Pairing: vampire!Sunoo x fem!reader
Genre: Period comfort fic, angst, fluff, emotional intamacy
Synopsis: When a vampire’s instincts heighten during a vulnerable week, Sunoo chooses restraint over hunger - again and again.
A/N: Hai!! So…I’m on my ladies days right now ☹️…but I thought this was a unique idea!! I decided to make it Sunoo because I don’t see vampire fics of him often. I hope you enjoy, and I’m sorry if the storyline barely makes sense!!
The windows are open even though
February air slices through the apartment in thin, bitter drafts. The curtains lift and fall in soft waves, carrying in the scent of snow and concrete and something clean enough to dull everything else.
He stands in the kitchen with his back to you, refilling a glass of water for the third time in ten minutes.
The faucet runs longer than it needs to.
You’re curled on the couch with a blanket wrapped tight around your waist, heating pad pressed to your lower stomach. The cramps are dull but constant, radiating warmth and ache in slow pulses.
“You okay?” you call softly.
The water shuts off immediately.
Bright. Perfect. Practiced.
That’s how you know something’s wrong.
Normally he would add something playful - a dramatic sigh, a hair flip, some teasing comment about surviving hardship. But tonight, the smile sits on him like porcelain.
You shift, wincing slightly as another cramp rolls through you. He notices that - of course he does. His gaze flickers to your stomach, to the way your fingers press tighter against the heating pad.
He looks away almost instantly.
“I made you tea,” he says lightly. “It’s on the table.”
Then he turns back to the sink.
You notice it more as the night stretches on.
He doesn’t sit next to you.
He doesn’t drape himself across the couch like he usually does, chin tucked into your shoulder. He doesn’t steal the blanket. He doesn’t complain dramatically about how cold the apartment is, even though the open windows are letting winter crawl in.
Measured steps. Controlled breathing.
Every time you move, his posture tightens.
Every time you adjust the blanket, his jaw shifts slightly.
It clicks for you slowly.
“Oh,” you murmur under your breath.
You hesitate before speaking again. “If it makes you uncomfortable…I can sleep in the guest room.”
The glass in his hand shatters.
The fracture splinters beneath the pressure of his grip, spiderwebbing outward before the bottom drops into the sink with a sharp clink.
There’s a thin red line across his palm.
And something in his expression makes your stomach drop harder than any cramp.
“Uncomfortable?” he repeats quietly.
You swallow. “I just thought maybe-”
But it costs him something to say it.
He sets the broken rim down carefully, as if the world might break with it.
The word sits between you.
He kneels in front of you - but not close enough to touch. There’s space between his knees and yours. Intentional. Deliberate.
“Vampires are…heightened,” he explains, gaze fixed somewhere just below your chin. “Scent. Pulse. Iron. Everything amplifies.”
The apartment feels smaller suddenly.
“I would rather shatter every bone in my body,” he continues evenly, “than hurt you.”
“This week just makes it harder.”
His pupils are blown wider than usual. Not glowing. Not feral. Just…strained.
“You could’ve told me,” you whisper.
He exhales slowly. “I didn’t want you to feel self-conscious.”
“I’m not,” you say immediately.
He looks at you then. Really looks at you.
And something flickers behind his composure.
“I am,” he admits softly.
“You think I don’t trust you?”
“Then what are you afraid of?”
That night, the air is cold enough to make your toes curl under the blanket.
You fall asleep eventually - exhaustion from the cramps dragging you under.
Across the room, Sunoo sits in the chair near the window.
He hasn’t moved in an hour.
To the subtle shift of blood beneath skin.
His fingers curl into the armrest.
A small sound escapes you - a quiet whimper when another cramp tightens in your sleep.
His eyes snap open instantly.
Gold flickers for half a second before he forces it down.
He’s beside you in less than a breath.
Cold hands hover over your stomach before settling gently against the heating pad. Not touching skin - just anchoring.
“You’re shaking,” you mumble.
He presses his forehead carefully against your shoulder, deliberately angling his face away from your neck.
“I’m choosing you,” he whispers.
Your fingers instinctively curl into his sleeve.
You shift closer in your half-sleep haze, seeking warmth.
Your neck brushes his collarbone.
His entire body goes rigid.
For one split second, instinct roars.
It’s violent. Primitive. Demanding.
His jaw clenches so hard it aches.
“I trust you,” you murmur.
The instinct doesn’t disappear.
His throat tightens unexpectedly.
Tears sting his eyes before he can stop them.
Not because he wants to hurt you.
