sunghoon comes home from a night out with his friends, rock hard and horny, and realizes the only other person in this house is his sleeping little stepsister
warnings: noncon/dubcon, stepcest/fauxcest, coercion, jerking off, mutual masturbation, dry sex, panty play, raw sex, lots of cum mention,
don’t like, don’t read.
~~~
You hear him before you feel him.
Sunghoon shuffles into your room and locks the door behind him just past one in the morning. He’s just gotten home from going out with his other friends, who are just as old as he is. Sunghoon tries to walk as quietly as he can, but his footsteps and the weight of his body climbing into bed with you is more than enough to wake you up?”
“Hoon?” you ask in your dark room. The moonlight filtering in from the curtain is the only thing you can see when you open your eyes.
“Sh. It’s just me.”
“Huh? Why are you here?”
Sunghoon pushes his chest closer to your back and puts his arm around your waist. His hand is big and warm and you feel it even though he’s only touched you for a second.
“You really shouldn’t be here.”
“Why?” Sunghoon whispers. “Just wanted to see my little sister, is all.”
“Step sister.”
He chuckles. “Yeah. Step sister.” You try to put a little bit of distance between the two of you, but Sunghoon follows your body and holds you there.
“How was your night?”
“So good. Got drunk with the guys. Don’t even know how I got home.”
“That’s dangerous, Hoonie.”
He noses the back of your neck and leaves a small kiss to your skin. “Always looking out for me, aren’t you, baby?”
“I’m not your baby.”
“Of course you are,” he says. “Who helped you adjust to high school? Who helped you with college applications and moving into your new dorm? Who drove the two of us back home for Christmas?”
“You’re right…”
“Silly baby. Go to sleep. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
And really, you try to shut your eyes and fall into slumber. But Sunghoon’s presence behind you and the newfound alertness keeps you from truly falling asleep. Instead, you opt to count sheep, watch the window, and do anything you think will help you sleep faster.
After a few minutes, you hear rustling coming from behind you. Even though you’re awake, you struggle to understand where the noise is coming from because surely Sunghoon is asleep like you’re supposed to be, right?
Only, his hand is not on your waist anymore. Where is his hand?
“Something wrong?” Sunghoon whispers, catching you in surprise and knocking you out of your head.
Your shake your head quickly and hear the blanket rustle again until you feel his fingers wrapping around your wrist. Your fingertips brush against something smooth and it jumps, making you gasp straight into the quiet room.
Your stomach sinks but the curiosity gets the better of you. It’s so warm and velvety. Your hand encircles him and giving it a curious squeeze, which makes him grunt lowly just beside your ear.
So he was jerking off right next to you. Sunghoon was jerking off in your bed and probably getting off on the fact that you would catch him straight in the act. And yes, even though your heart is floating near the bottom of your stomach, you stroke him.
His precum drips from the slit and he quietly moans into your neck. Neither of your parents are home, instead opting to have gone out to a Christmas party that neither of you cared too much for. Whereas you chose to stay indoors and watch movies, Sunghoon hit up old friends from high school for a drink or two. And now, the two of you were alone in this house.
Sunghoon is wet. Your hand spreads his slick all over him. “Fuck, baby… don’t stop touching me like that.”
And you don’t. Even if your brain is telling you to stop. There’s something about seeing this through that scares and entices you so much. What can’t you stop? Why don’t you want to stop?
Your panties are drenched by the time Sunghoon brushes his hand against your cunt. He hums in satisfaction and you speed up your movements as a result.
“You like that, don’t you? You like touching me while I touch you?” You shake your head and open your legs at the same time. He snakes his hand between your legs and runs the side of his index finger between your wet, covered lips.
“You’ve got the wettest little pussy, don’t you?”
You’re not trying very hard. In fact, Sunghoon’s finger switching to rubbing your hardened clit it making you drench even more. You can’t Will yourself to stop chasing his hand or keep your own from moving up and down. Sunghoon keeps moaning behind you and you keep felling conflicted because on one hand, this shouldn’t happen. On the other hand, hearing him moan like that makes your body and libido move on autopilot.
“Face me.”
He maneuvers your body until your chest is against his and Sunghoon pushes his lips to yours. He tastes like warm beer and his mouth is wet from slightly drooling. He’s fingering you from over your panties while he gently licks at your bottom lip like he’s eager to push his tongue into you but forces himself not to.
Sunghoon pulls your hand away from him and lifts his leg to create a makeshift tent underneath the blanket to allow you to see his bare dick and your wet panties. He grabs the base of himself and picked his naked tip right against your covered pussy, watching the way it’s pasted right against your slutty little hole.
“Hoon—”
“Relax,” he says with that voice he uses to help you calm down. “It’ll feel good. I promise.”
“I don’t think we should be doing this…”
“Why not? It’s not like we’re having sex.”
Fuck. Your clit pulses at that.
Sunghoon pushes his hips forward to thrust against your panties again. The bed gently creaks underneath the two of you the more he drives himself into you like this and you can’t help it the way your toes curl or the way you choke back a moan when he repeatedly puts an incredible amount of pressure onto your aroused clit.
He switches to guiding his tip to run over your pussy in a back and forth motion with small strokes. But it’s lethal and it actually pulls a moans out of you, and you feel ashamed for how good Sunghoon’s making you feel.
“Yes,” he says before kissing you. “It’s feels so good. It’ll feel even better like this.”
Your yelp is short lived because suddenly, Sunghoon is on his knees and on top of you while he tries to push his boxers below. His dick is huge. You can see it under the moonlight and your older brother’s stroking his cock while his wetness fills up your ears. Sunghoon’s huge balls bounce every time he strokes himself.
He slots his cock between your covered lips and watches himself glide right against you. Your light grey panties are darkened in color the more he smears your mixed juices all over you.
“See how good this feels?” Sunghoon asks. “Don’t question me again, yeah, baby? I want to make you feel good all the time.”
“Hoonie…”
“Fuck.” Sunghoon drags his hips faster until his hands are gripping the mattress beneath the two of you.
“Hoonie!”
“Need more,” he grunts to himself. He pulls his body back up and pushes your wet panties to the side and nudged his cockhead aggressively against your smooth, wet, and bare pussy.
“No! W-We can’t have sex!”
“We aren’t. I’m not gonna put it in, okay? I’m gonna stay right out here.”
Sunghoon releases himself and slots the underside of his dick onto you. It’s devious the way his precum smears over you. You can’t stop him from bumping your clit with every pass and your toes curl every time it does. Your spine jolts as you claw at his shoulders bus he just shakes his head and watches you claw the mattress instead.
“Wish we could fuck so bad. Not tonight but soon, okay? I promise we can. Don’t you want that too?”
“Hoonie…”
“Let Hoonie make you feel good. Sex is so important. We need it to stay happy, okay?”
You make the mistake of moaning.
“Yeah?” Sunghoon’s eyes light up and he speeds up his thrusts when he watches your eyes roll back. “You wanna have sex? Let’s have sex right now, fuck. Let’s fuck and fuck. We’ll fuck until the morning and then I’ll fuck you some more. Hoonie’s gonna fuck you until you’re full of my cum.”
“Our parents might be home soon,” you struggle to say with heavy breath.
“I don’t care,” he mumbles against your warm mouth.
Sunghoon pushes his dick inside of your hole, making you cream around him instantly. He moans loudly and grips your outer thigh while you wrap your arms around him and squeeze his body right into your own, legs enclosing his waist into you. He follows soon after and fucks his semen right back into you.
He fucks you twice more like that, then turns you over onto your stomach to play with your clit and asshole. His balls slang against your wet pussy, slapping the mixed cum right onto you and making you nastier than before. It splashes everywhere. Sunghoon licks your pussy clean before putting his messy dick right back into you, dirtying your hole all over again.
Midway through, you think it’s odd that your parents can’t hear you and your stepbrother fucking. It’s 4am now. Are they okay with this?”
On your bedside table lies one unopened text.
02:42
From: Family Chat
Hey, kiddos. Mom and I got too drunk and we’ll be staying over at the Yang’s. Will be home ib the morning. Have fun without us!
゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ S in which nothing cuts deeper than your hatred for park sunghoon, except the desire that waits underneath it. 、masterpost
𝓦 。ᐟ MDNI ⨾ SPOILERS INCLUDED、 profanity, angst, alcohol, unhealthy coping mechanisms (sex), denial, dissociation, jealousy, possessiveness, mutual obsession, ungodly amount of smut (17k words), dom!sunghoon, angry sex (with hoon) (finally), very rough sex, big dick hoon, p in v (wrap it), dry humping, oral (f rec), boobplay (reader has a rack), they both have very high sex drives, they’re both just insanely freaky tbh, brat reader, brat tamer!sunghoon, a very normal obsession with hoons biceps, diabolical amount of biting, just lots of teeth (lol), power play, rough manhandling, spit, fingering, size kink, mutual masturbation, overstimulation, orgasm denial, degradation, hair pulling, lots of dirty talk, heavy marking, edging, slight choking, spanking, window sex (it’s a one way window), he breaks the bed, praise kink, multiple orgasms, hand kink, condom / cum play 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒌 [✧] ꧁𓊈 prev 𒆜 next 𓊉꧂ 。WC 25000
READ PART ONE OF THIS CHAPTER HERE
FRIDAY MORNING
You weren’t planning on talking to him at all.
And you hadn’t—unless, obviously, you had to. For the sake of the public or whatever.
Because there’s only so much you can say to someone you’re legally bound to pretend to love when you can’t even look at him without wanting to punch him or throw up or cry or maybe do all three and then some more, and you haven’t decided which one would feel better yet. If at all.
You’d barely even gotten any sleep last night because you couldn’t shake a terrible feeling you had—though it wasn’t anything related to what you’d texted Sunoo about. No, your mind was quite made up on that matter.
You’d called Riki yesterday—just to make sure—and he’d said yeah, he was the one who took you home that night. So that should’ve been that. Except… it didn’t feel like that. But whatever. You had bigger things to worry about this morning.
When you got to the airport this morning, you did what you’ve always done; you schooled your face the way you’ve known your whole life—chin up, smile that doesn’t reach your eyes, turn towards the best lighting angle, and give them something pretty to photograph. You’d actually thought to yourself for a second that this might be easy if you just do the thing where you step outside of yourself and pretend you’re also watching it happen from somewhere in the crowd.
And then he’d touched you.
He slid his hand around your waist—his palm flat and warm against the dip of your waist, and for one stupid second, your whole body had gone absolutely rigid.
Smile. Just fucking smile—you’d thought to yourself.
And then you leaned into him like you’d done it a hundred times before—because you had, in another lifetime. Because pretending is the only thing you’ve ever been good at your whole life.
Someone had yelled both your names, and he must have noticed how tense you’d physically been because at one point he’d dipped his head close enough that his mouth almost brushed your ear, and he whispered, “Relax, darling.” Just to taunt you.
You wanted to elbow him in the ribs. You wanted to grind your heel into his stupid, polished shoe and to keep walking and let the whole world watch him flinch like an idiot.
Instead, you’d breathed through your teeth and kept smiling until you were finally through the sliding doors and the noise of the crowd had faded behind the glass.
And then you went back to keeping your distance—because the hardest part was done. You hovered near him just enough for it to seem believable, and after a while, once you were inside the gate, he slid his hand around your waist again, ever so casually.
You stopped dead. “Don’t.”
He didn’t even glance at you. “Don’t be a fucking brat.”
You blinked. “The hell did you just say?”
“People talk.” He smiled simply and jerked his chin forward, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Behave.”
You stared at him for a long second, then looked around. “There’s no one here, you dick.”
“There’s always someone here, sweetheart,” he said with that mocking kind of smile of his that made your blood boil, and then tilted his head toward the corner where two assistants were whispering behind their tablets, pretending they weren’t watching.
You had dug your nails into your palms so hard that the crescents stayed there for several minutes afterward.
By the time you got on the plane, you were seconds away from fully losing it. Maybe it was the fact that you were heavily sleep deprived, or how your head still had a faint ache to it, or maybe, just maybe—crazy—the fact that this… this is actually your life now. But anyway, you didn’t wait for him to say a word—just immediately slid into the window seat and turned your face away like the sight of him would physically burn you if you stared at him a second longer.
He sat down beside you, of course. Because of course he did. Because where else would he sit?
“Don’t start,” you said under your breath without even looking at him.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Yeah, well, don’t.”
He leaned back in his seat, and his voice was low. “You always this pleasant in the mornings?”
You turned your head just enough to glare at him. “You wanna die?”
He didn’t say anything back this time. Not even a smirk. Just looked at you for a second too long, the muscle in his jaw ticking once before he clicked his tongue and turned his head toward the aisle.
You furrowed your brows a little at that—not that you cared, obviously, but it was weird. He usually always had something smug to say back, some shitty comeback waiting on his tongue.
But you don’t see the way he looks back at you then and almost opens his mouth to say something, not really—you’re too busy pretending the window’s the most fascinating thing you’ve ever looked at in your life.
The thing is, Sunghoon remembers that night enough for the two of you.
He remembers it in a way that makes him want to claw it out of his own head. The way your voice had gone small, how your fingers had curled weakly around his arm, how you’d leaned into him like you used to before everything went to hell, and how you’d whispered that you miss him into the crook of his neck like you’d been holding it on the tip of your tongue this whole time.
And it had gutted him, sure, but not in the way you’d think. It wasn’t tender, it wasn’t sad—it was anger tearing through him. Because even drunk, even out of your mind, you still managed to sink your teeth into the one part of him he’d killed off years ago. He wanted to say a million cruel things—to throw it all back at you, to make you feel the same sick heat that had been rotting in his chest since that night.
But you didn’t seem to remember.
So he let it go and told himself it was better this way. That it would be easier for you to hate him if you never remembered, and easier for him to hate you even more if you did.
But anyway, you shoved your earbuds in and continued to stare hard out the window as the engines started rumbling. You felt him glance your way once—maybe twice—but you don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing you noticed. You shift against the window, fold your arms, and will yourself to sleep.
When you finally drift off, your head tips slightly toward him.
He doesn’t move.
Not for a long time.
FRIDAY NOON
The hard part, for most of it, was over.
Well. Not really. But at least you’d somehow already gotten through the ribbon cutting—the cameras, the press, and all the polite laughter and smiling that made your cheeks ache.
The two of you had barely spoken after the plane ride, and the car ride from the airport to the hotel had been so painfully silent you’d felt bad that Ningning had to sit through it. You almost considered talking to him just so the poor girl wouldn’t have to suffer in there.
Almost.
You walked beside Sunghoon while the hotel director—who was practically bowing every time Sunghoon opened his mouth—showed you around. He went on about where the guests would come in for the event later tonight, how the dinner would be set up, where the photographers would stand, and a bunch of other things you didn’t really wanna know. Honestly, you’d stopped pretending to pay attention halfway through.
The stale politeness of everyone trying too hard to impress Sunghoon, seeing as he is here in his father’s stead, makes you want to crack your head against the nearest wall just to feel something real. That’s the whole reason you were sent here in the first place. Mr. fucking Park couldn’t oversee the grand opening of his own godforsaken hotel because of some last-minute business elsewhere, and that left Sunghoon and, of course, you.
The tour he was giving you had gone down toward the main lounge to a wide open space just off the lobby where a handful of investors and partners had already gathered for drinks and light refreshments. So that’s where you are right now.
You’d already had to talk to so many men that you’d lost count, and every single one of them somehow managed to make you feel worse than the last. All you wanted was to sit down somewhere quiet and take these goddamn heels off somewhere—anywhere but here—anywhere that didn’t make you feel like a fucking display piece beside him.
You were already at your limit, and the day hasn’t even properly started.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
Sunghoon, on the other hand, was doing just fine. Too fine. To the point where it actually pissed you off (like every other thing he did.) Seeing him all polished and well-spoken like this, you’d almost forget the filth and cruelty that could come out of his mouth when it was just the two of you.
For just a second there, your mind almost drifted somewhere else… back to a time where you hadn’t even thought he was capable of ever being cruel entirely, but you shook your head and stopped yourself before it went too far.
Anyway, point being, you were about one more bit of small talk over a champagne flute away from losing your fucking mind.
“Your father must be proud,” says one of the international partners—who looks like he’s in his mid-fifties—loud enough to pull you out of your thoughts. His wedding ring looks like it hasn’t been worn with love in years, and you already hate him. But he’s important, which means you have to be nice, even if the sight of his hungry eyes lingering on you longer than necessary makes you want to hurl your guts out. “You’re so young and already carry yourself with such poise and intellect, and I’m sure you’ll make a fine successor soon enough. Especially with a beautiful wife like that by your side.”
Beautiful. That’s all you get.
Meanwhile, you’d think Sunghoon built the whole goddamn hotel with his bare hands with how they’ve been praising him ever since you set foot into this building. It’s actually getting ridiculous.
You can feel yourself being made smaller and smaller with every passing minute—and the main part of you worth acknowledging in this room is the fact that you’re here with him.
And fucking hell, the way these men look at you is so fucking invasive to the point where you want to crawl out of your own skin just to escape it—or better yet, shove your half-empty champagne glass into the eye of the next man old enough to be your father who looks at you like you’re some kind of toy or something.
You come from a family that built entire industries, and your father alone could buy out half the men in this room and still sleep just fine at night. They all know it, too. They just choose to forget the second they look at you. And it’s fucking driving you insane… because you’ve spent your whole life trying to be taken seriously, learning and doing things most people your age wouldn’t even know how to ask about, let alone think of—to prove that you actually belong in the world you’ve been born into. But it doesn’t actually matter, does it? Not when all they see is a neckline and a pretty face standing next to a better suit and tie.
“And Mrs. Park,” the man turns to you with a creepy grin that makes your stomach actually twist in disgust, “You are quite the vision, such a fine accessory for such a fine gentleman.”
Well.
If you’ve learned anything this past week, it’s that it can, in fact, always get worse.
The fact that he called you an accessory is surprisingly not even the worst part about the filth that just left his mouth—it’s the Mrs. Park attached to it ever so casually—and it’s about… exactly the fifth time that has happened ever since you landed in Japan… You two weren’t even fucking married whatsoever. No, seriously, what the fuck is everyone’s problem? You truly only exist in relation to him in this fucking building. Do they know who you are?
You consider going off script and actually responding to him—maybe to ask if he plans on actually addressing you directly or just through your proximity to the stupid, putrid asshole beside you, maybe to even tell him to go to fucking hell and stop eyeing you in a way that is making your skin prickle with anger and humiliation—but you don’t get the chance.
Because suddenly, he’s speaking.
“Ah, Mr. Nakamura—She’s not Mrs. Park,” Sunghoon says, all too easily and politely, as he lifts his champagne to his lips and takes a slow sip, then, after a moment, he adds, “Not yet, anyway.”
Your mouth might’ve dropped open a little bit, but you catch it. Sort of. You try to recover and force a small, polite smile that feels like it doesn’t belong on your face.
He goes on, “My apologies, I seem to have forgotten to properly introduce her. This is Y/N Y/L/N. Daughter of Chairman Y/L/N of Han Empire—surely you’re familiar?”
That gets him. The man blinks and his smile falters nervously, and you can almost taste the awkwardness in the air.
Sunghoon’s mouth curls into a practiced smile as the man in front of him eyes him with surprise, and a clear apologetic look. “She actually laid the foundation of the entire PR direction for this launch herself and balances a full course load at university on top of that,” he adds and sets his champagne down. “If you knew half the things she’s capable of, you’d know I’m the accessory here.”
Huh?
For a second, it almost hit something soft in you—something that makes you think of your father, the way he’d always step in for your mother when men like this used to do the same thing. The quiet, dignified way he’d shield her without making her feel small.
But you know better than to mistake what Sunghoon just did for that.
It’s not about you. It will never be about you. And you don’t want it to be.
It’s only ever about optics for him. He’s made sure to remind you of that time and time again.
And you really, really hate that you needed someone else to speak for you at all—especially him—when you’ve never once felt small in rooms like this before.
The man nods and laughs a little too loudly, and then he does the whole “Oh, of course! Your father is such a blah blah blah; your family is blah blah routine," as he finally reaches out to shake your hand properly. But you barely register it. All you can see is Sunghoon and his infuriating smug face, and the way he lifts his champagne toward you with that faint smirk tugging at his mouth. Then the man in front of you excuses himself a moment later, muttering something you couldn’t quite understand before slipping back into the crowd.
And just like that, it’s only you and Sunghoon again for the first time since the airplane.
You look at him again, and he’s still looking at you with the same smirk plastered on his stupid face. You consider slapping it off for a second—just to do something with all this pent-up anger bubbling in your chest. But instead, you take a smooth step closer, your arm brushing his as you lean in—close enough that anyone walking past would think you were whispering something sweet to your boyfriend.
“Are you fucking enjoying this?” you say through your teeth.
Sunghoon’s smile doesn’t even falter. “Who said I’m enjoying this, sweetheart?” he murmurs back, voice low enough that only you can hear.
“Stop that—it’s written all over your face,” you say flatly, still smiling as you watch people pass you by. “You look like you’re having the fucking time of your life.”
He doesn’t respond right away and only studies you with that unreadable look of his before saying, “Tsk. You think I like standing here listening to them talk like that? To speak to them about you?”
Fucking prick.
“Then don’t fucking speak. I don’t need you to speak for me,” you murmur after a moment, still keeping your face pleasant. “And you can keep your stupid compliments to yourself. I’m capable of introducing myself just fine.”
You barely register the movement until you feel the light pressure of his hand sliding around your waist again—his touch is warm. Too warm. It settles at your hip like it belongs there, pulling you in just enough that from across the room, you probably look like you’re in love.
You feel sick.
“You sure?” he murmurs, leaning in just enough that his breath brushes your ear. “Because the last five times they called you Mrs. Park, you just stood there and smiled like a good little wife.”
Your fingers tighten around your champagne glass as you turn to face him, and you’re so close it’s almost ridiculous—to the point where you can see the media training assistants in your head with their eyes going wide—close enough to feel his breath when he speaks. You consider shoving him off, but there are entirely too many people around for that.
“Okay,” you say, too sweetly, and give him a very ridiculous mocking smile. “Next time they say it, I’ll just shove this fucking champagne glass up their asses, then. No—seriously, what the fuck did you want me to do? Ridicule your name in front of your father’s precious investors? Hey! Maybe I should even tell them that we’re not even a—”you mouth the word couple.“—Like a real good little wife.”
He smiles at a couple walking past and lifts his hand to gently adjust a strand of hair falling over your shoulder.
You stay frozen.
Then he dips his head even lower until his lips brush the shell of your ear. “Maybe just try growing a spine instead,” he murmurs. “You talk big when it’s me, but the second someone else speaks over you, you just stand there and take it.”
This fucking asshole. You were actually at your limit.
“You’re one to talk about spines, Sunghoon,” you snap, though still composed. “You don’t even have a fucking backbone—”
You stop yourself immediately.
Because what you’d almost absentmindedly said was you ran away from me for three years. You avoided me like I was nothing. Like I hadn’t meant anything. Like we never—you clench your jaw, swallowing it all down so hard it makes your throat burn. You hate your brain; you truly, truly, do.
He brushes his fingers just slightly over your waist and leans in again with that same smug fucking smirk. “Don’t get shy,” he murmurs. “What is it you wanted to say about me and my backbone? Hmm?”
“Fuck off,” you whisper, your voice still sugarcoated in a smile, as if you’re teasing. Like you’re flirting. Like you’re normal. “And get your fucking hands off me.”
But he doesn’t move. He just looks right at you.
It feels like the entire room has shrunk down to just the space between you.
“You’re annoying, you know that?” he mutters under his breath after a beat and catches you off guard. “You turn everything into a fucking moral standpoint and take it personally. It’s fucking exhausting.”
You clench your jaw. “You’re such a fucking—”
“Careful,” he interrupts and squeezes your waist enough to make you hiss for a moment—he’s smiling wider now and whispering right into your ear. “We’re in public.”
You step aside a bit, and then your hand moves down to where his hand is on your waist, and you try to brush it off subtly, but he tightens his grip and keeps it there.
You just stare at him.
“The whole point of us being here is to sell the image that we’re a strong couple,” he goes on smoothly. “That just now? I didn’t do it to defend you. I couldn't care less what they call you.”
“Right,” you scoff. “God forbid I ever forget what a gentleman you are.”
But he doesn’t stop. He goes on.
“I wouldn’t even waste a breath if the circumstances were different,” he says, and pauses—just for a second—when a waiter steps in between you to quietly take his empty champagne glass. He’s smiling like his jaw aches from holding something worse back when he whispers to you, “But unfortunately, as long as they think we’re a couple—” he tilts his head just a fraction, “you’re my responsibility. So shut up and take it.”
Like fucking hell he could talk to you like that.
You shake your head and laugh lowly. “Get right with God today, because I’m going to kill you—”
“Tsk,” he interrupts, smiling wider now, whispering right into your ear. “Again, people are watching. Be a good girl, Hmm?”
You’re about to open your mouth and tell him not to ever call you that again if he wants to live to see another day—
“Sunghoon?”
A soft voice comes from in front of the two of you, and for a second before your mind even registers it, a decayed pit reopens in your stomach.
And then you look up, and it’s her.
“Sooha,” Sunghoon greets her, and you feel the way his hand loosens around your waist. The sound of her name still makes something in you go tight, just like it used to when you were seventeen. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Neither did I,” Sooha smiles at Sunghoon as she walks towards the two of you and ignores you entirely. “I heard Mr. Park couldn’t make it, so I thought—well, it had to be you filling in. It’s been so long… well, a few months. But still!”
Right. This is the part where you go back in your head. Well… You’ve been in here the whole day. Anyways, did she just say I thought it’d be you filling in? Pfft. Liar. Your joint appearance was all over the news.
Wait. A few months?
Your teeth catch the inside of your cheek. You don’t know why that small addition makes something inside you burn. Maybe it’s the tone… how she said it like she wants you to know something you don’t. Or that she knows something she shouldn’t.
Sunghoon smiles softly, and your nails absentmindedly dig into your palms again. “Yeah. It really has been a while.”
You don’t miss the way she’s still pretending you don’t exist. You can see it written all over her—the pointed glances, the deliberate tone, and the small tilt of her head when she speaks only to him. The fuck? Are we seventeen again? As if you have time for this fucking bullshit right now.
Doesn’t matter if she ignored you or not, because you and Sooha have always been on opposite ends of the room, even when you weren’t—God, you really thought you were over this. All this ancient, dried-up, pathetic bullshit that makes your stomach turn inside out, all because of some night when you were seventeen and stupid and too young to know that there are some memories that stick in your ribs forever.
Not that you care. You don’t care. It was forever ago. It was before anything—before everything, actually. Just a party, a door left half-open, someone moaning, and then you, standing dumb and frozen, watching Sooha’s leg slide over Sunghoon’s hip while he kissed her neck like he meant it. You remember thinking you should leave, or maybe just set yourself on fire in front of them to burn their eyes the same way. Instead, you frantically apologized and stormed out like an idiot, and Sunghoon chased you down the hall—tripping over his own shoes, saying your name like he owed you something when he didn’t really, like he even had anything to explain in the first place.
You had your first proper ugly fight that night. The first of way too many. He was red-faced and breathless, and you were crying so hard you couldn’t breathe, and you swore you’d never think about it again. And you hadn’t until now.
(You are, obviously, an adult. It does not matter. You are not mad. You do not care.)
And the worst part? Even before that night, even before any of it, Sooha always had a way of making you feel… small. This wasn’t even really about him. She never had to say much (though, God help you, she did)—just the way she’d look at you, the tilt of her chin, the mocking laughter at anything you said like you’d said something weird, and all the sly little digs you’d pretend not to hear because you like to think you’re above passive-aggressive childish shit. All in all, She’d been making you feel out of place since the day you met her, always so amused at your expense.
Then—Sunghoon’s hand tightens again at your waist, just slightly, but it’s enough to pull you a little closer to him and out of your thoughts, and you immediately see Sooha’s gaze drop to where his hand rests against you and then back up to your face. You also don’t miss the way her smile twitches for a moment.
She lets out a breathy laugh. “Ah, Sunghoon-ah… you were always one for public displays of affection.” Sooha shakes her head a little as if she’s recalling a memory fondly. “Oh, sorry—where are my manners?” (Have you ever had any? You think.) “I guess congratulations are finally in order for you two.” Then she actually turns to you with amusement and a wide smile, like you’ve only just materialized beside him. “Y/N, it’s so nice to see you again. I almost didn’t recognize you without your glasses—you look so different.”
Here we go…
You didn’t even wear your glasses that often for her to be saying that. Like you actually can’t remember the last time you’d worn them publicly yourself.
You bite down on a scoff. “You too, Sooha. You look exactly the same,” you say, smiling ever so politely. “Lovely as always.”
Her eyes dart between the two of you, and you can tell she has a million things she wants to say. She settles for, “You two seem… happy,” and you can practically hear the mocking punctuation on it.
Sunghoon holds you just a little tighter, and he looks at you for a brief moment. “We are,” he says, and caresses the side of your waist gently. Then he turns back to Sooha and clears his throat. “How’s your father doing?”
Sooha turns back to him, and her expression immediately softens in a way only you could ever tell. “Oh, he’s good. Busy, as always. I’m mostly here on his behalf—he still insists on doing everything himself, but he’s finally realizing he’s not thirty anymore.” She laughs softly, brushing her hair back. “He was just telling me about the last time you came to Tokyo with him. That must’ve been, what… two years ago now?”
“Three,” Sunghoon corrects, and he’s still smiling, and you hate the way that smile of his hits you like a punch. It’s easy. Soft. Effortless. Familiar. Too familiar and not familiar all at once.
Sooha laughs again. “God, I remember that trip too,” she touches his arm lightly as she says it, her fingers just barely grazing the fabric of his sleeve, like she has every right to. “You and my brother got into that ridiculous argument over dinner—what was it even about again?”
Sunghoon didn’t pull away from her touch.
“I just remember getting very drunk, to be honest,” he says, a small grin tugging at his mouth as he shakes his head. “Your brother wouldn’t let it go for days.”
“And he still refuses to tell me what you’d rambled about that night!” she laughs again, and you almost scrunch your face to mock her.
What the hell do you look like just standing here? It just pisses you off even more—obviously because you’re exhausted—and you keep your chin up and let them talk or catch up or whatever… this was.
You’re just tired. That’s all.
Sooha glances at his hand on your waist again before looking back up at him. “No, but seriously, Sunghoon, I’m so happy for the two of you,” she smirks, and you can tell she’s about to say something diabolically passive-aggressive by the look on her face. “Didn’t actually think you had it in you to settle down.”
There it is.
You can’t help it—your fingers curl around his sleeve and you tug him even closer. You don’t even give a fuck, really. It’s the principle of it—the way she thinks she can talk like that, like she’s the one standing on higher ground. Especially after the day you’ve had.
You smile sweetly at her. “He’s full of surprises,” you say.
You’re fucking tired, you think again. That’s what this was about. No fucking way are you taking this from her, too. Though honestly, maybe you should. Poor girl. Maybe you should let her have it. Let her hold onto whatever scraps she’s grasping for. Because that’s all this is, isn’t it? A sad little reach for something that doesn’t exist anymore. You all left that behind a long time ago.
“Not that surprising, honestly,” Sooha murmurs almost to herself, swirling the champagne in her glass.
Just about why was she still here, exactly?
It’s hard to tell if she meant that as a compliment or a dig, but at this point you don’t care enough to figure it out. Your head is pounding, your toe’s throbbing in your heel, and you’ve been so good all fucking day.
You’re allowed one slip.
“Ah—we have a busy night ahead,” you coo softly, turning to Sunghoon. “We should get going. Haven’t even had the chance to freshen up upstairs yet, right, Hoonie?”
The nickname drips from your tongue like venom dressed as sugar, and it takes everything in you not to burst out in laughter at the way Sooha’s expression twists—and just how silly you actually felt—and you feel Sunghoon tense beside you.
You turn to look at him and he’s already looking at you like he’s trying to figure something out.
He licks his lips. “Right,” he says and smiles mockingly at you—which, to Sooha might seem genuine, but you know it too well to mistake it for anything sweet—then his eyes flick over to Sooha and he tips his head towards you, “She gets cranky if I keep her waiting too long,” then he looks back at you. “Wouldn’t want that, would we, sweetheart?”
Piece of shit. (To be fair—again—you started it.)
You turn back to see Sooha’s smile gone entirely as her eyes flicker between the two of you. A win is a win.
“Of course,” she says, stepping back. “Don’t let me keep you. It was… nice seeing you both.”
You hum, lips curving into a tight smile. “Oh, it was so nice seeing you.”
Sunghoon nods once, gaze flicking between the two of you. “I’m sure I’ll see him later—but send your father my regards,” he says. “It was good seeing you.”
Sooha reaches out again, resting her hand on his arm—slower this time. “You too. Really.” Then her eyes cut back to you and her smile is syrupy-sweet and all too fake. “Enjoy the rest of your night, Y/N.”
This time, Sunghoon shifts away from her touch.
You mirror her smile and take a sip from your champagne. “Oh, we will.”
The second Sooha turns her back and disappears into the crowd, you move without thinking. You grab Sunghoon’s hand where it’s still resting at your waist—and this time, you don’t care who’s watching—and shove it off.
He barely flinches, but when you look up at him, his expression is… unpleasant. His nostrils flare once, and you can tell he’s pissed.
Good. That makes two of you.
Though pissed doesn’t even begin to cover how you’re feeling right now.
“Don’t ever,” you start, voice just low enough for only him to hear, “fucking touch me again.”
You don’t wait for a response. You just turn on your heel and start walking. You can hear him follow almost immediately, his shoes clicking against the marble floor just behind yours.
“Y/N,” he says roughly.
You don’t turn around. You don’t even slow down. You just keep walking.
“Y/N.”
This time it comes out even sharper, and you’re just about to turn and tell him to fuck off when a voice distracts you again—though this time it’s the hotel director, and he’s coming toward you.
“Ah! There you two are! Mr. Park, Miss Y/L/N—everything’s been arranged upstairs,” the hotel director says as he steps forward, bowing politely with a nervous smile. Ningning is right beside him, tablet in hand, eyes darting between you and Sunghoon. “The staff will begin closing preparations here soon, so you’re welcome to head up and rest before the event. We’ll notify you once the final checks are complete and preparations start—we will be on standby should you need any assistance in the meantime.”
Ningning smiles and adds quickly. “The event starts in five hours, so you’ll have some time to rest before then and before the photographers arrive.”
You force a small smile that doesn’t touch your eyes. “Perfect,” you say. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” The director bows slightly, then gestures toward the elevators. “Please—this way.”
HOTEL ROOM
The suite is bright and cold and perfect.
Of course it was. Everything under the Park name always was.
Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the city, the skyline glinting beneath the faint layer of rain that had started to fall. There was a long couch by the window, beige and perfectly arranged. A tray on the desk held a bottle of champagne in ice, with two glasses neatly and beautifully placed next to it like it was waiting for someone to celebrate something worth celebrating, and a folded card with Park Group’s crest embossed in gold.
And then there was the bed.
It looks like a goddamn honeymoon spread. Ridiculous rose petals are carefully scattered — though still elegant and simple — across the blanket, and there are two perfectly folded robes waiting on the armchair.
You can almost hear the universe laughing at you.
You stood still for a second. “There’s one fucking bed,” you huff to no one in particular.
Sunghoon barely glances at you. “Yeah?” He sounds bored. “So?”
What the hell does he mean by that? So? So?
You glance at the couch by the window. It’s long, sure, but not long enough for a man his size. A part of you almost wants to tell him to enjoy breaking his neck trying to fit on it.
You scoff. “So, you’re sleeping on the couch.”
He follows your gaze. He seems to have come to the same conclusion as you, because he lets out a short, humorless laugh. “No, I’m not.”
“You are,” you snap.
“I’m not.”
You ignore him and walk over to the bed, staring at the stupid petals lined up on it. “Actually, no, forget it. I’m getting another room.” You turn toward the door again, because there’s no way in hell you’re sleeping on that bed in the same fucking room as him. “You can enjoy your lover’s suite or whatever the hell this is—”
“And how the fuck do you think that’s gonna look?” he cuts you off.
You turn around with your brows furrowed. “Like I want another fucking room!”
He leans against the desk and rolls his sleeves up. “You really think you can walk up to the front desk and ask for another room when half the staff already thinks we’re married, Mrs. Park?” He tilts his head, voice low, and you flinch at the way he called you that. “You want that story getting around before they’ve even finished setting up the ballroom downstairs for tonight? Huh?”
“I don’t care how it looks,” you sneer. “And don’t call me that.”
He huffs a small laugh. “Yeah. You say that now.”
See, the thing is, you wanted to argue. You really did. But you couldn’t. Because you knew he was right. And you obviously weren’t going to get another room… you just— you just… you don’t know anything anymore.
You swallow back the first response that comes to mind. But then you remember you don’t have to pretend anymore.
“You’re such a dick,” you mutter.
He hums. “You’ve said that before.”
“Yeah, well,” you shoot back, "I'll say it again. And again. And again. You’re a dick.” you glance at the bed again and then point to the left side of it. “You’re a fucking dick, and you’re staying on your side of the fucking room.”
He lifts a brow. “Wasn’t planning otherwise.”
“Good,” you bite.
“Great,” he huffs back.
Then he shrugs off his jacket, and the mattress dips under his weight as he sits down on the bed—the petals shifting slightly where he leans back on his hands.
You stand there for another few seconds, watching him, and then you raise a brow.
The hell is he playing at?
“Get the fuck out,” you hiss.
Sunghoon groans and drags a hand down his face. “Jesus fucking Christ, will you just shut up for one second?”
“I’m serious,” you say, “Get the fuck out of this room.”
He looks up at you slowly, like you’re being ridiculous. “I’m not getting out.”
Your nostrils flare. “I’m not joking, Sunghoon.”
He clicks his tongue. “Think I’m joking?”
“Unbelievable,” you mutter under your breath, pacing a few steps away just so you don’t throw something at him. You stop by the window, breathing hard, trying to remember the last time you didn’t feel like you were about to explode. Then you turn back to him. “I want to shower.”
He finally looks up properly, an eyebrow raised. “So?”
“So?” you mock him. “So! stop saying so, you bitch! so get the fuck out, that’s what! You’ve lost your damn mind if you think I’m showering with you in here.”
He grins faintly. It’s nothing short of twisted. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”
You let out a sharp laugh that doesn’t sound like one at all. “Oh, go fuck yourself. Do you think this is funny?”
He finally looks at you properly then—really looks. His head tilts, eyes narrowing a fraction, voice calm in that infuriating way of his. “I think you’re losing your shit over a hotel room.”
Oh, okay.
You feel something in you start to snap — that thin thread you’d been holding onto all day, through the flight, through the car ride over here, through Sooha and her smug little smile, the exhaustion, the demeaning conversations, the pretending, and the way he gets under your skin so easily. The whole fucking day. The whole fucking year.
It all spills out at once.
“Over a hotel room?” you repeat, disbelief twisting your mouth into something that’s not quite a smile. “You—” you take a step closer, jabbing a finger toward him, “—don’t get to tell me what I’m losing my shit over, do you fucking understand? you have no idea how I’m fucking feeling—you’re just—” You stop, breath catching halfway through, hands trembling at your sides. “You’re just—”
He rises slowly from the bed, and that stupid, unreadable expression drops from his face. He’s looking at you now, properly looking, and it’s infuriating—because he’s looking over your shoulder like he’s bored.
“Go on,” he says quietly, and the calm in his voice is the kind that makes your teeth grind. “Finish it.”
“Forget it.”
He takes a step closer. “No. Say it.”
Your pulse thuds in your throat. “I said forget it.”
Another step. He is close enough that you can see the faint line where he pins his tongue to the roof of his mouth when he thinks. “You don’t get to start and not finish,” he says.
His face is so blank, so infuriatingly composed. That smug, patronizing calm of his. That same look he wears when he thinks he’s right. You feel heat rush up your neck. You want to scream. You want to slap it off his fucking face.
“You think I’m losing my shit over a hotel room?” you say, voice rising. “You think this is about a fucking bed?” you shove him very hard then, and the contact jolts through your arm. “You want me to fucking finish it?” you spit. “Fine. I’ll fucking finish it.”
You don’t even give him time to react.
“I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be in this room with you. I don’t want to be doing this fake—whatever the fuck this is. I don’t want any of it. I don’t want to keep pretending like everything’s fine when I feel like I’m losing my mind every time you so much as look at me!”
He shakes his head and clicks his tongue, and for a second he looks almost bored.
Then he gestures with the faintest lift of his chin at the bed, at the ridiculous petals, at the robes folded like an invitation. “You think I wanted to do this?” he snaps, and the vein in his neck ticks. “You think I signed up for this bullshit so I could spend a weekend in a honeymoon suite getting bitched at every ten seconds?”
“I don’t give a fuck what you want and don’t want,” you bite back, and your throat burns. You don’t even know if you’re making sense anymore, but the words keep coming, tumbling out before you can stop them, then you jab a finger at him, “And you shut the fuck up. I’m talking.”
He clenches his jaw. “Don’t fucking tell me to shut up.”
“I just did,” you scowl. “Shut. Up.”
“Y/N,” he warns.
You step forward, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Shut up.” Another jab. “Shut up.” One more, harder this time. “Shut. Up.”
“Stop it—”
“No, you stop it!” you snap, and it’s even louder. “I’m so tired of pretending! And it’s only… This is our first fucking bullshit trip together! I don’t want to sit next to you and smile and act like everything’s fine when it’s not. I don’t want to do it anymore. Today was… Do you have any idea what it’s like to walk into a room and feel people sizing you up like you’re not even a person?”
You press your palms flat to your thighs because you cannot keep your hands still. “I don’t want to step inside a room where I feel so fucking uncomfortable I can’t even breathe. Where people look at me like I’m just a body to stand beside you. Like I’m not—” Your voice shakes, and you force the last word out. “Like I’m not me.”
For a second, all you can hear is the sound of your own heartbeat.
He closes his eyes for a fraction of a second, and when he opens them there is an expression you have only seen a few times before—an unimpressed amusement that looks exactly like someone watching a child have a tantrum. It makes something ugly crawl under your skin all the more.
“Done?”
You stare at him, shaking. You can’t tell if you want to laugh or scream. You let out a sound that’s somewhere in between, shaking your head because—really? That’s still all he has to say?
You shove him again without thinking. This time you put everything into it and he actually really stumbles back and his foot catches on the edge of the rug. He blinks—looks surprised—then annoyed, then the annoyance melts into something small and close to a smile that he poorly tries to hide.
“You’re such a fucking dick,” you spit, chest heaving.
His voice drops to a whisper so low you almost miss it. “You’re so angry you don’t even know what you’re angry at anymore.”
You glare at him.
“You.”
A beat passes.
“You. Always you,” you huff.
“Then get it out of your system,” he says.
You scoff. “What?”
“All of it,” he shrugs, tone maddeningly calm. “Say everything else. Go on. There’s more.”
For a moment you wonder if he’s fucking serious, and anger floods you again, hotter and more precise—and your hands ball into fists so hard your knuckles whiten. Your nails dig into your palms and the sting grounds you for a moment.
“You’re not worth the fucking breath anymore,” you snap, because if you keep going, you’re going to spiral, and you know it, and if you spiral, you’re going to do something very fucking stupid, and you can’t—
“Oh, really?” he cuts in quietly. “That why you played house so well downstairs? Acting like some clingy little girlfriend in front of—”
“Acting!” You cut in before he can finish. “Yes! Acting!” You shove him—hard, all over again—because you can’t stand his face for another second. He barely stumbles this time, and it pisses you off even more. “Because I have to act! You said it yourself—we have to keep up appearances. We have to sell the fucking story.”
You can hear yourself getting louder, but you can’t stop. “But the second it’s not some old man eyeing me like he wants to fuck me—” you jab a shaking finger into his chest, “—the second your dick gets wet, I’m wrong? That’s where you draw the line? Why the fuck are you angry?”
“Maybe I am angry,” he spits. “Maybe I’m fucking furious. Maybe I want to shake you until you get it through your thick skull that none of this matters. That none of them matter. That you—” He stops, veins ticking in his neck. “God, you make me so fucking mad.”
Before you can shove him again, he grabs your wrists—both hands locking around them tight. The sound that leaves you isn’t quite a gasp, not quite a curse, just something raw that dies halfway in your throat. You look down at his hands around your wrists, then up at him.
And it’s stupid how close you are.
And it’s even more stupid how the room instantly shrinks down to the two of you and the rain and the stupid spread of rose petals on a bed neither of you will sleep on, and a simmering heat pooling in your chest since God knows when.
You can feel his breath. You can feel your pulse in your throat and in your wrists and under your skin, pounding loud and fast. And for one dizzy second, you can’t tell if you want to hit him or just—
You want to. God, you want to—
You wrench your hands out of his grip and reach for his shirt. He startles, glancing down at your fingers fumbling at the first button, then back at you with his brows knit together.
His eyes drop to your hand, then back up to your face. “What the fuck are you doing? Stop—”
“Shut up,” you hiss, still pulling at the button. “Don’t tell me what to do.”
“Y/N—”
“Shut up.”
He grabs your wrist again, tighter this time, like he’s trying to get control of the situation before it slips entirely out of his hands, but you’re done playing this game by halves, and you don’t stop. You yank back, teeth clenched, and the button snaps clean off and hits the floor somewhere between you.
“You don’t want this,” he says.
You don’t think. You just try to move.
You twist out of his hold completely. “Don’t fucking tell me what I want.”
And before he can say anything, before he can do that thing he always does where he looks at you with that goddamn expression like you’re a child losing control, your hands move again and you grab at the rest of the buttons and RIIIIIIIPPPP—the fabric splits under your hands, buttons flying across the carpet. His shirt hangs open, his chest rising hard under the mess of it, and your hands are still trembling where they hover between you.
You grab the shirt again, this time just to hold on to something, but he moves faster and grabs you back — both hands wrapping around your arms and holding you in place.
And then he pushes you.
Not gently, not playfully, not like he’s teasing—no. He drives you back with force, and your shoulders hit the wall behind you, a thud echoing through the room as you suck in a breath and gasp from the impact—and you just stare at him, and the way he’s looking at you now with his gaze so dark and unreadable feeds into something simmering low and hungry in your chest.
His eyes drag down once, taking in his shirt and your furious expression, and then back up to your face.
He clicks his tongue and his voice drops just enough to make your skin crawl. “Fucking brat.”
His breath fans hot across your skin. “Go shower,” he mutters after a beat, and his grip loosens on you. “We’re done here.”
Done? Right.
You breathe out a bitter, humorless laugh, because you just can’t help it. Your whole body feels like it’s about to snap in half from the tension. “What?” you push, and his own words tumble out of your mouth before you can think better of it. “Afraid to blow off some fucking steam? Think it might mean something?”
He exhales hard and finally lets go of you, and his jaw is clenched, and it looks like he’s trying not to say something he’ll regret. You can hardly breathe anymore, but you laugh again — lower this time, and you shake your head.
“You’re so fucking soft and pathetic.” you huff, “Go then. Get the fuck out.”
That’s when it happens.
His whole face stills. His expression doesn’t change right away, not completely — just a flicker of something in his eyes, something dark and dangerous, and then everything in him shifts.
His gaze drops to your lips again, but this time slower. Then to your throat. And then his own bare chest where his ruined shirt still hangs open.
He looks back up at you and you don’t even give him a second to think about it (like everything else that has happened in the last few minutes); (you don’t even think of it yourself, really.)
You just want somewhere to put all of this anger—you just need—
You grab a full fistful of his hair roughly and yank him closer, dragging his mouth down toward yours like you’re daring him to do something, anything, just react, just stop pretending he doesn’t want to tear this entire room down.
But he doesn’t kiss you.
He grabs your face and keeps you from moving another inch.
He cups your cheeks, fingers splayed wide, firm but careful—careful like he’s trying not to hurt you or something and it only makes you angrier, more desperate, because he always does this, always pulls back right when you need him to break.
He holds you there and keeps you still, staring at you, and your breathing is uneven while his chest is also rising fast—his hand tightening a little where it cradles your jaw.
Your lips are so close they’re practically touching.
You could lean in the smallest bit and close the distance.
You could ruin everything.
So you do.
You lean in — you’re right there, so close you can feel his hot breath — but before you can actually close the distance, his grip on your jaw tightens even further, and he stops you with nothing more than that — his fingers pressing into your cheeks, his thumb under your chin, forcing you to look at him. You can feel the tremor in his hand as his gaze burns into you, and for a second neither of you move.
Then—
You don’t even know who moves first. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it was both of you at the same time… But suddenly—
You’re kissing.
It’s not sweet. It’s not soft. No, it’s anything but soft. It’s not the kind of kiss you ease into slowly. It crashes into you like a fucking truck, all teeth and breath and heat and hands. His mouth slants over yours like he’s trying to prove something, and you kiss him back like it’s the last goddamn thing you’ll ever do. Your hands go to his shoulders, his neck, his arm, and his chest—clawing, grabbing, grounding. His hands drop to your waist and he pulls you closer, his fingers twitching and splaying out across you like he doesn’t know what to hold onto first.
You gasp into him and he groans against your mouth—a filthy sound that vibrates through your whole body, and it only makes you want more. His teeth graze your bottom lip, and then you nip back at his—harder, and he just groans again and pushes you harder into the wall.
It’s too much.
And not even close to being enough.
You tug at his hair and drag his head back with your grip so he’s forced to look at you, and his eyes are heavy-lidded and hungry. His chest heaves once, twice, and for a split second, neither of you move as you look at each other through your heavy breathing… It’s all so… The way he looks… His mouth is parted, his breath is hot, and he’s staring at you like he’s about to do something stupid.
So he kisses you again, and somehow, it’s messier than the first.
It’s even rougher, more desperate, and you’re barely holding yourself upright with how fast it’s all happening, hands roughly clawing at his shoulders to stay grounded again, to keep him close, pull him in closer until you’re practically one, and then suddenly he’s also properly grabbing you. His hands slide down your waist — rough and very fast — until he grips the backs of your thighs, then your ass, and he hoists you up like you weigh absolutely nothing. Your back hits the wall again—harder this time, and you wrap your legs around him to lock him in place.
You’re not thinking.
You moan into his mouth before you can stop yourself, the sound sharp and high and embarrassingly fucking loud—and he responds with a groan so deep in his chest it rumbles through both of you.
“Fucking slut,” he groans against your mouth, “Couldn’t even hold this in, huh?” His hand shifts lower and grips tighter at your thigh—hard enough to make you hiss out of pain—and his lips brush messily along your jaw, right up to your ear. “We just got into the fucking room. This what all that was about? The screaming, the shoving, the bullshit? You’re needy?”
“Shut the fuck up,” you pant, and drag his hair again and pulling him in until his mouth is on yours again. “Stop talking.”
You bite down on his bottom lip hard enough to make him grunt, and you feel the sound vibrate through his chest and into your mouth—so rough and low and so fucking good you want to do it again and again and again. Then he pulls back just a few inches and his lip is still caught in between your teeth—and you drag it out slowly until he shoves you back and slips it free.
“No. You stop talking. You’re fucking done with your cute little attempts of telling me what to do,” he growls. “You listen to me now.”
You’re not proud of it, but you actually almost moan at the sound of his voice when he says it and how he says it. It’s like… you almost feel giddy? What the fuck is happening?
And fuck… he looks infuriatingly fucking good like this. Face flushed. Hair absolutely ruined from your hands. Muscular chest rising hard beneath the wreck of his open shirt. His lips are so, so red and wet.
You manage to slide (well, not exactly slide… really, you shoved it off very hard) his shirt off before he can stop you, your hands rough and clumsy, pulling it down his shoulders until the fabric slips off completely and lands somewhere on the floor. His skin is hot under your palms—chest muscular and bare—and you barely have a second to breathe before you’re reaching (or trying) for his belt even quicker, angry fingers.
But before you can properly even touch it, he drops you and you yelp.
His fingers wrap around your wrists and he shoves them up above your head, pressing them flat against the wall.
“You really think you get to do that?” he practically growls. His grip tightens when you try to wiggle free. “Think you can touch me whenever you want?”
You whine—terribly frustrated because your body is lit up and aching and you don’t know what to do with all of it. “Just take your fucking clothes off,” you snap, and it comes out almost like a plea, but you refuse to let it sound like one, so you quickly add, “Don’t be fucking boring. You know what I want.”
He laughs under his breath. “Ask nicely,” he whispers, slow and taunting. “And I’ll think about it. Think.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. You just want to get fucked.
“Don’t fucking start this bullshit with me again.” You try to yank your wrists down, but he’s stronger and you know it and that only makes you angrier and hornier. “I swear to god, Sunghoon, if you turn this into some stupid power trip—”
He cuts in with a low laugh. “Power trip?” His breath brushes your mouth just enough to make you chase his lips without meaning to. “You think you’ve had a single second of control since you walked in here? Since anything?”
You don’t say anything. Can’t, really.
He leans even closer—lips hovering just shy of yours—eyes half-lidded. “Go on then,” he murmurs. “Keep talking. You like running that mouth? Use it properly. Let’s see if you can still talk when I’m done with you.”
It’s kind of embarrassing how close you are to whimpering, how your whole body is already leaning toward him like you’ve forgotten how to stand on your own. Every inch of you feels wired, hot, and restless—your pulse loud in your ears—and the thought of him finally touching you just makes it worse.
“You’re all talk,” you finally bite out and click your tongue. “You’re gonna bore me to death before you even manage to make me come or something.”
His jaw twitches. “Say that again.”
You roll your eyes, tilt your chin up, and let your head fall back against the wall just enough to look up at him through your lashes, so careless and cocky you can see the way it sets him off even before you open your mouth. “Oh my god,” you scoff. “See? All talk again. You actually are gonna bore me to death before you—”
It happens so fast you don’t even finish the sentence.
He releases your wrists and grabs your face with both hands in one fluid, rough movement — fingers digging into your jaw, forcing your head to tilt the way he wants it, and then he’s on you — mouth dragging down, and then lower — finding the curve of your neck with his lips parted and breath ragged. And then he bites your fucking neck hard enough to make your knees buckle, and everything inside you short-circuits like someone pulled a plug.
“You asshole—” your moan punches right out of your throat before you can stop it and your body arches into him; then he bites you again and you rake your nails down across his back hard enough to make him hiss—shit—against your throat. “Fuck!”
His mouth is all over your neck now, sucking and biting and mouthing wet and sloppy trails with his tongue so slowly and messily. And you… you’re not thinking. You’re dizzy with how much you want to feel something—with how hot your skin feels where he just bit you (and how good it felt, and how you want him to keep doing it; but you’d never tell him that.) Most of all you’re dizzy with the ache that’s been clawing at your chest and your stomach and between your legs since the second you stepped into this room—or maybe even longer than you’d want to admit.
You grind up against him without thinking just to feel him. And he’s so fucking hard against your center—thick and once again, unmistakably large through both your clothes. You just want to feel it. Anything. Him. You move again, slower this time, dragging your hip against his cock in his pants just enough to make him groan low in his chest.
But then he stops and pushes you back, and he places his hand flat against your stomach and holds you right there against the wall.
He leans in—mouth brushing your collarbone—and his tongue flicks over the mark he just made. Then he licks slower, up the side of your throat, and murmurs against your skin.
“The more you try to rush this, the longer I’m going to make you wait.”
His tongue drags higher, tracing your jaw, and you actually have to fight the urge not to moan (when he hasn’t even touched you) — because you don’t want to give him the satisfaction — then his lips hover just beneath your ear. “You want it?” He nips at your ear. “Then fucking beg for it. Otherwise, I’m going to spend this whole trip making you wish you had.”
Is he out of his fucking mind? Cause you definitely are. Your thighs clench around nothing and it’s almost humiliating how fast you try to move again and chase the feeling, but he presses you firmer against the wall like he already knew you’d try.
“Tsk,” he groans. His hand is still gripping your jaw, the other sliding down your side to your hip, holding you still. “Keep doing that and you’re gonna regret it.”
“Maybe I don’t care.”
His thumb digs into your hip. “Yeah?” he huffs. “You don’t care?”
You shake your head and shrug. “No.”
You can feel the smile in his voice, feel it when he licks a slow stripe up your neck and hums against your skin. “Fine. You wanna grind like a needy little bitch? Go ahead. Just know every second you do, I’m keeping score.”
He adds, “So be a good girl and answer me, hmm? What do you want?”
Then—you huff a laugh and manage to shove him back a step, just enough to get a sliver of space.
He doesn’t even get to blink before you’re yanking your top off over your head and letting it drop to the floor, standing there in your bra and skirt, flushed and breathless and entirely too horny to back down. “Is this an answer for you?”
His eyes drop to your chest—to the curve of your breasts spilling over the black lace bra you’re wearing—and you don’t miss the way his jaw clenches. Then you start sliding one strap off your shoulder slowly, just to see how far you can push him. (Apparently, not far, because he immediately steps in and grabs your wrist hard enough you feel it to your bones.)
You grin at him. “Either fuck me right now, or I’ll go lock myself in that shower and make you listen while I finger myself.”
His nostrils flare. “You think I’d let you?”
You shrug and bring your other hand up to pull the other strap off just as slowly. “Guess you better stop me, then.”
That’s all it takes.
He grabs your ass and lifts you up so fast you gasp and wrap your legs around his waist—and you dig your nails right into his muscular bicep. He’s so fucking strong, every muscle in his arms straining as he holds you up and presses you into him, and for a second you can’t even think about anything except how stupidly massive his arm is—how you want to lick a line down it bite, suck, leave bruises just to see if it actually leaves a mark on him—but you wouldn’t tell him that, not ever.
You squeeze tighter with your thighs, your hands clutching his bicep just to feel the way it bulges beneath your fingers, and you actually feel insane. You roll your hips right against the head of his cock from where he’s holding you up, and then he laughs lowly under his breath and mutters. “That’s three,” then he slaps your ass so hard you jolt.
“Fucking bitch!” you yelp in pain, and then with one hand—while still holding you up—he finds your bra clasp, flicks it open with ease, and throws you onto the bed. You land hard—so hard your breath gets knocked out of you—and then he crawls up onto the mattress slowly, the way a predator stalks prey.
He stops and kneels between your thighs, then he slides the bra down your arms slowly, and just watches your breasts spill out—heavy and so flushed—and you catch his gaze right as his lips part and he flicks his tongue out to wet them, hungry and desperate like he’s actually losing his mind or something. Good. You were too.
He just stares for a second, and you swear you see his cock twitch against his pants.
“Fuck,” he breathes, almost to himself — then he licks his lips again as he takes you in longer. “Could just fuck your tits alone.”
Your mouth waters at the thought, and a shiver may or may not have just rolled down your spine. You don’t want to admit that.
You keep your chin up and try to act like you’re not picturing having his cock between your tits right now. “And what do I get out of that exactly? You get to get off, but I don’t. What’s in it for me?”
You’re still catching your breath when he smirks and bends his head down. Then—before you can even process it—he opens his mouth and spits. It lands right between your tits, and you don’t have time to say a word before his tongue is there, licking it up and spreading it—wet and messy and oh so loud, tongue circling your nipples until you whine. “You get to be my whiny little fucktoy; that’s what you get,” he says around your nipple.
Then he lifts his head and grabs both of your tits in his hands, pushes them together and stares at them for a moment, before he leans down again and—
He bites the swell of your breast so fucking hard you don’t recognize the sound of your own voice when you scream.
“Ahh—SHIT!” you cry out despite how badly you don’t want to react, and you arch your back and shove your chest deeper into his mouth. The feeling of his teeth on your breasts while he circles your nipples with his fingers is so sharp and dizzying and so new you almost get mad all over again, because it’s him making you feel this good—and because you never want him to stop.
But he stops.
He looks up at you, and his other hand comes up just to slap your tits, one after the other. “You like that? Huh?”
Well, obviously you did. But were you gonna make it easy for him? No.
So you don’t say anything—instead, you reach down to grip his wrist, or something—grinding your hips up into him like you’re about to lose your mind.
He clicks his tongue and presses into you to still you, but you feel his cock against the fabric of his pants, and you moan. “That’s four,” he mutters.
Then he’s on your tits again — He takes one nipple in his mouth and sucks on it harshly and lets go with a wet pop — then he trails his mouth lower, and starts licking a filthy path down your stomach. His tongue drags over your belly button, lower and lower, never breaking eye contact. When he reaches the waistband of your skirt, he pauses, glances up with that stupid cocky smirk of his, and then hooks his fingers in the fabric and pulls it down excruciatingly slowly.
When he finally gets it off, he tosses it aside, and now you’re left in nothing but your tiny black lace panties.
For one blinking second — just one — you realize what you’re doing. And who you’re doing it with. But just as fast, you shove the thought down, and for the first time you actually succeed in doing so.
You get to feel good. That’s all.
None of this means anything.
“Now,” His thumb brushes teasingly along the waistband of your panties, and his voice drops low and filthy. “Be a good girl and tell me what you want.”
You think of a hundred different snarky things to say, maybe even get up and spit in his face, but instead you just stare at him and bite your lip.
He arches a brow, and his fingers drag lazy little circles over the damp lace of your panties. “Come on, say it. You’ve got such a big fucking mouth; use it for something useful.”
You weigh it in your mind for a second. It being your pride versus the ache to be fucked. Unfortunately for your dignity, the latter wins.
You almost choke on the words. “I want your dick, asshole,” you breathe out.
He grins. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
You’re about to tell him to just shut up and take it out, but then he hooks his fingers under the edge of your panties — nails roughly grazing your skin when he does it — right where your thigh meets the lace, and he doesn’t break eye contact when he leans down, and then—fucking hell—he takes the panties in his teeth and pulls them down, slowly, making sure you see every filthy second of it.
You truly can’t help the way your mouth falls open, and you just stare as he drags them all the way off with his fangs and tosses them away onto the floor.
He sits back for half a second, and for once, he doesn’t say a word. He just looks and lets his gaze devour every slick inch of you—tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip again like he can already taste you. There’s something almost exciting to you in the way he stares—his fists balling in the sheets like he’s holding himself back from just wrecking you right there.
Then his gaze flicks up to meet yours again, and his mouth twitches into the ghost of a smirk. “Shit.” He almost sounds awed, though his voice is rough and low. “Spread your legs for me. Let me see you.”
“Just take your fucking pants off,” you demand (it was kind of a whine, to be honest with yourself), even as you slowly spread your legs for him.
He raises a brow again. “Tsk. Just because you finally said what you want doesn’t mean I’ll give it to you,” he cocks his head. “I just wanted to hear you beg. You’re still not doing a good job.”
Before you can say anything, he leans forward and spits right onto your pussy—the wet heat landing right on your clit—and you can’t do anything but watch as he slowly slides a finger between your folds and spreads you open, just to feel how fucking wet you are. “Fuck, you’re soaked,” he mutters, staring between your legs as he drags his own spit up and spreads it lower and into your folds, “I haven’t even touched you properly and you’re already dripping. What, you like running your mouth that much? Huh?
At this point, you’ve stopped trying to hold your moans back. You jerk your hips up, but he presses his other hand down and keeps you still.
“Didn’t I tell you?” his voice is so low it’s almost a snarl. “The more you grind, the more you try to rush me, the longer you’re gonna wait. You remember the count?”
You try to glare at him. You try. “Fuck off, Sunghoon, just touch me already—”
He slides two fingers over your clit, and then in one quick, ruthless thrust, he pushes one finger deep inside your pussy. Your back arches off the mattress and a strangled scream punches right out of you. “Sunghoon—FUCK.”
“That was five,” he growls, and you don’t even get a second longer to feel it before he pulls his finger right back out, leaving you empty and throbbing. “You just don’t fucking learn, do you?”
He smirks and licks your wetness off his fingers slowly, his tongue dragging along his knuckle in such a cruel way—like he wants you to watch. And you do—God, you do. Your eyes are locked on his mouth as he sucks his own fingers clean and finally lets go with a filthy little pop. Your body actually burns at the sight, so close to the edge that you almost bring your hand down to touch your own clit just to get some relief.
He hovers over you again, his palm sinking deep into the mattress by your head, his body caging yours in completely. You can feel the heat of him, the weight of him, and the way his bicep bulges right by your face, and your mouth waters all over again at the sight. “If you want it that bad, you'd better learn to be patient, sweetheart. Or maybe I’ll just keep counting and see how many times I can get you to fuck yourself on nothing.”
He actually talks too much, you think. You almost miss when men did not even care enough and immediately got to the point.
You scoff, though it’s weaker than you wanted it to be. “Shut up,” you jerk your hips up again and reach up with both hands, grabbing at his shoulders—nails raking down his bicep, trying to pull him in. But he just laughs, pulling back so your fingers catch uselessly in the air.
“Six.”
“You’re a fucking asshole,” you spit, voice shaking from how wound up you are.
“Keep going, brat. I can do this all night,” he tongues his cheek and grins.
All night? Oh, you need it now.
You push yourself up, and this time, you actually get a good grip on him. You grab his jaw hard and yank his face down to yours, and you kiss him hard.
You bite at his lips just to hear that sharp groan that ripped out of his throat again before — and he tries to pin you down but you’re faster — you slide your hand into his hair and yank it back so you can lick a filthy, wet line down his jaw, your lips finding his throat and sucking hard enough to leave a mark. He groans again, this time even deeper, and you can feel the sound vibrate against your tongue. You moan right back because you’re too fucking needy and frustrated, and you grind yourself against the bulge in his pants one more time.
You want to make him snap, want to make him lose it, and just fuck you already.
There’s just no way he can drag this out any longer, right?
He snaps just for a second.
His grip on your hips tightens, and he presses down, grinding his cock against you, rolling his hips into yours until you both gasp into each other’s mouths, and the friction of his cock pressing up against you feels so fucking good you whimper right into his mouth again. You can feel just how hard he is, and you want more, want all of him—just to feel good, you think—and you dig your nails into his back, dragging them down hard to the point where you think one of your nails may have snapped off.
“Fuck, look at you,” he grits through his teeth, hands digging into your waist as he rolls into you, his cock rubbing against your bare cunt from his pants. “So desperate you’re grinding on my cock like a bitch in heat. Can’t even behave for five fucking seconds. You want to come so bad, you’re going to embarrass yourself like this?”
Your face burns at his words, but you snap back at him because he’s the fucking one being ridiculous. “Maybe if you’d stop being a little bitch and fuck me, I wouldn’t have to embarrass myself. I’m naked and in front of you, and you’re not fucking me, who is the pathetic one?”
He laughs and presses you down even harder. “You want to act like a brat, you get treated like one. I told you, I’m counting. Every time you act up, you’re waiting even longer to get what you want.”
“God, you’re such a fucking tease—”
He pulls your face to his and kisses you messily and deeply, sucking on your tongue until you moan into his mouth. Then he shifts, spreading your thighs and sliding one of his own between them, so you’re straddling him now, his thigh pressed hard against your bare cunt. Then he growls, “Keep grinding, sweetheart. Rub yourself all over me—I’ll let you make a mess on my thigh if you want to be a needy little slut so bad. But that’s all you’ll be getting.”
You ignore him. “I’m saying this one last fucking time. Either fuck me or get the fuck off,” you sneer, barely above a breath. “We don’t have time to be doing all this shit.”
“Time?” he repeats, voice dripping with disbelief. “Time? You think I give a fuck about time?”
His hand slides up your thigh, fingers pressing into your skin, “I could keep you here all fucking night if I wanted. No one’s gonna bother us, cause I could tell them not to. You’re not going anywhere until I decide you can, so you better start behaving, or I’ll drag this out for the next three days if I have to.”
He grinds his thigh up, testing you, eyes dark and daring. “But go on. Tell me again how we don’t have time.”
The way he’s looking at you now, you know he could keep you here under him, pressed into this bed for hours…. And for all your bravado, for all your threats— Yeah. No, actually. What the hell. You like this back and forth. Plus, you’re not about to give him the satisfaction of seeing you break that easily. This is… Sunghoon, after all.
You shake that thought away again.
So you lean in and run your hand up his chest slowly, fingers dragging across the muscle on his chest until you’re right at his ear. “You wanna know what I think?” you whisper, letting your voice curl into something wicked, just to rile him up, then you go on before he can speak. “I think you’re scared you can’t satisfy me. Maybe you’re stalling because you know you’re all talk.” You pout at him—slide your palm over his chest and pinch his nipple for good measure. “All that control, and for what? You're scared you’ll come before I do?
The muscle in his jaw tenses so hard, and you almost flinch at the way his gaze darkens, but you keep going because you fucking love seeing him angry. “Y’know, if you ever even get me there.”
That does it.
Finally.
“Have it your fucking way then,” he bites out, and before you can even think of smirking, his hands are on your waist and he’s shoving you back down into the mattress so hard your breath stutters.
He spreads your thighs wide, pushing your knees up until you’re completely open for him, and then he’s right there—kneeling between your legs.
He drags his hands up your thighs, all the way to your hips, thumbs pressing in so hard it almost hurts, and you whimper and arch up for more.
“You want to be a brat? Fine. But you’re going to fucking take it. Don’t cry about it,” he growls, then he grabs your thighs, spreads you wider than you thought was possible, and settles lower right between them. His palms slide up, thumbs digging into the soft inside of your thighs until he’s got your legs high up on his shoulders, pressing you flat against the mattress, and when he squeezes the flesh there—so fucking hard you actually scream—he grins.
Then he bites the inside of your thigh—fuck, it’s turning you on so much—and you think that’ll surely be leaving a bruise.
You want to snap—rile him up even more, some half-formed curse already spilling from your lips—but his head drops and you feel the first hot breath against your cunt. Then he licks up so close to your pussy you almost buck right off the bed.
“Hold still,” he growls, and you feel his fingers flex, pinning your thighs wider, spreading you even more, just so he can stare. “Look at this. All wet and needy, and all for me.”
“Fuck you—” your voice gets lost in a gasp as he suddenly, finally, sucks your clit into his mouth. He’s rough and messy—his grip on your thighs tightening as he alternates between sucking and flicking your clit with his tongue.
The sound that rips out of you is so fucking raw, so insanely filthy and loud, you clap a hand over your own mouth to muffle your moan.
But Sunghoon, of course, isn’t having any of that.
He stops instantly and lifts his head. “Hands where I can see them,” he snarls, then he catches your wrist with one hand and pins it to the mattress. “Don’t hide those fucking noises from me. I want to hear you fall apart.”
Then he dips his head back down.
He starts slower this time, licking a thick wet stripe up your slit, teasing at your clit just with the tip of his tongue, breathing hard against your skin. “I could do this all night, keep you right here, legs open, crying on my tongue until you learn how to fucking behave.”
Then he goes faster. Your legs tremble on his shoulders as he licks and sucks and flicks his tongue over your clit until you’re babbling his name over and over again—you’re too high on the feeling of how fucking good it feels to care anymore.
“Fuck—Don’t stop, you bastard—SUNGHOON—”
His tongue is swirling and flicking in filthy circles that make you see white behind your eyes, and you feel his nose rub against you every time he moves—and the wetness and the sound of his sucking are so absolutely pornographic they bring you even closer to the edge.
Then—without warning—he pushes two thick fingers inside you all at once, and you clench so tight around him it actually hurts—your body is practically trying to force him out. “Fuck. My fingers barely fucking fit,” he grits out, “Such a tight fucking slut.”
The stretch is so overwhelming it burns, and you choke on a moan, then try to arch your back off the mattress to try and give yourself some way to adjust — or move away — but he pins you down with one heavy arm thrown over your stomach, holding you in place so you can’t do anything but take it. “Don’t run, brat. Thought you wanted me to touch you?”
God. You can’t be bothered to speak anymore.
He curls his fingers inside and pumps slowly, then faster, filling you so good it makes your eyes roll back. It’s so fucking thick, Honestly—his two fingers alone are thicker than everything you’ve had in your entire life. You’re not sure if you’re angry about that—but you moan all the same. and his mouth never lets up on your clit, sucking and licking, tongue flicking until your whole body shakes.
You reach down frantically and grab a fistful of his hair very hardly to have something to hold onto—and he groans into your pussy again in response, and the vibration nearly rips you apart.
You’re so gone, shaking so hard you can barely keep your eyes open. “Sunghoon, shit—” You babble his name because it’s the only thing you can manage despite how badly you don’t want to be saying it, and he licks even harder somehow when he hears the way you moan his name — sucking your clit between his lips and sending vibrations up through your whole body as he hums into it.
“That’s it. Louder. Who’s making you feel this good, huh? Tell me. Say my name.”
You whine, head thrown back, voice breaking, “Shut up—fuck, Sunghoon, it’s you, you fucking bitch—”
You’re clenching around his fingers and soaking his hand, and when he moans into you after you scream his name—it’s so filthy, so hungry—you know you’re about to break apart right there on his tongue.
You’re already too close, and some part of you, the petty stubborn part, thinks for half a second about not giving in, about not letting yourself come just to spite him—but he senses it, the way you try to squirm away from the edge, and he snaps his teeth lightly at your clit in warning. “You try to hold back, and I’ll keep you like this all night.”
You watch as he slips his fingers out and spits on your clit again—making everything slicker and dirtier, and suddenly his mouth is everywhere—tongue pressing flat against your dripping slit. He licks into you, tongue fucking you deep as he groans, the sound low and hungry like he’s the one fucking getting off on it.
He pulls back just enough to breathe, mouth shiny and swollen as he grins and licks his lips. A tiny part of you twists at how devastatingly beautiful he looks like this—hair messy, jaw sharp, face wrecked and flushed, and all of it just from being between your thighs. It almost makes you ache even more, and you’re not sure in which way—and then his thumb finds your clit, rubbing rough, furious circles over it, so aggressive you jolt under the touch.
Then he plunges his fingers back inside you, and your hips buck out at how deep they are and how badly they stretch you. You can barely even fucking take two of his fingers.
“Asshole—fuck, slow down, I’m gonna—” You can barely even speak.
He hums, low and taunting, not stopping for a second. “You’re gonna what? Come all over my mouth? Yeah, that’s the fucking point.”
You’re so close, so fucking close so fast, and he only just started; it’d be embarrassing if you weren’t so fucked out right now. You just grind up onto his face and scream, and he keeps pumping his fingers, faster, harder, mouth never letting up, tongue punishing your clit while his nose brushes right into it too, until you finally snap.
You shut your eyes so hard it genuinely hurts—and you scream so loud you think that the whole world could hear you—let alone the entire fucking hotel. Your body spasms and your cunt clenches tightly around his fingers, soaking his hand and mouth completely.
But he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even say anything.
He just keeps sucking, keeps fucking you with his fingers, lapping up everything you give him, and groaning into you obscenely.
You manage to shove at his head; you feel so fucking sensitive it hurts, even though it feels so good. “Are you crazy—stop, fuck, I can’t—”
He lifts his head just for a second, and the asshole fucking grins, lips and chin shiny with your slick, while his fingers rub aggressively over your overstimulated clit. You’re not sure how you’re looking at him right now.
“You can take it. You can take all of it. You wanted to come, No? You’re gonna come again and again until I say you’re done.” His mouth latches to your clit again, even rougher—while his fingers go so deep it makes your vision go black at the edges.
The stretch, the heat, the filth pouring from his mouth, the way he keeps fucking his fingers into you, the way he just made you fucking come in under a minute—your head spins, and somewhere inside you, despite the fact that you can barely even think, you still manage to wonder, where the fuck did he learn to do this?
You can’t even get words out anymore—just broken, desperate moans and halfway curses as he pumps his fingers in and out. You feel your body seize, your legs shaking so bad your calf cramps up, but you can’t stop, can’t breathe, and you’re—fuck, fuck—you’re fucking coming again—
“Look at me. Look at me when you come.”
You shake your head, eyes squeezed shut, half sobbing. “I can’t, fuck, I can’t—Sunghoon, I fucking hate you—”
“Yeah? Good,” he huffs and shoves his fingers even deeper, curling them up so you scream. “Say it again.”
You gasp for breath, the pleasure burning through you so hard you feel like you might break apart right there. “I hate you—” it rips out of your throat, high and ragged, your whole body trembling as his fingers curl deep and hit that perfect spot so hard your back arches right off the bed, making you see white. You can barely hold on; you’re clenching around him so tight your muscles ache.
“Again. Louder. Scream it for me.”
Your back arches off the bed, hands fisting aggressively in the sheets, and you scream it so loud you’re past the point of caring who hears, “I fucking hate you, Sunghoon—fuuuuuckkkk—I HATE YOU.” The words stutter out, twisted in a sob as you come again, cunt spasming around his fingers.
You barely know where you are, your vision still flickering at the edges, and every inch of your skin burning under his touch. Your thighs are trembling, slick and sticky and bitten and bruised, and his hand is still between your legs—thumb rubbing lazy circles over your clit.
It makes you twitch, makes your hips jerk away, too much—you’re so fucking sensitive you feel like you’re about to die. And you love it.
Then—
Sunghoon leans in and grabs your jaw hard enough—and you have to force yourself to look at him—even while your gaze is all glassy and unfocused.
“Satisfied?” he purrs.
Asshole.
You try to smirk, try to sass him, but your voice is ruined, so raw and thin it’s barely there when you speak. “You wish. Could barely even feel it—”
He cuts you off by shoving his slick fingers into your mouth, filling it until you have to choke around them. “Tsk. You never were a good liar,” he hisses. “Open wider,” he commands, and you immediately obey because you can’t even think straight with him hovering over you like this—you slightly choke, but you suck on his fingers anyway and glare up at him while he watches, eyes dark as sin. You taste yourself and you moan around his fingers, and his mouth drops slightly open at the sight, and he pants and forces them deeper. “Good fucking girl.”
He finally lets go of your face and sits back on his heels.
Then he looks at you.
“Show me how you touch yourself,” he says. “Now.”
You blink, still dazed, a little defiant—because fuck him, you’re not some performing doll—and he notices the hesitation and grabs your wrist and presses your hand down right on your clit.
He raised a brow. “Don’t make me wait. You were so eager before, bragging about how you’d finger yourself and make me listen. Do it now. I want to see.”
You want to laugh in his face.
Instead, your fingers ghost over your clit, and everything is so sensitive it almost hurts. You try to pull away to spite him, but he grabs your hand and makes you rub slow, torturous circles.
“Go on. Just like that—If you stop, I’ll leave,” he mocks, dragging his words out just to taunt you. “I’ll go fuck my own fist in the shower, let you listen to me, and you’ll have to touch yourself and think about how you can’t take my cock anyway.”
“You’re fucking sick,” you manage—voice hoarse, but you don’t stop. You’re entirely past the point of feeling any sort of shame or whatever, so you grind down into your palm.
He shrugs. “You want me to fuck you? Then you do what I say. It’s not that hard.”
And then—finally—he reaches down, the leather of his belt hissing as he unbuckles it. He takes his pants off slowly, and you can’t help but stare. The outline of his cock is straining so hard against the fabric of his boxers that it looks painful, the head leaking through—your mouth waters at the sight.
He shoves his boxers down just enough to free himself, and when he pulls it out, you genuinely forget how to breathe for a moment.
God—you’ve felt him before, you knew he was big, but actually seeing it… It’s ridiculous, really.
It’s angry red at the tip, flushed all the way up, with big veins throbbing up the shaft, the head slick with precum to the point where it’s actually dripping and swollen; and it hurts your clit to look at. Your pussy clenches just at the sight, and you rub faster circles into your clit unashamedly as you watch the way he adjusts himself in his hand.
And shit—his hand… his hands have always been big—cartoonishly big, stupidly strong, the kind of hands that make you feel small just by being near them. You’ve seen his hands look ridiculously large while wrapped around a steering wheel, a beer bottle, or even your wrists. But now, for the first time, his hand actually looks…normal while it’s wrapped around his cock. Almost small. That ridiculous length and girth… You almost can’t believe it.
For a second, you’re genuinely worried it won’t even fit. It’s so long, so fucking thick, you can barely wrap your head around it. You could barely take his fingers, how the fuck—then, you see the half smirk on his face as he’s eyeing you through his half-lidded eyes.
You’re not about to give him the satisfaction.
“I’ve had bigger,” you sneer, though with the way you’re clenching around nothing and how desperately you’re touching your sensitive self… yeah. Obviously, you’re fucking lying.
He just laughs lowly and spreads his precum all over the head of his cock with his thumb.
It angers you that he doesn’t even bother responding to that taunt. God. Your fingers keep moving, even as you glare at him, and you’re so fucking wet it’s… You don’t know if you’ve ever been this wet before.
“Stop just—touch yourself too, asshole.” you snap, voice hoarse as hell, “Or are you just gonna sit there and watch like a pervert?”
He smirks and shakes his head. “No. That’s not how this works.” He strokes himself, but slow and lazy—just enough to tease you, not to actually chase his own release.
You rub circles even faster, spreading yourself with your other hand. “I’m starting to believe—mmpphh—you’re actually scared you’ll finish before you even get inside.”
He huffs a laugh and clicks his tongue.
Then he finally lets his hand tighten around the base of his cock. “You want this?” he strokes himself slowly—more properly now—clearly showing off, and his precum is dripping onto his thigh and onto the sheets. His eyes are glued to your cunt, watching every shaky circle of your fingers. “If you stop for a second, I put it away. You keep going, maybe I’ll fuck you. If you’re good. Otherwise I’ll just make you come on my tongue again and again.”
Your mind is finally starting to clear, just enough to feel the anger and want bubble back up under your skin. You’re so sensitive your thighs are shaking, but the sight of his cock has your mouth watering… so without thinking—fingers still rubbing messy, desperate circles on your own clit—you push up off the bed on shaky elbows and practically throw yourself at him.
