Smol Fangirl @chibi-rach - Tumblr Blog

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON - CHAINED.

He hated you before he met you — ballerina, pawn, problem. But then you danced, and now he can’t stop watching. You weren’t supposed to want him either — cold, cruel, untouchable. Now it’s glances, games, and dangerously thin lines. This isn’t love. It’s obsession with better lighting.

CONTENT ↠ nsfw! mdni!, heavy smut, heavy angst , Possessive!Sunghoon, Toxic relationship, Obsessive Hoon, "You’re mine" trope, MC first love, sexual tension, manipulative!Hoon, consensual edging, Jealousy (both way), Slow Burn some way, Secret Relationship, p in the v, MC first time, overstimulation, Rough sex (like for real watch out), Marking / Bruising, Humping, Hair pulling, choking, public acts, moraly grey characters (like mostly everyone even mc), Begging, Dancing as expression of love, self love journey, strong language, Consensual blurred lines MC kind of turn from shy/clumsy to mature TW: There’s a sex scene toward the end that gets really heavy—biting, marking, the whole feral package. Read at your own risk, loves… 🖤 WORDCOUNT ↠ 16k (not proof read enough.. it was sooooo long...)

You keep your heels pressed together until they ache. First position. The curtain hasn’t even fully risen, but you can already feel them — a thousand hungry eyes reaching for you, their fascination clawing at your skin. You keep your chin high, pretending you don’t notice, but you do. You always do.

And then—

Music.

Strings. Dark and vibrating. It travels through your feet like it’s warning you, like it knows it’s your only real partner.

You move when it tells you to.

Your arms cut the air like blades, your skirt whispering against your thighs as you twist. Every footstep is obedience. Every extension of your limbs is your submission to it, a picture-perfect daughter under the crushing thumb of a mother who turned you into a monument to her success in life. You smile when it calls for softness, break when it calls for fragility, bleed in silence when it calls for beauty.

You wonder, fleetingly, what it would feel like to dance for no one. To be ugly on purpose. To move in a way that isn’t pretty, isn’t poised, but yours.

That’s the dream. And tonight you’re a piece of art. A masterpiece.

Blue light drapes itself over you, cold and unforgiving. The glitters on your skin catch and scatter it until you’re not a girl anymore — you’re a reflection, a dream, a vague illusion that can’t be touched. And still, the music pulls at you. It screams ! Faster ! Harder ! It’s trying to rip you open in front of them all.

You’ve done this routine a hundred times. But tonight, it feels like something in you wants to shatter.

But you need to prove that you're worth it. Your life depends on it. After all, it's your only value. The only way you can survive this life of a nightmare.

Sunghoon doesn’t blink.

He’s buried in the crowd like everyone else, shoulder to shoulder with strangers who are drinking you in like communion. They gasp when you leap, sigh when you land. But Sunghoon doesn’t gasp. He doesn’t sigh.

He just stares. all black cloth and black coat he didn’t bother to take off.

He’s not supposed to be here as a fan. He came to judge you.

Not as a dancer. He couldn’t care less. No, the girl. The charity case. The little project polished into a prodigy by the woman trying so hard to worm her way into his family. He left home a grieving champion, chasing medals across ice rinks on the other side of the world in the name of his mother who taught him everything, and came back to find his father had replaced his mother with a stranger— and given him you as a new trophy to brandish.

He hated you before he even saw you. But then—

Fuck.

He can’t look away. He’s trying so hard not to.

Look away. Fucking look away !

But his eyes only tremble. The music started, and he couldn’t stop staring. Now, it feels like you’re daring him to breathe.

You’re good.

Too good.

Every time the tempo quickens, his pulse stumbles to keep up, swallowing hard. It infuriates him. He hates the way you own the stage like you were born on it, how your body curves and snaps with that perfect blend of sensuality and innocence that makes everyone in the room lean forward without even realizing it. He hates how you make it look like this is easy when he knows it isn’t. And how under this blue wash of light, with those shimmering glitters clinging to your skin, you look both untouchable and begging to be touched.

You’re not some sweet little ballerina twirling for applause, huh—

Damn... You’re carved out of bone-deep discipline, the same kind that built him.

Almost as good as me, he thinks bitterly. Maybe even…

Fuck…

And yet—

God, you’re pretty when you bleed on a stage.

He shouldn’t be thinking this. Shouldn’t be cataloging the curve of your back when you arch into a painful spin, with his middle finger tracing it on his armrest; the flicker of your thighs beneath that skirt when you land hard and hold it; the way your chest heaves with every beat, every acceleration. But, he is mindlessly doing so.

You’re too graceful to be lewd, but too innocent to be deliberate. And somehow that makes it worse. You’re sensual without trying, without knowing, apparently. You’re untouched and untouchable, and it makes him think for a split outrageous second, what would happen… If… Maybe… someone finally touched you.

He can’t decide on his thoughts right now, his hands clench on the armrest. It’s the finale.

Sharp and clean. You fall still, body trembling a bit, a single tear sliding down your cheek. The room forgets how to breathe. And then—

Your eyes find him. Uncontrollably he’s trying to back off in his seat.

And he learns how to breathe again. Shakingly, but still he exalted. It’s impossible, but your eyes are on him. With fucking tears and a pure smile that could kill.

You can’t actually see him. The lights are too bright, the crowd too dense. But for a split second, it feels like you’re looking at him. Through him. Like you know exactly who he is. And performed for him. Like you’ve already decided what that secret meeting meant.

It guts him.

The applause detonates, snapping everyone else out of their trance, but Sunghoon doesn’t clap. His fists are already clenched so tight his knuckles burn.

By the time he reaches the doors, his hand crashes into the wall with a hollow, bone-jarring thud. Pain blooms up his arm. Blood smears the pristine paint behind him. But he rushed so fast out, he didn't stop to look.

Sunghoon barely knows you. But he already knows he’s going to hate you. Maybe more than he hates himself.

You don’t come back to yourself until the applause detonates. The lights warm and bloom across the theater, resurrecting reality. People stand. People cheer. They clap until their palms sting, but none of them feel real — like a mirage conjured just to watch you. Compliments fly like rose petals. Flowers land in your arms. You smile, bow, let them paint you in praise.

Your instructor kisses your cheek with wet lips that make your skin crawl. Hands — always too many hands — land on your hips, on your shoulder blades, as strangers purr, “Exquisite control.” “You really feel the music.” “Such a shame about the Bolshoi opportunity… your mother should’ve pushed harder.”

You smile. You thank. You nod like a good girl.

And you would be lying if you said you didn’t love it a little. The thrill. The hunger in their eyes. The way your name hangs in the air like smoke, like perfume, like a promise.

Until she appears.

Your mother glides toward you in a gown that costs more than your tuition, with a smile you know was cut and stitched together in front of a mirror. Her arm snakes around yours, grip deceptively light for something bruising. “Your foot rolled on the last turn,” she whispers, lips curling in a way the cameras will think is maternal. “Not bad enough for them to notice. But I noticed.”

Her nails dig in deeper than her praise ever has.

“The cry thing wasn’t bad, though,” she adds with a laugh that’s real in the ugliest way. “Almost felt real. My daughter might become an actress, who knows.”

It takes you a moment to realize she’s not even talking to you anymore. She’s talking to them. Always them. The plié of benefactors and critics she adores more than her own blood.

And then she leans closer. The fake smile doesn’t move. “Your future father-in-law brought his son tonight. You better play it well.”

Your eyes do the speaking for you. She hates that. “Stop overreacting,” she hisses. “Just… make a good impression. He’s been generous with our family. We owe him that much.”

You don’t say it. How owing men anything has never ended well for her. Or especially for you.

But still, dating the CEO of her company seems to be serving her well enough. For now.

It takes ten minutes and a polite excuse to pry yourself out of her talons. Ten minutes before you’re weaving through a labyrinth of sharp suits, fine linen, fine lighting, fine dining, the suffocating finery choking you as badly as her touch.

You need air. Loneliness. And maybe a bandage for the foot you’re definitely walking on broken.

By the time you reach the elevator, your hands are shaking. You stare at your reflection in the mirrored walls and don’t recognize yourself. The girl in the glass is someone your mother built.

The doors slide open.

And you see him.

A boy around your age. Black suit, black hair, black gaze. His eyes are wet in a way that makes you freeze—but not from softness. From something else. Something heavier. He looks at you half surprise half like he could cut you open with a glance.

Fuck.

You hesitate. But not stepping in would be stranger. You wipe at your eyes quickly and step inside. The rooftop button’s already lit.

The silence is practically unbearable. You steal glances at him from the corner of your eyes. His hand is bruised, scraped raw, blood drying at the knuckles.

“Y-your hand…” you blurt. “It’s—”

“I know,” he responded, flatly.

And now you’re here, huh. Sunghoon thoughts. Why did you have to appear where I wanted you gone?

Too-close in a gilded elevator, smelling faintly of a familiar expensive perfume and sweat from the stage. Your eyes are red, and on the verge of breaking into tears, but your chin is up like you’re trying to hide it for good figure. You loser. He wants to press you back against the wall just to see if that chin would stay there.

And now he knows something dangerous: you’ve been crying for some reason he might use.

But which one?

—

The rooftop air tastes different. Less expensive. Colder on that thin silk dress.

He sits at the far end of a bench, posture loose but coiled, like a lonely soul that wants to be left alone. You. You hover near the exit for a moment, the polite thing would be to leave him alone— but something about him refuses to let you.

You gather the scraps of your courage and walk over. “You should clean that,” you say, holding out the little emergency bandage kit you carry for yourself.

His gaze drops to it, then to you. Curious, but acting unimpressed. “I don’t need—”

“Take it,” you insist, softer than you intend to.

He must say no. But he doesn’t. He takes it, almost irritated in his move, but the way he fumbles with it like a kid, almost makes you laugh.

“Do you… want help?” You smirk.

He doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t stop you when you kneel beside him, and even lends you his hand. You eye him and it’s like being with a black stray cat. It looks like he might bite but still let you do.

Your fingers are delicate, careful as you sanitize and wrap the bandage around his knuckles, avoiding the rawest parts. You don’t notice his stare, the way he studies your bent head, your flushed cheeks, the tremble in your lashes as you concentrate on touching him without hurting him. You don’t notice the way his jaw flexes when he imagines those same careful small fingers trapped in his bigger, stronger hands.

He hates this kindness of yours. He hates you. He hated you before you even spoke. Hated when he met you in the elevator. And hated when you spoke to him.

