alanine @acciojaeyun - Tumblr Blog

🪽 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐎, 𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄. come in, you're welcome here.

– name: alanine – a nsfw blog, minors do not interact. control what you consume. – reblog: @amortenha | new blog: @seungseongz

🗒️ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐑𝐘 where we all get lost in the world.

THE PROMPTS • REQUESTS OPEN

MASTERLIST | EVENTS | MISC | FAQ | RECS

📝 𝐖𝐇𝐎 𝐈 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑 where you become one with love.

enhypen (open): hyung line (for 18+) and the maknae line *note: i used to write for the stranger things lore as well as the harry potter lore, however, i will not open requests and would not return to writing them soon. apologies.

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION FOR MY WORK TO BE COPIED/REPOSTED ON HERE OR ANY OTHER PLATFORM, OR PUT INTO ANY AI PROGRAMS.

#enhypen #masterlist #lee heeseung #park jongseong #sim jaeyun #park sunghoon #kim sunoo #yang jungwon #ni-ki

brokenengene

ੈ ✩ ‧₊˚ 𝒃ed 𝒄hem - s.jy

One drunken night with your best friend turned into a habit. Messy, filthy, addictive. No strings. No feelings. At least that's what you tell yourself.

pairing: jake sim x fem!reader

genre: friends with benefits, smut

word count: 2.9k

This content is only for readers 18+

content warning: graphic sexual content, unprotected sex(wrap it!), fingering, riding, praise kink, size kink, dirty talk, angst, brief alcohol usage, creampie

soundtrack: bed chem - sabrina carpenter

m.list! ✧ .* ༄

acciojaeyun

DEAR LORD

#📖 — jake

I really enjoyed the sunghoon fic omg <3 Thank you!!

P.s. I think you accidentally made a duplicate of the whole section of week 12 in the story

thank you so much!! i didn’t notice that 🥹🤍 glad u liked it!

#💬 — alanine #lgwmrg;

– love grows, where my rosemary goes. | psh.

PAIRING. jock!sunghoon x fem!reader

SUMMARY. summer, 1983. you work at reeltime video, alphabetize tapes, and fall in love with stories too big for your small town. park sunghoon, campus heartthrob with a members only jacket and a habit of returning late tapes, is the last person you'd expect to work the summer shift beside you. but then he does. and one thursday, he climbs through your window.

CONTENT. slowburn, virgin!reader, experienced!sunghoon, first time sex, praise kink, mutual pining, falling in love over summer, 1980s nostalgia, video store setting, hurt/comfort, miscommunication, window climbing scene, rom-com tropes, soft smut, emotional climax, sunghoon in love and desperate, mentions of reader’s first time, safe but descriptive intimacy, lots of feelings

WORD COUNT. 7,890

FROM ALANINE. thank you so much for waiting! <3 this is the product of my steve harrington brainrot all because sunghoon’s english name is steve. lmao

MY LIBRARY. REQUESTS ARE OPEN! TO BE ADDED TO MY TAGLIST, YOU CAN SEND ME A MESSAGE.

Week One, Summer, 1983.

People had a lot of dreams when they were younger.

There were loud ones: become an astronaut. Win an Oscar. Move to New York. Share a kiss or two with their partner as they walk in the City of Love.

And there were quiet ones: learn to play the guitar. Own a dog. Kiss someone in the rain. Feel seen.

You never really knew where you were. You thought that maybe you’re in the middle ground, somewhere in between the loud and the quiet dreams.

You’ve always wanted to become a filmmaker.

At the age of four, while most of the children your age clutched toy cars or dolls and played pretend, you sat wide-eyed in the living room thinking about how colors blended like watercolors while watching The Sound of Music. You didn’t understand the story then, but you understood awe.

It was then when you said you wanted the blooming feeling in your chest to be what you felt everyday.

At the age of sixteen, your heart soured for John Travolta in Grease. Not because he was perfect, but because he danced like he meant it and wore heartbreak like a leather jacket. You rewound the tape more times than you could count, just to watch Sandy’s transformation. You liked that love could be theatrical. Big. Loud. And a world full of music.

Still, most days, you were small. You watched people the way you watched your movies.

You worked at ReelTime Video not because it paid well, but because it felt like it was the closest thing to your dream: shelves lined with stories, whole worlds trapped in plastic cases. You looked after each day, not minding you were working during summer, because you got to smell old film sleeves, listen to the soft whir of rewinding tapes, observed the way people wandered the aisles like they were searching for something more than a movie.

And then he walked in.

Park Sunghoon.

Campus heartthrob. Ice hockey team captain. Meticulously known for his Ray-Bans, his Members Only jacket, and the trail of girls who giggled whenever he passed by. His hair was swept up the same way John Travolta had it – that easy, voluminous coif with a single curled strand falling just so against his forehead, like it was placed there by a stylist, not sweat and effort.

He wasn’t the kind of boy who borrowed films from a small-town rental shop. But he came. Every week. A different girl on his arm each time. Sometimes they chewed gum loudly, leaning into him. Sometimes, they twirled his car keys like they were the ones driving. He never returned the tapes on time, though. He always owed a late fee, and he never apologised. And still, he got away with it, because he smiled like a boy who never needed to ask for forgiveness.

The first time you saw him walk in, you nearly dropped the E.T. VHS you were reshelving. Not because he was beautiful – well, he is gorgeous, but that wasn’t the point.

It was because he didn’t belong in your world. He was Top Gun, all American swagger and golden-boy confidence. You were Cinema Paradiso, quiet and tucked behind the reels, watching people fall in love with stories that weren’t theirs.

Still, maybe it was the contrast that made you notice him more. Or maybe it was the way he barely looked at the movies, just gestured toward whatever his date picked, only to drift toward the horror section alone, hands in his pockets, humming something you couldn’t hear.

You told yourself not to care. You weren’t like the girls on his arm. You never walk around with poofy, curly hair with dangling hoop earrings (you tried doing it once). You were the girl behind the counter who sorted VHS tapes by genre and alphabetised the Star Wars trilogy twice a week. You were practical. Not necessarily bright. You had things to do, movies to make, dreams to follow.

Still, you found yourself looking forward to the bell above the door jingling each Friday night. Even when you knew he wouldn’t look at you. And when he did, he mispronounced your name each time, regardless of whether you have your name plate plastered on your chest as if it were a badge on your vest.

You usually dreaded Thursdays.

It’s the day that feels like a buffer more than Wednesdays. It’s usually the limbo of doing something and doing nothing. You were currently sitting behind the counter, sipping on your watered down strawberry milkshake when the door chimes again, quieter than usual.

You think it’s just another customer who comes to check what you have on display, because you shuffle the options every Thursday, so people could beeline to it on a Friday afternoon and rent the films.

You’ve just finished bending over the drama section, re-slotting Kramer vs. Kramer on a milk-grass gray sky with the hum of the fan behind the counter and the overwhelming pressure of the stack of tapes that need re-shelving.

The strawberry milkshake tasted so sweet as you neared the bottom of the cup, and it was when you were busying yourself with trying to suck in the strawberry bits when you heard it: the unmistakable shuffle of footsteps that stop too quickly, too awkwardly. You glance up, squinting through the narrow gap between the shelves.

And you freeze.

You even had to check the calendar by your desk to check whether today was a Friday, because Park Sunghoon is standing before you, wearing a navy blue vest that coincidentally matched yours. And when you racked your gaze down, there was the embroidered ReelTime patch stitched crookedly above the left chest.

