content: Established relationship, vampire au, fluff, romance, mentions of vampiric nature, sunrise watching, poetic love
a/n: Sunoo has been bias wrecking me like crazy
taglist: @adriftingsnowflake @norihoyeon
The vintage photograph trembles slightly in Sunoo's pale fingers as he holds it up to the lamplight, studying it with the same reverence others might reserve for religious artifacts. It's a Polaroid from 1987—the seller had assured him of the date—showing a sunrise over what looks like the Grand Canyon, all golden light and painted sky.
"This one's beautiful," you murmur from your spot curled against his side on the velvet couch, watching him add it to the carefully organized album spread across the coffee table. "The way the light hits those rock formations..."
His eyes light up—ironic, really, for a creature who hasn't seen natural light in over a century. "Tell me what you think it felt like," he says, that familiar eager tone creeping into his voice. "The warmth on your skin, the way the colors shift..."
You've had this conversation dozens of times, but you never tire of it. Sunoo's fascination with sunlight is one of the most endearing things about him, this dangerous, immortal being who collects sunrise photographs and sunset paintings like other vampires collect vintage wines or rare books.
"It starts cool," you begin, settling more comfortably against him. "Just before sunrise, there's this crisp feeling in the air, like the world is holding its breath. Then the first rays appear, and it's gentle at first—like fingers trailing across your skin. As it rises higher, the warmth grows, sinking into your bones and making everything feel... possible."
Sunoo closes his eyes as you speak, as if he can somehow experience it through your words. His collection spans decades—daguerreotypes from the 1800s, faded film photographs from the mid-1900s, digital prints from the modern era. Each one represents his desperate desire to understand something he can never safely experience.
"You make it sound like magic," he whispers.
"It is magic," you reply softly. "Just not the kind you're used to."
When Sunoo first told you what he was six months ago, you'd expected many things. Bloodlust, maybe. Ancient wisdom. Supernatural powers. What you hadn't expected was this: a vampire who kept blackout curtains not just for protection, but because he'd wallpapered the room behind them with pictures of sunny days. A creature of the night who owned more books about solar physics than some college libraries.
"I have something for you," he says suddenly, reaching for a small wrapped package on the side table. "I know your birthday isn't for another week, but..."
Inside the tissue paper is a delicate gold necklace, the pendant shaped like a tiny sun with rays extending outward. But it's not just decorative—as you hold it up, you realize it's actually a compass, the needle pointing steadily toward what you assume is magnetic north.
"It's beautiful, Sunoo, but—"
"Look closer," he says, a small smile playing at his lips.
You examine the compass more carefully and gasp. The needle isn't pointing north at all—it's pointing east, toward where the sun rises each morning. Somehow, he's found or commissioned a compass that follows the sun's path across the sky.
"So you'll always know where to find it," he explains quietly. "Even when I can't be there to watch it with you."
The thoughtfulness of it makes your throat tight with emotion. "You know I don't need a compass to find the sun, right?"
"Maybe not," he agrees, fastening the chain around your neck with careful fingers. "But I need to know you have it. I need to know that part of what I love most about this world is always with you."
That's when it clicks—the real meaning behind his obsession. It's not just about the sun itself. It's about life, about warmth, about all the things his vampiric nature has taken from him. And somehow, in his mind, you've become connected to all of that light and life he craves.
"Is that why you started calling me sunshine?" you ask, even though you already know the answer.
His smile is soft, almost shy. "You're the closest I'll ever get to understanding what warmth feels like. When you laugh, when you're excited about something, when you look at me like I'm not a monster—it's like watching a sunrise through someone else's eyes."
You've been together for eight months now, but moments like this still take your breath away. Sunoo has a way of saying things that sound like poetry, of finding beauty in the impossible space between what he is and what he yearns for.
"You're not a monster," you tell him firmly, a conversation you've had before but one that bears repeating. "You're just someone who loves something you can't have."
"Can't I?" he asks, and there's something different in his voice, something that makes you look at him more carefully.
"Sunoo..."
He's already standing, moving toward the heavy curtains that cover the wall of windows in his apartment. "I've been thinking," he says, not quite meeting your eyes. "About what you said last week, about how sunrises are different every day. About how you can never really capture them properly in photographs."
"What are you saying?"
He turns to face you fully, and you can see the conflict in his expression—excitement warring with fear, desire battling with self-preservation. "I'm saying that maybe it's time I stopped experiencing the sun secondhand."
Your blood runs cold. "No. Absolutely not. Sunoo, you can't—"
"I can," he interrupts gently. "For a few minutes, at least. Maybe longer, if I'm careful."
"And maybe you'll burn to death!" You're on your feet now, crossing to him in quick strides. "I won't let you risk your life just because you're curious about—"
"It's not curiosity." His hands cup your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. "It's love. I love you so much that I want to see the world the way you see it, just once. I want to understand why you smile differently when you talk about morning light versus afternoon sun. I want to know what it feels like to exist in the same moment you do, sharing the same warmth, seeing the same colors."
The passion in his voice makes your heart ache. This is so perfectly Sunoo—romantic and dramatic and willing to risk everything for a single moment of beauty.
"There has to be another way," you whisper.
"There isn't." His smile is sad but determined. "I've researched everything, tried every protection spell, every bit of folklore. The only way for me to experience sunrise is to experience it. And I can, for a little while, if I'm smart about it."
