🏹⋆˙…𝖳𝖧𝖤𝖲𝖤 𝖯𝖮𝖮𝖱 𝖴𝖭-𝖠𝖬𝖤𝖱𝖨𝖢𝖠𝖭 𝖦𝖨𝖱𝖫𝖲 (pt.1)
sʸpnos𝓲s: You were betrothed to a man your father had chosen, in an attempt to escape this toxic marriage, fate brings Park Sunghoon to you. Will he find a way to save you from this unwanted life? Will this un-convenience bring you two closer than you intended?
…warnings: smut , not an ella story without angst, mentions of abuse, noncon, infidelity, curse words, blood, mysogyny, arranged marriage, mentions of self-harm, kissing, skin-ship, protected sex makes a comeback, missionary, pillow talk, marking, fingering, oral (f receiving) nipple play, cum eating, reader who knows nothing about life.
Or maybe you hated life for being so cruel to you.
You wake up to the sound of porcelain clinking and soft voices down the hall. The sheets smell like lavender, too sweet for your taste—like everything else in this house.
The ring on your finger is heavier than usual. Maybe it’s because yesterday he kissed your hand in front of everyone, like he was rubbing it in the wound the engagement your father had written into your life like a signature you didn’t get to sign, had left.
You sit up, fingers brushing the velvet box still resting on your nightstand. It’s dark green with gold trim, too elegant for the cheap diamond inside. You didn’t even open it last night, just stared until sleep came to you.
You hear voices again. Your father's. He was never a man of many words, yet evertime he spoke it felt like daggers in your porcelain skin.
You tug on a sweater and slide your feet into mismatched slippers, padding across the cold floor toward the window instead of the door. The garden is bathed in weak sunlight, in perfect symmetry. And you hate it for being beautiful.
You hated your life for looking so beautiful.
The wedding is in four months. Four. Your mother told you that with a kind smile and eyes that didn’t quite meet yours. She hasn’t worn her wedding ring in years.
Downstairs, they’ll be waiting for you. He will be waiting for you—Youngjae, your fiancé. Chosen by your father. Polished, politically connected, and entirely love-less.
You don’t hate him. That might’ve been easier.
He’s just... a product of everything you were raised in.
You meant nothing more than a mere handshake.
You stare at your reflection in the glass—your face blurred by the condensation gathering at the corners of the windows. It’s like the house is trying to erase you, bit by bit.
You don’t remember the last time you cried. You’ve learned to hold things in. Your father always said it was more noble to suffer quietly.
Nobility. A word used to excuse every kind of cruelty that came out of his filthy mouth.
You hear the knock on your door before you see her. “Are you up?” your mother’s voice, muffled but warm. You want to hate her, too. But you can’t. She was the first woman to suffer in this house, after all.
You don’t answer, but she opens the door anyway. She always does.
“I brought you tea,” she says, setting it down on the nightstand without meeting your eyes. That’s something she learned from your father. Don’t look too closely, and you won’t have to feel guilty.
She sits at the edge of your bed like she used to when you were younger. Back then, she’d bring you stories. Fairytales, mostly. Girls with wings. Girls who ran away. Girls who turned into storms and made the sky cry with them.
Now, she only brings tea.
“He’s waiting for you downstairs,” she says softly.
“No,” she replies, standing up. “But he asked for you.”
When she leaves, you don’t touch the tea. You stare at it like it might kill if your lips touched it, like it was another poison in the house.
Downstairs, the voices were louder. Laughter this time. Male voices. Your father’s. Youngjae’s. You imagine them shaking hands, sealing deals, building empires out of other people’s lives.
You glance at the velvet box again. Then you stand.
You are porcelain, like your father said. Breakable, yes. But also sharp.
And it was burning for you to sharpen it on them.
The stairs creak beneath your weight. The house is too quiet for how many people live in it, for how loud it used to be when you were small and stupid and still believed love was whom you loved.
You pause halfway down, listening.
Youngjae’s voice is way too smooth. Trained. He laughs like he means it. You know better.
“Ah, there she is,” your father says when he sees you, standing up slightly like the perfect host. He gestures toward the table as if the sight of you is a formality.
Youngjae turns. His smile is lacking something. Probably reality? or love?
Breakfast is laid out like a magazine cover—perfectly cut fruit, folded napkins, coffee poured into porcelain cups. You sit where you're expected to, between your father and the man who serves as your magazine fiancé just like this breakfast.
“How did you sleep?” Youngjae asks, casual, like you’re strangers on a second date instead of victims of the same stupid agreement.
He falters. Just slightly. But then the fake smile returns.
