GENRE + PAIRING ⋮ pure smut. your (seemingly) vanilla boyfriend discovers ropes after your accidental retweet ❤︎
PAIRING ⋮ park sunghoon x fem!reader.
CONTENT WARNINGS ⋮ as stated above… smut. +18 only. piv 、 unprotected (do not) 、 mean dom!brat tamer hunghoon 、 bondage 、 he’s so fucking RUDE omg 、 spanking 、 edging 、 filming 、 reader watches porn and is a brat 、 sunghoon is so Jealous 、 petnames (slut, good girl) 、 degradation + praise 、 let me know if i missed any!
AUTHOR’S NOTE ⋮ u guys r nasty as fuck!! I AGREE!!! based on this request also idk why this keeps getting taken down urgh sorry
you love your boyfriend. truly.
nothing could ever change that, nor do you think anything would—but god, was he gentle. it sounds a little ridiculous now that you say it out loud, even more when you recall the ridiculous plan of yours in your head, but it’s true. there are millions of girls who get on their knees and grovel at their lover’s feet for some gentle, passionate sex, but that just wasn’t you.
okay, that’s a little unfair to say—you loved it, yes, the same way you love how sunghoon groans every time he sits down on a chair because his back hurts, or when he’s a little too blunt for you not to laugh at. you love it because it’s him. god forbid you needed a little more, and the heavens knew you’d do anything but just ask.
too shy, too embarrassed, same thing. you don’t have enough courage, or any at all, to look park sunghoon in the eye and ask, ‘can you tie me up?’—so instead, you resort to secret retweets on an account no one looks twice at. who else is there to blame for the ache between your legs, if not you?
need hjm to tie me up n use me alll nightfuck [Post]
biiiig mistake. prime example of why you shouldn’t tweet half-asleep with your hands down your shorts, like some horny loser. posting tweets is an unusually fast affair—this would seem convenient to the average shitposter, but lord, not to you.
the tweet appeared in three seconds, right at the top of your timeline, next to a very mesmerizing selfie of yourself. you remember sunghoon picking the picture out, talking about how gorgeous your eyes looked, the way your lipstick shined on your lips, the glow of your skin through the screen—you laughed it off, nudged his shoulder, and made it your icon the same night.
so weird. your private account has a picture of chiikawa, not… you. why are you on your own timeline? hit tweet? is it glitching?
“oh my fucking god.”
the exact second you realize that the tweet was indeed not made on your private account, your heart drops straight through the mattress. any sleep that lingers in your body is immediately washed off of you in cold, shocking waves, leaving nothing behind but a gaping jaw and wide eyes.
deleting said tweet was also a fast affair, thank god. if you were lucky enough, nobody would’ve seen it. sunghoon, as chronically online as he may be, might still be at work and hence too busy to check your tweets—there’s just no way he got that notification, right? or maybe he doesn’t even have notifications on for your tweets at all, and you’re just spiralling for nothing.
the video was of this guy—he looked a little like sunghoon. smooth skin, warm underneath the dim light emanating from his desk lamp, cock flushed a dark pink from how pent up he is. it reminded you of your lover, though you had to admit that sunghoon’s was a little bigger (and prettier). you wonder if he’s waited all day to fuck the girl underneath him, the same way park sunghoon waits all day to come home to you, and the thought had survived all five seconds before it dissolved completely.
his arm reaches behind the camera. he pulls out red rope, thick and swirling in it’s pattern, vibrant compared to the scene of white bedsheets, stark in contrast to the woman’s flushed skin. she flinches when his fingertips run down her ribs, to her navel, stomach tensed like she knows what’s about to come—like it’s something she should be afraid of.
the video cuts to her face-down. her spine is arched so much that it reminds you of a crescent moon, bending at the man’s will, chest flush against the sheets with her ass perked up and slamming against his hips like it’s personally done him wrong. his hands are gripped around the rope tied around her hips, driving her back every time she tries to run away, and all she does is moan and cry and scream at how fucking good it feels.
the orgasm hit you so hard that it was humiliating. sunghoon will never have to know, he won’t ever need to know. sweet, innocent sunghoon, who’s never laid a hand on you, never offering a single touch that seemed to much to handle.
alls well that ends well. the tweet’s gone, your thighs are still shaking, and sunghoon’s probably too focused on driving to check your timeline. there’s just no way he would’ve seen it—
ding!
hoonie: Baby, is this what you want? 21:50
hoonie: [Attachment] 21:50
hoonie: You want me to tie you up and use you? 21:52
hoonie: Ignoring me isn’t gonna work. 22:00
hoonie: I’ll be home in 5. 22:00
oh, okay.
“stay still, won’t you?” sunghoon mumbles under his breath, an exasperated sigh leaving his lips before he pulls again. the veins in his biceps bulge under his skin as he works his way around your body, looping the black rope intricately, tight enough for it to leave your flesh spilling around the sides of it. “didn’t you ask for this? i even got the rope you wanted.”
your legs are the only parts he’s allowed freedom of movement. your arms bound to your back, a soft whimper claws it’s way involuntarily out of your throat when he tightens the final knot.
“i used to be good at doing these. a little sloppy now,” he clicks his tongue. sunghoon’s eyes glaze over you, almost in admiration of his own work. “summer camps came in handy. didn’t they, y/n?”
you grit your teeth, looking up at him through the gaps in your hair. you’d have moved them out of your face by now, but given your current predicament, you can’t do much else but stare at the man towering above you—clad in nothing but boxers that restrict his leaking cock, dark eyes lingering over your exposed chest where the thick rope leaves red imprints—one line crosses over your sternum, and another just under your breasts.
“what do you think? tight enough?”
god, if this isn’t karma, you don’t know what is. “shut up.”
sunghoon offers you a sympathetic yet equally infuriating smile. his knee dips into the mattress, in the space between your knees. “thank you for telling me. i never would’ve realized how gorgeous you look like this otherwise. such a blessing you are.”
“yeah, okay. i didn’t even—i was gonna delete it. i did, actually. were you fucking refreshing my page?”
“i have notifications on,” he responds bleakly. before you know it, his arms are reaching for the knot in the centre of your stomach, sitting an inch above your navel. “looks like you’re too slow, huh?”
is this what eve saw her first night on earth? in this moment, park sunghoon looks like temptation if it had a physical body. he smiles so cunningly that his teeth bares it’s fangs, glinting even under the warmth of your shared bedroom’s light, eyes never leaving yours. every breath that manages to escape your lungs is shaky, and for a brief second, you wonder if he can hear the fear in it.
“so? you just gonna tie me up and do nothing?” you manage to cough up. your gaze moves from his sharp v-line to his face, all dark and hungry and terrifying in it’s own right. “boring. you’re all talk. just surprised you could even get this far,” you wriggle your arms behind your back to show him. “now untie me.”
your lover doesn’t respond.
he stands still, one arm still resting against your belly with the other spreading your thighs apart—it’s instantaneous, abrupt, the moment the pressure on your inner thigh. sunghoon’s thumb digs deep into the flesh, making you squirm.
“i’m all talk?” he exhales, “i’m not untying you until you apologise.”
you scoff, blowing a puff of air towards your forehead. the hair falls obediently to the sides of your face, unfortunately, because sunghoon’s terrifying expression comes into full focus just seconds after. “for what? it was an accident. are you that sensitive?”
“don’t know. are you?”
“the fuck—“
you don’t realise that sunghoon’s hands have moved further down until his thumb presses firmly against your clit. “…are you sensitive, y/n?”
fucking hell. this is starting to piss you off, if anything. park sunghoon’s looking down at you like some poor creature, pout worn as if he had any real concern for you. his cock is literally growing bigger the longer you look at it.
you bite down on your lip as his fingers move—his middle finger traces your folds before eventually, he lets it sink into you. just one, not even down to the first knuckle, just shy of half his finger. you try to buck your hips, but without your arms, it’s plain useless; they just wriggle pathetically underneath him instead.
“fuck you.”
he frowns, pulls his finger out. it was nothing, but you whine anyway. any part of him feels better than being empty at this point.
“watch your mouth,” sunghoon takes a deep breath in. his other hand hooks around the spandex of his dark blue briefs, the letters ‘calvin klein’ warping when he finally shoves them down his thighs, and it’s like your chest has collapsed in on itself. how the fuck will you ever fit that inside of you? “you don’t even deserve this. i should just fuck you right now.”
it’s a dumb thought, admittedly. you have fit him inside of you. multiple times, in fact, but something about your boyfriend seems so much more… different. all you can hear is his heavy breaths, a string of curses as he spreads your folds wider with his fingers—and then the sound of spit hitting right where you’re leaking for him.
“f-fuck,” you whimper, “it’s not gonna fucking fit.”
“don’t be dramatic,” sunghoon sighs, shifting his hips closer to yours. he strokes his length just to spread the pre all over, and it’s just mesmerizing how pretty his cock is when it’s glistening in his own mess. “i’ll make it fit.”
you open your mouth to curse at him again, but it’s cut short by the feeling of his dick slapping against your clit—he spreads his pre-cum all over your entrance, ‘till you’re almost sparkling in your mixed fluids. park sunghoon is a tease, now more than ever, with how slowly he pushes his flushed tip in and back out.
“now sit still. don’t wanna hear a sound.”
“f-fuuuh.. fuck, fuck, oh my god—“
the pace at which sunghoon moves is nothing short of lethal. you think that if you didn’t have your cheek pressed flat against the sheets, you’d be screaming by now.
the room is quiet, except for the cacophony of moans and wet slaps of skin. your boyfriend’s cock is busy hammering itself into your walls, reaching spots that you don’t even think should be allowed, poking and prodding and it’s just mind-numbing.
“fuck… y-yeah, such a fucking slut,” sunghoon moans so lewdly that it sends heat crawling up your spine, till it reaches your neck and it makes you dizzy all over again. the rhythm of his hips is so brutal yet so hypnotic—his cock feels so hot, so big, so disgustingly rude. “so fucking pretty. look at you, can’t even run away, huh? just—shit—taking whatever i give you. so good for me.”
you nod like you can hear him. you don’t. either way, you feel him grip a little tighter at the knot behind your back, tightening it around his knuckles; as if he can’t bear to be apart from you, can’t stand your cunt not being full of him for just a second.
“hnngh, sunghoon, please—t-too rough, i feel something.”
he grips onto the red rope like a lifeline. every time you try to breathe, or to move your hips a little further away from his for just a moment longer—he pulls you right back in. you’d done just that, trying to catch your breath, but unfortunately for you, you really are too slow.
“reeaaally?” sunghoon pants, one hand around the knot and the other hanging freely by his side. he doesn’t even need to guide you anymore—the freedom he has to shove you back on his cock whenever he needs you, it’s driving him *crazy. “*wanna show me how good you feel on my cock? yeah?”
sweat trickles down his back. he’s never felt heat like this before; sunghoon’s always thought that sex with you was the best he’d ever have in his life, but this?
it’s transcending everything he’s ever known.
he’s seeing stars. they burst in his cloudy vision, his mind nothing but a thick haze. all he can really focus on is how your ass looks rippling against the base of his pelvis—jiggling with every pull at that damn knot, shoving you right back where you belong.
“that fucking post,” he spits, free hand raising before it slices through the air and lands straight on your right asscheek, “ngh—say… say you’re sorry, and i might let you cum tonight, hm?”
your jaw falls open in a silent scream, fingers curled into the bedsheets, trying not to scream out his name. “you’re—haah—insane—“
smack. smack. smack.
“don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
fuck those hands of his. so stupidly large and rough as they knead and fondle with your flesh like you’re some fucktoy—though, in a sense, you really are. your arms continue to thrash around, still bound tight by the rope, and it’s rubbing against your skin so much that it’s beginning to sting. sunghoon’s eyes narrow at the way you’re sobbing, and the confusion sneaks up on him then;
why hasn’t he done this before? this is genius. it’s like a whole new side of him has emerged, like an alter ego that he’s tried so hard to suppress; it’s all coming to him now. all the blood in his body’s rushing straight to his cock, and he feels electric, watching your tears spill onto the sheets—spine arched like the good slut you are, even when you fight back, like you know your place.
“s-sorry, i’m sorry, hoonie—i’m sorry! please, please—i’m gonna fucking cum, please let me cum.”
sunghoon’s hand grips tighter at the length of rope stretching across your back. he loops it around his knuckles again, which only brings you closer, your hips now flush against his pelvis—he feels so impossibly deep. the tip of his cock’s twitching when he buries himself to the hilt, and the greedy fucker even adjusts his position—just to make sure he’s feeling as much of you as possible.
he’s officially lost it.
“good girl, that’s it—such a good girl for me,” he breathes, looking down at the mess he’s created between you two. your juices are dripping down his swollen balls, his thighs, nothing but a sticky mess where your cheeks press against his body. “what’re you sorry for?”
fuck park sunghoon.
“i’m s-sorry—”
he rolls his hips once. a low sound leaves his throat, and you, a pornographic moan, effectively cutting off your apology—god, you feel so heavenly when he’s this deep inside. your walls flutter around him, crying, begging for more, squelching shamelessly.
“uhuh,” sunghoon nods, “what’s my baby sorry for? being such a whore? posting that shit for everyone to see, fuck—did you want me to find it? is that it?”
you’re choking on your words. the way sunghoon grinds into you is plain addictive, his thick girth swelling inside your softness, too busy focusing on how you’re practically nothing underneath him. wrecked and at his mercy, taking every stroke, every roll, every single taste of friction you manage to get your hands on.
“too fucking dumb to answer,” sunghoon scoffs. your walls clench around him at the words, and it’s just ridiculous how hard his cock twitches inside of you—like a chain reaction, he’s unfolding, mind unravelling itself until there’s nothing but one clear goal: make you cum.
not too hard. you’re already 90% there.
“f-fuck, baby,” sunghoon’s temple is slick with sweat, eyebrows knitted in sharp focus as he continues to rut into you—slow and deep strokes that hit every sweet spot inside your heavenly cunt. “could die in you—you feel so fucking good.”
fucking animal. his tongue darts around his lips—he’s so shameless with it, rolling his hips in tandem, looking up at you occasionally to see the fucked out expression on your face.
his heart feels so full. you’re breaking beneath him, voice crossing between moans and sobs and whimpers and everything in between; his name sounds like it’s drizzled in honey when spoken by your tongue. if only you could turn around, oh,you’d be able to see how absolutely lovestruck park sunghoon looks: soft pink lips parted, his golden brown hair falling over his forehead in damp strands, mumbling your name like a prayer he’s spoken every night.
“h-hoon, r-right there—fuuuck…” your wrists strain against the rope, your consciousness slipping from you with every passing second. this angle is even more torturous. what you wouldn’t you give to plant your palms into the sheets and just get on with it; you suppose that it’s drilling some patience into you. literally. “don’t stop—haah—p-please, hoonie.”
“wasn’t gonna,” sunghoon mutters in response. it barely reaches your ears, because your attention quickly shifts to how his weight shifts forward once more—cock curving into that sickening bundle of nerves that have your feet thrashing against the mattress. so sweet. sunghoon moans shakily, before he draws a sharp inhale through his nose.
the room smells like sex. a mix of your sweat and his combined, a tinge of your shampoo lingering from the bathroom, and his cologne rubbing off on you. he can’t help the smile that creeps on his face when he hears your heightened moans next—so loud, louder than you’ve ever been, despite all the useless tears and protests.
“i’m gonna fucking cum,” you whine, perking your ass up just enough for him to notice. greedy girl. even when you can’t take what you’re given, you still ask for more. the more you want to speak, the faster you find yourself unravelling, and eventually you just settle on his name, like it’s the only thing you truly know.
“thought i was all talk? look how quick you are.” sunghoon chortles before his lungs catch up to him. he’s panting heavily, feeling every nerve in him start to buzz, his cock starting to twitch unbearably inside of you. “don’t fucking disappoint me, then.”
it’s an understatement to say you break.
“c-cumming—i’m fucking cumming, hoon—!”
your legs shake so violently that it sends sunghoon into a frenzy—he yanks on the knot on your back again, smiling while he watches you struggle against him. your cunt spasms so beautifully around him, tight, squeezing him for everything he’s got and his balls ache so much that he practically snaps mere seconds after you.
“mhhm,” he groans when he feels you clench around him—like you’d die if he ever pulled out. he indulges, just this once, retracting his hips halfway before slamming back into you with a newfound motivation; his jaw ticks when you continue to fuck back against him, driving your ass against the base of his cock. so needy, so filthy, squelching around his length like it’s never going to be enough for your greedy hole. “nasty fucking girl. gonna fill you aaaall the way up, won’t i, baby?”
every touch burns so deliciously that it feels like sin. you’ve fallen right into it’s lap. “y-yeah, yes, please, give it to me—“
you’re bucking your hips back. where you found the energy to is lost on you, but it doesn’t matter. all that’s important is that sunghoon’s fucking you so right, hitting every sensitive spot, running his veins along every hidden crevice like it’s learning your body all over again.
“fuck, i’m gonna cum,” sunghoon moans. his teeth are grit so tight that he thinks he might shatter a tooth. his knuckles are on the brink of bleeding from how tight he’s wound the rope around them—they’re turning red from the friction, burning under pressure. “shit—all mine, aren’t you? come on. say it, say you’re mine, please.”
you barely have any time to come down before sunghoon gives you one, long stroke, plunging his cock as deep as he can until his cockhead kisses your cervix.
a long, pathetic moan is drawn out from you before it’s broken up by your cries.
dreaming. you’re dreaming. your legs begin to lock up and every muscle in your body feels like it’s on fire, every knot and bind of restraint snapping free. stars explode behind your eyelids and it occurs to you once again how utterly helpless you are; your legs go limp underneath him, lips mumbling his name into the sheets in a broken prayer, like this is the salvation you’ve been waiting eons for.
just as your lungs fill with air again, all of sunghoon’s weight disappears from on top of you. his hand is loosened from the binding behind your back and your arms finally stop fighting altogether. whew! you’re free—
smack.
your heart drops straight to your stomach. the pain bites at your skin and stings all over, sending chills up your spine until it pricks at your neck. you’re sure that you’ll have to ice your ass tomorrow—but with the ache thrumming in your veins, you think it’ll be futile.
“spread your legs,” sunghoon mutters. his voice is further away now. you try to, you really do—but you’re so sore, and the way the rope sinks into your flesh does nothing to help. “since you love telling everyone what you want, i’ll show them what you need.”
“make sure you arch for the camera, okay? just like the video. you know how, don’t you?”
the words don’t sink in until the tears in your eyes finally clear. your foggy vision blurs for a second, before focusing sharply on his phone in the corner of the room—landscape, flash on, exactly how that fucking video angled it.
“are you serious?” you laugh, but nothing’s really funny. “untie me. fuck, i wanna touch you, hoon—“
“you need to watch what you wish for,” he tuts. sunghoon’s hands find their way to your cheeks again, smoothing over the handprint he left, and you hiss at the contact. “gonna use you allll night. we’ll speed up the footage, and then you won’t have to rely on shitty porn, right?”