You straddle his lap, his cock standing thick and slick right between your thighs—your lips catching his jaw—and you grind down on his thigh because you just can’t take another second without feeling him.
He grabs your hips and tries to shove you back. “I said, don’t fucking stop, brat.” But you only smirk and meet him eye to eye—then you drag your hand up into his hair, fist a handful, and make him look at you.
“I heard you,” you pant, lips almost brushing his. “You said if I stop touching myself, you’ll put your dick away or whatever.” You squeeze your thighs around him, feeling the heat of his cock and the way it throbs against your inner leg. Then you don’t look away from him as your other hand drifts further down between your legs, and you push a finger into your own pussy right there as he watches. His jaw clenches. “You never said I couldn’t move.”
Your lips part, and you moan low and shameless, hips rocking against your hand. “You gonna punish me for that, too?”
He pumps his cock faster, precum smeared everywhere. “Fuck, you’re asking for it,” he growls.
Adrenaline is the only thing keeping you upright at this point—you’re also so high on wanting him it’s like you’ve left your own body. You pull your wet finger out of your cunt and bring it up to his mouth.
“Spit,” you order—filthy and sweet and bossy all at once.
He scoffs, looking at you like he’s about to bite your hand off. “Think you can tell me what to do?”
You let out a little whine and rock against his thigh. “Mmhmm, just wanna fuck myself properly, isn’t that what you want, Sunghoon? M’being good.”
You’re so wet, you don’t even need his spit. But you need his spit. You also like it when he’s angry. So you add, “Or are you scared I’ll do it better?”
His gaze flickers for a second before he leans forward and spits—hot, wet, filthy—right into your palm. “Tsk. Show me how desperate you are for it. Go on.”
You hum, satisfied, and press your finger back into yourself, moaning as you rock onto it. You bite down on his shoulder and start fucking yourself on your own fingers—hard and loud, body arching, hips grinding shamelessly.
You watch the way he’s pumping himself, and you clench around your own finger at the sight. “Wish this was your cock, don’t you?” you breathe, then you let your head fall against his shoulder, lips brushing the curve of his neck as you moan, your own fingers moving faster. And then you drag your tongue up the side of his throat, licking a slow stripe from his collarbone all the way up to his jaw. You taste the saltiness of his sweat, hot and wet and so him it almost makes your head spin. He shudders under your mouth, his cock jerking in his hand.
To be honest, you did that out of pure self-fulfillment cause you were enjoying this a little too much, but—
Sunghoon’s control actually slips, because he grips your hips and shoves you back down flat onto the bed, manhandling you so roughly you gasp.
“Don’t fucking move,” he snarls, voice ragged. “Don’t you dare touch yourself again.”
“Or what? You gonna keep standing there and jerk yourself off like a pussy?” you huff, frustrated, trying to reach for him, but he just pins your wrists over your head with one big hand and sits up, his cock hanging heavy and wet.
It looks like it’s going to fucking explode.
“Don’t move.” he warns.
He moves over to the desk, muscles rippling, sweat slick on his skin, and grabs his wallet. He pulls out a condom and then turns back to face you, and then he tears the wrapper open carefully with his teeth. You watch the way he rolls it down, the veins on his massive cock so prominent it’s actually insane.
Your stomach twists. You’re on the pill—you’d never let him fuck you raw, not in a million years—but there’s this tiny, traitorous voice in your head, sick with want, whispering to fill yourself up with him, take every fucking drop he has — and you snap at yourself. Get a fucking grip. (though, at this point, what grip?)
Then he’s crawling back over you with his cock heavy in his hand and for a moment, he just looks at you. And you look at him.
And it hits you all at once. This is happening.
The only boy who’s ever made you feel anything real at all, the one you’ve liked, hated, and wanted in every possible way. The first boy you ever loved. The only—
You don’t let yourself finish the thought before you’re moving.
You grab him, wrap your arms around his neck, and drag him down until your mouths meet in a brutal, teeth-clashing kiss. Your thighs fall open, and you can feel his cock pressing up against your soaked cunt, briefly grinding up into your folds, and you gasp right into his mouth.
He moans—actually moans into your mouth. “You want it so fucking bad, don’t you?” he snarls against your lips. “Filthy little brat.”
You bite back, teeth dragging down his bottom lip, pulling again until he hisses. “You’re the one moaning like a dog, Sunghoon. Maybe you should be begging me to let you fuck me.”
He leans in and drags his tongue up the side of your neck and stops at your ear, “Why would I beg for something that’s already mine?” he whispers.
Your breath stutters at the way he says it.
You dig your nails into his back—hard enough to make it sting—but he just grins against your skin and bites down on your shoulder. Then his hand is everywhere—palming your tit, squeezing, rolling your nipple between his fingers, then sliding down until he’s rubbing the head of his cock against your clit, smearing your wetness everywhere. “Look at you,” he grits out, eyes glued to how you’re spreading your legs for him. “So fucking greedy. I can barely get my fingers in you, and you want me to stretch your pussy out with this?” he leans in, tongue dragging up the side of your neck, biting your jaw, “Maybe I should just jerk off on your tits and leave you crying for it. Maybe you’d finally learn how to ask nicely.”
Was he still on about that?
Before you can think of something to bite back with, he presses his cock harder against your slit—but he doesn’t push in. He just slides the head up and down, catching on your clit, making your back arch and your voice break into a filthy, desperate moan.
You buck up and try to force him in, but he’s relentless—he drags it out, dragging the tip up and down your slit again. “That’s seven, you needy whore.”
“Come on, are you scared?” you tease, voice breaking on a moan. “What, you worried you really, truly won’t last long and live up to the talk?”
He huffs a laugh—then he shoves the tip in just a little more, making your whole body arch off the bed. “Tsk. You think you can handle it?” he says, and you’re not entirely sure if you can—you’re actually almost certain you can’t, but you don’t give him the satisfaction of saying it.
Instead, you bite his shoulder hard.
“Shut the fuck up and fuck me already, Sunghoon.”
He growls, and presses his forehead against yours as he properly pushes in—and fuck.
The first inch feels like it’s actually fucking tearing you apart, a thick, burning stretch that makes your mouth fall open in a silent gasp because your scream dies in your throat. You grip his shoulders harder, nails digging into his skin, trying to breathe, trying not to let him see how much it hurts, how much you’re actually struggling to take him.
You try to squeeze your eyes shut against the sting, but he grabs your jaw. “Look at me,” he breathes. “Keep your fucking eyes on me. I want to see you take it.”
So you open your eyes, even though they’re already welling. You moan the second you meet his gaze, breath tangled with his as he inches in deeper, filling you in ways you’ve never felt, stretching you so wide you swear you’re going to split.
“Fuck, you’re tight—shit—” Sunghoon hisses between his teeth, his grip so punishing on your waist you feel it sting. For just a second, his brows furrow when his eyes flick over your face as you wince, but you’re too focused on the feeling of being stretched out so roughly to say anything—his grip eases just a little, and his thumb rubs a rough circle over your hip. “Relax. Breathe. I know you can take it. You want to, don’t you?”
You gasp and cling to his shoulders. See, there’s sex, and then there’s this. The pain was entirely too fucking much.
It’s too much and still not entirely even close to being enough to satisfy you.
Your cunt flutters, trying to accommodate the thick head of his cock, and every inch he pushes in feels like your body’s actually being forced open and reshaped to fit him. “Wait—WAIT—fuck, just—S—Hoo—”
He cuts you off with a roll of his hips and goes a bit deeper. “You want to stop now? After all that talk?” He bites at your jaw again, lips hot against your skin. “No. You can take it. I know you can. Be a good fucking slut and take my cock.”
You’re barely holding on, and you can hardly breathe—but it pisses you off how much it hurts and how slowly you’re taking him and how he’s actually dragging it out.
He needs to get to the fucking point.
So you snap, “So fucking slow—What, you going soft now?”
He scoffs.
And before you can even take another breath, he slams all the way in, burying his cock to the hilt in one brutal thrust.
The stretch is just painful, so much you can’t even think—your scream rips right out of your chest, nothing but pain and shock and your nails clawing desperately and maddeningly at his back. You’re so full it’s terrifying, so full it feels like he’s punched the air from your lungs.
He barely gives you a second to breathe.
Sunghoon draws back just enough for you to feel him again, then slams right back in, rough and brutal, and sets a punishing pace. It’s like he’s trying to fuck you through the mattress, like he’s trying to fuck you until you can’t walk or think or do anything except scream for him.
“What?” he whispers after a beat, the tip of his cock grinding deep and slow and filling you to the brim. “Pussy too full to talk back now?”
“You’re not even that big,” you lie through your teeth.
He laughs again, the sound shredded by a groan as he fucks harder into you. “God—fuck—you were clenching around me so fucking tight when I put the tip in. Like a virgin—” his voice breaks on a moan, hips rolling harder, “—couldn’t stand not having my cock, could you? Had to start a fight just to get fucked, huh?”
You try to say something back — really, you do — but he thrusts again and it knocks the sound right out of your throat.
You’ve stopped trying to dignify anything in your mind at this point — you arch up and drag your nails down his back again violently —and he hisses — then your legs wrap tight around his waist, locking him in place as if you never want to stop him from fucking you like this. He says something against your mouth and his voice is a ruined rasp—something you can barely make out over the filthy, wet sound of skin slapping against each other and your own desperate cries.
“Fuck—FUCKKKK, Sunghoon, oh my GOD—” It’s half a sob, half a moan… you don’t even know.
“That’s it, say my name,” he growls into your ear, one hand pinning your thigh up so he can fuck you even deeper, “Shit—so tight—can barely fucking move.”
He’s too fucking big. You can feel everything—the head of his cock dragging over every spot inside you, the stretch at your entrance, the way your pussy tries to clamp down and push him out, but he just holds you there and keeps fucking you harder.
You’re shaking. The pain is blurring into pleasure until you’re not sure which is which. “Harder. Don’t fucking stop, I can take it—need you—, fuck, just—”
The bed creaks violently under you two. “Yeah? You want harder? Want me to fuck you so deep you feel me in your fucking throat?
You nod frantically. “Sunghoon—oh, fuck, fuck, don’t stop—please—” You’re so gone you don’t care about begging anymore, you just need him to keep fucking you, need him to make you come, need him to never, ever stop. “FUCK—”
Then he slows, and his hand presses down onto your lower stomach. The pressure is so much it makes you gasp, but he presses down harder, eyes fixed where his cock is splitting you open, “Feel that? I’m so deep you can feel me here—fuckk. You’ll never take anyone else after this. I’m gonna ruin you.” His free hand grabs your chin and forces your gaze down. “Look. Look at how fucking full you are.”
You blink and actually look—and fuck, it’s… it’s insane. You’ve never been this full in your life, not even close.
“Shut. up—GOD—” you lose your grip on the sheets and reach for his face and drag his mouth down to yours. Then you kiss him like you’re trying to swallow every moan out of his mouth, and he meets you with the same messy and filthy desperation, tongues tangling, teeth knocking, both of you moaning so loud it vibrates right into your bones.
His hips slam out and then slam back in with one harsh thrust that knocks the wind out of you.
“Fuck, you sound so good when you’re like this,” he groans into your mouth, “Too stupid to —fuckk—to run your mouth. Just—clenching around my cock like you’re trying to milk me.”
You just scream.
“Listen to you,” he snarls. “All that mouth earlier just to end up whimpering under me. You gonna cum again? Huh? Wanna soak my cock like a fuckin’ slut?”
Yeah. You’re so close you’re almost delirious, hands clutching at his hair now, your legs trembling as you grind up to meet every thrust. “I’m—fuck you, Yes! Yes—I’m gonna come—don’t you fucking stop—”
He pounds into you, unrelenting, and then his thumb starts rubbing furious circles on your clit—and you know you’re fucked.
His cock is hitting so deep you see stars, and all you can do is scream his name as you break apart for him. Your orgasm rips through you so hard your vision whites out and your voice breaks on a ragged, guttural scream that barely even sounds like you—your cunt clenching so hard around him you nearly push him out—so full, so fucking full.
But Sunghoon doesn’t let up. If anything, he starts fucking you even harder somehow, his grip bruising your hips as he pounds into you, making the whole bed shake. You barely got a second to breathe—your body is still trembling, and the aftershocks are almost violent, really.
“Sunghoon—Are you insane—” Your voice is just a gasp, but you’re not even sure if you’re begging him to stop or begging him for more.
He snarls, “No. You’ll take it. You’re gonna take every fucking thing I give you.” His thumb keeps circling your clit relentlessly, and you try to push his hand away but he just grabs your wrist and places it right above your head. “I know you can take it.”
Then he lets your wrist go, only to reach up and grab the top rail of that heavy, wooden headboard—his knuckles going white, muscles flexing, his cock somehow driving even deeper—and he looks so focused. His brows knit together, and his mouth is parted with shaky groans and pants escaping it. God, he looks so…
You feel another orgasm building up so quickly—if you even came down from your last one—and your vision blurs out, then Sunghoon growls into your ear, hand moving from your clit to grab under your thigh, shoving your leg up higher so he can fuck you even deeper. “Come again. Now—fucking come on my cock, let me feel—shit.”
Stars explode behind your eyes as another orgasm rips through you like an out-of-body experience.
You can barely breathe, let alone form words, but you manage to spit out, “Fucking—god, fuck you, Sunghoon—shit—don’t stop—fucking—asshole—” but they just dissolve into raw moans, and your body spasms so violently it feels like you might actually break.
“That’s it, take it—good fucking girl. That’s my good girl.”
“Not your—not your fucking girl—” you pant, and rake your nails down his back again and again for the hundredth time, and he groans—actually, he moans—and his hips stutter for a second, so out of control you almost want to laugh.
“Fuck, keep doing that,” he moans, and you do it again, “God, you’re so fucking tight—Shiiiiit.”
The whole bedframe rocks, the headboard groaning under his grip—until suddenly—CRAAAACKKK.
The wood gives away—he rips the whole headboard right off the frame. But he doesn’t stop… the bastard barely even glances at the wreck, just tightens his hold on your hips and keeps fucking you like nothing happened.
But the splintered wood is nothing compared to the way your body’s splitting open on him.
Then—he grabs you beneath your thighs and yanks you up as he gets up, still buried deep inside you. He palms your ass then brings his hand down in a hard slap that makes you whine—moan—gasp—scream, you don’t even know anymore—you’re just nearly sobbing, at the sharp sting and the overstimulation—and then he moves.
You’re so fucked out you hardly notice you’ve left the bed until your back slams into something cold and hard—the desk.
The bottle of champagne, the glasses, whatever is on there—he swipes them all to the floor with a harsh sweep of his arm, and it barely registers over the sound of your moans.
And this fucking angle…
His arms are under your knees, spreading you wide right there on the desk, your body shaking with the aftershocks.
The thick drag of his cock as he stands and sinks in deeper—his mouth parting on filthy moans—going deeper than you ever thought possible, filling you in a way he never could on the bed.
He thrusts up into you, the force of it making your head fall back—then he leans down and his mouth latches onto your tits, biting and sucking so hard your whole body arches up again when his teeth graze your sensitive nipple— and your hands shoot out to tangle in his hair.
“Can’t—can’t—oh my god—” you sob, but your hips are meeting his every fucking thrust, because you’re greedy and ruined. “Too much—”
“No such thing.” He finally lifts his head and grabs your jaw and forces you to look at him. “Keep those eyes on me. Wanna see you when I come—”
You’re barely there, fucked out and shaking, and you’re not sure if your orgasm ever even stopped. “SUNGHOON—”
“Fuck, that’s right,” he snarls, rutting harder. “Say my name—look at me and fucking say it—”
You purse your lips together violently and try to hold back, but a moan slips out. “Fuck you—”
He grins—then pulls all the way out and slams back into you, making the desk rattle as he tightens his grip on your jaw. “Say it—now.”
You cry out, the sound torn from your throat before you can even stop it, “Sunghoon—fuck—Sunghoon—”
He growls. “That’s it—good fucking girl—fuckfuckshit—”
And then you feel him come, cock pulsing so deep inside as he spills his hot load right into the condom, his whole body shuddering as he keeps thrusting into you, drawing every last bit out.
You press your forehead against his—you’re both shaking, flushed, panting, and soaked, and you barely feel anything other than how his cock still feels inside you, and you’re clenching so hard, shaking through another aftershock, that you don’t even realize what’s happening until he pulls back a bit.
He hisses, “Fuck—wait. The condom—shit, hold still.”
Your heart skips, and it jolts you out of your haze. “What? What do you mean—”
You try to sit up, but he grabs your hips and pushes you back down, then he pulls out a little, just enough for both of you to look down.
And… The condom—well, there’s no easy way to put this.
It’s not there.
There’s a sudden rush of fear rushing through your body at the thought of it being stuck inside you. “Get it out—fuck, get it out, Park Sunghoon—”
He leans over you, still panting. “Shut up. Relax.” Then he slides out slowly, and you feel the condom still inside you, the ring barely at your entrance. “I’ll get it.”
Did he just… say… Relax? Relax?
You swat at his chest. “Don’t tell me to relax, that shit could get stuck, and—”
He interrupts. “You on the pill?”
You glare up at him breathlessly. “Are you stupid? Yes, I’m on the pill—But it’s—” you go to reach for it, but he catches your wrist and pins it to your side.
“I said I’ll do it,” he growls, and then he slides his fingers between your thighs. “Spread.”
You hesitate, and he arches a brow. “I said spread your legs.”
So you do. You spread wider for him, and then he reaches down, and you feel his finger curl inside you, hooking the rim of the condom.
Except he doesn’t pull it out—he pushes it in deeper with his finger.
You whine, back arching off the desk as your head tips back at how he curls his finger inside you, “Asshole—what are you—”
Sunghoon groans. “Look at me. Don’t even think about looking away,” he says, and you find yourself doing it, meeting his gaze through half-lidded, fucked-out eyes.
“Your pussy is so fucking tight. Shit,” his words come out in little pants and moans as he keeps fingering you, working you open even more. “Squeezed the condom right off my cock—practically milked it off—so fucking greedy, aren’t you?”
Your body is so sensitive, you’re twitching and gasping at every single push of his finger. “You’re sick,” you manage, but your voice is barely a breath.
“Yeah?” He curls his fingers up just right. “You’re even sicker. Look at you, letting me finger you with my cum inside you.”
Then the fucking asshole moves his thumb down and starts pressing small, relentless circles against your insanely sensitive clit, making your hips buck.
“Fuck—Sunghoon, I can’t—you dick, Slow down—”
But you still arch into his touch, and you pull him even closer—digging your nails into his biceps and feeling him up.
He smirks when he feels your nails drag down his arm, and he flexes his bicep under your touch like he’s showing off on purpose. “Look at you, can’t keep your hands off me even when you’re falling apart. What, you gotta thing for ‘em? You gonna start begging to be choked next?”
You glare up at him, breathless and pissed and still rolling your hips helplessly against his hand. “Shut the fuck up—cocky bitch—” you spat, but… God. The thought of his biceps around your throat… You clench around his finger at the thought.
He leans in, mouth right by your ear, “That’s it, squeeze my fingers, slut. You wanna come like this? Just from this?”
You don’t even bother trying to cuss him out, not when you can feel how close you are again — the filled condom inside you only adding onto the sensation. You don’t care, you don’t fucking care, you just need to come again, need him to ruin you all over, need—
He doesn’t take his eyes off you for a moment. “Shit—How are you—You’re so fucking cock-drunk you can’t even talk, huh?” he taunts. “Fucking perfect. That’s how I want you.”
He pushes another thick finger in and the sensation burns all the more.
“Sunghoon—fuck, that’s—shit—” your voice breaks, and he clamps his big palm around your throat.
“You’re really gonna come all over my fucking hand again, aren’t you?” he rasps, and you nod, just desperate, the pressure so much you can barely stand it. “With my cum inside you? Filthy girl.”
Then he leans in and trails his mouth down your neck — sucking harsh marks into your collarbone and tits, all the way down.
Then he drops onto his knees in front of you, and it’s the most cruel sight you’ve ever seen, and you can’t look away.
He spreads you open wider, and then his mouth is on your clit, sucking it between his lips, while his fingers continue pumping in and out of you. You buck up so hard you nearly throw yourself off the desk, and he just growls, holding you still, staring up at you the entire time.
“Come,” he snarls. “I’ve been fucking nice to you all day—let you run that bratty mouth, let you come as many times as you wanted—so come on, show me how grateful you are. Make a mess all over my mouth. Know you got one more in you.”
You’re losing track of your own words, your hands scrambling uselessly on the desk for something to grab that isn’t his hair, which you’re already clinging to for dear life. “I’m gonna die. I’m literally going to die—you idiot—oh my god, Sunghoon, don’t stop—too much—” and your legs are actually shaking, your hands trying to push him away even as you’re grinding your hips up into his mouth, because your body doesn’t know what the fuck it wants.
Your orgasm hits you so violently it’s almost unfair to the previous ones you’ve had.
He’s still licking you, still sucking your clit, still drawing out every last twitch of pleasure—honestly, what more does he want from you? “Sunghoon—stop—stop it, oh my god, you freak!”
You grab a fistful of his hair and tug on it harshly, and he actually finally pulls away, mouth wet and shiny. “Since you were so good for me…” he says, licking his lips.
Then he dips his head back down and sinks his teeth into the rim of the condom hanging barely inside you—and you watch, half in disbelief, as he pulls it out with his mouth, and he presses his tongue right against your swollen, fucked-out cunt—and you immediately gasp, legs jerking, and he grins up at you with the condom clenched between his teeth—so filthy, so fucking cocky, your body betrays you and you clench around nothing. God—Honestly, woman, what more do you want?
He spits the condom out onto the floor, wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist, and smirks at you. “Didn’t think you actually had it in you to be such a good little slut.”
You glare down at him, and even though you’re breathless as hell, you manage a shrug. “Didn’t think you actually had it in you to fuck me good… enough.”
He tongues his cheek — then suddenly brings his palm down in a loud slap right over your pussy, making you jolt and hiss, the sting shooting straight up your spine. “FUCK—Are you stupid in the head?” you bite.
Then your breath stutters as you watch how he leans in and presses a slow kiss right against your swollen, ruined cunt. He flicks his tongue out, tasting you one last time—humming low in his throat before he gets up again.
And—Sunghoon stands over you, fingers glistening, then he brings his fingers up, holding them just in front of your lips. “Open,” he commands.
You glare at him, lips parted from how you’re still panting, but your mouth still kind of twists into somewhat of a smirk because you have an idea.
“No.”
His brow lifts. “No?” He looks genuinely thrown, just for a second, but his cock twitches, hard and heavy between you—Christ.
You shrug even as your heart’s pounding. “No. You wanna see me suck your fingers?” you weakly jerk your chin at the floor, “Pick up the the condom.”
For a second, he just looks at you like you’re insane. But you watch his throat bob, and you watch the way his cock jerks at the idea. God, he’s so fucking easy, it’s honestly embarrassing for both of you.
“Go on,” you coo, “Be a good boy. Collect your mess and bring it here. I’ll suck you clean. Isn’t that what you want?”
His jaw clenches. “Nasty fucking girl,” he mutters, then—while still holding your gaze—he briefly bends down to grab the spent condom from where he spat it on the floor, tying it off and squeezing until the milky fluid gathers in the tip.
His jaw is so insanely clenched you think he might shatter a tooth, but he does it anyway, and you watch eagerly — biting back a mean little smile, maybe even a whimper — as he still holds your gaze and works his thumb along the slippery latex, gathering his own cum on his thick fingers and there’s so much of it, more than there should be, you think, but it just makes you giddier.
Then he towers over you again, fingers gleaming with his own mess, and you don’t even wait for him to speak this time. You just part your lips and pull his hand to your mouth, tongue flicking out to taste, and the look on his face is pure disbelief and dark, like he can’t believe you’re actually doing it — or maybe even how easily he’d just listened to you. You suck, slowly at first, and you let your tongue swirl around his fingers — tasting him and you and the mess you’ve both made, and you hear the way his breath catches, and you see the way his big cock twitches against his stomach when you hollow your cheeks, moan around his fingers and swallow him down.
He looks nearly pained.
His free hand goes to your jaw, and he digs his thumb into your cheek to keep your mouth wide open for him. “Jesus fuck, you’re insane,” he practically growls. You don’t break eye contact, just hum around his fingers—letting his cum slide down your throat, eyes fluttering just a little because it’s so much, salty and hot and his, showing him your tongue as you let him go with a wet pop.
You try to reach down to wrap your hand around his dick—God, he’s so hard, and you’re kind of baffled at how you still haven’t felt him properly—but he immediately clicks his tongue, and his hand darts out to swat your wrist away. “No,” he snaps. “Did I say you could touch? Fuck, you’re never satisfied, are you?”
You actually whine. Your hips lift off the deft and your cunt clenches uselessly around nothing — like it wasn’t just stretched to its limits — clit throbbing, and you glare up at him, spit and cum smeared all over your lips and so, so empty.
You pout. “You’re no fun.”
“Fuck. Filthy, dirty girl,” he rasps, but it comes out as a whine. “You really want it all, huh?”
You barely register the broken glass on the floor or the champagne bottle rolling under the desk.
No, the only thing you register is the throbbing ache between your legs, the taste of his mouth still lingering on your skin, and especially how Sunghoon is so hard.
Like extremely fucking hard. His cock is heavy and hanging like he didn’t just fuck you stupid. And then he glances up at you, and the look on his face is so fucking smug you want to claw his face off.
Then you watch as he looks around the room, and you do the same.
The sheets are in absolute ruins, the headboard is snapped in half, there are broken shards of glass on the floor, water is pooling under the desk, and petals are… clinging to your skin?
You almost throw up at the thought of the staff or literally anyone seeing this mess… you don’t think you can live down the humiliation of asking for a new room because you and your… your?
You shake your head.
Before your mind can catch up — before you can think about what the fuck you just did, before the idea of it all can hit you, before you can even blink — you’re off the desk and lunging for him, shaking legs be damned.
You grab him by the jaw and crush your mouth to his, not caring if you’re too desperate or too fucking obvious. He groans into your mouth, and he tastes like you, like sweat, like salt, and he kisses you back just as rough. “You’re—fuck—” he hisses as you bite his lip and drag it out, “Shit—fucking needy whore—”
His hands fumble on the floor for his wallet, never breaking the kiss, and when he finds it, he pulls out another condom—doesn’t even look at you, just rips it open and rolls it down, his cock so hard it’s almost angry, the tip swollen and flushed.
You lean against his chest to stay upright, and then you glare at him and scoff. “How many condoms do you even have in that thing?”
He doesn’t answer. Just meets your eyes and jerks his chin at the window. “Bend over,” he growls.
You blink, taken aback, and your whole body buzzes with something like adrenaline and giddy panic. “Huh?”
He grabs your hips and spins you around, pushing you toward the window, his palm flat and rough on your lower back. “I said bend over. Now.”
You shiver, but God, you fucking love it. You brace your hands on the cold glass and arch your back—wiggling your ass out towards him. You can see both your reflections in the window—him behind you, hair a mess, scratched and marked and sweaty, and it only turns you on even more.
He presses up behind you, crowding you into the glass, and you barely have time to think before the thick head of his cock is nudging your entrance, and he leans down, voice right at your ear. “Still want it?” he grits through his teeth with a tone, “Tell me how much you want it, sweetheart. Or I’ll stop right now.”
You roll your eyes, grinding your ass back against him, and spit, “Just shut the fuck up and put it in.”
His hand comes down on your ass, hard, and you gasp, the sting blooming through your skin. “Wrong answer,” he growls. “Think you can touch me and kiss me like that and get away with it? Tsk. I should just walk away right now.”
You try to grind your ass back into him again, desperate for any friction even after everything, but Sunghoon just pushes you harder into the window, pressing your chest and cheek to the cold glass.
He brings his hand down on your ass again—SMACK—harder this time, and you hiss a curse under your breath. “You really don’t fucking listen, do you?” he says. “That was seven. Keep wiggling like that, and I’m just going to have to spank you until you beg me to stop. That what you want?”
Your lip almost curls at the thought. Why is he threatening you with a good time? “Oh no… I’m falling asleep,” you pretend to yawn instead, though it kind of comes out as a whimper, “I’m soooo bored.”
He laughs—and you can hear how wrecked he is, how much it’s taking for him not to just slam into you right then and there. “You’re lucky I like it when you’re mouthy,” he says, gripping your hips even tighter, keeping you right where he wants you. He leans in—God—biting at your shoulder, his cock pressed between your thighs, but not giving you anything. “Say please,” he whispers, his voice nothing but hot filth right at your ear.
You scoff, and your voice is mocking, but it comes out as a whine when he rubs his tip against your clit. “Please, Sunghoon, fuck me. Is that what you want to hear?”
His grip tightens on your hip as he lines himself up better and drags the thick head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing you with it. “We’re getting there. That’s more like it,” he murmurs, and then—finally—he pushes the tip in.
Sunghoon groans from behind—and you moan at the sound and also at the feeling of being stretched to oblivion again—your breath fogs up the window as he starts to push in deeper, filling you up so slowly it’s torture.
“Fuck, you’re still so tight. How—” he groans, and his hand slides up to grab a fistful of your hair, forcing you to arch your back even more for him. “Look at yourself,” he says, eyes flicking to your reflection in the window. “Look how desperate you are. City out there has no fucking clue what a needy slut you are for my cock, do they?”
“Shut up, you’re just as needy—JESUS—”
He slams in the rest of the way, bottoming out with one brutal thrust, and you scream—so fucking loud—your body clenching around him so hard you both have to stop and breathe for a second. But it’s not long before he’s fucking you hard, his hips snapping into your ass, making the whole window rattle in its frame.
You barely recognize your own voice when you moan out, “Harder—harder, fuck—show me you can actually fuck me properly.”
He laughs and yanks your hair so your back is flush to his chest as he fucks you harder, and then his other hand slides up and grabs your tits, kneading them roughly, pinching your nipples until you arch and whimper and burn under his touch, nipples already too sensitive and tender from before.
He bites down on your shoulder and then licks the mark. “Bet the whole fucking city would pay to see you like this, Mrs. Park,” he taunts with a shaky moan, “So desperate and too drunk on cock to—fuckk—to speak.”
Bastard.
You snarl, head lolling back against his shoulder as he rolls your nipple between his fingers. “Don’t call me that. I’ll jump out t..this window.”
He just ruts into you deeper and harsher, his fangs scraping up your neck. “Yeah? You don’t want everyone knowing you’re mine now? Gonna have to get used to it, sweetheart.” his mouth finds the soft skin beneath your jaw and he sucks hard and wet — leaving another angry, blooming mark. “You sound so pretty when you whine. Say it again. Tell me not to call you that while I stretch you out.”
Well. You try. Or maybe you don’t, you’re not entirely sure with the way he’s fucking you—It’s gotten to that point again where your only answer is a breathless moan as his thumb circles your nipple and his cock hits so deep you see white.
“Sunghoon—just—fuck me, don’t fucking stop—”
“That’s it,” he groans. “Taking me so well,” he punctuates it with a deep thrust, cock buried to the hilt, and when you scream, he grins into your skin and pounds into you even harder. “You want them to hear you? Want my father’s entire staff to know how desperate my pretty little fiancée is for me?”
You shake your head frantically, but you can’t stop the moans that spill out of you. Not when the bastard is so deep you can feel him in your guts. Not when you can feel yourself close again already—God, how is he fucking doing this?
His hand slides back down, fingers rubbing your clit rough and fast. “Oh, and if you come without me telling you to, I’ll fuck you against every window in this fucking hotel. You got that, Mrs. Park?”
Well… too bad, you think. Or maybe too good.
Your thighs start to shake, your stomach tightens, all your muscles lock up around his cock and his hand, and you know—fuck—you know you’re going to come if he keeps it up for another second. You open your mouth and moan, “Sunghoon, I’m—”
But suddenly, he fucking stops. Everything.
His hips go still, cock buried as deep as he can get, and his hand leaves your clit—and the only sound in the room is both of you panting. You whine—hips pushing back, trying to get anything—but he tightens his grip, holding you in place so you can’t even rub yourself against him.
He scoffs, and it comes out as a growl. “What did I say? Did I say you could come?” He draws his hips back, just enough to tease, and you feel furious and so fucking close you could sob. Maybe you were sobbing.
You whine. “Are you fucking serious? Don’t play. Sunghoon, I need—”
He slaps your ass. “No. Not until you ask me like you mean it,” he growls, “Beg.”
Your pride flares up, but your body is shaking, aching for him, for anything. You choke out, “I’m not begging. Just fuck me. Finish what y…you started, asshole.”
Another slap. “Not begging? Tsk. Guess you don’t want it, then.” then he pulls out halfway, making you feel every single inch leave your body—leaving you so empty you gasp and clench down on nothing.
God, the things you do for pleasure. You’d rather die than beg—seriously, you would rather throw yourself out this fucking window—but some sick, twisted part of you also realizes you’ve never had dick this big in your entire life, and then suddenly your body is betraying you—willing to say anything just to feel full again. You're so, so close you’d say almost anything. And so you do.
“Just—fuck, just give it to me, please—” It slips out, more of a sob than a plea.
He clicks his tongue again. “Hmmm… I don’t know… wasn’t very convincing.” He drags the head of his cock over your clit, rubbing circles, making you jerk and moan. “You gonna do better, or do I have to teach you how to beg?”
Thank God you’re too fucked-out to think better of this right now. “Please, Sunghoon. Please—fuck me. Need you to make me come, please—”
He doesn’t even let you finish. He slams back into you so hard you nearly hit your head on the glass, but his hand catches you by the throat and he yanks you back into him. His mouth finds yours, practically swallowing your scream, and he kisses you and moans right into your mouth. “That’s it. Good fucking girl—finally learned how to ask for it,” and then he pulls away just enough to watch your face.
“Come for me,” he hisses. “Fucking come all over my cock.”
You’re gone again—completely, totally gone. All you can do is sob his name (unfortunately), claw your nails at his hand on your throat, and lose every shred of control and strength as your orgasm crashes through you.
Then he grabs your hips and spins you around—and he barely gives you a second before he’s in you and fucking you stupid again, chasing his own release while you’re still shaking.
Sunghoon is saying something, growling and all, but your vision actually blurs and your legs buckle and nearly give out — but he holds you up — you swear you blackout for a second — but he still doesn’t stop, not for a second, driving you through it, over and over. You’re still spasming around him, and you feel him chase his own end, hips snapping harder, faster, sloppier, and messier now—until he finally buries himself to the hilt and you feel him throb inside you and fill the condom.
For a second, it’s just the sound of both of you breathing again, and nothing else.
Your vision is… well, not quite good. Don’t have rough sex with contacts on, maybe? Your brain is a fried livewire—and then you look at Sunghoon.
God. His forehead is slick with sweat, his hair is a complete disaster, and for some reason, he’s never ever looked better. It actually makes you angry somehow. He leans his head back with his chest heaving, mouth dropped open because of how hard he’s panting—and he is still inside you. He doesn’t even bother to move.
You just… look at him.
You bring your hand up to his chest and drag your nails down—like you’re marking him up for fun, or just to make sure he’s there—not even thinking about it. He hisses, but it comes out all fucked up and like a whine.
Then he glances down between the two of you.
And he gives you a lazy, evil thrust, rolling his hips ever so slowly (Somehow, impossibly, he’s still half-hard inside you, which should be physically impossible, but apparently, not for him)—making your mouth let out a noise you hope to God you never hear come out of you again. And you watch with your mouth dropped open as he spits between your bodies and then drags his thumb through it, rubbing it right into your clit—you twitch violently, but you both just moan as he slowly starts thrusting again.
You want to tell him to stop. You really do. You want to say, “That’s enough, I can’t, I can’t,” because you’re “sore” all over and everything hurts, but the truth is you don’t want him to stop, not at all, not ever—and it’s always been like this for you—with your stupid, embarrassing, insatiable sex drive, always the one with the higher sex drive, always left off after one, maybe two average rounds at best, forced to fake it, pretending you’re satisfied, laughing it off and saying, “No, I’m fine, I’m good, I’m tired,” when really you were just wired and frustrated and thinking about getting yourself off in the bathroom ten minutes later.
And now it’s him—of all fucking people, it’s him—It’s infuriating, actually. Completely humiliating. Why does he get to be the best you’ve ever had? No. You refuse to admit that. Even in your own head. You’re not giving him the satisfaction.
“Insatiable,” he mutters, mostly to himself—and it’s mean, but his hands are soft when he slides them down your waist. “You just don’t know when to quit, do you? Greedy fucking thing,” he drags his thumb back to your clit, rubbing slow circles, watching the way you arch for it, watching your mouth drop open. “Look at you—still want more? You want me to keep going, pretty girl? I can do this all night.”
You grit your teeth. You do. You really fucking do. But you still moan all the same.
And then, because the world is sick and you’re in hell, the doorbell goes off.
RIIIIIIIINGGGGGG.
For a second, neither of you moves. You shut your eyes tightly and actually start praying.
Then another second.
Then—knock knock knock—followed by a voice, high and nervous and guttingly familiar, through the heavy hotel door.
“Um… hello? Y/N? Sunghoon?” It’s Ningning. Why? God? Why? Must you make this poor girl suffer? “You guys in there? They need you for photos—like, now. Like, actually now. The stylists are—um—freaking out. Are you decent?”
No, Ningning. Oh, dear sweet girl. You’re not decent. Oh… you’ve never been less decent in your life.
Then you stare at Sunghoon—and he just stares at you, breathing hard, like you’re both waiting for the other person to say something, but nothing comes out.
“Don’t answer,” he mutters. “Let them wait.”
Another knock. More urgent. “Hello? Please? You’re not answering your phones—the staff are panicking, the event is in two hours—please don’t make me open this door. Are you in there?”
Sunghoon thrusts once, and you bite down on his shoulder not to moan.
“Stop it,” you hiss and try to glare at him, but your face is all wrecked, and his mouth just quirks up in this infuriating, smug, absolutely smiteable smile.
Sunghoon raises his brows at you—he has the most annoying glint in his eye, and you could kill him, honestly; you could murder him right here and now and feel absolutely nothing except justified.
You groan, flop your head against his shoulder, and try to shove him away (he does not budge, obviously, because he’s a fucking mountain), and then you slap your palm weakly against his chest, nails dragging down the sweat-slick muscle just to make him flinch. He does not. Instead, the sick freak’s cock twitches inside you, and you both feel it, and then he rolls his hips—and you both whine, and it’s almost funny, really.
Outside, Ningning’s voice climbs another octave, and she sounds so sweet and oh so oblivious to what’s going on, it makes your insides twist. “Y/N? Sunghoon? Please—if you guys don’t come out in the next two minutes I’m—um—supposed to use the master key and—oh my god, please don’t make me do that.”
Your eyes widen.
The fucking room… if anyone sees this…
You pinch his bicep and manage to gasp out, “You better pray she doesn’t walk in, Park Sunghoon, or I swear to God I’ll kill you, and then myself, and then you again somehow for good measure.”
“She’ll go away,” he shrugs, then he fucking thrusts again. “Or maybe not.”
“You’re actually insane. She’s right there. I’m—oh my god—get out, get out—” but your voice is all basically half a whine and not convincing at all.
Sunghoon leans in and bites your jaw, right under your ear, and you hiss and swat at his chest again, but he grins against your skin. “Let her wait. You think I give a fuck about some stupid event? They could set this whole fucking hotel on fire and I’d still keep you here. I’ll fuck you all year if I have to.”
And for some fucked-up reason, you almost whimper at that, which is the final, humiliating straw, you think.
“Y/N? SUNGHOON?” Ningning just sounds like she’s about to lose it. “Please, are you—are you okay? Please just answer me—say something—I’m coming in—”
Oh hell no.
You quickly manage to choke out, “We’re fine! We’re—just—” and you can hear your own voice, breathless, weird, totally suspicious. And what’s worse is you don’t even finish your sentence.
You hear Ningning sigh and say something in relief outside, but Sunghoon… actually laughs. And you hate him so much you might actually kill him.
“You think this is funny?” you hiss, jabbing a finger at his chest, “Get out of me—”
“You’re pathetic. It’s a little funny,” he shakes his head — the bastard — still buried inside you, still so fucking hard it’s actually criminal. “Come on, say please.”
Not this shit again.
You stare at him, and consider actual, legitimate murder. “I will bite your fucking nose off, Sunghoon, I’m not joking—” you muffle your voice before you can moan, because he rocks into you again, so slow, so goddamn deep, and you can feel your brain short-circuiting with every inch.
“You’re done! You’re done! MOVE—oh my god, if she comes in here and sees—” you start to laugh, but it sounds a little too close to a sob.
He finally, finally pulls out—slow, way too slow, and you almost sag to the floor with relief and frustration and God knows what else. Then you carefully step around the glass on the floor and try to stumble for your robe (where even is that robe? Did you ever even put it on?) but Sunghoon yanks you back in—then he grabs your jaw and kisses you filthy—nothing gentle, nothing sweet, just tongue and the taste of both your ruined pride. He groans into your mouth, palm sliding between your legs one last time—just to feel how wet, how fucked-out he’s left you.
“This—” he mutters against your lips between kisses, “didn’t—” kiss “—mean anything.” kiss “You get that?”
You huff a laugh against his mouth and grip his cheeks. “I just wanted a good fuck,” you shrug—and then you bite his lower lip hard enough to make him grunt (one last time.) “And you barely managed that.” You lie.
His hand comes down across your ass in one last, stinging SMACK—and you hiss—but you shove him away and grab whatever clothes are closest (you honestly hope it’s not his shirt, but you literally can’t tell anymore) and throw yourself into the bathroom without another thought.
You slam the door behind you and lean against it for a beat—heart pounding, body wrecked, legs shaking and barely holding you up—and try to remember how to breathe. Or walk. Or exist. Or, god forbid, face a camera after this. Uh… Maybe you could fake your death?
Outside, you hear Sunghoon’s voice—calm, almost infuriatingly bored, as if he wasn’t just trying to fuck you through the glass two seconds ago, “We’re coming, Ningning. Chill.” he pauses. Then he adds, “And let the front desk know this room is… just tell them we need a new suite.”
Then you finally catch sight of yourself in the bathroom mirror—and for the first time in a long, long time, you recognize the girl staring back at you.
𝓝 ⟢ legend says they would’ve fucked forever if they hadn’t been interrupted 🥱🥱 this might actually be the most Insane chapter (TUMBLR YOU WILL NOT SILENCE ME) i’ve ever released and it’s not just because there’s 17k words of absolute filth (address me 🐘 🐘 🐘 ) but because this is genuinely the chapter where they’ve both been themselves the most mamas…. and AGAIN, I KNOW i say this at the end of every chapter BUT!!!! i mean it a thousand times over this time. i really mean it. i blacked out writing this. and WHEW i went all out with the smut LOL. They’re too freaked out don’t look at me like that…. thank you so much for reading AAAAA i would genuinely pay to hear every single one of your thoughts and all your favorite parts and opinions . i love you. i love you. i love you. ♡:(；ﾞﾟ'ωﾟ'): 🌷
When Sunghoon woke up on Tuesday morning, it took him a moment to realize where he was.
When his friends had first told him to join this fraternity in his first year, he’d scowled at them and told them to grow up. But then he’d joined anyway, because he realized it was somewhere he could disappear to and shed the name that dragged behind him—somewhere he could pretend to be nobody’s son at all and just another idiot under the roof drinking himself numb.
Which, honestly, was exactly what he’d been last night.
He’d drunk and drunk and drunk anything he managed to get his hands on until everything in his head slowed down enough that he could almost mistake it for peace. Besides, the place had actually grown on him over the years, but he would never admit that out loud. (especially not to Heeseung and Jay).
He’d known he was meant to give a statement to the press that morning, but he hadn’t known what was waiting for him in the folder until he opened it and read it on the way to the press conference. And when he had, he thought about saying something—about tearing the pages in half, about telling them all to go to hell—but he didn’t, because it wouldn’t have made a difference. Nothing he said to his father ever did.
He had kept his posture perfect even as bile burned at the back of his throat when he started saying the words out loud—words he didn’t even believe himself—and even through the God-awful pounding in his head. Again, it wouldn’t have made a difference anyway, because they had groomed him to sound convincing and look a certain way long before he was old enough to know what any of it even meant.
When it was over, he had told his driver not to take him back to his apartment, not to the frat house either, and definitely not his home—if you could even call it that. The driver had only looked at him knowingly and taken him to the one place he always went when he got like that.
When the car came to a stop after a while, Sunghoon stepped out alone.
The rink looked exactly the same as it had years ago when he first competed here (he’d made sure of that)—the peeling blue paint on the doors, even down to the sign hanging slightly crooked above them. He’s never told anyone about how he keeps coming back here.
He doesn’t really know why he still comes here, only that it calms the noise in his head when he does. Maybe because this was the only place that stayed the same no matter what changed around him, or maybe because it reminded him that once, before it all went wrong, before he lost more than just the ice, he’d been good at something that was his alone.
A year ago, they’d announced that the rink was shutting down for good because it had gone bankrupt after too many empty seasons. So he’d silently bought it himself and kept the place running ever since. He’d never told anyone that either.
When he walked inside, he went and sat on the same seat on the bleachers he always did, up a few rows to the spot that overlooked the far end of the rink. His hands absentmindedly brushed over the bench, fingertips catching on faint carved letters that were still there after all these years, and he didn’t need to read them to know what they said.
Hoonie my #1. Forever and always.
He’d stayed like that for a long time and tried not to think of you.
WEDNESDAY MORNING
If you didn’t already believe in hell before this, the past two days would’ve changed your mind.
You can’t even tell what’s worse anymore: the fact that the world truly thinks you’re getting married to Park Sunghoon or the fact that Park Jaejoon actually got away with it. Technically, they’re both the same thing.
God, you don’t even want to think of it for too long because you’ll hurl your guts out.
“It’s nothing more than a headline to steady public faith,” Chairman Park had said on the phone to you and your parents. “Whether the marriage is true right now is irrelevant. You proposed the pretense—so we’ll continue it. Do correct me if I’m wrong; you agreed when I proposed it would happen on my terms, no?”
Your parents had been blindsided, and they were furious—to say the least—after they saw the article. Hell, you couldn’t name a singular fucking person in your life who wasn’t absolutely baffled. Well, except maybe your classmates from high school who were foolish enough to actually congratulate the two of you—only because they knew a younger and naive version of you who had loved the man sitting next to you now.
They’d called you into Park Group’s hotel yesterday and again this morning as part of “precautionary steps” for future press conferences and public appearances. It didn’t feel precautionary, though; it felt like you were being stripped down like a fucking doll and rewritten entirely.
They told you what to wear, what shade of lipstick looks “approachable,” how to cross your legs, when to smile, and how to look at him when the cameras flash—ridiculous rules stacked one on top of the other until you stopped keeping count. You just nodded and smiled and did as you were told.
Growing up, your parents cared about appearances—of course—but they let you be yourself. They let you breathe. They never tried to control you like this. No, you were raised to know exactly how to behave in these settings, how to charm a room, and everything else that came with being born into this world. This, though—this is different. This feels like they have you on a fucking leash.
Sunghoon just sat there with that same empty expression the whole time while they prepped (their words, prepped) him on how to act and what to say. You’d ignored him almost entirely the past two days because it was easier that way.
Easier to keep the anger folded up in your throat instead of letting it spill out and doing something you can’t take back.
And maybe—maybe—it's easier not to let yourself look too closely for too long. Easier to pretend you didn’t notice the way he sat with his legs spread, one arm slung lazily over the back of your shared seat like he was trying to piss you off. Easier not to think about how it’s been years, and somehow he still smells exactly the fucking same. Every time he shifted beside you, thigh brushing yours, you felt it in the pit of your stomach first. Then in your chest. Then even lower.
Scratch that, actually. You didn’t just believe in hell. You were sure you were already in it.
They’d assigned you a joint assistant—a poor girl named Ningning who looked about five minutes away from quitting at any given time. She was sweet and gorgeous and definitely too young to be working under this kind of pressure—and from the look on her face, she didn’t want to be here either.
Still, you had a feeling the two of you would get along just fine.
Yesterday, you’d overheard one of the younger stylists whispering behind a stack of makeup cases, “Can you believe she is sitting next to him and not even looking at him properly? Every girl in Seoul would kill to be in Y/N’s place right now—myself included.”
Ningning hadn’t even looked up from her clipboard when she shrugged and said, “And every man everywhere would kill to be in Park Sunghoon’s place right now—myself included.”
She hadn’t even bothered to address him properly… Yeah, you were definitely going to get along with her.
Despite the small comfort that memory gave you, your thumb had found its way back to the same spot, worrying at the skin without you even noticing. You didn’t realize it until he spoke beside you and pulled you out of your thoughts.
“You need to stop doing that.”
You blinked once and turned your head to look at him. The bastard wasn’t even looking at you.
“Why do you care?” you hissed, careful enough so that no one around you would notice.
“I don’t care,” he whispered as he leaned back in his chair, eyes still looking forward. “Shit like that is exactly what they’re advising you against, though.”
Oh, the things you wanted to do to him right now.
Like hell you could contain it. You smile as you glance around quickly just to make sure no one’s looking, and then you shift in your seat and nudge your knee harshly into his under the table just enough that he jerks slightly, and he immediately turns his head to look at you.
You don’t look back. “Are you forgetting I told you not to fucking talk to me?” you mutter under your breath.
“Cute,” he huffs low enough that only you can hear it. “You still think I give a shit about your rules.”
You turn your head again and stare at him for a long second. “Oh yeah? Do you remember what I said?” You jerk your chin towards the front, where the staff are still talking amongst themselves. “I said I’ll fucking scream in front of everyone.”
He clicks his tongue. “See, I don’t think so.” he leans forward slightly and points at where your hands are on your lap. “You worry too much about your image to risk doing that.”
You can tell he’s baiting you and testing how far you’ll go, because—of course—he nudges your leg under the table with his knee and keeps it there after. Then he looks down at where your legs are now touching and then back up at you, and the corner of his mouth tugs up. This asshole is fucking enjoying this.
“Go ahead,” he murmurs. “Be my guest.”
You look down at how he’s pressing his leg into yours, then at the people talking up front, and you scoff. See, the thing is, you were sort of bluffing when you said it. But seeing as he thinks you won’t do it?
You look right back at him as you inhale, sit up a little straighter, and tilt your chin just enough to make him tense—and you see the way his grin falters. You hold his gaze for one more second, then you shut your eyes, open your mouth—
And he actually panics.
His hand shoots out before you even get the chance (you weren’t actually going to scream or anything, maybe a fake sneeze… or perhaps you were going to scream. You’re not entirely sure yourself.) He covers your mouth with his palm and grabs your wrist with the other, turning both of you toward the other side of the room so fast your chair squeaks against the floor.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he whispers, though it comes out more as a hiss—with his fingers still clamped over your lips.
You furrow your brows at him and try to move your head and wiggle free, but he makes no effort to move his stupid hand—and it only pisses you off more.
So naturally, you rationally bit down on his palm hard enough to make him groan under his breath, and he pulled back right away.
“Brat,” he hisses, and you watch the muscle in his jaw twitch as he sucks on his teeth, breathing out through his nose as he stares between you and his hand with utter disbelief.
You just lick your lips slowly without breaking eye contact and shrug. “I warned you.”
Then someone clears their throat behind you.
You straighten up and turn back in your chair, and one of the stylists is standing there with that polite half smile that says she definitely saw something she shouldn’t have. “Everything okay over here?”
You nod politely and force a small laugh before Sunghoon can say anything. “All good!” you say as you deliberately drag your fingers across your bottom lip, where you’re sure he had just smudged your lipstick. “Definitely need a little makeup retouching over here though,” you tilt your head just slightly in Sunghoon’s direction as you smile sweetly. Then, after a beat, you added:
“My boyfriend is too handsy for his own good.”
Well. You probably shouldn't have said that.
It was petty and childish and beneath you, but you were way past pretending to be the bigger person today. If this lady was going to whisper about you yesterday, then fine—let her choke on the picture you just painted for her. Even if you were choking on it, too, now.
You half expected to turn and see Sunghoon scowling at you in the way he always did or to mock you—you expected anything but the words that came out of his mouth next.
“Ah, then we’ll need to have the team on standby by our side at all times, won’t we, darling?”
Asshole. (To be fair, you started it.)
You don’t miss the flicker of surprise in her face and the way her smile falters at that, her mouth parting for half a second before she catches herself. But before either of you can say anything, someone from the media team cuts in.
“Oh, that won’t be necessary, Mr. and Mrs. Park,” she calls out teasingly, and a few people laugh. “We’re done for the day! You two were great—seriously, the chemistry’s insane. Ah, you just look perfect next to each other.”
What did she just call you?
You swear your vision almost blacks out for a second, but you hold it together a little while longer—you smile, nod, say all the right thank yous and bow politely like a good little puppet—then you push your chair back, stand up without looking at Sunghoon a second longer, and excuse yourself before you give them a real headline to worry about.
You’re halfway down the hall when you hear quick footsteps behind you, and when you turn, Ningning’s hurrying toward you with her tablet tucked under one arm and your phone in her hand.
“Ms. Y/N! You forgot this in there,” she says, slightly out of breath but smiling as she holds it out.
“Oh! Thank you, God—I didn’t even realize I'd left it,” you laugh lightly as you take it from her, and a small smile tugs at your mouth as you glance back at her. “And it’s just Y/N, remember? You don’t have to be so formal with me. Plus, I’m younger than you.”
Her eyes widened a little. “Oh—right! Sorry!” she laughs softly—then, in the cutest manner, she starts nervously rambling, “It’s just weird, you know? I’ve seen your family in magazines since I was a kid, so working with you feels… kind of insane. I have almost all your mom’s Vogue covers lined up on my shelf—Oh my god, wait, I’m saying too much—that sounds creepy, doesn’t it? I swear I’m not a creep—”
You were definitely going to get along with her just fine.
You shake your head and grin playfully. “You’re too cute. You’re definitely not being creepy—creepy would be how I’m thinking about stealing you away right now so you come home and meet my family and work for our company instead.”
Her cheeks turn pink. “You’re too sweet—I can see why Sungh—I mean Mr. Park likes you so much,” she shakes her head and huffs a breath. “Like, you’ve seriously been the nicest I’ve met here so far. Everyone else either ignores me or talks to me like I’m twelve.”
You naturally ignore the first half of her sentence completely. “That’s because you are twelve,” you tease and bump her shoulder playfully.
“I’m twenty-three!” she protests lightly. “I have a degree, I pay taxes, and everything—” she shakes her head, and then she glances down at her tablet like she just remembered something. “Oh, and I triple-checked the PR outline from your pitch. I still can’t believe you just came up with that on the spot…. You were so cool in there.”
You’ve genuinely lived about a hundred lives in the span of forty-eight hours, because you’d forgotten entirely about that. “My pitch?”
“Yeah,” she says, distracted as she scrolls, “Turning the grand opening into more of a generational thing instead of a last-minute substitution? They said it gave the event a better story to tell, and the execs approved it in, like, two hours. Apparently, that never happens.”
You blink. “Oh.”
“Guess you made their jobs easier,” She hums, tapping at her screen again. “And I just wanted to make sure—did you receive the updated flight itinerary for Friday morning?”
Oh. Right.
That.
“Yeah,” you say after a second and force a polite smile despite how your stomach just twisted at what she’d said. “I’ve got it.”
You’d been trying very, very hard not to think about that all day.
And you still refuse to think of it.
[3:37 PM] JAKE: hey pretty baby
[3:37 PM] JAKE: shit, hope it’s okay if i still call you that lol
[3:39 PM] JAKE: party at the frat tonight tho, i rlly wanna see u :) pls come
In all honesty, you had said no the moment you’d read those texts, because you were in that stupid media training session and all you could think about was the stupid rules they were drilling into your head—and you thought about how that stupid party would be the last place they’d want you to go.
But now that you’re sitting cross-legged on your bed, you see it from a different angle.
That party is the last place they’d want you to go.
You stand and walk over to your closet and start with what they’d want you to wear. Which—fine, you hate to admit—doesn’t stray too far from your own style anyway. It’s almost annoying how right they got it. But that’s not the point. The point is that you’re too damn stubborn to let anyone have a say in how you look or how you act.
So you skip the beige set and also the (gorgeous) white dress that had involuntarily flashed through your mind the moment they said you should “market yourself as a future bride.” (If you thought about that long enough, your head would actually explode like a cartoon character), and—though it physically pains you—you skip everything pink too.
Why those specific colors, you may ask? Well, because that’s what the color analyst had told you to wear individually and as a couple. (yes, they brought in a full fucking color analyst yesterday.) She’d said cream tones photograph better, that it would read soft, especially during the nighttime, because it would make you look “warmer” on camera—more “palatable,” she’d said. Whatever the hell that meant.
So naturally, you reach for black.
Your fingers close around the hanger, and the corner of your mouth tugs up because you already know they’d absolutely hate this one. The neckline’s too low, and the way it presses against your chest when you breathe—Christ. The whole thing is revealing enough to make you second-guess it for a moment, but again, you’re entirely too stubborn for your own good.
Also, to defend your honor for a quick second, you’ve never actually worn anything like this before, and you probably wouldn’t under any other circumstances, to be fair. The only reason it was even in your closet was because… well, who would say no to a generously gifted archival Chanel piece? Certainly not you. Pfft.
You toss the dress onto your chair and drag your hands through your hair, and stare at nothing for a second.
God. What even is your life anymore?
You’d told yourself this year would be quiet. That you’d only focus on your classes, stay out of the noise, and keep your head down, and now you can’t even tell if you want to show up to class at all anymore.
… Then you think of him.
You hate that it even crosses your mind that he’ll probably be at that party tonight, and you grit your teeth and try to push it down, but like every other time, he doesn’t move easily—and then you close your eyes as if that might do something, but it only makes it worse, because Sunghoon is there now, clear as if he were right in front of you.
You open your eyes and shake your head, but he’s still there.
You see the slope of his nose, his stupid fucking biceps running tight under his shirt in that meeting today, the way his fingers curl and toy with his rings when he’s angry or when he’s bored, the way his thighs spread when he sits, and his mouth. You remember exactly how they felt around on your throat, your—Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me. Not again. Get it together, Y/N.
You also hate that your brain does that. That there’s some stupid part of you—buried deep down and pathetic—that slips sometimes and thinks about him like that.
But that doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t.
Because you’d really meant it when you’d told him you were done. You’d finally gotten the closure you needed after all these years. Park Sunghoon would never be anything to you ever again.
You’re sure of that.
You’re pretty sure.
You have to be—Oh, Fuck this.
You pick up your phone before you can think of anything any longer.
[6:10 PM] YOU: i changed my mind
[6:11 PM] YOU: i’ll see you theree hehe
Legs crossed at the ankle, not the knee. Keep your chin tilted slightly down. Don’t touch your hair. Don’t fidget. Smile with your teeth, not too wide. Never fold your fingers, never ball them into a fist, never rest your chin on your hand. Never be seen with a drink in your hand unless it’s appropriate to the social gathering.
You’ll be fucking damned.
You were never really good at following rules anyway.
WEDNESDAY NIGHT
The first thing Sunghoon hears when he tunes back into the room is Jay saying, very seriously, “No. No. Listen—listen to me,” he declares as he jabs at Heeseung with his beer bottle. “I would let Max Verstappen do things to me I can’t even name here. I’d risk it all for that Dutch man. Ohhhhhh.”
Heeseung blinks. “Bro, who?”
“Max—” Jay shakes his head quickly and squints. “Wait. Were you about to say who asked? No… I’m not falling for that.”
Heeseung snorts. “You fell for it twice yesterday.”
“Yeah, and I grew from it,” Jay says solemnly, tapping his chest. “Character development.” Then he hums and goes on anyway. “I’m serious though, I’d let him run me over with his car—no, actually, I’d pay him to.”
Heeseung stares at him like he’s trying to compute that sentence. “Man, you’re not even drunk right now to be saying all that,” he looks at the bottle in Jay’s hand, then back at him. “That’s your first drink, and it’s unopened.”
Jay gives him a look, lifts the bottle, and twists the cap off with a loud crack. “So brotherly admiration is a sin now? That’s crazyyyy.”
Jungwon drops his face into his hands from where he’s sitting across from Sunghoon. “God help me,” he mutters. “How do we always end up here again? You—” he jabs at Heeseung, “—are enabling him. I can’t even bring girls here anymore without them thinking you two are a bit.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Jay shrugs. “The ladies love a bit.”
“They love me,” Heeseung corrects, tipping his chin toward Jay. “You? They pity.”
“Pity is still attention,” Jay fires back immediately. “I’ll take it.”
Sunghoon finally glances up at them. “Both of you scare them.”
Heeseung gasps dramatically. “You haven’t spoken in ten minutes, and that’s what you break your silence with? Nahhhh, go back to brooding in your corner, bro.”
Jungwon points at Sunghoon. “You two have actually weirded him out so much he’s gone nonverbal. He’s never this quiet.”
“Mm,” Jay hummed, “You’re saying that like he’s not the weirdest one out of all of us.”
Then he adds, “That’s not why he’s nonverbal, anyway,” he jerks his chin straight ahead, “That is.”
The words hang there just long enough for Jungwon to raise a brow. Then he looks at Heeseung, who looks back at him, and then, in perfect sync like idiots, they both look at Sunghoon—then turn around to follow his line of sight.
“Oh,” Heeseung said, lips curling into a grin. “Oh.”
Jungwon leans forward, squinting across the room. “Oh, shit,” he echoes. “She’s really—wow, okay. That’s—yeah.”
Sunghoon didn’t answer. He didn’t even look away fast enough to pretend he hadn’t been staring. The bottle in his hand was sweating against his palm, slick enough that it might’ve slipped if he weren’t gripping it so tightly. He could feel their eyes on him now, but he didn’t care—he couldn’t.
Because you were standing across the room—with a drink in your hand.
And you were with Jake.
There were a lot of things going through his mind—like how he knew you never drank, so what the fuck were you doing drinking here? Of all places? With him? He also knew you’ve always hated drinking. He remembers you saying that once after you’d made him promise to never drink again—something about control, about hating when things blur.
You were with Riki first, and that was—Riki was… Riki. Not that he cared, but he knew he was harmless, and he’d always liked the kid, anyway.
Jake, though… Jake was anything but harmless.
The thing with Jake was that Sunghoon still couldn’t quite unlearn the shape of their friendship in his mind — even now, even after everything. Some habits died harder than others, he thought, and guilt was definitely one of them, because he still saw the same boy who’d laughed him back to life a hundred times. He guessed that’s what made this feel so fucking bitter—because it’s not some stranger’s hands on you. It’s that same boy’s.
Jake slid his hands right around your waist—and the way he was looking at you now made something under Sunghoon’s skin go hot and ugly.
Then there was the matter of how your dress clung to you like it was sin itself stitched onto fabric, and all he could think about was how every other pair of eyes in that house would be tracing the same lines he wasn’t supposed to notice—how your neckline was low enough that every idiot in the room has probably already memorized the curve of your chest by now.
His fingers tighten around the glass until he feels it creak.
He doesn’t give a shit. That’s not what this is. This isn’t…. He’s just irritated. That’s all. Because what kind of idiot downs shots like water when she never even drinks? What kind of idiot lets another man put his hands on her waist while the entire fucking frat watches? Especially when you’re supposed to be his… his whatever. Jesus, he can’t even think straight.
And the worst part is—he knows exactly what kind of idiot would do that. The same kind who’d sat in a conference room years ago with his jaw clenched, nodding through every rule they threw at him until he’d walked out and done the exact opposite just to prove he could claw back any piece of control for himself.
Heeseung leans forward and waves a hand at him, and breaks his train of thought. “Hello? Get out of your head. Man, you and Jake need to figure out whatever’s going on between you already. You’re my best man.” he looks at Jay and Jungwon. “No offense, you guys are up there too,” and then he looks back at Sunghoon. “But I can’t keep playing the mediator between the two of you when I’m already…” he looks at you from the corner of his eyes and shakes his head. “Just talk it out.”
“There’s nothing going on between us,” Sunghoon shrugs. “Jake and I are fine.”
Jay lifts a brow. “Bullshit. You two have been having a dick-measuring contest since summer—and neither of you is telling me what the hell even happened.”
Heeseung just stares between the two of them for a beat with a knowing look—before groaning and dragging a hand down his face. “Please,” he mutters, “never say dick-measuring contest again. I’m not drunk enough yet.”
Jay snorts. “Why? Because you’d lose?”
Heeseung gasps very dramatically. “Excuse me? I’ll have you know—” he starts, pointing at Jay, “—actually, no. You know what? Get up. Let’s go upstairs. We’re settling this right now.”
Jungwon doesn’t even look up. “For the love of God, not again.”
But Heeseung’s already half-standing. “Again? wait… You guys do things without me? Oh, I can’t breathe,” he shakes his head. “No, no, it’s fine actually. I don’t care. Bring a ruler though.”
Jay leans back against the couch and grins. “Man, you don’t want this smoke.”
Heeseung glares at him. “You’re all talk.”
Sunghoon doesn’t even glance up when he speaks. “Don’t move.”
“What?” Heeseung perks up a brow. “No, bro—you’re not included in this—”
“Don’t move,” Sunghoon repeats, taking a slow sip from his drink as he turns to look at Heeseung. “There’s a chance this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen, and I want to savor the exact moment it happened.”
Heeseung squints at him for a beat while Jay and Jungwon tip their heads back and laugh, then he ultimately plops back down on the couch. “You’re lucky you’re pretty and that I love you, dude. Otherwise, I’d totally challenge you to a duel… or something.”
That gets a faint, reluctant curve of Sunghoon’s mouth, and he takes a slow pull from his beer again—shit.
He catches himself watching you again from across the room.
He sees the way your hand moves when you gesture, how your head tips back when you laugh at something Jake says, and how he leans in to say something into your ear, and you tilt your head back again and laugh, and he thinks—for a second—that if you looked his way, just once, he could pretend not to care. But you don’t.
You haven’t looked at him once all night.
Sunghoon drags his eyes away from you long enough to stare at Jungwon. “Look around, Won,” he huffs. “Everyone’s staring at her. How do you think this looks?”
Before Jungwon can say anything, Heeseung tilts his head and pretends to think about it, pressing a finger to his chin. “Like your girlfriend-slash-fiancée or whatever the hell is having fun at a party with another dude that’s definitely not her boyfriend-slash-fiancé?”
Sunghoon glares at Heeseung and presses his tongue to his cheek, then Jungwon looks between them, shakes his head, and sighs, “Hyung, you have got to stop baiting—”
“He asked!” Heeseung murmurs and throws his hands up.
Jay snickers into his drink. “He’s not wrong. I mean—look at them. Me—Personally, I wouldn’t let that slide.”
Sunghoon rolls his eyes.
It’s only about optics. That’s all.
Because if he can see the way Jake’s fingers slide up your spine, everyone else can too. And every single person in this house knows him; they definitely know you too, and they all have phones—it all comes back to him. To you and him. It always does.
Heeseung elbows him lightly, still grinning. “You’re staring again.”
“I’m not staring,” Sunghoon mutters.
Jay hums. “You are staring. I mean—if you’re gonna sit here and sulk and be jealous, at least commit. Go get her or something.”
Jungwon sighs. “Would you two stop baiting him?!”
Sunghoon sucks on his teeth and leans into the couch. “I couldn’t care less. And I’m not jealous.”
Jay whistles. “Sure. And I’m not two beers away from going to the Netherlands to beg Max Verstappen to adopt me.”
Heeseung snorts. “You’re circling back to Max again?”
“The usage of the word ‘back’ in your sentence insinuates that he left my mind.” Jay raises his beer in a toast. “I’m a loyal man.”
Sunghoon huffs a laugh and tries to hold onto that feeling.
Really… He’d just wanted to have a normal fucking night with his friends, but instead he’s sitting here, telling himself over and over again that it’s just secondhand embarrassment—like a bad car crash he can’t look away from, that you’re acting stupidly and recklessly, and that it’s got nothing to do with the way his stomach twists every time Jake’s hand slides even lower.
You’d moved from the kitchen to the middle of the room now, where someone had cleared space for a makeshift dance floor, and this time, Sunghoon couldn’t look away even if he wanted to. Jake was behind you, and your hips were practically pressed into him, grinding with no space left between the two of you whatsoever as his hands rested low on your hips, the hem of your dress riding higher every time you shifted your weight. And for one stupid, fleeting second, Sunghoon swore Jake’s eyes flicked toward him—like he knew exactly what he was doing. Jake’s hands slid a little lower, guiding your movement, and you followed without hesitation.
Then Sunghoon sets his drink down a little too hard.
“Sunghoon Hyung—” Jungwon starts, half-standing himself, but Sunghoon’s already moving.
He walks toward you before he even realizes he’s doing it—pushing through the crowd as he presses his thumb to the spot behind his sternum until it hurts, the same way he always did when he was a kid and didn’t want to be emotional. It still worked. Mostly.
Then he’s in front of you.
He opens his mouth, but before he can get a word out, you turn your head, and your eyes light up instantly when you see him.
“Oh!” you squeal and move slightly away from Jake, your voice pitched higher than usual. “Hoonie’s here!”
The room goes quiet around the edges of his hearing.
Then you hiccup and add quickly, “I mean—Sunghoon. He haaates when I call him that—"another hiccup—"sorry."
His brows knit as his eyes flick down to your lips, then to Jake’s hand, and then lower. You’re still moving… dancing? If it could even be called that, Christ, you look ridiculous. Your dress rides up higher every time your thighs brush—long, bare legs gleaming under the dim lights of the living room, like actual fucking sin, like— Sunghoon clenches his jaw.
“The hell are you doing, Y/N?” he says, eyes narrowing straight at you.
You scoff. Or at least it sounds like it. “Dancing, duh,” you slur, rolling your eyes. “You stupiddd?”
You twirl lazily on your heel, leaning backward into Jake’s chest without even realizing it, and Jake—the smug prick—keeps holding you.
“You’re fucking drunk,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else—his mind can’t even be bothered to register Jake right now.
You smile sweetly. “Mmhmm,” you hum and nod. Then, like a cherry on top, you press your cheek against Jake’s bicep and bat your lashes. “Jakey said I can have fun tonight.”
His nostrils flare. You’re not tipsy, not lightheaded—you’re out-of-it drunk. He still doesn’t even register Jake’s hand still on your waist or the way you’re smiling at him. All he can think about is how sloppy your words sound, how you can barely stand upright without leaning into Jake for balance while he’s not much steadier himself.
He looks at Jake, and his expression twists. “Why the fuck would you let her get like this?” he grits through his teeth.
Jake blinks, caught off guard at his tone, like he hadn’t expected him to say that. “Why do you care? She’s fine, man—”
“Like hell she is,” Sunghoon snaps before he can stop himself. “She’s fucking drunk!”
Jake shakes his head. “She’ll be fine. She’s with me. Leave her alone, yeah? I’ll take care of her.”
“Yeah?” he says quietly. “Like you took care of your last one?”
Jake’s jaw clenches for a moment. “Fuck did you just say?” he says, though it comes out slurry because Jake isn’t exactly sober himself either.
“You heard me.” Sunghoon scoffs, his eyes flicking down—right to where Jake’s hands still rest on your waist. “And get your hands off her.”
His grin falters at that. “What, bro? Are you jealous?” he tilts his head slightly, and the alcohol in his system turns his smirk mean when he whispers low enough only for Sunghoon to hear. “You hate how it feels, huh?”
Oh, really? Sunghoon’s tongue presses against the inside of his cheek as his gaze flicks around the room. Heeseung’s already halfway up from the couch, frowning—clearly ready to step in—but Sunghoon just shakes his head once and looks back at Jake.
“She clearly doesn’t know what she’s doing,” he grits through his teeth again.
Then he looks at you again—and you’re completely in your own world, utterly out of it, and oblivious to the fact that he is one second away from turning this place upside down. He steps in closer, and then his hand closes gently around your wrist—firm enough that you stop swaying.
“The hell are you trying to do? Is this about—” Sunghoon starts again, but then Jake cuts him off.
“I care about her.” Jake slurs quickly, “Believe it or not.”
Sunghoon lets out a dry laugh and shakes his head.
You look up at him through half-lidded eyes. “Heyyy, what are you two even—” you mumble obliviously as you try to sway your hips even with Sunghoon’s hands on your wrist, “M’just dancing.”
“Y/N, stop moving.” he hisses, and you immediately freeze and pout, then he looks back at Jake. “Don’t fucking bullshit me about jealousy,” Sunghoon scoffs. “I don’t give a shit what you do—this is about her—how this looks for us publicly.”
Jake shrugs. “Us?” he echoes, then he gives him a friendly smile before he whispers, “Relax, man. You two aren’t even a real couple.”
Sunghoon’s brows draw together for a moment as he looks between you and Jake—He hadn’t even told him that. How the hell would he know?
Jake tilts his chin slightly as he takes in Sunghoon’s expression, and his eyes glint with amusement as if he can hear the question forming in his mind. “Yeah,” he says slowly, like he’s savoring his reaction. “She told me.”
Jake adds, “You know what’s funny?” he slurs lightly, “Two years of nothing… and then… all of a sudden, you only want her when I’m near her.”
Sunghoon’s jaw twitches, and he drops your wrist immediately. “I don’t want her.”
He steps even closer to him, letting go of you entirely. “Sure,” Jake says softly. “Keep telling yourself that. You can’t even be honest with yourself, bro.”
His hand flexes once at his side. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” Jake hums. “You want what you can’t have—”
You perk up behind them, blinking up at both their faces like you’re trying to make sense of what you’re seeing. “Are you guys fighting?”
Then you take one clumsy step forward like you’re going to solve it yourself—except you lose your balance for a moment and twist your ankle. You yelp softly—
Sunghoon’s hands are on you in an instant before his brain even registers it—his hand shooting out to catch you by the waist to pull you against him.
Jake watches the way Sunghoon steadies you and shakes his head once. “See,” he says quietly, half to himself, and something flickers across his face, something almost sad. “I also know she deserves someone who doesn’t make her feel like a fucking liability. Or messes with her head.”
And for once, it doesn’t sound like he’s trying to get under Sunghoon’s skin.
It’s almost worse than if he had.
Sunghoon huffs out a dry laugh again, and he’s about to say something insanely fucking stupid that would definitely make things worse—when two hands land on Jake’s shoulders from either side.
“Crazy weather tonight, huh?” Jay says cheerfully. “Like, wilddddd. Real crazy stuff. Whewwwwww.”
“Yeahhhhh,” Heeseung steps in beside Jake and gives Sunghoon a warning look to look around before steering Jake a step backward. “We were just talking about that! Let’s—uh—go talk about it some more. Outside. Where the weather is… Away from… people.”
Jake blinks. “What the hell are you guys talking about—”
“Fresh air, man. Keep up.” Heeseung says quickly, steering him further toward the back door. “You love fresh air, don’t you? Big fresh-air guy.”
Jay claps him on the back and drags him even further before he can protest. “Huuuuge fresh-air guy.”
And then they were gone.
Sunghoon looked down at you, and a half-smile was tugging at your lips like you weren’t aware of anything that had just happened. Then he immediately moved back as if he’d just realized how close you two actually were.
“They’re soooo weird,” you hiccuped—and then laughed at yourself, and then you looked back at Sunghoon and your eyes widened amusingly. “You look soooo mad.”
He exhaled through his nose. “You’re drunk.”
You pouted immediately. “M’not that drunk,” you huffed and dragged the words out, then you stumbled a bit in your heels before you regained your balance, and his hand twitched at his side. “Oh! Whoops—I was just dancing.”
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, running a hand over his face. “You can’t even stand.”
“I can too,” you insisted, even as your heel caught against the floor again and you stumbled forward. His hand shot out on instinct, catching your arm before you fell against him. You grinned up at him, all teeth and flushed cheeks. “You got me, nywayss.”
He didn’t want to think too long about what you were saying. You fucking reeked of alcohol.
“Dance with me,” you mumble, tilting your chin up to look at him. “C’mon. You—you never dance with me anymore… always so mad… Let’s just be…okay.”
Now he wishes he were drunk right now. “How many drinks have you had?”
“Jeez, so harsh,” you huff, sticking your tongue out before poking his nose with your finger. “You’re a…always drinking anyway.”
“Answer.”
You look terribly confused. “Hello?”
He sighs, “No—Y/N.” he presses his mouth into a thin line. “How many drinks have you had?”
You stare at him, then slowly hold up your fingers—all ten of them—and squint hard at them. “Umm… two?”
He stares at you. “That’s ten fingers.”
“Wait—no,” you frown. “Four. Definitely four. Or… seven?” You gasp and laugh. “Yeah. Oh my god, that’s soooo many.”
“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “Why the hell would you—Do you have any idea how you fucking looked? grinding on him like that? Huh?”
You just blink up at him and frown. “Don’t be mad, Hooniee.”
“Stop calling me that.”
Your lower lip juts out again. “You used t’like it soooo much when I called you that.”
He just stared at you then.
And for a split second, it wasn’t you standing there now, eyes glazed and voice sticky-sweet from too much liquor. No, he saw a younger you years ago in a bathroom, frowning at him while you’d made him promise he’d never drink again. You’d looked at him the same way then—like you believed he could be better. Like the world hadn’t yet taught you that sometimes, people change no matter how much you don’t want them to.
“That was a long time ago,” he says lowly.
You nod slowly. “Yeah. But… I remember.”
“I don’t,” he lies flatly.
“Mean,” you hum softly and take a small, clumsy step closer—then your fingers reach for him and brush the fabric of his shirt near his chest, tracing the edge of his neckline like you’re checking if he’s real. “Always… smell good."
“Stop it.”
“Why?” you whisper, “We used to be… We used to…”
His expression tightens. “I said, stop.”
You don’t. You step closer until your head tilts into the space between his jaw and shoulder, breath catching against his skin.
He goes very still.
“I missed…” you murmured, your voice so small it barely made it past your lips as you nuzzled your nose into his neck. “Miss you so much.”
Everything inside him goes quiet for a beat.
He wants to push you off—wants to tell you it’s the alcohol talking, but the ache that lodges itself behind his ribs doesn’t care what logic says, no matter how hard he tries to push it down. He can feel your heartbeat through the thin fabric between you and can feel his own answering to it like an idiot.
He almost says something cruel just to balance the ache in his chest—just because it’s expected of him, because he should, but the words die down in his throat. You’re too drunk, too defenseless, and too soft around the edges to hate properly—and you definitely won’t remember any of this in the morning. He can’t stomach the sound of his own voice cutting through your softness right now, and he hates himself all the more for it.
He pushes the thought down and tries not to think about it.
Then you moved back and met his eyes again, like you weren’t even aware of what you’d just said. “M’gonna go to the bathroom,” you declared, hand to your stomach. “My stomach hurts.”
Sunghoon sighed and shook his head. “Of course it does,” he muttered, then ran his hand through his hair and found your wrist again, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He gently guided you through the crowd, then up the stairs—his hand careful and steady on your back as he kept repeating to himself over and over that this is about appearances. That it’s not about the way his hand fits around your wrist, or how small your fingers feel against his palm, or how you stumbled once on the last step and he caught you again. This is just part of the duty my father shoved onto my shoulders, he thinks to himself.
When the two of you reached the bathroom, he shoved it open with his shoulder and led you inside. Then you mumbled something about the floor spinning and disappeared behind the door, and only then did he let out a slow exhale as he leaned his head against the door for a second. Just a second. Just until his hands stopped shaking.
He didn’t even hear the footsteps until a voice spoke behind him. “Sunghoon hyung?”
He looked up, and Riki was standing a few steps down the hallway with his eyes wide as his gaze flicked between the closed door and Sunghoon. “Was that Y/nnie? What—is she okay? Should I call—”
Sunghoon exhaled through his mouth and cut him off. “No,” he said, then straightened and jerked his chin toward the door. “What’s her address?”
Riki blinked as though he were caught off guard and not at all expecting him to say that. “Her address?”
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Where she lives.”
Riki shifted his weight and scratched the back of his neck as he looked between the door and Sunghoon again. “I can take her home—”
“No.”
“Uh… hyung,” Riki tried again, gentler now, “I brought her; I can take her home too. You don’t have to—”
“Riki.” he shook his head and sighed again. “Just text me her address. I’ll take care of it.”
Riki hesitated for a moment. His face had a thousand questions written all over it—but then he grabbed his phone out of his pocket anyway.
Truth was, Sunghoon already knew the address. He could rattle off the exact building, floor, unit number—could’ve listed every stop between here and the block you’d moved to six months ago. He’d never actually been there, not really, not unless you counted the one time he made the driver take the long way just to pass your street.
But he asks anyway. Just for the act of it. Let someone else hand him the information he already carried around in the back pocket of his mind, like it didn’t mean anything. Like he hadn’t kept it memorized just in case.
Just in case of what, he didn’t know. He just did.
“And Riki?” Sunghoon says quietly after a moment.
“Hmm?”
“Don’t tell her about this.”
Riki’s mouth opened like he wanted to argue or maybe even question him—judging by the look on his face, but he didn’t. He only nodded with his brows knit together as his eyes flicked once more toward the bathroom door before turning back again.
When he left, Sunghoon let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Jesus fucking christ. He needs a fucking drink.
Then he waited.
At first, it was fine. He could hear you moving around in there—something clattering against the counter, water running, and a low hum that sounded like a song he knew too well. And then—You screamed.