Then, you blink.

He looks annoyed. Not cocky, not smug. He looks gutted.

You waited for the usual smirk, the quip, the mispronunciation of your name when he met your gaze.

But instead, he groans.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, dragging a hand down his face, “Please don’t tell me I’m working with you.”

You blink again. You stare a second longer, as if squinting might make the image disappear. No such luck.

“I… don’t think I’m mentally equipped for this,” you say flatly, straw still in between your lips.

He gestures at you, “That makes two of us.”

You slide your milkshake away like it might combust in your hands.

“Why are you here?” you ask, slowly standing up, “Did you get lost looking for your reflection or something?”

“Did they hire you for your customer service?” He deadpans, shooting you a look.

You open your mouth to retort, but then the bell above the door chimes again.

Two sharply dressed adults step in, and the temperature drops ten degrees. His parents. You know this without being introduced. The posture, the judgment, the expensive perfume that doesn’t suit the musty, tape-sleeved air of ReelTime.

You step out from behind the counter, clutching the corners of your vest like a shield.

“Miss Y/N?” the man says, voice precise, smooth, like it’s been filed down to a razor edge, “Mr and Mrs Park. We spoke briefly on the phone.”

“I think you spoke to my manager, actually,” you squirmed.

“Well, she said you’re one of the store’s most efficient hires,” Mrs Park chimes in with a rehearsed smile, “And we’re hoping you can help Sunghoon adjust to this…environment.”

”Environment?”

”This store,” Mr Park says, “We’ve arranged for Sunghoon to work here until school resumes. A bit of structure. Accountability. You know that.”

Your gaze drifts to Sunghoon, who looks like he’d rather chew glass than be standing here.

”And you want me to…”

”Keep an eye on him,” Mrs Park answers, too quickly. “Make sure he shows up on time. Stays out of trouble. Make sure he learns the value of responsibility.”

”I don’t need a babysitter,” Sunghoon grits out, throwing you a pointed look.

”But you sure act like you do,” you mutter. His eyes narrow at you.

Mrs Park clasps her hands together, “This is going to be such a wonderful experience, sweetie,” she says as she looks at Sunghoon. And you look at Sunghoon again. Vest wrinkled. Arms crossed. Standing beside a cardboard cutout of Princess Leia.

Yeah, you’ll be needing another milkshake.

Week Two.

Sunghoon was still annoying.

Still insufferable. Still looked like he belonged in a Levi’s commercial instead of a two-bit video rental store that smelled like plastic wrap and cherry lollipops. Still insufferable. Still wore his Members Only jacket like it was part of his soul. Still hated clocking in at exactly 2:00 PM every Thursday and Saturday.

But there were small things you noticed now.

Like how he always adjusted his watch when he passed the “Staff Picks” shelf. Like how he sighed every time he lifted the VHS flap to check if a tape is rewound, only to mutter, “People are the worst.”

And how, without fail, he hummed Footloose under his breath while reshelving tapes. Always Footloose. Every. Single. Time. Sometimes offbeat, sometimes too loud. Sometimes just the chorus, or “kick off your Sunday shoes,” on repeat like a vinyl is stuck in his head.

“Do you even like that movie?” you’d asked once.

”Never seen it,” he replied flatly, then whistled it again two minutes later.

Sunghoon still rolled his eyes when customers asked questions. Still leaned against the counter with a dramatic groan like the mere idea of alphabetising rom-coms would kill him. Still called out, “Your boyfriend’s back!” every time someone in a varsity jacket walked in.

But he still showed up. He worked, albeit not enthusiastically, but still, he worked.

Sort of.

Still, that day, like most, passed in the lazy predictable rhythm of summer. Dust motes floated. The fan above the counter spun. Your strawberry milkshake that varied in sweetness each day melted too quickly.

You were halfway through sorting returns when the bell chimed. A delivery guy walked in, carting a box labeled in thick black marker: REELTIME VIDEO – SUMMER SHIPMENT.

A gasp like someone proposed to you rang in Sunghoon’s ears, “Someone get engaged?” He asked, not even looking up.

“Summer shipment,” you whispered, darting from behind the counter like you were in a scene from Chariots of Fire, “It’s finally here!”

”Wow,” he said flatly, “Can’t wait.”

You didn’t even hear the sarcasm.

You opened the box like it was sacred scripture, “WarGames,” you breathed, “Scarface, The King of Comedy. Flashdance! Risky Business! Oh, my god, Valley Girl!”

“I feel like I should care,” Sunghoon says as he stretches after tossing Rambo into the action shelf without looking, “But it’s hard when you’re naming titles like they’re your kids.”

”They’re better than kids,” you said, holding up Flashdance to the light like a relic, “They don’t cry, and they don’t ruin your career.”

He snorted at that. A quiet, surprised kind of laugh. You didn’t look up, too enamored with glossy tape spines and crinkled plastic.

”You’ve been waiting for that leg warmer movie, huh?” He asks, peering over your shoulder, finally curious.

”It’s Flashdance,” you deadpan, “It’s about passion. Dreaming. Being told no and doing it anyway. It’s the most alive a film’s ever felt.”

He leaned against the counter, “Is it the dancing that gets you?”

You gave him a look, “It’s everything. The grit, the sweat. She’s a welder by day and a dancer by night. She gets rejected and still dances her way to that audition like the stage was made for her.”

Sunghoon hummed, “So, you like underdogs.”

You opened your mouth to correct him, but realised he was right, anyway, “Maybe.”

He watched you with that unreadable look again, the one you were starting to realize wasn’t disinterest. It was the look of someone watching something they didn’t quite know how to name.

“You always this weird about movies?” he asked.

“I’m not weird. I’m passionate.”

“Tomato, tomato.”

You stuck your tongue out at him and went back to cataloguing.

He didn’t go back to Footloose this time.

Not yet.

He just stood there, watching you carefully stack your sacred films, his fingers drumming against the counter, just listening.

And something about that silence felt less like boredom and more like paying attention.

Week Three.

It was Tuesday. Sunghoon didn’t work Tuesdays.

You’d already counted the till, re-shelved Fame for the fourth time, and were halfway through a rewatch of Before Midnight Strikes on the tiny TV behind the counter. Summer heat clung to your skin like a second shirt. The fan buzzed overhead, spinning warm air in lazy circles.

You weren’t expecting the bell to chime.

So, when it did, you looked up out of instinct, not excitement.

And there he was.

Sunghoon, in his usual cream polo and khakis, Members Only jacket slung over his shoulder, Ray-Bans tucked in his collar. No shift vest. No clipboard. No pencil on his ear. Just him, standing there awkwardly, one foot halfway still out the door like he hadn’t made up his mind about being here.

In one hand: a greasy brown paper bag. In the other: a pink plastic cup with a striped paper straw poking through the lid.

You blinked, “Has there been a change in schedule?”

He gave a shrug that didn’t match the way his ears turned the faintest shade of pink.

”Relax,” he said, walking toward the counter, “I just passed by the corndog stall around the corner. Got hungry.”

You raised a brow, “So you bought two corndogs?”

He faltered for just a second before holding the bag out to you.

”I thought maybe you forgot lunch again,” he muttered, “And, I don’t know, you’re always drinking that strawberry sludge.”