“please, hoon. i’ll be so good, i swear, i’m sorry—“
“there it is,” sunghoon flashes a smile at the camera. “waited so long to hear that—too bad i don’t care. sluts don’t get to touch. just take it.”
you’re deleting twitter. no retweet will slip by without a council to approve it, because with the way this is going—the way park sunghoon spreads your folds apart just to spit at your glistening hole, the way he fucks into you with the exact same pace as that damn video, the way he pushes down on your spine so your arch is practically identical—you might collapse.
ynln67: need hjm to tie me up n use me alll nightfuck
The first thing I saw after it was announced that Ariana was taking a step back from visibility was an Ariana fan saying, "Are you guys happy now? Are you happy now? Look what you did. You ruined it for all of us. You all bullied her, and now she's going to take a break." He was genuinely angry that she was taking a break, even though anyone with a pair of eyes can see that she's obviously not doing well. Taking some time off is probably the best thing that could happen to her right now. And yet, instead of recognizing that, your response is, "Look what you guys did. You bullied her, and now she's taking a break." You people do not give a single fuck about her as a person. You do not care about her at all. You just want her to keep performing for your entertainment despite her being clearly unhealthy.
engenes are fucking horrible. im sorry i’ve never been so ashamed to be apart of a fandom in my life
to do something so twisted like cyberbulling someone on a livestream and getting them to KILL THEMSELVES IN FRONT OF YOU is so disgusting i actually feel stick to my stomach.
these accounts are PEOPLE. no matter what they get themselves into, they are PEOPLE with FEELINGS, and no amount of trouble should ever warrant a fandom bullying them into suicide.
apparently she was a parasocial fan is what im reading?? which, while it is weird, is no reason to cyberbully someone to death?? completely unnecessary and just overall disrespectful.
it’s just so disappointing to see this fandom be so ugly towards one another time and time again. just be fucking normal for once holy shit
pairing :: nishimura riki x fem!reader
warnings :: shy!reader, strangers to lovers, college/uni au, drug usage, petnames, mutual friends, fluff, light angst, pub❤️, imperceptible time skips (but they are there in my head), size diff, unprotected sex, dirty talk, miscommunication, overstim, condescension, dom!riki, riding, slight spit play, corruption kink
word count :: 2.5k
a/n :: #larp because my plug is literally an Angel sent from heaven Jus4Me
dealer!riki who has a reputation for being the moodiest guy you’ll ever meet. he’s polite enough when people approach him, but his trademark sour grimace rarely leaves his face. you’ve only seen him smiling once in the two years you’d known of him, when sitting with this small group of friends (if you could even call them that) in the pub. he lives alone in a flat just outside campus which occasionally hosts parties that you’ve only ever heard stories about because of how small he keeps his circle.
dealer!riki who gets slightly annoyed when jake randomly messages him asking if he can give one of his friends a discount. he reluctantly agrees (after much convincing), only because jake rarely asks him for favours. but he fully expects it to be a quick transaction, he unconsciously assumes to be with a guy too.
dealer!riki who’s caught completely off guard when it's you that meets him on the steps outside one of his lecture halls and not one of the guys that jake usually hangs out with. he’s rendered speechless for a few seconds after hearing your sweet voice, “hi, ‘m jake’s friend,” you muttered out, starting at the floor, obviously nervous. he held back the urge to coo at you after you just asked him for a few prerolls, sheepishly telling him that you never really learned how to roll for yourself. he just smirked before noting the way your gaze dropped to the ground again. he really didn’t want you to feel shy or scared so he told you, in the kindest tone he could muster up, “i’ll give ‘em to you in a few hours, sweetheart,”
dealer!riki who feels endless enamoured by your trusting nature. to be fair, he did text you to ask for your address to drop them round, but he hadn’t expected you to obey so willingly. he didn’t usually do house calls but he thought he’d make an exception for you :3 after all, he’d have to go home and roll a few up for you anyways…
dealer!riki who knocks quietly on your apartment door at 6pm that same day, hands awkwardly shoved in his pockets as he tries to mentally prepare himself to be met with your pretty face again. you open the door with wide eyes and thank him probably more times than you should, shy smile on your face as you take the little sealed bag from his hand, eyes crinkling a little at the corners after noticing the pink paper he’s rolled them in (which he bought especially for you) :p
dealer!riki who starts throwing in random extras whenever you text him. completely unrelated things too. he asks jake for information on you, attempting nonchalance while trying not to sound like an absolute creep, only to hear that you don’t smoke often at all and that you really like cats. he just rolls his eyes at the limited details but doesn’t push, not wanting to draw attention to the fact that he’d never asked about any one of jake’s friends before, and jake had many. the next time you text him he throws in a pack of garishly cute kitty sticky notes that sunoo had given him mid-lecture ages ago, previously shoved so far into the back of his drawer that he almost had to unscrew the whole thing to find them.
dealer!riki who feels like the stupidest guy in the world when you just giggle in the face of (what he thought to be) a very bold declaration of affection. “what the fuck is this?” you exclaim at him through forcibly stifled laughs at the door of your apartment. he shoves away his embarrassment just to tell you, “jake told me you like cats.” a wave of relief washes over him when your face softens, albeit, you were still giggling, but now the back of your hand was pressed over your mouth before you thanked him, eyes shining with a pinky promise that you’ll use them well :)
dealer!riki who wants to abolish every rumour about himself, who wants everyone’s perception of him as this scary and sullen guy to change because he’s still so bothered by the way you continue to seem nervous around him. he notices how you still avoid meeting his gaze, your cheeks pink while your hands fidget. the only explanation for this in his head is that you’re probably a little bit frightened by him, which absolutely upsets him to acknowledge :(
dealer!riki who decides he needs to actively try to become the nicest person alive when it comes to you and you only. he goes out of his way to try and remember the little things about you after he remembers sunghoon telling him about how “girls absolutely lap that shit up,” his notes app is full of your drink orders and your favourite songs and your little mannerisms that he hopes with all of his being that he’s the only one who notices. he smiles more around you. it started out a little forced, as a way to deter you from breaking eye contact or feeling shy around him, but ends up natural. he really can’t keep a straight face in your presence anymore, even if he tried :)
dealer!riki who finds excuses to see you when he realises that you hardly ever buy from him. he waits outside your lecture buildings every now and then, dragging his hand over face, rolling his eyes at himself and imagining how much of an absolute perv he probably looked like to everybody else. it was all worth it though when he got to see your pretty face, backpack slung over one shoulder as you quirked your head in his direction. “wanted to walk you home,” he says simply after you reach the same step he’s on, trying not to look too excited when he realises that you now meet his gaze with ease, looking up at him through your lashes before accepting his quick offer of carrying your bag.
dealer!riki who refuses to let you pay for anything from him after a few weeks of your first meeting, much to your dismay. he thought it was so cute how you insisted on paying in full so desperately, traces of anger in your tone before you gave in, accepting his bullshit excuses about discount stacking and other completely fabricated on the spot rationalisations leading to you getting 20 quid worth of product for free every week :3
dealer!riki who refers to you as his girl to the few of his friends that he's let in on the secret of his childish crush on you. jake and heeseung try their hardest not to act shocked, and to show nothing other than subtle amusement on their faces as to not scare him off from talking about you like this. it’s the first time they’d ever heard him even speak about a girl, let alone with so much reverence and adoration in his tone.
dealer!riki who develops the softest voice imaginable whenever he talks to you. people swear he’s a different person because the same guy that was arguing about prices with someone like his life was on the line ten minutes ago is now quietly asking if you’ve bought a jacket because it’s getting colder outside and he notices you shiver. when you tell him no he’s already draping his own coat around your shoulders, helping you put your arms through the sleeves and cooing at you when he sees how oversized it is on you, you looked as though it was swallowing you up, fabric just barely hanging onto your frame :(
dealer!riki who thinks about asking you out on a real date a month after he’d met you for the first time. he hesitates before asking jake and heeseung how to go about it, before being gently scolded by sunghoon for way overthinking it and then deciding, of his own accord, that he’d skip the formalities and just ask you to be his girlfriend instead. you of course, say yes. but not before asking him to take you on a date first!
nsfw under div🤓
dealer!riki who tries so hard to take it slow with you, content to just make out on the sofa with you perched in his lap, hoping you wouldn’t notice him rock hard under you as he held back his tongue from plunging further into your mouth like he’d like to do. his hands stayed firmly planted on your hips, the instinctual urge to run them up your shirt forced away before he moved one large palm up to cup your cheek :(
dealer!riki who’s convinced you’ll be the death of him when you sheepishly admit that you always thought it was him who was the nervous one. that it was him who was hesitant to take the next step with you. little did you know he’d been trying his absolute hardest to follow your lead, not even bringing up anything remotely sexual until you did first. he would’ve laughed when you’d told him this if it wasn’t for the sinking pit in his stomach, a harsh reminder of all of the things you both could’ve done together in the few weeks you’d been dating, a rude awakening of how well he could’ve learned the ways of your body by now if it wasn’t for this miscommunication.
dealer!riki who’s almost ashamed of how much he loves teaching you new things. how much he loves the way you clench around him when you’re on top for the first time, your legs folded and your hands planted firmly on his shoulders as you bounce up and down, screwing your eyes shut when he reaches a hand up to toy at your nipple. he thinks it’s the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen, even more so because he knows he’s the first one to see it, the thought promoting an involuntary twitch inside of you. and he ends up teaching you more about even your own body. you’d thought for the longest time it was impossible to cum more than once, but he’d quickly proved you wrong with his nimble fingers and his warm, wet tongue :3
dealer!riki who tries to slowly get you out of your shell even more so, who reminds you constantly that it’s okay to ask for what you want when you want it. you’d never been one to ask for help, or even voice the things that you wanted and desired. you knew this and riki knew this, and without your knowledge, he’d made the decision that this would stop, at least with him. he wanted you to feel comfortable enough around him to trust him in knowing the secrets of your needs. and maybe he went about it the wrong way, but it definitely worked! he’d been fingering you for what felt like hours now, your third orgasm threatening to rear it’s head as you clutched desperately at any part of him you could reach, tears brimming in your eyes at the stimulation. “ki…” you whined out with no further explanation. he understood. “you want more, baby? want my cock?” he almost felt a little annoyed at himself for giving in so easily, hoping that you’d be the one to ask him. you just looked up at him with that glassy gaze, assuming he’d take that as a yes like he always did. instead, “well then… you gotta ask me for it. you gotta tell me how bad you want it, sweetheart. if not, you’re gonna have to settle with just my fingers tonight.” typically, you wouldn’t mind. but today, you felt like you’d actually wither away if you couldn’t get him inside of your wet heat. it wasn’t long before you were muttering out borderline nonsensical begging, much to his surprise. he thought i’d take much longer to coax it out of you, but not unusually, he didn’t realise just how bad you needed him :(
dealer!riki who loves when you let him fuck you when you’re high because of how whiny you get. the mewling and whimpers that you’d normally hold back through clenched teeth are let free at full force, making lasting long enough inside of you to get you off too a much more difficult feat for him. but he’d never dream of asking you to be quieter, not in a million years, especially because he thinks you feel as though you have to be high to release your inhibitions in such a way, that being around him isn’t enough of a catalyst. he probably gets really in his head about it, only to come to the sudden realisation a few months later that you now act this way all the time with him, whether you’re pleasantly high or stone cold sober :)
dealer!riki who ALSO loves it when you let him fuck you when you’re high because you’re not afraid to be messier. usually, you’ll grimace slightly when you feel a mix of shared spit run down your chin, almost imperceptible in the way that your face screws up. but of course, he notices. he notices how you wince when you feel the slick from your cunt and his cum running steadily down your thighs. he notices how you cringe when he pulls his body away from yours, the thin sheen of sweat covering both of you now perceptible. so of course, he notices when you pay no mind to any of these things, and sometimes, when you begin to revel in them :p
dealer!riki who absolutely abuses dirty talk when he finds out how much his shy girl loves it. the pink that spreads deeper across your cheeks and neck doesn’t go unnoticed by him when he calls you his filthy girl, when he ducks down to whisper into your ear how he’s never had pussy like this, how nobody’s ever taken him as good as you do. your whines increase tenfold, and now you’re pawing at his chest from below, pussy clenching around him so tight he gets a little dizzy :3
dealer!riki who’s not all that shocked to find out you’re not as shy as you sometimes seem, at least, not in the bedroom. it’s taken him a while to get you to this point, to get you comfortable enough to instigate. but once you start, he can’t get enough, purposefully winding you up, spreading his thighs wide over the couch or winding his arms around your waist in public, lips brushing over your neck just to feel you press your thighs together. just to see your usually wide eyes look up at him, now squinted, gaze ever so slightly distant as you do a bad job of hiding the effect he has on you. as soon as you step through the door you’re all over him, grabbing his face and pulling it down to yours to press a harsh kiss to his lips, ignoring the smirk you could feel spreading across his face and choosing instead to pull at his shirt, signalling that you wanted it off... and who was he to deny you :3
taglist :: @nishimurarik, @luvpocket, @enteaura, @contactviaemail, @gojopolo, @rikiiholiic
↳ comment to be added ᵎᵎ
established relationship, use of “baby”, angst if a big disagreement is considered angst, comfort, age gap (undergraduate!reader/medstudent!sunghoon)
3,699: WC < 06
I have reqs for angst but Idk what angst is if it isn’t someone dying 😭
“How long do you think it will take before you and I are married?” He asks lazily, rubbing your ring finger between his thumb and pointer.
Excuse you?
“Is there a specific timeline you want to follow? We just celebrated our second year together, so maybe in the next year?” He continues, moving his head up slightly so it’s resting with yours.
You don’t want to have the conversation, not now, maybe not even for the next few years.
Where is any of this even coming from?
The thing is, you might be too young to have this conversation, but he’s actually at the age where it’s important that he thinks about it.
But you and Sunghoon have always had similar mentalities; so where does marriage and everything that it comes with fit into the lifestyles of two future doctors?
“Uhh…I don’t know…” you shrug, pulling your hand back slowly as you keep your head angled down.
You suddenly regret having chosen to lie down facing him now; you don’t want to look at him for this.
“What?”
There it is.
There’s the disappointment you expected to hear.
“Can we not talk about this right now? I’m tired, I want to go to sleep.” You ask, turning away from him onto your side.
Actually, no.
You can’t talk about this another time.
“You can’t just say something like that and then stop the conversation there-“ he sits up as he insists on it, seeing nothing but your back for a bit.
You come up on your elbows, some of your hair falls forward over your shoulders and you have to tuck it behind your ear to face him the way you wanted to.
“This isn’t the first time I’ve mentioned this.” You remind, “you know exactly what my plans are for the next few years until I graduate.”
“I probably agreed with you then—I mean, are you really telling me that after two years, nothing has changed?” He asks.
“No.” You answer much quicker than you mean to, and it doesn’t help.
“What difference does it make whether we’re married or not?” You suggest, “is there some kind of trial? Would we break up if we weren’t married after three years?”
“It’s more than that, and you know that.” He says, his brows creased tightly.
“And you can’t wait?”
There’s a small pause between then and when the words settle in his ears.
“Is it really so urgent that I can’t at least get into medical school before you throw this on me?”
“Throw this on you?” He repeats, backing up slightly. “I’m telling you I want to spend the rest of my life with you, and you take it as some kind of burden?”
You run a hand over your face, sitting back on your heels to take some of the weight off your arms.
The break gives you both something new to focus on; something the other insinuated that only registered after you had time to process it.
“You want kids?”
“You don’t want kids?”
And somehow, it’s the exact same thing and said almost at the exact same time.
“Of course I want them…with you.” He admits.
The way his voice softens with vulnerability makes it hard to continue, but you know it’s necessary.
“It’s not a you and me thing.” You say carefully, “I mean…it is, because it involves me…but my wish to not have them has nothing to do with you, or our relationship.”
Now that it’s out in the open, you try to focus on making sure this doesn’t become a rift between the two of you.
“We’re not like other people—the things we want to achieve, they can only be done if we focus on ourselves.” You add, leaning forward to get a bit closer to him.
“We can compromise on the marriage thing.”
“Maybe once we have the positions in what we want, we can revisit the children thing—but do you really want to be almost 35 and having children just when your career has started to stabilize?”
You’re not on the same level as him—that much you’ve made clear.
But why is it so easy for you to belittle his wants and needs by calling them things?
Why do your ideas take priority over his?
“I can’t…” he hesitates, shaking his head a bit as he looks down at the gap between the two of you.
Can’t what?
Believe it?
Do this?
Understand it?
Come on, Sunghoon, finish your sentence.
“Hoon,” you call out, watching him back up until he’s closer to the edge to get up on his feet.
“I need to think about this.” He says simply, grabbing his phone and disconnecting it from his charger before he starts walking away.
“Sunghoon.” You’re firmer this time, using his full name in a way you aren’t used to.
You stay still, waiting, thinking he wouldn’t get far and return even if to argue.
Instead, you sit still; only coming up on your feet when you hear the front door open and close.
You don’t even waste time putting shoes on.
Yet by the time you’re peeking your head out the door, Sunghoon isn’t even at the end of the hall—he’s completely gone.
You step back inside, finding his keys missing from the bowl on the rack near the door.
What did he mean by “think” about it?
Why does that entail taking his car with him?
Hours pass, and you wait in the living room; wanting to catch him the minute he gets his foot in the door.
And just as you start to worry now that it’s getting closer and closer to 1 in the morning, you finally get a text from him.
hoon: I’m staying with Jay tonight.
You expect more; maybe an explanation as to why he’d spend the night with a friend so suddenly after what happened.
But he doesn’t even try to type out another message; as if he wrote this, sent it, and turned his phone off.
you: please come back
you: we don’t have to talk about it again tonight
you: you don’t have to stay anywhere else
Of course, your messages aren’t replied to.
And after 10 minutes, it becomes clear that he doesn’t intend to read them, much less return.
₊‧⁺♱ ──
Jay lives alone; no roommates and he has a penthouse so entire floor his space is on belongs to just him.
It belonged to his dad whenever he did business in Seoul, and when Jay moved here for school he gave it to him.
So Jay has all this space for no reason.
It used to give the guys a place to crash on late nights or when they used to throw parties here.
Now, it’s keeping Sunghoon while he hides from his girlfriend.
Which is actually a first, seeing as none of the guys have had relationships like him.
And as nosey as the guys are, it’s not just the space Jay is giving Sunghoon; it’s his opinion and his ear.
“It’s not like I said I wanted her to quit school— all I did was tell her what I wanted it for us—“ Sunghoon says, standing on the fine line between staying upset and actually crying.
Jay sits on a desk chair near the bed; reclined as far back as he can while his hands are tucked behind his head for cushion.
You’d think he isn’t paying attention, but actually he’s trying to find the nicest way to tell his friend that he couldn’t have expected anything from someone younger than him.
“You should have seen her,” he continues, “like it was so easy for her to just say no without actually hearing me out.”
Jay won’t mind if Sunghoon starts crying, but it’s going to make it hard to snap any sense into him if he does.
Jay would never speak plainly or rudely then; he’s not an asshole.
“I’m allowed to want more than what we originally planned on—things change—“ he says, his voice shaky as his eyes start to water.
Jay sighs softly, straightening up slightly as he pats Sunghoon’s shoulder.
“Maybe you guys just need a break.” Jay says, officially giving up on any chance of a reality check as he decides to let his friend sleep in peace.
“You don’t want to break up, right?” He prompts, standing up slowly.
That thought hadn’t even crossed his mind, and now that it had, Sunghoon was worse for it.
“Of course not—“ he agreed, tears falling as his throat starts to lump up.
Real smooth, Jay.
“I’m sure she doesn’t either.” He follows up, getting back to his original point, “take some time apart. She’ll see she can’t live without you, and you can talk about it again after you’ve had enough time to really think about it.”
Time apart?
Sunghoon just said he didn’t want that.
How is a break any different from an actual break up?
“I’d say a month is a good amount for this.” Jay adds, watching Sunghoon stop for a moment as he looks up at him with his brows furrowed.
“A month??” He repeats.
“That’s what you’ll tell her,” Jay corrects slightly, “just to scare her.”
Sunghoon considers it for a moment; maybe it would work, maybe it might make things worse.
But don’t all things have to get worse before they get better?
So he agrees.
And he uses the two days in the weekend to soft-launch you into the bomb he’ll drop on you that following Monday.
You share locations, and that’s about all the comfort you get during those two days.
If it’s really with Jay that he’s staying, he hasn’t left his apartment since he got there.
His contact bubble moves around the space, but never outside of it, not even a buffer in the hall before it returns.
You don’t like making your relationship other people’s business, so you keep to yourself for those two days.
You don’t cry.
You don’t worry.
What could you have to worry about?
The few arguments in the last year have been over things out of your control—things that could have an impact because they’re unpredictable—but even those had no lasting effects on your relationship.
Maybe you stepped on him a little.
As long as you remind him that you’re not going against him for no reason and can compromise, things can work themselves out.
You’ve even thought about it briefly; as long as you get into med school and get through your first year, you’re more than willing to get engaged then.
It’s less than two years away, and by then you’ll be at a more respectable age and have more time to think about the extent of your futures.
So when you finally see his bubble move, you’re hopeful.
