can you make badboy! sunghoon x student council! reader. But sunghoon is so downbad for reader. But reader too tired off sunghoon demeanour who always break the rules qnd skipping the class
bad boy gone good? downbad | psh
You’ve had a long day. First, the cafeteria ran out of iced coffee. Then, Jungwon forgot his speech for the assembly and winged it with a rap about school spirit. And now? Now you’re climbing the stairs to the school rooftop because—according to an anonymous tip—Park Sunghoon is up there skipping class. Again.
You shove the heavy door open.
And there he is. Lying flat on his back in the middle of the rooftop. Sunglasses on. Earbuds in. Hoodie pulled up like he’s sunbathing at a resort instead of, you know—committing his sixth violation of the week.
“Sunghoon,” you say.
No response.
You say his name again, louder this time.
He pulls one earbud out and tilts his head toward you like he’s just been disturbed mid-dream.
“Wow,” he says, voice sleep-rough and amused. “You came.”
“I’m not your girlfriend. I’m your disciplinary officer.”
“Semantics.”
You glare. “You’re skipping calculus.”
He sits up and stretches, smirking. “You’re here, I’m here—maybe I just wanted some alone time with you.”
“On a roof?”
“I like the view.”
You fold your arms. “That’s a safety violation. And so is being up here. This area is off-limits.”
“I could say the same about you,” he says with a grin. “Totally off-limits. But I keep ending up here anyway.”
You blink. “Did you just… flirt with me while breaking three school rules?”
“Technically four, but who’s counting?”
“I am.”
He chuckles and pats the concrete beside him. “You know, you never sit. Always standing over me, scolding me like I’m your personal side quest.”
“Because I am this close to losing my mind.”
“You look cute when you’re mad.”
“You look unemployed if you don’t start showing up to class.”
That makes him laugh. He stands, brushing imaginary dust off his pants, and walks over. He’s close now—close enough you have to tilt your head to meet his eyes.
“You think I’m a slacker,” he says. “And I am. But only because this school’s boring. Except you.”
You deadpan. “Wow. I’m honored to be the lone source of entertainment for a delinquent.”
“Not just entertainment,” he murmurs. “I like you. Like, a lot. Like, wake-up-early-to-watch-you-scold-other-people kind of like.”
You frown. “That’s creepy.”
He nods. “Yeah. But at least I’m honest.”
Silence.
He sighs. “Fine. I’ll go back to class. But only if you walk me.”
You blink. “What am I, your parole officer?”
“No,” he says, bumping your shoulder with his. “You’re worse. You’re the girl I’m head over heels for who refuses to give me a damn chance.”
You roll your eyes but can’t fight the heat crawling up your neck.
“Get downstairs, Park.”
He grins, following behind you like a happy golden retriever in ripped jeans.
“Lead the way, Madam President.”
You don’t expect to see Park Sunghoon walk into the classroom.
No, seriously—you don’t. Not because it’s rare. Because it’s unheard of. You almost drop your pen when he saunters in like he belongs here, hands in pockets, hair messy in a way that’s somehow both illegal and school appropriate, and—wait—is that a notebook?
You narrow your eyes. He slides into the seat directly beside you.
“Reserved for model students only,” you mutter.
“I’m turning a new leaf,” he says brightly. “Consider me… reformed.”
You blink. “You’re twenty minutes early.”
“I know. I had to Google what time class starts.”
You bite the inside of your cheek. He’s wearing his uniform. Properly. Tie and all. You don’t know what’s more suspicious—his punctuality or the fact that his shirt is actually tucked in.
The teacher walks in. The students quiet down.
And for once, so does Sunghoon.
For maybe five minutes.
Until he opens his notebook—and you realize it’s upside down.
You sigh. “Sunghoon…”
“Huh?” He glances down. “Oh, that explains why I couldn’t find the lines.”
You grab his notebook, flip it the right way, and shove it back into his lap.
He beams. “Thanks, baby—”
“Do not finish that sentence.”
He holds up his hands in surrender.
But then: the teacher asks a question.
No one answers.
Except one hand goes up.
His.
Your eyes practically pop out of your head.
“Yes… Sunghoon?” the teacher says cautiously.
Sunghoon clears his throat and says with the confidence of a man who has no idea what’s going on:
“Uh… mitochondria.”
The teacher blinks. “We’re doing algebra.”
“Oh.”
Sunghoon scratches the back of his neck, leaning toward you. “That’s not the energy thing, huh?”
You slap your hand over your face.
Ten more minutes go by. He tries, you’ll give him that. But halfway through the lecture, he’s doodling your initials in the corner of his notebook and poking your elbow to show you, grinning like he just painted the Sistine Chapel.
You hiss, “Why are you here?”
He leans in, voice soft and smug. “Because you said you were tired of me skipping. So I came. For you.”