Your father doesn’t flinch. “She’s just nervous. That’s all. Aren’t you, sweetheart?”
You keep your eyes on your plate. “I’m not hungry.”
He ignores you. “We were discussing the venue. Youngjae’s mother suggests the Seraphim estate, it has a lovely garden. Perfect for photographs.”
You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek. Not enough to bleed, but enough to remind yourself you’re still in your body.
“I’d prefer something smaller,” you say quietly.
Youngjae leans forward. “But don’t you want something timeless? A memory to hold onto forever?”
You look at him then. Holding the gaze for as long as you can.
“Some things aren’t worth remembering.”
His smile slips. For a second he looks scary. But then it’s back, wider now.
Your father laughs like it’s a joke.
This whole thing is the joke.
And you think Youngjae understood that.
You excuse yourself before the tea reaches your lips.
The garden’s edge leads into a path lined with roses that don’t smell like anything. You push past them, shoes sinking into wet mud, sweater slipping off your shoulder like even your clothes are trying to leave you behind.
Your fingers are clenched around the rusty iron key you managed to steal from your father’s office drawer.
Strict parents raise sneaky kids.
The key fits the gate at the far side of the estate, the one that opens into the woods. You've never dared to use it before. It’s old, rusted, half-forgotten like your own voice most days. You slide it into the lock.
you don’t get the chance to move.
“You know that’s trespassing,” a voice says behind you.
Not your father’s voice. Not Youngjae’s. Not one of the perfectly groomed staff trained to look away.
He’s leaning against the brick pillar near the hedges, sleeves pushed up, hands in his pockets like he owns comfort. The sunlight hits him sideways—eyes dark, skin brighter than it should be in this kind of story.
He’s not from here. You know that immediately.
He doesn’t belong to this world.
Which is probably why you want to talk to him more than anyone else you’ve ever met.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” you say instead.
He raises an eyebrow. “Neither are you.”
You hate how fast your heart is beating.
“With a key,” he points out, eyes flicking to your hand.
You hide it behind your back, uselessly. “Who are you?”
He shrugs. “Just someone passing through.”
You narrow your eyes. “That’s not an answer.”
“I could say the same thing to you.”
“Do you always spy on girls in forests?” you ask.
“Only the ones planning prison breaks,” he grins.
You don’t know whether to run away or go back inside.
And maybe that’s why you stand there, doing neither.
“I’m Sunghoon,” he says finally. “And you… are trouble, I think.”
Your mouth twitches. “And you’re lost.”
“Maybe,” he says, stepping closer, just enough to make the air feel different. “Or maybe I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
Sunghoon watches you for a moment too long, as if he was deciding something. The air between you feels thick now, charged with a sensation that you haven’t felt in ages. Not in your father’s house, not with Youngjae’s robotic smirks, not with anything you’ve been forced to wear as a life.
“You really should go back inside,” he says, his voice losing some of its earlier cockiness, replaced by something quieter. "Before someone notices you’re gone."
You glance back at the house. Everything’s still in order. You can hear the faint whispers of people inside, but the distance between them and you is… a chasm.
“Maybe I don’t want to go back,” you mutter, and you can’t believe the words are leaving your mouth. You never speak this way. You never confess.
But there’s something about the way Sunghoon stands there, a half-smile playing on his lips, a stranger but not a stranger, and you can’t help but feel the edges of something cracking.
“Then don’t,” he says, voice low. “But be careful. Not everything out here is as free as it looks.”
You swallow. It sounds like a warning, but it feels more like an invitation.
He moves closer, closing the gap just enough for you to feel the heat coming from his taller frame. For a second, you wonder what this moment is.
But you can’t think about that. You have to leave. You can’t stay here.
You turn your back to the gate, your hand reaching out before you even think about it.
“Wait,” he says, stepping forward. “What's your name?”
You pause, fingers brushing the cool metal. It feels like an anchor.
"Yn, I'm Yn" You say, they say strangers are dangers but he feels safer than your own home.
"What are you running from, Yn?" He asks, his voice gentle, his eyes searching for yours.
“I’m not running,” you lie, your voice steady despite the shiver in your body. “I’m just… walking.”
His gaze lingers on you, reading you like a book.
“Sure.” He doesn't believe it but he nods. “If you say so.”
And then, just as suddenly as he appeared, Sunghoon steps back, his hands finding his pockets once more. “Don’t let me stop you.”
You look at him one last time before turning back to the gate. The key fits perfectly closing it just like opened it, but your hand lingers on it longer than necessary, as though trying to pull you back in the house.
After a long walk in the deserted woods, you go back.
You tread back into the house, footsteps quieter than your pulse. The air is colder now, small shivers covering your body.