Your eyes dropped to the milkshake in his other hand. Condensation trailed down the sides like it had just left the freezer. It was your favorite milkshake place. Moore Milk, please! It even had the striped straw that you had to fish out from the strawholder because you wanted the straw to match the drink.

Moore Milk, please! is a whole street away from ReelTime, and three blocks away from the nearest corndog stall. And instead of opening your mouth, you kept it shut. Cheeks tainted a faint pink.

So, he filled the silence, in the way he always did when words made him uncomfortable, “Look, it’s not a big deal, I just –“ he broke off, setting the drink down in front of you without meeting your eyes, “–I was hungry. That’s all.”

You stared at the milkshake. Then at him.

His hair was mussed from the sun. His shirt had a slight wrinkle on one shoulder. He hadn’t shaved, and you could see the faint beginnings of stubble on his jaw. He looked like someone trying not to look like he cared.

You took the corndog gently, fingers brushing his, “Thanks,” you said, voice quieter than usual.

“I didn’t poison it,” he said.

”I know.”

You sat back down behind the counter, taking a tentative sip of the milkshake.

It was cold. Perfect. Your heart twisted. Sunghoon lingered, watching you sip, then fidgeted like he was about to turn back toward the door. But before he could leave, you said, “Do you want to help me sort the new horror titles?”

He paused. Looked at you.

“You’ll let me mess with your sacred alphabetizing system?”

“Temporarily.”

He smirked, “I’m in.”

And just like that, something softened. Not all at once. But it was enough. Enough to know he didn’t just pass by the stall. Enough to know he remembered.

Week Seven.

There was something between you and Sunghoon.

You never talked about it, never touched it, never named it aloud. But it existed.

It existed in the way he handed you your strawberry milkshake in all of your shifts. Surprising you with a different flavor every Wednesday for variety. Sometimes, it’s chocolate, sometimes, it’s banana. Sometimes, Sunghoon argues the banana split is the best because it’s all flavors in one.

It also existed in the way your fingers brushed while re-shelving The Breakfast Club, and neither of you moved. In the way he watched your lips move more than the screen during each post-shift movie night every Friday. It existed in the way he leaned back a little further on the beanbag, spreading his legs wide enough for your knee to bump his, then didn’t move when it did.

Nothing had happened. But something had almost happened, enough to shift the gravity a little when he walked into the room you’re in.

It started with a broom.

You were sweeping near the front counter, music drifting from the tiny stereo wedged behind the register. The usual mellow summer tape you’d made of OSTs and hits from rented movies. Sunghoon was half-heartedly dusting the shelves, mostly poking at cobwebs and muttering about how rental stores were doomed once someone figured out how to play movies from home.

You twirled the broom like a mic stand, turned to him dramatically, and started belting out Hopelessly Devoted To You with exaggerated hand gestures. Sunghoon stared, then scoffed. Then, in the most unexpected twist, grabbed the mop and joined you.

”Great,” he said, feigning dread, “We’ve officially lost it.”

You gave him your best power ballad eyes, and he rolled his. And just like that, the two of you were sweeping and lip-syncing like it was your last night on earth, brooms-turned-microphones, exaggerated spins, mock drums and guitars. It was stupid. And fun. And so very you.

Then the tape shifted, the soft synths of Take My Breath Away began to play.

Sunghoon blinked at you from across the room, mop held upright between his hands like he forgot he was holding it.

Something in the air has changed.

You laughed nervously, half-turning away, but then you heard the slow drag of footsteps. When you looked again, Sunghoon was walking toward you, a half-smile tugging at his lips, not teasing, not smug.

Just soft.

He offered a hand.

”Dance with me,” he said, like it wasn’t a big deal.

You hesitated, “What, right now?”

”Well,” he gestured around the empty store, “I don’t see anyone else.”

You laughed again, but it came out shaky. Still, you placed your hand in his. And under flickering fluorescent lights, with old tapes watching from the shelves and the air faintly smelling of dust and lemon cleaner, you danced.

Not well. Not smoothly.

But real.

He rested his hands on your waist like he’d done it before. You looped your arms around his neck like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your bodies swayed, your heart pounded, and for a moment, one fragile, fluttering moment, it felt like the rest of the world had faded into grainy static.

His forehead nearly brushed yours.

You wondered if he was going to kiss you. You think he almost did.

But then the track changed. And like all almosts, the moment passed.

The gravity shifted after that, until now.

It’s Friday afternoon.

Sunghoon is already out front, manning the register. You’re at the back of the store on a stepstool, reorganising the top row of the Action shelf and untangling an old promotion sign. You can’t see much, not with the shelves dividing the store, but you can hear the bell chime faintly. Then, loud, boisterous voices that don’t belong here.

”Yo, Sunghoon! No freaking way, man. This where you’ve been hiding?”

You pause, grip stilling on the corner of a Lethal Weapon tape.

”Dude, seriously,” another laughs, “You’re working here now? That’s hilarious.”

Sunghoon exhales, “What are you guys doing here?”

”Picking up a horror movie for Soojin. Remember her? Back in town for the weekend. You knew that, right?”

You freeze.

Then a sarcastic, “‘Course he knew. Probably the first to know.”

Your fingers tighten on the shelf as the first guy cackles, “Man, what even happened to you? You used to be the guy. Now, you’re pushing tapes and punching timecards. No girls, no parties. You parents really put you on a leash, huh?”

”She dumped him,” the other says, matter-of-fact, “Finals week. And boom: grades dropped, Coach lost it, now he’s stuck here. This is, what? A redemption arc?”

”Shut up,” Sunghoon mutters.

”No, for real, though. What was her name again? That chick you work with. Kind of cute in a…weird way?”

You feel your stomach twist.

“Don’t.” Sunghoon says sharply.

”Ooh, touchy. Is she your little VHS rebound?”

You don’t wait for Sunghoon’s reply.

You slip off the stepstool. You press your back against the shelf, quietly inhaling, blinking away the sting behind your eyes.

Whatever he was going to say, if it was ever meant to defend you, it wouldn’t matter. You knew you weren’t part of his world. You were just the convenience, the detour, the fixer-upper project until Soojin came back.

You pull yourself together. Smooth your expression like a tape cover. And when you step out from the back, you act like you didn’t hear a thing.

Week Ten.

It happens on a Wednesday.

You’re behind the counter, giggling with half a burger in your hand and mustard at the corner of your mouth.

Sunghoon’s sitting on the floor of the employee side of the counter, one leg stretched out and lazy, the other bent as he picks fries from the paper bag like he’s selecting jewelry.

You’d caved and let him convince you to try that greasy burger joint down the street after a full week of him whining about how “you can’t judge a burger till it’s falling apart in your hands, Y/N.”

The fries are too salty. The cola is flat. The burger’s a little soggy.

And it’s perfect.

Sunghoon’s grinning at you like you said something funny, or maybe he’s just laughing at the mustard on your face. And for a second, the store feels like your own tiny, flickering universe.

And then the bell over the door rings.

You glance up. You don’t recognise her at first.

She’s standing in the entryway like she stepped off the set of Heathers. Hair glossy and curled, cardigan folded neatly over her shoulders, high-waisted skirt pressed flat without a wrinkle. Not an ounce of sweat on her despite the summer heat.

Her eyes sweep the shop. They land on you first, then him.

You feel it in the air when she recognises him.

”Sunghoon?” she says, a little breathless.

He turns his head, still chewing, mid-fry, then pauses, “Soojin?”

You blink.

That’s Soojin?

