The kind of ordinary day that should’ve passed without consequence.
Jihoon was three years and four months old, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the living room floor, surrounded by her stuffed animals and speaking to them in a language that was about sixty percent understandable and forty percent adorable nonsense.
Her words were still soft and clumsy around the edges—little syllables bumping into each other, vowels stretched where they shouldn’t be.
“Dish one sit here. No, no—dat’s Mama bear’sh seat.”
You smiled to yourself as you folded laundry nearby. Sunghoon was at work. The house was quiet.
And because your husband had once again shoved random things into the hallway closet instead of properly organizing them, you’d decided today was finally the day to tackle it.
That was his first mistake. His second mistake? Hiding that photo where you could eventually find it.
You were halfway through muttering under your breath about Sunghoon’s inability to throw anything away when you spotted an old photo album tucked behind a stack of winter blankets.
Curious, you pulled it free and sat down right there on the floor.
At first, the photos were harmless.
Tiny baby Sunghoon bundled in blankets.
Sunghoon being held by his mother.
Sunghoon asleep in a crib.
Cute? Absolutely. Dangerous? Not yet. Then you turned another page and froze.
“…No way.”
There he was.
A tiny little toddler sitting on a swing over pale sand, bundled in a puffy brown winter jacket with fur lining around the hood.
His little legs dangled awkwardly, tiny red shoes hanging just above the ground. His jeans bunched around his knees.
His hair was sticking up in every possible direction like he’d just rolled out of bed and refused to let anyone fix it.
And his expression—
That tiny pout. That serious little face. Those huge dark eyes staring blankly ahead like the world had mildly inconvenienced him.
It was Sunghoon. At one year and eleven months old.
And he was so offensively adorable that your body physically reacted. Your hand flew to your mouth.
“Oh my god.”
Jihoon looked up from across the room.
“Mama?”
You slowly turned the album toward her like it was sacred scripture.
“Come here.” She scrambled over on her knees, peering down.
Her eyes widened. “…Appa?”
“Yes.”
She poked the picture. “Baby Appa?”
“Yes.” She gasped dramatically.
“Sho tiny.”
“Very tiny.”
Her little brows furrowed. “…Why he look mad?”
You stared harder at the photo and burst out laughing. “He does look mad.”
Jihoon nodded seriously. “Appa grumpy baby.”
And then— you felt it.
That unmistakable ache. That dangerous, irrational, all-consuming wave of baby fever.
The kind that made your chest squeeze and your brain whisper: You need another one. Immediately.
Within approximately forty-seven seconds, you had:
Taken a picture of the photo. Cropped it perfectly. Set it as your lock screen. Sent it to Yeji. Sent it to Sunghoon’s mother. Zoomed in specifically on the cheeks
Because the cheeks deserved focus. Jihoon watched all this happen from your side.
“Mama.”
“Yes?”
“Can I shee Baby Appa gain?”
You showed her. She giggled “He look like tiny bean.”
“He does.” You sighed dreamily. “He’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Jihoon frowned immediately. “Cuter dan me?”
You gasped. “No, sweetheart. Never.”
Then pointed again. “But almosht.”
You wheezed.
Sunghoon came home an hour later.
The second he walked through the door, Jihoon ran to him dramatically.
“APPAAAA!”
He bent automatically, scooping her up with one arm. “Hi, princess.”
Then she pointed accusingly at him. “You wash tiny and grumpy.” Sunghoon blinked. “…What?”
You appeared in the hallway holding your phone like evidence in a criminal trial. “Explain yourself.” The second he saw the screen light up— tiny serious toddler him staring back from the swing— he physically deflated.
“…You found it.”
“Found it?” you repeated.
He sighed deeply.
“Yes.”
You marched closer. “Why.” He rubbed his forehead. “Because I knew this would happen.”
“What would happen?” He gave you a pointed look.
“You’re staring at me like I personally betrayed you.”
“You DID betray me.”
Jihoon gasped. “Appa bad?”
Sunghoon immediately panicked. “No, no—Appa not bad.”
You thrust the phone toward him. “Why did you hide this?” He glanced at the photo.
Then at you. Then back at the photo.
“…Because I knew you’d react like this.” You squinted.“Like what?”
He deadpanned perfectly:
“‘Oh my god, Hoon, look at your tiny shoes. We need another baby right now.’”
Your mouth dropped open. Jihoon looked between you both.
“…Need baby?”
Sunghoon pointed accusingly.
“See?”
You crossed your arms. “That is not what I sound like.”
“It is exactly what you sound like.”
Jihoon nodded. “Exacly.”
“Whose side are you on?!”
“Mine,” she answered proudly.
It got progressively worse over the next week.
You became unbearable. Everywhere you went, the lock screen followed.
At breakfast:
“Hoon.”
“No.”
“Look at your tiny shoes.”
“No.”
At bedtime:
“Imagine little matching shoes again.”
“No.”
While watching TV:
“Your cheeks were illegal.”
“Please stop saying that.”
Even Jihoon had started joining in.
“Appa, why you sho puffy?”
Sunghoon would bury his face in his hands every single time.
Then came the final attack.
One evening after Jihoon was asleep, Sunghoon was washing dishes while you leaned against the counter pretending to scroll through your phone.
Really, you were just staring at the photo. Again.
Sunghoon noticed.
Of course he noticed. “You’re doing it again.” You looked up innocently.“Doing what?”
“Looking at it like it personally wronged you.”
You smiled sweetly. “Hoon.”
He sighed instantly. “No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m asking.”
“Yes, I do.”
You walked over slowly, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. He softened immediately.
Always did. “What if…”
“No.”
“…Jihoon had a little sibling?”
“No.”
“With your hair?”
“No.”
“With your pout?”
“Still no.”
You pulled out your phone and held up the photo right beside his face. “Look me in the eyes and tell me the world doesn’t deserve another one of these.”
He stared. At the photo. At you. At your ridiculously hopeful expression. Then groaned.
“You are weaponizing my toddlerhood.”
“It’s working.” He muttered under his breath.You kissed his jaw softly.
Then whispered, “Please?”
And that was his downfall. Because your husband had never once survived that voice.
He exhaled heavily. “…One more.” You froze. “Really?” “One more because I love you. And because if I say no, I’ll never know peace again.”
You squealed and launched yourself at him. He barely caught you in time, laughing helplessly. “You’re impossible.” “You love me.”
He kissed your forehead. “…Unfortunately.”
TIME SKIP — ONE YEAR OLD JISUNG
And apparently, the universe had heard every single shameless wish you made while staring at that photo.
Because now— one-year-old Jisung sat in your lap wearing tiny red shoes.
And looked exactly like that picture.
Exactly. Same fluffy messy hair. Same serious pout. Same sleepy, mildly offended expression. Same little tilt of the head.
Even Sunghoon’s mother had nearly dropped her tea the first time she noticed.
“That is literally my son.”
And you? You had cried. Actually cried.
Because this was exactly what you’d asked for.
YN NEVER LETS HIM LIVE IT DOWN
Now, every family gathering included your favorite activity:
forcing everyone to compare the side-by-side photos.
“LOOK.”
You shoved your phone toward Yeji.
On screen: baby Sunghoon on the swing. Jisung now.
It was absurd. Yeji laughed.
“I know!”
“No, really LOOK.”
“I HAVE BEEN LOOKING.”
Across the couch, Sunghoon sighed while Jihoon attempted to clip sparkly barrettes into his hair.
“Do we need to keep doing this?”
“Yes.”
Jisung reached over from your arms and smacked Sunghoon’s cheek. Softly.
Exactly the way his mother had once said baby Sunghoon used to.nYou gasped so loudly everyone turned.
“HE DID THE THING.”
Sunghoon groaned.
“Oh no.”
You clutched Jisung dramatically.
“My beautiful answered prayer.”
Sunghoon looked at you then— really looked.
At your glowing smile.
At Jihoon giggling beside him.
At Jisung blinking sleepily in your arms.
And his expression softened into that quiet, helpless smile he only ever wore for you.
“…You got exactly what you wanted.”
You shook your head. Looking at all three of them.
“No.”
Your voice softened.
“I got more.” and just like that— Sunghoon leaned over and kissed your temple while Jisung, tiny pout and all, smacked his father again.
