his fingers brushed the sensitive skin of your neck, sliding up to tangle subtly in your hair; he applied minimal but firm pressure, forcing you to tilt your head back to expose your throat and making you hold his gaze.

“Look me in the eyes and tell me again to go away,” he challenged, his warm breath hitting your exposed skin. “Tell me you’d rather I go back to that table and we return to the exact seats we were in. Away from each other.”

“It was your fault,” you whispered, your voice breaking from the sudden wave of desire that coursed through your body at his closeness. “You ignored me the entire damn ride. We got here and you acted like I was a stranger. But of course, the moment your cousin sits next to me, you decide it’s a great idea to throw a glass at us. Since when are you such an idiot? I thought you were a sensible man.”

“And it was the worst mistake of my life,” he admitted, the dark gleam in his pupils revealing he had completely lost his sanity. “I’m not an impulsive man, you know that. I planned to come to you after talking to Grandfather; I wanted to tell him how wonderful you are and why I want you by my side, so he would forget that small delay in case he wasn’t fully convinced by the excuse. I know how cruel he can be, and I didn’t want to give him the chance.”

He paused for a second, his jaw tightening as he relived the scene.

“But when I saw that idiot Hyuk Jae sit next to you… and noticed you smiling at him, my mind simply shut off. To hell with the dinner, the composure, and my family,” he murmured, leaning his face down until his mouth brushed yours, sending shivers throughout your body. “I only knew I needed to get you out of there immediately. I needed to have you like this. Just for me. And today I discovered something new in myself… that I can completely lose control when it comes to you.”

“What an idiot, Park Sunghoon,” you whispered, subtly licking your lips as you felt his breath collide with yours.

That little taunt ignited him completely. Sunghoon leaned over you with a roughness that stole your breath, cornering you so much that you could feel with shameless clarity the growing hardness of his desire pressing right against your ass.

“I’m sorry, beautiful. Really… I handled this terribly,” he admitted in a broken voice, keeping his eyes fixed on your mouth, completely hypnotized. “I didn’t want to hurt you or ruin your night…”

“Shhh…” You placed a finger over his lips, tracing them slowly before tangling your fingers in his hair. “Stop talking and kiss me already.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. Immediately, Sunghoon captured your lips in a hungry kiss. As their mouths fit together with feverish desperation, their tongues tangled in a chaotic, suffocating rhythm. At the same time, his hands left your hips to slide shamelessly along your thighs, lifting the hem of your wet dress. The warmth of his palm against your bare skin drew a muffled moan from you that Sunghoon devoured. However, just when the friction of their bodies was becoming unbearably good and threatened to make you give in right there, the dangerous reality of the surroundings hit you suddenly.

With a superhuman effort, you pulled your lips slightly away from his, pressing your trembling hands against his firm chest to stop his advance.

“No, Sunghoon, wait…” you gasped, your heart pounding hard against your chest. “What if someone comes? Your family is just a few meters away… they might hear us.”

“Forget about them,” he said as he left a trail of kisses along your neck. “I have no intention of stopping. I already broke my own rules tonight for you, so sending the rest to hell won’t cost me anything. Don’t think about anyone else, love. Just focus on me… because we’re not leaving here until I’ve taken care of erasing every trace of resentment between us.”

You braced your hands on the ceramic, seeking support as you anticipated what was coming. With an urgency you had never seen in him, Sunghoon sought the hem of your dress; his hands climbed unhesitatingly up your thighs, dragging the fabric upward until it was bunched at your waist. Right after, his hands pressed on the inside of your thighs, forcing your legs apart to claim the space between them.

You barely had time to process the position when he hooked your underwear with impatient fingers, yanking it down to your ankles. The enclosed space of the bathroom immediately amplified the metallic clink of his belt and the hiss of his zipper, instantly accelerating your pulse. Then his hand sought the space between your thighs, and his long, skilled fingers made their way without detour, brushing your intimacy to check how wet you were. At the contact with your wetness, Sunghoon released a low, hoarse growl of approval directly into your ear.

“Look at you… You’re dripping,” he murmured in a broken voice. “So responsive, I love it.”

You gripped the edge of the sink tightly when you felt the thick, hot head of his cock brush against your entrance. Sunghoon didn’t enter right away. Instead, he began rubbing himself slowly against you, sliding his length between your soaked folds, pressing his cock against your clit with every upward movement.

“Ah…” you moaned, letting your head fall forward, hiding your face between your crossed arms on the sink. You bit your own wrist in a desperate attempt to muffle the sounds you wanted to release.

“That’s it,” he whispered, delighting in the tremor of your body. “Try to hold them back if you want, beautiful, but let me hear you a little. Your moans belong to me.”

He continued tormenting you with slow, provocative strokes, brushing exactly where the emptiness burned most, without penetrating you. Every time his member pressed against your entrance and then rose to rub your most sensitive spot, your legs weakened.

“Sunghoon… I’m ready… you know it,” you pleaded in a choked voice, pushing your hips back desperately.

“Yes, I know,” he affirmed, leaning over your back to gently bite the base of your shoulder. “But I love taking you to the edge… the more I draw it out, the more intense your release will be. I want you to come so hard that every inch of your body trembles.”

“You’re going to make me come just like this, please… Just get inside already,” you demanded, your lower belly already aching from the anticipation and sparks dangerously building in your core.

That was exactly his intention. The very millisecond your body tensed, on the verge of a purely external climax, Sunghoon aligned his cock and, with a single thrust, filled you completely.

A muffled cry escaped your throat before you could contain it. You buried your head again between your arms, biting your forearm hard while he, without giving you a break, began moving with an unrelenting rhythm.

“Beautiful, you squeeze me so fucking well,” Sunghoon growled, gripping your hips with such force that his fingers must have left marks on your skin as he thrust in and out of you with deep, steady strokes.

The wet sound of their bodies colliding filled the bathroom. Every time he sank to the hilt, you felt completely filled. Your head stayed low, hidden between your arms, trying to muffle the moans he drew from you with every thrust.

One of his hands slid forward, seeking your clit while he continued fucking you from behind at a rhythm that made you lose your mind.

“Don’t hide too much,” he whispered against your ear, accelerating the movement of his hips. “I want to see your face when you come.”

You felt his breath burning your nape, accompanied by those low, guttural growls he released every time your inner walls clenched around him.

“That’s it… Squeeze me tighter,” he demanded in a hoarse plea, biting your earlobe. “I want to feel you suck me in.”

It was impossible for you to form a single word; you could only pant against your own arm, your vision blurred and glassy with pleasure. The angle was perversely perfect; every thrust brushed that ideal spot inside you, sending electric shocks that made your legs tremble.

Suddenly, Sunghoon gripped your hip bone firmly, slightly altering the angle, and began thrusting faster, harder. The wet smack of skin against skin was impossible to disguise now.

“Oh… Sunghoon…” you managed to whimper in a broken voice.

“Never again,” he murmured against your skin, crowning the friction with devouring desperation. “I’m not going to leave you alone again. Not when I’m angry, not when I think I’m doing the right thing. You’re mine.”

Right at that breaking point, your body tensed violently. The orgasm hit you like a brutal, suffocating wave, making your knees buckle. You buried your face again between your arms, biting the flesh of your forearm to contain the long, sharp cry that escaped your throat. Your insides contracted in wild spasms around his cock, milking him mercilessly as the climax coursed through you in intense waves.

Far from stopping, Sunghoon continued penetrating you throughout your release, prolonging the agony of pleasure until you felt like you were going to pass out. Only when your spasms began to subside did he slow his rhythm, staying buried inside you.

“Good girl…” he murmured with a mix of pride and adoration, leaving a wet kiss on your sweaty cheek. “But I’m not done with you yet, love.”

With ease, he took you by the waist to turn you around, lifting you to sit on the edge of the sink. Before you could catch your breath, Sunghoon sank into you again, now face to face. This time, his dark eyes locked onto yours, refusing to break contact.

“I want to see your face while I fuck you again,” he declared, spreading your thighs wide with his large hands to resume the movement—now deep, slow, and torturous. “I can’t stand you hiding from me.”

Your hands sought his hair, pulling at the dark strands while his hips collided with yours again and again. The space filled with your broken sobs and his heavy breaths.

“You’ll be mine even if my whole family opposes it,” he said against your lips, without stopping thrusting.

“I’m yours…” you gasped, feeling the constant friction of his body awaken a second, inevitable wave of heat in your belly. “Only yours, Hoon…”

Sunghoon smiled with satisfaction and kissed you fiercely, swallowing your moans as he accelerated the pace, determined to make you lose your mind once more. Now it was pure instinct, guided by the way your thighs clung to his waist and how your nails dug into his shoulders, seeking an anchor.

“Hoon… I’m going to…” your voice broke into a thin thread, your belly aching from the excessive buildup of pleasure.

“Do it, look at me and do it,” he ordered in a whisper, gripping your hips with such force that his fingers must have been imprinted on your skin.

The relentless plea in his eyes was the final push. Your insides contracted in spasms for the third time, a prolonged climax that made you throw your head back against the mirror. Just as your walls imprisoned him in the midst of your release, Sunghoon let out a deep groan and sank to the hilt one last time. His body tensed completely as he came inside you, filling you with pulses that finally dispelled any trace of the tension that had distanced you.

Exhausted, Sunghoon dropped his forehead against your shoulder. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply the scent of your skin while his hands descended to caress your sides with tenderness. He remained buried inside you, anchoring you to him. For a long moment, the only sound in the bathroom was their agitated breaths intertwining along with the wild echo of their hearts; neither made the slightest attempt to move.

When he finally lifted his head to look at you, the possessive darkness that had dominated his eyes had completely vanished. In its place shone relief, remorse, and immense affection. He kissed you slowly, with absolute reverence, stroking your cheek with his thumb.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against your lips, his voice still hoarse. “For the silence in the car. For leaving you alone at that table. For the glass… for everything. I’ll buy you a new dress—no, all the ones you want.”

You rested your forehead against his, still trying to regulate your breathing.

“It was my fault too,” you admitted softly, searching his eyes. “I should have kept my word; we would have saved ourselves all the trouble.”

Sunghoon shook his head gently and placed a protective kiss on your forehead.

“Never again,” he promised, his voice laden with unbreakable firmness. “The next time things get this tense, I’ll pull you out of wherever we are and we’ll talk first. Or we’ll do this. Whatever it takes, but I swear I won’t shut down again.”

With that promise marking a definitive truce, the transition back to reality was sweet. Sunghoon withdrew from inside you and, taking some paper, carefully cleaned the wetness between your legs with meticulous care. Then he helped you down from the sink, holding your waist when he noticed your legs threatening to give way from the trembling. While he tried to adjust the fabric of your dress—aware that the crimson stain was already a lost battle—he straightened his own clothes with the impeccable speed that characterized him. When he finished, he gave you a small, complicit smile.

“We’re going to have to come up with a masterful excuse to justify our absence,” he murmured, tucking a rebellious strand of your hair behind your ear and clasping one of your hands so they could walk together.

“Leave it to me,” you replied, shrugging with amusement. “I’m good at making up excuses for my delays.”

His hand was already on the door lock, but before turning it, the urgency to have you close overcame him again. Sunghoon pulled your wrist, taking you by surprise. You let out a small sigh when your body collided softly against his, but your instincts reacted quickly; as his lips captured yours in a kiss, your free hand immediately rose to his cheek, caressing the line of his jaw to deepen the contact.

“I love you,” he said as he pulled back barely a millimeter, looking at you with an intensity that stole your breath. “In a way that even overwhelms me.”

“And I love you,” you replied, squeezing his hand firmly. “Even if you’re sometimes a perfectionist fool.”

He let out a low laugh before first peeking into the hallway to make sure it was empty, and then you left.

The return to the dining room was a declaration of intent in itself. You walked hand in hand, with your dress clearly stained and a telltale blush tinting both their cheeks. Upon arriving, the family’s curious glances were immediate, but the aura surrounding them was so impenetrable that no one dared make a single comment or question.

Defying any protocol, Sunghoon sat directly beside you this time. He cared little about his grandfather’s raised eyebrow or Hyuk Jae’s grimace of discomfort. His hand didn’t let go of yours for the rest of the night.

Hi beauties ~

Reminder that I have requests open, so feel free to share your ideas about 02z's Line members with me 💕

Latest Update (fluff-smut!): 𖹭.ᐟ𝑻𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝑯𝒊𝒔 𝑬𝒚𝒆𝒔: 𝑱𝒂𝒌𝒆

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 𔓕 𝗧𝗔𝗧𝗬-𝟬𝟮'𝘇

©𝗧𝗮𝘁𝘆-𝟬𝟮𝘇

[en-ternity]

At the luxurious resort of Marriotte, the staff lived by a single unofficial rule: don’t get involved with the guests. Not the gilded men, not the wives, and certainly not the daughters. One slip meant losing everything. But then you stepped too close, and Sunghoon couldn’t bring himself to care (not anymore)

a summer romance divided into two parts

PAIRING: lifeguard!Sunghoon x fem!reader

WARNINGS (for this part): poor!boy x rich!girl tropé, kinda forbidden love, Sunghoon is rude to you at the beginning, but we love a man who comes back and yearns, right? right?! slow-burnish, mentions of cuts and blood, alcohol consumption, cigarettes usage, reader almost drowns once, and Sunghoon has to save her

PART ONE｜21.6K｜STORY MASTERLIST

Park Sunghoon wouldn’t really describe himself as a waiter.

After all, when he had been hired at the luxurious resort of Marriotte, he had been hired as a lifeguard.

Mr. Hwang — or Mr. Grumpy as Sunghoon came to know the staff members not so affectionately called their head manager — had been clear about Sunghoon’s part at the resort: for forty hours a week, he had to monitor the pool area, enforce rules, and respond to emergencies, ensuring the guests’ safety as if their lives were made of spun gold.

“Because they are,” Mr. Hwang said, his tone coming with a certainty so untroubled that it forced Sunghoon to clench his jaw in an attempt to prevent the honest reply from rolling out of his mouth.

In another universe, he wouldn’t have been born in a poor family residing on the small island of Jeju, and could have used such a speech to decline the offer as jobs weren’t a matter of survival at the age of eighteen. But in this, he was born into a poor family residing on the small island of Jeju, and jobs were a matter of survival even before. So, when he saw the contract with ten thousand won per hour in bold letters, he signed it as he had learned to sign his father’s hospital forms — fast, and without questions for which he couldn’t afford.

But not once — not even once — Mr. Hwang had mentioned that Sunghoon had to learn about French champagne and fill in for waiters, turning fragile crystal into another kind of hazard.

Yet — here he was.

Tray in hand, and wearing a shirt he had borrowed so many times that Jongseong had already stopped accepting it back.

In the few hours he had been given off his lifeguard duty, the deck had been completely altered. The beach chairs that usually angled toward the water were gone, replaced by long tables laid out with linen so white and crisp, they looked ironed — probably Mrs. Kye being ordered to do them along with the suite’s linens — only for the children to ruin everything, clutching it on their chubby hands as they kept on what Sunghoon suspected to be a game of tag.

If it were any other night, he would have told them not to run — not so close to the pool — but luxury was nimble and so was everything in Marriotte, and the pool was not a pool tonight, but just another part of the grand decoration, and such warning was unnecessary. So, Sunghoon only walked past them, moving between the guests, and catching fragments of conversations as he passed: mergers, villa renovations, summers that last forever because this was the nature of the average Marriotte guests — people so high in the social ladder — that they could control the sun.

Somewhere in there, a woman gestured for him to trade her empty glass for another one, her eyes never moving toward him — not even when she groaned a finally at him, and Sunghoon mumbled an excuse as if he had in fact been late for an appointment with her.

By the corner of his eyes, he caught a blur of bare legs and pastel silk weaving between the chairs’ backs, and tried to move out of the way, but a child darted through the narrow gap between two tables and bumped right into his thigh.

There was a child’s gasp. A tiny oh no and Sunghoon was falling sideways, bringing the tray with him.

Crystal flutes exploded against the porcelain floor, and shards and golden champagne burst out, soaking through his clothes in a cold rush, instantly sour-sweet and expensive in a way his tongue didn’t understand. And for one terrible and infinite moment, everything seemed to halt.

The string quartet faltered, and conversations dissipated in the middle of a sentence — all the furor of the party suddenly replaced by a silence so complete that Sunghoon could hear his own ragged breathing and the tinkling sound of the crystal still settling against the floor.

He felt the weight of tens of eyes on him, and his face burned with a shame so intense that he felt it like a physical force.

But worse than that was the immediate calculation.

How many glasses had he been carrying? Twelve? No. It surely was more than that, and the last time a staff member broke this amount of flutes, he had not only lost all his monthly salary, but owed the resort the subsequent one. And it wasn’t even filled with Krug Clos d’Ambonnay or any French shit that had been demanding that the staff members handle it with white gloves in the kitchen throughout the whole night.

Sunghoon would be lucky if he was going to manage to buy an ice pop by the end of the summer.

“Oh, my God!” He heard your voice cutting through the panic already spiraling in his mind, and it was enough to make Sunghoon gather himself, pushing up on his elbows. Crystal crunched beneath him with a sound that made him wince before he found himself staring up at you.

“I am so sorry, my cousin—” you began, but Sunghoon wasn’t really listening.

You were beautiful, and he hated that it was his first thought — he hated the way his breath caught despite the fury flooding through his veins like acid. Your hair was swept up in a twist that had probably required an hour and a professional to bring on the exact tendrils that now framed your face in that kind of perfection. Diamond earrings dangled from your ears, each one probably worth more than the whole set of flutes your cousin had just cost him, and catching all the fairy lights overhead, sending sparkles across your exposed collarbones as you knelt by his side. The skirts of your dress sank into the champagne, darkening at where it touched the floor, but you did not even look at it. Your face stayed on him — as if you couldn’t come to care about anything but him at this exact moment.

But Sunghoon wasn’t naive — not anymore — after years of serving people like you, he knew exactly how this would go.

People like you didn’t have to hold onto anything for long. Not objects. Not consequences. Not people.

The moment he left your sight, he would vanish from your life.

“Are you hurt?” you asked. “Oh no, you are.”

Sunghoon glanced down at his left hand, catching a glimpse of where a slice had opened across his palm, and allowed blood to gather too quickly, bright and shocking against his champagne-soaked sleeve.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw you reaching out to him.

“Don’t!” He snapped, the word cutting through the air louder than he expected

He pushed air into his lungs and did the only thing he could think to do: assess, contain, fix.

Perhaps if he moved fast enough, the damage would look smaller — it would cost less.

“I only meant to—”

“I’m fine,” he bit out, the words nipping as badly as where the shard had bitten him as he pressed it against the floor to push himself up. “Completely fine.”

“I—” you began again, but Sunghoon had already stood up, bowing at you in something between an acknowledgement and a dismissal.

“I’ll get it cleaned,” he said, turning and walking away.

You didn’t say anything this time, but merely stood still.

As Sunghoon walked toward the main building entrance, he caught the sight of a waiter approaching you — a young girl who had been hired just for the summer and Sunghoon didn’t care about getting her name — she said something about getting you dry, and getting you up from the floor which was a terrible floor, by the way, very slippery, she hushed as an apology, although everything Sunghoon saw was some type of premium porcelain and couldn’t remember it being truly slippery until now.

What a disaster, he thought. What an absolute disaster.

⋆˚꩜｡

By the time Sunghoon walked back onto the pool deck, the party had already resumed its glittering momentum.

The string quartet played on, and guests chatted in that same wash of careless sound as they did previously, moving through their conversation, their glasses of champagne — their effortlessly perfect lives — and leaving Sunghoon to kneel beside the shattered glass alone, cleaning up a mess that would cost him more than he could afford.

He worked methodically, sweeping and mopping until the deck shone again, and the cut on his palm burned hotter than his own shame.

He would need a cigarette tonight.

When he was walking back to the main building, a staff member intercepted him, her expression pinched with barely concealed irritation.

“Mr. Hwang wants to see you,” she said. “Now.”

Something cracked deeper in Sunghoon’s chest, something that felt dangerously close to breaking completely.

This was it, then. The scorn — if not the possible firing — he had been expecting.

He followed the woman through the last steps into the lobby, and behind the desk to the administrative area, each step heavier than the last, as if gravity itself were conspiring to make this walk as painful as possible.

Mr. Hwang’s office door was open.

The older man already sat behind his striking table, but he didn’t look up as Sunghoon entered. He just continued to review something on his computer screen with the kind of deliberate patience that was clearly meant to make Sunghoon suffer.

And it worked. Something within his stomach tightened as he stood there.

“Sit,” Mr. Hwang said, still not looking at him.

Sunghoon did as he said, and Mr. Hwang finally turned away from his screen, leaning back in his chair as he wove his fingers on the table in front of him.

“That was quite a performance tonight, don’t you agree?” Mr. Hwang asked. “Entertaining our guests by shattering a few million won’s worth of crystal.”

Sunghoon’s jaw clenched. “It was an accident. A child—”

“I’m aware of what happened,” Mr. Hwang cut in. “The young lady came to see me personally. Paid for every single glass, and insisted — no, begged — for nothing happen to you. That you were just doing your job and she was at fault for being negligent with her cousin—”

Mr. Hwang kept talking, but Sunghoon had already stopped listening after the word beg. Something had twisted in his chest then — a complicated knot of emotions he couldn’t quite begin to untangle.

If you paid, it meant that he wouldn’t lose his salary. He wouldn’t go back to his parents’ house empty-handed and be unable to help.

He wouldn’t drown — not this month, at least.

But then the moment soured, suddenly and irreversibly, because the rope had been thrown by you.

Sunghoon’s mind moved back to the pool deck before he could even stop himself, retracing the way you had dropped to your knees, champagne darkening the skirts of your dress like it didn’t matter — as if he mattered more.

He had thought it was pity — perhaps a performance — a rich girl’s impulse to feel good about being kind.

But begging wasn’t performative. Not when you could have just walked away, gone to your glimmering suite, and left him to deal with all the mess.

“She—” Sunghoon started, more in surprise than defense — the idea of you sitting in that exact same chair changed the shape of you in his head, and it startled him, the thought that he might actually like you — but Mr. Hwang had interpreted his intervention wrongly, holding up a hand.

“I don’t want to hear your excuses,” he said. “I should fire you for your attitude tonight. You seem to have forgotten something fundamental about this job. Those guests down there?” He turned, vaguely gesturing toward the window and the party still sparkling under them. “They pay more in a stay than you and I will earn in our entire lives combined.”

“This resort, your salary, my salary,” he continued. “It all exists because of them. So when they ask you to jump, you don’t question it — you surely don’t get angry at it — you ask how high and you smile while doing so. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Sunghoon said, the word coming before he could catch himself weighing them — before his pride could ride up and demand something impossible like fairness — because yes meant he would still be here in the morning, allowed to exist in this building that smelled like money, lemon, and polish.

The same citrus scent of this exact office, but as Sunghoon inhaled he could swear he caught champagne instead and — coconuts?

“Good,” Mr. Hwang said. “You’re not fired. But you’re being punished. Tomorrow you’re on yacht duty.”

Sunghoon halted. “I’m scheduled poolside, Jaeyun and I—”

“You’re scheduled wherever I tell you — and I am telling you that you’re on yacht duty tomorrow,” Mr. Hwang said, the corner of his lips moving upwards as if he was suddenly bemused. “The overnight charter with the corporate group. Departure at nine. Back at sunrise. I know how much you all love that.”

Actually, everyone knew.

Yacht duty was punishment dressed as scheduling.

It ran late into the night until dawn, the guests getting drunker and more difficult as the hours wore on. It was exhausting, demeaning, and occasionally dangerous — especially for lifeguards — and that was why Jaeyun and he always threw a coin for it, the loser getting the duty with a lot of complaints.

“Consider it a learning experience,” Mr. Hwang said, his voice suddenly dripping with a false benevolence. “A reminder of what happens when you forget your place. Now get out of my office. And Sunghoon?” He paused, allowing Sunghoon to take his moment to look back at him. “If I hear about another attitude problem from you — I don’t care which guest provoked it. You’re gone. Are we clear?”

“Yes,” he said. “Sir.”

⋆˚꩜｡

Sunghoon hadn’t realized how haggard his breath felt until the elevator doors opened at the staff floor and he inhaled for what felt like the first time in ages. His lungs filled with the scent of bleach and damp walls in a way that only happened in this particular poorly ventilated hallway.

While the rest of the resort glimmered in gold and navy carpets that smelled like lemon and polish, here — so under the ground — everything was slightly shoddy, and messy.

And perhaps that was why his brain tried to refuse the fact that you were here — here — just a few steps down the hallway, hair undone and in a dress simpler than the one he had seen you earlier on, but surely still, not fit to be under these humming fluorescent tubes, and surrounded by stacked boxes and off-white walls that had been scuffed by decades of carts, shoulders and hurried bodies.

The elevator dinged behind him as someone else called for it, and Sunghoon’s first instinct was to turn back at it, check if he had been the one to step into the wrong floor, but not only the peeling paint gave way that he didn’t, but the small sign with STAFF ONLY in bold letters.

“Excuse me,” you tried.

Sunghoon spun back at you, trying his best to don a neutral aspect, but as you walked in his direction he felt as if he was losing control of his own body. He suddenly didn’t know how to stand — he had done it his whole life but suddenly he didn’t know how to be on his own feet.

The harsh fluorescent lights should have been unflattering, but they only made the small details about you impossible to ignore. A few strands of hair clung at the skin of your neck, taken by a thin thread of sweat in that way that Jeju summers always managed in their early days, and the edge of your lipstick was smudged at one corner, as though you had been biting on it and couldn’t come to find the time to check it on a mirror, and he felt delirious, his heart thudding harder the longer he looked — not because you were still beautiful despite it all, but because it were evidences that you had lived through the last hours too.

All together with him.

“I brought this,” you said out of silence, extending your hand to him, and only then did he notice you had been holding something: a simple and stupid roll of gauze in a plastic wrapping with the resort’s logo. “I asked at the front desk for a first aid kit, but they said they could not give it to me — if I had some type of injury they could contact a doctor — I tried explaining it was not for me, bu—”

You paused, taking in a breath as though you had rehearsed this whole speech before coming, curating every word carefully through your way down here but something had escaped you and now you didn’t know how to restart without losing the thin thread of courage you used to start.

“You shouldn’t be here.” He heard himself saying.

Your fingers tightened around the gauze, your neat, pale, and perfect nails crinkling the plastic and making it seem even smaller compared to the world you came from.

“Well, I know — I had to bribe a bellhop—”

The elevator dinged again, this time announcing someone’s arrival and Sunghoon’s composure snapped in half. He couldn’t take another scene — not tonight — not when Mr. Hwang had been clear that he was on his last chance.

His body acted before his mind could, reaching out for your free hand. His fingers closed around yours as he pulled you through the cluttered hallway, catching and opening the first knob he had found before he pushed you both inside — he first, and then you — pressing your body against his as he closed the door and engulfed you both in the darkness.

It wasn’t a real room, he realized, but the makeshift cabinet the room attendants used to stock supplies. The space so cluttered and small that when you gasped he felt it against his neck, warm and sweet smelling, coconuts, and the scent of the champagne still stuck on your skin as if you had changed, but didn’t wash yourself in the hurry of coming after him.

Outside, a cart squeaked as someone wheeled it out of the elevator, and he prayed it was one of the room attendant just ending their shift early and not coming for a supply.

“What—” you began, but Sunghoon raised a finger to his lips, earning himself a wince as he did so. He had forgotten about the cut in his palm, and he suddenly wished he could forget again. But as his finger hovered by his lips for another moment, the throbbing only increased as if the cut itself had remembered its existence and couldn’t cease now.

“Your hand,” you whispered.

Sunghoon shook his head at your worry, but you were already reaching out for him, the tip of your fingers brushing against his fevered pulse.

Someone laughed outside — the sound being so close — it felt dangerous, and if anyone opened this door and found you here it would be the end for him.

It wouldn’t matter what you had to say to Mr. Hwang this time. You wouldn’t be able to save him.

Not that he wanted to be saved by you. One time had been more than he could owe you.

Your fingertips moved through him, finding the cut.

“Don’t—” he hissed, his voice coming louder than the cabinet could hold and it didn’t just land on you — but in the air within — breaking something he didn’t realize that even existed until now.

Your hand dropped back to your own chest as your eyes flickered to his name tag and then, around, your breathing shallower as though you were suddenly trying to become smaller. And in the silence that followed, Sunghoon felt the moment when you came to realize something too.

“I am sorry. I did not realize it could get you in trouble,” you said, and the softness of it made him sick with himself. “I—”

But whatever the rest of your phrase was supposed to be, Sunghoon would never know because you were shaking your head then, reaching for the knob behind you.

The door opened with the smallest complaint of its hinges, and the fluorescent hallway light cut across your shoulder, the pale line of your collarbone, the gleam of your diamond earring.

And then you were gone, taking your warmth back with you.

⋆˚꩜｡

Sunghoon wasn’t sure how long he stayed in that small cabinet, but by the time he stepped out of it, he had grown so accustomed to the darkness that the humming fluorescent tubes had acquired a brightness so intense that his eyes hurt the whole way to the locker room.

As he walked to his locker, he felt as if he wasn’t fully inside of his own skin — as if his mind was somewhere else apart from his whole body — hovering on every single second of this unending night, replaying them as if repetition could change the way he made you leave.

He took off the borrowed shirt and shoved it into his bag in an attempt to let go of everything, but the champagne scent rose anyway, sweet, sharp, and expensive in a way that made his stomach turn. And he was suddenly back at the pool deck, your dress soaking on that same disgusting thing — he was back at that small cabinet you both so close up together, he felt all of your reactions.

Sunghoon pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead and stood like that for a second — breathing and telling himself that if he just stayed still long enough his body would remember how to be normal again — one breath, then another, counting them the way he was used to count drags as he was trying not to think, the way smoke used to give his hands something to do other than shake, and for one humiliating moment, he wished he had a cigarette more than he wished he had a clean shirt.

For as long as he lived, he feared champagne would remind him of you.

Somewhere behind him, a locker door clanged.

“You look like you fought a chandelier.” Sunghoon heard, and he didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

Jaeyun had been raised in Australia, which gave him a peculiar accent that most girls called cute, but it only made Sunghoon certain that he could pick his best friend’s voice out from the whole island — perhaps the world.

“Wrong,” Sunghoon replied, finally looking at him. “The chandelier fought me.”

“Are you alright?”

“I have been worse.”

Jaeyun leaned against his open locker, his hair damp, and a towel curled around his neck as though he had just come in from a late dip — which he probably had. As Sunghoon had been unfortunate enough to be scheduled for the unusable pool tonight, Jaeyun had taken the small portion of the beach the resort claimed as theirs, and annually opened a debate online about whether they could.

“I’m fine,” Sunghoon confirmed.

“What happened?” Jaeyun asked, but Sunghoon only shrugged at the question.

“Champagne.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have,” Sunghoon replied, reaching out for his clean t-shirt, tugging it over his head. He winced as he did so, the cut reopening for the second time of the night as the fabric caught.

“Hoon—”

“I’m fine.”

“You said that already,” Jaeyun shot back. “And it was a lie.”

“A child ran into me,” Sunghoon said then. “Crystal flutes went everywhere, and then—”

“And then?” Jaeyun pressed.

And then there was you — you asking if he was hurt. You at Mr. Hwang’s office begging for nothing to happen to him. You down here with gauze in your hands, and lipstick smudged and all he did was shove you in a cabinet and be rude again.

Where had you even left the gauze? Sunghoon wondered. Had you dropped it in the cabinet? Somewhere in the hallways as he pushed you through?

He suddenly felt like checking.

Inside the locker room, Jaeyun exhaled at Sunghoon’s sayings, reaching out for his own first aid kit and extending it to Sunghoon, but when Sunghoon didn’t reach back to it, Jaeyun recoiled and opened it himself.

Sunghoon watched as his friend walked toward him, taking his hand, and cleaning the cut with the kind of methodical calm that only made him feel worse at everything.

“You panicked because you’re scared.”

“What?”

Jaeyun tilted his head, but he didn’t look up. He continued with his doings — now, pressing in a gauze against it. “You shoved a rich guest into a closet because someone might see you standing close to them. That’s fear, Sunghoon.”

“Congratulations. You just discovered that I’m employed.” Sunghoon let out a humorless laugh. “It’s not fear, Jae — it’s common sense—”

“Alright, let’s say it’s both then,” Jaeyun said. “Common sense because Mr. Grumpy’s an asshole and those policies are bullshit, and fear because you keep thinking if you breathe wrong, your whole life is going to collapse above you.”

The world seemed to halt then and there, the air suddenly too still and allowing Sunghoon to notice how he ached at these words, a sharp twinge that started at his chest and spread to his throat, tightening there and making him breathless because Jaeyun had said it too cleanly — too accurately — and naming it made it now undeniable.

“Find her,” Jaeyun said. “Talk to her.”

“No”

“Why?”

“Because if Mr. Hwang finds out, he’ll fire me,” Sunghoon said, his voice harsher than he intended. “Because if the other staff see me talking to her, they’ll talk. Because if people start talking, it will become a rumor, and rumors become problems.” He swallowed. “And I can’t afford problems.”

“I expected more from you, Sunghoon,” Jaeyun said, but Sunghoon could tell that his heart wasn’t in it — not really.

“No doubt that was your first mistake.”

“So can you afford being the kind of person who makes someone feel like they’re hated merely for trying to help?” Jaeyun asked, and it felt like a slap.

Sunghoon couldn’t, and that was what had been eating him since you left.

They finished changing in silence, Sunghoon shoving his things into his bag with more force than necessary while Jaeyun remained calm on the other side, closing his locker so carefully, Sunghoon hadn’t realized he did, until he was standing by his side, completely changed and his bag hanging on one of his shoulders.

“Motorcycle still broken?” Jaeyun asked.

“Yeah.”

Jaeyun’s expression softened, his lips curling into the type of smile that only appeared when Sunghoon made it sound like he didn’t care.

“So you are still stuck with me.”

⋆˚꩜｡

The service exit opened onto the staff lot, and immediately, Jeju’s night shrouded him. The humming fluorescent tubes of the interior were taken by the dimmer yellowish lights of the parking lot, and the smell of bleach was replaced by the sea wind cutting through the heat, carrying salt, tangerine, and earthy cedar forest.

Somewhere above, the party was still going on — laughter and music carried faintly across the breeze — but here it was all Jeju, rough and wild.

The parking lot was mostly empty, only a few staff cars lined up, including Jaeyun’s old Jeep at the far end, its paint sun-faded and stubbornly alive.

Sunghoon stopped for a second — just before they reached it.

“Do you mind if I have a smoke?”

“Of course, I do,” Jaeyun snapped. “This thing will kill you.”

Sunghoon pulled the pack of cigarettes out of his bag anyway, selecting a single one out and lighting it up.

The first drag hit him all at once. The ember brightened in the dark as he inhaled, a small orange circle reflecting faintly on his knuckles, and the taste of cheap tobacco bloomed bitter on his tongue before settling in his lungs.

He exhaled, watching the stream unravel and vanish into Jeju’s air, and for a moment he let himself believe that if he kept drawing in smoke and letting it go, he could empty his chest out of this night too.

Out of you.

“You lost the coin toss,” Jaeyun said then.

“What?”

“The yacht duty.” Jaeyun slid to him. “You didn’t mention it. Which means you’re trying to pretend it isn’t happening.”

Sunghoon dropped his hand out of his mouth, his fingers tightening. He wasn’t sure if he was intentionally pretending, but he surely didn’t want to bring this up.

“It’s happening.”

“Mr. Hwang is such a—” Jaeyun began, but he cut himself off, sighing deeply and dramatically as he pushed his hair out of his forehead. For a moment, Sunghoon got confused if Jaeyun understood that he was the one not going to the yacht tomorrow night. But he quickly realized that the fact was — Jaeyun did understand — it was just that he felt everything too deeply, and he cared for Sunghoon too much to allow such an unfairness to go on as nothing. “Okay. You’ll survive — I’ll bring you food. I’ll bring you even this stupid pack of cigarettes if necessary. And I’ll come rescue you if some executive tries to throw you into the sea.”

The scenario made Sunghoon want to laugh and what a strange feeling it was because it had been months since Sunghoon wanted to laugh — perhaps years.

“See?” Jaeyun asked, his lips curling into a smile once again. “Park Sunghoon is still a human.”

Sunghoon rolled his eyes and dragged in again.

“So what are you going to do about it?” Jaeyun asked.

“About the yacht?”

“About her, Sunghoon.”

“What can I do? I don’t even know her name — and I’ll probably never see her again.”

“You work at a luxury resort where she’s not only staying, but attending events,” Jaeyun said. “I’m guessing if you actually tried to find her, you could,”

His voice dropped.

“Jongseong is only leaving for Seoul at the end of summer, he could—” Jaeyun raised his hand, typing on an invisible keyboard. “The question is whether you want to try.”

Did he? Sunghoon wasn’t sure. The thought of facing you again made him want to sink to the ground. But the idea of never seeing you again also sits as an open wound in his chest.

“Find her,” Jaeyun said out of silence. “Your angel in the form of a heiress.”

Sunghoon wanted to see you again. Thank you, at least, and say sorry for the closet situation. And Jaeyun grinned as though he had read it through Sunghoon’s mind.

“Come on,” Jaeyun said, unlocking the car with a single jingle of keys. “Let’s get out of here before Mr. Grumpy finds something else to punish you for — like breathing too loudly or existing in his general vicinity.”

Sunghoon pulled the passenger door open and climbed in, sinking into the familiar worn seat. The car smelled like salt water, suncream, and the cheap air freshener Jaeyun had hung on the front mirror which was supposed to smell like fresh pine, but mostly just smelled like chemicals.

As Jaeyun tried the engine — letting it catch and taking on three times before it finally started — Sunghoon found himself staring at his reflection in the side mirror. He was exhausted, in need of a shower and long hours of sleep, but surely, he was not drowning in debt and not fired.

All because of you.

“By the way,” Jaeyun said, glancing at him across the gearstick. “Your motorcycle is dead-dead, or is it just being dramatic?”

“Dramatic, I hope,” Sunghoon said. “Jihoon’s brother is still checking on it.”

Jaeyun hummed, his right hand reaching for the gearstick and putting it in the fourth, racing the car just enough to allow the breeze to brush in — the perfect blend of salty sea air, tangerine, and earthy cedar forest taking over the small vehicle — it was undeniable Jeju’s summer.

And for some reason, it made Sunghoon’s skin creep a little.

The summer of his twenty-two years had begun, although Sunghoon didn’t know what it truly meant.

Yet.

The next night came with the scent of sea air, salt, and teak wood floors.

The yacht sailed from the resort’s private dock at the sunset as Mr. Hwang had promised, its hull gleaming under the floodlights, and turning the water below into a black sheet of polished glass as the deck swarmed with men in tailored suits and women with hair pinned into effortless perfection, as if the wind itself had been instructed not to touch them too harshly — bribed, perhaps — something Sunghoon thought that rich people only did in movies, but then you came over and—

God.

He couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Sunghoon stood at the lifeguard’s designated spot, his eyes scanning the crowd for what felt like the millionth time.

He told himself he wasn’t looking for you — that it was only instinct — he was taking stock of guests, counting faces and risks as his job demanded, but his eyes kept hovering on silhouettes. On bare shoulders, and flash of jewelry. On the slope of necks, and twist of hairs that could have been yours until he stared for a moment too long and noticed that it wasn’t.

Perhaps you hadn’t come, he thought. Perhaps—

But then, he saw you.

Not full at first, but in pieces — as if his mind had somehow learned that he needed to recognize you in fragments because the whole was too much for him to handle at once — he saw the glint of an earring. The curve of your wrist as you lifted your hand to brush a stray strand of hair to the back of your ears.

Your dress was different tonight — simpler than the pool party’s silk, but cut in a way that felt almost deliberate. The thin fabric caught the yacht’s lights, and gave them back like it had been made for this exact setting, and your hair — God, your hair was down, spreading over the expanse of your shoulders, and moving only when the wind found it.

Sunghoon watched you for a second too long, hating himself for doing so because it gave you enough time to catch him on it.

Your gazes locked over, and for a brief moment — a moment so brief, he thought he had imagined it — you softened at him. Not a smile, but something in your eyes that recognized him, and remembered. Your hand rose halfway, fingers hovering in a hesitant greeting that seemed to have decided itself before you came to your senses and faltered, glancing down and lowering your hand to your side, folding into the fabric of your dress.

Sunghoon’s heart did something stupid and painful within his chest and he stood up without meaning to, giving a step toward you and then another, and another.

But before he could reach you, someone stepped into the space within.

A man around your age, tall in that clean and polished way that suggested that not only had he never been poor, but his father hadn’t, nor his grandfather, nor his grandfather’s father. His dyed hair was styled, but not stiff, his suit in perfect shape despite the hours within the yacht and he moved to your side as if he belonged there — as if your proximity was something granted to him by default.

And perhaps it had.

Perhaps the world was more unfair than Sunghoon had ever realized because as he felt unsure about stepping close to you, the man leaned in without a second thought, saying something into your ear, and earning a turn of your head toward him, altogether with a small smile appearing at the corner of your lips and causing something to flare in Sunghoon — hot, immediate, and humiliating.

It was ridiculous and Sunghoon knew that. He didn’t know your name. He had snapped at you twice and had shoved you into a closet like contraband when you were just trying to help. He had no right to want anything from you — not even your attention — yet his stomach tightened anyway, just as it had when Mr. Hwang said that you had begged for him to be spared because honestly, some part of him had decided that you were a story he knew he could not afford but he could not stop reading.

The man said something more, and you let out a breath that could have been a laugh if you allowed it to be. Your hand rose to brush his arm in a gesture so casual — it could have been even dismissal — but Sunghoon’s fingers closed on themselves until the cut from the night previous ached and he had to force his face into neutrality.

He was still trying to decide whether to approach you when the furor began.

It was not one single thing, but a chain of small ones that snapped too fast to catch: someone shouted near the bar, a glass tipped and bled its champagne in a thin gold spill across the teak, a laugh turned too sharp within the night air, and the music stuttered as if something had snagged the performers mid-song before he remembered they were being paid and forced the melody back into place.

Sunghoon’s head turned on instinct toward the commotion, his lifeguard training overriding and making his body already catalog risks, exits, water, the ways panic liked to masquerade as entertainment until it wasn’t.

In his periphery, Sunghoon caught you drifting closer to the railing, stepping away from a man drunkenly stumbling backwards, but it had been in vain. The man’s shoulder bumped into yours anyway and it was enough for your balance to break — enough for you to take one instinctive step to correct it, heel sliding back, searching for the deck to hold you the way it always had, but the teak beneath your heels betrayed you with a slickness you couldn’t have seen under the lights, and your foot slipped.

It wasn’t dramatic, but small, and almost quiet — the kind of slip that people recovered from all the time. You reached for the railing on reflex, fingers stretching out, a flash of jewelry, skin meeting metal. But your hand didn’t close right, didn’t clamp with the sure grip it needed; it caught and slid instead, palm skimming along polished steel like it had been oiled, and suddenly the correction became the fall, your weight tipping past the point where muscle could argue with gravity.

There was a pause that felt like the whole deck had held its breath before someone screamed what could have been your name and bodies surged toward the rail, leaning over as they peered down into the dark water that moved as if nothing had happened at all — as if it hadn’t just taken you — and Sunghoon ran, pushing through the guests with his shoulders, ignoring the outrage, the startled curses, the hands that grabbed at him as if he were the problem, until the railing came up in front of him, and the sea was just below, black and moving.

Sunghoon could not see you — not at first — the yacht’s lights did nothing to brighten up beyond its surface, and it was as dark as it was above, but then he did. A pale flickering shape, and he didn’t allow himself to consider anything before he vaulted the railing, diving into the water with a splash he didn’t hear.

It was late, and the night sea did not feel like summer, but winter — cold and heavy — dragging at Sunghoon’s uniform and pulling at him like it wanted to keep him for itself, too. Salt surged into his mouth as he broke the surface, and for a second his lungs stuttered, confused by the air that wasn’t clean.

Sunghoon had rescued drowning guests before. Of course, he had — Marriotte had a way of grinding the same disasters into repetition until one’s body learned them the way it learned to shape their names — but it always had been at the pool with its two meters of depth or the obedient edge of the resort’s stolen coast. But the sea was neither of them — it didn’t stay still — no matter how desperate someone was.

He heard shouting above, the deck erupting into chaos, but it faded fast, blurred by the rush of his own blood and the slap of waves against his face, and Sunghoon didn’t allow himself to think.

The water went colder as he went under, the world shrinking into nothing but darkness, pressure, and the frantic sweep of his hands through nothing again and again and again, until the tip of his fingers finally hit some fabric.

He grabbed hard, his fists tangling in what he hoped to be your dress, and yanked at it. You came to him limp and heavy, your hair floating around your face. And for one horrible second he couldn’t tell if you were conscious at all — if you were here with him — and he felt his heart weighing at the thought. It didn’t matter if you were one of those stupid rich guests. It didn’t matter if what you had been pulling at him was all an act — to lose you here felt like something he couldn’t handle.

Many hours later, Jaeyun was going to ask Sunghoon how it happened but he — under the aftermath of his panic — wouldn’t know how to.

He remembered how he hooked an arm under your shoulders and kicked upward, breaking the surface with a gasp for which you didn’t replicate, and how it broke the last threat of self-control on him.

He remembered keeping one arm around you and swimming with the other, fighting against the weight of your body, the drag of your dress, and the way the waves kept trying to pry you from him like greedy hands. He remembered how the yacht loomed above like a wall, all made of light, varnished wood, and people leaning over the edge with a mix of expressions. He remembered how his limbs were shaking by the time he reached the ladder and how he almost missed the first rung, having to force himself to jam his foot onto it, lifting you as best he could, bracing you against his chest. He remembered hauling, rung by rung, and getting you to the deck with the help of strangers’ hands, and then the world narrowed again into only you.

Only you and the way you lie on the wooden floor and soaked through. Your skin on a tone that seemed all wrong under the harsh yacht lights. But what horrified him the most was that your chest did not rise.

Someone shouted to call a doctor. Someone shouted to turn the yacht back — to do something — but no one seemed to be doing anything fast enough.

Sunghoon didn’t remember dropping himself onto his knees, but he remembered how his hands shook so badly he almost couldn’t place them. And once again, he had to force himself to take control — to press the heel of his palm to your sternum as the way he had been trained, and start the compressions, counting out loud because counting meant he would not fall apart.

“Come on,” he heard himself whispering between one compression and another. “Come on.”

The yacht rocked gently and the breeze brushed as if nothing was wrong, as if the night wasn’t holding a catastrophe on its teeth.

His hands began to hurt at some point and his arms burned. But he forced himself to keep the rhythm, to keep pressing. He forced himself to keep you here.

Sunghoon tilted your head back and pinched your nose, hesitating — just a fraction of a second — because you were you. And he didn’t know what it meant yet, only that it felt enormous within his chest already.

He bent close, mouth on yours, salt and fear thick in his throat, and strawberries on his lips.

“Breathe for me,” he whispered, the words spilling out like prayer, like command, like begging for which he didn’t have the right to, but did anyway. “Please, Angel. Please — breathe for me.”

You coughed.

Small at first. A weak shudder that made his heart lurch so hard it hurt. Water spilled from your mouth before you turned your head, choking, and dragging in air like it was something new you had to learn.

You were trembling and drenched, just as much as Sunghoon, but he couldn’t come to care about himself.

“It’s okay,” he said. “You’re alright.”

Your chin lifted at it, your gazes locking. It was only seconds that you studied each other, but it seemed a whole eternity to Sunghoon. His heart whipped against his ribs, and although he tried to, he couldn’t collect his thoughts. His lips parted as if he meant to tell you something, but he stopped, and by the time he tried again, the man from earlier was kneeling by your side.

He moved fast, shrugging off his suit with a practiced urgency. He didn’t look at Sunghoon — not really — not at all. His focus was on you, his hands already wrapping the piece around your shoulders, around your wet hair, and the parts of you exposed to the night wind before his hands molded against your arms with a steadiness that Sunghoon couldn’t feign even if he tried to.

“It is fine,” the man said to you. “It is fine. I have got you.”

I have got you.

The words rolled like theft in the air.

Sunghoon had hauled you out of the sea, he had breathed life into you, and still his mind went petty and sharp at a sentence that sounded like possession because the ocean had just tried to possess you first and Sunghoon was still in that wild part of himself that thought: mine to save, mine to keep safe, mine-

He swallowed.

You looked at the other man, dazed and lips parted as one of his arms slipped under your knees and the other rounded over your shoulders, bringing you into his arms before lifting you up.

“Give her some space,” he snapped at the people around and they did — tumbling into their own feet as they stepped back and opened space — because he sounded like someone who should be listened to.

Sunghoon rose as if to follow — as if his mind had once again forgotten that his role was done already — but a hand caught his elbow — someone steadying him, or stopping him. He wasn’t sure, and it didn’t matter.

The night was all shapes and noise.

Your head turned slightly as you were taken away, hair dripping onto the other’s sleeve. And for a heartbeat — a small, burning heartbeat — your eyes found Sunghoon’s. They were unfocused, but they found him anyway, and something in them softened — recognition again, the same thin thread from earlier on. And Sunghoon’s throat tightened with the raw realization that he didn’t want to let you go again.

But then you were gone anyway, taken into the yacht’s interior, and swallowed by light and warmth that wasn’t his, and his eyes merely remained at the place you disappeared in, hardly feeling part of his own body.

His hands were red and raw from compressions, the cut from the night previous all open and bleeding into his bandage. His chest heaved too fast and sea tasted permanent in his throat as if it had moved in and decided to live there.

Around him, the guests’ fear had already begun to convert into a story that sounded pretty — something they could repeat later with dramatic pauses and glittering eyes — using it to make their own hearts feel brave. But Sunghoon didn’t hear any of it.

He only heard your first cough.

He only felt the moment your lungs had chosen to come back.

“Young man,” someone called.

Sunghoon didn’t turn at first — he couldn’t — he couldn’t come to gather himself enough to face another person because although he wasn’t in the water anymore, there was something inside of him fighting still.

Perhaps there would always be a part of him fighting from now on.

“Young man,” the person repeated, stepping closer and the scent of expensive cologne cut through the salt, awakening Sunghoon before the touch at his shoulders did and he forced himself to turn. “What is your name?”

“Sunghoon,” he heard himself saying. “Park Sunghoon.”

The man nodded as he echoed it, his face drawn tight in that kind of controlled expression that suggested he had learned too early how to control his emotions from showing in public.

And Sunghoon caught himself opening his mouth, ready to apologize before he even knew what for — an old instinct, perhaps, sharpened by employment and hierarchy and the knowledge that rich people’s anger was its own kind of weather. But the man’s voice came out rough.

“Thank you,” he said, and for a brief moment Sunghoon felt confused, but the man continued, “my daughter,” and the two words changed the air. The whole deck seemed to tilt into a new shape. “You—”

His voice broke just slightly before he paused, tightening his jaw as he forced it back into place.

“You brought her back.” Sunghoon’s lungs seized again, but this time it wasn’t from the cold. It was from the sudden, horrible clarity that you weren’t a guest or a body or a problem.

You were someone’s daughter.

Someone’s world.

Sunghoon only nodded, because words felt too small then. Because if he spoke, his voice might crack open and reveal how close he had been to losing control.

Your father looked at him for another long second — memorizing his face, perhaps, or the uniform, or the fact that Sunghoon still looked like someone half-made out of seawater and shock.

“Thank you,” your father said again, quieter, as if the first time had been for pride and the second was for truth. “I will not forget it.”

Your father handed Sunghoon a business card and tapped his shoulder once — just once — a brief, human contact that felt almost unreal.

Sunghoon was shivering so violently that the bare push made him nearly drop the piece of paper on the yacht’s floor, but he forced himself to hold, his fingers closing so strongly that the cut from the night previous throbbed as a crease formed in the paper.

He didn’t think the card would come in use, yet — it felt soothing — because names were the first thing one reached for when they were trying to keep someone from vanishing, and he had your last name.

Sunghoon had your last name.

Sleep came so unwillingly to Sunghoon that it refused to last long.

Throughout the past three summers since he had been hired, he had been the one to get the yacht duty — not very lucky, yes — but it always gave him the best sleep of his life.

Sunghoon wasn’t an early bird. He didn’t request to be smoothed and tucked in bed at ten like Jaeyun, but he liked to sleep his nights away, so to be deprived of it always took something from him, but not today.

Sunghoon woke not even a full hour after he had laid himself on the bed, the shafts of light slipping through his curtainless windows and streaming over the place just as it had — yet, he couldn’t stay still anymore.

His body felt like it had been wound too tightly. His arms ached from the compressions. His throat tasted like the sea. And when he blinked, the deck lights flared behind his eyelids.

He swung his legs off the bed.

The small room was warm already, Jeju’s summer pressing through the thin walls with such insistence that the air clung on and the fan in the corner stuttered in vain. Somewhere outside, scooters whined down the road, and a bird shrieked the way birds did here — loud, territorial, unashamed.

Sunghoon washed his face with water that barely came cold, dragged a comb through his hair with more violence than care, and changed into the cleanest shirt he had, though clean didn’t mean much when his skin still remembered salt.

He looked at his hand. The cut had reopened under the bandage, a thin line of blood shimmering like a warning, but he only wrapped it again and left before his mind could catch up and tell him to be smart.

Because if Sunghoon paused long enough to think, he wouldn’t move at all.

⋆˚꩜｡

The resort sat above the road like it always did.

Marriotte didn’t belong to Jeju, but it pretended to, dressing itself in stone and dark wood and tasteful greenery, but it was too polished to be Jeju’s, and quiet in a way that didn’t come from the peace of the island, but from money making sure no one got loud unless paid to.

Sunghoon walked up the steps in the heat and felt the instant change the moment he crossed the threshold. Outside, it was Jeju’s summer, but inside it was Marriotte’s type of summer.

The lobby was not only large. It was layered.

It didn’t open itself like a normal room. It unfolded.

Walkways split from walkways. Corridors slipped away behind screens of dark wood and potted plants that looked so perfect it once led Jaeyun and Jongseong to bet if they were real. Stairs didn’t just lead upward — they led sideways, down, somewhere, dipping like secrets. Hallways branched from hallways, and then branched again, like the building had been designed by someone who enjoyed watching people get lost and pretend they weren’t.

There were walls of glass that gave the illusion of openness, but even those felt controlled because beyond them, the garden glimmered wet and green, water beading on leaves not only holding Jeju’s true nature, but turning it into decoration.

It was early, but the staff already moved through like ghosts in pressed uniforms and present only when summoned as the guests existed in the opposite. Guests floated as they made their check-ins, taking space without apologizing for it in the way only rich people could.

Sunghoon hated that he was here on his day off.

Sunghoon hated that he was here at all.

He walked past the concierge desk and felt eyes flick in his direction in recognition. Not only because they knew him, but because he looked like a staff. He moved like a staff. He carried himself like someone who had learned to keep his shoulders tight so the world couldn’t slip knives between his ribs.

He turned toward the reception.

Jongseong stood behind the desk, immaculate until he saw Sunghoon and something in his face cracked.

“What are you doing here?” Jongseong hissed through a smile that wasn’t meant for his friend, but the couple checking in beside him. His eyes didn’t leave Sunghoon’s face even as his hands moved through the motions of hospitality, tapping at the keyboard, sliding keycards over with practiced grace. “It’s your day off.”

The couple left, and before Jongseong could call the next guest to come, Sunghoon stepped in.

“I know — I need something.”

“No.”

Sunghoon blinked. “I didn’t even ask yet.”

“You don’t have to,” Jongseong murmured, his eyes flicking to the security camera in the corner, before it found Sunghoon again. “Whatever it is, the answer is no. Go home.”

Sunghoon’s throat tightened as he reached into the pocket of jeans, pulling out your father’s business card. The edges were damp-soft from having been clenched too long. He didn’t hand it over, not fully — he only let Jongseong read the last name.

And for a moment, Sunghoon saw it — the shift, the understanding snapping into place like a lock turning once Jongseong made sense of the letters.

Jongseong’s mouth parted, then closed. And when their eyes met again, He stared at Sunghoon as if he had just said he wanted to walk into fire because he missed the warmth.

“You can’t just—” Jongseong began, then stopped himself as guests walked by, their laughter trailing behind them like perfume. He lowered his voice further. “You can’t just ask for a suite. That’s not a thing.”

“I’m not asking you to tell her family’s suite,” Sunghoon lied.

He didn’t know what he was asking for.

“I’ll lose my job — we will lose our jobs,” Jongseong said, but despite the harshness with which his words came out, his expression didn’t match it for long.

“Are you okay?” Jongseong asked, but Sunghoon couldn’t come to answer.

Okay was a word for people who knew what they were, and he didn’t, or at least, he didn’t know anymore. Sunghoon had once believed that he had built himself into something durable and steady, yet you had come, and now, there was something different inside of him, something raw and unpracticed, and if he admitted it — even if just once — it would become real. Not an impulse. Not a passing stupidity. But something he was afraid that wouldn’t fit back inside his chest.

Jongseong exhaled slowly, looking down at his screen.

For one long second, Sunghoon thought he had silently been told to leave. But then, Jongseong’s shoulders sank — just slightly.

“Fine,” he breathed. “Fine, but if you ruin my life, I swear I’ll kill you myself.”

Sunghoon’s pulse jumped — not at the threat. He knew Jongseong would never — but at the view of his friend tapping at the keyboard, and then, tapping some more before he leaned forward, his voice turned into a whisper that scraped against the polished air.

“1512. Rooftop,” Jongseong said. “Go fast and I swear—”

“I know,” Sunghoon replied, already turning away.

He didn’t let himself thank him. He didn’t let himself hesitate. Gratitude was slow, and Sunghoon was running out of control.

His heart raced as he moved through the corridor, taking the elevator just as it was closing with an old couple that paid him no mind, and pressed the elevator’s buttons to the rooftop — rooftop, he had worked for years here and never once had he stepped there, and for a second he wondered if he truly could, if the elevator wouldn’t strangely stop operating and preventing him, but the doors slid shut, and the elevator began to rise. And with every floor it passed, Sunghoon felt like he was doing something he couldn’t undo. Like he was climbing toward a line he couldn’t uncross.

But still — he couldn’t stop.

⋆˚꩜｡

When the doors slid open for one last time, Sunghoon was surprised.

The rooftop had never been a place for the staff, but a rumor. A word whispered in the laundry room when the machines were loud enough to swallow the envy in their words. A direction pointed with a chin when a celebrity checked in and someone wanted to pretend they hadn’t looked because on the surface, they didn’t care. A level the elevator did not even list on the ordinary panel — but kept on a clean, discreet button because those who could afford the rooftop’s suites had lives that didn’t include asking.

Yet — it was exactly like the corridors below. 

The same thick carpets and light colored walls.

In every few steps, there were doors and he found himself staring at the details because the more familiar it seemed, the less anxious he felt. The brushed gold trim on the wall. The line of orchids arranged in vases that had to be replaced every morning. 

But then — absurdly — there was a vending machine.

It stood near the corner where the corridor split, sleek and silver, its glass front filled with neat rows of bottled water, imported teas, protein bars in minimalist packaging, tiny tins of nuts that probably cost more than the whole staff cafeteria’s lunch. But it was a vending machine — a vending machine up here.

Sunghoon slowed without meaning to stare at it.

He had grown up with vending machines that swallowed coins and didn’t always give anything back. Machines that smelled like dust and heat, that dispensed cheap coffee in paper cups, that sat near bus stops where men smoked and teenagers laughed too loudly because they had nothing else to do, but this one looked clean enough to eat off.

He imagined you for a moment — you, with your diamond earrings, your silk dresses and your life that seemed to exist beyond consequences — standing here, under that artificial light and pressing buttons for a bottle of water.

It didn’t fit.

He couldn’t imagine rich people needing something quick. And yet the machine existed, which meant someone up here had once been thirsty enough not to call room service.

The thought made him feel strangely dizzy, as if the world had tilted and revealed a seam that shouldn’t even exist. 

He forced himself to move.

His bandaged hand throbbed with each swing of his arm.

When Sunghoon stood in front of your family’s suite door, he hesitated, feeling a disconcerting flutter in his chest with the realization that he had no idea what he was doing.

He brushed a hand over his face, the bandage pulling at his skin, but before he could do anything else, the door opened, the morning’s sunlight racing out and making him blink a few times before he got used to it.

But it wasn’t you at the door, nor your father, nor anyone related to you — it was Mrs. Kye, the old maid that Jaeyun once joked had perhaps been there since the foundation of the hotel, but Sunghoon never laughed about it. Mrs. Kye was one of the nicest staff members.

“Sunghoon?” she called. “What are you doing here?”

“I—” he began, not sure how he was supposed to explain everything. His throat felt too tight for words that weren’t rehearsed. “I was looking for someone. She is a guest, her family is staying in this suite—”

“Sunghoon,” Mrs. Kye cut in, and there it was — the edge of the rules in her tone, the weight of them. “You know the rules.”

He swallowed.

“She almost drowned yesterday,” he said. “I just — I just want to check if she is alright. In the hurry, I couldn’t tell her what symptoms she should watch out for.”

The lie came so easily it almost felt true. But Sunghoon knew Mrs. Kye wasn’t buying it by the way she sighed, shaking her head, and for a moment he thought it was over — that she would close the door and he would need to go back down the elevator and pretend this impulse had never happened. But Mrs. Kye’s eyes lingered on him for a moment too long, traveling through the worn bandage, the frayed edge of his shirt and his washed jeans. She took the way he stood like someone trying to take up less space than he was allowed, and he knew without knowing it hurt her. She had seen boys like him come through this resort every summer; she had seen which ones laughed, and which ones counted. And Sunghoon had always been the kind who counted and she knew.

“Playground,” she said then, her voice coming so low that Sunghoon took a while to notice she had really spoken. “She was with her cousin,” Mrs. Kye continued, glancing over her shoulder into the suite as if making sure no one was listening too closely. “Asked if there was anything like that in the hotel.”

His breath caught.

“Go.”

Sunghoon didn’t trust himself to answer and so, he only bowed, quick and deep, and before his gratitude could trip him into being seen.

⋆˚꩜｡

The playground was not really a playground.

It was a corner of the resort’s garden that had been dressed up for children the way Marriotte dressed up everything: carefully, expensively, and with the kind of effort that pretended to be effortless. The ground was padded with soft, springy flooring that looked like it had never met a scraped knee. A small slide curved like a ribbon beside a miniature climbing frame made of polished wood, the grain of it so perfect it felt staged — as if the trees had been grown for the singular purpose of becoming décor. Even the air smelled curated: sunscreen and cut grass, the resort’s citrus polish ghosting over it all, as though even childhood had to be sanitized before it could be permitted to exist.

Sunghoon approached slowly. And at first, he didn’t see you, but the children.

They sat cross-legged in a loose semicircle on the padded ground, faces tilted upward, eyes wide with the bright, unfiltered devotion that only children could offer. Sunghoon was used to it; spring was a great time for Jeju, but not for Marriotte, and he had taught swimming lessons at public pools when Marriotte’s rooms weren’t so full and the pool not so required that he needed to complete full hours. He knew the way children trusted without thinking, how they listened with their whole bodies, how easily they could be soothed by a voice that sounded sure.

What unsettled him was who they were listening to.

Sunghoon recognized your voice with a physical certainty, as though his body had memorized it before his mind could refuse, but how could he not? He had replayed the night of the pool party like a punishment: your gasp, your apologies. He had heard you in the staff elevator, in the locker room, in the thin, cruel moment before sleep took him and the crueler one after it abandoned him.

You had been a ghost to him through the past days, but now it was real — sat on the edge of a bench that looked too clean to have ever hosted a tired body — your hair looser than it had been on the yacht, darker at the ends as if you had showered and simply didn’t care about drying it. And a book rested open in your hands, spine broken in the middle the way books only were when someone actually read them. 

Your cousin sat by your side, one fist balled in the fabric of your dress as though you were the only solid thing in the world, a plush toy trapped under her arm.

Sunghoon opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out, and for a heartbeat, he simply stood there, watching you. 

A child noticed him first — then another — heads turning in a soft disturbance that spread through the group until their attention broke from you and stumbled toward him.

And you noticed him too.

It was barely anything — just your chin lifting, a slow blink like you didn’t trust your eyes — but still, it hit him anyway, sharp as a hook under the ribs and Sunghoon’s body reacted before his brain could file it away as harmless. His shoulders tightened, and his breath caught, every instinct screaming be still, be professional, don’t be seen wanting. But the garden was shifting out of place anyway, as if the world had tilted and decided you were the only thing worth keeping upright because God — you were. 

You watched him for a moment — perhaps two — before you turned to the children, slipping a bookmark between the pages and excusing yourself with the seriousness of someone stepping out of a meeting — and stood up.

Your cousin clung harder for a second, startled by the motion, and you reached for her without even seeming to consider — one arm scooping her up against your side and letting her settle against you, cheek pressed to your shoulders, and fingers now locked in your hair — before you stepped forward, crossing the place toward him. 

And for the second time he caught himself trying his best to don a neutral aspect, but as you walked in his direction he felt as if he was losing control of his own body. Sunghoon didn’t know what to do with his hands. He let them hang uselessly at his sides, then shoved them into his pockets, then pulled them out again because it looked rude, because it looked like he was nervous, because it looked like he was waiting for you.

Which he was.

But the truth didn’t seem that easy to admit.

“Hi,” you said, your voice coming breathless in a way that didn’t match the short distance you had walked, and Sunghoon’s mind snagged on the inconsistency like it was a safety hazard because well, it made no sense — but then it did – and that small understanding warmed him in a way he didn’t want to allow. His fingers flexed at his side, bandage tugging, and grounding him back into his body before he made himself remember how to speak.

“Hi,” Sunghoon echoed.

Your cousin shifted at the sound of him, her arms tightening around your shoulders as she hid herself into the crook of your neck. You murmured something in her ear, softly, and too low for Sunghoon to make sense of what it had been, but whatever it was, it got her lifting her head and looking at Sunghoon again, round-eyed and shiny with embarrassment. 

“Sorry,” your cousin whispered. It had been so quiet that Sunghoon almost thought he had imagined it — but then, her lips continued shaped into the word, and his breath caught in surprise. 

Sunghoon bent down a little, lowering himself to your cousin’s eye level in the way he did with the children at the public pool, his instincts taking over where his pride usually lived whenever he breathed Marriotte’s air.

“It’s okay,” he said, hesitating for a moment before he lifted his bandaged hand and gave her a small thumbs up, the gesture making the healing skin pinch, but he didn’t allow it to show. “I will survive.”

Your cousin blinked at him before she tried to hide again, her fingers twisting on the locks of your hair in a manner that should have been painful. But if anything, you gently patted her back. 

And when Sunghoon straightened himself, he caught you smiling.

Not in that one polite and restrained way he had seen you wear the previous night, but something small and helpless at the edges, as if it had happened to you without your consent — as if your body had decided that because he had offered something of himself, you had to give something back.

And the fairness of it felt strange in his chest. Heat climbed up the back of his neck and into his ears. Sunghoon didn’t know what to do with the fact that you were looking at him like that, so he blinked, and glanced away, setting his mouth back into place as if it had betrayed him.

“Do you want to go back to the other children?” you asked your cousin, receiving a nod almost immediately. 

The moment her feet touched the padded ground, she retreated — not far, not truly — choosing the safety of the other children in a blunt instinct Sunghoon understood too well.

And with her gone, there was nothing left to hone the moment into harmlessness — no child, no movement, no noise to hide behind — just you and him, with the air between you tightening into something quiet and dangerous despite the bright morning.

Sunghoon should have stepped back — he knew — but his feet didn’t listen. Something in him held, stubbornly, as if staying was a risk he recognized but chose anyway.

“I—” you began, at the same time as him.

“You first.”

“I had asked for you,” you said quietly. “At the reception, however, they said it was your day off.”

“It is,” he heard himself answering, but when he didn’t put in any further information, you continued:

“I wanted to thank you — for saving me last night.”

“It’s my job.”

“I know.”

“Then don’t—” His throat scraped. “Don’t thank me.”

You halted, surprised by his words. And for a moment Sunghoon was afraid he had been once again too rude without thinking, but then, a shadow of humor softened your mouth subtly, almost careful. Not a smile, exactly. But something that said you weren’t afraid to meet him where he stood — not anymore.

“Alright,” you said. “I take my formal thanks back. Yet still — I am grateful.”

Sunghoon swallowed. The morning was too bright for how fragile he suddenly felt, the air too clean for the way his chest still tasted like fear. And his hands-bandaged too roughly for what he wanted.

“Your turn,” you remembered.

“I’m grateful too,” he admitted. “For what you did the other night. It saved my month.”

“It just didn’t feel right,” you replied, your brows drawing together — that small divot returning like an old habit, and Sunghoon couldn’t help but feel that familiar heat rising anyway, quick and instinctive. Of course it didn’t. Things never did, and somehow the rich always had a way of smoothing the edges down — paying until the world agreed to look away.

The thought sharpened on his tongue, ready to become something ugly.

But then, he caught himself, almost startled by his own reflex because you were standing right in front of him, smaller in the sunlight than you had been under the pool lights and yacht’s dazzle, and looking at him like you meant it.

Sunghoon swallowed, letting the anger fold back into his chest where it belonged.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. “After — all of it.”

“My throat hurts a bit,” you said. “And I am smelling water.”

“Smelling water?”

“Not like a wet breeze,” you clarified, almost apologetic for the strangeness of it. “Actual water. Like I am breathing it.”

“It’s normal,” he said. “But you should rest today. Be attentive. If you get a fever, if breathing gets worse, if you feel tired in a way that doesn’t make sense—”

“I know.”

Sunghoon halted then. Of course you did. Someone had already told you — a doctor, perhaps a private one, someone whose name you didn’t have to wait for. The thought put a sour edge on Sunghoon’s tongue, and he hated himself for it.

His gaze dropped instead to the book in your hands. 

“You shouldn’t be reading out loud,” he said before he could stop himself. “Not if your throat hurts.”

Your gaze dropped to the book as well, only for a fraction of a second before your gaze encountered him again, and when you did, you smiled. 

“Finish it for me, then.”

“What?”

“You said I shouldn’t be reading,” you countered, and he could hear the amusement threading your voice. “But the children will be disappointed if they don’t hear the end.”

You tilted the book toward him. “Finish it for me.”

Sunghoon glanced past you, catching the children still turned toward you both, eyes bright and hungry for gossip.

It was a trap, he knew it, perhaps your whole existence was a trap to him.

He had not come here to perform. He had not come here to sit in a garden playground and read to rich children while his heart tried to hammer itself out of his ribs. And yet — you looked at him as if you were trusting him with something small.

As if you weren’t afraid he would drop it.

He reached out. The bandage on his hand made the motion clumsy, and for the briefest second his fingers brushed against yours as he took the book — the touch more a delirium than a real thing — but it made his whole body go rigid for a moment too long before he walked to the children, sitting where you once did and cleared his throat.

The children stared.

You sat back, allowing your cousin to tumble into you once again, and watching him with the kind of patience that made him feel exposed.

Sunghoon began.

His voice came out awkward at first — too careful, too flat — and he hated the sound of himself in this setting. But soon he caught himself changing voices for the characters, letting a higher pitch slip for one, a rougher edge for another. A child giggled. Then another, a small sequence until your laugh broke through and something warm rose in Sunghoon’s chest, and it took him a long time to notice that it was pride — a foolish pride for making you laugh. 