It wasn’t loud; it was more of a shriek, really, but his hand immediately shot for the door anyway. But then he froze—his fingers hovering over the handle, because he thinks he shouldn’t just barge in like that. You could be changing, could be—God, he didn’t even know.
So he knocks once.
No answer.
He tries again. “What the hell happened?”
Still nothing. Then he knocks again, and you still don’t respond. “Answer me.”
Nothing at all.
He clenches his jaw after a moment, then he exhales through his nose sharply before he announces loudly, “I’m coming in.”
He turns the handle and steps inside, eyes carefully on the floor just in case—and for one awful second, his stomach actually drops.
Because you’re on the floor. Right there. Folded in on yourself, and you’re—Fuck, you’re shaking?
“Y/N—” he crosses the space before the thought finishes forming in his head, and he’s already on his knees beside you. “Hey, hey, what the fuck—”
Then he sees what’s in your hands.
You’re clutching one of your shoes to your chest and rocking back and forth with mascara streaking down your cheeks—you’re crying. Actually crying.
His brain stutters. “What—what the hell are you doing?”
You lift your head and sniff hard, your voice wobbling like the words. “Why is there a fucking h..hole in your stupid floor?”
He blinks. “What?”
You point dramatically toward the floor. “The hole! In your floor!”
He stares at you, then at the very, very obvious shower drain in the shower, then back at you again. “That’s the shower drain. In the shower.”
You look very, very offended by his tone. “Well, the stupid… thing broke my shoe!” you pout, and clutch the shoe tighter to your chest. “This is—this is a new season Chanel straight from Paris! I matched it with m…my—”sniff “—my dress.”
“Why on earth,” he says slowly and drags a hand over his mouth, “were you in the shower?”
You blink up at him like he’s the one being ridiculous. “I dropped my earring.”
He exhales sharply and presses his palm to his forehead, and then you go on, “I wanted to get it back,” you protest, “And then my shoeeee—” you look down at it again, lip wobbling, “I can’t even look at her! Oh God— She got stuck in the fucking holeee!!! and then I pulled her too hard and it—” you sniff, “it snapped!”
He doesn’t even know why he does it—but he kneels in front of you more properly now and gently takes the shoe from your hands. You resist for half a second before reluctantly letting go.
“It’s not broken,” he lies, turning it over in his hands. “It just… needs fixing.”
You narrow your eyes at him, like you can tell he’s bullshitting you despite how absolutely out of it you are. “I can’t fix it!” you whine.
Your lip trembles again, and he feels something inside his chest twitch violently—and his finger twitches too as he sees another tear run down your cheek.
He exhales sharply through his nose and runs his thumb along the cracked leather. “It’s just a shoe. You can get another one.”
You shake your head hard. “No!” you huff and wipe your cheek, almost childlike. “I don’t want another one!” you point at the ruined heel in his hand. “I want this one. I love this one.” You’re looking at the shoe, but not really. “It’s—” you hiccup on the word. “I just… I don’t want a new one. I just want it back the way it was.”
He looks up at you—really looks—and there’s something about the way you say it that makes his chest ache—and he fucking hates that all the same. He shakes his head once and clenches his jaw again.
“Get up,” he murmurs after a beat.
His gaze drops to your bare foot, and he sighs through his nose. You look ridiculous. Ridiculous and too fucking small entirely.
“God,” he mutters under his breath, “You’re a fucking mess.”
When you finally push yourself up with his help, you sway immediately because of how terribly drunk you are (on an empty stomach) and maybe the fact that you’re off balance because you’re wearing one heel—then you grab for the counter, miss it, and he catches you again before your head can knock against the doorframe.
Your laugh bubbles. “M’fine,” you mumble against his shoulder. “Don’t even need youuu—”
Before you can finish that, before he can think about what he’s doing, he shifts closer and slides an arm under your knees, and in one swift motion, he picks you up.
You gasp softly. “Wh—Hoonie—”
“Don’t,” he mutters roughly. “Just don’t talk right now.”
He groans under his breath and shifts you higher in his arms as your head lolls lightly against his shoulder, and you start swinging your feet. “Stop moving.” he huffs.
You make a small, delighted sound, and then—God help him—you bring your finger up to your lips.
“Shhhh,” you whisper. “No talking. You said no talking.”
He closes his eyes for a second like he’s praying for patience. “I just said that,” he grits out. “And it was for you, not me.”
The weight of you in his arms is nothing.
The weight of this moment, however, was a different thing entirely—your perfume, the brush of your breath against his collarbone, the way your fingers are curled into the fabric of his shirt like you trust him—that’s what feels unbearable to him.
He clenches his jaw and keeps walking.
He’s halfway down the stairs when your hand suddenly slips from his chest, drifting until your fingertips press curiously into the muscle of his bare arm right under his T-shirt.
“Sunghoon,” you slur and grin like a child in a candy store as you squeeze his bicep, “you’re sooo strong.”
He doesn’t even look at you. “Don’t start.”
“Whew,” you go on anyway, squeezing his bicep in fascination. “Oh my God. They’re so big—”hiccup“—Mmm. Mama likey.”
“I swear to god,” he hisses, “Shut the fuck up.”
Your mouth drops open in mock offense, and you dig your nails into his bicep enough to make him press his lips together tightly. “You shut the fuck up!” you hiss back—then you lick your lips and draw your attention back to his bicep. “Wanna bite it.”
He actually stops moving mid-step. The muscle in his jaw jumps as he turns his head very slowly to look at you like he cannot believe what you’ve just said out loud.
You beam at him and go on. “C’mon. Just a nibbleee.”
Then, you actually lazily reach forward, lips parting like you mean it and don’t mean it at all, the kind of stupid, slobbery grin plastered on your face that only a tremendous amount of alcohol can gift you—your mouth hovers an inch from his forearm, all too ridiculous and earnest.
He feels his ears burning. “I will drop you.” He mumbles, and he is glad you’re obviously entirely too drunk to ever remember how he’s fighting back a laugh. “I will drop you down these stairs.”
You gasp and glare up at him like he’s the one being unreasonable, then swat weakly at his chest with the back of your hand. “I didn’t even want it,” you mutter, still pouting. “Keep your stupid sexy arm then.”
Then you huff, twist in his hold and look everywhere but at him—the wall, the floor, anywhere—and then, after a long, sulky beat, you mumble, “Bitch.”
Sunghoon tongues his cheek and bites down a smile—but he doesn’t say anything; he just exhales through his nose and starts walking again.
“I hate you,” you mumble all of a sudden.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”
Then, with all the gracelessness in the world, your hand slides back down his arm until your fingers curl loosely around his bicep again—softer this time, a faint brush more than a grip, like you’re just checking to see if he’s still there and if this isn’t a dream.
Sunghoon groans and keeps walking, but he doesn’t shake your hand off.
Neither of you says anything else after that. You just hold onto his bicep and squeeze it, eyes half-lidded, a small hum caught in your throat as if you’ve already forgotten why you were mad at him. Or that you were ever mad at him at all.
He keeps his hands steady around you because there’s a girl with your laugh and your tenderness halfway asleep in them already, and that, more than anything, has the power to ruin him if he drops it.
THURSDAY AFTERNOON
The first thing you feel is pain when you open your eyes.
Not the deep, dramatic, emotional kind—though God knows you’ve had your fair share—but something more brutal and more immediate. Your head actually feels like someone wedged a jackhammer behind your eyes and left it running all night to rot through.
Oh, it cannot possibly get worse than this.
It takes a full minute before you gather the courage to peel one eye open. Then it takes another minute before you even realize you’re in your own bed. Ok. That’s your second miracle of the day.
The first is that you’re alive at all.
Your sheets smell faintly of your fabric softener and something else… something sharper and stronger. Cologne? What the hell is that? You sniff and then absentmindedly frown, but your head hurts too much to focus on that right now.
You let out something between a groan and a whimper and immediately regret it, because even your own voice makes your head throb. Oh dear God. Bad fucking idea. The world spins so hard you have to clamp your eyes shut again.
Okay. So this is what dying feels like, you think.
You hate drinking... You’ve always hated drinking, and you never even drank. The lack of control, the way everything blurs and tilts and spins—what it had turned him into. You only did it last night because you were angry, because you were tired of rules, because, for one stupid night, you wanted to feel something other than furious. You wanted to feel nothing at all, even. And yet even after your first drink last night, the anger had only shifted shape and grown unsatisfied in the pit of your chest, as if it were waiting for something else to feed it entirely.
You blink hard against the sunlight bleeding through your curtains and push yourself upright to reach for your phone, and the brightness nearly kills you—you mutter a curse under your breath and fumble to turn it down. The lock screen burns into your retinas for a second before the numbers register.
1:03 PM.
You stare at it. Hey, maybe that’s not the real time? You think. Then you stare again…
Oh, fuck. You were supposed to be in class hours ago.
Well… there isn’t much you can do anyway? At least you’d submitted everything and whatnot, and quite frankly, class was the least of your worries at this point. Both in your life and in general.
Then you open the front camera to assess the damage, and your stomach flips. Your makeup’s gone. Completely gone. Not even smudged—just gone… You also notice that you’re in your pyjamas…? How the hell—
You blink. Once. Twice. Then you scrunch your face like that might make it make sense.
You groan again and press the heels of your hands into your eyes, and then you properly look around your room. There’s a glass of water on your nightstand. Painkillers, too, and your throat tightens a little at that—you definitely didn’t do that yourself last night either.
Better yet, what did you do last night?
Ok. Let’s think.
You press a hand to your forehead, trying to backtrack through the fog in your brain, but it’s useless. The last thing you remember was talking to Jake upstairs, and then Riki telling you to slow down on the drinks—and you remember purposefully ignoring Sunghoon the whole night to prove that you could—but you can’t even remember walking out of the party, let alone making it home.
Maybe Riki helped…? He’d taken you to the party, so it would make sense if he had brought you home, too? It could also be Jake, but…
Your mind settles for Riki instead because you don't want to think of what it would mean if it had been Jake. Yeah. Riki. He definitely would’ve made sure you got home safe.
Then you grimace at the thought of anyone even being around the drunk version of you yesterday. The last and only ever time you’d been this far gone was with Sunoo, Riki, and Wonyoung, and the next morning, Riki had spent three hours reenacting how you’d started huffing and crying over a pair of mismatched shoes by the door. You’d apparently seen a white sneaker next to a black one and immediately declared it was Gojo and Geto, and then launched into a passionate, tearful dissertation about how tragic it was that they were just best friends who truly loved each other and how the whole story is just one man’s ghost haunting the narrative because he couldn’t let go.... Yeah, not your finest hour.
Definitely one of Riki’s finest hours, though, considering he still circulates the video in the group chat every now and then.
Then, your phone buzzes once from where it is on your lap.
[1:21 PM] UNKNOWN NUMBER:
Hello Ms. Y/N,
This is an automated reconfirmation of your joint travel itinerary with Mr. Park Sunghoon for tomorrow morning’s flight to Tokyo (Flight PG112). The car will arrive at your residence at 5:45 AM. Please ensure both parties are prepared for the scheduled departure.
You had forgotten entirely about that.
And you were wrong before… It can possibly get worse than this.
𝓝 ⟢ this is just part one of chapter thirteen, mamas !!! 🥀 they’re both essentially the same chapter — but tumblr silenced me (textblock limit… my greatest enemy) and forced my hand </3 so i had to split them up… anyways… MORE THOUGHTS WILL BE GIVEN AT THE END OF PART TWO… #SUMMERTIME see U there my beloveds THANK YOU FOR READING!!!!!! ｡ﾟ(ﾟ´ω`ﾟ)ﾟ｡🌷
➜ summary: you just moved into a new building, right across from three loud guys. two said sorry and the third couldn’t care less.
pairing: pshx f!reader,wc: 14k words , genre: enemies to lovers ish, neighbor!au, fluff, romcom w: rude jokes, cussing, kissing
The elevator doors swung open, and soon you stepped out into the third floor hallway. You looked like you were moving in, which in your defense…you were. The oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder, arms hugging a stack of takeout containers and a cactus you had that had pricked you far too many times, but that didn’t matter. You were finally on your own.
Unit 3B. That was you now.
Your keys jingled in your palm as you found the door, nudged it open with one knee, and stepped into the apartment you’d stared at for months on rental listings. It wasn’t huge, but it had a little kitchen with enough space for your mum’s rice cooker, and a balcony that caught the sun in the morning. You spun around in the centre of the room, grinning, almost knocking the cactus you had just placed on the counter in the process.
And by nightfall, the place felt like yours. Your fairy lights were strung up across your living room. Your fridge held exactly a bottle of soda, some tuna you had eaten an hour ago and a bag of unwashed grapes. You lit a vanilla candle, the one your best friend, Jungwon, made you promise to use so you'd remember him… even while being so far apart. But Jungwon hated travelling, so in his mind, you'd basically moved to another continent.
Jungwon dramatically declared, “You’re practically moving to another country.”
“Jungwon, I’m literally a two-hour train ride away.”
“That’s basically Europe.”
You rolled your eyes at the memory, smiling to yourself.
Still, you were glad you’d made the decision to move. Three years ahead of you… of being on your own, of learning to be independent, part-time jobs, and what you hoped…a future incoming relationship. It should be easy. It should be peaceful. It should be—
“DUDE!!!”
A scream ripped through your wall.
It came from the wall to your right, a thin wall nudged between you and your neighbours. You could hear celebrations. A voice shouted, “THAT WAS INSANE!” followed by a loud thump like someone had jumped off the sofa.
You tried ignoring it at first, burying yourself under the blanket like it could block out noise. But 20 minutes in, another screamed “HE’S OFFSIDE, YOU DUMB—” loud enough to rattle the walls, you snapped.
You threw on your hoodie, jammed your feet into slippers, and marched out the front door like you were storming a battlefield. The hallway was dim and quiet, except for the muffled party behind door 3C. You knocked, hard, but polite.
The door creaked open mid-laughter, revealing three guys mid-snack, mid-game.
“Hi,” you said, tight smile. “Sorry to bother you, but… would you mind keeping it down a little? I’ve got a test tomorrow and it’s kinda hard to focus with all the screaming.”
The one with fluffy hair, cute little eyes, nodded immediately. “Shit. Sorry, sorry. Totally our bad.”
Another one, long lashes and a goofy smile, actually winced. “Didn’t realise it was that loud. We’ll keep it down, promise.”
“Are you new here?” the first one asked.
You nodded. “I just moved in today, actually.”
“Oh shit. Mrs Kim moved out?”
“Damn, we’re not getting her kimchi anymore, that’s for sure.”
“We gotta eat those store-bought ones that taste like ass.”
The second boy looked at you again, more focused this time. “Oh right! I’m Jake! It’s great to meet you! I’m sorry it happened under… unfortunate circumstances. But we’ll be quieter!”
“I’m Jay, by the way,” the first one added with a small grin, pushing his hair back.
You nodded, smiling slightly. At least they were nice about it. Well, two out of three, anyway.
You glanced past both of them, eyes landing on the third boy slouched on the couch, still holding the controller, gaze fixed on the paused screen like you weren’t even there. His jaw clenched once. No name. No hello. Just a subtle, annoyed glance in your direction before he looked away again.
Cool. So he hates you. That’s cool with you.
The third guy didn’t say anything. Just glanced at you once, then turned back toward the TV.
“Uh, thanks,” you said, lips tight, already backing away.
You returned to your apartment and for a blessed thirty minutes, it was quiet.
Then someone scored a goal and the wall shook again.
You blinked slowly at your ceiling, arms folded under your head like the weight of your patience was finally starting to crush your ribs. Okay. So that’s how it was going to be. You frowned.
And that was literally… how war started.
The next morning, fuelled by petty vengeance and two hours of sleep, you grabbed your pastel pink sticky notes and wrote:
“Dear 3C, I’ve played FIFA before. It is not that damn fun for you to be out here screaming. Please tone it down. Regards, the zombie in 3B.”
You slapped it on their door. Nothing changed.
And the next day:
“Dear 3C, I can’t sleep. Kindly shut up <3 With love, the girl one more sleepless night away from writing to the landlord. 3B.”
You half expected them to ignore it. Instead, you found your note missing by mid-afternoon. Gone.
For a moment, you felt powerful. Maybe they’d actually listened.
Then 8:43 p.m. hit and someone in 3C scored a goal so loud you swore the bass from their TV made your candle flicker.
Alright. So it was personal now.
You stormed over to their door again, hands on your hips.. It wasn’t that late. You weren’t unreasonable. You believed in joy. In freedom. But right now? Rage was the only thing pumping through your system.
You shuffled down the hall with your bunny slippers slapping against the floor, hair in a claw clip that was giving up. You looked deranged. And for the first time, you were fine with that. You banged on their door.
The door cracked open a second later, revealing Jake blinking like a deer in headlights. His hair was messy. He looked mildly afraid.
“Were… we being loud again?”
You stared at him, deadpan. “Ya think?”
Jake rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, okay. I’m so sorry. It’s Sunghoon. He keeps saying it’s not that loud and we were mid-tournament and—”
“Tell Sunghoon that his ego’s not the only thing echoing through these walls,” you snapped, arms crossed. “Some of us are trying to study.”
Behind Jake, you heard a familiar scoff followed by a smug voice yelling, “God, she’s so annoying. We were literally whispering.”
You leaned to the side, locking eyes with the third boy slouched on the couch, controller in hand, feet on the coffee table like the world owed him something. He didn’t even pause the game this time.
You didn’t know what it was about his stupidly symmetrical face but your blood boiled.
“Tell this Sunghoon guy…his whispering sounds like a screeching cat,” you said flatly, before spinning on your heel and marching back toward your door when you heard his aggravating voice.
“Tell her she’s overreacting over a couple of friends simply trying to have fun,” Sunghoon fired back from the couch, not even raising his voice.
You turned your head just enough to glare over your shoulder. “Well, tell him, his shirt doesn’t match his fucking pants.”
Jake looked helpless, standing between you both like a middle child caught in a divorce.
And then, with that same bored tone, Sunghoon called out again, “Well, tell her… those slippers are the best thing she’s worn all week.”
You stopped.
Jake sucked in a breath.
You slowly turned, eyes narrowing. “Tell him he wouldn’t know good fashion if it came with a user manual and punched him in his freaking face.”
Sunghoon finally glanced away from the TV, meeting your eyes for the first time that night. His lips curved into the most irritating half-smile you’d ever seen.
“Tell her–”
Jake stepped in between again, hands raised. “Okay! Okay. We’re gonna turn the volume down. Like, way down. Like you can’t even hear us tiptoe. Right, Sunghoon?”
Sunghoon leaned back against the couch and shrugged. “Whatever. I’m not the one annoying my neighbors at 9pm on a Friday night. Get some friends.”
You slammed your door shut.
War was back on.
-
The next morning, your plan was simple. A little petty, sure, but necessary.
You stood outside their door in your pyjamas, holding a fresh pack of neon yellow Post-its since your previous ones were used up by the ongoing Post-It war.The hallway was empty. Your bunny slippers made no sound as you padded up to 3C and stuck the first one of the week dead-centre on the door.
“Dear 3C, just a gentle reminder that FIFA will not feed you, clothe you, or give you money. Kindly shut up. PLEASE. Warmest regards, 3B.”
You smiled to yourself and floated back to your apartment.
That night? For the first time…? Silence. Beautiful, blissful silence. You actually managed to revise two chapters and fall asleep before midnight. You woke up in the morning feeling like a changed woman.
But then you opened your front door.
There, taped neatly to your door, was a blue sticky note with surprisingly neat handwriting.
“Dear 3B, you sound like you narrate your life out loud. – 3C.”
Your jaw dropped.
“Narrate your life out loud?” you muttered. “That’s literally called thinking.”
You marched back into your apartment, flung open your stationery drawer.
“Dear 3C, apologies if my internal monologue disrupted your daily FIFA championship. I only talk to myself because your volume settings make it impossible to hear my own thoughts. With all due respect (and ear damage), 3B."
That afternoon, Jay knocked on your door. You hesitated, then opened it a crack. He was holding a bag of convenience store pancakes in one hand.
“Peace offering,” he said. “Also, I think your notes are hilarious. Jake’s been collecting them. I think he’s making a scrapbook.”
You blinked. “Is this a joke or something?”
Jay shrugged, leaning casually against the doorframe. “No! Honestly, it’s kinda refreshing.”
Jake popped his head in from behind, grinning. “Also, your handwriting’s really neat.”
You opened the door a little wider, cautious then shrugged. “You want some… uh… spaghetti? I made it this morning.”
“Spaghetti?” Jay tilted his head.
You nodded. “Yeah. I usually experiment with food. I’m…uh…in culinary school.”
Jake’s eyes widened. “Wait, so you’re like… a chef?”
“Trying to be.,” you said with a shrug, suddenly a little self-conscious.
They exchanged a quick look before barging in like you'd personally handed them invites at the door.
“That’s so cool,” Jake said, practically bouncing as he flopped onto your beanbag. “I burnt instant noodles last week. Twice.”
Jay wandered deeper into your living room, his gaze landing on the dusty old guitar leaning against your bookshelf. “Dude, check it out! She plays the guitar.”
You rubbed the back of your neck, awkward. “It’s just for fun. I’m not that good.”
“I’m sure you’re great,” Jake said, already chewing through a mouthful of spaghetti he’d somehow found, and served himself in a bowl you didn’t remember offering.
You blinked at him. “Did you just—?”
“Plate was right there,” he said through a mouthful. “I took it as a sign.”
Jay nodded solemnly. “She feeds us and plays guitar. She’s better than Mrs. Kim already.”
You sighed and closed the door behind them. “I’m starting to think Mrs. Kim left because of the three of you.”
In between bites, Jake nodded without hesitation. “I think so too.”
“We can be loud,” Jay added, helping himself to another serving.
“Have you thought of… not being loud?”
“We do,” Jay said. “But then we get loud again.”
You rolled your eyes. “Guys, some of us have school and—”
“We have school too,” Jake chimed in, mouth full.
“Okay… some of us care about sleep.”
Jay perked up. “That’s why we got you this.”
He dug into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a tiny box, dropping it into your hands.
You squinted at it. “What’s this?”
“They’re sleep buds,” he said proudly. “They go in your ears and play white noise and, like… ocean sounds or something. Blocks everything out. Even us.”
You stared at the box, then at them.
“Instead of compromising, you got me gear?”
Jake grinned. “Yeah. We like you. We want you to be able to sleep… through us.”
Jay gave you a thumbs-up. “It’s called adaptation.”
You looked down at the sleep buds in your hands and then back up at the two of them absolutely inhaling your spaghetti like they hadn’t eaten in weeks.
You didn’t know whether to kick them out or thank them.
So you just sighed, defeated. “You guys are the weirdest neighbours I’ve ever had.”
Jake beamed. “Aww. You’re the weirdest too.”
And somehow… the next day… they were back.
You opened the door mid-knock, confused, only to find Jay grinning at you.
“What’s for lunch today, boss?” he asked, already halfway through the doorway.
You blinked. “How’d you know I made something?”
“We could smell it,” Jake said, stepping in right behind him, holding up a comically large spoon. “Smells so good. Brought my big spoon today. Came prepared.”
“Uh… I made chowder?”
Jake’s eyes lit up. “Oh my god, I love chowder.”
Jay had already plopped onto the floor cushion, flipping through your Spotify like he owned your iPad. “What kind? Clam? Corn? Pumpkin? Wait… do people put pumpkin in chowder?”
You stared at them, ladle in hand.
“Corn,” you muttered, shuffling back into the kitchen.
Then the day after that… they came again. At this point, it felt less like a surprise and more like a recurring appointment.
“No fucking way. Kimchi stew? This shit is so good!. Jay, you need to try the beef. It’s so soft. How— how’d you get it so soft? Is this like one of those expensive beef? Wakoo?”
“It’s Wagyu, Jake.” You corrected.
“Wagyu~” He sang.
Jay, already mid-bite, nodded with a full mouth. “Can I havefth thefth reshepee?”
You wiped your hands on a dish towel, leaning against the counter with one brow raised. “Do you guys ever eat in your own apartment?”
Jake didn’t miss a beat. “Not when you cook like this.”
Jay pointed his chopsticks at you like he was making a closing argument in court. “This is technically your fault. You fed us once. That’s basically a binding contract. We’re best friends now. Aren’t we, Jake?”
Jake nodded, mouth full. “Mhmff. Whatever he said.”
You sighed, setting your elbow on the table and dropping your chin into your hand. “If you’re gonna keep doing this, at least wash the dishes after.”
Jake saluted you with his spoon like you were the captain of a very tiny, soup-based army. “Yes, chef.”
You looked at the two of them, one already on his third helping, the other stealing more beef straight from the pot, and shook your head.
This wasn’t how your independent, put-together, college life was supposed to go. You were meant to be focused. The mysterious girl on the third floor who only ever came out for groceries and exams.
But maybe… with the two of them barging in uninvited, eating like they hadn’t seen food in years, and treating your living room like it was theirs…
Maybe you wouldn’t feel so lonely after all.
-
It was 9 p.m. Strangely quiet.
Usually, by now, there’d be at least one goal celebration shaking the walls or someone shouting about a missed penalty. But tonight? Nothing. You didn’t let it bother you. You took it as a win.
The balcony door slid open with a soft scrape. You stepped out into the cool night, cradling your little scissors and spray bottle like sacred tools. Your succulents were arranged in a neat line. A few leaves had started to curl. You knelt down, snipping the dead ends carefully.
You should’ve felt peaceful.
But tonight, something tugged at your chest.
You missed Jungwon. You missed your mom’s mismatched cutlery and the way your dad always forgot he’d already asked about your grades. Maybe even your pet fish, the one that never did much except float around looking confused.
Jay and Jake were friendly, sure. But they weren’t yours. They weren’t part of your before. They didn’t know the town you came from or the versions of you that existed before now.
And even though you thought you’d settled in... even though you were coping...you were lonely.
Without meaning to, you started speaking out loud — just like you always did.
“It’s fine. You’ll do better tomorrow. Tomorrow you won’t feel as lonely,” you said softly as you misted the leaves. “You’ll be stronger. You’re gonna get used to this. You can do it.”
But the lie caught in your throat.
Because you were crying already.
You wiped your cheek with the sleeve of your hoodie, frustrated, betrayed by your own body. You reached for your phone without thinking and hit the contact you swore you wouldn’t keep calling every time you got overwhelmed.
Jungwon answered on the first ring.
“What’s up?” he asked, casual as ever.
“Won…” you breathed out.
There was a pause. Then: “Are you crying?”
“No?”
“I can hear you sniffling, you shit.”
“It’s just—” your voice cracked. “It’s hard. I’m alone all the time. I’ve got no friends. I’ve got no one to talk to. I’m alone, Won.”
“I know,” he said gently. “I know…”
There was a pause. You could hear him shifting in bed, his voice soft and serious now. “But think about it this way, okay? You’re barely in your first month. You’re gonna get used to it. You’re gonna find people. You’re gonna build something here. It just takes time.”
You bit your lip. “You’ll visit if you can, right?”
“I’ll visit,” he promised. “Even if it takes two bloody hours.”
“But you hate traveling.”
“For you, I’d suffer.”
You sniffled. “You’re just saying that so I’ll hang up.”
“You’re right because I’m exhausted from basketball. But also… I love you.”
“Fine,” you mumbled. “I love you too.”
“Chin up. You’re talented and you deserve to be there. You can do this. We’re all counting on you.”
“I know.” You exhaled slowly. “Goodnight, Wonnie.”
“Night.”
You ended the call and sat in silence for a moment, letting the cool night air settle on your skin. The tears had stopped. Your hands still smelled like mint and basil and the faint sweetness of the spray bottle. You stared at your succulents, wondering if they ever got lonely too.
Unbeknownst to you, just a few feet away, out on the connected balcony, hidden by the divider, someone had heard everything.
He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. He’d stepped out earlier, just needing air, needing quiet, needing to be somewhere still for once. And then he’d heard your voice. The words that were not meant for anyone else.
And for the first time, Sunghoon didn’t roll his eyes or make a sarcastic comment.
He just stood there in the dark, one hand gripping the railing, heart a little heavier than before.
He understood more than you thought.
And somewhere between your tears and Jungwon’s voice, he changed his mind about you.
-
The next few days, there was absolute silence. Maybe the food had finally worked some psychological warfare on Jay and Jake. Maybe it was their way of returning the favour. Either way, you weren’t about to question it.
You were grateful, to say the least.
Because for the past week, you’d been moping around your apartment. Living alone and striking out as an “independent bachelorette” sounded empowering in theory, but in practice? Maybe you weren’t one of those girlies after all…y’know the ones on Instagram who made solitude look like a season of self-discovery instead of a series of breakdowns.
It was Saturday. You’d spent the entire morning in bed watching a Netflix documentary about some guy swindling people on Tinder, surrounded by crumpled tissue and scented candle smoke that had long turned suffocating. You were still in yesterday’s hoodie, blanket tangled around your legs.
Three knocks echoed at the door.
You lifted your head from the pillow with a groan, barely alive. The sound came again.
Dragging yourself across the living room, you cracked the door open just a sliver, just wide enough to peek through but not enough to reveal the disaster that was your face, your hair, or your pride.
“Uh.” The voice was hesitant. Familiar.
You squinted.
Sunghoon.
You blinked. “What are you doing here?” you asked, your voice hoarse from crying and a full night of narrating your own spiral.
“There was a mix-up with the mail,” he said, holding up a small stack of envelopes.
“Oh.” You extended your arm awkwardly through the tiny gap in the door and grabbed the letters. “Thanks.”
There was a pause, “I can see your puffy eyes through the gap.”
You scoffed, immediately pulling the door closer. “You just have to be a smartass about everything, don’t you?”
He shrugged, completely unbothered, hands in the pockets of his hoodie. Still standing there.
“…Are Jake and Jay home?” you asked, trying to sound casual.
His expression twitched, almost amused. “Why? Trying to steal my best friends again or—”
“No,” you deadpanned. “I was just wondering. It’s been… quiet this whole week.”
“They went home to visit their families.”
Oh. Right. Come to think of it, maybe that explained why everything felt extra heavy lately. It was the time of year people usually went home. People surrounded themselves with comfort and familiarity. And here you were, stuck in the city because the train ticket home was just slightly out of budget.
“You didn’t go?” you asked softly.
“Can’t,” he shrugged.
“Oh.”
There was a beat of silence. Then he tilted his head.
“Well,” Sunghoon said slowly, “if you ever need someone to emotionally rejuvenate you by pointing out your hair looks like a rat’s nest, you know where to find me.”
The words came with the usual venom but the message behind them landed differently.
You stared at him through the gap in the door. You couldn’t tell if he was trying to be funny, or… sincere, in his own weird, backhanded way. It was strange. You’d only had three full conversations with the guy. And every single one ended in a WWE tournament.
You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Are you… being nice to me?”
He clicked his tongue. “Don’t ruin it.”
And with that, he turned and walked back.
-
You finally got up.
There was no movie-worthy breakthrough moment. Just the dull ache in your head from crying too much and the feeling that if you shed one more tear, your eyeballs might actually eject themselves from their sockets. So you moved. You stripped your bed, tossed the mountain of tissues into a trash bag, sprayed half a bottle of disinfectant in the air, and opened every window.
Your apartment looked like it had survived an apocalypse, which, to be fair, was accurate. But you scrubbed it back to life.
By the time you were in the kitchen, your eyes were still a little swollen, but you’d pressed them with cool spoons and a sad little compress until you could see straight again. Kind of.
You pulled out ingredients from your fridge one by one, lining them up like you were preparing for war. Slicing, boiling, julienning, stir-frying. The sound of the pan crackling beneath the glass noodles filled the silence of your apartment. It smelled exactly like it did when your mom used to make it.
You plated it in a wide, shallow bowl. It was delicious. Of course it was. You took pride in it. You always had. Jungwon used to tease you, calling your hands “blessed by Gordon Ramsay” like everything you touched turned into comfort food. You’d swat his arm, trying not to smile as he reached for second helpings before you’d even sat down.
You missed him. You missed your family. You missed not having to eat alone on a day like this.
Your eyes drifted to the door.
Would it be stupid? To bring food to Sunghoon? You’d never really done anything kind for him. Most of your interactions were lined with sarcasm and insults. And yet… that one line of his kept replaying in your head, “If you ever need someone to emotionally rejuvenate you by pointing out your hair looks like a rat’s nest, you know where to find me.”
So maybe…maybe he meant it. Or maybe you were just desperate for company and your noodles were starting to get cold.
Before you could talk yourself out of it, you packed the noodles into a clean container, wrapped a rubber band around it, and found yourself standing in front of 3C. Your feet had walked you here without permission. Your hand hovered in the air, ready to knock, but now… you hesitated. You weren’t here to complain. You weren’t here to yell. And that made it harder.
And just before your knuckles could land on the door, it swung open.
Sunghoon stood in front of you, coat already on, scarf looped lazily around his neck. There was a little shine to his hair like he’d styled it, and he looked surprised, mildly confused to find you on his doorstep without any anger evident in your eyes.
“What?” he said, voice dry.
You blinked, staring at him. You’d never really looked at him properly before. Not when he was this put-together. The gel in his hair, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his scarf sat slightly off-center like he’d thrown it on in a rush. You knew he was attractive. You weren’t blind. But seeing him now?
Sunghoon was actually… pretty handsome.
“I—uh—” you stammered.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Spit it out.”
“I—uh—I made some… stir-fried glass noodles,” you said, stumbling over every syllable. “And I know how much it sucks being alone on a day like this, so I thought… maybe it’d bring you some kind of familiarity. From home, or something.”
You didn’t let yourself overthink it. You shoved the container into his hands, heart pounding.
“Bye,” you mumbled, before immediately turning around and marching back to your apartment like you’d just robbed a bank. The door clicked shut behind you.
You pressed your back to it, eyes wide.
Shit.
Was Sunghoon actually hot?
-
Sunghoon stood in the hallway, unmoving. The container in his hands was warm and he stared down at it for a couple of seconds longer than he probably should’ve.
Jake and Jay had been raving about your cooking for weeks. At first, he thought they were exaggerating. How good could someone’s food be that it made two of the loudest people he knew voluntarily whisper through a FIFA match?
But he’d seen it with his own eyes, Jake silently fist-pumping the air, mouthing “LET’S FUCKING GO” after a goal, and Jay barely reacting as he scored. They even created a rule: first one to speak puts a dollar in the Silence Jar. A literal jar. With money.
Sunghoon didn’t get it.
And he didn’t particularly care to. Not then.
But now, standing in the hallway in his coat and scarf, staring at the gift you shoved into his hands with flushed cheeks, something felt different.
He had been on his way out, actually. There was a bar nearby, nothing special, just a dim-lit spot with quiet music and decent food where no one bothered him. He usually went there whenever Jay and Jake went back home, like they did this time every year. It wasn’t that he didn’t have family—he did. It just wasn’t… warm. They were always busy. Always somewhere else, even when they were in the same room.
He peeled off his scarf, feet dragging a little as he headed back into the apartment, the door clicking shut behind him. He set the container on the kitchen counter, grabbed a pair of chopsticks from the drawer, and opened the lid.
Steam wafted up instantly, sesame oil, soy sauce, garlic, something subtly sweet he couldn’t name. The noodles glistened. They looked homemade. No, they felt homemade.
He picked up a strand and gave it a tentative taste.
His eyes widened before he could even help it.
It was good. Like stupid good. Like how the hell is this girl not running her own restaurant kind of good. Better than anything he would’ve paid for at that bar tonight.
He stood there in silence, chopsticks hovering mid-air, thinking back.
He wasn’t proud of how he’d treated you. Three encounters, three arguments. He remembered each one too clearly. The snark in his voice. The way your expression hardened. The notes on the door.
But it wasn’t really about you.
He hated being called out. Hated being the problem. Maybe it was ego, or maybe it was the way he’d always felt like he had to be put-together or to say the least…controlled. Your presence threw him off. You were loud in a way that was sincere. You didn’t filter your emotions. You wore your annoyance on your sleeve and your feelings on your face.
It irritated him. It also… made him feel something.
And then there was that night on the balcony.
He hadn’t meant to listen. But when he heard your voice cracking through the divider, talking to someone…maybe it was your boyfriend? Your best friend? Whoever it was about how lonely you were, it hit him harder than it should’ve.
Because he got it.
He felt it too.
Being alone in a crowd. Having people around but never really with you. That weight in your chest that didn’t come from sadness exactly…just the absence of warmth.
Sunghoon felt it more often than he cared to admit. He loved Jake and Jay, loved them to pieces. They were the kind of people who filled a room with noise and an energy he couldn’t really place and who made him laugh even when he didn’t want to.
He wanted something more. Something real.
Someone who just… saw him.
He sat at his kitchen counter, staring at the container of glass noodles still warm with steam curling from the lid. He wasn’t usually impulsive. He didn’t do gestures. But maybe tonight called for something a little uncharacteristic.
He stood and reached up, opening the top cupboard where Jake and Jay kept what they called their “emergency date plates.”. The kind of plates you used to impress someone. They only ever brought them out when trying to convince girls they were not, in fact, living in a borderline condemned apartment flat.
He grabbed two.
And then, before he could second guess it, he walked out into the hallway and knocked.
Your door creaked open a few seconds later.
You blinked at him, confused. “What?”
It almost felt like deja vu. Except now, he was you…awkward at the door.
And then it hit him.
He looked at you…like, really looked at you, and for the first time, he realised he’d never actually seen you before.
You were wearing a soft pink sleeveless dress, the fabric loose and falling just above your knees, cinched slightly at the waist. Your hair was tied into a side braid, fringe swept slightly to the side, with a few delicate strands left loose to frame your face. You looked like you belonged in a pastel painting.
Shit.
Were you actually—pretty?
Nope. Nope. Stop that. Sunghoon blinked hard, trying to erase the thought.
Damn it.
You probably had a boyfriend. Someone smart and warm and emotionally available who FaceTimed you every night and wrote you good morning texts. Someone who missed you from back home.
And besides…someone who could cook like you? You could probably bag Jake and Jay at the same time in under a minute if you wanted. Not that you would. But still.
He cleared his throat.
“I, uh…” He held up the plates slightly. “I thought maybe… you could join me?”
He wasn’t good at this. But his voice was steady.
“Only if you want to,” he added, quickly. “I just figured. Y’know. Glass noodles taste better on… plates that aren’t plastic.”
His eyes met yours.
He was trying.
And this time, it was your turn to blink in disbelief.
-
Sunghoon had returned with the container of glass noodles, now a little colder, a little stickier, but still giving off the faint aroma of sesame oil and soy sauce. You’d reheated it and plated it up, slightly embarrassed that the presentation wasn’t what it had been fresh off the stove, but he didn’t seem to care. Or maybe he did, but you couldn’t tell, because for the first five minutes, you didn’t look at each other.
The clink of chopsticks, the occasional scrape of ceramic, and your ceiling fan. It was awkward. You wondered why he even came. Why he asked in the first place, if he was just going to eat in silence.
“So,” you said.
“So,” he said.
You paused.
“You first.”
“No, you—”
“Okay, I’ll go first,” he said, cutting himself off. He cleared his throat and set his chopsticks down. “I—uh—I just wanted to say thanks. For the meal.”
You blinked. “Okay.” You nodded slowly. “You’re… shockingly formal when you’re not pissed.”
“I—” Sunghoon let out a breath and leaned back a little in the chair. “I was never pissed.”
“Mhm,” you hummed, nodding, eyes narrowed. “Sure.”
“I was annoyed, sure. Who likes being called out?”
“I wasn’t trying to call you out,” you said, tilting your head. “But put yourself in my shoes. I have to wake up at stupid o’clock to learn how to make a soufflé or whatever, and meanwhile, I’m treated to surround sound yelling and the occasional ceiling vibration.”
He gave a small shrug. “Well, we haven’t done it in a while.”
“And I’m grateful,” you replied, lips twitching. “Truly.”
“We got a silence jar and everything,” he muttered, almost like he didn’t want to admit it.
Your eyebrows shot up. “A silence jar?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Jay implemented it. He said if we keep it up, we’ll have enough for extra toppings on our next pizza night.”
You burst into laughter, the sound surprising even yourself. It came out light and real, and you covered your mouth halfway through. “That’s… honestly? A decent plan.”
“It can be,” he said with a grin starting to pull at the corner of his mouth. “Until everyone starts trying to play FIFA like it’s an ASMR video.”
“You guys actually whisper?” you asked, incredulous.
“Well, yeah. You told us to.”
“I didn’t think you would listen,” you said, pointing your chopsticks at him.
Sunghoon shrugged again, his eyes dropping to the plate in front of him. “Well… they changed my mind, so.”
He didn’t say what he was really thinking.
That it wasn’t Jake or Jay who changed his mind. It was that night. The way your voice had carried through the gap in the balcony, fragile and cracking. The way you’d said I’m alone, Won like it was something that had been sitting inside you for too long, waiting to spill. He’d realised then maybe he wasn’t just an annoying neighbour to you. Maybe he was part of the problem. Maybe he’d been making things harder for someone who was already trying to hold it all together.
“So…” he said quietly, eyes on his plate, “why are you alone during the holidays anyway?”
“Couldn’t afford a train ticket,” you said eventually. “I mean—I could have, technically. But that’d mean I wouldn’t have enough money left to buy ingredients for my assignments the next few weeks.”
Sunghoon winced. “Oof. That’s rough. Must suck.”
You gave a little shrug. “Yeah. It’s fine though.”
He knew it wasn’t.
There was a pause. He glanced sideways at you.
“If you ever… feel like you need someone to talk to,” he started, voice casual, “you could just knock. I have FIFA.”
You snorted. “Oh, like I’d willingly join that mess.”
“It’s actually really fun.”
“How fun can flinging a ball across a screen with your thumbs be?”
“It is!” he defended, turning fully toward you.
You raised a brow. “I tried once with my friend and it was so boring.”
“That’s ‘cause you weren’t playing it right,” he insisted, already standing up. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
“I’m not playing FIFA with you.”
“Come onnn,” he whined, grabbing your wrist and tugging you lightly toward his door.
“God, this is gonna be so stupid,” you muttered, dragging your feet even as you followed him out.
Inside his apartment, the lights were warm, the couch sunken in like it had been through a war. You sat reluctantly, tucking your knees up as he handed you the controller.
“Alright,” he said, sliding in beside you. “This is you—Team Two. All you have to do is use the left joystick to move, the right one to look around. This button to pass, this one to shoot.”
You blinked. “So many buttons.”
“It’s easy! Just follow what I say.”
“Okay… so now I just—?” You pressed a button and immediately kicked the ball out of bounds.
“No, no—move left. Left.”
“I am moving left!”
He glanced over. Your tongue was sticking out slightly in concentration, eyes squinted, brows furrowed. He chuckled before he could stop himself, quickly looking away.
Then you screamed, “I DID IT! DID I DO IT?!”
He turned back just in time to see you score.
Sunghoon yelled, jumping up. “Yeah! That was it!”
You stared at the screen, jaw dropping. “Holy shit. I’m amazing.”
He looked at you again, this time longer. Your eyes were glowing, still locked on the TV. Your fingers tapped at the buttons like you already got it down. You bit your lip when you were focused, tongue sticking out just slightly when you were thinking.
And you were cute. So fucking cute.
The match picked up pace. Suddenly it was 2–2, and both of you were leaning in like your lives depended on it. You were yelling at the controller. He was shouting advice. At one point, your knees knocked, but neither of you noticed. The room was loud, just your voices and the music from the game and the way your laughter filled every corner of his flat.
Then it happened.
You scored.
You screamed, controller tossed onto the couch, and before Sunghoon could register what was happening, your arms were around his neck, squeezing him tight as you jumped slightly in place.
“I WON! DID YOU SEE THAT?!”
He froze. Your cheek brushed his jaw, your warmth right up against him. His hands hovered midair like he didn’t know whether to hold you back or not.
And then you let go, plopped back onto the couch, and grabbed the controller again like nothing had happened.
Sunghoon didn’t move.
For the first time in what felt like forever, his heartbeat stuttered. Sped up like it had been woken from a long, indifferent sleep.
He sat there, silent, staring at you as you shouted at your pixelated team.
And all he could think was well that…he hadn’t planned on crushing on the new girl based on one single positive interaction.
God, he was so screwed.
-
The next few days passed in a blur of almost-conversations.
You and Sunghoon didn’t talk much. Not like that night. Just a few polite waves across the hallway, a quiet “hey” if you caught the elevator at the same time. Respectful nods. The occasional awkward glance if your eyes met for too long.
And then Jake and Jay came back.
And of course, Jake being Jake, invited himself into your apartment before you could even say no.
“I missed your cooking while I was gone,” he sighed dramatically, sinking into the dining chair like he’d returned from war.
“Well, today’s your lucky day,” you said, flipping through your assignment folder and squinting at the week’s task. “Because for today’s assignment, I’m supposed to…” you paused. “Make a really mean chicken pot pie.”
Jake’s eyes lit up. He clapped his hands, nearly tipping his chair over. “CHICKEN POT PIE?!”
Before you could even blink, he leapt up, yanked your door open, and sprinted into the hallway.
“JAY! IT’S CHICKEN POT PIE!” he yelled like it was a fire drill.
From across the hall, Jay’s voice rang out. “WHAT?! NO WAY!”
And then—another voice joined them.
A quieter one.
“Chicken pot pie?”
You didn’t even have time to react before you were suddenly hosting three grown men in your kitchen, all leaning over your counter.
“Guys,” you said, elbow-deep in flour. “I can’t focus if you’re all staring at me like that.”
“We’re just excited,” Jake grinned, chin in his hands.
“Well don’t be. I’ve never made this before. It might taste like ass.”
“Your hands are basically blessed by Gordon Ramsay,” Jay declared, grabbing a slice of carrot from the cutting board. “It’s impossible for it to taste like ass.”
You laughed, the sound soft and unexpected even to yourself. “Jungwon used to tell me that all the time.”
“Oh he did?” Jay echoed, voice teasing.
Sunghoon stood a few steps back from the others, arms crossed loosely, leaning against your fridge. He hadn’t said much since stepping into your place, but now he watched the three of you.
The way you smiled when Jay made a joke. The way Jake knew where you kept your mixing bowls. The way your eyes sparkled, just slightly, when you laughed about something from home. The way they got it. The way they knew you.
And the way he didn’t.
Sunghoon couldn’t explain it but it made his stomach twist. Tight and strange and uncomfortable.
And then he heard it again.
Jungwon.
Who the hell was Jungwon?
His name sounded too casual. Too affectionate. The kind of name you didn’t just drop without meaning.
Sunghoon didn’t say anything. He just looked down at your countertop, at the flour dusting your hands and the delicate way your fingers shaped the crust, and all he could think was—
Why the fuck did he care so much?
You moved around your kitchen with the kind of ease that made it impossible not to watch. Sunghoon’s eyes were locked on you, the way your hair swayed behind your back as you leaned forward to stir something in the pot, the way your sleeves were pushed up.
His heart pounded harder than it should’ve. He tried to brush it off. Maybe he was just hungry. Maybe it was just the smell of garlic and butter making him lightheaded. That had to be it, right?
Except no.
He hadn’t planned on feeling like this today. Not when he woke up. Not when he brushed his teeth and went on his phone and told himself he’d stay in his apartment. He hadn’t even planned on coming over. And that night the two of you shared noodles? He’d chalked it up to vulnerability. Nighttime feelings. Nothing serious.
But now it was noon. He was awake. Sober. And you were still somehow making his chest tighten just by existing within ten feet of him.
God. He hated having a crush.
He didn’t even realise how lost he looked until Jake spoke up from the side, breaking the spell.
“So, is Jungwon finally coming?”
This guy again.
Sunghoon’s head whipped toward Jake so fast it might’ve snapped his neck.
You perked up at the mention, a smile blooming across your face without even trying. “Yeah! He’s coming in two weeks! I actually told him about you guys. He’s kinda excited to meet you.”
That smile. It wasn’t fake. It wasn’t forced. You looked like someone who meant it. Someone who missed this guy. Someone who talked to him often.
Sunghoon clenched his jaw and looked away, grabbing a water bottle off your counter just to do something with his hands. He twisted the cap a little too hard.
He didn’t know who the hell Jungwon was.
But he already didn’t like him.
“He’s coming over?” Jay asked, his mouth still half-full of pie filling.
“Yeah,” you said casually, brushing a stray hair behind your ear as you peeked into the oven. “He’s staying at my place for the week he’s here.”
Staying at your place?
Sunghoon blinked.
He looked around your apartment, eyes scanning every corner like they were going to magically reveal a hidden guest room. But there wasn’t one. You lived in a studio. Everything was in one space. Your bed, your desk, your kitchen, your couch. Except… there wasn’t even a real couch. Just a throw-covered loveseat that barely seated two.
No air mattress in sight. No hidden folding cot. No suspicious lumpy bags that might hold a spare futon.
Just one bed.
His chest tightened.
Where the hell was Jungwon gonna sleep? With you?
He picked at the label on his water bottle, teeth grinding quietly as he stared down at the floor, like it held answers. It didn’t.
He wasn’t even involved with you. This shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t bother him.
But it did. In the most uncomfortable, teeth-clenching, mind-racing kind of way.
-
You stood in front of the three boys, arms crossed, heart racing slightly under your apron. The chicken pot pie sat on the table…golden brown crust, just the right amount of bubbling over on the sides, the smell of thyme and butter and garlic filling your apartment.
Jake, Jay, and Sunghoon each took a spoonful at the same time like they’d rehearsed it. You watched them, nervous, scanning their faces.
One by one, their expressions lit up. Jake’s eyes widened, Jay let out a satisfied groan. Well… except Sunghoon. Of course.
He stayed still. Always unreadable. But you caught it. The tiny pause, the way his brows lifted just a fraction. He liked it. He just didn’t show it like the others.
“So—” Jake started.
“Good,” Jay finished, already reaching for more.
Your eyes flicked to Sunghoon. Somehow, his opinion was the one you were waiting on. The one you needed.
“So?” you asked, staring at him.
He blinked. “What?”
“How is it?”
“It’s good,” he said, nodding once, tone flat as ever.
Your smile dropped. You frowned. “Doesn’t seem like it.”
“What? I just said it’s good.”
“No, you said ‘good’ and then frowned and put your spoon down. Usually it’s ‘It’s good,’ then a second bite. Right, boys?”
Jake nodded enthusiastically, chicken still in his mouth. “She’s right.”
“Totally right,” Jay added, already helping himself to more.
Sunghoon rolled his eyes, leaning back slightly. “You’re all being dramatic.”
You scoffed, insulted. “I guess you don’t want seconds then. Tch.”
You clicked your tongue and turned on your heel, storming off toward the kitchen, grumbling under your breath. Your apron fluttered behind you as you moved, and you didn’t look back.
Sunghoon watched your little pout, the way your shoulders stiffened, how you exaggerated every step. He didn’t know why, but he liked your reaction. No, he loved it. He found it ridiculously cute. Too cute, actually. That slight wrinkle in your forehead. The way your voice got higher when you were mad. The tiny stomp in your step.
The moment your back turned, his lips twitched upward.
When lunch ended and the three of them stood by your front door, Jake and Jay turned to hug you dramatically.
“Never move out,” Jake said into your shoulder.
You rolled your eyes. “You’re just saying that because you get free food.”
“And precisely why we don’t want you to move out,” Jay replied, squeezing you once more before the two of them shuffled out, bickering as they made their way into their apartment across the hall.
Sunghoon lingered. Just behind you.
You turned, raising a brow. “Aren’t you leaving?”
He nodded. “Yeah.” He stepped back slowly, hands in his pockets, gaze flicking to the floor before settling back on you. Then he paused. Like he wasn’t sure if he should say what he was about to say.
“The chicken pot pie was good. I think…” he exhaled, voice quieter, “I think it was one of the best things I’ve ever had.”
You blinked, caught off guard.
“It reminded me of home,” he added, eyes still on you now, a little softer than usual. “Not in the way where it’s about the taste or anything… it’s just… you cook like home. If that makes any sense.”
You hadn’t expected that.
Your cheeks flushed immediately. You turned away before he could see it, pretending to fiddle with a dish on the counter, fingers uselessly adjusting an already-clean plate.
“Thank you,” you murmured, voice low, almost shy.
He lingered for a second longer like he wanted to say more. Then he gave a quiet nod and walked out the door.
-
It was raining.
It was only 4 p.m., but the sky had turned an eerie charcoal grey, clouds rolling thick above the city. Thunder cracked so loud you felt it in your chest, and the wind howled between the buildings, slamming against your windows.
You hated this.
You hated how much you still feared storms even at your age. How useless independence felt when you were stuffing tissues in your ears and jamming earmuffs over your head like you were five again. You turned on every single light in your apartment, lamps, fairy lights, even your microwave light and cocooned yourself under your thickest blanket, barely breathing, eyes wide.
Then the whole building shuddered.
The lights flickered.
And then everything went dark.
You screamed.
Your apartment disappeared into a blanket of pitch black, shadows curling up the walls like ink. Your heart pounded. You scrambled up from the couch, tearing off your earmuffs and patting the walls with shaky hands, trying to find a light switch like that would fix anything.
“Shit,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Shit shit shit.”
You fumbled for your phone. A message popped up from your landlord.
“The building is experiencing a temporary blackout due to the storm. Electricity should resume in an hour. Thank you for your patience.”
An hour? Alone? In this? In the dark? Absolutely fucking not.
You jumped at another violent crack of thunder and instantly rushed out into the hallway. Your blanket trailed behind you like a cape. You beelined for the only door you knew.
You knocked. The door swung open almost immediately.
“No time to explain but I’m shitting bricks here,” you said all at once.
It wasn’t Jake or Jay.
It was Sunghoon.
His brows raised. “The thunderstorm?”
You nodded frantically. “Are Jake or Jay here?”
“They’re asleep.” He glanced behind him, then back at you. “But I could… stay with you. If you want. Until it passes.”
You hesitated.
Then thunder cracked again, louder this time, right above your building.
You flinched. “Okay,” you breathed, defeated.
The two of you sat cross-legged on your couch, sharing a single candle as your only source of light. It flickered between you, casting long, warm shadows on the walls.
“Seems like you’re scared of the thunder,” he said gently.
“Well,” you sighed, voice tight. “I’ve been scared of it since I was younger. It just… gets to me.”
He nodded. “It’s okay.”
You noticed it then…the subtle tremble in his shoulders. He was shivering. From the cold, probably. Your heater wasn’t working without electricity, and the apartment was steadily turning into a fridge. You were wrapped up like a burrito, but he’d come in without anything but a hoodie.
Feeling guilty, you shifted toward him and lifted one side of your blanket.
“Uh…” he looked at you like he wasn’t sure if he was being pranked.
“Relax. I can see you shivering like a dog,” you muttered.
“Oh.” He blinked, then grabbed the other end of the blanket and scooted in beside you.
Now under the same blanket, his body heat pressed faintly against yours. You sat side by side, knees pulled to your chests.
And then, in a whisper, he said, “You know…”
You looked over at him, startled by the sudden softness in his voice.
“I know I’m not as close to you as Jay and Jake are,” he said, eyes trained on the candle, “but… you don’t always have to find them for help.”
You blinked. “Huh?”
“I’m saying…” he sighed, eyes flicking up toward you, and then away again. “Never mind.”
“No, what? Just spit it out.”
He exhaled through his nose like it physically hurt to get the words out. “I’m just saying… you could ask me for help too.”
You stared at him, your eyes adjusting to the candlelight flickering between you.
“Oh,” you said softly.
There was a beat of silence. You weren’t really sure what to do with that. But you didn’t want to leave it hanging either.
“I’ll be sure to think of you the next time,” you mumbled, barely louder than the rain still pelting the windows outside.
You felt him nod beside you.
You turned your head slowly, resting your cheek against your knees, eyes drifting toward him. His face was tilted down, lashes long and dark as they blinked now and then, just slow enough for you to notice. His jaw had softened a little. He looked calm, in a way you weren’t used to seeing him.
“Would you rather have a million dollars,” you said suddenly, “or have no problems in the world?”
He blinked, confused for a second, then turned his head toward you. His chin was on his knees now too, and with the two of you curled up in the same blanket, inches apart, it felt almost like whispering under covers at a sleepover.
“What kind of question is that?”
“A good one,” you replied, lips twitching. “So answer it.”
He scoffed a little under his breath. “Uh… maybe no problems in the world?”
“Smart answer. Why?”
He paused, “I think people ruin themselves trying to solve problems that shouldn’t be theirs. If I had no problems, maybe I wouldn’t waste time worrying about all the stuff that doesn’t matter.”
You blinked at him. That was… not the answer you were expecting. It was a good one. Way too good, actually.
“Right,” you said softly, giving him a small nod.
He looked at you for a second longer before his eyes flicked down. “Your turn. Would you rather go back in time or go into the future?”
You puffed your cheeks out, thinking. “Hmm… that’s a toughie.”
Then your eyes widened, the way they always did when you had a lightbulb moment. “Go back in time!”
“Why’s that?”
“So maybe I’d really weigh the pros and cons of moving to a city where I know no one,” you said with a grin, but it faded slightly at the end.
Sunghoon stayed quiet.
“You must really feel alone,” he said.
You blinked, startled. “What?”
“I hear you talking about it sometimes. On your balcony. When you think no one’s listening. You talk about how moving here feels like a mistake.”
You looked away, embarrassed. “It’s not a mistake. I just… miss everything back home.”
“I get it,” he said after a second. “I was like you. Back when I was home, I wanted to leave so badly. Thought being somewhere else would fix everything. But now that I’m here… yeah, I have Jay and Jake, and they’re great, but sometimes I come back to the apartment and everything’s fine and normal and still—I just feel… empty. And I don’t even know why.”
You didn’t say anything for a long time.
You just watched him. His face had turned thoughtful, distant. His eyes unfocused, drifting somewhere past the flickering candle, past your walls, like he was staring right through the quiet that lived in his chest.
You mumbled, “Well, yeah. But… I also don’t regret it. Not one bit.”
“Really?”
You nodded. “Yeah. I mean—I’m here doing what I love. Not many people get to do that. And I made friends with three incredibly annoying people in this building.”
He turned toward you again, eyes narrowing playfully. “So we’re friends now?”
Your cheeks heated up instantly. You glanced away, pretending to roll your eyes. “Are we not?”
He let out a low chuckle, the kind that rumbled softly at the back of his throat. “I’m glad you think we are.”
“So,” you said, tilting your head, “does this mean you’ll finally be nice to me now? Or is that too much character development for one night?”
Sunghoon smirked, eyes flicking to you with a teasing glint. “You want nice? From me?”
“Yeah. Like a full sentence without sarcasm. I feel like that’s a reward I’ve earned by now.”
“You earned a participation medal at best.”
You laughed, nudging him with your knee. “Unbelievable.”
He was already looking at you again—closer this time.
“Hold on,” he said softly, “you have an eyelash on your cheek.”
You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
Before you could move, he leaned in.
His face hovered inches from yours as his thumb brushed gently against your cheek, his touch soft but sure. The pads of his fingers were warm. His eyes, now impossibly close, scanned your face with a kind of quiet focus you hadn’t felt from him before. You swallowed.
Neither of you moved.
Your gaze locked, and the space between you slowly disappeared…inch by inch, breath by breath. It wasn’t planned. It just… happened.
Then suddenly, his lips were on yours.
Then it deepened. His other hand pushed the blanket off his head, dropping behind your neck to pull you in, and your hands found their way to his thighs, then to the curve of his jaw. His lips parted just enough, and your pulse jumped as he moved against you.
His hands slid to your waist. He lifted you slightly and shifted you into his lap in one smooth motion. You were now straddling him, knees on either side of his thighs, and he didn’t stop kissing you, not even for a second.
The kiss grew stronger. He tilted his head, hand moving to your chin to pull you even closer, his mouth parting yours with a low inhale as his tongue brushed against yours.
Your hands moved back down, gripping at the soft cotton of his hoodie, when—
Click.
The lights flickered on.
You both froze.
Your faces were still inches apart.
You slowly pulled back, still on his lap. He blinked, eyes searching yours like he wasn’t sure what just happened. Like part of him wanted to keep going, and the other part… couldn’t believe you just kissed him like that.
You stared at each other, the silence heavy now.
His hands were still resting lightly on your waist. Yours were still fisted in the fabric of his hoodie. Both of you breathless.
“I need to go back home,” Sunghoon said suddenly, voice low but rushed. His eyes darted everywhere except at you.
You blinked. “Right. Of course!” you said quickly, nodding way too fast. “Yeah. No—totally.”
He shifted awkwardly underneath you, face flushing as he cleared his throat and muttered, “Probably… need a pillow or something.”
It took you a second.
Then you saw the way he was subtly covering his lap with the edge of the blanket.
“Oh.” Your voice came out small. You quickly scrambled off his lap, cheeks burning so hot they could’ve powered your apartment during the blackout.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, already halfway to your door.
And then, Sunghoon stormed out of your apartment.
-
It had been a couple of days since you last properly spoke to Sunghoon. Not for lack of trying. You had…more than once. But each time, he’d give you a quick nod, maybe a polite smile if you were lucky, before promptly power-walking away.
Maybe he just wasn’t feeling what you were feeling. Maybe that kiss was a fluke, something in the heat of the moment. Maybe your little new crush was painfully one-sided.
But you pushed it aside. You had bigger things to focus on.
Jungwon was coming today.
You’d spent the entire morning rearranging your apartment, cleaning it from top to bottom, fluffing cushions and spraying perfume not just on yourself but into the air like it could somehow mask how nervous you were. You even did your hair the way he liked it, soft curls and a side part.
And then, there he was.
The door swung open and your best friend stood in the hallway, suitcase in hand and a grin already on his face.
“WON!” you squealed, running up to him and leaping into his arms.
“Hello, idiot,” he said, his voice fond as he hugged you back, lifting you off the ground with ease.
The shout must’ve startled the boys in 3C, because right on cue, the door across the hall creaked open and out came Jake and Jay, both peeking out.
They spotted you clinging to Jungwon like a koala.
You beamed. “Guys! It’s him!”
“The famous Jungwon,” Jay said, nodding in approval as he stepped out.
“And you must be Jake and Jay,” Jungwon said smoothly, setting you down.
Then came the third.
Sunghoon.
He didn’t move from the doorway. Just stood there, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Jungwon turned to him, a friendly smile still on his lips, chuckling. “You must be Sunghoon, then.”
Sunghoon’s gaze narrowed slightly. “What’s so funny?”
Jungwon blinked, caught off guard. “Nothing,” he said, clearing his throat. “She just… told me you were like this.”
“Like what?” Sunghoon asked sharply, the scoff nearly audible in his tone.
Jungwon scratched the back of his neck. “Nothing. She just said you were cool,” he said with a shrug, throwing you a teasing look.
Sunghoon rolled his eyes.
You stood there, suddenly awkward, unsure what the hell had crawled up Sunghoon’s ass. The hostility was as thick as the tension in the air and you hadn’t done anything. Not really.
At least you didn’t think you had.
Just stood there, arms crossed, a stiff expression on his face while Jake and Jay welcomed Jungwon like he was already part of the group. Jungwon, ever the social butterfly, fit in easily, throwing a few jokes around, complimenting the apartment despite its questionable decor, and even teasing Jake about the ugly dinosaur pyjamas he was wearing in broad daylight.
But Sunghoon?
He was frowning the entire time.
You couldn’t figure it out. His jaw was tight, his responses were clipped, and every time Jungwon so much as glanced your way, you saw Sunghoon’s eye twitch.
You walked back to your apartment with Jungwon beside you, chatting excitedly about dinner plans and all the places he wanted to visit during his stay. But when you turned back, just for a second, you caught Sunghoon still watching. Still standing in the hallway.
His arms were still crossed.
And he didn’t look away.
-
Sunghoon stood there, arms folded across his chest like they were the only things keeping him together. He stared ahead blankly, jaw tight, doing everything in his power not to glare a hole through the wall. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling.
Sure, he knew he had a crush on you. He’d known since the chicken pot pie, probably. Or maybe since you wrapped that blanket around his shoulders. Or maybe long before that. But what he didn’t know was who the fuck Jungwon was, and why he was walking into your apartment.
“Dude,” Jake muttered, throwing him a sideways look. “You could’ve at least smiled.”
“I did,” Sunghoon growled, not bothering to hide his scowl.
Jay snorted. “That was barely a smile. You looked like you were in the middle of passing a kidney stone.”
“Why do I even have to be nice?” Sunghoon snapped. “I don’t know him.”
“Because your crush’s boyfriend just came into town,” Jake replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Sunghoon's head snapped to him so fast you’d think he got whiplash. “Boyfriend?”
Jay raised a brow. “Not denying the crush though.”
Sunghoon ignored him. “Let me ask you again. Boyfriend?”
Jake shrugged. “I mean… yeah, I guess?”
“What the fuck do you mean you guess?” Sunghoon hissed, dragging a hand down his face. “He can’t be her boyfriend.”
“But he is,” Jay said with a shrug and an infuriatingly smug smile.
“No, he’s not. He can’t be. Because she and I…” he paused, realising too late what was about to fall out of his mouth. “…kissed. Three nights ago.”
Jake’s mouth dropped open. Jay blinked.
“I’m sorry, what?” Jake finally blurted.
“Nothing,” Sunghoon muttered quickly, suddenly desperate to eat his words.
“You can’t say nothing when you just said everything!” Jake shouted, grabbing Sunghoon’s shoulders and shaking him.
“Tell us right now!” Jay begged dramatically, gripping his own hair.
Sunghoon rolled his eyes, flustered. “I—we—kissed. That’s it.”
Jay blinked. “You know we were kidding about the boyfriend thing, right?”
Jake grinned. “Jungwon’s just her best friend.”
“We just wanted to see if you’d admit you liked her,” Jay added, eyes sparkling with way too much joy. “Which you did.”
“No, I didn’t,” Sunghoon argued weakly. “I just said we kissed.”
“Okay, Mr Visceral Reaction every time we mention Jungwon,” Jake teased.
Jay smirked. “Say it. Say you like her.”
Sunghoon groaned, eyes shut tight as if the ceiling could swallow him whole. Then, finally—quietly, begrudgingly—
“Okay. So what if I like her?”
Jay and Jake immediately turned to each other with identical gasps, smacking each other’s arms excitedly.
“Oh my god, he admitted it,” Jay whispered dramatically.
Jake clutched his chest. “It’s happening.”
“You guys are disgusting,” Sunghoon groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And if you keep acting like this, I’m never telling you anything again.”
“Okay, okay.” Jake raised both hands, trying to suppress a grin. “We’ll behave.”
“BUT I’M SO EXCITED,” Jay squealed.
Jake smacked him on the shoulder. “Starting now.”
Jay nodded solemnly, rubbing his arm. “Sorry. That one slipped.”
Sunghoon sighed and leaned against the counter, arms crossed again. “I started liking her last month… when you guys went back home for the week. She cooked me stir-fried noodles, and we ate together. Played FIFA. I don’t know. I just… developed a crush on her.”
“That’s so cute,” Jay and Jake said in unison, stars in their eyes.
“Seriously, can the two of you act normal for like three minutes?”
Jake shrugged, still smiling. “I just didn’t expect you to have a girlfriend before me.”
Jay patted his shoulder. “You’ll get there, buddy.”
Jake tilted his head. “You think?”
“Yeah, you have nice eyes. Great personality.”
Jake beamed. “That’s so kind.”
“Can we please get back to my problem for like a minute?” Sunghoon cut in, glaring at both of them.
“Oh. Right.”
Jay cleared his throat and finally looked serious. “Look. We like her. She’s hilarious, and she makes good fucking food. And let’s be real, you’ve never liked anyone. We’ve been trying to get you to double date with us for years and you just stare at your phone all the time. But with her? You’re like... a guy with actual feelings.”
“But now I’m losing to Jung… whatever his name is.” Sunghoon sighed.
“Jungwon,” Jake said. “And no, you’re not.”
“How do you know she doesn’t like him?” Sunghoon muttered, staring down at the floor.
“Because,” Jay said, “if she did, she wouldn’t have kissed you.”
“Unless she’s indecisive or confused or something. I don’t know.” Sunghoon exhaled hard, running a hand through his hair. “Maybe I was just… a moment. And he’s her person.”
Jake shook his head. “I’m telling you—just talk to her.”
“Yeah,” Jay added. “Before you spiral even harder and start writing love songs about her. But if you do, I haved like a couple of guitars you could borrow.”
Sunghoon rolled his eyes. But somewhere, deep down… a part of him hoped they were right.
-
You were pacing back and forth on your cheap IKEA rug, while Jungwon was laid out dramatically on your bed, arms folded behind his head, thoroughly enjoying the show.
“I’m telling you, he’s avoiding me,” you snapped, pointing an accusatory finger at no one in particular. “We kissed—KISSED, Jungwon—and now he won’t even look at me! I wave, he nods. I say hi, he nods. I breathe in his direction, he—guess what—nods!”
Jungwon hummed, annoyingly calm. “Maybe he’s nervous. Or maybe he wants you to go to him.”
“I do go to him! And then he speed-walks away like I’m the plague!” You groaned, pressing your fingers to your temples. “I’m gonna lose it.”
“Maybe…” he tapped his chin thoughtfully, “you’re just a shit kisser.”
You whipped around and chucked a throw pillow directly at his smug face.
“Asshole.”
He caught it with a grin, clutching it to his chest dramatically. “I’m just saying. Maybe you scared him off.”
“You’re lucky I haven’t strangled you with this blanket,” you muttered, grabbing another pillow just in case.
Jungwon sat up, brushing imaginary dust off his shirt. “You know, sometimes I forget we grew up together because you’re so unpredictable now.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He snorted. “You used to be fearless. Remember that Heeseung guy you had a crush on in middle school?”
You blinked. “What about him?”
“You were six, and you walked up to him at recess, said ‘I like your lunchbox,’ then kissed his cheek and ran off.”
“Ah,” you said flatly, “the good old days. That girl’s dead now.”
“She’s not dead,” Jungwon argued, grabbing your wrists and tugging you to sit beside him on the bed. “She’s just… overthinking everything. Look, if Sunghoon doesn’t like you—whatever. But if he does? You’re missing out just because you’re too chicken to tell him.”
You glared. “I hate it when you make sense.”
“I know.” He grinned. “It’s my worst trait.”
“I just—” you exhaled, flopping back beside him. “What if it ruins everything? We literally just got closer. What if I say something and it all goes to shit?”
“Okay, counter-offer.” He sat up straighter. “You tell him, or I will. I will walk down the hallway, knock on his door, and go ‘Hi, my best friend has feelings for you, she also has performance anxiety but can cook a great bowl of chicken noodle soup.’”
“You wouldn’t,” you hissed, swatting at his arm.
“Then do it yourself!” he laughed, dodging your attacks. “Before I start printing flyers and pasting them in the apartment lobby.”
God. Why did he always have to be right?
“Fine.”
Your hand was already on the doorknob, breath caught in your throat, just about to leave when the door across from yours had swung open at the exact same time.
And there he was.
Sunghoon.
You both froze, hands still gripping the doorknobs, blinking.
You cleared your throat first. “Sunghoon.”
He blinked like he hadn’t already been staring. “What?”
You squinted. “Is that the only word you know how to say when I call your name?”
He paused. “Sorry.”
You opened your mouth to say something else but were rudely interrupted by muffled snorts from behind Sunghoon. Jay and Jake’s heads popped out from their doorway like nosy meerkats.
“Hoon,” Jay said in a loud, exaggerated voice, “we need more eggs.”
“Desperately,” Jake added, nodding like this was a national emergency. “Go to the store.”
Then Jungwon peeked out from behind you with an equally suspicious grin. “Oh, and while you’re there, can you grab some ice cream too?”
You and Sunghoon looked at each other.
“What is happening right now,” you said flatly.
Before either of you could respond, four hands shoved the both of you toward the elevator. You stumbled in, the doors sliding shut just as Jay yelled out, “Don’t come back without snacks!”
The elevator stopped at your floor.
Your shoulders brushed as you stood side by side, awkwardly watching the floor numbers light up.
Then, finally, you broke it. “About that day—”
Sunghoon shook his head quickly. “Don’t worry about it. I won’t tell Jungwon.”
You blinked. “What do you mean you won’t tell Jungwon?”
He looked away. “Well, aren’t you like… crushing on him? I wouldn’t want what we did to, you know… ruin your chances or something.”
Your entire face scrunched up. “Won and I? What? Ew. God, no. We’re friends. We grew up together. Thinking about him that way would be like incest or something.”
And just like that, Sunghoon felt like he’d been hit by a shooting star and given a second chance at life. His heart did a full backflip. You were single. You were available.
He couldn’t help it. He smiled.
“Why do you suddenly look so happy?” you asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
“I’m not.”
“You’re literally smiling.”
“I’m not.”
“We’ve hung out a couple of times and if I’m being honest, I’ve never seen you smile this—”
“Cut it out.” He tried to brush it off, biting back the grin. “I’m just glad.”
“Glad about?”
“Glad that I didn’t ruin your chances,” he said nonchalantly, looking up like he hadn’t just panicked thirty seconds ago.
“Mhm.” You narrowed your eyes at him, the golden-orange glow of the sunset casting warmth across his cheekbones. He was handsome. Frustratingly so. “Well… because I actually like this other guy.”
Sunghoon’s smile faltered.
“I haven’t known him that long,” you continued casually, “but he seems cool. I don’t really know much about him yet.”
“That’s… nice.” Sunghoon turned away quickly, jaw tight. He was definitely grimacing. Please don’t let her see that I’m grimacing, he begged internally.
“Yeah, he’s really tall. Really handsome, too.”
“That’s just…” he exhaled. “Great.”
“He doesn’t seem super friendly but he has a big heart. Even if he tries really hard not to show it.”
“Seems like a swell fuckin’ guy,” he muttered bitterly.
“It’s a pity though,” you sighed dramatically, still watching him. “I wish I could get to know him better.”
“Well… anyone’s lucky to get to know you.” He tried to smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. “I know I am.”
You tilted your head. “Not to mention… he lives really close to me.”
Sunghoon’s eyes darted to you. “He does?”
“Mhm.” You nodded, heartbeat accelerating.
“Like how close?”
You took a slow step toward him. “Like… just across the hall close.”
“Oh.” He blinked. “That close.”
Silence settled in the small elevator. You both just stood there, not looking at each other, tension hanging in the air like humidity.
Then, out of nowhere—
“I’m just saying,” Sunghoon said, dead serious, “but Jake sleeps with the lights on and Jay doesn’t wash his hair as often as you think he does.”
You blinked. “Huh?”
“I sleep normal,” he added quickly. “I wash my hair. I do proper haircare—shampoo, conditioner, mask, mist. I could do your routine too. For you. If you want.”
You stared.
“I can’t cook, but I’ll try. I can figure skate. I can spin twice in the air. Jay and Jake? Not even one spin. Jay can play guitar, Jake can sing but I can spin, okay? Without getting dizzy too.”
“Sunghoon.”
“And those idiots never clean up after eating your food. Jay doesn’t use coasters. Jake never makes his bed.”
“SUNGHOON!”
He looked at you, breathless. “What?”
You stepped forward. Slowly. Then, you mumbled, “It’s you.”
He blinked. “What?”
“I like you.”
And for once, Park Sunghoon had absolutely nothing to say.
“Okay,” he said. “Cool. Okay. I—wow. Okay.”
You raised a brow. “That’s it?”
He nodded dumbly. “No. Yes. I don’t know. I just—holy shit. You like me.”
You smirked, the smile slowly stretching across your face. “Yes. I like you.”
The elevator dinged. Neither of you moved.
He looked at you again, still dazed. “Hold on, I kinda need a minute.”
You both stepped out into the empty lobby. The sun outside had just dipped below the skyline, casting a pinkish-orange glow through the glass doors. The streetlights flickered on. But you waited.
“It’s been a minute,” you said.
“I know,” he exhaled, hand raking through his hair. “But you like me back, so I kinda need, like… a long minute.”
“Back?” You grinned, the corners of your mouth lifting all the way to your eyes. “So you like me too?”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I thought it was obvious from the, uh… word vomit.”
“Well yeah,” you shrugged. “But I didn’t want to assume. Didn’t wanna be narcissistic.”
“I think even if you were,” he muttered, “I’d still think you were pretty cute.”
You blinked. “Did you just—”
“Gross, I know,” he said quickly, face flushing. “I just said that out loud, didn’t I?”
You laughed. “Yeah. But you kinda can’t take it back now.”
“Fine,” he said, pretending to groan. “You’re cute. Ugh. I said it again.”
-
A MONTH LATER
Jay and Jake found it fundamentally unfair. They were the ones who got close to you first. They were the ones who complimented you, made you laugh, showed up when you needed help. They loved you first or at least, that’s what they told themselves. But here you were, doors locked for the first time in three months, cooking a full-course meal for Sunghoon to celebrate your one-month anniversary.
“You’re not allowed to come,” Sunghoon told them flatly before slamming the door shut.
“But—!” they shouted in unison, already mourning the steak they wouldn’t get to taste.
Word on the hallway was that you were cooking the perfect medium-rare T-bone steak, paired with your signature brown sauce and a vegetable medley so crunchy and flavourful. Meanwhile, Jay and Jake sat hunched on the couch, scrolling through a food delivery app.
“Isn’t it funny,” Jake said, arms folded, “how we were the ones who befriended her first, and now we’re stuck with Burger King?”
“Life’s unfair, bud.”
Back in your apartment, things were a little more romantic. You’d decorated with fairy lights and candles, the room dimly lit. You were still being frugal, splitting every cost you could. But you’d managed to steal two T-bone steaks from the diner you part-timed at.
Sunghoon showed up in a black and white tuxedo, looking like he’d taken the prom theme you had placed as a joke a little too seriously.
“You look absolutely gorgeous,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek.
“And you look absolutely handsome,” you grinned.
He walked over to the table and took in the spread. “Okay, what do we have?”
“I made the steaks, obviously, and then there’s the vegetable medley… and your favourite—mashed potatoes,” you giggled.
Sunghoon exhaled, shaking his head with a disbelieving smile. “How did I get so lucky?”
You shrugged. “I don’t know either.”
He laughed. “The guys are pissed, by the way. You made me all this, and they’re over there with cold fries.”
“What?” you said, surprised. “I made them something too! Don’t worry.”
“You did?” he raised a brow.
“I had a feeling they’d be hungry if you were over here.”
“Babe, you didn’t have to do that. They’re grown men.”
“Yeah, but technically my assignment this week was pasta and I have too many leftovers.”
“They’re spoiled by you.”
“And so are you.”
“True, but I’m your boyfriend. They’re just two annoying shitheads constantly trying to butt in.”
“I’ll be quick. I’ll just drop the dish off and come back.”
“No,” he said, standing. “I’ll do it. You stay here.”
He kissed your forehead, grabbing the lasagna you’d tucked into the fridge. “You’re too sweet, you know that?”
“He walked across the hall and opened the door to Unit 3C.
Inside, Jay was mid-rant. “I just don’t get it. Sunghoon isn’t even that hot.”
“I mean, he is,” Jake added, “but she deserves better, you know?”
Sunghoon cleared his throat. “I can hear you two idiots.”
They both froze, turning around sheepishly. “We were just joking. We love you, man.”
He held up the dish. “And to think I came here bearing gifts from my girlfriend.”
Jake’s eyes widened. “Wait—is that lasagna?”
“She felt bad we were eating good without you, so she made you dinner.”
“Oh my god,” Jay gasped. “Sunghoon, I don’t mean to be pushy, but please marry her.”
“I can’t,” Sunghoon muttered. “Not when you two are constantly inserting yourselves into my relationship.”
“Okay, okay, we’ll back off. Just—can we have the lasagna?”
“And can you tell her we love her?”
“I am not telling my girlfriend you love her,” Sunghoon snapped. “I’ve barely worked up the nerve to tell her that myself.”
“Wait,” Jake said suddenly, “you haven’t told her you love her yet?”
“It’s only been a month.”
“So… you don’t love her?”
“I do,” Sunghoon replied, almost too quickly. “I just don’t want to come on too strong if she’s not ready.”
Jay and Jake shared a glance before shrugging.
“What?” Sunghoon asked, frowning. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Jake cleared his throat. “It’s just… she already said it.”
Sunghoon looked up. “What?”
“Yeah,” Jake replied casually. “You texted her about picking up those heat packs for her cramps, and she went all soft and whispered, ‘God, I love him so much.’ Her words. Not mine.”
Sunghoon stood frozen in the doorway, the dish in his hands suddenly weightless.
You loved him.
“So… you’re saying I should tell her?” he asked, voice quiet, almost unsure.
Jay and Jake both nodded enthusiastically. “Definitely. Especially if it makes her our sister-in-law,” Jay added, grinning.
Sunghoon rolled his eyes. “God, the two of you can be so annoying.”
“But you still love us,” Jay shrugged. “So what’s the point of complaining?”
He hated that Jay was right.
Back in your apartment, Sunghoon sat across from you, completely transfixed. You were dressed in a soft pink satin dress that shimmered every time you moved. It hugged your shoulders delicately, the neckline simple, elegant. Your hair was curled softly, pinned loosely on one side with a vintage clip, and your lips were glossed just enough to make him stare longer than he should’ve.
And God, you looked so beautiful.
He tried to pay attention. He really did. But his heart was too loud, his thoughts too full. How was he supposed to say it?