And yet.

You’re so close he can smell the faint perfume clinging to your hair. You look so delicate right now, so breakable, so fucking sincere and simple it’s weird, but so pretty with those wet bambi eyes.

“Why were you crying?” His voice slices through the quiet, blunt and uninvited.

You flinch. “That’s… I-I didn’t—”

Sunghoon likes the way you flinch. “You don’t have to tell me. But you clearly were.”

You swallow. “I… I just thought… I just wished… I didn’t have to live by my people's choices.” The words come out before you can catch them. “I’m supposed to meet someone important tonight. But I’m scared. If I don’t please them… They, can be… Very…”

“Cruel?” he offers.

You nod, after a second of hesitation.

Sunghoon wants to laugh. The little prodigy with the sad eyes—more like him than expected. And he says something that surprises you.

“Then fuck them. Go do or find what pleases you.”

You look at him, startled, and find no sarcasm in his face.

“And you ? Why are you here?” you ask softly.

He hesitates, smirking as he lets his head fall back. “Avoiding someone. Didn’t work.”

“Oh.”

“But it wasn’t all bad,” he adds. I found something interesting in the meantime.” And it almost sounds like he means you.

The silence stretches. Your eyes drift to his hand for a bit of time. “You were crying too?” you say smug's.

He leans back, jaw tight. “One of my parents died recently…” Your smirk drops. “And the other… replaced them. And me, I guess... Came home one day and I didn’t recognize my family anymore.”

Your throat closes, your face crumples like you felt it. “That’s so… unfair.”

“Yeah.” He laughs, dropping his eyes to you, just to surprisingly find you sobbing. “Hey…”

You don’t even notice it at first—the way you look at him all tears gather in your lashes, threatening to spill, until it finally does. His hand moves before you can flinch away. Fingers cold, calloused, pressing to your cheek with a touch that’s far too intimate for a stranger. He doesn’t just wipe it away—no, Sunghoon drags his thumb slowly through the wetness, spreading it, smearing it like he’s testing the texture.

“Thought you were holding it good.” His voice drips with quiet mockery, but his touch… it’s too careful to match his words. “... Guess I was wrong.”

“Why are you even crying for now, huh?”

You should pull back. But you don’t.

“That’s just…” you’re a mess, that even speaking is complicated. “It’s so sad,” you hiccup. “I feel so sorry for you…that’s…Fuck…”

He laugh and nod, “Hm, Fuck.”

And for one sharp, dizzying second, you’re caught in the feeling of his skin against yours—rough, unyielding—and the heavy, unreadable look in his eyes as he studies the evidence of your weakness like it’s something rare and valuable.

You want to tell him you know what that feels like. That you’ve been replaced by a version of yourself too, but even that doesn’t feel as sad as his story.

“Why do we have to… Live like this?” you hiccup. “Why do we have to live up to their choices?”

For the first time, he doesn’t answer like he has something sharp to say.

You sit together for almost half an hour, two strangers on the edge of the city, quietly sharing pieces of yourselves neither of you meant to really give away.

It hits him as you avoid his gaze, fiddling with your dress like it’ll shield you.

He misjudged you.

You’re not what he expected you to be. There’s something coiled in you, restrained and begging to snap. And Sunghoon’s very good at making things snap. Maybe you’re not worthless after all. Maybe you’re valuable.

And valuable things?

He always keeps them close…

Until he’s bored.

—

When you realize how long you’ve been gone, you panic. You stand so quickly you nearly trip, mumbling a goodbye.

But before you leave, you rush back and grab back his bruised hand. “I hope we both find our escape,” you say, giving him a shaky little “fighting~” gesture.

His lips almost twitch into a smile.

When you’re gone his thumb finds his lips. Caressing the salt of tears on the verge of his tongue.

His mind remembering how you cried for him. Then his eyes catch something in the corner of the bench. You forget your purse.

A smirk traced his lips, maybe it’s not gonna be this boring having a new family.

You come back from the restroom — lipstick touched up, smile rehearsed, every part of you adjusted into place — and stop.

The dining table feels like a trap now.

Your mother, dazzling like a diamond with teeth. Your stepfather, smug with wine and wealth. The chandelier casting everything in golden judgment.

And him.

Park Sunghoon.

Not the boy you knelt beside on a rooftop, wrapping his bruised knuckles. Not the boy who wiped your tears like he wanted to taste them. No.

The CEO’s son.

He sits at the table like he was born in that chair. Crisp suit. Bored posture. A prince in exile who decided the kingdom could burn.

“Ah—” your mother’s voice snags you by the throat. “There you are. Sit, darling.”

He turns his head lazily, like you’re background noise. But his eyes — God, his eyes — cut through you like you’re still kneeling there in the dark, still bleeding confessions.

He extends his hand across the table. Perfect stranger.

“Nice to meet you.”

You take it. Pretend your pulse isn’t rabbiting in your neck.

“Nice to meet you too.”

And just like that, the rooftop vanishes. Packed up and buried where no one else can touch it.

Dinner is suffocatingly civil. Your stepfather drones about quarterly earnings, your mother performs the role of charming wife. Sunghoon cuts his steak with surgical precision, silent but present, like a blade sheathed in velvet.

Then your mother turns her performance on you. “She’s been improving,” she says sweetly, the kind of sweet that hurts. “But her landing was sloppy last week. She needs discipline if she wants to impress the right people.”

You laugh it off. Like you always do. Like you were taught.

And then Sunghoon speaks.

“I liked it.”

The words are mild. But the room tilts.

All eyes swing to him. His face doesn’t move. His voice is almost lazy. “I’ve been incorporating dance into my skating. Her movements… they were... hypnotic.”

Hypnotic?

You can’t breathe.

Your mother blinks, knocked off balance for once. “That’s… generous of you, Sunghoon.”

He shrugs. Stabs another piece of steak. Like he didn’t just pull you out from under her heel with a single, lazy sentence.

But when dessert arrives, he leans in — close enough you smell his cologne, expensive and sharp.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” he murmurs, low enough for only you.

And then he pulls back like nothing happened.

The weeks after are worse.

No one talks about the rooftop. No one mentions that night. But his words—Go find what pleases you—rot in your head.

Your parents fade out of the house almost entirely. All the conversations become indirect: “Dad said.” “Mom sent this.” You don’t see them except when they need you polished and pretty. The house becomes Sunghoon’s — or maybe it always was.

There’s not a single picture of his mother. Not in the halls, not on the mantle. The only face staring down at you is his father’s.

And Sunghoon. The actual one and only.

Front stranger to stepbrother, he became a storm you can’t read.

One day he ignores you like you’re furniture. The next, there’s a package on your bed: a dress your mother would call “inappropriate,” with a handwritten note — For your next recital. Don’t embarrass big bro. Hwaiting~ He offer help on day, than suddenly leaves in the middle of a party you know no one. Enter your room without being invited but also brings you soup when your sick and cancel his training to stay with you sitted at the foot of your bed.

Yeah, that type of shitty guy...

And you want to be angry. But can’t find yourself speaking up. Something about him makes you weaker than usallly.

One night, before a gala, you’re standing in your room struggling with the zipper of a dress. You curse under your breath, twisting your arm uselessly when you hear a knock.

“Come in,” you say, distracted.

The door opens. Sunghoon.

You freeze. “I—I thought it was—”

“Your mom?” He half smirks, closing the door behind him without waiting for an invitation. “She’s waiting downstairs.”

Your back is to him. You don’t know whether to run or stay still.

“Need help?”

You should say no. Actually you were about to, but then—

You feel him step closer, his heat behind you, and then, with feather-light fingers, he brush your bare back. Slow, deliberate, as he takes hold of the zipper and drags it up, teeth by teeth, until the dress is tight against your skin.

But he doesn’t stop there. His fingertips, they skim up your spine, barely there, until they rest at the nape of your neck.

“Better,” he murmurs, looking in the mirror. His breath grazes your ear. “You should thank me, little one.”

You can’t speak. You can’t even look up or turn. And when you finally do, he’s already walking away like nothing happened.

You find yourself changing your training complex, waiting for him after practice. Pretending it’s convenient. When really, you just want to watch him.

He’s…

Magnetic. The way he glides across the ice, sharp and fluid at once, like he’s cutting the world open and stitching it back together. You learn the names of his jumps, the rhythm of his breathing. It makes something ache in you, watching him free in a way you’ve never been.

And then he starts showing up to your training. Always at the back, just a shadow. He never says anything. But he’s there, waiting for you too.

And then, small things begin.

In the training complex’s hallway, you would pass each other and his fingers would graze the inside of your wrist. Light. Too fucking light. And when you turn around he doesn’t even look at you, still laughing at his friends.

At breakfast, he would take food off your plate without asking, pop things like strawberries into his mouth, and smirks when you glare. “What? You weren’t eating it.”

Once, you found a new pair of skates in your room. The exact ones you’d been eyeing online to begin skating. No note this time. But you knew it’s him.

And then there’s the worst one.

You’re sitting on the bottom step of the grand staircase, hair still a bit wet, scrolling your phone half-asleep, when his shadow blocks the light of the sunset. He crouches down to your level, elbows on your knees.

“You’re always zoning here,” he says, voice soft. “Like a cat waiting at the door.”

You roll your eyes. “I live here, Sunghoon.”

He smiles—the slow, predatory kind. “So do I…”

And then he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. Just like that. Like it means nothing. Like he doesn’t notice the way your breath stops, the way you blush and look down.

“You should be careful,” he adds. “You’ll catch a cold like that. Come downstairs, I'll dry your hair.”

And he did.

He towels you off like it’s nothing. Like it's a domestic routine. The fabric against your skin makes you shiver, or his hand lingering at your shoulders, the way he seems to love grazing the back of your neck and massaging it.

“You should take better care of yourself.”

You can’t look at him. You can’t breathe. You can’t understand his games. When you finally meet his eyes, there’s nothing to read there.

Nothing but that quiet, infuriating smirk.

You get used to it. The moods, his provocations. The way he lingers in doorways like he’s deciding whether to bite.

Sometimes he’s protective. He cut off boys who made a crude joke about you at the rink when you waited for him—didn’t even raise his voice, just said his name, low and cold, and the boy stammered out an apology.

At your performances when he showed up, he would stay next to you making sure no one could come close enough for unwanted touch and comments. He had it in him, that thing that made people respect him anywhere anytime.