You make it barely past the threshold before the storm finds you.
“Where the hell have you been?”
The voice—his voice. It isn’t raised for the sake of volume. It’s raised because he wants to feel in charge, he wants to be the man he can never be.
You don’t answer right away. You’re still unlearning the instinct to flinch at the sound of male yelling.
“I asked you a question,” Youngjae spits, closing the distance in two long steps. His suit is immaculate, his expression anything but that. You catch a glimpse of your reflection in the glass cabinet behind him—mud-smeared slippers, sweater hanging off your shoulder, cheeks flushed from the cold and hair messy from the wind. You look alive, and that's wrong.
“I went for a walk,” you say, your voice trembling.
“A walk,” he repeats, with something like disgust curling beneath it. “Through the servants’ gate?”
You stare back at him. “Would you rather I took the front door and embarrassed you properly?” your voice raising by a decibel to match his.
Because mister's hand answers for him.
It strikes your face, sharp and clean. Your head turns with the force of it, cheek blooming into pain so fast it instently turns bright red.
You don’t stumble. But you wish you had. It would’ve made it easier to fall into whatever role he wants you to play.
“I told you,” he whispers, voice lower now,“you don’t make me look like a fool. Not in front of your family. Not in front of your father.”
His hand lifts again—but this time, it’s not for your cheek. It grabs your arm instead, his nails digging hard into your skin, shaking you like you’re nothing more than an unruly object that won’t bend the way it’s supposed to.
“You belong to me,” he breathes.
It’s not loud. It’s not even angry. But it stops him. For a second, he stares at you like he’s trying to decide whether to destroy you completely.
You tear your arm from his grasp, stumbling back one step, then another. You hold his gaze, and if your lip is trembling, you don’t let it show.
“If you ever touch me like that again,” you whisper, “I swear to God, Youngjae—”
“What?” he snaps. “You’ll tell your father?” his voice is mocking.
It’s a lie. Maybe. But the way you say it makes even him hesitate.
He scoffs, disgust curling his mouth. “You’re pathetic.”
He turns on his heel and walks away, like this was a waste of his time.
You wait until his footsteps vanish into the corridor before you allow yourself to breathe. Then you touch your cheek.
It’s hot. And it stings. And it reminds you that porcelain doesn’t just break.
One second you were downstairs, and the next you're standing behind the door, staring at it like it might open again and swallow you whole.
And then—as soon as the door closes shut.
Then the tears just start.
No warning. No soft trickle. Just the kind that hits like a hurricane, all at once, and suddenly you’re on the floor with your knees to your chest, gasping like you can’t get enough air.
You press your sleeves to your face, trying to muffle the sound, but it’s no use.
Your shoulders shake. Your throat burns. Your chest feels like it’s caving in.
You cry because your cheek hurts like hell.
You cry because he touched you like that.
You cry because no one stopped him.
Not your mom. Not your dad. Not even you.
You cry because you’ve been trying so hard to be good. And strong. And quiet. And now you’re just… tired.
The floor is cold, but you don’t move. The crying doesn’t stop right away—it drags on, messy and loud, until it leaves you empty. Until all that’s left is the ache in your ribs and the sting on your skin.
You wipe your face on your sleeve. It’s wet. It smells like the garden you weren’t supposed to be in.
And then, really quietly, barely a whisper:
You stand up, looking through your endless drawers, taking out a small blade, staring a it for a moment, hesitating, hoping you don't cut too deep.
It softly grazes your wrist, it somehow feels softer than anything else in your life.
The red blood trickles down, it's warm and it's free.
Tears won't stop, but atleast it doesn't hurt as much.
The next morning, the sunlight is softer, like it’s trying to make amends for the weight of yesterday. But it doesn’t fool you.
You wake up to the softest light through the curtains, the coldness of the room was what woke you up. The tear-wetted pillowcase reminds you of how little sleep you really got.
It’s funny, isn’t it? How much pain can live in your bones without making a sound.
Your body feels heavy, like you’re made of metal instead of flesh. Your arms are sore from how you spent the night clinging to yourself.
You don’t want to get up. Don’t want to face the world. But you do, anyway. Because there’s no other choice. Because you have no other option but to keep moving. Even if your feet don’t feel like they belong to you anymore.
You get out of bed, dragging your feet, the cold floor sending sharp shocks up your spine. You try to smooth down your hair, but it’s hopeless. You don’t look in the mirror, don’t give yourself the chance to see what kind of mess you’ve become. You don’t want to know.
The scars from the previous night glowing in their glory sitting at your arms, you just cover them with a long-sleeved top. You don't even look at them.