The Soojin? the one his friends mentioned with lowered voices and locker room guilt? The reason his grades plummeted and his parties peaked?

”Oh,” she says, blinking fast before offering a polite smile, “I didn’t know you were working here now.”

Sunghoon stands, brushing crumbs off his vest, the same ReelTime navy as yours, “Yeah, long story.”

And now she’s looking at you. She doesn’t smile, not quite. But she does tilt her head just enough for it to feel like a judgment.

You wipe your fingers on a napkin, suddenly all too aware of your frizzy hair and ketchup-stained uniform, “Hi, I’m Y/N,” offering your name, too fast.

She repeats it back. Perfectly.

”I didn’t know Sunghoon had coworkers,” Soojin says, still smiling.

”She’s the best one here,” Sunghoon mutters beside you, still chewing on the last fry. And you look up at him, startled. He doesn’t meet your eyes.

”I was just passing by,” Soojin says, “Thought I’d check in. You weren’t answering my calls.”

”Well, I’ve been busy,” he shrugs.

Soojin nods, gaze dropping to the food wrappers. Then the way you’re both sitting too close. Then the way your straw is in his cup, “Oh,” she says, “Well, I should go.”

”You sure?” you offer, too quickly, too brightly, “You can stay a while! Hang out with us! The fries are the only ones left from mine. We already ate our burgers. I can order from the place and have you both catch up?

Soojin blinks, “Oh, that’s… okay.”

Sunghoon’s watching you now. Not her. You feel it.

But you kept going.

”It’s sweet you dropped by,” you say, “Honestly, you two would look good together. Still do, I guess.”

His brow furrows.

You ignore it.

”Anyway, he’s here around most days, you know where to find him.”

Soojin leaves soon after. You return to your seat, pretend your burger hasn’t gone cold. Sunghoon doesn’t sit again. Instead, he tosses his last fry into the trash and says nothing.

The thing is, you meant to move on quietly.

Like a soft fade to black – no fuss, no sound, no lingering close-ups.

You weren’t supposed to bring Soojin up in conversation like she was the solution to Sunghoon’s loneliness. You weren’t supposed to smile while doing it either. But deflection’s a hell of a drug.

”She still likes you, you know,” you say too cheerfully one afternoon, arms crossed behind the counter at ReelTime as you watch Sunghoon restock tapes with half a brain cell, “Soojin.”

Sunghoon doesn’t even look up, “Yeah?”

”Yeah,” you hum, reaching for the tape gun beside the register, “She’s come in three times this week. Didn’t even check the horror section, which I know she likes. Just hovered around the rom-com aisle until you showed up.”

”Hmm,”

You frown, “You’re not flattered?”

Sunghoon sighs through his nose and mutters something about “You’re weird,” before shoving Risky Business back onto the shelf a little too hard.

Over the next few days, you commit to the bit.

You recommend movies Soojin might like. Tell Sunghoon he and Soojin “look good in the same frame.” Point out something new in Soojin’s look and nudge Sunghoon’s side at the same time and ask him if he thinks she’s gone prettier.

Sunghoon becomes quieter every time.

More offbeat. More detached.

At one point, you say, “You still talk to her more than me these days.”

He snaps. “That’s because you keep pushing her into my arms like it’s a goddamn school play.”

You freeze.

But instead of confronting that truth, you deflect again. Shrug.

“She likes you, Sunghoon. I’m just trying to help.”

He doesn’t reply.

He just walks away, tossing a tape onto the return bin with a little too much force.

It’s past closing when Soojin finally leaves.

She lingers by the counter for a moment too long, smiling sweetly at you, eyes flicking to Sunghoon in the back who’s restocking tapes like they haven’t been talking for the past thirty minutes.

”I’ll call you,” she says to him, casual. “If you’re free, Saturday.”

He nods, distracted, not even looking up.

And then she’s gone. The bell above the door jingles, and silence falls like a dropped reel.

You start to clean up. Avoid his eyes. Focus on the register drawer like it’s full of gold. You sense him still standing in the same spot. Unmoving. Like the silence is louder than he can bear.

“You done playing cupid?”

His voice slices through the quiet.

You flinch, fingers stiff on the edge of the drawer.

“I was just helping.”

“Bullshit.”

You turn slowly. He’s standing by the horror shelf now, arms crossed, brows pulled together in that way he gets when he’s trying not to yell.

“Sunghoon –”

“Why are you doing this?” he asks, “Why do you keep pushing her at me?”

You shrug, trying to smile. It doesn’t reach your eyes, “You guys were good together.”

His expression hardens. “That’s not an answer.”

You start organizing receipts. Anything to keep your hands busy. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I want you to stop acting like we’re not –” He stops himself, jaw clenching. “Like something didn’t happen.”

Your heart stutters. “Nothing happened.”

His eyes snap to you. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Lie.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. His voice is hoarse now. Raw.

“You think I didn’t notice the way you’ve been acting?” he says, voice lower now. “You won’t meet my eyes. You swapped shifts. You barely talk to me unless it’s about her.”

“You should be with someone like her,” you blurt out. “She’s – she’s pretty, and perfect, and you dated before –”

“I don’t want someone like her!” His voice breaks on the last word. “I thought you knew that.”

You stare.

And then you say it. Quiet. Trembling. Cruel in how much you mean it.

“I was just your rebound, wasn’t I?”

The silence is brutal.

Sunghoon shakes his head like he’s been slapped, “You think I’d waste this much time being around you if you were just that?”

“You needed to get back on track. Get serious. Your parents asked me to look after you, remember?” You try to laugh, but it wobbles, “Maybe that’s all I ever was. Someone to keep you stable until you got your girl back.”

“You think that’s all this was?” he asks, incredulous.

You don’t answer.

He walks toward you, stopping a foot away. His voice drops, “Do you even see what you’re doing?”

“I’m doing what you’re too scared to do,” you whisper.

Sunghoon’s eyes flash, “Which is what?”

“Choosing someone who makes sense.”

That shuts him up.

You’re breathing too hard. You can feel your pulse behind your ribs.

But he doesn’t say anything else. Not a single word.

So you gather your things. Your tote bag, your walkman, your silence.

You don’t look back when you walk out the door.

You don’t see how he runs a hand through his hair and stares at the register like he wants to throw it across the room. You don’t see how he stays behind long after your shift, just… stuck there, under the sick buzz of fluorescent lights, with too many things left unsaid.

He doesn’t walk you home.

Week Twelve.

You scoff when you hear Take My Breath Away play in your walkman. You’ve plugged your earphones in while you were scanning different College brochures on your desk, desperate to get out of this town and finally away from everything.

It’s the last week of Summer.

Which means, it’s the last week of avoiding close proximity with Park Sunghoon. Last week of glossing over his name when someone mentions ReelTime. The last week of pretending you didn’t start falling for the boy who hummed Footloose under his breath and brought you milkshakes just because.

You tear your gaze from a brochure of NYU and look at the clock. It’s well past 10 PM. The house is quiet, and you know your parents have gone to bed. You wish you could say the same for your thoughts.

Lately, they’ve been louder than ever.

You tell yourself this is better. That all you did was reset the distance that should’ve been there in the first place. That he was always meant to go back to his world: varsity jackets, old money, perfect girls with perfect hair – and you were meant to stay in yours.

Still, when the tape clicks and rewinds, you don’t press play again. You stare out the window instead.

And that’s when you hear it.