When he finished the book, the children groaned in protest, and he handed it back to you as if it might burn him.

“Thank you,” you said again. And time he didn’t tell you not to, but just nodded, because some refusals felt pointless against you.

Somewhere behind you, a nanny called, and the children broke apart the way children always did — all devotion, and then none at all — feet pattering off across the soft flooring, laughter dissolving into the garden as if it had never been held.

But you stayed — still as a held breath, hands quiet at your sides, your gaze fixed on him like you were waiting for something he hadn’t learned how to give and Sunghoon didn’t know what to do with that.

“I should go,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. His fingers found his jeans on instinct, smoothing at a crease that wasn’t there because perhaps — perhaps he could press order back into his body if he tried hard enough.

You nodded at his saying but as he turned away, you called out his name and he stopped.

He didn’t mean to but his feet simply listened.

It was the first time you had ever said his name, and it landed wrong in the best way, catching him under the ribs. Not only because of your accent, all made in the knottiness of Seoul, but because coming from your mouth it sounded softened and slower, drawn out as if you had stolen it and made it all yours.

“Wait,” you said.

And he did.

“My father,” you continued. “He is in hope that you are going to call — he wanted to thank you properly. And—” You hesitated, the same kind of hesitation you had in the staff hallway: bravery gathering itself again. “He wanted to make sure you are taken care of.”

Sunghoon’s throat tightened at your words. He didn’t want to be taken care of. Not by you. Not by anyone who could turn care into debt.

“I’m fine,” he said automatically, and you looked at him like you already knew it was a lie.

“Dinner,” you said.

Sunghoon blinked. “What?”

“You should come to have dinner,” you repeated. “With us.”

With us.

You didn’t say it, but the meaning was explicit: you were inviting him to have dinner with your family — your family who occupied one of the suites on the rooftop corridor with its vending machine, and it made his reality tilt.

The whole world you belonged to was being offered to him, yet he knew — it was a treasure that was never meant to be touched by him.

“I—” Sunghoon started. “I’m not sure if I can — there’s a policy.”

You nodded at him, and it should’ve been the end of it. But instead, you stepped in — careful as if you knew exactly where too close began and chose to stop just short of it. And the air between you tightened, charged in that quiet way Sunghoon hated because it made him aware of everything at once: your breath, the warmth of skin, the soft, loose strand of hair the breeze had freed.

His hand almost moved on instinct — one simple lift of fingers as if to tuck it back where it belonged but he caught himself and you did it yourself.

“Can I see your phone?” you asked.

“My phone?” he echoed, but his hands were already reaching, unlocking it, placing it in yours like surrender.

He watched you type quickly. He watched the ease of your fingers, the certainty of you — or at least, the way you fake it, because your hands held it too tightly and you were biting at the corner of your lip, smudging on your lipstick and leaving it on the way you had on the night of your first encounter.

“We always have dinner at the resort’s restaurant, I will send you the time,” you said, giving him the phone back. “If you feel like — just come. My father will be more than happy to do something about the policy.”

He stared down at his phone, finding the message you sent to yourself and your name, sitting there as if it belonged.

He looked up, but you were already moving away, as if you knew the moment was too dangerous to linger in. 

“Goodbye,” you said, almost under your breath, and Sunghoon’s chest tightened at the sound. 

“Bye,” he managed.

You held his gaze for a heartbeat too long, almost as if you were trying to memorize him in daylight, storing the version of him that existed under the sun instead of under dim lights and bad decisions before you finally turned and walked back to where your cousin sat, giving him just a single glance back as if you wanted to check whether he was still there.

Sunghoon found it adorable in a way that terrified him.

It made him want to follow you back — tug at the thin thread you had left behind and see if it would truly hold.

But instead, he ran. Sunghoon found the staff access and took the stairs — two at a time — fleeing so quickly that the encounter began to feel weightless behind him, unreal in that particular way of dreams: gone the moment you wake, but still warm in your skin.

⋆˚꩜｡

Jaeyun had barely arrived for his shift when Sunghoon found him. The air smelled like salt and sunscreen and the faint metallic tang of old engineers.

“I talked to her,” Sunghoon said before even greeting, and the urgency in his tone startled even himself.

“Who?” Jaeyun asked — more reflex than curiosity — because the moment his gaze landed on Sunghoon, the question dissolved on its own, understanding settling without needing an explanation. “Angel.”

Sunghoon corrected him by saying your name before he could even feel self-conscious about the syllables because if he thought about it, he would notice how they were intimate — as if saying them out loud was an admission. It was ridiculous, but it was also true: it felt like the moment he spoke your name, the thread between your lives tightened.

“You lost me,” Jaeyun said. “How did we go from not even knowing her name to you being invited to have dinner with her and her parents tonight?”

Sunghoon explained — or at least, tried to explain — about the yacht, the rescue, the strange gravity of you, the way his body seemed to move toward you before his mind could decide. And although Jaeyun listened with the amusement of someone watching a friend walk willingly into danger everything he said was:

“What are you wearing?” 

Sunghoon looked down at himself.

“No,” Jaeyun cut him off immediately. “Tonight. What are you wearing to dinner?”

“I don’t even know if I should—” Sunghoon said. 

“You can’t be fucking serious, Park Sunghoon,” Jaeyun cut. “You’re going.”

⋆˚꩜｡

It was around three in the afternoon when Sunghoon received Mr. Hwang’s message approving his dinner with your family, a brief and cold string of words that didn’t even try to hide the warning: this wasn’t a permission, but a leash — Mr. Hwang knew where Sunghoon was — and if he slipped, even if barely, it would not be an accident anymore. It would be a choice. Sunghoon knew the rules — God, he knew it so damn well that even with the approval all written on his phone screen, he felt unsure about it, but then he received your message with a tiny please at the end, and he couldn’t come to care about being smart.

By evening, Sunghoon was freshly showered, hair damp at the nape of his neck, and Jongseong’s suit pressed and scented with Mrs. Kye’s laundry soap like a borrowed dignity.

The host didn’t know him, but a few waiters did, and as he stepped inside, he felt their glances like something material at the back of his neck.

He wasn’t a staff at the moment, nor a guest, and it somehow felt more troublesome than being either.

But then, he saw you — and you saw him too, your lips parting in that one smile you had given him at the playground, and something within him misfired.

The windows were thrown open at your back and the last gold of the day cut through the room, catching on crystal glasses and expensive cutlery until everything glittered underneath it. And you — you looked like you belonged there. Not because of the dress, the jewelry, or the easy curve of your mouth, but because the light itself knew your worth and reached for you as much.

Sunghoon took one steadying breath — yet lost it the moment you stood up, saying something to your parents before you walked toward him, and he had the strange, irrational thought that for as long as he lived, he would know the scent of you and the sound of you approaching him.

“You came,” you whispered, and Sunghoon felt his breath hitching once again. His fingers flexed once at his sides, grounding him back into his body, but he couldn’t find a sentence that didn’t give too much away, so he didn’t give you any.

You didn’t seem to mind it as you led him to your family’s table and introduced him, your finger steady on the cover of his suit.

Your mother was the first to move. Not a polite nod from her chair, nor a measured smile meant for strangers and for which Sunghoon had been prepared — but a real reaction — immediate and strangely human. She stood from where she was, reaching for his hands before Sunghoon could decide what to do with his own, holding him so warmly yet carefully that it surprised him.

“Sunghoon,” your mother called. “I do not feel like I can thank you enough.”

“It was — it was my job, ma’am.”

“No,” she said, and for a moment her warmth sharpened into something almost fierce. “It was more than that to me.”

The words came out darker than she seemed to intend — too honest for a table set in crystal and gold — and she seemed to realize it the moment they landed because her expression shifted then. Embarrassment, perhaps, for letting too much truth rise to the surface in front of people who measured vulnerability like weakness.

“And please,” she added, voice gentler again, “no ma’am.”

She glanced toward your father then. “We are family friends after all.”

“She is right,” your father agreed. He seemed to want to say more, but before he could do so, his phone chimed.

“Byeongseok,” he said, stepping away with a brief excuse and a plea for them to sit before him, and for one moment, Sunghoon could swear he felt you stiffening by his side, your shoulders drawing inward as your hands closed too tightly on the arms of your chair as you sat down, but he couldn’t come to ask the reason behind it.

Not even when your father hung up and the person he supposed to be Byeongseok appeared and greeted your parents like old acquaintances.

Not even when your mother smiled at him with clear familiarity or your father clapped a hand against the younger man’s shoulder with the ease of habit.

Sunghoon didn’t dare to ask — not even when Byeongseok turned to you with a fond smile and bright eyes — simply unable to hide the irrational happiness of seeing you.

You stood up again, allowing Byeongseok to hug you, and when his arms wrapped around your waist, it happened with the ease of someone who had never had to wonder if he was allowed to touch the world like this — like proximity was a language he had been fluent in ever since his childhood. Byeongseok pulled you in without any further question, the fabric of your dress creasing under his grip and his cologne turning into a private air between you, and when his lips chased your temple, something settled inside of Sunghoon. Not a thought, exactly, but not a feeling he could name in a way that could make sense. 

There was a sudden flare under his ribs, a reflex like pulling a hand away from the fire, except that there was nowhere to put it — nowhere to hide — and so, he only watched, understanding with a clarity so clean, it made him dizzy. It was what belonging looked like: not asked for, not earned, just assumed.

Byeongseok not only had the type of face women in this island would make lines for, but he knew how to wear his money well — Jongseong’s suit was great, honestly, the best people could find at Jeju’s malls, but anyone who said no one could tell the difference between a suit from the mall and a suit made by a clever designer had never seen the latter and Sunghoon was seeing one — not to mention that Byeongseok made a strange image near you, almost too fitting. Almost too perfect.

And Sunghoon hated the way that thought honed something in him.

The craving hit him suddenly then — sharp and familiar. Smoke at the back of his throat, something bitter enough to burn this feeling out before it rooted itself deeper. His fingers moved through his lips before he could even think about it, placing a cigarette that wasn’t even there.

“Byeongseok,” you said, drawing yourself back. “This is Sunghoon. You might remember him from last night — he was the one who saved me.”

Byeongseok frowned as his gaze fell on Sunghoon, confusion settling heavily over his features because he didn’t recall. But Sunghoon couldn’t blame him. He couldn’t have told this was the man who took you away until you mentioned it.

“Sunghoon — this is Byeongseok, son of my father’s business partner, and my classmate at the university. He was there last night as well.”

“Sunghoon has joined us per her request,” your father explained, nodding briefly toward you.

“Great,” Byeongseok replied immediately, but something about the brightness of his voice felt just half a beat too late, too polished to be entirely sincere.

Byeongseok sat down by your side, and soon enough, his parents arrived, quietly changing the shape of the evening.

Smiles settled into place as though rehearsed beforehand. Greetings were exchanged with the precise familiarity of people who had known each other long enough to stop performing enthusiasm and start performing balance instead. 

Byeongseok’s mother smiled often, but Sunghoon quickly realized it was the kind of warmth that could never truly reach the room. And his father looked at the table the way businessmen looked at properties — assessing, categorizing, deciding what belonged naturally and what had merely been allowed inside.

Still, the beginning remained civil.

Byeongseok’s mother asked about Sunghoon’s life in Jeju, and he answered the way he had been trained to answer guests: politely, briefly, and with nothing that couldn’t be more than entertaining — even when she pressed again, head tilted as if she were fishing for a story he could be made into, Sunghoon didn’t give her one. He kept his smile soft and his words cleaner, guiding the conversation along familiar paths without offering anything that could be held too tightly.

But then, the menus arrived.

“Always so many good options,” Byeongseok’s father commented lightly, leaning back in his chair. “What would you recommend, Sunghoon? If staff were allowed to eat those, of course.”

Heat crawled through Sunghoon’s neck before he could even stop it and he had to force his face to keep still. No flinch, no tell, no satisfaction given.

He understood the tactic: Say it smiling, say it soft, and if Sunghoon reacted, Sunghoon would be the problem. Not the man who had said it. That was how this worked.

Sunghoon’s jaw tightened with the unfairness, and the urge to answer with something that would cut back grew bigger — but then, you spoke.

“Sunghoon is here as our guest,” you said, your eyes never even leaving the menu. “Perhaps it would be better to ask the chef.”

The words were light enough that someone outside the table may not even notice them, but Sunghoon did.

Your parents did.

As well as Byeongseok’s. 

Byeongseok’s father gave a short laugh then, lifting his hands slightly in surrender.

“I was joking.”

“We know, however, my daughter is right,” your father cut. “Perhaps we should call the chef if we want recommendations — although Jeonbok is calling me tonight.”

He looked up through his menu to your mother.

“What do you think?”

Your mother hummed in agreement, visibly grateful for the shift.

“Would wine match?” she asked.

Sunghoon expected you to smile then, to claim victory, and let your eyes meet him with that one spark you had worn on the playground. Yet it never came. If anything, you turned even more still than before, shoulders drawn in as you had at the beginning of everything, and he understood then, that you were different near these people — quieter — if not non-existent. As if showing too much of yourself was something that could be used against you later, in a quieter room, with words that only sounded nice at the surface but sliced you open if listened to it more carefully.

And the realization settled in his chest like heat.

Protective wasn’t a word he had ever used for feelings. It sounded like something out of a movie, a pretty story for which he couldn’t afford. But whatever this was, it was real.

His knee bumped into yours, perhaps accidentally, or perhaps it was his body leading him to what he should do, but it caught your attention, and you looked at him.

It’s okay, he meant and you bumped him back as though you had understood.

⋆˚꩜｡

Nothing truly happened between the main course and dessert — or at least — nothing that Sunghoon could point to directly.

Every new plate earned a sound from Byeongseok’s mother — too loud for the room and too practiced to be true — but her husband hummed in agreement anyway, and by the time the dessert was served, the table’s volume had swelled because Byeongseok’s family didn’t just fill the room, but took it apart and rebuilt it around themselves, as if the air belonged to them by default.

Sunghoon kept his posture straight. His borrowed suit sat stiff across his shoulders, and his bandaged hand rested in his lap, where no one would ask questions. He nodded when addressed, and answered when appropriate, smiling cleanly and briefly — nothing that could be used later as proof that he had forgotten his place — but the exhaustion crept in anyway. 

Not the kind that came from a late shift, but the kind that came from holding yourself still while other people moved freely.

By his side, you had gone even quieter than before, your eyes trained on your plate as if digging at your chocolate sphere required your full concentration. 

Sunghoon watched you for a moment too long, his knee still angled toward yours under the table, close enough that he could feel the faintest shift when you moved. 

“You are supposed to break it,” Sunghoon said, quiet enough that it couldn’t interfere with the conversation going around the table, but direct enough that it couldn’t be mistaken for nothing. “Not dig.”  

“I beg your pardon?”  

“You break the layer above, not—” he paused, leaning in as if the rest of the table might steal the sentence.  

You leaned forward too, almost instinctively — meeting him in the small space he had made until your shoulders nearly brushed and the world narrowed to the dessert between you. 

Sunghoon reached out for you, his knuckles brushing yours as he took the spoon from your hand, and the contact short-circuited his brain for a fraction of a second because you were warm, soft, and close enough that he could catch your scent under the restaurant’s citrus polish and your mother’s selected wine — coconut and strawberries, just like the night you met.

His breath caught.  

He brought the spoon down and cracked the chocolate shell with one clean press — the surface split neatly, revealing the cake beneath, darker and softer, steam barely rising.

“I knew,” you whispered.  

Sunghoon halted then.

Of course you knew. Fancy desserts weren’t a novelty to you — you had probably broken a hundred chocolate shells in your life without thinking twice. You were digging not by ignorance, but because you were buying seconds — letting the chocolate shell and the soft cake beneath it become cover. Something small to hold onto, something to keep your hands moving so you didn’t have to lift your eyes to the furor of the table.

The realization made something in his chest hurt, sudden and sharp, like he had swallowed the wrong thing and it lodged in his throat.

His gaze flicked up to your face before he could stop himself.

You weren’t looking at the dessert anymore — not really — you were looking at him, eyes softened in a way that made the noise around the table feel suddenly far away. And Sunghoon knew he should lean back — put distance where it belonged, fold himself into his place again before anyone could notice.

But you were too close still and he didn’t want to be the one to let go.

He stayed as if staying could be harmless, as if the room couldn’t take this small thing and make it cost — even when your fingers brushed his again, taking in the spoon.

“Thank you regardless,” you said. “And I’m sorry.”  

I’m — not I am — and he caught the slip just as you did, your voice already smoothing itself back into I am, back into etiquette, but it was already too late.

Byeongseok’s mother waved her spoon again, mid-story. “And then I told her, I said, ‘You cannot possibly wear that to the chairman’s event.’ Can you imagine? The girl looked like she had been dressed by a toddler—”

The rest of the table chuckled, but not you.

“It’s loud,” he said, and you huffed at him.  

“Yes,” you agreed. “It is loud.”

The corner of Sunghoon’s mouth twitched in what could turn into a smile, but it was quickly taken by the way you went quiet again, folding inward until you were nothing but manners and stillness beside all that noise. 

He could pretend he didn’t see it — he could — but he didn’t.

Sunghoon let his knee stay angled toward yours under the table, a small act of defiance no one could call out, and felt the decision settle in him with a steadiness that scared him.

“Do you want to leave?” he asked. Your eyebrows furrowed at his sudden question, your surprise flickering across your features, and Sunghoon rushed on before he could talk himself out of it. “Not now, but after — after the dinner is finished — if you want to, we can go somewhere else.”

Your chin dipped once, so small it could have been nothing, yet, it wasn’t. 

His voice lowered. 

“If you leave by the resort’s main entrance and turn right, you’ll see a park full of red flowers and a black bench — I’ll be there waiting for you.” 

⋆˚꩜｡

The bench was colder than July should allow.

It sat at the edge of the small park like a leftover thought — the black paint worn thin by the number of sunsets. And above it, the red flowers flared under the streetlights, clustered and moving only when the wind picked up — Jeju’s sea air slipping in from somewhere beyond the resort’s polished boundaries and carrying salt, damp soil, and the faint sweetness of crushed petals.

Sunghoon sat with his hands clasped together so tight his knuckles ached with the pressure, and his cut pinched underneath the bandage, but even with such discomfort, he couldn’t come to release. 

Perhaps because the night air kept biting at his skin, and his body was struggling to keep heat in. Or maybe it was dinner and the way the restaurant’s light had made everything sparkle — it was normal to feel wound too tightly after standing inside wealth for too long, after all — money was a room with no windows, and it made the lungs forget how to expand. 

But his gaze kept flicking to the same stretch of road.

The resort’s main entrance was somewhere behind him, out of sight but too close still — and that was the problem. Every second that passed stretched longer, the way time did whenever someone stared at it too directly. And the idea of you not coming settled like a weight under his ribs, heavy enough to make his posture go stiller. 

He had spoken too boldly — too recklessly — he had asked a question for which he had no right to ask, offered a door he didn’t even know if you could open. But now that the words were out in the air, he couldn’t pull them back. 

Sunghoon couldn’t pretend they hadn’t existed. 

He glanced down at his suit — Jongseong’s suit, actually — although it was supposed to have become his the moment he had put it on, but the fabric sat wrong across his shoulders, sleeves a centimeter too small because Jongseong had always been shorter, and it was clear now that he looked like someone he wasn’t — like someone who could sit at your father’s table without feeling the world shift under him. 

The thought made his stomach twist. 

He dragged in a breath, tasting the air — flowers, damp earth, and the distant trace of cigarette smoke from somewhere down the road and he wondered if he should smoke, but his pack was still in the locker room, safely hidden with his clothes. 

And not to mention that he didn’t even know if you mind cigarettes. Perhaps you despite the smell of it as much as Jaeyun, and if you ever came—

God

Sunghoon leaned in, forehead resting against his clasped hands. 

But then, he saw a movement in his periphery. 

At first it was only a shape separating itself from the dark — a silhouette against the faint spill of light from the resort’s property, slow and hesitant as if the body itself wasn’t sure it was allowed to keep walking. And Sunghoon’s spine straightened before he could stop it, the motion too sudden for him to even have time to consider preventing it.

His heart didn’t leap, exactly — but shifted, like something inside him had been forgotten and finally remembered its existence.

Sunghoon rose. He didn’t mean to do it so quickly, but the bench seemed to push him up anyway, and by the time you reached the edge of the park, he was already standing there, hands useless at his sides, and the night suddenly too loud in his ears. 

For a second you only looked at him, chest rising and falling just a bit faster than it should have from such a short walk, and your eyes bright in a way that didn’t match the dim light. As if you had been running internally even when your feet hadn’t.

“I thought you wouldn’t come,” Sunghoon heard himself say, and hated the way the honesty slipped out before he could catch it.

“I almost didn’t,” you admitted. “My parents were taking forever to go to their room. My mother kept asking if I was tired. If I wanted tea. If I wanted to sleep early.”

“And?”

“And I said yes,” you said, and something small changed in your expression, a flicker of the mischievous he had seen at the playground. “To all of it.”

Sunghoon nodded at you, only once — only because he understood and he didn’t want you to explain further. Explanations could turn into an apology, and he didn’t want your apology — not tonight, not anymore — not when the corners of your lips were already curling into a smile. 

You glanced at the bench, and then, at him. “Is this—” you paused. “Is this where you always wait?”

“No,” he said. “Only tonight.”

The words sat between you — true enough to make the space feel thinner, but if anything, you stepped even closer — the red flowers behind you making your skin look warmer than it probably was. 

Sunghoon’s hand lifted without his permission — not to touch you, not really, just hovering near your elbow like a reflex, like his body decided to lead you away from danger before his mind had agreed it was allowed. But he caught himself at the last second and dropped it back.

“We should go,” he said then. “Before someone sees.”

“Where?”

“Where do you want to go?” 

You glanced toward the road first, watching the faint spill of the resort light that didn’t quite reach the park before you looked back — looked at him, the wind picking and shifting a strand of your hair across your cheek in the process, and he was thankful that you reached for it fastly, tucking it behind your own ear before his hand could mischief again.

“Somewhere,” you said. “Anywhere.”

⋆˚꩜｡

The resort disappeared behind you in trimmed hedges, stone paths, and the last spill of gold light thinning between the trees until it couldn’t reach. Even the air changed. Less citrus polish and more Jeju: salt threaded through the dark laced with tangerine, damp earth, cedar, and something sharp-green from the moss that climbed the trunks like it owned them. Even the sounds shifted as you kept walking, string music and fountain hush traded for insects, a burst of laughter somewhere down the road — the messy life of the island bleeding back in.

Sunghoon led you along a path that dipped and narrowed, the trees thinning until the sky opened. And then the beach was simply there — no staging, no chairs and parasols with Marriotte’s logo, but just the sea moving in slow, endless pulls toward the pale sand.

He stepped down first, shoes sinking just slightly, and you followed — until you didn’t.

You stopped at the line where pavement ended and sand began, staring at the sea for a quiet moment before your gaze dropped to your feet, to the heels that suddenly looked ridiculous here.

“I—” you started, already crouching to slip one off, but the sand shifted under you, breaking your balance.

It had been nothing more than a small slip, your ankle rolling in a way that could have passed unnoticed — but Sunghoon was watching, and before you could pretend it hadn’t happened, his hand had already closed around your forearm, firm and quick, saving you from a fall that would never really come.

Your skin was warm under his grip, summer still caught in you somewhere, and suddenly, you were so close and the night so still. All he could feel was the breeze on his cheeks, your breath feathering against his skin, and the sea hissing at the shore.

“Careful,” he whispered.

You steadied yourself, letting out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh — embarrassed and relieved all at once — before you slipped the heel off properly this time, then the other, holding them by the straps as you finally stepped further.

“Is this one of those beaches where you’re not allowed to go in the water at certain times?”

“Allowed,” he echoed. The word sounded strangely cute coming from you, but it was all wrong out here, too Marriotte, and he hated what that place had taught you to carry.

He bent down and unlaced his shoes, slipping them off before he stepped further, finding where the sea had already touched the sand and left it wet, but he stopped there then, looking over his shoulder at you, as if offering the path with his body.

“Come on,” he said. “This isn’t Marriotte. We can do what we like for a little while.”

You hesitated for a moment, lips parting as though you meant to say something else — but whatever it was, you let it go with a small shake of your head and followed.

Sunghoon kept his pace slower than normal, not looking back fully — just enough to confirm you were still there, a step behind him, heels hooked securely over your fingers — and matching your pace when it slowed, pretending he wasn’t listening to every change in your breathing like it could mean something.

The shoreline pulled in and out, foam thinning and retreating, leaving the sand dark and shining under the moonlight. A small wave slid up in a cold sheet and flattened at Sunghoon’s feet, soaking the hem of his trousers. 

“I am sorry,” you said. “I had no idea that my father had invited Byeongseok and his parents. If I had, I would have told you to come some other time. I know they are—” but you never finished. There wasn’t anything you could say that they hadn’t already proven to be, and so, you merely shook your head, your gaze dropping back at your feet. “I am genuinely sorry.”

Sunghoon halted then, not realizing he had done it until you halted too, turning to find him a step behind. He never thought he had any problem with speaking and talking, but now he realized that perhaps whenever he had something serious to say, he needed to go still first. 

“Byeongseok,” he began.

“What about him?”

“Are you both a — thing?” 

“What?” you laughed, less because you were amused than because you knew you were supposed to be. “He is a friend — kind of, I don’t know.”

You shuddered.

“Our parents have known each other since university and co-founded their first company together,” you explained. “When our mothers got pregnant around the same time, it was already decided that Byeongseok and I should be friends too — actually, when they figured out our genders, even — even marriage was in the talks.”

The world didn’t stop then. The wind kept blowing, tucking loose strands of your hair and sending them through the night in thin ribbons of moonlight. The sea kept hissing at the shore in its slow, indifferent rhythm, as if it had never learned the meaning of names. But Sunghoon went painfully still.

It shouldn’t have made him feel anything — this truth of yours — but it did, because it carried the sharpest fact with it: you could slip away without anyone even touching you. You could turn back toward Marriotte’s gold light and be absorbed by it like you’d never stood here at all. Like this beach was only a pause between rules. Like the night had borrowed you and would have to give you back.

And the thought spiked so suddenly that it made him angry.

Sunghoon worked his jaw once and swallowed hard, as if he could force the feeling down to wherever he kept everything else. But it didn’t go. It stayed lodged in his throat, cold, heavy, and growing harder with every second he didn’t say it out loud: don’t go.

And in the hush of the moment, you continued, your voice slipping into the space before his could, soft and quick, like you were trying to save you both from something.

“It is not so terrible,” you told him, and for a moment he couldn’t tell what you were referring to. “I mean, I am not the type of person who did much — ever since childhood — as you can notice. I did not have much experience with anything. I do not know how to swim, and I only know how to ride a bike because one of my babysitters thought it was absurd that I did not know how at the age of twelve.”

“Twelve?” Sunghoon echoed, his voice softer than he expected. He tried to picture a twelve-year-old you and someone finally deciding you should know how to balance yourself on two wheels. “What else have you never tried?” 

“Carnivals, arcades, street food,” you said, and it hurt Sunghoon to notice how you didn’t even seem to go very far into your mind before coming up with those, as if you had already listed all the things life had kept from you, holding it on a secret corner. “I’ve also never played in the rain.”

You didn’t look at him when you said it. You looked at the water instead, and the words hung there a moment — small and wrong against the sea.

“What else do children do?” you asked quietly.

“In Jeju?” Sunghoon echoed, and you shuddered a little because the problem wasn’t Jeju at all, but that you didn’t know what children did anywhere.

His gaze slid past you, down the shoreline, and toward where the harbor lights would be if you followed the coast far enough.

“Fishing boats,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

He glanced back at you. “Have you ever been on one?”

“No,” you laughed, and it sounded like surprise more than amusement. “Not even close.”

Sunghoon didn’t think. He just decided.

“Come.”

“Now?”

He nodded, already moving — already turning it into something inevitable before he could talk himself out of it. Sunghoon stepped into your space, reaching for you. His fingers closing around your wrist, as though he was afraid you’d vanish if he didn’t anchor you to the moment.

He didn’t look back as he led you along the shoreline. He only tightened his grip once — pulling you farther down the beach with the sound of the sea and his heart pounding against his ears. 

⋆˚꩜｡

Sunghoon didn’t stop walking until the sand gave way to wood and damp rope, until the harbor opened up in front of you and it was too late to turn back.

Boats rested low in the water, tied close to the dock as their hulls knocked softly in the tide’s slow pull. The air here was thick with things the resort would’ve scrubbed away: seaweed gone sweet at the rocks, gasoline that never fully left the planks, fish in a way that didn’t come plated, and rope that held the day’s work in its fibers.

He stepped onto the dock and led you between the boats without slowing until he found one smaller than the rest — paint chipped, name faded to something half-forgotten, but still rocking with a stubborn kind of life.

“Is it yours?” you asked.

Sunghoon shook his head, letting go of your hand only so he could climb down first, one hand on the rail, knees bending on instinct as the boat dipped beneath his weight and steadied again. 

“It was — is my father’s, but he doesn’t use it anymore,” Sunghoon answered, looking back up at you from the deck. 

“It moves,” he warned. “Just — just step where I tell you.”

“You know,” you whispered. “The last time I was on something like this, I slipped and caused chaos — what if I slip again?”

“I’ll jump after you again,” he replied, taking a moment too long to notice how silly he had sounded, but you laughed then — real, and soft — cheeks growing a shade darker beneath the lights, and Sunghoon decided that he didn’t care. He could be as silly as he needed to be to see you like this. 

“I am trusting you on this,” you said. 

Sunghoon reached up toward you, not offering his hand like something romantic, but lifting his arms like he was preparing to catch you before you could fall.

“Come,” he said, and when you stepped closer, he didn’t give either of you time to second-guess it. His hands found your waist, fingers curling and holding onto as he lifted you.

The boat shifted under him as he brought you down, the deck dipping at the exact wrong moment, and making Sunghoon’s balance break — just a fraction — but he stumbled anyway, the two of you jolting together.

Your lips parted on a gasp, and you were suddenly too close again. The air between you thinned enough that Sunghoon could not only hear but feel it against his mouth, sweet with the strawberry cocktail you had been nursing at dinner and chocolate from the dessert he almost stole from you.

He wasn’t sure what had come to your mind, but your gaze dropped to his lips, and for one stupid second, he thought the deck had tilted again, some tide moving the boat beneath your feet, because he caught himself moving toward you — toward whatever it was.

It was absurd, honestly, how quickly his body betrayed him. How instinct moved first: the pull forward, the half-formed reach, the mind going blank in the same way it did right before a dive.

But then, his mind snapped back in with the same brutal timing it always had, and Sunghoon halted.

He forced his hands to stay where they were. Forced his feet to hold, and his gaze to move up and off your mouth — off the sweet stain of chocolate and strawberries on the air — because if he kept looking, he didn’t trust himself not to finish what his body had started.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The only still point in the middle of a harbor that continued to creak as it always had: water brushing softly against wood, rope shifting overhead, and the hull answering the tide with a slow, patient pull for which Sunghoon couldn’t bring himself to match. But then, you stepped aside, your gaze already skittering away, and searching for anything to hold onto that wasn’t this.

“It is a nice boat,” you said. “Why does your father not use it anymore?” 

His fingers flexed once at his sides — a newfound habit to ground him back into his body — as he breathed in.

“He had a stroke a few years ago,” he said, and it came out with the same level of emotion the doctors had said back then, like a fact because well, it was what it was. “It interrupted the blood flow to his spinal cord for long enough — long enough for his legs to stop working.”

It made you turn back at him, your gaze settling on him with a softness Sunghoon didn’t know what to do with because it didn’t feel like pity, not really. It felt like you were staying. As if you’d reached for the ugly truth and, instead of handing it back to him, you were holding one corner of it with your bare hands, because you didn’t want to give it back to him, not when it weighed so much, and it made his breath catch.

He looked away on instinct, jaw tightening as if he could lock the reaction behind his teeth, but his throat still burned anyway, sudden and sharp. The harbor lights blurred for a second on the water’s surface, trembling lines turning softer as he blinked and forced his eyes to behave.

“I am so sorry, Sunghoon,” you said, quietly. “I cannot imagine how hard it must have been for you.”

Something in his chest shifted at the way you said it — for him, not just his father — and it left him unsteady in a way the boat never could. He pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth, swallowing once, and then again, as if he could force the feeling down into a place it wouldn’t show.

But he couldn’t — he never could, not with you.

“Yeah,” Sunghoon managed, rough around the edges. Then, after a beat, like the words had to be pried loose: “It was—”

“It was my last year in high school and suddenly I was having to get part-time jobs to help with the bills. University exams and everything that came with it became just a reality that couldn’t be mine,” he said, the words coming out in a rush, like now that he had started, he couldn’t stop. “I graduated by a miracle, I would say — and then I got the job at Marriotte, and it’s not like we are rich, but it gave us some breathing room. They pay well — I mean, not enough to cover a dozen of crystal glasses with one of the most expensive champagnes comfortably—”

“That is why you reacted that way,” you said.

“Desperate?” 

“I wasn’t going to use this word.”

Sunghoon’s lips twitched.

“You can be harsh with me, Angel,” he said, and regretted the nickname the second it left his mouth. It sounded too familiar — too owned — but if anything, you smiled at him, ending the distance you had previously created and reaching for him, your thumb brushing the space between his brows.

“You are frowning,” you whispered.

Sunghoon hadn’t noticed it — he couldn’t come to care, actually — all he could think about was the warmth of your thumb, the faint smell of coconuts at your skin, and the sudden, odd urgency in him to keep you there and not let you slip away again.

“Do you want me to take her out a bit?” he asked, his voice lower than he intended. “It’s better once the lights are behind us.”

“The boat?” you asked, and he was surprised by how excited you sounded. “Can you?”

He moved before he could overthink it, reaching past you to the console by the cabin, fingers finding switches and knobs with the muscle memory of a childhood he didn’t talk about much. 

The cabin itself crouched in the middle of the boat — small windows clouded with salt, paint chipped, a cheap string of bulbs hanging along a metal frame overhead from one decision he was too young to remember. Warm light spilled onto coiled rope and a cooler shoved against the cabin wall, onto a bucket with a cracked handle and nets bunched like shed skins.

The boat rocked in small answers as he worked, impatient, like it wanted to be out in the water too.

You stepped into the cabin’s shadow, close enough to watch without getting in the way. 

The engine coughed when he turned it over, and Sunghoon coaxed it gently — hand steady, voice low under his breath as if the boat could hear him. It sputtered again, then finally caught, a rough vibration running through the deck and up his legs, swallowing the harbor’s quieter noises.

Sunghoon guided the boat out, slow at first, easing past the tighter line of docked vessels. The harbor lights stayed bright behind you for a moment — gold smearing across the water — before they began to thin.

And then, gradually, the world changed. The air opened. The smell of gasoline softened into salt and night. The noises of the docks dissolved into nothing but the sea’s quiet insistence and the boat’s engine thudding like a heartbeat.

You leaned a little, peering past the cabin.

“It is — dark,” you said.

“You aren’t supposed to be looking down.”

“I—”

Sunghoon killed the engine, and the sudden silence landed heavy and solemn, although the boat continued to drift, tide and current doing what they always did, and the hull continued to knock against the water.

“Come,” he said.

Sunghoon stepped out and moved toward the side passage between the cabin and the rail. It was narrow — barely enough for one person to pass without turning sideways, and you seemed to notice it right away.

“Is it — safe?” you asked, and Sunghoon snorted at it.

“Define safe,” he said, because it wasn’t, but there was no other way, and so, he merely turned sideways, giving in a few steps into the narrow patch before he glanced back at you.

“Like this,” he instructed. “Sideways — you can use the cabin for support.”

You did as he said, following him into the gap.

The cabin wall pressed close as you both moved, and only when you reached the bow, the space widened by a few inches — not much, but enough to feel like freedom. The cabin lights were dimmer here, allowing the sky to be everything.

Sunghoon looked at you for a second, taking in the way you stared upward, your lips parting in a gasp you didn’t quite release.

Sunghoon didn’t wait for you to decide. He lowered himself first, back meeting the wood, one arm tucked under his head like he belonged to the boat in a way he didn’t belong anywhere else. 

You watched him as if you weren’t sure you were allowed to follow, but then you did anyway, lying down beside him.

Above, the stars were so bright they looked spilled — silver and white against a dark so deep, it swallowed the last memory of the harbor.

And it was so nice to just lie there with you — backs resting against the deck as you watched the stars — as if you both had shared something and were no longer alone with yourselves and your little secrets, because well, you had.

“You know,” you began. “You made me do two things I have never done in the span of a single hour — be in a fishing boat and watch the stars.”

“Have you never watched the stars?” he asked.

“Not really,” you said. “There are too many lights in Seoul, it’s almost impossible to see the stars.”

“That’s a waste.”

You laughed at that — so small and soft — as if the night had pulled it out of you without asking and Sunghoon’s mouth twitched at the sound. He kept his eyes on the sky, knowing it was safer than looking at you, but your laughter stayed in his chest anyway, warm, stubborn, and making something within him shift.

“We could do more,” he said, the words escaping before he could prevent them. “Not tonight, but while you are in Jeju — I could teach you how to swim — there is a public pool nearby, we could go there after my working hours at the resort.”

He was rambling at this point, trying to turn the thing he had just offered into something practical — something that could be scheduled and explained and, if necessary, defended. As if putting it into logistics could make it safer.

“I mean—”

“I would love to,” you cut in. “I genuinely would love to.”

“Tomorrow, if you can,” he said. “Let’s meet on the bench.”

“Tomorrow,” you said. “At our spot.”

“Our spot,” he heard himself agreeing. 

Sunghoon couldn’t tell how long you stayed there, the boat drifting and rocking beneath your backs, but it was enough for the air to shift, the night cooling as if the morning had already started to gather itself somewhere out of his sight. And Sunghoon understood, with a clarity that made something within his chest tighten, that soon the world would wake up, and he would have to take you back. Tomorrow was going to come no matter what, and yet still — he wanted it to. 

If it were to be with you, he wanted it to.

PART TWO｜STORY MASTERLIST

[kissued]

END OF THE LINE ✦ 박성훈 PARK SUNGHOON [ PART 02 ]

if you're gonna break me in two ⋆ masterpost ⋆ do what you gotta do GENRE + PAIRING ⋮ college au. ice hockey player!fratboy!sunghoon x fem!reader ⋮ PART 02 WC 31.4k

SYNOPSIS ⋮ you’ve been crushing on lee heeseung for most of your college life — long enough that you were beginning to crack. one blessed night, when a girl at a party slips you his number, it feels like fate finally taking pity on you. what follows is a slow, intoxicating unraveling — late-night calls, perfect pick-ups, subtle flirts you’d expect from a charming guy like him. so why is it that when you finally wave at him on campus, he looks genuinely confused?

CONTENT WARNINGS ⋮ explicit themes INCLUDES SMUT so +18 ONLY. themes of mental illness sex as a coping mechanism self esteem issues angst with happy ending miscommunication skinship physical intimacy inferiority complex featuring enhypen + yeonjun of txt slowburn pining NSFW TAGS ⋮ dom!sunghoon, condescending remarks, piv, dumbification, creampie, unprotected sex (don't), degradation, spanking, praise, dry humping, fingering, edging, sunghoon puts reader into a mating press halfway, breeding kink, sunghoon says i love you while in it, reader is so down Bad save her.

AUTHOR'S NOTE ⋮ heeelloo i'm back again less than a week later TT up until this point i've had a huge draft to work from, but i wrote this part mostlyyy recently (like in the past 2-3weeks). i can't wait to see what everyone thinks of the fic as a whole and i'll be lurking in ur blogs... watching... also stream dwygd by the band camino the song sparked me back into finishing this fic and it's where the titles r taken from :7 ENJOY !!!! #hoonynforever

REBLOGS APPRECIATED ⋆ THANK YOU FOR READING

you know this version of yourself very well. it’s the one that immediately starts accounting for error before drawing conclusions, and the one that treats uncertainty as concrete evidence you’ve got everything wrong. by the time you reach your car, you couldn’t even pull your stupid phone out of your stupidly tight jeans, because the pocket seemed vacuum sealed to your thighs once you sat down.

the drive home is full of revision. memories, mostly, on the phone: did you dream all of lee heeseung up? who the hell started those conversations? who called you last night?

was this all one-sided?

every turn at every corner feels excruciating. the green lights are too slow and every second that passes makes you want to reach for your phone, call him immediately, and ask just what the fuck that was. your palms stick against the steering wheel and the thought of hearing his response makes your stomach twist unpleasantly.

it just can’t be possible. there is just no way that you’re this unlucky.

the rest of the journey is blank. you didn’t even turn on the radio, nor did you bother to plug in the carplay. it’s almost pathetic how fast you slide out of the leather seat, how hard you slam the door to the driver’s, and how desperately you punch in the code to your apartment. you mess it up once, which earns a small cuss under your breath, but none of it overshadows the confusion.

you can’t possibly text him like this. ringing him would only lead to something even worse. you might say something you don’t mean, or fuck things up in that signature way of yours.

so, you settle for the same routine as always: shower, lunch, nap, and try not to lose your mind throughout the day. at some point, you think it cannot possibly be this serious—you’ve never met the man like this, never spoken to him in person, and not once have you heard his voice utter your name in real life. it is absolutely ridiculous that your knees almost buckle in the shower, at the mere thought that this truly might have meant nothing. just nothing.

there is an attempt to move through the day without acknowledging the hundred pound weight on your shoulders. perhaps it’s because you’ve spent weeks with your brain at full power that it’s starting to swirl with all kinds of things now.

you’re dragging your feet against the floorboards as you make your way to the kitchen. caffeine might help, maybe. there’s no logic or sound reasoning behind the decision, but you reach for your favourite mug and position it under the coffee machine anyway. your bottom lip is swollen from biting down on it, a habit you never really got around to unlearning from middle school, and for a fleeting, pathetic moment, you think that this is your fate.

your knuckles almost go white, grip tightening on the edge of the marble island, like it’ll help regulate your feelings any better. an annoying chime plays from the coffee machine a few seconds later—hot ribbons of steam curling into the air—but you don’t even feel like drinking it at all, really.

half-heartedly, you take the mug and head straight for your bedroom. your hair is still damp against your neck, the apartment smells like your shampoo, and for a moment, you catch a whiff of cigarette smoke from the neighbour above your unit. your things are still in a mess from last night—from when you were still on the phone with him, falling asleep with a sour mood and paper notes crumpled at the foot of your bed, books still flipped open to important pages that you conveniently wiped from your memory an hour ago.

and, your phone. face down, on your night stand, plugged into the wall and far too quiet for your comfort, as if lee heeseung could sense what was wrong with you from miles away.

“hello?”

you end up calling.

you’re sitting on the edge of your bed, shoulders slouched and back hunched over like it’ll do anything to ease the emptiness in your stomach. a screen is pressed up to your cheek, and you swear your nails might snap off if you hold your phone any tighter than you are now; the phone’s been ringing for a while, and now that he’s finally picked up, every thought decides to somersault out of the fucking window—straight down and plummeting into the concrete pavement outside.

“hey, y/n.” he says. “i’m… fuck—sorry. i’m with some friends right now. are you okay?”

he’s out of breath.

yelling in the background. plastic on plastic, some whistling, someone else calling yeonjun’s name.

you swallow thickly, but it gets caught in your throat halfway. your voice comes out more defeated than you intended. “why did you look at me like that?”

silence. you can hear his heavy breathing through the speaker, and all it does is make you pick at the skin around your nails. ears picking up everything, there’s voices layered over each other, the sound of something sharp cutting against snow, or ice. it stops momentarily when he finally understands the question, soft, but loud enough for your heart to pound.

“what?”

“like you didn’t know me,” you almost fucking whimper, and all you can think is: god, how much more humiliating can this get? “why?”

your free hand comes up to rub at the bridge of your nose, until little bursts of pressure bloom behind your eyes. all of this is giving you a headache, and there’s a split second where you think you should just hang up and save yourself the trouble. this is just how it is. your luck. your fingers knead, and knead, and knead—but it’s no use. all you can hear is him.

“y/n,” he mumbles. “can we meet? tonight?”

“you can’t just do that,” you breathe shakily. “tell me why. please.”

time has been moving wrong all day. everything feels delayed and stretched and slow in this awful, unbearable way. five seconds between responses starts feeling like whole afternoons, and minutes feel like centuries. you spent weeks getting used to talking to him whenever something happened—sending him stupid pictures and complaining about classes and saying things before thinking because there was always tomorrow, and that’s exactly what you did last night.

but now that tomorrow is here… shit, it doesn’t even matter anymore.

“y/n,” his voice breaks just a little—not very sure if it’s the horrible connection on campus, if he’s even still there. you imagine, just for the sake of your sanity, that he’s running his hands through his hair, breathing wrong, panicking. anything like those movies where the guy realises he’s going to lose it all. “i know it doesn’t make any sense—”

“what do you think, huh? do you think any of it does?”

“i know—shit, i know.”

your fingers keep kneading at your skin because the headache’s spreading now, radiating into your temples in slow pulses. you keep pressing harder like pain somewhere else will make this one smaller. it doesn’t work.

“i think we should meet in person,” he answers, calm again, like it’s how he’s always been. somehow, it pisses you off even more, when you know he can hear the shake in your voice. “i gotta go. i’m sorry.”

he’s never apologised to you before. not even for missing your calls.

“what the fuck are you sorry for, heeseung?”

you hear him breathe in, then out. he sounds exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with sleep.

“i’m just…” his voice catches faintly, before smoothing back out. “i’m sorry.”

the line goes dead.

you stay, just for a while, phone still pressed against your ear like the warmth of your skin might coax him back and force an explanation out of him. your shoulders fold further into themselves until your spine starts to ache, but moving would mean admitting the call is over, and you’re not quite ready to do that yet.

your eyes remain fixed on nothing in particular—the opposite wall, maybe, where the late afternoon light stretches unevenly across the paint and catches the tiny imperfections in the plaster that you’ve somehow never noticed despite living here for months.

your stomach really hurts. sour and hollow, underneath your ribcage, compelling you to lower your phone and lock your screen before you can over-analyse the messages from last night.

you draw a deep breath through your nose, falling back against the mattress until your shoulder blades scratch against your duvet.

you are not crying over a man you’ve technically never even met.

this is absolutely fucking ridiculous, you mutter under your breath, but you still wipe under your eyes and try to blink all the salt out of your eyes anyway. your phone dies eventually because you forget to plug it back in, and now, all that’s left is you, the tear-stained sheets and meaningless pieces of paper.

─────────────────────────

two weeks ago, park sunghoon was on the brink of losing his shit.

it was purely emotional. probably more emotion than anyone on the team has ever seen him display, and lord, was it utterly humiliating. he wonders if anyone on the team still thinks about it, given how the locker room goes dead silent every time he steps in—and it’s literally like he just got named captain all over again.

practice ended badly. not disastrously, because no one broke anything, and maki didn’t start a petty argument between the goalkeeper and him. yeonjun barely screamed at the little freshmen, and only one of them cried post-cool down—so by all technical definitions, it had been productive enough.

and still, he was irritated.

it had been building for days now, in that same slow, ugly way tension knots all your muscles before becoming pain. finals always fucked everyone over, but not enough to stop them from showing up—mentally, though, they’re elsewhere. sunghoon had been there, before he had decided he was tired of making shitty excuses for his terrible performance.

shortcuts irritate him. he’s watching people cut corners before his very eyes because they assume he’s as tired as them—well, he is, but that’s besides the point.

he hated it.

metal lockers slammed shut one after another while conversations overlapped in every direction. someone was laughing too loudly, and sunghoon was almost certain the obnoxiously loud carly rae jepsen echoing through the room belonged to maki’s fucked up speakers again. the locker room was humid in that unpleasant post-practice way—the air thick with damp towels, deodorant and sweat drying into fabric, hot enough that stepping in after the rink always felt vaguely suffocating.

sunghoon walks further into the space and, while it isn’t the most obvious thing in the world, conversations shift around him in tiny ways he’s learnt to recognize over the years. a few voices lower, someone moves their legs in so he can pass. one of the freshmen instinctively straightens up halfway through pulling his shirt over his head.

his duffel hangs off one shoulder. sweat drips slowly from his temples, sliding down the side of his neck before disappearing into the dark collar of his shirt. his whole body feels heavy today, and not even in the satisfying way—just fucking heavy. his shoulders ache in that deep, irritating way that suggests recovery isn’t catching up anymore, and lately sleep hasn’t been doing much except making him conscious again.

it’s fine. everything had been feeling vaguely wrong for a while now, anyway.

yeonjun’s already on his way out when he brushes past him, shoulder bumping his with enough force to be annoying but not enough to start anything. “have a wonderfully peaceful night,” he mutters with that unbearably cocky, punchable grin.

any other day, sunghoon might’ve shoved him into a locker.

instead, he dropped his bag beside the end of the bench, and listened to the wood creak underneath his weight. the freshmen lingering nearby begin moving almost immediately. one shifts two lockers down, and another grabs his things and suddenly remembers he has somewhere else to be. by the time sunghoon looks up from his phone properly, half of them have disappeared entirely.

he watches one hesitate after accidentally making eye contact. the kid immediately looks away, picks up his shit, and leaves.

sunghoon looks back down. god, his shoulders hurt.

the muscles between his shoulder blades have been tightening more lately. sleep’s been shit. practice feels slower. finals are making everyone stupid. nobody can pass properly anymore, or communicate once they’re on the ice. everything seems held together by routine and whatever miscroscopic amount of discipline he can force onto everyone else.

whatever. it’s manageable, he thinks. everything always is, if you’re strong and willing and miserable enough. eat properly, sleep properly, train properly, study properly. repeat until wanting anything else becomes inefficient or a distraction, until it’s ordinary and until enough days pass that discomfort isn’t discomfort anymore, and simply morphs into the default.

maybe that’s why the past few weeks have felt stranger than anything else—nothing has gotten easier. his schedule has been become even more hellish than before, his muscles still ache and everyone expects more from him; but there’s been this stupid, absurd sense of anticipation stitched quietly into the gaps of his day.

he’s excited for something. for someone.

he checks his phone when he has nothing to do. sleeps later, thinks about conversations while stretching or when someone says something that you mentioned in passing. none of it means anything, at least individually, but it feels so a embarrassingly noticeable once he becomes aware of it together.

“…i’m serious, though.”

his thumb stills over his lockscreen. sunghoon doesn’t look up immediately, because the sentence barely reaches his ears at first. locker room noise tends to sound a lot like static after practice, but then your name slips, and suddenly every other sound becomes painfully irrelevant.

there’s a burst of laughter from somewhere to his left.

“y/n? yeah, i know. she’s prettier than i thought.”

sunghoon’s hand had been unlocking his phone without thought, thumb dragging upward automatically before freezing halfway. his forearm rests against his thigh, veins standing out faintly beneath skin flushed warm from practice, and he only notices after a second that his wrist has gone rigid enough to make the tendons ache.

the fabric of his jersey sticks unpleasantly against the centre of his back, where it hasn’t dried yet.

“fuck, i still remember that dress.”

“she’s fine as fuck, seriously,” someone snorts. “wonder if she’d let me tap. you think?”

“don’t be a fucking asshole,” sunghoon hears, the laughter echoing and bouncing off the walls suggesting that nobody is really bothered by this except him. “you’re not in her league, man.”

more laughter. sunghoon doesn’t think he’s ever been this pissed off before, truly, because now his fist is balled so tight that his knuckles are starting to pale. his ears are beginning to ring, and all his body decides to do is amplify the voices of his teammates who decided you’d be the centre of their attention tonight.

someone tosses their towel onto the bench he’s on. maki’s finally out, he notices, quieter now that he’s packing his things up.

“who knows if she’s desperate… might have a chance.”

“shut the fuck up!”

sunghoon rolls one shoulder once and immediately regrets it. something pulls underneath his shoulder blade where he took a hit earlier. his body feels strangely swollen after practice—muscles tight and full and unpleasantly warm under skin that suddenly feels too small to sit comfortably in. his thighs ache where they press against the edge of the bench, palms still feeling vaguely raw from his gloves.

the conversation goes on, and he tries not to listen. realistically, these men would never get anywhere near you. he wouldn’t let them, but that’s besides the point. willingly giving this his attention would only lead to something he can’t take back, and he knows it.

“you got her number?”

“think i do. we were in the same freshie group.”

wonderful.

his tongue is pressing against the inside of his cheek, and his jaw is ticking. he swears if he bites down any harder that a tooth might shatter, but sunghoon does his best to keep his eyes trained on the screen in his hands.

someone says something else, but he doesn’t even remember what. he only remembers the feeling of his jaw hurting, the edge of his phone case digging into his palm, and the slow, annoying feeling of anger coursing through his veins.

it’s hot in here. sunghoon feels it all—anger, resentment, the guilt and embarrassment, too, because he really wants it to stop. he really, really needs it to. there’s something deeply unpleasant in having to listen to a group of people talk about you like this is all you are, that your face and body, no matter how gorgeous it may be, is your most interesting feature.

do these people know you the way he does?

they don’t. they never could.

park sunghoon’s throat suddenly feels dry in a way water won’t, can’t fix. his shoulders stay tense while his gaze drags over your messages and something inside him twists. it’s obvious that this was never supposed to become anything, and that a relationship built on a lie would crumble before he could begin enjoying it.

it’s just… one late-night call becomes another, then another, and another. somewhere between protein shakes and assignments and practice schedules, he moves everything aside for you, and realises he wants you more than anything he’s ever wanted in his life.

“could you guys just shut the fuck up?”

the words leave his mouth before he gets the chance to think about them. the social repercussions don’t even matter anymore, nor were they even factored in to begin with. his voice doesn’t come out loud, which somehow makes it worse—it stays low and level and entirely lacking in visible irritation, like he’s asking somebody to pass him a bottle instead of telling half the room to stop talking.

the effect is immediate, anyway.

conversations taper off unevenly until the entire room is quiet. somebody lets out a laugh that cuts itself short halfway through, and somewhere behind him, a locker closes gently.

sunghoon only realises he’s spoken after the silence reaches him, and suddenly, his own breathing sounds louder than before. his shoulders ease by a fraction and his fingers loosen around his phone, just enough for him to feel the imprint left across the centre of his palm from holding it too tightly.

nobody says a thing. sunghoon doesn’t even know who was speaking anymore. that detail doesn’t seem important now—not compared to the things that were said, and definitely not compared to what had slipped out of his own mouth immediately after.

park sunghoon sits in the locker room with sweat cooling against his skin, realising something he spent the next two weeks trying very hard to negotiate with.

he wants you.

slowly, surely, quietly, he wants you.

at some point, it felt easier not to think about; topped with all the things he already has to deal with, accepting this fact is not particularly beneficial for him.

fourteen days after that—today—he’s done with practice again, same old, same old; walking into locker rooms that are hyperaware of his existence, everyone treading on egg shells until he gets out of the place and into his car.

he knows people noticed. yeonjun had asked if he was alright on the walk over to the parking lot and tried unusually hard not to sound like he was asking. no grin nor stupid comment attached, it’s plain, awkward concern delivered badly enough that sunghoon knew it was real.

“you good?”

what the fuck is he supposed to say to that?

that he’d heard your voice three hours ago, spent the entire session replaying the shake in your voice, and wanted to rip his heart out of his chest?

that the only time he was so sure of someone, he’s already fucked it up?

it’s his fault that he couldn’t answer and instead settled on walking away. park sunghoon heard you on the phone three hours ago and knew he’d be thinking about it the entire session—but now that he’s actually getting into his car, on the way to see you, his heart is beginning to pound harder.

his shoes scrape quietly against the asphalt of the parking lot as he walks. his duffel drags his shoulder lower on one side, dark blue hoodie sleeves rolled up to his elbows—sunghoon’s hand reaches into his pocket automatically and wraps around his keys before he even gets to the car.

You: where are you? 20:08

Y/n: [Shared a location] 20:08

─────────────────────────

the text came at 7 in the evening. you spent the previous 3 hours wondering where it went wrong, recalling every word exchanged, every misunderstood conversation that you dismissed in the moment. it’s incredibly easy to move past things in the heat of the things, you realise—it just seems silly now, almost childish, that you let those things slip past you.

you left the house in a random zip-up, shorts riding up your thighs with every forward step you took. there’s an annoying little hill you need to climb to get to this park, obscured by dark green trees and stray cats that rub against your legs if you stand still for too long, and you’ll usually start panting by the 2 minute mark.

once you finally reach the top, it’s unmistakable. an old playground swing, a plastic slide, and a bench that sat directly behind the big, interactive structure modelled after a sunflower. your feet feel heavy as you move, slippers scratching against the concrete, and you accidentally kick a few pebbles as you walk.

this feels like a waste of your time. heeseung messaged around thirty minutes ago, and he’s still nowhere in sight—eventually, you’re hunched over the park bench table, hands in your hair, trying to get this nausea to alleviate itself.

so what if lee heeseung decided he wanted nothing to do with you? the magnitude at which this is affecting you is starting to seem ridiculous. you keep telling yourself that a boy shouldn’t matter this much, that talking means nothing, and that modern love is nothing but a cruel endeavour that you’re constantly gambling on. so what if you lose, you think, but the feeling of your heart spilling out of your ribs is pressing so deep into your heart that it’s killing you.

your fingers are pressing into the bridge of your nose again. the streetlamps feel warm over your head, slipping through your fingers when you run them over your face. you think you must look horrible right now, but so does everyone else—never mind that the occasional parkgoer jogs past and stares you down: that is what you choose to tell yourself.

some kid walks by with her mom, pointing at the slide, and it almost makes you laugh when she hesitates before saying ‘no’.

just as the thoughts begin to tone down, swirling less and less, you catch a familiar figure in your peripheral: tall, broad, sleeves bunched at the elbows and dark brown hair falling over his eyebrows, looking as tired and miserable as the day you saw him a week ago.

this can’t be real.

the yellow light washes over his face and bathes him in a warm, almost greenish light. the moment he steps into focus, you’re already on your way up—standing next to the bench, hands shaking like you can’t quite believe this is actually happening.

“y/n—”

three steps later, you’re already on your way out.

what follows is immediate: park sunghoon, tired, red eyes, lounging a big ass bag on his shoulder, jogging towards you with a stride so big that it almost scares you. you can’t bear to look at him like this, like he’s actually hurt over what he’s done, even if you don’t specifically know what it is yet.

everything’s blurry as you move. you can’t feel your stomach, and it took you more than a reasonable amount of effort just to turn away and start walking. you can hear him, faintly—sunghoon calling out your name, as familiar as every night before this one, as sweet and genuine as it had always been—but has it really, though?

“is this some fucking joke to you?”

your voice cracks on the very last word, embarrassingly enough. as if the tears running down your cheeks wasn’t enough shame to carry around, sunghoon has to hear you like this. vulnerable and hurt and wanting answers.

“y/n, please. just stop walking away from me,” he pleads, out of breath from how far he’s been trailing you. the downhill slope isn’t that far away from here, and you can see a few couples taking a night stroll—as if the universe insists on rubbing it in your tear-stained face. “let me explain.”

“what is there to explain?”

you weren’t stupid. it feels like a cruel insult that sunghoon thinks you even need an explanation; he was heeseung. you’d been calling, texting, falling for someone completely different, and the worst part is that it doesn’t even fucking matter in the way he thinks it does.

“i wanted to tell you,” sunghoon blurts out, and the moment it leaves his lips, your feet suddenly stop working. it’s like your heels are anchored to the ground by something invisible, urging you to turn around—everything in his voice screams for you to do just that, to face him, to see how hurt he is by the lie he chose to tell. “y/n, please.”

you can’t. you just can’t.

it’s incredibly corny. this whole scene just seems like a big fuck-you from the universe, dragged straight out of a drama, because god knows you were never deserving of something so beautiful and easy. love had to strangle it’s way out of your hands, somehow. it’s to a point where there’s people staring, whispering as they pass you two.

“you know what? i wouldn’t even have fucking cared, anyway.” you sighed, blinking to get your vision to clear up. “you didn’t even have to lie to me.”

sunghoon is stunned at that. his whole body feels cold, locked in place, and his heart’s pounding so hard that he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. by the time you eventually do turn around, his throat is already constricting, dry and tight, looking down at you—hand running through your hair, glassy eyes staring into his. the guilt weighs heavier now, sinking it’s claws into his neck, so deep that he can feel it nick his heart.

“what?”

he needs to rip it out.

sunghoon genuinely feels like his guts are going to spill out. your eyelashes are wet with tears and he can tell you’re trying your best not to burst into tears, and he hates himself for being the reason for it; he has to dig his fingers into his palms just so he can stop himself from reaching out for you.

selfishly, for a second, he lets himself memorise your face. he thinks it’ll be the last time he sees it. there’s something about you—even when your cheeks are red and your eyes are swollen with hurt, that he wants to see it all.

sunghoon wishes he could undo everything. perhaps, if he had just went up to you that friday night, underneath the stairs with his best smile and most polite greeting, he’d been able to hate himself a little less, and possibly not hurt you at all.

this is what he gets, isn’t it?

it’s a shame.

“i really liked you.” you sniffle. your eyes are deliberately avoiding his. sunghoon’s never leave your face. “heeseung or not, doesn’t even matter now, does it?”

for a second, sunghoon genuinely thinks he misheard you.

the streetlights blur, morphing into bright lines in your vision, and somebody laughs somewhere downhill. a bicycle rolls past, a dog barks behind you, and it is just unbearable how you have to focus on all these sounds just so you can distract yourself from the uneven breaths of your own body.

“i liked you too, y/n.”

sunghoon genuinely forgets how to breathe. his chest expands automatically, but the air never seems to reach his lungs, caught somewhere between his ribs and throat where everything suddenly feels too tight.

all this time, he thought he knew exactly how tonight would go. you’d tell him to fuck off, to stop following you, and he thought he would. it started off like that: the walking part, the not-being-able-to-look-at-him-without-crying. he prepared for it, every night, leading up to this one: imagined you laughing in his face, telling him to leave, to never call again, but this barely fits the mould.

every time he convinced himself that honesty could wait one more day because he needed more time, needed the timing to be better, needed to figure himself out first—all of it feels rotten, so useless and meaningless now.

you stand there with tears drying on your cheeks, eyes swollen and exhausted, and all he can think about is how much easier this could have been for you if he’d just been honest from the beginning. he should’ve never answered, nor should he have went with it when you started getting a little bolder. he should’ve never gone this far to feed his own selfishness.

park sunghoon doesn’t deserve to stand here and watch you cry over him.

“you could’ve told me.”

his fingers curl against his palms until his nails bite crescents into skin. he barely feels the sting. somehow, hearing you say it doesn’t feel relieving at all—not in the way he imagined it would, during all those nights where he let himself think about impossible things before forcing himself to sleep. he thought this moment, if it ever existed, would feel warm. he thought—maybe—there’d be this stupid sense of vindication buried underneath the guilt, a ugly selfish satisfaction that would prove he wasn’t completely insane for wanting you.

all he finds is more guilt, painted by a crystal clear picture of what could’ve been.

the image arrives all at once and it’s unbearable in how ordinary it is. walking up to you that first night instead of watching from a distance. introducing himself properly, and a few weeks later, he’s sitting across from you at some stupid coffee place after class. he’d be seeing his contact under his actual name and listening to you complain through his speakers without feeling his stomach drop every time you said “heeseung.” such painfully normal things that people do every day without thinking, and somehow they feel impossibly far away now, like he’d reached out and ruined them before they even had the chance to become memories.

his hand comes up to his face and presses hard against his mouth. you’re sniffling so much that your nose is beginning to redden. he notices the cuts on your lips, probably from biting down on them, and all he can see is you in the library, far away and out of reach.

“i should have told you,” he acknowledges. it doesn’t do anything to alleviate the pounding headache you have. “i thought that if you didn’t know—fuck, i don’t know. i thought you would’ve liked me better like that… if you didn’t know.”

“how the fuck does that make any fucking sense?”

for the first time today, you’re looking at him. his eyes are red around the edges, the skin underneath them looking darker than normal and his lashes look damp under the streetlights. there’s something almost unbearable about it, the way he looks more exhausted than guilty, like he’s been carrying this around for weeks and would be the one bearing most of the pain.

still, despite it all, you want to wipe the tears away.

“i wasn’t lying,” his lip trembles slightly, “when i said that everyone’s scared of me. that night—fuck, i saw you, y/n. i knew you wouldn’t look at me—”

“what the fuck? really, what the fuck?” you cut him off, voice tapering off into that high, disbelieving tone. “how—just how? how did you think this would turn out, sunghoon? did you think we’d live happily ever after when i—when we spent months talking like that?”

you’re breathing wrong. everything feels so wrong. all of this feels so impossibly fucking wrong. you need to go home.

he flinches at your response. your eyes burn with all the movement in your peripheral, and your chest tightens with every passing second. you laugh, and it sounds horrible—small, breathless, like the sight in front of you is simply too baffling to process properly.

sunghoon’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. you stare at him, expecting something, anything, but the words refuse to make it past his throat.

“what the fuck is wrong with you, sunghoon?”

there is something painfully tragic about walking away from a good thing. honestly, if you tried hard enough, you could probably forgive him. you could pretend he never lied to you, and that everything he said after that first lie wasn’t a lie, either. you could pretend he was honest and truthful and all those good things, but the thing about pushing it down is that it always bubble back up eventually.

both things can be true: that it’ll always come back, and you’ll always believe that sunghoon could’ve been it.

“y/n—”

“don’t. just don’t fucking—don’t. don’t call me, don’t do anything. i can’t, i just can’t right now.”

you never really knew heeseung at all, now that you think about it. you remember being a freshman and watching him shoot hoops by the cafeteria one sunny tuesday morning—jiwon mentioned how cute he looked, and perhaps as some act of politeness between two newly introduced friends, said that the two of you would look good together. even now, you think that if heeseung had ended up being exactly like sunghoon, you still would’ve fallen.

but that would mean you never fell for heeseung at all, doesn’t it?

with sunghoon here, standing in front of you, all you see is the hardworking, ambitious, weirdly terrified boy you got to know. you see him in front of his computer thinking too hard, and you see him looking surprised that you smiled at him. it feels strangely dissonant that this will be the last time you get to stand this close to him, or that it’ll be the final time you hear his voice.

“you’re such a coward.”

you don’t know what he says after that, because you turn and walk away so quick that anything he mumbles next falls a step too short behind you. the words feel so bitter on your tongue, and you still taste it even as you walk past that one broken street lamp around fifteen feet away, lingering by the time you step into your apartment.

when you walk into your bedroom, you stay by the door a little longer, shoulder pressed against the wooden frame.

ironically enough, you left your phone behind. face down, still plugged to the wall.

then, almost as a final act in this depressing film, you slump over and slide to the floor, crying over something that shouldn’t matter as much as it does.

it takes you a while to crawl into bed.

you blame the exams. that’s definitely why you’re too exhausted to speak to jiwon, despite the multiple texts from three hours ago detailing your predicament. now that she’s practically begging for you to pick up, three hours later, you just can’t.

instead, you scroll. scroll and scroll and scroll, through chats and messages that have nothing to do with heeseung, now that you know the truth—and as you do, a message pops up at the bottom.

lee heeseung: Get home safely, Y/n. 21:09

lee heeseung: I’m sorry for everything 21:10

─────────────────────────

the sun rises another day. it spills into sunghoon’s room in familiar strips of gold, slipping through the blinds and cutting across the walls in uneven slants that make the dust visible. tiny particles drift through the light lazily, suspended in the air and blinding enough that he has to lift a hand over his eyes instinctively, staring through the gaps between his fingers and pretending, stupidly, that if he stays still long enough, he’ll somehow fall back asleep.

he doesn’t.

his shirt is still where he threw it last night, half across the room and gathering dust in the middle of the floor. his once-superbly-clean desk is a mess, in the same way his room is lately—never dirty enough to clean, yet tidy enough not to notice.

his notes are spread all over. he’s pretty sure he should’ve stapled and organized them a long, long time ago, but he honestly could not care anymore. there’s that charger hanging halfway off the edge of his bedside table, a half-empty glass collecting warmth from the morning air, and his hockey bag remains unopened by the door from last night’s practice. he finds it amazing that he still manages to attend—just spectacular that nobody can tell how terrible he’s feeling, and even more so, miraculous that he’s able to do his job the same.

and, his curtains. left open for september’s autumn, long after that quiet summer when he still had you to call.

park sunghoon spends a little longer staring at the window once his eyes stop hurting from the brightness. the sunlight shifts slowly over his sheets as the minutes go by, reaching his hands where they rest against his stomach, and warm enough that it still reminds him of you.

the first thought he has is that he’s being selfish.

it’s embarrassing, honestly, how little he’s done in a month and how exhausting it all still feels. all he does is wake up, lie here, go to practice, come back, and sleep. heeseung’s always got someone new over, jake and jay are physically incapable of doing anything quietly, and sunoo, jungwon, and riki are too afraid to ask why he never speaks at dinner anymore—not that he did much of that to begin with, anyway. he chooses not to believe them when they say he seemed happier when the sun stayed out longer.

a month is barely enough time to break a habit, but it’s long enough that nobody asks anymore. there were those few weeks back in july where he’d let a laugh slip in front of his brothers and didn’t feel immediately disgusted by the sound of it afterwards. he supposes you brought out that side of him—the one that doesn’t need to act all perfect and gorgeous and saintful. at some point, he even let himself eat a tub of ice cream because riki asked nicely enough for him to stay and watch a movie. it didn’t feel difficult then, of course.

yeonjun stopped trying to irritate him after a while, probably realising it wasn’t possible. now, he just avoids it out of pity instead, and sunghoon knows it. nobody says it out loud, but they all look at him differently these days; like he’s become quieter in a way they can’t quite fix, and they don’t know whether to drag him out of it or leave him there in this pit he’s chosen to bury himself in.

he shuts his eyes, and it doesn’t help. all sunghoon sees is that fucking library, and you, standing between metal shelving under the evening sun—squinting and pouting, warm cheeks and messy hair from running your fingers through it all day, and back then, sunghoon wanted nothing but to do the same. that stupid expression you made, pretending like your eyes weren’t watering from all the dusty books and the harsh light hitting your irises, too.

he sees himself telling you to sit on his side, your smile, and how he almost froze up then and there.

all the brains in the world and none of it did anything for him then, and even less now. he spent years believing everything had a formula—that if he worked hard enough, controlled enough, became enough, things would eventually make sense and fall into place. but there was nothing logical about wanting to sit in uncomfortable, sticky heat because it touched your skin first, or remembering the exact way your eyebrows moved when you were confused, or missing somebody so intensely that even morning light starts feeling like fate; there was nothing sensible in falling for someone that makes him act so unpredictably.

“listen, dude. you gotta get the fuck up.”

sunghoon doesn’t realise how badly his neck aches until he turns away from the window. the movement pulls uncomfortably down his shoulders, stiff from sleeping wrong and doing absolutely nothing for days that didn’t involve practice. to his right stands lee heeseung, leaning against the doorframe with one eyebrow raised, looking mildly offended by the fact that somebody could sleep until ten in the morning.

“this is pathetic, do you realise that?” he sighs, pushing himself off the frame and strolling into sunghoon’s room with that same easy, unaffected energy he’s always had. carefree in a way that feels irritating today, and familiar in a way that reminds him too much of you. for a brief second, sunghoon sees it—the appeal. why you looked at him first, and why it was easy to do so. “man. you don’t even run in the morning anymore.”