But sometimes he was cruel. “You cry too easy..." he told you once when you teared up after a mistake. “Stop asking for it,” He told you after some dance partner made a move on you. He wouldn’t talk to you for weeks. Then sometimes he was… almost kind, and even soft in his moves toward you.

But you can never tell which version of him you’ll get.

And the worst part?

It was for his pure enjoyment, you weren’t naive enough not to snap out of it most times. But… God… You actually enjoyed it a bit… Maybe a bit too much sometimes...

You try to tell yourself it’s innocent. That you’re just a girl with a small crush, the way everyone your age have.

How long has it been since someone touched you in a way that pleased you? In a way you wanted? What experience do you have with these things?

But then he catches you staring, and you get shy. And he smirks like it’s a private joke. And sometimes you think—no, you feel— that he’s staring too. And that’s when it gets dangerous.

Because you can’t tell anymore if he’s protecting you. Or hunting you.

Or both…

But like the rest you got used to it.

For exemple, today.

The garden was blinding in its prettiness.

Perfect hedges. Perfect white chairs. Perfect little patch of sunlight you’d claimed like a starving animal. You were curled up on one of the loungers, pajamas thin like joke, hair messy, pretending your book mattered more than the rare chance to actually do nothing and feel the sun on your skin.

And then his shadow fell over you.

“You look ridiculous,” Sunghoon’s voice cut in, flat and amused.

You didn’t look up. “Don’t you have training or brooding to do?”

He ignored that. “Pajamas in the garden? You’re going to burn.”

“I’ll be fine.”

His foot nudged the lounger. “Go inside.”

“No.” You clung to the book like it was proof you belonged there. “It’s called touching grass, Sunghoon. Try it sometime.”

He crouched so you had no choice but to see his face—that pretty, infuriating face, half-shadowed, hair falling into his eyes. “I’m telling you. You’re about to regret it.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m not moving.”

The smirk sharpened. “I warned you.”

he counted. 3. 2. 1.

And then, with a hiss of pipes, the auto-sprinklers kicked on.

Cold water exploded from every corner of the garden, drenching you in seconds. Your book wilted in your hands. Your pajamas clung to every inch of your body.

“Fuck!” You scrambled to your feet, dripping and sputtering. “Are you serious?!”

Behind you, Sunghoon laughed. Really laughed. Low and pleased.

You bolted for the house, leaving your book to die in the grass, and tore through the hall to the downstairs bathroom. It was a sanctuary of white marble and gold fixtures — too pristine for how frantic you were as you grabbed at a towel, patting yourself uselessly.

You didn’t even hear him until he spoke.

“Told you.”

You spun. He was in the doorway, also soaked, his white loose shirt clinging obscenely to his chest. He peeled it off in one motion, tossing it over the towel rack like he's the owner.

“Don’t look so smug,” you snapped, flustered and shivering.

His grin widened. “You make it too easy.”

“Why didn’t you just warn me?”

“I did,” he said simply, stepping inside, shutting the door as he took a towel.

Both of you were small laughing stocks until you faced each other. His smirk softened into something quieter—heavier—as his eyes, still lit with laughter, dropped slowly. He traced over you like he wasn’t allowed to, but did it anyway, memorizing every place that thin fabric kissed your skin.

You tried for a scoff, some defense. “You’re... really... an—”

But it faltered as he let the towel on his head fall off to put back on your shirt strap as he stepped forward.

The faint laugh between you both died slow. Like a flame burning out. And then there was nothing but the sound of your breathing heavier and heavier. And that water, dripping off you both, dotting the tile.

You didn’t notice you were backing up until your hips hit the edge of the marble sink. He didn’t stop coming until you were perched on it, barefoot and trembling.

His gaze met yours. For a second, the world narrowed to that—two pairs of eyes locked, neither looking away, both daring the other to admit what was happening.

And then his hand lifted.

Fingertips on your lips tracing them.

Then pushing your hair back, slowly, fingers grazing your temple, trailing deliberately down to your neck. Light. Feather-soft. Cruel in how delicate it felt when everything in him wanted to grip bad.

You swallowed hard. The bathroom felt too small suddenly, too white, too quiet for this.

“Hey… Please, Hoon…”

Your voice. Barely above a whisper. Weak. Like it cracked open something in you you didn’t want him to see.

He froze. Then—cupped your face in one hand, his thumb brushing over your lips, slow and deliberate.

Not outwardly, not violent, but something broke, where the coil of restraint he always wore so well pulled taut. The sound of his name on your lips like that… it wasn’t innocent. Not to him. It sounded like a plea.

And maybe you didn’t even know it, but to Sunghoon it felt like you were begging.

Begging him to close the distance even more, between your thighs. Begging him to ruin you like he does every time he pictured you since that night he saw you.

His hand slid lower, from your neck to your shoulder, grazing your collarbone, the inside of your arm, until both of his palms framed your hips.

And then he pulled you flush against him. You jolted, breath ticking.

The grind was slow. Obscene. Deliberate. From him first, or you… None of you really knew.

But it felt like he wanted you to feel exactly what you were doing to him in his eyes, what he could do to you if either of you stopped pretending this was just some game.

You gasped—shaky, surprised at yourself.

Was he dick the massive bulge humping you?

Fuck it's scary.

His head dipped, lips hovering dangerously close to yours, almost caressing over his thumb. His breath fanned your cheek. His eyes were heavy, blackened with something dark and raw, tracking every twitch of your lips, every quiver of your body like it was his private show.

To him, you looked like a vision you didn’t even understand you were offering. Breakable. Naive. Too soft for the monster in the room with you.

And that made it worse. Because Sunghoon lived for dangerous things recently.

His thumb brushed the side of your mouth under his desireful gaze. His breath hitched when your hips unconsciously rolled harder, chasing friction.

“Do you even know,” he murmured, so low you barely heard it, “how dangerous it is… around me?”

You couldn’t answer. You shaked your head as much as he allowed it.

And then the footsteps.

Someone was calling faintly from the hall.

You tried to jerk like you’d been electrocuted. But he kept you there. Gripping at the back of your neck and hip, humping faster and messier searching for something he knew was coming.

“Sunghoon—St—”, then his hand clapped at your mouth, shushing your moans. When you jolted, a filling filled your belly, something new and raw, you shoved off the counter as he stepped back both of you heavy breathing, almost tripping.

By the time the maid’s voice grew closer, he had his wet shirt back on and no practiced smirk plastered to his face anymore, just realisation of what happened.

He slipped out without a word, leaving you, still shaking, soaked, and achingly aware of how far that almost went.

The bathroom incident should have changed everything.

But instead, it changed nothing. Or maybe it changed too much.

For days after, you and Sunghoon circled each other like nothing had happened—only everything had. The touches stayed unspoken, the breathless almost-kiss buried under silence, but it lived in the air between you.

Glances lingered too long. Passing each other in the hallway felt like stepping on live wire.

And somehow, that strange moment had made you… closer.

You ate breakfast together without speaking, him scrolling his phone at the counter, you pretending to read. He'd hand you the honey jar without you asking, and you’d notice his fingers brushing yours deliberately—or maybe accidentally.

But it also made you farther.

You didn’t talk about it. Didn’t even look directly at him for too long, because when you did, it felt like inviting trouble.

And now, with both your parents finally home for a stretch of time, the house felt suffocating in a different way.

You threw yourself into preparations for the year’s big event. Your mother’s words still echoed in your head: “This is your season to prove yourself. No excuses.”

It meant late nights at the studio, hours of practice, and—as if to twist the knife—meeting your new partner for the performance.

He was handsome, talented, and disarmingly passionate. The kind of boy who threw himself into the music without reservation, who learned your rhythms quickly, who held you like you were meant to be held when the choreography demanded it.

And yet, every time his hand slid to your waist or your shoulder, every time his breath fanned your cheek in a turn, you thought of Sunghoon.

The ache Sunghoon had left in you that night didn’t fade. Of his fingers in your hair. Of his voice in your ear. Of that massive rock.

If anything, it only grew. How many times had you tried to recreate that friction—only to fall short, never building it enough to actually make yourself come?

“Would you… maybe like to grab dinner tomorrow?” your partner asked one evening after practice, scratching at his neck, trying to look casual but failing. "Like... A date."

“Okay!” you blurted, too quickly, like agreeing would keep you from thinking too hard about it. About what Sunghoon would say if he knew. About why you cared what Sunghoon would say at all.

That’s how you find yourself throwing dresses around like none of them are good enough.

They all were. But none of them felt right.

Too demure. Too flashy. Too much like your mother’s taste, too little like your own. Until your eyes landed on it.

The one Sunghoon bought you.

That burgundy back-ribbon dress your mother hated. The one you’d only worn once, just to piss her off.

You pull it out, smoothing the fabric over your bed like it’s nothing — like you’re not aware of what you’re doing.

But you are.

Fuck.

Even you know what you’re trying to do. You tell yourself it’s because it’s the perfect dress. That it matches the restaurant’s mood. It's short and fun but still classy.

But the truth?

You’re thinking about what Sunghoon's face will look like when he sees it on you. And that’s how you end up zipping yourself into the softest rebellion you’ve ever worn — Sunghoon’s choice, Sunghoon’s taste — curling your hair just enough, painting your lips cherry-gloss sweet.

Perfect.

Perfect enough to strike Sunghoon silent? No, no, no, for your date...

___

You didn’t mean to run into him. Not like this.

The clack of your heels against marble betrayed you first, and then he appeared—Sunghoon—fresh from the gym, hair damp, shirt loose over broad shoulders, a towel slung lazily around his neck like he owned every inch of this house.

His gaze hit you like a hand. Lingering. Slow. From your ponytail to the exposed ribbon-tied back, down your bare legs.

“The hell is that?” he asked finally, voice too casual to be real.

You swallowed, suddenly aware of every inch of yourself under his stare. “A dress.”

“Where are you going?”

“Dinner,” you said, breezy, trying to walk past.

He shifted. Blocking the doorframe without touching you. A wall of quiet, unreadable boy.

“With who?”

You tilted your chin up. “Someone.”

His jaw twitched. “A date? Tch...”

You rolled your eyes. “You told me once to go find what makes me happy. So—”

“Don’t.” He cut you off, voice low. “Don’t throw my words at me like you even understand, or remember them.”

You tried to move past him. He didn’t budge.

“What are you trying to find?” he asked, and the way he said it wasn’t a question. It was a knife. “A dude who’s gonna crave you? Someone who’ll sit there the whole night wondering how fast he can get you alone ? Fuck you first date ?”