A faint tap. Then another. Like pebbles. You narrow your eyes and push the curtains aside. And you nearly choke.

Because Park Sunghoon – almost six feet of campus golden boy in a hoodie and wind-tousled hair – is clumsily scaling the trellis outside your window. One sneakered foot slips before he catches it again with a hiss, “Shit.”

But it isn’t just that he’s climbing.

It’s the way he looks – rumpled, raw, real.

His hair is down. Ungelled, unstyled, unruly. Not swept up the way he usually wore it, that John Travolta coif you always secretly admired. Instead, it falls naturally over his forehead, soft and wild, like he didn’t even check the mirror before rushing over.

And you can’t lie, it does something to you.

You fling the window open, “What the hell are you doing?!”

”I’ve been calling for days,” he pants, gripping the ledge, “Your mom is terrifying.”

”You’re going to fall and break your stupid legs –“

”Well, it’s too late to back out now, is it?”

And then he hoists himself over, lands with a thud on your carpet, and straightens up with all the grace of a boy who’s desperate, messy, and in love.

You step back.

He’s never looked less like the Park Sunghoon who walked into ReelTime on week one. And never more like someone you could actually lose your heart to.

”You’re insane. My parents are downstairs –“

”You think I didn’t consider that?”

”Why are you here?”

”To break my legs, probably.”

”Sunghoon, you shouldn’t be here.”

”I know.”

”My parents could kill you.”

”I know that, too.”

”So why are you here?”

And he looks at you, really, really looks at you.

The kind of look that strips you bare, pulls all the air out of your lungs, and replaces it with something heavier. His voice is lower now, steady in the way it always is when he’s saying something that might hurt.

“Because you were so convinced that I would pick Soojin over you.”

Your throat tightens.

”Y/N,” he says, like it aches to speak your name, “You’re not – Jesus, you’re not some detour.”

You try to look away, but his voice tethers you in place.

“You’re not just some summer phase I’m using to bounce back. You’re not the girl behind the counter who alphabetises tapes and gets left behind when the year restarts.”

You whisper, “You don’t know that.”

”I do,” he says, stepping forward, closing the gap, “Because I was supposed to go back. To parties, to old habits. But then you happened, and it stopped being fun to pretend.”

Your heart clenches, “Sunghoon –“

”You kept trying to push me back to her. And I kept letting you even if it was against my will. Because I thought maybe that’s what you wanted. I thought maybe you didn’t see me like I saw you.”

”I do,” you whisper, “I just didn’t want to be the girl someone settled for after everything else didn’t work out.”

”You’re not,” his voice breaks on the words, “you’re the girl I fell in love with without even realising it.”

The words hang in the air like static: thick, heavy, electric.

Your mouth parts slightly, but nothing comes out. The room is too full of what he just said. Of everything he’s trying to mean.

He presses on, voice hoarse, as if if he stops now, he might not say it at all.

“I didn’t want to,” he admits, a breathless, broken laugh escaping his lips. “God, you were so annoying. You alphabetized everything. You had a favorite genre, for Christ’s sake. You wouldn’t shut up about Bette Davis monologues. You made me try milkshake flavors I didn’t even know existed when all I used to run on was beer and Gatorade.”

He exhales. His eyes are glassy under the pale yellow light of your bedside lamp, but they never once leave yours.

“But you also—”

He swallows.

“You also made me look forward to every fucking Thursday.”

The way he says it — like a confession, like a goddamn prayer — nearly knocks the breath out of your lungs.

And suddenly it’s too much. The weight of it all presses against your ribs, spills into your fingertips. All the quiet Thursday nights, all the awkward shared glances over worn VHS cases, all the strawberry milkshakes and alphabetized aisles, all the waiting. All the almosts.

You take a sharp inhale.

And your voice, when it comes, is just a breath, shaken and soft, like the beginning of something too big to name.

“Park Sunghoon…” you begin, barely holding yourself together, “…there are still so many films I want to watch with you.”

“Not just on Thursdays. Not just after shifts, or during summer. Every day. Every stupid day of the week. Morning, noon, and night. I want to watch every movie with you; the good, the bad, the cheesy ones that make us groan, the ones you hate but pretend to like because I love them.”

His breath catches.

You reach for him slowly, like you’re afraid this is still a dream, and rest your palm against his chest. His heart is beating like a drum.

“I want to make time stop in the middle of a scene because we’re laughing too hard,” you whisper, “I want to fight over who gets to rewind. I want to sit with you in quiet, sunlit rooms with nothing but stories playing between us.”

You smile again, watery but certain.

“I want my forever to start at the end of a movie we never finished.”

And that’s all it takes.

Sunghoon kisses you like he’s trying to make up for every word he never said, for every late tape and every moment he pretended you were just the girl behind the counter. His hands hold you like you’re precious. Like he’s terrified you’ll slip through his fingers if he moves too fast.

You kiss him back with everything you’ve got all the ache, all the yearning, all the love that bloomed quietly on slow Thursdays and bloomed louder every day since.

And to you, it feels like the movies. But not the dramatic, perfectly choreographed kind.

No, it’s more like Cinema Paradiso: nostalgic and aching, sweet with something too big to name. Like the kind of kiss you rewind just to feel again. A kiss that feels like a promise and a farewell all at once.

It’s the kind of kiss that belongs in a scene you’d always watched from behind the counter. The kind of kiss you thought was just acting. It’s the kind of kiss that feels like music swelling beneath dialogue. Like Maria running across a field in West Side Story. Like Audrey Hepburn in Funny Face when the Eiffel Tower lights up. Like Molly’s hands over Sam’s in Ghost, quiet and grieving and impossibly full.

It’s the kiss that changes the plot.

And when his hands hold your face like he’s afraid he’ll wake up from this, you realize something: You are the girl. The girl in the movies. The girl he chose. The girl he’s kissing like the credits haven’t even started yet.

Sunghoon kisses you like he’s been meaning to for weeks. Not like a boy kissing a girl, but like a man finally finding something that makes him believe in softness again. Like he’s spent the whole summer terrified of shattering you.

His lips move slowly against yours, once, then again, deeper, like he’s trying to memorise the shape of your mouth. You feel his hand skim the edge of your jaw, the pad of his thumb grazing your cheek like he’s checking if this is real; and your hands slide into his hair – it’s still down, mussed and ungelled, nothing like the cool boy who strutted into ReelTime on Week One.

Gone is the boy with Ray-Bans and swagger. In his place is someone real. Someone who showed up. Someone who stayed. And somehow, impossibly yours.

The kiss deepens, but never loses its carefulness. There’s no rush to it. No fire threatening to consume. Just a warmth that sinks into your skin, slow and steady, like sunlight on an old filmstrip.

His hands find your waist, pause there. You nod, and that’s all he needs.

You move together like you’re learning. Like you’re figuring out choreography only your bodies know. Your fingers tremble slightly as they work at the buttons of his shirt. He helps, tugging the fabric away, and when it catches on his wrist, you both dissolve into soft laughter.

The lamp casts gold over the curve of his shoulder. You memorize that color.

You sit back on your knees and tug your own shirt off. He looks at you, not with hunger, but with wonder. Like you’re a scene he wants to rewatch a hundred times and still never fully understand.

He reaches for your bra strap with slow fingers. You nod again. It slips down your arms and pools on the sheets, forgotten.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pounce. Just looks.

"You’re beautiful," he says, like it hurts.