“get out,” sunghoon mumbles, rolling over onto his side. his skin is cold where it leaves the sunlight and the sheets feel warmer than they should, sending a brief chill down his spine. “i am not in the mood to deal with you.”

“deal with me?” heeseung lets out this dramatic breath of disbelief and sunghoon hears the familiar squeak of his desk chair protesting under sudden weight. wheels scrape softly against the floor before rolling closer and closer until heeseung’s annoyingly charismatic face enters his peripheral. “everyone’s been dealing with your moping, hoon. it gets obvious when it’s six instead of seven after, like, two days—”

“okay.”

“okay?” heeseung repeats immediately, eyebrows lifting. his elbow lands on the arm rest and his chin settles into his hand. “okay.”

sunghoon shuts his eyes. the silence feels like summer all over again.

“do you wanna tell me why the fuck you’re being all weird?”

heeseung’s voice softens slightly. not enough to make a big thing out of it, because god knows how bad sunghoon would freak out and punch him in the mouth for that—but it’s enough to show the concern building up over the past few weeks.

sunghoon opens his eyes again, and somehow, seeing and hearing it for himself only annoys him more. sure, he knows it’s ridiculous and childish and just unfair, but he can’t help himself.

heeseung shouldn’t be worried. nothing happened to him. he didn’t stand in the park and watch you walk away, and he didn’t spend a month replaying every conversation, trying to figure out which version of him you liked more—and he did not ruin anything.

he swallows and stares at the windows again, drifting away from heeseung’s face.

the sunlight’s moved further away.

“i’m fine,” sunghoon says—his voice comes out flatter than intended. regardless, he does nothing to make himself sound any more convincing, and even if he did, he knows heeseung would see right through it.

the chair squeaks again as his friend leans further back, an unconvincing scoff being the only thing that leaves his lips. a soft thud as the backrest hits the wall, sunghoon would’ve glared at him any other day—but now, he can’t seem to find the energy.

“y’know, for someone who spent years acting all emotionless,” heeseung mumbles under his breath, “you’re shit at pretending like you don’t have them.”

it’s a decibel too loud to be accidental. sunghoon can’t even get angry now, because he knows better. after all this time, he really does—he knows better than to get angry at anyone else but himself.

he doesn’t answer. heeseung watches him for a little longer, head tilting slightly as his eyes drift over sunghoon’s face, lingering around the redness in his eyes and the exhaustion dragging down his expression. there’s a brief moment where he looks like he wants to say something and thinks better of it.

“…you know, i still think what you did was insane. i still don’t get why you didn’t just tell her.”

sunghoon closes his eyes. he’s not trying to avoid it, believe him—he’s spent majority of his days holding the guilt against himself, on his shoulders, feeling it weigh down on his chest for days a time. he doesn’t necessarily disagree.

“you talked to someone for months, pretending to be somebody else, and expected that to work?”

sunghoon’s jaw almost shatters from how hard he’s clenching it. he imagined you saying those same words to him, at some point. your gentle smile behind his eyelids seem to be one of many things preventing him from beating the shit out of the guy.

lee heeseung notices it, and can’t help but sigh. “you looked happier, hoon. really.”

sunghoon wishes he just went back to sleep. he doesn’t know what good this is doing him, really—he’s aware of it. it’s lying everywhere, the proof scattered around like meaningless scraps: his reduced sleep, terrible appetite and unwillingness to see any girl that isn’t you.

he knows better than anyone how happy he was.

“didn’t know what it was at first,” he says. “thought you made it to the olympic lineup or something. shit’s no joke.”

he’s not even looking at sunghoon anymore. “i know it when i see it. checking your phone every five minutes, laughing more. then you came home looking like someone fucking died.”

heeseung scratches at the back of his neck, but sunghoon looks away before he can utter the last word.

“do i know her?”

“no.”

sunghoon’s answer is immediate. too quick not to raise his other eyebrow, apparently. heeseung notices, and sunghoon notices that heeseung notices—but both never look each other in the eye.

“…okay.” heeseung mutters. his eyes drift around the room instead, trying to keep themselves occupied, if only for the sake of not looking too long at his miserable, bed-ridden friend’s face. his fingers tap idly against the armrest once, twice, before stopping altogether.

“you’re making this way worse for me, heeseung,” sunghoon deadpans, hand coming up to rub at his eyes. the scene feels oddly intimate for someone who still doesn’t know half of what sunghoon’s done. “it’s getting on my nerves.”

“good.”

sunghoon shoots him a look. heeseung just smiles, soft and underpainted with concern that hurts him to even acknowledge. for all the effort sunghoon’s spent making himself difficult to read—for all the years of swallowing things whole and convincing himself that if nobody saw him, then nothing could really touch him—he’s still shocked that people notice when things go bad.

after a few, quiet minutes of sunghoon wishing for heeseung to vanish into thin air and heeseung’s incessant staring, he speaks again.

“…you going to sunoo’s thing this weekend?”

he completely forgot about that. sunghoon blinks slowly, the memories coming back to him now—he remembers, vividly, your voice on the phone, rambling about the stupid thing for five minutes.

you sounded ridiculously excited. obvious now why that was, it still feels just as bitter as it did back then. “what?”

he knows what. he doesn’t know why he’s acting like he doesn’t have a clue what heeseung’s saying.

“sunoo was freaking out yesterday,” he laughs to himself, head tipping back slightly as the chair rocks under him. one foot drags absentmindedly against the floor while his fingers hook around the edge of the armrest. “said he only needs two more people before he reaches the donation limit. i wonder how long the queue’s gonna be.”

sunghoon can vaguely predict where this conversation is going. his eyes narrow a little, and thinks he’ll genuinely kill lee heeseung if he even suggests going to that ridiculous event. if anybody came up and asked him for donations, he’d give it. fine. whatever. just not while publicly exchanging his dignity for it—

“you should go.”

of course.

sunghoon stares at him, blank-eyed with lips pressed together so tightly they almost disappear.

heeseung looks back for exactly half a second before exhaling through his nose, rolling himself backwards in the chair, spinning once and pushing himself off the wall with one foot.

“okay—listen. you need it, man. you’re acting like the love of your life just died, and shit, sitting around and waiting to stop missing her isn’t gonna fix anything.”

sunghoon lets out a quiet laugh through his nose. humourless, if anything. his hand drags slowly down his face, pressing hard enough over his eyes that little bursts of colour bloom behind his eyelids, like he could wipe the exhaustion—or the irritation—straight off his skin. “you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“ah-ah,” heeseung immediately lifts a hand and wiggles his weirdly long index finger right in sunghoon’s face. nothing productive is going to come out of this conversation, sunghoon realises, so he just decides on shutting up for the rest of the conversation. “i know you keep acting like she already decided on hating you. it’s fine, y’know, if she does.”

heeseung sighs before slapping his palms against his thighs. he gets up in one, swift motion. “don’t you think she has every right to, sunghoon?”

his throat tightens.

“i—”

“shut up,” heeseung cuts him off instantly. “you’re such a control freak, it weirds me out. how did sooha even deal with all that?”

sunghoon is already pushing himself up from the bed. he will hang lee heeseung out to dry—upside down, in nothing but his boxers on this cold, dry autumn day.

though, by the time sunghoon actually manages to sit upright, heeseung’s already halfway out the door. with his hand still clasped around the metal doorknob:

“if she hates you, you should probably let her say that herself.”

the door shuts before sunghoon gets the final word.

he sits there, just for a moment. blanket pooled at the waist, room quiet except for a heater that doesn’t work very well. outside, there’s leaves scraping against the roof and sunghoon just stares at the closed door like it might open up again, with a completely different approach or words that won’t scare him the way heeseung’s did.

it does not.

─────────────────────────

you spent most of your summer waiting.

there’s something cruel about time. unstoppable, immovable, and somehow always aware of when you want it to move faster. it stretches itself thin when you need relief and collapses in on itself when you want more.

summer had always felt like that—golden and lazy and unbearably alive through the heat—but this year, it moved strangely, like someone had pulled all the warmth out and left only an afterglow.

your routine had gone to shit.

you slept at four in the morning, most days, and woke up at around eleven. lunch only happened when there was enough to get by in the fridge, and if your air-fryer was clean enough from the night before—jiwon often had to drag you by the ear to make that happen. half your laundry stays unfolded, because god knows where you disappear to in the middle of folding it, and the books from a month ago still stay.

there are hours spent doing nothing, and yet, the exhaustion lingers. stays in your bones, fusing with you, and refusing to leave.

the worst part isn’t even that you miss park sunghoon, either. it’s how often you reached for him, that being without him feels as significant as loss.

how ironic, considering you never had him to begin with.

you’re curled up on your couch, cheek squished up against the fabric and your knees tucked to your chest. oh jiwon is somewhere in this apartment with you—you’re not exactly sure where, but the soft banging of pots is enough to make a guesstimate.

“what’re you doing?” you yell, half-heartedly because you’re still aware enough to acknowlege your neighbours. “jiwon?”

she doesn’t respond. probably something about dinner, you think. the show on tv is loud enough for her voice to fade into the background, anyhow.

summer break ended some time ago—and with it went the warmth and heat and fuzziness that came with the man on the other end of the line. autumn arrives eventually, cruel in the way all inevitable things are, forcing you and everyone else to spend a little longer indoors because of the increasing cold. september is especially vicious; the air is sharper now, thinner, and you stop walking through that park altogether because every bench and every couple under those stupid yellow streetlamps reminds you too much of him.

for a guy that claimed to be so mundane, he sure takes up an absurd amount of your headspace—even now, even after more than a month of waiting and leaving and forcing yourself not to say things you wouldn’t be able to take back, he still lingers.

your hand still hovers over your phone after seeing something stupid online. you still walk past cute cafés and think he’d probably hate this place. you still watch movies and mentally bookmark scenes because you think he’d have too much fun analysing them with you and somehow, make the whole experience annoyingly enjoyable at the same time.

you still doubt yourself, and you still hear his voice afterwards—steady, certain, monotonous and so lovingly boring—pulling you back up before you spiral too far.

the silence fills your room like a slow-moving plague, settling into corners and underneath your blankets and against your walls until eventually, you start relying on old conversations to fall asleep.

you remember his laugh before his face, and you loved him before you saw his eyes. there’s something pathetic in that, you think, almost gullible—that after everything, after all the anger and humiliation and crying and weeks spent convincing yourself that this should not matter as much as it does—you still soften at the thought of him.

you hate that. you hate that he lied to you, and somehow, still ended up becoming so woven into parts of your life—enough for it to feel impossible to pull apart.

you hate it all, but never him.

“heeello?”

you blink before seeing jiwon’s legs standing right in your line of vision. blocking the subtitles, more like it.

she stares down at you from above with one eyebrow raised, afternoon light shining behind her head, casting her face into shadow in a way that feels unnecessarily threatening for someone holding an empty pot.

“what are you doing? get out of the way.” you squint, shifting ever so slightly—and completely uselessly—to get a full view of the text on screen. your head tilts one way, then the other, as though changing the angle will somehow let you see through her body.

she narrows her eyes and tilts her head, hair falling over her shoulder fluidly. she does that motion where she’s about to hit you with the pan, but you flinch hard enough for her to laugh and lower it down. “welcome back! have fun spacing out? i’ve been asking what you want for dinner, for like, five minutes.”

jiwon follows your line of sight and twists around, just enough to get a proper look at the tv, rolling her eyes before her mouth pulls strangely to one side.

“…you know you watched this last night, right?”

of course she knows that. cons of sharing a netflix account with your best friend, and co-habiting with her for the past month.

your eyes drift back to the screen and the episode progress bar, sitting near the end and there’s already that stupid little preview box hovering in the corner asking whether you want to continue to the next episode. you don’t remember a single thing that happened, and can’t find the energy to recall.

you let out a long sigh and prop yourself up properly against the sofa, blanket bunching around your waist. jiwon’s folding her arms now, a slight frown on her face, and you dislike it immensely.

“…what?”

she stares at you for another second before walking over and dropping onto the other side of the couch, pulling one leg up beneath herself.

“…okay,” she says slowly, looking at you in that way people do when they already know the answer. “are we gonna keep pretending you’re okay or am i finally allowed to ask? will you blow up on me again, or—”

“jiwon—”

“it’s fine, y’know,” she babbles on, immediately waving the hand holding the ladle, before circling around the coffee table. she drops down right next to you with enough force to make the cushions dip. pulling one leg underneath herself, she points dramatically to the apartment around her. “i can just stay here forever, cook forever, and clean forever. it’s alright!”

you stare at her, then glance at the pot, and finally, at the folded laundry sitting on the armchair.

you pinch at the bridge of your nose.

“…i didn’t ask you to do all that,” you mutter under your breath, eyes dropping back to the paused show. your fingers knead at the skin there once, twice, before your hand drops into your lap. you let out another sigh and lean your head back against the sofa. “i’m fine by myself—”

jiwon turns immediately. her eyebrows pull together, and her jaw almost goes rigid. “i do it because i care about you. don’t make me regret it.”

she’s already looking away afterwards, fiddling with the sleeve of her hoodie, and reaching over to adjust the blanket pooled around your legs.

your head hurts. the room is too quiet, again, without that show playing, or the music blasting on the home speakers.

how is it that the missing piece in your life is shaped exactly like park sunghoon?

summer. so useless, and yet, you were so alive.

“listen.” jiwon’s voice cuts through your thoughts. you turn, and she’s twisted sideways now, one leg tucked under herself and chin resting against her palm while her other hand reaches over to steal the remote. she clicks it twice before deciding against turning anything on again.

“about that thing this weekend—”

your jaw hangs. “are you kidding?”

jiwon’s eyes widen immediately. she sighs, both hands dragging down the sides of her face before slapping against the backrest of the couch.

“okay, i know we agreed to go together to the charity event, and all the different booths and shit like that, but my dad’s finally in town again, and i just—”

you wave your hand quickly, once before she can finish, eyes not leaving the screen as your fingers start picking at the seam of the blanket. “oh, yeah, no. i’ll just skip. it’s all good.”

jiwon turns properly this time. her forehead creases. “…what? what about the money?”

you shrug one shoulder and scratch absentmindedly at a loose thread near your knee. “it comes back. it’s all good. if it’s that big of a deal to you, ask your dad to apple pay me.”

jiwon stares at you for a second too long before setting the remote down, scooting across the couch in one smooth movement until her knee bumps against yours. she squints slightly, head tilting as she searches your face. “okay,” she says slowly, one hand reaching over to pinch the fabric over your thigh. “not funny.”

you squeal, and she just grumbles.

then, she nudges your knee with hers again. “but seriously,” she says, shoulders relaxing as she turns more towards you and props her elbow against the backrest, “you need to get the fuck outside.”

you let out a quiet laugh. “you’ve been stuck with me this entire time. we need to go outside.”

jiwon shakes her head immediately and sits up straighter, her fingers slipping off the blanket and flat against your forearm instead. “no,” she says. “that’s not what i mean.”

you look away, and she notices. of course, she notices.

her thumb taps once against your skin before she lets her hand drop.

“…i know you’re avoiding seeing him,” she mutters, eyes drifting briefly around the apartment—the dishes, the curtains that haven’t been opened properly all week, the same hoodie you’ve worn thrice in a row—before settling back on you. she presses her lips together and reaches over to smooth the blanket over your knee again. “but you’re throwing everything away for that.”

you don’t say a thing. you feel like a coward. you feel like a liar. you feel like a lot of things, but jiwon’s looking at you like you’re not.

“…you’ve been talking about that stupid fundraiser since february,” she continues. “you made me pay thirty dollars to get matched with strangers…. among other things. you’ll pay me for that, right?”

she realises, a second too late, that you’re not laughing.

you look away, eyes locked on something outside the window. you can’t really tell with how your vision begins to blur. she waits for a response, but when it becomes clear she isn’t getting one:

“you wanted to go.”

your hand comes up and presses against your mouth.

you remember sitting in the library during finals with your laptop open, and your notes everywhere and thinking about it between lectures. your brain would drift whenever revision got unbearable, and suddenly, you’d be imagining what you’d wear and whether heeseung would actually come, and if he’d be as nice as everybody said he was.

it felt harmless then. stupid and harmless. a little reward waiting at the end.

you remember texting jiwon about it. making jokes, pretending not to care.

but now, you remember another thing.

you remember sitting in the exact same library with someone only two feet away. you remember somebody asking if you’d eaten, and somebody telling you to stop being perfect. somebody remembering your schedule better than you did. somebody finding you in that secluded corner, where the world didn’t exist beyond it, if only for a few hours.

you remember leaving that library and not thinking about lee heeseung at all.

your thumb presses harder against your lip. you’ve been biting at a piece of dead skin on your cuticle unconsciously. “that’s embarrassing.”

jiwon frowns.

“…i don’t think i actually wanted him.”

she doesn’t interrupt.

you keep staring at the television instead, eyes tracing shapes that stopped moving minutes ago. your fingers keep smoothing over the blanket stretched across your lap, flattening the same crease over and over until the friction starts irritating your palms. eventually, your thumb catches on loose thread and you pick at it absentmindedly, winding it once around your finger before letting it snap back. “…i think i just liked wanting something. he was hot, yeah, and people liked him.”

“thought maybe…” you bite down on your bottom lip. “i don’t know. maybe if somebody like that liked me back, then that would mean something.”

everyone’s always told you that you had terrible luck.

you remember teachers saying things like that’s unfortunate and friends joking that your life always sounded a little too dramatic to be accidental. wrong place, wrong time—missing buses. getting sick before things you cared about, liking people that didn’t like you back. liking people too late. liking people wrong. liking people at all.

“proving that i’m not all that unlikeable...” you mumble. “but i’m just as unlucky as everyone says.”

it was never that serious to complain about. it mostly served it’s purpose as comedic relief in other people’s lives, but as one knows, after the age of sixteen—everything just seems self-deprecating instead of humorous.

“you like him.”

jiwon’s voice is slightly too quiet for it to be a declaration. she says it softly enough that you could pretend you didn’t hear, or so that you could roll your eyes and say obviously not and she’d just let you.

you try to think about all the reasons why you don’t, and why you can’t. you think about lying, about the trust, about the humiliation and about standing in the middle of the park, crying like that in front of someone who played you like a puppet.

and still, you do not say a thing.

“i think…” she starts quietly, eyes dropping to where your hands meet before lifting back to your face. “it doesn’t actually change anything. the one you like is still sunghoon, y/n. no amount of this—whatever this is that you’re doing—is going to change that.”

“you fell for who he was. the name was irrelevant, wasn’t it?”

jiwon watches you for a while after that, shoulders sinking further into the couch. she studies your face, one hand disappearing into the sleeve of her hoodie while the other stays resting over the blanket draped across your legs, fingers absentmindedly playing with yours.

she glances at the television once—the paused menu, your reflection sitting small and folded into yourself against all that dead blue light—and exhales quietly through her nose before shifting closer to you.

“can i say something else that might piss you off?”

you keep your eyes forward, rubbing your thumb over the edge of the blanket. “what?”

jiwon squints at you for a second before nodding once, slowly, like she’s 99% sure you will get pissed off anyway at the statement she’s going to make.

“okay. i think you’re being unfair—not to him, though. just yourself,” she says. “i’ve been watching you do this thing for a month now. you keep saying he’s bad for you.”

you look down. she notices, of course.

“maybe he is. probably. whatever,” jiwon mutters under her breath, trying to remember what point she was trying to make. “but i don’t think that’s why you’re cancelling on m—”

“you cancelled, by the way.”

“still. you’re just scared that all those feelings will come back, or that they’ll be completely gone, and it’s scary.” she’s looking forward now, too. she finds it harder to be serious when she’s looking at you in the eye. “it was real, right? everything?”

right.

you hum in acknowledgement, low and partially absent, eyes still fixed somewhere near the bottom corner of the television where the subtitles would usually sit. jiwon watches your face for another second too long, before taking it as permission to continue. honestly, she’s a little surprised you haven’t mauled her yet. a month ago, she would’ve gotten a cushion launched at her head by now.

“the more like you pretend he isn’t real, the more it’ll hurt,” she sighs. “you can forgive him, or don’t, i’m not gonna tell you what to do like we’re fifteen again. oh, that was a really bad time for both of us—ow!”

your fingers dart out before you can stop yourself, pinching the soft skin above her knee hard enough for her whole body to jolt sideways with a startled squeal. she swats uselessly at your hand, rubbing furiously at the spot through her sweatpants before shooting you the most deeply offended look she can manage.

“could you just listen to me for once?” she groans, collapsing dramatically into the couch cushions. “i’m trying really hard to be wise here.”

you roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrays you anyway.

“there it is,” jiwon points immediately, grinning so wide it almost irritates you. “see? you’re capable of experiencing joy!”

“i’m about to experience violence.”

“that’s my girl!”

she laughs to herself before the smile gradually slips away again, replaced by something more serious. her fingers fold together in her lap, thumbs rubbing absentmindedly against each other as she stares down at them for a moment, gathering whatever was left of her courage. when she looks back up, there’s none of that usual teasing left on her face.

“look,” she sighs. “i’m not trying to convince you that what he did wasn’t awful, because it was. i wanted to punch him just from hearing about it, and i still kinda do.”

she wrinkles her nose. “but i also watched you spend almost your entire summer waiting for him to call. you kept pretending you were watching movies when you were really staring at your phone, and you even stopped walking through that park because every bench reminded you of him.”

your throat tightens.

“you don't have to forgive him,” she continues, shaking her head slowly, reaching over to brush a strand of hair away from your face. “honestly, maybe you never will. maybe you shouldn't. but i don't think hiding from the world is the same thing as moving on, y/n.”

you keep your eyes fixed on the ceiling, on the little crack running along the corner where the paint has started to peel. “what if i see him,” you mumble, barely louder than the hum of the fridge from the kitchen, “and i still want him?”

jiwon's expression doesn't change. she takes a moment before her mouth parts slightly, just enough to answer. “then you'll know.”

"and if i don't?"

she shrugs gently, her hand lingering over yours for another second, thumb brushing your knuckle once before it falls back into her lap. she looks almost sad when she says it. "then you'll know that, too."

the apartment falls quiet again. somewhere outside, a car door slams, and a few birds chirp before scattering into the clouds. someone's drilling something in the apartment above you. someone's yelling something in the street. the world keeps going, indifferent and loud, the way it always does when you seem to be

“okay.”

jiwon watches you for a second longer, like she's checking the word for cracks. she must not have found any, or perhaps a few too many to name, because she just lets it go.

─────────────────────────

by the time you reach campus, the fundraiser is already in full swing.

the entire quad has transformed overnight into something almost unrecognisable. white canopy tents stretch across the lawn in neat, uneven rows, their fabric flapping in the wind whenever the cold september breeze decides to pass through.

handmade banners hang crookedly above each stall, painted with far too much enthusiasm and not nearly enough artistic ability—bright acrylic letters bleeding into one another, beneath glitter and shiny lettering that catches the afternoon sun every time somebody walks past.

“come visit booth 6!” “free drinks at booth 52!” “stand a chance to win—”

somewhere off to your left, somebody is aggressively advertising homemade brownies through a megaphone that crackles every other sentence, while another group has somehow convinced the jazz society to play live beside the engineering department’s robotics display. the music overlaps with laughter, conversations, applause and the occasional groan from somebody losing money at one of the carnival games, until it all melts together into any introvert’s worst nightmare.

jiwon, as foretold, is busy smiling, shaking hands and pretending to enjoy the company of the stepfather she’s complained about for the better part of four years, leaving you to fend for yourself amongst a sea of strangers. you’re beginning to wonder if any of this was even worth not paying her the thirty dollars for bailing. you could’ve been at home instead, cocooned underneath your duvet with instant noodles balanced precariously on your stomach while you binged that stupid show she keeps interrupting halfway through every episode—but apparently you did not need to be “sixty dollars broker,” and allegedly, according to her, “exposure builds character.”

students drift through the walkways in slow, uneven currents, weaving around one another with paper cups warming their hands and tote bags slipping from tired shoulders. autumn has only just begun settling over campus, leaving enough warmth in the afternoon sun to coax everyone outside while the breeze nips at exposed skin, carrying with it the smell of caramel popcorn, burnt coffee, fried food and fresh paint that still hasn't completely dried on half the handmade signs.

every few steps, someone brushes your shoulder without meaning to, and another laughs so loudly it echoes between the buildings. the quad feels impossibly alive, like the entire student body had been holding its breath for weeks and finally remembered how to exhale.

you've just realised how long it'd been since you'd seen campus like this.

exam season had stripped everything bare. the library became the centre of everybody's universe, swallowing entire afternoons until the only sounds left were pages turning, keyboards clacking and chairs scraping softly against carpet. everyone looked permanently exhausted beneath fluorescent lighting, surviving almost exclusively on caffeine and blind optimism, and now they're outside again.

clubs are recruiting first-years with embarrassingly enthusiastic chants, and the fourth-year students are pretending they aren't equally interested in the free tote bags.

autumn seems to bring something different into the air. meanwhile, summer, as you've known it, was spent mostly indoors or at the corner store fifteen minutes from campus, where you'd stand in front of the instant noodle shelf for far longer than necessary before carrying the same cup outside to eat on the outdoor seating. there were a handful of evenings where you'd glance up every time a dark-haired guy walked past, stomach flipping before common sense caught up with you. there were even more where you caught yourself wondering whether park sunghoon had ever been here before, whether he'd ever stood in front of the same vending machine deciding between two drinks, whether he'd look out for you the same way you did.

every single time, you wanted to walk straight into incoming traffic for even entertaining the thought. it's ridiculous. he literally lives on campus.

you spend quite a bit of time walking around the place. the sun isn’t too brutal at this time of day, and for once, you don’t dread seeing a bunch of people you know—there’s moments where you make eye contact with an old friend, a new acquaintance or someone who’s friends with someone you know, and they wave like they’ve known you for years. your feet begin to hurt by the end of the hour, and when you look down, you realise you’re holding an overpriced sea salt latte, a bag of homemade cookies, and a doodle of you a second-year student made for $5.

there’s a few flyers in your bag, too. you don’t even remember being interested in crocheting, but alright. somewhere along the way, you’ve lost the map that some student union members handed you when you first walked in, and for fifteen blissful minutes, you convinced yourself that you’ve never been to this part of the quad before.

it works. for a while.

you’re patting your jeans down. perhaps you folded it or crumpled it together with receipts or other useless junk from the day, but it’s literally vanished. nevertheless, your feet are carrying you to unknown places, through thickening crowds and high-pitched laughter that feels impossible to distinguish which direction it originates from.

somebody almost knocks your latte out of your hand. you almost cuss him out, before he whispers a ‘sorry!’ and joins a snaking queue, spilling onto the footpath.

“my god.”

you’re back at sunoo’s booth. pastel pink, covered in ikea string lights that are certainly not suited for outdoor use, the banner above spelling exactly what you signed up for: soul searching.

it sways gently overhead, now slightly lopsided after surviving what looked like several hours of relentless traffic. whoever had decorated the booth this morning had given up on maintaining any sort of order—heart-shaped balloons floated at uneven heights, paper cupid arrows had started peeling away from the tent poles, and one of the volunteers was hurriedly taping another handwritten sign across the front of the table.

queue full! please scan the qr code to join the line! we'll text you when it's your turn ♡

"honestly," somebody behind you mutters as they walk by. "this is way better. nobody’s standing for two hours.”

“right? i’m hoping they move me to the front,” their friend responds. “i bought the early ones too… i feel so fucking desperate. at least we’re in the line at all.”

you glance towards the front, almost absentmindedly. they weren’t wrong—the line that had wrapped halfway around the quad earlier had disappeared entirely, replaced instead by clusters of students with phones in hand. they’re hopping around and comparing wait times while volunteers hurried between the very few tables available, trying to answer stupid questions before the next wave arrived.

you did pay for this. your latte’s gone warm, anyway, and the condensation is starting to drip down onto your sleeves. might as well find out whether your ticket's even still valid.

the qr code sits laminated against the edge of the registration table, surrounded by little hand-drawn hearts and stars that look suspiciously like sunoo's work. you fish your phone out of your tote, thumb hovering over the camera app for just a second before lifting it. you step closer to get a clearer view, tongue poking at your cheek—

"hold on.”

you glance up, blinking slowly until sunoo comes into focus. he’s dressed in all sorts of shades of pink, from hot to muted to pastel, and his cheeks have hearts face-painted onto them.

“y/n! you actually came!”

he breaks into a wide grin, so wide that it almost scares you. for a brief moment, you wonder if this is even the kim sunoo you know, considering he was never too worried for your attendance when the fundraiser was first brought up.

before you can even say hello, he's already leaning across the table, volunteer lanyard swinging forward as he peeks at the ticket confirmation on your screen. you hadn’t realised it’s already loaded, displaying the ‘early-bird’ status right at the top. in bold, like it wasn’t humiliating enough just being here.

“i paid, so…”

he circles around the table.

“exactly!” his finger points at your phone. “early bird. you’re lucky!”

you nod slowly, like you understand where this conversation’s about to go. truth be told, you don’t, so in order to hide the confusion, your eyes dart around to avoid his.

"…early-bird participants get priority once they join the queue.”

strange. the other laminated sign your eyes land on, which is pasted right behind sunoo’s head, conveniently says otherwise.

early-bird = guaranteed queue number! ♡ NO PRIORITY sorry!!! :( ♡

“i’m pretty sure that’s not how it works—”

“it literally is.” sunoo declares, with such effortless confidence that you might’ve believed him if not for the piece of paper taped up behind him. he still wears that smile, his cheeks rounding in a way that makes it dangerously easy to nod along, right until one of the volunteers at the registration table slowly lifts his head and looks over.

he deadpans. “sunoo.”

“what?”

“…since when?”

kim sunoo doesn’t even bother turning around to answer his fellow volunteer. you suppose being the organiser has its perks, because he simply says, “since today! operational changes are needed, aren’t they?”

all the guy can do is sigh and rub at his temples.

“great!” sunoo beams, already uncapping a marker with his teeth before flicking the cap into his palm. he hunches over the clipboard, the tip squeaking furiously across the paper in quick, decisive strokes, barely pausing to breathe before thrusting it back against his chest. “congratulations, y/n!”

you narrow your eyes. “on what?”

“you’re next!” he tears a small ticket from the pad with a sharp riiiip, stamps it against the clipboard with far more force than necessary, then slides it into your hand like he’s finalising an important legal transaction.

“sunoo, there’s literally people waiting behind me.”

sunoo merely raises an eyebrow. he tilts his head, peering past your shoulder with enough curiosity that, against your better judgment, you glance back too.

you don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

a queue of complete strangers is, in fact, staring directly at the two of you. some look mildly confused, others openly entertained, but most are just pissed off. one guy even checks his phone, like he’s trying to figure out whether he’s somehow joined the wrong line, and how he, too, could join ‘priority-access’.

“huh."

when you turn back around, sunoo’s already smiling again, not a shred of shame anywhere on his face. “you’re making this up, aren’t y—”

“prove it.”

“okay, then.”

─────────────────────────

a volunteer pulls the canvas flap aside for you with an overly enthusiastic smile, hair sticking to his forehead from the (presumably) constant back and forth sunoo’s making him do. for such a small booth team, the place is surprisingly put-together, and the online queue isn’t glitching out the way other booth’s are. you had to admit that you were somewhat glad you came.

“good luck,” he whispers, to which you reply with a confused expression before walking in.

the noise disappears almost immediately.

the bustle outside dulls into a soft, muffled hum behind layers of canvas, leaving the tiny booth wrapped in an unexpected sort of quiet. sunlight filters through the cream-coloured fabric overhead, warming the little space in soft patches until everything inside glows honey-gold.

it smells faintly of vanilla and paper, with the lingering sweetness of somebody’s perfume clinging stubbornly to the air from the last pairing. you wonder where they went to after their five minutes of alone time—did they go to grab coffee? did he say something to piss her off, and she stormed out early? is that why sunoo’s giving you priority?

you stop just after the entrance.

“oh.”

it’s… actually kind of nice.

someone had gone through an embarrassing amount of effort decorating the place. ivy vines wind around the tent poles alongside more tiny string lights, and battery-powered candles flicker lazily in the centre of a small round table dressed with a cream linen cloth.

a little glass jar is overflowing with folded paper stars. it sits between two untouched bottles of water, and it almost makes you wonder how much money they poured into this thing, before you remember that they probably went over the donation limit a long, long time ago.

somebody had even scattered fake rose petals across the tabletop, though several had already drifted onto the flimsy plywood beneath the chairs.

there’s only two seats. complimentary seat cushion, too, also pink and plaid. you sigh, seeing how it was already squished flat from all the people sitting on it before you, but you make your way regardless. the amount of walking you’ve put yourself through has done no justice to your feet, anyway.

the first thing you notice is that whoever’s sitting across from you is going to bump your knees, unless he happens to be significantly shorter.

you don’t really mind it. the tent is only so big, and god knows how they even managed to squeeze a table through that narrow entrance. still, it’s enough to make you silently hope he isn’t particularly tall, either.

you let out a quiet breath through your nose.

beside the battery-operated candle sits a neat stack of laminated cards bound together by a stainless steel ring, each one printed with colourful lettering and tiny doodles tucked into the corners.

♡ conversation starters ♡

you already know this is going to be terrible. who the hell pitched this?

#5 what’s your most irrational fear?

too intimate.

your fingers flip through the stack, anyway. there’s an identical set resting on the opposite side of the table, presumably waiting for whoever draws the short straw across from you.

#8 if you could relive one day of your life, which would you choose?

too deep. nobody thought these through. you keep flipping, snorting under your breath every few cards.

#10 what’s your biggest regret?

#11 when did you last cry?

#12 do you fall for looks, or personality?

your smile fades before you realise it had even appeared at all. another prank by the universe, you suppose.

the cards settle back onto the table with a soft tap. your hands find their way to the armrests, tapping against the wood, anything to stop thinking about the guy you’re not supposed to be thinking about.

outside, somebody cheers loud enough for it to seep through the canvas walls, followed by another chorus of laughter that slowly dissolves back into the fundraiser’s usual chatter. you glance instinctively toward the entrance, expecting the fabric to move.

nothing. the chair opposite you remains empty, and no one’s walking through that tarp.

you check your phone. it’s been three minutes.

you’re drumming your fingers lightly against the edge of the table now, watching the fake candle flicker. the tiny plastic flame sways with every movement of the air-conditioning fan someone had hidden near the ceiling of the tent, convincing enough that you almost forget it isn’t real.

the things you do in pursuit of love, you think.

it’s almost funny, now that you’re sitting here.

you remember signing up for this thing with only one person in mind—someone you barely knew, someone you had no right to like because of all the missing pieces your imagination had so generously filled in. back then, this booth felt like a shortcut. maybe you’d sit across from lee heeseung, maybe he’d smile at you, maybe the universe would finally decide to do you one favour in this unlucky life of yours.

there was a point where you thought you knew your type. the kind of guy that seemed so easy to trip and fall on your face for. maybe it was that new year’s party, when you caught him standing at the front of the house with a cigarette between his fingers, the street light catching against his jaw while everyone else laughed somewhere behind you. maybe it was those tuesday mornings outside the cafeteria. maybe it was the words of everyone around you, but either way, you never really heard his voice, or stood close enough to know how he laughed, what he sounded like when he was tired, or whether he was a better listener than talker.

distance has a funny way of disguising itself as depth. you mistake wondering for understanding, admiration for affection, until one day you’ve built an entire person out of scattered glances and second-hand stories. maybe that was all the crush had ever been—a collection of assumptions, stitched together by not knowing enough.

perhaps, it was never about lee heeseung at all.

park sunghoon is a fucking headache. he lingers in every inconvenient corner of your life, occupying your thoughts long after he shattered your heart and broke your trust that summer night. it’s almost cruel how thoroughly he’s rooted himself into your memory—his voice still finds you before your own thoughts do, his quiet laugh still sneaks into your head whenever something stupid happens. you remember the thoughtful pauses before he’d answer your questions, the accidental sincerity he always seemed embarrassed by, and the unwavering certainty with which he’d tell you that you were capable of things you never believed you could do yourself.

despite the lies, the betrayal, despite everything. despite the way he looked at you that night, like he couldn’t bear to lose you, and still let you walk away—you realise that there isn’t a single part of you that wishes it had been lee heeseung from the beginning.

the canvas shifts.

at first, it’s nothing more than a shadow moving across the pale canvas, followed by the dull scrape of shoes against packed grass outside. somebody murmurs something—a volunteer, probably—and another voice answers too quietly for you to make out.

your heart’s beating out of your chest. the last time you felt like this, it was january first, and also three in the morning.

the flap rustles once before stilling again, as though whoever’s on the other side already regrets doing this. you let out a quiet laugh through your nose, watching the silhouette hesitate in the narrow entrance where the fading warmth of september collides with the dry chill of the portable air-conditioner humming somewhere overhead.

the afternoon sun outlines him first. he’s tall, broad, holding a bouquet of flowers in his right hand. he turns halfway around to mumble something behind him, and through the gap in the canvas, you catch a glimpse of someone suspiciously resembling sunoo. whatever he says earns him a sharp slap between the shoulder blades and an exaggerated shove forward, the bouquet wobbling dangerously in his grip before he manages to catch it against his chest.

your fingers are still tracing the laminated edge of one of the conversation cards when the canvas finally parts. he stumbles through the entrance, muttering what sounds like an embarrassed complaint under his breath, one hand instinctively reaching back to steady the flap before it swings shut behind him.

you only realise who he is when he looks up.

the sleeves are shoved up to his elbows like they always are, but he looks better than the last time you saw him—cleaner, less wrecked, like he’s actually been sleeping well now that you’re not around. his hair has grown out just enough to fall over his eyebrows, and despite everything, despite the month that’s wedged itself between the two of you, you remember every single feature on his face, and just how much you missed it.

that’s when you realise that a month and a half is nearly not enough time to forget.

for one impossible second, relief blooms before your brain catches up to your body.

the world seems like it’s flipping upside down, now. park sunghoon freezes, like he wasn’t expecting either; your pulse is slamming against your ribs so violently that you swear he must be able to hear it. you can hear your blood rushing in your ears by the time you stand up—chair screeching violently against the plywood as you shove yourself backwards, the legs offering some resistance before jerking free with your force.

your knees collide with the underside of the table hard enough to send the fake candle wobbling between the two of you. it’s tiny, plastic flame is flickering, almost mocking.

every instinct you have screams the same thing: leave.

sunghoon notices (of course he does), and something inside his expression crumbles just enough for you to feel like you’ve been stabbed in the heart.

his shoulder sinks by barely an inch, the hand which holds the bouquet to his stomach now dropping to his side. he doesn’t move any closer, too afraid to even breathe audibly, just standing by the entrance with the afternoon light outlining his familiar silhouette.

his eyes are soft, a gentle smile painted across his face, as though he’s trying to show you how much it hurts not seeing you for so long.

you’re just like how he remembers. golden light on your face, diffused now from the tent’s shade, bright eyes looking up at him the same way it did in the summer. perhaps it’s because of his dreams that this doesn’t feel as shocking as he’d thought it’d be—that one evening in the library between bookshelves replays like a highlight reel behind his eyelids, and in a way, he thinks it’s helped with his what little sleep he's managed to get recently.

and, in the same vein, he looks everything like the boy you've spent the last month trying to forget.

“…you.”

your voice is barely a whisper. sunghoon swallows, and his lips part once before closing again. you want to scream at him, maybe even punch him in the face. with that sad look on his face, you think he might even let you.

“y/n.”

you don’t hesitate. the moment sunghoon sees you grabbing your things, ready to turn around and leave—he speaks again, rushed with a tinge of desperation.

“please. five minutes, it’s all i need.”

what could he possibly say that would undo all of this?

park sunghoon bites down on his bottom lip, trying to stop it from trembling. you’re staring at him with glassy eyes, hands shaking from either anger or just pure despair, waiting for an answer that might not even fix anything at all.

your shoulders stay angled towards the exit, eyes not meeting his. you’re afraid that if you look at him properly, you'll remember everything all over again.

“i'm sorry, y/n.”

you should’ve left as soon as you saw that frame in the sun—as soon as your heart sank and your mind briefly flashed to sunghoon.

silence stretches between the two of you. you’re somewhat thankful for the loud noise outside that helps dampen it. the laughter sounds impossibly far away from where you stand.

“not because i got caught lying to you.” his fingers tighten around the bouquet, knuckles paling beneath flushed skin. “i think about it every day. it never leaves.”

your molars grind together until your temples start to pulse. the muscles in your jaw ache from holding back everything that wants to come spilling out, and you realise, belatedly, that you're digging your fingernails so deeply into the canvas strap of your tote that the fabric has started to wrinkle beneath your grip. you’re blinking the salt away, too, trying not to let it drip down your cheeks. “why did you do that to me, sunghoon?”

your voice comes out quieter than you intended. it’s nothing short of humiliating. sunghoon stares at you for a little while longer, and it really does feel like his heart’s being ripped out of his ribcage all over again. there’s nothing nice about seeing someone you love in tears, much less because of you.

“i didn't think it’d go far.” his voice is barely above a whisper now. “that’s not an excuse. i know it isn’t. i realised that really early on.”

his thumb catches on the edge of the brown paper wrapped around the flowers, smoothing the same crease over and over until it begins to tear.

“i just...” he laughs quietly through his nose, and it breaks somewhere in the middle. “i was terrified, y/n.”

your breath catches. you just can’t understand. every word from him feels like relief and a new betrayal all over again, and for a moment, you wonder how you’re still standing here. there’s half of you that feels glad that he cares enough to show up again—and another that never wants to see his pretty face again.

“the only lie i ever told you,” he continues, finally forcing himself to meet your eyes, “was that i was lee heeseung. everything else was real. all the calls, conversations, every second i spent listening to your voice.”

sunghoon says it like a confession. like an intimate secret he’s yet to admit to anyone else but you, because truly, he hasn’t. it’s stupid how long he’s allowed this to suffocate him.

“i was scared of how much i wanted you, and i let it go on, because it was the best thing that’s ever happened to me. i didn’t want to lose you, and i acted selfishly because of that.”

“you could’ve told me from the beginning.” your hand comes up instinctively, thumb dragging beneath your waterline before another tear has the chance to fall. you sniffle once, sharp and involuntary, and sunghoon feels it somewhere behind his ribs. “you could have. do you have any idea how humiliating that was?”

the words roll off your tongue before you can think twice. “i made myself look like a fucking idiot in front of you.”

sunghoon's breathing falters. his grip tightens around the bouquet until the brown paper crumples loudly in the silence, stems bending awkwardly beneath his fingers. he can't bring himself to look away from your face—not when your eyelashes are clumped together with tears, not when the skin beneath them has gone raw from how hard you're rubbing at it.

“i know.”

his voice barely survives the distance between you.

“every time i think about you,” he swallows hard, the muscles in his throat straining around the words. “i think about everything you trusted me with, and all i can remember is that i stood there and let you keep believing me.” his eyes fall to the floor for the briefest moment before finding yours again, impossibly guilty. “you deserved better than that.”

“i put you through so much,” park sunghoon adds, his voice so quiet you're forced to listen for it. “i was selfish. i convinced myself that if i told you the truth, i’d lose you, even if i deserved to.”

his thumb smooths absently over another crease in the bouquet's wrapping paper. “every day i waited after that, for the right time, for when it was easiest for me—it just got harder, and then it got impossible.”

he exhales shakily. “there was never going to be a good time. i knew that.”

you stare at him, at the bouquet he'd probably spent too long choosing. you imagine how out of place he must've looked picking those out, asking the store owner which ones would be good, knowing nothing about flowers, buying whatever was recommended to him without a second thought.

and then you're looking at the circles beneath his eyes—better now than they were before, but still there, still belonging to a boy who somehow looks exactly like the person you spent all summer missing, and the person who broke your heart in the very same breath.

“you could’ve told me,” you whisper again, the words catching somewhere behind your teeth. your fingers curl helplessly around the strap of your tote until the rough canvas digs into your palm. “you could’ve walked up to me that first night. i would’ve—”

another tear slips free before you can force the last word out. your breath catches violently in your chest, chin dropping toward your collarbone as a broken sob tears through you before you have the chance to swallow it back.

sunghoon moves before he thinks. the bouquet lands forgotten against the table with a muffled rustle, baby's breath spilling over the edge of the table as he closes the distance between you in two hurried strides. his hand comes up instinctively—halfway to your face, halfway to your shoulder, he doesn't even know anymore—before stopping inches from your face.

"...y/n."

sunghoon freezes. fingers trembling, not knowing if he's allowed to be this close to you again, not knowing if he gets to touch you just because you're crying. nevertheless, his hand curls slowly into a fist before falling uselessly back to his side.

your shoulders shake harder.

you clap a hand over your mouth as if that'll somehow muffle the sound, but it only turns each breath into something more desperate and more painful. tears slip between your fingers anyway, dripping onto the backs of your knuckles before disappearing into the sleeves of your top.

sunghoon feels sick. everything is telling him to touch you, to hold you, to do everything he can to rid you of the tears staining your face. wiping your tears away with his thumb and all, like how he’s imagined doing a hundred selfish times over the phone—to tell you it’s okay.

something’s siphoning all the air out of his lungs. "...i'm sorry," sunghoon whispers again, voice splintering under the weight of the words. "i’m sorry, y/n. please, don’t cry, please.”

there’s a tiny part of you that wants to lean into him. instead, you let out something between a laugh and another sob. you drag the heel of your palm beneath your eyes, every tear replaced by another before you can finish catching your breath. vision blurry as you stare down at sunghoon’s shoes, he shuts his eyes.

“i didn’t care,” you sigh. “i wouldn’t have cared.”

your ears don't catch the quiet sniffle that escapes sunghoon. his own vision has long since blurred, tears gathering stubbornly along his waterline until the fairy lights overhead fracture into soft, indistinct halos. he doesn't bother wiping them away, not when you're crying like this—not when every broken breath that leaves you sounds like something he's carved into your chest with his own hands.

“i fell for you, hoon.” you look up at him then, your eyes swollen and shining beneath the warm fairy lights strung across the ceiling of the booth. tears cling to your lashes, catching the light every time you blink. “you could’ve told me.” your voice cracks again, almost pleading. “you could have.”

the words seem to find every hollow place inside him.

his shoulders, already drawn painfully tight beneath the navy hoodie, sink another inch, the tension draining from them so suddenly he almost folds into himself. his hand, still hovering uncertainly between the two of you, curls instinctively before slowly uncurling again. this time, he doesn't stop.

fuck it.

park sunghoon’s touch brushes your cheek so lightly you barely feel them at first. gentle, like he doesn’t know quite how to handle you—warm and careful and everything you’ve ever needed.

his palm settles against the side of your face, thumb sweeping gently beneath your eye to catch the tear before it slips past your jaw. your skin burns beneath the touch, not because it hurts, but because you've missed it without ever knowing what it felt like—it's unbearably familiar for something entirely new.

you don’t mean to lean into him, but your body does it anyway.

for the smallest moment, your cheek rests against his palm, and the breath sunghoon lets out is so quiet that it almost disappears beneath the hum of the air-conditioner overhead. a sigh escapes him, almost as if he can’t believe how much he’s hurt you—and before you break into a sob again, you speak.

“maybe...” you whisper, voice shrinking beneath the weight of the thought—of park sunghoon and you, of that stupid new year's party, of library afternoons and late-night phone calls and every version of the future that never got the chance to exist. “maybe we’d be fine. maybe we’d be happy, if that’s what you even wanted—”

“it is.”

there isn’t a trace of hesitation.

sunghoon's thumb stills against your cheek as fresh tears spill over his own, his forehead dipping just enough that he's looking at you from beneath damp strands of dark hair.

“it’s all i’ve ever wanted,” he mutters. “you are all i’ve ever wanted.”

park sunghoon has never been a decisive person.

it sounds contradictory when you consider everything he's responsible for, but those decisions were never really decisions at all. hockey is straightforward once you've watched enough game tape, drilled the same movement until your muscles remember it better than your brain does, or spent enough hours on the ice for instinct to replace hesitation. there is always a coach standing behind the glass with a whistle around his neck, always someone older, better, more experienced to tell you where your feet should be and how to fix what you've done wrong. school isn't much different. people call him gifted, but sunghoon knows discipline has always done more for him than talent ever could. if you study enough, if you sacrifice enough sleep, if you repeat something often enough, eventually the answer reveals itself.

life has always rewarded certainty. show up, work harder, do better—and there is comfort in that. an almost mechanical predictability to it all, completely untouched by human emotion.

but you have never worked like that. this, whatever this is—it has never operated on that principle.

sunghoon has known he loves you for longer than he's been willing to admit it aloud. what he hasn't known—not for a single day since you walked away from him beneath that streetlamp—is whether seeing you again would heal the wound or rip it open all over. every version of the future he imagined ended differently: maybe you'd scream at him, maybe you'd ignore him. maybe you'd look at him with the same quiet disappointment that had followed him into every waking hour for the past month. there was no correct answer to memorize, no strategy to rehearse, and no amount of discipline capable of guaranteeing that he wouldn't lose you all over again.

he even tried searching for it.

three in the morning, phone balanced against his chest, he'd typed every variation of lied about my identity and fell in love that he could think of into reddit, reading through strangers' catastrophes until the sun came up. none of them sounded quite like his, and none of them ended with an answer worth believing. he’s pretty sure 75% are engagement bait.

there wasn't a guidebook for getting back the only girl he'd ever loved. there was, however, an annoyingly persistent lee heeseung.

his friend spent the better part of yesterday refusing to let him back out, talking over every pathetic excuse sunghoon came up with until there were none left to hide behind. sunoo only agreed to squeeze him into today's schedule after extracting the promise of unlimited access to his card for food deliveries over the next month, grinning so hard throughout the negotiation that sunghoon briefly considered leaving on principle alone. jake had sat through the entire story for the first time without interrupting once, only burying his face in his hands whenever the second-hand embarrassment became physically unbearable. jay, jungwon and riki had been considerably less diplomatic.

yes, he'd fucked up. spectacularly.

yes, there was every possibility you'd never want to look at him again.

no, none of them blamed you for it.

they still told him to come anyway. because if you were going to reject him, then he deserved to hear it from you—not from the version of you he'd spent the last month inventing inside his own head. park sunghoon is not every sure if he’ll ever move on from it, from you, though he sincerely hopes he doesn’t have to.

“i can’t—i can’t hate you, hoon. i tried so hard, and it never worked, so what do i do now?”

the words seems to knock the air from his lungs.

sunghoon's thumb stills against your cheek. even now, even after hearing the words, he can't let himself believe them immediately. his thick eyebrows draw together in quiet disbelief, lashes still damp, mouth parted around a breath that never quite leaves him.

“i think about you so much it hurts.” a laugh escapes you, exhausted more than amused, and you shake your head as tears gather at your chin. when you look up at him, the expression in your eyes drives something sharp straight through his chest. “i just don't know what to do.”

your fingers find his wrist without thinking, curling around it lightly. beneath your touch, his pulse stutters wildly, and sunghoon has the absurd, terrifying thought that if you hold him there any longer, you'll feel exactly how badly he's falling apart.

“i still want you,” you whisper. “so tell me, what do i do?”

sunghoon’s face crumples with relief, so sudden that it almost looks like pain. his shoulders shake before he even realises he's crying again. he presses his lips together, turning away for a second as a breathless, disbelieving laugh slips through his nose, and when he looks back at you, his eyes are wet and helpless and impossibly soft.

every sleepless night and every terrible decision has led park sunghoon here, standing in front of you and bracing for an ending that was never truly his to decide. you are the only thing he has ever looked at and thought, i might not get this back if i lose it, and that realization terrifies him more than failure ever could.

everything else feels survivable. the carefully constructed life he's spent years maintaining—he could lose all of it and eventually claw his way toward something new. he knows himself well enough to believe that, and well enough to know that you are different.

the mere thought of you turning around and walking away again is enough to hollow him out from the inside. it followed him into quiet rooms and sleepless mornings, into practices and lectures and every place he tries to forget you. for the first time in his life, there is something he cannot outwork, outthink, or outrun.

and still, even now, that something is standing here with tears on her face and her hand wrapped around his wrist, asking him what to do.

sunghoon’s wiping uselessly at his eyes. “i don't know,” he admits. “i don’t know what you’re supposed to do.”

your chest immediately drops. there’s that churning feeling again. you pick up on every movement of his, from the way his eyes never leave yours to how he can’t seem to speak up.

“i spent months trying to decide that for you, and look how that turned out,” another shaky breath leaves him, and his shoulders shudder with it. “if you want to yell at me, do it. if you want time, take it. if you wake up tomorrow and realize listening to me was a mistake, i’ll understand.”

sunghoon looks into your eyes. somewhere between the apologies and confessions, the distance between you has disappeared without either of you noticing. your knees almost brush, breaths mingling in the tiny booth, warm enough to fog the already close air between you. the fake candle flickers quietly in your peripheral, behind the abandoned bouquet and scattered conversation cards.

he blinks, just once, watching your eyes soften as they stare back at his. they never leave him, and they’re not searching for answers anymore.

“but if you're asking me what i want,” sunghoon mutters, taking a deep breath in. “i want you. i want you to let me stay, and i want it to be your decision.”

“you hurt me.” you swallow. “forgiving you doesn't magically make all of that disappear—but i’m tired. i’m really tired of being scared.”

“so this is my decision,” you step closer until the space between you disappears entirely. “stay.”

oh, park sunghoon is certain, now.

certainly, for the first time, he cares about someone other than himself, more than his stupid hockey games and ridiculous quizzes that he’d ace regardless if he studied or not—

certainly, the girl he loves is here, in front of him. her heart is in his hands and he’s trying not to crush it, because hurting her means hurting himself. she’s uncomplicated, and she’s beautiful, even in this kind of light, even with tears running down her face—looking at him like he’s all she’s ever asked for, despite everything he’s done.

certainly, he loves you.

all of you.

your arms find sunghoon’s waist with a familiarity that steals what little breath he has left. the movement is so instinctive neither of you seem to think too much about it. sunghoon's hand remains against your cheek for one lingering heartbeat, before his other joins it, cradling your face with impossible care, thumbs brushing absently beneath skin still warm from tears.

the space between you disappears altogether.

your arms slide further around his back, bunching the fabric of his hoodie between your fingers, the last of the tension leaves his body in one long, shaking breath. sunghoon’s own limbs slip around your shoulders, drawing you against his chest so gently it almost hurts, his chin resting lightly atop your head as though he’s afraid that if he lets go now, you’ll disappear all over again.

“i love you, y/n.”

the confession comes easier than he expected—true, almost painfully so, for far too long.

you tighten your hold around him, your cheek pressed against the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“i love you, too, hoon.”

for a second, park sunghoon forgets how to breathe.

all those nights spent lying awake, replaying every conversation until sunrise—every version of this moment he'd imagined, every argument he'd had with himself, every impossible outcome he'd tried to prepare for—they dissolve so quietly that he almost doesn't notice them leaving.

the questions that had followed him for weeks no longer demand answers. the guilt is still there, the hurt is still there, and he knows neither of them will disappear overnight, of course—but for the first time in months, park sunghoon knows one thing for sure:

he does not care, and he will keep loving you despite it all.

─────────────────────────

the fundraiser slowly forgets about the two of you.

by the time you step out of the little booth, there’s an insanely long queue that won’t stop staring at you and sunghoon—a bouquet sits in the crease of your elbow, and the man by your side is smiling so wide that it’s borderline embarrassing. he might as well put a sign on your head.

the sun’s begun sinking lower behind the engineering building, bathing the pathways in that familiar honey-gold light that always seems to arrive when you and sunghoon are together. conversations swell around you as students drift from stall to stall with paper bags hanging from their wrists and half-melted ice cream in their hands. somewhere behind you, sunoo lets out an aggressively theatrical cheer before somebody—jungwon, if you remembered correctly—smacks him hard enough to shut him up.

neither of you acknowledge it.

park sunghoon’s hand finds yours instinctually. he’s not even looking at you to see if you’re fine with it, but it doesn’t matter anyway. your fingers intertwine with his, warm and steady and weirdly tight—you glance down and feel the heat rushing up your cheeks.

“…you know,” you mumble, watching your joined hands swing gently between you as you walk down the wide path. “i think this is technically our first date.”

sunghoon blinks. date? you? you and him? on a date?

the crowd has thinned out considerably, but when you glance back towards the familiar pink tent, the queue is somehow still moving. students continue drifting in and out of the little canvas booths, phones in hand as volunteers wave them forward one pair at a time. sunoo catches your eye from behind the registration table, arms folded dramatically across his chest as if he's personally responsible for the greatest love story in university history. you can't help but to smile, and sunoo notices immediately. with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, he flicks his wrist in a half-hearted shooing motion before waving the two of you away.

you laugh under your breath.

ahead of you, the fundraiser is slowly settling into the evening. a handful of student union members balance precariously on folding ladders, looping warm string lights from one streetlamp to the next until little pockets of golden light begin blooming across the walkways. conversations soften as the afternoon crowd disperses, replaced by the quieter rhythm of people lingering instead of rushing somewhere else. somebody nearby is packing away handmade jewellery while another stall is still desperately trying to sell the last of their brownies to anyone willing to make eye contact.

your hand is still in sunghoon's. neither of you talk.

“oh.”

you glance sideways. he’s staring ahead, eyebrows pinched together in the sort of concentration that seems excessive for something this simple.

you snort. “that’s all you have to say?”

“i'm thinking,” sunghoon murmurs, finally allowing himself a quiet chuckle. his thumb absently brushes against the back of your hand before he looks over at you. “does this mean i have to pretend i don't already know everything about you?”

“i wouldn't say everything...” you mumble, nudging his shoulder with yours before looking away a little too quickly. you don't have to see his face to know he's smiling. you can feel it somehow, in the way his gaze lingers a second too long, in the quiet that stretches between you while he leans ever so slightly closer, just enough that the warmth radiating from his hoodie brushes your arm.

“you blush really easily.”

“i do not!” your eyes widen, yet, still refusing to meet his.

“you're so pretty, y/n,” sunghoon says before he has the chance to psyche himself out of it. the compliment leaves him with such effortless certainty that it almost catches him off guard. “so cute when you're shy. blushing like that in front of me...” he continues, the corners of his mouth lifting into the smallest grin. “i don't think i've ever seen anything prettier.”

you squeeze his hand so hard he almost laughs again.

“god,” you mutter, finally daring a glance at him before immediately looking away again, cheeks burning beneath the string lights overhead. “you're still so annoying!”

the fundraiser eventually disappears behind you. after sunghoon’s insistence on sharing an overly-sweet milkshake, his hands are full with paper bags, filled to the brim with overpriced homemade desserts and a few too many keychains. neither of you remember who suggested leaving first—at some point, the booths become smaller in the distance, and the chatter fades into little more than background noise.

there isn’t really a destination. there doesn’t have to be, you both know that—but it helps with the conversation. it flows easier than any of you expect, familiar, curious and gentle in the same way it’s always been.

you stop by a convenience store because sunghoon insists you’re hungry. allegedly, your stomach rumbled on the walk here, so he rushes into the store so fast that there isn’t enough time to protest. the high-school part-timer stares at him weirdly as he wordlessly pays for both ramyeon cups, spending the next five minutes pretending not to hear you complaining about it.

you eat, anyway. sunghoon can’t help but take a picture, too. you almost hit him on the head for that.

an hour later, the walk to your apartment is slower than it needs to be. autumn has finally settled over the city, the breeze cool enough to make you tug your sleeves over your hands every few minutes. leaves skitter across the pavement whenever the wind picks up, collecting around your shoes before scattering around them again, and somewhere overhead the sky melts from gold into a dark, deep blue.

you pass through that same park—cyclists pass every now and then, bells chiming politely before disappearing further down the winding path, elderly couples taking a night stroll with plastic bags hooked around their fingers. the atmosphere is completely different now, though nothing tangible has really changed.

the two of you keep walking. sunghoon feels like he's going to explode from the amount of dessert you'd somehow convinced him to share with you, but the weight tugging at his shoulders feels lighter now. maybe it's because your hand is folded so naturally into his that neither of you have thought about letting go—or the fact that you managed to get rid of all those bags, thanks to him.

“it's nice to talk to you,” you murmur after a while, your gaze lingering on the river instead of him. the city stretches across the water in ribbons of gold and white, every reflection trembling with the movement of the current. “without the phone. easier to hear you.”

another breeze rolls against the river, cool enough to send little ripples across the water and lift loose strands of your hair across your face.

“uuuuhuh, i’m sure.” sunghoon smiles at you, easy-going and so reassuring it makes your pulse race. “keep pretending like we didn’t meet how we did.”

“the hell?”

you glance at him. all he does is squeeze your hand once—then, the corners of his mouth lift into that small, effortless smile.

your heart gives an embarrassingly obvious thump. you let out a laugh before you can stop yourself, ducking your head almost immediately as warmth rushes into your cheeks. “don’t look at me like that—”

“like what?”

sunghoon stops walking. your footsteps falter a beat too late.

your hands are still joined, the sudden halt tugging you backwards before you can catch yourself. you stumble lightly into his chest, the front of his hoodie brushing against your sleeves as his fingers tighten instinctively around yours to steady you. your free hand lands against the warmth of his ribs, and for one, disorienting moment, all you can hear is the wind behind you and the quiet hitch in his breathing.

sunghoon looks down. you're close enough now that the warm lights stretching across this dim path catch in his eyes, turning the dark brown almost amber beneath the glow. a strand of your hair has fallen across your cheek again, flowing in the breeze—and sunghoon, stupidly, reaches up without thinking.

his knuckles brush your skin first—then his fingertips. they slip carefully beneath the loose strand, tucking it behind your ear with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. it lingers for a moment longer than necessary, five seconds too much just to move a strand of hair away, and his thumb rests lightly against your temple as though he’s trying to memorise the shape of your face underneath his touch.

oh. you can’t tear your eyes off of him.

park sunghoon looks like someone you could know forever. a gaze so gentle that you’d think he’s known whoever he’s looking at for a thousand years—a touch so tender that it’s unbelievable that he’s never loved anyone else.

the smile tugging at the corners of his lips dissolves into something almost disbelieving. sunghoon’s forehead dips, just enough so that your face comes into full focus, and the space between you disappears disappears so gradually that neither of you seem to notice how your noses almost brush.

his breath ghosts over your lips. warm, nothing like the cold air that’s enveloping you both. sunghoon hesitates for a moment—even now, he wonders just what he’s done to deserve this. he wants you to choose, and you do.

closing the distance, your lips find his with all the gentleness of someone coming home after being gone for too long.

for one impossible, weightless moment, the whole world seems to narrow until it is nothing more than the warmth of your mouth against his. the quiet rush of wind rolling off your skin, your hand tightening ever so slightly around the fabric gathered at his chest—every sleepless night, every apology, every version of this moment he'd rehearsed alone in his room dissolves the instant you kiss him back.

park sunghoon's convinced nothing has ever felt this right.

you're soft against him, kissing him with the same quiet hesitation you've carried all evening, as though you're still afraid that pressing yourself any closer might shatter whatever fragile thing the two of you have only just managed to rebuild. meanwhile, sunghoon melts into it like he's been starving—he holds himself back for only a heartbeat before months of missed chances quietly unravel between you, his hand sliding around your waist with a tenderness so instinctive it almost startles him. he gathers you closer, careful enough to let you pull away whenever you want. you do not.

instead, your fingers slip from the front of his hoodie to the back of his neck, threading into the soft hair resting there. the movement draws the smallest, almost inaudible breath from him, and before he realises he's doing it, he's smiling into the kiss.

it’s contagious. you’re smiling now, too.

your lips part around a tiny, breathless laugh, and the sound is enough to make a smile form on his face. sunghoon leans in again without thinking, chasing another kiss, only for the movement to catch you off guard. you stumble back half a step, dragging him with you by the collar of his hoodie until the both of you have to force yourselves to stand properly.

your foreheads bump together as his arm tightens instinctively around your waist, trying to stop you from losing your balance.

“do you kiss all your girlfriends like this, sunghoon?”

“don’t piss me off,” his arm loosens from your waist for half a second, just enough for you to stumble before he catches you immediately, pulling you back against his chest with an annoyed sigh. “i don’t kiss anyone else.”

“i could’ve died right here. do you even care about me? should i just die right now?”

“i’m not even going to answer that, y/n.”

─────────────────────────

“who gave you my number?”

by the time the two of you find yourselves right outside your apartment building, the streets have grown quieter. most of the shops have already pulled their shutters halfway down, leaving only convenience stores and late-night cafés spilling warm light onto the pavement. the walk here had taken nearly an hour—your car is still parked at campus, but sunghoon promised to pay the overnight fee anyway. neither of you remember deciding to take the longer route back to your place, but every turn just seemed like another excuse to keep talking.

you stop right in front of your building. the path is uneven here, the road tilted upward; the automatic doors slide shut behind somebody leaving, and the chime hums softly before settling into silence again.

“sooha,” you smile. the blush that infects sunghoon’s face spreads like a wildfire—you’re the one teasing now, after an entire day of his antics. “you had a thing with her, i’m guessing?”

“well, i wouldn’t call it a thing,” sunghoon sighs, thumb rubbing against the back of yours. he swallows before looking at you again. “i’ll be honest with you—we were hooking up.”

he watches your expression carefully for a shift. anything that'll tell him you were upset, or livid—anything at all. he swore he wouldn't blame himself if you were. how would he have known that the love of his life would waltz right in thirty minutes after sooha's exit?

sunghoon adds on a little too quickly. “it was before you.”

“how long?” you ask, tilting your head. curiosity, it seems, but these are dangerous waters that sunghoon’s treading. based on past experiences, his partners (can he even call them that?) never took to well to a previous acquiantance.

sunghoon almost considers lying, just to make himself sound better, before deciding against it. he's never been too good at that anyway. “on and off. a few months, maybe. nothing that meant anything.”

he exhales through his nose, something between a laugh and a wince. “i know. i wasn't—i didn't handle it well. i never called it anything, and i never made her think it was anything, but i also never stopped it when i probably should have.” he pauses, “that’s my fault.”

it's such a sunghoon answer. blunt and completely unflattering to himself, a lack of an attempt to soften it into something easier to hear. you almost want to laugh at how little effort he puts into making himself look good, like it hasn't occurred to him that he could, and you’d never be able to prove otherwise.

you nod, trying to hold your laugh in at the sight of his face. he looks like he's just seen a ghost, no matter how much he tries to hide it—lips pursed together instinctively, eyes wide and scanning yours for any hint of anger. “okay. good to know.”

you give his hand a small squeeze before beginning to loosen your fingers from his, only enough to shift your grip more comfortably. “i appreciate the honesty.”

sunghoon keeps staring. “that's it?”

“were you expecting more questions, hoon?” you can't help but smile now, your free hand covering your mouth in an attempt to hide how adorable you find him. “i didn't know you back then. you were still staring at me weird from the stairs.”

“i was not staring,” sunghoon shakes his head, a stray strand of hair falling loose over his brow with the motion. “you were staring. i’m surprised heeseung didn't notice.”

your jaw drops, mouth falling open in mock offense. "excuse me?"

“whatever. it’s over now, right?” sunghoon sighs, dragging a hand down his face in dramatic disapproval, fingers pausing briefly over his eyes like he's shielding himself from the sight of your face. "not really trying to share you with him."

“you're so annoying!” you shove at his shoulder, and he barely rocks with it, solid where he's standing, biting back a grin like he's trying—badly—to look unaffected.

sunghoon's mouth curls into a smile that reaches his eyes—dark in this dim light. he's still taller than you despite standing a few steps higher, your face now level with his, close enough that you can count the individual strands of hair falling loose over his forehead.

his hair is still a mess from the wind, and from your fingers ruffling through the strands earlier—sticking up at odd angles he clearly hasn't bothered to fix, like it hadn't even occurred to him. his cheeks are still faintly red, yet to fully fade since you first touched his skin, and his ears are airbrushed with a soft pink he probably has no idea is visible.

you hope no one else has ever gotten to see it on him before.

it's quiet. no dogs this time, for some reason. it’s just the low hum of the streetlight above you, buzzing faintly, flickering once before steadying again. an occasional cricket announces its presence somewhere in the bushes lining the building, and beneath that, nothing. though, there’s just your own heartbeat, loud and unreasonable in your ears, and the sound of sunghoon breathing, slow and careful like he's trying not to disturb whatever this is.

sunghoon’s hand is still loosely wrapped around yours, thumb tracing an invisible circle over your knuckles—it’s not quite a habit yet, but close to being one, you can tell. you can feel the calluses along his palm, rough from what you assume is hockey, a strange and grounding kind of proof that this is real, that he's real, standing this close to you at almost midnight with his heart clearly in his throat.

and then, there’s you. even in this horrible, fluorescent lighting—the kind that makes everyone look a little sick—you look undeniably beautiful to him. almost glowing, or maybe he's just sleep-deprived enough that his eyes are playing tricks on him. either way, he thinks, quietly and with helplessness, that he has never wanted to kiss someone this badly in his entire life.

his gaze drops, just briefly, to your mouth. then back up, like he's asking permission before he's even said anything at all.

“can i kiss you, y/n?”

the question is so earnest it hurts. his voice is breathy, needy, everything that you could possibly ever need in a man right in front of you. you feel like if you fall for it—answer him right now, that your life ends here, because this is a trap, or a dream, or all of it at once.

you’re already leaning into him, tilting your head until your noses are brushing each other’s. sunghoon’s breathing so heavily that you feel it against your bottom lip, teasing, just asking for that final push.

one of his large hands settle at your waist. waiting. always waiting.

the kiss is slower than the last one. a little more desperate, maybe—you feel sunghoon’s large arms wrap around you again, tighter now, tongue swiping against your bottom lip, moving you as he pleases just so he can get the most of you.

you taste like him.

the thought’s driving him crazy. you've already confessed everything worth confessing tonight; now, there is only the quiet luxury of learning each other properly, without distance, without static, without the countdown of a call timer reminding either of you that morning would eventually come.

it’s messy in the way that two people are when they’re starving for each other. borderline greedy, too much tongue and then not enough at all, your hands running along the upper part of his back as you keep him anchored to you. sunghoon’s lips feel so perfect when they’re against yours, he genuinely believes that this is what he’s been chasing for all twenty-four years of his life.

every time one of you pulls back to breathe, the other closes the distance again without thinking, as though separating has become something your bodies no longer understand. your fingers wander instinctively over the broad line of his shoulders before settling against the back of his neck, keeping him close without ever needing to ask.

sunghoon’s hands remain anchored at your waist, warm through the fabric of your clothes, thumbs tracing absent little movements that make your pulse flutter for reasons you can't quite explain.

“not here, hoon—” you mumble against his lips before he pulls you right back in. so annoying. sunghoon’s lips crash into yours again, still just as curious, palm flat against the small of your back.

“hm?” the sound vibrates softly between you before he finally relents, resting his forehead against yours instead. one of his hands slides carefully along the curve of your side until it settles once more at the small of your back, holding you as though he'd forgotten any other way to stand. “...tell me where, then.”

you shake your head once, trying very unsuccessfully to compose yourself before meeting his eyes again.

you’re huffing, trying to catch your breath when your hands fall to his chest. the guy is looking at you with the most feverish smile, eyes narrowing because he knows he’s got you flustered.