“Excuse me ?”

He leaned down, his words suddenly against your ear, dark and deliberate.

“‘Cause that’s what I’d be thinking. If you walked in wearing that for me.”

Your breath caught.

His hand rose—not touching—but close enough to graze the dangling ribbon at your back.

“I’d be wondering how easy it would be to untie this,” he murmured, “and watch it slip off your shoulders. How your back would arch if I touched it a litlle. How that ponytail would bounce when—”

“Stop!” Your voice cracked.

He smiled—not kind. “Find your own thing, right? That what you told yourself?”

You hated how your knees felt weak. How your heartbeat tripped over itself.

And then he stepped back. Just like that.

“Go on, then,” he said, that smirk sharpened to cruelty. “Let’s see if he’s worth my..."

"Dress...”

You left before he could see your hands shaking.

—

You hated yourself for it.

For the way his words followed you. Sat across from you at the table, louder than the music in the restaurant, drowning out the voice of the perfectly nice boy sitting across from you.

“Someone who’ll crave you.” “Wondering how fast he can get you alone.” “I’d be thinking about untying that ribbon.”

You could still feel his breath in your ear. The ghost of his words crawling down your spine.

Your date—Eunwoo, right?—was good. Handsome. Sweet. Polite. He complimented your dress in the safest, most boring way imaginable. He held the door. He laughed at your jokes.

He didn’t touch you. Not once. Not a hand on your lower back. Not a brush of his fingers when he took your menu. Even when you stood too close outside the restaurant, post-wine warm, hoping for something— actually anythin he just gave you a soft smile and chaste kiss on your cheek.

And that was it.

Your mom would love him. She would approve the hell out of Eunwoo. But you didn’t want your mom’s approval. You wanted the thing Sunghoon had put in your head in that hallway. You wanted ugly. You wanted to be wanted.

By the time you got home, you were more than tipsy, your cherry lip gloss smudged a bit and sadly not from a kiss, your heels dangling from your fingers. And you were depressed. Actually pouting. Like some teenager with a crush. All because : safe boy didn’t even try.

You hated it.

But most of all—you hated how you couldn’t stop replaying Sunghoon’s voice, low and sure and dangerous :

"If you walked in wearing that for me…"

You yanked open the fridge, grabbed the first bottle of anything cold, and made your way to the living room.

Sunghoon was there.

Loose pajama pants. A plain t-shirt. Lounged like sin itself had found a couch and decided to stay a while, eyes lazily tracking the screen of some movie you couldn’t care less about.

Yeah. Maybe you should’ve just stayed home like him. It would’ve saved your feet. And your pride.

Big girl adventure to the big world: 0–1.

You plopped on the couch as far from him as you could get, dropping your head back like you were waiting for the ceiling to swallow you whole.

He glanced over, a smirk playing on his mouth. “What? Didn’t go how you expected?”

You hated him for that.

For the way he made you feel sexy and still caused you shame. For being the one person you wanted to lean on and vent to. For making it all feel like a game you were never going to win.

“No,” you muttered, too tired to lie. “You were right.”

“Poor little girl.” He chuckled.

But you didn’t join him. For the first time, you were unreadable—head tilted back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. And drunk too...

“I had to tell him what to do,” you said finally, voice light, casual, but your heart was hammering. “It was… cute.”

It wasn’t smart. Lying to him.

But God, you wanted to see that composure of his break.

And it worked—his smirk faltered, the tiniest twitch in his jaw. You almost smiled in triumph.

“What?”

You shrugged lazily, feigning innocence. “He was so shy about touching me. You know… since it’s our first date.” You let the words hang, soft and teasing, and then added with a sly curl of your lips, “It actually turned me on.”

That did it.

His head turned fully now, eyes sharpening, tracking you like a predator zeroing in.

“Really?” His voice dropped—slow, deliberate, dangerous. “And what did you do then?”

You smirked back, alcohol making you bolder, reckless. “Why so curious?”

“Indulge me,” he said, each word bitten off, a demand dressed as a request.

You tilted your head, studying him through your lashes, savoring the burn of his stare. And then you told him.

A fake story.

One where you’d taken Eunwoo’s hand under the table, dragged it high up your thigh, your skirt hitched just enough to make him stutter. Where you’d leaned in close enough that your lip gloss smeared on his cheek, smiling sweetly while your words dripped filth into his ear. Where you led him outside after dinner, shoved him into his car, kissed him until he couldn’t breathe, until he forgot his own name. Where your fingers toyed with his belt, rolling your hips into him until you felt him hard through his slacks, whispering every dirty little thought you’d never dared say out loud.

“And then,” you said, smiling like you’d just confessed something scandalous, “I kissed him goodnight. Because good girls don’t go all the way first date.”

You laughed softly, wicked and tipsy, like you weren’t spilling this just to watch Sunghoon unravel.

His jaw flexed.

Sunghoon didn’t move for a long moment. He just stared at you, his gaze molten, dark.

Then he shifted forward, elbows on his knees, closing the distance until you could feel the heat of him.

“Cute,” he said finally, voice a low rasp. “You really expect me to believe that?”

You tilted your chin up, unflinching. “Believe what you want.”

His hand moved before you could flinch—fingers brushing your jaw, then dragging lazily across your bottom lip. He pressed there, thumb grazing the soft gloss like he owned it.

“You let him kiss you with this mouth?” he murmured, eyes fixed on your lips. “Let him touch you with his clumsy little hands?”

Your breath hitched. “Why do you care?”

His thumb pressed harder, enough to still your words. “Because I think you’re lying.”

You tried to pull back, but his other hand caught your wrist. “Sunghoon—”

“What else?” he cut you off, leaning closer, his forehead nearly touching yours. “Did you grind on him like you’re telling me? Did you make him think he was special? Did you let him put his hands all over you…” His fingers trailed deliberately down your neck, to your collarbone, where the ribbon strap met your skin. “…here?”

You couldn’t answer. And that’s when he snapped out of enjoyment.

In one swift move, he dragged you across the couch, onto his lap like you weighed nothing. You gasped, hands braced against his chest, your knees straddling him.

“Sunghoon—!”

He tilted his head, studying you like a predator. “Did it feel that good? Is that why you’re all smug now? Smiling like you’ve figured something out?”

You tried to twist away, but his grip on your hips tightened.

“Tell me,” he said, voice low and rough, “did he make you feel like me?”

You didn’t even know what to answer. Because the truth was, no. No one made you feel like this.

He felt your hesitation. Smirked. “Didn’t think so.”

And then his hands were moving, slow and possessive, tracing your thighs under the hem of the dress, dragging up until his fingers grazed dangerously close to where you were already trembling.

You whimpered, breathless, “Stop—”

But your hips betrayed you, rocking once, needy, against him.

His head dropped to your neck, lips brushing your skin as he exhaled hard. “Don’t stop,” he corrected in a low growl. “Not when you’re like this. I’ll take care of everything you need. Keep going.”

And when his fingers finally found you, hot and desperate, the rest of the world blurred until it was only you and him, lost in the kind of secret pleasure that felt too good to name.

“Fuck,” he groaned against your neck, the sound guttural, like it was pulled out of him. “You don’t even know what you’re doing...”

“Sunghoon—I…”

“S-say my name like that again,” His voice was sharp, command-like, his teeth grazing your jaw before his lips brushed it in the softest kiss that made you shiver. “It sounds like begging.”

You shuddered, hips stuttering against him. And then he couldn’t take it anymore.

You heard the rasp of his zipper before you felt him—hot, heavy, freed from his pants. He hissed as he gripped himself once, twice, and then pressed forward, grinding against you through the soaked fabric of your panties.

The drag of him against your clothed core made you cry out, the friction unbearable, filthy. He groaned into your ear, rutting slow but deep, deliberately angling his hips so you felt every thick inch of him through the thin barrier.

“God—” his voice broke, harsh and low, “—you’re so fucking wet. Through the fabric. For me.”

He pressed harder, grinding against you like he wanted to force himself inside without even bothering to move the panties out of the way.

Your breath hitched when his tip caught right at your entrance, the thin lace clinging to your skin, sticking between you and him like a boundary begging to be broken.

For one wild second, you felt him hesitate—felt him still—like he was about to push forward, about to bury himself inside you and never stop.

He almost did. He almost gave in.

For one wild second, you felt it—his cock pressed right against your entrance, like he was seconds away from shoving himself inside and taking what he wanted. But then he pulled back with a ragged breath, head falling back, his whole body trembling with restraint.

You couldn’t help yourself. You rocked against his lap again, harder this time, desperate for more of that unbearable friction through the thin layers separating you.

“Sung...hoon,” you breathed, his name spilling out like a prayer, shameless and needy.

His breath hitched, sharp and guttural. “Keep moving like that,” he growled, low and dangerous.

His hand slid lower, finding you through the damp fabric of your panties. He stilled, almost as if he needed a moment to process the state you were already in.

“Already this fucking wet?” he muttered, his voice hushed and laced with awe. “Didn’t need him at all. You realise now.”

A humiliating sound left your throat as you buried your face against his, but he wasn’t done. He hooked a finger under the soaked fabric and dragged it aside, letting the cool air kiss your swollen skin before his fingers touched you directly.

You jolted at the contact, a choked cry escaping.

“Shh,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, deceptively gentle. “I’ve got you.”

And then he pushed inside—two fingers at once, stretching you open in one deliberate, relentless motion that made your whole body seize.

“Ffffuck,” you gasped, the sting morphing quickly into raw, liquid heat.

His other arm tightened around your waist, locking you against him as his fingers drove deep, slow at first, but with purpose—each curl hitting something that made your vision blur.

“Ride my hand,” he murmured into your ear, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there. “Show me how badly my little virgin needs it. My poor, neglected girl. My fucking charity case.”

Your hips moved before your brain could catch up, grinding down against his hand like you were built for it. Every time his fingers curled, pleasure tore through you like lightning, your walls clenching tight around him.

“That’s it,” he praised, his tone dark and soft, like he’d been waiting his whole life for this. “Just like that. Use me.”

Your thighs quivered as he shifted, his thumb finding your clit over your panties and rubbing slow, deliberate circles that sent shockwaves up your spine.

You whimpered, broken and lost, unable to form words.

His thumb pressed harder against your clit, fingers buried so deep you felt every pulse of his hand inside you. His forehead stayed pressed to yours, his voice breaking into a low, dangerous growl.