And you feel a bit better when you watch it move around and make its way to your complex.
You might be a little too eager; standing in the entranceway as he starts unlocking the door.
But it’s fine, right?
“I think we need a break.” Breaking the silence with this was definitely a choice, but he can’t exactly take it back now.
The words don’t register right away.
He’s finally back after two entire days of nothing, and he needs more time to himself?
“What?” You ask, a lagged reply with an expression that forms after you speak.
“Jay thinks—” he begins,
“I’m not dating Jay.” You interrupt, “Jay doesn’t get to have an opinion on something that he’s not involved in.”
You’re frustrated now; you didn’t argue at first, and you gave him the space he asked for when he left.
So yeah, if you want to raise your voice and be harsh, you’re going to.
“Jay thinks it’s the only way through this without breaking up,” he repeats himself, this time getting through his entire point.
You laugh, hand coming up over your mouth before it slides down your neck and around it, rubbing the back of it as you process.
“Do whatever you want.” You scoff, “you better be gone by the time I get back.”
You push past him, bumping shoulders before you come off the apartment floor and onto the floor mat where you change shoes.
He stands there with his back turned to you, a small sigh as he waits for you to leave before he packs his things.
It takes him 20 minutes; he doesn’t take absolutely everything, but if he’s going to be gone for an entire month, he’s going to need a lot.
It doesn’t feel good to end up with a nearly empty bedroom, but he doesn’t want to argue with you again if you get back while he’s still here.
And he leaves despite not wanting to; packing everything into his car and waiting for a bit as he considers whether he really wants to do this or not.
In the end, he decides for it; and you watch from your car—parked only spaces away from his—as he pulls out of the space and drives off.
You saw the hesitation, so you waited a bit to see if he’d come back.
Instead, you’re walking back to your apartment after 10 minutes; alone and with the strangest mix of anger and sadness settling in your stomach.
He texts you again later that same night, explaining the break just a little more.
He had the audacity to set rules in addition to deciding how long it would last on his own;
An entire month where you’d live separately and have no contact; not through the phone, not in person, and not through someone mediating.
You block his number then; the most likely thing is that you’ll forget about the rules and text him, and you’d rather not be the one to do it.
₊‧⁺♱ ──
By the time Sunghoon returns, Jay is already back from work and cooking dinner.
He sees the bags and Sunghoon’s solemn expression and decides to leave him alone for now.
It’s not something either of them truly acknowledges; it’s just the understanding as Sunghoon walks right past him and into the room Jay gave him.
Jay might not make Sunghoon feel uncomfortable in the traditional sense, but Sunghoon doesn’t feel like he can do as he would like to.
He’d like to wallow and rot in his bed to try and make time move faster, but he’s a guest in someone else’s home, so he can’t.
He treats Jay to things as a form of appreciation: takeout whenever Jay doesn’t feel like cooking; beer on Friday and Saturday; and he’s hung out with him and Jake twice.
If you knew what he was doing, you’d think he’s enjoying his time away from you, but inside he’s miserable.
And it shows only when he’s drunk; suddenly growing distant from the guys as he thinks about you until one of them asks and he admits that he misses you.
Once Jake found out and heard the entire thing, he felt Jay was the wrong person to have gone to.
Jake believes Sunghoon shouldn’t be left alone with his thoughts and needs distractions.
They go to a club once and Sunghoon managed to escape from them to hide out in the car while he looked through his pictures.
Jay catches him in this, and he goes on to see it a few more times after, and it’s when he tells Jake to back off for good.
He hasn’t cried—he doesn’t think it’s been long enough for him to—but that doesn’t mean he isn’t sad.
Sunghoon withdraws a lot and blanks out in the middle of things, like in the shower or just before bed.
It’s also during all of this that he realizes how touch-starved he is.
He’d never considered you touchy or clingy, but he realized just how badly he needed it one night that he fell asleep comfortably with the pressure of a pillow against his back and another kept close to his front side.
If you knew he was having trouble sleeping, what would you do?
Would you stay up with him?
Rub his back or play with his hair until he did?
By the two week mark, he’d actually tried it one night for himself; sliding his hand under his shirt and rubbing his own chest the way you usually did.
It’s embarrassing.
More of a humiliation ritual, really.
He has a girlfriend—one who liked doing these things and did them without being asked to.
And because he jumped ahead he has to do without her?
₊‧⁺♱ ──
It’s different for you;
When you think about it long enough, you become angry.
You spend the first few days that way; putting things he left behind out of view when you come across them, staying away from your phone unless someone calls or texts, and you throw yourself into other things to distract you.
But after a week, you realize how big your bed actually is.
And you stare at what would be his side for the longest before you fall asleep.
Then everything changes and you’re just upset.
You walk around like you’ve been drained for everything you have, you zone out at work, and you sleep more on the couch because you won’t sleep well in your room.
Another week passes by, it’s Friday, and you find yourself wondering what you’d be doing under normal circumstances.
Maybe he’d surprise you with something; despite his seriousness, sunghoon is surprisingly good at finding new things to do in a city you’ve lived in for a while.
Maybe he’d take you somewhere casual; the movies; dinner; on a walk.
It hits you then that he might’ve tried to break the silence himself, but you blocked him, so you’d have no way of knowing.
It makes you grab your phone; unblocking his number, finding your messages with him; but there’s nothing.
But maybe it just needs to buffer, so you close the app and open it again; nothing.
Maybe he called instead of messaging you because he wanted to catch you when you weren’t busy, so you check your calls; and for the third time, there’s nothing.
He’s really taking this seriously.
It’s been two weeks and he hasn’t tried anything?
It’s been two weeks and he’s okay?
You only realize you’re crying when you feel like curling up wherever you can; which ironically enough is on the same large bed that makes you sad on a daily basis.
₊‧⁺♱ ──
The time apart should have given you a scare; to force you to imagine a reality where you were no longer together over something that could be fixed.
Only that effect came onto him more than it could have ever hit you.
And because the universe works in mysterious ways, the day he decided to ignore the rules he set just so happened to be the exact same day you first cried about it.
Even if he has a code to the door, he knocks because he wants to give you the option to ignore him if it’s still what you want.
But maybe if you see him trying, you’ll take pity on him and let him in.
And for a good minute, it seems like you won’t open the door.
Until he hears the lock click out of its place and the door opens up just enough for you to come into view.
You might not be crying in the moment, but he can tell you were just before you opened the door.
God, he’s such an asshole, isn’t he?
Do something, sunghoon, anything.
Neither of you have said a single word since you opened the door.
he’s still just standing right outside the frame and you’re blocking the way in without really thinking about it.
You sniffle a little—not to make it obvious that you were crying or anything like that—it was involuntary.
But it makes him react in a weird way where he feels like he has to do something about it.
Sunghoon barely realizes he’s crossing the threshold before he’s sliding one arm around your waist to bring you closer, while the other cups your cheek to angle your head the way he wants it to.
He sighs into your mouth, his shoulders dropping slightly as they relax; as if they’d been tense the entire time you were apart and could only come down now that you were near again.
Sunghoon might not be freakishly tall, but he’s tall enough that you have to work for this.
It messes with your shared balance the way you tip up slightly and pull him down by wrapping your arm around his neck, but he catches on quickly.
“I’m sorry.” He says, stopping for a moment just to get this out.
Your eyes start to well up again; having been emotional not even an hour ago, you’re a lot more sensitive to his sudden appearance than you would have been if he showed up yesterday.
“What— what are we going to do?” You sob.
Whatever burst of energy you had seconds ago is suddenly replaced by this.
Sunghoon frowns, cupping your face with both hands as he struggles to figure out how he’s going to comfort you when it’s his fault you’re crying in the first place.
“We don’t have to do anything, okay?” He says, clearing your face for you.
“Please don’t cry, baby…” he begs, “the break was a stupid idea— I missed you so badly, baby, you’d never believe me.”
You try to stop, but you can’t help it; and you bury your face in his shoulder to continue crying.
“I can wait.” He says, stroking your hair gently, “i just want us to be together, i don’t care how we do it.”
It doesn’t do much to help you stop crying, and all he can think to do is try and draw you out.
“Talk to me, baby…I don’t want to go back.” He sighs, “just tell me I can stay…”
You don’t give him a proper answer, you just wrap your arms around him tightly and hope it’s enough.
“Okay, okay.” He says softly, reaching behind him to lock the door.
Warnings: •18+/MDNI •Possessiveness •edging •cockwarming •Jealousy •unprotected sex
╭☞Synopsis- Behind the cocky attitude and black hoodie is a secretly obsessed gamer who can’t focus the moment you’re in the room.
↝The boy who always goes AFK for you...
The apartment smelled like energy drinks, expensive cologne, and the faint metallic scent of overheating PCs. You stood in the doorway with your suitcase, staring at the chaos that was now going to be your home for the next few months.
Your best friend, Mina, had promised it would be fine.
“Heeseung barely leaves his room,” she had said. “He’s always streaming League or whatever. You’ll hardly notice him.”
He owned the entire apartment — three bedrooms, a massive living room turned into a gamer den, and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city. Mina had been renting one room for almost a year. When your dorm building had a pipe burst and flooded half the floor, she begged Heeseung to let you take the second spare room. He agreed… for an absurdly low price.
You just didn’t expect the owner to look like that.
Heeseung was leaning against the kitchen counter when you walked in, wearing an oversized black hoodie that somehow made his broad shoulders look even wider. The hood was up, silver hair peeking out messily. He was tall and annoyingly attractive. A half-empty Monster can sat beside him.
“Hey” he said, voice low and slightly bored. “You’re the new roommate?”
“Yeah. Thanks for letting me stay,” you replied, trying to sound polite.
He shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was holding back a smirk. “Don’t thank me yet. I stream until 4 a.m. most nights so good luck sleeping.”
Before you could respond, the front door opened again and three more guys piled in — Jake, Jungwon, and Sunghoon — loud, laughing, carrying takeout bags and controllers.
Jake spotted you first. His eyes lit up. “Damn. Mina didn’t say her best friend was this hot.”
Sunghoon gave you a once-over and smirked. Jungwon offered a shy but friendly smile.
You felt heat creep up your neck but forced a small smile. Heeseung’s gaze sharpened for a split second before he pushed off the counter.
“Living room’s mine for streaming,” he announced, already walking away. “Stay out of my setup and we’ll be good.”
Cocky.
Exactly the type you couldn’t stand.
The first week was quiet.
You kept to yourself. University classes in the morning, part-time job in the afternoon, and back to the apartment to study. Mina was barely home or hanging out with Sunghoon, leaving you alone with the boys most evenings.
Heeseung was always there.
Either locked in the biggest bedroom (which doubled as his streaming cave) or sprawled on the massive sectional in the living room with his friends, headset half-on, fingers flying over the keyboard and mouse as he carried ranked games in League of Legends.
He was good. Actually insane. You overheard his friends calling him “the best” more than once. Thousands of people watched him every night while he trash-talked opponents in that calm, deep voice.
But around the apartment? He was insufferable.
He’d walk around with his hood up even indoors, barely speaking to you unless it was to make some cocky comment.
“Studying again? Cute. Try not to fail while I’m out here making money playing games,” he’d say with that annoying half-smirk whenever he passed your open door.
You rolled your eyes every single time.
To cope, you started spending more time in the living room when the boys were over. At first you were quiet — just sitting on the far end of the couch with your laptop. But Jake was persistent.
“Yo, come closer. We don’t bite,” he grinned one night, patting the spot beside him.
You hesitated, but moved. Sunghoon offered you a drink. Jungwon asked about your classes. Slowly, you started talking more. Laughing at their jokes. Feeling… included.
Heeseung noticed.
His eyes would flick to you constantly from behind his monitors. When Jake threw an arm around your shoulders while laughing at a funny play, Heeseung’s jaw would tighten. When Sunghoon teased you about how pretty you looked after you came back from a night out, Heeseung’s fingers would pause on his keyboard for just a second too long.
But he never said anything directly.
Until the night you decided to push him.
It was a Friday.
Mina had gone out with Sunghoon on their first official date, leaving you alone with the boys. They were drinking — soju mixed with beer — celebrating Heeseung hitting a new peak rank.
You had one too many drinks yourself. The alcohol made you bold.
You sat right in the middle of them tonight, wearing a tight tank top and shorts. Jake was especially attentive, complimenting everything you said, making you laugh until your stomach hurt.
Heeseung was streaming but had the camera angled so only his setup showed.
You leaned into Jake’s side on purpose, letting him whisper something in your ear that made you giggle loudly.
From the corner of your eye, you saw Heeseung’s hand clench around his mouse.
“Jake,” Heeseung said suddenly, voice deceptively calm. “Focus on the game.”
Jake just laughed. “Can’t help it when she’s sitting right here looking like that.”
Your heart raced with petty satisfaction. You turned to Jake with a flirty smile. “Maybe I should sit on your lap next round. For good luck.”
Jungwon choked on his drink.
Heeseung finally looked straight at you. His eyes were dark, something unreadable swirling behind the cocky mask. He looked… annoyed.
But he didn’t say anything. He just unmuted his stream and kept playing like nothing happened.
Later, after the stream ended and Jake and Jungwon had gone home, you were a little drunk and buzzing with victory. You headed to the kitchen for water.
Heeseung was already there, leaning against the counter, hood down for once. His silver hair was messy, eyes tired but sharp.
“You done trying to piss me off?” he asked quietly.
You raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. “Why? Is it working?”
He stared at you for a long moment. The air felt thicker.
Then he smirked — that same annoying, cocky smirk.
“Careful, newbie. You’re playing a game you don’t know the rules for.”
He brushed past you, shoulder grazing yours, leaving the faint scent of his cologne and the heat of his body behind.
You stood there in the dark kitchen, heart pounding, wondering why the hell his words made you feel both angry and strangely excited at the same time...
The next day-
The lecture hall felt endless today. By the time you finally dragged yourself out of university, your feet ached and your stomach was growling. You stopped at the usual spot and picked up two portions of spicy tteokbokki with rice cakes and fried chicken — Mina’s favorite. She had been texting you all week about how stressed her assignments were, so you figured a girls’ night in with food and gossip was overdue.
The apartment was suspiciously quiet when you pushed the door open at 8:17 PM, the warm glow of the living room LEDs the only light on.
“Mina?” you called out, kicking off your shoes. No answer. The takeout bags rustled in your hands as you set them on the kitchen counter.
You pulled out your phone and dialed her.
She picked up on the third ring, voice slightly breathless and giggly. “Hey babe!”
“Where are you? I brought tteokbokki and chicken. Thought we could eat and gossip”
Mina laughed softly. “Ah… shit. I’m out right now. Sunghoon picked me up after class. We’re just… hanging out.”
You frowned, leaning against the counter. “Hanging out? Again? Mina, you’ve been with him almost every night this week.”
“We’re just having fun. No labels or anything serious. He’s really good at making me forget how stressful everything is, you know?”
You bit your lip. You had seen the way Sunghoon looked at girls — including you. The way his eyes raked over your body when he thought no one was watching. Heeseung’s best friend or not, he didn’t give off boyfriend material vibes. More like heartbreaker who looks like a model.
“Mina… just be careful, okay? I don’t want you getting hurt. He flirts with everyone.”
She sighed dramatically. “I know what I’m doing. I’ll be home late, don’t wait up. Eat without me — or share with Heeseung if he’s around. He probably hasn’t eaten anything but energy drinks again.”
You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, sure. Have fun.”
After hanging up, you stared at the two steaming bags. Jake and Jungwon weren’t coming over tonight — they were playing from home, apparently. That left only one person in the apartment.
Heeseung.
You told yourself it was just polite. You grabbed one of the takeout containers, a pair of chopsticks, and a bottle of water, then headed down the hallway toward his room.
His door was slightly ajar — unusual. Soft blue light spilled out along with the rapid clicking of a mechanical keyboard and his low, focused voice.
Heeseung was deep in his element. He leaned forward in his expensive gaming chair. Multiple monitors glowed in front of him — one showing the League game, another with chat scrolling fast, a third with stream stats. He looked completely in the zone, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.
You hesitated at the door, suddenly feeling intrusive. But the food was getting cold.
You knocked lightly. “Heeseung?”
He didn’t hear you at first.
You stepped inside a little further. “Hey… I brought some takeout. Figured you might not have eaten—”
Heeseung startled, head snapping toward you. His eyes widened for a split second — surprise, then something softer — before his usual cocky mask slid back into place.
“Shit— wait, hold on guys,” he muttered into the mic. He quickly typed something, then turned fully toward you, one hand still on the mouse. “You’re in my room.”
You held up the container like a peace offering. “Mina’s out. I got extra. You’ve been in here all day, right? Just… eat something.”
For a moment he just stared at you, like he couldn’t quite process why you were being nice. Then the corner of his mouth twitched. “Trying to poison me or something?”
You rolled your eyes. “Yes, because I definitely went through all this trouble just to murder the guy letting me live here for cheap rent.”
He let out a short, surprised laugh — genuine, not the annoying smirk kind. It made your stomach do a stupid little flip.
He muted his mic properly this time. “Thanks. You can just leave it on the desk if you want.”
You walked closer and set the food down beside his keyboard. The room smelled like him — clean cologne mixed with the faint ozone of electronics. His setup was impressive: RGB lights, three large monitors, a professional mic, shelves of figures and keyboards.
As you turned to leave, Jake’s voice crackled through his headphones (he must have unmuted briefly).
“Yo Heeseung, you still there? What the hell, you went silent mid-fight.”
Heeseung’s eyes flicked back to the screen, then to you. Something shifted in his expression — “Uh… yeah, I’m here. Just… got distracted for a second.”
Jungwon chimed in, curious. “Distracted? By what?”
You were already at the door when Heeseung spoke again, voice deliberately light. “Hey. You don’t have to run off. Stay if you want. It’s just ranked with the guys. Not a big stream or anything.”
You paused, surprised. He never invited you into his space before.
Jake laughed over the call. “Wait, is someone in your room right now? Heeseung bringing girls over during stream? That's new.”
“Shut up,” Heeseung muttered, cheeks faintly pink under the blue light. He glanced at you again, almost nervous. “You can sit on the bed or whatever. No pressure.”
You shouldn’t. You knew you shouldn’t. But the way he looked at you made your stubborn side soften just a bit.
“Fine,” you said, sitting on the edge of his bed, legs crossed. “But only because the food will get cold if I leave you alone with it.”
Heeseung gave you a small, almost shy smile before turning back to his monitors. He unmuted. “Sorry guys, You can continue.”
The game picked up again. You watched him play in silence for a while, impressed despite yourself. His hands moved with precision, calling shots calmly while his friends hyped him up. Every now and then he’d sneak a glance at you, checking if you were still there.
At one point, after a particularly good play, he leaned back and finally opened the takeout. He ate quickly, humming in appreciation.
“This is good,” he said quietly, almost to himself.
You stayed longer than you planned. The stream chat kept moving but Heeseung seemed more aware of your presence than the thousands watching him. Every time you laughed softly at something funny the guys said, his lips would curve up a little.
By the time they finished the match (another win for Heeseung, of course), the takeout was gone and the tension in the room felt thicker than before.
He took off his headset and turned his chair toward you.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said quietly. “But… thanks.”
You shrugged, trying to ignore how warm his voice made you feel. “Don’t get used to it. I was just being nice.”
Heeseung leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking at you with an intensity that made your heart stutter.
“Yeah?” His voice dropped lower. "You’ve been just being nice to Jake a lot lately too.”
There it was. The possessiveness he tried to hide behind annoyance.
You stood up, suddenly needing distance. “And you’ve been annoying on purpose. We’re even.”
You headed for the door, but his next words stopped you.
“Stay a little longer?”
It was soft. Almost pleading.
You didn’t turn around. “Maybe next time. Goodnight, Heeseung.”
As you closed the door behind you, you leaned against it, breathing a little faster than normal.
This was dangerous...
But as you walked back to your room, the memory of his shy smile...
Mina was going to get hurt by Sunghoon.
And you… you were starting to worry you might get burned by Heeseung too.