But because he hates that his body is built in a way that even makes this moment difficult.
He pulls you closer - carefully. Reverently.
Morning light creeps in pale and soft.
You wake first this time.
You can tell by the tension in his shoulders.
“You didn’t sleep,” you murmur.
You lift a hand and brush your fingers against his cheek.
But away from the pulse beneath your skin.
“It’s not disgust,” he repeats quietly.
Your forehead presses to his chest.
“If it ever gets too hard,” you whisper, “tell me. Don’t suffer alone.”
His arms slide around you slowly.
“I don’t suffer,” he says softly.
You pull back just enough to look at him.
“You don’t have to endure loving me. It’s okay.”
His composure cracks then - just slightly.
“I’m not enduring loving you baby,” he says, voice finally wavering. “I’m enduring myself.”
His lips tremble faintly.
“Maybe not,” he whispers. “But my instincts are.”
You cradle his face gently.
“And what are you doing right now?”
He thinks the worst has passed.
A few nights later, you fall asleep faster.
The cramps aren’t as sharp tonight, just dull and heavy. You curl on your side, blanket tucked under your chin.
He thought he was managing it better.
He thought the first night was the worst.
The scent hits him differently tonight.
It’s sudden. Overwhelming. A wave crashing over restraint he’s been carefully building for days.
His breathing turns shallow.
His fangs press painfully against his bottom lip.
Every instinct in his body is screaming.
He moves before he fully realizes he is.
He’s kneeling beside you now.
Your pulse is steady beneath your skin.
So close he can feel the heat of you against his face.
His hand hovers near your shoulder.
That’s all instinct wants.
The small plushie he won for you months ago at an arcade. Slightly lopsided. Soft from being slept with too many nights.
You’re holding it like it’s him.
Like it’s comfort. Like it’s safe.
The thought cuts through the haze.
She didn’t choose biology.
She didn’t choose instinct.
So why am I acting like I don’t have control over mine?
His eyes squeeze shut hard enough it hurts.
“No,” he whispers to himself.
When he opens his eyes again-
He stumbles back like he’s been burned.
His hand flies to his mouth.
You shift slightly in your sleep, clutching the plushie tighter.
And that’s what undoes him.
He leaves the bedroom before the guilt suffocates him.
The living room is colder.
He doesn’t close the windows.
He sinks to the floor, back against the couch.
Just broken, quiet breaths as he presses his palms into his eyes.
“She can’t help it,” he whispers hoarsely. “So why can’t I?”
Because it’s easier to blame instinct than to discipline it.
He sits there until the sky lightens faintly.
Until the red is completely gone.
Until he can trust himself again.
And when he returns to the bedroom-
He keeps a little more distance.
But because loving you means protecting you.
A week later, the apartment feels different.
You’re curled on the couch again - but this time without the heating pad, without the blanket wrapped tight around your waist.
Just comfortable. Lighter.
His arm rests along the back of the couch, fingers brushing your shoulder absentmindedly. He’s been quieter this week - but not in the strained way from before. It’s softer now. Settled.
You glance up at him. “You’re staring.”
“I like that you’re not in pain,” he says simply.
“I’m okay,” you reassure him. “This happens every month.”
But his thumb gently traces the curve of your arm anyway. Like he’s confirming it for himself.
There’s no tension in his posture now. No sharp edge in his breathing. Your scent has faded back into something normal.
“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly.
“For thinking I had to endure loving you.” His voice is quiet but steady. “For acting like my instincts were stronger than my choices.”
You sit up a little straighter.
“I was scared of myself,” he admits. “But I’m not ashamed of loving you anymore. Even when it’s difficult.”
“You never scared me,” you whisper.
“I know,” he says softly. “That’s what scared me.”
You move closer deliberately, swinging one leg over his lap. Testing.
Doesn’t calculate distance.
He just places his hands on your waist.
You study his eyes carefully.
He smiles - and this one isn’t porcelain.
You lean in and press a gentle kiss to his cheek.
Then, softly, his neck - the place that once made him tense.
Not because he’s fighting something.
But because he’s letting it go.
“I can handle myself,” he murmurs. “I just needed to stop pretending I couldn’t.”
You rest your forehead against his.
“I’m not fragile,” you say.
His arms tighten around you.
You stay there like that for a while - warm apartment, steady breathing, no open windows, no shattered glass.
A/N: I actually had this written two days ago but I’ve been so caught up with work that I couldn’t find the time to post it. I’m so sorry!! BUT. It’s out now!! I hope you guys enjoyed it!!
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