Your heart does a somersault.
But your voice stays flat. “You failed the mitochondria test two years ago.”
“I might’ve failed that,” he murmurs. “But I’m acing this… proximity.”
You stare at him.
He stares at you.
You flick his forehead.
Hard.
“OW!”
The teacher turns.
“Park Sunghoon,” she says sharply. “Do we have a problem?”
He grins, rubbing his forehead. “Nope. Just enlightenment.”
You exhale and bury your face in your hands. “This is the stupidest love confession I’ve ever seen.”
“You mean best.” He slides a note onto your desk. Inside is one word:
“Yours?”
You write underneath:
“Go to detention.”
“See you there.” He winks.
It’s almost 9 PM. The school is quiet, empty except for the faint buzz of the vending machine and the distant creak of old hallway lights.
You’re still in the council room, surrounded by ungraded forms, event flyers, and the aftermath of a failed attempt to plan the upcoming school festival. Your back aches, your brain is fried, and worst of all—your team bailed hours ago.
You mutter to yourself as you staple yet another flyer. “I swear, next time I’m making attendance mandatory…”
The door creaks.
You don’t look up.
“If you’re here to ask me to approve your stupid rooftop concert idea again, Park, I swear—”
“It’s not stupid,” comes his voice. “It was just ahead of its time.”
You sigh. “What are you doing here? It’s past curfew.”
“I could ask you the same thing,” he says, stepping fully into the room. “You’re still here doing… paper stuff?”
“It’s called work.”
“Right.” He nods, like he’s just learning what the concept is. “Well. You look like you’re about five minutes away from passing out and becoming one with that desk.”
“I might.”
He walks up slowly, looking at the mess of papers and tape and glitter glue. “You’re really doing all this alone?”
“Everyone else left. The festival won’t plan itself.”
He doesn’t say anything for a second.
Then he rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie and grabs a stack of papers.
You blink. “What are you doing?”
“Helping.”
“You don’t… help.”
He shrugs. “Maybe I do now.”
You eye him suspiciously. “Do you even know what to do?”
“Nope,” he grins. “But you’ll tell me. Like you always do.”
You should say no. You should tell him to leave before the teacher on night duty sees. But your arms are sore, your eyes are burning, and—God, he looks really good with his sleeves rolled up and a serious expression.
So you sigh. “Fine. Start by sorting those into three piles: food booths, stage events, and athletic games. If you mess it up, I’m making you redo the whole thing.”
He salutes you. “Yes, ma’am.
Thirty Minutes Later
You glance up from your laptop and blink. He’s… actually doing it. Properly. He’s even labeling the piles in his messy but oddly neat handwriting.
“You’re… shockingly competent at this.”
Sunghoon leans back in the chair, hands behind his head. “Didn’t think the bad boy could handle papers, huh?”
“I didn’t think you could handle sitting still for more than five minutes.”
He chuckles, quiet and sincere.
There’s a moment. A soft one. No smirks, no teasing.
Just him. Watching you.
“Why do you do all this?” he asks. “Like, really. No one gives you awards for staying late or breaking your back for some school festival.”
You shrug. “Because if I don’t, no one else will. Someone has to care.”
He looks at you like he’s never seen you before. Or maybe like he’s been seeing you the whole time, but now it actually hurts a little.
“That’s kinda hot.”
You groan. “There it is. You lasted so long without saying something dumb.”
“Sorry,” he laughs. “I tried.”
He stands and grabs a couple more flyers. “You know, if you ever let someone help you more often, maybe you wouldn’t be so stressed.”
“I don’t trust most people to get it right.”
He walks closer, sets the flyers down, and looks you in the eyes.
“Do you trust me?”
You pause.
And for the first time—you don’t have an immediate answer.
You’re both packing up now. The clock reads 10:14 PM.
Sunghoon carries the extra flyers under his arm, and you’re holding your schoolbag like a shield, not because you need it—but because you’re nervous.
“I’ll walk you home,” he says casually.
You glance at him. “You don’t even live in my direction.”
“Sure I do,” he lies. “I live wherever you’re headed tonight.”
“Sunghoon.”
He just shrugs, already matching your pace as you exit the school grounds. “Relax. I won’t flirt. I already impressed you once tonight. Don’t want to ruin my streak.”
You almost smile.
The streets are quiet. Just the faint hum of traffic and the soft sound of your steps echoing through the evening air.
“I didn’t expect you to help,” you say after a while, breaking the silence.
“I didn’t expect you to need it.”
You nod slowly. “I guess… I don’t let myself need people.”
Sunghoon doesn’t say anything right away.
Then, softly: “That’s exhausting.”
You look at him.
He’s not smiling. He’s not teasing. He’s just… looking forward. Like it took everything in him to say that out loud.