“upstairs,” you murmur, barely louder than the evening breeze slipping between the apartment buildings. your fingers fist at his hoodie. “come upstairs.”

─────────────────────────

park sunghoon likes to think that he’s good at sex.

there’s nothing complicated about it, really. he knows he’s good at most things.

his body—he knows it’s the kind most people would kill for, the kind other men spend half their lives trying to build. of that, he’s well aware. hockey, school, laundry, cooking, smiling and talking as if nothing’s ever the matter. he’s reduced it to a science: technique, precision, mastery, painstakingly perfected.

the data is there. they scream, they cry out of sheer pleasure, they moan like no one else exists but him, but park sunghoon. he predicts it in the same way he knows he’ll get that perfect score, and make that one ‘lucky’ shot—it’s calculation in it’s most unsurprising form.

human bodies are scientific. their anatomy is roughly similar, so he knows if he moves just like this, whispers just like that, she’ll fold. she’ll crumble underneath him like it’s her first time ever sleeping with a man, clinging onto sunghoon like what he’s doing is some lost art among the modern male.

there’s significant amounts of advice online to tell him how to please a woman. it’s not rocket science applying these concepts in practice, as he’s done—and sure, it’s done himself favours. there were nights where sunghoon couldn’t believe that he’d ever quit hook ups, but soon realised that that’s just how his brain works: that that’s just what the dopamine rush whispers into your ears as you cum for the third consecutive time.

there is a nice predictability in sex. it’s instinct, and where there is instinct, there is nature and nature is almost always studied—even if it’s an utter waste of time, stress relief aside.

though, when he finds himself stumbling into your apartment, kicking off his shoes and slide his hoodie off his back while simultaneously trying to keep his lips on yours, he finds himself wanting time to slow itself down.

just something about you, he thinks. that look on your cute face, staring at him like you didn’t know what to do with the heat pooling between your legs; you stumble against him a few times while you both try to find your way to your bedroom, shoulders nudging against light switches and shoving a few chairs out of place. your laundry is still on the couch from this morning, you note—but when sunghoon puts his hand on your jaw, forcing you to look at him—the reminder fades completely.

“what am i going to do with you?” sunghoon grins, letting his ass fall to the edge of the bed. sitting up, his hoodie’s discarded somewhere by the entryway, and the only article of clothing left being his jeans. his hands roam your body—up and down, before looping around your waist and pulling you between his spread legs. “so pretty.”

you whimper when his hands begin sliding underneath your top. “can i, baby?”

it’s almost pathetic how fast you nod. your hands rest on his shoulders, eyes locked on the way he leans closer to your belly. sunghoon’s slender fingers move up your warm skin, now burning hot under his touch, and eventually, he lifts your shirt completely.

“you sure about this, y/n?” sunghoon looks up, pupils blown with his cheek resting against your bare stomach. “we can stop. whatever you wanna do—”

“n-no,” you sigh, watching sunghoon’s eyes blink up at you, so dazed. “i want you, hoon.”

he hums at your response, turning his head so his lips touch the skin of your belly. they’re still wet from your earlier kisses, pressing nice and slow until he reaches from your belly button to your ribcage. truthfully, sunghoon’s mind has already gone to mush at the mere scent of you: the sweat from the day and your perfume blending into one, the heat from your body, that he just can’t help but to start leaving hickeys along the exposed area.

“i’ll make you feel so good, y/n,” he mumbles against your skin. “but you gotta be good for me. you can do that, can’t you?”

oh. he’s that kind of guy.

something’s flipping in your stomach—simmering low, intense, nothing like you’ve ever felt before. you stare down at him, face visibly flushed from the way he’s touching you; your knees almost buckle upon hearing his voice, and sunghoon can’t help but let a chuckle out at that in between kisses.

“can’t hear you. speak up for me.”

you swallow, feeling sunghoon’s hands exploring further—until his thumbs are right on your nipples, bypassing your annoying bra, rubbing gentle circles, smiling up at you like he’s done nothing too crazy.

“y-yeah, i can,” your voice comes out a tad too soft for his liking, evidently, because his little grin fades into something more displeased.

sunghoon stands up instead, large hands hooking around the hem of your shirt and helping to pull it off of you. your arms point to the ceiling, naturally, letting the fabric part from you with a gasp—the cold air hits your skin, and the wet imprints of kisses on your stomach feel even icier now.

he moves back to your stomach, taking in your scent; it’s even more potent now when you’re bare like this. curiosity gets the better of him once his nose bumps against your bra, his hair nuzzling against your chest as one of his hands move to unclasp it. effortless.

“sunghoon, stop teasing,” you whine, watching him lean back. sunghoon pulls your bra off of you on one swift motion. it’s an understatement to say that you were pretty—just gorgeous when you’re naked in front of him like this.

he ignores you. asshole.

sunghoon’s fingers hook around your skirt next—not quite pulling it down just yet. then, almost as if you’ve done something wrong, he stands up.

you forget how huge he is for a second. when the dim warmth of your lamp hits him, you lose your breath completely. every muscle is highlighted in orange, the definition outlined by shadows that leave you wanting, and it’s like air is caught in your throat from how unfairly good he looks.

“i’ll ask again,” sunghoon mutters, hands back down to your waist, and then your hips, and then he’s flipping you over onto the mattress. “you’ll be good for me, won’t you?”

whatever. fuck it.

all sense of reasoning leaves your body at once. sunghoon cages you between his arms, staring into your eyes, and the look in them sends pure electricity through your veins. he looks hungry, thirsty, like he needed you right now or he’d die.

and still, he waits for an answer.

“i’ll be s-so good, hoonie, i promise.”

the nickname doesn’t leave a bad taste in his mouth anymore. it’s been a while since he’s heard it—but when it comes from you, god, it sounds like it’s dripping in honey and coaxing him into whatever trap you laid out for him.

“gonna fucking kill me,” he rasps, pulling away before pressing a kiss to your cheek, down to your jaw, then to the patch of skin underneath your earlobe. the feeling of his warm tongue sliding against your skin makes you shudder—combined with his fingers pressing into your back, feeling every inch of skin, savouring the feeling of you;

when sunghoon first walked in, he noticed how unbearably you your room was. decorated in posters of your favourite bands, little trinkets here and there that he has no clue how you keep organized. his eyes glazed over your desk, your laptop, your lamp, and everything that you chose to keep that would now remind him of you—right now, your legs are wrapped around his hips, heels digging into his ass while he grinds nice and slow against the warmth of your pussy—feeling right through your panties, skirt tossed somewhere in the corner of the room.

what was most interesting about your room was that mirror in the corner—perhaps he was a pervert for wondering, only for a moment, if you had ever touched yourself in front of that very reflection. he could imagine your legs spread in desperation, knuckles deep in yourself as you chased whatever high you terribly wanted.

did you think of anyone? did you get off to the sound of his voice? though, most importantly, would you let him ruin you in front of that little mirror of yours?

“can i take this off?” he whispers into your ear, hands roaming down from your neck and to the lace around your panties—you nod again, and the chuckle that escapes his lips only sends shivers down your spine.

your legs fall to the side of his thighs, leaving you bare and spread in front of his eyes. “what about you?”

sunghoon literally laughs in your face. “be patient, baby. haven’t even gotten you nice ‘n loose yet.”

your breath hitches at his vulgarity. the image pops up behind your eyelids: sunghoon’s long, pretty fingers buried somewhere deep in you, curled at the perfect angle and prodding at that one spot that makes you sees stars—how long would it take for him to get there? would he even know how to?

famous last words, as they say. it takes four minutes for sunghoon to have your thighs pinned to the mattress, three to have the tip of his index and middle fingers inside of you and two to get you whimpering like a hot, pathetic mess.

maybe just one to get you soaking his wrists.

“what’s wrong, baby?” sunghoon pouts. his eyes are glimmering in the dark, the tiny light left outside reflecting off his irises. in this atmosphere it just seems like a mockery. “too much for my pretty girl? she can’t seem to get enough, though.”

and then his eyes flick down to where you suck him in—glistening, disgustingly sloppy and wet where you take every inch like it was always meant to be yours. it’s times like these where you truly believe fate is real; because there’s just no way you were this close to going your entire life without this—without sunghoon’s fingers buried knuckle deep into you.

“h-hoon, ugh—fuck!” you squeal when he curls his fingers just right, and he just watches, an eyebrow raised like you were some intriguing specimen. just a body underneath his touch, poking and prodding and spreading you as wide as he can, as best as he can. everything he does seems to illicit some reaction from you, too amusing for him to stop. “please, gonna cum, i’m gonna cum, ngh—”

“so quick?” sunghoon sighs, kissing his teeth. “god, you’re so cute. must be too much, then?”

and then, he slows down. ripping your delicious orgasm right from your useless fingers.

“n-noooo,” you drawl, nails clawing into sunghoon’s veiny forearms as he nods slowly, expecting a coherent answer. what a mistake, as if you could even think straight right now. “it’s not—it’s not, fuck, i can take it.”

sunghoon chuckles, head tilting up just enough to get your pretty face in full view. “reaaally? need my permission to cum, too?”

your stomach flips at the way he says it—low and sultry and teasing, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. rearranging your guts with his hands alone, whispering these ridiculous things to you, expecting zero reactions. is he stupid? has he lost it?

“you trying to snap my fingers off? relax, baby. can’t have that.”

the humiliation washes over you rather quickly, but disappears just as fast when you feel every muscle in your body beginning to lock up. the words can’t even find themselves, too lost in your mushy brain—everything narrows down to the man with his hands between your legs, pumping his stupidly long fingers in n’ out, watching you lose every piece of sanity you have left.

“who’d have known. such a sensitive girl,” and his thumb brushes against your swollen clit with just enough pressure to have you twitching, but never to cross that final, potentially fatal line. “do you always cum this fast?”

sunghoon sighs dramatically. if you couldn’t see his face, you’d have assumed that he was irritated with you—but your eyes haven’t left his, nor the red in his cheeks and his slightly parted lips, groaning whenever you buck your hips against his palm, feeling the friction of your clit against his skin. they occasionally glance down at the tent in his pants, fighting against tight cloth to be freed, twitching and already forming a dark, wet patch where his tip would be.

“oh my god,” you moan, gripping tight around his wrists. there’s a part of you that just wants to sit up and grind against his hand yourself, but that’d be much too embarrassing to live with. “can’t—can’t, i j-jus… can’t, please, hoonie—”

the words ring a bell that he can’t quite recall, is what he would say if his memory was absolutely terrible. the man remembers exactly when and where you said those terrible, terrible things, under a streetlamp and in a park he had never seen before; so sure that he’d never see you again, and now, here you are, losing your mind and at his mercy.

“oh.” sunghoon grins. cocky little bastard. “you close? gonna make a mess on hoonie? c’mon, soak me. won’t stop ‘till you do.”

there’s something utterly perverted about him tonight. hoonie was never an exclusive nickname, of course—generic by all means. sooha had taken great pleasure moaning and whimpering that exact term a hundred-something nights ago, and sunghoon swears that he must’ve been in a completely different body then. wonders how he ever let the name reach his ears without gritting his teeth, but now that you’re here… it’s like a completely different world has opened before his eyes, and his cock has never, ever been harder.

how could he have fucked anyone else when you existed? how could you have slept with other people when he was right there? the selfish thought invades his sick brain as fast as he feels his cock swell up.

never-mind that. this is way more important—there comes a point during sex where all the pleasure folds in on itself and magnifies by tenfold, becoming it’s own force, taking over your nervous system—nothing matters. sunghoon doesn’t matter. your pride definitely does not matter.

so it’s not really your fault, is it? couldn’t possibly be, even if you’re sitting yourself up (with an unreasonable amount of effort) and grinding your hips against his large, calloused hands, and whining like a bitch in heat against his mouth. even less so now that sunghoon’s letting you—his breath is taken from him when your tongue slides against his, wet and soft and everything he needs to get that pretty cunt fluttering around his digits.

“my filthy girl,” he moans between kisses, his warm breath ghosting against your glossy lips. your arms are running up and down his shoulders and finding a place to stay anchored, and when they finally do, sunghoon doesn’t wince one bit when your nails dig in, out, and in again. “just look at you, fucking yourself stupid on my fingers.”

you don’t hear him. genuinely. it’s all buzzing and static and you feel yourself starting to shake from the hip up. you shudder when he flexes his fingers, and it’s like everything you’ve ever done has led to tonight, every choice, every mistake.

“h-hoonie, ‘m sorry—fuck, need more of you,” you press a searing kiss to his bottom lip, almost missing completely and letting your mouth fall open against his anyway. your breath feel like fire against his skin, and sunghoon can only groan when he feels your walls spasming around his slender fingers. “please, i’ll be so good.”

sunghoon does that same, amused grin on his face, just watching you pant underneath him. the expression only reminds you of that night: you in the kitchen, and him, watching you from the front door on new years eve.

the corner of his lips turn upwards and it’s nothing short of pure perversion—tongue poking at the inside of his cheek, face red with heat crawling up his neck, and an eyebrow cocked up. “are you actually begging me right now? while you’re riding my hand like this?”

you nod your head, frantic. of course you’re fucking begging. it’s been an entire lifetime of teasing and sunghoon’s still dangling the idea of fucking you in your face, just revelling in your visceral and absolutely humiliating reactions.

your mind’s going blank. every thought diverges into park sunghoon and every desire has his stupidly handsome face plastered onto it. your stomach’s so tense that it’s starting to hurt, and you feel lightheaded from how often your breath gets taken right from you—so close, and yet, still so far.

“yes, pleasepleaseplease, i—”

“god, you’re greedy,” sunghoon mumbles under his breath, using his free hand to push you backwards. your spine hits the mattress with a recoil, and the springs creak just enough to muffle the pathetic whine that slips off your lips. “just an ungrateful girl. fine, then.”

and then, there’s nothing. just that mind-numbing feeling of having your body be sent to heaven, only to be denied at the pearly gates.

your heart’s pounding at the sight of him: warm, glistening skin under the dimness of your lamp, chest heaving as he pulls his fingers out from your slick entrance—it feels increasingly, unbearably empty as he retracts his ridiculously long digits. sunghoon does nothing but enjoy the view, eyes glazing over the way your body twists and turns at his cruel punishment.

“come on. again.”

who does he think he is, really? you kiss and make up, and in the same day, he makes you beg for a little gratification? does he have any idea what he put you through? to be truthful, you could go on and on about how he doesn’t deserve any sort of control over you—

“please, hoonie. i’ll take everything—fuck, just fuck me already.”

fuck it. you don’t care. it doesn’t matter that park sunghoon is toying with you. you need him, you need all of him, you need every inch of skin that he’s willing to give and every word he’ll spit at you.

park sunghoon isn’t exactly inexperienced with sex. he knows that intimacy is one of man’s greatest discoveries, and it’s only natural that he participates in it. as one does. what’s not normal is that he’s never felt this before: this insatiable, lustful heat simmering in his core, making his cock twitch before it’s even been touched.

god, you look so perfect—spread bare beneath him with inner thighs soaked in your own juices, whining and pleading and begging for a taste of him, as if he wasn’t holding himself back already. you’re truly the greediest, just taking and taking even if he tries to take his time.

there’s blood lingering in his mouth and the metal feels sharp on his tongue, and still, he continues biting on his lip. sunghoon’s eyes never leave yours, hands coming down to unbuckle his belt with a single hand—the other pins your knees open, and while you squirm under the pressure, you never quite gain the courage to defy.

when sunghoon finally leans forward, the scent of him is enough to overwhelm your nervous system; he grunts when your arms wrap around his neck, and your nose nuzzles against his neck like it has nowhere else to go. a deep breath in and it’s like you’ve never felt more alive than now.

“this enough for you?”

he picks up on everything. from the way your eyes never stay on his for too long, to the way you twitch when he presses his briefs right against your cunt—your breathy moans in his ear as he leans in close, and how quickly you stain the spandex with your slick, mixing with his sticky pre.

“this should be fine, right? my girl can cum juuust like this.” sunghoon’s voice is the only thing cutting through the fog in your head. it’s spinning so much that gripping onto him is serving as the only anchor to your consciousness. your nails drag along this trapezius, sinking into the superficial skin, waiting for a reaction that never comes—instead, all he can offer is a mocking smile, fangs bare and taunting.

his hips are teasing. he moves them slow, taking his time with every drag of up and down, the fabric sliding between your pretty folds and swollen clit; there’s a brief second where he feels the tip of his cock slide into you through the barrier of clothing, only to slip free when he slides up again.

“so perfect,” sunghoon whispers into the conch of your ear—you don’t realise what he’s said until you feel his sharp teeth gliding against your helix, before he finally nips at it. “you’re so perfect, baby. made for me, aren’t you? can’t believe i almost let you go.”

sunghoon thinks about how ridiculous he must look right now—humping your poor cunt like he’s in heat, holding himself back for reasons beyond him, whispering these obscenely intimate things in your ears like he doesn’t want to fuck you right this second. the strain on his cock is getting too much; blood’s rushing down, he’s aching, and he doesn’t know how much longer he has left before he flips you over and has your ass slapping against his skin.

“hoon, fuck, i’m gonna cum,” you say, bucking your hips up just once. wrong move. “please, don’t fucking stop—it feels so good.” sunghoon’s head turns in your direction, nose brushing against your cheek before his mouth meets yours again. he doesn’t care that they don’t latch properly, nor that he’s practically drinking in your saliva, or that he’s gonna cum just from feeling the friction between your bodies. all sunghoon truly cares about is that you’re holding him like he’s all you truly need in this world.

“yeah? just from this?” sunghoon’s hand comes up to grip at your jaw, thumb and index pressing deep into the flesh of your cheeks. his body feels heavy on top of you, quick little movements doing the most to get you both over the edge—and though he still seems a little more composed than you, it all goes to shit when your fingers graze the sides of his ribs. “fuck—do it. cum for me, please, y/n—”

his hands run up your arms until his fingers are tracing your palms, slithering between your own, before finally interlacing. sunghoon’s pressing sweet kisses to your jawline as you moan into thin autumn air, feeling the vibrations of his groans against your throat; he moves at a frenzied pace, chasing friction that won’t ever compare to being buried tip to cervix, but it’s all he can get right now.

“i’m fucking cumming, hoon, oh my god—”

twenty seconds. twenty seconds is all he needs to have you gushing all over the spandex of his briefs, and twenty-five is all you need to chase his lips because you know you’ll scream if you don’t. perhaps around thirty for him to stop feeling like the room is spinning, and him along with it—your tongues meet and circle on another’s again, moans clashing between desperate attempts to slow down, and it’s only sixty for him to finally hook his thumbs around his boxers and shove them down his thighs.

thwap.

sunghoon’s heavy in a way you can’t say out loud. words get caught in your throat, with nothing but a pathetic hitch in your breath being audible. he’s so unbelievably pretty, flushed a deep red from the relentless teasing he’s put you through, serving as confirmation that he’s wanted this as much as you have.

he stares for a minute, catching his breath, before his hand reaches for you—spreading your folds wide between his fingers, watching it glisten under the orange light, almost sparkling if he could look close enough. the sheets below are soaked with you—a large, wet patch that’s darker compared to the rest of the pink duvet.

“thought about this pretty pussy for weeks,” sunghoon lets his saliva collect in the well of his tongue, before spitting a thick glob riiight onto your entrance. “and now you’re aaaall mine. aren’t you, baby?”

sunghoon looks up just as the name rolls off his tongue. you look absolutely wrecked, hair tangled in places where you didn’t even know it could get tangled—tear stains running down your face and highlighting the flush on your cheeks so well. your eyes are wide, caught between staring at his leaking cock and his expectant eyes, shifting between the two every now and then;

a reverent sigh leaves you when sunghoon begins pumping himself, nice and slow using his hand, spreading the pre all over his hardened length. sounds of wet slick echo through the room as he strokes, just enough to get himself wet, before his knees shift forward and he’s finally, finally letting himself touch you without a stupid barrier.

“gonna stuff this pussy full,” sunghoon hisses through his teeth. “pump you full of my cum, fuck, i can’t hold back anymore—” his right hand wraps around the base of his cock, the back of your knees brushing against his thighs as he pulls you flush against him. you’re still heaving by the time he taps his mushroom tip against your folds, running it along the wetness of it, once or twice before aligning himself with you.

“you’re so… annoying,” you huff, eyebrows pinched together, watching his jaw go slack at how warm you feel even from the outside. sunghoon’s stomach is in knots, anticipating the moment he finally sheathes himself all the way, how you’d probably claw at his skin from the sheer stretch—

and that’s exactly what you do.

“f-fuuuuck, hoon! it’s too—you’re too—”

park sunghoon is thick. so undeniably heavy and dizzying, pushing past your walls, and as much as you clench and squirm around him, they offer no real resistance. your pussy takes him in like it needs him—squelching when he bottoms out at last, big arms caging your relatively smaller head between them—all the air in your lungs feels like it’s being siphoned out.

who the fuck is this big? when was the last time you’ve had something this huge inside of you?

“o-oh my fucking god,” his eyes screw shut for one, weightless second, before they shoot back open. he stares down at where you two finally meet, your velvet walls fluttering around him so warmly, a desperate whimper clawing it’s way out of his throat that’s interrupted by a messy kiss.

“so perfect, baby, you’re so perfect,” he mumbles against your swollen lips, hips at a standstill because he plain refuses to move—convinced that he’ll cum as soon if he so much as shifts his weight. “wish you could see your face. so pretty when you’re taking me.”

“you’re… fucking… crazy,” you whisper against his mouth before your hands tangle in his hair; they bunch around the dark locks, pushing his lips against yours again, and he laughs between the sloppy attempts to lock your lips together—noses bump and his forehead thuds against yours. “just fuck me, please, hoon.”

“look at what you do to me,” he sighs, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine. borderline addictive the way you wriggle underneath his touch, like you know his size would knock you out cold, but you still beg through small movements. “all your fault, isn’t it? and you keep asking for more. just a needy little slut for me, huh?”

and then his hips retract—pulling out halfway, your cunt still weeping from the reduced contact. he looks back down, hair falling over his forehead, marvelling at the way his cock glistens with you. so utterly filthy.

you whimper when you feel the emptiness. his veins slide against your gummy walls as he pulls out agonizingly slow. “don’t wanna hear you complaining tomorrow morning, then.”

sunghoon’s pace is slow at first. gentle, sweet thrusts that still manage to make you see stars—he’s too afraid to hurt you, too busy savouring in the sweet moans that sprinkle in his name every once in a while. he feels hot, every bone in his body begging for him to hurry and stuff you full of his cock—but how could he? you’re taking him so well just like this, and all he wants is to drag every second out longer, until he dies blissfully happy in this pussy of yours.

“fuck, mmngh—” and the man slams his lips against yours as his fingers find yours again. you wonder just how many times you’ve managed to kiss tonight, but the thought immediately wipes itself clean when he angles his hips so deliciously right that you feel him all the way in your throat.

“shit, i can’t—you’re too fucking big,” the sound of your breath shakes, too much for his brain to compute, and something primal claws at his sick brain until all he’s thinking about is folding your knees up and bullying your cunt ‘till it’s red. you moan into nothing, hands running over every hard-earned muscle in his back, eyes screwing shut because looking at him feels like a perverted form of self-torture. “fuck, you feel so good, hoonie.”

“yeah?” and sunghoon literally feels every thread of sanity snap when you say his name again. “fuck, look at me then—wanna see your pretty face.” your thighs shake with every slap of wet skin, his heavy body shifting the bed closer to the wall as he pounds and pounds and pounds. his hands move the damp strands of hair out of your eyes, ensuring the perfect, unobstructed view.

you mewl, all sweet and so coaxing when he presses an innocent kiss to your cheek. it’s wet and salty on his tongue, but sunghoon’s smiling so wide that you think he must’ve truly fucking lost it completely.

“want you harder, hoon—not enough, please,” you whisper against his mole. there’s just something in the way you’re batting your eyelashes at him that he thinks is sending his nervous system into overdrive, but it’s irrelevant now. your pleas sound like honey to his ears, but the one singular thought that keeps circling his mind is if you’ll be able to take him like that.

his hands slide back down, stopping right where your tits are—his thumb grazes the hardened bud before he begins to palm at the mound of flesh. “f-fuck—”

“god, can’t hold myself back anymore,” sunghoon’s nose nuzzles against your neck and he takes his time breathing in your scent. the smell of your shampoo lingers, now masked mostly by sweat and fading perfume, and it faintly reminds him of a familiar library where all he could focus on was you, you, you.

you, beautiful you. you who’s underneath him now, pleading with him to give you what you want—still so naive, still so unaware, asking for things you have no idea what to do with—you, who bats her eyelashes with a curiosity he doesn’t know how to address, not without showing you.

he licks a long stripe along your jaw, rutting into you a little faster now. sunghoon’s hands find their way to the sides of your head; rationality has long left him, and his brain’s all foggy with visions of you. he wonders if he could take you just as well on the counter, on the desk, or by the window, and he just gets needier.

he’s getting sloppy and his brain’s all fuzzy. he’s not even sure what the rush is; when there’s someone else in his bed, he almost always finds it easier to take his time. teasing, foreplay, whatever the fuck you wanted to call it—he realised that the reactions he got were much more visceral.

but now—god, he needs you to cum around his cock as soon as possible.

“f-fuck, ngh—pussy was made just for me,” he mutters under his breath, pushing himself up—he towers over you like this, lowlights bathing his skin in warmth all over again as his arms wander down to your waist, then your hips, and then to the back of your knees. “w-what’s wrong, hm? gotta speak up, baby. let me hear you. all that talking was just for show, huh?”

“f-fuuuuh—hoon, please, t-too much—”

“ah-ah, take it like the good girl you are,” his eyebrows knit together in focus, and a bead of sweat rolls down his face, down his chin and drips right onto the valley of your breasts. “y-yeaaah, see? just like that.”

you’re choking on a sob by the time he folds your knees up—brutal, to say the least. your tits get squished by your thighs as he pins your legs up, sunghoon’s rough fingers wound tight around the soft flesh, bullying his way into your poor cunt.

the sounds echoing through the room might as well be featured in a porno. your moans mix until it’s an amalgamation of yeses, gentle sobs, and sunghoon’s relentless teasing. every thrust knocks the wind out of you, your hands clawing at his wrists and leaving red streaks—but the pain barely even reaches him—the only thing on sunghoon’s mind is how gorgeous you look underneath him, taking every inch like it’s what you were born to do, moaning the name he spent so long hating;

“f-fuck, i love you, love fucking this pussy so much—” he hisses through his teeth, eyes zeroed on the way your eyes roll every time he buries himself to the hilt. your head tilts back, throat bobbing as you swallow back embarrassing moan after embarrassing moan—sunghoon’s making it difficult with the way he presses against your belly with one hand, the other holding your left thigh up. “shit, baby, you can be louder than that, can’t you?”

oh, fuck park sunghoon. fuck this stupidly huge cock drilling it’s way through you, and fuck this ridiculously gorgeous man who has you biting back screams, fuck everything, fuck how good you feel—your vision is clouding, stars exploding behind your eyelids every time you shut them, and all you can do is just sit and take it. “s-sunghoon, a-ah—slow down, i’m gonna fucking cum again—”

he kisses his teeth, now resorting to grinding his hips against yours. the angle is new, almost beautiful in it’s discovery. his hands are too curious, before settling on the fat of your ass, palming and fondling and treating it like his personal stress-toy until—

smack.

the moan you let out on contact is nothing short of humiliating. his palm smooths over the handprint, now blooming red right before his eyes, and your brain actually short-circuits for a second.

“fuck,” sunghoon laughs, mocking, rude and mean all in one. “you into that shit?”

the sting sends electricity through your body. sunghoon pulls his hips back just enough, before sliding back between your pretty folds so slow that it actually makes you gasp. every single time he pushes himself back in, it’s like you have to get used to it all over again—the stretch never becomes familiar, always melting your brain and forcing every coherent thought you have to mere nonsense.

“god, you’re such a fucking slut,” sunghoon’s head tilts back momentarily, his hair falling with the gravity and sending little drops of sweat down his neck and onto his back. his heart’s beating all wild now, cock aching for more friction, more force, more of you; so greedy and full of desire, bringing his hand up to land another harsh blow to your ass.

“a-ah—hoon!” you hiss, but you never really try to stop it. you squirm, hips jerking with every slap he decides to give you, but sunghoon knows your cunt tells a different tale: your pussy clenches around him so tight that it’s suffocating him, just begging for his load, and it’s driving him insane. “t-too rough, i can’t—slow down, fuck, you’re gonna break the bed in half—”

it’s true. the frame’s creaking upon each thrust, headboard slamming against the walls, but why would sunghoon care? fuck, he’ll buy you a whole new bedroom if he has to, so long as you just let him have you like this for a little longer.

“don’t give a shit, haa—i’ll buy you a new one, mm? fuck you again ‘till we break that one too. bet you’d want that, wouldn’t you?” he grins, and the corner of his lips turn up sharply when he sees how utterly fucked out you look. there’s this familiar expression he’s seen on other girls—when sunghoon proves to be too much for them to handle, and they end up tapping out—but it’s none of that on you. no matter how much you cry that you can’t take it, you cling onto him like the only thing you know, want, and need is him.

“answer me.”

and the coil in your stomach begins to tighten almost instantly—you don’t even realise that his hands have made it’s way up to your jaw, thumb and index pressing into the bone. a small squeal escapes your throat, and there it is again; that innocent look written all over your face, making sunghoon’s stomach do somersaults. his grip gets firmer with each passing second, before you finally manage to speak:

“y-yes, fuck, need it—i want it, pleasepleasepolease, sunghoon!”

it’s times like these were sunghoon really is convinced he’ll never quit sex. not when there’s a woman like you, with a pussy like this, with a voice so sweet that it makes his chest ache and his cock drip pre. it’s quite a confusing matter, actually, considering he’s never been one to talk too much during the act—that shit just leads nowhere, and feelings get confused by the time he comes down from his high, but god, he doesn’t think his mouth can stop at this rate, not when it’s you he’s buried in.

“yeaaah? gonna cream all over me, baby? make a mess all over this cock, come on.” sunghoon nods feverishly, both hands pinned to the undersides of your knees now, pushing you deeper and deeper into the mattress. your mind tries to catch up, but the pace at which he moves is too relentless for any real thought to form.

his hair falls over his face when he leans forward, just enough to press his full weight down on you. sunghoon’s washboard abs tense every time your nails claw at his chest and just thinking felt weirdly impossible now. your mind’s reduced to slush, ears ringing with wet smacks and constant grunts from the man above you. there’s an occasional moan that slips from him, to which he realises, far too quickly, turns you on more than you’d (probably) ever be willing to admit. mental note for the next time he decides to rearrange your guts, he supposes.

sunghoon glances down again. just for a moment. in the past twenty seconds that’ve passed, you both don’t realise how close you’ve got, damp foreheads pressed against each other in something sweet in the midst of all the roughness. his grunts have transformed into something else completely—now laced with need and breathy pleas, begging.

“there we go, yeah—cum on my cock, please, baby. i’m so fucking close—”

“i love you.”

the words almost kill him.

something seems to have snapped almost instantaneously. park sunghoon’s lips crash into yours with newfound fervor, and every muscle in his body seems to be operating on the sole purpose of getting you to come undone. he’s so fucking tired, truly—but the pain fades and all the soreness in his muscles from yesterday’s practice is irrelevant now.

“yeah? you love me?” his pussydrunk face is the only thing in view, a small gasp slipping when he feels you clench down on him. his hips begin to stutter, jerk, pace faltering. his eyes stare into yours through the gaps in his damp hair, waiting for an answer. “fuck, say it again—please.”

“i love you, sunghoon,” you whisper, almost sultry, your voice barely reaching his ears but ghosting against his lips anyway. “i-i love you—”

a starving man he proves to be. his lips lock with yours again, and this time, they never really leave. his tongue swirls around yours, drinking up every sound that you have to offer, still rutting into your cunt like he needs to fuck a whole new generation into you. your core tenses up so much that you think you’re gonna pass out from the impending orgasm—all sunghoon does is moan into your mouth, fingers intertwining with yours as he abuses your pussy with ruthless strokes.

“i love you, y/n,” the words are so sweet it makes your head spin. it doesn’t correlate at all with the obscene view beneath you, his soaked pelvis and your thighs pressed up against your stomach—your hole squelches with every roll, now much messier and haphazard, and the high is so close that you can almost taste it on the tip of your tongue. “that’s it, baby. let it out for me, just like that.”

so cruel.

“c-cumming, fuck, i’m gonna cum, hoon—”

a revelation comes to sunghoon as soon as your walls begin spasming around his length—sunghoon has never had sex this good. you get impossibly tighter, and your moans are broken up by your lungs trying to take in more air. you sob when it hits, almost blinding in it’s entirety as sunghoon continues fucking you through it, feeling how you soak him from the inside and how it gets disgustingly easy to pound into you when you’re this wet.

“fuuuck, o-oh my god,” a guttural sound claws it’s way out of his throat. his forehead dips again, lips still glossy and tasting just like you, entranced by the way your pretty lips part in a silent scream that ends as a loud gasp. “you’re so fucking tight when you cum, shit—”

sunghoon is gone. just chasing his own release, sloppy thrusts making your juices splurt everywhere; your moans amplify and you’re barely holding your sanity together by the time you come back from whatever plane of reality you decided to visit. his thumb digs into the dip behind your knees, still trying to push his cock deeper into you, tip grazing your cervix every now and then—god, it’s pure filth. you’re half convinced that you might have to take the stairs tomorrow if you want to avoid your upstairs neighbour.

humans are truly just animals. sunghoon proves just as much with how frantic he is to spill himself inside of you. truthfully, the thought is stirring him on more than he’d like to admit—which is kind of scary, if he thinks too long about it. it’s a shame that he’s incapable of that right now, because all he manages to babble is:

“please, y/n, can i? let me cum inside of you, please, please—shit, need to fill you up, wanna see it dripping out of you all fucking night, please.”

and you, as drunk on him as he is on you, nods like it’s all you’ve ever needed in life.

sunghoon’s hips snap against your ass, eyebrows knit in frustration and lips parted to let an animalistic groan out. you take it, all of it, from the way he kisses you like he wants to eat you up, to the way he thumbs at your clit because he just needs you to unravel with him again. selfish as he is, he can’t have this alone—not when you look so beautiful breaking.

it takes ten seconds for you to cum for the second time, and him, eleven. it’s all heat and lust and pure hunger condensing into one, singular moment, where he buries himself to the hilt and spills months worth of holding back.

your walls pulse around him. your clit throbs unapologetically under his restless thumb, still circling nice ‘n slow as if you weren’t already gasping for air as it is. his dick almost feels like it’s getting bigger, twitching as it shoots load after load, hot and thick as it paints every crevice.

god, what the fuck. sunghoon’s panting when he finally collapses on top of you, the soreness from yesterday creeping up on him—though he has reason to believe it may be more of your doing. his face buries itself into your neck, not before his hands finally let your thighs loose, dropping right next to his, and for a minute, the two of you simply lay there.

sunghoon breathes you in again, slow enough that the scent of you settles somewhere deep in his chest. your arms slip around his neck without hesitation, fingers disappearing into the soft hair at the nape of it while your lips find his forehead in small, absent kisses that feel less like affection and more like habit. he lets out a quiet sigh against your shoulder, eyes falling shut as warmth spreads through him in steady waves.

“you smell good today.”

he lets himself believe, just for now, that it can stay this way, though it is probably foolish. if he were being honest, every sensible part of him should still be waiting for the other shoe to drop, for you to wake up and realise you've chosen the wrong person, for the guilt he's carried around for months to finally become heavier than whatever it is you've found in him. even after all of it, all you’ve dragged each other through—you’re still here, trusting him with your body.

confusing, he thinks. you’re so confusing.

“hoon,” you mumble against his skin. he hums in response. “you’re being weird—oh my god. stop sniffing me, i’m getting ticklish.”

he hums against your skin before taking another deep breath in. “don’t care.”

before you, none of this would have unsettled him. there had been other people, other nights, other attempts at filling the empty spaces—and it had been good. he had learned very early that casual was easy to survive because it demanded so little of him—he could leave before morning and return to his life unchanged, carrying nothing home except the faint smell of someone else’s perfume and the relief of having avoided being known. it never bothered him. if anything, he preferred it that way.

“can we wait a little longer?”

“didn’t know you were into cockwarming. you’re sick in the head.” you sigh dramatically, earning a groan from sunghoon—he shifts his weight slightly, hissing when he feels you squeeze around him again.

“just give me a minute,” he answers. “need to remember my first with you. should we take a selfie?”

you fist at his hair and sunghoon winces. “fuck, i was just kidding.”

four in the morning.

the clock on your nightstand blinks the numbers back at you in soft, white light, stubborn and familiar. nine months ago, that hour belonged to a stranger's voice crackling through your speaker and a crush that felt enormous simply because it was all imagination.

you remember lying awake with your phone pressed against your cheek, convinced the boy on the other end of the line was someone else entirely, and now the room is quiet enough to hear the city breathing beyond the windows.

sunghoon shifts against you, cheek warm where it's pressed to your chest, his hair a soft mess beneath your fingers. when he tilts his head up, tiredness still clings to him around the edges of his eyes, but they find yours immediately, like they've learned the route by heart. there is something almost unfair about it—that the boy who once hid behind another person's name now looks at you with such terrifying honesty.

“can you get off of me now?”

sunghoon lifts his head just enough to look at you, cheek still resting against your chest, dark hair falling messily across his forehead. he considers the question with suspicious seriousness before leaning over to press another lazy kiss against your collarbone. “no.”

luck and fate. such intangible concepts, but the feeling creeps up on you regardless. the universe seems unusually generous now, which scares you—after everything that’s happened, after all the ways the two of you managed to hurt each other before finding your way back, it feels dangerous to believe that happiness could be this simple.

and still—something tells you that this feeling might be yours to keep, anyway, so long as you keep choosing for it to.

sunghoon shifts closer, his voice rough with impending sleep as he presses his face into the warmth beneath your jaw. “i love you, y/n.”

when your eyes flutter open the next morning, the blinds are only half-shut, thin ribbons of sunlight slipping through the gaps and painting pale gold across the floor. there's a t-shirt bunched around your waist that definitely wasn't there when you went to sleep, and your hair is sticking to your cheek in a way that immediately informs you that you’ve slept in way too long.

you stretch with a quiet groan, arms reaching above your head until your shoulders pop pleasantly, then roll onto your left side in search of the cooler side of the bed—but instead, you’re greeted by more warmth.

for a brief, sleepy second, you wonder if autumn has somehow changed its mind overnight. is it summer again?

but then, you see him.

park sunghoon is sprawled face-down across your mattress like somebody dropped him there and forgot to pick him back up. one arm is flung over the edge of the bed, the other trapped beneath your pillow, and his dark hair sticks out in every possible direction. sometime during the night, he'd apparently migrated until three-quarters of his body occupied your side of the bed while you clung to the remaining sliver.

his bare back is outlined by faint shadows of the morning, still unfairly sculpted while knocked out cold. it annoys you, just a little, but enough that you briefly consider stealing the blanket back out of spite.

instead, you stay where you are and watch him.

you watch the slow rise and fall of his ribs beneath your fingertips, the tiny hitch in his breathing every few breaths, and the way one hand twitches occasionally against the mattress as though he's still reaching for you in his sleep.

you lean forward until your lips brush the warmth of his shoulder—but the words you whisper there are too soft for him to hear.

“i love you too, park sunghoon.”

he sleeps through your confession, completely unaware of the smile that finds your face as you settle next to him again. your heart slows just a fraction, calming when your breathing unconsciously matches the rhythm of the man beside you.

time seems to slow itself down. the morning birds are quieter than usual, the grandmother across the street has spared the neighborhood her daily yelling, and when you look over at your calendar, there is nothing waiting for you there.

for a love this gentle, the universe has chosen to be unusually generous.

lucky you!

─────────────────────────

hoonie <3: [Attachment] 20:28

hoonie <3: I’ll be over after practice 20:28

hoonie <3: Yeonjun and Maki keep asking about you it’s starting to piss me off 20:29

hoonie <3: Also did you change my contact? 20:34

y/n: yes heeseung 20:40

y/n: oops i meant Park Sunghoon. my favourite boyfriend out of 10 20:40

hoonie <3: I’m going to walk into traffic 21:12

y/n: ????? ur so dramatic Hello 21:15

© kissued 2026 — do not repost, edit, redistribute or translate my work without prior permission and credit. all my work is strictly fictional and not an accurate representation of these people in real life.

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[wonsdimples]

"Just the tip, i promise." Is Sunghoon’s lie before making you feel every single inch of his thickness for your first time.

park sunghoon x virgin! fem reader

ⓘ Cw!!: MDNI, smut, loss of virginity, dub-con, p in v, unprotected sex, slight pain during sex, tears, big dick sunghoon, reader was pursued and somewhat deceived.

Wc: 1,9k

A/N: god forbid a man has a hobby (lying straight to your face). — masterlist

Until now, Sunghoon had been the most loving guy in the world; you could be certain there was no man more romantic than him. Besides, he truly was the most patient person on the planet. You were well aware that your shyness in intimacy and lack of experience could easily bore other guys, but Sunghoon never seemed to mind.

However, right now, it was hard to view him as a genuinely patient man when he had spent the last forty minutes persuading you, trying to convince you that what you were doing wasn't as intimate as you thought. Making you believe he would stop before it became too much.

“It’s just kissing, gorgeous.”

“We’re just going to dry hump a little, we don’t even have to take our clothes off.”

“Sweetheart, I’m only going to rub the tip a bit, I’m not going to put it inside.”

Just, just, just, just... He had repeated that word so many times since you started kissing that you completely lost count.

“Sunghoon... you’re pushing too hard...” you whined, trying to arch your hips back to find some room, but all you managed to do was rub your wet folds against his tip.

He tried to suppress a smile as he rubbed the head of his cock up and down against your clit, only to “accidentally” slide further down.

“Hoon! I’m serious!” You placed your hands on his shoulders to push him back and gain some distance, but you couldn't move him even an inch.

Sunghoon propped himself up on his elbows to get closer to your face, rubbing the entire length of his cock against you once more. He began peppering your face with kisses, his breathing growing heavier as he pressed his weight harder against you. The moment his lips brushed your ear, you knew he was about to ask for something else.

“Sweetheart... can I just put the tip in? Only the tip, I promise.”

You swallowed nervously, feeling his tip rubbing directly against your entrance. “I don’t know, Hoon... that’s basically...”

“If it’s only the tip, it doesn’t count as penetration,” he interrupted quickly, knowing exactly what you were going to say. “And if there’s no penetration, it doesn’t count as sex. Technically, you’re still a virgin.”

You wanted to tell him that his logic made absolutely no sense, that he needed to stop treating you like you were clueless just because of your lack of experience. But the words caught in your throat the moment you felt the firm, unyielding pressure of his member pushing against your entrance.

“Just the tip, I promise,” he whispered, completely ignoring your warnings as he gained ground.

A stifled moan escaped you as the head of his cock, ridiculously large and slick, overcame the resistance of your entrance. You felt a sharp tug, a pressure so distinct and tight it made you arch your back, instinctively searching for an escape from the space he was stealing from you.

“Hoon... I don’t think... I don’t think I can fit,” you pleaded, your voice breaking.

A low, husky growl escaped Sunghoon’s throat right against your neck; he was enjoying the suffocating, tight friction of your virginity far too much. The veins in his arms bulged as he strained to hold himself back from pushing any further.

“Shh... you fit, gorgeous, it’s just the tip,” he murmured with ragged breath, pinning your wrists to the sides of your head. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

Sunghoon didn't waste any time before gently pushing forward, sliding his tip in and out in a slow, agonizingly torturous motion. Overwhelmed by the sensation, you squeezed your eyes shut and turned your head to the side against the pillow, trying to ignore the heat splitting you in two, as if you could somehow escape what was happening.

But he wasn’t going to let you run away. He wanted you to feel every single thing so you would yield completely.

Gently, Sunghoon sought your mouth in a deep, wet, patient kiss that stole your breath away, while one of his hands slid down to capture your free breast, pinching your nipples with just enough pressure to make you shiver.

“Look at me...” he pleaded against your lips, slowing the pace of his hips. “Does it feel good, sweetheart? Tell me if you like it.”

At first, you didn't know how to answer; your mind was a tangled mess of nerves and the sparks of pleasure rippling through your pelvis. But when he grazed your clit once more with his weight, a muffled whimper escaped you.

“Yes... yes...”

An arrogant smirk spread across his face, completely pleased with your response.

“If it feels this good with just the tip...” he whispered, widening his stance to better accommodate his size. “Full length is going to feel even better, my love.”

You didn't reply to that. Seeing your silence, Sunghoon let go of your wrists to grab your legs, pulling them a bit closer together. The shift in position caused your walls to tighten even more around him, making the friction of his tip insufferably intense.

“Can I put it in just a little more, hm? Please?” he proposed, locking his heavy gaze onto yours. “If it doesn’t feel right, I’ll pull out immediately.”

You looked at him, completely defenseless against the pleasure pooling in your lower stomach, and gave a single, hesitant nod. Sunghoon didn't give you time to regret it; he planted a hungry, wet kiss on your lips as he settled between your thighs, lifting your legs higher to get better access. You tried to pull them down immediately, feeling far too exposed and vulnerable under his gaze, but Sunghoon’s hands held them firmly in the air, denying you any escape.

Then, he pushed. He entered just a couple of inches deeper, pausing to read your reaction. Seeing you flush, panting with teary eyes but without complaining, Sunghoon held back no longer. With a firm, steady thrust, he buried a little under half of his length all at once.

Both of you let out a loud gasp that filled the room. Overwhelmed by the sheer fullness of his thickness stretching you from the inside, you desperately sought a way to cling to him, digging your nails into his shoulders. You tried to speak, but only a broken thread of a voice came out of your throat.

“Hoon... go... go slow...”

Sunghoon looked down at you, his eyes completely dark, utterly undone by the glorious, suffocating sensation of your tight walls hugging him. Desperate to lose himself completely inside you, he adjusted himself, tilted his pelvis forward, and pressed down with his entire weight, driving nearly his whole length inside you in one heavy, solid stroke.

A few hot tears escaped your eyes, rolling down your cheeks. Sunghoon immediately leaned over you, cupping your face with his large hands to kiss your tears away with an almost protective tenderness, while you buried your face into his neck.

“It hurts... Hoon, it feels so strange...” you sobbed, overwhelmed by the intense pressure of his size expanding you for the very first time.

“Shh... I know, my love, I know. I’m so sorry, gorgeous,” he comforted you, his voice dropping into that commanding yet sweet, protective tone, rubbing your back to get your body to relax. “You know that if I went slow, it would have hurt more, right? I had to do it quickly to get past the worst part. You’re all mine now, sweetheart. Look at you, you did so well.”

Sunghoon adjusted your legs into a more comfortable position before continuing.

“You just have to wait a moment to get used to the feeling.”

Even for Sunghoon, asking you to get used to a sensation like that felt a bit selfish, especially considering his size.

He waited a few moments, staying completely still inside you.

He filled your ears with sweet words and slow kisses, giving your body time to unwind under his weight. Only when he felt your sobs quiet down and your inner walls begin to give way around his thickness did he allow himself to breathe.

And then, he began to move.

The contrast was immediate. As he sank a bit deeper, you felt him fill you completely, stretching every single fiber of your interior with a size that seemed unreal. Every thrust felt incredibly deep, bottoming out against parts of you that you didn't even know existed.

You could feel every single one of his veins brushing against your inner walls with a friction that left you breathless; it was a thickness that made you feel stretched to your absolute limit.

He kept the palms of his hands pinned to your hips, digging his fingers into your skin with a firm, possessive grip. He made it clear you couldn't move even a millimeter.

At the first stroke, Sunghoon let out a husky groan, throwing his head back as he gritted his teeth.

“Fuck... you’re so fucking tight...” he panted, his eyes darkening entirely as he stared down at you. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this. It was pure torture.”

“Hoon... it feels... it’s too much... you fill me so much...” you confessed in a breathy whisper, overwhelmed by the obscene way your first time was stretching you out.

“I know, my love. You’re squeezing me so hard you’re going to drive me crazy,” he whispered, losing all control at the glorious sensation of breaking in every single inch of your body.

Sunghoon pulled you up and then drove down in slow, heavy, deeply punishing thrusts.

With every strike of his hips, the trimmed pubic hair of his pelvis—thick and coarse—rubbed directly against your sensitive clit. The friction was constant, rhythmic, and ruthless.

The combination of being completely filled for the first time and the friction of his pelvis caused a total mental short-circuit. It was an overstimulation so obscene that the pain vanished entirely, replaced by an electric, blinding heat.

You arched your back in desperation, clawing at his shoulders as your thighs began to tremble uncontrollably.

“H-Hoon... I’m going to... Hoon!” you whimpered, your voice dying out against the mattress.

Sunghoon grunted, his own restraint shattering into a thousand pieces as he felt the first spasms of your virgin orgasm squeezing him in a suffocating grip.

Losing all the patience it had taken him forty minutes to build, he delivered three quick, brutal thrusts, burying himself to the absolute hilt.

He went completely rigid inside you, coming with a deep, guttural moan that vibrated against your chest, spilling himself as your own climax made you lose all focus.

Sunghoon waited a few more seconds, savoring the sensation, until he finally collapsed beside you. He pulled you by the arm to tuck you against his sweaty chest, pressing a lazy kiss to your forehead while you processed what had just happened.

You hid your face in his neck, listening to the steady beat of his heart, and out of nowhere, you let out a small, tired laugh, remembering how it all started.

“What are you laughing at, gorgeous?” he asked in a raspy voice, stroking your back.

“At your promise,” you whispered, looking at him out of the corner of your eye. “You said it would only be the tip.”

Sunghoon smirked, with that clean arrogance you loved so much, and pulled you a little tighter against him.

“And it was, sweetheart... for the first two seconds.”

[nisc0]

───˖ֹ੭୧ MORNING DEW ⊹ ࣪ ⑅

(박 성훈) ─── boyfriend!sunghoon 𝔁 f!reader

IN WHICH ─── Sunghoon and you are having a little trouble while getting ready for a brunch, his morning wood couldn’t start the day without your morning dew.

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 : smut (MDNI), porn without plot 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 : dom!sunghoon, swearing, manhandling, morning sex, unprotected sex, p in v, fingering, oral sex (f. receiving), reader has a WAP (again), big dick!sunghoon, kissing, skinship, use of nickname : baby 𝐰𝐜 : 1.6k {1.694}

❕# It's one of my fav so far hahaha, i'm starting to drool over him these days it's not even funny...But anyways :)) Dada is next ;)

INSPIRED BY : MORNING DEW (Donk) - Beyoncé

You stir slowly in the sheets, the summer heat already pressing down like a thick blanket even at 9 AM. Sunghoon’s arm is draped possessively over your waist, his bare chest flush against your back, skin slick with a light sheen of sweat from the night’s exertions and the warm morning air. The AC is on in the corner of the bedroom, doing little to cut through the humidity. Your body aches in the best way ; thighs sore, lips still tingling from countless kisses and rounds that melted into the early hours.

“Baby…” Sunghoon’s voice is low and raspy, still thick with sleep as he nuzzles into the crook of your neck. His breath is warm against your damp skin. “We have to get up. Brunch with Jake and Jay in an hour.”

You groan softly and press back against him, refusing to open your eyes. “Three more minutes,” you mumble, pulling the thin sheet higher over your bodies even though it’s already too hot. The thought of leaving this cocoon ; his strong arms, the scent of his skin mixed with the remnants of last night ; feels wrong.

He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. One large hand slides down your side, gently squeezing your hip as he tries to coax you awake. “Come on, Y/N. You know Jay will text me ten times if we’re late. Again.” His lips brush your shoulder in soft, persuasive kisses, trailing toward your collarbone. When that doesn’t work, he shifts, rolling you onto your back with effortless strength so he can hover over you, messy dark hair falling into his eyes. You finally crack one eye open, squinting against the sunlight filtering through the curtains. Sunghoon looks unfairly good even half-asleep ; flushed cheeks, sharp jaw, and a lazy smirk playing on his lips. However, as your gaze drifts lower, you notice it instantly : the huge bulge of his morning wood straining against the front of his boxers, thick and hard, tenting the fabric right above where his thigh presses between yours.

A slow heat blooms in your stomach. “Hoon…” you murmur, voice still husky, one hand instinctively sliding down his toned abdomen until your fingers graze the waistband of his boxers. “You sure we have to leave right now?”

He groans, forehead dropping to yours, there’s amusement in his eyes along with clear desire. “Don’t tempt me. You’re the one who said yes to brunch yesterday—before I fucked you senseless.” Still, he stays close to you. His hips roll forward just slightly, letting you feel the full, hard length of him against your thigh. “If you don’t get that pretty ass up, I’m carrying you to the shower myself.”

You smile sleepily, fingers teasing along his hardness through the thin material, feeling it twitch under your touch. The ache between your legs returns with interest, but the distant ping of a phone ; probably Jake wondering where you two are ; reminds you both of reality. Sunghoon sighs, kissing you deeply once, slow and lingering, before he forces himself to sit up. The sheet pools around his waist, doing nothing to hide how ready his body still is for you. “Shower. Now. Together. But no funny business or we really will be late.” He stands, offering you his hand with a raised eyebrow, his morning wood proudly on display. “I don’t want to explain to the guys why we look so…tired.”

You reach out quickly and grab his hand before he can fully pull away, your fingers wrapping around his wrist with gentle insistence. Sunghoon pauses, glancing back at you. You look up at him with those pleading eyes ; still heavy with sleep and leftover desire ; and whisper, “Just a kiss, please? Then we’ll get up.”

He stares at you for a beat, clearly fighting an internal battle. His jaw tightens, but the way you’re looking at him, all warm and tempting in the morning, makes his resolve crumble. “You’re being stubborn right now,” he mutters, a fond smile tugging at his lips despite the words. With a defeated sigh, he climbs back onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he settles over you again. His body presses you into the sheets, hot skin against hot skin. One of his hands cups your cheek as he leans down, capturing your lips in a unhurried kiss. It starts soft, almost sweet, but quickly turns hungry, with tongues sliding together, breaths mingling in the already stifling room. You melt beneath him, fingers threading through his messy hair.

Without breaking the kiss, Sunghoon’s hand slides down your body with ease. He grips the back of your thigh, lifting it and hooking it around his waist, pulling you flush against him. At the same time, his other hand tugs your underwear down your legs in a single move, then quickly shoves his own boxers lower, freeing his throbbing cock. It’s muscle memory at this point, how many times had he done exactly this in the middle of the night?

The thick head of his cock brushes against your bare heat as he rocks his hips forward, teasing your entrance while he kisses you harder, swallowing your soft moan. Sweat beads along his spine from the summer heat, but neither of you cares. “One kiss,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough with need, “and now look what you’ve done…”

You smile into the next kiss, rolling your hips up to meet him, encouraging him closer as your thigh tightens around his waist. The brunch with Jake and Jay is quickly becoming a distant afterthought. You feel him pause right there, his body tense above yours, cock heavy and hot over your inner thigh. Sunghoon pulls back just enough to look down at you, that signature smirk curling his lips as his eyes gleam with mischief and lust. “What are we even going to tell the guys when we show up late?” he asks, voice low and teasing, one eyebrow raised. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thigh, still hooked firmly around his waist.

You can’t help but chuckle, the sound breathy and light in the heated air between you. “Not my problem,” you reply with a playful shrug, your fingers tracing lazy patterns down his sweat-slicked back. He lets out a quiet laugh that turns into a groan as he shifts his hips. He reaches down between your bodies, wrapping his hand around the base of his cock, and slowly rubs the swollen head up and down your slick entrance. The pressure makes your breath hitch every time he nudges against your clit, coating himself in your arousal.

“Fuck…I don’t want to think about it right now,” he murmurs lowly against your lips, his voice rough and needy. He keeps rubbing, slow and sluggish, pressing just barely inside before pulling back again, drawing it out until you’re squirming beneath him. The summer heat makes everything feel more intense ; skin sticking, breaths short, the room filled with nothing but the sounds of your shared breathing and the faint creak of the bed.

His forehead rests against yours, eyes half-opened as he watches your reaction to every stroke. “What’s with you being this wet already?" He teases softly. You whimper as he keeps teasing you mercilessly. He pushes the thick head of his cock inside you, stretching you open just enough to make your walls flutter around him, then pulls out with a wet pop. He does it again and again ; slow, shallow dips that leave you aching for more, your hips chasing him every time he withdraws.

“Fuck, Hoon…” you breathe, nails digging into his shoulders.

He finally gives in with a low groan. In one smooth thrust, he buries himself deep inside you, filling you completely. Your back arches off the bed as he starts thrusting ; deep, steady strokes that make the headboard tap softly against the wall. The heat in the room only intensifies everything : skin slapping skin, sweat making your bodies glide together, your thigh still hooked tightly around his waist.

Just as the rhythm starts building, his phone begins ringing loudly on the nightstand. Sunghoon curses under his breath but doesn’t stop right away, thrusting a few more times before he reluctantly slows. He pulls out of you with a slick sound, shifting down the bed in one move. As you were about to protest, his broad shoulders push your thighs apart and his mouth is on you. His tongue drags hot and flat through your folds, licking up your wetness before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking gently. You moan loudly, fingers threading through his hair as he eats you out with hungry, practiced strokes.

The phone keeps ringing. On what must be the final ring, he reaches over, grabs it, and answers without pulling his mouth off you. “Yeah?” he says, voice muffled and graveled. He flicks his tongue faster against your clit, two fingers sliding into you and curling perfectly as he speaks.

You hear Jake’s voice faintly through the speaker, firing off a ton of questions—where are you guys, why aren’t you there yet, did you oversleep again?

He lifts his head just enough to speak clearly, lips and chin shiny with your arousal. “I’m eating breakfast right now,” he replies casually, then dives back down, sucking on your clit while his fingers pump in and out of you steadily.

Jake laughs on the other end. “Dude, we’re literally about to have brunch. Why are you eating already?”

Sunghoon chuckles against your pussy, the vibration making you bite your lip to stifle a moan. “I was really hungry while getting ready,” he answers smoothly, voice low and slightly breathless. His tongue circles your clit faster as he adds, “Give us like…twenty minutes. We’ll be there.”

He hangs up without waiting for more protests, tossing the phone aside and focusing entirely on you again. His mouth works you harder, fingers curling deep as he looks up at you with hungry eyes.

“Better come quick, baby,” he murmurs against your soaked folds, smirking. “We’ve got brunch plans.”

📎 — @kookieterry @wonderikii @rikisloverrr @icryforenhypen @hyyhwriter @nodoubtily @teddyberryy @genienha @simjakeyjake @2dolcee @heartheejake @amiiq7 @only4nrkkiii @meowieshibal @ily4hoonity @d1m-cataclysm @blaisehazey @not--christ @svtenfate @ilofflee @imtiredofthisbsstuff @megamatt43 @whoshoonie @ni-kichromeheartzz @kristynaaah @charlotee8 @idkhahaha1234 @beommii

[kissued]

END OF THE LINE ✦ 박성훈 PARK SUNGHOON [ PART 01 ]

if you're gonna break me in two ⋆ masterpost ⋆ do what you gotta do GENRE + PAIRING ⋮ college au. ice hockey player!fratboy!sunghoon x fem!reader. PART 01 WC 29.3k

SYNOPSIS ⋮ you’ve been crushing on lee heeseung for most of your college life — long enough that you were beginning to crack. one blessed night, when a girl at a party slips you his number, it feels like fate finally taking pity on you. what follows is a slow, intoxicating unraveling — late-night calls, perfect pick-ups, subtle flirts you’d expect from a charming guy like him. so why is it that when you finally wave at him on campus, he looks genuinely confused?

CONTENT WARNINGS ⋮ explicit themes, includes smut so +18 only. themes of mental illness sex as a coping mechanism self esteem issues angst with happy ending miscommunication skinship physical intimacy inferiority complex featuring enhypen slowburn pining

AUTHOR'S NOTE ⋮ hi!! thank you so much for waiting on me. this fic was such an ambitious idea of mine that i had no idea if i would be able to pull it off.. but after 6 months of typing n gathering feedback from my wonderful friends (veevee, annabanana, and mona to my minju + many more) i was able to do just that <33 hoonyn have such a special place in my heart, even though i worked on other fics while fleshing out this one, this project always got me the most excited (and also the most frustrated lmfao). anyway!!!! i had to split it up into two because of the block limit... VERY SORRY about that it's like 52k ish total? i got lost in the plot and just enjoyed my time writing, so that's why...... i hope it lives up to your expectations! i love U aaallll enjoy the word vomit ++ taglist at the end of the fic <3 thank u and see u in part 2 veryy sooonnn

REBLOGS APPRECIATED ⋆ THANK YOU FOR READING

everyone always told you that you had terrible luck. this applied to most things: friendships, competitions, meeting a friend’s parents, even.

but love? oh, love was where it stung. this was somehow more painful than everything else, because while you could flaunt at least one instance where a friendship didn’t explode in your face, or a parent actually liked you, or you won a gold star—you could never say you hit it off with a guy, ever.

perhaps the men of this generation were simply too terrible for this to ever be a matter of luck. it felt more like a rigged casino: every bet placed in good faith, every hand played carefully, and still you walked away lighter, bled dry all the same.

you weren’t desperate. no. far from it. you did everything right. you waited, chose the boys who made you feel safe instead of reckless, who offered steadiness instead of the dizzy thrill everyone else swore by. you could say, with a quiet sense of pride, that you followed the rules and played it by the book. hell, even after all that, every guy’s true colours somehow emerged victorious by the end of it: they just want sex, sex, or sex.

the truth was that deep down, you didn’t want anything to do with it. even if it was indeed the sexiest, biggest, smartest guy on campus… there was only one guy you set your sights on. just one, with the light brown hair and charming smile, shooting hoops at the basketball court by the cafeteria—lee heeseung.

though, the problem was simple: you’d never actually talked to the guy. this could’ve been easily solved if you shared even one class, but of course, he’d signed up late—every elective already full, while you, being the good student you are, had locked your choices in the moment the portal opened.

the second solution, proposed by oh jiwon herself, was rejected the instant it left her mouth. you were sprawled in her dorm room on a normal saturday night—you, legs spread indecently across the tiny couch she’d smuggled past security in first year, and her, upside down on the bed, hair brushing the floor.

“why don’t you just bump into him and knock all his books down?” she muttered, teeth chomping down on a stack of (probably) expired bbq-xtra-hot chips.

oh, heeeell no. what the fuck was this? a poorly produced drama plotline?

“was he born yesterday?”

the third option, though, felt a little more… dignified. it came to you on a random thursday evening, when the rain felt a little too heavy and you were wishing that lee heeseung would swoop in and hold a $5 umbrella over your heads.

replaying the events of the day in your head as your boots sloshed in muddy puddles, kim sunoo’s annoyingly pretty face comes into view.

“the fundraiser’s gonna be so busy this year, gosh…”

yes. indeed, it will.

the annual fundraiser organised by the student relations club. you remembered being ridiculously excited for it last year—around the same time you’d first started noticing heeseung. after some careful “asking around”, you’d learned he was attending, too. and, as if the universe was personally apologising to you for your tragic love life: he was trying his luck at the blind date booth.

what a sweet guy. donating his hard-earned money to charity and putting himself out there? he had your heart in his hands, and you came to understand that his was the target of many others.

so, it was obvious what had to be done. you signed up the moment sunoo—thank the angels for him—let the information slip. it’s nothing short of fate that you shared an elective with him; it took a bit of coaxing and more than a few judgmental looks, but by that sunny wednesday afternoon, good had prevailed in the world.

it’s safe to say you did not get lee heeseung as your date. instead, you endured a miserable twenty-minute speed dinner listening to a stranger ramble about his league rank. ou’d never been more thoroughly turned off in your life.

but this year?

this year, it will be different.

─────────────────────────

the house smells like weed and alcohol, and also everything that you should not be doing on a thursday night. you got the call from jiwon in the middle of your assignment, head half buried in your hands as the glow from the laptop screen burned your retinas—it’s twelve midnight now, and you have class in eight hours, but the impending sleep deprivation still beats handing in sloppy work.

the house belongs to the frat heeseung’s in. sigma alpha eta, if you remembered correctly. it’s three stories tall, tacky, and reeks of soju and everything wrong with the male species. you’re not even sure if the place ever gets cleaned, but considering it’s full of rich mama’s boys, they’ve probably hired someone to deal with the mess for them.

“what the fuck is going on?”

oh jiwon’s staring at you like you’re the one who dragged her here. you scan the room for no one in particular (lie), and when you turn back—

she’s gone.

“who’s ready to party?!”

the dj is embarrassingly bad. like, physically painful to listen to. the bass is cranked up so high it rattles the floorboards, vibrating straight through your bones. you cringe, already picturing the culprit: some frat guy who bought a $100 mixing set off amazon last week and now calls himself “up and coming”.

everyone you know seems to be here. you’d brushed shoulders with ahn yunjin and danielle on the way in, only to watch them dart toward the porch with a joint already lit.

you snake your way through narrow hallways packed wall-to-wall—overlapping conversations, smoke blown straight into your face, bodies pressing in from every side as you aim for the kitchen. instead, you stumble into the living room. leather couches are occupied by unconscious adults—drunk, high, or some lethal combination of both—bathed in warm overhead light that all but promises brutal hangovers tomorrow.

it seems like the party started long before you got here. where the hell did your jiwon go, anyway?

your feet start to move again, carrying you mindlessly through the first floor—you cross the hallway, take a turn into another doorway, and finally stumble upon the kitchen; it’s less crowded, with fewer drunk people and comparably quiet in contrast to whatever’s waiting for you outside the threshold of that door. your eyes are hesitant, oddly enough, though you know why.

parties like this usually mean hookups. and when hookups are involved, lee heeseung is the first name that comes to mind. the guy’s practically a walking target—especially in his own frat house, swarming with every girl who’s been blessed enough to know the name.

this whole situation feels like a ticking time bomb. your chest tightens. how long before someone else gets to him? how long before you turn a corner and see his face buried in someone else’s neck? 10 minutes? 10 seconds?

“hellooooo!”

and as fast as the thoughts come, they go; head snapping toward the sound, locking onto oh fucking jiwon—standing there, smiling innocently, as if she hadn’t abandoned you to die in the crowd.

“where the fuck have you been?” you sigh, hands running through your hair, like you’d just spent a whole day looking for her. to be fair, time moves weirdly in places like this.

“refilling!” she hiccups. “see?” she tips her red cup to show a dubious mix of jack and coke.

she’s tipsy—no surprise there. jiwon’s always been a lightweight. still, she manages to wobble over and hop onto the marble island, scooting back until her legs dangle comfortably. she looks down at you with glassy, sparkly eyes.

“sooo… heeseung’s place, huh? didn’t know their frat was so fancy. they literally have wine older than my grandparents in here.”

you roll your eyes and drag a stool out from under the island. it screeches against the tile, making you wince, before you climb up onto it.

“you’ve been snooping in their alcohol?” you giggle, shaking your head in mock disapproval. you’ll have to look through it later, too. “you’re a shit guest.”

“guest is always right!” jiwon babbles, before abruptly sneezing. the action makes you flinch. “oh… sorry. anyways,”

you cross your arms, waiting. she’s halfway to blackout, but you humor her anyway.

“fundraiser!” she slurs. “heeseung’s in the pantry. think he’s lookin’ for chips. i dunno. he was with sunghoon, and then i ran into him while lookin’ for more soju—”

and it’s like the universe wants to show you how much it wants you to stay in this lifetime, as a form of divine mercy, or something similar to an apology, because lee heeseung slides the pantry door open and waltzes right out with chips tucked under his armpit, as he munches on something else. your eyes follow him, and so does everyone else’s, and naturally they trail towards the slightly shorter man behind him.

park sunghoon. the guy with the ridiculously sharp, thick eyebrows, a staring problem, and close to half of the campus’s female population wanting to lick his boots. there’s often two responses to the question ‘who’s the cutest guy on campus’, and many of your peers often utter one or the other: heeseung, or his colder counterpart, sunghoon.

you took an economics class with him last year, and thank god you didn’t hit the lottery and end up in the same group, because you’d heard… things. too many things. stories about him tearing into a girl’s work so viciously, she had to beg the professor to let her switch groups with sunoo (it’s strange, how he seemed to be in almost every class you took, now that you think about it).

you’d never talked to him, or anyone from that little group, really, aside from kim sunoo. you knew sim jaeyun was popular over in the engineering block; all brains and good looks, apparently. nishimura riki was another name you heard in passing—always surrounded by a crowd whenever he danced with his crew in some random corner with a giant mirror. as for jongseong and jungwon… you didn’t even want to think about the things people said. absolutely vile in nature.

it seems like the whole lot of them were heartthrobs, in every sense of the word.

it’s just… park sunghoon?

that guy didn’t deserve half the glowing reviews he got.

you were half convinced that if people had star ratings floating above their heads—complete with scrollable comments—he’d be inflating his own with burner emails.

park sunghoon. 5 stars. wow, this guy is sooooo hot and rich! — nothoon12345. he just looked like the kind of guy who did that kind of thing.

okay, maybe you were being a little harsh, considering you’d never actually spoken to him. still, it felt telling when even other men talked shit about him: apparently being both the most disliked and the most respected player on the ice hockey team was impressive enough to land him the captain title.

he walks a few steps behind heeseung, his own bag of chips in hand. you don’t realise you’re staring until his gaze snaps towards you as he passes—a look equal parts smug, disgusted, and painfully punchable.

“what the hell is that guy’s issue?”

“stop looking at him,” jiwon waves you off, swinging her feet. her heel accidentally thuds against the wood. “heeseung's right there.”

your eyes flick back to heeseung, now hovering near the front door, greeting the flood of people streaming in—tonight’s barely started, but somehow, you feel ten times heavier than when you walked in.

lee heeseung, leaning casually against the wall, all perfect teeth, perfect hair, perfectly charming face… and park sunghoon, just a step behind him, stiff, scanning the crowd until his gaze finally locks on you.

before you can tear your eyes away, he cocks his head and gives you a smile—all mockery, all challenge, like he just told a joke you’d never understand. you shift your weight on the stool, cross one leg over the other, but your eyes stay zeroed on him.

“i don’t like that sunghoon guy,” you mutter, dragging a hand through your hair and pretending to look elsewhere.

oh jiwon rolls her eyes, snorts, and leans her weight back on the counter. “you’d be surprised how many people wanna get in his pants—”

“don’t. talk. to. me. about. park. sunghoon’s. pants.” you snap, stabbing a finger toward her chest for emphasis—she giggles at the action, and you do, too. though your eyes flick back, just once, toward where he was.

but when you do, he’s gone. no sunghoon, no heeseung. just the occasional partygoer opening and closing doors, the sound barely registering to your ears through the shitty music.

“how have you not drank anything yet?”

“i literally just got here!”

────────────────────────

it’s one in the morning, and the party seems to be at it’s peak—there’s no one else coming through the front door, and it’s more packed than you could imagine; you’re leaning against the staircase with a cup swirling in your hands, only having taken two sips out of it. jiwon’s still next to you, chatting to a guy you’ve never seen before.

you look at him, then at her. unimpressive, if anything. you’re turning to look at your cup again and the feeling hits, sudden and sharp as it claws at your chest: you feel extremely out of place, even in a house full of people and possibility. people shove their way past you and you hold your cup tight to your chest as it happens. you barely hear anything with the laughter, chatter, and music all at once.

your eyes drift toward the window—yunjin’s with someone else; danielle must’ve left earlier. you scan the room again, half-heartedly looking for a familiar face to talk to—sunoo, maybe, even if the guy doesn’t really think you’re normal. or for park sunghoon, perhaps for some explanation as to why he’d looked at you like that earlier.