Then he leans in and kisses your shoulder, the slope of your neck, the hollow beneath your ear. His lips are soft and deliberate. Your skin feels like it’s been marked with a thousand commas, a story in motion.

And all the while, the music hums on. Take My Breath Away floats like a secret, like a vow.

"Tell me if anything feels off," he whispers, "Please. I mean it."

You nod. But more than that, you reach for him, wordlessly asking him to stay close. You lie back on the bed. He follows. He kisses you again, deeper now, his hands mapping the places between your ribs and hips like he already knows them, like he’s just tracing the familiar.

You fumble with your shorts. He helps. There’s a clumsy tangle of limbs and laughter as he gets caught in your blanket, and you muffle a squeak against his chest. It’s messy. But it’s yours. It’s real.

When you’re bare beneath him, he pauses, "Are you sure?"

You search his eyes. They’re so open, so full of something that can only be called care.

"I’m sure."

His throat bobs, "We can stop. Anytime. I mean it."

You reach up, curl your fingers into his hair, and kiss him. That’s your answer.

Still, when he lines himself against you, he doesn’t push. He waits. He kisses you again, softer, even slower than before. His hands are everywhere but nowhere inappropriate: stroking your jaw, cupping your shoulder, steadying the thrum in your chest.

And then, carefully, he begins to ease in.

You gasp. Not in pain, not in fear. Just surprise. The sheer unfamiliarity. The weight of something new. He freezes, "Breathe," he whispers. "You’re okay. Just breathe."

And you do. You breathe through the strangeness. The burn. The impossibly close sensation. He kisses you through it, murmuring into your skin. His hands never stop moving, never stop checking, steadying. He lets you set the pace.

Your hips tilt. And he moans, soft, muffled against your collarbone.

There’s a rhythm now. A gentle give and take. A story written in touches.

Your room is small, but tonight it feels like the center of the world. You clutch at his shoulder. He pants your name into your neck.

You tighten around him, and he falters, whispering brokenly, "That’s it. Just like that. You’re okay, sweet thing. I got you."

“Fuck, I can’t control my m-moaning, my parents would kill me if they h-heard me,”

He laughs softly before kissing you, and you moan into his lips.

You feel it rise. That golden, breathless tension that thrums between you like the rising swell of a final act. It’s warm and full, not just in your chest, but everywhere. In the way your toes curl into the sheets, in the way your breath stutters beneath his mouth, in the way your body sings with the closeness of him. It coils, slow and insistent, like the crescendo of a score you’ve heard a thousand times but never truly listened to. And when it breaks, it doesn’t shatter.

It melts.

Your world folds inwards. Breath caught in your throat, your eyes squeezed shut, mouth parted in something soft and reverent. It steals the air from your lungs and leaves something heavier, something sweeter behind.

And when you fall, you fall like a reel unraveling. Unspooling. Whole.

Sunghoon follows with a quiet, stuttered groan. One that makes your skin erupt in goosebumps; his arms caging you in like he couldn’t bear to let you drift even an inch away. He presses deeper, breath warm on your neck, hips slowing to ride out the aftermath. You feel everything. Every quiver. Every unspoken word. Every thud of his heart where it meets yours.

Then, silence.

But not an empty one.

Just the soft, mechanical hiss of the Walkman spinning over, the gentle rustle of the sheets settling around you like an exhale. The occasional clink of his ring against the metal zipper of your pillowcase. The hush of his breath on your skin.

And then, finally, the quietest thing of all: the way he doesn’t let go.

His arms don’t fall slack. His body doesn’t shift away. Instead, he molds closer, nose brushing your temple, lips leaving feather-light kisses across your cheek, your jaw, the tip of your nose.

And then, your mouth.

“You okay?” he murmurs, his voice sandpapered at the edges.

You nod, your cheek brushing his shoulder.

“You?”

He lets out a short laugh, breathless, wrecked, dizzy, and buries his face into the curve of your neck, “I think I saw the gates of heaven.”

You laugh too, the sound escaping you in a hush. You roll slightly, your knees brushing his thigh, one of your hands still tangled in his hair. Your room is dark now, save for the soft glow of your bedside lamp and the faint fuzz of the tape rewinding back into silence. You reach out and brush his hair from his eyes, still a little winded.

“This doesn’t change the way I think about Top Gun, by the way,” you murmur.

“Oh?”

"Maverick’s still my first love."

He groans, flopping onto his back like you’ve wounded him, “Are you serious right now?”

You smile, pressing your cheek to his shoulder, eyes closed, content, "Dead serious. And it doesn’t change the fact that Grease is better than Footloose. Or that you still alphabetize everything wrong."

He snorts. “Okay, that’s just low.”

You continue, grinning now, "And I’m still going to charge you late fees."

Sunghoon shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look at you again, his expression half-exasperated, half-captivated.

"Anything else, sunshine? Wanna kick me while I’m already love-drunk and naked in your bed?"

You laugh softly. That sleepy kind of laugh that only comes after something real and rare. The kind of laugh that feels like a secret.

And then, quietly, the words you’ve been carrying since that first shared movie shift, since the first time he mispronounced your name, since the first time he handed you a milkshake and asked your opinion:

“Well…” you drawl, playing coy, “I feel like no one could top the story of the male protagonist falling in love with the second lead who hid herself behind the counter of an old film rental store.”

His eyes crinkle with that crooked grin, the one that never fails to melt something inside you, “Said male protagonist is as handsome as I am?”

You purse your lips, pretending to consider, “Let me think about it.”

He scoffs, nudging your hip with his knee beneath the sheets, “Unbelievable.”

But your smile softens. You reach out, tracing a finger down his bare shoulder, memorizing the realness of him. How close he is. How chosen he feels.

“Let’s just say,” you murmur, voice quieter now, more honest, “even if there were a hundred more movies to watch... I’d still pick this one.”

His breath catches.

And without saying another word, he leans in and kisses you again.

Slow. Sweet. Steady.

Like he’s promising to show up for the next scene, and the next, and every one after.

TAGLIST. @skittyneos @dearestdreamies @k1ttyjwon @nithxhoon @enjakey @linyki @minniejenseo @slvdsjjk @littlefluu @velvetkisscs

#enhypen #enhypen sunghoon #enhypen hard hours #enhypen hard thoughts #enhypen imagines #enhypen x reader #enhypen smut #park sunghoon #park sunghoon x reader #park sunghoon imagines #park sunghoon smut #enhypen sunghoon x reader #enhypen sunghoon imagines #enhypen sunghoon smut #sunghoon #sunghoon x reader #sunghoon imagines #sunghoon smut

entertaining sunghoon hard and soft hours for like until the 20th so you can send your asks! ☺️

#park sunghoon x reader #park sunghoon imagines #park sunghoon smut #enhypen hard hours #enhypen imagines #enhypen #park sunghoon #sunghoon x reader #sunghoon smut #sunghoon imagines #enhypen sunghoon #enhypen hard thoughts

Hiii can I be added to the love grows, where my rosemary goes. Taglist?? Thankss

sure! 🤍

#lgwmrg;#alanine answers

hii! i wanted to request a kinda suggestive werewolf sunghoon x reader who's surprisingly not scared of him. him having a soft spot for her and soft dom vibes but not literally smut!! tyy love your work ♡

– tell me all your deepest desire. | psh. PAIRING. alpha, werewolf!sunghoon x fem!reader CONTENT. suggestive content (15+), supernatural elements, possessive behaviour, emotional tension, implied claming/mating themes, implied dom!sunghoon WORD COUNT. 1,646 AUTHOR'S NOTE. thank you so much anon for this ask! i enjoyed writing this. <3

MY LIBRARY. REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

You always felt him.