￣￣
Saturday night:
The living room was alive with laughter, the big TV glowing with the League client on screen, empty soju bottles and snack bags scattered across the coffee table. Mina had finally dragged you out of your room, insisting it was weekend and you both deserved to have fun after a brutal week.
The boys were already deep into it when you two arrived — Jake, Jungwon, Sunghoon, and Heeseung sprawled across the massive sectional. Heeseung, of course, in his signature black hoodie, hood half-up, silver hair messy as he fiddled with the controller settings.
“Finally!” Jake cheered when he saw you both. “The girls are here. Now we can make this interesting.”
Sunghoon’s eyes lit up as they landed on Mina. He patted the spot right beside him. “Come here, babe.”
Mina didn’t hesitate. She plopped down next to him, and within minutes they were whispering and laughing, his arm slung casually around her shoulders. You chose the other end of the couch, trying not to overthink how Sunghoon’s hand was already sliding down her back.
Heeseung’s gaze found you immediately. He didn’t say anything, but you felt it — that quiet, intense stare from across the room.
The games started light. Casual matches, silly bets. Whoever lost a round had to take a shot or do a dare. The energy was electric. You and Mina were laughing more than you had in weeks, the soju making everything funnier.
At one point, after Jake lost badly, Jungwon grinned mischievously. “Penalty: Jake has to let one of the girls sit on his lap for the next game.”
Jake’s eyes sparkled as he looked straight at you. “Well? Come on, beautiful. Don’t make me lose twice.”
You were tipsy enough to not care. With a shrug and a defiant glance toward Heeseung, you stood up and let Jake pull you onto his lap. His arms wrapped loosely around your waist, warm and playful.
“Much better,” Jake murmured against your ear, making you laugh.
Heeseung’s jaw clenched visibly. His fingers tightened around the controller in his hands — those long, veined, skilled fingers that flew across keyboards with such precision during streams. You had watched them for hours last night in his room. The way they moved… it was hypnotic. Your mind wandered dangerously — imagining those same fingers somewhere else. On your skin. Between your thighs. Pressing and teasing until—
You shook the thought away, cheeks heating.
The game continued. Mina and Sunghoon were getting bolder by the minute. Halfway through the next match, Mina was straddling Sunghoon on the couch, their mouths locked in a heated kiss. His hands roamed her back openly.
Jungwon whistled. “Get a room, you two!”
Jake laughed beneath you, his chest vibrating. “They’re not even trying to hide it anymore.”
Sunghoon pulled back just enough to smirk. “Jealous, Jungwon?”
You tried to focus on the screen, but your eyes kept drifting to Heeseung. He was pretending to watch the game, but his gaze kept flicking to you on Jake’s lap, dark and stormy. The cocky mask was slipping again, revealing something raw underneath.
Another round. Another loss for Jake.
“New bet,” Sunghoon announced, still holding Mina close. “Loser team has to do whatever the winner wants for the next ten minutes.”
The match was intense. Heeseung was carrying as usual, but Jake was distracted — his hands resting a little too comfortably on your thighs, thumbs stroking lazy circles that sent warmth spreading through you. You didn’t stop him. Part of you wanted to see how far you could push Heeseung.
Heeseung won the game almost single-handedly.
As soon as the victory screen popped up, he set his controller down slowly. His voice was deceptively calm. “My win. Jake, get your hands off her.”
Jake chuckled, not moving. “It’s just a game, bro. Relax.”
Heeseung stood up. He crossed the room in a few strides and stopped right in front of you and Jake.
“Off,” he repeated, eyes locked on you. “Now.”
The air grew thick. Mina and Sunghoon had paused their makeout session to watch. Jungwon raised an eyebrow, amused.
You lifted your chin stubbornly. “It’s just a bet, Heeseung. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
His eyes darkened.
You swallowed hard.
Jake finally lifted you gently and set you back on the couch, sensing the shift. “Alright, alright. Your win, captain.”
But Heeseung wasn’t done. He grabbed your wrist — not rough, but firm — and pulled you up. “Come with me.”
You could have resisted. You should have. Instead, you let him lead you down the hallway toward his room, heart hammering.
The moment the door closed behind you, Heeseung backed you against it. He just caged you in with his arms, staring down at you with that intense, conflicted look —
“You really enjoy driving me crazy, don’t you?” he whispered. His breath brushed your lips. “Sitting on his lap. Letting him touch you. While I’m right here.”
You tilted your head, stubborn even now. “Maybe I do. You’re always so cocky. Acting like you own everything — including me.”
Heeseung’s hand came up, hovering near your waist. Those long fingers you’d been fantasizing about brushed the hem of your top, not quite touching skin. “I don’t own you. But I want to. Badly.”
The confession hung heavy in the air.
You could hear the others laughing and playing in the living room.
Heeseung leaned in closer, lips inches from yours. “Tell me to stop and I will.”
You didn’t say anything. Instead, you grabbed the front of his black hoodie and pulled him the rest of the way.
The kiss was intense — hungry. His hands finally touched you, sliding under your top, those skilled fingers tracing your skin, gripping your waist possessively. He kissed like he played — focused.
When he pulled back for air, his forehead rested against yours. His voice was rough. “I’ve been jerking off thinking about you every night since you moved in. Hiding it because I didn’t think you’d want a nerd who lives in his streaming room.”
Your breath hitched.
Heeseung’s hand slid higher, thumb brushing just under your breast. “But I can’t pretend anymore.”
From the living room, you heard Jungwon yell something teasing about Mina and Sunghoon again,followed by loud laughter.
Heeseung smirked against your lips — that annoying, sexy smirk. “They’re distracted. Stay here with me a little longer?”
His fingers traced slow, teasing patterns on your skin.
“Heeseung… we shouldn’t—”
“Shh.” His voice was low, rough. His fingers slid under your top, tracing your ribs, brushing the underside of your breast.
“Let me make you feel good, yeah?”
You knoded.
In one smooth motion, he turned you around and pressed you against the wall beside the door, your cheek against the cool surface. His chest molded to your back, hard and warm through his black hoodie. You could feel how hard he was, pressed against your ass.
“Quiet,” he whispered right against your ear, one hand covering your mouth gently while the other tugged your shorts and panties down in one go. “They’re right outside. Don’t let them hear how much you want this.”
You whimpered against his palm as his fingers — those skilled fingers — found you already soaked. He groaned softly.
“Fuck… you’re dripping for me.” Two fingers circled your clit slowly, teasing, then dipped inside, curling just right. “All this time acting like you don't like me, and you’re this wet?”
You moaned into his hand, hips pushing back against him. Heeseung kept the pace torturous — slow, deep strokes with his fingers. Every time you got close, he slowed down.
“Please…” you whispered when he finally uncovered your mouth.
“Please what?” He kissed the back of your neck, grinding his clothed cock against you. “Tell me you want me. Not Jake. Not anyone else. Just me.”
You bit your lip hard, stubborn even now. “I… I don’t—”
He pulled his fingers out completely. You whined at the loss.
Heeseung spun you around to face him, lifting one of your legs around his waist. He shoved his sweatpants down just enough to free himself. His cock was thick, hard, the tip already leaking as he rubbed it against your slick folds.
“Say it,” he growled softly, eyes locked on yours. “Or I’ll stop right now.”
Your pride crumbled under the heat in his gaze. “I want you… only you, Heeseung.”
That was all he needed.
He pushed inside you in one deep thrust, stretching you open. Both of you moaned — his low and guttural, yours muffled against his shoulder. He was big, filling you completely, and the angle against the wall made everything feel deeper.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours.
He started moving — hard, controlled thrusts that pinned you to the wall. Each snap of his hips drove him deeper, hitting that perfect spot inside you. His hand came back over your mouth as your moans grew louder.
“Quiet, baby,” he panted, lips brushing your ear. “Don’t want the boys hearing how pretty you sound when I fuck you.”
You nodded frantically, nails digging into his shoulders through his hoodie. Heeseung fucked you like he’d been holding back for months, deep and possessive, one hand on your hip to keep you in place while the other muffled your moans.
“Come for me,” he whispered. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
The pleasure built fast and overwhelming. Your orgasm crashed over you hard, walls clenching around him. Heeseung followed right after, burying himself deep with a broken groan, filling you up as his hips stuttered.
For a moment, the only sound was both of you breathing heavily, bodies pressed together against the wall.
Heeseung slowly lowered your leg, but didn’t pull out yet. He cupped your face with both hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks tenderly. The cocky mask was completely gone — just soft, affection in his eyes now.
“I meant what I said earlier,” he whispered, leaning in for a kiss. “I’ve been crazy about you since—”
The door suddenly opened.
“Hyung, did you see my— oh shit.”
Jungwon stood in the doorway, eyes wide. He froze for a second, taking in the scene — you pressed against the wall, Heeseung’s hoodie still on but sweatpants low on his hips, the obvious position.
Jungwon’s face turned bright red. “Oops… I didn’t see anything. Carry on.”
He quickly backed out and closed the door.
Heeseung dropped his head to your shoulder with a groan. “Fuck. I forgot to lock it.”
Your cheeks burned hotter than they ever had in your life. “Oh my god… he saw us. He literally saw—”
Heeseung’s arms wrapped around you tighter, one hand gently rubbing your back. He was still buried inside you, softening slowly, but he made no move to pull out yet. His black hoodie smelled like him — warm, slightly sweaty.
“Shhh, it’s okay,” he murmured against your hair, voice soft and reassuring. “Jungwon’s not going to say anything. He’s probably more embarrassed than you are right now.”
You peeked up at him. “You forgot to lock the door.”
Heeseung let out a sheepish laugh and finally pulled out carefully, fixing his sweatpants before helping you pull your own clothes back up. “My bad. I was a little distracted.” He cupped your face, thumbs brushing your flushed cheeks. “But seriously, don’t worry. He’s my friend. He won’t make it weird.”
He kissed you gently this time — slow, sweet, nothing like the desperate way he’d fucked you against the wall minutes ago. Then he pulled you toward his bed, tugging you down with him. He wrapped his arms around you from behind, spooning you under his blanket, chin resting on your shoulder.
“Stay with me tonight,” he whispered. “Just like this.”
You nodded, letting yourself relax into his warmth. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your stomach, occasionally dipping under your top to caress your skin. No more words were needed. The distant sound of the boys still playing in the living room faded into background noise as you both drifted off, tangled together.
The next day, the apartment was strangely quiet.
Mina had texted that she was staying over at a friend’s (code for Sunghoon’s place again). Only Heeseung remained, locked away in his streaming room since early afternoon.
You wandered around bored, cleaning a little, trying to study, but your mind kept drifting back to last night — his hands, his voice telling you to stay quiet, the way he felt inside you. After a few hours, the silence became unbearable.
You needed an excuse.
You knocked lightly on his door before pushing it open. Heeseung was deep in a stream focused on the game.
“Um… have you seen my earrings?” you asked, stepping inside. “I think I lost them yesterday. Maybe they fell off in here?”
Heeseung paused his movements for a second, glancing at you with a knowing little smirk. He clearly didn’t buy it for a second. “Earrings, huh?”
You nodded, trying to look innocent. “Yeah. They’re important.”
He chuckled softly, muting his mic for a moment. "But from what I remember, you weren't wearing earrings..." He let out another quiet laugh. "Miss me already?"
Your face heated instantly. "I— no, I just—"
"Come here," he said, patting his lap without hesitation. His eyes were soft but playful. “It’s a long ranked session, but I want you close.”
You hesitated only a second before walking over and settling on his lap, sideways so you could lean against his chest. His arm wrapped around your waist immediately, holding you securely.
On the stream, Jake and Jungwon’s voices came through his headphones.
Jake: “Wait, is that— Heeseung, you have company again?”
Jungwon: “Hyung… after last night? Bold.”
Heeseung’s ears turned pink, but he kept his voice steady. “Focus on the game, guys.”
You shifted on his lap to get more comfortable. Heeseung’s grip tightened on your hip. “Don’t move too much,” he whispered against your ear, low enough for only you to hear.
The game continued. Heeseung was incredibly focused — calling shots, coordinating with his team. The feeling of him underneath you, warm and solid, made it impossible for you. After a few minutes, you started moving slowly grinding just enough to tease.
Heeseung’s breath hitched. His free hand squeezed your thigh warningly. “Baby…”
You leaned back against him, lips brushing his neck. “I want you now,” you whispered. “Please.”
He glanced at the screen — important team fight coming up. “This match is really important for the team. We can’t lose right now.”
You pouted, shifting again. He let out a quiet groan.
Then his voice dropped, dangerous and tempting. “I have an idea… but you have to be good. No moving yeah?”
You nodded eagerly.
Heeseung quickly muted his mic and turned on the “BRB” overlay. He pulled his sweatpants down just enough, then tugged your shorts and panties to the side. He guided you to sink down slowly onto his cock until he was fully seated inside you.
“Cockwarming,” he whispered, kissing your temple. “Just stay still while I finish this game. Then I’m all yours.”
You whimpered at the fullness, clenching around him involuntarily. Heeseung groaned softly, arms tightening around you. “Good girl. Just like that.”
For the first few minutes, you tried. You really did. But he was so deep, so warm, and every tiny shift made pleasure spark through you. Heeseung stayed focused on the game, talking strategy with Jake and Jungwon, completely ignoring the way you were struggling.
But you really wanted his attention so you started moving.
Slow, deliberate rolls of your hips. Clenching around him rhythmically.
Jake laughed. “Hyung, you good? You sound distracted again.”
Heeseung’s hand slipped under your top, pinching your nipple in warning, but it only made you move more. You rocked slowly, taking him deeper, biting your lip to stay quiet.
His breathing grew ragged. The game on screen started suffering — a missed skill shot, a bad positioning.
“Baby… I told you not to move,” he growled quietly, muting the mic again for a second. His hips bucked up once, involuntarily, driving himself deeper.
You smiled innocently against his neck. “You’re ignoring me. I just want attention.”
Heeseung cursed under his breath. His team was losing the fight because of his distraction.
On the stream chat, messages were flying:
“Is Heeseung okay today?”
“Bro is glitching hard lol”
With a low, frustrated groan, Heeseung suddenly pushed his chair back, still buried deep inside you. He wrapped both arms around your waist and stood up, carrying you with him as he leaned over the desk to quickly type-
“AFK sorry guys” before ending the stream.
“You win,” he said, voice dark and full of promise as he carried you toward the bed.
( 심재윤 ) In which - Your blind-date stands you up, but your bartender has other plans for the night. After all, there's no way he's letting an outfit like that go to waste.
~ 4.4K
Warnings / Tags: smut, mature content, dirty talk, one night stand, heavy sexual tension, oral sex (male and female rec), size kink, rough sex, fingering, aftercare, drinking/alcohol
I finally broke up with my toxic boyfriend of 3 years a few months ago. After that I moved across the country to the big city; NYC to start over again. I finally took the job me and my ex got into multiple arguments about and which I firstly declined for my ex.
Now a friend of mine set me up on a blind-date with one of her colleagues. Because she said; “you need to go out more! Gosh you’re; young fun and beautiful! You can’t wait your 20s here in an office!”
Me and Ryan (my blind-date) had agreed on 9pm at 'Chelsea' a popular restaurant in the city. I got there 20 minutes earlier; 23 if we’re being correct. I like being on time. I'm always on time. I'm a type A kind of person (ONE other reasons me and Sam my ex broke up.)
I wore a cute elegant silky black mini dress that moved beautifully with every step I took, with some knee high boots.
I walked into the quiet busy restaurant. “Good evening Miss; did you have a reservation?” The Hostess asked me kindly. “Hello, I'm here for a first date…still waiting on the other person; I'm a little early.” I said nervously looking around. “Okay, you can take a seat at the bar and I’ll grab you when the table is ready.” She said. “Thank you.” I said walking inside to the bar.
I took a seat on an empty bar chair. It was quite busy; but it was a Friday night so I can't be annoyed. People looked happy like they can finally take a breath after the busy week of work.
I was looking around the restaurant when I got interrupted. “Good evening ma’am; what would you like to drink?” one of the bartenders asked.
He scared the living shit ou of me with the sudden words. “GOD!!” I said under my breath quickly turning around hand on my chest. “Sorry! didn't mean to startle you.” The bartender said. “No worries!” I said still catching my breath a little.
“Jake!” The bartender said smiling and offering his hand. Okay? This is something I still need to get used to. “Aria.” I said shaking his hand. “So Aria what can I get you to drink?” Jake asked smiling drying some glasses.
“Um… Just a water please.” I said still nervously looking around. “A water?!” Jake asked as if I didn't know what I just asked for. “Yes just a simple still water please.” I said now turning to him. “Well that's boring.” He said. “Well what can I say; I just like a good plain boring glass of water.” I said turning away and looking around again. “Okay whatever you say!” Jake said grabbing me my water.
“Soo Tinder or Hinge?” Jake asked putting my water in front of me. “Pardon?! I'm sorry?!” I asked turning back fast to him, in shock of what he just asked me. “Sorry; your just- first date right?” Jake asked. “How did you-“ I got cut off.
“Nervously looking around? sitting at the bar alone at 8:48pm? Fidgeting with your rings?” Jake said looking at my rings. “Am I that transparent.” I asked kind of embarrassed.
“No-no… Well yes but-“
“GOSH” I yelled putting my hands in front of my face.
“It’s not something bad!” You definitely not the only one and also not the last” Jake said going further drying some glasses. “See that woman right there in purple?” He asked me kinda hanging over the bar whispering. I nodded.
“That’s Ms Wyatt. She comes every month with a new first date. They hit it off for about 3 weeks, then a week later she comes in and orders a red wine bottle for herself. Then the next week it starts all over again! It’s kinda sad…she’s very sweet tho!” Jake said leaning back again. I looked over to see a middle age woman in a purple blouse and some skinny jeans; she looks around 40 but her face says max 30 on a good night… gosh maybe I should also start with botox.
“I just moved here and this is my first date after my last relationship of 3 years.” I said holding my head in my hand. “ 3 years?! How did that end?” Jake asked kinda nosy.
“Well if you want to know; he cheated so now I'm here on a blind date with my friend college.” I said.
“AND a blind date… you know you asked me for just a water right… you sure you don't want a cocktail?” Jake asked looking almost concerned for me. “I don't want to look like an alcoholic in front of my blind date ordering a drink while still waiting.”
“Whatever suits you.” Jake said walking away. Well that was kind of rude.
10 minutes past its 9pm now. I looked around and open my phone… I’ll wait 5 more minutes before messaging him. Maybe traffic?
“Running late?” Jake asked as he walked by. “Traffic.” I said bitterly after 5 minutes I message him. No answer. Rude.
It was now 9:15pm so I decided to call him.
“Mr blind-date is not coming?” Jake asked as he walked by again. “Probably some NYC subway problem.” I said taking the last sip of my water.
It was now 9:45pm
“Manhattan.” Jake said. Putting a cocktail in front of me.
“I didn't order-“ “neither did your blind-date who stood you up so here. From the house, from me; I’m the house.” Jake said walking away again.
After some time i decided to called Lily; the friend who set me on this blind-date to begin with.
“O M G. I'm sooo sorry! I thought Ryan was different. I'm so sorry Aria!” Lily said again. “No worries. It’s nothing you could have done.” I said looking around. I saw Ms Wyatt sitting at a table with a VERY Young looking man. Jealous.
“I think I'm going to make a botox appointment” “WAIT WAT?!-“ I hear Lily yell over the phone before I Hung up.
I finished the last sip of my Manhattan, the sweet burn sliding down my throat as the ice clinked against the glass. I was about to stand when Jake walked over, wiping his hands on a towel.
"I'm sorry for your date standing you up." he said, voice low.
"Well, it's not your fault, just... your species." I muttered, rolling my eyes.
"Ouch! But still not cool of him." he replied.
"Well, I can't do anything about it… it's just I got all dressed up for nothing. That's honestly sadder." I said, glancing down at my silky black mini dress.
Jake hesitated, then leaned in. "Um—I—ugh. I get off in like ten minutes. If you want, I could bring you to a midnight bar to grab a drink so the outfit doesn't go to waste."
"Oh, thank you Jake, but you don't have to—"
"I want to! You said you just moved here, right? Let me introduce you to the real nightlife. Give me five!" He walked off fast before I could argue.