“looking for hee?”

that voice. too close. it sends shivers down your spine, every hair standing before your neck snaps to your left—jiwon’s gone, and so is that guy, instead replaced by a girl you know all too well.

she’s smiling at you with her lips curled in a way that makes your stomach drop—unsettling by its very nature. the lights strobe across her face, red and white, purple and blue, painting her in something eerie as her expression lingers, sharp and all-knowing.

“what the fuck do you want?”

she laughs softly, hands coming up to her face to cover her mouth like she’s some gentle, kind creature that’s come to save the day. kim sooha’s always been like that. ever since high school, ever since you’ve been bestowed the honour of knowing how ruthless she gets when she wants to be.

her hair falls over her face before she moves to tuck it behind her ear.

god, you want to slap her. some things never change, no matter how many years pass.

“you need to learn how to relax. you’ve been staring all night,” she sighs, leaning her back against the wall as she talks—like you two are friends, always have been—and that this is the most normal conversation ever. “you’re definitely looking for heeseung, aren’t you? i got a shortcut, if you’re interested.”

you don’t answer. you’ve learnt it’s best to shut your mouth instead of lie, because with girls like sooha, the snake always bites first.

your mind flashes, briefly, to the image of him again: light brown hair falling over his face, his genuine smile as people poured in from the front door, eyes squinting as he spots a good friend from a few feet away. your eyes had never truly left him, until you caught park sunghoon staring daggers at you right behind.

and, strangely, it’s never found him again since.

“listen, i have his number—it’ll save you a looot of trouble.”

you don’t realise you’ve turned away from her until you glance back. her smile widens as you meet her eyes—glinting with something dangerous, like this isn’t truly all there is to her offer.

kim sooha is not about goodwill and donating to charities. the charity would have to return her 110% before she could ever consider doing so; in this case, the charity seems to be you.

“what do you want?”

and it feels like you’ve just sold your soul to the damn devil with how bright her face gets. like a child on christmas morning, unwrapping a brand new toy. well—you suppose you’re a toy, too, in this.

she reaches into the back pocket of her jeans, the jingle of her phone charm barely cutting through the kendrick lamar song that’s causing the floor to vibrate. you wonder how long until someone calls the cops on this place—it’s too loud, too much, and you don’t even want to think about what the second and third floor looks like right now.

“one click, and i’ll send it to you.”

you scoff, breaking the eye contact to take a sip of the peach soju in your hands. you almost roll your eyes before remembering that this was sooha you were getting in bed with—one wrong move, and she’s retracting, and you’ll be left to awkward waves and stuttered hello’s at the fundraiser three months from now.

“my jacket’s upstairs, and i need you to get it.”

if you weren’t confused before, you definitely are now.

“your fucking jacket?” you repeat, and it almost comes out as a laugh. she doesn’t think it’s funny, though, because she’s quick to fire back a response:

“i don’t want to bump into whoever you’re gonna bump into. not in the mood. consider it a gift from me,” she pokes a finger at your collarbone, “to you.”

you flinch, her sharp nail making you stumble back, just a little. her eyebrows raise as you tilt your head towards the stairs, watching you glance up and towards the flight of stairs above your heads—there’s people moving up and down, and it just doesn’t click—why not someone else?

“so… are you doing it? don’t have time to sleep on—“

you chew on the lining of your cheek. something isn’t right. she’s looking at you like she doesn’t care if her jacket actually makes it back to her—all that matters is that you fall into whatever she’s setting up.

“fine. keep your fucking word when i get back down here.”

the smile that spreads across her face makes your heart drop straight to your ass. you don’t like this—not the feeling of being a step behind, not the way it feels like she’s holding something over you.

but… like she said. it’s not as if you have a whole day to sit on your ass and think it through.

“you should know by now. i always do,” she sings, voice lilting and smug, watching as you turn away and head for the stairs. “thank you, dear [name].”

you pause at the bottom, fingers curling tighter around your cup as you glance upward. bodies move through the hallways above—laughing, stumbling, disappearing into rooms that smell like sweat, alcohol and poor decisions. the music thumps faintly through the walls, distorted here, like a heartbeat that doesn’t belong to you.

your head feels light, almost dizzy, but you go anyway. one step. then another. your shoes stick slightly to the floor as you climb, each step feeling heavier than the last.

“this yours?”

your head cocks up, eyes locking onto a familiar face—park sunghoon, standing at the top of the staircase, with a leather jacket haphazardly folded into his hands. it looks expensive when it’s under this kind of light, and knowing sooha, it probably is.

“yup,” you say, the word coming out more clipped than you intend. reluctant, wary—but who the hell could blame you? the guy who’s been staring all psycho and weird, treating you like an out-of-earth entity is holding onto the one thing you need to finish this amazing deal. “thank you!”

he’s tall. towering. with you two steps below him, he’s giving himself a stiff neck just looking at you. his face gives nothing away—not surprise, barely any curiosity, perhaps slight irritation. more than anything, there’s that unreadable calm, like he’s not only three steps ahead of whatever this is, but also skies above it.

your arms reach out to grab it from him, but sunghoon’s quick to retract his hand. he dangles it in front of you, an eyebrow raised, still staring as if you were some kind of odd specimen—you blink a few times, waiting for him to say something, anything.

“i’d watch out if i were you.”

his voice is low, nearly lost beneath the bass thudding through the floor below. it’s flat enough that it barely registers as a voice at all.

but just why the hell is he telling you this? park sunghoon’s talking like he knows kim sooha personally.

really, if you had to pick between the two of you… you’d have to consider yourself the expert.

“o… kay?” you mouth, the word barely audible over the bass thrumming through the walls.

for a moment longer, he just looks at you, then lowers the jacket into your hands. you don’t manage to thank him, because you’re turning around before you can even utter another word.

nothing else matters right now. you’re praying that by the time you reach the bottom of the stairs, sooha will be there—phone in hand, ready to send those digits your way, just like she promised.

though, even if she isn’t, you’re not entirely sure what you’d do about it. there’s no backup plan. you’re definitely not asking sunoo—because you’re not an idiot with a weird obsession with lee heeseung (lie), and you’re not that desperate to talk to him (lie), enough to corner one of his closest friends and expose yourself completely (truth).

well… you guess you’ve already done so by poking around about the fundraiser, but his number is crossing the line. apparently.

you square your shoulders and keep walking, clinging to the thought that this will all be worth it once lee heeseung’s finally a button away, instead of thirty meters and 6 men apart.

“you’re quick with it,” sooha yells over the song playing, now a remix of some chainsmokers single. roses, a classic, which also means people are starting to get oddly energetic despite it reaching two in the morning.

you watch her eyes flick down to her phone, the screen lighting up her face as she brings it to her chest—typing, swiping, pausing just long enough to be irritating—until your own phone vibrates against the back pocket of your shorts.

“thanks a bunch, y/n.” she says lightly. “always so obedient.”

your jaw tightens. you don’t bother responding—just thrust the jacket into her abdomen, harder than necessary. kim sooha doesn’t take it personally, she never does. the flare of your nostrils, the way your fingers curl like you’re holding yourself back—that’s more than enough to make her night.

a sweet, disingenuous smile blooms across your face, as if to say: ‘no problem, bitch.’

she slips past you, shoulders barely brushing, already headed for the front door. just before she disappears, you catch it—the smudged eyeshadow, the eyeliner dragged unevenly beneath her eyes, foundation streaked down her cheeks like she hasn’t bothered to check herself in a mirror.

for a fraction of a second, you find yourself worrying—for her, and for yourself. you’ve never once seen sooha with makeup this (for lack of a better word) bad; she’s always immaculate, flawless, even if that bruises your ego to admit out loud.

which means there are only two possibilities: she’s just fucked someone and realised, far too late, what a mistake it was—or her heart has just been torn into a million tiny, irreparable pieces.

you don’t take much time to dwell on it, before you tear your eyes away from sooha’s figure slowly fading into the distance. her boots clack against the concrete pavement before it comes to a stop, and for a moment, she just stands—until a car pulls up and she ducks her head to fit into it.

what the hell was that?

the front door slams shut from someone else pulling it closed, the sound cutting clean through the music, and your head turns instinctively toward the staircase.

park sunghoon.

the second floor is quieter, stripped of the flashing colours and strobe lights below. in that softer, warmer glow, park sunghoon comes sharply into focus.

he’s leaning over the railing, forearms bearing his weight. an empty soju bottle hangs loosely from his hand, head bowed, expression obscured by shadow—almost like he’s staring straight down at you.

he’s annoyingly gorgeous. his side profile is so lethal that you think if not for his shitty attitude and tendency to stare at everyone sideways, he’d be a model.

you catch yourself wishing he’d just fuck off and do that instead.

your breath catches in your throat. you’re not really sure why—but your body makes the decisions for you tonight, thoughts of sunghoon quickly dissolving as fast as they invaded, feet carrying you toward the front door.

sleek wood and cold metal doorknobs in all their unassuming glory. it’s an exit. a way out of the noise, the lights, and the man upstairs who feels far too aware of your existence.

you move. fluid, deliberate, like this was always the plan.

sunghoon’s gaze tracks you as you slip through the crowd, hair brushing shoulders, bodies pressing in too close. the lights repaint you with every step—pink, purple, red—until you glance back once, just for a second, and the colours smear into something unreadable.

when you finally cross the threshold of the front door, your body is hit with cold wind; unsurprisingly, there’s scattered groups of people across the front yard, smoking and drinking in their quiet bubbles. you inhale the relatively cleaner air, deep, slow, until it settles in your lungs and you’re spared from the remnants of vape flavours and fruity alcohol.

the music dulls behind you, but the vibrations still reach your feet nonetheless.

you sigh, a hand dragging through your hair, before you make your way towards a stone pillar, only to lean your weight against it. you didn’t realise how quiet it could be, after almost two hours in that god forsaken party—the quiet chatter doesn’t make your head spin out here and the occasional laugh isn’t as annoying as the screams inside.

that’s when you see him.

lee heeseung—smoking—with that guy from engineering. jake sim.

the cigarette is pinched between his fingers, and he takes slow drags like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this messy, overgrown scene. jake’s rambling beside him, hands flying as he retells some story you can’t hear, and heeseung just nods along, offering the occasional laugh that reassures his friend that he finds it equally as funny.

everything feels slowed down. time is suspended. his hair slips into his eyes, and every now and then he shakes his head, a small, unconscious motion to clear his vision.

this is kind of creepy. you’re watching lee heeseung smoke at two in the morning from his front porch. you, a year ago, wouldn’t have believed this even if someone swore on it.

okay. that’s enough. you’re leaving—immediately.

but not before you bring your phone to your face—the blue light stings, almost burns your retinas. you blink hard once, twice, until the haze clears. your thumb swipes into your messages.

kim sooha has kept her word.

sooha (do not reply): +82-xx-xxxx-xxxx 01:53

sooha (do not reply): enjoy yourself! <3 01:53

bitch.

you add the contact while lee heeseung is still laughing in your peripheral vision, smoke curling into the dark, completely unaware that—through totally legitimate and ethical means—he’s now a button away.

─────────────────────────

park sunghoon was not interested in love.

this was, somehow, a known fact across campus.

anyone could guess by that stoic look on his face and that gigantic duffle bag he drags around everywhere, that the man couldn’t be paid a million dollars to be locked down—that’s what so little time and too many (non-romantic) commitments does to you.

mondays were the gym. tuesdays, practice. wednesdays, rest. thursdays, practice again. fridays, the gym, and a night run. saturdays and sundays, practice too. he was surprised he even had time to fit kim sooha into his schedule, though, it was not as often as she preferred.

okay, he admits it was just sex—but an hour or two once or twice a week was already cutting it close.

sunghoon was an ex-figure skater turned ice hockey player, so it was clear what the future held for him: he’s talented, rich, disciplined, a genius—the world was his oyster. everyone around him was in his court.

who would he be if he let someone make the rules for him?

you see: park sunghoon couldn’t be bothered with the girls throwing themselves at him, or the ones who acted shy. in his eyes, it all ended the same.

they wanted more. he couldn’t give more. he didn’t want to give more.

kim sooha was no different. of course she wasn’t—park sunghoon couldn’t deny it, because she fit the stereotype of every girl who’d ever wanted him: bashful, a little self-deprecating, and far too clingy.

at least he had been decent enough to tell her that sex was all it would ever be, and all he could afford to give. but what do you know (park sunghoon always knows), someone ends up wanting more.

the night of the party, around ten, sunghoon found himself holed up in his bedroom trying to finish up a paper before the house had started swarming with people. one moment he’s typing, fingers mashing away at his keyboard as the words flow flawlessly, perfectly, and his mind occasionally drifts to the grade he’d get for this assignment. nothing less than 100, of course. he wouldn’t expect anything less from himself.

“hoon!”

and his genius flow is disrupted by none other than jake, peeking his head from behind the doorway, with an idiotic smile painted across his glowing face.

“what do you want?” sunghoon mutters, head turning back to the screen of his laptop. jake sim’s prsesence usually meant the message wasn’t all that important—if it was, it’d be jungwon up here instead. “i’m busy.”

“sooha’s here,” he says. “she wants to see you.”

sunghoon kisses his teeth in annoyance, solely out of instinct, an action which jake pretends not to notice. it only irritates sunghoon even more, really—he’d rather jake just be honest with him, instead of pretending to be polite just for the sake of being polite. he knows better than anyone that all of his brothers hate when kim sooha is around, and that hiding it won’t convince park sunghoon otherwise.

for varying reasons.

he recalls that one dinner two weeks ago, when jay told sunghoon to ‘do a better job at shutting sooha up’. he could barely eat the rest of his food.

“please don’t send her up here. i’ll be downstairs soon,” and jake is almost ready to turn his pretty face right around and back downstairs to help set up the speakers, before sunghoon asks: “why is she even here?”

“hey, you’re the one fucking her, man.” jake shrugs, before he turns around for the final time. sunghoon’s face morphs into one of disgust, weirdly fast, even though the statement isn’t exactly false—still, it doesn’t stop him from wanting to crawl into a hole and die.

there’s something wrong with him. he can’t deny the sex was good, and yes, kim sooha was gorgeous… but commitment? staying? forever? that was different.

he remembers when yang jungwon had a girlfriend. those were not good times. definitely. the guy refused to leave his bedroom for two days after they broke it off—and sunghoon, as much as he cared for poor jungwon, couldn’t stop thinking about how two days meant two lifetimes of missed productivity.

just how much of an asshole could he be?

so, that’s precisely why he settles for sex. a dopamine hit to get himself off edge, so he’s ready to stretch himself thin all over again.

lee heeseung says it’s not healthy, but what the hell would he know? he’s too busy drowning in love letters, home-baked cookies, and instagram requests to understand why this is the best option out of any presented to him. the golden boy doesn’t know what he’s talking about—the only reason he even bothers giving advice is because of the one, maybe two girlfriends he had in first year, which he seems to think qualifies him as an expert in sweet, innocent, and healthy love.

park sunghoon doesn’t even have instagram. it’s a waste of time.

why the fuck doesn’t he get cookies, anyway? why don’t girls approach him just to talk, instead of trying to grind on his crotch at parties? why doesn’t he have someone sweet and steady, sitting in the stands and watching his games—wiping his tears when he plays like shit, or being the first one he looks for when he scores an amazing shot?

never mind the way he takes their hand and leads them upstairs. never mind how easily he leans into a stranger’s touch and lets himself pretend it means something. never mind that he’s learned to let names slip past him, unheard, while his gaze drifts instead to the shape of their lips.

never mind all of it.

he tells himself it’s circumstantial—something inevitable, something learnt. that he would be different, could be different, if the world around him didn’t demand this version of him in return.

lee heeseung gets to commit. he gets to feel it all—the highs, the warmth, the quiet safety of having someone stay, and he makes it out unscathed, unhurt. he gets to ground himself in knowing that she won’t walk out of that door when shit hits the fan, too—fuck, he doesn’t know anything at all.

footsteps thud from the hallway, but he knows it’s just jay and riki shifting furniture around—boards scraping, chairs sliding—enough to rattle the plaster on the walls. jake’s voice cuts through the mess, yelling at heeseung to find the extra loud speakers jungwon had “borrowed” for his own use. somewhere upstairs, sunoo’s probably napping, blissfully unaware of the chaos below.

sunghoon doesn’t mind. five people are more than enough to handle party prep, and he refuses to be dragged into it. the music, the clatter, the erratic shouts—it all feels like someone else’s life, a background noise he doesn’t need to claim.

instead, up here, he can focus on what matters: finishing his paper, keeping his head down, staying untangled in this mess that’s about to spill over the entire house in about an hour.

he leans back against the leather of his chair, shoulders finally relaxing, and lets his gaze wander over the room. the house smells like air freshener, a somewhat helpful idea proposed by riki, but the sharp tang in his nose makes him grit his teeth.

for the first time that evening, he almost smiles at the absurdity of it all, the chaos of his brothers trying to pull off another last-minute party. he knows it’ll all work out fine, and that this will be the talk of campus until it fizzles out in two weeks, but it’s still ridiculous how these people never learn to plan ahead.

he remembers the last party sigma alpha eta threw—someone broke a table, then went swimming naked in the pool. safe to say, jake and him had to track the culprit down the next morning and demand the funds to get it cleaned.

“hoonie?”

a soft click from the front door snaps him out of his thoughts.

he knows exactly who it is.

kim sooha. standing by the dark frame of his door, dressed in something that would’ve had him weak in the knees if he was some random horny loser—skirt smooth, tight against her skin, a leather jacket framing her small body. it’s too bad that he doesn’t give two shits, though.

“you’ve been avoiding me,” she announces, voice sharp yet playful, as if she owns the room that sunghoon’s made his. it irks him.

she leans against the doorframe, one hip jutting out, arms crossed with a face so smug that it makes him want to flip her off. “so, i came early. just to… check in.”

he looks back at the screen of his laptop, bright blue light shining in his face, and barely moves another muscle. “you know where the rules stand. i’m busy.”

“hoonie—“

“told you to stop calling me that.” sunghoon cuts her off, “i don’t need you checking on me, thanks. party’s not starting for another hour. maybe you can help them prep?”

the words land like a slap. sooha’s jaw tightens, but she forces a smile, refusing to let him see the way it stings.

she steps closer anyway, as if proximity can wear him down, break the walls that are already hardening—or climb over whatever’s already there.

“come on. it doesn’t have to be like this.” she tilts her head, letting her hair fall over one shoulder, “i’ve been asking you for weeks, hoon. i’ve always wanted—”

“no.” sunghoon exhales, forcefully slow, as if that’ll help him calm down. “i’ve been saying the same shit for weeks. you’re pushing me.”

she takes two steps closer, heels tapping against the shiny wood floor. the space between them closes as she leans over his desk, shadow casting over the dark oak. he feels like slamming his head into it—the bruise would be less painful than this, the sharp smell of her fruity perfume that sunghoon never bothered to register, but hates anyway now that it finally has.

he never thought he’d have to tell her that he hates the notes of citrus. it didn’t matter if she never stayed long enough to get the words out.

“hoonie,” sooha mumbles, hands bracing the surface of his table. “i thought we were getting somewhere.”

“even after i told you we weren’t?” sunghoon shifts his chair backwards, widening the gap just so he could feel like he wasn’t going to choke at the smell of her perfume. “know what? i’m done. can’t fucking draw any lines with you—“

“that’s it? we’re just—“

sunghoon’s jaw tightens, and he leans back slightly in his chair. “i said it was just sex. nothing more. if you’re begging for a hug and some kisses, go somewhere else.”

the silence hangs in the air, thick, impenetrable. for a minute, sunghoon wonders if he’s gone too far—sooha’s face falters, her sultry smile now replaced by lips that tremble before her teeth bite down on them. she nods once, slow, looking at park sunghoon like he’s driven a ten-foot pole straight through her chest, twisted it, and ripped it back out.

his eyes flick from his laptop screen to her irises. if one thing’s admirable about park sunghoon, is that if he was going to tear you to pieces, he’ll have the decency to look you in the eye.

at least, for that final word. it’s about as much emotion as he can manage.

“get out.”

so she does—nods slow, before turning on her heel, the sharp click of her shoes echoing once, twice, until it fades down the hallway.

the door shuts behind her with a quiet finality. sunghoon doesn’t watch it close.

the smell of sooha’s perfume lingers in the air, unwanted, and he feels petty for even trying to block it out. after all, they’ve shared a bed before, even if they skipped every prerequisite to get there—but it rarely ever felt worth it to him, if at all.

he’s had his fair share of women. he’s always prided himself on being honest about what he wants—in his mind, there’s nothing wrong with that, as long as everyone’s on the same page.

no promises, no expectations, yet it always ends the same way. someone always reaches for more pieces of him than he’s willing—or able—to give. pieces that have were never there to begin with.

jake tells him he’s lucky. says it with a laugh, like sunghoon should be grateful for the attention, the bodies, the ease of it all. heeseung tries to offer half-assed couch therapy, something about “opening up” and “not shutting people out,” advice sunghoon knows was pulled straight out of his ass—or worse, his tiktok feed.

god, if he wanted someone to tell him what was wrong with him, he’d just pay someone with a degree five hundred a session to do just that.

park sunghoon is not interested in love. park sunghoon is not interested in love. park sunghoon is not. interested. in. love.

it’s inefficient—unstructured, demanding, and prone to spilling into places it doesn’t belong. it asks for time he doesn’t have, space he’s already accounted for, pieces of him that are scheduled, measured, calculated and spent elsewhere, where it should be.

he repeats it like a mantra: no one is looking at him and realizing he’s absent more than he’s present—because sooner or later, they always want more, and he’s learnt that it’s better to draw the line early than to watch disappointment set in later.

this is mercy.

but to whom, he can’t answer.

─────────────────────────

you’re not very sure where you’re going with this.

there’s a list of problems so long it could double as a grocery store receipt:

one) how do you even explain that you got lee heeseung’s number, and

two) what excuse do you have to actually talk to him?

still, you’re laid in bed, the glow from your screen washing your face in harsh white light, painting the ceiling in sharp rectangles. your eyes squint, blinking against the burn, as if staring long enough might make this whole thing less terrifying.

it’s nearing four in the morning, and you’re fairly certain the party has been over for hours—probably everyone has stumbled home or collapsed on some couch somewhere, except for you, hovering in your room like a guilty ghost.

okay, no. these are excuses, and this is you overthinking, twisting your brain into knots. once you finally text that damn number kim sooha “gifted” you—reluctantly, no less—you’ll either regret it or… regret it. either way, there’s no turning back.

you: hiiiii

creep.

you: hi

ominous…

you: is this heeseung?

too direct.

this isn’t working. your thumb hovers over the screen, trembling slightly, and the numbers stare back at you like a puzzle you’re too tired to solve. maybe, if you stare long enough, they’ll rearrange themselves into an opening line that isn’t mortifying.

though, instead of the numbers moving, your thumb does.

“shit. shit, shit, shit—“

oh, yes, your butter fingers saved you the trouble of texting him: why don’t you just fucking call him, instead? like that’s so much better, real smooth of you.

riiing. riiing. riiing.

you barely have time to process before the line goes quiet.

the silence swallows you whole—your ears ring with it. it’s the kind of quiet that makes you question if you’ve suddenly lost all ability to hear.

oh my god. this is hell. you’re either died, or the world has ended, or some black hole just opened up in your room, because it’s too silent for it to be even remotely normal.

“hello?”

the voice on the other end of the line sounds sharp, clipped, like you’ve interrupted something important—or worse, like you’ve woken him up.

you can’t even fault him for it. it’s four in the morning, after the biggest party this term, and you’re an unknown number calling like you’ve lost your damn mind. still, it makes your heart twist a little.

“who is this?”

it’s not rude… not exactly. still, something in your chest sinks because you know what that tone usually means.

you have, roughly, three seconds to justify your existence before lee heeseung hangs up and you become another embarrassing almost in your own head.

maybe one.

“hi,” you mumble, and somehow almost stutter—if that’s even possible over the phone, with a single word—it comes out thin, fragile, and utterly useless.

the line goes quiet again, and you genuinely consider slamming your head into the wall just to feel something else other than the tiny voices evil-laughing in your head. “heeseung, right?”

more damn silence.

not the dead-line kind. it’s worse. it’s the thinking kind.

you picture him on the other end, phone held away from his ear, brow furrowed as he debates whether this is worth his time. unknown caller. 4 in the morning. zero context. and it’s some girl who can’t even say ‘hi’ right.

if you were him, you’d hang up. you’d block the number, move on, this becoming nothing but a blip in your already eventful life.

your grip tightens around your phone. “i—sorry,” you rush out, words tumbling over each other now that the dam’s broken. “this is probably really weird, i know. i wouldn’t usually call, i swear. i just—i got your number earlier and—”

“earlier?” he cuts in.

there’s something in his voice now—not annoyance. interest, maybe. a sprinkle of curiosity edged with suspicion that you weren’t exactly authorized to clear.

your pulse stutters. you should’ve consulted with jiwon before doing something as stupid as this—or sunoo. hell, even the neighbour next door. anyone would’ve been better than diving into this unprepared.

“yeah. tonight, at the party.” you say quickly, like saying it fast will make it make more sense. lee heeseung, pleaaaase be hungover. just this once. “you hosted, right? sigma alpha eta?”

“riiight,” he says slowly, like he’s testing the word on his tongue. “and who gave you my number?”

your stomach drops.

shit.

“uh,” you hesitate, immediately regretting it.

lying feels wrong. lying is wrong, actually, according to everyone ever—but the truth feels… way messier.

you weren’t going to hang kim sooha to dry—who knows what she’ll do to you? you can’t risk heeseung finding out the lengths you went to for some digits. besides, you practically played fetch with her.

“a friend,” you say finally, wearing a prideful grin on your face, as if anyone couldn’t have come up with that ridiculous excuse. “yep.”

“a friend,” he repeats, flatly, like he doesn’t believe a single thing coming out of your mouth. “what friend?”

you squeeze your eyes shut. god, this is going terribly. divert!

“look, if this is a bad time, i can hang up. i really didn’t mean to bother you, i just—”

“you already are,” he says, but there’s something off about it. his tired voice crackles, but it barely sounds angry. almost amused in nature.

you blink. “oh.”

there’s a heavy breath on the other end. you can hear it clearly, like he’s shifted positions, maybe sitting up now, or turning over in bed. definitely more awake than he was a minute ago.

gosh. you’re imagining bed-hair heeseung now. this isn’t good.

“you usually call people you don’t know at four in the morning?” he asks.

“no,” you respond immediately. “never. absolutely not. this is a first and hopefully, a last.”

that gets him—you can tell, even without seeing him. there’s a soft huff through the speaker, not quite a laugh, but close enough to make your chest flutter traitorously.

“so, i’m the trial run?”

you hesitate, then answer honestly, because at this point, what do you have left to lose? your dignity that’s already been thrown out the window and run over by a car?

“i wanted to talk to you.”

another pause. this one lingers, stretching just long enough to make your fingers tingle around your phone. strangely, it comforts you, the idea that he might hang up—that this could end cleanly right here, because you’ve (smartly, or accidentally) yet to tell him your name.

he’ll never have to know if he just—

“yeah?” he says, quieter now.

“yeah,” you echo, barely above a whisper.

something shifts. you can feel it, even through the line—the way he’s genuinely listening now, leaning into every word instead of brushing you off. your heart flutters, warmth blooming from somewhere in your chest (you can’t pinpoint it), and lee heeseung seems to be at the center of it all.

“well,” he says finally, voice way smoother now, like he’s got all the time in the world to offer you. “you’ve got my attention.”

“i do?” you ask, genuinely amazed by yourself. “you’re not hanging up?”

“do you want me to?”

“no,” the word slips out before you can stop it—soft, a little too quick, and much too honest to take back.

for a beat, there’s nothing, then a breath on the other end of the line—slow, deep—followed by a low sound that might be a laugh, or might just be him exhaling tension.

“yeah,” he murmurs. “i thought so.”

you roll onto your side, sheets whispering against your skin. the ceiling blurs above you, white and featureless, while the rest of the world stays asleep—unaware that something small yet irreversible is happening at four in the morning, right in this room, in your hands.

“so,” he says, “why’d you really call?”

your fingers tighten around your phone. your phone peels away from your cheek, and for a brief moment, you just stare at the glow of the screen, at his contact—*heeseung lee—*like it might blow up if you lie.

“well,” you mumble, chewing on the lining of your cheek. “i just wanted to introduce myself.”

“ah,” he says. there’s movement again, like he’s forcing himself to stay awake and hear you out. “did your… friend warn you i’m not friendly at this hour?”

you can almost picture him now. propped up against his headboard, hair a mess from sleep. his arm slipping under the hem of his shirt to scratch absentmindedly at an itch on his lower abdomen. knuckles rubbing hard at his eyes, chasing away the last stretch of drowsiness you interrupted—before you called, that is.

“i don’t think she mentioned that,” you say, a nervous smile tugging at your lips despite the fact that he can’t see it. your knees draw tighter to your chest, arms locking around them like you’re bracing for impact. it feels like there are insects beneath your skin—restless, frantic, crawling along the lining of your stomach. “she just said you wouldn’t hang up.”

“you trusted that?” his laugh filters through the speaker, low and unexpectedly warm, the sharpness from earlier dulled into something almost fond. “what if she gave you a fake?”

“then i guess i just woke up some random guy at four in the morning,” you say after a second, attempting nonchalance and failing spectacularly. “which would be… humiliating.”

“hm.” there’s movement on his end again—fabric shifting, a quiet thud like he’s moving around the room. god, you wish you knew what his room looked like. “so, you’d just apologize and hang up?”

“…literally what else would i do?”

there’s a pause before he speaks. you can almost hear him think out loud. “don’t know. try harder?”

the words are simple, but they settle heavy in your chest. what the hell does he mean by try harder?

“try harder?” you repeat, incredulous, a little astonished that the man you’ve dreamt up is a little different from what you’re hearing.

“yeah.” his voice lowers a fraction, losing the teasing edge and gaining something steadier. “if you wanted to talk to someone that bad, i’d hope you wouldn’t give up after one wrong number.”

your fingers curl tighter around your phone. “you don’t even know why i called.”

“don’t i, though?”

okay—what the fuck? you’ve moved somewhere closer to your window by now, staring at bright windows, counting the very few amount of people walking around at this hour downstairs. anything that’ll fill the silence between his words and your reply, which your brain has yet to compute.

do not call boys you like at four in the morning. note taken.

“anyway,” his voice sends a soothing relief through your body. “what’s your name?”

the question feels strangely intimate.

“why?” you deflect, suddenly hyper-aware of how exposed you are. there’s no going back from this—once he knows you’re you, it’s sealed.

you might have to discuss… alternative routes tomorrow. there is no way in god’s green earth that you’ll be able to face lee heeseung in those hallways once this is done.

“because,” he say purposefully slow, like he’s explaining things to a toddler. “if you went through the trouble of getting my number, i should at least know who i’m losing sleep over.”

“y/n.”

okay—flights to antarctica. a new name. a new identity is what you need right now, in order to combat the nerves in your body going into overdrive.

he goes quiet for slightly less than ten seconds—though you’re not exactly sure why you’re counting—and the quiet literally burns. it’s embarrassing to hear his breathing on the other end of the line, because what does it mean? is he disgusted? is he shocked? is he going to block you, or fall in love with you right now?

“it’s a pretty name,” he says. “haven’t heard it before.”

you’re fighting every urge in you to scream.

this feels oddly reminiscent of that middle school crush you had back when you were 13. it’s all butterflies and shaky hands, and even sweatier palms.

lee heeseung’s voice is silky smooth at this hour. exhaustion creeps up on him like it’s claiming his sleep debt, and you hear it in the tiny yawn that sounds through your speakers. you hoped that not holding your screen to your cheek would aid in the worry that he could hear your nervous breathing.

“well, we’ve never talked directly before, so…”

he hums in response. “well, it’s almost five.”

“trying to get rid of me?” you joke, and boy, does the post-flirt-humiliation hit—your eyes screw shut as you silently mutter a ’what the fuck?’.

he scoffs, “am i?” with the faintest trace of a smile in his voice. you can hear it well enough without the need to look at him—though that would be preferable—which only sends you further into a delusional spiral.

lee heeseung finds you funny.

you bite back a grin, pressing your lips into a thin line. your cheeks ache. you’re probably flushed tomato red from this conversation alone.

you stand up just to keep yourself busy. sittig still feels dangerous, like if you let your body settle, your mind will only follow.

the fear of focusing too much on him—on the way his voice dips at the end of certain words, on how easily he fills the quiet with that strangely confident tone—could be catastrophic.

your fingers trail along the edge of your desk, feeling the shallow nicks in the wood, the uneven varnish near the corner. you latch onto the smallest details: the coolness of the surface, the faint tremor in your hand.

anything to keep yourself grounded to the earth, in the very possible case that lee heeseung sends you into orbit.

on the other end, there’s the muted shift of fabric, like he’s rolling onto his side. you picture him staring at the ceiling, one arm tucked behind his head, the phone resting against his cheek.

“didn’t think you’d be the type to be so responsible.”

“one of us has to be,” he says easily. “you don’t sound like someone who keeps track of time, no?”

us.

the word slides into your chest and sits there, heavy and bright all at once.

us, us, us.

you hook a finger through the metal ring of the keychain hanging from your backpack and start spinning it slowly, watching the small charm catch the faint light from your desk lamp. “i absolutely do,” you protest, but the retort comes out thinner than intended.

“do you?” he presses, gentle but unrelenting. “you called me at four in the morning.”

“it wasn’t exactly planned,” you mutter.

“impulsive, then.”

there’s no judgment in his tone. he talks to you like you’re something intriguing under the lens of a microscope.

you cross your room in slow, restless steps, phone held up to chest-level as if the added distance will somehow steady you. the floor is cool beneath your feet. outside your window, the sky is beginning to pale, the darkness thinning into something bluish and uncertain.

“you picked up, though. you didn’t have to.”

the counter-argument is weak. there’s a brief pause before he admits, “yeah, so?”

“so, what does that say about you?”

your fingers still against the keychain. your feet stand still across from it, refusing to move until he says something to keep this seemingly empty conversation moving. there’s a short, succinct moment of quiet that makes you swallow.

and then—a breath. a faint exhale that sounds nothing like a laugh, but more acknowledgement than anything else.

“i make bad decisions before sunrise. i need my sleep,” he answers. “i got an early morning.”

huh. okay. your eyes are narrowing in suspicion before he can get the last word out. “how early?”

“early enough.”

you let it go, though the curiosity lingers. instead, you’re turning around to lean your weight back against your desk, pressing yourself against the solid wood edge, focusing on the cadence of his breathing. “you don’t sound tired anymore."

“that’s your fault.”

your pulse stutters. “mine?”

“hard to sleep when someone’s interrogating you.”

you huff out a quiet laugh, but your grip on the phone tightens. “i’m not interrogating you.”

“right.” the sound vibrates low through the speaker. you imagine him dragging a hand down his face, sitting up now, feet touching the floor. there’s a faint creak—wood under weight—followed by the soft scrape of something being nudged aside.

“i should probably end this,” he says after a moment, words slowed. “tomorrow’s going to be brutal.”

right—he’s crazy popular. probably has a lot going on.

you straighten instinctively. the conversation has shifted into its closing act without warning. “right, yeah. of course.”

“don’t stay up,” he adds, tone a smidge lighter, yet it doesn’t quite hide the undercurrent. “you’ll blame me when you miss your alarm.”

“bold of you to assume i’d admit that.”

“you wouldn’t,” he agrees easily. “you’d just call again. wake me up for the second time to complain, yeah?”

again.

“goodnight, heeseung,” you say before you can dissect the word further. any longer and you might’ve memorised the oxford definition for it.

a beat. you can hear a snicker on the other end of the line, but before you can say much, lee heeseung beats you to it.

“goodnight.”

the line disconnects. you remain standing in the corner of your room, keychain still looped around your finger. your heart’s drumming against your ribs as the early light creeps further across your walls.

your mind’s swirling again—it’s sending you further into that rabbit hole that looks a lot like heeseung’s perfect hair and charming smile.

note to self: call lee heeseung again. tomorrow. four in the morning.

─────────────────────────

the line goes dead.

the sun is barely peeking above the trees now, as if easing it’s way into the sky. he thinks it’ll be fully up by the time he finishes brushing his shower—and there’s that faint smell of citrus. again. disgusting.

a dull, faint thudding sound comes from downstairs. the sound of glasses clinking together reaches all the way up here; echoing in the dimly lit house.

it must be sunoo. making breakfast, he guesses.

there’s sunlight diffusing into the room, divided into slits by his white blinds that’ve all but stayed drawn throughout the night. skin’s sunken in under his eyes, partially, as a result of microsoft word creeping it’s way into his routine again—he supposes he should know better by now, but still. time is short.

his hands trail under his tank, scratching at a small itch under his chest. the metal hanging on the far wall catches the widening morning light, thin ribbons casting fragile shadows against white paint. a golden trophy sits dead centre on his dark oak bookshelf, polished to an almost obnoxious shine.

“fuck…” he groans, dragging both hands through his hair, fingers pressing against his scalp like he can physically push the night out of his system.

the strands fall back obediently, barely disturbed—as if exhaustion has weighed them into submission. there’s something irritating about that, too. like even his body refuses to reflect the fact that he was up until sunrise.

the weekend usually goes like this: brush. shower. dress. breakfast. run. shower. practice. assignments fit somewhere in between.

he begins to crawl out of his duvet. it’s cold—it always is when it’s this early into dawn. the wind kisses his skin like it’s reminding him of this fact, clinging to him as he drags his feet against the wood floor: slow, lazy shuffles until he actually manages to wake up.

open the door, down the hall, to the right. he passes by rooms, involuntarily listening to the muffled snores through wood as his feet carry him to the tiled room at the end of the hallway. the light in sunoo’s room casts shadows at his feet, peeking under the door, which confirms his suspicion: the waffle smell is coming from downstairs.

the door hits the wall with a soft thud. one perk about being the first one up is that the bathroom is almost always spotless.

his toothbrush sits in a black mug, along with six others. it’s a plain white, his name written in permanent marker at the handle. just in case a repeat of five months ago happened—nishimura riki, of course, making that mistake.

toothbrush in the mouth. bristles against teeth. back and forth, left and right, circles. gums. tongue. he stares at the stupid smiski figurine that jake left on the shelf just to give himself an excuse not to look at how tired he is.

and as he spits the mint paste out of his mouth—his phone vibrates against the marble counter. there’s water on his screen from putting it face down.

we2fuckincold🥶 (informal gc)

yeonjun (vice): good morning princesses 06:01

yeonjun (vice): rink opens at 6pm 06:02

yeonjun (vice): game’s coming up. do not be late or our dear captain will not be happy! 06:05

yeonjun (vice): can we all strive for a happy hoonie today 06:05

yeonjun (vice): also send ur fucking food logs bro @nicho 06:07

for fuck’s sake.

he groans, yanking the phone closer, tilting it to shake off the water droplets. the screen lights up his tired face in brief flashes of fluorescence, each message a reminder that the world outside this house has already started without him.

shower. breakfast. run. practice. the ritual is looping in his head, mechanical, familiar—but today, each step feels like it’s being forced through molasses. it’s definitely the microsoft word.

he squints against the glare, ignoring the faint taste of toothpaste still clinging to his tongue, scrolling past the ridiculous group chat chatter to land on the pinned schedule.

2027 training schedule.pdf

and at the top—his name, in bold, for everyone to remember, as if he hasn’t spent long enough drilling it into his team’s heads.

“captain: park sunghoon/vice captain: choi yeonjun”

sunghoon leans against the counter, elbows braced, letting the faint vibrations of the phone thrum through his fingers. the early sunlight, spilling in at an angle the shitty blinds can’t fully block, makes him want to shut his eyes and go back to bed—jungwon’s interior design choices continue to do him no favors.

he stares at the phone a moment longer, thumb hovering over the text threads he knows he should respond to. teasing from his fellow teammates that they know gets under his skin. stupid morning selfies that no one asked for, because the informal group chat is run by no one but the noisiest.

he showers. he’s downstairs. he’s shoving a spoonful of oats into his mouth, gulping down a protein smoothie like it’s water, and only then is he outside and tying his laces. it’s like he’s fucking teleporting around this place.

something feels off. he almost forgets his apple watch before crossing the threshold called sigma alpha beta’s front door. forty minutes later and the morning air is still damp with dew, the neighbourhood quiet save for the distant hum of traffic that hasn’t fully reached it’s potential yet.

the door shuts behind him with a click. heart rate: 93 bpm.

sunghoon begins his run like any other morning. the stretch of his limbs feels mechanical at first, the stiffness in his bones finally relenting after hours spent hunched over his laptop. he jogs in place, letting his blood move, allowing his muscles to remember their morning rhythm.

the street around him is quiet, edges softened by dawn—a stray leaf skitters across the sidewalk and the faint smell of a house’s breakfast drifts through the wind. everything is ordinary, almost painfully so, except for the faint pull in his chest.

god knows why.

a heavy sigh leaves him, curling into vapour the second it meets the cold. his calves are warm, ready to move, muscles primed for the first push forward—

bbrrr. bbrrr. brrrr.

choi fucking yeonjun.

“the hell?” he mutters, wrist lifting automatically as he taps the flashing green icon. “what the fuck do you want?”

there’s a small, sacred list of things that can truly get under park sunghoon’s skin. missed passes. sloppy drills. people who don’t keep their word. anyone who interrupts him. and now, apparently, choi yeonjun calling him at six-fifty in the morning, on a fucking sunday.

“are you on your period or something?” yeonjun’s voice comes through crisp and far too alive. “good morning, my honey bun.”

“stop bothering me.”

“how did you sleep, huh? why do you sound so angry? you usually save it for practice, in case you don’t remembe—”

the thought interrupts him so abruptly it almost throws off his breathing.

okay, to be fair, it was the assignments first. the blinking cursor, and the way microsoft word has this sick habit of stretching minutes into hours until the sky outside starts lightening without permission. he’d told himself he’d sleep right after submitting. just one more paragraph. one more edit. one more citation.

it sounded a lot like a random girl calling his phone at four in the morning. asking about lee heeseung, no less.

gravel crunches harder beneath his shoes as he picks up his pace without meaning to, breath sharpening on the exhale.

“i slept,” sunghoon says flatly, somehow. his eyes stay fixed on the long stretch of road before him.

“no,” yeonjun replies instantly. “you sound tired. sooha kept you up?”

he doesn’t bother to address that. not worth his time. “i’m running.”

a snort crackles through the tiny speaker. “yeah, no shit. i can hear you trying to outrun your personality.”

sunghoon rolls his eyes, though there’s no one there to see it. the park path stretches ahead, thin and empty, washed in early gold. right foot over the left, his stride perfect, pace never faltering. “why are you psychoanalysing me at seven in the morning?”

“it’s six fifty,” yeonjun corrects. he keeps running. “and it’s only cause you sound like you died yesterday.”

and just what the hell am i supposed to do about that, he thinks—it’s not his fault someone rang him in the middle of the night, asked for his best friend like it was urgent, like it mattered at all. it’s not his fault she ate up the remaining hours of sleep he’d planned to ration carefully. it’s not his fault she sounded so intent—so utterly determined—to talk to lee heeseung.

his jaw tightens slightly.

it’s also not his fault that she doesn’t know anything—who she was actually talking to. how easily she let the conversation stretch. how readily she laughed. how she filled silences that would’ve seemed suspicious to anyone else.

you’re so fucking naive. it makes him sick.

“are you trying to break a record right now?”

sunghoon glances down at his watch. his pace has increased by almost thirty seconds per kilometre.

what exactly was he supposed to do, anyway? interrupt her mid-laugh and tell her she’d reached the wrong person? tell her she’d misdialed and should try again? hand her off like a misplaced package?

park sunghoon tells himself he only kept the call going because it was easier, and that it was late—and most of all, it’ll only happen once.

that’s all.

“sunghoon.”

“what?”

“did you hit your head or something?”

sunghoon exhales sharply through his nose, pace steady, shoulders squared like they always are when he runs. unshakeable. “focus on your own head.”

yeonjun laughs. “wow. so cold. captain, your bedside manner is terrible.”

“goodbye, yeonjun.”

he ends the call before the vice captain can squeeze in another comment. silence rushes back in, thick and uninterrupted, save for the steady impact of rubber against pavement. sunghoon’s eyebrows knit together as he continues down the path, watching windows flicker to life in real time—one square of yellow, then another, then three in a row. the campus is waking up, unaware of the private absurdities that unfolded at the expense of park sunghoon’s rest.

and he wonders, briefly, if you slept soundly after that call.

if you rolled onto your side with a faint smile, phone still warm in your palm, thinking about lee heeseung.

or if he were the one you believed you were talking to, would it have sounded the same?

would you have laughed like that—would you have fallen for every word?

the thought is almost amusing.

perfect lee heeseung, who forgets half his deadlines. who shows up five minutes late with an apology grin that fixes everything. who doesn’t have to hold a locker room together or pretend his moods don’t exist. who can afford to be charming because nothing rests on his shoulders long enough to bruise. and still, you never fucking noticed the difference.

but the thing is this: park sunghoon might as well have his face plastered on billboards, because everyone around him knows—or thinks they do. they all see him. they’re all watching him.

a slightly clipped tone. a delayed response in the group chat. half a second too long between reps at practice. they notice. they always notice.

if he’s irritated, the team feels it. if he’s distracted, the drills get sloppy. if he’s quiet, the locker room gets tense. his mood isn’t just his—it’s contagious. spreading like hazardous, passionate wildfire. a fucking plague that everyone’s afraid to upset.

heeseung doesn’t need to think about that, does he?

heeseung doesn’t have thirty pairs of eyes scanning his expression the second he walks into the rink. doesn’t have rookies straightening their posture when he passes. he doesn’t have to calculate the weight of every word because one careless comment could echo for weeks.

how pathetic. sunghoon really has to stop throwing himself into self-deprecating chains of thought in the middle of his morning runs.

─────────────────────────

you move through the day like you’re on autopilot.

your alarming lack of errands feels like the source of your misery—nothing fills the time well enough. the clock drags its feet out of spite, each minute stretching thinner than the last, and there are simply not enough tiktoks in the world to scroll through until four in the morning.

…does it even have to be four in the morning?

you’re sprawled across the couch in your apartment, limbs loose, attention even looser. jiwon’s out tonight—dinner with that guy she met at sigma alpha eta—and you waved her off earlier with a distracted nod after sitting through a solid hour of her spiralling about how she’s “not sure if he’s the one.”

your fingers tapped impatiently against your phone while she twirled in front of you, once, twice, the fabric of her dress catching in the stale air of the living room. you were slumped against the backrest, head heavy in your palms, fighting sleep that had nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with boredom.

“i literally told you my opinion,” it escapes as a groan, your lashes fluttering shut before your head lands against the cushions. “if you’re just gonna keep going back to this dress, just wear this one.”

jiwon looked at you like you’d shot her in the chest. “you’re just so patient, aren’t you?”

your arm drifted lazily toward the glass table, fingers stretching for your phone like a dying man reaching for water. it’s barely out of reach, but somehow still too far.

you hook it toward you at last. the screen lights up: nothing. of course.

and then she continues to talk—something about silhouettes, about first impressions, about how boys apparently notice everything—but her voice dissolves into background noise. you nod when it feels appropriate. hum when she pauses, look over when she calls your name.

sorry, oh jiwon. you do not have the capacity to give a fuck right now—lee heeseung’s name is sitting on the top of your call log like a secret, ready to be shown off to the world.

“fine. i’ll just wear this—“

she leaves with her keys jingling down the hallway. you chew your lip like the short-lived guilt might manifest into an apology and hunt her down that corridor, but between you and literally anyone else?

it will be forgiven and forgotten when she returns tomorrow morning, you assume, only because there’s smuggled condoms in her purse—like she’s starring in some coming-of-age film.

the rest of the evening passes in a strange, slippery blur.

you’re cooking dinner at one point, staring absently at the stove while oil crackles in the pan, nearly burning the garlic because you drifted too far into your own head. later, you’re in the shower, steam clinging to your skin while you tilt your face away from the showerhead, replaying last night’s conversation in fragments—the way he laughed. the pause before he answered certain questions. the tone of his voice when he teased you.

you’re checking your phone again. this is definitely worse than that crush you had when you were thirteen.

─────────────────────────

a few miles away on campus soil, practice runs longer than it should. park sunghoon has sweat clinging to his skin, darkening the collar of his shirt, tracing the lines of muscle that took years to carve into something worth respecting. every movement feels marginally heavier than usual despite the near-flawless precision of his drills. his turns are clean. his stops sharp. his passes calculated.

still, there’s just something about today.

he pushes the team harder than usual. he tells himself it has nothing to do with your voice bouncing around in his head like an insufferable little ping-pong ball. absolutely nothing to do with the way you laughed at something he said at four in the morning.

it’s discipline. that’s all.

there’s hesitation in the juniors’ movements. it’s especially obvious in the way they avoid him—questions rerouted to choi yeonjun instead, who is currently preoccupied with his self-assigned duty of shooting nicholas with two pucks at once for reasons known only to him. sunghoon watches it unfold with a faint twitch of annoyance—he has to take off his helmet just to breathe right. sometimes, he genuinely wonders how yeonjun managed to snag vice captain.

eventually, though, the confusion climbs its way back to him like it always does. a hesitant shuffle. a cough. a poorly disguised glance in his direction.

“captain—”

his voice cuts through the rink’s cold air with surgical clarity. he explains every movement, every angle, every adjustment with mechanical perfection. there is no room for misunderstanding when he speaks. there rarely ever is when he’s this worked up.

by the time he gets back to sigma alpha eta, his muscles ache and his head feels heavier than it should—his skull weighing on his spine, every knot tightening in a body that was already rigid to begin with. even if he swears he warmed up enough, his gait still comes out stiff.

he heads straight for the bathroom after tossing his bag onto the floor, haphazardly by the doorframe of his room. the tiled floor is slightly slippery from someone else’s shower, much to his dismay.

he peels his clothes off, the overhead light catching the sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin. his gaze lingers, unintentional, over the familiar outline of his body—something he built, piece by piece, over years of repetition and restraint.

it’s taken him so long to get here.

park sunghoon turns slightly, glancing over his shoulder. his eyes squint at the subtle tints of blue and purple, an occasional yellow and familiar reds.

a faint bruise blooms along his back—noticeable enough to catch his attention, but still subtle enough to ignore. his thumb presses into it briefly. it doesn’t hurt much, sitting in a valley between his shoulder blade and the deep impression of his spine.

he doesn’t dwell. no time. there’s roughly ten minutes before his eyes have to shut and his cells get to work at repairing the strain he never fails to put himself through.

the shower is quick. burning hot water pelts his shoulders, steam gathering thick against the tiles as the tension in his body dulls into something manageable. afterward, he downs another protein shake, the grainy texture catching in his throat like it’s meant to fill more than just hunger.

then, the sheets rustle as he settles in. tonight feels cooler than usual, though that might have more to do with the window he left wide open—jake sim always made the habit of reminding him to, otherwise, it’d be too stuffy. the blinds sway with the wind, wood tapping lightly against the glass in a steady, hollow rhythm.

no assignments. class begins early tomorrow. park sunghoon needs all the energy he can get if he wants to maintain that stellar gpa of his—it’s reason enough to shut his screen off and reach for the charger without hesitation.

this is what most nights look like. the temperature shifts by a degree or two. the sounds outside change. the air moves differently. but if he squints, it’s all the same, really. park sunghoon—the captain, the leader, the one everyone watches—falls asleep the same way every night, staring at what he’s built.

his gaze drifts back, almost involuntarily, to his now-dimmed phone. the last item on his mental checklist has been crossed off, but the weight on his shoulders doesn’t lift. if anything, it settles deeper, heavier, as the thought of monday presses in.

there will be mondays for the rest of his life. obviously.

it’s sunday nights like this—quiet, cold, stretching endlessly before them—that serve as meaningless prologues that do nothing but make park sunghoon feel like the loneliest man in the world, at the top of the chain that he’s tried so desperately to scale.

his eyes shift to the wall instead. an attempt at distracting himself.

medals, trophies, certificates. plaques stacked where there’s no space left for more.

there’s boxes shoved beneath his bed, too. filled with the rest of it, or rather, everything that didn’t make the cut. almost all of it’s in there—wrinkled homework from the when he first learned how to write his name coherently, all the way to the year he left his hometown.

it’s taped shut with cheap, barely-there adhesive, the kind that curls at the edges if you look at it for too long. he’s almost certain his mother shoved it in the car, insisted he bring it with him to college—something about keeping memories close, about not forgetting where he came from. he can’t recall how else it would’ve ended up here, with him, haunting his conscience like a guilty ghost.

sunghoon plugs the cord in, the battery icon flashing obediently on the corner of his screen. that should be the end—

ding!

his jaw tightens. his tooth almost cracks from how hard he’s gritting them. it’s even more annoying, because his arm’s already bent over the table, ready to drop the device on his small night stand.

so god help him, if it’s choi yeonjun asking for the practice footage again, or sending another half-coherent voice note about formations he absolutely should have memorised by now—

ding!

sunghoon exhales sharply through his nose and retracts his hand. the attention-aware feature on his phone causes his screen to light up almost immediately, and despite the fact that he was just staring at it moments ago, it burns all the same.

unknown contact.

he doesn’t even need to see the name. sunghoon sees the call log from last night, ending at five in the morning, and immediately knows.

y/n l/n: day went great btw 01:21

y/n l/n: not a single yawn 01:21

he’s going to bed. he’s tired, and he’s not definitely past dealing with a girl who doesn’t even care that he doesn’t sound like lee heeseung—or at the very least, not enough to verify that it is indeed park sunghoon on the other end of the line.

y/n l/n: i know you said 4am but i have class at 8 tmr sooo 01:21

absolutely. fucking. not.

riiiiing. riiiing.

park sunghoon is not picking up the phone.

─────────────────────────

“and then?”

he lied.

there are a few things park sunghoon would never admit to anyone else. firstly, that he’s terrible at making his own coffee and still gets riki to do it for him. secondly, that he needs to hug his ridiculously large, sausage-shaped pillow to fall asleep, or he wakes up worse than usual.

and third—

that he’s genuinely listening to a random girl on the phone, without slipping in a quiet, so are you coming over or not? somewhere between her sentences.

it doesn’t feel like a decision. there’s something settling into place, clicking in his chest before he has a real chance to question his own intentions. the words come out easily, slipping off his tongue and past his lips like water, because that’s what this is—natural, for reasons beyond him.

sunghoon lies back with one arm tucked behind his head, the other holding his phone loosely against his cheek. moonlight spills into the room through the half-open blinds, stretching across his ceiling like it has nowhere else to go. he knows he should’ve closed them earlier, but the thought passes without consequence, dissolving somewhere between the moment your name lit up his screen and now.

his hair falls in soft streaks across his forehead, long since dried from the aggressive towel action he’d put himself through not even half an hour ago—something he refuses to think about too meticulously, especially not in relation to the notification that had pulled him back to his phone.

incoming call from y/n l/n.

there’s a dull ache pressing at his temples, insistent, like it’s trying to remind him of something he’s choosing to ignore. he knows better than this, he really does. in the same way he knows that you think he’s someone else entirely.

he breathes, slow and deep like it’ll undo all the knots in his muscles. it’s strange that it’s working now, compared to all the times where he got a sports massage after practice with no real effect, and he wonders—no matter how absurd it is—that if it’s your voice that’s making him so, so sleepy.

on the other end, you never hesitate. you answer him with a kind of ease he isn’t used to, words flowing like there’s nothing in the world worth holding back. there’s something almost intimate in it—not intentional, barely meaningful, but there all the same. like two people who have already decided, somewhere along the way, that they belong in each other’s space.

the thought comes uninvited.

is this what couples do?

it makes him want to shut his eyes and forget he ever had it.

your voice carries through the line with the same unfiltered simplicity that he’s already starting to recognize—light, animated despite the hour, spilling from one thought to the next with barely any pause. there’s a lack of calculation in the way you speak, a clear absence of consideration in what words were okay to say, and what details were appropriate to omit—in which there were none. you even told him about your ten minute doomscroll session on the toilet midway through biochemistry.

it fills the silence before it can exist. it’s not like he’s not used to the noise—he’s surrounded by idiots who can’t keep their mouth shut, and god, has he wished for years that everyone around him would just be quiet for at least ten minutes—but when your soft, sweet voice rings in his ears, he’s not even sure what he’s feeling.

the realistic part of him, however useless he may be now, knows that everything is a lie. there’s you, rambling to him solely because you think he is the man you have that miserable crush on, and then there’s him: feeding your delusions, for his own selfish intents, as if that makes him any less dumber than you.

you’re talking to him because you think he’s someone else. because you’ve attached yourself to a version of a person that doesn’t exist on this end of the line.

he lets it happen, anyway.

sunghoon shifts against his pillows and the mattress dips slightly beneath his weight. the room remains dim, lit faintly by the fluorescent lighting radiating from his screen, probably killing off all his melatonin receptors by now—the dull wash of streetlight slips in, occasionally cut off by a passing car through half-open blinds. the air moves lazily, wind brushing past his skin, cooling what little heat still lingers from his shower.

his responses lag. he lets you talk. it’s intentional at first, an easy excuse for something he can fall back on. you seemed like the type who didn’t need much prompting, anyway—your words come in soft bursts of laughter, half-finished thoughts and tangents that circle back around before he can fully follow them. it should be difficult to keep up with, but as with everything that’s occuring, it’s unknown to him why it isn’t.

somewhere along the way, it stops being passive. there’s things that he’s noticing that he doesn’t want to notice. hearing things that he never means to. it’s lodged into his brain that’s already fighting for more storage space—your tone that shifts when you’re about to say something embarrassing, or how you rush through it a little faster, before doubling back as if to justify it. there’s pauses that aren’t quite pauses, just brief breaths where he can almost picture you thinking, deciding whether to keep going or jump to the next part of your day.

he remembers that party. he remembers how your hair fell on your face, and in the moment, sunghoon thought you’d just be passing in his already busy life—he finds it extremely irritating that he can recall almost every mundane feature on your face as if you were the most beautiful girl he’d seen. that dress that you probably found deep in your dresser and didn’t bother to smooth out, or that cup in your hand that’s barely holding any liquor. you were there for someone, after all.

he stood at that stairwell, watching, as if you were someone he couldn’t approach. please—if lee heeseung wasn’t the one you already set your sights on, he bets he could have you in his bed that very night.

if only he hadn’t froze.

you’re not anyone meaningful to him. you’re not supposed to take up what precious space he has for himself, and yet, here you are, barging into his life like you demand his attention.

it’s not like he’s any better, honestly. he knows that much.

“i was wondering if i should call, y’know,” you mumble through his phone’s speaker. he raises an eyebrow, as if you could see it. “it’s really late. don’t you have class tomorrow, too?”

“i do,” sunghoon sighs. he makes a conscious effort to stop himself from sharing which. “all day.”

unknown to park sunghoon, you’re lying upside down on your pink duvet, hair falling over the edge of your bed. you’re acting like you have no real responsibilities or hour long classes tomorrow morning, and that energy is somehow infecting him, too.

his grip around the phone shifts, thumb brushing absentmindedly along the edge of his thick case. the thought of telling you who he really is comes and goes without fully forming, though the feeling that claws at his ribs is quieter than guilt. it’s not sharp enough for him to address just yet.

you say something. he doesn’t catch all of it, only the way your laughter follows right after. sunghoon almost thinks you must love hearing your own voice with how giggly you are.

nevertheless, it pulls something out of him before it can be stopped. a response—low and tired in nature, slipping into the conversation as if he didn’t spend the past ten minutes wondering if anything he’ll say will give him away.

and still, you respond, picking it up without hesitation, folding his words into yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“i didn’t even realise the time until i checked my phone,” you lie. “i’m sorry if you were just kidding yesterday… and didn’t want me to actually call. i wasn’t sure.”

“it’s fine, really.” sunghoon murmurs, voice low and threaded with sleep. “but you really should’ve called earlier. i’m about to knock out.”

there’s a soft scoff on your end, fabric shifting faintly. sunghoon’s ears pick that up, too. “you picked up anyway, didn’t you?”

he doesn’t respond to that, and the silence continues. it’s not empty or uncomfortable, filled with something else that simmers under his skin. he lets it stay.

you don’t push, instead humming like you’ve already moved on. you talk more about your day, admitting to things that you probably shouldn’t, voice drifting back into that easy rhythm that makes him want to turn over and shut his eyes for the night. “i kept checking my phone like something interesting would happen today, but…”

“nothing did?” he asks, eyes half-lidded—his eyelashes feel heavier now.

“wellll…” you drag out the word slightly, a hint of a smile tucked into it, like sunghoon couldn’t already hear the teeth in your voice. “i’m telling you about my day now, so i guess it all worked out.”

he exhales softly. his finger comes up to his face to rub at his nose, and he sniffles before responding, “that’s a really low bar.”

“i’m being honest,” you admit, voice dipping just slightly, unaware of the cliff you’re driving yourself off of. “you seem like someone who’s always busy.”

he supposes, in a sense, he is. just not in a lee heeseung way. “i’m not that busy.”

there’s a hint of disbelief in your laugh that fades quickly. it gives way to something more curious, and all it does is ease the conversation into something quieter and more fluid. your voice lowers as words blend together, and sunghoon finds his shoulders caving into his chest.

he shifts against the pillows, letting the weight of the night settle into his tired limbs. you wrap around him like a thread pulling taut—he doesn’t need to respond immediately; the words coming from you are enough to fill spaces he’s left behind.

sunghoon blinks slowly. “you’ve got me wrong.”

“yeah, now that i think about it,” you whisper. “i don’t think i know enough to be right.”

park sunghoon rarely gets nervous, if ever. there were a few times in fifth grade that he’d gotten a tummy ache before going up on stage, or in middle school when he had to give a presentation on the cultural history of korean calligraphy. he supposes the habit just vanished, because by the time he turned sixteen and played in his first hockey match, it never manifested again.

there’s a relief that comes with finding your coping mechanism. sunghoon never really examined why he would feel like throwing up before getting in front of a bunch of strangers, but he understood, even if on a very basic level, that hockey took that away from him—it’s the smooth slide of his skates against ice that tends to narrow down the world to just him, where nothing and no one else matters.

he’s not exactly sure why that is; reflection wasn’t really his thing. he knew it when his teacher would set him aside from other kids and ask ’how are things at home?’, to which he had no answers.

as long as it works, right?

still, it’s here now. that feeling of his heart dropping straight through his mattress, and his stomach churning something that refuses to let him speak.

“i feel like i’ve just been yapping,” you say. you aren’t wrong. it’s barely your fault, though he can’t really tell you that.

sunghoon swallows, throat dry and constricting around nothing. the grip he has on his phone tightens momentarily before easing again, his gaze darting around the room like he’s searching desperately for answers that’ll magically manifest.

he could say something. he should. something vague would be good. easy to follow up with, or be mysterious about. slightly personal so you don’t pry too much, that doesn’t let this tip any further than it already has.

and yet—the words don’t come. it barely makes it past his throat.

sunghoon exhales and the sound is almost lost against the line. “it’s getting late.”

it’s been ’getting late’ for the past two hours. his voice sounds worn, and he blames no one but himself—for letting his schedule fall apart like this, and still picking up the phone anyway.

and you, being the unsuspecting, naive girl you are—humming softly as if to tell him you understand. “yeah, i guess so.”

park sunghoon tears his screen away from the warmth of his cheek. only now does he realise how long it’s truly been; the absence of his warm device and the presence of cold wind hitting his face helps him remember how absurd this is.

he looks at the duration of the call, now barely over two hours.

the number sits there, steady and indifferent, as if it doesn’t account for the way time had slipped past him without resistance. as if it doesn’t mean anything at all.

for a moment, he just stares at it, his thoughts lagging behind the reality of it. two hours of listening, of responding, of letting himself exist in something that shouldn’t have been this easy.

this should end here.

sunghoon brings the phone back to his ear, the warmth returning in a way that feels almost deceptive now. he blinks once, twice, before clearing his throat. “goodnight, y/n.”

“goodnight, heeseung.”

the line cuts. sunghoon lies still in his white sheets, the duvet crinkling softly beneath his weight—though it feels heavier than it should, like it’s dragging him deeper into the earth. he stares blankly into the space above him, eyes fixed on nothing, as if he can’t quite register the way the room seems to close in, inch by inch.

outside, the world goes on, completely unaware.

cars pass. lights flicker somewhere beyond his window. time moves the way it always does—steady, indifferent to him, and for a fleeting moment, he wishes he wasn’t in this body.

the thought comes quietly, almost absurd in its simplicity. the thought that he could step out of himself and into someone else—someone forgettable, someone ordinary—someone who doesn’t carry the weight of expectation so tightly wound around his chest. he imagines it briefly, the ease of it: letting tomorrow belong to someone else.

letting the responsibilities, the precision, the constant awareness slip from his grasp for just a day.

just once where he doesn’t have to move like he knows exactly what he’s doing, or carry himself like someone people look up to—like someone who has everything under control, when the truth is that he’s no different from anyone else. just one fucking day is all he asks.

it was nice—the two hours sunghoon got to pretend like he wasn’t sunghoon. he could say it was almost natural, which only unsettles him even more.

he shifts slightly against his sheets, and the loud rustle only anchors him further into the reality he’s in. he blinks slowly before letting his eyelids shut, and almost as if to say ‘you’re never living this down’, your face appears right behind them.

here you are, reconstructed behind his shut eyes like you’re something worth remembering—it's your perfect hair. your eyes that dulled the lights strobing in your face. that dress that looked weirdly good on you.

this is so fucking frustrating.

─────────────────────────

you only see kim sunoo once a week. there’s careful planning that goes behind the days leading up to psychology of mass media—it’s the only hour you can get any intel, if at all, due to the convenient fact that sunoo likes to be the first to leave and last to arrive.

in reality, it’s just you showing up earlier than necessary, and lingering a little longer than you should in hopes that you’ll catch sunoo again.

you have one question. just one. he won’t mind, would he?

the lecture hall is still half-empty when you slip in, and the fluorescent lights actually burn—rows of seats stretching out in that familiar, uninspired gradient of grey and black. there are a few scattered groups that have already settled in, most of them slumped over their desks with jackets thrown over their heads. the sound of keyboard clicking echoes, bouncing off the sterile walls, and you do your best to tune it out.

it takes two minutes for kim sunoo to walk in, beige tote slung over his shoulder, stride light and easy—he always looked put together despite the hour. there were times you considered if he was a vampire, considering how he never looks tired, but the thought never sticks long enough to matter.

he slides into his usual seat without much ceremony, setting his bag beside him before pulling out his macbook. there’s a faint glow of white casts over his face, highlighting the smoothness of his skin, and it feels ridiculous—that split second when you feel a little jealous of him.

fifty five minutes left.

you move before you can think too hard about it, because you already know how that ends. your sneakers thud softly against the carpeted floor as you make your way down the steps, gaze flickering briefly around the room—not because there’s anything to actually be wary of, but because it feels like there should be.

as if anyone here could read your mind, and as if they’d even care enough to judge you for it. the thought lingers in the back of your mind all the same.

you slow just a fraction as you near his row, like the sensible part of your brain’s giving you one last chance to turn around and act like the normal girl who doesn’t care that much. there’d be some grace in taking that empty seat behind him and pretending like the thought of snooping around lee heeseung’s love life never crossed your mind at all—but it has to happen, and unless the gift of time travel is suddenly bestowed upon you, your ass is about to meet the plastic chair beneath you.

the chair creaks softly under your weight, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the low hum of the room. everyone’s blissfully unaware of the humiliation you’re about to put yourself through, though it somehow makes your courage muster a little easier.

“you’re staring at me.”

sunoo’s voice is monotonous. he doesn’t bother to spare you a look, because in truth, he doesn’t need to turn his head to see the way you’re burning holes through his.

“i’m not.”

he scoffs, though he means nothing spiteful of it. as much as he hates to admit, you were one of the nicer seatmates he had this year. “you are.”

“okay, well,” you begin, hands coming up from under the long, laminated wooden desk in front of you. you press them together, like that’d make things less awkward—your fingers fidget just for the sake of doing something other than staring at sunoo. “i was thinking—”

“about me?” kim sunoo smiles, still not looking at you. the corner of his lip is lifted up in something similar to genuine amusement, but it does nothing to help the embarrassment that’s stabbing at your nerves. “you’re blunt, [name].”

“ha ha,” you mock. sunoo can’t help but giggle at that. “the posters. outside. i saw them.”

ah. he sees what this is about.

soul searching ✦ booth 35, level 1, outside block A friday, 10th september 2026, 1pm-8pm ❤︎ love life in shambles? wanna meet new people? come visit our booth to find your perfect match! ❤︎ a quick questionnaire, a curated pairing—one conversation might change everything. rumour has it that the first person you meet… might just be the one. for early bird tickets, scan here!

the promotional poster that you stumbled upon was one of many pasted across campus. there were a few that jiwon mumbled to you about this morning, over the phone, and while you can’t exactly recall the exact details of the conversation, you just know it made her reconsider attending. it was obvious in the way she kept asking, ‘should i?’ followed by ‘i don’t know, maybe i should’, circled back with ‘i’ll think about it’.

it was for, roughly, five seconds that you wondered just how many girls would be lining up for it as well. you remember standing there a little longer than necessary, eyes skimming over the bold lettering like it was supposed to mean more than it did. the paper had been slightly wrinkled at the edges, tape barely holding it against the wall like it had been put up in a rush—but it was bright, unapologetically pink, and you almost grimaced at the thought of other people stopping to stare at it the same way you did.

you’d already decided you were going to go.

scanned the qr code right then and there, shamelessly, in the middle of the hallway on the way here—thumb hovering for less than a second before pressing submit, like hesitation would somehow make it worse.

the soulmate part, though—that stuck, unfortunately. it clung in a way that was irritatingly persistent, like gum pressed into the grooves of your thoughts. not because you believed it, necessarily, but because it was the kind of idea that refused to leave once it had somewhere to sit.

“so…. details?” you ask, a bright and inviting smile plastered onto your cheeks. “is heeseung going for sure? how does it even work?”

kim sunoo shrugs, typing briefly into his laptop before looking at you. “it’s a fundraiser booth. students sign up and get paired at random. i think, like, five seniors found their husbands here a few years back, and it’s been a myth ever since.”

you blink. “wait—so the first person you meet thing, that’s real? the soulmate shit?”