Literally, he hovered.

From your classes in Statistics to the Library, there was always a looming presence you seem to feel settled deep within your bones, along with two golden glowing eyes that you kept catching in the corners of your vision. He didn't just stare, he bore into you.

Not with curiosity, but with something that felt like it was meant to scare you. Or test you. Or both.

Others kept their distance. Some changed directions entirely when he passed by. You'd seen it too many times: people shrinking in on themselves when he turned the corner, heads ducking low like his gaze might burn right through them.

People were always warned of Park Sunghoon.

The first time you heard of him, you told yourself that you were keeping your distance. It was the safest option, and you wanted to graduate soon enough without the mess that involved creatures like his kind.

But distance, as it turned out, was not something Sunghoon allowed. It was something that he didn't accept when it came to terms to you.

He never spoke to you directly, not at first. Just lingered. Not like a ghost. More like a storm-cloud. Predictable in the way he hovered outside lecture halls, sat two rows behind you in the library but never once opened a book. You'd leave a study room and find him leaning on the vending machine outside. Not watching. Just there. As if he had nowhere to be.

It wasn't flirting. It wasn't even subtle. It was instinctual. Primal.

Yet, there was something oddly reassuring about the weight of his gaze. Something steady about the way he stood in your periphery. Silent, still, simmering. It made your fingers twitch on your pen. Made your spine straighten. Made you aware of yourself in ways that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with being seen.

Rumors always preceded Park Sunghoon. Alpha-in-the-making. Fourth of the original seven. Strongest tracker in his lineage. Cold, efficient, cruel when provoked. He was never supposed to lead.

But legends rarely ask for permission.

When the former alpha stepped down, it was Sunghoon who took the mantle. Not the eldest, not the loudest, not the one everyone expected. Just the one everyone knew better than to challenge. He didn’t fight for it – well, mot publicly. The title bowed to him. Or maybe the others simply knew they wouldn’t win.

Even now, months into the semester, people still talked about it in hushed tones. The unexpected rise. The hierarchy shift. The quiet ruthlessness behind those amber-lit eyes.

He always looked out for you when you come to the campus, even when you left it. Picked your favorite pastry from the campus café and left it without a note in your locker. Told off a sophomore for bumping into you and not apologizing.

It wasn’t romantic. It was possessive. Careful. Constant.

It was maddening.

Because you knew what it looked like when a wolf was circling.

And still, Sunghoon couldn't find himself to come near you to tell you what was it that he wanted from you.

Like right now, while you were in the Campus Library, working on something that you wanted to finish so you could doze off in your free day tomorrow. You felt his gaze prickle your skin, the coldness of the night seems to have heightened because of his presence.

You didn't have to lift your head to know it was him. The way the air shifted. The way your body registered it before your mind did, like the way trees brace for thunder before it breaks

You kept your eyes on the paper in front of you, your handwriting steady, though your heartbeat had started to crawl up your throat.

"You know I know you've been following me, right?"

Your voice doesn't rise. It doesn't even waver. It's barely a murmur, a thread pulled between your breath and the silence that cloaks the library like a fog. But it's enough.

The chair across from your creaks. You glance up, and he's already there: Park Sunghoon, in all his brooding, broad-shouldered, bone-carved glory. Head tilted, but not surprised you spoke first.

His gaze doesn’t soften. It never does. But it quiets, like winter’s first snowfall, and somehow that’s worse, “And here I thought I was being subtle,” he says, voice low, rough-edged velvet.

You blink, “Hovering outside my classrooms? Sitting across the room in every place I go? I think subtle left the building the moment you glared at my Statistics prof for keeping me overtime.”

His mouth twitches. Almost a smile. But not quite.

"What do you want, Sunghoon?"

That gets his attention.

His golden eyes flash with something. Not surprise, not amusement, but something older. More reverent. Like the very idea of your courage is something he’s memorized and replayed.

"You're not afraid."

He says it like a challenge.

Like a discovery. Like a slow-burning fact he’s only now willing to say aloud.

You hold his gaze, even if your fingers twitch slightly beneath the table, “Should I be?”

That earns you something close to a chuckle. Low, almost breathless. But not unkind.

"Most people don't look me in the eye," he murmurs, "They flinch, they avoid. They cross the street before I even get close. But you keep holding your ground."

You shrug, trying to play off the way your heart thuds painfully against your ribs, "Maybe I just have bad instincts."

His eyes glint, "Or maybe you're the only one with good ones."

He leans in slightly. Not enough to breach propriety. Just enough for your breath to hitch and your thoughts to scatter like startled birds.

“You’re curious,” he says, tone velveted with something darker, “You wonder why I’m always there. Why I hover.”

Your silence betrays you. And he sees it.

“You wonder what it means,” he says, his voice nearly a purr now, “You wonder what I’d do if I got too close.”

You straighten. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Sunghoon smirks, slow and knowing. “Too late.”

You hate how warm your ears feel. How your skin tingles under his stare like it’s trying to memorize the weight of it.

Then his voice drops, rough and dragging like smoke, “You ever read about my kind?”

You blink, “In textbooks. Legends. The usual.”

He hums, “Then you know what happens when we find someone who calms our instincts.”

You open your mouth. Close it again. Because no, you hadn’t gotten that far. Most of what you’d read had been vague folklore: cryptic warnings, dramatized rituals, blood and moons and whispered prophecies.

He doesn’t wait for you to answer.

“We circle,” he says, “We linger. We stay close. Not always because we want to.”

Your throat goes dry, “What do you mean?”

He watches you for a moment, eyes flickering down. From your throat, to your collarbone, to your hands curled on the table like you’re trying to hide how they tremble.

You notice his gaze. And you tried to say something, but nothing comes out.

“I’m not some rabid thing, Y/N,” he says, and his voice is cool, but there’s heat underneath it, “I can control myself.”

A pause.

“But that doesn’t mean I don’t want.”

Your stomach flips.

And he knows it. Of course he knows it. That slight, infuriating tilt of his mouth says as much.

“You’re interesting,” he muses, “You’re smart. Brave. I bet any other wolves would want to get their hands on you, but they have to go through me."

Your breath catches. Not because of the words, though those alone are enough to short-circuit your nervous system, but it's because of the way he says them. Low, certain. Not a threat, a truth.

They have to go through me.

As if it’s already a given. As if some invisible line has been drawn around you, and he’s etched his name into the perimeter.

You stare at him, pulse pounding in your ears like war drums, “Why?” you manage to whisper.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.

“Because you feel like mine,” Sunghoon says simply.

And it hits like a freight train.

The thing is: he’s not even close to you. Still seated across the table. Still giving you the illusion of space. But you feel him everywhere. The press of his stare on your lips. The heat blooming low in your belly. The ache in your palms from curling your fingers too tight to stop the trembling.

He leans back, like he can sense the tension climbing your spine.

“Don’t worry, pretty,” he murmurs, voice so casual it almost makes your skin prickle, “I won’t take anything you don’t offer.”

And somehow, that’s what undoes you. Not the power in his stance, not the quiet authority in his tone, but the restraint. The way he gives you the choice, even as he coils around your senses like smoke.