"O-okay?" I said more to myself.
Seven minutes later he was back, changed out of his work clothes, hair freshly styled, chewing gum in his mouth. He looked like a god.
"You clean up nice…" I managed to say.
"Well thank you. Let's go!" He grabbed my wrist gently but firmly.
We walked fifteen minutes to 'The Loft.' It was louder, wilder, packed with people in casual clothes. I felt a bit overdressed in my elegant dress. The bartender spotted Jake and grinned.
“HEY Jake!” he said, dabbing Jake up. Great, so he comes here often… I’m probably not the first girl he’s ghosted on a first date and then taken out. Pathetic Aria!
“oooo and who is this? You've never brought a girl!" he said glancing at me… oh.
“Ummm” Jake said now looking at me. Because WHO am I?! We just met.
"He- He's the guy who stepped up… my date ghosted me." I explained.
"WOW, that's fucked up. Welk you're in good hands! Jake's the best!" the bartender said. "What can I get you two?"
"Just give us something good." Jake answered.
"You know I love that answer!"
One drink led to another. Hours passed. We talked, laughed, and I got tipsier than I'd ever been with a guy.
"Gosh, I've never been this tipsy while with a guy!" I giggled. "Why is that?" Jake asked. "Umm… I don't know, just never got that comfortable?"
"Well, I'm honored!" He bowed dramatically. I laughed.
“Well this is mine.” I said as we reached my front door, I turned to him. "I really enjoyed tonight, Jake. Thank you."
"Me too, Aria." He stood close, his cologne wrapping around me; something woody and warm, mixed with the faint scent of his skin.
Without thinking, I grabbed his face and kissed him. The second our lips touched, I sobered up and pulled back.
"Fuck- I'm so sorry—"
Before I could finish my sentence Jake's hand wrapped around the back of my neck and he kissed me again, harder.
I melted into it, a small moan escaping as his grip tightened on my waist. His tongue swept across my lower lip, asking for entry, and I granted it without hesitation.
The kiss deepened, hungry and desperate, like we'd been holding back all night. I let out a little moan.
"Fuck." he growled against my lips. He pulled back just an inch. "Can I—can I come in?"
I didn't answer with words. I opened the door and he followed, kicking it shut behind him. His mouth claimed mine again as we stumbled inside.
The hallway was dark, lit only by the faint glow from my living room light. I didn't bother with the lights.
His hands slid down my back, gripping my hips, pulling me flush against him. I could feel the hard outline of his cock through his pants, pressing against my stomach.
"Fuck, I've been thinking about this all night." he murmured against my neck. My pussy was already throbbing, a slick heat pooling between my legs.
He kissed me again, walking me backward until my shoulders hit the wall. His thigh pressed between my legs, and I ground down against it, feeling the friction through my dress. The thin silk did nothing to hide the wetness soaking my panties.
“Can I?” Jake asked, his fingers fidgeting with the straps of my dress. I nodded. “Words.” Jake said slowly, his voice husky. “Yes, please.”
Jake's hands found the zipper of my dress. He pulled it down slowly, deliberately, the sound loud in the quiet room. The fabric loosened around my shoulders, and he pushed the straps down. The dress slid down my body, pooling at my feet.
I stood before him in my red lace lingerie set; a matching bra and panties, delicate and bold. The deep crimson contrasted against my skin, the intricate patterns of the lace hugging my body. The bra pushed my breasts up, my nipples already hard, visible through the sheer fabric. The panties were high-cut, making my legs look longer, the lace barely covering the triangle between my thighs.
Jake took a step back. His eyes roamed over my body, dark and hungry. He let out a low whistle.
"Damn," he said, his voice thick with appreciation. "God. I'm glad your blind-date set you up. Now this is all mine."
A shiver ran through me at his words. The possessiveness in his tone made my core clench. He stepped forward, his hands sliding up my sides, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts. He leaned in, kissing my collarbone, then down to the swell of my chest.
"You're even more beautiful than I imagined." he said, his lips brushing against my skin.
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of my panties and pulled them aside, exposing my wet pussy to the cool air. I gasped as his fingers found my folds, sliding through the slickness. The lace was already soaked.
"So fucking wet," he growled. "All for me? Tell me this pussy's been dripping for me all night."
"All for you," I breathed. "I've been wet since you stond next to me ready to leave Chelsea."
"Yeah? You were thinking about my cock while we talked? Thinking about how I'd fuck you?"
"Yes—God, yes."
He pushed one finger inside me, and I moaned, my head falling back against the wall. The stretch was immediate, my walls gripping him. He added a second finger, pumping slowly, curling them to find that sensitive spot inside me. The sound of his fingers sliding in and out of my wetness filled the silence.
"God, you're tight." he said, his thumb finding my clit. "Your pussy's gripping my fingers like it's begging for more. I can feel how desperate you are; how much you need a real cock in you."
I whimpered, my hips bucking against his hand. He worked me relentlessly, his fingers fucking me while his thumb circled my clit. The sounds of my wetness filled the hallway; obscene, slick, perfect.
"Please," I begged. "I need more. I need your mouth, your cock— Fuck; anything."
He pulled his fingers out and brought them to his mouth, licking them clean. "Taste so good. I need to taste you properly. I want to drink every drop of your cum."
We slowly made our way to my couch. It wasn't big, but it was cozy.
He carefully pushed me onto it while dropping to his knees in front of me. He pushed my legs apart, my back still against the couch. He pulled my panties aside again, exposing my pussy fully. His breath was hot against my folds, and I trembled. Then he leaned in and licked a long, slow stripe from my entrance to my clit.
"Fuck, you taste even better than I imagined," he muttered. "I could eat you all night."
He didn't hold back. His tongue dove into me, fucking me while his nose ground against my clit. He licked and sucked, alternating between deep, probing strokes and quick flicks against my swollen nub. His fingers slid back inside, two this time, curling and stroking my G-spot. I was already close, my legs shaking.
"That's it," he murmured against me. "Come for me. Let me taste you. I want to feel your pussy clench."
He focused on my clit, sucking and flicking, while his fingers curled and stroked. I shattered, my climax crashing through me. I screamed his name, my pussy clenching around his fingers, my cum coating his tongue. He lapped at me through it, drawing out every wave of pleasure, groaning as if he was savoring the most exquisite meal.
When I came down, he kissed his way up my body, leaving a trail of wet kisses over my stomach, between my breasts, up my neck. I could taste myself on his lips when he kissed me. He lifted me easily, and I wrapped my legs around his waist. He carried me now to the bedroom, laying me down on the bed.
I reached for his belt, unbuckling it with clumsy fingers. He helped me push his pants down, and his cock sprang free. It was massive! Thick, long, veiny, the head already leaking precum. My mouth watered.
"Holy shit," I whispered.
He grinned, dark and predatory. "Think you can handle it? I'm gonna stretch that tight little pussy until you can't walk straight."
I sat up, pushing him onto his back. I wanted to taste him. I lowered my head between his legs, wrapping my hand around the base of his cock. It was so thick my fingers didn't meet. I licked the tip, tasting his precum, then opened my mouth wide and took him in.
He groaned, his hand finding my hair. I bobbed my head, taking as much as I could. He was so big I gagged, my throat struggling to accommodate him. I used my hand on the part I couldn't fit, stroking in rhythm with my mouth.
"Fuck, Aria," he groaned. "Your mouth feels incredible. Suck it, Pretty. Show me how much you want it."
I looked up at him, my eyes watering, and took him deeper. I relaxed my throat, swallowing around the head, and he cursed. I sucked hard as I pulled back, then took him again. His hips bucked, pushing deeper. I let him fuck my throat, spit drooling down his shaft, the sounds obscene.
"Look at you," he said, his voice strained. "Taking my whole cock in your throat like a good girl. You love choking on it, don't you?" I moaned in response, the vibration making him hiss.
"I'm gonna come if you keep that up." he warned. "But I want to save this load for your pussy. I want to fill you up until you're dripping with it."
He pulled me off, a string of saliva connecting my lips to his cock. I was panting, my lips swollen.
"Not yet," he said, breathless. He flipped me onto my back, settling between my legs. He didn't remove my panties. Instead, he pulled them aside, exposing my pussy; wet, swollen, ready. The head of his cock nudged against my entrance, and I held my breath.
"Tell me if it's too much," he said. "But I know you can take it. You love the stretch."
"Yes," I whispered. "I need it." Then he pushed in.
The stretch was blinding. I felt every inch, every ridge, every vein as he slid inside me. My walls stretched around him, struggling to accommodate his girth. I gasped, my nails digging into his shoulders. He paused, letting me adjust, then pushed deeper. The feeling of being split open was overwhelming; pain and pleasure tangled together.
"Fuck, you're tight." he groaned, his forehead dropping to mine. "So fucking tight around my cock. I can feel every inch of you gripping me. You're squeezing me so hard, Pretty."
He inched deeper, giving me time to adjust. When he was fully seated, his hips pressed flush against mine, I felt impossibly full. I could feel him in my stomach, a deep, aching pressure. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
"Move," I begged. "Please. Fuck me."
He started slow, long strokes that pulled almost all the way out before pushing back in. My pussy clung to him, not wanting to let go. The drag of his cock against my walls was exquisite; every ridge and vein rubbing against my sensitive flesh. He watched my face, watching me feel every inch of him.
"You feel that?" he asked, voice low. "Feel how big I am? Stretching your little pussy? Look at how your lips spread around my cock."
"Yes," I whimpered.
"Yeah? You like it? You like feeling me split you open? Tell me how much you love it."
"I love it—fuck—I love your big cock in me."
"That's right. You'll be feeling me for days."
He picked up the pace, pounding into me. The bed creaked beneath us. My moans turned into cries, each thrust pushing the air from my lungs. He leaned down and kissed me, swallowing my sounds. His hand slid between us, thumb finding my clit through the lace of my panties.
"You feel so good." he growled against my lips. "Such a tight, wet pussy. Made for my cock. I could fuck you forever."
His thrusts grew erratic. He grabbed my legs and pushed them back, folding me in half, the new angle letting him go deeper. He slammed into me, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind my eyes.
"Right there," I sobbed.
"Yeah? Right there, Pretty?" He drilled into me, his thumb working my clit. "I can feel you clenching around me. You gonna come? Gonna cum on my big cock?"
"Yes—yes—please—"
"Come on my cock. Let me feel you come around me. Squeeze me tight."
I shattered. My orgasm ripped through me, my pussy clamping down around his thick length. I cried out, my entire body convulsing. Jake groaned, his hips stuttering, but he didn't stop. He kept fucking me through it, drawing out every spasm.
"Fuck, I'm gonna fill you up," he growled. "Fill this tight pussy with my cum. Pump it deep inside you so you can feel it dripping out of you all night."
"Come inside me," I begged. "Please. Fill me up."
His hips jerked, and I felt him pulse. Hot cum flooded me, filling me in waves. He kept thrusting, pushing his load deeper, groaning through his own climax. I felt every spurt, every twitch of his cock inside me, his cum coating my walls.
We stayed locked together, breathing hard. He finally pulled out slowly, cum leaking from my stretched pussy. He kissed my forehead, then my lips.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice gentle.
"More than okay," I whispered.
He collapsed beside me, his weight a comforting pressure. We lay there, panting, our bodies slick with sweat.
I expected him to roll over and go to sleep even leave. But instead, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to my lips. Then another. He brushed my hair out of my face, looking at me with those dark eyes.
"Stay, Please." I whispered.
He smiled against my mouth. "I'm not going anywhere Pretty."
in which a sports journalist falls in love with south korea’s star defender
synopsis: when you meet sunghoon park — south korea’s calm, elite centre-back and vice-captain — during the world cup, professional interviews slowly turn into late-night conversations, gentle support, and stolen moments of connection.
as south korea pushes toward glory, so does hiding your growing feelings. through support, laughter, and quiet closeness, you discover something special that stays with you long after the final whistle.
pairing: footballer!sunghoon x reporter!reader
wc: 12.9k
warnings: none! it's mainly fluff with a tiny bit of angst at the end (good ending!!)
cw: slow-burn, mild emotional distress (sports related), talks about being under pressure, disappointments, insecurities, expectations. one kiss, strong language
a/n: SPAIN WON THE WORLD CUP!!!! i'm the happiest person on earth rn :(( i can't believe this fic started because of a silly idea i had rewatching iker casillas and sara carbonero’s 2010 world cup video for the nth time... ugh, i love my team. also, i just had to MAKE sunghoon's trading card because all the others were ai so i took care of it with my poor photo editing skills,,,,, 😁 (you know i had to take the opportunity to make him a player of my favorite team lmao)
the world cup buzzes like electricity in the air, thick and alive under atlanta’s stadium lights. the atmosphere wraps around everything, from the distant hum of distant chants to the sharp scent of fresh turf and street food vendors weaving through the crowds outside. south korea’s national team has arrived with quiet determination this time, not just as participants but as a team who trained for months in secrecy, refining a defense that feels impenetrable. their preparation whispers through insider reports and subtle leaks, hinting at new formations and unbreakable partnerships in the backline.
you step off the plane a few days earlier, notebook already full of notes, press badge hanging around your neck like a second heartbeat. mid-twenties, passionate about the sport since you first watched it as a kid in your living room, knees tucked under a blanket while your family cheered at the screen.
you earned this assignment through sharp reporting and a knack for getting players to open up, chasing stories in smaller leagues and building connections one honest conversation at a time. this is your first world cup covering the men’s side, and the pressure feels exhilarating, a mix of nerves and pure thrill that keeps your pulse quick.
sunghoon park stands out even before the tournament begins.
you know him, everybody does.
starting centre-back, atlético de madrid's star, vice-third captain of south korea's team despite being one of the younger leaders in the squad. his reputation precedes him: ice-prince composure on the pitch, elite defending that reads plays before they happen, precise tackles that disarm attacks without unnecessary force, aerial dominance in duels, and the rare ability to stay calm when everyone else loses their head. fans call him "the wall", a nickname earned through countless highlights of last-ditch clearances and steady leadership. teammates respect him because he leads by example, voice steady in the dressing room, never raising it unless absolutely necessary, offering quiet words of encouragement that carry weight.
off the pitch he carries a quiet politeness, almost shy, with sharp features and dark hair that falls just so, making him look more model than footballer sometimes, his presence drawing second glances even in casual team arrivals. but on it, he transforms into something unforgettable, every movement calculated, his focus turning the chaos of the game into something almost predictable for those watching closely.
the group stage opener arrives fast. south korea versus a tough czech republic known for physicality and counter-attacks, their players built like athletes who thrive on intensity and sudden bursts forward.
the stadium is packed, flags waving in vibrant waves of red and green, chants echoing off the sleek architecture and blending into a roaring symphony. you sit in the press box, heart racing as the teams line up, the bright lights casting long shadows across the pitch.
sunghoon wears the armband tonight as one of the captains rotates, his posture straight, eyes focused under the intense glare. the whistle blows and the match unfolds like a carefully choreographed dance, every pass and movement carrying the weight of national pride.
south korea dominates possession early, controlling the tempo with crisp passes that slice through the midfield. sunghoon organizes the backline with quiet gestures, shouting instructions that cut through the noise, his voice clear and authoritative without ever sounding frantic. when the opponent launches a dangerous cross in the 22nd minute, he rises highest, heading it clear with perfect timing, his body suspended for a moment in perfect athletic poise. you scribble notes furiously: park’s reading of the game is elite. anticipates runs before they develop. tracks shadows and feints with uncanny precision.
the first goal comes from a set-piece he delivers, his long ball finding a teammate who finishes clinically. 1-0. the crowd erupts in a wave of cheers and horns, the energy surging through the stands and into the press area, making your skin tingle.
half-time brings tactical adjustments, the players jogging off with measured steps, sunghoon’s expression unchanging, focused, a thin sheen of sweat on his brows but nothing else. you watch from your seat, analyzing every detail, the way he wipes his face with the hem of his jersey before disappearing into the tunnel.
second half tests them. the opponent pushes hard, physical challenges flying in, boots clashing against shins in audible thuds that make you wince from afar. sunghoon absorbs a heavy tackle but gets up immediately, brushing dirt from his jersey like it’s nothing, his face only shows determination. another key interception in the 68th minute prevents a certain equalizer, his sliding perfectly timed, the ball rolling safely out of bounds as the crowd holds its collective breath.
his composure never cracks, even as the minutes tick down and fatigue sets in for everyone else. south korea holds firm and adds a second goal late, a moment of clinical finishing that seals the result.
final whistle: 2-0. clean sheet. perfect start.
the stadium pulses with celebration, and you lean back in your seat, notebook overflowing, already replaying every touch from the ice-prince at the heart of it all.
the mixed zone after the match is chaotic, journalists crowding the barriers with cameras flashing and recorders thrust forward like eager weapons. the air feels humid and charged, thick with the scent of sweat, grass, and lingering adrenaline from the pitch. the players file through in waves, some pausing for quick quotes with tired smiles, others walking past with headphones on, heads down, lost in their own debriefs. you wait patiently near the designated spot, assigned specifically to sunghoon today, your notebook clutched tight and questions already mentally rehearsed.
when he approaches, towel around his neck, hair damp with sweat and slightly tousled, jersey clinging slightly to his frame from the exertions of ninety minutes, your pulse quickens despite your professionalism. he looks every bit the ice prince under the harsh mixed zone lights, broad shoulders still squared from the game, but up close there’s a subtle tiredness mixed with quiet satisfaction in his eyes, a faint flush on his cheeks that speaks to the effort he poured out.
“sunghoon park,” you begin, microphone steady in your hand, voice warm but professional, cutting through the surrounding din. “congratulations on the win and the clean sheet. you were instrumental at the back tonight. how did the defense hold up against their physical attacks?”
he stops fully, turning toward you with deliberate care. his gaze meets yours directly, polite and attentive, dark eyes steady without any hint of evasion. a small, shy smile touches his lips, the kind that barely shows but feels genuine, softening the sharp lines of his features for just a moment. “thank you. the team prepared well. we communicated a lot on the pitch, stayed compact. it’s a good start, but we know every match gets harder.”
you nod, following up smoothly, the words flowing as the crowd noise fades into background static. “your aerial duel win in the first half was crucial. and that long ball leading to the first goal — was that something practiced in training, or instinctive?”
“a bit of both,” he answers, voice calm and low, carrying that measured tone that makes every syllable feel intentional. “the coaches drilled set-pieces endlessly, but reading the moment… that comes with experience and trust in your teammates.” he shifts slightly on his feet, still looking at you, water bottle in one hand, the towel draped casually.
then you ask the tougher one, the kind that makes some players defensive or curt. “some analysts said before the tournament that the backline might struggle with pace. how do you respond to that after tonight?”
sunghoon pauses briefly, considering, then lets out a genuine laugh — soft, surprised, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that lights up his whole expression. it’s rare post-match, especially after a high-stakes opener, cutting through the usual post-game formality like a breath of fresh air.
“you came prepared with the tough questions, didn't you?” he teases lightly, tone playful but not mocking, a hint of warmth threading through. “i think we showed tonight that we can handle it. pace is one thing, but positioning and timing matter more. we’ll keep proving it match by match.”
you smile back, the chemistry instant and easy, a natural rhythm settling between question and answer. the interview flows naturally after that, a few more questions about team spirit and his leadership role as vice-third captain. he answers thoughtfully, adding small details that most players gloss over — the specific calls he made during transitions, the way the defenders rotated coverage to blunt counters, little insights born from hours on the training ground.
when it ends, he gives a slight bow of his head, respectful and understated. “good questions. thank you. see you.” his eyes linger just a second longer than necessary, holding yours with that same quiet intensity from the pitch, before he moves on down the mixed zone.
you stand there for a moment amid the continuing chaos, replaying the laugh in your head, the way his voice dipped on certain words. "he's handsome, but you're professional. remember the boundaries", you remind yourself firmly, even as your notes feel heavier with more than just match analysis. but the spark is undeniable.
back at the team hotel later that night, the lobby hums with subdued celebration. the space feels alive yet restrained, players and staff moving between rooms in quiet clusters, some heading to recovery sessions with ice baths and physio tables waiting, others grabbing late snacks from the discreet buffet setup in the corner. the hotel is modern, luxurious but secure, with sleek marble floors, towering glass windows overlooking the atlanta night, and strict curfew rules for the squad enforced by attentive staff. you’re staying on one of the lower floors, same as some media and support staff, close enough to the team’s area for convenience but separated by careful zoning that keeps interactions professional and contained.
jet lag keeps you awake, a restless energy humming in your veins, so you head to the lobby lounge for a quiet coffee, laptop open as you type up your match report, fingers flying across the keys in the dim glow. the lights are dimmed low, casting warm pools across the plush seating, soft piano music playing faintly from hidden speakers, a gentle melody that blends with the occasional murmur of conversation.
you’re halfway through your notes, capturing the rhythm of the defense and the weight of sunghoon’s contributions, when movement catches your eye near the entrance.
sunghoon walks in wearing a simple black hoodie and sweats, hair still slightly damp from a shower, the fabric of his clothes loose and comfortable after the intensity of the pitch. he looks younger like this, less captain, more guy in his early twenties carrying the weight of a nation on broad but unassuming shoulders. he spots you almost immediately, hesitation flickering across his face for a brief second before he approaches with measured steps.