“Just imagine it,” he hissed, hips rolling up into you, letting you feel exactly how hard he was through his pants. “The day I fuck you open with my cock. No fingers. No teasing. Just me, stretching this perfect little pussy until it can’t take anything else from how i'd leave you gapping.”

Your breath hitched.

“I’ll ruin you,” he went on, harsher now, like he couldn’t stop himself. “Ruin you so much that when you even think of getting off, it’s me you see. Me you feel. Me you come to. No one else will ever make you this wet. No one else will ever fucking fit ever again.”

His teeth grazed your neck, a soft bite that made your hips jerk.

He scissored his fingers inside you, stretching you wider, deliberately opening you as his cock kept grinding against your entrance through the soaked fabric—every thrust a filthy promise of what he’d do when he finally replaced his fingers with himself.

“I’ll keep you like this forever,” he whispered against your ear, voice trembling with obsession. “Dripping. Open. Mine.”

That was it. That was all it took. Pleasure slammed into you so hard it stole your breath, tearing you apart as his fingers worked you through it—slow, relentless, milking every twitch and spasm out of you while he held you down, whispering filth you couldn’t even process through the ringing in your head.

When you came down, breathless and shaking, he didn’t let go.

His fingers stayed inside you, slow and possessive, curling deep, gathering every tremble, every shiver you couldn’t hold back. When he finally pulled them free, it wasn’t to release you—it was to bring them to his lips. His tongue traced every drop, slow and hungry, tasting you like you were his addiction.

“God,” he breathed, voice rough and raw, “you taste like you were made for me.”

You blinked, dazed and drunk, a soft laugh slipping out, slurred and uneven. “Y-you’re crazy…”

He smirked, but there was nothing light in his eyes. “Crazy for you.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you turned your head into his shoulder, mumbling nonsense, words tumbling out fast and messy, “S-Sunghoon, you can’t just… you can’t do that, makes me feel all fucked up.”

“Good fucked up,” he corrected, sliding his hand up your thigh again, stretching the thin fabric of your panties tight.

You whimpered, embarrassed but unable to hide the way your hips pressed into him.

His mouth brushed your ear, low and dangerous. “Say it.”

“Say what?” you slurred.

“That you want me to ruin you.”

Your breath caught, your body betraying you with a tiny gasp. “S-Sunghoon…”

He ground into your soaked panties harder, voice dropping to a growl, “You love being drunk, shaking, begging for me. You fucking crave it.”

You whimpered, broken and raw. “I… I like you. I really like you… so much it hurts.”

Something inside him snapped. A harsh, disbelieving laugh escaped his lips as he leaned in—his mouth hovering just over yours, not quite a kiss but more than a breath.

It wasn’t mercy. It wasn’t affection. It was a warning. A promise.

You didn’t pull away.

God, he could’ve had you right then—dragged you across the line you’d been circling, ripped you into the depths of his desire and drowned you there.

But then, just like that, your body gave out.

One second your eyes were locked on his, lips parted, begging him silently to take you—

The next, you were limp.

Dead asleep.

Sunghoon froze.

Every nerve in his body screamed at him to wake you, to finish what he started, to claim what was his by right of how badly you wanted him. The image of it—of dragging you back into consciousness just to make you moan for him—clawed at his skull.

But he didn’t. Couldn’t.

Instead, he gathered you carefully, like you were something fragile and irreplaceable, and lowered you onto the couch as though it were an altar and you were his offering. His hand stayed buried in your hair far longer than it should have, combing through soft strands with a tenderness that felt like it belonged to another man entirely—one who didn’t fantasize about ruining you.

“Stupid girl,” he muttered, but the words rang hollow. They didn’t match the weight in his chest—the hot, unbearable ache that burned every time you breathed near him.

He should’ve left. Should’ve walked out before this became something he couldn’t walk away from.

Instead, he stayed.

Sat back down beside you, elbows on his knees, staring at the faint smudge of cherry lip gloss staining the corner of your mouth—the one you’d put on for someone else—and thought about how he’d lick it off slow, taste the last trace of your sin, and leave you with nothing in your mouth but him.

And that was when he knew, you’d already ruined him.

I’ll use anyone to remind you how badly you need me—because you belong here…no matter what.

—

After that night, he couldn’t stop.

Watching you. Thinking of you. Wanting you so badly it made him restless, made him reckless.

At first, it was subtle. Eunwoo stopped texting. Stopped showing up early to practice, stopped lingering after, stopped smiling at you like he used to. When he did look, it was from across the studio, wary, like someone who’d been warned.

Sunghoon hadn’t touched him. He didn’t need to. A quiet word in the parking lot was enough.

No one else would hold you. No one but him.

And so, piece by piece, he made sure of it. No lingering touches from others. No easy smiles you could mistake for more. He closed the world off around you until there was only him. A packed schedule he could accommodate and him. Yeah, people like Sunghoon could do this much to have something they want around them.

Even if you were good at pulling people in—like sunlight, like gravity. Sunghoon? He was better at playing games. Better at making sure no one stuck.

But even as he tried to make it about control, about winning, it was crumbling inside him.

Because he wasn’t sure anymore who was pulling who. He didn’t understand why he lingered in doorways during your rehearsals, why he stayed late, silent at the back of the studio just to watch you move.

Why the thoughts came—vivid, consuming. That’s how she’d move on me. That’s how she’d look if I told her to let go.

And it wasn’t just lust. God, how he wished it were only that.

It was the way you looked at him when you thought no one saw. Wide-eyed awe when he was on the ice, soft and quiet, like you were keeping that version of him to yourself.

The way you laughed at his jokes when no one else even understood them.

The way you kept showing up—bright, infuriating, stubbornly good—until you were woven into every corner of his life.

You brought flowers to his events. Woke up early, hair a mess, barely awake, just to have breakfast with him. You pushed back when he was an ass. You stayed silent when silence was what he needed.

You’d become a habit. Then a need. And now you were an ache he couldn’t soothe, a hunger he couldn’t feed without breaking both of you.

And still, he wouldn’t name it.

Obsession?

Love?

It didn’t matter. Because you always came back. And maybe he always fell to you. The lines blurred until neither of you knew who reached first.

—

It started small.

A brush of fingers in passing. A glance that lingered too long, carrying a weight neither of you would name. Then one night, his hand wrapped around your wrist, pulling you into the shadowed hallway. He pressed you against the wall—not rough, but like the space between you was unbearable.

His mouth hovered over your neck, his breath warm against your skin as if he was memorizing the shape of you before he even kissed you. And then finally, his lips on yours.

That first kiss wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was devastatingly careful, as if he needed you to remember every second of it. I’ll be your first. And your last. His hands framed your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks, his forehead pressed to yours when he finally pulled back. He breathed like he’d been underwater for years and you were the first air he’d ever tasted.

But restraint is a fragile thing. And that first careful kiss only made the next ones hungrier.

Soon, it was late nights on his couch. The glow of the television filling the room, though neither of you were watching. He’d study you when you weren’t looking—how the light curved over your collarbone, the way you curled up with your knees pulled close, always unaware of how completely you undid him.

Sometimes he thought he loved you most like this: from a distance, before you even touched him, when he could see all of you and know none of it belonged to anyone else but him.

His hand would slide beneath the blanket, tracing along your arm until it rested on your thigh. You’d pretend you didn’t notice, but then you’d give up pretending and climb into his lap. He’d kiss you slow, deep, like he had all the time in the world to ruin you, but no patience to wait.

It wasn’t just hunger. It was knowing that no one else would ever get to see you this way. Laughing softly between kisses, whispering things you’d never say in daylight. Letting him unspool every wall you’d built and trusting he wouldn’t break what he found there.

And sometimes, he wouldn’t even move. He’d just hold you, forehead to forehead, breathing you in like you were the only thing keeping him steady.

Other times, you couldn’t wait. You’d drag him to your room, leaving a trail of clothes and caution behind.

And then came that night—after his skating win—when you climbed into the car, buzzing with adrenaline. He didn’t even start the engine. He pulled you straight into his lap, hands gripping your waist like you were already his prize.

“Give me my reward,” he murmured against your lips, already kissing you again like his victory didn’t mean a thing compared to this.

It stopped being simple somewhere along the way. It wasn’t just sex education, or heat between two lonely young-adults, or whatever excuse you both tried to tell yourselves. It was him burying his face in your neck, breathing you in like a prayer. It was his fingers digging into your skin like he could anchor himself to you. It was you clawing at his back, leaving marks that would stay until the next time you saw each other.

To him, you weren’t just a body beneath his hands. You were a world—a place he didn’t want to leave, didn’t know how to.

“You never stop, Hoon…” you teased, voice hoarse, fingers still curled into his shirt. He kissed your temple, lips brushing your skin like a vow.

“You have no idea,” he whispered.

And he meant it. Not just about the wanting. But about everything.

You.

You didn’t hate yourself. Not exactly. But you weren’t the same anymore.

Still technically untouched in the way people whispered about innocence, because he waited for you to beg for it apparently. Yet, you were deeply altered, you barely recognized yourself. It wasn’t your body that had changed—it was something quieter, more treacherous.

You felt it in the way you carried yourself like nothing mattered from others pov anymore. the way your chest tightened only at the sound of his footsteps in the hall, how you counted time not in hours or days but in the stretches between his glances, his hands, his words. How you measured your worth by how much he told you about late at night, after representation...

And he gave you more than you ever thought you’d have.

The smile that only came out when no one else was around. The low, unrestrained laugh that made his whole body shake. The long, sprawling conversations where the two of you forgot where they started, drifting in and out of everything and nothing, until time didn’t exist.

He was already filling the void. You didn’t have to beg for it. He’d done it from the start—slipping into all your hollow places like he’d been made to fit them. He gave you pieces of himself that didn’t belong to the world. Pieces that felt like they only belonged to you.

And you let him.

You let him feed you every part of himself you weren’t supposed to have. His attention. His softness. His fire. His love, in every shape it came in, even when he wouldn’t say the word out loud.

It stopped being about curiosity or stolen kisses. It wasn’t “fooling around.” It was belonging—dangerously, completely—to someone who could never fully be yours.

And maybe that was what terrified you. Not the competitions. Not your parents’ expectations. Not the weight of your future pressing in like a storm.

Not even what he was doing to you. But how much you wanted it to keep going.

Until everything crashed.

It started with the realization that gutted you like glass.