💌: hi!! bringing lolove couple back slowly since uni will be over in a couple of weeks~ i have already written a lot of acts since last year and i hope you guys will look forward ~ suggestion are highly appreciated too~ LIKE,COMMENT,AND REBLOG to show love~
At work, things were different.
Not cold, not distant—just… professional. Respectful. Carefully measured in a way that made the edges of your shared reality feel like a secret only the two of you truly understood.
You worked in marketing, on the 14th floor. Sunghoon was one floor below in finance, buried under spreadsheets and budget approvals most of the day. The entire office knew you were married—your wedding photos were public, and you’d both attended the company dinner a few months back hand-in-hand—but the novelty had worn off quickly. People smiled, teased lightly, called you the “golden couple,” but otherwise? It was back to business.
Still, there were moments.
Like when your phone buzzed during a tedious brand meeting with a message from him:
The finance team is boring without you. Wanna fake a budget crisis and come down? 🙄
Or when you’d sneak into the elevator just as the doors were closing, catching his surprised grin before he immediately reached out to press the emergency hold button.
“Missed you,” he’d say quietly, like it wasn’t the first time he’d seen you that day.
You’d fix his collar or steal a quick peck on the cheek when no one was looking. Then the doors would open, and you’d step out like coworkers again—two people on different floors, different departments, different rhythms.
But not really.
Sometimes, after a long day, you’d catch each other in passing—him walking into the break room just as you were leaving it, coffee mug in hand.
“Hey,” he’d say casually, hand brushing lightly against yours as he passed.
You’d glance back, barely hiding a smile. “Hi.”
That one word carried so much. Hi, I missed you. Hi, we still have dinner plans. Hi, I packed your lunch this morning with the extra sauce you like. Hi, I’m counting down the minutes until I get to go home with you.
One particularly bad Monday, you were swamped—meetings stacked back-to-back, edits due, deadlines crashing into one another. You hadn’t had lunch, hadn’t looked at your phone in two hours, and you were this close to crying over a corrupted file when someone knocked on your office door.
It was Sunghoon’s intern, grinning.
“He said you forgot to eat. And to take a breath.”
You blinked, confused, until she held up the small brown bag. Inside was your favorite takeout order and a folded napkin that simply said in his handwriting:
My wife doesn’t skip meals. Love you. Floor 13’s watching. Be cool. 😎
You laughed quietly, biting back a tear.
Later, as you made your way to the elevator, you stopped on the 13th floor, peeked into the finance bullpen, and caught him at his desk—headphones on, brows furrowed over numbers.
You left a sticky note on his monitor before slipping back upstairs.
You’re annoyingly thoughtful. See you at home, lolove. 💌
On Fridays, there was always a little extra buzz in the building. Casual day. Shorter hours. Afternoon coffee runs.
You usually coordinated those with Yeji, who had an internship in HR now and was still getting used to the office pace. But some days, Sunghoon would text you just before 3PM:
Coffee? You, me, corner of the building, five minutes.
It was the only place in the building with the wide floor-to-ceiling windows and just enough foot traffic to feel normal—yet quiet enough to steal a moment.
He’d be there waiting, holding your drink exactly how you liked it.
You’d lean beside him, not too close, sipping your coffee and watching the skyline stretch past the glass.
“Big meeting?” he’d ask.
“Presentation went well,” you’d nod.
“Did you wear the lipstick I like?” he’d tease softly.
You’d nudge him with your elbow, grinning. “You noticed?”
“Always.”
At the end of the day, when the sun dipped lower behind the city and the building emptied out in waves, you’d sometimes bump into each other near the elevators again—this time with no reason to hold back.
You’d let your fingers intertwine, wedding rings brushing, both of you exhaling at the same time.
“No work talk on the way home,” you’d warn playfully.
He’d kiss the side of your head. “Agreed. Just us now.”
Because at work, you were colleagues. Independent. Grounded. Busy.
But at home, you were each other’s peace. And even though your floors were different, your hearts always walked the same hallway.
It was a Tuesday when the office felt especially sluggish. The kind where the air-conditioning hit too hard, the printer jammed twice, and everything you touched seemed to need one more revision. You were deep into reviewing a campaign deck when your phone buzzed beside your mouse.
Sunghoon [13F]:
Just sent in the quarterly reports. Want to reward me with a five-minute break and your face?
You stared at the message for a moment, smirking as you typed back.
You [14F]:
Only if you meet me in the hallway near the vending machines. No witnesses. No spreadsheets.
Exactly three minutes later, you stepped out of your floor and leaned casually by the vending machines, pretending to browse snacks. The hum of conversation and footsteps faded as most people were still tucked away in their cubicles.
Then he appeared around the corner, tie a little loose, expression a little smug.
You turned toward the machine. “This is such a covert mission.”
Sunghoon leaned close enough for his voice to tickle your ear. “I live for secret snack rendezvous with my wife.”
You tried to fight a grin. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
He tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear. “You say that like I didn’t just do a deep dive into forecast models to make sure your budget proposal gets cleared.”
You blinked. “Wait, what?”
He smiled, all casual. “Told the finance director to ease up on marketing’s numbers next quarter. You’ve got a rollout planned. You didn’t think I was just sipping coffee all day, did you?”
Your heart swelled before you could hide it. “Park Sunghoon. You really love me.”
He feigned innocence. “That’s not new info.”
You reached up, smoothed down the stubborn curl of his hair that always stuck out when he was tired. “I owe you cookies.”
“Or a reward I can’t say out loud in an office building.”
“Sunghoon—!”
He laughed, soft and boyish. Then his voice dropped just slightly. “You’re working hard, lolove. I see it. Even when it feels like no one else does.”
That one sentence wrapped around your ribs like a hug.
You squeezed his hand once—quick, quiet—and stepped back. “I need to get back. My team’s waiting on the updated slides.”
He nodded, but not before stealing one more look at you. “Dinner on me tonight?”
“You sure you want to eat with someone who hogs the blankets and stress-eats matcha mochi at 1 a.m.?”
He leaned in and kissed your forehead, gentle and fast. “Always.”
You disappeared back upstairs, heart lighter than when you left.
By the time 6:45 PM rolled around, you were powering through the last edits of the day when a knock came at your office door. You looked up to find Sunghoon, dressed down in his soft grey hoodie and jeans, holding two bento boxes from your favorite spot.
“I figured I’d bring dinner here,” he said casually. “We could have a desk date. Floor 14 edition.”
You blinked, touched. “You seriously carried food up for me?”
“You married me,” he deadpanned. “You signed up for this level of husband service.”
You snorted and stood to grab the boxes, peeking at the contents. “You even got the spicy tofu one.”
He tapped your chin affectionately. “I listen. And I love you.”
You smiled, heart full as you both sat side by side on your couch—your office briefly transforming into a little pocket of home.
There were still reports. Still meetings. Still long hours.
But somewhere between the fluorescent lighting, mismatched schedules, and elevator kisses, love still bloomed—quietly, constantly, just a floor apart.
~
TOBIOSBBYGHORL 2026
series taglist: (open) @iboughtnjz @rikidaze @pocketzlocket t @jaerisdiction @ijustwannareadstuff20 @doririsstuff whateveridontcarsheesh @rikifever @firstclassjaylee @jayhoonvroom @heekolazz
- You thought turning down your CEO would be the end of it—until he shows up in your grandmother’s kitchen, wearing a ridiculous floral vest, dramatically praising homemade kimchi like it’s a Michelin-star meal… and quietly trying to win over the one person who matters most.
wc: lost count...💔
From the moment you started working at the front desk, you already understood—quietly, instinctively—that people like Park Sunghoon didn’t end up with people like you. His world was glass walls, tailored suits, and decisions that carried weight you couldn’t even measure.
Yours was warm greetings, ringing phones, and knowing exactly which employee liked their coffee a certain way. It should’ve stayed that simple. But it didn’t—because for reasons that still didn’t make sense, he kept choosing you. Lingering by your desk, asking questions he didn’t need answers to, calling you directly just to ask if you’d eaten.