But even without looking, you know.
The room smells faintly of lavender, too sweet, just like the night before. You wish it didn’t. You wish you could get rid of every trace of this place.
The sound of footsteps outside your door makes your heart skip. The clock indicates 8am. You don’t expect company.
But the knock comes, soft and hesitant, before the door opens ever-so-slightly. It's your mother’s voice, low, careful. “You awake?”
But then, she’s inside. Stepping in slowly.
She looks at you, eyes a soft, too knowing. “I brought you breakfast.”
You don’t say anything, just watch her place the tray on the table.
She doesn’t speak at first. It’s like she doesn’t know what to say to you anymore. She hasn’t looked you in the eye since yesterday, and it shows. She’s scared. Of what you might say. Of what you might do.
She saw everything, from the yelling to the slap, yet she stayed silent.
When she finally speaks, her voice is low. “How are you feeling?”
She bites her lip, she wants to say more but doesn’t.
She stands there for a moment longer, then quietly leaves without another word. The door clicks shut behind her, leaving you with your own thoughts and the memory of yesterday still carved in your chest.
You don’t touch the food. You just sit there, watching the steam rise from the plate, trying not to think about how hungry you actually are, or how easy it would be to just leave it all behind.
"Well.."You murmur to yourself standing up, just to sit back at your dresser, brushing the soft strands of your hair, who seem to be rebel this morning, applying some lip-gloss, and a faint blush, and lastly some perfume.
You just want to feel pretty.
It's an odd thought when you’re surrounded by everything that was supposed to make you feel beautiful—your father’s expectations, your mother’s stupid silence, and Youngjae’s compliments that held no real meaning to them.
But why would you need anyone's approval? When you don't even have your own.
You stand in front of the mirror, taking in your reflection. The hair that had been a tangled mess now sits neatly faint curls at the ends of it sit perfectly, and the blush on your cheeks isn’t for anyone else. It’s for you.
The knock on your door comes again, this time more urgent, more insistent. You freeze.
Your mother steps in again,
Her eyes meet yours, the hesitation in her gaze barely noticeable. “Youngjae’s waiting downstairs. He-”
“I’m not going,” you interrupt, surprising even yourself.
Your mother blinks. It’s not the answer she expected, and she looks as if she’s been caught off guard. She doesn’t speak right away, instead focusing on the way you stand—your chin lifted just slightly, your shoulders back. It’s like you’re a different person than the one who’d cried last night.
“You can’t keep running away from him,” she says quietly, but there’s a little something to her voice, one that wasn’t there before. “This engagement is happening, Yn. It’s been decided. It’s your duty. Your responsibility.”
“I don’t care about duty,” you reply. The words come out before you can stop them. It feels like you just grew tired of everything. “I don’t care about responsibility. I just want to be free.”
Her gaze softens. “I know,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “I know, sweetheart.”
For a moment, it's almost like she's back, your mom not your father's puppet.
“I don’t want to marry him,” you add, quieter this time. Your voice suddenly stops, cracking at the end. It’s one thing to feel trapped, to be told you have no choice. But to say it out loud? That’s a whole new kind of terror.
Your mother’s hand shakes as she reaches for the doorframe. “You have no choice,” she repeats softly, but this time it’s not a command—it’s a begging, your mother is begging you.
She steps back, leaving you alone.
It started with a window.
Or more specifically—the loud noise it made as you shoved it open, halfway through convincing yourself this was a good idea.
You slipped one leg over the windowsill, then the other. The grass was cold when your feet hit it. Wet with dew. You didn’t care. You just ran.
The house behind you was still glowing—light from the guest wing, your father’s office, Youngjae’s room—but none of them noticed. None of them saw you slipping away in your sweater and dirty sneakers.
The air was cold, and you hadn't brought anything to cover yourself, and you were all alone, but it didn't matter cause anything was better than staying at where you were supposed to call home.
Until you hit the edge of the woods.
And then you weren’t alone.
“Hey, sweetheart,” a voice spoke behind you. “Where you running off to in such a hurry?”
Three of them. Maybe four. Men. Big. Loud. Drunk, or worse. You hadn’t even seen them—just heard the laugh, the bottle clinking, the way they looked at you like you were some kind of treat for big boys like them/
You stepped back. One of them stepped forward.
“Lost, are you?” he asked, grinning. “We can help.”
You turned to run, but someone grabbed your arm.
"Leave me alone!" You hissed trying to get out of their strong grip, but you were dying of cold, and your bones were weak.
"Come on..." One of them sighed," A little fun can't kill, can it?"
The sound of a fist hitting flesh. Hard.