That night at the dinner table, his father’s voice cold and unbending— "It’s time you stop wasting yourself, Sunghoon. We need to start arranging a proper engagement. Someone who will fit this family.”

And Sunghoon, the boy who owned every inch of your heart and every part of your body you’d dared to give him, said nothing. Just stared at his plate.

You stared at him until it burned, waiting for him to fight. To say something—anything.

But he didn’t.

And that’s when it hit you, hard and rough: how short this thing could survive. How stupidly, naively, you’d been treating it like forever.

You changed.

Stopped waiting for him in the kitchen. Stopped texting first. Stopped letting him touch you whenever he wanted like you belonged only to him. You smiled more at other people. You wore your confidence like armor—back straighter, words sharper, laugh louder.

If you were going to break, you would do it looking unshakable.

It worked.

He noticed.

He noticed when recruiters came to speak to you about opportunities. How your polite, delighted nod came too easily, how you glowed for people who weren't him. Not like you ever stopped. But now you weren’t pondering as long as before. Wasn’t shy anymore.

It made him spiral.

This wasn’t you you. Not his girl who came apart in the back of his car, who sobbed his name while his mouth was between your thighs. Now you were untouchable. Punishing him with kind smiles, polite and stand-offish.

And for the first time in his life, Sunghoon felt desperate.

You were already deep in practice when you felt it—the weight of his gaze in the mirror.

The private room you’d booked was empty except for you, the faint smell of rosin and sweat in the air, the music soft as you moved through the routine you’d been building in secret. Your hoodie was tossed to the side, leotard clinging to you, hair sticking damply to your neck.

When you stopped to catch your breath, he finally stepped inside.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you said without turning, reaching for your water.

“And yet,” Sunghoon drawled, shutting the door behind him. His voice was low, like gravel. “You didn’t lock it.”

You gave him a pointed look through the mirror. “Did you need something?”

His answer came with a step closer, then another, until you could feel the heat of him at your back. “You’re working on something new.”

“Maybe.” You sipped, unbothered.

“Let me help.”

You laughed quietly. “Help? You think you can keep up?”

“I think,” he said, leaning down so his mouth brushed just beside your ear, “you’ve been avoiding me. And this is the only way I can get close.”

You turned slowly, letting your gaze drag over him, unhurried. “So you’re begging to be my partner now?”

His jaw tightened. “If that’s what it takes.”

You tilted your head, savoring the shift—the way he looked restless, desperate under your calm. “Fine,” you murmured. “But my routine. My rules.”

His eyes darkened. “Always yours.”

The music started again, low and pulsing. You placed his hands exactly where you wanted them—on your waist, not too high, not too low—forcing him to follow your lead. Each movement deliberate, teasing. Your body brushed his with every turn, your breath steady while his came rougher, uneven.

“This is what you wanted?” you asked, voice quiet but sharp, lips curving. “To be close?”

“Closer,” he rasped.

You stepped forward until your forehead nearly touched his, feeling the tremor in his grip, the way he was holding himself back. “Then keep up.”

It was intoxicating—how he let you guide him, how the boy who used to take whatever he wanted now only took what you gave.

But when he finally leaned in, lips hovering over yours, you turned your head, letting the rejection linger like a slap.

He froze. Then laughed bitterly, stepping back. “Right. That’s right. Better stopping now, huh.”

But his eyes—God, his eyes looked wrecked.

A few nights later, outside the luxury hotel where his parents’ matchmaking dinner was held, you sat with him in his car. Neither of you moved.

“You’ll be fine,” you said softly, trying to convince yourself too.

He turned to you slowly, jaw tight, and something in him snapped. His hand came up, rougher than usual, cupping your jaw like he didn’t trust himself not to break you. Then he kissed you—hungry, bruising, a kiss that tasted like grief and possession all at once.

And you didn’t stop him.

Sunghoon grabbed you by the waist, dragging you into his lap with a kind of desperation that made your breath catch. “Don’t make me go in there like this,” he rasped against your mouth, but his hands didn’t stop—already under your skirt, shoving your panties aside like they were in his way. He bit your throat hard enough to leave marks, like proof, like a warning.

Then he looked at you—eyes dark, unblinking—and slid down the seat. “Stay still,” he ordered, his voice low, wrecked. Before you could answer, he was between your thighs, tearing you open with his mouth.

He didn’t close his eyes. He ate you out like he wanted to memorize you, slow and deliberate at first, then rough, tongue and teeth working until you were gasping his name, your hands clawing at his hair. You tried to look away, but he growled, pinning your hips, forcing your gaze back to his as his tongue buried itself deeper. He wanted you to watch. Wanted you to know exactly what you did to him.

You came hard, trembling and leaking against his mouth, and he didn’t let go—didn’t leave your eyes even as you sobbed his name and tried to push him away. He only stopped when you were shaking so badly you could barely stay upright.

Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, licked his fingers like he was tasting the last of you, and pocketed your panties like a trophy.

“Now,” he said, voice low and controlled in that terrifying way that meant he wasn’t, “I can face them.”

He walked into that dinner like nothing happened, blank-faced and cold.

The night blurred—polished laughter, his parents’ friends sizing him up, pretty girls with perfect smiles and empty eyes, and you sitting at the edge of it all like you weren’t burning alive.

He should’ve been beside one of them. He should’ve been smiling for them. Instead, Sunghoon sat next to you, defying the place cards like he owned the table. Blank-faced, untouchable.

You felt his hand under the table first—just resting on your knee. Then higher. Then higher still.

You shot him a warning glance, but his expression didn’t change. And when his fingers slid beneath your dress and pushed into you—slow, deliberate—you bit your lip so hard you tasted blood.

Your nails dug into the tablecloth, knuckles white as you fought to keep your composure. He didn’t care. He wanted you like this—silent, trembling, forced to take it while he played the perfect son for everyone else in the room.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear so gently it felt like mockery. “They want me to pick a wife,” he whispered, his fingers moving inside you with obscene patience. “But I already belong to you.”

Your eyes snapped to his, desperate to stay unfazed, but you were unraveling under his touch.

“You know that, right?” he murmured.

You nearly cried from how much you believed him.

But days later, he presented someone.

A girl—a little older, bright and naive, clinging to his arm like she’d been born to fit there. And Sunghoon smiled that old, cruel smile, the one that gutted you every time. The one that made you feel like you were just another one of his games.

It worked. You were jealous.

So you made him pay for it.

You skipped your rendezvous, fed him excuses so flimsy they were insults, and when he came crawling anyway, you told him exactly where to find you.

He missed brunches. Skipped meetings. Lied to his in-laws. You knew it. He didn’t care. He left you reeking of his cologne, his jaw shining with your taste, and pretended he was still invested in family, in his future. But you both knew—this was his altar, and you were his ruin.

The games escalated—spinning faster, darker, with no brakes.

He brought her to your galas like a prize on his arm, her bright naive smile like a slap across your face. She was a living, breathing insult, and every time she laughed or touched him, it felt like knives carving you open.

But all night, he was elsewhere—his eyes never really on her, his fingers twitching beneath the table, fingers tapping on your leg or slipping inside your thigh when no one was looking. His phone buzzed nonstop with your messages, tiny threads tying him to you in a web only you could see.

Then you appeared—wearing that burgundy dress. The one he told you never to wear again, the one that made his jaw twitch and his eyes darken.

He didn’t look away.

Not once.

By the time the gala was dying down, he’d found you—cornered you in the shadowy hallway, breath hot and rough against your ear, a low growl vibrating in his throat as he slid a cold key into your hand.

“This is yours,” he whispered.

Hours later, you were in his secret apartment—the one he called your hide.

You followed him silently down the narrow hallway, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

His apartment felt lived in but untouched—like a place that existed only for him to breathe when the rest of the world demanded his suffocation.

And then you saw them.

Pictures.

Not just him.

Of you two.

Your recital poster, pictures frozen in a frame on the shelf. A candid from some forgotten gala, you mid-laugh next to him, like he’d stolen the moment for himself. And there, beside them : photos of him and his mother…

She was beautiful, like him. Her hand on his cheek. His bright smile beside her proud one. Pieces of him he’d never shown anyone, now laid bare in front of you.

Your throat ached. “You… kept these?”

He didn’t answer at first, just watched you, just nodded, his expression unreadable and raw.

“Why?” you whispered.

“Because they’re mine,” he said finally, his voice rough. “Because you’re mine.”

You turned to him slowly, your breath shallow.

“I didn’t know…” you said, voice trembling. Your heart broke for him. You stepped closer, until your forehead pressed against his chest, feeling his heart thundering beneath your skin.

“God, I’m so tired…” you whispered.

His hand slid up the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, holding you still. “Me too,” he breathed.

You tilted your head up, and your lips brushed his collarbone—soft, trembling, like you were begging for him without saying it.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you admitted. “How to be with you when everything around us feels like it’s trying to rip us apart.”

His hand cupped your jaw, thumb tracing your cheek as if memorizing it. “I don’t want to lose you,” he said, his voice shaking. “Not like I lost her. Not like I’ve lost everything else.”

You blinked up at him, tears threatening. I want you. Even if it hurts.” you whispered. “And it really fucking does.”

He lowered his forehead to yours, closing his eyes like the weight of the words was too much to bear.

“I want only you,” he said, his voice hoarse, breaking with the force of it. “Every goddamn part of you. Body and soul.”

You gasped softly, and then his mouth was on yours.

A kiss—messy, desperate. His hand at the back of your head, tilting you just so. His other arm wrapping around your waist, crushing you against him like he could fuse you into his bones if he just held you tightly enough.

You kissed him back, frantic, clawing at his shoulders, feeling the shudder of his breath as his lips moved to your jaw, your temple, your cheeks, kissing away your fear.

“Don’t—” he breathed between kisses, “don’t pull away. Don’t disappear on me.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair, breathless. “Promise me—promise we won’t let go.”

His eyes opened, dark and unrelenting, and his lips found yours again—slower this time, bruising in its devotion. “I promise,” he said against your mouth. “You’re the only thing that’s real for me now.”

And you let him kiss you again, and again, until neither of you knew where one ended and the other began—until the world outside no longer existed.

—

You told no one about the overseas offer. Not your mom. Not your friends. Not even him.

But Sunghoon found out anyway—a passing comment from someone who didn’t know it would shatter him.

That night, he drove you home after rehearsal.