Then came the coffee you didn’t order, the flowers without a name, the way he stood beside you fixing a printer like he had nowhere else to be. And when he asked you out—calm, sincere, no pressure—you said no. Not because you didn’t feel it, but because you did, and that scared you more than anything else. You thought that would end it. It didn’t. He didn’t push—but he stayed.
And somehow, that persistence led him here. To your grandmother’s house. An hour away from the city.
In a full suit.
You were in the middle of making kimchi, hands stained red with chili paste, apron slightly crooked, when the knock came. You opened the door without thinking—and froze.
“Sir?” you blinked, because there he was, like he had stepped out of your other life and into this one without warning. “Hi,” he said, like this was normal. Like he hadn’t just shown up uninvited in your hometown. You didn’t even get to question it properly because your grandmother appeared behind you, took one look at him, and immediately decided he belonged to you.
“Oh! You finally brought a man home!” she beamed, already pulling him inside while you stood there in disbelief. “Grandma, no—he’s not—” Too late. She had already dragged him into the kitchen, and the worst part? He didn’t correct her. Not even a little. You grabbed his sleeve the second you could. “Did you follow me?” you whispered sharply. He leaned just slightly closer, voice calm.
“Your coworker talks too much.” Your eyes widened. “That’s creepy.” “That’s effort,” he corrected—and before you could argue further, your grandma shoved a bright red floral vest into his hands and told him to put it on if he was going to help. And he did. Without hesitation.
At first, it was almost entertaining. Watching Park Sunghoon—your intimidating, always-composed CEO, stand there in a ridiculous vest while your grandmother handed him vegetables like he’d been hired on the spot. “Not like that,” she said, grabbing his wrist gently and adjusting how he held the knife.
“Cut properly. You’ll hurt yourself.” He nodded immediately, following every instruction like it mattered, like this was just as important as anything he’d ever done. You leaned against the counter, watching with a smirk. “Careful, sir. That’s a big career shift.” He glanced at you, calm but with that quiet challenge in his eyes.
“I adapt quickly.” “We’ll see,” you muttered.
Your grandma, meanwhile, had already started her questioning—casual in tone, but sharp underneath. “So,” she said, watching his hands as he cut, “you’re the boss, right?” “Yes, ma’am,” he answered respectfully. You almost choked. He never talked like that in the office. “You make a lot of money?” she continued.
“Grandma—!” you cut in, mortified, but he didn’t even hesitate. “I’m comfortable,” he said simply. She hummed. “That means yes.” You pressed your lips together, watching him, but he stayed composed, continuing to cut more carefully now.
“You work all the time?” she asked. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But I make time for what matters.” Her eyes flicked up. “And my granddaughter matters?” You froze. Sunghoon didn’t. “Yes,” he said, steady, like it was the easiest truth he’d ever told. Your chest tightened, but before you could process it, your grandma tapped his hand lightly.
“Focus. Your cuts are uneven.” “Sorry,” he murmured, adjusting immediately.
But soon enough, cutting turned into mixing—and that’s when things changed. At first, he kept up. Then slowly… he didn’t. Your grandma moved like she had endless stamina, hands quick and practiced, while Sunghoon—despite trying—started to fall behind. You noticed the shift immediately: the slight tension in his shoulders, the slower movements, the controlled breathing he was trying very hard to hide.
You bit back a smile and leaned closer. “What happened, sir?” you whispered teasingly. “Too much for you?” “I’m fine,” he replied, but there was a faint strain under his calm voice now. You tilted your head, grinning. “You can go home, you know.” That did it. His hands paused for half a second, then moved again—faster this time, more deliberate. “I’m not going home,” he said quietly. “You’re about to collapse.”
“I said I’m fine.” “You look like you’re negotiating with your own arms.” He shot you a sharper look—and then just like that, something in him shifted. He doubled his effort. Faster. Stronger. Determined. You blinked, surprised, as he pushed through it like losing wasn’t an option. Your grandma paused, watching him—and then smiled. “Oh?” she hummed.
“Pretty boy’s stubborn.” You nearly laughed out loud. “Pretty boy?” you repeated under your breath, and this time, a faint flush crept up his neck—but he didn’t stop.
Then your grandma reached for a piece of kimchi, wrapped it with meat, and held it up to him. “Here,” she said. “Eat.” You went still. That wasn’t just feeding—it meant something. Sunghoon blinked, just once, caught off guard—but then he leaned in and took the bite.
And immediately—immediately—he turned dramatic. “Oh—” he breathed out, eyes widening like he’d just experienced something life-changing. “Mm. Mm!” He nodded quickly, covering his mouth slightly as he chewed, like he was trying to process it. “This is—wow—this is incredible.”
You stared at him. He wasn’t done. “The flavor—” he continued, pointing slightly like he was analyzing fine dining, “—it’s deep, but not overwhelming. The spice hits, but it doesn’t overpower the meat, and the balance—this is perfect. Actually perfect.” Your jaw dropped. Your grandma’s face lit up. “Really?” “Yes,” he said immediately, completely sincere—or at least convincing enough to be dangerous.
“I’ve never had anything like this.” You kicked his foot under the table. He ignored you. “I might need another bite,” he added thoughtfully. “Just to confirm.” “Eat more!” your grandma laughed, clearly won over, and you watched in disbelief as he nodded like he’d just secured approval in a board meeting.
Then he turned to you—of course he did—picked up another piece, and held it out. “You too.” You stared at him. “…You’re unbelievable.” “Eat,” he said softly, and you rolled your eyes but leaned in anyway, taking the bite just to shut him up. He watched you the entire time, that small, satisfied smile creeping back like he’d just won something.
Later, when everything was done, your grandma sent you outside to set the table for dinner. The air felt cooler, quieter—but your thoughts weren’t. You moved slower than necessary, adjusting plates that didn’t need adjusting, because something about the way he had just fit into your world so easily was unsettling in the best way.
Through the open door, you could still see them—your grandma and Sunghoon—alone now. She turned to him, arms loosely crossed.
“You like my granddaughter,” she said plainly. He didn’t hesitate. “Yes.” She studied him carefully. “You have money, status, everything already. Why her?” He exhaled softly. “Because she doesn’t treat me like I’m any of that,” he said. “She treats me like I’m just me.”
Your grandma hummed. “And that’s enough?” “No,” he admitted. “But it’s where it starts.” A pause. Then quieter, more certain, “I’m here because I’m serious about her.” She watched him for a long moment. “And if she refuses again?” “Then I’ll respect it,” he said. “But I won’t stop caring about her.”
Outside, your hands stilled against the table.
Your chest felt too full.
You hadn’t told him to leave.
And maybe… you didn’t want to.
By the time you finish setting everything up outside, the sky has softened into that warm, late-afternoon glow that makes everything feel slower, gentler. The low table—your grandma’s old soban—is already filled with dishes you grew up eating, the kind that never needed recipes because they lived in memory. You’re adjusting the last set of chopsticks when you hear the door slide open behind you.
“Careful,” Sunghoon says, stepping out with a bowl in his hands like it’s something delicate, even though you know it’s heavy. “Where do you want this?”
You glance over your shoulder—and pause.
He still has the vest on.
Blazer now off, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly out of place now, a faint sheen of effort still clinging to him—and somehow, instead of looking out of place, he just looks… there. Like he’s settled into this version of himself far too easily. “…There,” you say, pointing, before quickly looking away.
Your grandma follows right after him, carrying the rest like she hasn’t spent the entire afternoon working. “Sit, sit,” she insists, waving both of you down. “Food is better when it’s eaten warm.”
You settle onto the floor, legs folding naturally beneath you. Sunghoon hesitates for half a second—clearly not used to this—but then lowers himself across from you anyway, adjusting awkwardly at first before finding his balance.
“Comfortable?” you ask, already knowing the answer. He meets your eyes, completely serious. “Very.”You snort. “Liar.”
“I’m adapting,” he corrects.Your grandma laughs, clearly entertained, and starts piling food onto his plate before he can even protest. “Eat more. You worked hard.”
“Thank you,” he says immediately, straightening slightly like he’s receiving something important.
You watch as he takes his first proper bite of the meal—and like earlier, he doesn’t just eat. He reacts.
There’s a small pause. Then— “…Wow.”
You close your eyes. Not again.