“yeah. haven’t you seen how many campus couples made it because of us? it’s really weird.”

soulmates. it’s all bullshit.

people talked about fate like it was something clean and predictable, like they didn’t sit behind the steering wheel of their own life. it’s as if someone or something invisible was guiding them—like there was a line drawn somewhere out there with your name on it, waiting for you to follow it without question until it led you to the right person.

you’ve never experienced it that way. if anything, your history with relationships feels like the opposite: bad timing, poor judgement, moments that almost worked until they didn’t. near misses are dressed up as something meaningful, but conversations fizzle out just when they start to feel like they might matter.

nothing stayed. nothing was ever meant to. you, having a soulmate—in that sense—it felt extremely unlikely.

it isn’t in a dramatic, self-pitying way—it’s the same way you understand that most things in life don’t fall neatly into place without sustained effort and consistency. relationships aren’t something pre-built that you stumble into, perfectly right and accommodating despite yourself, and they’re definitely not something you keep just because the universe decided you should.

couples will look you in the eye and tell you they’re meant to be, like it was written somewhere long before they ever met, but they barely talk about the parts where they almost walked away, or the moments where instinct told them to leave and they didn’t. the hesitation. the doubt. the very real option of not choosing each other.

fate, soul ties, forever. there are a lot of excuses people make when they don’t want to admit their own fault in something. it’s easier to dress things up as something inevitable than to acknowledge the effort it took to keep it going—or the moments where it almost didn’t.

do people just like pretending that they don’t have a say in what they do?

sunoo pauses, shifting his dark hair from his eyes before glancing at you. “do you think it’s cringey? saeri told me to remove that part of the poster… but i didn’t. it’s the charm of our booth, i think.”

“i don’t think so,” you lie, adrenaline humming through your veins. it is kind of corny, but who would admit that to him—kim sunoo probably doesn’t need more people hating on his poor slogan choices, and the more you act like it was a wise move, the better the chance you get paired with heeseung once he realizes you signed up. “i think it’s… uhm, plausible.”

anything but asking him directly, though.

“anyway,” sunoo glances back at his screen. microsoft word fills the entire monitor with graphs and figures you’re sure are from jiwon’s econ class. “i think everyone’s coming, except sunghoon. that guy…”

you raise an eyebrow. this is the first you’ve heard of him since that party two weeks ago—at this point, he almost feels like a hallucination. “sunghoon? what’s his deal?”

“he’s not a relationship guy. i think he knows it’d be a waste of time to sign up and make the girl feel like shit for five minutes straight,” sunoo sighs, leaning into his palm as if this were the harsh reality he’s learned to accept. “he cares, but has no idea how to show it. he’s like a three year old.”

you nod slowly, like you understand. you don’t.

though, something’s happening in your body that’s reminiscent of sunday night. it’s that odd, simmering sensation—proof. it flickers at the edge of your mind like a fuzzy memory, echoing that same low, lingering pull that sat right in the centre of your sternum.

sunoo’s cheek leans back into his palm, his eyes following professor choi’s figure that’s just strolled in. it’s your queue to shut the hell up and start preparing your materials for class, but it sets something else off.

you try, briefly, to chase it. to trace it back, to link it to something tangible and real and concrete. a face, a voice, a moment that would justify the way it settles into you so easily, but it slips through your fingers just as quickly, dissolving before it can really take shape.

“i see,” you hum. “well, i’ll come. don’t worr—”

“i wasn’t worried.”

“okay, then.”

─────────────────────────

the text comes while he’s brushing his teeth. his hair’s a mess as he stares into himself, eyes flicking down to the sink where some of his toothpaste’s fallen off his toothbrush—your voice is replaying in his head like a sick alarm, though he knows that it’s only because he’d hung up the phone only two hours ago.

sunghoon found himself silently praying that practice was cancelled. it was unlike him; the way he lingered in his sheets and had to take a deep breath before getting up. he dragged himself to the bathroom, hand swiping at the towel rack outside the door—hoping that he didn’t take jake’s by mistake, and begging (to whom?) that he wouldn’t need to use it.

snu hockey boys ’26 ⛸️🏒

yeonjun: practice is cancelled 06:32

yeonjun: coach has an emergency but pls send your food logs by 2200. whoever misses = double ur distance tmr 06:32

yeonjun: rink is still open tho 06:32

he took one good look at his to-do list this morning and resolved that he was going to the library. he’s fully convinced that if he lets his assignments pile up any more, his professors will start to think he’s slipping. god forbid—as if the boy hasn’t gotten less than a a in years.

we2fuckincold🥶 (informal gc)

nicho: guys pls stop eating by the benches too the janitors r gonna beat us :( 06:45

yeonjun: u guys cant fucking control yourselves can you 06:56

park sunghoon moves through the early dawn like he usually does, except that he walks right past the folded jersey and duffle bag already sitting on his desk. he lets himself slouch a little as he walks downstairs; the tiredness is already seeping in despite the constant self-correction.

it’s going to be a long day of cramming if he wants to get anything done, clearly—so he decides on unplugging his laptop charger, folding it neatly into the small zipper of his backpack, and leaving the house without his running shoes packed.

he’s still stretching when he hears the shuffle of footsteps outside. it’s too early for any one of his brothers to be up—on weekdays like this, park sunghoon was always the first to get moving, followed by jay in another hour.

it’s only six. nobody else gets up at six.

sunghoon reaches for the strap of his backpack as he makes his way towards the door—slightly ajar, swaying faintly with the draft, about to shut itself. it’s only when he’s a step away from the frame that he catches sight of lee heeseung walking past.

lee heeseung doesn’t get up until eleven.

reaching for the metal knob, sunghoon pulls back the door with more force than he’d like to admit, only to see heeseung—already at the top of the stairs, leaning lazily against the railing like the early hour means nothing—plaid boxers slung low on his hips, hair flattened in odd directions, and the faint imprint of wrinkled sheets still pressed into his back.

he just watches. doesn’t want to ask. the answer is already written across heeseung’s body in fading purples and reds, scattered along his neck and arms, threaded between the pale, healed superficiality of old scars.

instead, park sunghoon makes his way towards the stairs as well, with a backpack slung over his shoulder and an undeniable tiredness in his bones. he passes his dear friend before making his way down the flight of wood steps, feet thudding against the floor, eyes occasionally glancing towards the big entryway before him.

there’s a girl by the front door, half-crouched as she slips her shoes back on. her hair is messy in an unmistakable way, fingers combing through it as she balances herself against the wall using her other hand. she doesn’t look up, too preoccupied with fixing herself—it’s the last thing on her mind, and all she wants is to fit her heel into the mary janes she’s got sitting outside.

she pulls the metal handle, and looks back up at lee heeseung. nothing else is said, not even a wave, nor does he dismiss her presence—he just watches her warm smile curve up.

it feels like he’s walked in on something intimate. heeseung has a faint smirk that sunghoon was never able to wear when sooha was around, no matter how satisfied she made him feel, and he’s wearing that look of comfortable, guilt-free laziness that he recognises in the mirror every morning, after he hangs up on you.

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sunghoon walks into the library like he owns it. professional poker face and all, heading straight for that seat by the windows that aren’t facing east, so the sun doesn’t burn his face off. just how he likes it.

the air-conditioning hits his skin and the lights above him are bright enough to sting. it’s enough to keep him awake for the next few hours, combined with the warm black coffee swishing around in his tumbler as he takes his time setting his stuff down.

a few stares and silent whispers are expected as he passes by the busier sections. he takes his usual seat—not many people know about it, due to the fact that it’s shoved so far away in isolation, miles from the bathroom and entrance, but park sunghoon appreciates this fact. nobody is around to stare at him sideways while he does his work, and there won’t be any eyes that refuse to leave his when he finally looks up.

the large, wood-laminate six-seat table was completely empty, and spotless. no coffee stains or broken sockets, and completely cut off from student civilization.

he settles into a bright orange chair by the window, where his face is obstructed by a large pillar—the sun warms his hands up as they pull his laptop out, already booted up from the night before, on the microsoft word home screen.

he groans when he sees at least three empty documents, all of which he meant to start yesterday. of course, that was the plan prior to your call, and sunghoon swore he’d at least try to multitask, if only not to feel the guilt later on. it’s obvious that he can’t do that anymore.

his slender fingers slide over the touchpad, navigating to his most urgent assignment for economics.

the cursor blinks at the top of his toolbar—it’s waiting for him to click something, anything, and he almost does. it circles around the add text box and darts away again, to open chrome. park sunghoon is staring at his screen like it’s a foreign, alien-sent object.

once upon a time, this would’ve sufficed. a quiet corner, an uninterrupted day, and his laptop on full-charge. work and productivity comes easily to someone as hard-working as him, and when there’s nothing else competing for his attention. compartmentalization is an incredibly common skill, but sunghoon is different, in the sense that he could live two separate lives in a single day, if need be.

though, these days, concentration feels far rarer than he’d like to admit.

the sound of soft, carpeted footsteps approaching barely registers in his ears. he’s too focused reading over the same one line he’s written—his name and student id number—to shift his eyes elsewhere.

his peers pass through this section all the time. not many, but enough for it not to be alarming. this was still a public space, after all.

his eyes remain fixed on the screen as he reaches for his tumbler, taking a slow sip of coffee. outside, the sky is finally brightening into that familiar golden, instead of a depressing, cold blue. few students pass by the large glass panels, some in clusters and others alone.

this is simple enough. all he has to do is write. sunghoon has the brains for this, the attention span, and overall capability to complete this useless assignment—so he adjusts himself further into the chair and begins skimming through the brief for what feels like the tenth time since it’s released. it’s all market trends, consumer psychology, something about forecasting models by the time the words begin to blur together.

the caffeine isn’t circulating fast enough. he reaches, sips again, and draws a deep breath in through his nose. halfway through his second paragraph, a chair thuds quietly against the carpeted floor, before the faintest “shit” is heard.

libraries are full of idiots. nobody can even drag a chair out properly anymore, apparently. now that the sound has derailed his train of thought, sunghoon can’t help but to flick his dark brown irises up, locking right onto you.

for a second, he genuinely wonders if his sleep deprivation has evolved into hallucinations.

of all the tables and empty seats scattered across four. fucking. floors.

park sunghoon’s grip tightens slightly around his black, metal rimmed tumbler, an action you thankfully do not notice. this corner of the library is so damn meaningless to him—but now that you’re here, it’s like this is all he’ll ever remember, all he’ll ever associate with the place.

the moment of recognition doesn’t last very long. surprisingly, it doesn’t send panic through his bloodstream, nor does it get his heart bursting out of his chest—though, he can still feel it pounding a little harder—instead, it’s just vague acknowledgement written all over that pretty face of yours, reserved for familiar faces.

park sunghoon. hockey captain guy. heeseung’s friend, the one who unintentionally stared at you sideways that one friday night (that he’ll never forget).

“oh.”

the tension binding his shoulders tight is loosened, just a fraction. the tiny sound leaves your mouth quietly, though it sounds nothing like shock, and it’s more to yourself than to him.

“hope you don’t mind if i—”

sunghoon’s response comes out rougher than intended. “no.”

you smile in response, and god, sunghoon wants to fucking drive a ten foot pole into his chest at the sight of your cheeks puffing up. there’s a faint flush on your cheeks from walking in the morning sun, and he notices a few blemishes on your skin as the sun almost blinds you—he can tell it’s getting into your eyes because you’re squinting. “you can sit here.”

you almost choke by the time sunghoon realises what he’s just said. “what?”

“it’s hot on that side.”

there’s three chairs on his side of the long, dark side of the table. it’s oddly poetic how he’s sat in the dark and you’re standing across from him, bathed in that golden sun like it’s your rightful place, and how he can’t help but have you next to him, even now, even selfishly.

fortunately, you save him the humiliation of walking away or just planting your ass down in the sun. you circle around the table, keychains on your backpack jingling as you do, and pull out the plastic chair two seats away from him.

perfect. it’s enough distance for him to pretend like you’re not even there. your gaze flickers between him in the corner of your eye, to the span of other empty seats in front of you. why the hell are you even here?

there’s a moment where he thinks you’re going to change your mind, get up, and walk away without looking back. it’s mostly due to the fact that you haven’t even set your things down yet, organised your stationery or even took out your sleek, plastic-shielded macbook. sitting next to park sunghoon when there was an entire eight-seat table like, ten feet away made most people nervous.

and still, when he turns (or merely pretends to by reaching for his tumbler again), he realises you’re far from nervous, and instead very confused.

your eyebrows are still raised in slight confusion, and you’re scrambling to find a pen you lost somewhere deep in your bag. flecks of dust float in the air, and one lands right on the top of your head—shining so beautifully in this terribly congested space, warmth bouncing off the dull carpet and reflecting back onto your face, dusting your skin like it knows how exactly to make him weak.

you don’t notice, but he does. park sunghoon is noticing everything, and for suddenly, painfully, and very unpredictably, he realises why people write songs about these kinds of feelings.

“do you need something?”

god, you’re so pretty. your eyebrows lift slightly, out of genuine curiosity (or perhaps concern, with the way sunghoon is staring at you… he can’t find a fault), and those lips of yours look so effortlessly perfect, soft, a faint sheen veiling it thanks to the lip-balm chained to your backpack zipper.

“no.”

and it’s like he’s slammed the door on you again.

again?

you’re not sure why you dwell on it too much, actually. most of the evening is spent staring at blank documents, because this module unfortunately included math, and for some odd reason, lee heeseung was always good at math despite being an arts major. he’d know what to do, and for a good minute you wonder if you should just call him right now.

you pause for a moment before your attention slips away from him again. turning back to your bag, hands still searching for something you apparently cannot find, your fingers moving with growing frustration through compartments that seem to hold everything except what you actually want.

sunghoon should probably mind his own business now, yet instead, he’s glancing over your shoulder and at your empty document.

he turns back to his laptop, slightly, or pretends to, lifting his tumbler just enough to give himself something to look at that isn’t you. in doing so he finally catches the full spread of your movement as you settle in, pulling your laptop out, then your charger, then your pencil case, then a small pouch that seems to contain an entire separate ecosystem of items, all of which you organise with a kind of quiet determination that feels oddly intimate to witness.

your brow furrows as you dig deeper into your bag, hand disappearing and reappearing empty more than once, and he notices the way your mouth presses into a line of mild frustration that never fully escalates into anything outright upset, just plastered there as an expression of someone mildly inconvenienced by their own decisions.

somewhere between your second and third attempt at finding whatever it is you’re looking for, your phone appears in your hand, screen lighting up briefly before you unlock it. sunghoon’s attention shifts almost against his will because the movement is too familiar now, even to him, with something he shouldn’t be aware of.

your thumb hesitates over the contacts screen. lee heeseung.

god, please don’t call. please, please, please, please, please.

his eyes are beginning to strain with how hard he’s trying to make himself appear unsuspicious. you hover over his contact, before looking back up at your empty document, and then down again. hesitantly you settle for resting your phone atop the mahogany, letting the screen darken on the words ‘lee heeseung’, then typing your very first words.

the mistake on your screen comes predictably. that’s not to say sunghoon thought you were stupid—it’s only honest for him to say many people messed up the way you did. careless, happens when you haven’t spent the days prior drilling these kinds of theorems into your head. his eyes were starting to hurt, squinting, trying to see how to help you.

the guilt creeps up on him, unexpectedly. he just can’t.

it’s unfortunate that sunghoon already knows exactly what he’d do if he were sitting right next to you, looking over your shoulder properly instead of pretending not to while still catching every mistake you make.

unfortunate that the assignment in front of him is something he could finish in less than an hour if he actually tried, something so mindless it doesn’t even deserve the amount of attention he’s currently refusing to give it, and yet he keeps sitting there anyway as if the decision is more complicated than it actually is.

“swap your x and y values.”

sunghoon has never in his life packed his things so quickly. he’s already moving before he fully processes what he’s done.

his chair scrapes back lightly against the carpet as he gathers his things in motions so quick it almost feels automatic—laptop closing before his assignment is anywhere near complete, tumbler shoved into his bag without care for whether it spills or not.

you’re still looking at him when he straightens, your brows drawn together slightly as you glance down at your screen again, scrolling back to where you left off.

your expression only changes the moment you realise what he said was correct. the mistake is exactly what he pointed out, sitting there so obviously wrong now that it feels almost insulting that you didn’t see it earlier.

sunghoon slings his bag over his shoulder too quickly, the strap wrong-side up, before he quickly settles it in place. he doesn’t look at you directly again, even though he can feel your attention still on him.

there is no explanation he can give that wouldn’t make it worse. no version of this situation exists where staying longer feels safer than leaving immediately, because the longer he sits here, the more likely it becomes that something small will slip.

you will notice. it may be something in the way he speaks or pauses or breathes that does not belong to heeseung at all. he knows you will put it together, because these are things he notices about you, unwillingly.

so, he leaves.

sunghoon’s footsteps are steady as he moves between tables, fiddling with his car keys between his slender fingers—until he reaches the aisle where the library opens up toward the exit.

only then does he allow himself one brief glance back.

you’re looking at him, still. like you haven’t decided whether you’re supposed to stop or keep watching, eyes slightly wider than they were a moment ago, as if you’re still catching up to the fact that he actually spoke, actually stood up, and actually left without giving you anything close to an explanation.

it’s not like he owed you one, anyway. right?

there’s a faint crease between your brows now, nothing like frustration, instead softened into something that makes his heart twist and do all sorts of things against his ribs. it’s not an exaggeration to say that he’s never felt such a feeling, and it’s even more of an understatement when he says it scares him.

he almost trips over his jeans when he crosses the threshold of the library, out into the pavement and in front of the carpark.

sunghoon needs to go home. he needs to get his shit together and go to practice, like how he’s always done in the months before this, and how he’ll continue to do—and yet, god knows why he can’t even drive out of the lot, instead he’s glued to his seat with his feet planted on the mat like it’ll kill him if he stepped on the gas pedal.

sunghoon is already outside the library by the time he’s back in his own body, aware that he’s moving.

the air hits him colder than expected. sharp against skin still warmed by the inside of the building, and for a moment he just stands there, half between steps, like his body has forgotten what it was supposed to do next. the carpark stretches out in front of him in clean, repetitive lines, familiar enough that it should be automatic, but nothing about his movements feels familiar anymore.

“fuck—“

sunghoon almost trips when he steps down the last curb, not because he isn’t paying attention, but because his body is slightly ahead of his thoughts and neither of them are aligned with anything resembling control. he corrects himself quickly, hand tightening briefly around the strap of his bag, and continues forward in a way that would look normal to anyone watching from a distance.

sunghoon’s car is where it always is. he gets in, sits his ass down, and doesn’t move.

the engine is not on yet, keys resting in his hand without being inserted, and his foot stays planted on the mat as if there is some unspoken rule that says starting the car will make something irreversible happen. he stares at the steering wheel for a long time without really seeing it, jaw set in a way that suggests focus but is really just restraint.

that look on your face is so easy to remember. park sunghoon knows he has to tell you, if there’s any chance—any at all—that he gets to look at you like that again.

a curse, truly, because now he knows what it feels like to be so close to you, to have such a feeling strike him so deep, lodging itself in his chest; whenever your face pops up uninvited in his peripheral, or in his daydreams, or on his cell. almost humiliating and actively consuming his sick brain.

the honesty might not even make you stay, and it probably will not make the confession noble—it feels ridiculous to him, almost absurd, because the only thing keeping him tethered to his car mat is the replay of your face in his mind: so painfully uncomplicated that he can’t stand the thought of touching it with borrowed hands and stolen time.

he can still picture the way you looked at him across that table, brows faintly drawn together in confusion, not because you were intimidated or nervous or trying to figure out if sunghoon was really as the rumours say, but because you genuinely did not understand why he had stood up and left.

no expectant eyes, no carefulness, barely any fear. frowned when you were confused and smiled when something amused you, all with the kind of ease that feels so natural on you that he doubts you even notice it yourself. it is the sort of thing most people take for granted, he thinks. the sort of thing people are lucky enough to have for so long that they stop recognizing it as freedom.

sunghoon only notices because he does not have it.

hockey captain, top student, dependable, intimidating, disciplined, the guy could make his own dictionary with the obnoxious amount of adverbs attached to his image. almost every room he walks into seems to demand something from him before he even opens his mouth, and somewhere along the way he stopped questioning it. teammates watch his reactions before deciding how to react themselves. juniors reroute questions through other people because they are too nervous to ask him directly. professors talk to him like they actually have expectations—classmates wait for him to know the answer. even the fraternity treats him like a fixed object, something solid and predictable that will always be exactly where it is supposed to be.

then, there’s you. all perfect hair and soft lips and weirdly adorable frustration carved onto your face, sitting beside him with a pen between your fingers with the other hand on your keyboard. your entire life is on the verge of spilling out your mouth whenever you talk, completely unaware of how rare it looks from where he stands, saying things because you want to say them—because it’s funny, even if it’s meaningless, even if it contributes nothing of value to the conversation.

you call when you miss him, you laugh at his unintentionally self-deprecating humour, you ask questions when you don’t know. you get sad, you cry on the phone, and you get so ridiculously angry about such trivial matters, that he can’t help but smile at his screen.

for one brief, stupid, and careless moment in that library, sunghoon thinks he wanted to stay because you were pretty.

the thought survives all of five seconds. pretty girls are not exactly rare, but the feeling stirring in his chest and the warmth spreading through his body definitely is.

barely any of it has to do with the curve of your smile or the sunlight caught in your hair. instead, it had everything to do with the feeling of being around you, the uncomplicated nature of it all, and the subtle identity crisis where he did not have to be a captain, student, impressive or disciplined.

you will probably leave him, he thinks. the only other option seemed much too cruel, even for him, stripping that choice from you.

You: can we meet up? 12:34

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ever since you moved into your apartment, you’ve been trying to build a routine—something efficient and optimal, taking up the least amount of time and effort, while maximizing the amount of tasks done.

the first few weeks were horrible—every small decision felt disproportionate and too time-consuming. there’s ten minutes you could’ve used to get ready for bed that you spent cooking dinner, which you should’ve made prior to leaving the house, bla bla bla. you knew it was bad when the sequence after unlocking your door alone was enough to irritate you: whether to eat first or shower, how long to wait before brushing your teeth so you wouldn’t scrub your enamel off. it was stupid, the amount of thought you poured into things that were supposed to be automatic, but you couldn’t help it. everything had to fall into place in this busy life of yours and serve it’s rightful purpose.

there were too many small decisions like that. too many things to get right.

maybe that’s why this feels so off. because there’s nothing to figure out, and no reason for it to happen so often.

there’s no adjustment period, no careful slotting of time or reshuffling of habits. he just fits into the spaces you’ve already made. it’s incredibly mundane and underwhelming in the way it happens.

for now, heeseung calls you almost every damn night, and you feel weirdly normal about it.

it starts on a random thursday. then it’s saturday, then monday, then tuesday. somewhere along the way, it stops being a coincidence or convenience.

by wednesday, you’re calling him to help you pick out an outfit for a department event, holding up different tops to your mirror like he can somehow see through the line. you’re describing the colours, the cut, every minute detail, assuming his imagination could keep up with your rambling.

on thursday, you’re complaining about how much you hate psych, words spilling faster than you can filter them. by the time friday rolls around, he’s the one calling—something about needing help with an assignment, though it diverges quickly into him venting about a useless groupmate in his behavioural economics class.

it morphs into something consistent, though, still strange regardless.

you could’ve sworn lee heeseung took his electives in art culture this year. yet, with the way he’s talking about stock markets and all rationality being lost on the modern day consumer, it sounds like he’s well-versed with the contents.

“you ate an entire block of cheese for dinner?” he repeats back to you. now that you’ve retold the entire process of cooking dinner, down to the amount of parmesan cheese you used, hearing it repeated back to you makes it sound a little insane. “you couldn’t just salt it?”

“are you judging me?” you giggle, turning over in your sheets. the fabric twists with you, cool against your skin and your joints protest almost immediately—your right shoulder’s starting to cramp from how long you’ve been hunched over on your side.

you let out a quiet sigh into the air. “it was a better choice. tasted good, so… i don’t see any problem.”

there’s a pause on his end. you fidget as you wait—picking at your cuticles, long overgrown and in desperate need of a maintenance check, even cracking your knuckles just to fill the silence.

“i think that’s the issue,” he huffs. your shoulders finally relax at the sound of him—lacking any true judgment despite his words.

there’s faint rustling that crackles through your device, and for a minute, you imagine how he must look like right now: laid up in bed in some old jersey, shorts barely hanging onto his hips from how lazy he is to tie the drawstrings tighter. the night’s winding down and you’re still here, with him, like this is an absolute must-do before your eyes shut.

and the routine must repeat tomorrow, of course. not that you’re complaining.

the rest of the conversation flows without much resistance. lee heeseung talks about his afternoon run that seemed to piss him off a great deal, because he got a call from choi yeonjun—something about being five minutes late to the gym and how he’s clearly not committed.

“oh. you’re friends with him? isn’t he in a completely different department from you, though?” you mumble, hoping that it doesn’t come off as blunt—you very well could have missed this detail in your earlier conversations. *“*how do you guys get to the point of going to the gym together?”

“he’s been bothering me ever since freshman year.” heeseung responds, “seriously. i don’t know how i haven’t strangled him yet.”

you chew on your bottom lip, searching for a response. the silence stretches just a little too long, and something about it starts to itch—like you’ve asked the wrong question and you’re pushing somewhere you shouldn’t.

“ah,” you say finally. “i see… he’s really popular, so i’m not surprised.”

“yeah, he is. it gets annoying as fuck when he brings his girls to lunch…” heeseung mutters under his breath—you’re toying with the string of your hoodie, if only to make yourself feel less awkward. there’s another long and excruciating pause before you finally decide to push the conversation in another direction:

“are you going to that fundraiser?” your voice comes out softer than intended. you can only hope that heeseung doesn’t make you repeat yourself. “sunoo’s… one. you know.”

“sunoo’s one…” he repeats back to you, slower. the concept almost sounds abstract to him. “no. not my thing.”

not his thing.

you’re back to fiddling with your fingers again. suddenly, the drawstring of your sweats seems more interesting than anything else you can hear from the other end of the line.

his voice fizzles out. you hear him, yes—his tired, monotonous voice crackling through the speaker reaches your ears and lands straight in your stomach. between short breaths and awkward pauses, you hyperfocus on the wind howling past your thin curtains.

“oh,” you manage after a moment. the word escapes weakly, scratching at your throat before you clear it up. “thought you were. my bad.”

you don’t realise how sweat-slicked your palms are until your phone almost slips from your hand. you turn over in bed, just to save your eyeballs from the sting of streetlights hanging outside your window—it’s almost three in the morning, and despite that dreadful fact, cars are still honking like they own the neighbourhood.

“are you?” heeseung asks. “probably, huh?”

“shut up,” you laugh. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

a quiet huff escapes through the line. your free hand traces the hem of your blanket, now tangled between your legs, serving no real purpose.

“it just sounds like something you’d be into.” heeseung states without a hint of laughter or a smile. “trying new things, even if they’re childish and embarrassing.”

“well—”

“it’s not a bad thing.”

you don’t respond immediately. a soft hum of acknowledgment is heard through the device—it’s barely triumphant or teasing—like he understands the reasoning behind why you’re throwing yourself out there, unknowingly, to him.

you roll onto your back again, tucking your arm over your belly. the cotton’s cold from the absence of your body against it, pillows still damp from your wet hair and impatient self; phone pressed awkwardly against your cheek, the heat almost battles that of sunday mornings.

speaking of, you haven’t experienced in it’s entirety for the past few weeks.

“why don’t you try it, then? it could be fun.” you murmur, eyes screwing shut at the instant the words rolled off your tongue. “sorry. you don’t have to… if you find it weird.”

his laugh makes your heart rate stutter, then spike.

it’s sweet. genuine. warm and unrehearsed in it’s charm, filling the dimness of your room and settling right under your ribs. your face burns up like you’ve just swallowed something hot, and the heat blooms right in your abdomen and crawls up your neck ridiculously fast.

“relationships aren’t my thing.”

lee heeseung says it like it’s already been decided—something fixed and immovable, written in bold or carved into a rock somewhere far beyond him. existing outside of his control, predetermined, and he’s made peace with it—it’s simply the way things are—though the heavy sigh that follows betrays him, outlined faintly with something that sounds nothing like acceptance.

the past few weeks have unfolded into something more than they should’ve. conversations stretching deeper than expected, softening and melting into quiet teasing that feels almost familiar, like you’ve known each other your entire lives.

“really?” your lips can’t help but to curl slightly upward. “you’ve never dated?”

“never had time for that. i’m not the best with affection. people talk to me like they’re scared of me, that kind of thing. even at that stupid party, i just drank by myself upstairs.”

perhaps your memory is failing you, then.

it’s strange, in hindsight, how most of your attention that night had never really stayed where it was supposed to. you remember the first few times you saw lee heeseung—his best friend following shortly after—and your gaze always seemed to lag behind who you claimed to like.

just how did those two end up together?

your seniors used to tell you to look forward to college. new place, new faces, new prospects—like the world finally opens up and hands you options you didn’t know you had. one day, you’re trapped in a classroom from seven to six; the next, you’re weaving through a campus that doesn’t know you yet, trying to decide who you get to be in it.

lee heeseung made it easy to know. he was the kind of person people noticed without trying. effortless in a way that felt almost unfair—hair falling exactly how it should, skin catching the light like it was always meant to. you’d pass by his friend group and hear him before you saw him, laughter loud and uncontained, a basketball tucked under his arm like it never knew how else to store itself. he fit into everything so naturally that it almost felt like the world was his and his alone.

it made sense to like him. and even then, your attention seemed to stray—slipping quietly and slowly just past him.

sunghoon hangs behind like it pained him to be around other people. always a little removed and distant enough to not involve himself in the conversation but not to turn around and walk away unnoticed; broad shoulders angling themselves slightly away, eyes flicking over other people like it physically pained him to see other humans.

it’s small, useless things. the way he’d shift his weight from one foot to the other when conversations dragged on and he was tired of it. his hands would stay tucked into his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them otherwise. watching more than he spoke, like he was just slightly out of sync with everyone else.

you’ve only ever seen him laugh once*.* it was weirdly off-timed and the rest of his friends laughed only three seconds later. you wondered if all of heeseung’s friends were as strange as that, or if it was just him.

it’s weird, actually. thinking about it now, you realise you remember more about park sunghoon than you should for someone you never consciously paid attention to. his name seemed to be the last piece to his mysterious identity, no thanks to oh jiwon.

“i’m sure that’s not true.”

“it is,” he says. “i try to stay, but things don’t work out. rarely ever do.”

you raise an eyebrow. “work out? so you almost dated?”

“i show up. i do what i’m supposed to. it just stops feeling like something i want to be in after a while.”

“so you just dip?” you question.

“not all at once. i get scared. i pull back and i cancel things that i already fought to fit into my schedule,” he pauses. “i say it’s nothing. they don’t press much after that.”

you hum. the line goes quiet for a few seconds. you’re trying hard not to bombard him with every invasive question on your mind: who’s your most recent girlfriend? how long ago was the relationship? why do you run away?

he continues regardless.

“people get frustrated with me,” he mutters. “i can’t even handle my own emotions. i run from my issues and go on pre-workout to deal with my baggage. nobody sane does that shit.”

“heeseung—”

the name slips from your tongue like a mistake. you bite down on your bottom lip as if that would stop the words from echoing into his ears, somewhere, miles away.

“you’re the only girl that doesn’t treat me like that. i still don’t get it.”

just where did all these thoughts come from? there's weeks of conversations that stretched until midnight. unfiltered words that you silently agreed to keep between you two. your heart’s begun to match the rhythm of his voice, unintentionally, from the moment he picks up the phone to the second he cuts the line. somewhere between your first call to now, you’ve gotten to know him—it’s exactly why you can’t blame the confusion bubbling in your head or the pit in your stomach that only seems to sink deeper.

“aren’t you scared of me, too?”

and here you were, thinking that the answer was abundantly clear. he cuts himself off when you want to start rambling. he finishes your sentences when you’re falling asleep. he asks what ridiculous, unhealthy dish you cook up for dinner every single day without fail—so why does he still sound like that?

you shift slightly against your sheets, phone pressed a little tighter to your ear as if proximity could make sense of it. “i don’t get it,” you admit quietly. “why would anyone be scared of you?”

there’s a pause on the other end. it doesn’t feel empty. things rarely ever do when you’re on the phone with him; it feels more like he’s weighing whether to answer honestly, soften the blow or leave it alone entirely. “this is what i mean, [name].”

you frown. there’s a shuffle of feet upstairs, thudding against your ceiling, which momentarily distracts you. it’s almost four in the morning and nothing feels any clearer than it did ten minutes ago. “what?”

“you don’t care,” he continues. “simple.”

he doesn’t bother to explain further. he hasn’t bothered to say much at all, actually—not in a way that should make sense to you or anyone that knows the name heeseung. still, you understand it anyway, in that vague, unspoken way that two people manage to do, where language feels slightly too slow for what’s already being felt, and too shallow to tell the other person what you really mean.

there’s a hollow kind of discomfort sitting low in your stomach. you’ve learned by now that this is usually a warning sign, even if you don’t always know what it’s warning you about.

you’ve never had particularly good luck with these things, anyway. whatever invisible logic governs timing, people, attachment—it has never seemed especially fond of you.

you exhale softly, pulling your blanket higher over your shoulder, as if that might settle something internally. your gaze drifts to the empty space beside you, unoccupied, waiting in a way that feels louder than it should at this hour.

“what don’t i care about?”

your voice comes out as a whisper, unintentionally. the sound barely makes it past your lips, weak and soft like it’s embarrassing that you even thought about saying it and just plain humiliating that you let it out. either way, heeseung’s answering it seconds later.

“what people say about me,” he sighs, “i like it better like that.”

you don’t really know what he means by that—your hair scratches against the cold, crisp pillowcase under your head as you turn over anxiously. lee heeseung was very known, yes, but the way the words land just feels so… odd.

sniffling when he speaks again, the responses that follow never reaches your ears.

─────────────────────────

finals week has made you it’s bitch.

there’s something almost childish in how irritable you get in the days leading up to exams. you’ve never learnt to move past it, and soon enough, the people around you eventually adapted to the sensitive storm that is you, minimally three days before a major paper.

three rules:

one) do not disrupt y/n l/n’s naps;

two) do not text, call, or approach first, and

do not ask how studying is going. the answer is never changing: it’s bad, i’m going to fail, my life is over.

okay, to be fair, these rules were not as strict as they sound. most of the time, people are already cooped up in study rooms and occupied with their own revision—clearly much too busy to talk to anyone else, much less you. so, when your entire friend group goes awol, you do nothing but let it happen.

though, there is just one person that remains.

lee heeseung, sounding entirely too relaxed over the phone with a blender going somewhere in the background, because he’s making his second protein shake of the day. he doesn’t sound very… worried about the approaching three-hour exam.

your feet are folded together, criss-cross on your office chair as you hunch over your desk. your room is pitch dark, save for the bright, white light radiating from your study lamp—sprawled over the surface of your cheap table is rewritten notes, scribbled equations and the occasional bible verse (for good measure).

“you sound upset,” he says.

“oh, do i, now?”

you almost drop your phone at that. you’ve been silently panicking for the last forty minutes without realising you’ve been breathing like that, and talking like this. you’ve spent even more time, close to five hours on this laptop that’s crying for you to shut it down, on lectures that you should’ve watched weeks back.

there’s a pause on his end, something shifting in the background—cupboard, blender stopping, maybe him leaning against the counter—and when he speaks again, it’s slower. “which one are you on?”

“twenty,” you say.

“how many left?”

“twelve,” you admit, already hating how it sounds when spoken out loud. somehow, all hope seems lost when you utter that forsaken number, despite it being (very) obviously displayed on the top left of your screen for the past few hours. “…fuck.”

this morning felt like hell. you’re sure your eye-bags have magically darkened themselves in the past few hours, and for a minute, you grimace at the thought of having to show up to school like that every damn day, all because you’re too tired to seem put together. breakfast was skipped, which was unfortunate, cause the guilt of preparing a heavy lunch only made the stress worse. heavy eyelids blinking open, slow, regretful for every delayed hour of sleep—limbs still tangled in cold sheets like it physically pained you to leave.

the sun bled through your blinds, warm over your ankles and blinding you through your eyelashes. you walked around the house in nothing but your underwear, even forgetting your slippers under the bedframe; there was only one thing on your mind. that much stayed consistent today, with the only variable factor being lee heeseung on the phone.

you didn’t think he’d call. schedules do that.

“it’s manageable,” his voice crackles through the speaker, and then there’s the sound of a cupboard slamming shut, along with the soft shuffling of… something. you actually consider hanging up on him, just for a brief moment. “how many topics?”

to be honest, you’d half-expected heeseung to tease you. laugh, even. maybe even tell you to stop being so dramatic, to answer his texts, and that he doesn’t understand why you’re freaking out over a dumb test—but here you are, and here he is, telling you that you have it figured out.

“four. it’s over,” you answer flatly, staring at the lecture list like if you looked hard enough another topic might spontaneously disappear. “it’s actually so over.”

“it’s not, y/n.”

heeseung’s voice stays annoyingly level. the speaker crackles with something that sounds like a spoon scraping against plastic and the jealousy almost gives you whiplash. he’s making a fucking protein shake while you’re stuck here memorising lecture slides on two-times speed and slowly developing permanent neck damage.

“you said your paper’s next tuesday. if there’s four topics left and you stop rewriting things you already know, you’ll finish tonight and still have time to revise.”

your head hits the table before you even realize you’ve moved. forehead pressed into paper, warm skin sticking slightly against cheap ink and printer sheets, you let yourself rot there dramatically. with your phone right beside your face, his voice sounds clearer than before—too clear, actually—and it feels vaguely humiliating, how quickly your chest warms when he talks like this.

you let out a long breath instead of responding, eyes drifting downward toward the floor beneath your desk. there’s crumpled paper scattered near your chair. a few sticky notes had missed the bin entirely and ended up attached to the outside of it instead, clinging there stubbornly like even they didn’t want to commit to failure.

he’s talking like he knows you.

“how’d you know—”

heeseung cuts you off with little trouble. “you’ve told me. pretty sure you can cut some lectures out, since you’ve been learning them for the past few weeks.”

you don’t answer. you narrow your eyes at his response, because who the hell is that observant? he doesn’t even need to confirm your schedule anymore—he just talks and cuts you off, knowing he’s completely right, because he listens that intently—but god.

he has no idea how warm that makes you feel.

on the other end of the line, heeseung walks back upstairs with his phone trapped awkwardly between his cheek and shoulder, head tilted enough that his neck would probably hurt later. his laptop balances in one hand, tumbler in the other, and his steps slow unconsciously as your breathing filters through the speaker.

his room looks exactly the same as always.

his duffel is already packed for practice tonight despite being excused for finals week. the afternoon sun catches against the medals mounted along his wall and reflects across his desk in strips of gold, schedule taped beside his wardrobe. his calendar is updated three weeks in advance, with a single day blocked out for the day you end your exams.

his eyes drift over the reminders stuck to his wall, and he’s reminded of it—the reason why he decided he was still going to practice today.

studying isn’t enough, clearly, if he’s still on the phone with you.

he already decided that he’d wait. finals week meant distance. finals week meant no showing up unexpectedly and no making this worse than he already has. finals week meant letting you breathe and not letting himself confuse temporary loneliness for something else, and finals week also meant not sinking deeper into you.

it’s just two weeks.

two weeks, and then, he’ll tell you.

“do you think i’ll do okay?” you mumble, so soft that you almost don’t hear yourself. it’s so quiet that you can hear the exact moment his fingers stop clicking against his keyboard, and so intense that the second he answers, your heart begins to pound.

“yeah. i know you will.”

─────────────────────────

you don’t think much of it when you tell heeseung where you’ll be tomorrow, or rather, today. truthfully, you haven’t been thinking much at all lately—unless you count the thirty-second ponder about lunch options earlier this morning.

finals week does something deeply unfortunate to people. everybody becomes uglier in small, socially acceptable ways, because everyone around you just… gets it. hair goes unwashed for an extra day, clothes repeat twice, thrice in a row, and eyebags sink further in with no substantial effort to conceal them. entire friend groups, including yours, quickly dissolve into delayed replies and weak promises to hang out after exams, because who the hell wants a mass social gathering after four all-nighters?

your room starts becoming unbearable by day four. there’s something fundamentally wrong with spending twelve hours in one place—any longer and you might’ve begun associating your digital lock chime with impending doom.

the second you sit at your desk, your chest tightens automatically. it’sm like your brain immediately morphs the cute wallpaper around you into blank rows of seats, and your ears only hear mindless scribbling, despite the cheerful music blasting through your headphones.

by the time noon comes around, you’ve scarfed down every grain of rice from your takeout container—dragging your feet and will to live through your apartment, searching for your purse before leaving.

it’s wednesday. the sun is shining on you, warm and consequentially irritating as the sweat begins to pill on your temples. they roll down your cheek in fat beads, and it almost serves as motivation for you to get your ass into that library as soon as possible.

your macbook is pressed against your side, tote slipping down your shoulders every few minutes, only to be caught by the crevice of your elbow. there’s an iced coffee from last night, standing in for your mid-day snack; and, as if you hadn’t eaten just an hour ago, your stomach rumbles in defeat.

the library doors open as you stomp against the carpeted sensors. the cold air hits your face hard enough that you nearly stop walking, but you settle for a deep, relieving sigh before turning left and speed-walking down those winding corridors built out of metal shelving.

your body already knows where to go now—past the noisier floors, up the stairs, away from printers and bathrooms and groups of students pretending to study while giggling about their situationships at full volume. roughly fifty-six seconds later, your consciousness kicks back in full gear, and you’re dumping your things down onto a familiar table before immediately realizing that you forgot your fucking charger.

“are you fucking—”

oh, well. problem for future you. worse comes to worst, you’ll scare some freshman away with your horrendous, sleepless eyes and unusually wide smile and steal theirs.

libraries distort time as well as they force you to keep track of it. hours behave well in the quieter corners, but if you’re somehow in urgent need of completing an assignment, they start speeding themselves up. it’s exactly why you’re chanting mantras to yourself now: studying isn’t urgent at all. this exam will not kill me! yes! i already know everything there is to know!

afternoon becomes evening rather quickly. suddenly, your water bottle is empty, your iced coffee splits into two separate layers of cloudy water and room temperature caffeine, and the light crawls across the carpet so much that your chair is no longer in the same patch of sun you sat down in.

you stopped checking the time thirty minutes ago. notes multiply, hair becomes tangled at the back of your neck, and your spine hurts. you spent forty minutes writing notes on a lecture, not realizing it’s a replay.

sometime later, when your legs are beginning to feel like tv static, movement catches in your peripheral and your eyes lift automatically before your brain even has a chance to catch up.

“sunghoon?”

my god. just stand up and run into his arms, why don’t you?

his reaction comes a fraction of a second later. despite the prior brain lag, you’re suddenly thinking about his face—sunghoon looks different outside of wherever you usually see him. less assembled, with a ridiculously large hoodie hanging loose around his frame, which only makes him look even bigger from where you’re sitting; there’s shadows beneath his eyes that soften his face unexpectedly.

his hair looks horrible. his sweatpants are dragging against the floor, too. sunghoon looks exhausted, and his gaze hangs low, until you call out for him, that is.

the corners of your lips curl upward before you even realise it’s happening. his expression doesn’t change much, but the faint raise of his thick eyebrows tells you enough. his eyes flick toward the empty chairs around you, and you almost assume that you weirded him out—great, he’ll walk away now—but all sunghoon does is return a soft, supposedly meaningless smile in your direction.

there’s that brief moment, where people who know each other silently debate whether acknowledging the other’s presence is necessary in public—and then he gives you a small nod, right before he takes his laptop out and sits right in front of it.

two seats away from you. like last week. if you hadn’t met the man before, you would’ve thought he wanted to kill you with a face like that. eyebrows knit together in frustration, typing furiously at his keyboard like it owed him twenty bands, tapping his foot against the carpet like he was thinking about something deathly important.

cute—wait, what the fuck, said you, around fifteen times over in the past two hours.

you become aware of him in entirely useless ways. he drinks water without looking away from his screen, sometimes even types with one hand as the other holds that tumbler to his lips. he cracks his knuckles at every given opportunity, and his fingers hover over the keyboard occasionally when he thinks. you leave for more coffee, come back, go to the bathroom, and he’s literally still there.

at one point, you look up because your neck hurts, and caught yourself stretching. fucking stretching, left to right, just for an excuse to get a full view of his side profile. in that tiny, meaningless moment, you witnessed him rub his eyes and immediately return back to typing his unfinished methods section.

it’s strangely comforting that park sunghoon is there for you to look at. oddly. it helps with the whole ‘i’m the only one in this universe, it’s all a simulation’ delirium.

regardless, at around six, the words on your screen are beginning to morph into one big demonic face, and every letter on your keyboard just resembles an egyptian hieroglyphic. words are decorative, english is just a bunch of made up gibberish, and you need to get out of this plastic seat before you melt into it—so after rereading the same paragraph four times, absorbing nothing (shocker), your eyes begin to ache and decide: changing tasks will fix all these worldly pains you have.

the ‘changing tasks’ arrives in the form of a reference nook your professor mentioned. standing, stretching, you’re doing it all before disappearing into the shelves.

it’s warmer here than it is at the tables, somehow. perhaps it’s the way the sun is setting now, and it’s getting all in your eyes and in your hair, just like it did this morning. though, when you turn towards the closest, wide-set window, your breath almost gets taken away at the blend of pinks and oranges that colour the sky.

you see this sunset almost every day. still, it doesn’t take any of the beauty away.

dust catches in the overhead light, paling in comparison to the golden hue that the light is bathing the room in—the smell of old books penetrates your nose in a way that makes you think about middle school. you drag your fingers across rows of spines, reading titles under your breath, stepping slower in each aisle because your brain refuses to remember the author’s name. you bet sunghoon doesn’t struggle with things like that.

“behavioural psychology… where the fuck even is that?”

─────────────────────────

following a mini mental breakdown, park sunghoon’s brain decides not to accomodate a single molecule of information until he gets up and got his blood moving.

there was only so much economics and statistics a person could consume before words stopped behaving like language and started looking like numbers flipped around. his screen brightness had been lowered twice, and his coffee had gone cold sometime around four—the sleeves of his hoodie were pushed halfway up his forearms and there was a faint imprint from resting his cheek against his knuckles for too long, which he finds immensely humiliating.

he closes the document, opens it again, reads the same words over and over, and realises he won’t get anything done like this; so his eyes leave the screen for the first time in twenty minutes and settle automatically on the empty seat in his peripheral.

his head back turns so fast that he almost curses at himself.

and, to make things extra embarrassing, his mind starts to weigh the odds of whether you’re about to leave, or if you’re just gone for another break. scanning your side of the desk, taking in your untouched water bottle, open laptop and tangled wired headphones—you’re somewhere nearby, a conclusion he unwillingly comes to.

sunghoon’s fingers drum once against the tumbler before he remembers there was a book he wanted earlier. or needed. something vaguely related to an assignment he’d been putting off. either way, he stands, pushes in his chair halfway, and makes his way into the shelves.

it really does feel different in here. the high-pitched clacking of mechanical keyboards is muffled, almost muted behind these thick walls of books, where light filters in through strips and catches every speck of dust floating around. he turns once, twice, passing business ethics—until he finally reaches behavioural psychology, and stops dead in his tracks.

it’s not even about the book. if he remembered correctly, the one he was looking for’s two floors down, but this—here, in front of him, on this floor, was you.

sunghoon ducks into the next aisle like he’s guilty. he presses his back lightly against the endcap of the shelf, as though the solid structure might help him reset whatever just short-circuited in his brain.

this is ridiculous. he’s in a library. on a weekday. trying to study. and yet, somehow, his entire nervous system has decided that walking in a straight line is suddenly the most difficult thing in the world.

he exhales, before trying to occupy himself by looking for something similar to what he’s studying for another module. he stands still for a second longer than necessary, fingertips running against this one book which he can’t bother to know the name of, and all it does is feel like a weak alibi.

business psychology is a popular section. lots of students with sunghoon’s major share modules, hence, explaining why the other book he’s pretending to need isn’t even here. it also explains why the fuck his eyes keep gravitating towards you, through tall-enough gaps, locked on your concentrated face and frustrated pout.

every interruption in his life, somehow, becomes framed with you. a horizontal slit between two rows of books, a deliberate architectural hesitation, tall enough to fit even the thickest and tallest of publications out there—and you, existing between it.

it’s closer than before, not in distance but in clarity. the kind of proximity that does not require physical reduction to feel intimate. the light falls differently here, angled through a window he cannot fully see, softening the edge of everything it touches—your tip of your nose, the ends of your hair, and the faint movement of your hand as you adjust your page.

you look so beautiful. nothing has changed. he knew it when he saw you sitting in front of him today, he knew it when you walked into this place last week, and he knew it when he saw you at that party, wearing a dress that seemed so inclined to his attention and a smile that made all the flashing colours pale in comparison.

and, most of all, he knows it now. a fool he is, for thinking that these feelings would fade.

sunghoon tries to locate himself properly in the task he came for—something about organisational theory, a phenomenon he can usually reduce into clean frameworks and exam-ready structure. his hand has been resting against the spine of the book for the past twenty seconds, fingers curled just enough to suggest intent, but nothing in him is actually compelling the pull.

the thought arrives with a sharpness that feels almost physical, like pressure behind the ribs.

park sunghoon wishes he could redo college from the start. not in the abstract, as nostalgia or regret type thing, instead with specificity—clean edits to timing, tone, and presence. a revision pass on himself. one that would let him stand a few steps closer to you now, without feeling like the distance between yourselves is self-inflicted.

his thumb shifts minutely along the book’s spine. the motion is absent-minded, almost mechanical.

once you know who he really is—strip away whatever version of him you’ve only seen in passing corridors and half-glances at the long oak table—will you stop looking for him?

fuck. he doesn’t even care enough to stop looking at you. hair falling over your face, your lips blowing air to get the tiny, annoying strands to stop itching your nose.

selfish. selfish, selfish, selfish. that’s all he is.

─────────────────────────

─────────────────────────

august meant summer.

the sun is unforgiving, blazing hot rays beating down on your back as sweat trickles down your shoulder blades—everything about today seemed relentless, exam included. around you, people are already decomposing the paper in clusters: comparing answers, laughing too loudly, swearing they’re finished in voices that sound almost celebratory. someone says question 47 was impossible. someone else says it was free marks. you keep walking.

there’s that feeling when you finally press submit on a paper. not relief exactly—more like your body forgetting what to do after operating at full capacity for too long. to be truthful, there were multiple times where you thought you were fucked throughout the exam, and then you’d look at the bottom of your screen and see: 21 out of 80 questions saved.

you really, sincerely thought handing in that empty thing was better than typing whatever you studied. no matter how hard you worked these past few weeks, there was always that irritating, sly little voice whispering into your ear that it was for nothing. that all those late nights, colour-coded notes, skipped breaks and panic-induced productivity spurts would collapse into one single, defining moment that you were never going to catch up.

somewhere around the second hour—after your eyes started blurring and the timer at the corner of the screen felt less like a clock and more like a countdown to execution—you broke. quietly, of course. you had enough tact not to lose your shit in front of a hundred other students in the same venue.

you understood less than you thought. you should’ve started earlier. you’re embarrassing yourself.

you just stared at question 22 for three minutes straight and felt your throat tighten because suddenly, everything became impossible at once. reading felt impossible. thinking felt impossible. even moving your cursor felt weirdly impossible. you literally just bought it yesterday, because you were convinced the one you always use would die.

fuck everything, you thought, until some other voice started talking to you—in that calm, gentle demeanour that you’ve gotten used to over months. low and amused in tone when he said, “why’re you so hard on yourself, y/n?”

last night, he was on the phone with you. you remember lying flat on your bed with your notes open but untouched, your lamp the only thing still awake in your room. coffee wasn’t doing it, or maybe it was just the fact that it was your sixth cup today; he’d called later than usual, and somehow the conversation drifted away from exams, and shifted more toward your incessant need to be perfect, despite and in spite of the circumstances.

“what do you mean?”

moonlight spilling in through thin curtains, the thrum of public transport and dogs taking late-night walks with owners who talk too loud on the phone. no one knew where you were, no one cared what you were doing, but it didn’t matter. he knew. he cared.

you don’t even remember how the conversation got there, either. was it some joke about failing? one too many of those were made, now that you think about it. it wasn’t even self-pitying, either—all casual in the way that people talk, repeating the same thing enough times that it sounds like truth—but then he went quiet and said, “you talk like you’ve already decided on fucking it up.”

you remember laughing. whatever, because what do you do when someone says something so accurate? what the hell do you say when someone sees right **through you?

“i just have bad luck in these things.”

he laughed. fucking laughed. it was this short, incredulous breath through his nose like he couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed or amused. “you study all day, every day, and act surprised when you know the material.”

you frowned automatically. “well—”

“no,” he interrupted. “you’re smart. hard working. you’re trying, and i don’t think you should dismiss those efforts.”

“but—”

“i have to get back to work,” he breathed into the phone. his voice dropped slightly at the end, words softened by distance and whatever position he’d shifted into. you could hear movement through the phone—the subtle crackle of fabric, the hollow acoustics of a room that sounded emptier than yours. “get some sleep before your exam. goodnight.”

no good-lucks, no you’ll-do-wells, no last minute reassurance that would only soothe your nerves for ten minutes before you’d spiral again. last night, it had seemed cruel. not in the obvious sense—he wasn’t mean nor dismissive—but there was something irritatingly unsympathetic about the way he refused to give in to you. you’d left that call mildly offended, convinced he was sick of hearing you talk like that. sick of your catastrophizing, sick of your weird habit of turning every achievement into an exception and every mistake into evidence. sick of you.

yet, now, walking towards your car with the heat sitting heavy against your skin and your student id still peeking out the pocket of your jeans, it seemed more like belief.

in you, that is. almost as if that you doing terribly had never come across his mind, occurring as a possibility.

you recall staring at your ceiling, phone falling face flat to your mattress, face flushed with embarassment and annoyance that only seemed to erupt when it came to late replies and slightly off-sounding tones. it’s almost exclusive to him—you were never that great at reading rooms, after all.

your car keys twirl around your index finger, a different spring in your step now that the bitter taste of last night has dissolved completely. you’ll call him tonight, later, maybe once your foot crosses the threshold known as your front door, or once you step into the car. you’ll tell him about the exam, about how there was a moment where you genuinely considered submitting half a paper because, somehow, failing after trying felt more humiliating than failing without trying.

you’ll tell him that his stupidly calm voice somehow survived twelve hours and a three-hour exam. that while you were sitting there spiralling and preparing to abandon the entire thing, you remembered the way he said it—like he knew, understood, and reached for you when you abandoned yourself.

you’re already halfway through mentally composing the conversation when movement ahead catches your attention. someone’s walking towards you from the opposite direction, feet dragging against concrete in a way that would usually annoy, but instead of diverting your attention to the phone in your pocket—you look up.

you recognize him immediately. lee heeseung.

weirdly enough, you haven’t seen him up close around campus for the past three months. you assumed it was probably because he was just that busy—you’d seen his figure in the distance, but by the time you caught up, he’d be gone. there were tons of excuses that he made up on the phone, too, earlier into your relationship: personal projects, mostly, though the details were always lacking.

perfect hair. perfect face. perfect stride. even now, people notice him as he walks past. conversations soften for half a second, eyes lifting instinctively and following his pace before returning to wherever they were before. heeseung moves through it without acknowledging anything, shoulders relaxed, expression neutral, looking exactly like someone who’s long stopped recognizing attention as something unusual.

you straighten automatically, lifting your hand, almost waving, but not quite yet. heeseung doesn’t even need to see it in motion for him to look right into your eyes.

his expression shifts—something adjacent to confusion, an eyebrow raised as if to say, where do i know you from?

what. the. fuck.

© kissued 2026 — do not repost, edit, redistribute or translate my work without prior permission and credit. all my work is strictly fictional and not an accurate representation of these people in real life.

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[janiary]

WHITE CARDIGAN . ݁⋆ 𝜗𝜚⋆. ݁ P.SH

pairing ‎ꪆৎ cheater!sunghoon x sidechick!reader

summary ꪆৎ A good boyfriend isn’t supposed to offer another girl his hoodie. Especially not to you, shivering without your cardigan, your bare shoulders giving his eyes reason to stray. To be fair, Sunghoon never claimed to be a good boyfriend.

18+ mdni ⚠︎ smut, college au, emotional/physical cheating, morally grey characters, mean dom!sunghoon, sub!reader, possessiveness, “innocent” reader, corruption kink, degradation, praise, begging, slut-shaming, p in v, blowjob, face fucking, fingering, creampie, unprotected sex, semi-clothed sex, rough sex, semi-public sex (bathroom stall)

word count ꪆৎ 3.5k

author note ꪆৎ hello… i’m struggling with my other wips so I present to you a surprise return of cheater hoon :)

Sunghoon is a weak man.

Not physically. Obviously. He can easily deadlift twice his weight without breaking a sweat. Not mentally, either. His grades are sharp, his discipline something to be admired.

But when it comes to you? ...Yeah. He's weak. He's completely and utterly helpless to the fact that he wants you that badly. Especially today.

Your arms and shoulders were usually concealed with a white cardigan. It's this soft-looking thing, cute and girlish like the rest of you, always draped over your shoulders like the picture-perfect image of innocence, and always sliding down one shoulder, just enough to tease the idea of what you'd look like stripped of said innocence. Just enough to make him (and other guys, he's sure) imagine what it would be like to get close enough to catch the scent of your sweet perfume lingering on the cotton fibres and to rip it off of you.

You’re not wearing it today, though. He noticed the absence the moment you slid into the seat beside him at the library, beaming at him with that smile he usually couldn't get enough of. Only this time, his gaze didn't linger on your face for long. It drifted instead to your bare arms, your shoulders, the elegant curve of your collarbone, the way your lace-trimmed camisole hugged the swell of your chest—then flicked back up the moment you looked at him again, careful not to let on that he'd been staring.

"Oh? What's this?" You nod toward the coffee sitting at your spot. "Is this for me?"

"Got myself something, so..." he shrugs casually—as if waiting in line for ten minutes because he remembered you like oat milk with an extra pump of vanilla is anything casual.

"Really?" you breathe, already tugging your laptop and notebook from your bag, your face lit with pleased surprise. "Gosh, Hoon. That's so sweet of you. You really didn't have to."

He has to physically resist the urge to smile like an idiot.

Anything for you, he wants to say. "It's nothing," is what comes out instead, accompanied by a polite smile.

Because that's what guys with girlfriends are technically supposed to do.

Guys with girlfriends are also technically supposed to feel guilty for thinking about thoughts they shouldn't, and lying about who they're studying with. Sunghoon doesn't feel guilty, though. He hadn't felt that way twenty minutes ago when his girlfriend texted him—Study hard. Miss you—to which he had yet to answer. He still doesn't.

You'd been assigned as project partners last semester. You were kind, and funny, and so unbearably pretty that just looking at you felt like a small betrayal. Hence why he kept answering your texts when you asked him to study. Hence why his girlfriend doesn't know you exist. Hence why he's here, sitting in the school library with you, your hands wrapped around the warmth of the small coffee he'd bought you, and your whole body shivering because for some reason the building was running air-conditioning in the middle of winter.

He tries not to stare the whole time. He works. Helps you with the assignment you're both working on. Says a few things that make you laugh. Steals glances when you're leaning over your notebook, when your neckline dips just a little bit too low, at the lace of your pink bra peeking out from under your top's little straps. And then he's watching your neck, all lovely and exposed, wondering if he'd only need one of his hands to wrap around the whole of it, just imagining how much lovelier it would look covered in his markings.

Then he notices the goosebumps on your delicate skin, how your hands move to rub up and down the length of your arms in an attempt to warm yourself.

It's strange. You always wear your white cardigan.

"Cold?" He asks.

"Mm," you nod, flashing a pained smile, "Accidentally left my sweater in the lecture hall earlier. Couldn't find it after, though..."

Your lower lip quivers, a pretty sigh escaping you as your hands fall from your arms to rub together. Suddenly, the weight of his zip-up hoodie feels uselessly heavy on his shoulders, as the thought of offering it to you becomes more and more appealing.

He shouldn't offer. He really, really, shouldn't. Free coffees and studying together is one thing. Offering you his clothes is another thing entirely. But he can't just ignore you, can he? He shoves the brief image of his girlfriend's face from his mind. You're shivering, teeth chattering, and he's feeling hotter by the second. It would be plain cruel to leave you like this.

"You can take mine."

You blink, a flicker of hesitation in your expression, and it makes him want to sink into the floor, because you know. You’re aware that he’s taken, and the implications that come with his offer.

"I mean, only if you want," he adds, regret and embarrassment creeping up on him in the form of a flush to his cheeks.

Was it weird to offer? Do you think he's trying to hit on you? If that were the case... hypothetically... would you think less of him for it?

"I'm not sure..."

Shame begins to encompass him wholly, and he looks back to his laptop screen thinking that maybe it would be best to pretend he never said it all. And then—

"I wouldn't want you to be cold, either."

He whips his head back around.

The look on your face is beautifully pitiful, and his heart aches at the sight of it alone. To think you would put his comfort above your own... That's just the thing with you. You're so, painfully, achingly sweet.

"I'm not cold. Too hot, actually," he's already reaching for the zipper, until it zips all the way down, trying not to enjoy the way your eyes drag down his arms and shoulders too much.

He wraps the hoodie around you, and when you slip your arms into the sleeves and pull the hood over your head, something possessive clicks into place. It's already oversized on him. On you, though? It swallows you whole. You're wearing his scent, his warmth, and his rational mind is already giving up.

"Thank you." You look to him shyly, pushing the sleeves up so that your hands can poke through.

"You don't need to thank me."

"You're kidding, right? I can't thank you enough." You're sighing into the newfound warmth, wrapping the fabric closer around you. Then, you're looking right at him, looking devastatingly grateful as you tilt your head. "You're really amazing, you know that?"

The cold air against his bare skin does nothing to cool him down. Now he knows, with certainty, that he really shouldn't have offered you that sweater. Not only because he'll never be able to get the sight of you wearing it out of his mind, but because it was the first moment he realized that without even touching you, he'd already betrayed his own principles beyond redemption.

"Next time, coffee's on me, m'kay? Gotta let me repay you for... you know." You gesture to the coffee, the sweater, the assignment you've both barely touched. "Everything—“

"No." The word comes out almost immediately, and a little too harsh.

His eyes drop to your body, your frame in his sweater, to your soft, kissable-looking lips, and his last thread of restraint snaps.

He's already imagined, countless times, how he'd take you. It's been playing on repeat in his mind for the past hour. What difference does speaking it out loud make?

His lips pull into a wicked grin.

"I know something else you could do, though."

Oh, and you’re repaying him, alright.

Repaying him tenfold on the floor of the men's bathroom, the tile cold beneath your knees as he threads his hands firmly through your hair. The sound of the library's ventilation system does nothing to drown out the wet, sloppy sound of your mouth working around his cock.

"Shit. You're eager," he rasps, laughing to hide the small hiss that escapes him. "Real fucking good with your mouth, too."

You try to say something, but your words are reduced to a muffled, needy whimper against his length. The same mouth that had been smiling at him over coffee not an hour ago now stretched around his cock. He lets out a low laugh at the sound, and the whole filthy, picture-perfect sight of it.

"My sweet girl," he breathes, stroking your cheek with his thumb. "Where'd you learn to be such a little slut?"

He’s glad you can’t respond. He doesn't want to think about what your answer would be.

He hasn't moved your head yet, just letting you do all the work, and you're doing it beautifully, your throat relaxing for him bit by bit, your grasp growing more certain with every stroke.

Earlier, when he'd pressed you against the stall and kissed you breathless, you'd murmured something against his mouth about not really knowing what you were doing. He'd assumed that meant rusty. Lack of practice. Maybe a little nervous. It didn't matter to him. It just made it hotter watching those doe eyes looking up at him, so sweet, so fervent, while your mouth worked him like a champ.

"Think you can take more for me, pretty girl?" He coos, thumb tracing the stretched corner of your lips. "You're doing such a good job. I know you can."

Then his fingers tighten in your hair, and he takes over.

He shoves, and you instantly gag as he hits the back of your throat. Tears spring to your eyes, your throat fluttering wildly around him, and for a second he just holds you there, groaning at the tight, spasming heat. He swipes one away almost tenderly even as he holds you there, buried deep, feeling you struggle.

"You okay?" He hums, "Just breathe."

You nod. Then, something shifts. You breathe through your nose. Your jaw relaxes. And your throat opens just enough to let him sink in, smooth as silk, and the sudden ease makes his breath hitch.

"Shit, that's it. You're a natural, hm?" He says, wickedly proud, marvelling at you. "Fucking gorgeous."

He thrusts a few more times, deep enough to make you feel every inch, to let him savour the sight, and rough enough to satisfy the part of him that almost feels the need to punish you for all the months of pure torture he’s been put through. But the tender side of him, the side that can’t help but look at your wide-eyed obedience with affection, eases back. He doesn't want to overwork you. There’s no point in it when he has other things on his mind.

He pulls you off, and you gasp, lips parted and glistening, eyes glassy and unfocused. For half a second you just kneel there, breathing hard, but before he can even tell you you've done enough, you're on him again. Mouthing the side of his shaft, kissing down to the base, hand still stroking him. There's drool on your chin, tear stains on your cheeks, precum smeared across your lips, and you're looking up at him with those eyes, just moaning at the taste of him. The sight alone could take him out.

And... shit, as much as he'd love to let you play with him as long as you want, he'd rather watch you fall apart on his cock instead.

"Fuck. You're killing me."

He hauls you up before you can take him back in your mouth. The sudden movement leaves you breathless, your back hitting the cold tiles of the stall wall with a thud, and the gasp you make is swallowed instantly. His mouth crashes onto yours, tongue pushing past your lips, and he tastes himself there, a possessive, prideful rush running through him. It makes him groan into the kiss, one hand sliding from your jaw to your throat, while the other vanishes beneath the hem of your skirt.

Not wasting a second, his fingers hook into the lace of your panties, delicate and feminine and thoroughly ruined from just how soaked you are. He tugs them down, tossing them somewhere on the floor and hoists you up, your legs flying around his waist.

One arm locks beneath your thighs, steadying you against the stall wall, and he just holds you there, cradled and captive, awestruck by how perfect you look like this, in his sweater, legs spread open for him—flushed, trembling and all his.

His free hand trails down, and his fingers circle your clit in a slow, torturous rhythm, feeling you jerk and quiver against him. He dips his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"So fucking wet," he murmurs. His fingers keep circling, lazy and torturous, feeling you twitch. "Is this all for me? You want me to ruin that pretty little pussy? Want me to fuck you right here, right now, where anyone could hear?"

You can't speak. Can barely breathe. You just nod, frantic, your hips bucking against his hand, seeking more.

"Yeah?" He grins, and his hand withdraws, leaving you desperate and aching, and he shifts his hips, the head of his cock nudging against your pussy. Just the barest pressure. Just the threat of entry. Your whole body tenses in anticipation, and then—he stops. His hand reaches for your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his.

"Beg for it."

"Sunghoon—"

"Beg for my cock like a good slut. Tell me how much you—"

"Please." You don't hesitate. You don't even let him finish his sentence. "Please just fuck me. Please, Hoon—"

For a second, he just stares at you in absolute disbelief. Then his grin returns, sharper.

"Holy shit." He breathes, half-laugh, half-groan. "So fucking desperate. My perfect little slut."

And then he pushes in. He does it slow on purpose just to watch your face as he stretches you open. Your body resists for just a second, then yields, and the gasp that leaves you goes straight to his ego. The sweetest goddamn sound he's ever heard.

"Shit," he breathes out, sinking into your pussy, watching it swallow every inch of him. "My pretty little secret. You promise not to tell anyone, right? Not your little girlfriends. Not mine. This is just between us, right?”

You shake your head frantically, a desperate little whimper escaping your lips as he buries himself all the way in.

"Good girl." He grins, wolfish and more than ready to ruin you properly. His hand slides up to grasp your neck, his grip firm, but only there to hold as he pulls out all the way. He does it just to watch you squirm, to hear the broken little whine that escapes you at the emptiness, before slamming back in, one brutal thrust. "Just keep that pretty mouth shut, and I'll give it to you whenever you want. Yeah?"

The sound of skin slapping against skin echoes through the bathroom, fucking you senseless. Every stroke fills you to the brim, over and over, and you cling to his shoulders to brace yourself. Your nails dig into him, and your voice fractures into moans so broken, so overwhelmed by the sensation of being so full of him. He just fucks you harder, watching your face, mesmerized by the ruin of you.

"So fucking tight," he hisses, nearly needing to push back against the urge to finish right there.

"So—so much. Hoon—" you cry out, your body clamping down around him, and the sound of his name breaking on your lips nearly undoes him.

"Yeah?" He pauses for a heartbeat, his hand sliding up to thumb the fabric of his sweater—the thing you're still wearing.

He pushes it up, exposing your heaving chest, your breasts cupped in pretty lace, the whole obscene picture of you: fucked out, full of him, wearing his clothes like you belong to him.

"God. Look at you." He breathes, thumbing the lace, eyes dark and intense with lust and possession, "My sweet girl in her pretty little bra, taking my cock so well. Wearing my sweater. You're so perfect."

He pushes the bra up roughly, freeing your breasts, and his mouth descends. He sucks enough to leave a mark, while his hand kneads the other. You buck against him, a whimper catching in your throat, one hand threading through the strands of his hair, which makes him grin.

"Hoon—"

"You gonna cum?" He teases, lifting his head to look at you. "Cum for me. Cum around my cock like a good girl. Lemme feel it."

His mouth claims yours, swallowing every shattered cry as your body seizes around him. You clench tight, and he groans into the kiss, feeling you fall apart—and that feeling alone breaks something in him, feeling himself approach his own high.

"Fucking take it." He pants against your lips. "Take every last drop. All of it."

With one final thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, your body firmly pressed to the bathroom stall wall, and he lets go. A groan tears from his throat as he spills inside you, filling you up, marking you somewhere no one can see. Somewhere only he'll know.

Later, he drives you back to your place.

You sit in the passenger seat with his hoodie still bundled around you, your lips kiss-swollen. His hand rests on your thigh, thumb stroking small circles into your skin.

He should probably feel an aching sense of regret. Maybe a hollowness, as he processes the aftermath. He doesn't though. He doesn’t know what he expects from himself at this point. Honestly, the idea that alone almost makes him laugh out loud—as if he could ever regret any of it.

The way you'd looked up at him in the bathroom, wide-eyed, almost nervous, but so goddamn eager to please, replays on loop in his head. The way you'd trembled when he touched you, like no one had ever touched you properly before, but arched into him regardless. The little sounds you'd made, surprised and helpless, as if you couldn't believe what was happening—the begging.

You'll be good for me, won't you?

Damn right, you were. So fucking good. So sweet. So precious.

He pulls up in front of your place, and you turn to him.

"Thanks for the ride. And for... you know."

You both laugh a little at the implication, knowing damn well his cum is probably still leaking out of you, soaking your underwear. Shit, if he had any less self-restraint than he already does, he'd take you again right here in his car.

"I'll see you again soon?" You ask it so sweetly his chest aches.

He doesn’t answer right away. He just grins, cocky, but when he pulls you in and captures your lips in his, swallowing your sound of surprise, the kiss comes out tender. Soft, slow, a little desperate, and far too affectionate for a girl that technically isn't his, but he's long since stopped giving a fuck. His thumb strokes your jaw while his tongue sweeps your lower lip, and for a second he forgets he's inside a car—and that he's supposed to pick up his girlfriend right after. He just loses himself in the taste of your lips: sweet like sugar, filthy like what you swallowed an hour ago.