Sunghoon had never told anyone he loved them before. Not seriously. Maybe to his mom years ago, right before he left for the city. But this? This felt entirely new.
Because sitting in front of him was someone who made every quiet part of his life feel loud again. You filled in the spaces he didn’t even know were missing. You made his apartment feel less cold, his world a little less grey. And the way he loved you—God, it wasn’t something small. It wasn’t a flicker or a passing crush. It was all-consuming and terrifying and the best damn thing he’d ever felt.
He loved you like it was muscle memory. Like even if he forgot everything else, his hands would still reach for yours and only yours.
“Hoonie,” you interrupted gently, frowning. “You’re not listening.”
He blinked back into focus. “Sorry,” he murmured, smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I was just thinking about something.”
“What?” you looked up at him, ur big eyes shining.
Sunghoon unknowingly smiled, his eyes dripping with honey, god he loved you. He wanted to say that. So badly.
“I…I just–uh–feel…that,” His voice trailed off. “You look really beautiful tonight. I mean, you always do. But especially tonight.” He hesitated, the words stuck behind his teeth.
You smiled. “Thank you. You look very handsome too.”
-
Later that night, the two of you were in Sunghoon’s apartment along with Jay and Jake for the usual game night.
You were sitting cross-legged on the floor, your prom-night dress bunched awkwardly around your knees, mascara slightly smudged from earlier laughter, hair pinned half-up. Sunghoon sat slouched in the beanbag beside you, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in concentration. Jake was lying on his stomach, legs swinging in the air, and Jay had somehow made himself horizontal on the couch.
You and Jake were a team. Sunghoon and Jay were not handling that well.
“Revive me!” Sunghoon yelled.
Jay shouted back, “I’m busy trying not to die, dumbass!”
Button mashing intensified. Trash talk flew across the room.
“VICTORY!” Jake screamed, leaping up like a madman.
You followed suit, springing to your feet and clambering up onto the coffee table in your dress. “GET WRECKED, LOSERS!” you yelled, pointing dramatically at Sunghoon. “THAT’S RIGHT, LOSERS!”
Jake joined you on the table, doing a badly timed robot dance. The two of you jumped in sync, yelling in triumph, while Jay groaned into a throw pillow and Sunghoon watched with a hand covering his mouth, half to hide his smile, half to suppress a laugh.
“You’re all bark, no bite!” you called, face flushed, hair falling loose. “Your character died fourteen times, Hoonie.”
“I let you win!” he shot back, grinning as he sat up straighter. “I was being a gentleman.”
“Sure,” you scoffed, sticking your tongue out at him. “Real chivalrous of you, sir died-14-fucking-times.”
He chuckled under his breath, eyes lingering on you for a second longer than usual. Then, without a word, he stood and walked out of the room.
You blinked. That was...odd.
You gave Jake a gentle shove off the table and followed Sunghoon into the hallway. He was pacing outside, one hand in his hair, the other fiddling with the watch on his wrist.
“Hoon?” you asked, stepping out and gently closing the door behind you.
He jumped slightly, turning toward you. “You scared me.”
“You okay? You just left so sudden…”
“I—uh—yeah. I was just trying to figure out how to say something.”
You tilted your head, arms crossing over your chest. “Say what?”
“Nothing,” he mumbled with a shrug.
Your expression softened. “Are you mad at me?” You sighed. Maybe your little victory dance had been a bit much. “Hoonie?”
“No, baby, I could never be mad at you,” he said quickly, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead.
“Then what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I just…”
You stepped closer, teasing lightly, “Do you want me to redo my victory dance? I could. You just have to beatbox, and I’ll take it from there.”
That made him laugh.
“Come on,” you grinned, starting to move your body in the most ridiculous way. “I’m pretty sure I should’ve been a dancer instead of a chef.”
He laughed again, this time louder and then, before he could stop himself, the words slipped out.
“Oh my god, I love you.”
You blinked. Your smile faded. Your brain, for one impossible second, completely short-circuited.
“Did you just say you love me?” you asked, heart hammering.
His eyes widened in sheer panic. “No?”
“I heard it.”
“You misheard.”
“Oh my god,” you gasped, practically vibrating. “You love me. You love me!”
“Fine!” he burst out, throwing his hands up like he was under arrest. “I do! I love you, okay?”
You smiled, “You do?”
“Of course! I love the way you talk too fast when you’re excited. I love how you make my idiot friends feel like they matter. I love that you make me feel whole. That when I’m with you, I don’t feel hollow anymore. You… you make me feel like I’m not empty.”
You grinned so wide it hurt. “That’s because you’re not.”
“I used to be,” he said helplessly, gesturing vaguely like he was mourning his past self. “I was mysterious. Brooding. Sexy, even. And now? Now I smile at cat videos you send me on TikTok. Look what you’ve done to me. This is all your fault.”
You scoffed, “My fault?”
“Yes! Who else could it be?” he said, breathless, like the truth had been waiting at the edge of his tongue for too long. “You walk into my life with that stupidly perfect smile, that laugh that makes everything feel lighter, those eyes that somehow hold the whole damn sky and now I’ve got feelings. Big ones.”
He took a shaky breath, pausing for a minute.
“I used to think I was fine on my own. But now? I get out of bed just because I know I might see you. I hear your knock and my whole day lights up. For the first time, I feel like I know what living really means. It’s you. Loving you. That’s it.”
You leaned in and kissed him right in the middle of his rant.
He blinked, dazed.
“You sure talk a lot for someone who usually says nothing,” you murmured, forehead resting against his.
“I do it when I’m nervous,” Sunghoon whispered, and then kissed you again.
“I find it cute,” you mumbled between kisses.
Sunghoon grinned into the next kiss, backing you up step by step toward your apartment door, his hands finding your waist. “God,” kiss “I love you,” another kiss “so much.”
You let out a breathless laugh. “You’re very handsy for someone who claimed to be brooding and mysteriou.”
“I told you,” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw as he reached behind you, fumbling for the door handle, “you ruined me.”
Your back hit the door with a thud. He fumbled with the knob like he was drunk on you, eventually pushing it open and guiding you inside.
He kicked the door shut with the back of his foot.
You were still laughing into his kiss. He walked you backward until your knees hit the bed and you dropped onto it with a squeak.
He climbed over you, hands on either side of your waist, face flushed, heart in his throat.
“I fucking love you,” he said again, like it wasn’t real until he repeated it.
You wrapped your arms around his neck, eyes sparkling. “I love you too.”
When Park Sunghoon wants something, he gets it no matter how hard it can be. He's not scared to get his hands dirty. If he had any morals, maybe he'd consider his obsession with you getting out of hands, but he has absolutely no morals.
| pairing. designer!sunghoon x fem!reader
| warnings. dark!sunghoon (he's not a good person lol), implied legal age gap, alcohol consumption & mention of drugs use, mention of gain weight, manipulation, corruption, violent sexual thoughts, unprotected sex, anal play, dacryphilia, aftercare because yes sunghoon's a sadist but he still has a heart.
| wc. 7.5k
| a.n.: repost from an old blog. pls forgive me for how lengthy the smut is (or thank me)!!
His studio is his sanctuary. It's the only place where he can spend hours without even noticing the moon setting or the sun rising. In his studio, it feels like time doesn't exist or that it's just a futile detail that doesn't have much importance.
When he's creating a piece, nothing around him matters. The only things he's willing to give attention to are the placements of the needles on the fabric, the little lines that form the pattern of the clothing, or the way his scissors cut through the satin material of the dress he's working on.
He's thought about this design for so long and he finally got the opportunity to make it. He's thought about the colours of the dress and of the seam, about the length of the hem and the sleeves, how deep the neckline should be and if lace would be suitable.
He doesn't even recall how many sketches he's made of that dress. At some point, it was consuming his entire mind, the only thing he could draw and think of.
Now that he's finally making it, he has the feeling that it's going to be the best piece he's ever created. He already sees everyone talking about it, saying how much of a genius Park Sunghoon is. It's going to be the design of the year—of the century.
He still misses something, though, and it might be the most important part of it all. He needs a model, the perfect body to wear his piece and present it to the fashion world.
It can't be anybody, it must be someone who's confident, who always has their head up and radiates elegance and sports a unique beauty.
Sunghoon still hasn't found this person. He constantly searches for them, but never finds them or when he thinks that he has, he discovers flaws he cannot unseen.
All the Dior models are great, but not enough. They don't spark anything in Sunghoon when he watches them strode down the catwalk. He's checked upon the apprentices and the newer models the company has hired, but he saw no one extraordinary.
Until today.
He hears steps against the wooden floor of his studio, entering the place without knocking.
"Ah, there he is!" A manly voice exclaims and Sunghoon immediately recognizes it as his friend's, Soobin. "I have someone to introduce you."
Sunghoon raises his gaze up from his working table and looks at Soobin who's accompanied by a beautiful, young woman. He's then suddenly interested, contrary to usual where he never really cares about the many girls Soobin brings, claiming each one as the new phenomenon of the fashion industry.
When Sunghoon turns around, he eyes you up and down, barely glimpsing in Soobin's way. It's all it takes, one simple glance and he knows you're the one he needs—the one he wants and has to ruin.
Soobin introduces you both and when your name is pronounced by the man, sounding so charming and delicate, he's certain you're the model he had been waiting for since a long time.
You seem shy, arms locked behind your back, but you stand up straight and have a polite smile drawn on your face.
"I thought maybe you'd like to get to know each other, right?" Soobin raises his eyebrows in Sunghoon's direction. "Everyone's fond of her," he smiles and pats your back, encouraging you to speak up.
"Thanks," you smile back at Soobin before glancing at Sunghoon who still hasn't looked away from you. "I'm a big fan of your work, Mr. Park. You've inspired me to become a model."
The way you say his name has his cock twitching in his pants, filthy thoughts of him spanking your butt as you cry his name invading his mind.
He can sense your vulnerability, your willingness to submit. Who would he be to deny you that? Him, who is so eager to dominate the ones he's attracted to, so eager to break but also repair them.
He knows it when someone's fragile, hiding their weaknesses under fake confidence. He doesn't know you, but he recognizes the pattern almost instantly. What can be broken can also be repaired and you're asking him to break you.
"I'm glad to hear that," Sunghoon says politely, a slight smile tugging on his lips. He's not the type to smile—stretch the corner of his mouth upward to imitate the person in front of him, he finds it shallow. But for you, he'll do it, just so you trust him, so desperate to give yourself to the opposite sex.
"Park, you were wondering who'd be part of the fall show this year," Soobin begins, looking at you like you're the most irradiant ruby in the world. "Well, you have her in front of you."
You chuckle softly at the man's words, nodding your head at him and then looking at Sunghoon as if waiting for some praises.
Sunghoon faintly smiles, seeing your eyes glimmering and he curses himself for not finding you sooner. You'd have been his by now, his to praise, his to kiss and fuck. His to destroy. But he swears, if he happens to break you, he'll gratefully keep you safe close to him.
๑♡՞
"Careful," Sunghoon softly says as he catches you up before you can fall to the floor. You let out a high pitched laugh, as if all of this is a big joke, and push him back with a hand on his chest.
"I'm fine," you answer, shrugging him off with a flip of your hand. You stagger from left to right, leaning against the wall when you almost stumble. You laugh it off again, halting your steps.
Sunghoon looks at you with a cringe expression, eyeing the people behind, sporting worried looks on their faces.
You all went out after the show; models, designers, directors, stylists... everyone. It wasn't your plan to get drunk, Sunghoon knows that because you're not supposed to drink alcohol during your diet. A glass from time to time isn't so bad, but your consumption clearly surpassed just a glass tonight.
It's not really your fault, though. Technically yes, since you're the one who swallowed all of the wine, but you had a little help.
A little help from Sunghoon himself.
When you weren't looking, he poured more alcohol in your glass and to his satisfaction you noticed nothing and gulped everything down. Sure, you got a bit suspicious, wondering how you had only drank so little when you remembered swallowing more than that.
But Sunghoon assured you it was only your first glass, so you drank, and drank, and drank...
Until you were more than tipsy.
You've received nasty looks from your colleagues, especially the other models who weren't drinking a single drop of wine, and yet, still weren't awarded with the status of the 'face of Dior'. How ironic that the drunkest girl in the room was the face of Dior and the little protégée of Mr. Park.
"I'll... I'll bring her to our room, you can go out without us," Sunghoon announces, watching you sit down on the floor in the middle of the corridor.
"Will she be okay?"
"Of course. I'll take care of her."
He waits for everyone to be gone before he gets you up from the floor and leads you both to your hotel room. When you're in the room, he sits you down on the bed.
You don't say anything as he takes off his jacket and loosens his tie. He crouches down in front of you to remove your heels and he does the same with his shoes, leaving them by the entry.
When he comes back, he sees you quietly crying, the features of your face contorting into a sad expression. You've slightly sobered up, harshly coming back to reality, realizing how much you've embarrassed yourself tonight.
"What did I do?" You ask, looking up at him with teary eyes. "I fucked up, didn't I?"
Sunghoon sits down beside you, lifting your head up with his index under your chin and his thumb over it. "There's nothing that can't be repaired," he states in a soft voice, so low it sounds like a sweet whisper—a secret, a confession only you know. "Right?"
You sniff, wiping your tears away. You nod your head in agreement, slightly reassured, hoping Sunghoon will fix your mistakes.
"Shh, baby, shh," he softly murmurs, cradling your head in his hands and gently laying your face against his chest. You wrap your arms around his waist, hugging him tighter.
He strokes your hair delicately, placing a sweet and warm kiss on the top of your head.
Someone as vulnerable as you contains a lot of emotions. He has to deal with them, which doesn't bother him at all. He wants you the way you are; sad and pitiful.
"Everything's going to be fine," he promises, but it's not entirely the truth. Not everything will be fine, though it'll be in the end, he thinks—he hopes.
You eventually pull away from his embrace, just enough to look at him. It seems like you're searching for something or maybe waiting for something, your eyes desperately staring at Sunghoon as if his simple presence will make all of your problems go away.
You throw yourself at him and kiss him on the lips, fingers pulling on the hair at the nape of his neck. He reciprocates it, knowing you like your kisses sloppy and messy, wanting Sunghoon everywhere on you to remind you that he's always there.
You bring him closer, wrinkling the material of his white shirt between your fists, moaning and whining as your teeth clash together at how roughly you kiss each other.
Sunghoon breaks your exchange first, both catching your breaths. His eyes observe you quietly as you look at him like you're still waiting for something.
"Did you do what I told you to?" He questions you, referring to your conversation of a few days earlier when you came to his studio to try on his dress.
You were a bit stressed out, putting on the clothing like you were scared you'd rip it. He still remembers the way the satin was sliding up your body, hugging your waist and ass perfectly.
He was baffled at how incredibly well it suited you as if he had made it exactly for you.
And maybe it was made for you, after all.
Because when he saw his creation on you, he knew you had to wear it for the runway. It has to be you, he'll accept no one else.
Sunghoon will make you walk the runway wearing his dress—the last time you'll ever step on the catwalk. After that, he'll keep you away from the rest of the world. He'll refuse anyone to see you because you're going to be his.
His forever.
"Yes," you nod your head, trapping your bottom lip between your teeth.
"Tell me what you did," Sunghoon softly demands, holding your chin in his hand, mouths inches away from each other.
You're too shy to say it out loud and that's why he wants you to tell him. Also to be sure you did everything correctly, but mainly because he wants to see you embarrassed.
"I prepared myself for you..." you begin, holding eye contact even though you feel your face heating up just thinking about all the things you've done per his request. "I... I used lube both on me and... the toy," you continue in a shy tone, so low Sunghoon wouldn't hear you if he wasn't so close.
"Where on you, sweetheart?" He interrupts, wanting each detail, each little thing you normally wouldn't have done if it wasn't for him.
You swallow, "On my ass, Sunghoon," you answer in a whisper. "I stretched it out for you, using the toy like you told me," you finally admit.
"Good girl," Sunghoon purrs. "Let me see it then."
You proceed to strip off of your dress, now used to be nude in front of him, and slide your panties down your thighs, discarding them away on the floor.
You get back up on the mattress and position yourself on all fours close to the edge of the bed. Sunghoon stands up and goes behind you to have a closer look at your ass.
His veiny hands pull your cheeks apart, revealing your rim to his insatiable, sadistic eyes. You glance over your shoulder, curious of what he has in mind and what he has prepared for you.
You softly gasp when he spits and lets the globe of spit drip down between your asscheeks, rolling over your puckered hole. You clench around nothing, relieved to have his attention, to finally feel his hands on you instead of the usual touch of yours.
He sees that your ass is a bit more loose than the last time he saw it, but it still clearly needs more preparation to welcome his girthy cock—though it's not like he cares that much if you're prepped enough or not.
He passes his thumb over your tight muscle, circling it and smearing his saliva over it. He wants to fuck it so bad, destroy it and do unbelievably violent things to you. Should he tonight? Should he show you his dark and evil side?
He's choked you before—smacked your ass hard till you felt your skin stings, overstimulated you to the point your orgasms were just spasms passing through your body, fucked your throat while you were drooling all over yourself, and tied your legs and wrists together to restrict your movements.
So fucking your ass can't be that bad, but the thing is Sunghoon wants it to be bad. He then wonders what would happen if the line is ever crossed. Would you endure it, would you defend yourself? Would you shut the fuck up and take it like you're asked to?
But you trust him so much—with all of your pathetic being—and he thinks you'd let him cross any lines he desires to. He probably already has crossed multiples, and being the poor girl that you are, you said nothing.
You truly are extraordinary.
He gives a slight slap to one of your asscheeks, groping both of them after, feeling how soft and tender your flesh is. "You did good, sweetheart," he comments in a honeyed voice, "how about we play with it a little?"
He lifts up a brow at you and you nod sheepishly, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip. "Yes..."
"Great," he says in a low tone, running his hands one last time over your ass before going to take something from his suitcase.
"What is it?" You question, your curious eyes landing on the small object he's holding.
Sunghoon brings the object to you, something made of metal, the end having the shape of a cone and a pink gem placed on the top. "A gift for my princess," he replies, opening the bottle of lube he brought as well.
He applies some lube around your tight hole and on the butt plug, and carefully pushes the head of the toy in your ass. You gasp softly, feeling it slowly stretch you, sinking in gradually as Sunghoon holds your cheeks apart.
"Feels good, Sir," you moan, arching your back and pushing your butt closer to Sunghoon.
When the plug is all the way in, the pink gem peeking out between your two globes of flesh, he smacks your other cheek, leaving his stinging handprint on you.
"Is that so, dirty girl?" He wonders, gripping your hips and colliding his hips with your butt, sensing his bulge pulsing under his pants. "You like it when your little ass gets stretched out?"
"I like everything you do to me," you say with a content sigh, pussy clenching around nothing as your ass gets used to the small butt plug.
Sunghoon genuinely thinks he can't find better than you. You were so shy in the beginning, looking like a lost puppy wherever you went. You just needed someone bigger and older to show you the way—though you were too dumb, and still are, to realize he was leading you to the wrong path.
It's not like you seem to mind, anyway.
After all, you both got what you wanted; you, male attention, someone to rely on and be protected by, and him, a woman to break and keep with him forever.
He lets go of your hips to unbuckle his belt, pulling the leather material out of the gold loop with the luxury Dior logo on it. He lets the two ends of the belt hang off, not bothering to remove it completely, and tucks the fly of his pants down.
He finally frees his cock from the confines of his boxers, springing up and slapping his stomach, the bit of pre-cum escaping from his tip dampening his shirt.
"You're so good to me, princess," he praises as he wraps a hand around the base of his engorged cock, aching and begging to be nestled in your cute little pussy.
His head pushes at your entrance, never fully entering, only teasing your hole and stimulating all of your sensitive nerves. He watches how his cock stretches your cunt, your walls expending to receive his bulbous tip and then closing down when he pulls out.
"Sir, please, want more," you beg him, pushing your ass on him to have his dick back in you. You let out a little whimper when Sunghoon holds your hips in place, stopping you from wiggling your butt side to side against his thick cock.
He hums and slaps your ass harshly, your skin burning after. "Want my cock in your needy little pussy, baby? Is that what you're crying for?" He asks, teasing even more by swiping the head between your pussy lips, a string of your arousal sticking to his angry tip.
"Yes," you say back quickly and desperately, arching your back, literally presenting yourself to Sunghoon. "Been so good, don't I deserve it, Sir?" You softly murmur, still looking over your shoulder to see his gaze fixated on your quivering pussy, cock head sliding up and down over your sex.
"You do..." He responds distractedly, licking his lips, his fingers touching the pink gem peeking out from your ass. You're always so good and obedient for him, he even wonders if you ever did something that genuinely pissed him off before.
When he really sinks in, his head passing the barrier of your sweet pussy, he groans deeply, feeling your walls envelop him tightly.
He bends his back over yours, running his hand up your spine, feeling all the little bumps of it until he reaches your neck and shoves your head against the mattress.
You whine when he starts pounding into you, his girth stretching you out so well, leaving you panting and moaning loudly. His other hand holds your hip against his dick, fingers digging into your skin, leaving permanent marks on your body.
He already sets a hard and rapid pace—fucking is never soft or loving with Sunghoon, it's violent, long, and agonizing. It's a way to be himself, the real and dark version of himself he hides in public, and releases when he gets intimate with you.
You surprisingly got accustomed to it, embracing it as if it was your destiny, the reason for your existence; to be his personal slut, the little toy he likes to play rough with. You've accepted it, like you had no other choice but to be fucked into oblivion by Sunghoon whenever he feels like it.
"You like that, baby? Huh?" He growls, as if you're the disgusting one for liking the way he treats you, to be ravished and delighted to have his cock sliding against your walls. "You like it when I fuck you hard like this?" He repeats and grips your hair, pushing your head into the bed covers with more strength.
You babble out something, voice caught in your throat, too out of breath to formulate a simple sentence. You then only nod, your cheek squished against the mattress, Sunghoon's hand still pushing down on your head.
His mouth hangs open to let out heavy breaths and his eyes are focused on your face, watching the little translucent pearls fall on your face and onto the bed. Your pussy swallows all of him, clenching so tightly it has him groaning and saying profanities under his breath.
It's sick how it makes his cock so fucking hard, leaking so much pre-cum in you and twitching avidly by seeing you struggle to breathe. You hold the bed sheets between your fists, doing everything in your power to keep your ass up for Sunghoon and not slump down on the bed from the hard thrusts he's inflicting on you.
He snaps his hips against your ass and the entirety of his length is covered in your wetness, a white ring made of your cream circling the base of his cock.
His hand holding your head descends to your neck, enclosing it with his fingers. He squeezes a little, just a bit so you know who's in control, so you never forget Sunghoon controls you—controls your life and thoughts.
With a grip on your hair, he brings your torso up, arched back against his chest. The material of his shirt sticks to your skin, covered in a thin layer of sweat. He continues to pound into you and as he holds you by the throat, he lewdly licks the side of your face in a long stripe.
You shudder in desire, hair standing up on your arms. "You're my little whore, aren't you, baby?" His mouth is right beside your ear as he whispers the words to you, his lips touching your hair, damp at the nape of your neck. "So fucking compliant... You want to please me so badly like the slut that you are.”
His free hand that doesn't have a hold around your throat slides down your body, passing over your belly and reaching your puffy clit. The sharp zipper of his pants graces the flesh just under your ass, irritating your skin and making it itchy. You clench around him when his digits find your sensitive bud.
"Yes, want to please you, Sunghoon," you gasp, bucking your hips at the feeling of his rough fingertips on you. He grunts when you address him by his name, loving how it sounds on your tongue, so sweet and timid.
He remembers the first time you moaned his name; you were sprawled across his expensive leather couch, blindfolded and hands attached together with his black tie. Intense for your first time with him, but it was also the last time he's ever been that gentle with you.
It was when his cold fingertips graced the skin of your stomach that you let out a squeak followed by his name, said in the quietest moan. He had then stopped his movements and looked at your face, an expression of distress painted over your features.
He had realized how frail and weak you actually were, needing your most important sense to be at ease. That's why he had blindfolded you, to show you how dependent you were on him, how impossible it was for you to live without someone to guide you.
He pushes your jaw to the side so your lips can meet in a feverish kiss, wet tongues mingling together, drool dripping down from the corners of your mouth. He continues to ram his cock in your pussy, the sound of skin against skin resonating in the hotel room.
He traps your bottom lip between his teeth, making you whimper and close your walls around him once again. Your hands grip the material of his trousers, keeping him close and holding on to something because the hard cadence of his hip thrusts push you forward, breasts bouncing up on your chest.
"Fuck," he curses and he suddenly stops, steadying his hips against your butt. You let out a whiny moan as Sunghoon lets go of your face and hips.
You're sad to have your pleasure ripped away from you so hastily, but you don't have the time to complain, Sunghoon slipping out of your cunt and pushing you down violently on the mattress.
You turn around on your back to see him unbuttoning his dress shirt and throwing it on the floor, revealing to you his beautiful chest and milky skin. He gets rid of his pants and socks after, finally removing his boxers, the only thing remaining on him being the watch crowning his right wrist.
His cock glistens in your juices, more pre-cum leaking from his swollen tip and twitching avidly against his stomach. Even though him fucking you while being all dressed and you completely bare is a way to humiliate and degrade you, he also likes to be naked sometimes.
He loves skin to skin contact, how your bodies stick together because of all the sweat coating you. It's addicting, it's rougher and it creates more friction—more pain.
He doesn't mind being naked because he knows how to dominate you either way. He doesn't find it embarrassing, on the contrary, it makes him scarier and hungrier. While you shiver without your clothes on, curled up on yourself, Sunghoon is imposing, his cock thick enough to split you in half.
He crawls back to you, hovering over you like a predator that has caught his prey, boring his eyes into yours. You look at him in awe, always waiting patiently. You feel his cock against your thigh, your hole pathetically quivering—missing his size terribly.
He sneaks a hand between your legs and reaches the little pink gem, ready to get it out. "Take a deep breath, sweetheart," Sunghoon instructs and you inhale deeply.
He doesn't waste a second, pulling out the butt plug out of your ass. You scrunch your eyes shut at the pain, exhaling when it's done. There's still a bit of lube left on it and around your ass. He carefully sets it on the nightstand, coming back to you after.
He bends your legs over your stomach and looks at your ass, just begging him to fuck it, shining with lube and arousal that leaked from your pussy. His cock is so close to it and Sunghoon could slide right in with one movement of his hips.
He lets go of one of your legs to grip his erection, a little gasp escaping your lips when he presses the head of his cock at your tight hole, threatening to sink in.
"Sir," you sigh, not sure if you're ready for that. It always burns no matter how good you prepped before and he knows that. That's why he's so tempted, staring so obsessively at your rim.
Will it hurt you? Will you grip his biceps in an attempt to dissuade him? He wants to see those tears falling from your eyes again, he wants to lick them and tastes your pain. He feels more blood rush down to his cock at the mere thought of hurting you.
Give him all of your pain, he'll fucking take it whole and cherish it. He wants it—he needs it. Accuse him of having a sick and twisted mind, accuse him of everything you've ever been hurt by because he'll gladly take the blame.
"I know you can take it," he says in a low tone, glancing up at your face as he applies just a bit more force. "Can you, baby?" Sunghoon asks, waiting for you to admit how much you want it, how badly you want him to destroy you.
"Yes..." You whisper back, a long shiver running up your spine as his eyes pierce through you.
"Yes what? Tell me, sweetheart," he demands, and it's as if he doesn't care about your response whatsoever because the next thing he does makes you yelp in pain.
His tip has entered you, the burning sensation forcing you to scrunch your eyes shut.
"Yes, I- I can..." you stutter and as expected, you dig your nails into the flesh of his biceps, only fair to hurt him in return. "I can take your cock in my ass."
You take a sharp breath, eyes slowly opening, all watery and painful. Sunghoon groans at that, stuffing more of himself into you. "Good girl," he praises.
He stretches you out completely, his dick in no comparison to the toys you've used on you. You open your mouth as he pushes himself in gradually, tears streaming down your face when you blink.
The tears roll down the side of your face and Sunghoon can't help but love the sight, leaning in to kiss your face and collect one of your tears, tasting the saltiness of it on his tongue.
"Sunghoon!" You look at him with the saddest and most hurtful eyes. "It burns," you add in a quiet voice, now scratching his back, leaving long red trails on his skin.
"I know, baby, I know," he softly murmurs in your ear, a husky moan leaving his mouth when he's completely nestled in you, balls touching your ass. "You're so tight, fuck," he sucks a breath through his teeth, not moving until he estimates he's waited long enough.
He gives warm and wet kisses to your neck, going down to your collarbones and pawing at your breasts, slowly starting to move his hips. You lock your legs behind his back, wanting him as close to you as possible despite the pain he's inflicting on you.
He loves knowing it hurts you because it makes it more pleasurable to him somehow. The pain will go away soon anyway, that's why he doesn't bother to stop or slow down. You have to get used to the feeling first.
The choking, the hair pulling, the smacks... He keeps it for the bedroom, but he won't lie that there's a part of him that wants to ruin your life, ruin everything you've accomplished so far just so he can see those sad eyes of yours and hear you ask him for help out of desperation.
It's not even sexual, he just wants to break you, that's all he desires. Though your life is something he wants to destroy, it's more of a way to have you dependent on him after. If your career is no longer successful, your solution is Sunghoon because he's the only person in your life capable of taking care of you both emotionally and physically.
His teeth chew on the tender skin of your neck while his hand travels all over your body, many veins popping out along his strong arm. His finger gently circles your clit to make the pain more bearable.
His hand that was roaming over your body comes to close around your throat and he turns his head to your side, lips brushing over your temple. "Yeah, just like that, baby," he mutters under his breath, his nose pressing down on your hair as he murmurs the words to you. "Just like that..."
A choked moan is all that escapes your mouth. His hot breath hits the side of your face, his chest heaving rapidly while you claw at his back, white scratches appearing on his shoulder blades.
He sweetly kisses your temple as he pounds into you, not tightening his hand around your throat, just holding you in place—making sure you know that he’s always in control.
Your tits slightly bounce up and down on your chest, little whines coming out of you each time Sunghoon bottoms out. It starts to feel good for you—really good—and you think that this pleasure is totally worth a bit of pain at the beginning.
You grip the hair at the nape of his neck and bring him in for a kiss. He accepts it, kissing you back as if he wants to possess your whole mouth, biting and licking your lips. You moan into his mouth, twisting his hair between your fingers.
He pulls away from you, his full lips glistening in both of your saliva, and places his two palms on your boobs. He feels your perky nipples under his hands, just loving how plushy your breasts are, fitting perfectly in his palms.
He keeps thrusting in you as he gropes your tits and you bring your hands over his, looking into each other's eyes. He lets out a low groan, holding eye-contact with you.
You feel his veins under your palms, your pussy clenching around nothing but air while you run your hands all over his arms. You love to feel his pulsing veins under your fingertips.
"Sunghoon..." You moan his name, throwing your head back and closing your eyes, just enjoying the feeling of his hard cock entering and exiting your tight hole. Sunghoon takes the opportunity to smooch over your neck again as you expose it to him, his lips pressing down on your throat. "I love it," you sigh pleasantly.
He hums, the sound coming deep from his throat. He wants to hurt you, yes, but he likes it even more when you love the pain. He just knew you were exactly like him when he first saw you. He had the feeling that you needed someone like him, someone that'd push you to your limits and make you discover a new type of pleasure.
And he was right because there's not one time where you told him to stop.
"My dirty girl," he purrs in response, bringing his lips up to your jaw. He slowly rolls your nipples between his fingertips, pinching and pulling on them. "You're stupid, but so, so good for me, baby.”
He slowly halts his hip thrusts and he eventually pulls out of you. You gasp when he does so, already missing his cock stretching out your ass.
Sunghoon raises himself up from you and gets out of the bed. His erection stands tall against his stomach, bouncing up as he walks to the front of the bed.
You watch him getting away until he orders you to follow him. "Come here," he says softly and you don't make him wait. "On your knees," Sunghoon commands when you're facing him, sinking down to your knees.
He places a hand behind your head and the other around the base of his dick, guiding the head of his cock toward your lips as he pushes down on your head.
"Here, baby," he instructs in a low voice. "Take it in your mouth." You part your lips to welcome Sunghoon's length, his bulbous tip shining in pre-cum and your juices under the light of the room.
He immediately moans when he enters the warmth of your mouth, his heavy cock sliding on your wet tongue. He doesn't let you have much control, pushing his dick in your mouth until your nose touches his pubic hair.
You relax your jaw for Sunghoon, allowing him to stuff more of himself into your mouth. He looks down at you, watching at the way your lips wrap around him tightly, your eyes starting to water.
He begins to fuck your mouth, forcing you to take him whole each time he bottoms out. He moves his hips back and forth, obsessed with the way his girth appears and reappears between your lips as he uses your mouth as he pleases.
"Shit," he hisses when you hollow your cheeks, "you're a fucking cockslut, aren't you, baby?" He says breathily, his eyes not once leaving his cock penetrating your mouth over and over again.
You whine around him, surely agreeing with what he said, sending vibrations throughout his entire body. He lets out a deep moan, your cheeks and eyelashes all wet because of your tears, eyes burning as Sunghoon fucks your throat roughly.
"Stroke your clit," he manages to say between two heavy breaths. "You can get off by yourself, right? I know you're soaking wet just by letting me use that pretty mouth of yours," he mocks you, but he knows he's right. Whatever he does, your cunt is always dripping wet.
You whimper again, doing what he told you to and sneaking a hand between your thighs to play with your pussy. You part your legs wider as you circle your clit with your finger, Sunghoon's hooded eyes lazily watching you playing with yourself.
Your right hand is laying on his thigh while the other is operating between your legs, pleasuring yourself to the sounds of Sunghoon's moans and the feeling of his cock weighing down on your tongue.
You do your best to breathe through your nose, swallowing around his length and flattening your tongue underneath him. Your juices drip down your inner thighs, your finger smoothly flickering over your sensitive bud.
The whole room is smelling like sex, an odour that Sunghoon can't ignore, loving it so much. Your lips glide so easily over his hard cock, completely covered in your spit and still some of your wetness, tasting yourself on him.
"Ah, fuck," he curses, his head rolling back on his shoulders, eyes still strained down on you. He feels the familiar burning sensation at the pit of his stomach, indicating he's really close to his orgasm. "Go on the bed, baby."
You're taken aback, but you follow his order, pulling him out of your mouth and laying your back down on the mattress close to the edge. You beautifully moan when Sunghoon penetrates your pussy, bending your legs over your stomach.
"Oh, god," you cry softly, being pounded onto the bed right away, tits moving up and down on your chest.
His hands are positioned on each side of your shoulders, snapping his hips against yours so harshly it hurts. You keep doing circle motions on your clit, now faster and impatient to reach your high.
You let out a high-pitched moan when Sunghoon suddenly steadies his hips over yours, dropping down to his elbows as he hides his face in the crook of your neck. "Holy fuck," he grunts, gripping the bed sheets tightly in his fists beside your head as his cock twitches in your cunt.
"Yes, yes," you quietly exclaim, your orgasm passing through you, making you arch your back and buck your hips.
Your pussy clenches repeatedly around him and he finally comes undone into you, shooting long, thick ropes of cum deep in you. When he slips out of you, more spurts out of his tip, landing on your pussy, covering you in his cum.
He stays above you for some time, catching his breath and looking at the mess he made of you.
Later, Sunghoon is in the shower, washing his hair and his body, passing a soft cloth soaked in soap over his chest. He lets the water fall over his head, wetting his black locks. He stays maybe a bit longer than normally, staring at the tiled wall.
He thinks about you, about all the things he's planned. He revised everything in his head, imagining you walk on the podium wearing his dress, people looking at his piece with admiration in their eyes.
He thinks about everything that will go down for you after the show, getting fired, losing your career and your fans. Many articles talking about your excessive use of alcohol and drugs, saying how tired and sad you look beside Sunghoon.
You won't last long, you're too weak anyway. A downfall like this is unconquerable, nobody recovers from that, and surely not a model who will be thrown out of the industry as soon as you turn twenty-five.
Sunghoon knows the industry, he's been in it for years now. He's aware of how cruel it is, how difficult and harsh it can be on fragile little girls like you.
But that's why he's here, he'll take care of you once nobody will want you anymore. That's the goal, after all; you to be finally his—solely and completely.
"Sunghoon?"
Your voice reaches him, turning his head in your direction, seeing you hesitantly entering the shower with him. He opens his arms, inviting you to come closer and you do, hugging him and laying your head down on his wet chest.
"I love you, sweetheart," he softly murmurs against your hair. "I'll never leave you, you know that, right?"
You nod your head, looking up at him and meeting his gaze. "I love you, too."
๑♡՞
The runway went incredibly well. Celebrities and journalists were all gathered for the fall show, totally amazed by every design and the models that were wearing them.
But there was one specific piece that everyone was willing to say was the best.
Sunghoon was satisfied to see that his name stood out amongst everyone else's, being mentioned more times than Dior itself. He predicted it; it was the creation that every guest remembered, the dress that the fans were only talking about.
He'd take all the credit, he was the one who imagined it and then sewed it after all, but he has to admit that you contributed to the fame a lot.
Being the beloved face of Dior only made people talk more about it and that was what Sunghoon needed.
But every good story has an end, doesn't it?
When Sunghoon comes back to his apartment, the place is silent except for the TV playing, as he thought it would be. You're looking through the window, the city draped in the dark, splotches of bright yellow light flashing in front of your eyes. You're sitting on the sofa, not even acknowledging his presence as he enters, getting rid of his shoes.
You're not much of a talker since you've been fired from Dior a few days ago just after the fall show. He understands your wish of remaining silent, needing a bit of space to process everything that happened the past weeks in your head.
It was going to happen soon or later anyway. You've been to your photoshoots completely drunk, sometimes just going in with a hangover, but of course it didn't help your case at all.
Sunghoon was guilty for letting you drink alcohol so soon in the morning. No need to deny it, he was even the one dropping you off at work like that. Well, he had to do it if he wanted people to notice how far you've fallen.
He doesn't feel bad, though. Your career wasn't going to last with or without Sunghoon's sabotage. He did you a favour.
You can't handle being a model. If you could, none of that would have happened. You wouldn't have gained weight, you would have been suspicious of the amount of calories Sunghoon was feeding you. The bottles of wine wouldn't have been so tempting and smoking weed wouldn't have ever occurred to you as a good idea.
You shouldn't be ashamed of it, sometimes things just don't work out like we would have wanted them to.
"Did you see the article they wrote about me?" You ask, still looking outside. "You surely did, I bet that's all they're talking about..."
He sits down beside you and you eventually turn around, facing him. You care so much about what others think of you. It must be so tiring having such a low self-esteem. He can only imagine it; seeing you look through the window like a sad puppy, your life finally making sense when Sunghoon comes home.
"I did, but nothing of that matters to me," he answers, the most honest he's ever been. And even if he had to lie, it's not like you wouldn't have believed him. You always trust whatever he says.
You don't reply, your head still filled with many thoughts.
"Hey, come here," he softly tells you, patting his thigh. You straddle his lap, setting your hands on his shoulders. He cups your chin, forcing you to look at him as you keep avoiding his gaze. "Whatever they say, whatever their name is, nothing will ever be more important than you."
Because who is he if he lets some article affect the way he sees you? He's known you since the beginning of your career and he stayed till the end of it.
He knows you better than everyone else. He was with you during your highs and lows and he'll still be there for the next ones. There's nothing in the world that could make him leave you. After everything he's done to have you, there's no way he'll go away.
How cowardly of him if he does. He can't leave when he's promised he'd heal you—close all of your past wounds and create other ones. He may be selfish, but there's one thing that he isn't and it's a fucking liar. He sticks to his words, and when he says he'll never leave you, that means he'll never, never abandon you—he'll never leave your side, not even once. He can't risk it.
thinking about brother!sunghoon fucking me doggy style while recording
▸ 18+ mdni. | warnings. incest (or stepcest if it makes you feel better), consensual filming.
don't like it, don't read it. warnings are all identified.
your muffled whines and the sound of skin slapping against skin fill up the room, otherwise dark and quiet, sunghoon's phone casting light over your arched back. his eyes lift up from where your two bodies meet every now and then to take a glance at the closed door of your bedroom, making sure it remains shut, no noises coming from behind it.
the hand that doesn't have his phone in it holds your hip, your ass colliding with the front of his thighs, the flesh bouncing at every thrust. mouth agape, he stares at the way his cock enters you then slides out, his length glistening in your wetness. your pussy gushes around him and he's amazed at how tight and warm you feel.
he angles his phone the right way so it captures the lewd sight of him fucking you, the flashlight making his cock shine in your arousal, your pussy swallowing him whole. the squelching noises are nothing but disgusting, the clear proof you're enjoying it as much as he does.
you know you have to be quiet, but you can't help but moan softly, your hands clenching around your bed sheets, face buried in your pillows and the few plushies still on top of your bed. sunghoon finds you too cute, too pretty... too slutty. it's bad, he knows, but he really can't bring himself to care when your cunt sucks him in so well and drools all over him.
why should he hold himself from claiming what's rightfully his? especially when you deliberately leave your door ajar, sleeping with nothing on but a pair of flimsy panties and tank top. when he knows you're waiting patiently in your bed for him at night.
"sunghoon," you whine, glimpsing over your shoulder, catching him staring at your ass, his phone unsteady in his grasp as he pounds into you.
his eyes leave your pussy to meet your gaze, lips pouty and hair in a mess, looking so stupid and pathetic. "shh," he softly shushes you. "keep quiet, baby. i'm almost finished, okay?"
you slowly nod, your head slumping back down onto the pillows, letting out a sigh. you bite down into your lip to keep in your moans, focusing on the feeling of his cock pushing between your walls, whispering your brother's name until his hips stutter, steadying over your ass.
"shit," you hear him curse before he releases himself inside of you, pumping you full of his cum.
when he slips out, he almost groans at the way your pussy clench, making his white cum dribble out of you, his phone filming all of it. he takes pictures of his fingers pulling your lips apart, dipping his digits inside of you, admiring the mess he made of you.
at some point, his library is full of your sins, photos after photos of his sister in numerous positions he shouldn't see you in, making you do things that shouldn't even be talked about. a few days back, when jungwon almost saw these pictures sunghoon swears to keep hidden, he made sure to put a lock on it.
but what can he do when his mother asks to see the videos he's taken during his trip? when she swipes a little too far and suddenly your moans echo in the kitchen, blood instantly draining from his face, snatching his phone out of his mother's hold so fast it nearly shatters to the ground.
he knows he's a lucky bastard when she doesn't recognize you and calls her son perverted for having such content in his own phone. he knows he can't keep acting so mindlessly if he doesn't want this to end badly.
゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ S in which nothing cuts deeper than your hatred for park sunghoon, except the desire that waits underneath it. 、masterpost
𝓦 。ᐟ MDNI ⨾ SPOILERS INCLUDED、 profanity, sexual content, angst, dirty talk, making out, unhealthy coping mechanisms (reader uses sex to avoid grief and anxiety) (drinking), semi public sexual content, emotional distress, denial/dissociation, manipulation, mentions of alcohol, power imbalances, parental pressure 。。。 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒌 [✧] ꧁𓊈 prev 𒆜 next 𓊉꧂ 。WC 18607
You stare at the morning light leaking through the curtains and try not to remember a time when it didn’t hurt to think about him.
You try, you fail, and then you try again.
But no matter how tightly you shut your eyes, it still drops you straight back onto the ice.
The arena is mostly empty because his event finished an hour ago and everyone important has already left. You’d clapped so hard for him that your hands stung when he landed his final spin, grinning and cheering him on like an idiot even though he couldn’t hear you over the crowd. He always could find you, though. Even with all the noise, even with a hundred other faces in the stands, his eyes went straight to you when it was over.
He’s still wearing those stupidly tight pants, cheeks flushed pink, and he’s grinning like an absolute menace because now that the rink is clear, he’s decided you’re next. (You promised him you’d let him teach you, despite how very, very afraid you were).
“Up,” he says, tapping your shin with his finger. “Bend your knees. Not your back—you’re walking like a baby deer. Oh, if you could see yourself—"
“I’m gonna kill you,” you tell him through your teeth, wobbling.
Your blades scribe these pathetic little half-moons while he skates backward gracefully in front of you like it’s nothing. He’s got your hands in his, and he’s counting softly under his breath. “Push, glide. One—two. Try not to look down; it doesn’t help.”
“Hoonie—I’m gonna fall and crack my head open,” you wince.
“I’m not going to let you fall.”
Your cheeks flush red, and you want to say he shouldn’t say things like that when you like him this much. You want to say he looks so sure it makes your chest feel stupid. What you actually say is, “Ew. Your hands are so sweaty.”
“Shut up.” He squeezes your hand anyway. “Just don’t let me go. And try not to panic.”
You’re dramatic about it, obviously. You whine, you threaten to take both of you down, you threaten to pee your pants, and he laughs at everything you say and still doesn’t let you go. When you do finally panic and grab at his shirt, he lets you, closing the distance so fast you bump his shoulder with your jaw.
“See?” he says. “I’ve got you.”
Halfway through the second lap, your fingers went stiff, and he noticed without you saying a word. “Hands,” he said and then tugged, and when you extended both of them out towards him, he rubbed warmth back into your knuckles with his own while also blowing breath into your palms.
You were about to say something, but then you catch movement by the boards in your peripheral—then you turn to see your mother and Hana in their own world, with a smaller and rounder-cheeked Heeseung sitting cross-legged and watching the two of you with a giant bag of popcorn.
“Why don’t you force him to learn?” you mutter, jerking your head in his direction.
Sunghoon doesn’t even look over and continues to squeeze your hands in his palms. “He’s hopeless. And a scaredy-cat.”
“Hey!” Heeseung yells with his mouth full, “I heard that!”
“You were meant to!” Sunghoon yells back, and you both giggle at that.
Then later, when you finally managed your first clean T-stop, he clapped and cheered loudly for you like you were the one who won a gold medal, and you remember thinking his smile was the most beautiful thing you’d seen in all your thirteen years of living.
“Alright, payment,” he says when you’re back by the edge, sticking his hand out with a grin.
“For what?”
“Private coaching.”
Oh. That.
You call over to where your mother is and ask her to fish in your backpack for it (the scarf she taught you to knit over your winter break). She hands it over with a knowing smile that makes your cheeks flush red. Truthfully, you’d been carrying it around since morning, and you’d chickened out of giving it to him three different times until now. It’s lumpy and a bit too bright for a boy, but you hold it out anyway because he made you promise your first one would be his.
“For luck,” you murmur awkwardly. “You can give it back if you hate it.”
He looks at it once, then at you, then at it again, and laughs. “It’s… definitely a scarf.”
“I hate you,” you say, and you try to grab it from him, but he holds it out of your reach.
“I didn’t say I wasn’t keeping it.” He laughs again and loops it once around his neck.
You frowned. “You may as well have.”
“It’s perfect,” he says, then he tugs one end so it sits right. “There. How do I look? Good?”
You didn’t want to say yes, but you said yes anyway. He retakes your hand and skates backward, dragging you into a lazy curve closer to the middle of the rink with his hands still in yours.
“Keep your head up,” he says. “Eyes on me.”
“What if I hate you right now?”
“You don’t.”
“What if I’m scared?”
He smiles a little. “Then look at me.”
You do. You always did. You follow him down the rink, and your knees shake less with every pass.
“Okay,” he says quietly when you get in the middle of the rink. “You’re ready.”
“For what?”
“To let go.”
You remember thinking you were going to die. “What—no, Hoonie—don’t you dare—”
He giggles. “Let go, Y/N. Let go!”
You yell, laugh, stumble, and then land on your ass, and he’s doubled over laughing, the medal on his chest catching the light, and when he helps you up again, your palms fit easily in his like they were always supposed to.
“See?” he says, still grinning. “You’re still alive. And I still got you.”
And then you blink, and the rink is gone.
It’s later that afternoon, and you’re walking out of the rink, both of you a little red-cheeked from the cold and something you’re too young to name yet. His driver was waiting like always, but this time his mother was standing by the car too. You hadn’t seen her at the competition, and you hadn’t seen her at the last few of them, actually.
She didn’t smile when she saw you. She never really did.
Her eyes went straight to her son then. “Sunghoon, you are an hour late,” she said.
He shifted beside you, quiet for a second before saying, “I wanted to stay.”
Her eyes flick to you, and her look is nothing short of cold. “You wanted to stay,” she repeated with a scowl. Then, she clicked her tongue. “You spend too much time with this… girl.”
You could feel the back of your neck get hot, but before either of you could say anything, the arena doors opened and your mother walked out.
“Y/N, sweetheart, you—Oh, Mrs. Park,” she says politely. “I didn’t realize you’d made it.”
Mrs. Park looked at her, up and down, and still did not smile. “I didn’t. Things ran late.”
Your mom nodded once. “Well, you should’ve seen him. He was wonderful.”
“I’m sure he was,” she huffs, and her expression is still unpleasant as she stares at your mother. “You’ve always had such free time for these little things, haven’t you? Must be nice.”
Your mom did not take the bait—she smiles and shakes her head. “I don’t have much free time. But you make time for what matters,” she says.
Mrs. Park did not answer her. She clicked her tongue again, and then her gaze shifted to the scarf still looped around Sunghoon’s neck, and her expression tightened a little.
“Take that thing off. You look ridiculous.”
“I like it,” he mutters with a frown and doesn't move to take it off.
His mother raised an eyebrow.
He turned to look at you then. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he tells you softly and then looks at your mother. “Thank you for staying too, Mrs. Y/L/N.”
You remember standing there after they drove away, watching the scarf’s red edge in the backseat window until it disappeared. Your mom had rested her hand on your shoulder and told you not to take anything to heart with Mrs. Park, but she hadn’t been looking at you when she said it.
You couldn’t pinpoint when it began, but you knew it was already there in this memory—the kind of tenderness that hid in plain sight and came as easily as breathing. A boy who could glide across the ice like he was born for it but still counted under his breath with every move just for you—slowing down so you wouldn’t fall, steady hands that never let you go, and tying your skates when your fingers were too cold. And a bright red scarf he teased you about but never took off anyway—not that day, not on the ride home, and later, he kept it folded in his bag for good luck every time he stepped into the rink.
You pull the blanket tighter around yourself and exhale through your nose.
Somewhere along the way, Sunghoon turned into someone who could stand still and never reach for you when you fell. You hate him for that. For what he became. For what he ruined. Most of all, you hate him for being right about how you still saw that boy every time you closed your eyes.
You hate yourself, too, for ever thinking you could still find the boy from the ice in the man they now call the heir of ice.
You almost laugh when you think about last night—how you actually told yourself you’d find him, look him in the eye, and tell him he could ruin you.
As if he hadn’t already.
You close your eyes and let yourself think of the boy you loved from all those years ago one last time, and his voice rings in your head, clear as it was then.
Let go, Y/N. Let go.
By afternoon, Wonyoung and Sunoo were at your door with the softest smiles and arms full of bags. They tugged you out of bed, opened the curtains, tied your hair back, made you brush your teeth, and shepherded you to the couch. Now the three of you are sunk into the cushions with face masks on and sushi boxes open across the coffee table, your favorite roll already half gone.
They’d told you about their weekends first after you’d insisted, and you’d just finished telling them everything, from Friday night all the way to Saturday night—the gala, Heeseung and Sunghoon drunk and heavy in your arms, Jake in the bathroom (and in the car), and yes—even how you’d almost hooked up with Sunghoon at Hana’s. (Sunoo shot up so fast when you’d said it, that his face mask flew straight into one of the sushi boxes—which delayed Wonyoung’s reaction by two minutes because it was her sushi box.) But anyway, you couldn’t keep anything from them even if you tried. Except—maybe one little thing you’ve been keeping for your whole life. (big thing).
You toy with your face mask. “...And you know… my parents said neither side is putting out a statement. Their teams got the posts pulled from the outlets immediately after. It’s just… gone. Like it wasn’t there. I don’t even know what I’m allowed to say.”
“Don’t say anything. Just… be.” Wonyoung shrugs. “Let the grown-ups do what they want with PR. You just take care of your head.”
You nod and sigh, then you let your eyes fall shut and breathe out for a moment. When you open them, Sunoo is already peeling his second mask off (after the first one failed) and flinging it onto a napkin.
“Alright,” he straightens again and points a finger up, “I had to take that shit off before I fully went in. It’s limiting my reactions. And I’m nothing without my reactions.”
Wonyoung tips her head back against the couch. “Here we go again.”
“Y/N, you’re an actual freak,” Sunoo says, popping a salmon roll into his mouth. “In PUBLIC… THREE TIMES… Two different guys—I think our combined prayers for you to finally get some dick confused the universe, so it just went HERE, DAMN! and gave you two at once—OW!” Wonyoung swats his arm with her chopsticks, and he pouts, “Why’d you do that for? I’m encouraging her.”
You laugh and ultimately peel your mask off because it keeps moving, and you set it on the little plastic sheet on the table.
Wonyoung turns toward you. “Are you really okay?”
You swallow. “I… I don’t even know.”
Sunoo lifts his brows and says carefully, “Permission to speak about the boys?”
You tip your head at him. “Granted. For a while.”
“Okay.” He starts. “How do you actually feel about what happened with Sunghoon? Use your words and don’t threaten to kill yourself. Or him.”
You put your face in your hands and breathe into your palms. “I literally feel like I’m going insane.” You pause. “I mean, I wouldn’t, like… I hate him…” You gesture uselessly in the air, searching for words and finding none. “I was so fucking horny I wasn’t even thinking straight.”
Wonyoung snorts. “Since this is a safe space right now, I think he’s the soft one,” she shrugs. “A fucking pussy, if you must. He keeps saying it would just be sex, and then he chickens out like that? Puh-lease.”
Sunoo points at you without looking away. “He doesn’t know what to do with all that,” he waves a hand up and down at you like he’s presenting you. “It would take the willpower of ten beasts to drag me away from you.”
You giggle and shove him, but your tongue darts over your bottom lip before you can stop it. Because Sunghoon—as much as you hate to admit it—knew exactly what to do with all that, and it was only ten minutes with your clothes still on. Fuck. Heat crawls up your neck at the memory.
You shake it off fast and cringe at what you’d said to him that night. “I can never face him again—God, he’s going to hold it over my head forever. We have to kill him.”
Sunoo huffs a breath. “You’re saying that like he didn’t admit to jerking off to you. Hello? You have nothing to worry about,” he raises a brow. “God forbid a girl is horny and wants to get laid… even if it's with her sworn enemy… Which by the way, Hot!—NO, no don’t hit—” you swatted him, “OW! But anyway, it was so obvious that he wanted you—WHO SAID THAT?” he looks around dramatically.
You poke him with your chopsticks. “Let’s change the subject now, actually.”
“Mm,” Wonyoung hums. “So. What about Jake?”
“I’ll debrief that for you guys later,” you sigh. “We’ve talked about men enough for now—and I just… don’t know.” You exhale slowly, then your eyes drop to your thumbs. The skin at the edges is picked, and you try to curl your fingers in.
Wonyoung reaches over and takes your hand in hers. “Hey,” she says softly, “you don’t have to solve anything right now. You know that, right?” She pauses and waits for you to nod, then she goes on. “You don’t have to answer any of your texts. You don’t have to plan what to do next.”
You nod again and ease into her gentle touch.
“Not about Jake,” she says. “Not about… He Who Must Not Be Named,” she tries to bite back her smile at the way she said that instead of Sunghoon, then she fails and laughs softly. “The headline and… what happened at Heeseung’s. Just… don’t try to figure out the thing about the screen in the car either. If you want to talk to Jake about it, do it. If you don’t, don’t. Whatever you do, just don’t beat yourself up about it.”
“Here, eat.” Sunoo lifts the last salmon roll to your mouth with his chopsticks and waits until you take it. “Also, I second what she said.” He jerked his chin at Wonyoung. “And remember what I said about not overthinking. Also, drink water. And please just don’t make me wait. Was Jake good at—”
You snort through your mouthful and nudge his shin with your foot before he can finish that.
“You violent freak,” he yelps, and you stick your tongue out, but he’s smiling as he reaches for your water and presses it into your hand.
A moment passed.
You bite your lip and shake your head. “Okay—one last thing. I need to tell you guys something. But just—don’t do anything.”
Sunoo squints. “Uh oh. I know that look,” he gestures at your face. “Oh no. That’s disappointment on your face, alright. Did Jake not live up to his reputation? Ohhh, did he not make you fini—”
Wonyoung smacks his arm.
“You girls are so violent,” he pouts again and rubs his arm.
“I’m serious,” you say, sitting a little straighter as you reach over to pinch Sunoo’s cheeks. “I love you. Be serious. I’ve never said this out loud before.”
They look at each other immediately with wide eyes, and Sunoo presses his mouth into a tight line and closes his eyes.
You swallow and pick at your thumb again.
“Sunghoon was the…” You shake your head like you can push the word out that way. “Sunghoon is the first boy I ever loved.”
Silence.
Wonyoung and Sunoo look at each other, then back at you, then at each other again with wide eyes still—and then Sunoo throws himself sideways on the couch like he’s dramatically fainting with one arm over his eyes. Wonyoung just blinks between you and him as she very obviously tries to fight back a smile.
“What,” you blink, “is going on?”
Both of them start laughing—and it’s more so in relief than anything else (they tried to keep it in and failed terribly).
“We know,” they said together, and then Sunoo added softly, “Baby, we’ve known.”
Your mouth dropped open, and you whooshed a finger at them. “Since, uh, when?”
Wonyoung was still smiling in pure disbelief. “Ok. I’ll poke the bear—but I do have to say I’m referring to the past, not his whole new asshole act—anyways, since your whole ‘He can have the last dumpling, I’m not hungry’ gimmick and how you’d turn bright red when he’d just insist on giving it to you instead,” she grinned, popping another roll in her mouth. “Anddddddd Since you color-coded his skate competition schedule—”
You cut her off. “OKAY! Yeah, that’s enough.” You yelp and cover your face with both hands. “Oh my fucking god. Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
Sunoo picks up his chopsticks and points them towards you again. “Are you kidding? I mean, you’re… you. You kind of always were in denial and got defensive when we tried,” he says as he picks up a tuna roll. “Like a little angry bear. And we love our bear. We do not poke our bear. Also, then you fell out, and that was… yeah.”
You peek through your fingers and furrow your brows. “I’m not an angry bear.”
Sunoo shakes his head. “See, I’d argue, but I don’t wanna poke the bear.”
Wonyoung nudges your knee. “I did doubt it for a second with the whole Jake thing,” she starts. “But… you always kept Jake at a distance and just fantasized about him, you know? I mean—you and Sunghoon were…inseparable. We just figured one day you’d tell us yourself.”
“I feel stupid,” you sigh.
Wonyoung shakes her head. “You’re not stupid.”
Sunoo leans in. “You’re our smart little angry bear, and we love you. And—oh my fucking god. Wait. I have to FaceTime Riki later—little shit and his dance classes—ohhhh, he’ll lose it.”
The three of you settle back into the couch again. Then, halfway through the movie you were now forcing them to watch (Sabrina, because of course it’s an Audrey Hepburn movie) (You shamelessly played the pity card and guilt-tripped them into letting you pick), Sunoo pauses the movie and turns toward you like he just remembered something life-changing.
“Okay,” he straightens. “Now that the S word is out there… I’m going to ask you something, and I mean this with respect—well, minimal respect—but I can’t hold myself back on this one. I need to know. So just tell me when to stop.”
But he was already holding his hands about three inches apart. “So… is it this big?”
You blinked. And then you realized what he meant. “What are you—oh my god—SUNOO.”
“Okay, so not this much. Yeah, no, figured. Rookie numbers.” He concentrated and widened the gap slowly. “Just say when.”
He kept going as you and Wonyoung stared at him in utter disbelief. That mind of his…
“Stop.”
“Wait? Stop? Stop, as in this,” he wiggled his hands towards you, “much?”
You groaned and swatted his hands away, and you felt heat rushing to your cheeks because you were imagining it yourself again now. “No—I mean—just stop!”
He ignored you. “It’s BIGGER? Oh, okay! That's crazy. Just—” he kept spreading, “Are you—seriously?” He spread his hands farther and farther apart, “You can say stop! Really! Just give me a wink, a hand raise, a little eyebrow twitch—whatever feels natural.”
Wonyoung picked up a cushion and threw it at him.
“Why do you—” you squealed, “if you don’t stop, I’m going to start measuring your life expectancy.”
He ducked the pillow and ignored you both. “No, because I’ve heard things! I have sources! I need to confirm! And look—okay, now this is just not possible at this point. I’m gonna start again.” He reset his hands. “We don’t fuck with him. We hate him. We’ve moved on from that. But hypothetically, if the math checks out—”
“Sunoo—”
“—It's a public safety issue!”
You had both hands over your face now, shoulders shaking, while Wonyoung groaned into a pillow.
Then you raised a brow. “Wait—what do you mean you’ve heard things? From where, exactly, would you even hear this from?”
Sunoo gave you that guilty little grin that meant you were not going to like the answer. “I may have… overheard a few things… from certain fraternities…”
“Oh dear God.”
“…from certain men named Jungwon.”
Wonyoung sighed. “Jesus Christ.”
You pressed a hand to your forehead. “Why would… Actually, you know what? I don’t even wanna know how he knows.”
Sunoo’s eyes suddenly widened. “Wait. KNOWS? KNOWS?!—so you’re basically admitting what they’re saying is true!”
You froze. “Wait—”
“No, no, no,” he laughed, spreading his hands wide again. “There’s no way. Surely she’s joking. Surely.” He looked at the space between his hands again. “No wonder you keep—”
That was it. You grabbed the nearest pillow and launched it at him, and this time it didn’t miss his head.
“OW—VIOLENCE ISN’T THE ANSWER!” he yelled, ducking behind Wonyoung, who was doubled over laughing so hard. You couldn’t help but laugh with them as well.
When the laughter dies down after a while, Wonyoung reaches for your hand where it rests on your knee and threads her fingers through yours, and Sunoo (despite the beating he just received from you) reaches across and stacks his hand on top. It’s silly. It makes you feel steady.
You stare at your three hands for a second, and you breathe. It’s the first time all weekend the breath goes all the way down.
“I love you two,” you whisper.
Your phone buzzes face down on the table, and no one moves to flip it. You never had to think when you were with them, and you never felt the need to distract yourself. You pop a tuna roll into your mouth instead and let the taste spread warm across your tongue.
For now, this is enough.
When you got to class on Monday morning, Sunghoon wasn’t there.
His absence in the seat next to yours burned into you worse than his stare would have had he actually been there. You tried to act like the silence he left behind wasn’t pressing into your ribs and that you weren’t counting the seconds between the professor’s words just to fill the space he’d usually take up beside you. You also tried to hold onto Wonyoung and Sunoo’s advice from yesterday and not think too much about anything. Not about him. Not about Jake. And definitely not about how everyone had turned their stupid heads and begun whispering when you walked in today. This campus was supposed to be the one place that belonged only to you in a clean, separate way from everything your identity held. Sure—you were never not aware of how people looked at you, and it’s not like you don’t take pride in it—but on other days, you could at least walk through campus and almost believe you were just another girl with too many readings and not enough sleep.
Today wasn’t one of them.
In front of you, a girl two seats over pulled up her phone and tilted it toward her friend. The photo she was showing her was small and grainy, but you could still see it from where you sat—and it didn’t matter either way because it was ingrained into your eyelids by now—Jake’s jacket over your shoulders that everyone on the internet is now swearing up and down is Sunghoon’s, Sunghoon’s hands on your waist, and that stupid, traitorous fucking angle. You press your thumb into your palm out of habit to drown out the urge to get up and throw something at them, tracing over the little crescent of skin until it stings.
Halfway through the lecture, the door opens. For a split second, you think (yes, it’s ridiculous, it’s pathetic, even) that maybe it’s him. It wasn't. It was Jake. Your eyes meet for a moment, and your throat immediately goes tight, and you’re not sure if it’s because part of you actually wanted it to be Sunghoon or because it was Jake.
By the end of the lecture, you were already packing your things up before Dr. Kim even dismissed the class.
Then—
Jake was standing over your desk with his hands in his pockets when you turned around.
And God, how you wished Sunoo hadn’t skipped today. He’d have done you the mercy of dragging you away under the excuse of literally anything, and it would’ve saved you from the heat crawling up your neck right now.
“Hey,” he said, softer than you expected.
You force your mouth into something shaped like a smile. “Hi.”
He huffed a laugh. “You look like you haven’t slept.”
You pressed your mouth into a thin line. “I wonder why.”
“Shit, yeah—I’m sorry.” He rubs his hand on the back of his neck. “That’s why I’m here. How are you? I wanted to text you again, but I said I’d, y’know, try to be useful for once and see if you need anything in person.”
Your mouth tugged upwards despite how you were feeling. “You’re useful when you’re quiet,” you teased.
“Oof.” He put a hand to his chest. “Just when I was gonna say you look pretty.”
You bit the inside of your cheek and looked away. “Shut up.”
He shakes his head and laughs. “Still—if you need to… talk, or scream, or punch something—preferably not me—I’m around,” he says.
You finally meet his eyes again, and it’s unfair how gentle he looks. “Jake,” you say quietly, “you don’t have to do this.”
“Do what?”
“Act like you care.”
You’re not even sure why you said that. Maybe it’s because you’re tired of being handled like you’re some fragile little thing that might break if someone breathes too hard near you. Or maybe it’s because of something (someone) else entirely.
His jaw tenses. “You think I don’t?”
You huff a breath. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way—” you shake your head. “I just… You think I know what to think anymore?”
He blinks once, and he looks like he doesn’t know how to answer that, then settles on saying, “I missed you.”
You glance over his shoulder, and you spot two girls lingering near the door, whispering behind their hands as they look at the two of you. Your brows pull together, and that little knot of worry tightens at the base of your throat.
Jake follows your gaze, then looks back at you. “You okay?”
You shake your head once. “Can we… go somewhere else?”
His expression softens instantly. “Yeah,” he smiles, “yeah, of course. Come on.”
Jake nods toward the door, and the two of you slip out of the lecture hall. You walk side by side without touching or speaking, then he slows when you reach the next corridor and glances through the crack of a nearby door. “Here,” he murmurs.
You follow him inside the empty classroom, and you shut the door behind you softly.
You cross your arms loosely and take a deep breath in. “God—yeah. Much better,” you groan. “Fucking annoying little shits.”
He leans against the edge of a desk across from you, watching you for a moment. Then he bites his lip. “I texted you this and it’s okay that you didn’t respond, take your time and all, but—I… I’m sorry I left early on Saturday,” he says. “My father called for me and—” He stopped, eyes still on you. “I should’ve said goodbye first. That’s on me.”
You look down at your hands. The thought rose up so fast you almost scrunched your face to shake it off—the car. You could ask him about it right now, watch his smile dip—and then you could add it to the growing list of things gnawing through your ribs whichever way it goes. Lovely.
You just want five minutes today where your chest doesn’t feel like it’s splitting in half.
“It’s fine,” you force another smile. “You’re here now.”
“Still,” he says. “I don’t want you thinking I… bailed. Especially after we… You know.”
“Didn’t think anything,” you hum, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Barely even noticed you were gone.”
“Silly,” he grins and takes a step closer. “Don’t act like you didn’t miss me.”
You roll your eyes, though there’s no weight behind it. “Who said I did?”
Jake’s grin deepens. “You didn’t have to say it.”
“You’re full of yourself.”
“Mmm, I don’t think so,” he says, leaning one arm on the desk beside you. “You even looked happy to see me when I walked in—saw you blushing and all,” he says.
“I thought you were Sunghoon,” you bite.
You don’t even realize what you just said until you hear the shape of his name leave your tongue—and you look back at Jake to see his brows furrow for a moment.
“Ouch,” he says, forcing a small laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Damn.”
You shake your head quickly and try not to react badly. “I didn’t mean I was happy—I just… I was anxious it’d be him. I don’t want to see him. You know that. Obviously. Not after—” you stop yourself.
“Right—the news,” he exhales, nodding. “Yeah.”
That wasn’t what you meant by after.
Jake studies you for a moment, then he tilts his head and leans in towards you. “What about me?”
“What about you?”
“Did you wanna see me?” he whispers.
You hum and try to be playful despite how your own mind had just betrayed you a moment ago. “Hmmm. Depends. How bad do you want me to say yes?”
Jake grins slowly, eyes dropping to your mouth for a second too long before flicking back up to meet your gaze. “Bad,” he says. “Real bad.”
You feel the words sink under your skin, and you shift where you stand, arms still crossed, but your fingers curl tighter around your bicep.
“So please say it,” he murmurs. “Wanna hear you say it.”
Your lips part, but no words come out. It’s not like you don’t want to say it. It’s just—God, there’s been too much lately. Too many thoughts, too many people watching, and too many things you don’t want to care about.
“Maybe I did,” you say finally.
Jake leans a little closer, palm flattening against the desk. “That’s not a no.”
You shake your head and huff a laugh under your breath, and then you glance away because your pulse kicks up from how close he is all of a sudden.
“You know, ever since that night, I can’t stop thinking about you. About everything.”
“Jake.”
He lifts a brow. “What? I’m just being honest.”
“You’re impossible,” you mutter. “It’s broad daylight,” you look around and gesture. “In a classroom.”
Jake bites his lip and laughs. “I didn’t say I was gonna do anything,” he says. “But I’m thinking about it.”
You shake your head and click your tongue playfully. “You and your thinking.”
You kind of are thinking about it too now. Just a bit. How he’d had his hands around your throat, how you’d whimpered into his shoulder, his hands, how he’d looked down at you and tilted his head back when you had his cock in your mouth—
You’re fucked.
After a beat, he asks, “You’re not gonna say anything?”
You glance up at him and wet your lips. “You talk enough for both of us.”
That makes him laugh. “Fair,” he murmurs, and then his hand brushes against your arm—not quite a touch, but close enough that you can feel the heat of it. “I’ll shut up, then.”
You could stop this. Could cross your arms tighter and tell him you have somewhere to be. Could tell him that none of this means anything and that this won’t fix any of the shit clawing at the back of your head. But you don’t. Because maybe this is what you need right now—to stop thinking. To stop trying to hold the pieces together. But then you think of the car again, and—No. God. Just… let yourself be distracted. Just breathe. Just…
You lean towards him. Just a little.
And when you do, Jake leans in closer like he’s been waiting for permission—and his mouth hovers over yours, not touching yet, but close enough that you can feel his breath against your lips.
You kiss him.
Slowly at first, barely pressing in but enough for him to feel it, and then your lips part before you can stop yourself. Your arms are still crossed loosely against you but your fingers twitch with the urge to move, so you uncross them, lift one hand, and slide it into the back of his hair. His lips are soft and warm and not rushed, like he’s waiting for you to lead it, so you do—you tug on his hair gently, and the second you do, he groans lowly against your mouth and steps in closer, shifting to stand directly in front of you now with his hips between your legs where your knees fall open under your skirt. His hand comes up fast and grabs at your bare skin and lifts you up onto the desk, fingers wrapping tight around your thigh.
You don’t think about anything at all. At least you try.
Not long ago, you would’ve let yourself fall into this without thinking twice—so you desperately cling onto that version of yourself for now instead of the one you’d buried that had been trying to come out for a while now. But even then, there was always a shadow at the edge of it—something quiet that you always tried to ignore.
You kiss him harder.
And he kisses you deeper, hungrier, like he’s trying to get rid of the space between your teeth and his tongue. You spread your legs wider, hips tilting up to meet him, letting him press in until the hard bulge in his jeans is grinding right up against your pussy through your panties.
Your thighs tense and close around his waist, locking him in, and he groans into your mouth—so needy, like he’s holding back from rutting against you right there. He breaks the kiss just long enough to glance down between you like he has to see it for himself—your skirt hiked up around your hips, nothing between you but the flimsy strip of your panties and your bare legs wrapped around his hips. And he whines at the sight.
“Fuckkkkk, God—look at you.” He bites his lip when he looks back up at you, eyes flicking to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “You’d feel so good—Bet you’d cum so fast if I just—fuck, can I? Please?”
You raise your brows and lick your lips. “I thought you said you weren’t gonna do anything?”
He grins and presses his forehead against yours. “You make it really hard,” he says, then laughs once under his breath the moment the words leave his mouth. “Fuck. No pun intended—or actually, yeah.”
You laugh and lean in to kiss him again, and the second your mouth touches his, Jake opens up for you and immediately pushes his tongue in. You gasp against him as he grabs your thigh and hitches it up tighter against his waist, grinding into you like to create more friction.
Then he pulls back just enough to trail kisses down from the corner of your mouth slowly. “You’re so fucking sexy,” he breathes against your neck, and then his mouth is kissing down, lower, and lower; lips dragging open and wet until he reaches the top of your collarbone, and then—God—he licks up, slow, from the base of your throat all the way back to the spot just below your ear, then sucks on it hard. You whimper, and it slips out of you too fast to catch. “Yeah, keep making those pretty noises for me, baby.”
You just want to feel something that isn’t shame. You want to forget everything. Even if it’s only for a bit. You don’t really care anymore.
So you reach down and fumble for his belt. “Off. Wanna—feel you,” you whine.
“Shit—Okay, take 'em off,” He groans and kisses you again, his hands finding your hips and dragging you closer to the edge of the desk and more directly against his cock through his pants. His belt clinks softly when your fingers move over it, and he looks down between you again.
“Fuck, wanna fuck you so bad,” he mutters into your mouth. One of his hands slips under your thigh again—nails dragging down your bare skin and making you whimper into his mouth—then he positions himself between your legs more fully, spreading them wider, while his other hand slides along your hip, hooks a finger under the side of your panties, and tugs them down just enough for the elastic to give, then he drops his mouth to your neck and sucks again, open and wet and angry, tongue hot on your skin.
But as soon as you feel his teeth scrape your skin, his face hits you.
It’s not Jake. It’s not his mouth that flashes in your head, not his voice, not his hands, not his anything.
It’s Sunghoon.
His mouth. His voice. His hands. How his tongue was flicking circles on that exact spot just the other day. The way his breath would stutter and how he’d groan into your skin when you made those same sounds. You flinch without meaning to, and your fingers curl into his shoulder before you push at him, not hard, but just enough to make him stop.
“Jake—wait,” you breathe out, and he stops instantly, eyes searching yours with confusion as you pull back just slightly, trying to catch your breath.
You feel the ghost of his mouth on your neck, the heat of it, the wetness, and the roughness—but it’s still not Jake’s mouth.
You shake your head and take a breath like it might fix something. It doesn’t. You reach up and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, slowly, eyes still half-lidded from the heat that’s now crawling uncomfortably under your skin.
“It’s just…” you start, and your voice is quieter than you meant it to be. You clear your throat. “It’s a bit too fast.”
Jake’s still staring at you. He doesn’t look angry or hurt. Just confused. His brows pinch together slightly, like he’s trying to read your face for something you didn’t say.
“I thought I was—” you murmur, avoiding his eyes. “I just don’t think this is a good idea. Not right now.”
Jake exhales slowly, then leans back and gives you space, but he brings his hands up to cup your cheeks.
“Okay,” he breathes. “Hey—look at me. It's okay.”
He doesn’t say anything else right away, just keeps his hands there, one thumb brushing softly across your cheekbone. It makes your chest ache.
You let out a breath and look at him. “I’m sorry.”
But it’s not an apology for what he thinks it is.
“Don’t be—fuck,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
You nod, but it doesn’t stop the tightness in your throat. His hands drop from your face after a second, and you almost miss them. Not because it felt right. Just because it felt like something.
Jake steps back and runs his hand through his hair, the other moving to fix his belt without looking down. You shift and slowly slide off the edge of the desk, and you look down and tug the hem of your skirt, shift your hips to sit up straighter, then hook your fingers at the side and pull your panties back into place.
What the fuck just happened? You just almost used—you shake your head. You thought it would be enough to burn it all out of your head, only for him to dig his claws deeper into your mind.
Jake leans against the desk behind him, and his fingers tap once against the seam of his pocket like he’s contemplating something.
Then he shakes his head. “Y/N, about the other night in the van—”
“Jake.” You cut him off. “Not now.”
He hesitates.
“Okay,” he says softly. “Not now.”
Jake clears his throat and rubs his thumb across the corner of his mouth. “I meant what I said, though. About being around.”
You let out a slow breath through your nose and reach for the strap of your bag, adjusting it over your shoulder. “You shouldn’t be,” you mutter, eyes still somewhere on the floor.
“What?”
“You shouldn’t be around me.” Your fingers fidget with the hem of your sleeve. “You’ve seen what people are saying.”
“You think I care about that?”
“You should,” you say.
Jake laughs. “But I don’t,” he says again.
“You really should,” you repeat, “I do.”
He tilts his head. “You want me to?”
“I want you not to be stupid.”
“Too late for that,” he says, stepping a little closer again. “You’re kind of the problem, actually.”
You blink up at him.
Jake shrugs and goes on. “Yeah. I also meant it when I said really can’t stop thinking about you.” he bites his lip. “You keep showing up in my head, doing that thing you do—rolling your eyes, talking back. The way you sounded when I had my hand between your legs—fuck,” he lets out a half laugh. “You sounded so fucking good.”
You groan and lift a hand to your face. “Jake—”
“I like it,” he says before you can finish. “I like you. A lot. And you don’t have to say anything right now.”
Your breath hitches at the way he says it so easily—at the way he smiles so softly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and it makes something warm twist in your chest.
But you don’t really know what to say to that right now. So you don’t say anything.
You look down instead, then back at the clock on the wall.
Shit.
“I need to get home,” you murmur.
He nods, but he doesn’t move. “Okay,” he says, eyes still on you. “But you should know—I don’t care about that… that photo, or what anyone’s saying, or even that you’ve been avoiding me ever since that day—I’m okay with it. Take your time.” He pauses. “I just like being near you.”
You blink, unsure whether to laugh or shove him. “You sound insane.”
He grins. “Yeah, well. You do that to me.”
“Jake—”
“Fine, fine,” he says quickly, backing away with his hands up in mock surrender. “But I meant it, pretty. I like you.”
You roll your eyes, but you can’t quite fight the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “You’re impossible.”
He grins. “Yeah, yeah.” Then he tilts his head. “Want me to walk you out?”
You shake your head, already adjusting your bag again. “It’s better if we go separately.”
Jake doesn’t fight it. He just steps forward and presses a quick little kiss to your cheek—a little lingering—then pulls away and heads for the door.
He glances back once before leaving. “Text me when you get home?”
You smile. “Okay.”
Only when he’s gone do you stop smiling. It should feel good, right? Someone saying they like you. Someone choosing you, simple and soft.
But when you close your eyes for a moment, it’s still not Jake you see.
This time, it’s not a shadow. You see the way his hair always falls into his eyes, no matter how neatly it’s styled, the soft fringe brushing the edge of his thick eyebrows and lashes when he tilts his head just a little. You remember how it used to drive you crazy—the urge to push it back, to see all of him. You used to do that once, when you were younger and stupid and thought you could touch him without breaking something in the process.
Your thumb twitches like it still remembers the shape of his face. The mole on the top of his nose—the one on the bottom of that one, the one under his right eye, and then the faint one under his left eyebrow—and how you used to trace them when no one was looking, memorizing the map of him and holding onto it like it could ever mean something.
You shouldn’t remember this much. You shouldn’t want to. You don’t. Stop.
Let go.
Your thumb finds your palm again, pressing into that same little crescent of skin until it stings—and all you can see is the boy you’ve loved since you were a little girl.
When you got home, your mother was already there.
Your living room was unrecognizable. Racks of clothes lined the walls, soft pinks and whites and creams, the whole space bright and buzzing in the way it got when your mother was working. She stood near the window with her phone in her hand, her hair pulled neatly back and her sleeves rolled up.
You blinked. “…Should I even ask what’s happening right now?”
She turned at the sound, her face breaking into a smile. “Sweetheart,” she said. “You’re home.”
Her assistants nodded politely to you before returning to their work, pushing another rack into your bedroom.
“Mm,” she hummed, walking over to you. “Brought some of the new line with me. They just came in from Milan yesterday. I thought you’d like to see them before anyone else, especially some pieces I thought you’d like—and for Wonyoung too.” She brushed her hand over one of the light pink gowns. “You’ve always loved this color.”
She leaned in to kiss your cheek then. “You look tired.”
“I’m fine,” you murmured.
“I’m sorry,” she started, “that I haven’t carved out proper time for just us.” Her hand gently cupped the back of your neck. “Between Milan, Paris, London, and then Japan… Oh, I hate when work keeps me away from my little girl.”
You leaned into her touch. “You’re with me now.”
“I am.” She hesitated, searching your face, then drew a breath. “But—we have a meeting.”
“We?”
She paused for a moment. “It’s with Mr. Park.”
Everything inside you went still in that horrible, twisted way. “Which Mr. Park?”
She raises a brow. “Honey, there’s only one Mr. Park.”
You groan. “I know, but I was hoping maybe in this little time interval something would change and God would have mercy on me somehow—” your mother shakes her head and laughs under her breath, and you groan into your palms. “Do I have to come?”
“He asked for you to be present,” she said. “He was… weirdly being polite.”
Your scalp prickled. “Why?”
“We’ll find out,” she smiles. “It’s at six. Conference suite at his hotel. Your father is flying in from Japan, but he’ll be there.”
“I’m going to die tonight.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” She pressed a kiss to your forehead. “If you don’t want to speak in the meeting, you don’t. You just sit at my side. I’ll handle the rest.”