“This is dangerous,” he continues, shaking his head lightly like he’s processing something serious. “If I eat like this every day, I’m never going back to my own house.”Your grandma bursts into laughter. “Then don’t go back!” she teases. You groan. “Grandma, please don’t encourage him.”
“I’m just being honest,” Sunghoon adds, placing a hand over his chest like he’s making a formal declaration. “I think I’ve found where I belong.”
You shoot him a look. “You’ve been here for three hours.” “And I’ve already been fed better than I have in years.”
“That’s because you eat like a stressed executive.” “I am a stressed executive.”
Your grandma laughs again—louder this time, clearly delighted—and reaches over to add more food to his plate. “You’re funny,” she tells him, shaking her head. “A pretty boy and funny. That’s rare.” You nearly choke on your drink. “Grandma—” But Sunghoon just nods, completely unfazed. “I do my best.”
You stare at him in disbelief. He glances at you briefly, just enough for you to catch the small, teasing curve of his lips before he looks back at your grandma.
“So,” he says, tilting his head slightly, “if I keep eating well and working hard, do I get promoted?” “Promoted?” your grandma echoes.
“Yes,” he replies smoothly. “From kitchen assistant… to someone who’s allowed to come back.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then your grandma laughs—really laughs this time, shoulders shaking. “You’re bold,” she says. “I learned from the best today,” he answers without missing a beat.
You cover your face. “This is ridiculous.”But you’re smiling. You can feel it. And he notices. Of course he does.
“Eat,” he murmurs, softer now, nudging a dish slightly closer to you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You glance at him, then at your grandma, who’s still watching the two of you with that knowing look she thinks you don’t notice.
“…You’re enjoying this too much,” you mutter. “I am,” he admits easily.
There’s no hesitation. No pretending. Just quiet honesty. And somehow, that’s the part that gets to you the most.
The conversation flows easier after that—your grandma asking him random things, him answering without that usual corporate filter, slipping into something more relaxed, more real. At one point, he even tries a joke—an actual, intentional joke—and it’s so painfully obvious you brace yourself for impact.
“If I come here often,” he starts, completely serious, “do I get a loyalty card? Like—ten meals and I earn a permanent seat?”
You stare at him. “That’s your joke?” you deadpan. But your grandma, Your grandma loves it.
She laughs so hard she has to set her chopsticks down. “Ay, you’re funny!” she says, wiping at her eyes. “Okay, okay—if you come ten times, I’ll give you a special seat!”
Sunghoon nods like he’s just secured a contract. “Deal.” You look between them, incredulous. “You’re both unbelievable.”
“And you’re outnumbered,” he adds calmly. You scoff—but you don’t argue. Because as the evening settles around you, laughter mixing with the quiet hum of your neighborhood, something shifts in a way you can’t quite explain.
He doesn’t look out of place anymore. Not across from you. Not here. And when he catches your eye again—soft, steady, like he’s not in a rush for anything—you realize something you’ve been avoiding all day.
This doesn’t feel impossible.Not like you thought it would. Not anymore.
Dinner stretches longer than you expect, the kind that doesn’t end when the food is gone because the talking keeps going—your grandma asking him about everything from traffic in the city to whether he knows how to fix a leaking faucet (“I can learn,” he says, completely serious), and Sunghoon answering like none of it is beneath him, like this is just another version of a conversation he wants to be part of.
At some point he even refills her glass before his own without thinking, and she notices—of course she does—and gives you that look from across the table that says he was raised well. You pretend not to see it, focusing very hard on your rice while he, completely unhelpfully, slides one of the better pieces of meat toward your side of the table like it’s second nature.
“Eat properly,” he murmurs, low enough that only you hear, and you nudge his foot under the table in warning. He doesn’t even react—just keeps talking to your grandma like nothing happened, like he didn’t just casually act like he’s always been part of your space.
By the time the sky deepens into evening, the air cooler and quieter, it’s finally time for him to leave. You stand up first, brushing your hands together, already preparing yourself for the awkward shift back to reality—back to sir, back to distance—but your grandma beats you to it. “Wait,” she says, already heading inside before either of you can ask why.
You glance at Sunghoon, arms crossing instinctively. “You should go before she decides to adopt you.” He tilts his head slightly, lips curving. “I wouldn’t mind.”
“You should.” “I don’t think she would agree with you.” “You’ve known her for one afternoon.”
“And yet,” he says lightly, “I’ve been fed, praised, and given a title.” You narrow your eyes. “Pretty boy is not a title.”
“It sounded official.” Before you can argue, your grandma returns—carrying a container.
Not a small one. A proper container, filled generously with kimchi and neatly packed side dishes.
You blink. “Grandma—”
“This is for you,” she says, handing it straight to Sunghoon like it’s been decided. “You liked it so much, right?”
For the first time that evening, he actually looks a little surprised—but it melts quickly into something softer, something warmer. He takes it carefully, almost respectfully. “Thank you,” he says, and there’s no playfulness in it this time. “I really appreciate it.”
“You eat well,” she replies, nodding in approval. “Come back if you want more.” You choke. “Grandma—!” But she just waves you off.
Sunghoon glances at you then, just briefly, and there’s something in his expression—quiet, pleased, a little victorious—before he bows his head slightly to her. “I will,” he says simply.
You walk him out to the gate, arms still crossed, trying to ignore the way your chest feels oddly tight now that he’s actually leaving. The street is quieter, the kind of stillness that makes everything feel more real than it did a few minutes ago. “You didn’t have to do all that,” you mutter, not quite looking at him.
“I know.” “…Then why did you?”
He adjusts his grip on the container slightly, gaze settling on you. “Because I meant it.” You swallow.
Before you can respond, your grandma calls out from behind you. “Wait!” You both turn.
She’s standing just a few steps from the door, squinting slightly like she’s just remembered something important.
“What’s your name again?” she asks. There’s a brief pause. And then—
“Park Sunghoon,” he answers. And just like that— Everything clicks.
Your grandma’s expression changes.
Not dramatically. Not loudly. But you see it—the realization settling in, the way her eyes widen just a fraction before narrowing again, this time with recognition.
“Park… Sunghoon?” she repeats slowly. You freeze. Oh no. Because you know that look. That I’ve heard that before look. And then she turns to you. Slowly. Deliberately.
“Oh,” she says. Your stomach drops.
“Ohhh.”
“Grandma—” you start, already panicking. But it’s too late.
“You’re that Park Sunghoon?” she says, pointing at him now, half amused, half impressed. “The one she keeps talking about?” You close your eyes. You actually close your eyes.
“Grandma, please don’t—”
“The one who keeps bothering her at work?” she continues, completely ignoring you. “Sending her coffee, asking if she ate—” “I don’t—” you try to cut in.
“And the one she says is handsome but too much trouble—” “Grandma!”
Sunghoon goes very still beside you. “…Handsome?” he repeats quietly. You want to disappear.
“She complains about you all the time,” your grandma adds helpfully. “But it’s the kind of complaining where she smiles after.”
You make a strangled noise.
“That’s not—” “And she said,” your grandma continues, clearly enjoying this far too much, “that you make her nervous.”
Silence.Thick. Heavy. Dangerous silence. You slowly turn your head toward him. Big mistake.
Because he’s already looking at you. And he’s smiling. Not smug. Not teasing. Something softer. Warmer. “…You like me,” he says quietly. “I never said that,” you fire back immediately, face burning. “You didn’t have to.”
You glare at him. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”“I’m just confirming what I heard.” “You heard wrong.”
Your grandma hums behind you. “Mm. Sure.” You whip around. “Grandma, go inside.”
She waves you off like you’re a child. “Just don’t take too long. It’s getting late.” And then she leaves. Just like that. Leaving you alone with him. Again.
You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “This is so embarrassing.” “I think it’s helpful,” he says. “Helpful for who?”
“For me.” “Of course it is.” There’s a small pause.
Then “…You really talk about me that much?” he asks, softer now. You hesitate.“…Sometimes.”
“How often is sometimes?” You sigh, defeated. “…More than I should.” He nods slowly, like he’s processing something important.
Then he takes a small step closer—not enough to overwhelm, just enough to close the distance a little. “I’ll take that,” he murmurs.nYou shake your head, but there’s no bite left in it.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet,” he says, that quiet steadiness returning, “you didn’t deny liking me.” You open your mouth— Then close it again. Because for once—You don’t have a quick answer. And he notices. Of course he does.