You spun around just in time to see one of them hit the ground, groaning.
Standing there, he's your savior, jaw tight, knuckles red, his eyes were totally different from the first time you saw him.
“She said no,” he said simply.
"Fucker.." one muttered before they all walked away, or maybe ran.
You were still frozen in place, your hands were trembling.
Sunghoon turned to you, chest rising and falling like he’d just sprinted a marathon.
“You okay?” he asked his voice gentle.
You nodded, though your heart was still beating in your ears.
He sighed, running his hand through his hair. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Something about the way he looked at you made the words stuck in your throat.
He tilted his head, studying you like he saw straight through the skin and bone.
“Are you running from something, yn?” he asked.
But instead, you looked at him—
His eyes grew a little wider, as his eyebrows rose, but he just nodded and gave you his coat.
"Do you have anywhere to stay?" He asked putting the coat on you.
"No, I didn't really think it through." You sighed.
He shrugged, brushing dirt off his sleeve like he hadn’t just bodyslammed a grown man into a dumpster. “Then come to mine.”
Your head tilted. Like it was nothing. Like he wasn’t some stranger you’d just met two nights ago in a creepy forest.
You stared at him. “Your place?”
He looked at you. “Unless you’re planning to camp out on the curb with your charming new friends.”
You flinched slightly. Right. That.
“I’m fine,” you said, a little too fast. “I’ll just… figure it out.”
He just watched you, his gaze made you shiver, goosebumps appearing all over your skin.
You crossed your arms. “You’re not exactly safe either, you know. You just beat someone half to death.”
“I could’ve let them touch you,” he said, calm. “But I didn’t.”
The silence was very awkward.
Finally, he sighed and looked away.
“Look. I get it. You don’t trust me. You shouldn’t.” His voice was quiet now, almost tired. “But I don’t want anything from you. Just... sleep somewhere safe. Please.”
He turned like he was about to walk away.
And you stood there—on some cracked branch, shaking from cold or fear or anything to be honest.
but he didn’t look back, he was holding his breath.
Now he turned. Eyebrow raised. he hadn’t expected you to say yes.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
You nodded, even if it felt like your spine was made of paper. “Just… don’t be weird.”
That made him smile. Not the usual stupid arrogant kind Youngjae would flash you.
You sighed, and looked away at the now far long gone house, you might do something stupid.
Like fall for the boy who saved your life.
“Lead the way,” you muttered, stuffing your hands in your pockets.
He walked beside you in silence as he lead you to his house.
The walk wasn’t long, but it felt that way. Probably because your brain wouldn’t shut up.
You’d just agreed to follow a guy you didn’t know to a place you’d never been, and your legs were doing the walking like they had a mind of their own. Great! Amazing survival instincts.
Sunghoon didn’t say much. He didn’t try to make small talk or ask questions. Just walked beside you like the night wasn’t freezing and you weren’t a walking bundle of anxiety.
You snuck a glance at him once.
His jaw was tight, eyes on the ground.
Maybe he was nervous too. Or maybe he was thinking about dinner. You couldn’t tell with him. He had one of those faces—god only knew what he had going on his mind. You hated how curious it made you.
The house was... not what you expected.
It wasn’t a mansion or some shady abandoned one. Just a small, clean place at the edge of town.
He unlocked the door without a word and pushed it open.
“Come in,” he said, stepping aside.
It was warmer inside, you let out a small whimper of satisfaction at the change of temperature. It was a little messy—papers, a hoodie on the couch, a half-empty mug on the table—but it was okay. Since it's not home.
He shut the door behind you and locked it. You didn’t flinch, but your hand twitched at your side anyway.
“I’ll get you something warm,” he said, disappearing into what looked like the kitchen.
You stood awkwardly in the living room, unsure if you were supposed to sit or just hover there like a ghost. Your fingers played with the hem of your sleeve.
A few moments later, he came back with a mug. You took it with a quiet thanks. It smelled like cinnamon and honey.
“Guest room’s down the hall,” he said, nodding toward it. “You can take the bed. There’s extra clothes in the drawer, probably too big but better than freezing.”
You nodded, god were you able to do anything except nod?
He paused like he was about to say something else, but just scratched the back of his neck.
“I’ll be in the other room. Door locked. So, you know... you don’t have to worry.”
You blinked. “That’s... good to know, thank you a lot Sunghoon, you're very nice.” You were screaming at yourself, very nice? Who even says that.
He gave a small shrug. “You looked like you needed someone to be."
“Goodnight,” he said, already walking off.
You stared after him for a second, then down at your drink.
You wake up to the smell of coffee. Sunghoon is already up, leaning against the counter with two mugs in hand.