“It is,” you admit.
You reach a small corner shop closed for the night. The streetlamp flickers above you. You stop walking.
“You’re not what I expected either,” you say.
His head turns to you slowly. “Good or bad?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
He chuckles, but it’s quieter now. “I know I’m not the kind of guy who fits into your world. Student council. Rules. Schedules. Everything in place.”
You exhale. “You break every rule I write.”
He tilts his head. “But I always read them.”
You glance at him. “That’s… actually weirdly sweet.”
“You’re weirdly sweet.”
You nudge him with your shoulder, a quiet smile on your face. “You always joke. Don’t you ever get tired?”
“Yeah,” he says, and this time, no smile. “But if I stop joking, I might say something serious. And that’s scary.”
You blink. “Like what?”
He looks at you.
And this time—no teasing. No sarcasm. Just raw honesty.
“Like I’d drop every detention slip, every missed class, every stupid rooftop escape… if it meant you’d look at me like I’m someone worth your time.”
Your breath catches.
You open your mouth. No words come out.
The air between you shifts. Charged.
And for the first time—you step forward.
You fix the collar of his hoodie without thinking, hand brushing his neck. He doesn’t move. His eyes don’t leave yours.
“Sunghoon,” you whisper, unsure of what you want to say.
“I’m not asking for much,” he murmurs. “Just… let me stay close.”
You swallow.
And then the porch light flickers on from your house up ahead.
You step back.
The moment breaks like glass.
“I should go,” you say.
He nods. “Right.”
But as you turn, he calls out softly, “Hey.”
You glance back.
His voice is barely above a whisper.
“Thanks for letting me help.”
You offer a small smile.
“Thanks for showing me you could.”
You disappear inside before he can say anything else.
He stays there for a long moment, hands in his pockets, watching your light flick on upstairs.
Then, with the faintest smile, he turns and walks the long way home.
The festival is in full swing. Laughter fills the air. Lights twinkle above the courtyard like stars trying to outshine each other. Booths line the school field, filled with games, food, and an alarming number of students running around in cosplay.
You’re juggling three clipboards and two walkie-talkies, moving between booths with military precision. It’s exhausting.
But not chaotic.
Because—for the first time—everything is actually running smoothly.
You round the corner near the dunk tank when you stop in your tracks.
Park Sunghoon is there.
Not ditching. Not distracting. Not doing something stupid.
He’s manning the ring toss booth.
Wearing a volunteer sash.
Smiling at kids.
Not even flirting.
You stare at him like he’s grown a second head.
He catches your eye, waves dramatically, then mouths: “See? Reformed.”
You roll your eyes—but your lips tug upward, just a little.
Later That Evening
The festival winds down. Fireworks are minutes away. You’re at the back lawn, organizing the final event schedule when you hear footsteps behind you.
You don’t need to turn around to know it’s him.
“Didn’t expect you to survive this long without causing a scene,” you say.
He leans beside you against the railing. “Shocked myself, honestly.”
You glance at him. His hair’s messy from the wind. There’s glitter stuck to his cheek from the art booth. He looks… happy.
“So what happened?” you ask softly. “What changed?”
He shrugs. “You did.”
You pause.
“That night I helped you,” he continues, “you looked so tired. Like the world was on your shoulders. And still, you didn’t ask for help. You never do. So I figured… maybe if I stuck around long enough, you’d stop pushing me away.”
You don’t respond.
Because your heart is doing things. Things you’re not ready to name.
“Sunghoon,” you whisper.
But he keeps going, voice lower now. “I didn’t try to fit into your world just for fun. I did it because I wanted to deserve to stand next to you.”
You finally look at him. “You don’t have to be someone else to do that.”
“Maybe not,” he says, smiling softly. “But I wanted to be the version of me that made you proud.
The fireworks start then.
Booms echo in the night sky. Color bursts across your faces—red, blue, gold.
And you—you finally let go.
You reach for his hand.
He looks down.
You’re holding it. Intertwined fingers. No clipboard. No conditions.
Just you.
“You already make me proud,” you say.
His breath catches. “That almost sounded like a confession.”
You smirk. “It almost was.”
He grins. “So if I kissed you right now…”
You raise a brow. “You’d be breaking school rules.”
He leans in, just enough for your foreheads to touch. “Worth it.”
And under the gold glow of the fireworks, you let him.
Just once.
A soft, careful kiss.
No sarcasm. No teasing. Just everything you’ve both been holding back—finally, finally spilling over.
i hope you liked it!
TOBIOSBBYGHORL 2025
permanent taglist: @ijustwannareadstuff20 @hoonielvv @rjssierjrie @firstclassjaylee @morganaawriterr @rikifever @daisyintherainsposts @kkamismom12 @pocketzlocket @semi-wife @soona- huh @ramenoil