“Goodnight,” he says gently, like he’s decided not to push further tonight. You blink, a little caught off guard.
“…Goodnight.”
He turns, finally heading toward his car, the container still in his hands like something precious. But before he gets in, he glances back.
Just once. And the look he gives you—
It’s not victory. It’s not teasing. It’s something quieter. Something certain. Like he’s not guessing anymore. Like he knows and somehow…
💌: i hope you liker it! i was smiling ear to ear from just watching the video and got ideas from sunghoon's goofy ass😆 and happy 2,159k followers to me~ (didn't even notice it huhu im super busy for uni and upcoming finals — god i can't believe in a month ill be in my 3rd year) i love you all and thank you for sticking up until now~ to more memories with you lovely beings~ 🥹🫶🏻
The grill is loud, sizzling, smoky—your friends arguing over who flipped the pork too early, someone laughing too hard, another stealing meat straight from the pan.
But you’re not really there.
You’re staring at your phone.
Thumb hovering. Then finally—
are you done at the gym? send update 😒
You toss your phone beside your plate, pretending you don’t care.
You last exactly eight seconds.
It buzzes.
You grab it so fast it almost slips from your hand—and when you open the message, your brain just… shuts off.
Mirror selfie.
Gym lighting.
Black shirt.
His arms—his arms—on full display, slightly flushed, veins faint, skin just a little dewy. Sweatpants sitting low on his hips like he didn’t even think about it.
And then—
You narrow your eyes.
“…are you serious?”
Because he’s standing behind a bench.
Blocking the exact part you wanted to see.
You type immediately.
why did you stand behind the bench i cant see the view🙂
Your friends are still talking, one of them nudging you. “You’ve been smiling at your phone for five minutes.”
“I’m not smiling,” you mutter.
Your phone buzzes again.
what view?
You scoff, cheeks heating.
don’t act innocent 🙄
A pause.
Then—
you mean this?
Another photo.
You open it—
—and immediately choke.
This time, he’s closer.
Same outfit. Same calm expression.
But the angle is lower.
Nothing is blocking anything now.
“OH MY GOD—”
You slap a hand over your mouth, nearly knocking over your drink. Your friends stare. “what's it now?”
“Nothing,” you cough, flipping your phone over like it betrayed you. “Nothing, I’m fine.”
Your phone buzzes again. You peek.
better?
You stare at the message, then at the photo again, then back at the message. Your fingers move before your brain can catch up.
i hate you
come pick me up
A few seconds.
location
—
The moment you step outside, the cool air doesn’t even help. You’re still flushed. Still thinking about the picture. Still replaying it in your head. Then headlights pull up.
His car. You don’t hesitate—you open the door and slide in— …and freeze.
Because he didn’t change. At all.
Same black shirt. Same sweatpants. Hair slightly damp, pushed back just enough. Like he walked straight out of the photo and into your night.
He glances at you, calm as ever. “Hi.” You stare at him.
“…you’re still wearing it.”
He raises a brow slightly. “You told me to come pick you up.”
“That’s not—” you huff, flustered. “That’s not the point.” He tilts his head, studying you. “Then what is?”
You look at him. Really look. At his arms. At the way the shirt fits. At the way he knows exactly what he’s doing. And suddenly— You can’t take it anymore.
“Come here.”
He barely has time to react before you grab his shirt and pull him in. Your lips crash against his.
It’s quick, impulsive, a little messy—like you’ve been holding it in since that first picture. He makes a soft sound of surprise, but his hand comes up to your waist instantly, steadying you.
You kiss him again, slower this time. Lingering.
Because you want to. Because you’ve been wanting to. When you finally pull back, your face is warm, your breath uneven.
“You’re so annoying,” you mumble. He looks at you for a second. Then—his lips curve, just a little.
And he leans in, voice low, teasing against your lips—
“The meat tasted good.”
You freeze.
“…what?”
His eyes flick down to your lips, then back up, completely unbothered.
“Samgyeopsal, right?” he adds, way too casually.
Your jaw drops.
“You’re unbelievable.”
He just chuckles softly, brushing his thumb against your hand before lacing your fingers together.
“But you still called me,” he murmurs.
You look away, trying to hide your smile.
“…drive.”
His grip tightens slightly, warm and sure. And as he starts the car, stealing one last amused glance at you— you already know you’re not recovering from this anytime soon
The rest of the drive is quiet—but not really. Because you can feel it. The way he keeps glancing at you.
The way his thumb slowly traces over your knuckles like he has all the time in the world. And the way your brain keeps replaying—
You clear your throat, trying to act normal. “I ate too much.”
He hums, eyes still on the road. “I can tell. I know a workout.”
You turn to him immediately. “Excuse me?!”
A small smile tugs at his lips. “You said it first.”
You huff, crossing your arms. “I feel heavy.”
He finally glances at you again—slow, deliberate.
“Good." You blink. “…good?”
“Means you enjoyed it.”
Your face softens just a little. “I did.” A beat.
Then he adds, voice lower—
“Still doesn’t mean we skip cardio.”
Your head snaps toward him. “You’re actually insane.”
He chuckles, pulling into your street like he owns the conversation—and you.
“I told you,” he says, parking smoothly. “I know a good workout.”
You grab your bag, opening the door. “I’m not working out.”
He gets out too, unfazed, walking around the car to you.
“You said you’re full.”
“I am full.”
He stops right in front of you, close enough that you have to tilt your head up slightly.
“Then let me help you with that.”
Your breath catches.
“…you’re so annoying.”
“And you still came home with me,” he murmurs.
You don’t answer that. Because he’s already taking your hand, leading you inside like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The moment the door clicks shut behind you, the air changes. Quieter. Warmer. Dangerous.
You slip off your shoes, mumbling, “I’m going to sit—”
But you don’t get far. Because he gently grabs your wrist and pulls you back.
“Cardio first.”
You stare at him. “Sunghoon—” He steps closer. Too close.
“You said you feel full,” he repeats, softer now.
His hand slides to your waist, warm, steady.
“I’ll take care of it.”
Your heart starts racing again—and you hate how fast it happens with him.
“You’re not serious,” you whisper.
He tilts his head slightly, eyes locked on yours.
“Do I look like I’m joking?"
You swallow.
“No.”
“Good.”
And then he leans in—
slow this time.
Giving you just enough time to realize what’s about to happen. Before his lips meet yours. It’s not rushed like earlier.
It’s deeper. Warmer. Intentional.
His hand tightens slightly at your waist, guiding you closer until there’s barely any space left between you.
You let out a soft breath against his lips, your hands gripping his shirt— the same stupid shirt that started all of this.
“You’re using this as an excuse,” you mumble between kisses.
He hums, brushing his lips along yours again.
“Maybe.”
Another kiss.
“But you’re not stopping me.”
You don’t. You really don’t.
Instead, your fingers curl tighter into his shirt as you pull him closer, your voice barely above a whisper—
“…fine.”
His lips curve against yours.
“Good choice.”
And before you can say anything else, he’s guiding you toward the bedroom—
slow, unhurried—
like he plans to take his time with this “workout” he’s been teasing you about all night.
The only sound echoing in the shared apartment is the faint buzz of your phone on the kitchen counter and the soft, rhythmic panting filtering through the crack of Sunghoon’s door.
You were just getting water. Just water.
And yet here you are.
Frozen. In the hallway. Barefoot in his oversized shirt because laundry day got delayed, staring at the way his door is just barely ajar.
You should’ve walked past. You should’ve respected boundaries.
But the whimper that escapes from inside?
You blink. Slowly.
“Fuck—oh my god,” his voice stutters, low and raspy. “F-fuck, Y/N…”
Your name.
Your. Name.
You inhale sharply, but it doesn’t help—your thighs press together instinctively, and your fingers curl against the cold glass of the water you were holding like it’ll ground you. But it won’t. Not with the image now forming behind your eyelids. Sunghoon. One hand gripping his phone, the other likely between his legs. Probably leaking and messy and looking so desperate it’d be laughable if you weren’t imagining pressing your foot against his chest while he begged.