“are you still working?” he asks quietly, voice gentle so as not to disturb the quiet space, his korean accent wrapping around the english words comfortably, smooth and familiar.
you look up, surprised but pleased, a small smile tugging at your lips. “yeah, i couldn't sleep. jet lag plus post-match adrenaline. you? should you even be down here this late?”
he gives that small shy smile again, the one that softens his sharp features, and sits in the armchair across from you after a subtle nod seeking permission.
“brief recovery session ran long. and yes, technically within limits if i don’t stay too long.” he glances at your screen with mild curiosity. “are you writing about the match?”
“i'm trying to capture it right. you made it easy with that performance,” you reply, closing the laptop slightly to give him full attention, the screen’s glow fading. conversation starts light, about the game, the flow of possession and the moments that stood out. he talks about specific moments — the tackle on the 68th, how the roar of the crowd affected concentration and forced quicker decisions, the way the backline shifted as a unit to snuff out threats.
you share observations from the press box, how the team’s shape looked solid from above, the defensive lines holding like a well-oiled machine even under pressure. the words come easily, trading perspectives that deepen the understanding of the ninety minutes.
“the jet lag is brutal,” he admits after a pause, leaning back into the cushions, his posture relaxing just a fraction. “it feels like my body is still somewhere over the pacific, caught between time zones. but nights like tonight make it worth it, the win settling something in the chest.”
you nod, sipping your coffee. “i get it. first world cup for me covering like this. the energy is addictive, but exhausting. what helps you unwind? besides perfect defending, obviously.”
he chuckles softly, the sound warm and low in the quiet lobby, a rare unguarded moment. “music sometimes. or thinking about simple things back home. korean food, especially. samgyeopsal after a win would be perfect right now. or even just ramyeon, spicy and comforting. the hotel options are good, but nothing beats street food at home late night after training.”
“ramyeon sounds heavenly,” you agree, smiling as the memory of your own recent meal surfaces. “i had some earlier from a local spot nearby. spicy, just right, with that perfect chew. if you get a chance off-schedule, there’s a place a short drive away that does authentic versions, the noodles are great. though i’m sure team nutrition has you on lock with carefully balanced meals.”
he listens intently, eyes brightening with quiet interest, nodding along as details unfold. the talk drifts naturally — small recommendations for hidden spots, funny stories about travel mishaps like delayed flights and lost luggage in past tournaments, how the world cup atmosphere feels different from league play, more electric and heavy with expectation. he asks about your reporting background, genuinely curious, leaning forward slightly. you tell him about covering smaller leagues first, the grind of rainy pitches and modest crowds that built your eye for the game. he shares a bit about balancing football with everything else, the pressure of being a leader despite his age, the quiet moments needed to stay grounded.
time slips by. maybe twenty minutes, maybe thirty, the lobby emptying further as staff dim the lights even lower and the piano music fades to a softer hum. neither wants to end it abruptly, the conversation weaving comfortably, but reality lingers in the back of both minds.
“i should head up,” he says eventually, standing slowly, stretching with subtle care for his body after the match. “i have a curfew and all of that. but… this was nice. unexpected, but nice.”
“yeah,” you reply, meeting his gaze steadily. “good talk, sunghoon. rest up. next match comes quick.”
he pauses before leaving, that shy smile returning, warmer now in the low light. “goodnight. and thanks again for the interview earlier. you made it… interesting, and easier.” his words carry a little extra weight, the small spark from the mixed zone flickering brighter here in the soft lights of the lounge.
you watch him walk toward the elevators, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands in a casual gesture, footsteps quiet on the marble. alone again, you reopen your laptop but type slower, mind replaying the conversation in fragments. professional. friendly. nothing more. yet the easy chemistry lingers like the aftertaste of good coffee, warm and subtly persistent.
-------
the days after the opening win settle into a rhythm that feels both exhausting and electric. south korea’s second group match arrives, and the team looks even sharper under the georgia sun. the next days settle into tournament rhythm, a steady pulse of preparation and anticipation that fills the air around the venues. training sessions you observe from afar, positioned along the sidelines with other accredited media, notebooks ready and cameras clicking discreetly. press conferences hum with questions in multiple languages, analysis fills late nights back at your temporary workspace. south korea prepares with focused intensity, the squad sharpening transitions and set-piece routines.
sunghoon leads defensive drills with quiet authority, voice steady as he directs younger defenders, demonstrating positioning with precise gestures and calm corrections. his movements remain fluid even in practice, reading imaginary attacks before they unfold, adjusting lines with a few words that carry across the pitch. you catch his eye once across the green during a water break, the brief connection unexpected amid the bustle of cones and passing sequences. he offers a small nod, almost imperceptible, but it warms something in your chest, a quiet acknowledgment that lingers longer than it should.
back in the hotel, paths cross again briefly — a hallway hello in the early evening, his damp hair suggesting another recovery session, your arms full of notes and a coffee cup. another shared elevator ride with staff present, where conversation stays light and public, comments on the weather, the quality of training pitches, nothing that draws attention. the spark simmers beneath the surface, subtle glances and polite smiles building something unspoken match by match.
the second group game arrives under the stadium lights once more. another win, 3-1 this time, the scoreline reflecting growing confidence in the squad. sunghoon marshals the defense like a conductor, his voice cutting calmly through the noise. two key tackles in the first half snuff out dangerous counters. a perfectly timed interception in the 55th minute sparks a fast break. sunghoon scores the opener from a corner, powerful header that sends the ball rocketing into the net, his timing impeccable as he rises above the defenders. composure intact even as teammates pile on him in celebration, the stadium erupting in a sea of red and cheers that shake the stands. you watch from the press box, fingers flying over your keyboard, noting how his positioning seems almost predictive.
post-match mixed zone, you’re the one they send for the team interviews again. when sunghoon reaches you, jersey still on, towel draped around his neck, he lingers. the interview starts professional — questions about the clean sheet streak, his leadership, the set-piece organization, how it felt contributing at both ends. “feels good for the team. defense first, always, but if i can help attack too… it adds something extra.” he answers with more ease now, small smiles appearing. the tease comes again when you ask about a near-miss. “you notice everything, don’t you?” that laugh returns, genuine and rare, soft and crinkling the corners of his eyes, shared just between you amid the surrounding chaos.
the moment stretches comfortably, his answers thoughtful as before, offering insights into the team’s adjustments at halftime and the way the crowd’s energy fueled the second half push. as you wrap up, he pauses instead of moving on immediately.
“you’re becoming the regular,” he says quietly, almost teasing. “it's good to see a familiar face.” his eyes hold yours a second longer before he nods politely and continues down the line. you keep the questions sharp yet fair, the rhythm between you flowing smoother with each exchange, that easy chemistry threading through the professional exchange like a hidden current. the warmth from the brief laugh carries you through the rest of your notes that night.
that night in the hotel lobby, the coffee area is quieter. you’re there with your notes when he appears again, hoodie up, looking refreshed but still buzzing from the win.
“mind if i join?” he asks. this time he seeks you out more deliberately, crossing the quiet lounge with purposeful steps and sitting longer in the armchair across from you. you gesture to the seat across.
conversation flows easier this time. he shares a funny story about a younger teammate’s celebration in the dressing room. you tell him about a chaotic press conference earlier. talk turns to korean food recommendations again — he describes his favorite spots back in seoul with quiet enthusiasm, making you imagine the crowded streets, and the perfect balance of flavors that remind him of home after tough matches.
“are you still craving that ramyeon?” he sends a subtle glance toward the hotel menu.
“always,” you laugh.
you swap travel stories, laughing softly over delayed flights and unfamiliar customs in distant stadiums. jet lag conversations deepen slightly into dreams and why this sport matters, the shared passion for the game threading through late-night reflections. the spark feels warmer, comfortable, hovering in the pauses between words.
by the third group match, a dominant 2-0 victory seals top spot in the group. clean sheets stacking up, a testament to the defensive solidity built over months. sunghoon’s leadership shines through every organized line and timely command on the pitch. he scores the first goal from a corner kick, rising powerfully to head it into the net. his celebration is restrained — a fist pump, quick hug with teammates — but you catch the rare wide smile. his defense remains elite, another strong performance with crucial blocks.
the post-match interview flows like you're old friends now, easy banter mixed with sharp analysis under the mixed zone lights. you’re now the unofficial go-to for the team.
“you’re making my job look too good,” you joke lightly, microphone steady but tone warmer than strict professionalism. sunghoon’s answers come thoughtfully, but he lingers noticeably after each question, adding small extras just for you.
“or you’re making me look good,” he replies softly, eyes warm with that subtle crinkle at the edges, the response quick and genuine. “that goal felt good for the fans,” he says, then softly after the mic dips, “thanks for the steady questions. keeps me grounded.”
the chemistry is obvious to anyone watching closely, but nothing improper. just easy rapport.
the hotel becomes your shared in-between space. quick hallway greetings turn into short conversations when paths cross. one evening after training, you’re heading back to your room when he appears around the corner.
”long day?” he asks. you nod. he walks with you partway, voice low. “we appreciate the fair coverage.”
that night’s lobby meeting stretches further into the quiet hours. recommendations turn personal — favorite movies for recovery days, the ones that distract the mind without demanding too much attention, music playlists that help settle the adrenaline.
your hands brush reaching for drinks from the low table between you, a small touch that sends a small jolt through the air. the eye contact lingers a beat longer each time, charged yet restrained. nothing crosses lines, but the connection feels real, slow-building, like extra time in a tight match where every second carries weight.
late nights in the lobby or coffee corner grow. you talk about pressure, how the tournament amplifies everything.
he admits quietly, “it helps having someone outside the team bubble to talk to. makes it feel less heavy.” you share your own experiences covering high-stakes matches. nothing crosses lines. just comfort. mutual understanding. a crush that simmers beneath polite words.
group stage wraps with top spot secured. advancement feels earned. sunghoon’s clean sheets and that set-piece goal make headlines. you write positively, balanced. you and sunghoon exist in this careful space — reporter and player, budding friends, something warmer underneath the surface of every exchanged word and glance. the ice prince thaws just a little for you in these stolen moments, and you find yourself looking forward to every post-match moment more than you should, the story and the person behind it intertwining in ways that feel both exciting and dangerously delicate.
-------
round of 16 hits on day 13. the atmosphere around the stadium crackles with higher stakes, the air thicker with tension and the roar of fans who have traveled far for this knockout stage. the opponent is tricky, technical, a side known for quick combinations and clever movement that demands constant vigilance. the match is tighter, every touch and challenge carrying the weight of potential elimination, the pitch bathed in bright lights that cast long shadows across the players.
sunghoon shines again, his presence at the back a steady anchor amid the intensity. a spectacular sliding tackle in the 40th minute prevents a goal, his body extending fully with perfect timing, the ball cleared safely as the crowd gasps and then erupts in relief. he organizes relentlessly, voice cutting through the noise with calm instructions, gesturing to teammates to maintain shape, reading the flow of the game with that trademark composure. south korea wins 1-0, a late goal sealing it in dramatic fashion. the clean sheet streak continues, another hard-fought shutout that speaks volumes about the defensive unit’s resilience and cohesion.
post-match, the mixed zone is busier than ever, journalists pressing closer to the barriers, cameras flashing in rapid bursts, the energy electric with the thrill of advancement. voices overlap in a dozen languages as players make their way through, some pausing for brief comments, others moving with exhausted determination. when it’s sunghoon’s turn with you, he lingers the longest yet, his jersey still marked with grass stains and sweat, hair damp and slightly tousled from the battle.
“it was a tough one today,” you say on mic, keeping your tone professional yet warm amid the surrounding chaos.
he answers thoughtfully, detailing the defensive adjustments and the importance of staying compact against their technical threats, his words measured and insightful as always. then, after the formal part winds down and the recorder clicks off, his voice softens, eyes meeting yours with quiet sincerity.
“i know i say this a lot, but… your questions help me reflect properly. see you around the hotel?” the invitation is casual, professional on the surface, but layered with that familiar spark.
that night, the elevator moment happens in the quiet hum of the team hotel. the lobby has mostly emptied, soft lighting casting gentle glows across the marble floors as staff move discreetly in the background. you both end up in the same car after curfew hours, the doors sliding shut to leave just the two of you inside for a brief ride. he presses his floor, you yours, the numbers lighting up softly on the panel. the space feels smaller, more intimate, with the faint scent of his post-shower freshness mingling with the neutral hotel air.
he glances at you with a small grin, the expression boyish and relaxed after the high of the win. “technically we're not breaking rules if it’s just elevator talk, right?” his tone is light, teasing in that understated way.
you laugh quietly, the sound echoing softly in the enclosed space. “team rules are strict. but i won’t tell if you don’t.”
he chuckles, the sound low and warm, filling the brief silence as the elevator ascends smoothly. “good. wouldn’t want to get the reporter in trouble.”
the ride is short but charged, the two of you whisper-joking about imaginary coach surveillance cameras hidden in the corners, trading playful exaggerations about what the staff might think of late-night elevator rides. his eyes crinkle with amusement, the tension of the match melting away in these stolen seconds of normalcy.
when the doors open on your floor, he says softly, “sleep well,” his gaze holding yours for a lingering moment before the doors begin to close behind you. you step out into the hallway, the warmth in your chest blooming brighter, carrying you toward your room as the elevator continues upward.
texts begin the next day. the mixed zone buzz still echoes in your mind as you wrap up another solid interview with sunghoon, the post-round-of-16 energy lingering in the air like static. you give him your number after the formal questions end and the recorders are away, framing it casually as “professional follow-up if needed for quotes or any clarification on comments.” your voice stays steady and professional, but your fingers brush lightly when you hand over the small slip of paper with the digits neatly written. he takes it with a small nod, that shy smile touching his lips again, eyes flicking up to meet yours for a beat longer than necessary.
“thank you. i’ll keep it professional,” he says softly, tucking the note carefully into his pocket.
his first message comes that evening, the notification lighting up your phone screen while you sit in your hotel room reviewing notes. it is a simple photo of his dinner plate with a perfectly arranged meal — grilled protein, colorful vegetables, and a small portion of rice — caption “hotel version of home food. still not as good as ramyeon.”
you smile immediately, the image capturing the quiet discipline of his routine even after a big win. you reply with a meme about strict diets and athlete life, something light and relatable that pokes gentle fun at the sacrifices. he sends back a laughing emoji — rare for him, you imagine, given his usual reserved nature — followed by a single “exactly” that makes your grin widen.
from there, the messages stay light, comforting, a gentle thread connecting the tournament days without crossing into anything overt. he sends silly pitch-side observations during training breaks: “jay almost tripped over a cone today. classic.” the photo attached shows a blurred moment of near chaos on the practice field, his dry humor shining through in the sparse words. you send encouraging articles about south korea’s impressive run or funny football memes that capture the absurdity of the world cup bubble, ones that make him reply with “this one’s accurate” or a simple thumbs up that somehow feels warmer than it should.
there's nothing flirty on the surface. just connection. mutual crush energy that both of you feel but respect the boundaries around, keeping exchanges safe and supportive amid the mounting pressure.
hotel moments multiply in the days that follow, the shared spaces becoming familiar territory for these careful interactions. late-night lobby talks stretch longer, the soft piano music and dimmed lights creating a private world away from the team’s stricter routines. one night on day 15 he brings a small herbal tea from the team area (within rules), the warm cup steaming gently as he sets it down on the low table between you. “thought you might like this. helps with the late nights,” he says quietly, his voice low enough to blend with the ambient hum of the lounge.
you talk about life outside football — his interests in ice skating from younger days, the way the rhythm on the ice once felt like an escape before football took over completely, describing the cold air and smooth glides with a rare nostalgic softness. you share your journey into sports journalism, the early struggles of proving yourself in press boxes filled with veterans, the thrill of finding stories that go beyond the scoreline. hands brush when passing the cup back and forth, the fleeting contact sending small sparks up your arm each time. eye contact lingers, dark eyes holding yours across the table with quiet intensity, the air feels charged but controlled, heavy with unspoken understanding as the hours slip by unnoticed. the conversations flow naturally, deepening the connection without rushing it, each word and glance adding another layer to the careful space you both navigate.
-------
quarterfinals arrive around day 18. the stakes feel heavier in the air, the stadium packed with fans whose chants create a wall of sound that vibrates through every seat and press box. the match is intense, a real battle against a formidable side that matches south korea’s determination with sharp attacks and physical duels. every minute stretches, the tension thick on the pitch under the bright lights.
sunghoon is everywhere — key tackles that stop dangerous breakthroughs in their tracks, precise interceptions that shift momentum, and steady leadership in extra time when fatigue threatens to creep in. his voice remains calm yet commanding, organizing the backline with gestures and short calls that cut through the roar. they win 2-1 in a dramatic finish, the late goal sending the entire bench and crowd into frenzy. the team erupts in joy on the pitch, players hugging, jumping, the relief and pride visible in every exhausted smile and raised fist. advancement to semifinals secured, a milestone that echoes through the night.
the hotel celebration that night is big but contained — music pulsing softly in the common areas, players laughing in groups, sharing stories of key moments from the match, staff joining in with congratulatory claps and snacks passed around. the atmosphere buzzes with pride and cautious optimism, lights a little brighter than usual, but everyone mindful of the next challenge looming. you observe from the edges as a reporter, keeping professional distance, notebook in hand and a quiet smile as you absorb the scene without inserting yourself into the core festivities.
later, when things quiet and the main areas begin to empty, sunghoon finds you outside near the hotel gardens, away from the main buzz. the paths are softly lit with low lanterns, the greenery lush and fragrant under the clear seattle sky. the stars are bright overhead, scattered across the dark canvas, the night air warm and still, carrying faint traces of desert breeze and blooming flowers.
“big win today,” you say as he approaches, his steps quiet on the stone path, still dressed in comfortable post-celebration clothes, hair slightly tousled from the long day.
he nods, sitting on the bench beside you with a comfortable distance that still feels close. “the team deserved it. everyone gave everything out there.”
after that, conversation flows deep and unhurried, it comes naturally. he talks about the pressure of the knockout stages, how every match feels like the last, the weight of national expectations sitting on his shoulders alongside the physical demands. his voice stays low and reflective, sharing small vulnerabilities about staying focused when the world watches.
you share how covering it has been a dream but emotionally draining too, the rollercoaster of emotions from the press box mirroring some of the intensity on the field, the responsibility of capturing moments fairly while feeling the pull of the story. an hour passes easily under the stars, time slipping by as words weave between match analysis, personal reflections, and quiet laughter at lighter memories from the tournament so far.
at one point your hands brush again while gesturing animatedly about a particular play, the contact warm and lingering. neither pulls away immediately, the touch extending a second or two longer than accidental. prolonged eye contact follows — his dark eyes soft, searching, reflecting the garden lights and something deeper. the almost-moment hangs in the warm air, charged with crush energy that peaks in the silence, hearts beating a little faster in the quiet night.
he clears his throat gently after a beat, the sound soft and respectful, pulling back just enough to keep the line intact. “i’m glad you’re here for all this. it makes the nights easier, you know?”
you smile, warmth spreading through your chest. “me too, sunghoon.”
he doesn’t push further. respect keeps the line intact, boundaries honored even as the connection deepens. but the friendship has grown, your bond is undeniable in these stolen moments of calm. as you both head inside separately, walking toward the entrance at a respectful distance, the tournament feels brighter, the stars a little clearer, the shared moments adding layers of comfort amid the beautiful game’s relentless pace.