It lasts a while, and he lets it. Indulges himself in the feeling of your hands curling into fists against his shirt, and your soft, pliant mouth against his, and when he finally, grudgingly, pulls back, he can't help but chase your lips again. He dips back in for one last taste, a half-groan caught in his throat as he offers a peck.

"See you," he breathes against your lips, before pulling away entirely.

Your eyes flutter open, your lips still slightly parted. You look wrecked. You look innocent. You look exactly how he wants you to look. Fucking hell.

The passenger door clicks open, and you slip out of the car, still wearing his hoodie. He doesn’t bother asking for it back. It looks better on you anyway, he thinks to himself, watching you pull yourself together at the curb.

You turn once, give a little wave, and sling your backpack over your shoulder.

That's when he sees it.

Your backpack, open just a crack, reveals enough to see the sleeve of something soft and white, bunched up inside, zipper pulled just far enough to hide it—or so you thought.

Your cardigan.

nav ✰.ᐟ m.list ✰.ᐟ thanks for reading ♡

[enchive]

COME KISS ME [AND BITE ME]

sunghoon just wants to bite you, so why is the universe making it so complicated for him? alternatively-- the five times where sunghoon wants to bite you + the one time he actually does.

vampire!park sunghoon x f!!reader, ft. jake fluff/comedy(?), smut, minuscule angst wc: 28.9k cw: MDNI, mentions of biting, violent language that comes with aforementioned biting, eating people in a vampire way, lots of blood talk, first times, mention of poor eating habits, p in v, unprotected sex, handjobs, fingering, i lowkey trolled on the smut ngl

enchive's lttr: im not gonna lie everything i had planned for this fic went out of the window LOL i changed a lot from my initial idea. but nevertheless i hope u enjoy i lowkey felt like i trolled on this too much… ALSO SMALL SPOILER ABT WHAT'S HERE but should clarify . i love sangwon he's my ult but i saw a pic of him on twt where the light made it seem like he had fangs and i got soo dizzy thinking about vamp sangwon too…

Being a vampire was so tedious.

Sunghoon always had to wear sun protection no matter where he went, constantly sporting long sleeves and jeans despite the weather. His face always had a white cast on it from the constant layers of sunscreen he reapplied on his skin. He could never sit near the windows in his classes either, always having to choose the seat farthest from the light. And when the sun began to pierce through the glass and creep across the floor, he would have to quietly gather his things and move before the delicate rays would even get a chance to brush against his (heavily guarded) skin. Summer was miserable for him, and he could never enjoy the beach like his friends did. He always had to obsessively monitor the UV index like a wannabe “alpha male” checking their stocks and bitcoin.

He’d always have to drink his human blood in class, too, always cautiously sipping on the viscous liquid from his black thermos and pretending like it was coffee. The metallic scent lingered in his nose for hours afterward no matter how quickly he swallowed it down, and he’d constantly have to lap at his lips to hide the faint burgundy stains before someone noticed.

Eating normal food was equally annoying. Technically, vampires could consume human food if they wanted to, but it tasted like damp cardboard at best and expired garbage at worst. Still, pretending to eat was necessary when he was around other people, which meant Sunghoon had spent the last several years mastering the art of pushing food around on a plate while nodding through conversations. And not only was it annoying, but Sunghoon genuinely had to fight for his life during lunch whenever his classmates or friends had garlic in their food, which was nearly all the time considering how much garlic Koreans used on a day-to-day basis. (He hadn’t lived long enough to evolve to where he was immune to garlic. Curse immortality.)

Everything was such a hassle. Not to mention the sheer internal humiliation he was facing. Vampires used to be feared once as creatures of the night, blood-sucking ravagers that made people light incense at their doors and hang garlic wreaths on their windows. But that was centuries ago, and now, Sunghoon spent most of his immortal existence trying to pass his university classes and buying bulk sunscreen at the Costco that was so busy he had almost let himself wilt in the sun one day. Don’t even mention the fact that vampires were so romanticized that nobody could take them seriously— he had a real bone to pick with Robert Pattinson.

Despite that, surprisingly, that wasn’t the vampire’s biggest problem.

No, the biggest problem that Sunghoon was facing was you.

His biggest problem sat three seats away from him every Friday from 11 AM to 11:50 AM. His biggest problem smelled so fucking good that it nearly made Sunghoon moan out loud the first time he ever walked past you in class. His biggest problem was the cute little human that was so nervous and meek that not once had you spoken up in class. Sunghoon didn’t know if he hated being around you because it made him almost go feral, or if he liked you because you smelled so delicious that Fridays were genuinely the only thing he looked forward to.

He couldn’t help but always stare at you during class, his brain throbbing with how fucking tasty your blood smelled from under your skin. Sometimes, Sunghoon caught himself imagining what it would feel like to sink his fangs into your throat– to break through your epidermis, taste warmth, dig his fangs into your veins and drink until your pulse finally slowed beneath his mouth. The thoughts were intrusive, violent, and embarrassingly frequent. 

And sometimes, when you sat close enough, Sunghoon could practically hear your blood throbbing and rushing through your veins– so hot and tempting. You had to be AB+, Sunghoon could just smell it lingering in the air, the scent of the protein-rich blood type. It made him feel like how he was when he first turned. Back then, even a mere paper cut would send his tastebuds into turmoil. He had never reacted this strongly to a human before, let alone someone in a random university discussion section.

He just wanted to bite you so fucking bad that it made his sharp fangs ache with desire.

“Alright, everyone,” your TA, Heeseung, called out from the front of the classroom. “Since the midterm project is due in a month, I’m assigning partners today.” Everyone’s expressions flickered with disappointment and annoyance, but Sunghoon barely looked up from his laptop. Why were people complaining when it was literally in the syllabus…

Usually, group projects didn’t bother him. Humans tended to avoid him naturally anyway– something about his permanent blank expression and tendency to stare too long made most people keep their distance. It worked out well for him. The less interaction he had with humans, the less likely he was to accidentally reveal his identity. He didn’t care if he ended up with most of the work anyway; he was infinitely more competent than the rest of his peers.

But when Heeseung opened his mouth to reveal the first pair, the two names that he didn’t expect fell from his lips. “Sunghoon and Y/N?” the TA looked at the both of you with satisfied smiles.

Sunghoon’s entire body went rigid, and if he had any blood flowing through his system, then it would’ve flooded his entire face with a flush. Slowly, carefully, the vampire lifted his head to glance at you, mustering up all of the courage he could. And of course, you met eyes with him. You looked equally surprised, blinking at the TA before your gaze awkwardly shifted back toward him. You sent him a small and awkward smile, accompanied with a tiny wave of your hand. Sunghoon could only stare back before he realized he was being kind of rude, so he offered you a nod of his head to acknowledge your greeting.

After class, he planned to approach you after everyone filed out of the classroom, but you surprised him as you came up to him. “Hi,” you said quietly, clutching your notebook against your chest as you approached him. “Uhm, I’m Y/N. I guess we’re partners now...”

Sunghoon stared at your face. Your pulse fluttered immediately beneath your skin, bumping rapidly under your points. He could hear and feel all of it. The steady rhythm of your heartbeat, the smooth flow of blood moving through your veins, the warmth radiating off your body in waves strong enough to take him under. He wanted to thank Heeseung for giving him the best opportunity to drain your blood– fuck, he should treat the TA to a meal or something for giving him the tastiest meal possible.

“Uhm, Sunghoon?”

His eyes snapped back up to your face as he swallowed the drool accumulating in his mouth. “Yes?” he answered quickly. He heard your heartbeat speed up, pounding even harder at his response.

“Uhm, uh… do you want to exchange numbers and text about the project later? I have to go back to my place before I have work…” You shyly smiled. Sunghoon nodded, fumbling his cellphone out of his pocket. You gently took it from his cold hands, punching in your number and saving your contact under your first and last name with “(ethics discussion)” at the end of your name. “Uhm, I’ll see you later!” You waved cheerfully before skedaddling off, your sneakers squeaking against the tiled floors.

Oh, he was so going to eat you.

You texted back at 9 PM, when Sunghoon was comfortably lounging on his couch with a blood bag in his left hand and the television remote in the other.

He perked up, opening your chat box to see you diligently asking about the project.

y/n l/n (ethics discussion): hi sunghoon! i just got out of work, sorry for the late text. y/n l/n (ethics discussion): do u want to meet up this weekend to start the project? Park Sunghoon: Yes. My schedule is free this weekend. Park Sunghoon: We can do tomorrow if that is not too soon. y/n l/n (ethics discussion): YAY awesome! ur so hardworking y/n l/n (ethics discussion): uhmm do u want to meet at the library? Park Sunghoon: Yes. I will be at the library. What time? y/n l/n (ethics discussion): UHMM maybe liek uhmmm 4pm if that’s not too late? I wanna sleep in hehehe Park Sunghoon: Okay. We can meet. I will get there early to reserve us a table. y/n l/n (ethics discussion): oke but don’t feel like u have to get there early!! thanks sunghoon n gn! Park Sunghoon: Goodnight.

The next day, Sunghoon arrived to the library at 3:15 PM sharp.

He really didn’t mean to come that early– but he was just so fucking hungry, he just couldn’t wait to sink his fangs into you.

He walked around the library, trying to find a secluded area. He scored the jackpot when he found a table nestled in the corner of the vast library, away from any open windows and private enough that most people wouldn’t walk by it. He had already organized all of the materials they needed for the project into neat piles: his ethics textbook, laptop, notes, printed sources, and color-coded sticky tabs.

He sat for the next 35 minutes, leaning back and staring at the project guidelines. Nobody walked past in the last half an hour, making Sunghoon even more giddy. He was gonna bite you, and you were going to be sooo tasty. He was practically drooling at the thought of ingesting your delectable blood, squirming in his seat as his body caught up with the excitement

Sunghoon paused. His eyes slowly drifted around, examining his surroundings once more. He spotted at least three cameras, the lens practically staring him down and winking at him with a red light every couple of seconds. He frowned. What was he thinking? Dracula, he was being so stupid.

He couldn’t just eat you here, especially when he was just assigned to be your project partner. Humans were annoyingly investigative nowadays, too. If you suddenly disappeared after meeting him alone for the first time, he would immediately become the prime suspect. Heeseung assigned you both to be project partners just yesterday in front of at least 19 other witnesses. And even worse— your text messages were sitting right there on his phone, immediately pointing him as the culprit.

Fuck, murder was so complicated in the modern age. Sunghoon missed it when he could simply go in, suck some blood, and disappear into the night to become a village legend.

The vampire grimaced, clicking his tongue irritably and leaned back into his chair with a sigh. Maybe he’d just take a little blood instead…? Ugh, but even though Sunghoon had lived for wayy too long, he still couldn’t find the proper balance between “just a little bit more” and “certain death.” And he was sure that if he didn’t take enough, you’d remember and report him for being a weird cannibal pervert.

Sunghoon’s overthinking was interrupted as his nose caught the whiff of something familiar and enticing.

His tongue instinctively darted out, as if he could taste it in the air. It sat exquisite, heated, and heavy on his senses. He sniffed, trying to hide the fact that he was really smelling the aroma of delicious blood. Soon, you stumbled into his sight, holding an Iced Americano with your sneakers squeaking against the floor. His grip tightened on his mechanical pencil, and he instantly covered his mouth. He felt like Edward Cullen in that science class.

“Sorry, Sunghoon! Were you waiting long?” You pouted, making quick work to set down your Americano on the table and pulling out all of your things.

“It is fine,” he coldly dismissed, looking at his things before looking back up. He was momentarily stunned when he finally looked at you properly. You looked… endearing. You wore an oversized hoodie that swallowed the top of your legs, your hair slightly messy like you had rushed to get ready, and your lips were glossy and plump. He could hear your heart pumping wildly, trying to supply oxygen back to your muscles. You definitely ran here.

“Are– are you mad? I’m sorry…” You meekly mumbled again. He felt a bit sad, honestly, at how pathetic you seemed. You looked like a kicked puppy. Sunghoon sighed, reluctantly reassuring you once more. After all, blood tasted worse when emotions were sullen, and he wanted to optimize your flavor.

“I’m not mad, I promise,” he tried to lay it on thick, a tone of reassurance that he was sure to placate you. And placate you, it did. You instantly perked up, a smile stretching across your lips.

“Yay, okay. Uhm, should we get started?” You asked. He nodded.

“Yes, I already have the guidelines pulled up–”

“Really? Can I see?” You cheerfully cut him off, immediately invading his personal space as you pulled your chair next to him, your head craning to look at his laptop. He caught a whiff of your shampoo, so soft and clean and melding into the fragrance of your perfume. “This looks hard– can I scroll?” You peered up at him with sparkling eyes, and Sunghoon couldn’t say no.

“Sure,” he replied. You smiled and scrolled through the PDF, groaning silently.

“A 10-pager? Seems like it’s not gonna be too hard, but I hope Heeseung isn’t strict. He’s grading it, right?” You looked at him for silent approval. He gave you back a nod in response, his jaw clenching at your close proximity. His gaze naturally drifted down to your neck, where he could almost see through your skin the beats of your pulse throbbing against the junction of your neck and under your jaw. He swallowed and looked back at your eyes, where you looked a bit confused. “Uhm, okay, I’ll share a document, and then we can get started!”

Sunghoon watched as you went back to open your laptop, decorated in cute stickers messily with the remnants of old glue still sticking to the case. “Sunghoon, should we do an ice breaker before we start?” You asked shyly. He raised an eyebrow. An icebreaker? “Like– ya know, to know each other better… I think it’ll make our synergy better!”

“Sure, we can do an ice breaker. What should we do? Name, year, major?” He asked, going along with your wishes. If he did, you’d probably like him better, right? Maybe it’ll help him suck your blood faster…

“Sounds good! Uhm, my name is Y/N, I’m a second year, and then I’m an Philosophy major! How about you?” You chirped, looking up at him eager, your cheeks.

“My name is Sunghoon, I am a third year, and I am a Business major,” he parroted the template. You looked satisfied with his response.

“Oh, I didn’t know you were older than me!” You giggled, clicking something on your laptop. “Sunghoon, what’s your email?” You pouted.

“Here, give me your laptop, I will type it in for you,” he smoothly replied. You slid the laptop towards him, allowing him to punch in his email so that you guys could share the document. You clapped, only your palms hitting together while your fingers outstretched, resonating a silent smacking sound. Meanwhile, he was struggling to type his email, pressing in the line key-by-key with slow fingers. You didn’t seem to notice, too distracted by rose-colored glasses apparently.

“Awesome! I’m so grateful we’re partners, Sunghoon. You seem like such a diligent worker,” You unexpectedly praised him. Sunghoon’s eyebrows raised in surprise at your sudden compliment. Nonetheless, he responded politely with a steady thanks. He opened the shared document, already seeing that you had pasted down the project guidelines to the empty sheet.

“Uhm, let’s see… So, let’s pick a specific argument first! Since our project is about the ethics of human interaction, uhm… let’s see…” You hummed, and Sunghoon nearly mistook your vocal projection for the sound of your blood humming in your veins. He stared at you directly, the contact never wavering from your face. For some reason, your BPM became rapid, and he could sense the warmth of your blood travelling to your face. You kept glancing between him and your laptop screen, your expression seemingly awkward.

“Oh, how about uhm, intent vs. impact! I think it’s prevalent enough everywhere to be easy, but if you think about it enough, you could really get in there!” You suggested, your posture straightening as you looked at Sunghoon.

“Hm? Could you tell me about it more?” He coaxed you gently with a low voice. You pursed your lips, your arms coming up and tensing in front of your chest before you nodded.

“Well…” You tucked your legs beneath your chair thoughtfully, tilting your head to the left and glancing at one of the library shelves before looking back at him, “Like, if someone wants to hurt another person but chooses not to, does that still make them a bad person?” You smiled, eyes silently seeking for his approval yet again, and when you didn’t get it, you continued to ramble, “Because technically, everyone has intrusive thoughts sometimes, right? But I think restraint matters more than the thought itself.”

Restraint. Sunghoon almost laughed. You had no idea, you really had no idea.

“I think intent matters,” you continued softly. “Like… if someone is trying really hard not to hurt another person, then they probably care about them, right?”

Sunghoon stared at you for a long moment before quietly asking, “And if they still want to?” You blinked, a little taken aback.

“Want to what?” You asked, your voice coated thicky with sweetness and innocence.

Hurt you, devour you, sink teeth into your throat until the coppery smell and metallic taste drowned out every coherent thought lingering.

Instead, Sunghoon simply gestured vaguely toward the assignment sheet. “Cause harm,” he answered smoothly, as if his thirst didn’t make his head ring.

“Oh.” You nodded slowly. “I dunno… I think wanting something isn’t immoral by itself.” You shrugged, your voice shrinking, “It’s more about whether they act on it…?” Your voice trailed off, waiting for Sunghoon to approve of what it was saying before further explaining. The older man nodded with you.

“Sure– I think it is a good argument to make.” He smiled. Your entire body seemed to have relaxed when he finally showed you a semblance of his approval.

“Okay, yay, great!” You cheerfully responded, beginning to messily construct an outline of your shared paper. Sunghoon silently watched you as you worked. Your brows furrowed slightly as you began to concentrate, your bottom lip getting trapped between your teeth every few seconds while you typed. Every time you slightly leaned forward to read something on the screen, the neckline of your hoodie shifted just enough to expose more of your throat.

It was genuinely becoming difficult for him to think. Even more so when you casually began suggesting more ideas to him, as if you were mocking his situation.

“Maybe we can talk about how restraint itself is a form of care?” you proposed absentmindedly. “Like… choosing not to hurt someone even when you really want to. Ah, wait but… if you really think about it, if you really want to hurt someone, that could make you like… an asshole or something, right? I dunno…” Your thoughts seemed to flurry out of your mouth. “I’m experiencing so much cognitive dissonance right now thinking about our arguments…”

Sunghoon’s fingers tightened around his mechanical pencil hard enough for the plastic to creak. You looked up at the sound immediately. “You okay, Sunghoon?” You tilted your head with a furrow of your eyebrows and a confused little pout. He nodded, sharply inhaling.

“My mind is crowded.” He breathed out. “Just thinking about ethics too hard, you know?”

“Mmm, I get ya!” You giggled, and Sunghoon was beginning to think you were a little oblivious to your surroundings. Meanwhile, he could hear everything. The soft inhales of your breaths, the tiny swallows in your throat after each sip of coffee, and especially the steady pulse beneath your skin. Your body and organ complexes were disgustingly loud. “Oh!” You suddenly perked up again. “We should probably divide the workload.”

“Okay,” he nonchalantly responded, trying to steady his own breathing, inhaling and exhaling through his nose as you continued to babble on.

“You seem smart, so maybe you can handle the philosophical theories?” You smiled sheepishly. “And I can do the case studies and formatting?” Smart? He supposed living for over a century did give him a slight academic advantage.

“That works.”

“Yay.” You clapped softly again. “Oh, and we should probably exchange schedules too.”

He nodded once more while you reached for your phone, sending him a quick text with a picture of your schedule. He slowly worked through his phone, trying to find a picture of his schedule and scrolling on the screen with a single, determined finger. You watched, curious as the supposed third year university student struggled to find one simple photo. He cursed in his head. Samsung phones have been out for 38 years already, shit– how am I still bad at this?

Sunghoon grumbled under his breath, thumb hovering uncertainly over his screen while he tried to figure out how to attach the image. You stared for a moment before quietly laughing.

“…You don’t know how to send photos, Sunghoon?”

He jumped, not even realizing that you crept up to be beside him. His senses were dulled with the sheer amount of concentration he was using to try to send a photo to you. “I do,” he immediately defended. You tilted your head, looking like you didn’t exactly believe him.

“Sunghoon, you have your brightness at maximum.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” He retorted, his voice sharper than he intended.

“Oh my God.” You dissolved into another laugh, shoulders jumping up and down as your whole body was wracked with the sounds of your amusement. “Give me your phone.”

Sunghoon reluctantly handed it over, and your fingers brushed his briefly. Warm. So warm. His throat tightened instantly, and he swallowed down the bubble of hunger that was creeping up his throat. Meanwhile, you blinked down at his phone before gasping quietly. “Wait.” Your body froze.

Sunghoon stiffened. Shit, did you accidentally find his masterlist of every vampire who went to your university? Did you stumble upon the website he used for discreet blood bag shipping? Oh my Dracula, you probably found that stupid video Jake took on his phone when they were mixing blood packets with cranberry juice to make that stupid Vampire’s Kiss cocktail–

“Your font size is HUGE.”

The vampire breathed a sigh of relief. “What?”

“I swear, my grandma’s phone looks like this too.” You giggled, squinting at his screen. “Why is everything the size of a billboard?”

“My eyes are bad,” he defended flatly, crossing his arms, noticing the way you were momentarily distracted at the motion. He looked down briefly to see his muscles bulging, amused at your reaction. You quickly snapped out of it.

“Aren’t you like– 20 something??”

Sunghoon paused. Technically, he was closer to one hundred and 20 something, but you didn’t need to know that. “My eyes are still bad,” he repeated stubbornly. You dissolved into laughter beside him, the sound startlingly bright in the quiet library. Sunghoon stared at you, momentarily distracted from his hunger by the way your nose scrunched as you laughed so hard.

Cute.

The thought appeared so suddenly in his brain that it genuinely irritated him.

You were supposed to be food. Not cute.

You worked through his phone more, adjusting the brightness to a lower setting. “Dude, your phone probably dies in like– three hours with the screen this bright.”

“I like seeing my screen.” He raised up his hands, the urge to defend himself with every attack on his phone getting stronger and stronger.

“You’re kind of like an old man.”

Sunghoon narrowed his eyes slightly. “You are very talkative.”

Your laughter instantly died. “Oh.” You shrunk a little into yourself. “Sorry.” Your pulse dipped sadly beneath your skin, and Sunghoon immediately regretted speaking. He was beginning to notice that your emotions affected your scent more than other humans. He knew that emotions could affect the taste, but he could literally inhale and digest the aroma of sulkiness permeating off of your skin. Happiness made your blood smell sweeter somehow, relieving like ice cream on a hot sunny day. Meanwhile embarrassment and sadness dulled the fragrance into something muted.

“No,” he corrected awkwardly. “I did not mean it negatively.” You blinked at him. “I just mean…” He paused. Dracula, social interaction with humans was awful. “I do not mind listening to you.”

The silence afterward was deafening, and Sunghoon was almost afraid that he said something wrong when suddenly, your heartbeat abruptly skyrocketed. “Oh,” you squeaked softly. Sunghoon frowned slightly. Why were you reacting like that? You quickly looked away from him, pretending to fix his phone settings while your whole body seemed to rush with blood. “Uhm, okay! I fixed your brightness and your font size a little.”

“A little?”

“Yes. I left it a bit big because apparently, you’re eighty years old.” Close enough, he supposed.

“You are mean,” he deadpanned.

You gasped dramatically. “I’m literally helping you!” 

“Yeah? By calling me old?” He poked his cheek with his tongue. You huffed, handing his phone back to him with both hands. Sunghoon took it from you carefully, and yet again, your fingers brushed. So fucking warm, even at your fingertips. He was so distracted that he almost didn’t pick up on how fast your heart was pumping again, and how the blood was hustling towards your cheeks. 

You had already turned back toward your laptop, entirely oblivious to the internal warfare happening beside you. “Okay!” You chirped. “Back to ethics before we both fail!”

You pulled your chair closer to him without asking and seemed to have relaxed, because you continued to ramble on about literally anything. Your voice grew louder with every passing minute, words spilling out easier and easier the more comfortable you became around him. He was impressed with the way you multitasked– typing and babbling off as if words simply generated from your throat. Sometimes you’d randomly trail off topic entirely, rambling about your coworkers, complaining about your professors, or making dramatic comments about how hard the paper was (even though you were hard carrying the articulation of each sentence.)

Hours had passed, and before he knew it, the front desk worker’s voice crackled over the speaker. “It is now 10 PM, the library is now closed. I repeated, it is now 10 PM, the library is now closed.”

“It’s already 10 PM? Wow, I didn’t even notice. We’ve been here for six hours!” You gasped, quickly slamming your laptop shut and shoving everything into your backpack. Sunghoon was pleasantly surprised too. Time had gone by so fast that he didn’t realize that 6 hours had already passed since you’ve guys started. He glanced down at his laptop, amused as he only saw one page of the 10-pager written.

“Seems like we have gotten a lot of work done,” he joked. You giggled, nodding as you stood up. You nearly tripped, and he heard your heartbeat spike as you almost slipped on the wooden floor. “Careful now,” he said lowly, watching you with keen eyes as he packed his own bag. You smiled shyly and nodded. He stood up, and you both began to walk together out of the library.

“I’m hungry,” You complained. “Uhm— so, I’ll text you later and we can meet another time this week? Sounds good?” You smiled, giving him a thumbs-up.

“Yes, that works for me.” He nodded. “I will see you later. Text me when you get home so I know you arrived safely.” And yet again, your blood began to splotch on your cheeks.

“Okaayy, will do! Get home safe~” you chirped, before prattling off to the parking garage. Sunghoon waited, looking around discreetly to see if anyone was nearby. He tucked himself into a blind spot, before his figure dispersed into bats, leaving only a shadow of a vampire behind.

“Hi Sunghoon!”

Your bright and cheery voice was something that he had gotten used to over the past week, seeing you at the library almost everyday. Sunghoon didn’t expect to work with you so often, but it just happened naturally, your “hard working days” escalating as each day passed until they became so consistent that it was sort of an expectation to see you so often. Throughout the week, he seemed to get to know you more and more–

Not enough to stop viewing you as his potential blood bag, obviously.

But he wasn’t exactly finding out useful things either, which he feels is somewhat of a step-up. Maybe he’ll earn good karma points for being a sympathetic blood-sucker. He knew you actually hated Iced Americanos, but only ordered them to “fit in.” He found out you gnawed on your little fingers when you were stressed, biting off the dead skin that bordered your nails when things got especially tough for your brain. He also knew you worked too much, slept too little, and apologized every time you spoke for longer than thirty seconds.

Maybe Sunghoon was just getting weirder the more he hung out with you. He didn’t know– as long as he got what he wanted out of it. 

“Hello, Y/N,” he greeted back, already situated at a table. The library was too crowded these days with midterms approaching, so instead, you guys found a cozy little cafe to study at in the city. You offered him a ride, but Jake was already going into the city, so he hitched a ride with his roommate.

“Am I late again?” You pouted, your hair frazzled and hoodie haphazardly dangling over the expanse of your head. He shook his head with a charming smile.

“Just on time, I promise.” He gave you a quick nod.

“Wait— you know what? You’re right. You’re the one who’s always early. Why do I always feel late?” You grumbled, sitting down. You looked so delicate, so fragile. The undertone of your skin was slightly off, not as warm as usual. There were dark bags under your eyes, hollowing out your face and making you look gauntly. Sunghoon grumbled under his breath– if you were sick, then how else would he get his protein from your blood?

“Are you okay?” He asked.

You blinked at him, almost surprised by the question. “Hm?” You quickly smiled quickly, as if it was an instinct. “Yeah! Why?”

Your heartbeat was slower than usual, pumping sluggishly as if doing the bare minimum to keep you alive. Your movements were too, even the way you reached for your laptop seemed to not be as hyperactive as you usually were. “You look tired,” he answered simply.

You laughed weakly. “Really? Do I?”

“Yes,” he answered. Your shoulders dropped. It was like finally being seen was alleviating a weird pressure from your body.

“I had two shifts back-to-back yesterday.” You sighed. You pulled your sleeves over your hands, nervously rubbing your wrists together. “And then I stayed up finishing another paper for one of my philosophy classes…” Sunghoon frowned.

Humans were strange creatures, indeed. You required sleep, food, water, sunlight, emotional support, and apparently eight million hours of studying just to survive through the perilous journey of university. How exhausting– he could just stay up all night until his brain felt ready to take an exam, or work on a paper until it was revised to perfection. Being a vampire did have its perks.

“You should have rested,” he stated obviously. You smiled, trying to hold back a snarky remark. Sunghoon seemed to have noticed the resistance in your expression, because he added a very short, “I am serious. You should rest and take care of yourself. This is not good for your wellbeing or health.” Sunghoon suddenly became aware of how blunt he sounded. Most humans usually found him cold when he spoke like that, so he sort of expected a weird reaction from you, but instead, you only stared at him for a moment before a soft giggle escaped your lips.

“That almost sounded like you were worried about me, Sunghoon.” Your voice was almost teasing. 

He was, because if you collapsed from exhaustion, your blood quality would worsen heavily, and all of the medicine that would be pumped into you if you fainted from exhaustion would make it taste like shit. “I just need my project partner functioning,” he replied smoothly. Your smile widened at his words.

“Mhmm.” You hummed, your tone indicating to him that you didn’t exactly believe him. He narrowed his eyes, perplexed at the subtle gauge.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Your heartbeat sped up. It seemed to do that a lot around him, and he didn’t know why. All that he knew was that it was making him start drooling a little–

Sunghoon blinked once, forcing himself to focus. Your heartbeat was doing that thing again. It was pumping faster in uneven beats. It was noticeable, and he almost considered asking you if you had a family history of heart conditions or heart palpitations or something along those lines. As you were typing on your laptop, he suddenly picked up on something. It was barely visible to the eye, but of course, his keen pupils locked onto it. Your hands were shaking, trembling delicately at the tips and moving down to wrack at your digits. He inhaled sharply, pretending to take a deep breath when his sharp nose caught a whiff of something unusual– your blood wasn’t as sweet as usual. Were your glucose levels down?

“Did you eat today?” he asked suddenly. You looked up suddenly at his abrupt question.

“…What?” You replied dumbly.

He frowned slightly, wrinkles forming in between his thick eyebrows. “Food. Did you eat.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. You laughed weakly. “I mean, uh, yeah, kind of? I had a granola bar– it was really good! It had chocolate chips, those are my favorite types of granola bars!”

Sunghoon exhaled deeply through his nose. A granola bar was not food. That was, at best, a suggestion of food. “That is not enough.”

That got a real laugh out of you this time. “Sure it is, Sunghoon! Don’t worry, I’ll be fine! Why are you so particular about my breakfast anyway?”

Because if you collapsed or passed out or fainted, it’d be so inconvenient. You’d taste bland, just like the hospital. And then for the sake of optimizing your blood (and morally, he guessed), he’d have to wait until you were in your prime health condition. Because–

“Because you are my project partner.” You hummed like you accepted that explanation, but your eyes lingered on him a second too long, like you were trying to decipher if there was something else underneath it.

“You should order something,” he added after a moment.

“I’m fine,” you said automatically.

Your stomach betrayed you immediately after with an embarrassing grumble. You snapped your head towards him, eyes as wide as saucers. You looked around before slowly sinking into your hoodie so you could disappear inside it. “…That was not me,” you whispered, tightening the strings around your hood. Sunghoon’s lips twitched, amused at your sudden, cute behavior. He abruptly stood up when your stomach made another rumble.

“Where are you going?” You asked, a hint of concern laced in your voice. Your body tensed as you sat up properly.

“Food,” he answered, grabbing his wallet off the table.

“For you?” You raised an eyebrow, your body relaxed at the answer he gave you.

“For you,” he corrected, “We are at a cafe. You should have ordered something before starting your work.”

“That’s not– you don’t need to do that,” you rushed out immediately, already reaching for your bag. “I can just–  I’ll go grab something–”

“You will sit.”

His commanding voice left you stunned, and Sunghoon paused for half a second, as if he himself was surprised by his own tone too. He then adjusted his coat as if nothing had happened. “I will return.”

His weird, formal tone made you chuckle under your breath. You watched his back as he left to order something from the table. He looked so endearing as he leaned in, nose nearly pressing against the glass as he carefully read the description. Huh, maybe his eyes were really that bad. But your attention was more focused on the cashier, who was giggling and blushing as Sunghoon pointed out a few pastries. You pouted, a weird sulking feeling in your chest. The older man seemed to sense it for an odd reason, because he looked around with a confused expression before looking back at the cash register.

When he came back, he put down a white paper box filled to the brim with pastries. There was pain au chocolat, a few different fruit danishes, and a Dubai Chocolate mochi donut. You raised an eyebrow at the last choice, to which he shrugged.

“I heard it is trendy amongst young people nowadays,” he explained, also settling down a cup of refreshing iced tea for you. You looked at him, then at the food, then back at him before a shy smile spread across your lips. A quiet breath of laughter escaped your lips. It was so Sunghoon to act so old.

“You didn’t have to go out of your way to do this for me,” you softly said, “I’m sorry… thank you, Sunghoon. I’ll pay you back—“

“No.” He firmly shook his head as he sat down.

“No?” You whimpered out, confused. He crossed his arms and laid back in his chair, which was unnatural for him. Usually, you noticed that he had a perfect upright posture all of the time.

“No, do not apologize, do not pay me back. I did not go out of my way for this. I wanted to eat something too.” He gingerly picked up the Dubai Chocolate mochi donut, breaking off a doughy ball and plopping it in his mouth. You stared at him, gauging the taste based on his reaction. His jaw and mouth didn’t move at all, and it seemed to be stuck for some reason. He then tentatively chewed down, his jaw clenching with every bite.

“Is it bad?” You asked cautiously.

“Very much so,” he honestly answered, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed down the dessert. You giggled. He watched as you picked up the pain au chocolat and take a bite, the crispy pastry wrinkling under your teeth and producing a satisfying crunch. Your body relaxed slightly, and he felt your pulse even out and smelt your blood sweeten. For some reason, his senses were relieved as they picked up on these cues. You then took a sip of the tea, your shoulder scrunching up in satisfaction as you let out an excited hum.

“This is soo yummy, Sunghoon! What did you order?” You peeked up at him through your lashes. Sunghoon cleared his throat and re-crossed his arms.

“I believe I bought a honey-citron tea. Something along those lines. I heard it is good for your health– at least, that is what the description said.”

Yes, good for your health so that you’ll be primed to be feasted on. A nourished human always tasted better.

“You’re so kind, Sunghoon,” you confessed bashfully, your voice quiet and meek. Sunghoon raised an eyebrow, his hands relaxing where they were crossed momentarily as he seemed to ingest the word slowly. He bought you tea because you looked pale, bought pastries because your pulse sounded weak, and watched the color slowly return to your face with a starving stomach. He wasn’t sure that was exactly kind of him, but if it made you think of him better, he could just take it. Why not at this point.

“Okay, let us get back to work when you are full,” he spoke up after a while, finally sitting up straight. You nodded, clumsily wiping your hands on a few napkins before reverting your attention back to your laptop. He watched as you rapidly tapped away on your keyboard, filling your shared document with more arguments and evidence. Your heart rapidly pumped, slamming against your ribs like it was trying to escape your body. Sunghoon was confused– your heart worked in such mysterious ways that not even a century-old vampire could decipher it.

By the time the café lights dimmed and your cups sat long empty, hours had somehow slipped away from both of you. It was only 4 PM, but it somehow already felt so late in the day that even Sunghoon would have been tired. He stared at you as you packed, your movements regaining their sluggish feel as you slowly slid your laptop into its pouch within your backpack.

“Do– do you need a ride home, Sunghoon?” You yawned. Sunghoon smiled, feeling a weird affection as your mouth stretched to escape its drowsiness. It was the endearment that you would feel for a pet, in a sort of way.

“It will be alright, my roommate Jaeyun can take me home.” He nodded. He looked down at his phone, only to see…

jaeyun: LOL  jaeyun: Dude I’m in Busan rn ur never gonna guess who I’m with rn jaeyun: IM WITH RIKII the vampire who tried biting u cuz he didnt know u were vampire rmbr Sunghoon: I am waiting to get picked up by you. jaeyun: WAIT SHIT I FORGOT U WERE OUT 😭😭 jaeyun: lmfaoo mb bro Ur better off flying back to the apt man My bad fr

Sunghoon exhaled. Over a century of living, and this was his most trusted friend and emergency contact. “Nevermind. I guess I will walk.”

“Eh? It’s too far, Sunghoon! Let me take you home!” You fussed. Not wanting to expend your energy arguing, he simply agreed. You looked a bit taken aback, surprised that he conceded so easily to you, but you led him to your car anyways.

Your vehicle had a cute omamori hanging off of the rear view window, some cute figurines stuck to the dashboard, receipts crinkled as they were shoved into the cup holders, and a hoodie splayed out in the backseat, little pieces of you tucked into every possible crevice in the car. Within the confines of your vehicle, the air had traces of fresh cotton and linen from your air freshener, but underneath it all was you. Your warm skin, flavored lip balm, fragrant perfume, and even the hint of your scented lotion, but most prominent to his nose was the unmistakable metallic sweetness that only you permeated.

Sunghoon felt like he should roll down a window or something, because he was practically swallowing down the scent of your blood. He stared at you as you backed out of your parking spot, before beginning the drive to your apartment. “Can– Can I roll down a window?” He gulped. You glanced at him before nodding. He practically jammed his finger trying to press down on the window button, letting out a sigh of relief as your scent washed away in the evening wind. He stuck his head out of the window like a wolf, and the thought would have repulsed him if he weren’t so desperate to prevent himself from sucking your blood right now.

If he sucked your blood and you died, you’d crash the car. Then, the police would come, and they would see the two noticeable bite marks caving your neck in. And then he’d look like a weird cannibal vampire wannabe criminal or whatever– too complicated.

“Thank you for the ride. Text me when we should meet up again. I should be free all week apart from my classes.” Sunghoon nearly barreled out of the car. “Goodnight!” You giggled and waved goodbye, watching as his figure disappeared into his apartment building before pulling off yourself.

❛❛LOVE HUNGER AT FIRST SIGHT.❞ ── 1

Another week had passed, and Sunghoon was beginning to realize that befriending was probably not the brightest idea.

The more time he spent around you, the harder it became to ignore the pulse beating beneath your skin. Not to mention, he had been rationing his portions on blood bags to truly savor the moment when he could finally relish in the taste of your iron on his tongue. He should’ve just kept a distance from you– not be around you so much because day by day, it was becoming increasingly difficult to subtly find chances to drain you dry.

Just like any other day, you both were working hard on your project. With it being finished and needing revision, you were, for the first time, slacking. Your head was buried in your crossed arms, which laid upon the wooden table. Your eyes kept blinking slowly, and Sunghoon would’ve been concerned about your blood sugar again if you didn’t smell so sickeningly sweet.

“I’m– I’m gonna take a nap…” You yawned, your eyelids pulling shut, lashes fluttering so delicately and fanning across your cheekbones. “W– wake me up, five mins…” You slurred. Sunghoon watched as you easily slipped into a slumber, your body going lax and mouth falling agape as soft huffs of air left your lips.

Sunghoon’s fingers clenched into fists, his fingernails digging into the wrinkles of his palms, forming a protective case around his calluses. Every inhale felt like a trap. If his stomach was normal, it would’ve been grumbling right now. He hadn’t had a blood pack since yesterday, and that nearly made him throw up from how fucking disgusting it was– a blood pack of pig’s blood diluted with coconut water? Give him a break. 

Your blood pressure was decreasing, dipping down. He could feel the way your circulation became sluggish and sense the lowered levels of oxygen. That means it wouldn’t pump like a water fountain, shooting out in satisfying geysers if he dug his fangs into you. That means it’ll be a slow drink. Wouldn’t that be more satisfying? Slowly draining out your blood as it filled his mouth with metal, filling his stomach milliliter by milliliter. It’ll be a bit watered down, but it’s okay– because you were so vulnerable and delicate now, an easy target for his teeth to finally sink in–

Sunghoon didn’t realize how close he was to you until he could breathe in and have your perfume practically get swallowed with every inhale. He opened his mouth, and his canines extended into sharp points, the tips of them gleaming in the bright light. So close so close so close just a little more and i’ll be so full yes yes yes

“Sunghoon?”

Your eyes fluttered open, and your mouth was so close to his. He awkwardly clamped his lips together shut, clearing his throat. His fangs instantly retracted as soon as you woke up, hiding in his gumline. You blinked, vision clearing and breath hitching at your sudden proximity. You then felt the presence of his big hand resting on the top rail of your wooden chair.

“Sunghoon?” You whispered again. “Has it been five minutes already?” You murmured. He nodded, trying his best to slowly back away and give you space. Shit– what was he thinking? He wasn’t a feral animal, like those werewolves who went crazy at a mere atom of pheromones lingering in the air. But he was surely acting like one– driven by the insane hunger that came with being what he was, a blood-sucking ravager that only cared about the smell of metal and proteins.

“Mhm.” He hummed lowly in response, his voice barely a whisper too. You blinked, still staring up at him. Silence loomed over the both of you for a moment before you spoke up, catching the vampire off-guard.

“Sunghoon… do– do you like me…?” You softly asked, your rationale still clouded by the short sleep your brain was phased into, not sifting the sudden question through the humiliation-check filter in your mind. You sounded uncertain, but Sunghoon had to give you a bit of credit– not even the bravest person he knew some 60 years ago would have the guts to ask this bold question.

“You should not say things like that when you’re half-asleep,” he replied, voice still muted. Your bottom lip jutted out into a pout.

“…Why?” you asked, eyes blinking lightly as if you were somehow amused at his response. His slight reprimand should’ve been the end of it, but of course you had to ask. You always pried into what he was thinking. “…Is it bad if you do?” you murmured, trying to solve the case. You shifted in your chair just a little, rubbing your eyes with your sleeve.  “I mean…” You added after a pause, voice still soft and gentle. “It’s not like I’d be weird about it.”

And for the first time in his 120+ years of living, he was stunned, speechless. Sure, he’s received confessions before, but this was surprisingly the first time the young vampire had been in a situation like this, where he was being coaxed into confessing.

“Where is this coming from?” He tried to change the subject. You ignored him and smiled.

“Do you, Sunghoon?” You finally sat up, revealing a mark on your cheek from your good slumber. You stretched your arms wide, your back arching to relieve your body from the tension. You leaned forward just a little, resting your cheek against your hand, and Sunghoon realized for the first time that you might be a bit more coy than he thought.

“Answer my question first.” He crossed his arms stubbornly. You giggled.

“Well, you always listen to me really well and give me thoughtful advice— and I know that’s bare minimum, but you also go out of your way to take care of me. When we walk outside, you always stubbornly make sure I’m on the inner part of the sidewalk. And you always stare at me, Sunghoon. Like— you look at me so much that I always think I have something on my face. But then I check my phone camera and I don't.” You kept pricking up a finger, counting down every “sign” that you believed indicated his growing affection from you.

“You always call me or text me, too. And then you always remember weird things about me. You always notice when something’s wrong, too,” you continued, looking up as if trying to pull more examples from your brain. “Like when I’m tired, or sad, or stressed, and then you always know what to do after to make me feel better.”

By the time you were finished rambling, you had counted past ten fingers. Sunghoon didn’t even realize there were enough instances to count an entire hand to show that he liked you, much less more than two hands. You smiled awkwardly as you outstretched all ten fingers with open palms to him, as if showing off how much he potentially liked you. 

“It’s either you like me, or maybe I’m reading into it too much… I dunno…” Your shyness came back tenfold, making your arteries pump ferociously and your cheeks warm with enough heat to set something ablaze. Sunghoon stared at the wrinkles in your hands, each running a river through the lighter skin.

Could a vampire really like someone? Especially someone that he had once calculated the blood volume of? Roughly 4.5 liters. Nine pints. That was approximately how much blood sat inside your body right now, circulating beneath your skin in endless loops. He knew because vampires were taught these things, useful things.

Sunghoon remembered the first time he met you, he wasn’t exactly wondering what your favorite color was. He was wondering how much blood loss your body could tolerate before passing out. The first time you smiled at him, he did not think about your lips. He thought about how inflamed they were with the sensitive multitude of blood vessels beneath the skin. 

Now he knew useless things, like your daily habits that you barely noticed yourself, the way that your entire face and neck would warm up with blood rushing to it, not just your cheeks. He knew what you wanted to pursue after college, the life that you wanted to live, and the stupid shit that you put on your bucket list. None of these things helped him hunt or feed like a vampire should. Does that mean Sunghoon liked you how a human would?

“I do. I like you.” He breathed out before he could give it a second thought. You smiled, your heart pumping so wildly that even he was a bit afraid it might burst through your chest. He finally understood why your heartbeat was so erratic around him. Because you liked him too, right?

You ducked your head shyly, smiling into your sleeves. “Okay,” you mumbled softly. “I like you too, Sunghoon.” You blinked slowly. “Should we go on a date after this?” You said, scratching your nape nervously. “I’ve never liked anyone before– it’s new to me…”

“Me too,” Sunghoon confessed, “It is also my first time being in… uhm…” For the first time, Sunghoon was at a loss for words. “You know…” He added, just to be safe. You giggled, shyly outstretching your hand, reaching for his cold one. You were surprised at how frigid his skin was, feeling like a porcelain piece.

“Your hands are so cold…” You murmured, wrapping his large hands into your smaller ones, permeating your body heat to transfer to his. “Sorry,” you mumbled suddenly, looking down at your intertwined hands. “I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

Sunghoon stared at your fingers hooked between his. Neither did he. He had lived through conflicts, technological revolutions, and economic booms, yet somehow, he had never experienced such an intimate and tender moment with a girl. “I do not know either,” he admitted quietly. You smiled and giggled.

“That’s okay, Sunghoon. We can figure it out together, right?” You looked at him hopefully. He nodded. Being a vampire was tedious enough already, and now, Sunghoon had to navigate dating the very girl he intended to turn into a blood bag.

Being your boyfriend might kill him before his hunger would.

❛❛MOUTHS WERE MADE FOR MORE THAN BITING❞ ── 2

The next week, you and Sunghoon scored a 92 on the paper.

Heeseung returned the paper back with only minor comments, praising the both of you guys for your in-depth argument despite how simple the topic was. You both took it gracefully, and ended the Friday off with a dinner date.

You and Sunghoon chose to continue to get to know each other more. Although it didn’t exactly feel like it for both of you, with how close you had both gotten, you had basically known each other for only a month and had already developed feelings.

“It just– I dunno. It doesn’t feel fast to me, but I feel awkward knowing that we’ve known each other for like two weeks, and we already confessed, and then the next step is dating, right? But like– I don’t know, it just doesn’t feel right…” You had candidly revealed your feelings to Sunghoon one night as you sat in your car, drinking milkshakes as a reward after another day of hard work on your paper. He really didn’t understand. After all, after 120+ years of living, time had become such a feeble thing anyway. Whether it was two weeks, three, or even a year, he had all the time in the world to stick a label when you wanted it. (If you even lasted a year before he ate you, that is.)

“That is okay. We can go at your pace. I am not sure how to date either.” Sunghoon’s tongue scooped up the Java Chip milkshake, curling it into his taste buds. It tasted fucking disgusting, but you didn’t need to know that, especially since you looked so content sipping on your strawberry shake.

“That’s okay! We’re just figuring it out, right?” You chirped, your voice brimming with anticipation. He nodded, an amused smile spreading across his lips.

“I guess so.” Moreso, he’s figuring out when he should suck your blood. (But for some reason, the sentiment didn't feel sincere to him anymore.)

You started figuring it out where things were familiar. Study sessions at different cafes you wanted to try, spending countless nights in the library focusing on your respective work. These were safe places that you knew you couldn’t mess up, places that you and Sunghoon knew how to navigate each other in. You sat close to Sunghoon, constantly peeking at his laptop when he worked. He always let you into his bubble, keeping an arm available for you to tug on or hold his hand with.

And then, the familiar routines began to stretch out of your comfort zone. Instead of going to the library, you decided to do dinner. (Well, it was more of Sunghoon playing with his food while you kept gushing about the amazing cuisine.) And then these dinners turned into late-night walks where you both rumbled on about more meaningless things, sometimes meaningful as you interlocked hands and swung them on a pendulum. And then these walks turned into countless hours spent sitting in your car, burning gas because neither of you wanted the night to end.

You bridged the gap between physical touch, too, getting comfortable enough to tug on his sleeve whenever you wanted his attention or allowing him to place a firm hand on your back when navigating crowded areas. Sunghoon realized that dating a human was– it was pretty easy, actually. He didn’t understand why other humans kept complaining about their relationships.

All Sunghoon had to do was be there for you, and it was as easy as pie. He simply listened when you needed to vent, hugged you tightly when you needed to cry, and carried snacks in his bag when he sensed your glycemic index was low. And sometimes, he even used his vampiric perks, following you in a swarm of bats to ensure you got home safely and being accessible even at the worst hours of the night because he never slept.

And before both of you knew it, time had passed so quickly that three months had passed, putting you both into the Spring semester with a new label on your relationship tacked on.

Sunghoon learned way more things in those three months. Not as a person or someone who liked him, not even as a blood bag, but as a girlfriend. He discovered that your love language was words of affirmation, learned that you didn’t really make decisions until you had at least three opinions (with him being one of those three), and that even after being with him for quite a while now, your cardiovascular system never faltered in activity, only heightened.

Yet oddly enough, there was one thing that you and Sunghoon hadn’t breached.

It was his apartment.

He was always over at yours, an extra toothbrush in your bathroom, and his clothes filling your closet to the brim. Every time you wanted to have a baking date, movie night, or just wanted to chill together privately, you guys always ended up at your place. Never his.

Looking back, Sunghoon realized he had become strangely talented at redirecting you.

He’d always suggest to go to yours because you had more baking supplies, your television was bigger, and your roommate, Chowon, was never home. And on the off-chance that your roommate finally did come home, Sunghoon would insist that Jake was so loud that it’d be like having a third-wheel hovering over the both of you the entire time.

Because unlike your apartment, which smelled like vanilla candles, air freshener, and room spray, his smelled like blood. Literally. His refrigerator was currently stuffed with labeled blood bags. The pantry contained emergency freeze-dried containers of blood. It’s a miracle how the iron smell hadn’t suffused to his neighbors. Sunghoon’s bathroom was stocked to the brim with enough sunscreen to slather on a blue whale and still have extra bottles for him.

Yeah, if you went to his apartment, then he’d have to either hide half of his existence, trust you with it, or probably kill you.

As much as the last option was what Sunghoon was anticipating, none of them were ideal..

Which was exactly why, when your text popped up later that evening, his undead heart felt like it dropped to his ass. 

Y/N (girlfriend): chowon brought someone over and i think they’re… having sex Y/N (girlfriend):  :( Y/N (girlfriend): can i come to yours?

He left the text on read shamelessly, throwing his phone on the couch and mechanically going to knock on Jake’s door. “Jaeyun. My girlfriend wants to come over. Code Red,” he bluntly said, trying to hide the panic that was building up.

Jake swung the door open, racing past Sunghoon in a blurred flash, compiling all of the blood bags in the fridge into his empty arms. “What the hell are you standing around for? Go hide the ones in the pantry!” Jake shrieked, scrambling back to his own room to hide the refrigerated packs in the his mini-fridge. Sunghoon ripped open the tall, white pantry doors and began stuffing emergency blood packets into his puffer jackets winter boots in the spare coat closet and– and a rice container that… was purely there just for show, honestly.

“Jaeyun, when did we get this rice container? And why?”

“Oh, it was a gift from Jay…” Jake paused. Sunghoon stared at the Australian vampire, who had punctured a blood bag with a straw and was sucking on the dark red liquid. When the two were absolutely sure that there would be no way that you would even by chance stumble upon a blood pack, Sunghoon grabbed his phone from the couch.

Y/N (girlfriend): hoon? Y/N (girlfriend): helloo? Y/N (girlfriend): if u dont want me to come over thats ok :(  hoon (boyfieee): Sorry. I am cleaning to make the place look presentable for You. hoon (boyfieee): come Now. If you are able. Y/N (girlfriend): YAYY! Y/N (girlfriend): can i stay the night hoonie? Y/N (girlfriend): i jus dont want to have the awkward uhhh… yk… morning after convo with the random guy…

His eyes slowly lifted from his phone to Jake, who was still holding a punctured blood bag like a juice pouch. “She wants to stay the night,” Sunghoon said blankly. Jake nearly choked on the blood he was drinking.

“Your first sleepover is happening before she’s seen our apartment?” Jake hissed. “Dude, you still have your stupid UV sleeves hanging in the bathroom.” Sunghoon looked toward the hallway, where his bathroom was, and where his protective UV sleeves were dangling over the shower curtain rod. “And we don’t even sleep– what are you gonna do? Just lay there for like eight hours?”

He imagined you curled up in his bed, filling the empty space of the full-sized mattress. Your steady heartbeat would thud thud thud right up against his chest, peaceful and content. Your scent would be trapped in his enclosed space with nowhere to escape but into his nostrils. He then imagined the look of horror on your face if you opened his spare coat closet to see freeze-dried packets of blood stuffed in all his clothes, and too many thoughts about biting you as you slept over ransacked any rationale. He ignored Jake’s rhetorical question and shook his head before looking back at his phone.

hoonie (boyfieee): Yes. You can stay. hoonie (boyfieee): Bring toothbrush. I believe I have everything elese you may need. hoonie (boyfieee): else*

This was either the worst idea he’s ever had or a great milestone in your relationship.

You arrived 15 minutes later, your car keys dangling from your fingers and an overnight bag slung over your shoulder. Jake was sitting on the couch, watching television when Sunghoon opened the door for you. “Hi Hoon! Hi Jake.” You nodded your head towards the Australian boy.

“Hey!” Jake greeted back with a tense smile, his cheeks puffing up as he sunk deeper into the couch. You waved your hand again awkwardly before directing your focus back to Sunghoon.

“Where– uhm, can I put my stuff, Hoon?” You shyly asked. Sunghoon led you to his bedroom down the hall. It was fairly simple and clean, with black and white bedsheets, his full-sized bed tucked in the corner, and a black wooden desk perched up against his wall to face away from his window. He had so many candles lit, gothic white ones trailing wax down a candelabra. The room smelled just like Sunghoon, clean with base notes of musk and sandalwood. You spun around, taking in his room as you set your overnight bag on the floor.

“Your room is so…”

Sunghoon stiffened. Was it too weird? Too gothic? Too antique? Too vampire-coded? Damn it, he knew he should’ve gotten rid of that stupid iron candle holder– didn’t young people these days have simple glass holders?

“It’s so clean and nice, Hoon! It’s suits you so wel!” You gushed with a smile so bright that it rivaled the flickering flames of his lit candles. His tense shoulders dropped as he let out a small breath of relief.

“Thank you.” He nodded. Your eyes wandered everywhere with innocent curiosity. His dresser had a few, black decorations on it. His clothes were all neatly tucked away. His nightstand had a lamp on it, some hand-cream, and a box of tissues. The blackout curtains were drawn tightly over the windows despite it barely being evening.

“Hoon, you should get more Vitamin D.” You pouted. “I feel like you’re always covered up, too.”

“I take supplements,” he replied hastily. You giggled.

“One day I’m gonna force you outside. Maybe if we’re ever in the mood for it, we could take a loooong hike and watch the sunrise!” Sunghoon only hummed in response. That honestly sounded fucking awful, but he’ll let you be optimistic about your future dates.

You wandered toward his bookshelf next, fingers ghosting over the spines. His shelf was crammed with thick, old books jammed next to each other, pressing up against the sides of the wooden storage. You skimmed your fingertips over one particularly thick book, your eyebrows furrowing together as you read the title. 

“Hoon,” you carefully pulled out one hardcover. “Why do you own an Economics 101 book from the 1950’s?” You smiled.

“I like reading about the economy back then, so I do not make any poor financial decisions,” he answered perfectly. Damn, he was good at this.

“Can I pull a book out?” You asked with sparkling eyes. He nodded. You pushed a book towards you, your fingertip digging into the pages behind the spine. You opened it, smiling. “Wow, this is so old too!” You scanned the back of the cover, looking confused. “This is from a library– wow, so cool. It’s like an artifact!”

His eyes bulged out of his head. He knew what book you were looking at. He reached out to grab it from you when your finger traced the remnants of faded ink. “Park Sunghoon checked this book out in 1939?” You whispered. He winced, his outstretched hand curling into a defeated fist. “That’s so cool! You guys had the same name!” Damn, he knew he should’ve returned that library book 87 years ago.

You put the book back, sliding it in perfectly between two other thick books. Sunghoon watched you carefully, his tongue darting from between his lips to nervously lick at them. The two of you stood there awkwardly for a second before your shoulders sagged.

“Sorry,” you mumbled suddenly.

“For what?” He was confused.

“I feel like– I dunno– awkward, like I’m intruding or ruining the mood...” You rubbed your sleeves together nervously. “The roommate thing just stressed me out, and I feel like I asked you so last minute, and– and– I dunno, I feel like I pressured you.”

Sunghoon’s expression softened slightly. “You did not pressure me into anything, Y/N,” he said in that soothing, low voice of him. You looked up at him with hopeful and relieved eyes.

“Really?”

“Yes.” He nodded once. “You can stay here as long as you want.”

Your heartbeat picked up as it usually did when he said anything reassuring to you. You sat down on the edge of his bed, albeit a bit cautious and nervous. “Can we just do nothing tonight?”

Sunghoon leaned against his desk. “Just nothing?”

“Yes, absolutely nothing!”  You smiled up at him. He smiled and sat to the right of you, letting you rest your body against his. Your head immediately tucked into his shoulder, hands playing with his right hand while his left arm slung around your shoulders. Your pulse was drumming against your soft slowly, but not as quick as it usually was. It felt relaxed, and Sunghoon came to the conclusion that you were comfortable here, in his space.

Then his eyes drifted lower without meaning to. Your neck peeked out from the collar of your hoodie when you tilted your head back slightly. Warn, thin skin that he could easily pierce into. He could practically trace the route your blood traveled beneath it. He licked his lips again, his ears drowning in the sound of your blood moving in your circulatory system. It only got louder and louder.

Four months. It had been four months since he’s met you, and two since you’ve been dating, yet it’s been three months of dates, hand-holding, and falling asleep on his shoulder. Three months of carrying snacks for you and listening to your problems and memorizing your preferred cafe order that wasn’t Americano.

It made him so hungry, so fucking hungry to be next to you so long– to smell the intoxicating and metallic aroma of your blood.

Sunghoon swallowed hard, and you must’ve heard the sound, because you perked up immediately, facing him as you looked up. “You okay?” you asked quietly, “Hungry? Should we order takeout?” His eyes shifted back to yours. You were so close. You had shifted even closer to him him without him noticing. Your knees thighs were pressing up against each other, and your scent was wrapping around him immediately, washing out the clean smell of his lit candles.

“I am not hungry,” he answered, lying through his teeth.

Because right now, all he wanted to do was eat. His eyes fluttered down to your lips, so soft and red, skin almost bursting with a vermillion hue. The skin was so thin, and if he looked close enough, he could see the wrinkles and the parts where they peeled. Your blood vessels were packed so closely together, gathering enough warmth to set him ablaze. 

“We can just stay here– just the two of us,” he murmured, voice dipping into a lower octave and coating itself in a seductive honey. For a moment, a weird thought pushed itself into his mind. Do lips taste different from skin? How would your blood gush from your mouth? Would it flow down in a steady stream, or burst out into tiny jets? You were saying something, your pretty lips opening and closing to project words, but Sunghoon was too distracted with seeing rather than hearing.

Without realizing, he leaned in closer, the proximity between you decreasing. He could smell your tinted lip balm swiped across your lips, pathetically trying to mask the iron scent underneath your skin. Your breath hitched as he began bridging the gap between your faces. Useless thoughts began to surface in his mind.

One bite. Just one. Right there.

His eyes dropped to your mouth again. Your hand abruptly reached up and grabbed his shirt, crumpled up at his stomach. “Hoon,” you whispered softly, your breathy tone almost making your voice sound like a whimper. He gently let go of your hand, bringing it up to gently caress your cheek. Your pulse began drumming so hard against your skin that he was afraid it was burst through and break, and he honestly didn’t mind the sound of that.

“Can I?” he asked, a murmur deep in his throat. You swallowed, gulping down the tension as you nodded. You nodded, not wanting your voice to betray the thick want clouding your mind. He leaned in slowly, fangs instinctively protracting as hunger took over his brain, but as soon as he pressed his cold lips to yours, his canines were flat like they usually were. His mind blanked. He pulled away, leaving you with only a peck as your first kiss.

When he properly looked at your face, your mouth was parted, letting out soft and content breaths. “Hoonie– kiss– please, kiss me again.” You whispered. You didn’t have to ask him twice. He pressed his lips to yours again, firmer this time, charged with a desire to have your breath mingling with his. He understood now why Jake bragged about kissing humans so much– it was addicting. He didn’t even remember why he wanted your mouth on his anymore, all he wanted was to kiss you breathless.

Forget about feeding from you, couldn’t he just devour you like this?

(The next morning, when you went to cook breakfast, you had asked Jake who had just woken up why his fridge was literally empty. And why all of the windows were open, but the curtains were all drawn shut. And why there were enough candles lit everywhere to cause a fire hazard. You also had somehow stumbled upon Sunghoon’s limitless sunscreen stock in his bathroom. The Australian vampire merely shrugged and bolted back to his room.)

❛❛LEAVE YOUR MARK ON MY NECK THAT IT'S YOURS.❞ ── 3

After your first kiss, Jake wouldn’t let Sunghoon live it down for weeks.

Not that Sunghoon had cared, he had better things to think about. Like now, instead of greeting him with your usual shy wave, you’d grab his collar and pull him down for a bashful peck to greet him instead. Or how you looked after giving said-peck, eyes half-lidded and cheeks warm, like you wanted one more but were too shy to ask. And he learned that he might be addicted to kisses now, because all he could think about when you were both apart was how much he wish you were together.

Being a vampire was tedious, but at least it was simple in theory. All he had to think about was drinking blood, biting people, staying away from garlic, and keeping out of the sun. But now, there was a new complication laying down on all of his vampiric responsibilities, effectively crushing all of them as priorities. And that obviously was you.

You were supposed to be one of his simple vampire duties– the biting people and drinking blood part. But you were slowly beginning to be phased out of that aspect of his duties. You were becoming a new duty of your own, in fact, something that Jake liked to call “boyfriend duty.”

“Boyfriend duty?” Sunghoon had repeated slowly. Jake nodded, leaning back in their couch, sipping on a Blood Mary cocktail despite it being 11 AM on a Wednesday. (Jake swore up and down that he had invented the cocktail in the 1920s. Sunghoon honestly believed him.)

“Yeah. Instead of just suckin’ blood, you also suck face.” Jake snickered, amused at his own joke. “Seems like you got a lot on your plate now, Mr. Bloodsucker.”

Sunghoon had sent the Australian a glare, narrowing his eyes as he stood up. None of what the former man had learned firsthand being with you had been in his original “Vampire 101” lessons. There was no precedent in befriending a girl, becoming said-girl’s boyfriend, and reforming the thoughts of food to a person he cared for. 

He was still a vampire. The most vampiric vampire ever. He still drank blood from the diminishing stock in his fridge (blame Jake for his unusual recent obsession with bloody cocktails.) He still shoved his hand in the freeze-dried blood bags when he wanted to switch up his meal texture. And he even developed a weird habit of hissing at garlic. (He had no idea where that came from, but that’s for another time.) 

But when you were around, he didn’t just feel like just a vampire anymore. He felt, oddly enough, like a human again. Even though he technically died when he was 21 years old over a century ago with bite marks piercing his neck, he has never felt more alive than when you shyly pressed your lips to his with a soft whisper of his name. Sunghoon didn’t want to breach into this territory of thinking, but he was afraid that maybeeee he didn’t want to bite you that badly anymore. But as soon as he heard your heartbeat, his stomach would say differently. He was, to put it shortly, confused.

“Sunghoon, do you think I should add more of the spice packet?”

He looked at the ramen, which was a baby pink color. He snorted. “Y/N, you must have added about three drops of the spice packet.” He gently took the red packet from your hands to glide his chopsticks on either side of it, effectively spilling the entire sauce inside. You gulped nervously.

“Hoon, I dunno if I can handle all that…” You said anxiously. Sunghoon shrugged and began to vigorously stir the ramen with his chopsticks.

“If you cannot eat this, then I will just make you another one.”

You both were in your apartment, making dinner for your movie night. You wanted to order takeout, but the delivery fees almost cost as much as your utility bills, so you both opted for some ramyeon in your pantry. Cooking together sounded more fun anyways. You hovered over Sunghoon, watching as he stirred the pot with a weird precision. His chopsticks were upright, and he was going around the walls in perfect circles.

“Hoon, it looks like you’ve never cooked ramyeon before.” You giggled. Sunghoon shrugged.

“It is mostly Jaeyun who cooks ramyeon. He says he is better at it,” Sunghoon replied. You nodded with an “ahhh…”, watching as your boyfriend worked the pot.

“You look so handsome right now, Hoon. Like a househusband.” You smiled, leaning against the counter. He breathed a laugh out of his nose, incredulous at your sudden comment. His brows were slightly furrowed, shoulders squared and upright as his chopsticks moved with an unnecessary level of concentration for instant noodles.

The kitchen light cast warm tones across his face, softening his sharp features. It still amazed you sometimes– how someone who looked so intimidating in class months ago now stood in your kitchen making ramyeon while wearing a hoodie that you gave him for your one-monthiversary.

“Hoonie, can I tell you something?” You suddenly spoke up. He nodded. “Honestly, when I first saw you in class, I thought you were really cute. I’m really grateful we got to be project partners.”

The vampire was a bit stunned at your confession. He didn’t realize you perceived him before you guys became partners. “You thought I was cute?” he repeated slowly, the question mark hanging off the end of the sentence. You looked away shyly, picking at the sleeve hanging over your hands.

“Mhm.” You nodded. “Scary-cute though.” You chuckled. “It’s ‘cause you always stared at me, Hoon. I swear you did– tell me you did or else I’ll die from embarrassment.”

Your boyfriend only responded with a simple nod of his head. Well, the only reason why he stared so much was because he was always so fuckin’ hungry. Not because he was your secret admirer or anything– but he supposed he didn’t really have to say all that for the sake of preserving your feelings. “I was, Y/N,” he affirmed your suspicions. “You are strangely more perceptive than I had initially thought.”

“Heh, what can I say?” You boasted, looking smug. Sunghoon poured the ramyeon into two separate bowls. “But why were you staring at me so much?” You helped him set one of the bowls on the coffee table, settling down on the couch right in front of the television.

“Because you intrigued me,” he explained, not entirely lying. Your blood intrigued me. You seemed really satisfied with the answer, your sweatpant-clad legs jumping up and down to show how giddy his response made you. You picked up the remote, flicking through the endless options of dramas to watch. Sunghoon really didn’t like dramas at first. He had explained to you that he hated them, saying that they were unrealistic, too cheesy, and had too many logical inaccuracies.

You scrolled through title after title while sitting cross-legged on the couch, legs buried under the fluffy blanket, entirely concentrated on finding something “good enough” to please him. “Oh, how about this? It’s supposed to be cheesy! It’s called EN-DRAMA!” You suggested. Sunghoon read the description, and grew even more perplexed. But he simply shrugged and let you put on whatever you wanted.

You both began watching the drama, slurping down your ramyeon. You were able to tolerate the spice enough to finish your bowl, but it didn’t stop you from hissing. Sunghoon snickered under his breath at the sounds. You sounded like a cute little vampire, and your noises almost made him instinctively let out a hiss of his own. He left his bowl steaming on the coffee table, pulling you into his side, keeping your shoulders pressed together. He strew the blanket over his own lap, resting his head on yours.

For some reason, you were really immersed in the drama, letting out soft gasps as the seven boys in the scene tried to piece together who really confessed. You leaned in closer, your warm palm bracing your body on Sunghoon’s thigh. The vampire sucked in a breath as your body heat radiated through the blanket to his skin. With how poor your posture was in that position, your neck and back slouched, Sunghoon had a clear view of your neck. You were wearing a shirt with the collar cut, pulled down to reveal the expanse of your shoulder and neck. He gulped.

He watched as your left hand drew to your right shoulder, your fingernails scraping against the skin, leaving red marks to surface. “Are you itchy?” he asked quietly, eyes following the path your fingers carved across your skin.

“Hm?” You absentmindedly scratched again. “Oh. I think it’s cuz’ some threads are loose.” You tugged the neckline lower to adjust it. Sunghoon wished you hadn’t done that. More skin peeked through, exposing your upper arm. He could feel the crimson liquid pooling underneath to where you had scratched.

He was starving, and he didn’t even realize it until your precious skin was exposed to his leering eyes. He licked his lips, instinctively leaning forward, his fanged mouth drawn to warm epidermis. “Hoon?” You suddenly looked at him. When you did, you could feel his breath fan across your lips. You instantly covered your mouth.

“Does my breath smell?” Sunghoon pulled away, almost offended. You shook your head vigorously.

“Mine probably does, Hoon! What’re you doing, trying to kiss me after I ate this spicy ass ramen?” You whined. He chuckled at your cute reaction, his palm cupping over your fingers, gently prying it away from your mouth.

“Do you think I care about ramyeon breath?” he asked quietly. Not at all. What he cared about was the plump, swollen, and sheen with the reddish-hue of the broth skin of your lips. “I want to kiss you, even if you have ramyeon breath. Can I kiss you, Y/N? I want to kiss you so bad.”

You nodded eagerly to his plea, feeling a heat curl up in your lower tummy at how calm yet desperate he sounded. He placed a soft kiss to your knuckles, before cupping your cheek and leaning in to press soft pecks to your mouth. You reciprocated, your breathing turning ragged as he kept capturing your mouth with no time to catch up. With every soft kiss, he hesitated, as if thinking whether or not to kiss you again– yet every time, he conceded, meeting your lips with his as if he couldn’t convince himself to stop in the split second he pulled away.

His hand slid from your cheek to the side of your neck, fingers wrapping around the back of it, pulling you in closer. Warm. Your skin was always so warm. You pulled away to properly catch your breath, fingers twisted in the material of his hoodie. “You’re always so cold…” You whispered. “Hoonie, should– should I warm you up?” You shyly asked. He nodded, eyes stared shamelessly down at your lips as he licked his own, tasting the disgusting flavor of the spicy ramyeon. His hands moved to your shoulders awkwardly, patting them firmly as if he were congratulating you for something. You laughed, endeared by his cute action.

“Sunghoon, you can touch me… down here…” You gently held his hands, dragging them to your waist. “Is– is this, okay?” Your voice was barely audible to his ears. Sunghoon nodded.

“Yes–” he gulped, “is– is this okay for you, too?” He murmured. You nodded with a nervous giggle. The position was, admittedly a bit awkward, with his torso contorted to face you as he continued to sit and his hands clumsily placed on your waist. Your body was also angled weirdly into the couch cushions, the blanket crumpled up in your lap. 

“Are you comfortable like this?” you asked, soft chuckles spilling your lips from how jittery you were. He looked around, then looked down at your bodies, distantly touching each other. He wasn’t exactly content like this.

“Not really,” he honestly confessed. You adjusted yourself on the couch, your knees bumping up against each other and a muttered apology coming from your mouth. Sunghoon’s lips curled into a confused and intrigued frown as he watched you shuffle, your leg throwing its knee over his thighs. He froze as he realized what you were doing. You had either leg settled on both sides of his own before you gently lowered your weight onto him.

“Is– is this fine too, Hoon?” You mumbled. Your hands instinctively grabbed his shoulders for balance while his own reflexively tightened around your waist to steady you. He nodded eagerly. Your warmth was entirely surrounding him now, and your face was inches away from him once more.

“Hi.” You breathed out, your body trembling from nerves.

“Hello,” he greeted back, his frown flipping into a soft smile, so utterly endeared by how bold yet nervous you were. “Do you feel awkward, Y/N?”