It’s not the first time you’ve suspected something. He’s always too nervous around you. Always lingering in your laundry loads. Always stuttering when you wear those old shorts. You’d catch him sneaking glances, acting like you were some goddess and he was just your awkward little servant.
But this? Hearing him moan your name while gooning out alone in his room?
You should walk away.
You don’t.
You push the door open instead.
His eyes snap up in a panic, his phone slipping from his hand mid-stroke. He’s a wreck— sweats pulled all the way down only wearing a shirt on , flushed skin glowing in the dim glow of his laptop screen. And of course, your Twitter page is open. One of your thirst traps playing on loop. Low volume, but not low enough to hide.
“Y/N—!” he gasps, scrambling, trying to cover himself but making it worse because he’s still so obviously hard, cock twitching as if it knows you’re watching.
You blink slowly, leaning against the frame. “You forgot to lock your door.”
His mouth opens. Nothing comes out. His face burns red. He’s petrified.
“Or maybe you didn’t want to.” You step forward. “Maybe you wanted me to see you like this. All fucked out over nothing. Over me.”
Sunghoon lets out a helpless little sound, hand still halfway frozen between covering himself and not wanting to lose the contact.
“You really are such a loser, Hoon,” you coo. “Jerking off to my videos? In our apartment?”
He nods.
He fucking nods.
“I can’t help it,” he rasps, barely audible. “You always look so—fuck, I didn’t mean for you to hear—I just—I was gonna clean up, I swear—”
You reach out and curl your fingers under his jaw, forcing him to look up.
“You really want to come for me that bad?” you whisper. “Then keep your hands off yourself. And let me watch you fall apart properly.”
The way he whines at that, eyes fluttering, cock throbbing untouched?
Yeah.
Your loser gooner roommate’s never going to recover from this.
You haven’t even said another word before Sunghoon’s already halfway falling apart again.
He’s still trembling — half-naked, sitting pathetically at the edge of his bed like a dog caught misbehaving. Your phone is in his lap, your video still playing, but his eyes won’t leave you now. Like you're the real thing. Like you’re his goddess incarnate.
You slide closer, push his laptop off the bed without a care, and straddle his thigh. You feel him tense — his hands twitch like he wants to grab you, but he’s too scared to move.
“You’re such a mess,” you whisper, tilting his chin up. “Wanna be useful for once, baby boy?”
His throat bobs. “Y-Yes. Anything.”
“Good.” You lean in, breath hot in his ear. “Then get on your knees.”
He drops so fast you almost laugh. Not even a second of hesitation. He’s already settling between your legs as you recline back on his bed, spreading them slowly, letting him see the wet patch soaking through your panties.
His eyes widen. Lips part.
“Oh my god,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “I made you wet?”
“You’ve been making me wet,” you admit, tugging his hair. “You’re just too much of a clueless little loser to do anything about it. Always walking around with that hard-on, thinking I didn’t notice?”
He whimpers. Literally whimpers.
But you don’t wait for him to get shy. You hook your thumbs under your panties and pull them to the side, baring yourself right in front of his face.
“Go ahead,” you purr. “Use that mouth. Let me see if you’re good for more than just jerking off to my voice.”
Sunghoon dives in like he’s been starved.
And god — he’s so eager. All tongue, all sloppiness, mouthing at you with zero rhythm but so much heart. You almost laugh again when he moans into you like your pussy is the holy grail. And honestly? The way your hips twitch? Maybe it is.
“God, you’re obsessed,” you groan, grinding against his mouth. “Do you even know what you’re doing or are you just that fucking desperate?”
But Sunghoon doesn’t stop. If anything, he gets worse — hungrier, messier, hands grabbing at your thighs like you’ll float away if he lets go. He’s making the kind of sounds you should be making. Like he’s the one getting off from this.
He probably is.
When you glance down, he’s rutting his hips into the bed, fully hard again, untouched. You tangle your fingers in his hair and pull his head back, slick coating his lips, chin dripping, eyes glazed over.
“Look at you,” you smirk. “Fucking gone.”
“I can’t stop,” he pants. “You taste so—fuck, please let me finish. I can make you cum, I swear—”
“Oh? You think you earned it?”
He nods wildly, tongue flicking out as if he's hoping you'll drag him back in.
So you do.
And this time, he figures it out — tongue flattening just right, sucking at your clit like he’s trying to memorize it. When you moan and grab the back of his head tighter, he whines into you, bucking against the bed like he’s close just from this.
“God—Sunghoon—don’t stop—”
He doesn’t. Can’t.
You cum on his face with a sharp gasp, legs trembling around his ears, and he just stays there — moaning, still licking, worshipping like your pleasure is the only thing he exists for.
And when your hips twitch from overstimulation and you finally tug him off with a shaky breath, he looks up at you like he’s been reborn. Panting. Rock hard. Flushed and so stupidly in love with you it hurts.
“You came, right?” he says breathlessly. “Was I… Did I do good?”
You pause, eyeing the mess between his legs, your slick still on his lips.
Then you smile.
“Better than your hand, loser.”
You haven’t even caught your breath yet.
Your thighs are still trembling, still sensitive, and Sunghoon’s face is still between them, lips swollen, chin soaked. His eyes are dazed and glassy — drunk off your taste, off the sounds you made, off the fact that he was the one to pull those sounds out of you.
He looks like he’s floating.
You tug him up by the collar of his shirt — the only thing he’s still wearing — and he comes willingly, breath ragged, eyes wide.
You kiss him.
You shouldn’t. It’s too much. It blurs the line between filthy and… real.
But the moment your lips crash against his, it’s over. He melts into it, mouth moving sloppily against yours, tongue eager and messy and needy. He moans into your mouth like he forgot he just made you cum with his tongue.
You taste yourself on his lips. He doesn’t care. He kisses like he’s grateful. Like he never thought you’d let him this close.
“Fuck,” you whisper into the kiss. “You’re so fucking gone.”
Sunghoon nods frantically, lips brushing yours, voice breathy. “I—I’ve never—no one’s ever tasted like you. No one’s ever let me—”
You shut him up with another kiss. He sighs into it.
It’s filthy. Sloppy. Your spit is on his chin, his on your lips, your slick still drying on his cheeks and neck. His hands tremble as they rest on your hips like he’s afraid to grip too tight, like he still thinks this is a dream he’ll wake up from.
And god — the way he ruts up against your thigh, still hard, untouched — it’s almost adorable.
“Still hard?” you murmur against his mouth. “You’re such a little gooner. All I did was let you taste me and you’re ready to blow again.”
“Can’t help it,” he groans. “I think about you all the time. Every day. You walk around in your towel and it’s over. I—I almost came in the laundry room once just smelling your shampoo.”
You let out a soft, delighted laugh. “You’re sick.”
He nods like it’s a compliment. “Only for you.”
And maybe it is.
You push him back onto the bed with a firm hand, and he falls flat on his back with a breathless “oof”—and his cock jumps at the sound.
“Stay,” you command.
Sunghoon obeys immediately, hands by his sides, chest rising and falling with every labored breath. You climb over him, hovering above his twitching cock — flushed, leaking, desperate for any kind of friction.
“Been saving this for me?” you ask, dragging a finger down his stomach, nails grazing lightly. “Bet you could’ve cum from just eating me out if I let you.”
He whines. “I almost did. I didn’t even—fuck, please. Please ride me.”
You cock your head. “That what you want, baby?”
“Yes—yes—I need it, I need you so bad—”
You pull off your shirt in one smooth motion and the sound he makes is feral. He’s practically vibrating beneath you. Like his skin’s too tight for his body.
You sink down slowly onto his cock, watching his face contort — brows scrunching, mouth dropping open, the sweetest, most broken moan spilling out of him. His hands fly to your waist but hesitate again, unsure.
“Touch me,” you breathe. “Hold me while I fuck you.”
And he does. Oh, he does. His grip is reverent, tight like he’s holding the sun in his lap and doesn’t want it to burn him. You start to move — slow, teasing, letting him feel every inch of you with every roll of your hips.
Sunghoon is loud. Whining your name. Gasping like he’s overwhelmed.
“You fit so good,” he groans, hips bucking without meaning to. “Tighter than I imagined—fuck—I’m sorry—”
“You imagined this?”