-------
the semifinal week hits like a wave. south korea’s run has captured hearts back home and around the world. media pressure mounts daily — press conferences packed with reporters, questions sharper and more insistent, expectations heavier with every passing hour. training sessions stretch longer under the los angeles sun, tactics refined with extra repetitions, fitness pushed to the limit. sunghoon leads with that signature calm, directing drills and encouraging teammates, but you notice the subtle signs of strain in his shoulders when he thinks no one watches. as vice-third captain, he shoulders quiet responsibility, guiding younger players through tough sequences, voice steady even as fatigue sets in.
you feel the pressure too. your reports gain traction, interviews with the team sought after by bigger outlets. every day brings new deadlines, analysis pieces, and the growing awareness that this story — both the team’s and the one quietly unfolding between you and sunghoon — feels bigger than expected. you keep boundaries professional in public, but the hotel has become a sanctuary of sorts, a place where conversations breathe easier away from the cameras.
one particularly grueling training day ends late. the team disperses for recovery, bodies tired but spirits high. you’re walking the designated paths near the hotel, notebook in hand, reviewing notes under fading light when sunghoon appears. he wears team-issued sweats, hair slightly messy from the shower, a fresh scent of soap following him. a quick glance around confirms the area is quiet, within allowed boundaries for light activity.
“do you mind if i join for a short walk?” he asks, voice low and gentle. his eyes carry that familiar shy warmth, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
you nod, closing your notebook. “of course. rough day out there?”
he falls into step beside you, the path winding gently around landscaped gardens, away from main entrances but still visible enough to stay appropriate. “yeah, long one. legs feel heavy, but we needed it. that drill where the cones kept falling — your face was priceless when you were watching from the side.”
you tease softly, a light laugh escaping. “don’t remind me. you looked so focused, and then everything just tumbled. the younger guys won’t let it go, huh?”
he chuckles, the sound easing the day’s tension, shoulders relaxing a fraction. “no, they keep replaying it in the dressing room. i told them to focus on their own mistakes next time.”
gradually the conversation deepens as the sky turns deep blue, stars emerging one by one overhead. he talks about pressure first, voice thoughtful. “it builds differently in a tournament like this. every mistake feels like it could end everything. as captain… even vice… you feel it for the whole squad. not just for yourself.”
you listen closely, the gravel path crunching softly under your steps. “i can see it in how you carry yourself. what keeps you going when it gets this heavy?”
he thinks for a moment, steps slowing. “dreams from when i was younger. playing at this level, bringing pride home. and… smaller things now. quiet moments like this. reminders that there’s life beyond the pitch.” he glances at you, the air feels thicker. “honestly, you’ve become one of my favorite parts of this crazy tournament. talking to you after matches, the texts, these walks… it makes the pressure feel less lonely. like there’s something steady.”
your heart skips a beat at the admission. you look at him, the words hanging gentle between you under the starlight. “same for me, sunghoon. covering this has been incredible, the biggest assignment of my career, but getting to know you has made it special. in a way i didn’t expect. your perspective after games… it helps me see the match differently too. it makes me better, even.”
he nods, a soft smile appearing. “i’m glad. sometimes after a tough session i look forward to what you might ask next, or what meme you’ll send. it keeps things balanced.”
neither pushes further. hands brush once as you both gesture toward a nearby bench, the contact warm and lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary. prolonged eye contact follows under the stars — his dark eyes soft, searching, full of unspoken feelings. tension coils warmly, but respect holds strong. you sit briefly on the bench, the wood still holding daytime heat.
“tell me about seoul,” you say quietly. “what do you miss most when you’re away like this?”
he leans back slightly, voice warm with memory. “the streets at night, family meals where everyone talks over each other, my little sister teasing me. the quiet ice rink i visit off-season. it feels freeing, just gliding without thinking about the next match.”
you share your own stories in return. “my hometown had this small park where we’d kick a ball around as kids. football was always the escape, even before i started writing about it. now being here, covering your run… it brings that feeling back.”
the walk ends too soon, the hotel lights drawing closer, but the connection sinks deeper, roots forming in these simple, honest exchanges. you part ways near the entrance with quiet goodnights, the warmth of the conversation carrying into the night.
-------
semifinal day arrives heavy with anticipation. the opponent is formidable, a european side with attacking flair and experience in high-stakes matches. the stadium pulses with energy, south korean fans loud and proud, waving flags that create a sea of red across the stands. you sit in the press box, nerves alight as the match kicks off, heart pounding in time with the roar that greets the first whistle. sunghoon anchors the defense, composure like ice even as attacks rain down in waves. early chances for both sides keep everyone on edge. he makes a crucial block in the 18th minute, sliding perfectly to deny a shot, his body a wall that refuses to break.
the first half ends 0-0, tense and locked, both teams probing for weaknesses without success. you scribble notes furiously, the press box filled with the sound of typing and whispered analysis.
second half explodes with action. south korea scores first on a counter, sunghoon’s precise pass starting the move with perfect vision. celebrations are wild, players piling on each other as the stadium shakes. but the opponent equalizes quickly, the drama building with every minute. yellow cards fly, tempers flare, and extra time looms like a shadow. in the 82nd minute, sunghoon wins a vital aerial duel, clearing danger with powerful timing. the team pushes forward relentlessly. in the dying moments of regulation, a dramatic goal from a set-piece they practiced all week seals it.
2-1. south korea reaches the final.
the stadium erupts in pure ecstasy. players collapse in joy and exhaustion on the pitch, embracing, shouting, some dropping to their knees. sunghoon’s face shows rare pure emotion — relief, pride, tears barely held back as he hugs teammates tightly, the ice prince mask cracking in the best way. you watch from above, heart full, a lump in your throat at the magnitude of the moment.
mixed zone post-match is electric, buzzing with louder voices, brighter lights, and the raw energy of a team one step from history. when sunghoon reaches you, sweat-drenched and glowing with exhaustion and triumph, the interview carries extra weight. you ask about the resilience, his leadership, that final clearance, keeping your voice steady despite the rush of feelings.
he answers thoughtfully, voice steady for the cameras, detailing the defensive shape and the belief within the squad even when the score was level. as it wraps, he leans slightly closer to the mic, eyes on you with subtle softness that feels intimate amid the chaos. “thank you for being here,” he says quietly, almost under his breath but picked up on audio. “through all of it.”
the words are professional on the surface, but the delivery and his gaze carry more — warmth, gratitude, and that deeper connection built over weeks. fans and viewers notice immediately. social media lights up with theories about the “vibe” between south korea’s ice prince and the reporter.
he lingers afterward, as always, a stolen smile shared when cameras shift away for a moment. “we did it,” he murmurs, voice low and tired but happy, stepping just a fraction closer.
you nod, pride evident in your expression. “you did. incredible performance. that clearance in the 82nd… everyone in the press box held their breath.”
for a brief second the mixed zone noise fades into background static. he opens his arms slightly in a quiet offer, and you meet him in a quick, careful hug — nothing overt, just a brief, warm press of shoulders and arms, his jersey damp against you, the scent of grass and effort and victory surrounding the moment. it lasts only a heartbeat or two, respectful and hidden in the bustle, but the tension spikes sweetly, hearts beating harder in the small space between you. his hand rests lightly on your back for that instant, steady and reassuring, before you both pull away, cheeks flushed.
“get some rest,” you whisper, voice soft. “you earned it.”
he nods, eyes lingering on yours with that searching softness. “talk soon. hotel later if you’re around?” the words carry quiet hope. you smile, the almost-moment hanging in the air like the roar of the crowd still echoing outside. the connection feels stronger than ever, charged with everything unsaid, yet still carefully contained.
-------
the following days blur with celebration and preparation for the final. the hotel atmosphere buzzes with a mix of joy and focused energy, players moving between recovery sessions and light meetings, laughter echoing down hallways but tempered by the knowledge of the ultimate test ahead. sunghoon’s texts increase slightly in frequency, still light but warmer, carrying a quiet affection that makes your phone feel heavier in your hand each time it lights up.
a food pic arrives one evening with the caption “recovery meal. missing home flavors… and good conversations.” the image shows a neatly plated dish, simple yet carefully arranged, the kind of balanced food that fuels but never fully satisfies the craving for something familiar. you reply with an encouraging article about the final and a meme about dramatic semifinals that perfectly captures the chaos of extra time. he sends back “exactly this” followed by a laughing emoji, the rare sign of his amusement that always brings a smile to your face.
tension builds in beautiful, restrained ways throughout the week. stolen smiles across the lobby when eyes meet from a distance, quick and private amid the staff and players milling about. inside jokes during brief hallway passes — references to the falling cones or that memorable elevator ride — whispered in passing with soft chuckles that linger in the air after you part. these small exchanges become anchors in the busy days, tiny moments of normalcy that recharge both of you.
one evening he finds you in the coffee area again, the lounge quieter than usual after a long day. you’re typing up notes, shoulders tight from hours at the laptop, when he approaches with that familiar shy warmth. he sits across from you, voice low. “long day for you too?”
you nod, closing the screen slightly. “deadlines never stop. but watching you all out there makes it worth it. how are your legs holding up after that semifinal?”
he smiles, leaning back. “sore, but manageable. don’t burn out yourself. this final… we’ll need your steady questions after. you always make me think clearly when i answer them.”
the support flows naturally between you. you listen as he shares the weight of the upcoming match, offering quiet encouragement in return. “you’ve carried so much already. the way you lead the younger guys, the composure under pressure — it shows. rest those shoulders tonight, okay? ice them like the physios say.” he chuckles softly at your gentle teasing about resting his legs, the sound warm and easy, but underneath simmers deeper feelings — mutual crush evolving into something tender, real, built on weeks of understanding and respect.
another quiet moment near the gardens happens on a cooler evening, shorter this time due to stricter schedules and earlier curfews. the paths are dimly lit, the air carrying the faint scent of night-blooming flowers. hands brush again while walking side by side, the contact sending a familiar spark up your arm. neither pulls away right away. eye contact holds, his dark eyes soft in the low light.
“whatever happens in the final… i’m grateful for these weeks,” he says softly, voice sincere and a little vulnerable. “the talks, the texts, even the quick hallway jokes. it’s helped more than you know. having someone outside the team bubble who sees me as more than just the defender.”
you feel the same, words careful but heartfelt. “i’m grateful too, sunghoon. covering this run has been a dream, but getting to know you — the real you behind the ice prince reputation — has made it unforgettable. you’ve helped me stay grounded too, reminded me why i love the game in the first place.”
no lines crossed. just deepening connection, slow and respectful, hearts leaning closer as the biggest match approaches. you part ways with a quiet goodnight, the warmth of his words carrying you back to your room.
the week ends with the team focused and bonded tighter than ever. you prepare your notes for the final, mind full of sunghoon — the defender, the leader, the person who’s quietly become so important through shared laughs, supportive words, and those stolen moments of understanding. the final awaits, but this connection feels like its own victory already, a beautiful thread woven through the chaos of the tournament.
-------
the final week feels like the world has narrowed to a single point. south korea against a powerhouse european side — technically brilliant, physically strong, full of world-class attackers who can change a game in one moment. the hotel is quieter now, heavier with focus. players move through the halls with serious faces. laughter still comes, but it is softer, shorter. training is sharp, tactical, almost silent except for sunghoon’s calm instructions. he stands tall on the pitch, directing the backline with steady words, but you see the weight he carries.
media pressure peaks. every interview, every press conference asks about destiny, about making history, about what it would mean for the whole country. cameras follow the team everywhere. questions get harder. you feel it too, your own reports read by more people each day. but in the middle of all this, you and sunghoon steal small moments. a hallway smile when no one else is looking. a text at night that says “rest well. big day soon.”
the deeper connection from the semifinals carries them both. tension waving underneath, but they keep it light and supportive. inside jokes about elevator rules and ramyeon cravings ease the nerves when things feel too heavy.
the day before the final dawns clear and warm. new york’s sun rises early, painting the hotel windows in soft gold. you wake up with butterflies already dancing in your stomach. today is the last full day before everything reaches its peak. you know sunghoon must feel it even more. as vice-third captain, the expectations sit right on his shoulders. you spend the morning in the press area, typing notes and preparing questions, but your mind keeps drifting to him.
around midday, after the morning training session ends, you see him in the hotel lobby. he looks tired but composed, hair still damp from the shower, wearing simple team sweats. his shoulders seem a little tighter than usual. when his eyes find yours across the space, he gives a small nod. you walk over casually, keeping your voice low.
“hey,” you say softly. “how are you feeling today?”
he glances around to make sure no one is paying too much attention, then sighs a little. “honestly? i'm nervous. more than i thought i would be. this is the final. everything we worked for. what if i make a mistake out there? what if the team needs me and i am not sharp enough?”
his voice is quiet, almost a whisper. you see the worry in his dark eyes, the way he rubs the back of his neck. the ice prince mask is slipping just for you. you step a little closer, not touching yet, but near enough that your presence feels warm.
“sunghoon,” you say gently, “you have been incredible this whole tournament. that sliding tackle in the round of 16, the header in the group stage, the way you read the game in the semifinal. everyone sees it. the team trusts you. i trust you. one match does not erase all the good you have already done.”
he listens, eyes softening as he looks at you. “thank you. it helps hearing that from someone outside the squad. the coaches say the right things, teammates too, but sometimes it still feels heavy. like the whole country is watching.”
you nod, understanding. “it is heavy. but you do not carry it alone. not really. and tomorrow you will go out there and do what you always do — stay calm, read the play, lead by example. that is who you are.”
a small smile touches his lips. “you always know what to say. makes me feel steadier.”
the conversation flows easier after that. you walk together toward a quieter corner of the hotel, a small seating area away from the main bustle. no one bothers you. the moment feels private even in a busy place. you sit side by side on a comfortable couch. your knees brush lightly. neither of you moves away. the contact is simple but comforting, a quiet reminder that you are here with him.
“remember that time in the elevator?” you ask, trying to lighten the mood with an inside joke. “when we joked about coach cameras everywhere?”
he chuckles softly, the sound low and warm. it relaxes his shoulders a bit. “how could i forget? you said you would not tell if i did not. best deal i made all tournament.”
you laugh together, the sound mixing nicely. for a few minutes the final feels farther away. you talk about ramyeon again, what you would both eat right after the match if you could. he describes his favorite spot back in seoul in more detail this time — the spicy broth, the way the noodles feel, the late night vibes with friends. you share stories from your own travels, funny moments from smaller matches you covered before this big one. the talk helps. his voice grows calmer. the nervous edge fades little by little.
later that afternoon, after some recovery work, he texts you. the message is simple. “coffee area in twenty minutes? if you are free.”
you reply quickly. “see you there.”
when you arrive, he is already waiting with two cups of herbal tea. he hands one to you, fingers brushing yours on purpose this time. the touch lingers. you both sit close, closer than before. your arm rests near his on the table. the lobby is quiet enough that it feels like your own small world.
“i keep thinking about the first match,” he says after a sip. “how everything started. you were there with your questions. now here we are. final tomorrow. it feels fast and slow at the same time.”
you nod, turning to face him more. “it does. i have watched you grow even in these weeks. not just as a player. as a person. you let me see the real you. that means a lot.”
he looks at you, eyes steady and warm. “you let me see the real you too. not just the reporter. the person who loves the game, who works hard, who cares. it has been nice. more than nice.”
the words hang between you, full of meaning. tension builds again, the good kind that makes your heart beat faster. you lean in slightly. he does the same. your shoulders touch now, a gentle press that feels safe and exciting. his hand rests near yours on the table. fingers brush, then stay close, almost holding but not quite. the almost is sweet. it stretches the moment, makes it deeper.
“are you scared?” you ask quietly, wanting to give him space to share more.
he thinks for a second. “yes. a little. not of playing. but of letting everyone down. the fans, my family, the team…” then he adds, whispering, almost as if he was scared of pronouncing those words. ”what if i am not enough tomorrow?”
you turn your hand and gently squeeze his fingers for a brief moment. the contact is warm and reassuring. “you are enough, sunghoon. you have already proven it. tomorrow you will play like you always do. strong, smart, calm. and no matter what, i will be proud. the reporter part and the friend part.”
he squeezes back, just as gentle. his thumb rubs a small circle on the back of your hand before you both let go, aware of the surroundings. but the touch stays with you. his eyes look softer now, less nervous.
“thank you,” he whispers. “really. these talks… they help me breathe better. you help me.”
the rest of the afternoon passes in similar small moments. you walk together again near the gardens when schedules allow. the sun is lower, casting long shadows. this time you walk closer, arms brushing with every step. he tells you more about his younger days, the ice skating dreams, the pressure he felt even as a kid. you share your own fears about big assignments, how you sometimes doubt if your writing captures the real feeling.
“you do,” he says firmly. “your questions always make me think deeper. you see things others miss.”
the compliment warms you. you stop near a quiet bench. he sits first. you sit right beside him, thighs touching. the closeness feels natural now. his arm rests behind you on the bench, not quite around you but close enough that you can lean back into the support. you do. your head rests lightly against his shoulder for a few seconds. he does not move away. instead, he leans in too. the contact is soft, comforting. you stay like that for a minute, breathing together under the fading sky.
“whatever happens tomorrow,” he says quietly, voice close to your ear, “i am glad we had this. the connection. it is special.”
“me too,” you reply, heart full. “very special.”
you pull back after a while, but the warmth remains. he walks you partway to your floor later, the elevator ride shared again. this time it is just the two of you. no jokes about cameras. instead, quiet talk. his hand finds yours for a short squeeze as the doors open on your floor.
“rest well,” he says, eyes holding yours. “i will see you after the match.”
“you rest too,” you answer. “you will be great. i believe in you.”
that night the texts continue.
he sends a simple message. “can't sleep yet. thinking too much.”
you reply right away. “what is on your mind?”
“the final. the team. you.” the honesty makes your chest tight in a good way.
you send back encouragement. “you have prepared perfectly. tomorrow you step on the pitch and do what you love. i will be watching every move. cheering in the press box even if i stay professional on the outside.”
he sends a photo this time — just his hand holding the team badge on his sweatshirt, nothing fancy. “this means more with good support. thank you.”
the conversation goes on for a while, light and deep mixed together. he tells you a funny memory from training camp to ease his own nerves. you share a silly story from your first big assignment. laughter comes through the phone even if you can not hear it. slowly his messages slow down. “starting to feel tired. thanks for talking. goodnight.”
“goodnight, sunghoon. sleep well.”
the day before the final ends with you lying in bed, mind full of him. the way his shoulder felt under your head. the gentle squeeze of his hand. the nervous look that softened when you comforted him. the connection has grown so much closer, physically and emotionally. touches that linger. words that mean more. respect still holds everything together, but the tenderness is real. hearts leaning in as the biggest night of the tournament waits just ahead.
-------
the next morning comes early. you see him briefly at breakfast from across the room. he looks focused but calmer. when your eyes meet, he gives a small smile, the kind meant only for you. you smile back, sending silent support. the final is hours away, but the bond you built feels strong enough to carry through whatever comes. sunghoon is still nervous deep down, you know that. but he also knows he is not alone. your words, your presence, your gentle touches — they have become part of his strength. and for you, watching him chase history while sharing these quiet moments has become the most beautiful part of the whole world cup.
the hours before kickoff pass in a blur of preparation. you review your notes one last time in the press area. sunghoon sends one more text in the afternoon. “final walk through done. feeling ready. your words from yesterday helped a lot.”
you reply quickly. “you got this. go out there and be the wall they need. i am proud already.”
his answer is short but warm. “see you on the other side.”
as the team bus leaves for the stadium later, you watch from the hotel entrance. he catches your eye through the window for a brief second. the small nod he gives carries everything — gratitude, nerves, connection. you wave subtly, heart full. the day before the final has brought you closer than ever. touches, talks, comfort, shared silence. the final waits, but this quiet story between you already feels like a win worth cherishing.