“A little, Hoonie. Am I doing too much?” You bit your lip. As your teeth indented the thin skin, blood drew to where it was pressing, reddening your soft mouth even more.

“Not enough, Y/N,” he responded, surging forward to kiss you again. Sunghoon thought for a moment that, instead of those stupid blood bags, one of these days he could live off of these warm lips, packed with the blossoms of blood vessels that narrowed as his cold lips pressed against them. You kissed back, retiring the silly cute pecks that you did. Sunghoon devoured your mouth, trying his hardest to prevent his fangs from protracting.

He found out a bit funny how much effort he was exerting not to stick out his fangs, considering months ago, he would’ve taken the first chance to sink them into your mouth. But now, all he was focused on was eating you alive in a completely different way— memorizing the shape of your smile between kisses, the tiny breaths you let out when he pulled you closer, and the warmth that kept permeating to his cold skin as you instinctively leaned closer into his body.

His hands tightened at your waist, settling more confidently as his muscular arms snaked around them. The angle was, admittedly still a bit uncomfortable. His hips were beginning to hurt, and your knees kept bumping against the couch cushion, but neither of you bothered to readjust, too caught up in each other’s lips. He pulled away, pupils dilated and entranced on the way your mouth was looking now. They were swollen, slick with the amount of spit you were swapping. They were so pretty looking, almost beguiling him into just fucking swallowing them until the both of you couldn’t breathe anymore. But you were still letting out cute pants, so instead, he sufficed with pressing his mouth to your cheek, before leaning towards your jaw. You squirmed around, bringing your shoulders to the side of his face as the ticklish sensation overwhelmed your instincts.

“Hoon, that tickles…” You whined. He let out a breathy laugh, his kisses trailing down to his neck. As if mocking him, he felt the beats under your jaw drum faster, beckoning him to come near. He licked his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your pulse point. He couldn’t stop– his mouth kept attacking that one specific area, pressing so many kisses to it that you thought he was about to imprint the shape of his lips onto that piece of skin.

His fangs were protracting– he could feel the ache in his gumline signaling to him that his teeth were sharpening. But he didn’t want to bite you anymore. He was sure of it with the way anxiety pricked his nerves with the thought of actually draining you dry to the point where you were cold and sickly.

So instead, his cold lips came together, suckling on your pulse point. You let out a gasp, but the vampire could barely register it. He was sucking on your skin, and for a moment, his irises flashed red. It felt like sucking your blood, without the satisfying flavor of the metal on his tongue. But with the way he was devouring your skin was close– so close so close it almost drew him back to his vampiric instincts of drawing blood. And in a way, he was. He could feel how, under his mouth and below your skin, how your blood vessels crackled and exploded, releasing the tiniest amount of blood to the surface.

He pulled away when you nudged his head gently, only to see a bright purple mark adorning your neck. He looked nervous when you finally made eye-contact. Did he hurt you? Did you not want it anymore? Did he go too far? But all of his apprehensions were washed away as the tide brought in a wide smile. “Hoon… It– it feels really, good, more?”

Sunghoon let out a sigh of relief. “More?” He murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. You nodded. His lips curled into a sweet smile. “Okay– but tell me if you want to stop.”

And by the time you told him to stop, your neck was a canvas painted with his love bites, a beautiful artwork of his growing adoration for you.

Days later, Sunghoon and Jake were sitting at the island of their apartment kitchen. 

“You know, vampires can’t get hickeys.”

Jake was lapping at a bloodsicle, the frozen hemoglobin staining the Australian vampire’s lips and teeth. “Really?” Sunghoon asked, surprised.

“Yeah, we don’t have blood, genius,” Jake retorted, “Dude, I’m a genius. This popsicle is so damn good. I need to start patenting my recipes or else some other dickhead vampire is gonna claim my shit again.” Jake let out a satisfied moan at the taste of his ice bar.

“Well, is there a next step to our relationship that I must take, Jaeyun?” Sunghoon asked, looking down at his notebook. These days, Sunghoon had been trying to take lessons on relationships. He supposed this was good for stimulating his brain– learning something new and unfamiliar, breaching a territory he was sure that no other vampire had. It had been a while since the hickey incident, and now he was opening up to Jake, wanting to explore more in the vast unknownness of dating.

“Sex, duh.”

“Sex?” Sunghoon looked surprised. “Like– mating?”

“Yeah, sex, man. Y’know? Fuckin’, copulating, making love– that sort of stuff.” Jake bit off a chunk of the popsicle. “But you know, sex isn’t just about reproduction, right? You’ve been alive for like, 120 years already man. Don’t tell me you’re a virgin.”

Sunghoon would’ve blushed if he had blood. Jake’s mouth fell agape. “No way.”

“Well, I was busy with other things, Jaeyun. Like not burning alive and all of that,” Sunghoon grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. Jake sighed, pointing his half-eaten bloodsicle at the slightly-younger man.

“Well, take notes, Sunghoon. Sex isn’t just about mating or feeling good. It’s also about intimacy, trust, and communication. This is a major step for relationships, you know?”

“So, I ask Y/N if she wants to do sex?” Sunghoon asked. Jake seemed thoughtful for a moment before he bit off another chunk of his bloody ice bar.

“Yes– you should breach the thought, but don’t force the topic. Just ask her if she’s ready– well. Okay, hold on.” Jake seemed to be gathering all of his thoughts to formulate a concise explanation and plan for Sunghoon, which the man was patient to receive. “Okay so– first, you guys are like– you guys gotta get in the mood, right? Let’s say you guys are kissing and making out and whatnot. You gotta ask how she feels, ya know? Check in and read the mood, then ask really carefully.” Jake waved his frozen treat around dramatically. “And if she says no, then cool. You just kiss, cuddle, do whatever you two lovebirds usually do.”

Sunghoon wrote down this advice ferociously, nodding his head to everything that Jake said. Everything sounded like common sense– just make sure that you’re comfortable and you both do things you want to do. “Oh, and another thing— don’t think of your relationship as like– having checkpoints. It’s not like, you kiss, then make out, then have sex, you know. I mean, it is lowkey like that for you guys, but don’t dwell on it too much. Relationships don’t have a linear timeline.” Jake expressed. Sunghoon nodded once more.

“Thank you for the advice, Jaeyun,” The vampire sincerely said. Jake smiled and patted the other’s back.

“Dude, of course.”

That night, Sunghoon was laying awake in his bed. (What else would he be doing? Sleeping?) He was scrolling through his phone, watching plenty of Youtube videos about relationship advice and how to get to the “next level.” He somehow found himself in a rabbit hole of niche internet blogs, countless articles flooding his screen about How to Have Sex for the First Time and A Virgin’s Guide to Pleasure.

Although humans were complicated, he was glad that at least he had these guides to help him through his struggles. He read through pieces telling him how to set the mood with candles and roses, editorials about how to properly perform foreplay to prepare someone for sex. It was almost an information overload for his brain– too many possibilities of how your first time could go was actually making the vampire nervous. If it did go at all, of course. He’s been a vampire for over a century, so surely he could wait as long as you wanted to wait before your first time.

Suddenly, a notification swiped down on his phone.

Y/N (girlfriend): hoonieeee!!! WYD!!! hoon (boyfieee): Hello Baby. I am just reading. Do you need something?

Sunghoon felt a bit smug as he called you a pet name. He had recently learned in a stupid KDrama you guys watched that boyfriends commonly called their girlfriends pet names, and he wanted to apply what he just learned.

Y/N (girlfriend): heheee not much baby <3 Y/N (girlfriend): anyways wanna come over after my final next fri and cook din? been craving sum real food… Y/N (girlfriend): like steak?

Steak sounded good. Steak had iron in it.

hoon (boyfieee): Yes. I cannot wait to be there. Y/N (girlfriend): yayyy!! Y/N (girlfriend): missin u already lol

Sunghoon exhaled slowly, thumb hovering over the screen.

hoon (boyfieee): I miss you too. Do not fret. You will see me soon. hoon (boyfieee): Do well on your final. I will reward you.

He stared at his own message for a second. It didn’t exactly feel like himself. A reward? Was that the right word? But before he could overthink it, you replied.

Y/N (girlfriend): omg are you gonna kiss me when i’m done Y/N (girlfriend): i’m gonna ACE THIS EXAM!!!!

Sunghoon laughed. So cute. You were always so cute.

hoon (boyfieee): Focus on studying, needy girl. hoon (boyfieee): But yes, I will. :)

In a way, it was a reward for himself too, right?

❛❛I'LL EVEN PLUCK THE SUN, THE MOON FOR YOU❞ ── 4

“Hoonie, hi! I bought a meannn cut of ribeye!”

Sunghoon entered your apartment like he owned it. (It almost felt like he did with how often he was over. Maybe he should start offering to pay rent or something.) “Did you, now? Was it expensive? Show me the receipt, baby, I will pay for it.”

“Eek, so dreamy, Hoon, you’re making a woman swoon! But don’t worry, this is on me! And I bought rosemary and thyme and some fancy Kerrygold Irish Butter, but you’re allergic to garlic right? So I didn’t buy any!” You triumphantly said, as if it were the greatest achievement in the world to remember your boyfriend’s food sensitivities. Sunghoon smiled.

“Thank you, Y/N. I appreciate it.” He entered the kitchen, rolling up the sleeves of his sweatshirt. He hugged you from behind, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw. “What sides do you want, baby?”

“I was thinkinggg…. maybe just mashed potatoes or asparagus or something?” You suggested, “Look in my fridge, Hoonie, you can pick!”

The vampire begrudgingly unraveled his arms from your body to wash his hands before he opened your fridge. The cold air hit him in the face so hard that he backed up. He looked through your very normal groceries: eggs, milk, bacon. He scrunched his nose at your terrible way of hiding garlic, tucked away in a bunch of paper towels secured with a rubber band in a deep corner behind your juice carton. It was endearing to see how much you cared for him.

He opened your drawers to see lettuce, bell peppers, cucumbers and– ah, there it was. A bunch of asparagus. He pulled it out and began rinsing the vegetables under the sink as you salted the steak. The steak was bloody, with red juices leaking onto your wooden cutting board and soaking through the splinters. But it was strangely unappetizing. Animal’s blood always was, but for some reason, the smell of it was pungent and repulsive. Sunghoon sniffled, rubbing a finger under his nose.

“Hoon, wash your hands,” you gently chided. He listened to you, moving the vegetables to the counter to rest in a bowl while he washed his hands. He then broke off the thick, fibrous stalks off the asparagus to get rid of the bitter stems. He learned that they were bad for humans. “How do you want to prepare the asparagus, Hoon?” You hummed as you leaned forward on the counter, watching as your boyfriend started snapping the asparagus.

“What do you think is good?” He responded, not really caring because it would taste shitty no matter how well it was prepared.

“Uhmm~ lemon and parmesan? Seared on a pan is really good…” You murmured. Sunghoon nodded half-heartedly, tossing the stalks in the trash. He pulled a pan from your cabinets, flipping it and settling it on the gas stove. You watched intently as he turned on the stove, pulling his phone in his other hand to look up a recipe. He looked effortlessly sexy, with his (oddly transparent) veins emphasized through his skin and his sleeves rolled up to expose his built forearms. You wiped your mouth to get rid of the drool you were about to trail in your mouth.

“Wash your hands, baby,” he chided in the same tone you used earlier. You bounded to the sink and did as told.

“Hmph. Acting like we don’t swap spit every time we see each other. What’s a little drool, anyways?” You huffed. He seemed a bit scandalized at your response, with his eyes wide and mouth slightly agape.

“That is a bit— a bit vulgar…” Sunghoon muttered. You laughed and skipped back towards him, leaning over his side to look at the recipe he was watching. You helped him oil up the pan before he carefully picked a couple of asparagus to settle inside, letting the vegetable sizzle in the liquid fat.

While the asparagus were searing in the pan, Sunghoon was slicing up lemons while you shredded parmesan. “This is so fun, Hoon. I’m so excited to eat– I’m literally drooling,” you rambled. The asparagus hissed in the pan, letting the smokiness of its natural flavors fill the air. You turned on the hood fan as Sunghoon flipped them carefully with tongs. “Oooh, my boyfriend is a chef…! Make room, I’m putting the steak on.”

He pulled out another pan for your steak while you seasoned the meat with freshly cracked black pepper. Your fingers rubbed the spice into the lean cut, your other hand reaching to oil up the pan with a neutral oil. “You like your steak medium rare, right?” You hummed. Sunghoon nodded, letting out a half-hearted sound for an answer. He didn’t like his steak any sort of way.

“Yes, as do you, right?” He looked at you for confirmation. You nodded, letting out a sound of awe as you dropped the steak into the pan. Sunghoon took the asparagus off the stove once he deemed it perfectly seared, pulling out two plates to start the curation of a beautiful dinner display. When you pulled your steak off the pan, it had a beautiful crust and smelled utterly divine. And when you sliced it open, it had a a perfect wall-to-wall cook, the center a gorgeous pink with a gray band lining the edges. 

You carefully plated the steak alongside the asparagus, astounded by your once-in-a-lifetime perfect cooking ability. Maybe your boyfriend’s presence buffed your skill a little bit. You snapped a quick pic, a candid one with Sunghoon’s hand blocking a bit of the plate. “Ugh, Hoon, your hand was in the way!” You whined, but when the picture appeared on your phone, his hand was gone. “Oh, I guess not.” You shrugged, completely missing how tense he had gotten at that small exchange. “Well, let’s eat dinner, Hoon!”

Sunghoon obediently took the plate to the small dining table. “Should we watch a movie after, Hoon?” You squealed, clapping your hands eagerly as the seductive aroma of the amazing steak and asparagus filled your senses. Sunghoon nodded. He couldn’t lie, even as a vampire, the steak dinner was tempting him. 

You both dug into your meal, you way more ecstatic about it then him. Humans were funny– Sunghoon only needed blood to sustain him, physically and mentally. But seeing you get so excited over a steak dinner compared earlier in the week where you constantly complained about having instant ramen for dinner the fifth time in a week during finals felt more nourishing than even having your blood in a packet. You were chewing eagerly, your cheeks puffing with every bite and muted satisfied sound escaping your mouth.

After dinner and dishes, you both ended up collapsed in the couch with your fluffy blanket entangling both of your bodies together. You were sitting comfortably in his lap, your back pressed against his chest as you watched a random American movie. You were fiddling with Sunghoon’s thick and pretty fingers, rubbing your thumb against his pale knuckles. His chin was resting on your shoulder, mouth buried in the crook of your neck as he absentmindedly pressed kisses to it.

You weren’t really focused on the movie much. How could you be when your irresistible boyfriend couldn’t get his mouth off of you? You squirmed as his lips landed close to your ear, tickling you. “Hoon, the movie…” You mumbled, though you could give less of a shit about it at this point.

“I am watching…” he said, clearly not watching. You snorted softly, leaning further back into him. His arms tightened around your waist instinctively, keeping you settled comfortably in his lap. The television continuing streaming your shitty movie, but neither of you have been paying attention to the plot at this point. (That was barely even there, in the first place.)

Your fingers continued tracing over his pale hands as his lips continued to wander. His arms loosened so his hands could hold you, his large hands splaying across the expanse of your sides. “So clingy…” you muttered.

“Finals stole you from me,” he said, matter-of-factly. He continued to litter your skin with his soft kisses, and eventually, you couldn’t help yourself from meeting his mouth. He smiled as you both kissed, teeth clacking against each other as the innocent kisses evolved into a needy claim of each other. The pace became rapid as you contorted your body, setlting in his lap so that you were properly facing him. Your arms circled around his neck, pulling you closer. Sunghoon could tell you were still being clumsy, but that made it even more endearing. You were acting so needy, and it was igniting a new feeling in the vampire.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jake’s voice became present.  “Okay so– first, you guys are like– you guys gotta get in the mood, right? Let’s say you guys are kissing and making out and whatnot. You gotta ask how she feels, ya know? Check in and read the mood, then ask really carefully.” Sunghoon pulled away, a hand moving to gently cup your cheek, his thumbpad gently stroking your soft skin.

“Baby, are you feeling okay?” He mumbled. You nodded. “Okay– you need to tell me if it is uncomfortable,” he murmured. Your fingers slid into the hair at the nape of his neck as you nodded, pulling him back into you. His eyes fluttered shut as he got lost in the feeling of your sweet kisses, devouring him more than he could have ever done to you.

You shifted your hips over his, trying to get comfortable, but the movement pulled out a strangled groan from Sunghoon’s throat. You shifted away, alarmed. “Hoon? Does it hurt?” You softly asked. He shook his head, steadying your body by gripping onto you. His kisses moved down to pepper onto your neck, leaving hickeys in its wake. He was getting so hungry, so hungry… But it wasn’t the typical hollowness that left his stomach growling. It was a flame that kept flickering, pooling an unfamiliar heat in his body that left him shivering.

He bit down onto your neck instinctively despite his fangs not protracting, leaving only safe indents where his teeth were. You whimpered, squirming your head away. He bit again– Oh? This almost felt like the real thing. He was tempted to draw his fangs, but a pressing question had taken priority in his mouth.

“Baby, do– do you want to take the next step?”

The question startled you. You stilled, gripping his buff shoulders to pull him away from you, looking him in the eye. Sunghoon smiled comfortingly, trying to show you that he was completely relaxed, even though he was consumed with anxiety. If he had a functioning heart, it would be rapidly thumping just like yours.

“Uhm– Hoon, I– I dunno…” You confessed nervously, trying to widen your distance out of fear. “Uh– Hoon, I– I’m still a virgin and– and I don’t know if I’m ready yet…” You were stumbling over your words, heavy breaths escaping you as you tried to regulate your nerves. Sunghoon gently rubbed your hip, trying to soothe you.

“That is okay, Y/N,” he said softly, “I am one too. A virgin, I mean,” he added in an attempt to pacify your worries. “And we do not have to do anything you do not want to.” He nodded confidently. You smiled, and he could feel your heartbeat level out as your shoulders relaxed.

Vampirism was inherently about taking, taking, taking. Taking blood, taking lives, and taking apart people from the inside. But nothing about this relationship was about taking, not the way he intended. He was supposed to take your blood, drain your veins dry for all that they could give– but now he was in your space, making you feel comforted, denying his own instincts just to preserve every bit of you.

“I love you,” Sunghoon abruptly whispered. “I love you, Y/N.” He was suddenly overwhelmed with his emotions– guilt and adoration. The idea of him eating you before getting to this point filled him with so much shame that it was choking him. A few months ago, you were just considered a mere blood bag, reduced down to food and fuel. But now, the thought of it made him sick, the thought that he would’ve simply gotten over you in seconds with a deep pitch of his fangs. That you wouldn’t be here, your heart beating for him and only him. That you would just be another cold body without any blood and another unsolved case. Oh. Sunghoon felt like he was going to seriously throw up. He’s not even sure if vampires could throw up.

“You make me feel…” Alive, human, mortal. “... you make me feel so happy.” Is what he finalized with.

You gently grabbed his jaw, turning his face back toward you. “I love you too,” you said. “I love you so much, Hoon. And you make me happy, too.” You nodded. His throat tightened. Of course you loved him, because you only knew his good sides, not the sides that thought about indulging in your crimson proteins or planned to date you just to fucking consume you.

You leaned forward first this time, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before curling back into his chest. Sunghoon wrapped the blanket tighter around both of you, keeping the both of you warm. The movie credits had long begun rolling, nearing the end. You yawned quietly, mouth stretching as a signal of your drowsiness settling in. 

“Tired?” he asked.

“Mhm.” You nodded. “Can we stay like this a little longer?”

“Of course, baby.”

Your breathing eventually evened out against him. And while you drifted closer to sleep in his arms, Sunghoon stayed awake. Well, mostly because he was a vampire, but he was sure that even if he wasn’t, he’d remain awake. You looked so calm and peaceful and vulnerable that he felt obligated to stay awake and watch over you, making the most minuscule movements of his life. And Sunghoon would have revelled in that stillness of yours if he was still craving to eat you, but instead his hunger was swallowed down, suppressed by the love he had for you.

Summer came, bringing in a blistering heat. You didn’t go back to your hometown like you usually did. Instead, you stayed in your apartment during the three months off of school, choosing to remain with your boyfriend.

Over the 17 weeks that you guys stayed within proximity of each other, dates lined your calendar nearly every single day. Normally, you would’ve gotten sick of spending so much time with someone, but Sunghoon’s presence in your life settled right where it belonged that it felt like he had always existed alongside you. Your roommate had subletted her room to someone who was barely ever there, giving Sunghoon the perfect opportunity to basically move in with you. He was still officially living with Jake, his name still on the lease. But he practically became your new roommate with how often he was at your place.

The sunny season shined a new light upon your boyfriend. You came to find yourself endeared and amused by how much he cared about UV protection. After you told him you found his stock of sunscreen in his bathroom, he gave up hiding it and began piling his supply in your place as well. You always had an umbrella ready for when he finally obliged to take walks in the morning and long protective sleeves and leggings for whenever you guys went out while the sun was.

Summer left as soon as it came, and suddenly fall was beginning to settle in as a new semester begun.

You admittedly cried a little. Sunghoon was now in his fourth year and you were a third year, meaning that graduation would fall upon him. It felt like you met him too late, you had cried to him one night. But Sunghoon knew both of you had all of the time in the world. He was a vampire after all, he had centuries to kill, and he could spend eternity with you if he wanted to. (He said that to you, minus the whole vampire shtick. You had laughed and smacked his arm, but he meant it entirely.)

Time continued moving despite your protests and tears. Soon, your laptop was flooded with assignments and your notebooks were filled with redundant philosophy and sociology jargon. Even though you said for the third year in a row that you would finally get your shit together, your color-coded journal became increasingly empty and your working hours began to bleed into dawn.

A part of you feared that you would unintentionally find distance with Sunghoon, with how your workloads had nearly doubled since last year. But he found a way to weave himself into your daily life. He walked you to class, waited for you even at the dead of night, and showed up at your apartment with takeout whenever you texted him that you were hungry. (He had simply began putting the hours of the day into you while night time became his productive space. Being a vampire did have its perks.)

Stressful was an understatement to describe your semester, and even Sunghoon couldn’t deny that it was creeping into him too. So when Jake appeared with a wide, anticipatory grin and a Doorlist notification on his phone, the slightly-younger vampire felt like he was genuinely going to punch the Australian.

“I am not going to a party,” Sunghoon deadpanned.

“Dude, it’s Jay’s party. We have to go. It’s his last rager!” Jake whined.

“You and I both know that is not true. We are also a bit too old to be attending parties now.”

“You are never too old to attend a party, Hoon.” Jake nodded. “Matter-of-fact, we’re supposed to be at the legal drinking age right now. We should be at that party. And it’s Jay, man! Remember when he found out that we were vampires, and he was soo chill about it too.”

“Firstly, he found out that you were a vampire, and then you revealed my identity as one under no pressure.” Sunghoon gritted his teeth. “And what if we are in a situation where Jay is intoxicated, and then he says something like, ‘Oh, by the way, these are my two vampire friends!” Sunghoon was blubbering for the first time in his life, his eloquent manner of speaking vanishing.

“Hoon, who is going to believe that?” Jake groaned.

“Drunk words are sober truth,” Sunghoon replied solemnly, “Plus, there will be other girls there. And I do not want Y/N to get the wrong idea.” He nodded, crossing his arms. It was the perfect reason, and he’s sure Jake knew it. So when the Australian vampire spoke up, Sunghoon nearly choked.

“I heard from Y/N’s roomie that they’re going.”

Sunghoon froze, stunned as Jake dropped the final bomb that he knew would make the slightly-younger vampire explode. He ignored the fact that Jake knew your roommate to press the older vampire. “Y/N is going? Y/N did not tell me.” Sunghoon gritted his teeth. He knew he sounded like a possessive boyfriend, but he didn’t care about his tone.

“Oh? Really? She RSVP’d as going on the Doorlist, though?” Jake showed Sunghoon for proof. Sunghoon felt like he was about to explode.

“RSVP me too,” Sunghoon conceded. Jake pumped his fist.

“Yes, bro, let’s go!” He cheerfully said. Sunghoon checked his phone when a notification slid in.

Y/N (girlfriend): babeeee my roomie is dragging me to jay’s party this weekend. can u come with me plsss? hoon (boyfieee): YES. hoon (boyfieee): I mean. Yes. Let’s go together. Jaeyun and I will pick you up, okay? And your roommate too, I suppose. Y/N (girlfriend): yay!! oki, c u hoon <3

❛❛THREE PEOPLE, TWO SETS OF FANGS❞ ── 5

Sunghoon waited outside patiently of your apartment complex, sitting in the passenger seat of Jake’s car. His fingers drummed impatiently on the window switch, just wanting you to come out already.

“Bro, chill, lover boy.” Jake snorted. Sunghoon let out a small hiss, watching the door, waiting for the hinges to creak and the fortified wood to swing open. His leg jumped up and down as he counted the seconds until he’d see you bound down the stairs with a cute smile on your face. Maybe in a cute outfit, too. He’d never really seen your party getups, and you both have never been to the bars together.

The vampire’s breath hitched as the door to your complex swung open, revealing two women. It was you and your roommate and Dracula– you were absolutely stunning. Wearing an outfit that would bring any mortal, and immortal, to their knees. It wasn’t even that revealing or particularly sexy, but you brought out the best of it. Your hair was styled beautifully, bouncing with every step you took. You were smiling widely while talking to your Chowon, radiating a brightness that could rival the sun and scar his vampiric skin.

Jake let out a low whistle. "Damn." Sunghoon's head snapped toward him.

"What?" He growled.

“Not Y/N, dumbass. Chowon. Damn, she’s so pretty.” Jake fixed his hair in the mirror again. The backdoor suddenly swung open, and the noisy sounds of two girls clamoring into the back of a car filled the atmosphere.

"Hoonie!" you beamed. Immediately, every trace of irritation disappeared from the vampire’s face.

"Hello, baby,” he greeted back casually, turning around to look at you. You leaned forward with a small giggle, your knees bumping into the center console as you reached to kiss his cheek. Sunghoon practically melted. Your perfume was intoxicating, and it was almost accentuating your natural smell. Your lips were painted a deep color, and he’s sure that your kiss just left a lipstick mark on his face.

Yeah, Sunghoon wasn’t sure he would survive this party.

You spent the entire ride leaning forward between the seats, chatting animatedly with Jake and Chowon while Sunghoon sat quietly in the passenger seat, occasionally glancing at you whenever he thought you weren't looking. (You caught him staring every single time he thought he was being subtle, and it always brought a small smile to your lips.)

By the time Jake pulled into the crowded street outside the party house, music was already rattling the windows and Sunghoon was sure he spotted some guy already yakking in the neighbor’s bushes.

"Oh my God, it's packed," you gasped excitedly. Sunghoon immediately wanted to go home. The front lawn was crowded, Red Solo cups already littered on the grass. The bass from the speakers was so loud that he could feel it vibrating through the asphalt of the street. There was so many people that Sunghoon was picking up on enough pulses to have his head ringing.

"Fun," he deadpanned. Jake parked on the street, a bit away from the party so that nobody would yak on his tires. The four of you walked to the venue, with your Chowon hitting it off with Jake while you swung your hands with Sunghoon. As soon as you entered the venue, you were sucked into another world with strobing lights to replace the night sky and loud EDM music in place of the chirping crickets. Sunghoon was already regretting his decision. He should’ve just asked if you guys could stay in and have a nice little comfortable date to yourself that didn’t involve over 100 people cramped into a two-story house.

“Be careful. Men are wolves.” Sunghoon said seriously. You giggled.

“Aren’t you a man?” You teasingly asked.

“I’m not a wolf.” He was genuinely repulsed at your question. He was a vampire, a respectable vampire. Werewolves were all instincts and impulses, pheromones and whatnot. Vampires were supposed to be creatures of restraint, sophistication, and control. (Whether that was actually true was up for debate, considering Jake was already losing his mind on the Bloody Mary’s he snuck into the party.)

“Hoon? Should we get a drink too?” You asked, glancing at Jake who was downing his homemade cocktails like he had just found water in a desert. Sunghoon looked around. Everyone else was drunk off of their minds, and the place stunk of booze and body odor. He scrunched his nose.

“Do you want one? I will not get one,” he replied, crossing his arms. You pouted.

“You’re so responsible, Hoon. I’ll try a cup of jungle juice!” You cheerfully spoke. He held your hand, letting you drag him to the bar where Jay’s friend, Sunoo, was standing. He poured a cup that looked like it was wayyy too big of a serving for one gal before sending you a thumbs up.

You took a sip, your eyebrows raising in satisfaction. “Oh? This is dangerous. It tastes like pure juice.”

“Jay’s secret recipe!” Sunoo yelled over the hard bass. You turned around to laugh at Sunoo’s remark when you heard Jake cheer.

“Yoo, Hoon, man, I found Jay! Come say hi!” The Australian rambunctiously yelled, an arm looped around Chowon’s waist. For a brief moment, Sunghoon’s attention shifted to look at the older man. Then, he felt a body press up against him, muttering an apology as it squeezed past. Then another person followed, and then an entire group of freshmen guys yelling about the jungle juice slipped past. And suddenly, you weren’t in his line of vision anymore.

Sunghoon’s head snapped around, trying his best to locate you. He even tried to sniff you out (maybe he was part-werewolf), to no avail. He couldn’t even single out the aroma of your sweet blood with the large crowd, the musty smell of sweaty bodies filling his senses instead. His nose scrunched up in pure disgust.

"Y/N?" He raised his voice, but nobody answered back.

Meanwhile, you were being swept in an entirely different direction. "Hoon?" you called out nervously, standing on your toes to try to get a glimpse of his familiar black hair amongst the seat of people. But the crowd had completely swallowed the both of you up into different currents. "Great." You rolled your eyes, pulling out your phone, only to feel a pang of frustration from the lack of bars.

"Looking for someone?" A voice asked. It was way too soft to be heard above the crowd, yet somehow, you had distinguished it amongst the screams, singing, and EDM. You turned around, your nose nearly bumping into the chest of a stranger. You looked up. He had a gentle and easygoing smile on his lips, an amicable sign that looked like it could put anyone at ease. Yet for some reason, it made you a bit unnerved.

"Yeah," you laughed awkwardly. "I lost my boyfriend." The pale man licked his lips, raising an eyebrow in surprise and vague disappointment.

"Boyfriend, huh?" He replied.

"Mhm." You hummed, a bit weirded out.

"Lucky guy,” he commented. His eyes drifted briefly toward your neck and wrist, before slowly looking back at your face. His smile never left. He leaned in to speak into your ear, "My name's Sangwon."

A chill crawled down your spine. When he stepped closer, his eyes looked exactly like how Sunghoon’s used to when he stared at you during class.

“Yeah, I’m pretty lucky too. Nice to meet you Sangwon.” You nervously chuckled, taking a cautious step back, trying your hardest to put at least some semblance of distance between the both of you despite the packed party. You intentionally didn’t give your name, feeling more and more creeped out the more you looked at him. Sure, he was attractive, but he was giving you the heebie-jeebies for some reason. “Uhm– I’m going to find my boyfriend, yeah.”

“Do you need me to accompany you? It’s really crowded,” he murmured, his voice blaring sirens in your ear despite how soft-spoken he was.

“No– oh no, that’s really okay… I mean, I’ll be fine.” You swallowed. Sangwon tilted his head.

“Your boyfriend wouldn't want you wandering around alone, would he?” His voice lulled almost into a purr. You scoffed, now getting a bit angry at the sheer audacity of this man. Alright, now he was just being downright freaky. Before you could decline again, a wave of people pushed through the room. Someone bumped your shoulder, sending you stumbling slightly. Sangwon's hand immediately shot out to steady you. His grip was cold, almost as cold as Sunghoon’s usual body temperature and way too cold for the hot and heavy-air atmosphere you were in. You stared at him, but made a point not to thank him.

His pointer and middle fingerpads brushed against the inside of your wrist before he let go of your wrist, his digits slowly unfurling around your bone and skin. His smile seemed to widen as he brushed up against the epidermis. “Your heart's beating really fast,” he whispered.

“Uh... what?”

“Probably the music.” He laughed lightly. “And the crowd.”

“Riiiight…” You drawled out. What a freak! You inched away, backing up. Sangwon seemed to follow, as if you had him on a fishing line that magically pulled him. His eyes dropped down, and for a second you were disgusted to see it fall to your lips, but then it dropped lower. You were about to smack him, thinking he was staring at your chest or something, but his gaze shifted slightly to the right. You could see as the red and white lights flashed on his face that his pupils were dilating, his focus seemingly on one thing:

Your neck.

His mouth fell agape, and you could see his canines protruding, thinning of into sharp peaks. Your breath hitched. The pleasant smile he had been wearing all conversation suddenly looked strained, as if he were forcing it into place.

"Are you okay?" you asked cautiously. Suddenly, the breath was knocked out of you as you were pulled back into someone’s chest. You didn’t have to look behind you to know who it was, because the cold and broad muscle was one that you had been slotted up against for endless nights. A firm, left arm wrapped around the top of your chest, locking you into a protective embrace.

“What are you doing with my girlfriend?” Sunghoon hissed. Sangwon's eyes flickered from Sunghoon's face to the arm wrapped around you. Then, slowly, a real and oddly amused smile spread across his lips.

"Oh." The single syllable carried a strange understanding, and it felt like you were suddenly on the outsider of an inside joke. "She's yours." Sangwon raised both hands, as if surrendering. "I'm not trying to cause any trouble."

"You were staring at her neck." The accusation left Sunghoon immediately. You blinked, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. What an oddly specific thing to say. You looked at Sunghoon, and suddenly you didn’t recognize him anymore. When you looked back at Sangwon, it felt less like two strangers meeting and more like two predators sizing each other up.

“So?” Sangwon sighed. "You know how difficult it is to find good donors these days,” he complained, almost whining. Your mouth fell agape in pure discombobulation. Donors? What the hell was he talking about, and why does it seem like Sunghoon understood?

“She is not– She is not a donor.” Sunghoon swallowed, almost sounding pained. “She is my girlfriend, and I love her.” You would’ve cooed if you weren’t so fucking scared and confused. Sangwon looked you up and down before glancing at Sunghoon again.

"How long?" He licked his lips.

Sunghoon's jaw clenched. "That's none of your business,” he spat out.

"Months?" Sangwon guessed. “Months, and you haven’t fed?

FED???

"What does that mean? Hoonie– baby– what does that mean?” You asked, his protective grip on you suddenly feeling suffocating, the weight of his muscular arm now feeling too heavy for your liking. Sangwon barked out a laugh.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

"Stop. Talking.” Sunghoon didn’t know why he didn’t just pull away. He was so caught up in his anger and disgust

"No, seriously." He pointed between the two of you. "You mean to tell me you've been dating her for months and you're still surviving off bagged blood?"

The color drained from your face. What the fuck does he mean bagged blood. It was like your head was on a swivel with the way you kept looking at your boyfriend and the random stranger.

"...What? Babe, what the hell is he talking about–” You began to nervously ramble. Sunghoon looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. Unfortunately for him, Sangwon seemed to be having the time of his life, a cheshire-like grin spreading on his lips as he kept talking.

"Dude, that's insane. You're telling me you've been sleeping next to this girl every night and haven't taken a single sip?" The words were beginning to form a horrifying picture. Was your boyfriend a fucking cannibal or something? Sunghoon's eyes flashed dangerously.

"One more word and I'll rip your throat out." He snarled. The threat came out so naturally and so unlike your delicate boyfriend who was always precious smiles and soft words. 

The EDM was pounding your ear drums, and your heart rate was accelerating. You nervously began to paw at Sunghoon’s arm nervously, your throat closing up and breath stuttering with every heavyset inhale. "H-Hoon..." you whispered. Your voice was barely audible. For the first time since you'd known him, his touch didn't comfort you. It felt like a trap. Sunghoon immediately loosened his grip, hurt flashing across his face.

Sangwon laughed, his eyes wrinkling into gentle crescents despite his mocking demeanor. "See?" He said in a whiny tone. "Now you've gone and scared her. It’s okay, you should feel special. Do you know how hard it is for vampires to love?”

As you looked back at Sangwon, for a split second, your eyes caught something gleaming in the light. A sharp pair of fangs. Your breath caught. You turned around to face your boyfriend.

And when you looked at Sunghoon, he was baring the same set of sharp teeth.

Your boyfriend was a fucking vampire.

You stumbled forwards, out of his grip and towards Sangwon. Realizing you were in between two fucking vampires, you stumbled out to the side, letting your feet lead you away. You heard faintly hear Sunghoon call your name, and hear his footsteps pounding against the floor as they followed after you. By the time you got outside, you thought that the fresh air would let you breathe again, but every inhale seemed to weigh more down on your lungs.

“Baby, please– just listen to me, please, baby.” Sunghoon continuously begged behind you, his voice following you like a loyal puppy.

“Sunghoon– you–” You didn’t even know what to say. What could you? You were standing outside a frat house at midnight after discovering your boyfriend was apparently a vampire. Like the mythical creature that wasn’t supposed to be fucking real, vampire.

“Baby, please,” Sunghoon repeated. You spun around. He nearly bumped into you, his chest nearly slamming against your nose. You backed up, putting some distance between the both of you.

“Are you a vampire?”

The question sounded ridiculous. It wasn’t a sentence that you’d ever thought you’d say. You couldn’t even fucking imagine what situation you would ever use it in, yet here you were, in front of your supposed vampire boyfriend. The second the question left your mouth, Sunghoon's face crumpled. He couldn't even deny it now that he was confronted directly, and his silence was answer enough.

Your stomach dropped. “Oh my God.”

“Y/N—”

“Oh my God.” Your hands flew into your hair. Everything suddenly made sense. The sunscreen, the garlic allergy, the weird staring and formal way of speaking. His fucking books from forever ago and his odd fascination with the Victorian and Gothic eras. His cold skin, his weird fixation with giving you hickeys, and the way he never seemed to get tired. And oh my goodness this is why you could never use the bathroom with him because he doesn’t even show up in mirrors– Your knees nearly buckled, your mind getting crushed with the sheer amount of realizations in your relationship thus far. “Is it true, Sunghoon?” You whispered, “That you’re really a vampire?”

“Yes.” The answer came quietly.

“You lied to me.” Your voice cracked. Sunghoon looked like you'd stabbed him with a wooden stake.

“I know, baby–”

“For months!” You added.

“I know.” He exhaled.

“You let me think you were normal!” Sunghoon’s heart was physically aching, a feeling that he hadn’t experienced a century ago. His heart couldn’t ache. It wasn’t even pumping. But of course, it was you who had pulled out such a strong emotion out of him.

“I wanted to be, Y/N. Please– I really wanted to be normal. For you,” he murmured. For the first time since you’ve met Sunghoon, he looked scared. “I did not mean to lie to you forever,” he said quietly. “I just— I was just waiting for the right time!”

“And when was that?” you demanded. “When we graduated? When we got married? When I was eighty, on my deathbed, while you still look as young as ever, Sunghoon?” Each question made him flinch.

“I do not know,” was all he could say. The music from inside the house pulsed faintly through the walls, but all you could feel was the silence that was lingering over both of your heads.

“Were you really going to drink my blood?” You quietly asked. Sunghoon froze. The question clearly wasn't the one he'd been expecting, but he couldn’t lie to you anymore. He nodded slowly once.

“A long time ago,” he whispered, “But not anymore. Not anymore,” he mumbled. Your question sent him off into a bizarre, desperate, and incoherent rambling. He was muttering to himself, his gaze focused on the hard grass beneath your feet. He took a cautious step forward. “I would rather starve. I promise you, baby.” He sniffled, and when he looked up again, he was crying.

“Sunghoon…” you mumbled, unable to resist cupping his cold skin and wiping away his tear. He nuzzled his cheek into your warm palm, his eyes fluttering shut. He wasn’t the scary bloodsucker that Sangwon made him out to me. No, he was still your sweet boyfriend Sunghoon.

“I–” He choked out. “I– Your blood smelled so good when I first met you…” He confessed. “The first time we became project partners, I wasn't happy because I liked you. I was happy because it made it so much easier for me to just drink you up. But you are sweet– you are so so sweet, Y/N, just like your blood. And every time we met up, we got closer and– and you made me feel something I haven’t felt in over a hundred years. I don’t know when it happened, Y/N, but I didn’t just want your blood anymore. I wanted you.” He was breathless as he rambled on and on, and he would continue until there was no more air in his lungs as long as you were convinced and you didn’t leave him.

“Hoon, I’m– I’m really mad still…” your voice cracked, your fingers clumsily coming up to rub away as a tear slipped down your cheek. “You– you still lied to me… and– and you wanted to suck my blood. I dunno how I feel about that, Hoon…” you murmured, “but I can’t deny that I haven’t been at my happiest with you. And admittedly, I don’t think I can say that I hate you…”

Sunghoon’s eyes sparkled with the tears that lined his ducts. He sniffled, his pale hands rubbing against each other at the palms to help soothe himself. "You do not have to forgive me tonight," he said quickly, as if the words had been waiting behind his teeth. "Or tomorrow. Or next week." His gaze dropped to the pavement. "Honestly, I do not know if I would forgive me." He laughed weakly, wiping at his tear-stained face.

"I understand if you are scared of me, too,” he spoke lowly. You couldn’t deny it. You were scared. Not exactly of Sunghoon, but of everything you had just learned. It was too much for a college student to process. That vampires apparently existed. And your boyfriend was one. And that same boyfriend who kissed your forehead before exams and made you your favorite instant ramyeon when you were sick had once looked at you and thought about draining all your blood.

It was way too much.

"I’m sorry, Hoon– I– I think… I need a second. Away. From you,” you hesitantly said. Sunghoon nodded in understanding. “I’ll– I’ll call an uber. And I’ll call you eventually, Hoon. When I’ve sorted everything out.”

Sunghoon spent a week in absolute misery.

The first day, he kept staring at all of the pictures of you he had on his phone. The second day, he went through your social media, stalking your account to see your minimal amount of photos posted and to see if you had put anything on your stories. The third day, he was contemplating whether or not it’d be worth it to bake himself in the Sun. He wasn’t even sure how he made it through the rest of the four days without actually dying.

"For the love of Dracula, man." Jake threw a throw pillow directly at his face. Sunghoon didn't even flinch. The pillow hit him square in the fact before it slowly slid off. "Get up, you’re embarrassing our entire species. Vampires don’t sulk, we smolder, man." Jake looked at the untouched blood packets littering the coffee table. "And when was the last time you ate, dude? You’re making our apartment look like a fucking crime scene in the making. And you look paler than usual, man, damn. You look like Nosferatu.”

"I am not hungry. And do not compare me to him. That feels blasphemous.”

Jake rolled his eyes. “Have you texted her at least?”

“I am waiting for her to text me. She is the one who said she needed space, so I must wait for her.” Sunghoon sighed, rubbing his forehead despite himself. Jake winced.

“Man, it must be really bad if you’re touching your face..” He gave a firm pat to Sunghoon’s back. “Well, look on the bright side, man. She probably won’t break up with you if she just said she needed space, right?” Jake tried. Sunghoon nodded, but there were no emotions on his listless face.

“But what if she decides to after a week?” Sunghoon sniffled. Jake rolled his eyes.

“Man, I think if anything, if I found out my boyfriend was a vampire, it would make him hotter!” Jake tried once more. Sunghoon nodded again, but there wasn’t exactly a positive or negative reaction. He wasn’t exactly scared of being dumped. He was more terrified of the fact that he could have scarred you. He was terrified that instead of picturing him as your boyfriend, all you would see is a set of fangs, ready to dig into you and kill you at any moment.

He felt like throwing up. It was probably because of the malnourishment, but he felt sick at the thought of you thinking that he would kill you. And the truth was that he did at one point, but even though he changed his mind about it, the concept had still existed at one point. And for you, every perspective and sweet memory the two of you shared was probably now stained by his foolish intentions. He wanted to rip his hair out. He was nearly about to actually when his phone began to ring.

He lunged for his phone on the coffee table, his heart feeling lighter as he read the contact. It was yours. He picked up before the second ring could even happen. “Y/N? Babe? Is that you?” He meekly spoke.

“Hoon? Can you come over?” You asked through the phone. His heart felt like it was breaking into two as he heard your soft sniffles that you tried so hard to suppress.

“Yes. I will be there. I–” He let out a defeated sigh. “I will be there in five minutes. I am going to fly,” he honestly admitted as he walked to the balcony door. His fingers pulled back the black-out curtains for a moment to reveal the weather outside. The Sun was almost mocking him, shining brightly despite his gloomy mood, and he hissed silently as the ray caught on his exposed arm.

“What? What do you mean fly, Hoon? Like– fly with your vampiric powers?” You fussed. He winced.

“Yes. I love you. Five minutes, babe.”

And as promised, he was outside the door to your apartment in five minutes. He was about to knock on the door when it suddenly swung open, revealing you in all your glory. You looked, well, like a mess to be honest. Your eyes were puffy, lips pouty, and you were drowning in an oversized sweatshirt that Sunghoon was sure belonged to him. He would’ve felt upset at your condition if you didn’t wear his clothes, because to him, it was a sign that you still loved him some way.

Sunghoon missed you so much. He missed you so much that it felt like his skin was peeling off. Oh, maybe it was. He was standing a little bit in the Sun. You gently wrapped your fingers around his wrist and pulled him inside your apartment. The curtains were drawn shut, and the living room was illuminated by a warm standing lamp at the end of your couch. The dark atmosphere made him swallow. Were you really sulking in such a dim environment, just as he was?

“I missed you.” He breathed out without thinking. You looked stunned that he spoke up first, but soon, a soft smile spread across your lips.

“I missed you too, Hoon…” you responded, “Let’s– Let’s talk in my room, okay?” You proposed. He nodded obediently. He’d walk into incoming traffic if you asked him in that sweet tone. He followed you and noticed immediately that his sunscreen brand was still on your dresser and that his phone charger was still plugged into the wall. A ghost of a grin haunted his expression.

“Can I just– ask you something?” You exhaled. “How much of our relationship was real? How much of it did you really feel?”

“All of it.” The answer came immediately. You were taken aback at how fast he replied. “I think… for the most part, I was in denial about my feelings. You were my first everything, Y/N,” he confessed, his hands beginning to tremor with the intensity of his passion. “My first girlfriend, my first kiss, and my first love.” He nodded. “Even after over 120 years of living.”

“120 YEARS?” You yelped. He winced, his broad frame curling into himself. He looked less of a vampire and more of a frightened kitten.

“Yes… I am around 120 years old… Give or take?” His shoulders shrugged up with a sheepish look on his face. “But that is not relevant right now…?” He waved his hands dismissively. “All that matters is that I, Park Sunghoon the vampire, am sincerely in love with you.” He nodded, before twisting his expression. “Was that too cheesy?”

“A little bit.” You laughed wetly. You slowly opened your arms, and Sunghoon hesitantly allowed himself to fall into it. Even though he was a muscular vampire, he felt so small in your warm embrace. “I’m still mad, Hoon…” you admitted. “But I can’t lie and say that our relationship doesn’t mean anything to me. Because you’ve been my boyfriend first for a while now, and to me, being a vampire is a secondary thing. Does that make sense?” You kissed his forehead softly, and you could feel the muscles ease under your lips.

“Yes…” he murmured softly. You smiled.

“Although I’ll probably be a little mad for a while. Just ‘cuz you lied to me. And I think I can get past the part where you wanted to suck my blood because you said you don’t want to anymore, I guess. It’s a little muddy there.” You scratched your head. He nodded against your chest.

“I am sorry. I can apologize a million times until you are not mad anymore. On my knees, too. Or you can hang me upside down by my feet like a bat if that makes you happier.” He added. You smiled and gently smoothed down the back of his sleek, black hair before cupping his pale face.

“Maybe later, baby. I just think I want to spend some missed time with my boyfriend right now.”

❛❛THIS SWEET SCENT, FANGS GLOWING RED❞ ── + 1

“Baby, are you okay?”

It had been a while since you and Sunghoon had made up, but somehow looked even sicker than he did when he first appeared on your doorstep. Your boyfriend was already naturally cold and pale, but his white skin somehow turned greyish and practically translucent enough to see the outline of his bone structure. He couldn’t even go out, his skin becoming even more sensitive to UV rays no matter how much he covered himself up. Even a puffer jacket couldn’t stop the sunlight from penetrating through to his skin.

“I am fine,” he said weakly. He was currently bundled up in all of your blankets, laying down in your bed with a hot pack on his forehead. You weren’t sure this would heal him up, and Sunghoon honestly wasn’t sure himself, but he reassured you that it was the thought that counts and that ,“he’s a vampire, so he’ll probably live.”

After three days of his sickness and still no sign of recovery, you called in professional reinforcements.

“Yeah, I dunno man.” Jake shrugged as he casually sucked on his blood pack. He offered some to Sunghoon, who shrugged with a repulsed scrunch of his nose. “Are you hungry, man? You didn’t eat for a like– a week when you guys didn’t talk. Maybe it’s like his stomach shrank or something.” Jake tried to find a reason.

“I have not had a blood pack since before our fight,” Sunghoon admitted honestly, “I tried to, but they taste repulsive for some odd reason.”

“Ohh…” Jake’s mouth formed into a surprised circle. “Have you tried drinking Y/N’s blood?”

“Are you crazy!? That is why we did not speak in the first place, you lunatic!” Sunghoon growled before bursting out into a fit of coughs.

“I mean, you haven’t had any form of sustenance, and you’re disgusted by other blood. If she’s your girl, and you wanted to drink her blood before, logically wouldn’t it be better if you just drank her blood?” Jake suggested.

“What if– what if I hurt you, Y/N?” Sunghoon swallowed, wincing as the dry lining of his esophagus itched. 

“I can always push you off, you know?” You smiled. “I’m not that weak and fragile, Hoon.” Your words were firm, but apparently not firm enough to convince Sunghoon. He was gnawing at his bottom lip anxiously, but you could see how his canines looked sharper than they usually were.

“Okay…” Sunghoon finally conceded. Jake left, taking a bottle of his roommate’s sunscreen that he forgot on the coffee table as “payment” for his help. After the Australian vampire left, you settled into bed with Sunghoon. He sat up properly, letting you sit in his lap. The blanket that had covered his long legs was now strewn across your bed, bunched up on the side against your wall.

“If it hurts, just please slap the immortality out of me.” Sunghoon nodded firmly. You laughed, gently cupping his gaunt face so that he could look at you properly.

“I trust you, baby, just trust yourself too, hm?” The pads of your thumb rubbed up against his cheeks. He let out a small breath before burying his nose into the crook of your neck and inhaling deeply, as if he could breathe you into your lungs and keep you locked in there forever. A small pleased grunt left his lips, the sound raspy and dry.

“You smell s’good…” he mumbled. You kept looking at his face, taking note of every microexpression he made. His thick eyebrows twitched together, the muscles forming wrinkles at the center. His nose fluttered up and down like a bunny sniffing out for carrots. And then he opened his mouth, and your heart felt like it stopped. (Sunghoon knew it only paced faster.)

Past his plump lips and lining his red mouth was his two sharp fangs, gleaming with how sharp they were. “Gonna sink them into your neck, baby… right here…” Sunghoon’s voice whispered as his jaw hinged wide open. Your fingers instinctively curled, gripping his t-shirt into your clammy grasp. You squeezed your eyes shut, body tensing to brace for the impact of his teeth. Sunghoon immediately felt the tension ripple through your muscles. He gently skimmed his delicate fingers up and down your sides to soothe you. The gesture was so sweet and gentle compared to the threat posed by his pointed canines.

His touch coaxed the stiffness from your muscles bit by bit. The room seemed to narrow until there was nothing but his cold fingertips, your booming heartbeat, and the warmth of his breath ghosting across your throat.

The second you finally relaxed–

CRUNCH! 

The sound exploded through the bedroom. You bit your bottom lip so hard that it drew blood from the thin skin. Your back arched into a rigid bow, chest pressing against his and shoulders coming together to pull into your sides. Sunghoon’s grip on your waist tightened to stabilize your trembling body. He couldn’t speak, too busy with his mouth buried in your neck, but he gently squeezed at your sides to show you that he was there for you.

You felt his lips come down to surround his open mouth before he began to suck. A pleased groan left his mouth as your blood flooded his tastebuds. It was sweeter than anything he could’ve imagined, and for a second, he wondered if Eve felt this way beneath the tree, staring up at the apple before biting into it, only to discover that temptation had never done it justice.

And as soon as that second was over, every thought became incoherent to him, flushing away in a whirlpool. His eyes fluttered shut as he continued to suckle on your neck, his enclosed lips forming a hickey around the two prominent holes pierced in your skin. Sunghoon had spent months trying to convince himself that he didn’t want it anymore because it just wasn’t right, but as soon as the first drop of blood hit his tongue, he was sure he could get drunk purely off the taste alone. You really were AB+, huh.

Every beat of your heart pulsed beneath his lips steadily like a metronome, and every tremor that ran through your body reminded him that you trusted him enough to be this close. Sunghoon’s body was beginning to get flooded with a dizzying warmth that didn’t originate from your blood– no, it was all rushing to his head.

Your boyfriend tightened his grip on your waist, a shaky breath escaping him. If he wasn't careful, he might become addicted to this– the tantalizing cocktail of devotion and satiation that only drinking his girlfriend’s blood could mix up. He drank you down in in slow, greedy pulls, as if trying to savor everything flowing into his mouth. You could feel the faint movement of his Adam’s apple against your skin, each bobbing motion grounding him deeper, as if he were taking more than just blood—like he was taking pieces of your warmth, your heartbeat, your very presence.

Eventually, a dull buzz crept into your head and your strength began to slip from your muscles. Your fingers loosened their hold on his shirt, moving up to curl into fists and weakly rap at his broad shoulders.

He hesitated before pulling off, his breath hitching as he slowly lifted his head from your neck. You took in his expression as his face came back into your focal point. His lips were parted, thinly stained with the crimson tint of your blood, and his eyes were glowing a dark red. Yet, his pupils were unfocused and hazy, as if he was just abruptly woken up from the best dream he’s ever had in his life. As he blinked himself back to reality, his gaze focused on you.

You looked sickly, almost as sick as he was before he drank your blood. You were swaying slightly, your eyes fluttering open and shut like you were learning how they worked for the first time. He licked his lips to gather the remainders of your blood into his mouth. So fucking warm. So sweet. Sooo good, too good. It was everything he dreamt of and more. His eyes flickered to where he punctured your neck. Sunghoon had to bite his lips to suppress an audible groan from escaping his mouth. He abruptly dove back into your neck, but not to drink from you even more. He flattened his tongue and laved it over the two open wounds to seal them with his saliva, effectively cutting off any more blood flow and any more temptation to steal his rationale away.

“Hoon– Hoon, baby…” You whimpered. He pulled back, afraid at the way you sounded almost wounded. But then, he felt it. He glanced down to see your legs, spread and bordering his firm thighs, and in between, your heated core pressed against his prominent bulge. He bit his lip, trembling at the new and pleasurable sensation. “Hoon– did you get hard from drinking– drinking my blood?” You whispered. You sounded flattered and flabbergasted all at once.

Sunghoon felt dread wash upon him. As sexy as the situation was, the explanation was not. He sucked down the humiliation as he opened his mouth to rationalize his sudden spike of arousal. “Vampires do not produce blood. Therefore, when we intake blood, it may rush to certain parts of our bodies. I believe that, with such a– a desirable situation… it effectively decided to trail to my…” He didn’t finish his sentence, letting his newfound virility complete his explanation for him.

You giggled. “Do you– do you want to put it to use, Hoonie?” Your voice dipped down into a velvety purr, and Sunghoon was sure that if he wasn’t a vampire, his dick would’ve been instantly up the moment you looked at him with those hooded eyelids. 

“Yes– fuck, yes.” He groaned out, gripping your hips tightly. Your hand tentatively reached down to grope his bulge through his sweats in order to truly feel what you were working with. A small gasp slipped past your open lips as your hand wrapped around his girth– and for the first time that you’ve met Sunghoon, he wasn’t frigid.

“It’s so warm, Hoonie…” You mumbled, your fingers laying over the soft material of his trousers, not quite gripping his clothed cock properly. “I– Can I see it?” You whispered. He nodded, pushing down his sweats and boxers down to his thigh. You gasped as his erection sprung up. It was red, leaking, and full of life.

“Do– do you like it?” He asked, trying to steady his voice so he didn’t seem nervous. You nodded slowly. Your brain was still trying to keep up with the situation– got your blood sucked, now should you suck his dick or…– But your thoughts became useless and all tied down to one thing. Sunghoon’s impressive cock bobbing up and down with every breath he took.

“I like it a lot, Hoonie…” you giggled. You cupped your palm under your chin to spit in it before gliding your enclosed palm down his length. He shuddered, his hips jolting up as soon as your warm hand made contact with his heated shaft. Everything he had learned went out the window– There were no candles or roses prepared, no kissing or making out beforehand either. But if he got to this position, where your delicate hand was stroking him so eagerly, then he guessed he didn’t really need those articles anyways, right?

“Your hand is so soft, Y/N. So warm too– almost as warm as your blood,” he muttered, “You are doing so good…” He hissed through his teeth as your grip tightened on his cock. Even though your spit wasn’t as a sufficient enough lubrication and there was still a bit of friction, he was in his most euphoric state. Sunghoon realized for a second that he would’ve never gotten to experience something so so good and utterly divine if it weren’t for you.

“Love you, baby…” Sunghoon suddenly said to remind you of his genuine affection. You smiled bashfully up at him.

“I love you too, Hoonie…” your voice was so sweet that he could taste it in his mouth. Or maybe it was the taste of your blood still lingering. Regardless, his heart was swelling. He leaned back against the headboard, one large hand flattened on your hip and the other hand bracing his body on the mattress. He was admiring your face, looking at the way you had small indents on your bottom lip from where you bit it and the noticeable flush coming back to your faces. Sunghoon could feel your heartbeat reverberating against your bones– could feel himself within your heartbeat. And he never wanted to feel anything else than this.

“Can I touch you too?” Sunghoon asked softly. You nodded silently, eyebrows wrinkling in concentration as you continued to stroke him. You were more playing with his cock at this point, squeezing your hand in random intervals and intently watching the way precum was beading at the tip with every upward stroke. While you were concentrated, his free hand smoothly made its way to your shorts, pressing two curious fingers up against your clothed cunt. You whimpered, lips curling up in a sensitive pout as your legs twitched together. He pressed harder, observing the way you reacted to his gentle touch.

He jolted as you found your rhythm with your hand, your erratic strokes becoming steady pumps. Your soft palms, slicked with your saliva, was making him dizzy. He felt like all the blood that he sucked out of you was rushing to his dick instead of circulating throughout his body. His hips were gyrating upwards as he absentmindedly chased the pleasure surge. Fuck, it felt like he was about to faint– or die. He’d be fine as long as you kept that firm grip on his cock and kept staring at him so prettily–

“Oh, Hoon!” You gasped. Bursts of his cum erupted from his slit, landing to coat the back of your hands and the sides of your fingers. He swallowed, panting as your hand slowly kept dragging up and down to help ease him from his high.

“Fuck– Oh my Dracula.” He breathed out raggedly. “I did not know that– that it could ever feel this good.”

“You’re telling me you never masturbated in your century of living?” You snorted. He nodded.

“My dick has not been hard since a century ago, babe.” He reminded with a cheeky smile. You giggled, shimmying out of your shorts and pulling down your underwear. You were still a bit shy, but after making Sunghoon fall apart once with just your hand, you were gaining a newfound confidence to pleasure him even more. As soon as you sat back on his thighs to part your legs, it was like all time had stopped for him. His pupils dilated as they stared at your most sacred parts– beautiful and warm and so wet. He licked his lips as a new hunger drummed through his veins. Not a hunger for your blood, but a sudden craving for the sweet nectar your body was producing. He tentatively brought up a finger to rub at your clit, once again recalling what he read in those articles.

“Hoonie– it feels good when you touch there…” You whispered. He swallowed and nodded to acknowledge your words, before extending a second finger to circle your precious bud. You bit your lip as you watched Sunghoon explore your body, his keen eyes trying to catch every single microscopic movement you were making to gauge what was most pleasurable to you. It was endearing, in a way, that a vampire with a century’s worth of knowledge was still able to learn new things.

He daringly used his two fingers to spread your lower lips, revealing your inner parts. You were just wet, so wet that Sunghoon didn’t know what to do with himself. “Going inside…” he muttered as he slowly dipped a finger inside of your hole. He sucked in a breath as your heat sucked in his finger. His digit was wrapped in a warmth so much more heated than your blood. You squirmed, prompting him to keep his left hand firm hand on your knee so that you couldn’t shy away.

“What does it feel like, baby?” He crooned.

“Feels weird– just feels like something is inside, Hoon…” You admitted honestly. With as light as a touch he could possibly muster up, he slowly sunk his finger in deeper until your folds were surrounding the base of his digit. You let out a shaky breath as he pumped in and out– in and out. “Oh– it feels kinda good, Hoon… your finger is so long…” You smiled, feeling his fingertip prodding around inside of you. He eased in a second finger before realizing that he hasn’t even kissed you yet. He awkwardly craned his neck to peck your nose before placing a soft and tender kiss to your lips.

“Tell me how it feels– if it feels good or bad. I want to know everything about what your body likes.” Sunghoon’s breath fanned out against his lips before it disappeared as he pulled back. You nodded, a hiccup stuck in your throat as his fingers twisted around and curled upwards.

“Feels good, Hoon. Your– your fingers feel really good… and it feels even better because it’s you,” you mumbled, your hips beginning its chase towards his hand. “I love you…”

“I love you too,” he responded instantly. It would be a major offense if he let you say it with even a millisecond between his own affirmation of affection. “I want you to– to finish for me. Just as you let me for you.” He licked his lips, thick eyebrows furrowing towards his nose bridge as he pressed in a third finger. “Can you do that for me, please?” He smiled with all of his teeth, showing off his sharp fangs. You swallowed and nodded, letting out soft pants as your body rocked up and down, essentially grinding down on his three fingers.

“Yes– yes, I can, Hoonie. I can…” You whimpered. You sounded so delicious, soft whines escaping your lips that rang melodious in his keen ears. Your tight heat was clenching around his fingers, choking them with how much you were clenching down. It was odd and overwhelming all at once, a sensation that Sunghoon internally promised to explore more. “Hoonie– I think ‘m gonna come.” You breathed out, high in your throat. “I’m coming– Hoonie– ah!” You shrieked, nimble fingers gripping at his wrists as your hips gave one last jolt. He kissed your cheek gently, using his plump lips to ground you as you came. He gave you one, two, three more pumps of his fingers before easing them out of you.

“Are you okay? Is it good?” He eyed the way your legs were trembling, and your hips were still twitching with the aftershocks of your orgasm. You smiled and nodded. He looked at his fingers, coated in your viscous release. Your natural, musky scent was enticing. Enticing enough to eat. He lapped at his fingers, groaning as the delicious taste of your fluids spread across his tongue. You let out a whimper at the sexy sight, your hole clenching as a new spike of arousal hit your core.

“Sunghoon, can– can you go inside…?” Your eyes drifted down to your boyfriend’s hard cock, ready to go again.

He nodded, whispering out a few, “Yeah, yes– yeah…” as if trying to soothe himself before the final entree of your three course sex meal. “Do you think it will be easier for you to sit on it? Or on your back?” He asked, skimming his fingertips across your bare thigh. You licked your lips. It would’ve been easier to take it on your back, but really, you wanted to be on top of Sunghoon and make him lose control, just as he almost had when his face was buried in your neck.

“Can I ride you, Hoonie?” You asked sweetly. He closed his heads, his head slumping forward with a more audible groan.

“Yes– fuck, yes. You can do anything you want to me,” he muttered. You sat up with your knees, adjusting your body until your dripping heat was hovering over his erection. You bit your lip as you gripped his impressive size by the base, steadying it so that you could sloooowwwlyyyy sink down. You winced as your hole began stretching around his thick tip, causing his hands to shoot up and grip your hips.

“Are you okay, baby? Does it hurt?” He tried not to panic, but you could tell he was worrying by the tremor in his voice.

“A little– it’s okay, Hoon. I just have to get used to it,” you said through shaky breaths. He steadied your trembling body, allowing you to lower yourself at your own pace.

“There we go, baby… It is okay… you are doing so well…” he leaned forward to whisper praises in your ear, breath hot against your sensitive skin. “There we go, taking me so good. Just go slow– little by little. I am here for you. We can stop at any time…” he mumbled, trying to ease your body so it could relax and open up even more for him. Airy moans slipped past your parted lips as you gradually got adjusted to his size, your tight cunt taking one inch, then two, and then another until eventually, you were seated on his lap and filled to the brim with his fat cock.

“Oh, fuck. Fuck.” Sunghoon thought he’s never cursed this much in his life up until this moment. Your warm insides were wrapped around him so tightly that, if his body had proper circulation, he was sure that your pussy would have cut it off by now. Your inner walls were massaging his length, feeling up against the ridges of his translucent veins and bringing him a pleasure greater than intaking blood.

“Sunghoon!” You kept gasping out chants of his name, your thighs quivering so much that he he didn’t know what to do. Your two palms kept themselves steady on his chest, bracing your entire body as it adjusted to his cock.

“It is okay, baby. You’re doing so well…” He kissed the side of your cheek, peppering the expanse of skin with soft pecks. “There we go– just sit still. Move when you are ready.”  He cooed. You nodded, tears pooling in your waterline as you squirmed around, trying your best to get used to the overwhelming and new feeling of being so fucking full. Soft grunts spilled from your lips as you slowly ascended, and Sunghoon felt like he was being turned again with how much was hitting every part of his nerve. Your slick walls gripped him as you pulled up, sucking him in as if they never wanted to get off of him. He hissed, a hand flying to rest on your hip.

“Hoon– Hoonie, kiss please…” You whined, sounding so utterly undone and pathetic that, as if by magnetic force, his lips immediately attracted themselves to yours. Your hips rolled forward, prompting a groan to pass his parted mouth. You moved slowly, feeling Sunghoon’s girth press up against your walls, moving around to map around every single bit of your insides.

Your kisses became uncoordinated, your lips moving from his mouth to its corners, before falling down to his jaw until you eventually latched onto his neck. Your sweet pecks turned into harsher sucking, and then Sunghoon felt something oddly familiar. You were biting down on his neck, as if you had fangs of your own. The thought made him impossibly harder, imagining your tiny mouth crowded by sharp canines and glaring back at him with red irises. He huffed as he craned his neck back to allow you to mouth at his skin. He smoothed down your hair as he felt you try to suck a mark to imprint your touch– it was in vain, but it was so endearing to him.

A foreign tightness began to coil up in his lower gut. Your movements were becoming erratic now– your hips running towards your peak like a chicken with its head cut off. Your fingertips weren’t holding his biceps anymore, instead your fingers curled until your nails were indenting crescents into his muscles. “Hoon– Hoon…” you mewled incessantly, as if it would kill you if you stopped making such lewd sounds. Your vision was blurring again, and you could feel the wetness of a tear rolling down your cheek. Sunghoon’s thumb gently came up to wipe it away before his large palm encompassed the expanse of your cheek.

“There we go… My baby is so pretty, chasing her pleasure. That is it– come on.” He choked out, his breathing heavier than he wanted it to sound. He squeezed his eyes shut and gulped before letting out a loud exhale as you clenched around him. Fuck it. Sounding seductive and in control was the least of his concern. Not when his beautiful girlfriend was riding him like a champ.

Everything was so fucking warm– your bodies, the air, and especially your blood. When Sunghoon breathed in the hot and heavy atmosphere, the aroma of your sweet, sweet elixir of life made him dizzy. His mind was clouded. Nothing could ever come close to this intoxicating feeling– not even having a second taste of your blood could compare to the feeling of your insides fucking milking him for everything he had. With a load grunt, Sunghoon lurched forward, burying himself into the deepest parts of your insides as he came.

You gasped his name, but Sunghoon could barely register it. His head was ringing as more warmth spurted from his cock, coating your insides white. He hissed, a thumb drawing to your pretty bud to rub you, wanting you to follow him to the finish line. And with a few uncoordinated circles, your arms wrapped around his neck, bringing him into your sweaty embrace as you came around his cock.

“Hoon– Hoon, fuck, I love you so much!” You squealed, nearly incoherent. He didn’t care that you were nearly suffocating him with your tight hug because all he wanted was to feel your tight heat come around him– again again and again. But against his desires, he pulled out, leaving his cum to drip out of your cunt.

“Oh– I was not supposed to finish inside,” he muttered, eyes blown wide. You giggled and pressed a sloppy, wet kiss to his cheek as you sat against his thighs.

“It’s okay, Hoon.” You hummed, cupping his face gently. The warmth from his skin slowly began to dissipate, leaving behind the pale boyfriend that you were so accustomed to. You caressed his soft, cold skin with a loving smile on your lips before pecking his own. “I love you,” you whispered against his mouth, leaving a grin in its wake.

“I love you too…” he murmured back.

Being a vampire was tedious.

But if this is where immortality had led him to– a sweet girlfriend with even sweeter blood– then he guessed he could live with it for another century or two.

[hoonkitti]

his nurse ─ ˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

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. 

“i’ll look forward to it.”

© ⌞hoonkitti⌝ ⁞ all rights reservedㅤ please don't share, copy, or translate my work.

[lovecvrexx]

TEACH ME ✩ P. SUNGHOON

( 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.

he’s your best friend, after all.

© 2026 LOVECVREXX. please do not repost / claim my work is yours.

@xminato, @itsraininghyunebuckets, @ebnabi, @flippedccc, @persassyismysecrettwin, @chan1uv, @bunny-2473, @ykitsaura, @quinnofdrama, @kloversung, @angelhyuka, @hueningsgirl, @cinnamonrei, @shawnyle, @kristynaaah, @mamuljji, @nishirikiluvr, @pix3lkitten, @sugarcwtie, @stwrlightt, @yeonyeonbun, @ni-k1ttie, @rikisloverrr, @adorbu, @aeriville, @ineedchaninsidemethanks, @jadeluv143

[janiary]

‘𝑻𝒊𝒍 𝑫𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝑫𝒐 𝑼𝒔 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕 ⟡ 𝓅.𝓈𝒽 ℰ 𝓈.𝒿𝓎

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.

nav ✰.ᐟ m.list ✰.ᐟ thanks for reading ♡

[swiftjay23]

STILL WET?!

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.”

perm taglist:@hellomynameis-jessica @svvtvenom @saeivra @chaebbys @wonswrl @rianzysworld @bxldak @liloaeu @seungsoftly @aezzi @slut4heespam @freakseung2001 @strawberrykkkl @noraa127 @keonhoescafe @isaphn @gardenwonn @saccharinezennie @yjwpout @kpopishgirlie @nishimurarikisgoodgirl @chario1397 @fairygrvngetae

[dollhoonki]

𓌉◯𓇋 ── WHAT'S FOR DINNER? ⋆ PARK SUNGHOON。

   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.

朴成训 𝔁  𝒻 .ᐟ读者 ── 3.6k    explicit content ⋆ smut (mdni)、dom!sunghoon、sub!reader、friends with benefits trope、degradation/humiliation、oral (m. rec)、throat fucking、cum swallowing、dacryphilia、praise、hung!hoon、biting/marking、(hints of) breeding kink、(hints of) size kink、petnames used: baby、pretty、princess、slut、sweet girl⌇ℳ.list

⋮ ⌗ ┆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." 

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