You fell asleep in his lap in the backseat, your cheek pressed to his thigh, ballerina bun half-undone, breathing soft and unguarded. You didn’t see the way his hand hovered above your hair, trembling, before finally settling there. Didn’t feel the quiet violence of his grip on his own knee as he stared out the window, teeth grinding, date forgotten, phone buzzing unanswered in his pocket.

He was burning, silently, the whole ride.

But what destroyed him—what truly gutted Sunghoon—was the moment he confronted you.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice was low, too calm, the kind of calm that’s more dangerous than shouting.

You stood there in your ballerina robe, hair still damp from your shower, hugging yourself like that would keep you from splintering. “Because it doesn’t matter,” you whispered. “Maybe this… maybe this is all we’ll ever be. You can marry her. Forget me in time.”

That’s when something in him snapped.

His jaw flexed, his eyes blackened with something sharp and uncontainable, and before you could blink, he’d crossed the room.

“Don’t say that.”

It came out guttural. A warning.

And then he lost it.

He slammed you against the mirrored wall, the robe falling open as your gasp was muffled by his hand over your mouth. His other hand gripped your hip so hard you’d bruise, pinning you there as if the glass could keep you from running.

His breath was ragged against your ear—hot, uneven, almost feral.

“Say you’ll leave again,” he growled, voice shaking with fury and something far darker, “and I swear, the only stage you’ll dance on is my lap.”

You squirmed, but his body pressed you flat against the mirror, his chest crushing against yours. The glass chilled your bare back, every nerve screaming awake, every inch of you alive under the weight of him.

His lips brushed your temple, then your jaw, then hovered at your mouth—so close it was torture. “You’re mine,” he whispered, each word deliberate, a vow wrapped in a threat. “I’ll chain you to me if that’s what it takes.”

And God, you believed him.

Because his hands weren’t gentle—they worshiped like punishment. His mouth moved over your skin with a hunger that was all-consuming, breaking you down and claiming you in the same breath. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t polite. It was desperate—a boy on the edge of losing everything, holding the only thing he couldn’t afford to.

You couldn’t tell where pain ended and pleasure began.

And you didn’t want him to stop.

When it was over—when the storm had passed and the room was quiet except for the sound of both of you breathing like you’d been drowning—he finally spoke.

“You know,” he said, voice low, almost tender now, “I never planned on this. On you. I wanted simple. I wanted distance.”

You blinked up at him, still trembling.

“But then you showed up,” he continued, cupping your face like he was trying to memorize it, “and everything just… shifted. You weren’t just someone passing through. You became the only thing I couldn’t let go of. I didn’t choose to make you special—it just happened.”

His thumb brushed your lips, slow, aching.

“I think it was meant to be,” he added, quieter, like a confession meant for no one else.

You’ve really changed.

The old you would be a crying mess right now.

Or maybe you’ve just finally seen yourselves for what you are—two broken people clinging to each other like lifelines, bleeding into each other just to feel whole for a moment.

Your knees give out first. You don’t even realize you’re falling until you’re on the floor with him, your fingers still tangled in his hair. You graze your nails gently across his scalp, soothing the tremors in him as much as in yourself.

You lie there together between half-packed piles—clothes you chose to keep, clothes you were ready to leave behind—and wonder which one he is.

Should you keep him?

Should you leave him?

The thought presses into you like a bruise, deep and aching, with no easy answer.

He shifts closer, curling against you like he can sense the war in your head, silently begging you to choose him.

“Please,” he whispers again, so quiet you almost miss it. “Don’t put me in the pile you walk away from.”

And you don’t answer, because you don’t know when you’re with him. Not yet. Not tonight.

You’ll leave… but not without a goodbye.

One last thing. Like a gift. Like a memento to your first meeting.

An original piece. Dedicated to your first love.

To Sunghoon.

You lock yourself in the studio, pouring every ounce of yourself into it—every memory, every wound, every brush of his fingers against yours. You choose a partner who moves like him—not the same, but close enough to help you tell the story. Your story. His story.

You choose a song that aches with everything you can’t say out loud. Cellophane by FKA twigs.

—

It’s the final night.

Sunghoon sat frozen in the front row, the weight of the moment pressing down on him like a storm he couldn’t escape. The golden light bathed you—his world—turning your trembling form into something both fragile and fierce. You weren’t just performing for the crowd; you were performing for him, and only him.

He could feel the music sinking deep, each note dragging up memories he tried to bury. Your dance wasn’t just movement. It was a confession, raw and unfiltered, burning through the silence between you.

“Didn’t I do it for you?” Your body spoke the words he couldn’t say.

“Why don’t I do it for you?” You reached for something beyond the stage—beyond the crowd—to him.

“Why won’t you do it for me?” The ache in your voice cracked his heart wide open.

Tears slipped down his cheeks—silent, uncontrollable. He tried to blink them away, but they fell anyway, warm and real, blurring the golden light like rain on glass. The world around him dissolved until it was just the two of you—no audience, no noise—only you, right there in front of him, dancing through his thoughts.

Every movement you made echoed inside his mind. He could almost feel your breath, hear the quiet catch in your throat, smell the faint trace of your perfume mixed with sweat. Your skin, painted gold, glimmered under the lights as if you were some kind of fragile flame he was desperate not to lose.

“But I, just want to feel you’re there And I don’t want to have to share our love I try but I get overwhelmed When you’re gone, I have no one to tell.”

The ribbon slipping loose at your throat felt like a final breaking of barriers—bare, exposed, real. When you mouthed those words, I love you, it wasn’t just a whisper—it was a scream wrapped in silence, tearing through the distance between you.

“They’re waiting. They’re watching. They’re watching us. They’re hating. They’re waiting. And hoping. I’m not enough.”

For a heartbeat, Sunghoon felt the weight of the whole world lift, and he almost reached for you. Almost stood. Almost closed that impossible gap. But then the lights died, plunging everything into darkness. The moment shattered like glass.

And yet, even in the dark, you were still there—in his head, in his heart—the only thing keeping him alive as tears continued to fall, unbidden and relentless. It had always been just the two of you, hadn’t it? No matter how far you ran, no matter the silence or the pain, you were his truth.

He stayed seated, broken and trembling, because you—you—had danced your soul straight into his, and nothing would ever erase that.

You slipped away from the applause, avoiding the cameras, the congratulations, your mother’s fake smile, his dad's catalogue of people to sit with.

Only Sunghoon’s phone buzzed once, with a message:

Meet me at our place.

He didn’t knock. He didn’t even breathe right when he got there—just stormed in like a man still drunk on you, on that stage, on the sight of you bleeding your soul out under the spotlight. His lungs burned like he hadn’t stopped running since the curtain fell, and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

You sat on the couch, still in that golden dress, the paint smeared, the ribbon loose around your neck like a noose someone had already cut. You didn’t even flinch when he stopped in front of you, looming, silent.

For a long moment, he just stared. His chest heaved. His eyes were red—not just wet, but raw, swollen, like the tears had started at the theater and hadn’t stopped.

Then he was on you.

No words. No hesitation. His hands grabbed you like he was terrified you’d vanish—digging into your arms, your waist, your hair. He kissed you like it hurt, like every touch was a scream, crushing his mouth to yours so hard your teeth clicked. It was messy, wet, and desperate.

"I love you," he hissed between kisses, but it didn’t sound like love—it sounded like a curse, like something choking him alive.

"I love you, I fucking love you, you hear me?"

The dress tore—not slid, not slipped—tore in his fists as if he couldn’t stand anything between you and him. He shoved you back against the couch, the cushions biting at your shoulder blades, his weight caging you in, unrelenting.

"No one gets you like this," he growled, voice low and broken, like the last thread of him was snapping. "No one but me. No one. You’re mine—do you get that? Mine."

You didn’t answer, couldn’t. He didn’t give you room to. His mouth was everywhere—your jaw, your throat, biting until it burned, marking you like he needed the world to see.

It was rough. Frantic. Almost punishing. His hips slammed into yours, each thrust so deep you gasped for air, but he didn’t slow, didn’t let up. Every movement screamed stay, screamed don’t leave me, screamed all the words he couldn’t say without destroying himself.

"You think you can dance like that for me and walk away?" His forehead pressed to yours, sweaty hair falling into his eyes, his breath jagged and hot. "You think you can leave me like that? I can’t—" His voice broke. "—I can’t survive you leaving me."

You felt him tremble against you, the sound of him unraveling—a ragged, animalistic thing—as if he’d rip himself open before he let you go.

"I don’t care if it’s wrong," he gasped, a broken prayer as his teeth grazed your shoulder. "I don’t care if it ruins me."

And then softer, hoarse, almost childlike in its helplessness: "You’re all I have. You’re… you’re home to me."

He didn’t even let you get a word out before he dragged you beneath him, the couch groaning under the force of it, his body pinning you like a weight you couldn’t escape—not that you wanted to. His hands were everywhere, gripping your wrists, your thighs, your face like he couldn’t decide where to hold you first.

You fought him—not to push him away, but to pull him closer, twisting and clawing at him, your nails dragging down his back hard enough to make him hiss. You rolled him over, straddling him, golden paint smearing against his skin, and slammed yourself down on him like you wanted to break both of you open.

"Don’t let me go," you gasped, voice shaking, forehead pressed to his as you moved over him with a pace that was more defiance than rhythm. "Don’t you fucking let me go, Sunghoon."

His grip was bruising on your hips, fingers digging in like claws. "I can’t," he bit out, thrusting up into you so hard you lost your breath. "I won’t. You’re not leaving me—not after this. Not ever."

"Good," you choked, grinding down on him, chasing that unbearable mix of pain and pleasure that only he gave you. "Make me never forget. Do you hear me? Never. I don’t want to find anyone else good after you. I don’t want anyone else—just you. Just you."

That snapped something in him.

He grabbed the back of your neck, yanking you down so his mouth was at your throat. "You want me to ruin you?" he growled, voice so low it scraped against your skin. "You want to be mine forever? Say it."

"Mark me," you begged, raw and shaking. "Do it. Mark me so I never forget you."

He bit you—deep. No hesitation. His teeth sank into the soft flesh of your shoulder, hard enough to make you cry out, the pain and pleasure blurring until you couldn’t tell which one was making you tremble.

"Mine," he whispered against the bite, breath hot and ragged. "You’re fucking mine. And I’m never letting you forget it."

You rode him harder, nails digging into his chest, the two of you moving like you wanted to consume each other whole—like this wasn’t love or even lust, but survival, the only way to keep breathing in a world that had already taken too much.