“Every night,” he confesses through a breathless moan. “After you shower, when you say goodnight in those shorts. I fuck my hand so hard thinking about your pussy wrapped around me—fuck—I even used your towel once—”
You laugh, wicked and warm. “You really are disgusting.”
“I know,” he whimpers. “I’m sorry—I’m so fucking obsessed with you—”
You ride him harder.
His back arches, head pressed into the mattress, and he makes this pitiful, high-pitched noise as your pace increases — your slick dripping down to his thighs, his hands clawing at your skin.
“Gonna cum,” he sobs. “I-I can’t—I’m gonna cum so fast, I’m sorry—please don’t stop—”
“Don’t,” you growl, gripping his face. “You’ll cum when I say.”
“Y-Yes—yes, please—just tell me when—”
He looks ruined. Pretty and red and trembling beneath you. It’s not just sex — it’s worship. He looks at you like you’re everything he’s ever wanted. Like he can’t believe this is real.
You lean in, kissing him again — messy and uncoordinated, teeth clashing, his whimpers swallowed by your lips.
“I want you to cum inside me, loser,” you whisper darkly into his mouth. “Wanna feel how full you can make me. Think you can do that for me?”
He sobs — actually sobs — and then cries out, “Yes, yes, please, please—fuck—I’m cumming—!”
And he does. Hard.
It hits him like a freight train — his entire body jolting as he empties into you, gasping your name, pulling you close like you’re air. He holds you like he’ll fall apart if he doesn’t.
You fuck him through it. Ride it out until he’s twitching and oversensitive, until he’s begging through whimpers, tears in his eyes.
“I can’t—I can’t—it’s too much—”
You finally slow, leaning down to kiss his damp cheek, his jaw, whispering softly.
“You did so good for me, Hoonie,” you murmur, brushing sweaty strands from his forehead. “My good little gooner.”
He smiles weakly, eyes fluttering.
And then?
He passes out. Fully wrecked. Totally blissed out. Still twitching inside you.
The sun is barely up.
Your thighs ache in the best way. Your neck is marked, your core is still dripping from what happened last night — and Sunghoon?
Sunghoon is snoring quietly. Dead to the world. One arm thrown lazily over your waist, face pressed against your chest like you’re a body pillow he clung to in his dreams.
You should feel awkward. Or guilty. Or something.
Instead, you just watch him.
There’s a little bit of drool dried at the corner of his mouth. His hair is a mess, and he smells like you — your sweat, your slick, your shampoo.
You slowly shift, brushing your thigh between his legs.
He twitches.
Hard.
Still hard.
You grin.
Sunghoon stirs, nose nuzzling your skin, a low groan escaping his lips before his eyes crack open. He blinks blearily at your chest, and then—slowly—realizes you’re still here. Naked. In his bed. Tangled with him.
And his morning wood is pressed right against your thigh.
“Morning, baby,” you whisper sweetly, brushing hair from his eyes.
He flushes deep red. “Oh my god. I didn’t dream that, did I?”
“Nope.” You kiss his nose. “You came so hard you passed out. It was adorable.”
He groans, burying his face in your neck. “Kill me.”
You laugh softly, running your nails down his back. “Why would I kill my favorite toy?”
Sunghoon’s whole body shudders at that. You feel his cock jump.
“You’re evil,” he whispers.
“And you love it,” you counter.
He doesn’t deny it.
You roll slightly, nudging your hips just enough to feel him twitch again.
Sunghoon swallows, cheeks flushed, eyes flicking to your lips. “If you keep doing that, I’m gonna embarrass myself.”
“You already did. Last night. Multiple times.”
He groans again, hiding under the blanket like it’ll erase the memory of his whining and sobbing into your mouth while you rode him senseless.
“…I liked it,” he says after a beat. Voice soft. “All of it. Even when you called me a pathetic little gooner.”
You smirk. “Because you are.”
He blinks. Hesitates. Then — with the shakiest burst of confidence — rolls over you, pinning your wrists. It would be hot… if he didn’t immediately look panicked like he’s not sure if he has permission.
“…Sunghoon.”
“Yeah?” he whispers, already nervous.
“You think you’re gonna take control now?”
He bites his lip. “I just thought—maybe—I could try?”
You look at his arms trembling, his cock twitching against your thigh like he’s overwhelmed just from being on top. He’s so pretty. So eager. So doomed.
You pull one hand free easily and cup the back of his neck, dragging him down into a kiss.
It’s slow, hot — tongue and teeth, his hips jerking without rhythm. And then you roll your hips up just once — grinding your slick against his length — and he whimpers right into your mouth.
That’s all it takes.
He collapses back into submission, lips trailing down to your jaw as you whisper, “You really thought I’d let you flip this on me?”
“I—I just…” He sighs. “I wanted to make you feel good.”
“You did,” you hum, wrapping your legs around his waist, grinding up against him again. “But you do that better when you’re whining under me.”
Sunghoon lets out a helpless sound as you push him back, reversing your positions again until you’re on top. His eyes flutter, chest rising fast.
“Round two?” you murmur, guiding him to your entrance.
He nods so fast it’s almost dizzying. “Yes. Please. Ride me again. I’ll be good—better—I’ll last this time, I swear—”
You sink down on him in one smooth motion, and his sentence dissolves into a cry.
“Fuck—! I’m gonna—!”
You put a hand over his mouth.
“Don’t even think about cumming until I say so, loser.”
His eyes roll back.
You’re not letting him out of that bed until the sun’s fully up.
You sink onto him in one smooth, claiming motion — his cock stretching you again, thick and warm, filling you so perfectly you can’t help the soft gasp that escapes your lips.
Underneath you, Sunghoon looks like he’s about to cry.
His fingers dig into the sheets, arms trembling as he fights the urge to buck into you, to chase that pleasure like the pathetic little addict he is. His mouth falls open — no words, no sounds, just wide eyes and flushed cheeks and one trembling breath after another.
You’re not even moving yet.
“Still sensitive?” you whisper, dragging your nails up his stomach.
“Y-Yeah,” he pants. “Too much—you're too warm, I—I’m gonna—”
You press your palm to his chest, steadying him. “No, you’re not.”
He nods quickly — like a good boy — biting down on his lip hard enough to leave a mark.
You grind down, slow and deep, circling your hips just once.
Sunghoon sobs.
“Fucking hell—” he gasps. “Why does it feel better this time—?”
You lean in, your chest brushing his, lips at his ear. “Because you’re pussy drunk , baby.”
He whimpers.
“Because your loser brain is short-circuiting. Can’t even think straight. Just lying here like a pretty little toy for me to fuck.”
His hands fly to your hips, but you grab both wrists and pin them down.
“I didn’t say you could touch me.”
“I-I’m sorry—!”
You roll your hips again, slow and deliberate, your pussy gripping him tight — dragging over every sensitive nerve inside him. His head throws back against the pillow, a choked moan tumbling out, and his toes curl against the sheets.
“You said you’d last,” you purr. “So show me, Hoonie.”
You begin to ride him — slow at first, deep, every bounce designed to drive him insane. He’s shaking. Trying to stay quiet. Trying so hard to obey you even though he’s unraveling.
Your hands press to his chest, and you can feel how hard his heart is racing.
“You can’t handle this, can you?” you ask sweetly. “This pussy’s too good for your pathetic little brain.”
His whole body shudders.
“I c-can!” he moans. “I swear, I—I can take it—please, just don’t stop—please—”
You ride him harder.
The sound of skin against skin fills the room — slick and obscene and perfect — and Sunghoon starts making those noises again. Those pretty, broken, breathless moans like he’s being ruined all over again. His body jerks every time you sink down on him, thighs trembling, abs flexing.
“Fuck—fuck—oh my god—”
“Say it,” you growl, bouncing faster now, grinding your clit against his base with every thrust. “Say you’re my fucktoy.”
“I’m—!” His voice breaks. “I’m your fucktoy—I’m yours—please use me, I wanna make you cum again, I’ll do anything—”
You slam down hard — all the way — and stay there, grinding in tight circles.
And that’s when he starts to cry.