You huffed a laugh. “You can’t handle him.”
Her mouth tipped. “Watch me.”
“Oh, I definitely will,” you grin, even when your stomach twists with nerves.
She keeps you close a second longer, thumb stroking behind your ear the way she did when you were small. When she pulls back, her eyes are gentler. “How are you… With all of this?” she pauses, her eyes searching yours. “With Sunghoon?” she asks.
You busy your hands with the keys in your hands and reorder them by habit as you pretend the sound of his name didn’t just send your pulse skidding out of rhythm. “Fine,” you say.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Mm.” She tucks a piece of hair behind your ear and studies your face the way mothers do when they already know the answer. “You know you can tell me anything.”
“Mom.”
“Hm?”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting,” she smiles (which means she’s absolutely starting). “I’m simply… asking. Because I remember things,” she says.
You furrowed your brows. “Things? What things?”
Her mouth tipped again. “Like a certain child who, at thirteen, would pretend to read on the sofa in Paris while watching a skating broadcast with the volume at one,” she says, “and the way she used to go very quiet whenever a certain boy landed a clean jump.”
You drag a hand down your face. “Please stop. This is defamation. Lies—my God, did everyone just know? Why—”
“Welcome back to earth, honey.” she kisses your forehead and goes on. “And also how, at fifteen, that certain girl would ask my assistant to drop her off apples and strawberries even though she was allergic to strawberries—then she’d say it was for her brother,” she continues lightly, “when really she knew they were his favorite, and she was going over to Hana’s that evening—purely coincidental, of course.”
“Mother.”
She tilted her head and ran her hands through your hair. “We still haven’t talked much about him ever since you told me you two stopped being… friends and he started acting a certain way—and you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” she pauses, “but I’d like to know if my little girl’s heart hurts.”
You swallow. “It doesn’t.” A beat. “It won’t.”
She accepts the dodge with a nod. “Okay,” she murmurs, tucking another loose strand behind your ear. “Then we’ll go to that meeting with our chins high, we’ll sit, we’ll listen, and we’ll leave. And after, I’m making you soup myself, and you’re telling me all about what I’ve missed, and we are not discussing Parks of any variety—ohhh, except for Park Jimin. Oh! I adore that boy.”
You laughed. “Deal.”
“And if at any point you want to leave during that meeting, you squeeze my hand.”
You’ve had a pit in your stomach since the drive over, and it hasn’t gone anywhere.
The Parks stand to greet you and your parents as you follow them into the meeting room. You say your greetings and keep your head down with your hands clasped in front of you, and you bow politely when your mother does.
Sunghoon stands just enough to be polite. You try not to look at him too much, but he wasn’t looking at you anyway—then as you move past him to take your seat, his hand accidentally brushes against yours.
It’s just the side of his pinky lightly grazing your knuckle, barely even there—but your breath immediately hitches, and you keep your eyes fixed on the table as if it didn’t happen. But the way your hand flexes gives you away.
You press your lips together and take a deep breath as you sit down.
The skyline behind Mr. Park beautifully puts Seoul into view, and even with how spacious this room is, you still feel as though you’re going to suffocate right where you sit. You fold your hands in your lap, and you can feel your pulse in your fingertips. The only thing that makes you feel halfway normal is the smell of your mother’s perfume next to you, grounding you in a way the rest of this place isn’t.
Across from you, Sunghoon sits between his parents, and you look at him properly now—once, because you can’t help yourself. He’s sitting there in a white shirt and a black tie, neat as always, and his expression is blank.
He doesn’t look back at you.
It’s been three days since that stupid headline. Three days since you trusted your parents when they told you everything would be okay and that their team—and Mr. Park’s—were “handling” it together.
You thought it was over. But, apparently not, since here you were, in his stupid hotel, sitting under stupid fluorescent lights in front of his stupid son and his stupid wife.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice.” Mr. Park clears his throat from the head of the table. “I know we’ve already spoken, but after reviewing the situation further, I thought it best if we met face-to-face.”
Your father smiles that polite, tight-lipped lawyer smile of his. “Of course. Though I assumed everything was settled, Chairman Park.”
You stare down at your reflection on the table. It’s faint and blurry, but you focus on it anyway because looking anywhere else would make you feel like you’re going insane.
“It is,” Mr. Park says. “Mostly. The issue online has died down, but… as you know, public memory is short but not forgiving. And in our business, reputation is more fragile than anything else.”
No fucking shit, you thought. Say that to your stupid-ass son, maybe. He’s the one who got drunk and dragged you into this mess.
Your mother tilted her head slightly, crossing one leg over the other. “Reputation, yes,” she said. “But I thought the withdrawals had already taken care of everything. What’s left to discuss?”
Across the table, Mrs. Park lets out a quiet hum that is not quite a scoff, but you know her too well to mistake it for anything else. You didn’t look at her because you already knew her face would piss you off.
Mr. Park smiled like he didn’t notice. “This is merely about ensuring both our families recover. The photos affected everyone involved.”
“Right,” your father says. “Last we spoke, you said we should leave it to you—we trust you’re still investigating where it came from?”
Mr. Park nodded. “Of course. Our team’s been on it since the morning it happened. At the moment, it appears to have originated from within the hotel system itself—an internal breach of privacy. We’re narrowing it down, but I’d rather confirm before I start throwing accusations. You understand.”
He said it so casually, like it was nothing, like a leak in his own hotel wasn’t a big deal, like it wasn’t the reason you hadn’t been able to open your phone in days without wanting to crawl out of your skin.
Your dad tilts his head. “An internal breach,” he repeated. “So, someone who works for you.”
Mr. Park smiled. “Not likely. Perhaps someone who used to,” he said. “We’re handling it quietly. You have my word.”
Your father nods once. “Good.”
A beat passes.
Then, Mr. Park leaned back in his seat again and continued. “Of course, what matters now is the long-term image. We’ve both taken hits—my board. Your family.” His eyes flick toward you briefly. “We can’t rely on silence alone. We have to remind people who we are.”
You almost scoff.
“Your daughter’s name,” Mr. Park looks at your father, “is tied to yours. And your name to mine, as my counsel. It would be unwise to let the public think there’s division between our families. On the contrary—”
Your father’s voice cuts in politely. “Publicly, it would be unwise, yes. But there’s always been division in private, Mr. Park.”
Mr. Park laughs once, and it’s the strangest sound you’ve heard. “Ah, misunderstandings,” he says, shaking his head just slightly. “The past tends to make fools of all of us, doesn’t it? You’ll have to forgive us…” he turns slightly toward your mother. “You especially, Mrs. Y/L/N. We’ve always admired your grace.”
It’s charming in that insincere way that makes you want to throw something right at his obnoxious head, because you truly have no idea why he’s pretending to be some saint all of a sudden when everyone here knows what kind of man he is.
Your mother smiles. “You mean before or after your wife told every person in Seoul I was beneath her?”
Mrs. Park’s smile is all teeth. “Well,” she clicks her tongue, “I was wrong, clearly. It’s her daughter that’s beneath my son now.”
You freeze.
Oh, now you definitely wanted to throw something at her stupid head.
Your mother turns her head slowly, still smiling, and says in a voice so calm it’s terrifying, “Watch yourself, Jiwoo.”
There’s a pause—and then Mr. Park ever so slightly turns his head toward his wife, and she immediately looks down at her lap and shakes her head.
Your father clicks his tongue. “You called us here to have your wife further insult my wife and my daughter under the guise of civility?” He tilts his head and scoffs, though he’s still polite. “I should’ve known better than to waste their time bringing them here.”
Your mother doesn’t move, but you can tell she’s fighting a smile.
Mr. Park waves a hand. “Nonsense,” he says quickly. “Please, let’s not drag the past into this, Mr. Y/L/N. As I said, we may have had misunderstandings before, and emotions may have been involved, but that’s not why I asked you here.”
He looks at his wife and clears his throat.
She blinks once, and her expression changes entirely. “Yes,” she says quickly. “My apologies for how I may have acted in the past. It was uncalled for.”
The way she said may have… At this rate, you were starting to lose count of the number of times you had to bite your tongue back not to laugh.
Your parents don’t even acknowledge her.
“Very well.” Mr. Park nods.
He goes on, “In any case, your daughter is a respected young woman, and your family name is… well, one of our country’s oldest. I would never speak down on that.”
Your mother sits up a little straighter. “How gracious of you,” she says softly. “Especially considering how your wife has made it perfectly clear what she thinks of my family name all these years, apology or not.”
Jiwoo’s mouth parts immediately, but Mr. Park lifts a single hand without even looking at her, and it shuts her up instantly.
“Then perhaps this can be a step in the right direction.” Mr. Park smiles and goes on. “What matters now is moving forward for both our families—together.”
Together?
You look at Sunghoon again, and still, absolutely nothing. He’s staring past your shoulder with his jaw clenched, and he still hasn’t looked at you. Not once.
You hate that you’re keeping count.
Mr. Park doesn’t wait. “All I mean is, once a story like this spreads, it isn’t just about the people involved... It’s about the houses they come from, their legacies. It’s about trust.” He spreads his hands. “Perception. We’ve already seen a wobble with two of our partners overseas. Small, but still there. I imagine you’ve had some calls of your own.”
No one answers. You absentmindedly press your nails into your thumb.
"And so—" He pauses. "I have been thinking. About ways to prevent anything from happening any further. And I do recall,” he says, like it just now occurred to him, “that your daughter and my son have always been good friends.”
You almost laugh. Like, actually, you have to bite the inside of your cheek not to.
Always been good friends. Please.
“Yes,” Mr. Park continued before anyone could speak. “Our families go back decades. Before us, even. Your father worked closely with mine, Mr. Y/L/N. I remember how much he respected him. We’ve built things side by side since then, haven’t we?”
Your father shakes his head slowly, not buying it for a second, but still, he’s ever so polite when he speaks. “Sure, but… I’m not quite sure I’m following.”
It was so unlike your father to be… so well-behaved. You smiled to yourself at the sight of it despite the pit still in your stomach.
Mr. Park smiles again, and it’s still so unsightly. “Well, it’s long overdue.” He turns slightly toward your father. “You and I, we’ve both seen what happens when the press decides a story for us. It’s unpleasant, but it’s also an opportunity to rewrite the narrative—It’s about what people want to see,” he says. “Two families with a legacy, weathering a small storm together. And since the two of them already share a… friendship, it only makes sense that we lean into that, doesn’t it?”
Oh.
You had a feeling you knew where this was going, and you wanted to get up and jump straight out of one of the windows lined up around you. You turned your head just slightly toward your mother, ever so composed, but she was watching Mr. Park with her chin tilted the smallest bit.
Your father furrows his brows. “Lean into it how, exactly?”
Mr. Park leaned back in his chair, the corners of his mouth twitching into a grin that made your skin crawl. “By making it official.”
You turned fully toward your mother now. Her face didn’t move. Not one muscle.
“I’m proposing a union. An engagement between our children.”
He paused like he expected some type of fucking applause or something, and when no one reacted, he just went on. “It’s sensible. The timing would restore faith on both sides. What better way to quiet rumors than to show that our families stand together? Permanently.”
Did he just actually say that out loud? Engagement—has this old fucking man lost his mind?
For a second, no one moved.
Every single person at that table turned to look at him, and even his wife blinked, her head snapping toward her husband like she’d just heard this for the first time too.
Sunghoon’s eyes flicked up too, and for the first time since you’d walked in, there was a crack in that blank face of his, but he didn’t say anything—just stared at his father like he couldn’t quite believe it either.
Mrs. Park found her voice first. “You did not—”
“Quiet,” Mr. Park said without even looking at her.
You blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then you looked around the table, and when you realized he was actually being serious, you actually couldn’t hold it in this time—you fucking laughed.
Every head turned toward you except for Sunghoon’s. You knew because you were looking at him.
Mr. Park’s smile faltered just slightly. “Is something the matter, young lady?”
“My apologies, Mr. Park,” you tried to sound composed, shaking your head. “But surely you can’t be serious.”
Your mother’s head turned toward and you could see the warning and concern in her eyes. Her mouth opened—
“Well,” Mrs. Park did not bother pretending to muffle her scoff this time. “Seems like your daughter’s manners haven’t changed after all these years. Is this really how you’ve raised her? To speak and giggle like an infant when adults are speaking? You should stay quiet and let us speak.”
Your chest spikes hot. This fucking crazy lady? As if she was speaking at all. You open your mouth, but your father waves a hand at you slightly, and then he is already speaking.
“I’d suggest you don’t speak to my daughter again,” he says calmly. “I raised her to speak up for herself when something sounds ridiculous.” He turns to Mr. Park. “What is the meaning of this?”
Mr. Park doesn’t even blink. “It’s the most appropriate course of action,” he says. “Given the language being used—the rumors being spread, and the way people consume and repeat things—we don’t have the luxury of time. An engagement reframes it and says there was nothing improper, only a moment between two people who are already promised to each other. It restores everything.”
You want to tell him to go fuck himself, fuck his stupid company, his stupid suit, and his even stupider son—who’s still sitting there like none of this is happening—but you don’t. You keep your mouth shut and let your parents handle it, because you know they will. They always do.
Your father watches Mr. Park and lightly taps his finger against the table. “You’re speaking about my daughter as if she’s a press kit,” he says through his teeth.
Mr. Park’s smile tightens and his expression looks unpleasant. “I’m speaking about responsibility,” he says. “My son understands that word well. It’s what keeps a family from falling apart when everyone else starts mistaking emotion for judgment.”
Under the table, your mother’s hand finds yours. She turns your palm up and presses her thumb over your cuticle to stop you from picking at your skin again. You look down and see a faint line of blood blooming around your cuticle.
Mr. Park doesn’t stop. “Let’s be direct. The words being used about your daughter are ugly, and it is not the best look for her. This is a way to close that door permanently.” He gestures between you and Sunghoon. “They are compatible, and he is ready.”
Ready?
You look at Sunghoon again, and he’s still fucking quiet. You don’t know what you’re waiting for, but he’s just staring down at the table with not a flicker of emotion on his face. Jesus fucking christ. You want to grab his stupid collar and make him say something.
Your father raises a brow. “He is ready?” he echoes.
Mr. Park nods once. “My son knows his duties.”
You were sure you were going to hurl your guts out in front of everyone right here.
Your father looks at you. Then at your mother, then he looks back at Mr. Park and sets both his hands on the table. “No,” he shakes his head. “Just… no.”
Mr. Park’s smile drops. It’s almost as if he can’t believe someone just said no to him. If the circumstances weren’t to your expense, maybe you would have laughed in his face again.
“With respect,” Mr. Park warns, “your daughter’s image is not a small matter. Neither is my name nor my company’s. This is the only option left.”
“It isn’t,” your mother says with her thumb still on your hand, and you try to focus on her gentleness to keep yourself from spiraling. “And even if it were, it wouldn’t be yours to choose.”
Mr. Park looks between them, then at you, finally. “I do not understand. Y/N will be cared for,” he says. “It gives her certainty. It gives her—”
“Enough,” your father says, and you flinch because you’ve never heard him sound so angry. “With all due respect, Jaejoon, you are talking about her as if she isn’t sitting right there. As if she is—” he shakes his head once— “a pawn on your board.”
Silence.
“If my daughter wishes to get married one day,” he goes on, “that is her choice. Not a remedy you draft in a boardroom because you don’t like a headline.” He looks at your mother for a moment and shakes his head. “I will not let something so severe—so delicate—be taken from her like that unless she wishes for it herself.”
You notice the way Jiwoo shakes her head just slightly at that and how her eyes flick toward the window.
Then your father looks at you. “Honey, is this something you want?”
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out because your throat feels too thick, like the air itself is refusing to move, so you just shake your head once.
Your father exhales slowly and his brows furrow when he sees your expression. “Then it’s settled.”
Mr. Park opens his mouth, but your father keeps going.
“I appreciate your concern for our image,” he says, calmer now. “And for your… company’s,” he looks at Sunghoon for a beat. “But that’s where this begins and ends. With your business. Not my family.”
Mr. Park clicks his tongue and the mask he’s been putting up all night slightly wavers. “You have always been quite the family man, Mr. Y/L/N.” he scoffs, “Aren’t the two of them friends, then? It’s also practical and strategic—don’t make it harder than it has to be.”
“Strategic? This is—” Your father just looks at him. “Your son and my daughter have not been friends for a while now, Mr. Park. And you will do well to remember,” he says quietly, “that I refused this path from my own parents. I had no one to speak up for me, so I ran away. But my daughter has me. I’m not letting you do this to her.”
Huh?
You’ve never heard that before. Ran away? You didn’t think there was a single part of your father’s life that you didn’t know about.
Mr. Park speaks and draws you out of your thoughts. “I have tried to be pleasant,” he huffs. “However, I do not understand your refusal. The past is in the past, if that’s what this is about. I’m extending my hand in good faith.”
Good faith. As if he knows what that means.
He exhales slowly through his nose, then sits back. “My son is to be the successor of this entire legacy, Chairman Y/L/N. Everything I’ve built and everything that generations have worked so hard to keep. And right now, that legacy is being dragged through the mud because of one careless moment. Because of her.” He gestures vaguely in your direction, and he goes on before your father can speak. “You must see what that looks like for him—for my company. It makes it look weak.”
Your stomach twists at the way he’s been talking about Sunghoon this whole time—like he is something to be managed, not someone. And maybe it’s worse that Sunghoon just sits there, perfectly still, like he’s waiting to be told what to feel or how to act.
What’s worse is that you’re still watching him, still waiting for him to say something, anything.
Speak.
Speak, you fucking coward.
Do something. Say fucking anything.
Your mother speaks again. “So, to my understanding, you want me to marry off my daughter to your son,” she scoffs, “just because it would save the face of the legacy you’ve built?”
Mr. Park doesn’t even blink. “You say that as if it’s absurd. As if you would not do the same.”
Your father leans forward slightly, and you can tell he’s trying to keep his temper, but his hand flexes once against the table. “I would never,” he starts, “ever—put my children on the line to save my name. Not for a company. Not for anything.”
No one speaks.
From under the table, you squeeze your mother’s hand just once.
She looks at you, then back at Mr. park—and a small, humorless laugh escapes her lips. “Forgive me—No, don’t forgive me. It is absurd. I don’t see a single reason why we should be sitting here a second longer.”
He raises a brow. “I assure you—”
“Have you even discussed this with your son?” your father cuts in before he can finish.
Mr. Park’s mouth twitches. “Again,” he says, almost bored, “my son understands duty. He knows what needs to be done.”
“You keep saying that word,” your father says. “Duty. Like it makes this noble somehow. Like it excuses this.” His hand flexes once against the table. “You’re talking about two people’s lives.”
Mr. Park exhales slowly. “And I’m proposing—”
“No.”
The room stills.
Every head turns toward Sunghoon.
Mr. Park looks at him like he’s not sure he heard him right. “What did you say, boy?”
Sunghoon’s eyes lift to meet his father’s eyes for the first time all night as he gets up from his seat. “I said no.” he shrugs.
His father’s eyes narrow on him. “Sit down,” he says lowly.
But Sunghoon doesn’t even move. His hands are flat against the table now, and you can see the vein in his neck twitch.
“No, Father,” he repeats, quieter this time. “I’m not doing this.”
You’re not even breathing. You don’t think anyone is breathing.
Mrs. Park rises halfway out of her chair with concern on her face, like she’s about to step in and say something, but then she doesn’t. Her lips press together, and she looks between her husband and her son again with something like dread.
“You dare—you have no choice.” Mr. Park shakes his head, his voice low. “You knew this would happen one day. And now you choose to say this here, what is the meaning of this?”
Your mother gives your hand a gentle squeeze under the table, and you clamp your eyes shut for a second because you can feel the old girl inside you deflating, and you hate that she still needs saving in other people’s minds.
A beat of silence passes.
“Not like this,” Sunghoon shakes his head. “Not with her. Anyone but her.”
And suddenly your skin’s too tight on your body, and your chest is caving in.
Maybe you preferred when he was saying nothing at all and sat there like a stupid fucking rock.
“You’re kidding me—” you spit, and the chair scrapes as you slightly push back.
Your mother tugs you down gently but hard enough to stop you, and she leans in so her voice is only in your ear. “Don’t, honey,” she whispers softly. “Not here.”
Sunghoon’s eyes flick to you for a blinding second—just enough for you to see the familiar softness there, the memory of a thousand tiny mercies he gave you as a kid, but it’s gone before you can grab it, and the look that follows is so cold—filled with such contempt—that it makes your stomach twist.
You bite the hiss back into your teeth, and the words fold inward and taste like bile.
You want to throw something at him. You want to get up and slap him. You want to scream until your ribs hurt. You want the earth to swallow this table, this room, and everyone in it whole.
Mostly, you want to crawl into his head and yank out the reason he’s saying that.
You remember him at fourteen, at fifteen, the way he’d said it was like a fact settled in stone—I can’t ever refuse my father. I can’t say no. You know how it works. You remember the look he gave you then, and how your sixteen-year-old chest cracked a little when it fully settled into your bones that he would always choose the thing that wasn’t you if the thing had a name on a ledger.
Anyone but her.
Like you’re a curse. A punishment.
It’s the first time he’s ever put those words between himself and his father, and it makes you feel sick. Not just from hearing him say it—but from why he’s saying it. Because the one time he decides to stand up to his father, the one time he finally grows a spine, it’s for this. For you. Because it’s you he doesn’t want. Because suddenly you’re the line he won’t cross.
Not that you want him to cross the stupid fucking line anyway.
You shake your head.
Anger flashes on Mr. Park’s face. “You dare have a say in this matter after you’ve just made us look weak and given leverage to competitors and to the press? This is not about you, boy. This is about my company, about succession.”
Sunghoon clenches his jaw. “Then make me look weak alone,” he says. “Take my allowance, take my title, take everything. But don’t force me to marry her.”
No one speaks.
His father exhales through his nose, and the sound is tired and furious at once. “You will not choose this for yourself like it’s some petty rebellion. There are consequences for such—”
“I accept the consequences.”
You flinch at the weight of his words.
Before anyone can say anything, your father turns to look at Sunghoon, and his voice is softer when he speaks.
“Sit back down, son.”
Sunghoon’s gaze snaps to your father, and your father watches him for a long second, something soft passing through his face that you don’t recognize.
“You don’t need to accept any consequences,” your father says quietly. “Not for standing up for yourself. Let the adults handle this.”
Mr. Park’s expression shifts, and it’s the first real crack in his perfect composure. “I beg your pardon?”
Your father doesn’t look at him. He’s still looking at Sunghoon. “No parent should make their child choose between obedience and self-respect,” he says. “You said no, and that’s enough. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
Mr. Park’s chair creaks. “You are in no position—”
Your father cuts in “I’m in exactly the position I need to be. I’m a father sitting across from a man who has forgotten that family isn’t a transaction.”
The look on Sunghoon’s face—God—it’s not relief exactly. It’s a look of confusion. It’s something you can’t entirely name. And then he slowly sits back down.
Mr. Park exhales loudly through his nose and clicks his tongue. “How touching,” he says finally, looking between your father and Sunghoon. “But children don’t learn responsibility through comfort. They learn it through discipline. Through consequence. Otherwise, they grow soft and ungrateful. They forget who built the ground they’re standing on.”
Your father’s mouth pulls into something that isn’t quite a smile. “That has always been the difference between us,” he says, voice lower than before. “I don’t need my children to remember what I or those before me built. I just need them to know they’re safe standing on it.”
You bite the inside of your cheek until you taste metal, your eyes flicking between Mr. Park and your father. You hate hearing your father like this—measured, his voice low, trying so hard to stay polite in a room that doesn’t deserve it. You hate all of it. You want to reach across the table and just ask him to leave, to hold your hand and take you with him, maybe even carry you out like when you were little and fell asleep on the couch and he’d carry you to bed. You want him to crack a joke, to make you laugh again like always, to make this whole thing feel small again. Anything but this.
Then you turn to your mother. “Do something,” you whisper, your voice cracking halfway through. “I want to leave. Please.”
Your mother furrows her brows and thinks for a moment—then leans closer until her lips are near your ear. “Do you trust me?”
Your heart pounds. “Always.”
A beat passes.
She shakes her head once, as if she’s still not sure whatever she is about to do will work. Then she straightens and clears her throat.
“It doesn’t have to be a marriage,” your mother says.
The room goes still again.
Your father turns and looks at her, brow furrowing, but she doesn’t meet his eyes.
“We’re past that time, aren’t we?” she goes on. “People are more open-minded now. They’d rather see something young and modern than… so blatantly arranged.” She glances briefly at you, then back at Mr. Park. “However, this headline has left a stain of sorts, and I understand that. So…” She pauses. “Let them pretend.”
Mr. Park’s brow furrows. “Pretend?”
“To be in a relationship,” she says simply. “Publicly.”
You blink. “Wait—”
She looks at you, and when you don’t speak, she goes on. “You wanted a story that restores faith, didn’t you? Something that says this was… timing. That they were already close, that what people saw was misunderstood.”
Mr. Park leans back slightly, still watching her—though he looks… angry now, and his wife exhales sharply from where she’s sitting.
“You can spin it however you want. If you need a campaign, start one and make them the face of it.”
Your father turns his head toward her fully now. “You’ve thought about this,” he says quietly.
“Yes,” she admits. “And it's not entirely perfect,” she adds, “but it’s better than chaining them to something…” she pauses, looking between the two of you, “something neither of them wants.”
You refuse to look at Sunghoon. You can feel him across from you, but you keep your eyes on your mother’s hand instead.
No one moves for a long time.
Mr. Park’s expression is unreadable as he leans back in his chair.
“No,” he finally says, “Sunghoon will be married when he turns twenty-three. As has been the plan since before either of them could spell the word.” His gaze cuts toward your mother. “This—pretending, playing house for the press—is childish and beneath me—and it will certainly do nothing to clear this mess.”
Your mother’s fingers twitch on the table, but she doesn’t look away. “With all due respect, Mr. Park—”
“Respect?” he interrupts. “Do you have any idea how this looks? Him, photographed with your daughter in that state?” He shakes his head. “You don’t undo this sort of stain by pretending.”
“Then you’d rather bind them to a marriage neither of them wants? For a mistake neither of them planned? This isn’t the nineteen-eighties, maybe for you—but we certainly won’t allow this.” your mother frowns.
Mr. Park’s lips thin, but he doesn’t speak this time.
“I heard,” your father jumps in now, “about what one of your partners did. The campaign for his son and that actress—what was her name? It was something similar to this situation, and they did a press tour, charity events, and a few campaigns. By the time the next quarter came, everyone had moved on,” he gestures between you and Sunghoon. “The public would not know it’s pretend. It would just show that what they saw was taken out of context and that the two of them were in a secret relationship—it’s already being said online right now, and we have not given a statement or denied anything.”
Mr. Park studies them both for a long time, then he leans back in his chair and clicks his tongue.
Silence.
He says finally, “We will do this on my terms.”
You couldn’t help how your nails dug deeper into your skin, chest tightening with every passing moment.
Usually, you did it without thinking, just some dumb little habit you’d picked up growing up somewhere between charity events and boardroom dinners, all those nights you sat there smiling like you belonged, while your skin crawled under the pressure of being the perfect daughter. It’s not like anyone ever told you to be perfect; you just decided you had to be. Maybe it was guilt, or pride, or some ugly mix of both, this voice in your head whispering that you had to earn the life you were born into—but tonight, right now, right here, you were doing it on purpose. Trying to ground yourself in the sting, needing the sharp little pricks and peels of pain to remind you you were still here, still inside your body, something small you could control when it felt like everything else was slipping out of your hands.
Mr. Park speaks again. “And know this, this… arrangement shall be done properly,” he pauses and looks between you and Sunghoon, “you will not embarrass my name again. Either of you.”
Sunghoon’s collar felt like it was closing in around his throat.
He dragged his fingers up and tugged his tie loose until it hung limp against his chest, then he splayed his palms flat on the cool wall behind him and tried to make his breathing steady.
In.
Out.
In.
He counted to ten like some kind of idiot ritual, like numbers could shove down the panic searing in his throat, but it didn’t work. His vision fogged, his ribs tightened, and he tasted metal, which he always hated. He pressed his thumb to the spot behind his sternum until it hurt, trying not to think about anything that had just happened in that goddamn room.
Not to think of the way his mother’s face had twisted coldly when he’d gotten up from his seat.
Not his father’s voice still echoing in his skull like it had been carved into the bone.
Not to think of the way he had just refused him for the first time in his life.
And most of all, not to think about you.
Not the way your eyes had found his and stayed there, asking for something he didn’t have the language for.
Not the way even thinking of you quietens the clamor in his head.
The words still sat heavy on his tongue—he meant them when they came out. He’d meant them in the way someone means something that will keep them from drowning. He’d meant them because hating you was easier than anything else.
So he forces himself to only think about why he said it. Forces the anger back where it belongs, and rubs his hand down his face, muttering a curse under his breath as he pushes himself off the wall and starts walking.
Then—
He took the turn too fast and ran straight into your shoulder.
It’s ridiculous, entirely mundane—a turn in a hallway—but it’s the exact kind of contact that breaks whatever fragile structure he’s been propping up because suddenly, you’re there, and the warm light from the hallway catches on your skin in that unfair way it always does, tracing the line of your jaw and the curve of your mouth, and he doesn’t even realize he’s spoken until he hears himself.
“Watch where you’re going, darling.”
You look up.
Your expression is flat at first as you take him in, then you furrow your brows. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not?” His voice comes out low. “Better get used to it now that we’re… a couple.” He tips his head. “Or would you prefer sweetheart? Love? Or something filthy perhaps?” He shakes his head, “But you’ve always been a romantic, so perhaps not?” he says, mockingly.
Your mouth twists. “You’re an actual asshole.”
“I’ve been called worse.” He lets his eyes drag, slow, because he knows it annoys you. Your hair is pinned back, the bow of your lip chewed raw. There’s a slight tremor in your hands—no, just one hand. Your right hand. “Mostly by you.”
You just look at him.
“Do you think this is a game, Sunghoon?” Your voice doesn’t rise, and there’s no bite to it. That bothers him more than if you’d yelled.
He shrugs once. “Isn’t it?”
He watches your fingers curl into a loose fist and notices, stupidly, the line of red at the edge of your thumbnail again. Jesus. You picked at it to hell at the table. He’d been watching you enough in there to see the way you pressed your thumb into your palm, the way you always did when you were trying to stop yourself from tearing at the skin—that small, human thing that never fit with your name or the way everyone else seemed to think you were polished and perfect.
It sits in his throat like a knot. For a second, his fingers flex stupidly, and he thinks of reaching for his pocket out of habit—a flicker of some old instinct, the ghost of a moment from the past when he’d cared enough to help.
You must have noticed his line of sight because you move to tuck your thumb in your palm like you’re hiding it—but you never could hide anything from him. It annoys him that he still reads you without trying.
He stops himself and shakes his head once, like he can shake the thought itself off.
“What did you mean by that in there?” you say suddenly, and it comes out as a whisper.
“By what?” he tries to sound bored, even though he knows.
“You told your father—” you swallow. “You said anyone but me.”
He hates the way his chest reacts when he hears his own words leave your mouth.
Then, your voice is so quiet it almost makes his face twist. “You said it like I was… like I was filth.”
He presses his tongue against his teeth. “You heard me.”
“Yeah, no shit,” you shoot back, brows furrowed. “Why would you—you’ve never—why would you say that in front of my parents?”
He almost laughs. “You really want me to spell it out for you, sweetheart?”
The look you give him makes something twist in his gut. You flinch at the word, but you don’t even bite back. Just shake your head a little.
“I said don’t call me that,” you say. “And stop deflecting. For once in your life, just—just answer me. I’m just trying to talk to you… me. Why?”
I’m just trying to talk to you… Me.
You’re standing there and still looking at him like he’s capable of saying something that won’t ruin you. It makes something tight pull in his throat, and he wants to get rid of it before it ruins him.
So he reaches for the ugliest parts of himself.
“It means exactly what it sounded like,” he smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes.
Then, “I would sooner let my father marry me off to a fucking random he picked off from the streets before I ever even think of marrying you.”
A beat of silence passes.
“Happy now?”
“Wow,” you breathe.
He stares past your shoulder like there’s something worth looking at. There isn’t. There’s only ever you and the echo of your voice in his head.
Hoonie.
He clenches his jaw and forces himself to look at you again—and you look furious.
You shake your head. “After everything,” you hiss, “you say that… then have the audacity to act like—what? that you didn’t spend that whole night whispering how badly you wanted to fuck me? Huh?”
“Tsk. You wanted it,” he says. “Begged for it, even. Don’t get it twisted—”
You cut him off. “You were the one who started—you wanted it.”
“Yeah. I did,” he says. “Still do,” he shrugs and tongues his cheek. “And I told you, it doesn’t mean anything.”
He watches your face change again, the way your hands curl tighter into fists at your side like you’re trying not to slap him.
Good.
Your nostrils flare. “Fuck off,” you finally bite. “You think I wanted more from you, Sunghoon? You don’t get to use people like that! and this isn’t about sex, you fucking idiot! it’s about us—how you—you push people away and just say whatever you can to make yourself feel bigger. But that’s all it is—you talking. You never actually fucking mean anything you say.”
“I meant that,” his voice is low. “In there. Every word.”
Something shifts in your face, but you’re not crying or yelling or even angry. You just look tired. And somehow, he thinks that’s worse than all of it. Then you take a slow step closer and then you shove at his chest—hard.
He doesn’t move when you shove him. Just stands there and lets your palm hit his chest and stay there for a second too long.
You lift your eyes to him again. “Do you really hate me that much?”
He doesn’t let himself think. “I could never be with someone like you.”
He sees the flicker of sadness cross your face at that—there for barely a second before it’s gone—but it’s long enough for him to catch it, long enough for it to land somewhere he doesn’t want it to, then something in him twists, and before he can stop it, he reaches for what’s familiar.
He tilts his head. “God. You really are so soft.”
Weak. Pathetic and weak, he thinks. But it’s not his own voice that rings in his head.
Your chin lifts a fraction. “I’m not fucking soft. Stop fucking calling me that—you don’t know me anymore.”
He almost says I do, but the words catch on his tongue. He’s furious about it, but he does—he still knows how you press your thumb into your skin when you’re anxious and knows the exact cadence of your breathing when you’re angry. He knows everything, and he doesn’t want to.
He shakes his head. “And? I don’t want to know you anymore.” he huffs, “Get that through your head.”
A beat.
Then he adds, “But I know you’re soft.” He clicks his tongue. “You think anything you heard or anything we did that night meant something. It didn’t. It’s just sex—or it would’ve been if, again, you weren’t so fucking soft.”
You laugh. “No—you know what, actually, maybe I am soft. I’m a fucking human being! There’s nothing wrong with that—after all we’ve been through—” you shake your head. “it's better than whatever the hell you are, and you know what you are?” You point at him and then whisper. “You’re a fucking coward, Sunghoon.”
You step closer.
Then, even lower, “And I feel sorry for you.”
He clenches his jaw so hard it aches.
He just stands there and lets your words ring in his ears like they don’t ache in a place he thought he’d managed to kill a long time ago—like they haven’t just gutted something inside him open.
He shoves it down.
His voice is rough when he speaks again. “You said no,” he lets out a breath through his nose. “When your father asked you nicely—when he gave you a choice.”
Your eyes narrow, and he notices how you swallow once before speaking. “That’s different, and you fucking know it.”
“How is it different?” He raises a brow. “Tell me. Go on.”
You hesitate.
And that’s enough.
His jaw twitches again, and his eyes flick over your shoulder again like he’s bored, like he’s already moved on, but really he’s just trying to keep from shoving his hand through his hair or screaming or grabbing you just to feel you tremble beneath his palms. Just to feel something. Anything.
You finally speak. “I didn’t say anything—but you did. You were ready to give up everything just because you don’t want it to be me—” then you laugh again, though it’s not the laugh he grew up loving. “No. That’s it. This is—Fuck. you.”
“Already tried.” His mouth curls. “Didn’t get very far, remember?”
You shake your head again and look around. He can’t read your expression, and it bothers him.
“Stop it,” you hiss. “Stop talking like that. I mean it, Sunghoon. I’m done—God, I’m so done with you.”
You shove him again, and this time he stumbles back half a step, but he doesn’t move away. He just takes it.
“You—” your voice shakes, but it’s not from nerves anymore. It’s from everything piling up. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but I’m tired. I think you’re doing this on purpose,” you laugh under your breath. “You think you’re so untouchable, don’t you? God, I just want to understand what the hell is wrong with you. Is that fucking wrong? And what the fuck is wrong with me?” you swallow once. “I keep thinking maybe you’ll finally talk. Like a human being.”
He opens his mouth because he can’t stand to hear you speaking for another second, but you cut him off. “You know what, actually? Remember the other night, when you told me to find you when all I had left to give you was hate?” You pause. “Congratulations. You got what you wanted.”
He can’t bring himself to look away this time when he sees the look on your face. For the first time, he can’t bring himself to say anything. So he just watches you.
“That's all I have left when I look at you right now.” You draw a shaky breath. “But I don’t even want you to have that. I don’t want you. Not your mouth. Not your hands. Not your anything. Just—” you swallow hard, “stay the fuck away from me.”
A beat of silence passes.
You’re breathing hard now, chest rising and falling in quick bursts, but your face stays still—no anger—only that… devastating look that makes something in him twist all the same.
He swallows.
“I can’t.”
You blink, like you didn’t hear him right. “What?”
His throat tightens. “I said I can’t stay away from you.”
For a second, you just look at him—and your brows knit together like you’re actually still, even now, expecting him to say something else. Like you still think there’s something left in him worth hearing, like you may have finally reached out and grabbed the boy he used to be all those years ago.
For a second, he thinks so too.
He forces his mouth into a twisted smile instead.
“We’re supposed to pretend to be in love, remember?” he jerks his chin toward the end of the hall, toward the glass door where the faint silhouettes of your parents and his still move behind the tinted glass. “They’re in there right now, signing away our cute little pretend relationship. Can’t ruin the fantasy before it even starts, hmm?”
“I don’t give a fuck—I’m going in there and telling them I don’t fucking want this—”
You move before he even processes it, brushing past him, but his hand shoots out and his fingers close around your wrist—tight, too tight—and the contact makes both of you freeze.
You look at his hand around your wrist first, then at him, and for a moment he sees something else—
He drops your wrist immediately.
He drags a hand over his mouth. “I didn’t mean—I wouldn’t—” he pauses.
Then he lets out a breath through his mouth. “You heard what they said in there, Y/N. My father will not—” his voice comes out rough, so he shakes his head and tries again. “It’s only for a few months. Keep your head up and don’t make this harder than it needs to fucking be.”
A moment passes.
Then you shift slightly, like you’re going to walk past him—and Sunghoon steps forward just to block you, just to see if you’ll shove him, slap him, curse him out, grab him, or do anything.
You don’t.
“Get out of my way.”
“No.”
“Sunghoon.”
“You agreed,” he hisses. “You fucking agreed to this in there. I didn’t have a choice—and even if I did, it wouldn’t matter.” He laughs. “My father’s right for once. This won’t just go away. Not when whoever is behind that shit clearly had a motive, leaking this after it’s been publicly announced that my father is to step down in the following years. Not when they’ve spread it to the point of making me look like a goddamn liability to the company’s future.”
His mouth twists, and he looks at you like the sight of you alone is proof of that. “So just do what you do best,” he mutters, “be the perfect little daughter—the perfect girlfriend that they can point cameras at, smile for the fucking cameras, and then let go of me.”
You just look at him and press your mouth into a thin line, then your eyes dart back to where your parents are, and he sees it all—even the way you flex your hand at your side.
“Fine,” you say finally.
You step forward until he has to tilt his chin down to look at you. “But I’m setting some fucking rules.”
“Rules?” he scoffs.
“Yes. Rules. One, you don’t touch me,” you hiss. “You don’t talk to me unless someone else is in the room. You don’t look at me like that night—or anything before that ever happened. You don’t call me any pet names, you don’t corner me in hallways, you—” you point your finger at him when he opens his mouth to speak. “—especially don’t fucking whisper in my ear about how you want to fuck me—”
He huffs. “You say that as if—”
“Shut up,” you snap and cut him off. “I’d sooner die than let you touch me again, Sunghoon. I swear to God—If you do anything more than what’s being asked of us—I’ll scream. I’ll scream and I’ll make sure your father’s entire company crumbles beneath your fucking feet, even if I go down with you. I don’t care anymore. Not about anything, and especially not about you.”
His mouth twists, and he’s about to say something to shut you up—he doesn’t even know what—but you cut him off before he even gets the chance.
“I don’t want to hear your bullshit right now,” you bite out. “Just tell me you fucking understand me.”
He scoffs under his breath. “We’ll see about that.”
“That’s not what I asked, is it?” you snap, stepping closer until he can feel the heat of your breath against his jaw. “What did I say?”
His jaw clenches. Something about your voice when you’re like this—so angry, and unrelenting—crawls straight under his skin and drags his thoughts somewhere they shouldn’t be going right now.
“Stop talking,” he grits out.
“I said, tell me you fucking understand me,” you snarl, “Or I’ll scream right here, right now. You think I won't?"
He knows you will.
He huffs a laugh, then drags his tongue across his teeth, and his eyes drop to your mouth before he can stop himself.
He tells himself it’s rage. That it’s resentment tightening in his chest. That it has nothing to do with the way your mouth moves when you’re angry or the fact that part of him still remembers how soft your throat felt under his tongue.
He’s not proud of the thought that crosses his mind—to drag his mouth across your throat right here just to hear what kind of sounds you make when he shuts you up. He thinks of pressing your back into the nearest wall just to drag more of that anger out of your mouth until you’re panting too hard to spit another curse at him, to see if you’d still talk to him like that with his fingers down your throat.
And he doesn’t know who he’s angrier at—you, for still getting under his skin no matter how hard he tries to keep you out of his orbit, or himself, for letting you anyway.
“Fine,” he spits, shaking his head. “I understand.”
Then you nod once. “Good.”
You step around him, and this time he doesn't move, and he lets you. Because if he does move, he might grab you and say something he can’t take back.
When you finally turn to leave, his hand twitches at his side before he forces it still, and the air comes rushing back in all at once.
He then thinks that none of this matters. That this isn’t real, that it’s just another performance his father has forced on him, another thing to survive quietly until it’s over. But when he closes his eyes to steady his breathing, you’re there again, slipping through the cracks of his control, and it makes something in his jaw go rigid. He sees the thin white scar at the corner of your thumb, the way your collarbone catches the light when you tilt your head, and the tiny hollow beneath your ear where his mouth aches to fit perfectly despite every nerve in his body telling him not to, and then he thinks of marking you again, not for anyone else but for himself—to leave proof that for a moment the world bent small enough to hold just the two untouched by the weight of your name or his, a breath in time where he doesn’t have to belong to anything at all. Not himself. Not even you.
And he meant it, fuck—he hates how much he meant it when he said he had no intention of being decent with you. He wants you fucking wrecked, wants to pull hate from your throat and come from your cunt in the same breath, and wants to hear you spit his name like a curse and cry it like a prayer in the same breath. He wants his fingers in your mouth, his hand at your throat, and your nails in his back; he wants everything, and he wants all of it to mean nothing at all—because, though he would never admit it, the thought of you is the only thing that makes the noise in his damned head go quiet.
He breathes in again and tells himself this isn’t want or anything remotely close to it; it’s residue.
A reflex carved out of something that died years ago, a trick of familiarity. It’s not softness. No, it's definitely not softness—it’s the cruel, simple truth that the only way he can stand to touch you now is to ruin you in the process—with his teeth bared, with just enough cruelty to remind himself that whatever was there before has rotted through. To make sure there’s nothing left of him worth keeping.
He doesn’t know what’s worse about all of this—the thought of everyone believing when you two pretend, or how easy it’ll be for him to play his part—how every practiced touch and every look will come all too naturally to him.
He’s furious with himself.
He drags a hand down his face, and his fingers twitch before he even realizes what they’re reaching for—and then his phone is in his hand before he can talk himself out of it.
He scrolls until he finds the one name that still makes sense.
Heeseung picks up on the second ring.
“Yo, Hoon?”
“Wanna drink?” Sunghoon says.
“Damn, what happened to hello? How are you, my handsome, sexy, funny brother? Not even an I miss you—”
“Heeseung.”
He exhales a breath, then whistles. “Damn. First name type shit? Bro is not playing around tooooonight.”
Sunghoon grits his teeth. “Are you coming or not?”
There’s a pause on the other end.
Then, “I don’t think drinking is a good idea, bro. You’ve been—”
“I don’t want to go home tonight,” he cuts in.
“Is this about—” he stops. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. I don’t know. Just—” Sunghoon exhales hard, running his hand through his hair. “Man, please.”
“Now?”
“Yeah.” He presses his thumb to the bridge of his nose. “Now.”
Another pause. Then Heeseung sighs. “Alright,” he says finally. “I’m at the frat.”
Your phone keeps ringing.
You roll over and press your head further into your pillow because it’s too damn early in the morning, and whatever it is, it can fucking wait.
But then it buzzes again.
And again.
You groan into the blanket and reach an arm out blindly until your fingers hit the nightstand. You don’t even look at who it is before you double-tap the button to hang up on them. Whoever it is, they’ll get the hint.
But they don’t.
It rings again, and you curse under your breath, sit up halfway, and squint at the screen with one eye barely even open.
So many fucking missed calls—your mother’s assistant, your mother, Wonyoung, a number that looks vaguely familiar—the banners keep flipping between them the more you scroll.
You blink as you try to adjust to the brightness, and your heart kicks up once when you see a text at the top of your screen from your brother.
TAEHYUNG: My little sister is getting married, and she didn’t even tell me? Oh, okay.
TAEHYUNG: About damn time you two got together, though, hahaha. I knew it’d be him. (I’m still mad at you.) (Call me when you see this)
Has this fool lost it? What the hell is he—Married—what? Him?
For a second, you actually laugh despite how sleepy you still are because there’s absolutely no way you read that right. You rub your face, reread it, once, twice, again, then blink with your eyes fully open now, like the words might rearrange themselves into something else, but it’s still the same.
So you click on his message, and there’s a link attached to it—your phone lags for half a second before the article loads, and then your stomach just drops straight through your mattress.
PARK GROUP SUCCESSOR PARK SUNGHOON AND HAN EMPIRE HEIRESS Y/N Y/L/N CONFIRMED TO BE MEETING EACH OTHER WITH GOOD FEELINGS—ENGAGEMENT EXPECTED. Exclusive: Park Sunghoon personally addressed the rumors through an official statement released by Park Group International: “Our families have maintained a long and close relationship. While we have discussed the possibility of marriage, we’re taking things slow, and we ask for your kind support as we move forward in our relationship.”
You blink. Huh? Then you sit up too fast, and the blanket twists around your legs.
“What the fuck,” you shriek, and then you swallow and look back at the article. There’s a photo under it. Him, standing next to his father, both of them at some stupid fucking press thing. His suit’s perfect, his hair is pushed back, he has glasses on, there’s not a wrinkle on him, and to anyone else, he looks like the flawless, composed, picture-perfect son.
But you know that face. That faint hangover haze behind his eyes. Jesus fucking Christ.
You drag a hand through your hair and try to think of what to do, but you don’t even know anything because nothing could’ve possibly prepared you for this. You knew they’d agreed to release a statement in the morning, sure, but to announce it like that? That was never part of the deal—not for a second. Your parents would never approve of this—
You shake your head and laugh again as anger rises in your throat. You wouldn’t put it past Mr. Park to play dirty, not for a second, and you should’ve known better than to go to sleep thinking he’d actually agreed to your parents’ proposal—like he wasn’t already waiting for the first chance to twist it all in his favor.
𝓝 ⟢ HOON POV DEBUT!!!!!! i hope i did him justice… also i abused the hell out of Silver Springs by Fleetwood Mac while writing this. (I KNOW I COULD HAVE LOVED YOUUUUU BUT YOU WOULD NOT LET MEEEE! Gonna kms) anyways lol this chapter was definitely a little different from everything else i’ve written so far #Michin #Heol. and as always i’m so curious to know what you all think 🥹 thank you so much for reading i love you so much ₍˶ˆ꒳ˆ˶₎♡ 🌷
❦︎ a young wife discovers her husband's secret—a bloodied creature chained beneath floorboards. drawn by pity and curiousity, she visits him in secret when her husband falls asleep.
but mercy has its price, and hunger always finds a way to bite back—the neck that feeds.
༒︎ inspired by blood of madam giselle + comment/asks to be tagged ૮ ˙Ⱉ˙ ა
pairing vampire. p. sunghoon x fem. reader
current word count 12k
word count 20k - 25k
content warning (tba) violent/blood imagery, victorian era, mentions of blood, captivity, implied torture & experimentation (sh rec.), obsessive & possessive behaviour, angst im ngl, psychological distress, horror elements, gore, body horror, supernatural, emotional manipulation, cheating themes and cheating literally (reader), forbidden love, morally grey characters, threats of death & death, kind of toxic relationship relationship
smut advisory (tba) dubcon in some parts, vampire sex, biting, blood (not in penetration), unprotected sex, lack of verbal consent, loss of virginity, breeding kink, lots of teeth and saliva being played here... and blood, breathplay, heatplay, sex next to a sleeping person
you’re no stranger to the supernatural as the daughter of a humble graveyard cleaner. your father always told you to never pierce the veil between the supernatural and the human world, but that gets more and more difficult as time passes and you start seeing an apparition in the corner of your eye. halloween night—when the veil is the thinnest—you decide to try to talk to it, and you’re shocked when you and the figure that has been following you around for so long come face to face.
( 𝓷 )。 thank you sooo much to my very very lovely @yvampyr for the idea hehehe (づ ￣ ³￣)づ♡♡♡ ghost hee is finally being able to see the light of day aaaa!! they are soooo fall in love again and again hehe!!~~ i hope that you all enjoy!! ♡
Hands shook you as you awakened with a gasp. You looked around your bedroom that was shrouded in darkness. The candles had been snuffed out and the only light in the room came from the moonlight that peeked in from your sheer curtains. Desperately, you tried to catch onto anything in the darkness, but you only saw shifting shadows. Your white nightgown stuck to your sweaty skin as your labored breathing picked up more.
“Are you here?” you whispered to the silence, but there wasn’t an answer.
Mere seconds later, your father pushed open your door. His footsteps were always quiet—something he taught you to do as well. He used to tell you that it was because he spent his days and nights cleaning graveyards and one wrong step, one loud step, would attract the wrong company. Your father did his best to teach you about the supernatural on the other side of the veil. And he taught you that for whatever reason, you should never, ever pierce it for someone on the other side.
When you were a child, you took his words seriously, no matter how much the other side interested you with each new story. Now, as an adult who has seen their fair share of what lurks in the darkness, you take his words with a grain of salt that you toss over your shoulder. Your father was superstitious, after all.
He held a singular lit candle that was nestled in a worn brass holder. The light from the flame poured into the room, bringing warmth to it. You squinted your eyes. “I’m off, dear.”
You looked out your window again, the moon still high in the sky. It had to be the middle of the night. You looked back to your father with furrowed brows to find he had his pocket watch out and was watching the minute slowly tick by. He held it out for you to look at. It was three thirty-three in the morning. You looked back up at him, your expression even more incredulous and still ridden with sleep. “So early?” you asked him.
“The dead doesn’t wait,” your father said simply, snapping the watch closed and slipping it back into his pocket. He tilted his head at you a little. “It seems you don’t either. A bad dream?”
You shook your head, your breathing finally slowing. “A dreamless sleep,” you replied, bringing a hand up to your shoulder. You still felt like the hands that shook you awake were touching you. “It was odd. I still woke up in a fright despite it, father. Like hands were grabbing me.”
Your father’s face paled a little, but he tried to cover it up with a low chuckle. “Well, you did always say the place was haunted. Maybe you were imagining it, maybe it was a ghost.”
His words brought a smile to your face and you shook your head a little to clear your thoughts before glancing back up at him. “I specifically remember saying you brought the ghosts home with you. Not that our home was already haunted. You’re so superstitious, but you never cleanse yourself before stepping through the front door.” You laughed a little. “Anyone could be living with us now.”
“I’ll start taking your advice then. Light some candles when you next get up and open the windows. Stay inside the house.” Your father said the last sentence with all seriousness. You were about to ask what for before you remembered what day it was—Halloween. The day where the veil between the human world and the supernatural world was the thinnest, where the dead walked amongst the living for just one night. Your father walked back towards your door, one of his hands resting on the door knob. “And whatever you do, do not open the door for anybody. Not even the trick-or-treaters.”
You sighed a little and then nodded. “Of course, father.”
“I’ll be back around midnight,” your father says, closing your door. “Get some rest. Don’t forget about the candles—the black and blue ones.”
With that he shut your door, taking all the warmth and light from his candle with him, and basked you back into the darkness. You inhaled sharply, now fully awake. You let your eyes roam around the dark again, trying to notice the shifting shadows, but it seemed they were gone with the light.
You knew there was someone—something—else here in the house with you and your father. You could always see the shape of it in the corner of your eye, or glimpse it behind you in your reflection. Sometimes you could see its silhouette moving in the dark when you were right between the waking world and the dream world. It was always around you specifically—always. Your father always claimed he never saw what you were talking about and you rarely saw it when he was in the house either. He would always joke that he shouldn’t have told you so many stories as a child.
It used to scare you, when you first noticed it. But, once you realized that it was benevolent you eased up on the entity. Maybe it was just a lonely ghost. Who knows why it only followed you. Maybe it was because you were in the house the most. You had no clue.
Staring at the full moon, you watched the dark clouds pass over it until you started to feel tired again.
A curse passed through your lips as you swatted away the cloud of dust that rose in your face. Next time, you had to remind yourself not to hide your talking board underneath the floorboards. You pulled it up from beneath the wood and wiped away more dust that covered the cloth you hastily wrapped it in. You almost had forgotten about it if today being Halloween hadn’t reminded you.
When you were a child, and way more prone to the occult, you had snuck off to the oddities store alone while your father was working. Back then, you always wanted to go to work with him at the graveyard, despite his insistence on you staying with a neighbor. You wanted to see all the ghosts of the dead firsthand—but that of course never happened. In the store, which had conveniently been across the street from the graveyard and next to the church, the storekeeper greeted you with a big and bright smile.
He said, “I know just the thing that you’re looking for. Those pesky ghosts… Follow me, my child.” The storekeeper said it like he could see through the veil, and that thrilled you.
And perhaps he could. You remember how odd he looked himself, a big top hat sat upon his head with a monocle on his left eye that was cloudy with a cataract. He looked like a circus ringleader. So you followed him to the back of the store to where the oddities got darker. Various skulls lined the shelves, along with bottles of unknown liquids and eyes that seemed to follow you in a jar. You stuck close to him, the fear now creeping in. There were less candles back there, so the lighting was dim and your shadows made everything darker.
The storekeeper pulled something from the dark, a large board with big letters and numbers on it, and led you back to the front as he explained what it was and what it did. You looked up at his tall figure and his smiling white teeth. “I don’t have any money,” you said, timidly. You wanted to leave the store now. The walls felt like they were closing in on you and the oddities—and funnily enough, not curiosities—were beginning to freak you out.
He held the board out to you, the odd thing kept neatly in a wooden box. “It’s a gift,” the storekeeper said. “You surely need it more than I do. Oh! Here—take these too.” He pushed the wooden box into your arms and gave you some black candles to go along with it. You didn’t even know candles came in such a dark color. You thanked him and swiftly made your way out of the store, rushing to get back to the graveyard.
As soon as you pushed open the gate you felt like you could breathe again. You quickly made your way back into the graveyard house before your father could see you and snuck off to an empty room somewhere where another worker wouldn’t find you.
You laid out the wooden box with the black candles surrounding you in a circle like you did then, the flames making a slight cracking sound that you still didn’t understand. Inhaling sharply, you opened the box and felt all the energy rush through you like it did once before as a child. You exhaled slowly, grabbing the talking board and setting it in front of you with the planchette.
“If you’re here with me, please make yourself known,” you say through a shaky breath to the empty room. “The veil tonight is thin, and I’m curious. So, if you may…”
You raised your hands above the planchette, trying to ignore the way they trembled. Your mind raced with the warning that your father gave you earlier. It was nearing late in the night and you couldn’t bear seeing the figure out of the corner of your eye anymore. You were too curious about who or what it is. Why are they only showing themself to you? What did they want? These were all questions you wanted to know. But, as you placed your fingers on the planchette, your mind was suddenly blank.
You racked your mind for a question and decided to start out simple. “Is the apparition who follows me around here with me right now?” you called out.
It was silent for a moment and you could hear your heart hammering in your chest. Slowly, the planchette started to move up to the left towards where the word ‘YES’ was. You gasped as it started to move and your breathing picked up. A wary smile spread across your face at whoever was with you deciding to speak with you.
Thinking about another question for a second, you inhaled sharply and asked your second question. “Did I know you when you were still… here amongst the living?”
The question hung in the air and you were afraid that they wouldn’t answer you. You were searching your mind for another question when the planchette started to move again towards ‘NO’. Instead, you hummed in thought.
So you didn’t know them… Why did they follow you around then?
“Are you a ghost?” you asked. The planchette moved faster this time, like whoever was on the other side was getting the hang of the talking board. You felt an energy in front of you, almost as if they were sitting across the board from you. ‘YES’, the board responded.
A ghost? What could a ghost possibly want with you? Mentally, you shook your head at it all. Your father really did bring a ghost back with him from the graveyard. You were hoping that it was just a hollow joke and not the truth.
You tried to think of a simple way to ask the ghost what it wanted, but you couldn’t think of one. There was too much that you wanted to know about that was too complex for the limitations of a talking board. You decided to try and get more information on the ghost.
“What’s your name?” you asked the ghost.
The planchette moved faster across the board, this time traveling over the letters instead of sticking to where it said yes and no. You read out each letter the planchette stopped on, ‘L-E-E-H-E-E-S-E-U-N-G’. You read the name out slowly in question and the planchette shot over to ‘YES’.
You thought that it would’ve been rude to ask how he died, so instead you decided to ask when he died. The planchette smoothed over the numbers for you, ‘1818’. You were shocked at how recent his death was. Stupidly, a joke slipped out your mouth. “That’s unfortunate, you just missed The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.” You hurriedly clamped your mouth shut.
The energy around you shifted. It was less tense, lighter, almost. Like Heeseung enjoyed the bad joke that you made. You cracked a smile and glanced around the room. “Sorry,” you giggled a little. “I make bad jokes when I’m nervous.”
You cleared your throat, “How old were you when you died?” You were beating around the bush, but now that you had a name for the figure that followed you all throughout the house you needed to know. The planchette moved again, ‘23’.
Shock filled you again. He died so young… and he was close in age to you too. It really made you wonder what happened.
Deciding to shift the topic away from his death, you asked a different question. “What… Why do you only follow me around?” The question was perhaps not the best to get the most information as possible, but it was the simplest way you knew how to ask it.
The board was motionless for a moment. You could physically feel each second that ticked by as you waited for an answer and the sky drew darker. But after a while, Heeseung responded. ‘F-A-M-I-L-I-A-R’, he simply responded. Your brows furrowed.
“Familiar?” you mutter to yourself. But, he said he didn’t know you… “Familiar in what way?” you spoke louder.
Heeseung’s response was almost instant and you gasped again at how fast the planchette moved across the wooded board. ‘T-I-M-E’.
“I don’t understand,” you muttered to yourself again. Heeseung decided to answer you anyway, moving the planchette just as fast as before. ‘L-I-N-E’, he responded. “Time… line? Timeline? Are you saying in a different timeline we knew each other?” you asked.
You were getting skeptical now. You don’t even know why you bothered pulling out this talking board knowing that you took the occult with a grain of salt. Ever since that day in the graveyard house you vowed not to indulge in it again. Why bother now?
Like he could sense your skepticism, Heeseung moved the planchette across the board once again. It was the first time he gave you multiple words other than when you asked his name. ‘P-A-R-A-L-L-E-L’, he gave you, along with ‘M-E-M-O-R-Y’ and ‘T-O-G-E-T-H-E-R’.
You still didn’t understand, and with each word he tried to give you to try and help you understand, you could tell that it was just making the both of you frustrated. You had asked him to clarify once again, and in the middle of spelling ‘W-I…’ the planchette flew across the room. You jumped back and quickly rose to your feet, eyes wide.
You ran over to the planchette, making sure to not catch the candles, and grabbed it. Moving back to the talking board, you moved the planchette over to goodbye and quickly packed up the board into the wooden box it came in. Your chest rose and fell heavily as you stared at the box. It was so plain, yet it held such a monumental connection to the other side.
Pressing a hand to your chest, you let the black candles burn for another moment—it’s wax spilling over the wood floor—before you snuffed them out. You rushed out of the room and decided to get ready for bed.
You couldn’t tell if you were sleeping or awake, but it felt like you were stuck inbetween the two and your body couldn’t decide which direction you wanted to go. Your head was foggy and your body felt so heavy. All you could really feel was the way sweat pooled on your brow despite the coldness of your room and the weird images that flashed in your mind one after the other.
They all felt vaguely familiar, but it was from a time you weren’t familiar with and with a man that you didn’t know. But, even he felt familiar too—like you knew him for a long time. The images of your mind were intimate and it made your body heat up as desire sat in the pit of your belly. Your eyes squeezed shut tighter and you pulled at your thin nightgown. You couldn’t understand what was happening to you, maybe an odd trick of your mind, but you couldn’t say that the images didn’t temp you either.
Your hands pulled at your nightgown, languidly tugging it up so your warm skin was exposed to the cool air. It felt like you were trudging through thick water and no matter how fast you tried to go, your body refused to move as quickly as you wanted it to. Your hands slid down your stomach and rested right above where that desire called to you.
Another image flashed through your mind. It was of the man’s fingers grazing along your skin, a warm smile on his face as he glanced up at you from between your legs. Your fingers trailed the same path as his and you felt your breathing grow heavier. More visions raced through your mind, his lips against yours, his hands on your body touching every inch that he could like it would be the last he ever saw of you, him making you feel pleasure unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.
It was all so much, and you wondered why your brain would conjure up these visions for you.
Your hand inched down further and your fingertips dipped into the wetness that was collecting there between your legs. A small moan left your parted lips and with barely any friction, your back arched off of your bed. All you could feel was his hands, like you weren’t in your own body at all. It wasn’t your fingers that rubbed circles at your clit, it was his. This mystery man who you felt so much connection to.
Your fingers circled your clit faster as his lips latched on to your skin over and over, making you burn hotter. More moans spilled from your mouth and into the nighttime air. You were being loud, and for once you were thankful that your father would be gone until midnight. Though, you don’t remember leaving your window open.
Hips bucking towards your hand, you were lost in this place between the waking world and the dream world. In your mind, it was just the two of you—and it was everything you could’ve hoped for. His touch was so familiar, and it highlighted everything you felt that you were missing in your life. If you were dreaming, you didn’t want to wake up. And if you were awake, you hoped that this moment never ended.
A loud moan was pulled from you as your legs snapped together. You could feel his hands on your knees, pulling them apart so he could get a good view at the way you fell apart for him. The feeling was all so overwhelming and your senses felt heightened. You were up in the clouds and that sweet feeling of bliss drifted over you as your fingers halted. Your body relaxed again and you let out a relieved sigh as your eyes drifted open. This time, you were certain that you were awake.
That bliss lasted for only a minute before concern took over. Your already coated fingers dipped between your legs again and when you pulled the back to take a look, they were coated in milky white. You sat up in your bed, your body still feeling a little heavy, as you looked around your room.
The window was wide open, and the cool air came through as it pleased. You shivered a little, your body no longer feverishly hot. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw a shadow slip underneath your door just as soon as you heard knocking.
You looked down between your legs again and the large wet spot that was there. Embarrassment creeped up your neck. What if it was a neighbor? What if they were here to complain about how loud you were being with your window open? You raced to your feet, stepping uncomfortably as your burning ache slid down your thighs slowly.
You cursed to yourself quietly. You were gonna have to change your sheets. You quickly latched your shutters closed and made your way out of your room, grabbing a spare towel near the bathroom to wipe yourself clean and hiding it in an empty drawer to clean once you were sure whoever was at your front door was no longer there.
“Just a moment!” you called out towards the door, trying to get yourself situated as you moved through the dark. You were so thankful that you had cleaned the house earlier.
Wrapping your robe around you tightly, you plastered a big smile on your face as you swung the door open. It faltered when there was nobody on the other side. You glanced around outside, and in the distance you could see children in their homemade costumes giggling about the candy they got and the pranks they caused. There were groups of people sitting together, fancy glasses pressed to their lips as they sipped on whatever expensive wine they had. Your brows furrowed as you looked around again. It seems that you have been tricked.
You shut the door, a little annoyed that your sleep was disturbed. You dug in your father’s jacket for his pocket watch just as the knocking began again. It was still hours from midnight. You turned on your heel in more annoyance towards the door, flying it open in the middle of one of the knocks.
The man on the other side jumped, his hand still in the air, before he composed himself and smiled at you. All the air in your lungs was swiftly removed in that moment as you stared at him. His smile grew a little at the shock clearly presented on your face.
It was him, the man who you were just dreaming about.
Heat rushed to your cheeks and you gaped like a fish, unable to say anything. He took you in for a moment, like this was the first time he was seeing you in a while. There was something off about him. He was much more polished than the men sipping wine in the distance behind him. They were much more disheveled with the night growing on. Their suits were wrinkled and half of them were without their suit jackets. Their hair fell from its styling into the faces and their laughs grew more boisterous as the alcohol entered their systems. He, however, looked like he had just risen and gotten ready for the day despite it being night. It deeply perplexed you.
“I’m sorry for bothering you at such a late hour, Mrs.,” he spoke. His voice was smooth and steady, and it made your knees weaken a little. You held onto the door frame like your life depended on it and clutched your robe together tighter. You could feel your skin warming up again. The chill breeze ran through you and you shivered again. “It’s a cold night tonight, do you mind if we speak inside? I don’t want you to keep shivering.”
Still lost for words and with a foggy head, you nodded and moved to the side for him. You felt compelled to let him in, like it was the answer to why you saw those visions. When he stepped inside, your body felt heavy again and the air around you both felt different. You shut the door and stood in the dark with him for a couple seconds before remembering that you both needed to see.
You chuckled awkwardly, “Sorry. Let me light some candles.”
You lit the ones at the table first and led him to it so he could sit down. As you moved around lighting the candles around the room, you felt his eyes on you. It was odd. Usually you would see the shadows in the corner of your eye, that familiar one that always followed you around, but you haven’t seen it since it slipped underneath your door. What was even more odd is that the man sitting at your table right now felt the same as that familiar ghost.
In order for the awkward tension to dwindle in the room, and as a way to help stabilize yourself from the heaviness in your body that you felt, you struck up conversation with the man as you tended to the fire that had gone out. “If you’re here for my father, I’m sorry but he’s working until late right now. But, I can take a message for him, if you wouldn’t mind.” You looked back at him, giving him a wobbly smile, before turning back to the hearth and stoking the fire.
“Can I get your name?” you continued, moving from the hearth to grab a candle.
You heard his smooth voice again and your eyes fluttered closed for a minute. “Oh, that’ll be fine, Mrs. I’m not here to speak to your father, I’m here to speak to you.” You raised a brow as he kept talking. “My name is Heeseung, Lee Heeseung.”
The candle slipped from your hands and into the fire, causing the flames to erupt and nearly burn you. You gasped, flying back, as you heard Heeseung’s footsteps come closer to you. He looked over you worriedly and asked if you were okay as he held your hands and examined them, but all you could think about was his hands all over you in that weird vision—or memory, as it felt more like—and the way he made you feel.
Your eyes were wide as you looked up at him, shock written all over your face. “Here, you sit down,” Heeseung said as he led you to one of the chairs at the table. “I’ll light the rest of the candles for you. You rest for a moment.”
Your mind flashed back to minutes prior, and you squeezed your legs shut. “O-Oh, me?” you asked, your voice coming out shaky. You hoped that he would think that it was from your scare with the fire. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think we’ve met before.”
Maybe he was a different Lee Heeseung. That was the only rational explanation that you could come up with. You didn’t want to believe that he was the ghost who has been following you around for a while now. That shadow that always lingered in the corner of your eye. The Heeseung that you knew was a ghost, he died years ago. It wasn’t possible that he was in front of you right now, lighting your candles so the room was filled with more light.
When he held your hands, he felt real. You’ve never came face to face with a ghost before, but you would’ve thought that your hands would go through them. How was this possible? And why did he feel so familiar? Not just in him possibly being your old ghost, but it felt like you’ve met him before despite not actually meeting. If that was the case, how was he here?
“Not in this timeline,” Heeseung says as he lit the last candle.
You thought that he was joking, but there was no infliction in his voice. Heeseung smiled at you as he sat down again. You then remembered what day it was. Halloween, the day where the veil is the thinnest. Maybe it was the Heeseung you talked to through the talking board earlier.
“What do you mean?” you asked. You wanted him to come right out and say it. But, Heeseung’s smile grew, like you both knew a secret that nobody else did. You can’t exactly explain the way he stared at you, but you knew that it was warm and loving along with his smile, like he was finally seeing you again after a long time away.
Heeseung looked down at your hands resting on the table. The two of you were sitting across from each other. “I don’t mean to make a lady scared, but, we have spoken before. It was just a bit… unconventional. So to say.” You furrowed your brows, urging him to go on. You already knew what he was referring to—the talking board—but you wanted him to confirm that you weren’t losing your mind. “It wasn’t exactly face to face, but we were almost sitting like we are now.”
“You…” you trailed off in disbelief. “You’re my ghost? B-But how? How are you sitting in front of me right now? I touched you and you’re real. You told me you died in eighteen-eighteen. How are you here right now?”
You stood to your feet, your foggy head now making you lightheaded. You staggered backwards towards the hearth and Heeseung jumped from his seat to steady you. In the process, your robe had slipped off of one of your shoulders, exposing the bare skin of your arm. When Heeseung touched you, you saw those visions again—albeit, less intimate.
It was flashes of your daily life together. One in particular was of a pretty ring sliding onto your finger and of a white dress. Heeseung’s words from the talking board rang through your mind, your fingers on the planchette as he dragged it from letter to letter, specifically ‘M-E-M-O-R-Y’.
“I apologize for being vague when we talked earlier, but talking boards are very limited. I don’t want to overwhelm you, but the veil is at its thinnest and we are running out of time to speak face to face.” You glanced up at Heeseung, and your breath hitched at his closeness. You weren’t going crazy, this was real. He is real. Heeseung cupped your cheek, his eyes softening even more as his brows pulled together. “Do you remember?”
You did. You saw the two of you throughout time, over and over again. It was always you and him. He would remember before you did and would come and find you, and the two of you would be together again. But, something went wrong this time around, and he died before the two of you could even meet. Your mouth hung open in shock at all the new information flooding through you, and you nodded as you looked up at him.
Heeseung trailed his hand down from your cheek to your chin, and you got more memories. He was buried at the graveyard your father has worked at your entire life. The two of you were so close, but so far away… The only reason he found you in this lifetime was because of your rare visits to it to see your father. You chuckled a little to yourself, unknowingly sharing the rest of Heeseung’s memory of that day. Your father didn’t bring a ghost home, you did.
Heeseung smiled and it lit up his entire face, brighter than the candlelight. “You do remember,” he spoke in almost disbelief.
You hadn’t realized how tightly you were gripping the jacket of Heeseung’s suit. “These memories… that means…” Embarrassment creeped up your neck again and spread across your cheeks. Your smile faltered as you stared at Heeseung wide eyed. You remembered how his familiar shadow slipped under the door when you woke up earlier. “Oh my,” you exclaimed in disarray, pushing away from Heeseung and turning your back to him. You covered your mouth with your hands. “You were there!” your voice came out muffled.
Behind you, Heeseung laughed. He grabbed your waist as he rounded your body to look at you again, and you almost melted into his touch and how it was exactly what you had been looking for all your life. “You saw everything!” you continued, muffled. You couldn’t look at him.
“It’s okay,” Heeseung laughed more.
“It’s not okay!” you exclaimed, looking at him bewildered. “I am a woman, and you’ve seen me at my most intimate and vulnerable!”
Heeseung laughed at you like you were being ridiculous, and after having all of your memories from your past lives back, maybe you were. But still, you didn’t know about any of this then! “I’ve seen you more intimate and more vulnerable than that, beloved. I’ve seen every inch of you!” Heeseung could barely contain his laugh, and it was infectious. You tried hard to fight off your smile, but it was impossible.
You nudged him a little, the smile still lingering on your face, “You are ridiculous. I can’t believe you were watching me all of this time and never tried to make contact.”
“I can’t believe you actually remember it all!” Heeseung replied. “And it’s not like I didn’t try! You underestimate how hard it is being a ghost. It’s nothing like the stories you hear about.”
He pulled you close as he spoke and your smile faltered at him being a ghost. Of course he was, how could you forget that? Heeseung tilted his head at you in question and you looked down. “What are we going to do? You’re a ghost and I’m not. And who knows when we’ll meet in the next life.” Tears began to well in your eyes and Heeseung gently shushed you.
“Don’t worry about that, we still have tonight. We still have the talking board and whatever crazy invention people claim you can speak to ghosts with. I’ll always be here with you until the very end.” Heeseung wiped away the tear that fell down your cheek.
You smiled at him, “Then lets make the most of it while the veil is thin and I can still feel you.” You brought your lips to his and captured them in a sweet kiss. Heeseung wrapped his arms around you and pulled you closer to his chest. He smiled against your lips.
“I’ll make it the best night of your life,” he said.
You laughed as your fingers slid underneath his suit jacket. “I’ve had many of those across many lifetimes.” You pulled the fabric off of him, a teasing smile playing on your lips. Heeseung pulled at your robe and tossed it onto the back of one of the chairs. He started to unbutton his shirt, smirking at you as his fingers moved.
“Then this will be one you’ll never forget.”
You put a hand out onto his to stop his descent of buttons, instead taking his hand and leading him towards your room. You stopped him at the door.
“Like the ones from earlier? Only, this time you wouldn’t have to show me? Cause I’d like the sound of that,” you spoke. Your smile grew as Heeseung leaned towards your lips and you moved away and leaned against your door. The corners of his mouth rose at the action. “Wait here for a moment,” you said, before slipping into your room.
You breathed out, still not used to the effect that he had on you. You then rushed over to your bed and stripped the sheets off, kicking them under your bed to wash later. You grabbed some new sheets from your closet and quickly made the bed up again and tidied your room a bit. Opening the door, you were greeted with Heeseung’s warm smile and sweet laughter.
He stepped in and looked around like he hasn’t been here before, and you rolled your eyes at him playfully before shutting your door. You turned back towards him and pulled off your nightgown, leaving yourself completely bare in front of him. Heeseung’s eyes widened like he had never seen your body before.
Heeseung licked his lips as you stepped towards him. You smirked at him, “What? You said you’ve seen me bare before, why do you look shocked?” You untucked his shirt and pulled it off of him. After, your fingers trailed along his torso as you took the top half of him in.
“You’re a woman…” Heeseung trailed, still gaping in awe at you. “And I’m seeing you at your most intimate and vulnerable…” He inhaled sharply as his hands grabbed your waist gently. You felt the way they trembled.
You started to unbutton his pants, laughing. “I can cover back up if you want me to.”
Heeseung immediately shook his head and started to back you up towards your bed. The back of your knees hit the side of it and you fell down onto it. You looked at his unbuttoned jeans that were level with your eyes before looking up at him. “No! N-No…” Heeseung chuckled a little awkwardly. His breathing picked up from the way you were looking at him. “I want to see every inch of you again—feel every inch of you again—before our time together runs out.”
“Then lets not waste it,” you grinned.
In record time Heeseung stripped off his clothes until he was completely bare too. You bit your lip at his body, trying your hardest not to feel that feverish heat that you felt from earlier, but it was no use. All you thought about was those memories, and each time they flashed in your mind Heeseung’s smile grew and your breathing grew a little more labored.
You moved back further onto the bed as Heeseung climbed over you, trapping you between his arms and body. “Do you see it now?” he asked you, his breath fanning along your skin. “All the other times I’ve had you under me like this. Do you feel my touch?”
He moved his hand up the expanse of your stomach before stopping underneath your breast. The tip of his nose dragged along the side of your neck and you felt the vibrations of his chuckle when your breathing nearly stopped. He pressed a kiss to your neck, right where your pulse was beating rapidly. “I know you do…” he trailed.
It felt like your entire life was leading up to this moment when Heeseung’s lips finally touched yours. You thought that you had every memory, but you were wrong with just how much you were still missing. When the two of you kissed, it was like the first time over and over again. That same excited and anxious feeling coursed through your body and reminded you that it was all connected. Your eyes widened and you wrapped your arms around Heeseung’s neck like you’d go spiraling if you didn’t keep yourself grounded to him.
You captured his lips with yours again and didn’t let go until you physically had to and he pulled away from you, kissing the sides of your mouth. As soon as you barely had enough oxygen, you kissed him again. It was like falling in love again and again and you couldn’t get enough of the feeling.
He hasn’t even really touched you yet and still, just kissing him felt like all that you ever needed.
But, when he did touch you… When his hands slid up the back of your thighs and pushed them to your chest, that desire that pooled inside the pit of your belly intensified tenfold as he settled between you. The memories of it all were nothing compared to his actual touch.
Heeseung kissed down your neck and across your chest, making sure to take his time and ensure that there wasn’t a part of your skin that he hadn't touched. His hands grabbed your breasts and gave them a good squeeze, and you could just feel his smile when your back arched off your bed. They trailed back down your stomach as he continued his descent of kisses there too, right until he got right where you needed to feel him the most.
You weren’t prepared for it, you thought that he was going to keep teasing you. You didn’t think that he’d leave gentle kisses on your clit, suckling a little like he just had to have a taste. You grabbed at your sheets, your knuckles turning white. Heeseung groaned lowly, before licking a thick stripe up your pussy, “I have to save this for when I’m actually here. You taste too sweet to only have you when the veil is thin.”
Your heart almost leapt out of your chest and your body heat and desire intensified even more at the thought of another moment like this. Heeseung gave your clit a final kiss, like it was absolutely killing him to have to pull away from it—which you would’ve laughed at considering him already being dead if you had the capacity to right now.
He moved back to your lips, moving his in tandem until you were sure that if the two went any longer like this you would devour each other. You dragged your hands down his body and stopped at his hips. You then looked at him with big, pleading eyes as you tried to catch your breath.
Heeseung looked between your bodies and grabbed himself with one hand. He let out another long and low groan, his eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment before he dragged his length inbetween your wet folds and coated himself in your arousal. There was so much that your pussy was covered in it and you were a little embarrassed, but it just seemed to turn Heeseung on even more. He used it to line his cock up with your entrance and glanced up at you.
“Is this okay, my love?” he gently asked you, rubbing the tip of his cock around your entrance. You let out a soft moan, your eyes squeezing shut, and nodded rapidly.
“Yes! Yes… it’s more than okay.” You opened your eyes, “I want to feel you.”
Heeseung kissed you again as he slowly pushed himself inside of you. You moaned louder against his lips. The further he moved inside of you, the more you were sure that you would be set on fire with the way he stretched you out to fit around him. But, your body was quickly acclimating to him despite it all.
Heeseung looked down and moaned at the way your pussy wrapped around him, unintentionally pushing himself inside of you further and quicker than the initial slow pace he was going at. You thought that his cock was almost fully inside of you, but when you looked down he was only a little past halfway. You grabbed at his arms, your nails leaving little crescent marks in his skin with how tightly you held on to him.
Your back arched off of the bed again and your hips desperately wanted to buck up towards his, but Heeseung’s hands held you down by the back of your thighs. Your mind flashed with familiar memories, him inside of you and your bodies moving in one fluid motion, his lips on your scalding skin. The feelings between the two of you being intensified more and more the more you both find each other again.
You hadn’t realized you were sharing the memories with him again until his hold on your thighs tightened and he thrusted even further inside you. His head dropped, and his shoulders rose and fell with his effort. “You don’t know… how much I am holding myself back… These memories of all the ways we’ve been with each other is gonna make me lose all my control.”
He thrusted shallowly into you, not exactly moving deeper. But he just needed to feel the way your body molded for him like it has done time and time again.
You started desperately moving your hips despite his restrictions, and you nearly blacked out from the pleasure that it gave you. “I can’t wait any longer,” you told him through a whine.
It was all that Heeseung needed to hear. He pushed himself inside of you fully and captured your lips again to let you adjust. You wrapped your legs around his hips and caged him inside you. You let out another loud moan that Heeseung swallowed with his kisses, and this time you were thankful that the window shutters were closed.
Heeseung pulled out until just the tip of his cock was still inside of you before pushing himself back inside you fully, again and again.
Your nails dug into his back, but Heeseung just moaned from the small pinpricks of pain that it caused him. He was too focused on how your body felt around him—so warm and inviting. He wanted to dive into you forever and stay in this moment without the worry of the veil thickening and your time being limited. Heeseung channeled all his frustrations with your situation, and put it all into the immense pleasure that he was giving you.
His tongue licked at your lips as the two of you moaned into each other’s mouths, heads foggy with bliss. You didn’t worry about the ticking clock and the amount of time that had passed. It was just the two of you.
It all sounded so beautiful; your mixture of moans, the sound of your skin colliding, his breath morphing into yours—you couldn’t get enough of it. You completely surrendered to him and he to you.