He didn’t stop at one mark.

The first bite left a deep welt, skin swelling under his teeth, but Sunghoon didn’t even lift his head—he kept his mouth on you, licking the bite, then sinking his teeth in again, lower this time, near your collarbone. You arched into it, letting him carve himself into you with his mouth, with his hands, with every brutal thrust of his hips.

"More," you sobbed, voice shaking apart. "Do more. Don’t stop. I want to feel you everywhere."

His breath hitched at that, almost like a sob, and you felt it—the tremor in his chest, the way his body shuddered under yours. You pulled back just enough to see his face, and it wrecked you: tears streaming down his cheeks, wetting his lashes, raw grief and need carved into his features.

"You’re crying," you whispered, half-broken yourself.

"Shut up," he choked, pulling you back down so your mouths met, his tears smearing against your lips as he kissed you like a man on the edge of falling apart. "You don’t get it—I can’t lose you. I can’t. If you leave, I’ll fucking die."

"Then don’t let me," you gasped against his mouth, grinding down on him, every movement rougher, more desperate. "Keep me here. Hurt me if you have to. Just make me yours. All the way."

Something inside him shattered at that. He flipped you onto your back, the couch creaking, and drove into you like he was trying to brand his shape into your body, his tears falling onto your face, mixing with your own. He kissed them away, then bit your jaw, your throat, your shoulder, until your skin was a map of his possession.

"Mine," he kept saying, voice breaking between thrusts. "Mine. Mine. Say it."

"Yours," you sobbed, clawing at his back, leaving deep red streaks. "Only yours. Please—don’t let me forget this. Don’t let me forget you."

He bit you again—your shoulder, your chest, the soft skin just under your jaw—marks that would stay for days, reminders you couldn’t wash away. His pace was ruthless, unrelenting, until you were sobbing beneath him, shaking, unable to tell where the pain ended and the pleasure began.

When you came, it felt like drowning, like falling off the edge of the world, and he followed right after, collapsing onto you, shaking so hard you had to hold him in place. He buried his face into your neck, his tears wet against your skin as his breathing slowed into ragged, broken gasps.

"Don’t leave," he whispered again, quieter this time, like a prayer. "Don’t leave me."

You held his head against you, fingers in his sweat-soaked hair, kissing the crown of it. "I won’t," you promised, even if you both knew it was a lie.

He stayed inside you for a long moment, shaking, forehead pressed to your shoulder as if his body needed to remember what it was like to breathe. When he finally pulled out, it wasn’t to leave you—it was to scoop you up.

Sunghoon gathered you in his arms, as if you weighed nothing, as if you were something precious he couldn’t risk dropping. His steps were unsteady, his chest still heaving, but he carried you through the dim apartment until you reached his bedroom. He laid you down carefully on the bed, the gold of your smeared costume glowing faintly in the low light, then climbed in behind you.

"On your hands and knees," he said, voice hoarse, still raw with tears.

You obeyed, body heavy, but his hands softened, gliding up your spine—slow, reverent. He traced the curve of your back with his fingertips, down to the small of it, almost like he was memorizing the lines of you. You shivered at his touch, and he couldn’t help but think about how it used to be the other way around—how you once trembled beneath him because you were scared of how much he wanted you. But now?

Now he was the one trembling.

"Do you know what you do to me?" he rasped, leaning forward so his lips brushed the nape of your neck. "You think I’m in control, but I’m not. I’m fucking lost in you."

You pushed back against him, arching just enough for him to slide back into you. He groaned—broken, guttural—and sank in to the hilt, holding there like he needed to feel every inch of you wrapped around him.

"Please," you whispered, voice cracking, "don’t stop. Make me remember. Make me never want anyone else."

His grip tightened on your hips. "You’ll never forget me," he said, each word deliberate, a promise and a threat. He pulled back, then drove into you hard enough to make the bed creak, setting a brutal, claiming pace.

"You want me to mark you?" he growled, leaning over you, teeth scraping your shoulder.

"Yes—God, yes," you gasped, pressing your face into the sheets. "Bite me. Claim me. I want to feel you for days."

He bit you again, deeper than before, until you cried out—his tears wetting your skin as his mouth lingered on the mark. He was trembling so badly now you could feel it in every thrust, every kiss pressed between his broken whispers.

"Say it," he demanded, voice wrecked. "Beg for me."

"Please," you sobbed, reaching back to clutch at his hand where it gripped your hip. "Please, Sunghoon. Don’t pull out. Cum in me. Make me yours. I need it—I need all of you."

That undid him. He snapped, slamming into you harder, rougher, until the room filled with the sound of your bodies colliding and your broken voices tangling together. He buried himself deep as he came, groaning against your ear, his whole body shuddering as if the release tore something out of him.

He stayed like that—inside you, pressed against your back—panting into the hollow of your shoulder, his tears soaking your skin.

"You’re mine," he whispered again, quieter now, like he was trying to convince himself. "Even if it kills me, you’ll always be mine."

And you reached back, threading your fingers into his hair, whispering, "I know."

—

The morning sun felt cruel.

Sunghoon woke to the pale wash of light spilling through half-closed curtains, the sheets still warm where your body had been. He reached for you instinctively, hand brushing only cool fabric.

His stomach dropped.

The quiet was too sharp. No shower running, no soft hum of you moving in the kitchen. Just emptiness.

He sat up too fast, head pounding, hair a chaotic mess that fell into his eyes. His body ached everywhere—especially his collarbone, a sharp sting that made him flinch when his fingers brushed it. He pushed the collar of his shirt aside and saw it: a deep crescent of teeth marks, swollen and raw. You had marked him, too.

"Fuck," he muttered, heart climbing into his throat.

He stumbled out of bed, barely bothering to throw on a hoodie, bare feet hitting the cold floor as he made his way through the apartment. It felt foreign without you, like he’d woken up somewhere unfamiliar.

Then he saw it.

On the coffee table, beside an empty glass you’d used the night before, sat a single envelope. His name—just Sunghoon—in your handwriting.

His chest tightened.

He didn’t open it right away. He couldn’t. His fingers hovered over the paper, frozen. As if touching it might make this real. Finally, he tore it open with trembling hands.

Hoon,

If you’re reading this, it means I left. It means I didn’t have the courage to wake you and see your face when I said goodbye. You would’ve stopped me, and I would’ve let you.

I love you. God, I love you so much it eats me alive. From the moment you first touched me on that rooftop, I stopped being an empty object and became yours, almost mine. You didn’t just fill the emptiness in me.You made me feel alive. Brave. Like I was worth the attention.

But I can’t stay. Not now. If I do, we’ll burn each other until there’s nothing left. And yet leaving feels like ripping out my own heart.

You once told me to, “Go. Find what pleases you.” huh ?

So I’m going to try. For me, for once. Even though all I want is you.

This isn’t the end, let’s hope. One day, I want to meet you again. On a different stage, as different people. Versions of us who can love each other without destroying everything around us and hurt people.

Until then, I need you to let me go. Don’t come looking. Please. If you love me the way I love you, let me be brave.

I left you something, a piece of me. A Polaroid of your mark. It hurts for now and I love it, Sunghoon. I want to keep feeling it for as long as I can, because it means I’m still yours. And when the numbness comes and I know it will. I’ll cling to the hope that you won’t forget me like I’ll never forget you.

We were both paranoid somehow. We both need to grow up. To become decent adults. But maybe that’s why it mattered. Maybe that’s why it will always do. You were my first, and you’ll be my most memorable love.

I love you Sunghoon.

Yours. Always Yours.

—-

He read it once.

Twice.

A third time, the words blurring as his vision burned.

Sunghoon sank to the floor, the letter dangling from his hand, his back pressed to the cold leg of the couch. He sat there for hours, the world moving outside his apartment while his stayed frozen, your words ricocheting inside his skull.

"I will always be yours."

He traced the bite mark on his collarbone, pressing it hard until the sting bloomed—proof you’d been here, proof you’d been real.

And still, you were gone.

It was the end.

For how long ?

Thank you so much for reading, my loves!!!

I know this dropped later than expected—sorry for the wait! It’s actually my longest fic yet, originally split into three parts, but I decided to merge it into one big plunge. I didn’t get to proofread as closely as usual, so if it’s a bit chaotic... maybe that’s part of the story. The playlist? A little slice of my soul. I hope it hit just right.

I’m still anxious, though... I wanted the emotions to land the way they felt inside me while writing. Both Sunghoon and the MC carry their own scars, and I leaned into that heaviness—into trauma bonding, lust as a distraction, desire as escape. Messy, flawed, maybe not healthy… but deeply human.

This story is a reflection of something I believe deeply: even the darker moments help shape us. They may not be pretty, but they’re real. And real things have a way of leaving marks.

So if it stirred anything in you—don’t just lurk. Reblog, comment, talk to me. Show me you were here with me~

Yours dearly Lassie

MASTERLIST

TG : @hoondrop @thesundys @somuchdard @diameuwu @parkjeongpark @xoenhalover @gunilsguns @ri4-lovesenha @heekolazz @bambiihee @raven-unkind @mintchohoon @sofiafromvenus @w2hoonki @bacons-thighs @chibi-rach @ikeuceo @river-demon-slayer @eliephemeral @ @theyluvjake @i5woni @lmonade @thefallenhulya @i90snoo @ricepuddingluvr @won-derful @choeryyxyz @cyjhhyj @pinkbunnystories @taeogi @ancnymcnzjy @japieeey @koalaswillpeeonyou @xxxatdy @eternality @youtoopia @212diary @lovebamby22 @hnnnne @bvbblejayyyy @diameuwu @softservesungie @tinyenha @rspbrykawa @thicbucchi @nananananana-stuff @oreostoberi @heeshlove @joiigurl @ay0505050550 @janeluvwonuuuu @butterflydemons @deobitifull @jeonjieun17 @aubr3ysei @neorealm @artemesiareads @taehyungslittlebrat69 @prettygirlthings-world @yazmike @kaiaonsaturn @icrieliterature @karinasbaby @hees-h0e @lynnlynnyuuashh @schniti-is-in-the-house @saccharinezennie @bacons-thighs @haocean @sangiewife @heejunluvr @monoidol @xiaoszone @hoonprksung @woniedoyouloveme @tinycatharsis @cutehoons02 @heebambilee @darling-delusions @luvminniexx god it was longer than actually writting the fic (mix of rb and request + perm tg) XD

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