Your mouth opens, again, like maybe this time, you’ll say something clever. Something that will even the playing field, ground you back into the present.

“Sunghoon…”

He rises.

Tall. Solid. Radiating something ancient that brushes up against instinct, that tells you to flinch or flee, but you don’t.

You really don't want to.

“Careful,” he drawls, “If you say my name like that again, I might start thinking you want me to claim you.”

Your breath hitches. And it’s obvious. Written on your face, etched into your silence.

His grin stretches out wider.

“I’ll see you around,” he says, backing away like he didn’t just set your entire world on fire. Like he didn’t leave the scent of his promise wrapped around your throat.

He turns, disappears into the far end of the library, and it takes several seconds before you realize your fingers are still curled around your pen like a lifeline. Your heart’s still hammering.

#enhypen #enhypen hard hours #enhypen hard thoughts #park sunghoon #park sunghoon smut #sunghoon x reader #park sunghoon x reader #sunghoon smut #enhypen imagines #sunghoon #park sunghoon imagines #enhypen smut #enha smut

Hi! Could you add me to the taglist of love grows, where my rosemary goes? I really enjoyed the preview (and I am such a sucker for 1980s aus!)

Love, Patty

ofc! 🤍

#lgwmrg;#alanine answers

– love grows, where my rosemary goes. | psh. (PREVIEW)

PAIRING. jock!sunghoon x fem!reader

WORD COUNT. 7k-ish

RELEASE DATE. july 19, 2025

MY LIBRARY. REQUESTS ARE OPEN! TO BE ADDED TO MY TAGLIST, YOU CAN SEND ME A MESSAGE.

”I… don’t think I’m mentally equipped for this,” you say flatly, straw still in between your lips.

He gestures at you, “That makes two of us.”

You slide your milkshake away like it might combust in your hands.

“Why are you here?” you ask, slowly standing up, “Did you get lost looking for your reflection or something?”

“Did they hire you for your customer service?” He deadpans, shooting you a look.

You open your mouth to retort, but then the bell above the door chimes again.

what do we want first

robot!sunghoon x engineer!reader

TA!sunghoon x camgirl!reader

vampire!sunghoon x catholic, vampire hunter!reader

Voting ended onJul 13, 2025

#sunghoon x reader #park sunghoon #enhypen hard hours #enhypen imagines #park sunghoon x reader #park sunghoon imagines #sunghoon imagines #sunghoon smut #park sunghoon smut

– cut scene, cut the chase | psh.

PAIRING. idol!sunghoon x staff, fem!reader SUMMARY. you work behind-the-scenes for one of the biggest kpop companies in the industry, belift, and you have a secret: you run one anonymous X account to vent every frustration and grudge about the company's visual ice prince, park sunghoon. he finds this account and instead of reporting you... he starts flirting? CONTENTS. enemies to lovers (e2l), SUNGHOON IS DANGEROUSLY FLIRTY. slowburn, praise kink, hair pulling, dom!sunghoon, dirty talk, light marking, reader is teased into begging, mentions of big dick sunghoon hehe, oral (f receiving) p in v, unprotected sex (pls dont; reader is on the pill, BUT STILL). a bit of angst if you squint, there's a bit of power imbalance, semi-public sex. body worship. she fell first, he fell harder. MDNI. WORD COUNT. 10.9k (i genuinely thought it was 20k) AUTHOR'S NOTE. hi, i’m back! and with lots of fic ideas i hope you enjoyyyy. hnggg. i really have no other stuff to say. HAHAHA. hope you like it <3<3

MY LIBRARY. REQUESTS ARE OPEN! TO BE ADDED TO MY TAGLIST, YOU CAN SEND ME A MESSAGE.

It starts, as most mistakes do, with a tweet.

You're more of a background poster than anything. An anonymous handle with a blurry profile pic which you've taken while you were out in the Han river, barely 300 followers, and two things everyone can piece together if they pay attention:

One, you work at BELIFT.

Two, you work closely with ENHYPEN.

Too close, maybe. Close enough that you retweet clips of Jungwon being the cutest cat-like leader you've ever met. Close enough that you've ranted about Heeseung's additional ad-libs and last minute line changes, praised Ni-ki's professionalism at 3 AM, and the most damning of them all, tweeted far too often about how Park Sunghoon is the human embodiment of a soft-launch breakup.

Your followers think you're just funny. That you're just playing a bit. That maybe you're a delusional fan with a production job fantasy.

There had been a lot of replies to your tweets every now and then, asking if you really work in BELIFT and for ENHYPEN, or if Heeseung really does have a girlfriend. Some have the audacity to even question whether you really work in BELIFT or you're just another person acting like you do in order to have X engagement.

You even remember the time you've landed into one of Sunghoon's protection teams, saying that you were setting him up, and you laughed to yourself while you're checking the outfits lined up for Sunghoon in the music shows.

Like every anonymous poster, you don't reply. You never do. But still, the page grows.

ENGENEs aren't sure what to make of you. Your tweets toe the line between sarcastic slander and genuine devotion. It's not exactly hate, it's more like aggravated admiration. Like the kind of loathing that only forms when someone sees too much of a person. Sees past the polish, past the performance.

Especially when it comes to Park Sunghoon.

#enhypen x reader #enhypen smut #enhypen fanfiction #enhypen imagines #enhypen hard headcanons #enhypen hard thoughts #enhypen hard hours #enhypen sunghoon #enhypen sunghoon smut #park sunghoon fluff #park sunghoon smut #park sunghoon x reader #park sunghoon #sunghoon fanfic #sunghoon x reader #enha smut #sunghoon smut

okay now what i am i supposed to do now

#PROBABLY WRITE ANOTHER ONE AGAIN???#Who is it gonna be this time #SHOULD WE GO HEESEUNG?#alanine rants;

acciojaeyun

any time this week. trust me.

acciojaeyun

you can read it here!

acciojaeyun

let me hold you close | p.sh.

PAIRING. rich!sunghoon x fem!reader

SUMMARY. you and sunghoon are both off-limits. you're still living with your ex, and he's off to get married to someone that has been arranged for his family business. but that doesn't stop you both from trudging boundaries when it's just you and him in your own world.

CONTENTS. smut, some angst, some fluff. LOTS OF JEALOUSY. smut with plot. not beta-read. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

WARNINGS. lots and lots of jealousy. sunghoon is DOWN-BAD for reader, but the feeling’s mutual. indirect cheating (but not really???). semi-public sex, dom!sunghoon, bratty reader. somewhat mean hoonie. oral (both f and m receiving), p in v, unprotected sexual act (use protection at all times), temperature play, sensory deprivation, slight bondage (just tying up), sir kink (oh yeah baby), spitting kink. use of pet names (wiee). THREE SEX SCENES. (seldom mentions of hyung line: heeseung, jay, and jake) IDK I WROTE THIS BEFORE I COULD FULLY WRITE EVERYTHING.

WORD COUNT. 4.7k

AUTHOR'S NOTE. FINALLY IT'S HERE. belated happy birthday, my hoonhoon! this is my hoon birthday gift for y'all. hope you like it! (did i write two sunghoon smuts already? yes, yes i did.) also, wait for further updates, i might be updating anyone from the hyung line soon! wink wink.

MY LIBRARY. REQUESTS ARE OPEN! TO BE ADDED TO MY TAGLIST, YOU CAN SEND ME A MESSAGE.