Your legs wrapped tighter around him as you gasped against his mouth. Heeseung kissed along your jaw, smiling. You pulled him closer to you, urging him to keep moving, despite every part of you feeling like lightning.
Heeseung then suddenly flipped the two of you over so you were on top of him. The blanket that covered the two of you slipped off to the side and Heeseung could finally see all of you again. His hands fell to your hips and moved them for you.
You threw your head back, lips parted with a broken moan. You pressed your hands against him and was pleased to find that he was just as warm as you were as you moved against him. You felt insatiable. The rickety bed that you had hit over and over against your wall from your movement that you were sure that when you looked after the paint would be chipped against the wood.
Heeseung buried his head back against your pillow, the pads of his fingers grabbing the skin at your hips tightly and his dark hair was disheveled. He was vocal with how good it all felt to him too, and his moans just urged yours on more.
You stilled against him, nearly falling down onto him as your body locked up. Your brows furrowed as it all suddenly felt like it was too much for you to handle. Heeseung took your hands in his and thrusted up into you as he held you steady. You held his hands so tightly you thought that you might break them as that thread inside of you finally snapped.
And you did fall onto his chest, and Heeseung held you tightly in his arms as he kept his hips moving, your milky white release dripping down on to him. He brought his lips to yours again in a slow kiss, like he was savoring them.
Heeseung pushed himself back into you again fully and stilled himself, his arms wrapping you tighter around him like he didn’t want to lose you once this was all over. He moaned against your mouth and you could feel him release into you as his hands moved down to your hips to keep you there.
The two of you laid there for a moment, Heeseung listening to your heartbeat and trying to commit it to his memory. The time you had left hung heavy in the air between the two and neither of you wanted to talk about it, so you didn’t. At some point, Heeseung had got up to clean the both of you off before he pulled you into his side and let his fingertips trace patterns onto your skin.
Tears had welled up in your eyes, but you didn’t want him to see them. “You promise that you’ll always be here with me?” you asked in a small voice, trying to hide the sadness that lied within it. You’d join him on the other side, would pierce the veil if he asked you to and it meant the two of you wouldn’t have to be apart in this lifetime. But, you knew that Heeseung would never ask you to do that. He would want you to live this life as best as you could, with or without him.
“I will never leave your side,” Heeseung said. “I’ll be here until the very end, and then I’ll come and find you again in the next life. Again and again. I promise.”
You sat up and took in every inch of his face, trying to memorize every curve and plane before kissing him again. He sat up with you, cupping your cheek before he pulled you close to him and hugged you tight.
“I’ll be right here, always,” he whispered before kissing you again.
The final tick of the clock echoed off the walls of your bedroom, loud and impending. You opened your eyes and Heeseung was gone, the spot beside you was cold again. You looked around and saw his shadow lingering as the tears finally fell from your eyes. You heard your front door opening and the familiar sound of your father’s boots against the wood, alerting you that he was home after working, and you slumped into your bed.
That morning, you visited Heeseung’s grave with flowers. You brushed off some of the leaves from his tombstone that had fallen onto it overnight and gently laid the flowers down in front of it.
You felt him close to you, and you could almost feel his hand on your shoulder trying to comfort you. “Next Halloween, we’ll get to see each other again. Clear your activities.” You tried to laugh, but you ended up sniffling. “I’ll be waiting for you, always.”
Before you moved to leave, your eyes caught on to a letter next to Heeseung’s grave. It had your name on it. You didn’t know how Heeseung did it, but you knew it was from him. You picked it up and held it close to your chest. Turning, you made your way out of the graveyard and crossed the street to the shop across from it.
✉️ ⦂ pierce the veil mention!!!!!!! hehe starting off spooky month strong with a freaky little ghost sex fic ( ˘ω˘ ) the whole memory aspect was inspired by the terrible dracula 2025 movie! hehe stay tuned for the rest of the month!! i’m really really excited for all the spooky fics aaa!! ♡
꒰ ﹒ pairing: heeseung x fem!reader ... ﹒ friends to lovers, fluff ... ﹒ w/c: 21k
synopsis: for three years, you and heeseung have hovered between friendship and something more—stolen glances, late-night car rides, hands brushing under tables. but when the waiting finally ends, you realize you were never just friends to begin with.
꒰ ﹒ warnings: smut, mdni! explicit sexual content, petnames, unprotected sex (dont do it!!!!) not proofread
💿 % (◠﹏◠ ✿) #nowplaying: waiting room - phoebe bridgers
Three years ago, you met Heeseung at a Halloween party. And, in a way, he never really left.
You remember the night in sharp, neon clarity, the kind that only exists in memories warped by time and too many cheap drinks. The bass of the music was rattling against the walls, distorting into something unrecognizable by the time it reached your ears. The air was thick, humid with the breath of a hundred strangers crammed into an apartment too small to hold them. It smelled like spilled alcohol, synthetic fog from a cheap smoke machine, and the faintest trace of cinnamon, probably from some idiot who thought Fireball was a good idea.
You were standing in the kitchen, gripping a plastic cup half-full of something blue and questionably sweet, when you felt it. The warmth of someone moving too close. The press of a shoulder against yours. And then—disaster.
A smear of green, across your arm, your ribs, your stomach.
You stared at it, confused. It looked like paint. Wet, sticky, and clinging to the fabric of your skeleton costume like it belonged there. You blinked once, twice, before dragging your gaze upward, locking eyes with the culprit.
“Oh, shit.”
He was green. No, really, he was covered in it, from his jawline to his collarbone, down his arms, streaked across his hands. He was, in fact, one of the Ninja Turtles.
“Are you radioactive?” you asked, because that felt like a genuine concern at this point.
Heeseung—though you didn’t know his name yet—blinked at you, then looked down at his own arm as if just realizing that, yeah, maybe painting his entire body for a costume wasn’t the best idea. “I, uh—fuck, I didn’t think—”
“Didn’t think what?” you repeated, glancing down at your once-pristine skeleton costume. “That maybe body paint takes a while to dry?”
“No, see, I thought it was dry. I waited, like, an hour before putting the costume on.” He sounded both defensive and regretful, like someone who had just now realized the full extent of their mistake.
You sighed, poking at the stain. “Well, congrats. You’ve officially made me the first skeleton in history to die of green slime exposure.”
He let out a breath of laughter, then scratched the back of his neck—a habit you’d later come to recognize as his go-to nervous tic. “On the bright side… at least now you match me?”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re trying to make me feel better.”
“Is it working?”
“Not even a little.”
A slow grin spread across his face, lopsided and teasing. “Damn. Guess I’ll have to try harder.”
And he did.
That was the beginning of it, you suppose. A stupid mistake, an even stupider conversation, and a boy painted green who somehow managed to wedge himself into your life like he belonged there. You didn’t know then that he’d become your best friend. That in three years, you’d be sitting next to him in a car at two in the morning, singing along to songs you didn't really know. That you’d learn the exact way he liked his coffee, the rhythm of his breath when he fell asleep next to you on your couch, the way he always looked at you like he was on the verge of saying something important but never quite did.
No, back then, all you knew was that he was an idiot. And that, somehow, against all odds—you kind of liked him anyway. But you and Heeseung became friends by accident.
It wasn’t an immediate thing, not like some cosmic force snapped its fingers and tied the two of you together. No, it was slower than that, more like a series of small collisions, a gradual intertwining of orbits. And most of it had to do with Yunjin.
You and Yunjin had been friends since the beginning of college. One of those friendships that happens fast, like flipping a switch. One day, you were just two people forced into the same group project, and the next, you were sneaking snacks into late-night study sessions, texting each other memes at 3 a.m., and laughing until your stomach hurt over things that weren’t even that funny. She was the kind of person you felt like you had known forever, even though it had only been a few years.
But somehow, despite all that time, you had never actually registered who she lived with. You knew she had a roommate—she’d mentioned him in passing a few times, usually accompanied by an exasperated sigh or an eye roll—but you had never put much thought into it. The guy could’ve been a faceless NPC for all you cared. Just a background character in the world of Yunjin’s apartment. Until one fateful Tuesday afternoon.
You had gone over to Yunjin’s place to work on a mind-numbing, soul-draining research paper, and the two of you were sitting cross-legged on her living room floor. The atmosphere was calm, quiet—at least, until the front door swung open with the force of someone dramatically entering a scene in a sitcom.
“YUNJIN,” a voice rang through the apartment, loud and excited. “I JUST BOUGHT ZELDA: BREATH OF THE WILD. I NEED TO PLAY IT IMMEDIATELY.”
You barely had time to process before the source of the chaos came bounding into the room. A guy, slightly breathless from what must have been a very passionate journey home, clutching a Nintendo Switch game case like it was the most important thing in the world.
And he was green.
Well, not literally—he wasn’t still covered in body paint—but your brain made the connection instantly. The excitement, the unfiltered enthusiasm, the slight air of someone who had been making questionable life decisions since birth.
It clicked.
“Oh my god,” you blurted. “You’re the Ninja Turtle guy.”
Heeseung froze mid-step, eyes flickering to you like he was only now realizing there was another person in the room. For a second, he just stared, lips parted in muted shock, like you had just caught him committing a crime.
Then, in a tone that was both confused and slightly mortified, he said, “Oh. Uh. Yeah. That’s me.”
You squinted at him, taking in the full picture—the messy hair, the slightly wrinkled hoodie, the expression of someone who had absolutely not been expecting to relive his Halloween mistakes today. Then, you turned to Yunjin.
“You live with the Ninja Turtle guy?”
Yunjin, who had been watching this interaction unfold with barely concealed amusement, grinned. “I guess.”
Heeseung cleared his throat, regaining some of his composure. “For the record, my name is Heeseung.”
“Really?” you said, nodding slowly. “I thought your name was Donatello”
He looked mildly offended. “Excuse me?”
“Well,” you said, gesturing vaguely, “I feel like I at least deserve to know which turtle was responsible for my suffering. I thought it was Donatello.”
Heeseung rolled his eyes but played along. “Leonardo. Sunghoon was Raphael, Beomgyu was Michelangelo, and Jake was Donatello.”
You considered this for a second, then turned back to Yunjin. “I can’t believe you live with Leonardo.”
Yunjin, deadpan, replied, “Trust me, I can’t either.”
And that was the second collision.
You didn’t know it then, but this was how it would always be with Heeseung—dramatic entrances, loud declarations, and an energy that burst into the room like an unexpected firework. You had met him twice now, and both times, he had been the human embodiment of chaos. But for some reason, that chaos felt a little less like a background character now. And after that day, Heeseung stopped being just Yunjin’s roommate.
You started seeing him everywhere. Not because you were seeking him out—not at first, anyway—but because he had a tendency to appear in your life like some kind of recurring side character in a sitcom. You’d be minding your own business in Yunjin’s apartment, and he’d burst through the door, ranting about how someone stole his favorite study spot in the library. You’d go to grab coffee before class, and there he’d be, dramatically arguing with the barista about why oat milk was a scam. He just kept showing up, like the universe had decided that, for better or worse, he was part of your story now.
And then, you found out you had a class together. It wasn’t a real class. Not in the sense that it required effort or critical thinking. It was one of those ridiculous elective courses that the university offered purely to fill up credit requirements—something slapped onto the catalog as an afterthought, designed for students who were too lazy or too exhausted to take anything serious.
You had signed up for it without even reading the description, choosing it solely because it fit into your schedule and had a reputation for being an easy A. Heeseung, apparently, had done the same.
That was how the two of you ended up in "The Philosophy of Memes and Internet Culture."
The class was exactly as stupid as it sounded. The professor was a guy in his late 40s who still said things like “epic fail” unironically. The syllabus included assignments like “analyzing the impact of Vine on modern humor” and “writing a 500-word essay on the evolution of the Rickroll.” It was the kind of class that could only exist in a university desperate to appear progressive and relevant, and you were 90% sure the school administration had no idea it was happening.
It was, in short, the best class either of you had ever taken.
You and Heeseung immediately became the worst students in the room. Not because you weren’t paying attention, but because you were paying attention too much—finding everything so absurdly hilarious that neither of you could take it seriously. Every lecture felt like a fever dream. Every assignment was an excuse to see how much nonsense you could get away with before the professor caught on.
And then, of course, came the group project. It was a simple assignment: pick a meme, trace its origins, and present its cultural impact. Most people chose something predictable—Doge, Grumpy Cat, Distracted Boyfriend.
You and Heeseung, however, chose Shrek. More specifically, you chose Shrek’s cultural legacy as an ironic meme figure.
It was supposed to be a joke. A way to entertain yourselves in a class that was already ridiculous. But the further you got into your research, the more serious it became.
Somewhere along the way, you and Heeseung stopped just pretending to care and actually started caring. You spent hours deep-diving into obscure Shrek forums, analyzing the rise of “Shrek is Love, Shrek is Life” discourse, debating whether or not the character’s internet resurgence was fueled by genuine appreciation or detached irony. You became scholars of the Shrek Renaissance.
The night before your presentation, you were in Yunjin’s apartment, sitting on the floor with your laptops open, surrounded by a mess of half-empty snack bags and unfinished slides. The clock blinked 2:37 AM, and neither of you had any business still being awake.
Heeseung was slouched against the couch, staring at his screen with the expression of a man who had seen too much. “I think I know too much about Shrek,” he said, voice hollow.
You let out a dramatic sigh, rubbing your temples. “Yeah. We flew too close to the sun on this one.” There was a beat of silence.
Then, Heeseung slowly turned his laptop around, revealing a slide titled ‘Shrek and the Post-Ironic Era of Internet Humor: A Critical Analysis.’ And for some reason, that was it. That was the moment you broke.
Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the fact that you had just spent the past three hours watching deep-fried Shrek memes with Gregorian chants in the background. Maybe it was just the sheer, stupid absurdity of the entire situation. But suddenly, you were laughing.
Not just laughing—cackling. The kind of breathless, full-body laughter that made your stomach hurt. That made you feel like you were going to die right there on Yunjin’s living room floor, lost to the void of Shrek academia.
And Heeseung—poor, equally sleep-deprived Heeseung—was right there with you. He doubled over, gasping for air, his head nearly colliding with your shoulder as he choked out, “We’re never recovering from this.”
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You turned to him, trying to catch your breath, and found him already looking at you. His eyes were crinkled at the edges, his cheeks flushed from laughter, his whole body still shaking slightly from the aftermath. And for a moment—just a moment—you thought, this is nice.
Not just the laughing. Not just the inside jokes and the chaos.
But him.
You pushed the thought away before it could settle.
Because, at the end of the day, Heeseung was your friend. Your dumbass friend who still had green body paint under his fingernails two weeks after Halloween. Who got irrationally angry at mobile game ads. Who had just spent the last six hours dissecting Shrek memes with you like it was a matter of academic integrity.
And that was all he was.
Right?
Heeseung, on the other hand, wasn’t sure when it started. That feeling.
That weird, stupid, barely-there feeling. The one that sat quietly in the back of his mind, like a notification he refused to check. Like a waiting room. A vague, almost imperceptible awareness that he enjoyed your company a little too much—that your laugh had started to feel like background music in his life, something he didn’t know he needed until it was gone.
Not that it meant anything. Obviously.
He liked lots of people. He was a social guy. He made friends easily, enjoyed being around them, and—despite Yunjin’s many accusations—was not emotionally repressed. He just… liked the things you liked. That was normal.
It was normal that he started watching that terrible reality show you always talked about, even though he swore he hated it. It was normal that he got a random impulse to buy you a weirdly specific snack he saw at the store because “it just screamed your vibe.” It was normal that he sent you voice notes every time he saw something even remotely related to Shrek, even months after your presentation.
That was just friendship. Which was why, as a friend, he invited you to an arcade.
It was one of those places that felt like it had been stuck in time since the 90s—neon lights, sticky floors, a vague smell of burnt popcorn in the air. The kind of place that probably hadn’t passed a health inspection in years, but had an undeniable charm to it. You were too good at skee-ball.
It was honestly annoying. Heeseung had challenged you three times, and each time, you had obliterated him without breaking a sweat. It wasn’t even close. “You’re cheating,” he accused, arms crossed as he watched you land another perfect shot.
You grinned, tossing the last ball effortlessly. “You’re just mad because you suck.”
“I don’t suck,” he argued. “This game is just—rigged. The physics are all off.”
“Oh my god. Did you just say ‘the physics are off’ in a skee-ball game?”
“Yes,” he said, completely serious. “I am a man of logic and reason.”
You snorted, shaking your head. “Sure. Okay. Man of logic and reason. If you’re so smart, let’s see how well you do at Dance Dance Revolution.”
Heeseung froze. “I—uh—what?”
“Come on,” you said, already dragging him toward the machine. “Let’s see those skills.”
Here was the thing about Heeseung: he was good at a lot of things. He could play video games for hours without blinking. He could talk his way out of almost any bad situation. He could even recite the entire “All Star” lyrics from memory.
But he could not dance. At all. And that became painfully clear the second the game started.
Heeseung missed every step. Every single one. While you moved effortlessly, barely even glancing at the screen, he was flailing. His feet weren’t in sync with his brain. His arms kept jerking awkwardly, and he could hear you laughing beside him, and somehow, that made it worse.
By the time the game ended, Heeseung was defeated. He doubled over, hands on his knees, gasping dramatically. “I think I died,” he announced.
You patted his back. “You fought bravely.”
He looked up at you then, about to retort, but the words got lost somewhere in his throat. Because you were smiling at him—really smiling. Your eyes were crinkled at the edges, your face still flushed from laughing. The neon lights flickered against your skin, casting everything in shades of blue and pink, making you look—
Well. Heeseung swallowed. That weird, stupid, barely-there feeling? Yeah. It was there.
But you were just his friend.
So, when Beomgyu casually mentioned, in the most offhanded, unbothered way possible, that he thought you were cute, Heeseung should’ve just let it go. But he didn’t.
“You think she’s what?”
Beomgyu raised an eyebrow. “Cute. You know, in a hot way.”
Heeseung felt something in his chest twist. It was irrational. Objectively, completely irrational. Because, yeah, you were cute. That wasn’t news to him. He had eyes. He was aware. He had just… never thought about the fact that other people might also be aware.
Heeseung almost laughed. It was a knee-jerk reaction, the kind of dry, disbelieving scoff that came when someone said something so absurd it didn’t even process at first. But then, Beomgyu kept talking.
“I was thinking of asking her out.”
And Heeseung felt it. That twist, low and tight, in the pit of his stomach.
He blinked at Beomgyu, waiting for the usual rush of banter to kick in, for the easy teasing to roll off his tongue. But for some reason, his mouth felt dry. Beomgyu liked you. Beomgyu thought you were cute. Beomgyu wanted to date you.
It wasn’t that wild of a concept. People liked you all the time. You were funny and charming in that effortlessly chaotic way, the kind of person who made friends in the span of a single conversation. It made sense that Beomgyu, out of all people, would look at you and go, Yeah, she’s my type.
And it wasn’t like Heeseung had a say in the matter. So he shrugged, leaning back against the couch, and said, “Yeah, good for you, man. Good for you”
And that should’ve been the end of it. Except. Beomgyu actually did ask you out. And the worst part? You said yes.
At first, Heeseung didn’t think much of it. He was fine. It was fine.
So what if you had gone out with Beomgyu last Friday and came back looking kind of flushed, kind of happy? So what if, the next time he saw you, you had that soft, secretive look in your eyes, the one that said you were thinking about something that made your stomach twist in the good way?
So what. You weren’t dating. You weren’t his. And he sure as hell wasn’t jealous. Except then it wasn’t just one date. Because you went out again. And again. And again. And suddenly, Beomgyu wasn’t just one of Heeseung’s friends anymore—he was the guy you were seeing. And that, for some reason, was so much worse.
The thing about Beomgyu was that he was annoying. Like, Heeseung had always known this, but now, for the first time in his life, it felt personal. “Dude,” Beomgyu groaned, stretching his arms behind his head as they sat in their usual spot in the campus lounge. “Y/N is so fun, bro. Like, actually so fun.”
Heeseung clenched his jaw. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. She’s, like… different.” Heeseung made a face. “No, I’m serious,” Beomgyu whined. “She’s not like other girls.”
I’m gonna walk into traffic, Heeseung thought.
“No, like—” Beomgyu hesitated, looking off into the distance. “She’s just cool, you know?”
And Heeseung didn’t know why that pissed him off. Maybe because he knew that already. He had always known that. He had known it before Beomgyu, before any of these dates, before whatever the hell this was.
He had known it since the night he met you. Since the moment you called him Donatello when he was, in fact, Leonardo. Since the first time you said his name with that teasing edge, like you were permanently in on some joke he didn’t even realize he was making.
So, yeah. Maybe he didn’t like hearing Beomgyu say it like he had discovered it first.
But whatever. Heeseung let it go. Because it wasn’t like this was going to last forever. And then, it didn’t.
One day, you walked into Yunjin’s apartment, kicked your shoes off in a way that sent one flying across the room, and threw yourself onto the couch with all the weight of someone carrying a great and terrible burden.
Heeseung, sitting on the floor, scrolled mindlessly through his phone, pretending he hadn’t immediately noticed you. But then, you sighed. A deep, world-weary, existentially exhausted sigh.
Yunjin looked up from where she was painting her nails. “Jesus,” she muttered. “What.”
You groaned, stuffing your face into a pillow. “I think I’m over it.”
Heeseung’s thumb froze mid-scroll. Casual. He had to be casual. So, without looking up, he mumbled, “Over what?”
Another dramatic sigh. You rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers to life itself. “Beomgyu.”
Heeseung blinked. Okay.
Yunjin, who had been the biggest advocate of this whole thing, frowned. “Wait, what do you mean? You were literally texting him heart emojis yesterday.”
“I don’t know.” You stretched out your legs like the weight of your own existence was exhausting you. “I just… don’t feel like it anymore.”
Yunjin gave you a look. “Like, what? He’s a hobby you got bored of?”
“No! It’s just—” You hesitated, pressing your lips together. “Like, I liked the idea of him. And at first, it was fun. But then, the more time we spent together, the more I realized… I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
You exhaled, shutting your eyes. “I feel like I was trying to make myself like him the way I was supposed to. But it just wasn’t working.”
And that was when Heeseung’s grip on his phone tightened. He forced himself to keep his face neutral, tilting his head slightly as he looked at you. “The way you were supposed to?”
You turned your head towards him. “Yeah. Like, Beomgyu is great, okay? He’s funny, and he’s cute, and he’s nice, and I should like him.” You paused, expression softening. “But every time he kissed me, I just…”
You trailed off, lost in thought. Heeseung swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He wasn’t sure why.
Yunjin made a gagging noise. “Okay, ew. Please don’t get all sentimental about kissing Beomgyu on my couch.”
You laughed, pushing her half-heartedly with your foot. “I’m just saying—it’s not clicking. You ever get that? Like, you try to like someone, but no matter how much you do, it just doesn’t fit?”
And the way you looked at Heeseung when you asked that—like you expected him to understand—made something in his chest tighten. Because yeah. He knew exactly what that felt like. He just… couldn’t say it.
So he swallowed, rolling his shoulders back, and forced a small smirk. “Damn,” he said, voice light. “Tough loss for Beomgyu.”
You let out a soft huff of laughter. “Yeah.” Then, a pause. “Guess I’m single again.”
Something in Heeseung’s chest lurched. But he just nodded, keeping his expression neutral, easy, unfazed. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like it didn’t change everything.
A few weeks later, Heeseung showed up at your apartment. It was raining that day.
Not in a dramatic, cinematic way, but in that soft, half-hearted drizzle that made everything look just a little bit duller. The sky was gray, the streets were damp, and Heeseung had definitely stepped into at least two puddles on his way up to your place.
Which, in his opinion, was already way too much effort just to fix your stupid kitchen cabinet.
“Okay, I just wanna say,” he announced as soon as you let him in, dragging his slightly-wet socks across your floor, “I don’t know how the hell you managed to completely detach a cabinet door, but honestly? I’m kind of impressed.”
You rolled your eyes, stepping aside to let him in. “Are you gonna help me or are you gonna make fun of me?”
“Oh, I’m definitely gonna make fun of you.” He grinned, toeing off his shoes before making his way to your kitchen. “But I’ll fix it after.”
You followed behind him, crossing your arms as you watched him inspect the broken cabinet. It wasn’t like you had meant to break it. You had simply been existing in your own kitchen, minding your own business, when the handle somehow got caught on the sleeve of your hoodie—one tug too strong, and suddenly the door was in your hands instead of on its hinges.
“I literally don’t understand how this happened,” Heeseung muttered, crouching down to assess the damage.
“Okay, handyman,” you shot back. “Can you fix it or not?”
Heeseung snorted, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah, let me just—” He held out a hand. “Pass me my phone.”
You blinked. “Huh?”
“My hands are kinda full,” he said, nodding towards the cabinet door that he was currently balancing on one knee. “Look up how to fix this real quick.”
You huffed but grabbed his phone from the counter, unlocking it without thinking as you leaned against the kitchen island. You didn’t love the idea of looking up a YouTube tutorial like some kind of DIY newbie, but considering that Heeseung was already physically here fixing your problem for you, you figured you could at least meet him halfway.
So, with one hand holding his phone, you typed "how to reattach cabinet door" into the search bar—
And then, your thumb froze. Because right there, at the top of the screen, was a notification. A message. From Chaewon. Your stomach twisted.
It wasn’t like you didn’t know who Chaewon was. Of course, you did. You weren’t stupid. Chaewon was his ex.
The one he never really talked about. The one who had, at one point, been a name you’d only heard in passing, just a piece of his past that you had no real reason to care about. Except… you did.
Because now, here she was. On his screen. Texting him. And suddenly, you felt fucking ridiculous. Because why were you even reacting like this? It wasn’t like he was your boyfriend. It wasn’t like he owed you an explanation. So, then… why did it feel like this?
You forced yourself to look away from the message, pressing the YouTube link on the screen as if nothing had happened. But something had. Because when Heeseung glanced at you, waiting for your next words, you just… couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eyes.
“Uh.” You cleared your throat, suddenly hyper-aware of the way your voice didn’t sound normal. “It says you need a screwdriver.”
Heeseung raised an eyebrow at your abrupt shift in tone, but he didn’t question it. “Okay,” he said slowly, getting up to grab one from his bag.
You took the moment to shove his phone back onto the counter, clenching your jaw as you crossed your arms tighter over your chest. It was fine. You were fine.
“Hey.” His voice cut through the air, slightly muffled as he rummaged through his bag. “Can you hold this while I—”
“No, it’s fine.” The words came out too fast, too stiff.
And Heeseung noticed. He glanced at you, pausing with the screwdriver halfway in his grip. “You good?”
You forced out a laugh. “Yeah. Why?”
He narrowed his eyes slightly, tilting his head. “You just got all weird all of a sudden.”
“I didn’t.”
“You definitely did.”
You exhaled sharply, schooling your expression into something that wasn’t betrayal or insecurity or whatever dumb thing was currently buzzing inside your head. “I’m just tired.”
It wasn’t a total lie. Heeseung didn’t look fully convinced, but he didn’t push. He just hummed under his breath, turning back to the cabinet as he started working again.
And maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was irrational. But you couldn’t stop thinking about it. The notification. The name. The way your stomach had twisted on instinct before you even had a chance to tell yourself it didn’t matter.
Because maybe… Maybe it did.
The next time you’re at Yunjin’s apartment, Heeseung isn’t there.
It’s not intentional, not entirely. Maybe there’s a small, petty part of you that’s relieved when Yunjin mentions he’s out, like the universe decided to grant you a break from the exhausting push and pull of whatever this thing is between you. But mostly, you’re just here because you always are.
There’s an old episode of some dating reality show playing in the background, and Yunjin barely glances at it as she paints her toenails a shade of red so deep it’s almost brown. You pick at the hem of your sleeve, casual, too casual, before finally asking, “Does Heeseung still see Chaewon?”
Yunjin snorts, like it’s the dumbest thing she’s heard all day. “God, I hope not.”
Something in your stomach untwists just slightly, but you don’t let the relief settle. You just raise an eyebrow, feigning indifference. “What happened with them, anyway?”
Yunjin pauses, her brush hovering mid-air. She gives you a look. The kind that says she sees through you. The kind that makes your skin prickle with the discomfort of being known. But then she sighs, leans back against the couch, and says, “They burned out.”
You blink. “That’s it?”
Yunjin tilts her head. “You ever leave a candle burning too long?” She dips the brush back into the bottle, shaking her head. “They were good until they weren’t. And when they weren’t, it was obvious. Chaewon got tired of waiting for him to catch up.”
You frown. “Catch up?”
Yunjin shrugs. “She loved him first. And she wanted him to love her back just as fast, just as much. But Heeseung…” She sighs, blowing lightly on her nails. “Heeseung takes his time. He doesn’t fall in love all at once, he kind of… eases into it. Like the dumbass that he is.”
Your chest tightens.
Because you think about the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching. About the way he always notices when you’re cold before you even say anything. And then you think about the way he doesn’t say anything. About the way he’s always on the edge of something, always almost.
Yunjin is watching you. You can feel it. And you know, you just know, she’s about to say something that’s going to ruin you.
So you get up, stretch your arms above your head like you can shake the weight of this conversation off your skin. “Right. Well. That was fun. Thanks for the gossip.”
Yunjin smirks. “You’re so fucking obvious.” You ignore her, grabbing a handful of popcorn from the bowl on the coffee table. But before you can shove it in your mouth, she says, “Heeseung’s not stupid, you know. He just doesn’t like to move until he’s sure.”
You pause. And because you’re you, and because this is Heeseung, and because everything about this whole thing is a goddamn waiting game— You pretend you don’t hear her.
And then it’s 2:14 a.m. when your phone buzzes.
You’re half-asleep, curled up in bed, the glow of your screen slicing through the darkness. You squint at it, groggy, before reading the message.
heeseung: you awake?
heeseung: also. do u want mcdonalds
You blink. Then again. You type out a response with fingers that still feel half-dead from sleep.
you: is that even a question
heeseung: valid. be outside in 10
And just like that, you’re stepping into your slides, and slipping out the door like this is the most normal thing in the world. Because with Heeseung, it kind of is.
The streetlights cast long, tired shadows across the pavement, and the air is that weird mix of crisp and stale that only exists at this hour, like the city itself is pausing, caught between the last breath of night and the first inhale of morning.
Heeseung’s car rolls up exactly nine minutes later, music already playing low through the speakers. When you slide into the passenger seat, he barely even looks at you before reaching into the back and tossing you his hoodie.
“You’re gonna get cold,” he says simply.
You huff, but you put it on. It smells like him—faint detergent, something vaguely woody, and the unmistakable scent of McDonald’s fries from however many late-night runs have preceded this one.
Heeseung pulls out onto the street, the familiar hum of the engine settling between you. He’s got one hand lazily resting on the steering wheel, and there’s a soft shadow of exhaustion under his eyes, but he still looks… at ease.
It’s quiet for a while. Comfortable. The kind of silence that doesn’t feel like it needs filling.
Then, as he turns onto the main road, he says, “You ever think about how weird time is?”
You glance at him. “That’s an insane way to start a conversation.”
“I’m serious,” he laughs, tapping his fingers against the wheel. “Like, right now. It’s 2:30 a.m. for us, but somewhere else, it’s a normal afternoon. Someone’s getting lunch, someone’s going to work. And here we are, about to eat McNuggets in a parking lot.”
You hum. “I feel like this is your way of convincing me that time isn’t real.”
He nods solemnly. “Nothing is real.”
“Except McNuggets.”
“Exactly.”
A beat passes, the soft rumble of the tires against the road the only sound for a moment. Then, quieter, more thoughtful, Heeseung asks, “Where do you think you’ll be in a year?”
The question catches you off guard. You tilt your head, thinking. “I don’t know,” you admit. “I mean, I have plans, but… life never really goes how you expect it to, does it?”
Heeseung exhales a small laugh. “No. It really doesn’t.”
You hesitate before adding, “Where do you think you’ll be?”
He takes a moment. His grip on the steering wheel tightens just slightly, like he’s holding onto the words before letting them go. “I don’t know either.” He pauses, then glances at you with something unreadable in his eyes. “I just hope I’m somewhere that still feels like home.”
You feel something shift. A small, almost imperceptible weight settling between the two of you.
And maybe it’s the hour. Maybe it’s the fact that your brain isn’t fully awake yet. Or maybe it’s just him—this version of Heeseung that only exists at 2:30 a.m., the one who speaks in half-truths and unspoken things. But you suddenly feel like you understand exactly what he means.
The McDonald’s drive-thru is basically empty when you pull in. The girl at the window looks like she hates her job, and Heeseung, being Heeseung, makes it his personal mission to get her to smile.
“Are McFlurries still a scam?” he asks solemnly.
The girl raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “You mean, is the machine broken?”
“Yeah.”
“Obviously.”
Heeseung sighs. “I knew it. A tragedy, really.”
Her lips twitch—just barely—but he sees it. He shoots you a triumphant look as he pulls forward.
With the food secured, he parks in a near-empty lot. There’s something about eating fast food in a car past midnight that makes it taste ten times better—something about the way the city is so still, like the world has shrunk down to just the two of you and the glow of the dashboard lights.
For a while, you just eat in silence, the occasional rustle of a fry bag or the quiet click of a sauce container the only noise. Then Heeseung says, “If you could live in any movie, which one would it be?”
You think for a moment. “Probably something stupid and fun. Like… a rom-com where everything works out in the end.”
Heeseung snorts. “Yeah? You want to be the main character that badly?”
“Obviously.”
He grins, dipping a fry into his BBQ sauce. “You’d be the chaotic best friend, though.”
You throw a fry at him. He catches it in his mouth.
“What about you?” you ask, popping a nugget into your mouth.
Heeseung leans back against the seat, thinking. “I don’t know. Something small. Quiet. One of those movies where nothing really happens, but it still makes you feel something.”
You tilt your head. “Like a waiting room.”
Heeseung turns to you. “What?”
“A waiting room,” you say, like it’s obvious. “That’s what those movies feel like. Like something is about to happen, but you don’t know what, and maybe it’s okay if nothing does.”
He stares at you for a long moment. Then he smiles. And it’s not his usual grin, not the teasing, lopsided smirk. It’s something smaller, softer. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Like a waiting room.”
Neither of you say anything after that. The city hums in the background, neon lights bleeding into the darkness, the last remnants of fries sitting forgotten between you.
And then, a party. Not the kind you remember from three years ago, not the one where you met a boy covered in green body paint who changed your life without even meaning to. But still, a party. The music is just as loud, the air just as thick with heat and laughter, the night just as full of things waiting to happen.
You’re not sure why you came. Yunjin had begged, of course, had stood in your doorway with her most dramatic expression, wailing about how you never do anything fun anymore. But even then, you could have said no. You could have curled up in your apartment, wrapped yourself in something soft and safe, ignored the way your stomach flipped when you thought, what if Heeseung is there?
But you didn’t.
And now, you’re here, standing in the middle of someone’s too-small living room, holding a lukewarm drink, feeling like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit. And then, you hear your name.
It cuts through the music, through the laughter, through the static in your brain. It pulls you toward the kitchen, toward the familiar lilt of a voice you know better than your own. And there he is. Heeseung.
Standing in front of the fridge, cracking open a beer, wearing a faded t-shirt and jeans that hang just right. His hair is a little messy, his eyes a little bright, and when he sees you, he grins—that same lopsided, teasing, dangerous smile.
"Look who finally decided to show up," he says, raising his drink in a mock toast.
You roll your eyes, taking a sip of whatever’s in your cup. "Don’t make a big deal out of it."
Heeseung hums, leaning against the counter. "Wouldn’t dream of it."
But he’s looking at you like it is a big deal. Like maybe he’s been waiting for you all night. Like maybe he always is.
Hours pass, the party moves around you—people spilling in and out of rooms, music shifting from one song to the next—but you and Heeseung stay where you are, orbiting around each other.
At some point, someone suggests a game. Cards, or maybe something more ridiculous—something designed to make people confess things they wouldn’t say otherwise. You should say no. You should step away before you find yourself caught in something you can’t get out of.
But you don’t. You sit next to Heeseung on the floor, close enough that your knees touch. The game starts, questions fly, people laugh. And then—
Jake turns to you. "Alright, Y/N. Who was your first college crush?"
You blink. "What?"
The group whoops in unison. Jungwon throws an arm around your shoulder. "Come on, don’t be shy."
Your throat goes dry. Your eyes flicker to Heeseung, just for a second, but it’s enough. His smirk twitches—just barely, just enough to be noticeable—and suddenly, you know you have to get out of this.
You clear your throat, reaching for your drink. "I think I’ve blocked it out," you lie.
A chorus of boos erupts, but the game moves on. The moment passes. But beside you, Heeseung is watching you, his fingers tapping against his knee, like he’s putting something together. You pretend not to notice.
Later, when the party has blurred into something soft and distant, when most people are drunk or half-asleep, when the night has stretched itself out into something too fragile to hold forever, Heeseung finds you on the balcony.
You’re leaning against the railing, breathing in the cool air, staring out at the city lights. "You hiding from me?"
You don’t turn around. "You think everything’s about you, don’t you?"
He laughs—soft, amused, something warm threading through the sound. "It usually is."
You roll your eyes, but then he’s beside you, resting his forearms on the railing, close enough that you can feel the heat of him even through the night air.
For a moment, neither of you speak. The music inside is muffled now, the party nothing more than background noise. The city stretches out before you, endless and alive, full of people who have no idea that this moment is happening.
And then, quietly, Heeseung asks, "You really don’t remember your first college crush?"
Your fingers tighten slightly around the railing. You exhale. "I remember."
A pause. "Yeah?"
You glance at him. He’s watching you, expression unreadable, something deep and knowing in his eyes. You swallow. "Yeah."
Heeseung tilts his head slightly, and for a second, you think—Is he going to ask? Does he already know? But he doesn’t.
He just nods, looking back at the skyline, and says, "Me too."
And somehow, that’s worse. Because you think—no, you know—that he’s not talking about some early college memory, some long-forgotten infatuation.
He’s talking about you.
And for the first time, you wonder if this thing between you—this waiting, this almost, this three years of something unspoken—has been more obvious than you thought. You wonder if maybe, just maybe, you’re not the only one waiting.
One month later. The thing about time is that it moves whether you’re ready or not. It stretches, it folds, it carries you forward even when you feel like you’re standing still.
And ever since the party, things with Heeseung have been… different. Not in an obvious way. Not in the way that people would notice, not in the way that Yunjin would tease you about over breakfast. But in the small things.
In the way his eyes linger just a little too long. In the way your stomach flips when he says your name. In the way every conversation feels like it’s balancing on the edge of something you can’t name.
Because you and Heeseung have always been close, always been drawn together like something written into the universe itself. But now? Now, it feels different. Like someone turned up the volume on something you didn’t even realize was playing in the background.
And the worst part? Neither of you are talking about it.
Instead, you’re doing what you do best—pretending. Pretending that nothing is different, that things are still light and easy, that three years of something unspoken aren’t finally starting to spill over the edges.
Until one day, when you’re sitting on Yunjin’s couch, your phone rings. It’s your mother. You hesitate before answering, already bracing yourself for whatever she’s about to say.
And the moment you put your phone down, you groan, collapsing onto the couch, like the weight of the conversation is physically pressing down on you. Heeseung and Yunjin are both looking at you expectantly, their attention fully on you in a way that makes you regret opening your mouth at all. But it’s too late now, so you just exhale, pressing your fingers against your temples before muttering, "My mom called."
Yunjin snorts. "Yeah, we got that much. What did she want?"
You roll your eyes, but the annoyance in your chest is directed at yourself more than anything else. "There’s a wedding. My cousin’s. Next weekend."
Heeseung, who had been absentmindedly rolling a bottle cap between his fingers, finally glances up, eyes curious. "You going?"
"Yeah." You sigh again. "Didn’t really have a choice. If I said no, she would’ve found a way to guilt-trip me into oblivion."
Yunjin grins knowingly. "Classic mom move."
You hum in agreement, then hesitate, picking at the hem of your sleeve. "And then she made it weird," you mutter.
Heeseung raises an eyebrow, shifting slightly on the couch so he’s facing you more fully. "How weird?"
You pause for a second, then groan, throwing your head back. "She brought up the fact that I’ve never brought a boyfriend to anything."
Yunjin cackles. She actually leans forward, hands on her knees, cackling. "Oh my God," she wheezes. "That’s so embarrassing for you."
You glare. "Thank you, Yunjin, for your endless support."
But Heeseung doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t tease. He just tilts his head, watching you with an unreadable expression. "She said that?"
You nod, rubbing your temples. "Yeah. She was all, ‘You can bring someone, you know,’ and then just immediately went for the ‘You’ve never brought a boyfriend to anything,’ like I don’t already know that."
Yunjin wipes a fake tear from her eye, still far too entertained. "Damn. She really called you out like that."
"Okay," you deadpan, "I think we’ve established that this is humiliating for me. Can we move on?"
But Yunjin grins, her eyes practically glowing with mischief, and that’s when you know you should have never said anything at all. "Well," she says, stretching out the word, "if it bothers you that much… you could always bring Heeseung."
Silence.
You feel it immediately—the way the air shifts, the way your stomach twists, the way your breath catches for just a second too long. You don’t look at Heeseung. You can’t.
Instead, you scoff, shoving her shoulder. "Oh my God, shut up."
"I’m serious!" she laughs. "It makes sense, doesn’t it? You need a date. Heeseung’s around."
Heeseung is silent. And that—that’s what makes your chest tighten. Because Heeseung is never silent.
You finally force yourself to glance at him, just a flicker, just to see how he’s reacting to this. And when you do, you find him already looking at you—his expression unreadable, his fingers stilling where they had been absently playing with the bottle cap.
Something tightens in your throat. Because it’s one thing to laugh it off. It’s one thing to pretend this isn’t something charged, something delicate, something that feels like standing on the edge of something too big to name.
But Heeseung isn’t laughing.
When you open the door on the wedding day, Heeseung is already leaning against his car, hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks, looking entirely too good for someone who is supposed to be doing you a favor. His hair is neat but still has that slight, careless tousle to it, his sleeves are pushed up just enough to reveal his forearms, and his black dress shirt is criminally well-fitted.
You try very hard not to notice any of that. But Heeseung is looking at you like you just stopped time.
It’s not obvious—he doesn’t say anything right away, doesn’t let his jaw drop like some kind of movie cliché—but his fingers twitch slightly where they’re resting in his pockets, and his throat bobs as he swallows. His eyes move over you in a way that isn’t just admiration but something deeper, something heavier, something that makes your chest feel too tight.
You pretend not to notice that, either. Instead, you lift an eyebrow, shifting your weight onto one foot. "You gonna open the door for me, or are you just gonna stand there?"
Heeseung blinks, snapping out of it. He clears his throat, pushing off the car, his usual smirk creeping back into place. "Right, yeah. My bad."
You roll your eyes, but your face feels warm anyway. The ride starts out easy. The hum of the road fills the space between you, the occasional comment about the directions or a song playing on the radio breaking the silence.
"You, uh," Heeseung starts, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel. "You sure your mom’s gonna be cool with me coming?"
You blink. "What? Yeah, of course. I already told her."
He raises an eyebrow. "You told her?"
"Yeah," you say, adjusting the hem of your dress. "I mean, I talk about you all the time, so it’s not like it’s weird or anything."
Silence. You don’t notice it at first, but when you glance over, Heeseung is staring straight ahead, gripping the wheel a little tighter than before.
And the thing is—Heeseung is not someone who gets flustered easily. He doesn’t trip over his words, doesn’t get all weird when people talk about him. But now, he’s sitting there, completely silent, like his brain just blue-screened.
Because you talk about him all the time. To your mom. His ears burn at the thought.
Because it’s one thing to be close. It’s one thing to be your best friend, to be the person you go to for late-night McDonald’s runs and life-altering conversations on balconies. But it’s another thing entirely to know that he exists in your life even when he’s not there.
That when you’re on the phone with your mom, when you’re recounting your day, when you’re talking about the people who matter—he’s there. And it’s so stupid how much that does to him.
He coughs, forcing himself to sound normal. "Oh. Cool. Yeah. That’s cool."
You snort. "I told her you’re my friend, and that’s it."
Heeseung hums, tapping his fingers on the wheel again. "Yeah. Right."
But for some reason, the word friend doesn’t sit right in his mouth.
The wedding is beautiful. Not in the over-the-top, fairytale kind of way, but in the way that feels real. The ceremony is held outdoors, the late afternoon light draping everything in gold, the air carrying the soft hum of laughter and clinking glasses. There are flowers on every table, music drifting lazily through the air, and a warmth that lingers beneath the chatter of distant relatives catching up.
And you almost forget that you’re here with Heeseung. Almost. Except—you can feel him.
You can feel him next to you at the table, the warmth of his presence settling into your skin. You can feel the way his hand brushes against yours when he reaches for something, the way his eyes flicker toward you when he hears you laugh.
And the worst part is that he looks good as hell.
It’s almost unfair, the way he carries himself. The way his sleeves are still rolled up, the way his shirt is slightly undone at the collar, the way he leans back in his chair, legs stretched out, watching everything unfold like he belongs here.
And for the first time in a long time you don’t know where you stand with him.
Because this is Heeseung. The boy who sends you Shrek memes at 2 a.m. The boy who once argued with a barista about oat milk for a full five minutes. The boy who makes you laugh until you can’t breathe.
But right now? Right now, he’s something else, too. Something that makes your stomach flip. Something that makes you forget how to breathe.
The music shifts. It’s not immediate—not some grand, dramatic moment where the world slows down—but you feel it.
The moment the first notes of the song drift through the air, you feel it in your chest. Like something tightening. Like something pulling at a thread you don’t want to unravel. Because you know this song. Of course you know this song. And so does he.
You don’t even have to look at Heeseung to know he recognizes it too. That he knows exactly what’s playing, that he knows how much you love her, that he knows you’ve played this song before—in his car, in your apartment, in the quiet spaces between friendship and something else.
You know he knows. And yet, he still turns to you, his voice a low murmur beneath the hum of conversation. “Phoebe Bridgers,” he says.
You swallow. “Yeah.” Heeseung hums, watching you carefully. His fingers drum lightly against the table, slow and steady, in time with the beat of the song. Then, after a second—
"You should dance with me."
You blink. You blink again. Your stomach twists. “What?”
Heeseung shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t mean anything. “You love this song.”
Which—okay. That’s true. But this is not a song you dance to. This is a song you listen to alone, in your room, in the quiet, when it’s too late and you’re too restless and you’re thinking about things you shouldn’t be thinking about.
This is not a wedding song. And yet, Heeseung is still looking at you like that, like this is a dare, like he’s waiting for you to say no, to call him out, to pull away before it’s too late.
And yet, his hand is outstretched, waiting, patient, warm. And yet— You take it. You don’t think, you just do it, just let yourself be pulled. And Heeseung holds you like he’s afraid to press too hard.
One hand on your waist. The other clasping yours loosely, like he’s letting you decide how close to be. Like he’s still waiting for you to laugh and push him away and say, ‘This is so stupid’.
But you don’t. You just breathe. You just exist here, in this moment, with him.
If you were a waiting room, I would never see a doctor
I would sit there with my first-aid kit and bleed
Your throat tightens. Because God, this song.
Because you know every lyric by heart, because you know what it means, because there’s something about it that always makes you feel like you’re standing in the middle of something you’ll never quite have.
And now, here you are, dancing to it with him.
Heeseung exhales softly, tilting his head toward you. “You ever think about that?”
You blink. “Think about what?”
His fingers twitch slightly against your waist. “How music reminds you of people.”
Your stomach flips. Because of course you do. Of course, you think about it. Of course, this song, this moment, this whole damn night is going to be tied to him now, forever, no matter what happens after.
You nod. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “I think about it.”
Heeseung hums, like that makes sense. Like he already knew what you were going to say. Then—
"Does this song remind you of me?"
Your breath catches. The air between you thickens.
Because that shouldn’t be a question. Because he already knows the answer. Because you’re standing here with him, swaying to a song that makes your chest ache, and you know, you know he hears the lyrics just as clearly as you do.
I wanna be the broken love song that feeds your misery.
You clear your throat, forcing yourself to sound normal. “Maybe.”
His lips twitch. “Maybe?”
You narrow your eyes. “Don’t push it.”
Heeseung laughs, soft, breathless. And God, you hate him.
You hate the way he makes everything feel like a game, like he’s always hovering right at the edge of something and waiting for you to push him over. You hate that it’s working.
And when broken bodies are washed ashore—who am I to ask for more?
You shiver. Because this is the part of the song that gets to you every time. Because who are you to ask for more?
Who are you to ask for something that maybe, just maybe, was never meant to be yours? But then Heeseung, of all people, says “I think this song reminds me of you, too.”
Your heart stops. You look at him, and he’s already looking at you, and suddenly this doesn’t feel like pretending anymore.
This doesn’t feel like something you can laugh off. Because Heeseung is serious.
Because his hand is still on your waist, his fingers still brushing against the fabric of your dress, his breath still warm against your cheek, and you don’t know how to go back from this. You don’t know if you want to.
Heeseung shifts slightly, his grip tightening for just a second. “You ever think about it?”
You blink. “Think about what?”
Heeseung hesitates, his eyes flickering over your face. His jaw tightens—just barely.
"Us."
Your stomach drops.
Because he says it so simply, like it’s nothing, like it’s a passing thought, like he hasn’t just destroyed your entire world in one syllable. Us. The word sits heavy in the air between you, impossible to ignore, impossible to pretend you didn’t hear.
Heeseung doesn’t move, doesn’t look away, doesn’t do anything to make this easier for you. He just keeps holding you, keeps swaying with you, keeps waiting—like he has all the time in the world.
You want to say something.
You want to throw your head back and laugh it off, tell him he’s being ridiculous, tell him to stop playing with you. You want to scoff and roll your eyes and pretend that the thought of you and Heeseung has never crossed your mind, that it hasn’t been haunting you for years, that it hasn’t been living under your skin since the first time he looked at you like you were something worth remembering.
But you can’t. Because this is Heeseung. Because he knows you too well, because he’d hear the lie in your voice, because there is nowhere left to hide when he’s looking at you like this.
So instead, you stall. You breathe in, slow and careful, and say, "What about us?"
It’s a cheap move. A pathetic attempt at deflection. And Heeseung knows it.
He exhales, the ghost of a laugh slipping past his lips, his fingers tightening ever so slightly on your waist. "You know what I mean."
You glance down at your hands, the way your fingers are still laced together with his, the way your other hand rests so easily on his shoulder, like this is something you’ve done a thousand times before. And maybe you have.
Maybe you and Heeseung have always been dancing around each other like this. Maybe you’ve just never let yourself notice. The song keeps playing, keeps taunting you, keeps threading its meaning between your ribs, pulling you closer and closer to something you don’t know how to name.
I wanna make you drive all night just because I said, maybe you should come over
You let out a slow breath, forcing your voice to stay steady. "We’re friends, Heeseung."
He hums. "Yeah. We are."
But he doesn’t let go.
He doesn’t move away, doesn’t drop his hand from your waist, doesn’t step back into the safe distance you’re used to. He stays. And that’s the part that gets you.
Because if he really believed that was all this was, he wouldn’t be holding you like this. If he really believed that was all this was, he wouldn’t have asked the question in the first place.
You glance up at him again, searching, waiting for him to say something else, to give you an out, to change the subject, to laugh and let it go. But he doesn’t. He just watches you. And suddenly, you feel exposed in a way you never have before.
Like every late-night conversation, every half-smile, every almost has been leading here, to this moment, to this song, to this feeling that you don’t know how to escape. You force yourself to swallow.
"Why are you asking me this?" you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.
Heeseung tilts his head slightly, considering you, considering his words.
"Because I think about it, too."
Your breath catches in your throat. Your fingers tighten against his shoulder. Your heart slams against your ribs.
You feel like the whole world has shrunk down to just this. To the space between your bodies, to the way he’s looking at you, to the fact that he thinks about it, too.
Heeseung’s fingers twitch slightly against yours, but he doesn’t let go. He’s watching you with this careful intensity, like he’s waiting for something, like he’s giving you the chance to decide what happens next.
And that’s the problem.
Because you don’t know what happens next.
Because you’ve spent years existing in this strange, untouchable place with him, in this in-between, in this waiting room of a relationship that never moves forward but never lets you leave either.
And now, suddenly, here you are. Standing on the edge of something irreversible.
She'll be the best you ever had if you let her
Your heart stumbles. Because this song knows too much.
Because this song feels too much like the two of you, like something ripped from your ribs and put into lyrics, like a truth you weren’t ready to confront. And maybe—just maybe—Heeseung feels it, too.
Because he leans in. Just a little. Just enough.
Not enough to cross the line, not enough to destroy the thing you’ve built, but enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath, enough that the scent of him—clean soap, something faintly woodsy, something entirely him—wraps around you.
Enough that you could close the distance if you wanted to. And God, you do.
But you don’t. Because you’re afraid. Because you don’t know what happens when you let this become real.
Because Heeseung is still looking at you like that, like he could ruin you if he wanted to, like he’s giving you the chance to ruin him first.
I know it's for the better
You exhale, too shaky, too uneven. And Heeseung notices.
His gaze flickers, barely, to your lips, to the space between you, to the way you haven’t moved away from him yet. And then his jaw clenches.
Like he’s just realized how close you are. Like he’s just realized this is about to happen if neither of you stop it. And that’s the thing, neither of you stop it.
Not immediately. Not when his fingers tighten slightly on your waist. Not when your grip on his shoulder trembles just a little. Not when the air between you stretches so thin it might snap in half.
Not until you hear, Know it’s for the better…
The song starts to fade. The moment fractures. And just like that, you both pull away.
Not much. Just an inch, a breath, a single second too late. But it’s enough.
Enough for reality to settle back in. Enough for the noise of the wedding to come rushing back, for the chatter and laughter and clinking glasses to remind you where you are, who you are, what you almost did.
And Heeseung, he knows it, too. You see it in the way his throat bobs, in the way he blinks hard, in the way he forces himself to take a step back, to drop his hand from your waist, to roll his shoulders like he can shake off whatever just happened between you.
The song ends. And neither of you say a word.
And three months later, silence.
At first, it’s subtle—just a missed text here, a conversation that doesn’t last as long as it used to, an inside joke that no longer lands the way it should. But then it becomes something else. Something colder. Something that feels less like a pause and more like a choice.
And that’s what happened to you and Heeseung.
You didn’t stop talking completely. That would have been too obvious, too final, too much like admitting that something had shifted beyond repair. You still sent the occasional meme, still ran into each other at Yunjin’s, still had conversations that skimmed the surface of what they used to be.
But it was different. The late-night McDonald’s runs stopped. The effortless teasing felt strained. The ease of being around each other—the one thing you never questioned—was suddenly gone.
Neither of you did anything about it. You let it happen. Because it was easier that way.
Because acknowledging it meant admitting that something had changed, that you had gotten too close, that something had almost happened that night at the wedding. And you weren’t ready to admit that.
You weren’t ready to ask if Heeseung had almost kissed you, or if you had almost kissed him, or if you had both just been caught in some stupid, fleeting moment that meant nothing at all. So, you didn’t.
And now, three months later, all that’s left is silence.
The rain comes down in sheets, heavy and relentless, drumming against the windows of your apartment. You sit curled up on your couch, blanket wrapped around you, phone abandoned on the coffee table. The storm had rolled in an hour ago, sudden and unforgiving, and now the whole city feels swallowed by it, the streetlights barely visible through the downpour.
Then, there’s a knock at your door. You weren’t expecting anyone. It’s too late, too stormy, too much of a nothing kind of night for visitors.
But something in you knows—before you even open the door, before you even take that first breath—that it’s him.
And it is. It’s Heeseung.
Standing in your doorway, soaking wet, hair plastered to his forehead, breathing unevenly like he just ran here.
You freeze. "Heeseung?"
His eyes flicker over your face, searching, desperate, wild in a way you’ve never seen before. His clothes are damp, sticking to his frame, his hands clenched at his sides. But it’s his expression that gets you.
Like something is breaking inside of him. Like something has already broken.
“I can’t—” His voice catches, hoarse and raw, and then he shakes his head, like words are failing him, like they’re too small for what he’s trying to say.
Your heart is pounding. “Heeseung, what are you—”
"I can’t stop thinking about you."
The words crash into you like a wave, knocking the breath from your lungs. You stare.
Heeseung swallows hard, shaking his head like he’s trying to clear it, like he’s trying to find a way to make you understand.
"I’ve tried," he continues, voice shaking. "I really, really tried. But you’re always there. You’re in every song I hear, in every dumb inside joke, in every single thing that happens to me. I see something stupid and my first thought is always, ‘Y/N would think that’s hilarious.’ I go to text you and then I stop because I don’t know if I’m supposed to anymore. I—"
He lets out a sharp, frustrated laugh, dragging a hand through his wet hair. “I thought if I just gave it time, it would go away. I thought I could just—move past it. But I still feel like I’m standing in that damn Halloween party with you, waiting for something to happen.”
Your throat is tight. “Heeseung—”
“I miss you,” he interrupts, pushing forward, stepping into your space like he’s afraid you’ll shut the door on him if he doesn’t. "I miss you so much it’s making me lose my goddamn mind."
Your pulse is roaring in your ears. You should say something. You should do something. But you can’t. You just stand there, staring at him, your body frozen in place. And Heeseung just keeps talking.
"I don’t know how to be your friend anymore," he admits, wrecked, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t know how to sit next to you and act like I don’t want more. I don’t know how to look at you and pretend that you’re not the first person I think about when I wake up and the last person I think about before I fall asleep. I don’t know how to listen to that fucking song without remembering the way you looked at me that night."
The air is too thick. Your vision is blurring.
Heeseung breathes out a shaky, desperate laugh, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "And the worst part?" He meets your eyes, and it destroys you. "I don’t think I want to stop thinking about you."
And that’s it.
That’s what breaks you. That’s what makes you move.
You don’t think. You don’t hesitate.
You step forward, grab the front of his stupid wet shirt, and kiss him.
The storm rages outside. And for the first time in three years, neither of you pull away.
The moment your lips crash into his, Heeseung stumbles back a step, caught off guard, but then he’s pulling you closer, like he’s been waiting for this forever.
His hands cup your face, fingers threading into your hair, holding you like you might disappear if he lets go. And you grip the front of his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you standing, like if you let go, the moment might shatter around you.
Heeseung sighs into the kiss, like he’s relieved, like this is something he’s needed more than breathing itself. He tilts his head, deepening it, and you melt into him, the heat of his mouth sending shivers down your spine.
It’s surreal, familiar and foreign all at once, like stepping into a dream you’ve had before but never been able to hold onto. Because this is Heeseung. The boy who has always been by your side, the boy who has spent years making you laugh until your stomach hurts, the boy who has always been a constant in your life.
But now, he’s something else too. Now, he’s the only thing you can feel. And that’s the strangest part, how utterly consuming this is. Because your brain is struggling to keep up, still caught in the absurdity of it—Heeseung is kissing me, I’m kissing Heeseung, this is happening, this is happening.
And then he moves forward, stepping into the apartment fully, finally, his hands still tangled in your hair, still refusing to let you go. The door clicks shut behind him, the sound almost lost beneath the roar of the storm outside.
Heeseung doesn’t hesitate. His lips find yours again, his hands skimming over your waist, like he’s memorizing the shape of you, like he’s trying to make up for all the time he spent pretending he didn’t want this. And you can’t breathe. Because this isn’t like any kiss you’ve ever had before.
You’ve kissed people you liked. You’ve kissed people you thought you could love. But you have never, never felt this. This heat, this ache, this impossible, indescribable pull. Like your entire life has been leading up to this moment.
Like every other kiss you’ve had before this was just a poor imitation of what it was supposed to feel like. And that’s terrifying. Because how do you go back after this? How do you pretend this doesn’t mean something?
Heeseung exhales against your lips, his breath uneven, his fingers tightening just slightly against your waist. Like he’s thinking the same thing, like he’s struggling just as much as you are to make sense of this.
You should stop. You should pull away, take a breath, process. But you can’t.
Because he tilts his head, kisses you deeper, and suddenly, you’re walking backward without realizing it, your body moving on instinct, your hands clutching at his shirt as if he’s the only thing keeping you steady. Heeseung follows, one hand sliding down to rest against the small of your back, guiding you without thinking, without hesitation.
Your legs hit the couch. You stumble slightly, your balance faltering for the first time, and Heeseung, on pure reflex, catches you. His hands tighten instantly, pulling you against him, steadying you before you can fall.
But the movement leaves zero space between you. You can feel everything, his chest rising and falling against yours, the heat radiating off of him, the way his fingers twitch slightly where they’re curled into the fabric of your shirt.
His breath brushes against your lips, his nose bumping against yours as you both hover, just for a moment, just long enough to realize how close you are, just long enough to make it worse.
Before you can stop yourself, before you can think, you kiss him again. This time, it’s slower. This time, it’s deeper. This time, it’s not about the rush, the adrenaline, the storm raging outside. This time, it’s about everything else.
About the way his hands move carefully now, like he’s trying to remember every single detail, about the way he tilts his head slightly to fit his mouth against yours like he’s done this a thousand times in his head, about the way he lets out a soft, wrecked sound when you slide your fingers up into his still-damp hair. And you’re drowning in him.
You fall back onto the couch, pulling him with you, and he follows without hesitation, bracing himself with one hand on the cushion beside you, the other still gripping your waist, his fingers trembling just slightly against your skin.
His lips leave yours only for a second, just long enough for him to breathe, just long enough for his eyes to flicker over your face, like he’s trying to memorize you at this moment.
And then, so softly you almost don’t hear it—
“Tell me you want this.”
Your breath catches. Because God, you do. You do. You always have. So you don’t say anything. You just pull him down and kiss him again.
The weight of him settles over you, his body pressed against yours, his hands everywhere and nowhere at once—on your waist, your ribs, twitching like he doesn’t know where to hold you first, like he doesn’t want to stop touching you long enough to decide.
It's overwhelming. His warmth, his scent, the soft, unsteady breaths he exhales between kisses, the way his fingers slide under the hem of your shirt just slightly, just enough to brush against bare skin. It’s careful. Hesitant. Like he’s testing something fragile.
Heeseung groans softly, his grip tightening, his lips parting against yours in a way that sends a full-body shiver down your spine. His hands move up your sides, down to your hips, fingers pressing into the fabric of your clothes like he wants to commit this exact moment to memory. You arch just slightly, chasing his warmth, and the movement makes Heeseung suck in a sharp breath, his forehead pressing briefly against yours.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters.
You laugh, breathless, hands sliding up into his hair, tugging just enough to make him shudder. “That’s dramatic.”
His lips graze yours again, barely there, just enough to drive you insane. “You have no idea.”
And you could stay here forever—wrapped up in him, in his weight, in the way his lips brush over your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he’s learning you one kiss at a time.
He shifts just slightly, pressing more of his weight into you, his thigh slipping between yours, and your breath catches. Heeseung notices immediately. You feel it in the way his body tenses, in the way his grip on your waist tightens, in the way he exhales shakily against your cheek.
You don’t move. He doesn’t move. The air changes. Slows. Thickens. And suddenly, it’s not just kissing anymore. Suddenly, it’s so much more than that. It’s every feeling you’ve been ignoring, every second of the past three years, every single moment leading up to this one catching up to you all at once.
And Heeseung feels it too. Because he pulls back, just a little, just enough to look at you properly, his expression wrecked. His fingers brush against your cheek, light, careful, like he’s waiting for you to tell him to stop. Like he’s scared of what happens if you don’t.
You stare up at him, breathless, your pulse pounding in your ears, and— God, he’s beautiful.
His hair is still damp from the rain, strands falling over his forehead in a way that makes him look softer. His lips are kiss-bruised, parted slightly as he catches his breath, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.
You exhale slowly, one hand sliding down his chest, feeling the way his heart slams against his ribs, and he shudders. You know what this means. You know there’s no going back after this. So you whisper—soft, shaky, everything all at once—
"Heeseung."
And that’s all it takes.
Heeseung exhales—a shaky, uneven breath, like he’s barely holding himself together. His fingers tighten slightly where they rest on your waist, his body still hovering over yours. Then, softly, barely above a whisper—
"Say my name again."
Your stomach flips. You don’t, not at first. Because you feel lightheaded, because this is Heeseung, because what the hell is happening right now?
But Heeseung isn’t impatient. He doesn’t push. He just watches you, his gaze flickering over your face—your lips, your eyes, the way your breath catches in your throat. And then, carefully, deliberately, he grabs your wrist.
Your breath hitches as he lifts your hand, as he guides it slowly, until your palm is pressed flat against his chest. You can feel it. His heartbeat. It’s slamming against his ribs, too fast, too unsteady, completely out of control.
You stare at your hand, at where it rests over his racing pulse, at the way his skin burns beneath your touch. Heeseung swallows hard.
"You feel that?" he murmurs, his voice low, rough, wrecked.
And you do, because it’s all you can feel, because it’s like his entire body is responding to you, and you nod, your fingers twitching slightly against his shirt.
Heeseung lets out a breath like he’s relieved, like he needed you to know this, to feel this, to understand what you do to him. Then, slowly, carefully, giving you every chance to stop him, he leans down, brushing his lips against the curve of your jaw. You suck in a breath, your eyes fluttering shut as he moves lower, pressing the softest, slowest kiss to the side of your neck. Your fingers curl against his shoulders, your pulse hammering beneath your skin, and he feels it.
“Heeseung,” you breathe, and it’s embarrassing how it comes out, a little too soft, a little too needy, like you’re already losing yourself in him.
He shudders, letting out a sharp breath. “Fuck—”
Then, his teeth graze your pulse point, and you gasp, back arching instinctively into him. Your hips shift beneath his, your hands moving without thinking, fingers grasping at the hem of his hoodie, your skin itching for more of him, more warmth, more of everything.
Heeseung lets you. He lets you push the fabric up, lets you brush your fingers over the bare skin of his stomach, lets you feel the way his muscles tense under your touch. He exhales a groan, head dropping to your shoulder like you’ve just taken the breath right out of him.
He murmurs your name, voice strangled, his fingers digging into your waist as if you’ve completely unraveled him. You suck in a breath, your hands still fisting his hoodie.
“I want to hear you,” he admits, so quietly, like he almost wasn’t planning to say it out loud. “I want to—”
He cuts himself off with another soft groan as you push the hoodie all the way up, your fingers skimming over his bare chest before you finally tug it over his head. It hits the floor with a soft thud, but you barely register it.
Because Heeseung is above you, half-naked, breathing heavy, flushed, and looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that exists. You don’t know what to do with yourself. So you just stare up at him, breathless, waiting. And then, finally, you whisper—
"Heeseung, tell me what you want."
Heeseung exhales sharply, his breath warm against your skin, his fingers still pressing into your waist like he’s trying to ground himself, steady himself, like he’s trying not to lose his mind completely.
His hand slides up, fingertips grazing your ribs, slow and deliberate, and you shudder beneath him. His thumb brushes the fabric of your shirt, his touch gentle but knowing, and he meets your eyes, and God, he looks ruined.
"I want—" He starts, but then he laughs breathlessly, shaking his head like he can’t believe himself, like this is too much, like you are too much. His hands are still moving, still exploring, still teasing at the fabric of your shirt, still making your body burn in ways you’ve never felt before. "I want all of you."
Your stomach flips. Because he’s not even touching you properly, and yet it’s the way he says it, the weight of his voice, the truth in it, that makes your pulse stutter.
And then, before you can respond, before you can tease him for how wrecked he sounds, his hands move, slow and deliberate. Fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt, pushing it up, knuckles skimming over your stomach, over your ribs, over every single inch of skin he reveals as he goes.
Your breath stutters, your body arching up into his touch. His jaw clenches, his lips part, and then he’s leaning down, pressing his mouth to your collarbone, trailing featherlight, open-mouthed kisses along your skin as he slowly tugs your shirt over your head.
And then, finally, your shirt joins his hoodie on the floor. And suddenly, you’re both bare and breathless, staring at each other like you don’t know what to do next, even though you both know exactly what’s about to happen.
"Heeseung," you whisper, and his eyes flicker, dark, burning, like your voice alone is enough to unravel him.
"You’re not making this easy," he murmurs, his fingers skimming up your sides, his thumb brushing along your ribs, his body pressing down just slightly, just enough to feel how perfectly he fits against you.
Your breath catches. "Good."
And that ruins him. Heeseung groans, low and deep, and then he’s leaning down again, lips trailing along your jaw, down your neck, to your collarbone, soft, open-mouthed kisses, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every single second. His voice is strained, thick with something raw, something undeniable.
"You feel so good."
You whimper at his words, your nails digging into his shoulders, and Heeseung reacts immediately, his hips pressing down, his body slotting perfectly against yours, his breath catching as he feels you, all of you, right there beneath him.
"Shit," he mutters, his head dropping to your shoulder, his hands gripping your waist like he needs something to hold onto. You’re both breathless now, bodies pressed so close there’s no space left between you, every single movement sending heat crashing through your veins. "You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this."
Your heart stumbles. Because neither of you were supposed to say it. Neither of you were supposed to acknowledge it. But now—it’s out there. And there’s no taking it back.
And then Heeseung looks at you, really looks at you. His eyes, dark and hooded with something deeper than just desire, trace every inch of your face, your parted lips, the flush spreading down your neck, the way your chest rises and falls, rapid and uneven beneath him.
“You’re…” He swallows hard, his voice thick with something close to reverence. “God, you’re so beautiful.”
His hands move lower, squeezing your thighs before dragging up again, pushing your legs further apart beneath him. Heeseung exhales sharply, his pupils blown wide as he takes in the way you look beneath him, flushed, needy, completely and utterly his for the taking.
“Fuck.” His voice is raw, thick with barely restrained need. “You’re perfect.”
His mouth finds your collarbone, lips hot and insistent as he moves lower, tasting, worshiping. His tongue flicks over the sensitive skin, his teeth grazing lightly before he sucks, leaving a mark. His fingers dig into your skin as he rolls his hips down against yours, pulling a sharp gasp from your lips. He watches, fascinated, as your body reacts to his, as your fingers clutch at his arms, as your lips part with another breathy whimper that shoots straight through his bloodstream.
“You like that?” he murmurs, dragging his lips up to your ear, his voice nothing but a low rasp. “Like feeling me this close?” You nod, but it’s not enough. Heeseung needs to hear you say it. “Tell me,” he demands, his fingers tightening just enough to make you squirm.
“Yes,” you gasp, your voice barely more than a breath.
Heeseung smirks against your skin, the sound of your desperation fueling the heat building between you. “Good.” His lips trail back down, kissing, tasting, exploring every inch of you. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”
Heeseung hovers over you, his breath warm against your skin as his hands trail lower, fingers grazing the waistband of your pants. His fingers toy with the fabric at your hips, teasing. His voice, when he speaks, is deep and laced with restraint.
“Can I take these off?”
His eyes flick up to meet yours, and the sight of him like this—his lips swollen, his gaze dark with barely contained desire, sends a shiver down your spine. Your stomach tightens, heat curling low in your belly as you whisper, “Yes.”
And the second the word leaves your lips, Heeseung exhales sharply, like he’s been holding back this whole time. His hands move with deliberate slowness, sliding under the waistband, his fingers warm and firm against your hips as he starts to pull your pants down.
His hands guide your pants lower until they slip past your thighs, pooling somewhere near your ankles, and he takes his time, his lips pressing slow, reverent kisses along the soft skin of your lower belly, just above the edge of your underwear.
He groans against your skin, his voice husky. “You have no idea how good you look right now.”
His hands splay over your thighs, his lips follow the same path, pressing kisses, biting gently, dragging his tongue across the warmth of your skin as he moves lower. You let out a shaky breath as he spreads your legs just a little more, his fingers gripping, massaging, his lips marking every inch of your inner thighs as he inches closer to where you need him most.
Heeseung hums against your skin, his breath hot, teasing. “So soft,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with admiration, with hunger. His hands squeeze your thighs, his fingers digging in just enough to make you arch slightly. “So perfect.”
His lips brush dangerously close to the edge of your underwear, his nose nuzzling against the sensitive skin just beside it, inhaling deeply like he wants to drown in you. His grip tightens. His lips part, and he looks up at you.
The sight of him between your legs, hair messy, lips swollen, his dark eyes filled with something you can’t quite name—it’s almost too much.
His voice is thick, teasing but affectionate. “You’re shaking,” he notes, his thumb brushing the inside of your thigh in slow, soothing circles.
Your breath catches. “Because of you.”
Heeseung groans softly, his hands gripping tighter, his lips trailing higher again, back to your hip, back to your stomach, his teeth scraping lightly against the sensitive skin there. “You have no idea how much I love hearing that,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.
Slowly, he starts to move up. His fingers slide up to cup your face, his thumb brushing softly over your cheek, like he needs to feel every part of you, like he’s grounding himself in your presence. He exhales sharply, his forehead resting against yours for the briefest second, like he’s gathering himself, like he’s trying to hold back.
“I need to taste you,” he murmurs, his voice nothing but a raw, desperate rasp. “Please.”
Your breath stutters, your fingers gripping onto his arms, feeling the tension coiled tight beneath his skin. You swallow hard, trying to steady yourself, but the truth is, you want this just as much.
“I need to hear you say it,” he murmurs.
Your pulse is a pounding rhythm against your ribs, your whole body thrumming with heat, but somehow, you manage to find your voice.
“Yes,” you whisper. “I want it. I want you.”
Heeseung groans, his grip tightening for just a second before he’s moving again, kissing down your neck, your collarbone, your chest. His hands slide back down your body, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every inch of you.
And then he’s sinking back down between your thighs, his eyes never leaving yours, his hands parting your legs with a reverence that makes your head spin.
Heeseung grips the hem of your underwear between his fingers, his breathing ragged, his hands slightly trembling as he looks up at you. His eyes search yours, dark and full of something raw. “Can I?” His voice is hushed, reverent, like a prayer whispered into the silence.
Your chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, as you nod. “Yes,” you murmur.
Heeseung exhales, almost like he’s relieved, like he was afraid you’d stop him. Then, with slow, deliberate movements, he slides the fabric down your legs, his fingers grazing your skin as he does, his touch both featherlight and electric.
And then he sees you. His breath catches in his throat, his hands tightening slightly around your thighs as he takes you in. His gaze, hooded and heavy with admiration, rakes over you like he’s trying to commit every inch of you to memory, like he can’t quite believe you’re real.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, his voice almost disbelieving.
The way he’s looking at your body, so intense, so completely captivated, sends a flush of heat racing up your spine. Your instincts kick in, your legs twitching slightly as the urge to close them overtakes you. But Heeseung doesn’t let you.
His hands move quickly, firm but gentle as he grips your thighs, keeping you open for him. “Don’t hide from me,” he murmurs. “You’re fucking perfect.”
Your breath hitches, your whole body thrumming under his touch. Heeseung leans in, lips ghosting over your inner thigh, his breath hot against your already burning skin. He looks up at you again, his eyes locking onto yours, and what he says next sends a sharp pulse of anticipation straight through your core.
“I’m going to make you feel so good,” he promises, his voice low, edged with something sinful. “So good that you’ll never forget me.”
And then he dips down. The first press of his mouth against your clit is enough to steal the air from your lungs. Warm, wet, hungry—Heeseung doesn’t just touch, he devours. His tongue moves slow at first, tasting you, savoring every single reaction you give him.
You gasp, arching against him, your body already trembling from the sheer intensity of his touch. Heeseung groans against you, the sound vibrating through your core, sending shockwaves up your spine. His grip on your thighs tightens, his fingers digging into your flesh as he keeps you exactly where he wants you.
“You taste so fucking sweet,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your heat. “Just like I knew you would.”
Your moans come freely now, breathy, desperate, the pleasure crashing over you in waves as Heeseung works you open with his mouth. He hums against you, pleased, lost in you, whispering praise between every stroke of his tongue. “So good for me.” Kiss. “So fucking perfect.” Lick. “You’re mine.” Suck.
And when you whimper his name, broken and pleading, Heeseung only grips your thighs tighter and pulls you even closer, determined to ruin you completely.
Heeseung groans against you, the vibrations sending a shiver up your spine as he keeps his mouth latched onto your clit, sucking, licking, savoring you like he’s starving. Then, slowly, he moves one hand between your legs, his fingers tracing a teasing path through your slick folds. You shudder, your hips instinctively bucking at the sensation, and Heeseung chuckles, a low, rough sound against your skin.
“So wet for me,” he murmurs, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh before glancing up at you through dark lashes. “So fucking perfect.”
And then he presses a finger inside you. The stretch is slow, deliberate, his touch both gentle and utterly devastating as he sinks into your heat. You gasp sharply, your walls fluttering around him, and Heeseung groans, low and guttural.
“Fuck,” he hisses, watching the way you take him in. His finger curls inside you, testing, feeling. “You’re so tight, baby.”
The words send another wave of heat crashing through you, your body tightening at the sheer hunger in his voice. Heeseung doesn’t stop, he eases his finger in deeper as he continues working you open, his tongue never once leaving your clit. Your back arches, your fingers tangling in his hair, and Heeseung groans again, the sound muffled as he devours you, the heat of his mouth sending you spiraling closer to the edge.
“Heeseung—” His name slips from your lips, breathless, desperate.
Heeseung growls against you, deep and possessive, and you swear you can feel the sound reverberate through your entire body. His grip tightens, his pace quickens, his finger thrusting deeper, curling, coaxing pleasure out of you with every calculated stroke.
And then he adds a second finger. Your body tenses, the stretch just enough to make you whimper, and Heeseung groans at the way you clench around him.
“You’re taking me so well,” he praises, his voice thick, raspy, dripping with admiration. “So fucking perfect for me.”
His lips wrap around your clit again, sucking hard, and your body seizes, heat curling so tight inside you that you can’t hold back any longer. Heeseung feels it, and he sucks harder, pumps his fingers deeper, his other hand pressing down on your stomach to keep you still as your moans turn into cries, your body trembling beneath him.
“Cum for me,” he murmurs against your skin. “Let me feel it.”
And you do. The pleasure slams into you all at once, stealing the breath from your lungs, leaving you gasping as your body locks up, your thighs trembling around his head. Heeseung doesn’t stop, he keeps licking, keeps sucking, drawing every last drop of pleasure from you as you fall apart beneath him.
Your body shudders, aftershocks rippling through you, and Heeseung finally slows, his touch turning soft, reverent, as he presses one last lingering kiss to your sensitive clit before pulling back.
He looks up at you then, his lips glistening, his pupils blown wide, his breath ragged. And then he smirks, his voice low and utterly wrecked.
“Told you I’d make you feel good.”
You smile softly, but before you can even reach for him, he moves, fast, precise. A startled gasp escapes your lips as he manhandles you, lifting you effortlessly off the couch, your legs instinctively wrapping around his hips, his hands gripping your thighs with a possessiveness that sends a shiver through your entire body. His hold on you is strong, unwavering, his fingertips pressing into your skin like he’s afraid to let go.
You cling to him, your arms locking around his shoulders as he carries you with ease, moving through the dimly lit apartment. Your lips find his neck, tasting the warmth of his skin, inhaling his scent. The closeness, the heat between your bodies, makes you whimper softly against his throat.
And Heeseung groans. A low, deep sound that rumbles in his chest as he grips you tighter, his pace quickening like he’s growing just as desperate as you are.
Because this isn’t just anyone. This is Heeseung.
The boy who has been stitched into your life for years, who has laughed with you, argued with you, known you in ways no one else has. This is the person you love most in the world—and you’re finally having him like this for the first time. The thought makes you cling to him even harder, your lips trailing messily along his jaw, your fingers gripping at his shoulders, needing more, needing all of him.
When Heeseung reaches your bedroom, he doesn’t hesitate. He kneels onto the bed with you still wrapped around him, letting your back sink into the soft mattress as he gently lays you down, his body hovering over yours.
His breath is heavy, his chest rising and falling as he looks down at you, his gaze deep, searching. His Bambi-like eyes, so wide, so full of something tender, something real, hold you in place more than his body ever could.
His hands, still gripping your thighs, slowly loosen, his fingers tracing gentle patterns along your skin. Like he’s memorizing you. Like he’s realizing, holy shit, this is happening.
And then, without breaking eye contact, he reaches for his belt. The soft sound of the buckle unfastening fills the space between you, followed by the quiet rustle of fabric as he pushes his pants down, revealing his bare skin, the strong lines of his toned body, every inch of him that you’ve never seen before but already crave more than anything.
You exhale sharply, your eyes dragging over him, admiring the way the soft glow of your bedroom light casts shadows over his sculpted stomach, the definition in his arms, the sharp cut of his hips. He’s breathtaking. And every second that passes, the ache inside you grows, the need twisting tighter and tighter.
You swallow hard, your voice soft but certain when you finally whisper, “I didn’t know I needed you this much until now.”
Heeseung stills. For a moment, his breath catches, his fingers twitching where they rest against your skin. The flush that spreads across his cheeks, blooming down his neck, his lips part slightly, his eyes flickering between yours, something breaking, something giving way inside him.
Then he looks down at you again. And this time, his gaze is molten. Dark, intense, filled with something raw and unfiltered as he leans down, his lips hovering just above yours.
“I think,” he whispers, his voice low, breathless, “I’ve always needed you like this.”
And then he kisses you. Deep, slow, pouring everything into it, every ounce of longing, every unsaid word, every moment spent waiting for this. His hands roam, tracing the curves of your body, feeling, memorizing.