He offers you one. You take it, fingers curling around it.
“I can’t stay hidden forever,” you say. “I need to run—for good. My wedding… Youngjae… my father—I can’t go back.”
He studies you,finally he sets his mug down and crosses his arms.
“You shouldn’t go alone,” he says flatly. “It’s not safe. The roads are watched. He'll find you before you know it.”
You blink. “Then what do I do?”
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “You stay here a little longer. Lay low until I figure something out. If you try to run away now, they’ll catch you. And we’ll lose our chance.”
You hug the mug to your chest. “I can’t! My father probably already sent people after I disappeared last night."
“I know.” He steps closer. “That’s why you stay. Not because hiding is a plan, but because rushing is suicide.”
Your heart is beating so loud, you're sure Sunghoon can hear it. “So… I wait?”
He nods. “I’ll find a safe route. But tonight, don’t go outside. Promise me.” he said his hand falling on yours.
You swallow. “I promise.”
He gives you a small, tired smile. “Good. Now eat."
You do as he says, as you watch him stand up to go get ready for what seems like work.
After a few moments, he comes back dressed up, a backpack on his back.
"I'm going to work, just call me if you need anything, make yourself at home." He says, before leaving.
You watch the door click shut behind him and the house settles into silence. He’s gone off to work—whatever that means—and you’re left alone with his mess.
The kitchen is messier than last night : dirty mugs on the counter, crumbs on the table, a half‑empty loaf of bread. You set your coffee down and roll up your sleeves.
You got nothing better to do anyways.
You start with the dishes, stacking mugs in the sink and rinsing them one by one. Hot water steams your face, and for a moment you feel… useful.
Next, you sweep the floor—wooden boards that creak beneath your broom. Dust bunnies roll into neat piles at your feet. You think about how this house isn’t your home, but it’s the only quiet place you’ve had in days.
You move through each room, fluffing pillows on the couch, folding his hoodie and placing it on a chair. You straighten the stack of books on the coffee table—mostly gardening manuals, a few novels. On one shelf, you find a framed photo of him as a kid, standing in a garden that looks just like his own. He smiled so easily back then.
You wipe a smudge off the window until the light spills cleanly through. Outside, you can almost imagine everything is right in the world.
The bathroom mirror is next. You spray cleaner and wipe until the glass gleams. Your reflection stares back—tired eyes, messy hair.
You step back and breathe out. The house looks better.
You let out a content hum, smiling.
You didn't even notice you had spent the whole day cleaning.
A soft click from the front hall makes you start. You freeze, hand on the rag.
Sunghoon reappears in the doorway, coat over his arm, eyes softening when he sees you.
“You didn’t have to,” he says quietly.
You shrug, setting the rag down. “I wanted to.”
He steps inside and drops his bag by the door. “Thank you.” He awkwardly smiles and pats your back.
You smile a little. No words needed—this is enough.
He watches you for a moment, then nods. “Come eat. I brought food.”
The sheets were stiff, smelled faintly like detergent and dust. You lay on your side, eyes fixed on the shadow of the ceiling fan spinning slow above you. The room was dark, save for the streetlight leaking through the blinds, slicing soft lines of orange across the floor. You thought he’d gone to bed.
But then came the soft creak of the door.
You didn’t move, just watched as Sunghoon stood in the doorway like he wasn’t sure what he was doing. His hand gripped the frame. Hair a little damp. Hoodie hanging off his shoulder. Silent.
“…Can’t sleep?” you asked.
He stepped in slowly, the door clicking shut behind him. “Didn’t think I’d fall asleep with all the pacing you were doing.”
You exhaled something close to a laugh and scooted over slightly—not enough to say stay, but enough to say I won’t bite.
He sat on the edge of the mattress first. Then leaned back until his head hit the pillow beside yours. His shoulder didn’t quite touch yours.
It was quiet. Almost too quiet.
“Thanks for… letting me stay here,” you said finally.
Sunghoon’s eyes stayed on the ceiling. “It’s not charity. You needed somewhere safe.”
“I don’t want to be a burden.”
Silence again. You could hear the faint buzz of the fridge in the other room. A car passing outside.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you admitted. Voice barely above a whisper.
He turned his head a little toward you. “What do you mean?”
“This whole thing. Running. Hiding. Pretending it’s all going to work out just because I want it to.”
Sunghoon didn’t respond at first. Then, “You don’t have to have it all figured out right now.”
You rolled onto your back, hair fanning against the pillow. “It’s just… he’s going to find me eventually.”
Sunghoon’s jaw tensed. You caught it even in the low light.
“If he does,” he said, “he’ll have to go through me.”