-------
the stadium is a cauldron of noise and color long before kickoff, fans from both nations filling every seat, waving flags, singing chants that echo for miles. the air feels electric, thick with anticipation and the weight of history. you take your place in the press box high above the pitch, heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. your notebook sits open, but your eyes keep drifting to the field where the teams warm up.
south korea in their iconic red shirt, sunghoon is wearing the captain’s armband tonight, standing tall among his teammates. his expression is focused, that ice-prince calm masking the storm you know is inside after all the quiet talks and shared moments. he moves with purpose during the warm-up, stretching, touching the grass, talking quietly with younger players. you watch every step, remembering the way his shoulder felt under your head, the gentle squeeze of his hand, the nerves he let you see the day before. national anthems play, voices rising strong and proud. sunghoon stands straight, hand over his heart, eyes distant but determined. the whistle blows and the final begins.
the match is a chess game from the start.
both teams circle each other carefully, probing for weaknesses without giving much away. south korea defends resolutely, staying compact and organized. sunghoon is everywhere at the back — reading runs before they develop, winning aerial duels with perfect timing, distributing the ball calmly from the back to start attacks. you lean forward in your seat, eyes locked on him, scribbling notes but mostly just watching the way he commands the defense. his voice carries across the pitch even from your high position, steady instructions cutting through the roar.
the european side presses high, trying to force mistakes, but the defense holds firm. chances come and go. a shot from the opponent is saved brilliantly by the keeper. a dangerous cross is cleared by sunghoon’s powerful header, his body leaping high, timing exact. the crowd roars with every tackle, every clearance. you cheer loudly from the press box every time he wins a duel, your voice joining the thousands of korean fans, heart swelling with pride and worry at the same time. “come on, sunghoon,” you whisper under your breath when a striker gets too close.
0-0 at half-time. the players jog off, faces tired but focused. sunghoon claps teammates on the back, saying quiet words of encouragement. you can see the tension in his shoulders from afar, the way he glances toward the press box once, searching briefly. you hope he feels your support even from this distance.
second half mirrors the first. intense, cagey, every ball contested like it is the last. sunghoon makes a heroic block in the 60th minute, throwing his body fully in front of a powerful strike. the impact looks painful. pain flashes across his face for a split second, but he rises quickly, brushing dirt from his jersey and waving teammates into position, voice strong again. you stand up in the press box, cheering wildly, hands clapping until they sting.
“that’s it! keep going!” the fans around you roar in agreement. he looks toward the stands, toward you, for just a moment, a tiny nod almost imperceptible, but it warms you through.
the game stays locked. legs start to tire as the minutes tick down. extra time begins, the stadium even louder now, the pressure mounting with every pass. sunghoon keeps organizing, never stopping, even as exhaustion shows in slower movements. he wins more duels, makes more key interceptions, leading by pure example.
you watch him the whole time, heart aching with every challenge he faces, proud of how he pushes through. the connection you built makes every moment feel personal. you want this for him so badly. you want him to be happy.
in the dying minutes of extra time, the 118th, disaster strikes. a quick counter from the opponent catches the defense stretched. a through ball splits the line perfectly. sunghoon lunges desperately, sliding with everything he has left, but the striker rounds the keeper and slots it home.
0-1. south korea is losing.
the stadium erupts in the opponent’s favor, their fans exploding in joy. heartbreak crashes down on the korean side like a wave. the clock ticks away the final moments. south korea pushes desperately for an equalizer, throwing numbers forward, but time runs out cruelly.
sunghoon stands motionless for a second on the pitch, hands on his hips, chest heaving. then he turns his head toward the press box again and again as the whistle approaches. he searches for your face in the crowd, eyes scanning desperately through the sea of people. devastation etches his features clearly now — the pain, the disappointment, the exhaustion. but he stays composed for the team, moving to clap teammates on the back, head high even as the reality sinks in. you cheer his name loudly through the pain in your own chest, voice raw, willing him strength across the distance. “sunghoon! i'm so proud of you!”
the final whistle confirms it.
defeat. 0-1.
the european side celebrates wildly, piling on each other, jumping and shouting. south korea’s players drop to the grass, exhausted and emotional, some covering their faces, others staring blankly at the sky. tears start to flow for many. the weight of coming so close only to fall short hits hard.
sunghoon gathers them slowly, moving from player to player with purpose even as his own eyes glisten.
he puts an arm around the younger ones, pulling them into huddles, voice steady despite the tears he is fighting back. you see him wipe his eyes quickly with the back of his hand, shoulders shaking once before he straightens again. he consoles them with quiet words, hugging tightly, letting some cry on his shoulder while offering comfort in return. they console him too — teammates patting his back, sharing the pain, reminding him how far they came together.
the group stands close in the middle of the pitch, a circle of red jerseys bonded through the heartbreak, sunghoon at the center, leading even in defeat, tears falling freely now as he lets the emotion show while still holding the team together. the moment is raw and beautiful, full of pride mixed with sorrow, the end of an unforgettable run.
medal ceremony follows under the bright stadium lights. the atmosphere is a strange mix of celebration for the winners and quiet pride mixed with sorrow for the runners-up. silver medals hang around necks, gleaming against the red jerseys. sunghoon steps up to receive his with quiet dignity, head held high even as his eyes glisten with unshed tears.
the crowd gives warm applause for the south korean team, chanting their names in appreciation for the run that captured so many hearts. he claps for his teammates, a small, bittersweet smile on his face, but you can see the weight in his posture from your place in the press area. the journey meant everything, and ending here still hurts.
media duties come next. the mixed zone feels somber this time, the usual buzz replaced by quieter voices and heavy emotions. players move through slowly, some with red eyes, others forcing smiles for the cameras.
when sunghoon reaches you, his eyes are teary, shoulders heavy with exhaustion and disappointment. his hair is damp, jersey still marked from the battle, the captain’s armband still on his arm. you keep the interview professional at first, but your voice is gentle, full of care.
“sunghoon, a heartbreaking end after an incredible run. what does this silver mean to you and the team?” you ask, microphone steady but tone soft.
he swallows hard, voice thick but clear as he answers. “it means a lot. we gave everything we had out there. i am proud of the journey, the fans who supported us, the fight we showed together. we will learn from this and come back stronger.” his eyes stay locked on yours the whole time. tears threaten to spill over. the professional facade cracks slightly, the ice prince letting the emotion show more than usual. the moment feels intimate even with cameras rolling.
as the camera holds and the interview continues for a few more questions, you cannot help it. under the barrier, your hand reaches out briefly for his arm, a quick but affectionate squeeze of comfort on his forearm, fingers lingering for a second longer than strictly necessary. the touch is warm and reassuring, right there in public where anyone could notice. he squeezes your hand back gently with his own, eyes saying everything words cannot — gratitude, shared pain, the depth of the connection built over these weeks. the affection is clear in the way his fingers press softly against yours before you both pull away, careful but meaningful. fans will dissect the moment later on social media, replaying the clip, but right now it is just for the two of you, a small anchor in the heartbreak.
you continue with one more gentle question about the team spirit. he answers thoughtfully, voice a little steadier thanks to the touch. “the guys fought so hard. i am proud to lead them. we came so far together.”
the interview ends. he lingers longest with you, teary-eyed and reluctant to move on. you reach out again quickly, this time touching his arm openly for a moment, a light, comforting rub along his sleeve, right there in the mixed zone. “you were amazing out there,” you whisper softly, eyes full of pride and care. “the whole tournament. i mean it.”
he nods, leaning slightly into the brief contact, his own hand covering yours for a heartbeat. “thank you,” he whispers back, voice cracking just a little. “for everything. the talks, the support, being here. it made a difference. really.” his eyes are still glistening, but the small smile he gives you is real and warm, full of affection that goes beyond the game. the public touch feels bold but right in this emotional moment, a quiet way of saying i am here with you.
he finally moves on after one last lingering look, shoulders a little lighter, the comfort from your touch and words carrying him forward. you stand there watching him go, heart full despite the loss, the connection between you stronger than ever even in defeat.
-------
hours later, when the stadium empties and the bittersweet hotel celebrations wind down, the corridors grow quiet. music fades, laughter turns softer, and players slowly retreat to their rooms to process the loss in private. you sit in a quiet corridor near the team floors, away from everyone, the area dimly lit with soft wall lights casting gentle shadows. the air feels still after the chaos of the day. you are replaying the match in your mind, the pride and the pain, when footsteps approach.
sunghoon finds you there. he has changed into a simple black hoodie and sweats, hair messy from the shower, eyes still red from the tears on the pitch and the emotion that followed. he looks tired but real, the captain’s mask completely gone now. you stand up slowly as he approaches, heart beating faster.
“hey,” you say softly, voice barely above a whisper.
he stops close, closer than usual, looking at you with raw emotion that makes your chest tighten. his dark eyes search yours, glistening again under the low lights.
“i kept looking for you out there. in the final moments — when the goal went in, when the whistle blew. seeing you in the press box helped more than you know. it kept me going. it also reminded me why we fought so hard.”
silence stretches between you, heavy with everything unsaid over the weeks — the late night talks, the gentle touches, the shared laughs, the comfort you gave each other. the corridor feels like your own private world, far from cameras and teammates. he takes another small step closer, the air thick with tenderness and vulnerability.
“we lost the cup tonight,” he says, voice low and sincere, cracking just a little. “it hurts. a lot. but… i already won. having you here these weeks — getting to know you, talking after every match, those late nights in the lobby, the garden walks, your support when i was nervous. you made this whole journey feel like a win. even in defeat. i don’t know what happens when we go home, when the tournament ends and real life starts again, but i’d really like to keep seeing you. properly. no more careful lines. no more crazy boundaries. no more hiding how i feel.”
your heart swells so much it feels like it might burst. tears prick your own eyes as you look at him, this man who led with quiet strength through the entire world cup.
“sunghoon… i feel the same. you’ve been the best part of this tournament for me too. not just the football. the real you. the way you listened, the way you let me in, the way you made me laugh even on hard days. i don’t want this to end either.”
he steps even closer, almost closing the distance completely. the air thickens with all the built-up tension from weeks of slow glances and gentle touches. you smile through the emotion, trying to lighten it like you always do, voice soft and teasing.
“you know… i was half expecting you to kiss me right here, like iker casillas did with sara carbonero back in 2010 after the final.”
sunghoon blinks for a second, processing the words, then lets out a genuine laugh — surprised, warm, and full, breaking through the sadness in a beautiful way. his shoulders shake lightly as he chuckles, eyes sparkling despite the red rims and the loss.
“casillas did that because he won the world cup,” he points out, still chuckling softly, the sound echoing gently in the empty corridor. “he was champion. i'm not. i lost. so… bad timing on my part, huh?”
the silly joke lands perfectly. both of you start laughing quietly together, the sound mixing with the leftover emotion, tension easing into something sweeter and lighter. you reach out and touch his arm, squeezing it affectionately, feeling the warmth through the hoodie sleeve. he covers your hand with his own, holding it there, the contact grounding and tender. the laughter fades slowly into soft smiles, but the closeness remains.
he reaches up gently with both hands, cupping your face with careful, warm palms. his thumbs brush your cheeks softly, wiping away a stray tear you did not realize had fallen. “but if it’s okay… i’d still like to kiss you now. not because of a trophy. not because we won or lost. just because of you. because of us. these weeks meant everything to me.”
you nod, heart racing, whispering “yes” with a smile that trembles a little from the emotion.
the kiss is soft, tender, full of all the weeks of slow-burn tension and respect. his lips meet yours gently at first, sweet and unhurried, tasting of shared heartbreaks and quiet joys, of late night talks and comforting hugs. one of his hands slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading lightly into your hair. you lean into him, hands resting on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under the hoodie. the kiss deepens just a touch, still respectful but full of affection, pouring out everything you both held back for so long. when you pull apart, foreheads resting together, breathing softly in the quiet corridor, he smiles, eyes shining.
“we’ll win the next one,” he murmurs, voice warm against your skin. “together. whatever comes after this.”
you nod, smiling back, fingers tracing his arm gently. “together sounds perfect.”
the tournament ends in silver, bittersweet but proud.
but for sunghoon and you, it marks the beginning of something golden. friendship blossomed into more, slow and steady, just like extra time in a tight match — worth every minute, every glance, every touch, every quiet conversation that led to this moment in the dim corridor.
the future waits, but right now, in each other’s arms, the loss feels a little smaller.
synopsis . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. your strategy was simple: mind your business in school and survive. it works perfectly-- until the most popular guy in school decides he can't live without you.
SYN. how does your arranged fiance deal with their spoiled bratty fiancee with high standards? they don’t put you in your place, they encourage it further !
CONTAINS ౿ ݁ . fiance!enha hyung line x spoiled fem reader 𔘓 romcom arranged marriage au narration + smau ✶ profanity sfw
𝐄𝐕𝐄 🪽 —— mix of smau & a narration.. i actually love this lol. also jay's part is my fave & the favoritism is so obv help
ᜊ𐔌๑ ´ ˔ ` ꒱੭ likes & reblogs r appreciated, happy reading !
HEESEUNG finds it fascinating how he’s unable to woo you. beneath his charismatic facade, he’s surprised that his charms aren’t working on you. no matter how many times he flirts with you, the only reaction he receives is a scoff, eyes rolling, and turning your back on him. even though he’s used up his best smooth pick-up lines, you get more and more agitated with him.
“Is that how you’re supposed to respond to your husband, hm?” Heeseung tilts his head, watching you walk pass by him with crossed arms. It annoys you more seeing his annoying smirk.
Stopping in your tracks, you turn to face him again. “Eugh.. correction. Fiance. We’re not married yet.”
‘Cute. so cute,’ He thinks, loving how you seem so fiesty with him. You think that acting all bratty and annoying would make him dislike you? That’s where you’re wrong, it makes him love you so much more.
“But we’ll get married soon, right?” He flashes you a teasing grin. He’s soo annoyingly handsome. You don’t answer him because the answer is so obvious. A calendar hung to the wall with the date November 30 circled with a red pen—your wedding date. Just a few months from now, yet you can’t seem to be bothered calling Heeseung as your future husband.
“Yes and I will be the one to pick out the theme, where we’ll get married, and the food. Okay?” You assert, thinking he wouldn’t like it if you were in charge of everything.
He simply nods his head. “Whatever you want, princess. I’ll just swipe the card for you.”
Oh, you forgot. Heeseung doesn’t care about what his parents thinks, to him, what you think matters more. Honestly, he’d prefer it if the wedding was designed by the way you like it—because, you’re the wife. And for Heeseung, he wants his wife to have the most perfect wedding ever.
After that conversation, you hear him talk to someone on the phone.
“Mhm, yes. Anything my wife says she wants, give it to her immediately, okay?”
JAY being the most perfect gentleman you’ve ever met is the reason why you can’t seem to hate him. he can be loud, he can easily get angry, and he’s straightforward—so how come he looks at you with heart eyes even if all you’ve done is push his buttons? the answer? you can never get on jay’s nerves, mainly because he’s already committed to being the best husband for you and building a better future for you both.
How does Park Jongseong have not one flaw? You groan, thinking of ways to get on his nerves.
The sweet sweet smile he gives you is the very reason you’re so annoyed right now. Yesterday, all you’ve done was spend money, go on parties, and get drunk—yet all Jay did was take care of you like a real husband. After party, at 3 am, you found Jay waiting for you with a sleepy look in his car. But the moment you walked to his car with a pissed off expression, he gives you a tired yet gentle smile. And asked you, “Had fun, angel? You look very pretty in that dress.”
Then even when he was obviously tired, he helped you remove your makeup, do your skincare, help you with your clothes, and took you to bed. You were knocked out the moment you felt the soft mattress, but you won’t forget the feeling of the kiss he placed on your forehead while he whispered, “good night, angel. Have a good sleep.”
You woke up with a throbbing headache, but smelled something good from the kitchen. Jay was cooking, he’d always cook for you, even if you told him not to bother. Even if you yelled at him, he’d just leave a plate for you, knowing that you’d give up and eat his food anyways.
He steps inside your bedroom, a tray with your favorite breakfast meal in his hands. “Good morning. Feeling good now?”
“Yeah..” you mumble, responding to his question. There was no longer a headache and your throat didn’t feel sore, so yes, you’re feeling good now. But truthfully, you felt guilty for all the plans you created just to sabotage the arranged marriage.
He lays down the tray table. The wondeful sight and aroma of the food making your stomach growl. Its your favorite meal, a special one that you enjoy every morning, and Jay knew about it.
“I.. kinda asked your mom about your favorite homecooked meal—she uh.. shared her recipe to me. I hope you like it.” Jay looks away sheepishly.
You furrow your brows thinking, How is Park Jongseong so perfect? He knows everything that you’re picky about, how you like your coffee made, how you like your cookie baked, or how warm or cold you like your water in the bathtub.
Why’d your mom even give him the recipe and why was it so yummy? Your mom has a competition now. You clear your throat, putting down the spoon. “What did you put in this?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “Love.”
JAKE is a goody-two-shoes, and you dislike that about him. he’s so cute, acting like a puppy, following you around wherever you go—like the good fiancé he is. your parents like him for you, and even if you push him away… jake can’t let you go, because you’re all that he wants.
He’s a living golden retriever. You look over the couch to see a pouting Jake. Just a few hours ago, you accidentally snapped at him. For no absolute reason… you just wanted to. Felt like it, you were used to snapping at people.
And you feel awfully guilty. You’ve never seen Jake this quiet; he’d always be silly and clingy. Now, he sits on the couch as if he’s on a timeout.
He stands up, you turn back your gaze to your food. You can hear him getting closer and closer—practically feeling him tower over you. He leans behind you with his hands dropping to your waist. “Now, you’re guilty?”
You gulp, not wanting to turn your head to face him. “Huh?”
“Mhm, you’ve been so bratty these past few days. Am I not enough? What should I do so that my fiancee will finally listen to me?” He brushes his lips against your earlobe, earning a shiver from you.
Slowly, he sweeps your hair to the side. “You’re so adorable, aren’t you? I like it when you’re nervous like this…”
Not wanting to deal with this, you pulled away from him and instantly ran off to your room.
Jake watches you with an amused face. You got shy. He smirks, glancing at the tea cup you left—your lipstick stains the lid. He reaches it, lips touching the same spot you drank from.
“It’s so easy to make her behave,” he mutters. Despite his clingy and loud side, Jake has always knew how to discipline you, even if it’s a weird method. It works, anyways.
A few hours later, he knocks on your room with your favorite ice cream, and he’s back to the Jake you’ve always seen. Clinging on to you, with his hands touching you all over.
SUNGHOON is the type of fiance to give the world to his partner. even if you’re spoiled, always wanting to spend money, and buying everything, he’s willing to give it to you. no complaints from him, he’s happy if his future wife is happy.
“I want that… then that over there. Ooh! This one, it’s pretty,” you chirp, pointing to different jewelry in the store. All of them looked so, so pretty, you just want to buy them all.
Sunghoon stood next to you, like a bodyguard. His arms crossed, face blank, but seeing you be cheerful, his lips twitched. “You want it?”
You nod your head, a little bashful. “Yeah… but we don’t have to buy it—”
“Buy anything you want, use my card,” he interrupts you. He reaches out for his wallet, taking out the card before handing it to you with a smile. “My pretty girl only deserves the prettiest things, right?”
He knows how to get you. He really does, because the moment he took out his card, your eyes sparkled. For Sunghoon, seeing you smile is what he looks forward to most. Even if that meant his bank would be drained… As long as it’s you.
When you skip to choose more necklaces, he looks over to the staff. “What’s your most expensive ring? Make sure it’s pretty.”
( 🪽 ) ——TY FOR READING! kinda obv that i rushed jake & hoon's part aaa i js really wanted to take this out of my drafts & focus on other stuff T__T ALSO IM SRRY FOR BEING SOOO BUSY UGHHH COLLEGE IS A NIGHTMARE
yousharknotpass
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