The moment you feel him, thick and hard against your aching core, you let out a soft, needy moan against his lips. Heeseung still has his underwear on, but the heat of him, the way his hips press down, grinding slowly against you, makes your body arch instinctively, chasing the friction.
Heeseung groans into the kiss, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating against your lips. His teeth catch your lower lip, tugging gently, before he soothes the sting with a slow, lingering kiss.
Your hands wander, trailing down his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the firm ridges of his toned stomach, lower, until your fingers reach the waistband of his underwear.
Your breathing is ragged, your body thrumming with anticipation as you whisper, “Please, take this off.”
Heeseung curses under his breath, his body tensing above you. He doesn’t want to tease you, doesn’t want to drag this out. He wants you just as much, he needs you just as badly. Without hesitation, he pushes his underwear down, freeing himself completely. The air between you thickens, the weight of the moment settling in as his bare body hovers over yours, his skin flushed, his muscles taut with restraint.
You lean in, hands splaying across his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breath. Your fingers trace every inch of him, his collarbones, the defined lines of his stomach, the dip of his lower abdomen, moving lower. But before you can go further, Heeseung catches your wrist. His grip is firm but gentle, his breathing heavy, his eyes dark and searching as he looks at you.
“Y/N,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “I need to ask you…” He swallows hard, his thumb brushing slow circles against your wrist, like he’s grounding himself in your touch. “Are you totally sure?”
Your chest tightens at the rawness in his voice. His expression—so open, so vulnerable—makes your heart clench.
“Because once this happens,” he continues, his forehead nearly touching yours, “I’m not ever letting you go.”
And there it is. The unspoken truth, finally laid bare between you. This isn’t just a night of pleasure. This isn’t just a long-overdue release. This is everything.
Your lips part, your throat tightening with emotion, and for a second, you can only stare at him, overwhelmed by how much he means to you, how deeply you feel this. Then you whisper, with more certainty than you’ve ever had about anything in your life:
“I’ve never been so sure about something before.”
The moment the words leave your lips, something shifts in Heeseung. His entire body tenses for a beat, then he exhales shakily, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time, like he’s just now letting himself believe this is real.
And then he kisses you. It’s not slow. It’s not careful. It’s hungry, possessive, filled with all the pent-up emotions neither of you ever dared to voice until now.
His hands slide up your arms, capturing your wrists, pinning them above your head as he presses you deeper into the mattress. His body presses against yours, skin to skin, warmth melting into warmth.
And then you feel it, the tip of his cock, hot and heavy, pressing against your entrance, so achingly close. Heeseung breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his breath uneven. He looks down between you, his jaw clenched, his grip tightening just slightly on your wrists as if this is the moment he’s been waiting for all his life.
His voice is nothing but a hushed rasp when he says: “Tell me if it hurts.”
Heeseung lets go of your wrists, his hands sliding down your body with a deliberate slowness, like he’s savoring the feeling of your skin beneath his palms. His fingers find your hips, gripping them gently before one hand moves lower, wrapping around the base of his cock.
He watches you carefully, his gaze dark, hungry, yet filled with something soft, something almost reverent, as he presses the tip against your entrance. He doesn’t push in just yet. Instead, he rolls his hips slightly, dragging himself against your slick folds, teasing, his length brushing against your clit in slow, deliberate strokes. The sensation sends a shiver through you, a breathless whimper escaping your lips as your fingers dig into his biceps, your body tensing in anticipation.
Heeseung groans, his grip tightening around himself as he watches the way your body reacts to him. “Fuck,” he breathes, his voice wrecked. “You’re so wet… so fucking perfect for me.”
Your nails sink deeper into his skin as he finally begins to press inside, the stretch slow and steady, filling you inch by inch. The feeling is overwhelming, him, thick and hot, splitting you open so exquisitely that all you can do is moan softly against his shoulder, your body trembling beneath him.
Heeseung curses under his breath, his forehead dropping to the crook of your neck as he stills, letting you adjust. His hands slide up your sides, fingers grazing over your ribs, your waist, gripping you firmly like he’s afraid to let go.
“You feel so good,” he rasps, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “So fucking good, baby.”
His words send another rush of heat straight through your core, and you can’t help the way your hips shift slightly, taking him even deeper. Heeseung groans at the feeling, his lips parting against your skin.
He lifts his head, searching your face, his eyes filled with both need and restraint. “Is this okay?” he murmurs, his thumb brushing softly over your hip. “Can I move?”
You nod quickly, breathless, your fingers tracing over the muscles of his arms, his shoulders, needing him closer. “Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”
Heeseung exhales sharply, his grip tightening on your hips as he begins to move, rolling his hips in slow, deep thrusts. Your breath stutters, a moan slipping from your lips, and Heeseung loses it.
His movements quicken, his hips snapping against yours, his grip turning bruising as he holds you in place, thrusting deeper, harder. His breath is ragged, his chest heaving, and with every stroke, he sinks further into you, like he’s trying to become a part of you.
“Fuck, baby,” he growls, his voice rough against your skin. “You’re taking me so fucking well. So perfect for me.”
His lips find your jawline, tracing a path down your neck, his tongue flicking against the sensitive skin before he sucks, leaving a mark, claiming you in every way possible. Your moans grow louder, your body arching against him, and Heeseung groans, loving the way you respond to him, the way you cling to him like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.
His lips travel lower, over your collarbone, down to the valley between your breasts. He kisses, licks, nips, worshiping every inch of you as he keeps thrusting into you, each movement deep and unrelenting.
“You’re mine,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice wrecked, possessive. “Only mine.”
His grip on your hips tightens as he pounds into you, his pace growing desperate, wild, his body completely losing control in you. And all the while, he praises you. “Tighter than I ever imagined.” Thrust “So fucking beautiful.” Kiss “You feel like heaven, baby.” Groan.
His words, his touch, his everything push you closer and closer to the edge, your body trembling beneath him as the pleasure coils tightly inside you, ready to snap. And Heeseung feels it. He knows you’re close. And he’s not stopping until he sends you over the edge.
Your body trembles beneath him, pleasure curling tight inside you, hot and overwhelming. Your fingers cling desperately to his skin, your legs wrapped around his waist, trying to ground yourself against the way he moves, deep, unrelenting, perfect.
“Heeseung—” Your voice is breathless, wrecked. Your nails dig into his back as another wave of pleasure crashes over you. “God, you feel so good.”
Heeseung groans at your words, his hips stuttering for just a second before he leans in, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re such a good girl for me,” he rasps, voice dripping with praise, with something darker, something possessive.
And that’s when you snap. The coil inside you tightens dangerously, winding so tight you know you’re seconds from breaking. But you don’t want to break, not yet.
So, with the last shred of control you have left, you grab Heeseung by the side of his neck, your fingers tangling in the damp strands of his hair, holding him in place. “Let me ride you,” you plead, your voice thick with desperation. “Please.”
Heeseung growls. A deep, guttural sound that sends a shiver through your entire body. His fingers dig into your hips, his thrusts faltering for a moment as your request sinks in. Then, he moves. In one smooth motion, Heeseung shifts, rolling over and pulling you with him. The world tilts, and suddenly, you’re on top, straddling him, his cock still buried deep inside you.
A sharp, choked moan leaves your lips as you feel him fully, the angle changing, the sensation making your entire body tremble.
“Fuck,” Heeseung groans beneath you, his hands flying to your waist, holding you steady as his eyes drag over your body, your heaving chest, the flush painting your skin, the way you’re clenching around him, barely able to contain yourself.
His pupils are blown wide, his lips parted, his entire expression wrecked with need. “You look so fucking beautiful like this,” he murmurs, his voice thick, reverent.
His hands move, Heeseung slides them up your torso, fingers splaying across your ribs before catching your breasts in both hands, squeezing, worshiping. His thumbs flick over your nipples, and the sensation sends another jolt of pleasure straight through you, making you whimper.
“You’re so delicious,” he groans, his thumbs circling your hardened peaks, his hips rolling up slightly into you, making you gasp.
Your head tilts back, your hands bracing against his chest, your body arching into his touch. The heat between you is unbearable, your body already on the edge, but you refuse to let this end too soon.
You start to move, slowly at first, rolling your hips in a deliberate, teasing rhythm, feeling every inch of him stretch and fill you completely. The sensation sends a shiver up your spine, pleasure pooling deep in your stomach as you watch Heeseung’s reaction.
Heeseung groans, his grip on your thighs tightening, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s trying to ground himself, trying not to lose control too soon. His head tilts back for a moment, his chest rising and falling with deep, uneven breaths as he tries to contain himself.
“Fuck,” he grits out, his jaw clenching as his eyes squeeze shut, his muscles tensing beneath your touch. His hands flex on your thighs, squeezing, like he’s trying to hold back, like the feeling of you around him is too much.
But then he opens his eyes, and the second his gaze locks onto you, dark and hooded with raw, unfiltered hunger, your whole body burns. His pupils are blown wide, his lips parted, sweat glistening along his collarbones as he watches you move above him, taking him so perfectly, so effortlessly.
“You’re fucking unreal,” he groans, his voice rough, biting down his lips, barely above a whisper. “Just like that, baby. You feel so fucking good.”
His words send a jolt of pleasure through you, making you clench tighter around him. Heeseung feels it, and his breath hitches, his fingers twitching against your skin.
One of his hands moves from your thigh, sliding up your body, tracing along your stomach, your ribs, before finding the back of your neck. He grips you there, firm but gentle, and pulls you down until your foreheads almost touch, your breath mingling with his.
His other hand stays on your thigh, stroking, soothing, before he snaps. A deep growl rumbles in his chest, and he picks up the pace, his hips rolling up to meet yours, his hands guiding your movements. The pleasure intensifies, your thighs burning with the effort, but Heeseung doesn’t let you slow down.
His hands slide to your hips, gripping hard, his fingers pressing into your flesh as he takes control. And then he slams into you. A sharp, broken moan escapes your lips as he thrusts up, driving deeper, harder, filling you so completely that you swear you might lose your mind.
“That’s it,” he groans, his grip unrelenting as he pounds into you, chasing the feeling of you wrapped so perfectly around him. “Take it, baby. Take all of me.”
His voice, deep, rough, dripping with praise, sends you spiraling, pleasure building, your body trembling under his relentless pace. His mouth finds your jaw, then your neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses along your skin between ragged breaths. His tongue flicks out, tasting the salt of your sweat, and then his teeth graze your pulse point, his lips closing around it as he sucks.
Your fingers claw at his shoulders, your body arching against his, your moans coming faster, higher, completely overwhelmed by the way he’s taking you.
Heeseung doesn’t slow down. His thrusts stay deep, hard, relentless, his grip unyielding as he drives into you, chasing the pleasure building between you both. His hands remain at the back of your neck, keeping you close, keeping you exactly where he wants you, his breath hot against your skin.
He groans, voice wrecked, rough. “Fuck—baby, you feel so good. So fucking perfect.”
His words send another wave of pleasure crashing through you, making your thighs tighten around his hips. You’re close, you can feel yourself unraveling, your body tightening as the coil inside you threatens to snap. And Heeseung knows. He feels it.
His fingers tighten against your skin, his movements growing desperate, erratic, as his own release begins creeping up on him. His forehead presses against yours, his breath uneven, his voice nothing but a strained rasp.
“Cum for me again, baby,” he pleads, his words like fire against your skin. “Let it go.”
The command, the way his voice drips with authority and adoration, is what finally undoes you. A sharp, broken moan rips from your throat as your body tenses, pleasure surging through you like wildfire. Your walls clench around him, pulsing, milking him, and Heeseung loses it.
A deep, guttural groan escapes his lips as he thrusts into you one last time, burying himself deep, his entire body shuddering as he lets go, his release spilling into you. The pleasure crashes over both of you at once, your moans mixing together, filling the room, raw and unrestrained.
And then, stillness.
Your body, still trembling, collapses against his chest, your forehead pressing into the slick heat of his skin. Your breaths are ragged, uneven, matching his as he tries to catch his pace, his chest rising and falling beneath you.
Neither of you speak for a long moment, the silence filled only with the sounds of your slowing breaths, your racing heartbeats.
Heeseung moves his hands, still firm but now gentle, slide down to your lower back, his fingers tracing lazy, soothing circles against your damp skin. His touch is tender, reverent, like he’s memorizing you all over again, like he can’t believe this moment is real.
His lips brush against your hair, barely a whisper of a kiss, before he exhales shakily. And then, he murmurs—soft, breathless, like a vow.
“I’m never letting you go.”
Your chest tightens at the raw emotion in his voice. His arms wrap tighter around you, holding you impossibly close, his hands never stopping their slow caresses against your back. His lips press against the top of your head, again and again, each kiss softer than the last.
“Never,” he whispers. “Never, never, never…”
His words sink into your skin, into your bones, into you. And as you melt further into his embrace, letting the warmth of him envelop you completely, you realize: You never want him to let go.
You slowly lift your head, your breath still uneven, your body still thrumming with the remnants of pleasure.
You meet his eyes, his Bambi-like, doe eyes, wide and full of something so deep, so undeniable, it makes your chest tighten. They glimmer under the dim light of your bedroom, reflecting every unspoken word, every silent confession hanging thick in the space between you.
You let out a breathy, almost disbelieving smile, your gaze sweeping over his face, his flushed cheeks, his damp hair clinging to his forehead, the soft sheen of sweat on his skin. He looks wrecked. He looks perfect.
And he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.
Heeseung mirrors your smile, soft and hazy, his expression filled with something tender, something so Heeseung that it makes warmth flood your entire body. His hands find your face, large and warm, his knuckles grazing your cheeks in slow, delicate strokes, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.
You lean into his touch, nuzzling against his palm, and the way he exhales, soft, shaky, like he’s feeling everything too, sends a shiver down your spine.
Then, barely above a whisper, you say, “I…”
And suddenly, you stop yourself.
Because the weight of what you were about to say hits you all at once.
Your lips part slightly, your throat tightening. The words are right there, sitting heavy on your tongue, aching to spill out. But there’s fear too, fear of what this means, fear of how much this changes everything.
Heeseung notices. His fingers pause against your cheek, his brows twitching just slightly, his gaze flickering between your eyes like he’s searching, trying to read you.
But then, he smiles. Soft, knowing, patient. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, his touch featherlight, his voice a quiet murmur in the space between you.
“I know,” he whispers.
Your breath catches. Because you believe him.
Heeseung has always known you better than anyone, always understood you in ways that no one else could. And right now, in this moment, with the way he’s holding you, looking at you, you realize you don’t have to say it.
Because he already knows.
Heeseung leans in, his nose brushing against yours, his lips hovering just above yours, waiting, giving you the choice. And when you press your lips to his in the softest, most deliberate kiss, you’re telling him everything you couldn’t say in words.
Heeseung sighs into the kiss, his hands sliding down your back, pulling you closer, pressing you against his warmth, his heartbeat steady beneath your palm.
And when you finally pull away, when you rest your forehead against his and breathe him in, you realize: You were never afraid of loving Heeseung.
You were afraid of admitting that you always have.
But now, with his arms around you, his lips brushing against your temple, his heartbeat syncing with yours, you don’t have to be afraid anymore.
Because he’s never letting you go.
And neither are you.
That’s why he stays at your house the next day. And the day after that. And for the few days that follow, until time becomes a blur and neither of you think to question it.
Because how could he leave, how could either of you go back to a world where you weren’t tangled up in each other like this?
The first morning, you wake up wrapped in Heeseung’s arms, your head tucked against his chest, his fingers absentmindedly tracing soft, lazy circles against your back. Neither of you move for a long time. Neither of you want to.
His lips press into your hair, a silent good morning, and you melt into him because it feels natural, because this is Heeseung, your best friend, the boy who has always been a constant, and yet, now, everything is different.
And it’s better. He doesn’t leave. You don’t ask him to.
Instead, you spend the morning like you have a thousand times before: lounging on the couch, talking about nothing, watching movies you’ve seen a hundred times. Except now, there’s a new rhythm, an unspoken understanding.
His fingers brush yours absentmindedly. His arm finds its way around your waist without hesitation. His lips press against your temple between conversations like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Because maybe, it is.
The second night, he kisses you in the kitchen while you’re making dinner, stealing a taste of the sauce on your lips, grinning when you roll your eyes. The third night, you fall asleep with your fingers intertwined, his breath warm against your neck, his hand resting over your heart like he’s afraid you might slip away in the night. By the fourth day, he’s using your shampoo, leaving his clothes in your drawers, stealing your socks because he swears they’re more comfortable than his own.
By the fifth, you don’t even realize he never went home. Because this is home now. Not the walls. Not the bed. But this. Him. You. Together.
One night, a week after everything changed, you find yourselves in your living room, curled up against each other, laughter spilling into the quiet air.
It feels surreal, how easy this is, how natural. And yet, when you look at him, really look at him, you realize this was never sudden at all. This wasn’t a moment. This was a lifetime in the making.
It was in the late-night phone calls when you both should’ve been asleep. It was in the way he always kept your favorite snacks in his kitchen without thinking. It was in the stolen glances, the inside jokes, the nights spent shoulder to shoulder, pretending you didn’t feel the weight of something more. It was in every single thing before this.
And now that the truth is out in the open, now that you know, you don’t ever want to live in a world where you don’t wake up next to Heeseung. And it doesn’t feel real.
Not because you don’t want it to be—but because it still catches you off guard. The quiet way Heeseung reaches for your hand without thinking. The way his presence in your space isn’t something fleeting, but something constant. Something permanent.
It’s been two weeks since everything changed, and somehow, the world didn’t shift to match it. The sun still rises the same way. Your friends still send memes in the group chat. Life moves on, but now, there’s this.
This is Heeseung pressing a sleepy kiss to your shoulder when he wakes up before you. This is him playing with your fingers absentmindedly when you’re watching something together. This is the way he still teases you the same, still makes fun of you the same, but now he kisses you after like he can’t help it.
Yunjin is the only one who knows.
She had her suspicions, she always had her suspicions, but it became painfully obvious the moment you showed up at her place wearing a hoodie that was at least two sizes too big, one she distinctly remembered seeing Heeseung wear last week.
Which is why, at her birthday party, there’s this lingering tension in the air. It’s subtle, the way you and Heeseung hesitate just slightly when you’re around the others, the way you don’t know if you’re supposed to act like you always have or like something’s changed.
Because something has changed. But the world doesn’t know yet.
You and Heeseung sit at the dining table, pretending everything is normal, pretending that you’re not constantly aware of the warmth of his body next to yours, the way his knee brushes yours every time he shifts.
And then, under the table, he takes your hand. It’s subtle, careful, the warmth of his palm slipping against yours, his fingers threading through yours in a way that makes your stomach flip. Heeseung doesn’t look at you, doesn’t acknowledge it, just holds your hand beneath the table, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Finally,” Sunghoon mutters, watching Heeseung with a knowing smirk.
Heeseung freezes. You both turn to see Sunghoon leaning against the chair next to him, arms crossed, eyes flickering down to where your hands are intertwined beneath the table.
“I was wondering when you were gonna stop being a coward,” Sunghoon teases, nudging Heeseung’s foot under the table. “Took you long enough, man.”
Heeseung groans, dropping his head back against the chair. “Jesus, Sunghoon.”
Sunghoon just grins, clearly enjoying this way too much. “Nah, I’m happy for you guys. But also, I knew you two had something going on.” He points a lazy finger at you. “Your whole ‘we’re just friends’ thing was so fake.”
The table erupts in laughter, and you sigh, shaking your head. But then, Heeseung squeezes your hand, and when you glance at him, he’s already looking at you. Soft. Quiet. Certain. And you realize, this feels right. Being here. Being together. Being this.
The night winds down. People leave. And you end up in Heeseung’s car, the windows slightly fogged from the cold air outside. The soft strum of Waiting Room fills the quiet, the melancholic chords settling deep into your chest.
You watch Heeseung, his hands gripping the wheel loosely, his face relaxed, bathed in the glow of the streetlights.
“Wanna go to McDonald’s?”
You blink. “What?”
Heeseung smirks, eyes flickering to you before turning back to the road. “You heard me.”
A beat of silence. You laugh. “Yeah. I do.”
You order fries and ice cream and talk about the dumbest things. about how Niki's new girlfriend is the worst, about how Jay got too drunk, about how Jake still doesn’t know how to properly pour a drink.
But somewhere between the laughter, somewhere between the way Heeseung licks salt off his fingers and tosses fries into your mouth, somewhere between the way you lean against his shoulder in the drive-thru line.
Heeseung sighs. And then—
“I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”
You still. Your fingers tighten slightly around your drink, your breath catching at the quiet, vulnerable way he says it. And when you turn to look at him, he’s already looking at you, soft, so soft, his gaze deep, searching.
Your chest tightens. “Heeseung…”
He smiles, a little shy, a little unsure. Then, he reaches out, sliding his fingers over yours, his thumb brushing your knuckles.
“I just—” He swallows, then exhales. “I think I’ve loved you this whole time.”
Your breath catches. And in that moment, in the soft hum of the radio, in the glow of the streetlights, in the taste of salt and ice cream and the warmth of Heeseung’s fingers against yours, you know.
“I thought maybe it would go away,” he continues, his lips quirking slightly, like he’s laughing at himself. “Like—it’s just Y/N, right? My best friend.”
You hold your breath, watching him, the streetlights casting soft shadows across his face, making his eyes look even softer, warmer.
“But then,” Heeseung shakes his head, laughing under his breath. “Every time I thought I had it under control, you’d do something stupid, like wear my hoodie and refuse to give it back, or make me watch Shrek 2 for the tenth time, or grab my hand in a crowded room like it was nothing.” He swallows, his voice dropping to something even softer. “And I’d realize—I was never going to stop feeling this way.”
Your chest tightens. Because it’s always been like this, hasn’t it? The quiet kind of love. The kind that slips into the cracks of everyday moments, unnoticed until one day, it’s too big to ignore.
You feel the words sitting heavy in your throat, pressing against your ribs, and when you finally speak, your voice is barely a whisper.
“Heeseung.” He looks at you, his brows lifting slightly, like he’s bracing himself. You take a slow breath, steadying yourself, then squeeze his hand. “I think I’ve loved you this whole time, too.”
The tension in his shoulders dissolves instantly. His lips part, his eyes searching yours like he wants to make sure he really heard you right.
And then, he smiles. Not the teasing kind, not the smirk he throws at you when he’s making fun of you, but something real. Something deep. The kind of smile that says, I know. I knew before you even said it.
You shift closer, your forehead brushing against his, the warmth of his breath mixing with yours. “I don’t know why it took me so long to realize it,” you murmur. “But I do now.”
Heeseung hums, tilting his head slightly. “You sure?”
You laugh softly, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Good.” He squeezes your hand, his nose nudging against yours. “Because I would’ve had to spend another three years waiting for you to catch up, and I don’t think I could survive that.”
You groan, shoving his shoulder lightly, and he chuckles, his arms wrapping around you as he pulls you in, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your head.
And just like that, it’s easy again. The way you tease each other, the way you fit against him, the way you fall back into the rhythm of your friendship except now there’s no pretending.
Now it’s all out in the open. And it’s better.
As Heeseung drives you home, the song still playing softly in the background, your mind drifts back. To three years ago. To that stupid Halloween party where you met, you in your skeleton costume, him in that ridiculous Ninja Turtle onesie.
To the late nights spent working on that Shrek project, arguing about PowerPoint transitions like it was life or death, only to laugh until your sides hurt. To the wedding where he spun you around on the dance floor, looking at you like he already knew, like he was just waiting for you to catch up. To every car ride, every inside joke, every time you almost realized what he meant to you.
Your fingers tighten around his, and Heeseung glances at you, his eyes flickering between you and the road.
“What?” he asks, a small smile tugging at his lips.
You shake your head, but you’re smiling too. “Nothing.”
Because you understand now. Because Waiting Room plays softly in the background, and the lyrics echo in your chest—know it’s for the better.
You do. You know now that keeping Heeseung in your life like this, is the best thing you’ll ever do.
And when Heeseung looks at you, his grip on your hand tightening like he knows too, you realize.
For you, it was worth waiting.
my masterlist 🧦 ☆★ // previous fic
author's note: hey guys! this is my first long fic about heeseung, the first one i've ever written, and i hope you liked it! i know 21k+ words is a lot, but i had so much fun writing it. thank you for reading! <3
゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ S in which nothing cuts deeper than your hatred for park sunghoon, except the desire that waits underneath it. 、masterpost
𝓦 。ᐟ MDNI ⨾ SPOILERS INCLUDED、 profanity, sexual content, hints of abuse, angst, edging, sexual tension, breast play, power play, brat taming, jealousy, dom!sunghoon, dirty talk, marking, dry humping, heavy petting 。。。 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒌 [✧] ꧁𓊈 prev 𒆜 next 𓊉꧂ 。WC 16845
You’re back downstairs in Hana’s kitchen somehow, sitting where you always sat with your legs swinging off the chair, and there’s candy scattered between the two of you on the table.
It hits you slowly, the way dreams usually do, that this isn’t now. That it’s something you buried a long time ago, only it found a way back tonight.
You look up, and Sunghoon is exactly where he always was. Exactly where you wish he’d stayed.
“I just can’t believe Jake is actually dating someone,” you heard yourself say all of a sudden, slumping forward.
“Here we go again,” he mumbled through a mouthful of candy.
“Hey,” You threw a candy wrapper at him. “I don’t like your tone. You’re supposed to sit and listen to me whine and complain until the day we die.”
“Mm,” he hummed, “And that day you speak of is tonight, because you’re going to bore me to death.”
Then, before you could move, he leaned in and bit the candy string out of your hand. His teeth brushed your skin just slightly, and you froze.
He sat back, and you wondered if he noticed how your cheeks flushed red. “That’s if Hana doesn’t kill us first for staying up so late again.”
You kicked at his foot under the table and tried to hide your smile. “You’re so annoying.”
He sighs. “Fine. I’ll sit and listen then. Tell me what happened with… Jake.”
You rolled your eyes but went on anyways. “Nothing even happened. That’s what’s sickening. I was going to—no, I wasn’t going to do anything, obviously—but I was at least going to… think at him very strongly from across the room. And now he’s with someone, so there’s no point. It’s never going to happen, and I’m going to die alone.”
He swallows. “Mm.” He leans his elbows on the table and raises a brow. “You’re literally sixteen.”
You shrug. “So?” you lean forward too, chin in your hand. “I’ve always wanted to fall in love young and then… stay. Like my parents. You should see them… they always split the last dumpling, and somehow it’s never mine, but I never mind because I like seeing how much my dad loves my mom. I like knowing I don’t come first, because they were first. I think that’s how it should be, you know? Because before anything else, they chose each other—and they still do. And that’s what I want too—to grow old next to someone until you look at them and it’s just—”
You make a small, helpless circle in the air with your finger because words feel too small for what you mean. “—easy. Like breathing. Like coming home and your favorite cup is already on the counter because they know you always use that one.”
He huffs out a breath that isn’t quite a laugh. “That’s it? Love to you is that?”
“Yes,” you flick a gummy bear towards him and pout. “Are you making fun of me?”
“No,” he picked up the gummy and tossed it into his mouth, “I’m just… curious.”
You shrugged. “Well, I just think it mostly lives in the small things that go unnoticed. Not necessarily grand gestures. Not billboards or fireworks. It’s—”
He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t even move, only watches you like he’s tracing the shape of every word that leaves your mouth, but you don’t notice it because you’re too caught up in trying to explain something that’s never felt complicated to you, not knowing it’s all too distant to him.
“It’s how my dad does things for my mom, and she never even notices,” you say like you’re thinking out loud. “Like he folds the corner of the newspaper—which yes, she still reads—because he knows that’s where she stops reading and she forgets, or he sets her mug near the window because she likes her tea a little cooler. He never says anything about it, and she never asks. It’s just… the way he loves her. Simple.”
He’s quiet for a beat, candy forgotten in his hand. “Love isn’t… simple.”
“Oh, but it is. It’s not that complicated. You meet someone, you choose them, and you keep choosing them every day after that.”
“You make it sound like anyone can have that.”
“Anyone can,” you’d said back then.
“Not me.”
You looked up at Sunghoon then. “Why not?”
He rolled the candy wrapper between his fingers until it tore, and then he flicked his eyes toward the window, anywhere but you.
“You know why.”
And you did.
Still, you’d said softly, “You could refuse.”
He shook his head. “That’s not how it works. It’s already done, you know? My father has got potential families fully lined up and everything. When I turn twenty-three, the papers will be signed, the engagement will make headlines, and that’ll be it.”
You stared at him. “But why? There’s always another way.”
“Not for me. Not when your last name is Park.” His voice drops lower. “It’s already written out—CEO, mergers, board seats, handshakes, the correct wife, the correct life. Everyone else gets to want things and I—" He stops there like he’s biting down on something. “I only have skating to myself.”
You bite your tongue before the words can slip out, before you can say you also have me.
Because you don’t want it to sound like that—like friendship, like something easy and small when everything in you means it differently.
“I don’t want to get married anyways,” he says after a beat. “Not to someone chosen for me. Not to anyone.”
“Even if it was someone you loved?” you ask quietly.
He goes still and looks at you then. Then he shakes his head, and you remember not knowing if it was his answer or if there was something he wasn't telling you.
“You’ll probably end up with someone perfect either way. She’ll be beautiful and quiet, and your parents will love her because they chose her.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But I won’t.”
“You won’t what?”
He chewed the inside of his cheek, gaze flicking away. “Love her.”
He absentmindedly reaches for the last pepero and softly pushes it across the table to you then.
“So why did you never tell him?” he says, changing the subject.
You reach for the pepero. “Tell who what?”
“Jake.” He says the name like it tastes sour. “Why didn’t you ever tell him you like him?”
You break the pepero stick in half slowly, buying time you don’t really need, because the real answer is simple and it’s on your tongue: because sometimes, when it’s just the two of us like this, I forget anyone else exists.
Because you’d put Sunghoon so high on a pedestal in your heart, there wasn’t any space left for you to stand next to him, because you already knew, somewhere deep down, that he wouldn’t be allowed to love you even if he wanted to.
As much as you’ve tried to bury this memory—or maybe it was a secret you carried all alone more than anything—somewhere deeper every year that passed, you still remember it as the moment you fully understood you’d never have him the way you wanted to. He’d sounded so sure that night, like he’d made up his mind and never doubted it—and he never tried to fight it all the other times before either.
He’d already accepted the future his parents wanted for him—one you weren’t part of.
So you did what you always did; you shoved it down and pretended.
You told yourself you liked Jake. You let everyone think you did, and hell—somewhere along the line you realized you actually liked Jake.
Because Jake was safe. He was easy.
Sunghoon wasn’t.
He was complicated, distant, and already promised to a future that had no room for you. And you loved him too much to risk losing the small part of him you were allowed to keep.
You drop your gaze and try to humor the air. “I would rather be shot in the head sixty-seven times.”
“Okay.” He snorts. “Bit dramatic.”
“I’m not giving a boy the satisfaction of knowing I like him,” you declare. “If he cares, he should show it. He should notice. I want—" you count on your fingers, because it helps, “—someone who knows me because they’ve actually paid attention. I want my pulse to race like an idiot. I want—” You break off, shaking your head and laughing softly. “God, listen to me. I sound fucking ridiculous. I’m never going to find anyone, am I?”
“You will,” Sunghoon says.
You squint at him. “How do you know?”
He looks at you for a long moment, like he’s searching for the right answer, and then he finally says, “I just do. I promise.”
And when you open your mouth to argue, he’s already holding his pinky up between you.
“Hoonie,” you gasp, “the pinky is too sacred for you to gamble it away like this.”
He laughs under his breath. “That’s how sure I am,” he says quietly. “That you’ll find someone who deserves you.”
You look down at his hand still hanging between you and force a small laugh despite how something in your chest aches.
“Okay,” you say finally, reaching for humor because it’s safer. “Then I’ll offer you a less risky promise.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Hmm?”
“If I’m thirty and still single and miserable and stupid and pathetic—”
“You won’t be.”
“Let me finish.”
He lifts both hands in surrender and smiles.
“If I’m thirty and still alone,” you continue, “and you’re still alone, and somehow against all odds haven’t been forced into some arranged merger—with some equally miserable heiress, then—”
“I will be.”
You glared at him. “I said let me finish. Anyways—” you pause for effect, “we should just marry each other then.”
He blinks. “What?”
You nudge him. “It’s a foolproof plan. You’re my best friend. Wait, Wonyoung and Sunoo would kill me if they heard that. You know what I mean—anyways, it’ll work.” you exclaim cheerfully, “I’ll keep you from being trapped in an arranged, loveless marriage, and you’ll save me from dying alone.”
He chuckles, though it doesn’t fully seem sincere. “Sounds fair.”
“But we’ll have to move to Paris,” you add, “because your parents would absolutely have me killed.”
Later, you’d tell yourself it was all just a joke, a throwaway promise made between two kids who didn’t know any better, and you’d laugh about it whenever you thought of it because that’s easier than remembering how much you hoped for it to happen.
What you never realized at the time is that he did too.
It was the only version of the future where the two of you could exist without your last names weighing it down.
Then when your head lolls on your forearm and your eyes slide shut after a while, he doesn’t move for a long time. He just watches you, looks at the unopened banana milk carton in your hand, and then he does the smallest, stupidest thing; he carefully takes it out of your hands, shakes it three exact times by reflex, pokes the straw at the corner, and leaves it upright on the table, and he knows it’ll be thrown out in the morning, but he does it anyway.
When he finally stands and tries to carry you, you murmur his name, and his grip fumbles. He almost drops you and laughs, breathless and mortified because he woke you up.
Then he walks you up the stairs, not quite touching you, always a step to the traffic side (out of habit) that doesn’t even exist inside a house, always the one reaching first for the light switch because he knows you’ll forget, always—always—looking back once when you separate at the top of the landing, like he’s checking you made it to your door.
Years later you’ll sit at the same table in the same house, older and angrier and pretending you aren’t both haunted, and you’ll remember suddenly, hard enough to knock the air out of you, the feel of his pinky tucked against yours and the tiny click of a straw pushed through foil, turned toward you without you ever knowing.
You’d spent forty minutes in the shower trying to scrub the last twenty-four hours off your skin, standing under the water until your skin flushed pink and the heat had started to sting.
From the moment you’d stepped into that damn ballroom last night, to the sight of Sunghoon in that towel, to the stupid fucking dream you’d just had—all of it.
By now you should’ve been home with your phone (which you so deeply miss), in your own shower, with your own everything, preferably with Wonyoung next to you so you could tell her all about this and feel sane—but Hana had been impossible to refuse (as always).
She’d smiled that soft, motherly smile and pressed a slice of homemade banana bread into your hands before you could protest, telling you that it had been years since you’d all been under this roof together and she simply will not allow any of you to go home.
It’s a Saturday, anyway. she’d said.
Then she’d offered you banana milk, and that was the final nail in the coffin for you—old habits truly do die hard, because no one could ever really say no to her, and you could never say no to banana milk.
Jake, though, had already left before you’d even woken up, apparently called away for something about his father and the embassy. So that left you, Heeseung—still half-asleep in his room—and, of course, painfully and regretfully, Sunghoon.
You sighed and set the hairdryer down on the counter and looked up at your reflection in the mirror—which was just a blur, and maybe that was better, because you really didn’t feel like looking at yourself right now.
You hadn’t even changed properly yet. The staff had brought a fresh pile of brand-new, neatly folded, clean clothes, but then Hana had come in herself, smiling that proud little smile again while holding another stack you suspiciously eyed.
Look! I never threw out your clothes even after Yunah left and you stopped coming over here as much… After all these years, I simply couldn’t bring myself to, Y/N-ah…
And again, no one can ever really say no to her—and it’s not that she expected you to actually wear them or anything since they were from when you were about fourteen or something, but she’d looked so sincere, and you were already feeling a little too nostalgic for your own good, so you did.
Only, the shorts barely covered you—soft, old cotton that had probably fit your teenage self just fine but now rode up the curve of your ass every time you moved. The waistband dug lightly into your hips, and the hem did nothing to hide how much your body had changed since then.
The tank top wasn’t any better. It used to hang loose, but now it was clinging to your chest so tight you could see the outline of your breasts and nipples through the thin fabric, and you kept tugging the neckline higher, but it was pointless because it was so small and oh so tight.
You had only thrown it on mindlessly for this interval of getting ready after your shower anyways, but you still made a mental note to obviously change into something more… appropriate before heading downstairs.
But for now, you just stood there, combing your fingers through your hair, and the thought of simply being here in this house right now brought you exactly the kind of relief you needed.
It was strange how quickly you’d fallen back into the rhythm of this place. You used to spend all your weekends here, back when Yunah was still in Seoul—and it wasn’t like the other families you grew up around whose homes looked more like museums than places people actually lived in. It was filled with the kind of warmth that didn’t fit in the world you were born into.
The Lees just… reminded you so much of your parents.
Mr. Lee actually ate dinner with the staff and opened the doors himself on the rare days he was home, and Hana had been the only one who never once looked at your mother like she was pretending to like her simply because of her status.
Maybe that was because she didn’t have to. They’d grown up together, just like your fathers had, two pairs of best friends who somehow ended up marrying each other, which only made the Lees feel less like family friends and more like an extension of your own.
You leaned against the counter and let yourself breathe. Just for today, you told yourself, you’d stop overthinking and let the day unfold on its own. You’d eat whatever Hana baked (which by the way, she finally got you to call her Hana after all these years), maybe help her in her garden, maybe even nap again if you felt like it.
But of course, there was one problem.
Why, pray tell, was he always here?
Every single place you turned lately, Park Sunghoon was there.
In your classes, in the ballroom, in that stupid fucking van, in this house, in your fucking dreams, for crying out loud—lately, somehow, he was starting to linger in the quiet parts of your mind that used to be yours alone.
You hated him. God, you hated him. You hated how you actually allowed him to even take space up in your head, how he always somehow found a way in. He was like this constant hum in the back of your thoughts that you couldn’t mute, no matter how many times you told yourself he meant nothing to you anymore.
You’d told yourself you weren’t going to think about him again, not about what he’d slurred to you like a drunken fool, not about how his hands had lingered on your cheek with concern etched in his voice, and especially not about the faint bruises you’d noticed near his collarbone. You’d caught sight of them again last night after his shower—dark, uneven marks that didn’t look like they’d come from a simple fight, no matter what he’d said in that alley. You’d tried to shake the image off, tried to convince yourself it didn’t matter, that he was telling the truth, that it wasn’t your business anyway. But every time you closed your eyes, you saw the outline of them again, and it made something ugly twist low in your stomach.
You could think of Jake instead. You should. He made you feel wanted and made you feel warm. He didn’t make your pulse spike, didn’t make you want to run your mouth just to see what he’d say next, and didn’t make your body react in ways you couldn’t control.
But when you tried to stir your mind in that direction, your skin prickled hot with shame because you couldn’t stop thinking about the look on his face when you’d asked if he’d opened the partition last night, or the way his smile had faltered when Heeseung had pointed out that he’d been lying about where he was last night—to be fair, Hee was drunk out of his mind, but it’s not like you haven’t noticed the little pattern.
You shook your head and stopped yourself from thinking about it any further, because you couldn’t think of any reason why Jake of all people would lie like that in the first place. Plus, even if something was going on, you finally had one quiet morning—one day to just exist. To hell with it if Sunghoon was here. You could ignore him. You’d done it for the last few years.
Oh, If only it were that easy.
You were about halfway through straightening your hair when the bathroom door opened behind you, and you didn’t even turn at first, just assumed it was one of the housekeepers maybe checking if you needed more towels.
But then you caught the reflection in the mirror and fucking laughed.
Sunghoon stood there with that same unreadable, calm stare that somehow always made your blood pressure spike.
He was wearing a white tank top that was thin and tight enough that you could see the faint dip of his collarbones and the line where his stomach started to tighten into muscle—and Christ, this asshole is wearing fucking grey fucking sweatpants that are loose around his legs but dangerously low on his hips, with the waistband hanging open just enough that your brain supplied the rest of the picture for you without permission.
Your gaze dragged down and back up before you even realized what you were doing, and when it hit you, you felt the heat rise to your cheeks.
Oh, for fuck’s sake Y/N.
You snapped your eyes away, scowling at your own reflection like you could burn the thought out of your brain. “Do you not knock?” you sneered.
“Didn’t realize you cared about privacy,” He raised a brow. “It’s my bathroom.”
This fucking—
You physically felt your cheeks burning up now. “What did you say?! And it’s not your—this is my—oh my god, again with this? You can’t just—”
He groaned, dragging a hand down his face, head tipping back slightly. “Shut up,” he muttered, moving past you toward the sink. “My head is killing me.”
“I don’t care. Get the hell out.”
He ignored that completely, running the tap. “You were hogging this bathroom for a fucking hour.”
“There are ten other bathrooms in this house—on this floor alone!”
He shrugged. “Exactly. And this one is mine.”
It was truly fascinating how one single phrase from him could make you want to throw the nearest object at his head.
You raised your voice a bit. “Boy, are you out of your mind—”
Okay, maybe it was louder than a bit.
“I said shut up.” he cut in, “I’m too hungover for this right now. Just move.”
“Don’t tell me to move or to shut up—it’s not my fault you drank yourself to near death last night!” You hissed, lower this time.
He didn’t answer. Just rolled his tongue against the inside of his cheek, eyes dropping for a second, and you saw the faintest raise of his brows as he shook his head once.
Then he looked up again, and you felt more than noticed how his eyes darkened once he actually took you in.
His eyes dragged over you slowly, from your face to your throat—lingering on the faint marks you’d tried to ignore in the mirror—to the curve of your chest where your tank top clung too tight, and then down, lower, to where your shorts rode up higher than they had any right to. His gaze stayed there a beat too long, and the bastard didn’t even bother pretending to look away.
“What,” he said finally, clenching his jaw, “are you wearing?”
“Are you—” you scoffed, shaking your head, “seriously starting again with me right now?”
He leaned a little closer to the counter, bracing one palm on the marble. “Starting?” He looked at you again. “I’m just asking.”
“You’re not just asking,” you bit out. “You’re—” You gestured vaguely between the two of you, words tangling somewhere between your brain and your throat. “You’re doing that thing—God. They’re pyjamas. Mind your damn business.”
He didn’t say anything. He only picked his toothbrush up from the counter, squeezed a lazy stripe of toothpaste across the bristles, and started brushing his teeth while he was still looking at you with one brow arched.
A beat passed.
Then, his eyes flicked away, and he bent over the sink like you weren’t even there.
You wanted to scream. You wanted to throw the straightener at his stupid head. But more than anything, you refused to give him the satisfaction of walking out or reacting like you had last night. No. Not again. Fuck him and his stupid self and his stupid face and his stupid biceps and his—
No, really. What the fuck was wrong with you?
You picked the straightener back up like absolutely nothing was happening in your chest and clamped another section of hair, humming under your breath just to drown out the anger bursting through your veins.
God. He was in your dreams. He was in your head. You’d already spent half your shower trying not to—and failing to—picture him jerking off in that very shower last night. And now here he fucking was again.
You risked a glance—just one, you told yourself, just to confirm he was really there and not some stupid hallucination your brain had conjured to punish you. Yes. That was definitely why—your eyes moved before you could reason with yourself, tracing the easy way his hand gripped the toothbrush and made it look cartoonishly small in comparison to the size of it, fingers long and thick, the faint press of veins that stood out when he flexed his wrist and when he brought it to his mouth—his stupid fucking bicep tightening with every back and forth of the brush.
You were almost sure you smelled your hair burning from where you were holding the straightener, but still for some reason, you kept watching even as he tilted his head forward just a little, barely a movement, then parted his lips and spat into the sink and flicked his tongue out to catch the last of it on his lip after—and it pulled at something low in your stomach, and you swallowed before you even realized you were doing it.
Jesus fucking christ.
You gritted your teeth and tried not to think about how badly you wanted to take the straightener and shove it straight up his ass. (Or your own for what you were doing right now).
But then your eyes went lower.
To be honest, you really didn’t mean to look that low. Maybe.
Right there, stretching against the grey fabric, was the very obvious fucking outline of him. Not a maybe, not a trick of the light—no, it was there, thick and heavy and huge. You didn’t even have a frame of reference for it, not really, but your brain filled in the blanks all too easily, and it was actually fucking obscene how visibly and painfully hard and huge he was—SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP.
You had to physically shake your head to free yourself from whatever fucking force just possessed you as you forced your gaze back to your reflection, gripping the straightener tighter like that would somehow make you sane again.
“You’re going to burn your hair.”
You blinked, hard. “What?”
He straightened, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes flicking to you through the mirror. “That,” he said simply, nodding toward your hand. “You’ve been going over the same spot for, like—” he licked his lips, “—three minutes.”
“Shut up,” you mutter, looking away too quickly, and the dent in your hair from where you’d miserably failed to straighten it properly wasn’t helping your case at all.
You swore you saw him smile a little. Smug bastard.
He stared at you for a second longer with something unreadable flickering in his eyes, and then he stepped forward like you weren’t even there. He brushed close enough behind you that you could feel the warmth rolling off his skin, and it looked like he was expecting you to move, because when you didn’t budge, you saw his brow lift slightly in the mirror, a quiet exhale leaving his nose like he was amused.
His eyes met yours in the mirror again. “You’re in the way,” he said.
You almost laughed. “You’re in my space.”
“Then move,” he murmured, not even bothering to step back.
You didn’t.
You couldn’t, really, because you knew he wanted you to, and because every nerve in your body was locked somewhere between fury and something you didn’t even want to name.
You pretended to care about the way your hair fell over your shoulder while your brain short-circuited trying not to register how close he was now and how insanely hard you’d just seen—No. No. We’re not doing this shit again. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.
His arm moved again, just barely grazing you, and your breath caught before you could stop it.
“Relax,” he said almost mockingly, in the same tone he did last night. “I’m just grabbing my stuff.”
“Then grab it faster and go,” you muttered, not looking up.
You tightened your grip on the straightener until your knuckles went white. You hated that he knew exactly what he was doing. You hated that you didn’t move. You hated the idea of moving and giving him the satisfaction you did last night more. You hated every fucking thing.
He took his sweet time, of course. Opened the cabinet above the sink, realized what he wanted was just out of reach, but instead of taking half a step around you like a normal person, he stayed put—close enough that you could feel the edge of his breath skim your shoulder.
“You’re tense,” he said, eyeing your knuckles.
You swallowed hard, eyes flicking up to his in the mirror. “Maybe if you—” You stopped yourself, jaw tightening. “Forget it.”
He smiled then. “Again, you could move.”
“You could shut up and leave.”
He let out a short breath that might’ve been a laugh. “You really don’t make things easy, do you?”
You met his eyes in the mirror and gave a mocking smile that didn’t quite reach your face. Then you lifted your chin higher and picked up the comb again, parting a section of your hair with all the fake calm you could muster.
“Move,” he said again, though softer this time.
“I’m not doing this with you again,” you snapped, finally turning to face him. “Just step around me or fucking make me move, cause i’m not moving.”
His eyes dropped to the thin strap of your tank top, to the very painfully obvious way your nipples were hardened and pressed against the fabric, to the fading bruises Jake had marked you with scattered across your chest, and he lingered there for a beat too long before looking back up.
Then he stepped forward. Not by much—just enough that the space between you disappeared. He wasn’t directly behind you, more off to the side, his chest angled toward your shoulder, his hip brushing just barely against yours.
His hands were so warm against your skin when they closed around your arms just under your shoulders, palms hot against your skin. You almost flinched at the contact, and his fingers flexed once—gentle, like he was testing how much you’d let him touch you.
Then he leaned in.
Close. Too fucking close. His mouth hovered by your jaw, the heat of his breath skimming your neck. You could feel the faint scrape of his stubble as he tilted his head, his voice so close it felt like it was slipping straight under your skin.
“You really think I don’t know what you’re doing?”
You stared at the hollow of his throat, heart thudding like an idiot. “I’m not fucking doing anything.”
He tightened his grip on your shoulder in the slightest. “You wanted me to make you move, didn’t you?” his hands drifted lower slowly, fingertips tracing down the line of your upper arm before settling near your elbows. “Is this what you meant?”
He paused. Then added, “Or did you mean something else?”
You were fully aware of every point where your bodies were touching now—the way his chest brushed your back when he inhaled, your hip nudging his thigh, and the way your shoulder barely fit between his arm and the cabinet. There was no space between you unless one of you stepped back.
And you sure as fucking hell weren’t going to be the one to move.
“Go to hell.”
He tsked. “Better yet, do you want me to move?”
The smart thing—hell, the fucking sane thing—would’ve been to say yes immediately and shut this shit down before you got pulled even deeper into whatever the hell this was. But you’re too fucking stubborn to give him any sort of reaction.
He waited. Maybe for a second. Maybe longer. You weren’t sure anymore because your head was too full of him.
You clenched your jaw even harder and managed to speak. “You’re not even making sense. Just step around me like a normal fucking person.”
He scoffed. “Oh, but I think I am. See, you still haven’t told me to move,” he said as his thumbs were slowly brushing your sides. “No, you told me to move you, but you haven’t even told me how.”
Your breath caught.
“You want me to pull?” he murmured, and his fingers slid up, catching a loose strand of hair that had fallen over your shoulder, and he gave it a light tug—barely anything, just enough to tilt your head back a fraction, enough to make you feel the weight of his hand in your hair.
He went on quietly, “Pin you?” the words brushing against your ear, “Carry you? Right here? Hmm?” His thumb brushed the side of your neck now. “What are you thinking of when you look at me like that?”
Your head tilted back slightly before you could stop it, throat tightening.
“Fuck off,” you said, but it came out as a whisper. “I’m not thinking of jackshit.”
Then his hand slipped lower—just above your ribs now, under the hem of your shirt but not quite touching anything.
“Look at you. Shit,” he practically groaned in your ear. “You don’t even know—” he shook his head.
Then added, “You really think I’m some fucking animal who’d just take you right here like an amateur?” he whispered. “Just because you want it?”
“I don’t fucking want—”
He clicked his tongue again. “Who said you could talk?”
Then before you could say anything, he added, “If I wanted to, you’d already be bent over that fucking sink.”
He let that hang in the air for one beat.
“But I’d take my time with you.”
You didn’t even know what you were supposed to say to that. Your mouth opened, then closed again, because every smart thing you could’ve said, every insult you wanted to throw in his stupid fucking face, got tangled somewhere in your chest and refused to come out.
“I’d make you use your words and beg for it,” you felt his fingers flex against your ribs, almost as if he were holding himself back. “Instead of… whatever you’re thinking of when you look at me that way.”
Your eyes fluttered shut for a second before you could stop them, and that single second was enough to make you all the more furious at yourself.
Then, his voice from a few days ago rang loudly in your ears.
You’re just easy to rile up. If I wanted to use you to take the edge off, I wouldn’t lose sleep over it—that’s all you’d be. A way to blow off some steam. Nothing else.
You straightened your shoulders and forced yourself to speak.
“Get off me, Sunghoon,” you said finally. “We’re done here.”
Then his warmth was gone. Just like that.
You didn’t move until the door clicked shut. The mirror was still fogged at the edges, though it wasn’t blurry anymore, but your reflection still looked unfamiliar, and all you could think was that he hadn’t even bothered to grab whatever he’d come in for.
“Miss?” The housekeeper appeared at your elbow and set down a small plate wrapped in parchment. You didn’t even try to be polite about it when you saw it was banana bread again; you tore a corner off with your fingers, and the butter melted into your palm, and you wanted to cry a little because it felt like every summer you’d ever spent here when things were simpler because you were smaller.
“Thank you,” you said with a polite smile.
Heeseung lifted his head from where he had it on the table, sniffed like a bloodhound, and reached for the plate.
You smacked his knuckles. “Ask.”
“Please?”
You broke him a piece, and he closed his eyes and moaned when he bit into it. “Fuck yeah,” he sighed. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
“You’re so odd.”
He leaned back in his chair, rubbing the heel of his hand over his eyes. “You know, when I came down and saw you here, I thought I was still dreaming,” he said, voice rough with sleep. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you in here again without your parents.”
“Yeah,” you murmured, picking at the crust of the banana bread. “You and me both.”
He glanced over at you, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You guys fell out so bad I thought we’d never be like this again.”
That made you look up. “Like this?” you echoed. “What does ‘like this’ even mean?”
He shrugged, still chewing. “You know. Sitting around, eating banana bread. Just… us? Like last night.”
You shoved down the way you suddenly remembered the feeling of his hands on you an hour ago and shook your head.
“We’re never going to be who we were before, Hee.” You said softly, “That’s done. He’s fucking done.”
Heeseung raised his hands, mock-defensive. “Okay, damn. I was just saying.”
“Yeah, well, don’t.”
He hummed, thoughtful. “You sure though?”
You gave him a look. “Pretty fucking sure.”
He watched you for a second. “You really hate him that much?”
You shot him a look again. “You were there, Hee. You know what happened.”
“Yeah,” Heeseung said with his eyes on the table, and you could see the way his jaw moved, like he wanted to say something else but didn’t. “Still… you could be easy on him, maybe. I dunno.”
You tilted your head, squinting. “Me? He’s the fucking one who—are you taking his side now?”
He dropped the piece he’d taken from your plate and pointed at you with it, grinning. “Hell no, girl. Don’t start that taking sides bullshit again. I’m grown.”
“Is that my piece—”
He quickly shoved the whole thing into his mouth. “You’re seeing things,” he cut in, and you both lightly laughed.
After a beat you added, “You make it sound like I started it.”
“Started what?”
You squinted at him. “Are you mentally challenged? I mean Sunghoon.”
“Oh,” He shrugged, “Bro, I’m not taking anyone’s side or saying who started what.” He swallowed, then added quietly, “I’m just saying… things aren’t always what they look like… sometimes people go through stuff, and they don’t really know how to come back from it.”
You frowned a little. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nothing. Forget it.”
You blinked at him. “Heeseung.”
“I’m not defending him, okay?”
“You sound like you are.”
“I’m not.”
“He’s a fucking asshole,” you said before you could stop yourself. “Like, actually. You don’t get it, Hee. He doesn’t just—” you gestured vaguely with your hands, “He doesn’t get to fucking treat me like that. He gets under my skin, like he knows exactly what to say to fucking piss me off. Like he enjoys it.”
Heeseung’s brow furrowed. “You sure that’s not just—”
“Don’t even fucking say it.”
He held up both hands and looked around. “I wasn’t gonna say anything.”
Your fingers toyed with the edge of the parchment, peeling it apart just to give them something to do.
“I’m serious,” you said. “He just… woke up one day and started acting differently. Like overnight. Like I was some kind of nuisance he had to tolerate all of a sudden—fuck that. He’s a fucking piece of shit.”
“I know.” Heeseung said softly. “Trust me, I know.”
You furrowed your brows together. “Then why the hell are you defending him? You’ve seen what he does.”
He sighed, “I’m not defending him, okay? I love you two like family—” you held back a laugh, and he glared and went on, “Shut up. I just—” He stopped. “He’s—You’ve both been through shit. That’s all I’m saying.”
You wanted to push further, but his tone made it clear he wouldn’t tell you more even if you asked, because you’d learned a long time ago that when Heeseung didn’t finish a sentence, it wasn’t by accident.
So you just leaned back in your chair, staring at the crumb-covered plate between you.
Heeseung reached for his coffee and muttered, “Man, this house makes people weirdly honest.”
Then you hear footsteps coming down the hall and a familiar voice floating in from the doorway.
“Hee just woke up, so come on. You can have my banana bread with them.”
You both turned your heads towards the doorway at the same time to see Hana dragging in Sunghoon, who looked freshly showered and flushed, and stumbling behind Hana despite his groaning.
“I already ate,” he murmured.
She gave his arm a little tug, and even though he resisted for half a second, he followed and sat down across from you just like when you were younger, only he didn’t look at you. Not once.
Heeseung nudged the plate toward him with a lazy grin. “You heard the boss. Banana bread, bro.”
“I’m fine.”
Hana tutted. “You’re not fine. You never are when you say you’re fine.” She stopped behind Sunghoon’s chair and ruffled his hair with both hands. “You really okay, Hoon-ah?” she asked softly. Her voice was quiet enough that it made you look up, too.
He nodded once, barely. “Yeah,” he murmured. “My head hurts a bit, but I’m good.”
His jaw flexed once, and his thumb rubbed slow, tight circles into the side of his palm like he was trying to burn off the rest of something, and you tried not to think too much about how he had the same look on his face when he’d told you to get out of his—that stupid room last night.
If you keep standing there, I will do something about it. And if I start, I’m not fucking stopping.
Heeseung perked up next to you and snapped you out of your thoughts. “Now hold on, why am I not getting this treatment?” he said, raising a brow. “I’m your actual son.”
Hana clicks her tongue. “My irresponsible, drunken—” she reaches over to shove his head, earning a groan from him— “and terribly hungover son.”
Heeseung looked around. “Am I being punked right now?” He said, turning to you with mock disbelief. “Who does this woman think I was drinking with?”
You tried not to laugh, covering your mouth with your hand, and then Hana spoke softly.
“Then you’ll notice I also said irresponsible,” she hums and moves behind Sunghoon, resting both hands on his shoulders for just a moment. “You two are supposed to take care of each other. You—” she pointed at Hee, “most of all.”
Two housekeepers came in then, balancing trays on their hands filled with cut fruit, small pastries, and glass bowls of snacks. They moved quietly, setting everything down on the table. One of them placed a small carton of banana milk in front of you and smiled before stepping back.
“Oh, lovely,” Hana said. “There we go.”
She clapped her hands once, looking around at the three of you. “You kids are always going through such a tough time. And now that you’re older, I barely see you anymore like this.” Her voice softened. “So, I want you to just unwind here for a bit. You know the rules here.”
She glanced at Sunghoon and then softly added, “Don’t think too much about anything.”
You looked down at your plate, at the crumbs stuck to your fingers, and for a second, you let yourself feel small again. You rubbed your thumb against them, pressed them into your skin, like maybe if you did it long enough you could trick yourself into being little again.
Here, you weren’t anyone’s daughter or anyone’s responsibility. You just were, and none of you had to think about your last names or what waited outside or who was watching.
Then Sunghoon moved. You only noticed because you’d reached out at the same time and then hesitated… you watched as his fingers wrapped around a whole bunch of grapes from the platter like it was nothing, and your throat went dry so fast you nearly coughed.
Not even one grape. The whole fucking bunch.
His fingers curled around them so easily, knuckles flexing, veins pushing up under his skin, and all you could think was how fucking small they looked in his hand. How absurdly, unfairly, ridiculously small. He managed to make everything look so ridiculously small in his big—
Lord. No. Not fucking again. Stop. What the hell is happening to you today?
You blinked, forced your eyes away, and shook your head once like that would snap you out of it.
Then you reached for one of the strawberries in front of you without thinking and picked it up by the stem, heavy and ripe, and when you bit into it, the juice slipped down to your knuckles.
You absentmindedly licked at the corner slowly, catching it with the tip of your tongue, then wiped your mouth with your thumb and sucked it clean before going in for another bite. It dripped again, lower this time, and your finger caught the trail right from the dip of your chin. You brought it to your lips and licked it off without thinking.
When you looked up, your eyes moved over the table again, and you found Sunghoon already watching you.
His mouth was pressed into a line, and he was clenching his jaw, the muscle ticking once before he shook his head and looked away.
He reached for his glass of water, fingers gripping it a little too hard, and took a long sip.
You blinked and furrowed your brows. What the fuck?
Hana’s voice came softly. “Oh, Y/N-ah, I talked to your mom earlier,” she said, and you turned to look at her. “She told me she can’t believe you’ve made it this far into the day without your phone.”
You looked up at her and giggled. “Tell me about it.”
Hana laughed softly. “She said she might stop by later if she can get out of her meeting early. Something about the Japan expansion or the board dinner next week.” She waved a hand. “You know how she is—never not working. You both deserve a day off.”
You picked up the carton of banana milk sitting in front of you and shook it three times, the way you always did, then slipped the straw into the corner of the box and took a small sip.
“Then before she gets here, can I have the last of your motherly affection? You know, while it’s still quiet?” you teased.
Hana shook her head and laughed. “You don’t need to ask for that, sweetie. And for the record, I agree with whatever she’ll say to you.”
Heeseung pouted dramatically. “Okay, and what about me, huh? I’d like some motherly affection too.”
Hana reached over and flicked his forehead. “No.”
He groaned, slumping forward in his chair. “Ow—my head,” he whined. “I’m still recovering, woman.”
She just sighed and placed another slice of banana bread on his plate. “You have no one to blame but yourself.”
“And Sunghoon!” he huffed, pointing across the table. “Why does he always get off so easy?”
“You wanted to drink,” Sunghoon said without even looking up.
“Huh? You practically forced the first shot into my mouth, bro. I mean—ehhhhh, sure, maybe I had like five… or ten or twenty to thirty after that, but the first one is the one that counts, bro.”
Sunghoon’s mouth twitched. “Still wanted to drink it yourself.”
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
“Did not.”
Hana groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Oh, please don’t start this again,” she muttered. “You both know how I feel about drinking like that. Especially under this roof.”
“Yes mother,” Heeseung mumbled.
“And don’t ‘yes, mother’ me,” she said. “Just because I’m not that angry, it doesn’t mean I don’t care—If your fathers saw the state you two were in last night, they’d have my head and then yours. You’re not children anymore. You have names that mean something, and every time you go out acting like you don’t, it reflects on all of us.”
Heeseung pressed his lips together and nodded.
Hana turned her gaze on him fully then. “And you,” she said, “you know better than anyone how delicate it is to have her with you. It’s no different than if Yunah were there.”
You didn’t say anything to that, just looked at her with your brows pulled together.
“Her reputation matters,” Hana went on, her eyes flicking toward you before settling back on him. “You know what people say, how quick they are to twist things. You were raised better than to give them reasons to.”
Heeseung groaned quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Mom, come on—”
“No,” she cut in, “Remember what I always tell you? You take care of her when she’s with you. Not the other way around. I mean it.” She paused then, turning her head toward the other side of the table. “Both of you.”
You fully expected him to laugh—to mock you or to have something smart prepared—but Sunghoon didn’t say anything. He only nodded in the slightest as if he was… bored. You couldn’t tell.
Then Hana’s phone started ringing from where it was on the table, and you exhaled a breath you didn’t even know you were holding in as the four of you looked at it all at once.
“Oh, look,” Hana said, smiling as she reached for it. “It’s your mother, Y/N-ah.”
She picked up on the second ring. “My Aesun! we were just talking about you—” she smiled wider. “Wait, Yes. I’m with her right now. Why, what’s—”
You didn’t need to hear the other end to know that whatever your mother had said to her wasn’t anything good, because the smile on Hana’s face faltered, just slightly at first, then disappeared altogether, and then her eyes darted across the table—to you, then to Sunghoon, then back to you again.
A beat passed.
“…I see,” she said finally. “No, they’re both here. I’ll tell them.”
“What do you mean it’s already spreading?” Heeseung said, his brows knitting together as he looked between you and Sunghoon. “Can’t we just say it’s AI or some shit?”
“You’re not fucking helping,” you muttered into your palms from where you sat on the couch.
Heeseung hovered near your knees. “No, we can spin it,” he said fast. “We’ll say you were randomly in the parking lot and you saw him fall. Like… you know, you’re already a saint in their eyes, and they’re stupid enough anyway—”
“There’s nothing to spin,” you snapped, looking up. “It’s so fucking bad—I didn’t even want to be helping him.” Your voice stumbled over itself. “I— I didn’t— this is—”
“Okay. Breathe.”
“Don’t tell me to breathe!” you sneered.
“Girl, okay?” he threw his hands up. “Then don’t breathe, damn.”
You reached over and pinched his arm so hard he yelped. “Ow—Jesus—WHY are you so violent? Fine. Just—calm down for two seconds.”
You frowned and pushed up on your elbows. “Give me your phone.”
He winced. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
You dragged your hands down your face, palms sticky with leftover sweat. “Just give it to me, Hee.”
He looked over his shoulder toward the corner of the room, where Sunghoon stood with his phone pressed to his ear with his stupid fucking father, and his stupid fucking face was unreadable as ever—and something about that made your blood boil even harder.
“Heeseung,” you said.
Heeseung mutters a curse under his breath but gives you his phone anyway, and when you unlock it, it’s already on the article.
You blink. Once. Twice. Maybe five times before the words actually register.
PARK GROUP SUCCESSOR PARK SUNGHOON AND HAN EMPIRE HEIRESS Y/N Y/L/N SEEN LEAVING LAST NIGHT’S FUNDRAISER AT THE LOTTE EARLY TOGETHER.
Exclusive: Eyewitness claims the pair “looked intimate” before leaving together.
And right underneath it was the fucking photo.
The two of you in the parking lot. You’re half bent forward, trying to help him into the car, and he’s leaning into you with his hands on your waist. Your dress is half-ruined, and Jake’s jacket is hanging loosely over your shoulders. From any angle—hell, even from yours—it looks wrong. Too fucking close. Like you wanted to be there.
No.
No, no, no.
Not this, not him, not you.
Fucking shit—you were barely even standing upright in that parking lot. Your brain was somewhere else entirely, and you swear to God you didn’t even notice anyone there other than the two bodyguards... you were too fucking tired and too fucking distracted.
Heeseung leaned in again. “How bad is it actually?”
You turned the screen so he could see, and he winced. “Oh, you’re royally fucked.”
He flinches when you raise your hand as if to shove him, and then he pouts and just steps a bit further away.
Your mom had called Hana as soon as it dropped, and they both had to call you ten fucking times before you believed it was real. They said they were handling it, that your parents were handling it, that everyone was handling it, and you almost laughed at the thought of that, because what the fuck did "handling it" even mean when it was already everywhere with a picture like that stapled to it?
You scrolled a bit further down until you saw the comments peeking, and Heeseung leaned in closer when he caught the flicker of motion in the screen. “I don’t think you should—”
“Shut up.” You don’t look at him. “Just—shut up, Hee.”
You should’ve listened to him.
One after another after another and another, they were glaring right at you, and your grip tightened on the phone.
[+492, -30] they definitely fucked. look at the way he’s holding her. ㅋㅋㅋㅋ
[+402, -55] she’s not stupid enough to date him. She knows better than to become Park property
[+379, -100] Get your fcking hands off my man dirty bitch
[+581, -66] they’re both adults. aren’t they friends?
[+112, -54] ah fuck she’s too good for him. but look at how big his hands are on her waist. ㅠㅠㅠㅠㅠㅠ
[+200, -39] can you imagine being y/n? park sunghoon giving you attention like that… ahhhh must feel like winning the lottery.
[+203, -13] ^ what the fuck are you even saying? She is the damn lottery. seriously, you’re all fkcing stupid for this dumb boy ㅋㅋㅋㅋ
[+98, -17] I don't know why everyone’s pretending to be shocked. All of the chaebol kids sleep around in their circles.
“What are they saying?” Heeseung leaned in a bit closer from where he was, and he rested his head on your shoulder. “We pass each other around? Why didn’t anyone pass me anything?—OW.” You jab him with your elbow.
[+111, -20] Why do people care so much about these stupid spoiled chaebol kids? I was in a parking lot last night too. Where is my headline?
[+300, -10] ^ ??? no one knows you. ㅋㅋㅋㅋ
[+200, -33] Park jaejoon has spent twenty years buying journalists and still can’t stop one photo. Lol must be true news
You scroll and scroll and scroll until the words blur.
[+300, -8] some of us have to work in the morning. [+121, -70] He’s so fcking hot i can’t breathe. Fuck my stupid life.
[+78, -59] Oh shit. they’re a bit cute together hah… Visual couple…
[+177, -60] His father probably staged this to distract from the Park Group embezzlement rumors ㅋㅋㅋ
[+55, -20] No way his family lets him marry her. I can’t even comment that this is PR because they wouldn’t even choose her to be a part of the PR.
[+33, -9] ^ Are you fcking crazy bitch? Sunghoon is lucky if he ends up with Y/N. His reputation is fcking wasted
[+77, -88] Hasn’t his father been shopping for a match for years now? Looks like a perfect match… engagement?
You hear yourself whisper before you can stop it. “Engagement—” You almost laugh, but it breaks halfway out. “I’m fucking—They’re fucking insane.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Heeseung says and immediately pries the phone out of your hand.
“Hey—” you reach for it, but he’s already holding it out of reach. “Give it back, Hee.”
“Nope.” He tucks it behind him and shakes his head. “You’re done doomscrolling. Jesus Christ.”
“Just give it back.”
“Y/N—”
“I said give it back!”
He looked at you for a long moment, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the right thing, so instead he just sighed, running a hand down his face.
You turned toward him without meaning to, eyes finding the line of his shoulders, the way his hand dragged over his jaw like he was exhausted—or maybe angry, you couldn’t tell. You wanted him to look at you. You wanted him to say something. Anything.
But he didn’t.
He just stood there on the phone with his thumb rubbing against the edge of the counter like the world wasn’t fucking crumbling around you.
“He doesn’t even care,” you muttered.
Heeseung frowned. “Huh?”
You gestured vaguely toward the corner. “Him. He’s just—” your words tangled, “He’s acting like this isn’t his fucking fault.”
Heeseung followed your gaze, then looked back at you, sighing through his nose. “Y/N, it’s been what? Twenty minutes? He’s probably getting ripped to shreds over there.”
You press your nails into your palms until it hurts. “He’s not even saying anything. Look at him.”
“Y/N—”
“No, seriously, look at him.” You point again. “He’s standing there like a fucking robot, and the entire fucking country’s calling me a fucking whore because of him.”
Heeseung sighs, rubbing his face. “He’s… handling his dad right now.”
“He’s handling—Hee. I love you, seriously—but. God—” You laugh, “He’s not handling anything; he’s letting them handle it. And I don't want to fucking hear the word handle again tonight! Or ever!”
He frowns. “What do you want him to do?”
You open your mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. It’s like your brain just stops working, like there’s this stupid white noise in your head, and you can’t even think of what you’re supposed to say, because Heeseung was right. What the hell was he supposed to do? You just—God, from the moment Hana had told the two of you, he’d gone silent and immediately reached for his phone to call his father, and he hadn’t even looked like he cared in the slightest.
Then Heeseung’s phone starts ringing, and he glances at the screen before groaning under his breath. “That’s my dad,” he mutters, already heading for the door.
Before he steps out, he looks back at you gently. “Don’t worry, Y/N-nnie, okay? They’ll fix it.”
You want to ask him how, but the words don’t even make it to your mouth.
Then you look back at Sunghoon, and you want to say something—you don’t even know what; maybe you just need him to look at you—when he finally moves. He slips his phone back into his pocket and lets out this soft, tired sigh.
“It’s been handled,” he says so casually, and you almost punch him in the face.
That stupid fucking word.
You just stare at him. “Handled?”
He exhales through his nose, eyes flicking somewhere over your shoulder instead of at you. “My father’s team is having it taken down and wiped clean as we speak. This one just wasn’t on our payroll, apparently. It slipped through… spread from a group chat or something. We’re not sure.”
You blink at him, once, twice, like you’re trying to process the absolute bullshit that just came out of his mouth.
“Wiped clean?” you repeat, shaking your head. “Do you even hear yourself right now? Do you know what they’re fucking saying?” Your voice cracks halfway through, but you don’t care. “The damage is done, Sunghoon. It’s already fucking everywhere. You can’t just—what—delete that?”
“It’ll pass.”
You laugh again. “It’ll fucking pass?”
You take a step forward, and you don’t even realize you’re doing it until you’re right in front of him. “You think this is just—” your voice breaks as you gesture around helplessly, “—a fucking news cycle?”
“Yes,” he shrugs. “That’s exactly what it is.”
“You’re fucking unbelievable.”
Your mom’s voice floats up the way it always does when you’re backed into a wall.
It’s okay, honey. We’re already taking care of it. Your father is speaking to Jaejoon. Don’t worry about anything. It’s not—It looks bad, but this happens. Okay? It’ll be forgotten by next week. Don’t go online. I know how you get.
And you’d believed her for the few minutes you were on the phone, because you always do, because her calm makes you think the world is calmer than it is. But now you’re here, and it’s him, and your chest is tight like your ribs are a size too small, and suddenly you’re so aware of the way you’re standing that you cross your arms on instinct, like that could make you smaller, like it could hide you from whatever imaginary lens is pointed at you right now.
You’ve never liked being perceived publicly in the eyes of the media like that. That was the rule you kept for yourself even when you broke every other one.
“My mom said it was okay,” you say, because you need to hear it out loud. “She said they’re taking care of it. She said I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You didn’t,” he says, and for a second his voice is softer. Then he shakes his head and tries again, “So stop. It’s already over. I'm telling you.”
“You’re telling me to shut up and sit still while the men handle it and my name gets dragged through fucking hell,” you shoot back. “You’re telling me to be calm, and you’re standing there like it doesn’t even affect you. Maybe it fucking doesn’t. You’re fucking reckless anyway.”
He scoffs. “You think it doesn’t?” He looks at you properly now. “You think I get to sit this out? You think my father doesn’t have me by the throat right now because of that fucking photo? If he wasn’t in Japan, he’d have already dragged me out of here—made me stand in front of the board before dinner and apologize for ‘embarrassing the company.’ Not because he gives a shit what I did, but because he needs everyone to see he still owns me.”
“Then say that,” you snap, stepping closer. “Say it like a fucking person—tell me how you feel. Be fucking human for once instead of wearing that—that face on your face.”
He laughs at that. “Why the fuck do you care?”
“I don’t,” you bite back immediately.
“Yeah?” he takes another step, eyes narrowing. “You sound like you do.”
“I said I don't!” you snarl, “But it’s our names together, OUR PICTURE? isn’t it? Huh? I just need to feel like I’m not—I don’t know!”
“Not what? Not alone? Not part of it? Not like you were there too?” His mouth curls into something mean. “You think I dragged you into it? You chose to be there.”
You exhale through your nose, angry and shaking. “You’re such a fucking asshole.”
“Yeah, well,” he clicks his tongue, “it’s a family trait.”
The housekeeper passes the doorway with a stack of folded towels and pretends she didn’t see either of you.
“I’m scared,” you hear yourself say, and it makes you angry the second it’s out. “I hate this. I hate people looking at me. I hate that they can see me like this, like I—" you swallow, “like I wanted to be... there with... you."
He sets his tongue against his teeth, jaw stalling once, twice, and then his face twists in a way you can’t read, and he looks away again like it burns to hold eye-contact.
“You have the perfect fucking family,” he mutters, not quite under his breath. “Don’t start with me about being seen or being scared.”
You blink. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
He lets out this rough sound that almost sounds like a laugh. “You don’t get it. You never get it. You have everything—your parents love you, people love you, you can do whatever you want—your last name means something clean. And you fucking take it all for granted.”
You swallow hard. “What the fuck is your problem?”
“You,” he breathes, “You’re my fucking problem.”
You hate the way your knees go weak at the sound of that.
You hate the way your eyes drop for a split second to his mouth, to the muscle flickering in his jaw, to the clean line of his collarbone disappearing under the edge of his shirt. You hate that he notices.
And you really, really hate that he takes a step forward again.
“Don’t,” you step back.
He doesn’t stop. “You act like I don’t care about what it’s like to be watched.”
“You don’t.”
“Shut up. Try being raised to be looked at and paraded like a fucking trophy.” He takes another step. “At least your parents care enough to tell you what to do or tell you that it’s okay. Mine just tell me what I cost them.”
You try to speak, but he keeps going, like he’s been holding this in for years. “You think my father gives a shit about me? He’s only mad because a headline like this might make him look weak. Because some stupid fucking blurry picture of us might drop his company’s stock by barely half a point.” He’s breathing harder now. “I’m not his son. I’m his fucking—he didn’t even ask where the fuck I disappeared off to last night. Or why I’m being held up in that photo.”
“Sunghoon—”
“Don’t fucking talk.” He cuts you off with a snarl, “Don’t you fucking dare stand there and tell me about being scared. I’ve been scared since the day I learned what my name was worth.”
You flinched.
Anger rose in your throat. “Don’t tell me not to talk. I’ll talk if I fucking want to,” you hissed, then shook your head and tried not to think too much about how close he was to you again. “You do a hell of a job showing how scared you are getting drunk off your fucking mind last night like that and getting us to that point.”
“I didn’t ask you to take care of me.”
“I—Don’t—” you didn’t exactly have an answer to that, so you just went with what you knew best. “Fuck you, Sunghoon.”
He steps closer again—close enough that you can see the pulse jump in his throat, the little tremor in his fingers before he curls them into a fist.
“You know, it’s funny how you’re worried about being seen,” he says quietly, “considering you didn’t seem too worried about it last night.”
Your brows knit together. “What the hell does that mean?”
He doesn’t stop until his knee nudges yours. Then he plants his hand on the wall by your head, and it grazes the side of your head.
“You know what it fucking means.”
“I don’t—”
“The screen wasn’t closed,” he huffs.
Your stomach drops. “What?”
“Ask him.”
“What are you... No...” you shake your head.
“Yeah,” His eyes flick to your mouth, then back. “I heard you. In the fucking car. You fucked him less than three feet away from me, and now you want to pretend you care about being seen?”
“You... You were listening?” your voice comes out as a whisper, and you fucking hate it.
“Hard not to,” he says. “You weren’t exactly quiet.”
Your jaw tightens. “You’re such a fucking—”
“I heard everything,” he cuts in. “You think I didn’t? You think I didn’t lie there in that front seat while his fingers were inside you, with your back arched up like a whore and the filthy fucking sounds you made like you wanted someone to hear you?”
“What the fuck did you just call me?” You push at his chest, and he only shifts enough for your palm to drag against the fabric of his shirt before it falls away.
“You heard me,” he shrugs. “I called it how I fucking saw it.”
“You’re disgusting,” you breathe, but you don’t move.
“Disgusting?” he murmurs. “Fuck—okay, you want to talk about disgusting? Do you know what I did after?”
You flinch. “Don’t—”
Before you can finish, his hand comes up in one clean motion, and he presses his palm over your mouth.
“I said don’t. Fucking. Talk.”
You muffle something into his palm, you don’t even know what, and then he’s shaking his head, eyes flicking all over your face with his jaw clenched.
His fingers twitch against your jaw. “Let me talk.”
His palm isn’t rough, not even close. It’s careful, almost too careful, like he’s trying not to scare you, like he doesn’t want you to move. But it’s still enough to shut you up. Still enough to make your back press harder into the wall with your hands curled into fists by your sides.
You don’t do anything.
“You’re all I can fucking think about,” he says, and it comes out like a plea. “And I fucking hate it.”
Maybe you don’t even want to do anything for once.
“I can’t stop hearing you,” he says. “That little sound you made when you were trying not to make a sound? It’s been in my head since the fucking car. Since the bathroom. Since you stood in my doorway with your fucking tits out like you wanted me to see what he did to you.”
His eyes flick down to your chest like he’s seeing it all over again.
“And I hated it,” he growls. “Hated how much I wanted to put my mouth there and suck those bruises darker so they cover his. Hated how I got off in a fucking shower—fucking furious with you and still fucking my own hand to the image of your lip shaking while your hand was wrapped around him, thinking about how you’d sound trying to be quiet for me.”
Your whole body goes hot and wrong and furious at the same time. You flinch like the words touched your bare skin.
“I thought about how if you were with me in that car you wouldn’t have made a fucking sound unless I told you to. You wouldn’t have given anyone even a breath to hear. And I would have made you come before you even fucking thought of getting me off.”
His hand drops from your mouth slowly, knuckles grazing your jaw, and yet you still don’t speak.
“And then the shit you pulled in the bathroom today in your skimpy little pyjamas…” His breath hits your cheek. “Then I had to come downstairs after furiously fisting my fucking cock again and watch you innocently lick that stupid strawberry off your thumb when you didn’t even know what you were doing to me. I couldn’t stop thinking about how you tasted then.”
Fuck. Your body is shaking with heat, anger, and some fucked-up ache curling at the base of your thighs, so you instinctively squeeze them together—and you hate him.
You hate him for being so close. You hate him for speaking to you like this.
You hate him for not touching you yet.
“And what I’m thinking right now,” His fingers drag across your lips, “is that if you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to put my hands on you the way you need, but you’ll have to use your words like I told you to.”
Your gaze flickers past his shoulder to the doorway and then back up at him and then back again—half-hoping someone walks in and stops this and half-hoping no one ever fucking does.
“You want me to use my words?” you whisper, and the sound of it surprises even you. You weren’t thinking. It just came out, stupid and breathy and trembling.
His hand moves from your mouth to your cheeks, cupping your face now.
“Go on.”
You laugh under your breath. “Fine. I want to hit you. I want to slap that smug look off your stupid fucking face. I want you to shut up. I want—I want you to stop getting under my skin every time you walk into a room.” He presses even closer to you, and you instinctively arch your back against the wall. “I want you to stop playing these fucked-up little games like you’re the one in control. And—” You shake your head and laugh under your breath.
You were going to say something really fucking stupid.
“I want you to either fucking touch me right now or get the fuck out of my face, because I’m getting tired of this, Sunghoon. I’m so fucking tired.”
His gaze darkens, and then his thumb slides along your jaw again, tilting your chin just enough that you’re forced to keep looking at him.
“You want me to touch you?” he says slowly, like he’s repeating it just to be sure, like he needs to hear it again from your mouth.
You nod once. Barely. Just enough to count.
“Use your words.”
You grit your teeth. “I just fucking did.”