That made you look at him. Really look.
“You say that like it’s nothing,” you murmured.
He turned toward you too, eyes dark in the dim room. “It’s not nothing. But it’s not like I’d let him take you back.”
Your breath caught a little. “Why?”
“I don’t know.” A beat. “Maybe I hate watching people get trapped.”
Another silence stretched out between you. This one not so heavy. Just… unsure.
“Do you always talk like this in the middle of the night?” you asked, voice barely teasing.
He smirked faintly. “Only when the girl I just met ends up in my guest bed talking about her arranged marriage.”
You groaned and hid your face in the pillow. “God. That sounds so bad when you say it out loud.”
“You could stay,” he said, suddenly. “Longer. I mean. If you wanted.”
You blinked at the ceiling. “Sunghoon…”
“It’s not pressure,” he said quickly. “I just… I’d hate to see you go back to that stupid excuse of a man.”
You turned your head toward him again. His face was perfect, light coming from the dimly lit lamp on the bedstand casting a golden hue on his features.
You stared for a moment too long.
“Okay,” you said, softly. “Maybe just a little longer.”
His smile this time was bigger, he looked relieved, and happy.
His eyes dropped to your lips, making you unconsciously lick them, you could feel the heat emerging from his body, he slowly leaned in, stopping right before your lips, you nodded, silently giving him permission.
His lips found yours in honeyish kiss, it felt like heaven, the way his hands pulled you towards him as if he was afraid you'd leave him, as if you were his.
You did your best to kiss him back, you hadn't kissed much people, ever.
His lips captured you lower lip and nibbled on it softly biting it,"Mmm..yn" he hummed against your lips, before suddenly stopping.
"Am I.." He paused panting slightly, "Crossing any boundaries..?"
You were too breathless to answer so you just pulled him in for another stolen kiss, his lips were perfectly molded against yours, as if this was the love you were meant for in the first place.
"I want you, Hoon." You let out, "I want you to ruin me." you knew you'd be in big trouble if your father ever found out about this..fleeting romance but you couldn't care less.
"Are you sure? " His tone was more gently than a mother's caress, his eyes were never looking away from yours.
"More than ever." It was the green light for him.
This time, his lips didn't land on yours softly like earlier, this time it was all pent-up desire.
Your tongues were fighting a war, a sloppy one, he swiftly pulled you on his lap, gripping your hips tightly.
His lips travelled all over your body, leaving marks on your neck and collarbone, all while soft hums fell from your lips, you had never done this before, you know.
Soon enough both your clothes were on the floor, far forgotten.
He cupped your face and whispered in your ear, his lips brushing it ever-so slightly. "You look so beautiful under me, to my mercy."
You shivered, blushing at the compliment.
His hands immediatly went to your breasts, fondling them and kneading, "Hoon.." You whimpered, your body pushing forward as if hoping to feel the warmt of his body.
"Mmm..So fucking perfect." He smirked, his mouth catching a hardened nipple, sucking it while the other begged for the same.
He kept on humming, and you kept on squirming, silent moans leaving your red lips.
He finally left your nipple with a pop, looking at you straight in the eyes.
"I've been wanting this for so long.." His usually fierce eyes were drooping, he was staring at you like were his last meal.
Another passionate kiss was shared between you both, and just like before, you couldn't get enough of his sweet taste.
His lips were nearly fighting yours, his tongue deep in your mouth.
And sneakily his fingers dropped to your aching core.
"Ah!" a small gasp left your lips when his fingers teased your entrance, only fueling his arousal even more.
He slowly pumped his middle finger in and out of you, meanwhile his yes never left yours, as if he was hypnotized.
Moans and lewd noises were all you could hear, as your hips grinding mercilessly against his fingers when he added another.
"Already so wet and ready for me." He chuckled darkly staring at his slick fingers when he pulled them out before sucking them clean, causing a faint blush to spread on your cheeks.
"mmm..tastes just like I imagined, baby."
At this point, he hadn't even done much yet you were shaking, like litteraly trembling from anticipation.
He positioned himself with your entrance, dragging his fat tip along your drenched folds.
"Please, hoon..." You were begging him to fill you up just good.
"Since you're so polite."He chuckled and softly began thrusting his lenght in your tight hole.
The lewd sounds you were making were beyond embarassing to you, but Sunghoon couldn't care less, he only cared about how warm and welcome your pussy felt.
"Fuck this pussy was made for me." Only a few blabbered words were let out by you as moans continuously fell from your swollen lips.
You had done this before, but never with someone who truly cared.
The bed was rocking against the wall with every thrust of Sunghoon's hips.
He became even faster, gasps and cries were all you could say.