Just a tear or two at first — overwhelmed, overstimulated, emotionally wrecked — and it’s beautiful. He’s flushed and glassy-eyed, his lip trembling, looking up at you like you’re everything.
“Can’t—can’t hold it—”
“Yes, you can.”
“I—I can’t—I’m gonna—”
You slap his cheek — gentle, firm — just once.
His eyes roll back, and he screams as he cums inside you again, loud and messy and raw, his whole body arching up off the bed as he spills everything into you.
Hot.
Heavy.
Way too much.
You ride him through it — overstimulating him, holding him down as he thrashes, twitching under you, gasping your name like a prayer and a curse.
His legs kick weakly, his hips jerking, a sob caught in his throat.
When he finally goes limp — sweaty, flushed, trembling — you slow your movements, grinding slowly just to ride out your own wave.
Your orgasm hits a second later.
Silently, this time. Deep, intense. Your walls fluttering around him, milking every last drop out of his twitching, oversensitive cock.
You collapse onto his chest, panting, skin hot, sweat clinging.
Sunghoon is wrecked.
Tears streaking his temples. Lips parted. Eyes barely open.
He looks so ruined, so small beneath you — but so happy.
You brush his hair back and kiss his damp forehead. “Still with me, baby?”
He swallows thickly. Nods.
“I can’t feel my legs,” he whispers.
You smile.
“You did good.”
He smiles too — soft, dreamy.
Then mumbles, “I think you broke my brain.”
You laugh softly, shifting just enough to tuck yourself against him without pulling off yet. “Good. You won’t need it anymore.”
And like the good, sweet, dumb little loser he is, Sunghoon falls asleep with you still wrapped around him — twitching every few minutes from overstimulation and murmuring your name like it’s carved into him.
When you wake again, the room smells like sex and sweat and still-Sunghoon.
Your legs ache, your body’s sore in all the right places — and wrong ones — and your head is still spinning from the blur of moans and messy kisses and the way he cried when you came again on his cock.
But now it’s morning.
And everything is… still.
You’re tucked into his side, but the space around you is cold — his body heat only lingering on the sheets. For a second, panic flickers in your chest. Did he leave? Did he freak out?
Then—
Soft footsteps.
The bathroom door creaks open.
He stands there in only a towel, hair still dripping, cheeks flushed.
“I started the shower,” he says, voice gentle. “It’s warm now. Thought you’d want one.”
You stare at him for a beat too long, brain catching up.
“…You’re being weird.”
He gives a soft laugh. “I know. Just—come on. Let me take care of you.”
You slide off the bed, muscles stiff, but his arms are there — immediately — wrapping around you like you’re precious. No teasing, no filthy comments. Just warmth.
Just him.
The shower’s fogging up the mirror. He helps you in first, hands on your waist, steadying you when you wince at the water hitting your sore thighs. Then he steps in behind you and pulls the curtain closed.
Silence.
Steam.
You wait for him to say something pervy.
But instead?
He pumps the body wash into his hand and starts lathering it down your back — gentle, focused. Massaging sore muscles, kissing your shoulder softly as he works.
You blink. “Okay. Who are you and what did you do with loser Hoon?”
He grins — shy. Still Hoon. “He’s still here. He’s just… being serious for once.”
“…You sure about that?”
He turns you around — softly — cupping your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks. His eyes hold yours, and they don’t wander. Not to your chest. Not between your thighs.
Just… you.
“You didn’t have to be gentle with me last night,” he murmurs. “I wanted to be used. I meant it. But…”
His voice wavers just a little.
“…that’s not all I want from you.”
You blink. Heart thudding louder than the water falling between you.
“I know I’ve been a fucking mess,” he says, laughing at himself softly. “A gooner. A loser. Whimpering over you like a dog in heat. But I swear, that’s not the only me.”
He takes a shaky breath.
“And I know you’ve been in control. I loved that. I love how you take me apart. But I still want to be someone you can lean on, too. Someone who remembers to heat the shower before you step in. Who learns how to actually last more than two minutes just so I can take you apart. Not just your body, but…”
His thumb brushes under your eye.
“…your heart.”
You stare at him, stunned speechless for once.
He takes the chance to finish washing you — gentle hands gliding over your skin, washing between your legs with care and reverence, kissing your knuckles when he reaches for the shampoo. And when the water runs clear and warm again, he finally speaks once more:
“I don’t wanna be your toy forever,” he whispers. “I wanna be your person.”
You blink, breath caught.
“What are we?” he asks, voice raw. “Because I’ve never felt like this before. Not with anyone. Not even close. I don’t want this to just be some hookup that fades when we get awkward or bored. I want more.”
You don’t speak yet. You can’t.
But he keeps going.
“Can I… court you properly?” he asks, voice almost shaking. “Old school. Dumb, maybe. But like—real dates. Home-cooked dinners. Learning your favorite coffee order. Earning it.”
“Sunghoon…”
“If you don’t feel the same, it’s okay. You can still use me. I’ll still be here. But if there’s a part of you that wants more, too…”
You step forward.
And kiss him.
Soft, steady, meaningful.
His arms wrap around you instantly, pulling you close like he was holding back until now.
And when you finally part, forehead resting against his, you whisper:
“Then earn it, Park Sunghoon.”
He lets out a breathy laugh, eyes squeezing shut in relief.
i have a draft of hoon x reader wherein they are besties and decided to travel to japan and sunghoon accidentally booked a love hotel for their stay HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAH👀👀 idk if i should post it or not send HELP its funny with smut(?)
Curled into the corner, legs tucked carefully to one side because of the bump, tablet balanced on her stomach like it belongs there. The living room lights are dim, curtains half-drawn, and the only sound is the faint scratch of old rink audio—blades carving into ice, applause crackling through outdated speakers.
He pauses in the doorway.
On the screen is him.
Eight years old. Skating.
She doesn’t notice him at first.
“Look at you,” she murmurs, smiling to herself. “You were so tiny.”
Sunghoon exhales a quiet laugh. “You’re watching those again?”
She looks up, eyes lighting immediately. “Hoon.”
Then, like she’s been caught doing something important. “Come here. Sit. You need to see this part.”
He does. Always does.
She rewinds the video, fingers gentle, careful—like she’s holding something fragile instead of a touchscreen.
“That jump,” she says softly. “You fell three times before that, right?”
“…Yeah,” he admits. “I cried after the third one.”
She turns to him, offended. “You were a baby. Of course you cried.”
He shrugs. “Dad said champions don’t quit.”
She smiles at that, but her hand drifts to her belly without thinking, thumb tracing slow circles. Protective. Instinctive.
“I hope our baby has your determination,” she says.
Then quieter, like it’s a wish she doesn’t want to scare away.
“Your patience. Your focus.”
Sunghoon’s chest tightens.
“You don’t have to pressure them,” he says gently. “They don’t have to skate. Or be like me.”
She shakes her head immediately. “I know. I just—”
She glances back at the screen where little Sunghoon lands the jump and beams, arms thrown up in victory.
“I want them to feel proud of themselves like that.”
He watches her instead of the video.
The way her eyes soften.
The way her voice changes when she talks about their baby.
“You already do that,” he says.
She blinks. “Do what?”
“Make them feel safe. Wanted.”
Her lips part slightly, emotional but trying not to show it. “You’re just saying that.”
“No,” he says, firm. “I grew up in rinks. Cold ones. Loud ones. You’re making them grow up surrounded by warmth.”
She swallows.
“…Still,” she says, smiling again, “if they want skates, you’re teaching them.”
A beat.
“If they want,” he agrees. Then, softer:
“I’ll hold their hands the first time. Just like my mom did.”
She reaches for him then, threading her fingers with his, pressing his hand gently to her belly.
As if on cue, there’s the faintest movement beneath his palm.
Sunghoon freezes.
“…Did you feel that?”
She nods, eyes shining. “They like your skating videos too.”
He laughs under his breath, emotion thick in his throat. “Guess I have a fan already.”
She leans into his shoulder, tablet forgotten, old video looping quietly in the background.
And for the first time, Sunghoon doesn’t see the past on the screen.
He sees the future.
Small skates by the door.
Tiny gloves.
A child watching him the same way she’s watching now—with awe, love, and belief.
And somehow… it feels even bigger than any medal he’s ever won.