His eyes flick down your face like he’s not impressed, and then you feel the soft tap of his finger against your cheek. “Tsk. Not good enough.”
“Fuck you,” you snap. “Shut up and just fucking do it—”
You don’t get the rest out because his hand slides behind your thigh and hooks it high, rough enough to jerk a whimper out of your throat. Your leg gives a little, so you stumble into him, and then he slots his hips between yours like he’s done this before in his head a hundred times. Your mouth dries because you can feel how hard he is against the inside of your thigh, thick and hot through his sweatpants, pressing up right where you’re aching.
“Say it,” he groans. “Where do you want it?”
Then he brings his other hand up to your neck and slowly drags his thumb down the line of your throat and over your collarbone. You hate that you tilt your chin up to let him.
“I said,” you bite out, “Fuck. You.”
Your hips shift forward into him without meaning to, just to feel any fucking thing, and when you tip your head back for a moment, his hand catches your jaw and pulls you upright again.
“Mm.” He hums. “You’ve been saying that a lot lately.”
He leans in until his nose brushes your cheek.
“It’s simple,” he whispers. “I will… if you use your words and ask for it.”
His hand that’s still hooked under your thigh squeezes once. “You want my hands?” he murmurs. “You want my mouth?” He shifts forward—just slightly—pressing his hardness against you so you can fully feel it. “You want that?”
Your mouth goes dry at the thought of it.
“You’re gonna have to be very fucking specific if you want this.”
“Go to hell.”
He huffs a breath, then his fingers trail along the inside of your thigh, higher and higher, and so close to where you desperately need him to touch you.
“There?” he asks, hovering a finger over your pussy, “That's where you want me to touch you?”
You jolt forward in his grip without thinking. “Just—” Your hands shoot up to grab his shoulders. “You talk too much,” you snap. “I’m fucking bored.”
His mouth twitches. “Brat.” He clicks his tongue again. “Answer me,” he says, “or I’ll leave you right here dripping and pissed off.”
Before you can argue, his hand drops from behind your thigh and comes to the front of your pants between the two of you, sliding down until he palms your pussy fully through the fabric.
You hiss in a breath, and your thighs snap shut around his hand on instinct.
“This? Fucking—” he mutters under his breath, but it comes out as a groan. “Look at you. Practically falling apart, and I haven’t done anything.”
You want to say something, but all that comes out is a little noise, something between a whimper and a gasp as his palm rolls against you, dragging friction just right, and then he starts circling your clit through the fabric with enough pressure that your legs twitch around his wrist.
“Oh my god,” you breathe, but your voice barely comes out as your hips buck desperately against his hand to get something more out of it—anything.
He grins against your neck. “Not God,” he mutters. “Just me.”
Your fingers dig into his shoulders as you try to stifle your sighs—considering you’re in the middle of Heeseung’s fucking living room.
Then his hand stills completely.
Your eyes fly open. “Don’t—don’t you fucking dare stop.”
He laughs under his breath. “Stop? I haven’t even fucking started.”
You try to grind into his hand, but he keeps it right where it is and stills you completely.
“Then start,” you bite out.
“Still haven’t told me what you want.”
“I told you I’m bored.” it takes everything in you to muster a shrug, “I don’t want to be bored.”
He clicks his tongue again. “You’re being a brat.”
“And you’re being a bitch.”
His gaze darkens. “Say it. Ask.”
“Or what?” you taunt, but your voice breaks halfway through, because your thighs are fucking shaking and your pussy is throbbing around nothing, and you know he knows it.
He presses in slightly, barely enough to register, but it’s enough to make your head tilt back against the wall again.
“Tell me what you fucking want, or I’ll leave you right here.”
“Then go.” You snap. “Have fun fucking your hand again like a fucking bitch—”
His free hand catches your jaw again before you can finish. “You think I fucking won’t?” he growls. “You think I won’t leave you standing here all wet and needy and dripping just to prove a fucking point?”
You squeeze your eyes shut, torn between your pride and the burning need building between your legs. Your whole body is wound so tight you feel like you might snap in half.
And then he leans down and brushes his lips soft, soft, right against your throat—just a drag of breath along your pulse, his mouth ghosting down until he finds that spot he knows makes your knees wobble, and he sucks on it, slowly and open-mouthed, tongue flicking once just to see what you’ll do.
“You like this?” he mutters against your skin when you whine. “Like when I do that, Doll? You can have so much more if you just tell me.”
He sucks on it again and then circles the spot with his tongue, and the heat that pools in your stomach is so fucking violent you can’t stop your hips from pushing into him, like every nerve ending is tuned to him.
“Still not talking?” he says against your collarbone now, the tip of his tongue slipping under the neck of your shirt to lick at the skin.
You nod.
“Have it your way then.”
The bastard actually starts to pull his hand away, and you immediately grab him to keep him there.
“Wait—”
He hums. “Hmm?”
“Fuck—fuck,” you whine in frustration, throwing your head back against the wall hard enough to make it thud. “I want you—everywhere. I hate it. I want your hands, your mouth, your fucking cock—” you hiss through your teeth, “—I want everything, everywhere; I want all of you, inside, just, shut up—”
He groans like the sound gets dragged straight out of him.
Then he’s on you again, his fingers sliding right back to your soaked cunt through the fabric of your sweats, pressing merciless circles that have your pussy throbbing around nothing and your mind going absolutely blank, because this fucking prick is too fucking good at it, to the point where it pisses you off even more how fucking precise he is, like he already knows exactly what you need before you even say it.
And he hasn’t even touched you properly yet.
Why the fuck hasn’t he fucking gotten to the point?
“Stop—fucking—just—” you grit out, pushing your hips against his hand, “Do you have a pants fetish or something? Just—Jesus—I need your fingers inside. Just do it.”
He huffs a laugh, and now his nose is right at your cheek, and his mouth is close enough that if you moved even a little, you’d be kissing him. You try not to think about it.
“Oh. You think just because you finally spoke that I’ll give you what you want? Tsk,” he grins against your cheek, and it’s nothing short of cruel. “I’m gonna take my fucking time with you.”
His hips shift again, and this time the drag of his cock through his sweats lines up with the rhythm of his stupid fucking hand, every slow grind syncing with the merciless way his fingers are working your clit through the damp fabric. His mouth finds your neck again, and he bites down around it hard enough that you gasp, and your hand flies into his hair without thinking—tugging hard enough that he groans right against your throat, and the sound of it is so filthy, so raw, so needy, that you moan loudly in response before you can stop yourself.
He groans again. “Fuck—so hot—keep your fucking voice down.” and you think you hear him mutter something along the lines of, "No one else gets to hear you," but you’re not too sure.
You reach for his waistband before you can even think, just needing to feel him, something—anything—after spending all of last night and today—and fuck, maybe even longer than that, imagining it. Your hand drags down his stomach and your fingers slip past his waistband and into his boxers, and—
Holy fucking shit.
Your fingers twitch like they might wrap around his cock, like they might try, but there’s no way. Your whole body stills because it doesn’t even make any fucking sense. You’ve never felt anything so… thick and heavy and straining so hard against your palms you can feel every inch of him, and it’s too much—shit, just the weight and feeling of it in your palm makes your mouth go dry again. No one you’ve been with has ever felt like this. Not even remotely close.
You can’t help it—you squeeze a little tighter, just to feel the weight of it again, to make sure you’re not exaggerating it in your head, but before you can even move your wrist—
His hand shoots out, grabs your wrist, and slams it against the wall above your head.
“Don’t get greedy,” he growls. “You don’t get to touch until I say so.”
He pulls back just a little to look at you, and whatever you wanted to say dries in your throat, because for a second, both of you just stand there breathing really hard while staring at each other, and it’s insane how fast the world goes quiet when it’s just the two of you like this. Like you remember where you are. Who you are. Who he is. Like either of you could even stop this if you wanted to.
But then his eyes drop lower.
He looks down at your chest, and his hand is right there with it, yanking your tank top down hard enough to drag the neckline under your bra.
He stops, and you watch him freeze, and you see the way his jaw clenches the second he sees it.
You’re wearing your lace bra, which does absolutely nothing to cover what’s underneath. The same one you wore last night. And your tits—flushed, hard, marked the fuck up. Red and purple, bitten and bruised, marks still fully visible where Jake had sucked them raw.
You don’t even say anything. You just watch his face.
His entire expression darkens.
Then he leans in slowly and presses his mouth right where Jake marked you on your breast.
He sucks it slowly while his hand closes over you again and again, and his hips grind into yours at the same time, teeth grazing skin and tongue dragging over the already-sensitive spot like he’s trying to erase it, claim it, and make you forget who put it there.
He huffs a laugh as he looks at it one more time before he has it in his mouth again. “Fuck, that's all he gave you?” he breathes against your tit as his other hand comes up and cups your other one. “Made me sick. Letting him suck on you like that—Mm, doesn’t fucking matter. No one gets you worked up like I do.”
His other hand slips under your bra now and closes over your nipple, and he squeezes, pinches, and rolls—just enough to make you gasp.
“Shit—Please—Hoonie—”
He stills.
For a second, you want to hit him for even stopping. And then you realize what you’ve said and how it’s hanging between you both. You haven’t called him that in forever. Not since—
God, not since before.
Your eyes snap open, and he’s looking at you already, like really looking, like that stupid little nickname just knocked the air out of him. His expression has changed completely, unreadable and tense and something else you can’t name, and you’re just about to say something, anything—
He presses his forehead to yours, and for a second, you both just breathe, and you feel his breath brush your lips again, but he still doesn’t kiss you.
He shuts his eyes.
“I can’t do this,” he mutters, voice hoarse like it’s been scraped raw on the way out.
Your stomach twists. “What?”
His hand is still between you, palming your pussy, and his mouth is still damp from your skin. But his grip loosens a little, like he’s forcing himself to ease up, like he’s trying to pull the brakes on a train that already ran off the track.
“I can’t,” he shakes his head, still resting it against yours, and his voice drops lower, almost to himself. “Not if you’re going to say shit like that. Not if you’re gonna—fuck, not like this.”
There’s heat building in your throat, and you swallow it back hard. “What the fuck are you—it was just a word.”
He swallows and huffs a breath. “Not from you.”
“Please, you can’t just fucking—Don’t be a pussy!” you whine, but it’s too much and not enough, and you don’t even know what you’re asking, but you try to move and feel some friction. “Do something!”
“If we’re gonna fucking do this,” he snaps, lifting his head just enough to look at you again, and there’s something mean in his eyes now, something hard and wrecked and completely unguarded, “you can’t say that. You can’t fucking call me that.”
You blink.
“I want you to hate me,” he says. “I need you to. Because I don’t want to be decent with you. I have no intention of being soft with you.” His hand flexes at your hip, jaw tight. “I want you fucking furious. I want you clawing at me. I want you to tell me you hate me between every goddamn fucking breath.”
You swallow hard, and your lips part, and his brush against yours, barely there, but you feel the wetness of it.
“And then I want to fuck you anyway.”
You’re not breathing.
“And it doesn’t mean anything to me,” he says, and it doesn’t sound like he’s saying it to you this time, but to himself. “You have to fucking understand that.”
What the fuck was his problem? Like this meant anything to you. Like you wanted something out of it other than to feel fucking good and be done with this shit for once—to stop thinking, to stop remembering, to stop feeling.
Because maybe once, a long time ago, it did mean something when you called him that. Maybe once you looked at him and thought he was the one person who could make you feel seen. But that was before. Before everything went to hell. Before he decided it was easier to hurt you first.
If it’s hate he wants, he already has it.
You swallow the ache and anger rising in your chest from what he just said and how he said it, and you try to focus on how much you still want him to fuck you through the wall and wipe the thoughts clean out of your head.
So you reach up and grab a handful of his shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric like it might anchor you.
“I’m bored again,” you click your tongue, “You fucking talk too much.”
He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you, and his expression is dark as he watches you.
Before he can say anything, obnoxiously loud footsteps you immediately recognize echo down the hall, and both of you freeze.
The sound gets closer, too fast, too loud, and then—
“What the hell—Jesus fucking Christ, heaven above, why, God? WHY IN FRONT OF MY FAVORITE COUCH?”
You jolt so hard you nearly hit your head against the wall, and Sunghoon’s hand is instantly tugging your shirt back up, his other hand braced against the wall as he shifts forward to cover you completely.
“Heeseung—” you start, but your voice dies in your throat.
Heeseung is standing there in the doorway, and his face is a mix of disgust and horror. “Oh, no. Nope. Uh-uh. I’m gonna—” he retches, “I’m gonna kill myself. Not in my living room, bro.” He waves a hand like that might erase the scene from existence. “You have an actual room dude, there are five spare bedrooms, and there’s—there’s literally outside!”
“Get the fuck out,” Sunghoon grits.
Heeseung groans, dragging a hand down his face, and that’s when you finally manage to wiggle out from under Sunghoon’s arm. You straighten your shirt, smooth down your sweats, and do your best to look like you weren’t just two seconds away from getting your brains fucked out in his living room.
He turns away. “No, you guys are actually rabid dogs, holy shit—I leave you alone for what, ten minutes?” He sighs, “Jungwon owes me 150,000 won. Yeah, no. I fucking called this shit.”
Then he’s gone.
Sunghoon doesn’t move. He’s still standing there with his jaw clenched, hand flexing once before he runs it through his hair. You can tell he’s pissed—at Heeseung, at himself, maybe at you—but he’s also trying so hard not to smile that it almost makes it worse.
“Don’t you fucking dare laugh,” you warn, pointing a finger at him.
“I’m not,” he says, voice strangled. “I’m—” he bites his lip, shoulders shaking, “—I’m really fucking trying.”
“Hoon—” you start, but you’re already breaking, because the sound bubbling out of your chest is half a laugh and half a breath of disbelief. You cover your face with your hands and try to muffle the stupid sound, and when you peek through your fingers, he’s already staring.
And then you realize you fucking said it again. You couldn’t fucking help it.
“I mean, Sunghoon—”
He looks wrecked.
His smile dies the second he hears it, and to top it off, it was paired with your soft, familiar laugh—the one he’d heard a thousand times and memorized a million times before everything went to shit.
He drags a hand across his face. “I’m going to go,” he says. And it’s so fucking detached you’re not sure who he’s saying it to.
“Don’t,” you snap, your hand shooting out before you can think, fingers wrapping around his wrist. “Don’t you fucking go.”
You scoff, stepping closer. “Do you think I’m fucking stupid?” your hand is still gripping his wrist even when he tries to pull away, “I’m literally standing here asking you to fuck me, Sunghoon. I’m ‘using my fucking words,’” you mock him, “What part of that don’t you understand?”
He shakes his head. “You don’t want that from me.”
“Don’t tell me what the fuck I want.”
He yanks his wrist free.
“You don’t want that from me,” he says again, quieter this time, but crueler somehow. “You want the version of me that doesn’t exist anymore—you want him. The one you used to laugh with like that. The one you used to look at like I was something—someone—worth holding onto.”
Your stomach twists.
“I am not that boy. Not anymore. And I’m not going to pretend I am just to make it easier for us to fuck.”
“I didn’t ask—”
“Quiet,” he steps forward.
“You think you’re ready for what I want to do to you?” He shakes his head and adds on, “If you’re going to stand there and laugh like you still know me—if you’re going to call me that again like any of this is safe or familiar—then don’t fucking ask me to touch you.”
You stare at him, heart pounding, and all the heat and humiliation and confusion in your body burns itself into rage all at once.
“I would ruin you,” he says, voice almost trembling with how tightly he’s holding it in. “Not just fuck you. I told you I don’t want to be fucking nice about it. I want to make you cry, and I want you to scream. I’d make you come until you hated me for it, and even then I wouldn’t stop—”
“Then fucking do it!” you yell, chest heaving. “Isn’t that what you want? To ruin me? What was it you said last night? That you wouldn’t fucking stop once you started? Pussy.”
But he just stares. And when he speaks again, his voice is almost too quiet.
“Not while you’re still soft,” he says. “Not when I know some part of you still laughs like that. Still calls me that.”
Soft? Soft? You couldn’t believe what you were fucking hearing. There was nothing soft about how you felt towards him. Not anymore. He made sure of that a long time ago.
You wanted to say that, to yell it, to grab him again, but instead you just shove at his chest. Hard.
“I fucking hate you.” you whisper.
He smiles.
“Good. Hold onto it. Find me when it’s all you have left to give me.”
The silence he left behind when he walked out was worse than anything else that could have happened in that room.
You showered the second you got home, and you once again stood there under the spray until the hot water turned your skin pink again.
It didn’t do shit because you could still feel him on your skin.
You yank the towel out from under you and throw it toward the chair, but it misses and hits the floor, and you laugh at how fucking pathetic you probably look.
You breathe. You try. In. Out. Slow.
You fail.
So you grab your phone again and open Google and impulsively type your name like the fucking masochist you are, and every site says the same thing; only some have already pulled the story and replaced it with content unavailable squares.
It’s wiped. The legal team handled everything before dinner. No statement necessary. The press contacts have been briefed. Just go home and get some rest, okay? We prepared for this. It’ll be fine. We personally told your friends where you were, so just try and get some sleep for tonight, Honey. We love you.
Your parents had said.
You tried not to think about what his parents would say to him, if anything at all.
And still, despite all that they’d said, the screenshots were everywhere. Fucking Reddit of all sites, Twitter (you refuse to call it by its disgusting new name), stupid gossip accounts with stupid fucking usernames, and the photo is unfortunately the same every time you refresh.
You keep refreshing it because you silently prayed it would change. That it wouldn’t be you and him in that parking lot, but maybe something else.
It never changed.
You pinch to zoom and force yourself to look at it the way a stranger would. It looks like a girl leaning into a boy who belongs to her; A boy touching a girl like she’s familiar.
Then, you look at it the way your sixteen-year-old self would. It looks like a girl leaning into a boy who will never belong to her. A boy touching a girl whom he promised a future to late at night in a kitchen one day.
When you’d finally gone on your phone after you’d gotten home, you had over a thousand texts waiting for you. Wonyoung. Sunoo. Riki. Yunah, even. People you hadn’t even talked to in ages were reaching out to you; missed calls stacked in a column.
You open the group chat because you can’t stomach the idea of leaving them hanging when they care about you this much, then you type i’m home and delete it. You type i’m fine and delete it. You type please don’t come and delete that too, and then you finally send one that says, I love you guys, I just need to be alone tonight because you can’t handle another person looking at you tonight like you’re fragile.
You roll onto your side, and your brain trips over Jake for the first time tonight in a way that sticks. The way his texts were in the pile, too. The way he left before you woke up. The way Heeseung said his name last night and the way you asked about the partition and watched his smile dip. The way you didn’t have the courage to push that thought all the way through because if you’re wrong, you’re cruel, and if you’re right, you’re fucked. You close your eyes. You open them again immediately because when you close them, it’s Sunghoon’s mouth on your skin, and your body doesn’t know the difference between memory and fantasy and humiliation.
You sit up too fast, and your vision starts at the edges. You swing your legs off the bed and pad to the bathroom and turn on the light and wince because it’s too bright, then you look at your chest in the mirror and immediately look away.
You don’t want to catalog which marks belong to whom. But you knew.
Back in bed, you pull the duvet over your face and breathe into it until you’re hot enough to throw it off again. You take your phone and open a blank message to him. You type:
you're a fucking coward.
Backspace.
come over.
Backspace.
i hate you.
Backspace.
You toss the phone to the foot of the bed, and it slides off and hits the rug, and you hate that your hands are shaking again and that your thighs are still tight just remembering the way he refused to let you touch him.
You wonder if he’s in his room, counting the ceiling cracks too, and telling himself he doesn’t care.
You hate him. God, you fucking hate him. You did, you did, you did, you did. But you also didn’t want that to mean what he wanted it to. You just hated him, and that was it.
He was stupid in the head for thinking you’re still that same girl who used to wait for him to look up, for calling you soft after everything, and for acting like you didn’t grow teeth either, after all these years.
You sigh, and you drag your nails lightly down your forearm just to anchor yourself in your own skin and to prevent yourself from thinking of him any further, then you whisper into the dark like a fucking crazy person because no one else can hear you anyway.
“I don’t want you,” you tell the ceiling. “I don’t want you. I don’t.”
It doesn’t land.
You shut your eyes.
In the morning, you’ll put on something that makes you feel like yourself again, and you’ll look in the mirror until you recognize the girl in it. You’ll decide you’re done letting other people “handle” your life. You’ll decide he doesn’t get the last word in your head.
Find me when it’s all you have left to give.
And then you’ll go find him. Not to beg. You won’t fucking beg. You’ll throw it in his face that you don’t care about him anymore in any way that matters. To tell him that if he wants hate so badly, he can have it. He does have it. He’s had it all along.
To look him dead in the eye and say, Ruin me, then.
𝓝 ⟢ WELL. me when i’m the final boss of edging. Anyways the song i had on repeat while writing this chapter was No light, No light by Florence + The Machine (and sunghoon’s playlist). i know i always say this, but after this chapter especially, i want to hear everything. so come yell at me. come whisper at me. come tell me how you’re holding up (because i’m not). i love you endlessly for being here, for feeling alongside me, and for letting these characters live a little longer through you. THANK YOU FOR READING !!!! (灬º‿º灬)♡ 🌷
your professor catches you reading a not-so-safe-for-school book in the middle of his class. in an effort to make things better, you fear that you may have just made them worse.
⧼ 📜 ⧽ 一 pairing༚ ⸝⸝⸝ professor!park sunghoon ✗ student!fem!reader
includes ༚ ༚ ༚ jungwon, jay and jake of enhypen, giselle and karina of aespa
genre ༚ ༚ ༚ smut, fluff, porn with plot
warnings༚ ⸝⸝⸝ teacher/student, age gaps, power play, light dom/sub dynamics, dom!sunghoon, masturbation (f. rec), erotic literature, explicit language and sexual content, spanking, dirty talk, pet names, praise kink, name calling (slut), wet dreams, impact play, oral (m. rec), cumming in pants, facefucking, deepthroat, big dick sunghoon, doggy style, sex on furniture, unprotected sex, creampies, talk of contraception (reader is on birth control), alcohol mentions, drinking and partying, hair pulling, size kink word count༚ 12 . 2 k | ⧼ 🗝️ ⧽ 一 to library༚
[notes.] a rewrite of a rewrite of one of the first ever fics i've ever written! this fic was originally written for soobin of txt, but i took that one down when i decided to discontinue writing for that group. but thanks to my lovely mutuals, they asked (demanded) that i rewrite it for hoon <3 this is a romanticization of student/teacher relationships where both parties are consenting adults, but it is important to note that these relationships can be problematic in real life due to one parties authority over another's and unstable power dynamics. banner done by my beloved mootie @heechwe! reblogs and feedback are very appreciated <3 i hope you enjoy!
YOUR FRENCH LITERATURE professor embodies everything you find detestable in a teacher. His classes are a monotonous drone of information, devoid of anything exciting or engaging, though that might not be entirely his fault with how painfully, mind numbingly boring the subject he teaches is. He rarely ever deviates from his tight-lipped script, and he absolutely refuses to entertain any questions or foster any interesting discussion. He never accepted late assignments or gave any extensions, his tests are ridiculously hard, and he’ll dock points off your assignments for the tiniest, stupidest reasons. Sure, it’s a difficult course, and it’s important to your major, but you swear he seems to take some kind of pleasure in making his students miserable. Each class feels like an eternity, and often you find yourself counting down the minutes until you can escape the insufferable, suffocating atmosphere of his classroom.
Yet, for some strange, inexplicable reason, you find yourself absolutely obsessed with him.
Maybe it was because you spent your time in his class focusing more on him than any of the words that came out of his mouth. His irritatingly handsome, angular face and his pouty, kissable lips, the moles on his cheeks framing his tall nose. The way his thick brow furrows and his lip curls when one of your classmates asks a question that he deems too stupid to grace with an answer. His big veiny hands and how they look shuffling papers and twirling pens, filling your head with thoughts of how they would look caressing your body. His tall, fit frame and how he towers over you whenever you come up to him, the way he has to lower his head to look you in the eye, a soldering heat bubbling in your belly from the way he makes you feel so small. You can’t stand to be his student, but you dream at night about being something else to him entirely— it’s a paradox that drives you to detrimental distraction. How can you be so obsessed with someone you loathe? His perplexing combination of qualities was like some kind of mystery you felt compelled to unravel, at the very least to put your own mind at ease.
That was when you found the novel. It was hidden in the romance section of your favorite used bookstore, squished between two old technicolor cover harlequin novels, it’s dark and simple spine juxtaposing against all the bright colors and ornate fonts. It intrigued you enough to pull it from the shelf and look it over, your cheeks heating up as you take in its cover. A headless, well-dressed man sat in a chair with his legs spread invitingly, the smart suit he was wearing disheveled and his undone belt held tightly in his hand, the leather strap resting against his inner thigh. The title Lessons in Attraction was printed where his head would be, vague but provocative enough to make your stomach flip. The man immediately reminded you of Professor Park, from the way he was dressed to the prominent veins in his hands, and when you flip the book over to read the synopsis you understand the connection. It outlines the story of a steamy romance between a strict economics professor and his teaching assistant, an innocent, young virgin who wants nothing more than to please. It was as if the author had plucked your deepest fantasies straight from your head and printed them out on paper, then planted the book in the perfect spot for you specifically to discover. You knew just from skimming through the pages that reading it would only do you more harm than good, but you just couldn’t put it down, drawn to the story like an addict needing a fix. You hid it in your stack of textbooks, and you refused to look the cashier in the eye as they checked you out.
At first, you had intended to keep it hidden in your bedroom, only to be read late at night when your roommates were either out or asleep. But as your obsession with your professor continued to deepen, so did your obsession with the novel; soon you found yourself taking it with you everywhere you went, reading snippets whenever you had the chance and quickly shoving back into your bag anytime someone would walk by or glance over at you. Your dreams devolved into graphic, vivid replays of your favorite dirty scenes, with Professor Park in the place of the professor from the story. You wake up hot and bothered every morning, and his class becomes even more difficult with your head now full of illicit, naughty fantasies. Everything he does makes your belly swirl with need, even something as simple as running a hand through his hair or adjusting his glasses— you can’t even bare to look at him, and instead try your hardest to focus on whatever boring tangent he was rambling on about… until you caught yourself fantasizing about how his deep voice would sound whispering dirty words in your ear.
You couldn’t take it anymore. Professor Park's lectures were beginning to feel more like sick torture— you needed something to keep you distracted before you went insane.
So, against your better judgement, you started to bring the novel to read in class. You sat far enough in the back that you were certain he wouldn’t notice, and your poor classmates were too bored out of their minds to look your way. It was easy to keep it hidden away tucked in your lap, so you could pretend to be writing in your notebook while you read. Something about it excited you, reading about fucking your professor with your real professor standing there in front of you, none the wiser. Being able to admire him as you indulged in your secret desires. If he caught you, you would be humiliated, but you would be lying if you said that the thought didn’t excite you…
"Miss L/N, what are you doing?”
You nearly shoot straight out of your chair, your professor’s sudden call of your name shocking you out of your reverie. You had gotten so absorbed into your novel that you had forgotten to check to see if he was looking your way. “H-huh?”
“You keep looking at your lap.” Professor Park remarks, peering up at you from his spot at the podium with an unamused frown. His thick-rimmed glasses made his pretty brown eyes appear even larger than they already were, blinking up at you like he was studying you through a magnifying glass. “You’re not on your phone, are you? You know I have a no-tolerance policy when it comes to electronics.”
“Oh! No, sir, I’m just…” your startled gaze bounces back to the book in your lap, and you swallow nervously. “Reading.”
“Reading?” Professor Park echoes, raising his brow. “What are you reading? I assume it’s not the textbook, from the look on your face.”
You blanche, trying your hardest to appear nonchalant as you snap the book shut and shove it down into the recesses of your school bag. “It’s nothing!” You reply far too quickly, sounding guiltier than sin.
Professor Park's lips pull into a thin line, his magnified eyes raking over your sweating face before trailing down to your bag, clasped protectively over your lap.
“Give it to me.” he orders curtly, stretching out his hand.
Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach. “What?! W-why?!”
“Reading anything that isn’t the course material is against my class rules— I have it printed clearly on the syllabus, though with how you can never seem to pay attention I wouldn’t be surprised if you missed it when I went over it at the beginning of the semester. I would recommend looking over it again to see if there’s anything else you’ve forgotten. Now, get up and hand me that book.”
The entire class has turned to look at you now too, dozens of pairs of eyes fixated on your every move. The silence is absolutely deafening. Your heart races and your hands tremble as you squirm in your seat, trying desperately to come up with some sort of escape as if you were in a horror movie; you might as well be, because out of all the ghouls and monsters you can think of, this has to be your worst nightmare.
You consider refusing. Technically, Professor Park couldn’t force you to do anything you didn’t want to— hell, you could walk right out of the classroom right then and there if you really wanted to, with both your book and your dignity intact. After all, you were a grown adult paying to further your education out of your own pocket. Trying to confiscate your belongings as if you were a child was borderline insulting.
But you can’t risk your grade over something like this, as embarrassing as it was, and you wouldn’t put it past him to penalize you in some way for defying your orders. You were already struggling as it was, partly because of how difficult the coursework was and mostly because of how you could never concentrate whenever Professor Park was around. To make matters even worse, passing was a requirement for your degree. Getting even more on his bad side than you already were simply not an option.
It takes every ounce of energy you have to force yourself to stand up out of your seat and trudge down to Professor Park's podium, clutching your novel against your chest like you were clutching pearls. He has to pry it out of your hand with a considerable amount of force, because you can’t seem to loosen your fingers around the cover.
You scamper back to your seat, but not before turning back to see Professor Park eye the cover with a startled expression. It would have been comical if you didn’t feel like you were seconds away from throwing up all over your desk.
He places it gingerly face-down on his desk like he was handling a dead fish, and you’re both grateful and horrified that he noticeably avoids making eye contact with you when he steps back up on his podium. “You can come by my office later to get it back, Miss L/N. I have a free period at six.”
“Yes, sir.” You answer glumly, staring at your shoes.
Luckily for you, he dismisses the class only a few minutes later, muttering about something to do with grading papers. You’ve never ran out of that lecture hall so fast in your life.
“Whoa, what’s up with you?” your friend Jungwon asks when you walk by him in the hall, looking up from his phone and tugging out his earbuds to cock his head in your direction. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”
You stop just long enough to realize that you were still running, even though you had made it nearly halfway across the building. “I’m so fucked.” You state simply.
“What? What happened? Did you do something to piss off Professor Park again?”
“Yes. No. Kind of?” you cringe inwardly. There’s absolutely no way you’re telling Jungwon about any of what happened; he’d laugh at you to the point you fear you might actually start crying. “I don’t want to talk about it. I gotta go.”
You shuffle away before he can respond, and while you feel bad ignoring him as he calls out to you in confusion, you’re focused solely on finding somewhere quiet and empty to hide out until your next class. And maybe grabbing an iced coffee or something. Just to drown out the tears as you wallow in your own misery.
Against all odds, you manage to make it through the rest of your classes. The wait was almost worse than getting caught, barely able to sit still in your seat as you panic inwardly for hours on end. If it was Professor Park's intention to psychologically torture you, he wildly succeeded.
And you’re absolutely sure it was, because the first thing you see once you step into his office is your professor lounging back in his chair reading your book.
“Professor!” you yelp.
He glances up from your book, a mischievous glint shining in his eyes as he sends you a tight-lipped smile. “Oh, Miss Y/N! You’re just in time. I was just flipping through your book here, it seems awfully… interesting.”
You gulp, your trembling hands clutching the strap of your bag in a vain attempt to ground yourself. “Um, sir!” you squeak, rushing to his side to glance over his shoulder at what page he was on, praying to whatever god that will listen that he hasn’t read anything raunchy. “I think it would be best if you, um, didn’t read that…”
“Oh?” He flips the page and quirks his brow, not even sparing you a second glance as he adjusts his glasses, “What do you mean?”
You rack your brain desperately for a good enough excuse, but you can’t think of anything other than just how mortified you were, watching helplessly as your professor’s keen eyes scan over the pages. “Can I have it back now?” you say instead, your voice small and shaking.
“Surely you can wait just a little longer— now I’m dying to know why you don’t want me to read this.” Professor Park's crooked smirk infuriates you.
Was there any possible way that you could talk your way out of this without telling him upfront that what he was holding in his hands was an erotica, one about a teacher and a student no less? You shuffle nervously, stumbling over your words as you try to stutter out something, anything, “You, um… you wouldn’t like it.”
He turns his head to look up at you again, the look in his eye sharply changing when he takes in your frightened state, into something you don’t recognize and aren’t sure you like. “How can you be sure I wouldn’t enjoy it? I’m a fan of many different genres of literature, though I’ve never read anything quite like this before. Is it some sort of romance novel? If it is, you don’t have to be ashamed, Miss Y/N. I’m sure many young women such as yourself read these sorts of novels, though I strongly discourage reading them while I’m in the middle of a lecture. It’s simply disrespectful. Now, where was I?”
He trails his finger down the page as if he was looking for his place, and you bristle. “Sir, seriously, don’t—!”
“I followed my professor to his office, watching with bated breath as he rounded his big wooden desk.” Professor Park begins to read aloud. You barely stop yourself from screaming, instead letting out a sort of pained choking sound. “He stopped to stand behind me, looking down my shoulder as if he were looking over my essay just as I was. I had made three errors in my writing, each one circled in bright red ink. He seemed more upset about it than usual.”
“Professor, please.”
“’Put that essay on my desk.’ he said, so I did.” Professor Park continues, ignoring you. He had gave the professor character a stupid, high pitched voice when he spoke, which would have been funny if you weren’t so humiliated. “’Now bend over with your elbows on my desk, so that you are looking directly at the essay. Keep your face very close.’”
“Stop it! Just let me have it!” You hated to talk to him this way, but if he continued reading any further… it took everything you had to keep yourself from running out of his office and crawling into the nearest ditch to die in.
“That’s not how you should speak to me, Miss Y/N. Now you certainly aren’t getting it back.” Professor Park retorted, his evil little smirk growing even wider. You wanted to hit him, or kick or scream, but you couldn’t do anything except stand there and try your hardest not to cry. “I was puzzled, but I followed his instructions, bending over the top of his desk so that my chest, belly and arms were pressed against the hardwood. My nose was merely a centimeter or two away from the letter, which made it difficult to read. My skirt was starting to… to slide up the backs of my thighs, but I was sure that if I moved to tug it back down, I would just get into even more trouble.”
You grimace when Professor Park's voice broke, his smile slowly starting to slide off his face and twisting into something unreadable. But he did not stop reading. “’Now read the letter to yourself. Read it over and over again.’ My professor said. I read: “In today’s rapidly evolving global landscape, the integration of technology in…” and at the word “integration”, which I had misspelled, he— he… um… Oh.”
You began to feel less like wanting to die and more like you were actually dying. Professor Park stares hard at the pages for a painfully long moment, his ears turning bright cherry red, but to your surprise and absolute mortification, he began to read aloud again. His voice had dropped that cheerful quality, however, sounding winded as if he had been hit upside the head. “At the word “integration”, which I had misspelled, he reeled his arm back and spanked me hard. I stopped reading with a loud gasp, shocked— the sting reverberated through my core, fiery hot, and despite my embarrassment I began to soak through my panties. At my silence, I was spanked again, even harder. ‘I said read it.’ My professor reminded me. ‘Be a good girl and follow instructions.’”
Professor Park shuts the book closed abruptly and looks up at you with a very red face and wide eyes. The tears that had been pooling in your lashes threaten to spill down your cheeks, so overcome with fear and embarrassment that your stomach turns like you're going to be sick. That was just what you needed to top off this already life-ruining experience, wasn’t it; vomiting all over your professor after he uncovers your darkest, dirtiest secret.
“This is extremely inappropriate material to bring on campus.” Professor Park finally says, his voice wavering.
“Yes, sir.”
“And that relationship, it’s… wrong. It’s against the university’s code of conduct. I— he could get fired for that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You shouldn’t be reading this. It’ll put... thoughts in your head that don’t need to be there.”
“…Yes, sir.” Part of you wants to argue with him, remind him that you’re an adult and can read whatever it is that you would like, but you don’t have the strength to.
He sighs heavily, like something important is weighing on his mind, and he hands you back your book before turning back to pour over the scattered, forgotten papers on his desk. “Go home, Miss L/N. And get rid of that book.”
You turn tail and scamper out into the hall, but you can’t help but glance back into Professor Park's office as you leave. He’s hunched over his desk with his elbows resting on the wood, his fingers tangled in his dark hair as he rests his head in his hands. It seems like something is bothering him, something bigger than grading papers or your stupid, silly book.
You don’t stick around to find out what it is.
The next morning, you receive a rather hastily written email from Professor Park telling you that he’s cancelling classes for the rest of the week. He’s come down with a cold, he claims— you and the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach know better than to believe that.
You don’t see him until that next Monday, but even then he might as well not have shown up at all. He struggles to get through his lesson plan even more than usual, and he wouldn’t look away from his papers or the projector, even when one of your classmates raised their hand to ask a question. You spent the entire period gathering up the courage to go up to him after his lecture, but when you do he brushes you off with a lame, half-baked excuse about having papers to grade and no time to talk, grabbing his things in a rush and scampering out of the lecture hall before you can call out for him to come back.
The pit in your stomach opens up into a black hole, swallowing up everything except for overwhelming, gnawing anxiety. It’s eating you up inside, manifesting itself in how you’ve chewed your lips until they bled, and then bit your nails down to the quicks— anyone with eyes could see that something was weighing on you, and you became increasingly tired of all your friends asking if anything was wrong, so once you were finished with your classes you took to hiding out in your dorm room curled up on the couch, your favorite fluffy blanket wrapped around you as you sullenly binge-watched a k-drama you’ve seen a thousand times.
While you were more of a homebody, your two roommates were much the opposite. Karina and Giselle loved to go out and party. Tonight was no different, the two of them flittering around the dorm as they got ready to go out to some club, and while they had given up on trying to get you to join them a while ago, something about the way you moped about seemed to reinvigorate Karina’s desire to get you off of your ass and out on the town. She knew you better than anybody, and immediately she could sniff out that something was off.
“Why don’t you come with us? You can borrow one of my dresses.” She offers, rummaging through her collection of high heels. “It’s a Friday night, everyone’s out! We can dance, we can find some boys to take home; it’ll be fun. You look like you need some.”
“I don’t need to have fun. I need to study.” You reply solemnly, scowling, but you make no moves to get up off the couch. It was a shitty excuse even to your own ears; it was obvious you didn’t have any plans to do anything tonight except feel sorry for yourself.
“That’s bullshit and you know it.” She huffs. You don’t even have to look at her to know that she’s rolling her eyes. “Something’s bothering you and you won’t even tell me or Gigi what’s wrong. Don’t you think a drink or two would be good for you? You can vent to us all night, too. I promise we’ll listen.”
“I don’t know if I even want to tell you about it.”
“Why not? We’re your best friends, Y/Nie. You can tell us anything, even if it’s stupid or embarrassing. If it’s bothering you this badly, it’s clearly something serious.”
You peer out from under the blanket to look over at Karina— the worry in her eyes makes your heart sink. Under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t even consider taking her or Giselle up on their offers, but the way you were stuck running circles inside your head was far from normal. “You promise not to laugh at me?” She smiles warmly. “Nope. But I promise I’ll hear you out regardless.”
The loud, thumping bass reverberating throughout the club did very little to help ease your pounding headache. Your temples throbbed with every beat, the pressure so severe it felt as if your skull was just moments away from splitting in two. You don’t think you’ve ever been this uncomfortable in your life; the dress that Karina gave to you was a size or two too small, the shiny fabric so tight around your chest that you gasp for air. It would be difficult for you to breathe even in properly fitting clothes, the air hot and heavy from the throngs of sweaty bodies that surrounded you. You felt claustrophobic, the crowd closing in on you and threatening to swallow you whole— the only place to escape was to the bar, but even there you’re bombarded with flashing lights, deafening music, and the overlapping voices of everyone around you. You have to strain your ears to make out what Giselle was saying, and she was just on the barstool right next to yours.
“Aren’t you glad you came?” She giggles, sipping on a brightly colored cocktail. She had ordered a round of them for all three of you, and the amount of alcohol mixed in them felt like a sucker punch to the face, even with all the sickeningly sweet grenadine the bartender had used to try and mask the flavor. You watch in abject horror as both she and Karina downed them one by one like they were water.
“No.” you reply honestly.
“You will once you tell us what’s going on with you!” Karina interjects from your other side. “I meant it when I said I wanted you to vent to us, let it all out and give us the tea! Aeri’s dying to know.”
“It’s really embarrassing…” you admit, staring forlornly down at your own drink. “I’d rather just forget all about it.”
“It can’t be that bad. You didn’t drop your pants in front of everyone or anything, did you?”
You cringe. “God, no. It’s not like that.”
“Then it’s nothing you can’t tell us about.” Giselle shoots you a smile over the rim of her glass.
“It’s… it’s about Professor Park.”
“You and Gigi's lit professor?” Karina asks, cocking her head. “Isn’t he the one you have a massive crush on?”
Your cheeks flush, your drink becoming even more interesting as you avoid looking at either of them in the eye. “Maybe.”
“Ugh, your taste in men is the worst.” Giselle snickers. “I don’t understand why you like him so much. He’s such a dick.”
You fight down the urge to defend him— for some odd reason, you feel a surge of protectiveness over Professor Park, even when you completely agree with what Giselle is saying about him. “Yes, I like him, but that’s not the point. The point is that I totally fucked up and now I think he hates me.”
“What did you do?! Please tell me you cursed him out, he fucking deserves it.”
“No, Gigi, oh my God.” Even the mere thought of doing something like that sends shivers down your spine. “He caught me reading during class.”
“…That’s it? You’re freaking out over that?” Giselle blinks.
“It’s what I was reading that’s the problem.” you lament miserably, gathering your courage with a sip of your disgusting cocktail. “I have this book; it’s about a teacher and a student… getting together, if you know what I mean. It’s really dirty… and he caught me reading it in class. He took it, and then he read it himself right in front of me! He thinks I’m a freak. It’s been two days and he won’t even look at me.”
Karina and Giselle stare at you.
“Why the hell were you reading a smut book in class?!” Karina gasps, her dark glittery makeup making her wide eyes look even wider. “And one about a professor, too— were you trying to get caught? There’s better ways to go about telling him that you want to fuck him.”
“I don’t know— I was bored and stupid, okay?!” You had been asking yourself the same question for days, mentally beating yourself to a pulp every time it crossed your mind. “I thought he wouldn’t notice me since I sat in the back… now he’s going to tell the dean, and I’m going to get expelled, and—”
“Woah, woah, woah!” Giselle stops you in your downwards spiral, grabbing your shoulder to ground you. “You’re thinking too hard about this. He’s probably just a prude. If he was going to do something like that, he would have probably done it by now. Plus, I don’t think that’s really something you can be expelled over.”
You lean into her touch, resting your head on her shoulder as she pats your back comfortingly. “He’s mad at me…” you whine petulantly. “I was trying to get that TA position, too… fuck, I’m so screwed.”
“What would he be mad at you for? Being horny?” Karina laughs, “It’s really his own fault for snooping in your stuff.”
“I think you’ll still get it.” Giselle supplies helpfully. “You’ve really got nothing to worry about. Sure, your grade sucks, but I’ve seen the two of you talking in the hallway before— the way he looks at you is insane. And the way he looks at your ass when you leave is even crazier. You just showed him that you feel the same way about him that he does about you.”
“Don’t say that.” You groan. “You think that about every guy I talk to. There’s no way in hell that Professor Park feels anything for me except hatred.”
“If you’re really that worried about it, you can always just apologize.” Karina says, drumming her long nails against her glass. “It might not do anything, but it’ll make you feel better.”
That was the first bit of real advice either her or Giselle had given you in a while, even if it left a bad taste in your mouth. “I don’t know. I feel like that would just make things worse. I need to go to the bathroom.”
You scramble off the barstool in a rush, teetering on your heels— you weren’t even that tipsy, but every step made you feel like a newborn deer. Karina and Giselle watch you hobble away in pity.
You stumble through the crowd in search of a bathroom sign, quickly getting lost in the sea of bodies. There’s little room to move around, everyone pressed up against each other dancing, too intoxicated to notice you trying to politely squeeze by. They jostle and knock you around, and you nearly trip over your own wobbly feet multiple times. Your headache grows nearly unbearable, your desperation to find an escape leading you to start pushing people out of the way so you can continue to move forward. One particularly drunk woman nearly knocks you to the ground, and she shoots you a dirty look over her shoulder when you shoulder past her roughly. You hate to be rude, but you’re teetering dangerously close to your breaking point. You need to find some peace and quiet, and fast.
But all of that goes out the window when among the countless bobbing and weaving heads, you spot a frighteningly familiar pair of broad shoulders.
“Professor Park?!” you call out in shock, shoving your way towards him. “What are you doing here?!”
Without his suits and big clunky glasses on, you almost don’t recognize him. He was leaning back against the wall with two men who you vaguely recognize as other professors at the university, talking and laughing amongst themselves with beers in their hands. You admire the profile of his strong, angular nose, the way his pronounced collarbones peeked out from the loose linen shirt he wore, the first few buttons undone to show a delicious strip of tan skin. His dark hair, usually gelled back to show his forehead, was left fluffy and untamed, framing his dark, intoxicating eyes. He jumps a little at your voice, turning away from the men to look at you.
His eyes widen sharply, moving slowly from your face down to your chest. They linger there for a moment, blinking owlishly, before he tears them away from you completely, the tips of his ears turning bright red.
“Oh, um. Hello, Miss L/N.” he covers up his stutter with a weak cough, suddenly very interested in the state of his shoes. You make a quick mental note to thank Karina later for convincing you to squeeze yourself into this stupid dress.
“Oh, this is Y/N?” One of the two other men slurs gleefully, a grin stretching across his handsome face. There was a certain hunger in the way he undresses you with his eyes, scanning you head to toe like a predator. You could tell from his flushed pink cheeks that he was very drunk. “I’ve heard all about you! It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.”
Something odd flashes in Professor Park's eyes and he jerks his head to shoot his friend a deathly glare. He was far too tipsy to notice.
“You’ve… heard about me?” you cringe, your heart sinking. Out of whatever Professor Park had to say about you, none of it could be anything good.
“Oh, not much, just that you’re one of the brightest students that he’s ever taught.” The other man cuts in, chuckling. He tips his head back and takes a swig of his beer, flashing you his sharp jawline. “One of his favorites to have in class, he says.”
“Such a smart head on those little shoulders! You should consider taking my econ course next year, it’d be a gift to see your pretty face in my class.” The first man adds, his crooked smirk widening.
“Jake, Jay, please.” Professor Park grits out through gritted teeth, anxiously running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, what did you say, Miss L/N?”
You splutter as your lips refuse to form words. You?! The brightest student he’s ever had?! That was just a complete and utter lie; if it wasn’t for Giselle helping you with an extra credit assignment you had practically begged him on your knees for, you would be failing his class spectacularly. You couldn’t fathom why Professor Park would say something like that to these two men, when nearly every class he was scolding you for being late, distracted, forgetting your deadlines, a combination of all three and more. Not only that, but with what had transpired the other day still fresh and stinging… they had to be saving face or making some kind of sick joke. As you collect your thoughts, you half expect them to start pointing and laughing.
“What are you doing here?” you repeat, peering up at Professor Park's blushing face. He avoids meeting your eyes, just like how he did in class.
“Am I not allowed to enjoy the start of my weekend?” he retorts, fiddling with the pull tab on his beer. “Clearly, you’re doing the same.”
He spits out the words like they left a bad taste in his mouth. It stung like an insult. “I thought you said you were busy.” you assert, biting your lip to keep from scoffing. The liquor giving you a little too much courage; he was still Professor Park, even if now standing in front of you he looked like just any other guy.
“I… was.” He mumbles, “And now I’m not anymore. It’s really not any of your business.”
It takes everything you have to keep from blurting out that your book really wasn’t any of his business either, but you manage to hold your tongue.
“I’m sorry, I just— Sir, I need to talk to you.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” He says matter-of-factly. It’s far from what you were expecting him to say.
“What do you mean?” you challenge, your annoyance starting to turn sour. “It’s about the other day.”
Professor Park continues to play dumb, though he keeps throwing sidelong glances to his coworkers. “What about it?”
“I want to apologize.” You bite hard on your lower lip. For doing nothing wrong.
Professor Park's eyes snap up to meet yours, inky dark irises wide in shock. “Y/N—”
“Apologize?” Professor Park's friend— Jake, you think— butts in, raising an eyebrow. “What happened?”
All the color leaves Professor Park's face, even the blush that was slowly trailing from his cheeks down his neck. He awkwardly clears his throat and averts his gaze, putting on a show of cupping his ear and pretending to be confused. “Sorry, I can’t hear you over all of this noise! If you have a question, I’ll be in my office tomorrow afternoon. Go on and have a good night.”
“Wait, Professor—!”
“Have a good night!”
It takes you a long time to find your way back to the bar, drunk, defeated, and stewing in your own thoughts. You’re pleasantly surprised to see that Giselle and Karina have been sat waiting for you all this time, but you don’t have it in you to feel happy or grateful as you plop yourself back onto your empty barstool. Their irritation quickly shifts to confusion and worry, both shooting you odd glances as Karina tentatively hands you another cocktail.
“Are you okay?”
“Did you get lost or something?”
You take a long sip, the disgusting sweetness and the bitter liquor overpowering your senses enough to calm your racing thoughts. “I think I’m going to go and talk to Professor Park tomorrow.” is all you say.
“If you fuck him, please put in a good word for me.” Giselle slurs drunkenly in reply. “I need to pass that fucking class.”
“You’ve been a bad girl, haven’t you, Miss L/N?” Professor Park whispers in your ear, his deep voice dripping with honeyed venom. The fabric of his dress shirt ghosts over your back, his body so close that you can feel the heat radiating off his skin. He has you trapped against his big wooden desk, bent over it obscenely with your ass in the air as you whimper and squirm. Your skirt and panties pool at your ankles, leaving your most intimate areas exposed for him to view. Your leaking pussy quivered from the icy cold air, your hole clenching desperately around nothing and aching to be filled.
“I’m sorry!” You mewl, voice wavering.
“You didn’t answer my question. What are you sorry for?” he presses, so deliciously condescending in the way he feigns ignorance, “Apologize to me properly and tell me what it was that you did.”
“I’ve been bad, sir. I was reading during your lecture, and I’m sorry—”
“Oh, you weren’t just reading.” Professor Park scoffs, straightening himself up and off your back. He rounds the desk to circle you like prey, his slow methodical steps echoing throughout the quiet of his office. They echo in your ears and strike a dizzying mix of fear and anticipation in your heart.
“I-I was reading smut and…” your face burns hotter than the sun, and you close your eyes and take a deep breath to will yourself to have the courage to admit what it was you were caught doing. “…And I was touching myself.”
“You’re going to have to be more specific than that.” He stops to stand at your side, his mere presence hovering above you enough to make you shudder. “Tell me exactly how you were touching that slutty little pussy.”
His words go straight to your core, making you squeeze your thighs together in need. Just a little friction was all you needed, and the edge of his desk granted a great opportunity… but as much as you wanted to, you couldn’t let yourself give in to desperation and grind yourself against Professor Park's desk like a dog in heat. He would notice immediately, and it would only worsen your punishment.
“I was… I was rubbing my clit through my panties.” you admit ashamedly, “Grinding against my fingers. I was going to put one inside but you… you stopped me.”
“I could see your hand up your skirt all the way from the back of the class.” Professor Park spits, his carefully controlled demeanor cracking and his wild, untamed anger boiling to the surface. “It’s like you’re trying to get the two of us caught. You’re lucky no one else was looking… or was that what you wanted? Did you want everyone to see what a slut you are?”
“N-no!” you gasp, but the idea gets you even wetter; you wanted nothing more than for everyone to know that he was much more than just your professor, that he was yours and in turn you were his. “I’m a slut j-just for you, no one else!”
“Fuck, that’s right.” he groans lowly, his voice dripping sex. He picks up a long wooden ruler off his desk, right by your head, and points the tip at the nape of your neck. It ran slowly down the curve of your spine, a ghostly barely-there touch that left a trail of fire erupt across your skin. He stops at the plush swell of your ass, gently caressing your flesh with the cold wood. “You’re all mine. My favorite little student. You just need some discipline to put you back in your place, hm? Show me what a good girl you can be and count for me.”
He rears his arm back, poised and ready to strike. You can hear the ruler whooshing through the air, sharp and fast as he swings his arm forwards—
Your eyes snap open with a gasp. Suddenly, you’re back in your bedroom, curled up safe and sound in your bed, groggy and disoriented as you slowly come back down to reality. While you dreamt about Professor Park often, never had one felt this vivid, this real. You can still feel the echoes of his touch, the phantom pain of his ruler against your asscheek haunting you like a ghost. Your panties are soaked through completely, sticky arousal pooling in the fabric and dripping down your thighs, creating a wet spot on your sheets. You toss and turn to try and go back to sleep, but it’s no use; you’re so horny you can’t think straight, can’t ignore the dull throbbing in your core.
As your hand slides under the waistband of your panties, you decide that enough is enough.
You were at your breaking point. Your life had spiraled completely out of control in the span of just two days, all because your stupid puppy-love crush of a professor had to be nosy about your reading material. He just had to find a way to humiliate you even more than he already did, didn’t he? He could’ve just given you your book back and the two of you could have gone on with your lives. He shouldn’t have even taken your book in the first place! You could have continued fantasizing about him from the back of the class, not a worry in the world, instead of losing precious hours of sleep and mentally beating yourself up.
And after your interaction at the bar, you feel even more ridiculous. If Professor Park truly had the intention of telling someone about what he had caught you reading, wouldn’t he have told the other professors that he was with? And lying to them about you being his smartest student… you couldn’t wrap your head around it.
It was clear that he didn’t want to talk about it. But even if he wants to pretend like none of this ever happened, you just couldn’t.
There was simply no other way for you to get over all of this other than finally confronting him. You needed to make the endless spiral stop, tell him exactly what was on your mind and finally put this to bed. The longer you stew over everything that has transpired, the more your fear and anxiety boils over into anger. This was all Professor Park's fault! You needed to give him a piece of your mind, or you don’t think you’ll ever be able to move on.
Professor Park doesn’t answer until after the fifth knock, his face immediately dropping once he swings open his office door to see you standing there in front of him. His hair is a mess and his clothes are disheveled, his tie half undone and his shirt sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Anxiously he adjusts his glasses, the wide brown eyes behind them looking like a cornered deer’s. “You actually came over to apologize?” He blurts out before you can even open your mouth, genuine surprise taking over his features. “I didn’t think you—"
“Actually, no, I’m not here to apologize!” you declare, the words spilling out before you gave yourself the time to second guess yourself. You had lied awake until the sun came up thinking about what to say, and you weren’t going to let those wasted hours go to waste. “I’m here to tell you, sir, that going through my book was an invasion of my privacy! And that it’s none of your business what I read! I’m an adult, not a child, and I can do whatever I damn well please!”
Professor Park blinks owlishly, staring at you in stunned silence for so long that your newfound confidence falters and you begin to shuffle nervously.
“Oh. Um… alright.” He finally says.
“Alright?!” you echo incredulously, your irritation coming back in full swing. “You’ve been avoiding me for days and all you have to say for yourself is alright?!”
Professor Park's eyes flicker around anxiously, and it suddenly hits you that you were yelling at him in a public hallway. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
“Yes you do!” you shriek. This really wasn’t how you were planning on any of this going, but it was far too late to turn back. You open your mouth to continue your rant, face burning hot with unbridled rage, but Professor Park quickly grabs your wrist and roughly pulls you into his office. The sudden act shocked you into silence, your eyes wide and mouth agape as he drags you all the way back to his desk.
“Listen.” He growls, his voice octaves deeper than you’ve ever heard it before. “You’re acting way out of line right now. Don’t you dare ever talk to me like that, you understand me? I’m still your professor, even when we’re not in class. You’re to treat me with respect—”
“Then you treat me with respect first!” you retort, though you do manage to calm yourself down enough to lower your voice. “Playing dumb and refusing to talk to me after humiliating me in front of everyone! What was even the point of doing that? Was it just for your own sick pleasure?!”
“Y/N.” Professor Park sighs, the second time you’ve ever heard him call you by your first name— the first was at the club, but you were far too distracted to dwell on it. “I know you have some sort of feelings for me. You’re not very good at hiding it.”
Your entire world comes crashing around you, though you suppose that you shouldn’t be too surprised. You had just let yourself hope beyond reason that he would never pay you any attention.
“What I’m trying to say is… Y/N, you need to stop it. Get rid of the book. I can’t be with you, it’ll never work, okay? I’m your teacher, and ten years your senior. There’s plenty of college boys around campus for you to ogle over instead.”
“You say you can’t but… do you want to?” you ask quietly, barely above a whisper.
Professor Park doesn’t meet your eyes. “I could get in a lot of trouble, Y/N. You could too.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.” You challenge, a hopeful spark igniting in your chest. He didn’t say no… and you may be looking too into things, or just clinging onto hope, but that was more than enough proof to you that your professor was hiding some feelings of his own.
“We can’t do this.” He mumbles, his voice growing wilder, more defiant.
“Sure we can! I’m an adult, you’re an adult… did I scare you away with my book or something? Look, it’s okay if it wasn’t up your alley. There’s nothing wrong with being vanilla, Professor. You don’t have to, like, spank me or anything—”
“But I do!” he interjects suddenly, his head shooting up to look at you with wild eyes. His entire face was bright crimson red.
“You… wait, what?” you must have misheard him. That was the only explanation, surely; There was no way he actually—
“I can’t stop thinking about it! I thought there was no way you’d be into anything like that, that I needed to stop thinking about you and move on like a professional, but then you go and pull this, and now I can’t go a single second without thinking about putting you over my knee! It’s driving me insane! I can’t even look at you!”
“Professor—”
“Sunghoon. God, just call me Sunghoon. I can’t handle you calling me that right now.”
You open and close your mouth a couple of times, surely looking like a fish out of water— This was the absolute last thing you expected to come out of your professor’s— Sunghoon's—mouth. Your eyes bulge out of your head, your face burns hotter than the sun… your pussy clenches pathetically. It felt like you were in a dream, almost, which might have been why you suddenly felt so brazen— if you wanted him, and he wanted you, who were you to deny him?
“Then do it.” you say, voice barely above a whisper. He looks just as shocked at your proclamation as you were. “If you want to do it that bad, do it.”
He moves in a flash, giving you no time to prepare— within seconds has you thrown over his lap on his office swivel chair, your hair hanging in your face as you blink wildly at the floor. Sunghoon brushes one of his big hands against you skirt-clad ass, barely a brush of his fingers, but you still gasp all the same.
“Do you really want this?” He breathes, voice low, his breathing hard—the outline of his cock presses hard against your stomach through his slacks, making it considerably hard to focus on the words that came out of his mouth.
It takes you a moment, but you manage to choke out a whiny “Yes, sir, please.”
Sunghoon stutters out an uneven breath, his fingers inching down to the hem of your skirt, teasing the tops of your thighs for just a moment before pulling the fabric up to expose your ass, a noticeable wet spot present on your panties.
“So pretty…” He coos. You can feel his cock twitch against your stomach, those long knobby fingers trailing along the edge of your lacy thong. “Is it okay if I take your panties off, bunny?”
You whimper and nod your head— Sunghoon lands a gentle love-tap to the junction of your thighs with an airy chuckle. “Use your words like a good girl.”
This couldn’t be happening. You had to be dreaming, or hallucinating, or something, anything except truly living through this fantasy come to life— Boring, bland Professor Park, the biggest prude you thought you knew, was just way too good at this, at making your legs shake and your pussy throb all the while barely touching you. In just an afternoon your reality had shifted from thinking that he had to be the world’s biggest loser virgin to thinking that he was even sexier than the professor in your book.
You weren’t sure how to feel about it, but your cunt did.
You must have stayed silent for too long, because without much warning Sunghoon lands a much harsher spank to the top of your asscheek. “Bad girl!” he admonishes, and you can hear the teasing, rotten grin in his voice “C’mon baby, use your big girl words. Tell me how much you want it.” His hot breath fans over your ear— you couldn’t hold in your moan even if you tried, the broken whine sounding weak and pathetic even to your own ears.
“P-Please, sir… please take my panties off. Please spank me.” you whimper, your face beet red and your pussy drooling— his deft fingers stroke slowly up and down your folds, feeling the wetness seep through the cotton fabric of your panties. You bite your lip to keep from screaming.
“That’s my good girl.” You could hear your panties rip as he tears them off of you in one solid motion, the biting cold air meeting your hot soaking cunt and making both you and Sunghoon hiss. He admires the slick leaking down your thighs for a brief silent moment, deep breathy voice cooing at the way you arch into him and his touch, before he straightens back up and lands a stinging, eye watering spank deliciously close to your core. You yelp at the sting.
“That’s for being a fucking tease,” he states, soothing your reddening flesh with a soft caress of his palm. “Being so fucking sexy all the time and driving me crazy because I thought I could never have you.”
You hadn’t realized that this was confessional. Shooting him an evil smile over your shoulder, you giggle, “You could’ve just asked.”
Another spank, this time with even more force. Your hips buck with a shrill cry spilling from your open, panting mouth, your eyes watering— you had no idea Professor Park was this strong. He refuses to give you any time to prepare, never warning you when the next hit to your ass will come. “I didn’t say you could talk back to me.” He growls.
You’re on the verge of tears from the red-hot stinging in your ass, but you still giggle at his words. “You’re kinky.”
He just rolls his eyes, spanking you again, albeit a little softer. “And this one’s for being a brat. How about you start counting for me, little girl? That’s one.”
“One?! You’ve hit me four times!” Maybe you were pushing it too far, but it just came naturally to you to fight back, make him work for your submission and obedience. You relished pushing him as far as he would go; you relished losing.
Sunghoon grabs a handful of your hair and yanks hard, making you gasp loudly and your empty pussy flutter. Leaning down close to your ear, he lets out a warning growl; “I said fucking count.”
You don’t think you’ve ever been this wet in your life. Torn between bucking your hips into Professor Park's bulge and pushing back into the touch of his hand, you give a quiet, watery whimper of “One…”
The hand holding your hair lets go, your head falling limply over his knee. “That’s my girl.” He coos lowly, stroking your head.
It distracts you enough that the next harsh slap to your ass feels even more intense than any of the others before it. “T-two…”
“That’s for being so fucking disrespectful. And in front of my colleagues too, no less. It’s like you were asking for me to ruin you.” he tsks. “You need to learn to watch your mouth.”
The urge to say something smart tugs at you again, even if just to prove his point, but another spank rains down on your sore, bruising asscheeks before you can seize the opportunity.
“T-three!”
“And that’s… that’s for pushing me to put you over my lap in the first place. You couldn’t just leave it alone, could you? And now look at you, making me risk my job to teach you a lesson.” Sunghoon's voice wavers, filling with an emotion you couldn’t quite place— it was extremely difficult to focus on his words when his fingers began to trail down the curve of your ass to your sticky, quivering folds, rubbings the tip of his thumb right over your clothed core. You moan unabashedly, shifting your hips and opening your legs to give him better access to what was peeking out between your thighs.
The fifth spank never comes. He pushes two long, thick fingers between your folds, stuttering out a low moan like he was the one being touched. He starts a rough, dizzying pace almost immediately, his fingertips searching for that spongy spot inside of you. You grind your hips back against Sunghoon's fingers, a drooling mess against his slacks.
“Pr-Professor…” you whine high in your throat — you want more, want him to speed up, slow down… his touches were driving you wild. You hadn’t been touched like this ever before.
“I told you not to call me that.” He hisses, curling his fingers against your sweet spot and making you keen. “Please, call me by my name.”
“Sunghoon!” you cry out, writhing against him. You felt a passion rising within you like the hottest fire, clouding your brain. You couldn’t think of anything except of the pleasure that he gave you, couldn’t utter out anything other than his name.
“Such a slut, falling apart just on my fingers…” he chucks huskily, enamored with the filthy wet sounds your cunt made and how they echoed through the quiet office. “I’ve thought about doing this for forever, God… you’re just as beautiful as I thought you’d be.”
His thumb, wet from your arousal, comes down to rub tight, delicious circles against your sensitive, engorged clit, your strangled wail no doubt loud enough to be heard from the hallway. The building ecstasy distracts you enough for him to push in a third finger into your tight hole. The stretch burns but you love it, your hips kicking and moans growing louder and louder as he effortlessly takes you apart.
“...Too much…!” you manage to choke out, digging your teeth into the fabric of Sunghoon's slacks to keep yourself from screaming out in bliss. You felt full to the brim, pushed closer and closer to the edge with every rough flick of your clit and thrust of his perfect talented fingers. He teases a fourth finger around your leaking, stretched out rim, the threat of it alone enough to make your eyes roll back in your head.
“Oh baby, if this is too much there’s no way you’ll be able to take my cock…”
The tears that had been brimming in your eyes start to stream freely down your burning cheeks, choked hiccups and sobs wracking your body, but it was the most pleasurable agony you had ever been in. Your hips move with a mind of their own, bucking against Sunghoon's cock, thick and hard as a rock, only seeming to grow bigger and bigger every time you rub against it. You relish the sharp intakes of breath he takes every time you move against him. He was starting to fall apart too, you could tell, his voice sounding a lot less dominating and a lot more whiny and pathetic with each roll of his hips up into your tummy.
“I’m gonna… gonna make you cum on my fingers,” he whines low in his throat, his hand completely soaked in your arousal up to the wrist. “You gonna make a mess for me?”
His fingers dig impossibly and wonderfully hard into your sweet spot, that white-hot band of desire in your stomach winding tighter and tighter with each perfectly aimed thrust. You wail and sob, your hand reaching back to grab a tight fistful of his shirt sleeve. “I-I-m— ‘m gonna cum!”
Sunghoon's other hand, the one that had been stroking your hair, then comfortingly up and down your back, rises up to smack your ass, the sudden burst of stinging pain making you scream, and for real this time.
“You gotta ask first, bad girl! Gotta ask for permission b-before you cum…” His voice starts to break, his hips stuttering helplessly— the feeling of his big fat cock grinding hard against you only added to the fire in your belly.
“Can I cum? Please, sir, can I cum? I’ll be a good girl, I promise, just let me cum!” you had no control over your mouth, hardly any conscious at all— all you could focus on was the tightening in your belly, the way Sunghoon's fingers thrusted in and out of your pussy so good… you were his brainless whore, fucked dumb on his fingers.
“Shit, go on honey, my good girl… cum all over me, make a mess!” with his permission you let yourself topple over the edge, moaning and whimpering like a whore as you soak your thighs, his hand, his shirt and slacks with your juices. You lay across his lap twitching for quite some time afterwards, your chest heaving like you had just run a marathon… you’d never come before like that in your life, not as hard or for as long. Sunghoon was with you the whole way as you come down from your high, sweet as can be as he coos praises into your hair and pats your back, kissing your head when you raised it to look over your shoulder at him.
Slowly, you realize that you no longer feel his bulge poking at your belly. You release your iron grip on his shirt to slide your hand down his chest and abdomen, all the way down to gently cup his very wet crotch. “Sir…?”
“F-fuck... sorry, baby… couldn’t help it…” he turns his head away from you to hide his glowing red face, but you can see how his blush spreads down his neck and up to the tips of his ears.
“Did you just… cum?” you ask in awe and disbelief, looking down to see a dark stain spreading across the fabric of his slacks. Sunghoon only mumbles in response, refusing to answer or turn back to look at you, his blush growing an even deeper shade of red. It was all the confirmation you needed.
Professor Park came in his pants like a virgin without you even needing to touch him. Something about that alights a blazing inferno in your core, your senses overtaken with need even though you had just had an orgasm yourself.
“I want to taste it.” You breathe out, your overwhelming desire eclipsing any rational thought and taking control of your words.
“Y-you… what?” his head snaps back to you in surprise, his eyes wide and clouded with lust as they gaze headily into yours.
“Your cum, wanna taste it, want it on my tongue…” you’ve never spoken like this to anyone, your voice not feeling like your own— the words spill out from between your lips mindlessly, desperate for more of his brain numbing pleasure as you rub him through his slacks. His cock twitches underneath your fingertips, beginning to harden again from the ministrations. “Can I please suck you off, sir?”
“Fuck.” Sunghoon moans, rough and deep in his chest, the sound shooting straight to your sensitive pussy. “Yeah you can, naughty girl, come on, get on your knees and suck my cock. Clean up my mess.”
Your entire body feels limp and weak, not wanting to cooperate with you as you slide off of his lap to the floor. It takes great effort to get yourself situated, kneeling on the floor with your unsteady hands grasping at his thick thighs. He widens his legs to give you more room to get comfortable, one of his big hands instinctively coming down to tangle in your hair as your own begin to slide up the insides of his thighs towards his straining belt buckle.
Ever so slowly and meticulously you unbuckle Sunghoon's belt, the jingling of the metal buckle as it’s casted aside like music to your ears. You pull his pants and boxers down together in one rough tug, Sunghoon canting his hips to help you guide them down his thighs. His cock springs free and slaps obscenely against his belly, smearing the light fabric of his dress shirt in his thick, viscous cum. You can’t help but stop and stare, enamored by the sheer size of it— nearly as thick as a can and twice the length of one, throbbing veins making your mouth water. Cum still leaks from his angry red tip, fat and bulbous, the entirety of his length wet and shiny down to his heavy, twitching balls and neatly trimmed pubes.
You kiss the tip with a delighted grin, the contact barely-there but enough to make him throw his head back and whimper in delight. Your tongue peeks out from between your lips to slide across his slit, earning a high-pitched needy hiss from the man above you, his long fingers tightening their grip on your hair as you lick down his dripping shaft. His thick, salty cum tastes like ambrosia on your tongue, the delicious bitterness quickly getting you drunk. You can’t stop until you lick him completely clean, and even then it’s impossible for you to pull away, the feeling of his weeping cockhead heavy on your tongue far too addicting. Greedily you suck him into your mouth, relishing in the way his girth stretches your lips before swallowing him deeper and deeper until his tip knocks against the back of your throat. You can hardly fit your hands around him, let alone your mouth, fisting what couldn’t fit down your throat as you start bobbing your head. More broken tears collect on your lashes and drip down your wet cheeks, looking utterly ruined and wanton as you gaze up from between Sunghoon's legs into his hazy, unfocused eyes.
The eye contact is too much for him— his eyes roll back in his head with a whimper and his cock twitches violently inside of your mouth, the grip he has on your hair shifting from guiding your head along his shaft to tugging you off him with a sudden and disorienting strength. He pulls you off him with a wet pop, a foamy string of saliva connecting from his shiny cockhead to your needy whimpering lips.
“I’m gonna cum again if you don’t stop,” he pants, gasping for breath, “I gotta fuck that pussy first, little girl, please. Need to feel that tight cunt squeezing around me.”
“D’you wanna cum inside?” you goad, a lustful, mischievous grin overtaking your features, “Don’t worry, Hoonie, I’m on the pill. You can fill me up if you want to.”
Your words make him visibly shake, the nickname making him whimper, what was left of his flimsy resolve crumbling right before your eyes, leaving nothing but primal hunger. “Get on the fucking desk.”
You obey immediately, hardly able to contain your excitement as you stumble to your feet and bend over Sunghoon's big oak desk, wiggling your ass in the air invitingly. Your skirt was pushed up past your hips, exposing your dripping puffy hole for his eyes to feast upon.
“So pretty…” he croons behind you, his hands caressing your hips and waist. They smooth over the exposed globes of your ass, his fingers ghosting over your sticky, quivering folds. Pretty pink skirt that compliments your flushed skin, looks so delectable running through his fingers as he grabs your asscheeks and spreads them wide. “You look so cute in pink.”
he hisses in appreciation at the sight of your dripping hole quivering, sliding a finger down between your pussy lips to circle at your engorged clit. “Holy fuck, you’re so wet,” he groans, accentuating his claim with a flick of his hand— your pussy squelches obscenely, the lewd, pornographic sound making your cheeks flush. “I can’t take it anymore, I have to be inside of you— you can take it, right doll?”
“Please!” you beg, hardly able to string together a sentence, “Please, sir, put it in, I need it so bad, need your cock—”
You’re interrupted by the feeling of his cockhead slapping against your entrance, Sunghoon running the leaky tip up and down your slit a few times just to hear your little whimper before burying himself inside to the hilt in one smooth thrust. He rams into you with a force that knocks the air out of your lungs, his long fat shaft stretching out your hole much more than you could have ever been prepared for. The burn is indescribable, overwhelming every single one of your senses in the best way, your tight gummy walls gripping his cock like a vice as the both of you struggle to adjust.
He's so deep inside of you it feels as if he’s poked through your cervix and into your womb, his big fat mushroom head snug right beneath your belly button. You’re so deliciously full that it makes your head spin, already fucked completely brainless before he had even begun to properly move.
“Does it hurt?” he asks you softly, so gentle compared to how he carved out your insides. In any other circumstance you would find it sweet that he was this concerned, but you were certain that if he didn’t start moving inside of you right then and there, you were going to die.
“More.” you croak back in response. “Give it to me.”
With a winded groan, he relents. He pulls his cock out until just the head was inside of you, giving you not a single moment to prepare before slamming back in with a force that knocks you further up on the desk. The hardwood against your cheek does nothing to muffle your loud, unabashed shriek, so he improvises by shoving two of his thick fingers past your open lips, the musky tang of your own juices filling your mouth when you suck hungrily at the digits. He set up a punishing rhythm within seconds, his hips clapping loudly and wetly against your ass while he muffles your whines and wails. His heavy balls smack against your oversensitive clit with every rough thrust, sending shockwave after shockwave of pleasure straight to your core. The desk cuts into the skin of your hips painfully, but if anything, it only adds to the burning sweetness building steadily in the pit of your belly.
“F-fuck, I’m close already!” Sunghoon puffs against the shell of your ear, pressing himself up against your back— you’re suddenly thrown back into your dream from the night before, the way the sensations were eerily similar yet nowhere near as good as the real thing. “Gonna cum inside you, is that okay? Wanna see how pretty your pussy looks dripping my cum.”
You can only drool in response, your thoughts fragmented and scattered, babbling desperate nonsense and rolling your hips back to meet his thrusts with a dizzying force. Your body vibrates with liquid fire, heating your puffy cunt and quivering thighs— faster than ever before were you hurtling towards your climax, that familiar tightening in your core growing harder and harder to bear. You wanted nothing more than to yield to the tide, let it overtake you completely, and in turn pull Sunghoon down with you.
Your professor was going to cum inside of you. The fantasies that had haunted you for months truly became a tangible reality. What did you do to make you so lucky?
“This slutty pussy’s sucking me in so fucking tight,” he groans, his thrusts growing sloppier, “Tell me you want my cum, baby, come on. Who’s cum do you want inside of you? Tell me and I’ll give it to you!”
“Yours!” you shriek with the last remaining bits of your energy, your words nearly incomprehensible to how you sniffled and sobbed around Sunghoon's fingers. “Want your cum— my professor’s cum inside of me!”
You took a gamble, but it was just what he wanted to hear. With one last aggressive thrust, he bottoms out inside of your pulsating cunt, his bulbous cockhead kissing your battered cervix as he cums with a broken cry. The sensation of his sticky, hot seed splashing against your insides is just what you need to tip over the edge yourself, your walls clamping down on him and milking him for all he’s worth as you ride out your own climax with long, surrendering moans. He hisses from the overstimulation, but he makes no movements to pull out, letting himself soften inside of you as you both struggle to catch your breaths. Thick viscous globs of your mixed cum leak out from where you’re connected, dripping down your thighs and Sunghoon's balls to collect in a puddle on the floor.
You gaze over your shoulder to watch as he slowly and carefully pulls out, a creamy, foamy white ring formed around the base of his cock. His glasses were fogged up from his heavy breathing, his hair and clothes even more a mess than it was when he had first opened the door, his pink face so irritatingly kissable when he shoots you a nervous smile.
You cant help but giggle at him.
“You’re not going to… tell anyone about this, are you?” he asks you anxiously, opening one of the desk’s drawers to retrieve a packet of tissues.
“As long as you explain to me why you told those other professors that I was your best student.” You reply smartly, your grin widening when he scowls.
“It was the only way I could think of how to explain why I talk about you so much.” He admits, a little shy, wiping down the mess between your thighs with a fistful of cheap, scratchy tissues. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d rather if we continued that charade so it doesn’t look suspicious when I ask you to come to my office every once in a while.”
“Will you give me that TA position then?”
“You technically don’t qualify,” He laughs, “but I thought that was a given.”
“You won’t regret bending the rules a little, I promise.” You tell him with a wink and a smile. The love-stricken grin he shoots back at you in return makes your heart soar.
slowburn enemies to lovers 。childhood friends 。partly a social media au 。mostly written chapters 。love triangle with jake 。comedy 。slice of life 。fluff 。high society 。chaebol sunghoon 。chaebol reader 。found family 。college au 。fratboy sunghoon 。old money politics 。angst heavy 𝓦 。。profanity, toxic dynamics, suggestive language, sexual content ⨾ smut (MDNI) sunghoon is an actual asshole, everybody is a freak, they hate each other fr, pet names, jealousy, possessiveness, alcohol, partying, misandry, degradation, public humiliation, unhealthy coping mechanisms, obsession, emotional manipulation, abuse, mentions of abuse, high society elitism, power play
゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ READ HERE 𐔌 . ⋮ TOTAL PARTS .ᐟ ֹ ⤷ 9 ⁞ 𐚁 ꒱
PROLOGUE
。PART ONE No profit
。PART TWO Chessboard
。PART THREE Endless
。PART FOUR I’m sick of games ⟢ 5.4k
。PART FIVE Too easy
。PART SIX Fill the thirst ⟢ 1.1k
。PART SEVEN Sink my teeth in ⟢ 8.7k
。PART EIGHT An empty mirage ⟢ 8.5k
。PART NINE Because I see everything ⟢ 13.7k PART TEN I know you’re enjoying it ⟢ 17.7k
SYNOPSIS ⟢ after suffering a gruelling break-up, y/n vowed to start doing all the things her ex-boyfriend had never let her do before; partying, having fun, and making reckless decisions. during a usual night out, y/n spontaneously decides to try to get inked – which ultimately led her to meet lee heeseung, an independent tattoo artist. meeting heeseung was an embarrassing memory that y/n would like to forget (which she had forgotten by the next morning anyways considering she was completely hammered), however, after encountering each other again by chance – or luck if you call it that – heeseung decides he’s found the perfect canvas for his art; his next muse.
pairing ⟢ tattoo artist! heeseung x party girl! reader
genre ⟢ social media au (smau) + written, strangers to lovers, university au
contains ⟢ profanity, suggestive [sexual] discourse, humour/crack, friendly bullying, highly suggestive scenes, smut (18+), story mainly occurs in NYC, luck as a symbolism like everywhere, alcohol and marijuana consumption, family issues, mentions of mental illness, flawed character(s), gets angsty later on.
featuring ⟢ all of enhypen, yeonjun, beomgyu, and soobin of txt, giselle of aespa, yunjin and chaewon of le sserafim + some cameos of other idols
status: ongoing!
author's note: hii, this is my first smau + fic and i'm also rlly new to tumblr so pls lmk if there are any areas where i can improve on! i've always wanted to write but never had the platform to until i found this community on tumblr!! ANYWAYS enough yappin, i hope you enjoy this smau + fic, this took A LOT of detailed planning to come to life!!! <3
TAGLIST [CLOSED]
reblogs appreciated ♡
─────────────────────
PROFILES
husband beaters | mama a tattoo artis t behind u
CHAPTERS
00 PROLOGUE
01 can i please get uhhh
02 lucky me + written (1.1k words, 7 screenshots)
03 BULLSHIT THATS PRETTY PRIVILEGE
04 no bitch DUCK
05 who are you? + written (1.1k words, 6 screenshots)
06 let me make it up to you
07 agent rik and j-won
08 hee’s behind me isnt he.
09 oh shit, WORLDSTAR! + written (2k words, 7 screenshots)
10 we need to talk.
11 you have a visitor! + written (1k words, 6 screenshots)
12 this is WORSE than a situationship. + written (2.1k words, 9 screenshots)
13 bodega cat except you’re in a tattoo shop instead
14 like NYPD type shit
15 the trolley dilemma (ft. riki)
16 can’t miss my chance + written (1k words)
17 unexpected guest + written (1.3k words, 3 screenshots)
18 computer science with a side of beer and family trauma
19 playing house
20 happy birthday 2x
21 lucky you + written (2.1k words)
22 “what are we?”
23 spring break in albany + written (2.5k words)
24 four-leaf clover + written (2k words)
25 some things are better left unsaid
26 we need to talk, again.
27 ran out of luck + written (1.3k words, 3 screenshots)
28 waiting for you in west village + written (2k words, 3 screenshots)
29 new person, same old mistakes
30 winter in boston + written (2.8k words)
31 disappearing act
32 say it again + written (2.1k words)
33 busy woman
34 why can’t we just give it a shot? + written
35 last hurrah!
36 graduation day + written
37 EPILOGUE: luckiest man alive
SPIN-OFFS
gen z luv! <3 (sunghoon), part 2
we found love on… hinge? (jake)
PLAYLISTS ⊹˚♬₊⋆
black heart ink’s store playlist (heeseung’s pick)