"Hoon!" You cried out as you felt yourself reach your high, "Cum on my cock, baby. Milk me.." His moves were sloppier now as the knot in your abdomen unraveled.
He came down from his high soon after you, filling the condom up.
His arm wrapped around your waist, and you rested your head on his shoulder.
"Hope you don't regret." You muttered looking at him,
The next morning, the air was earingly quiet, and calm, almost as if everything would go wrong.
You stood at the doorway with your arms crossed over your chest, not from the cold but from nerves. The same cardigan clung loosely to your frame, and your shoes—mud-stained from two nights ago.
Sunghoon was in the kitchen, stuffing some leftover rice and eggs into a container, pretending not to look at you too often. He did, though. Every few seconds.
He glanced up again. “You sure?”
Your fingers tightened a little around your sleeves. “I can’t stay here forever.”
“I know,” he said softly.
You stepped off the porch. The gravel crunched beneath your feet. Sunghoon followed, shouldering a duffel bag you hadn’t even seen him pack.
The sky was still pale, not quite morning-blue yet.
“Where are we even going?” you asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Far enough.”
You nodded once. The bag he held was heavier than it looked, and he adjusted it on his shoulder as he came around to open the passenger door of the old truck he’d driven here last night.
“Here,” he said, holding the door for you.
You didn’t move. Your eyes were flickering between him and the woods.
Sunghoon's grip on your hand tightened, his iris was trembling.
Your father stepped out from behind the rusty fence, two men trailing behind him. One of them, you recognized.
Sunghoon stepped forward instantly, placing himself between you and them,
“I’m not going with you,” you said, your voice was shaking, you were afraid of going back to the nightmare of a life you had before.
Your father laughed, it was mean. “You don’t have a choice.”
“Yes,” Sunghoon answered, “she does.”
“And who are you? The stray boy who picked her up off the side of the road?”
You felt Sunghoon stiffen beside you.
“I’m the one who kept her safe,” he said. “Which is more than I can say for you.”
Your father’s gaze darkened. “Enough.”
He turned to you. “Get in the car.”
You took a shaky step back. “No.”
One of the men moved. Sunghoon grabbed your wrist, tried to shield you, but they were much stronger.
You were being pulled away.
Sunghoon was yelling your name, fighting against two men who were twice his size.
And then the door slammed shut.
And here you were, back at home, back at where you are supposed to call home.
The moment you enetered the house, Youngjae didn't wait, he just simply pulled you in your shared-bedroom and let the nightmare start.
"So? Thought you could just run away like that?" His grip on your wrist was horribly strong and bruising, turning the area purple.
"Leave me alone..."You whispered, tears were flowing down your once beautiful and full of hope eyes.
"Should've thought it through when you fucking ran away, bitch" He fisted your hair pulling you towards the wall, "What a fucking stupid bitch" He laughed, he was laughing like he hadn't ruined your life the moment you saw him, he was the biggest nightmare.
"Please" You dropped to your knees, begging him, crying "Don't hurt me, I'm begging you" Your pleas and cries echoed in the room, but he just didn't have an ounce of sympathy in him. "Too bad, I'm in the mood."
He violently shoved you down the bed, "Did he fuck you yet, slut?" Another pull at the hair "Or am I the first?" He was laughing like a maniac, and you had just lost hope.
"I'm gonna put a child in you and no other fucking man wil want you." he was going to do it, he was going to trap you.
"Please-" you begged before a sharp slap came to your face, "I don't another word from you, get it?" He yelled.
He had left, but somehow you still felt him, on you, his disgusting touch all over your body.
You were bruised from head to toe, and you felt filthy.
You had been scrubing under the shower for what felt like an eternity but yet you still felt utterly disgusting.
"What did I do deserve this? What have I ever did wrong? Why me? Why do I always suffer?" Your silent pleas were only heard by you and whichever angel was with you, your back was against the bathtub, he was still inside of you, he had trapped you, he's a monster.
You had reached a limit, no thoughts apart death were behind your eyes.
They had ruined you, the one joyful, happy, extroverted, out-going, beautiful yn was gone, they killed her.
You marched slowly towards the kitchen, your turned all the stoves on, the other of gaz filling your nostrils.
You took a small lighter, the one your mother used to burn you with, you looked from the top of the stairs .
You waited for a few moments before your lit a small part of the curtain on fire, you left the house.
just for it to burn down a few seconds later.
Just the way they killed you.
Screams echoed, you recognized your mother's screams, your father's but most importantly Youngjae's.
You could've felt bad for the maids and butler's who perished along the devils.
You were the version they made.
Not the one you once were.
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