You want to argue, want to lock him in the apartment and never let him near a window during daylight hours. But you can see in his eyes that he's already made his decision. This isn't an impulsive whim—it's something he's been planning, probably for weeks.
"When?" you ask finally.
"Tomorrow. There's a place I've scouted, about an hour outside the city. A cliff overlooking the valley—the view is supposed to be incredible." He pauses, studying your face. "I want you there with me. I want you to see it too, so you can tell me if the photographs got it right."
The next twenty-four hours pass in a blur of preparation and anxiety. Sunoo moves through his nighttime routine like usual, but you can sense his excitement underneath the calm exterior. He's like a child on Christmas Eve, practically vibrating with anticipation.
You, on the other hand, spend the time researching vampire folklore, looking for any mention of sun exposure that might help keep him safe. Most of what you find is unhelpful—stories of vampires bursting into flames or crumbling to dust at the first ray of light. But there are a few accounts, rare ones, of vampires surviving brief exposure, usually at great cost.
"Stop worrying," Sunoo says as you drive through the pre-dawn darkness, his hand warm over yours on the gear shift. "I know my limits."
"Do you, though?" You can't keep the concern from your voice. "You've never actually tested them."
"I have," he admits quietly. "Small exposures, controlled situations. A finger in moonlight that turned to dawn, standing near a window as the sun came up with the curtains almost closed. I know how much I can take."
This is news to you, and it doesn't make you feel better. "Sunoo—"
"I'm not suicidal," he says firmly. "I don't have a death wish. I just... I need this. I need to give you something real, something that's not just stories and secondhand experiences."
The cliff he's chosen is perfect—a rocky outcrop that overlooks miles of rolling hills and distant mountains. You arrive with about twenty minutes to spare before sunrise, enough time to set up the thick blanket Sunoo brought and arrange the thermos of coffee you insisted on packing.
"It's beautiful," you murmur, looking out over the landscape. Even in the pre-dawn darkness, you can see the promise of the view to come.
Sunoo is standing near the edge, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, staring at the eastern horizon. "Are you scared?" you ask, moving to stand beside him.
"Terrified," he admits with a laugh that's not quite steady. "But also... I've never wanted anything more."
You slip your hand into his, interlacing your fingers. His skin is always cool, but now it seems almost cold, whether from fear or anticipation you can't tell.
"Tell me what happens," he says as the sky begins to lighten almost imperceptibly. "Tell me everything you see."
So you do. You describe the way the darkness slowly gives way to deep purple, then violet, then the faintest hint of pink. You tell him about the way the world seems to wake up gradually, how you can start to make out individual trees and rocks as the light grows stronger.
"There," you whisper, pointing to the horizon. "Do you see it?"
The first sliver of sun appears, just a bright line between the earth and sky, and Sunoo gasps. Even that small amount of light makes him take a step back instinctively, but he doesn't retreat further.
"It's so bright," he breathes, wonder clear in his voice.
"And it's just starting," you tell him, squeezing his hand. "Sunoo, if it gets to be too much—"
"Not yet," he says firmly, though you can see him starting to tense as the sun climbs higher. "Keep going. Tell me what you see."
You describe the way the light spreads, painting the clouds in shades of gold and orange and pink that no photograph could ever truly capture. You tell him about the way the hills seem to come alive, how shadows shift and change, how the whole world transforms from a monochrome sketch into a masterpiece of color and light.
And through it all, Sunoo watches with an expression of pure awe, even as you can see the strain beginning to show around his eyes. His skin doesn't burst into flames like the movies suggest, but there's a tension in his posture that tells you he's fighting against every instinct screaming at him to seek shelter.
"The warmth," he says suddenly, holding up his free hand toward the sun. "I can feel it."
You watch in amazement as he closes his eyes and turns his face toward the light, a smile spreading across his features that's unlike anything you've ever seen from him. For just a moment, he looks almost human—not the pale, ethereal creature of the night you fell in love with, but someone who could walk in the world of daylight and belong there.
But then his smile wavers, and you see his jaw clench with effort.
"Sunoo," you say carefully, "maybe we should—"
"Just a little longer," he whispers, eyes still closed. "Please. It's so beautiful."
The sun is fully above the horizon now, flooding the valley with golden light, and you have to admit he's right—it's one of the most beautiful sunrises you've ever seen. But your attention is focused entirely on him, on the way his breathing has become more labored, the way his hand has tightened in yours almost painfully.
"Okay," he says finally, reluctantly stepping back into the shadow cast by a large boulder. "Okay, that's enough."
The relief in his voice is palpable, and you can see him physically relax as he moves out of the direct sunlight. But his face is radiant with joy, his eyes bright with tears he's probably not even aware of.
"That was..." he starts, then shakes his head, apparently at a loss for words.
"Worth it?" you ask, though you're still not sure you agree.
"Beyond worth it." He turns to you, cupping your face in both hands. "Do you know what the best part was?"
"What?"
"Watching you watch the sunrise. Seeing your face in real sunlight, the way it brought out colors in your eyes I've never noticed before. Understanding, finally, why I started calling you sunshine." He presses his forehead against yours. "You are my sun. You're the light I can actually live with, the warmth that won't destroy me."
The poetry of it, the sheer romance of this gesture, hits you all at once. He risked everything—his safety, his life—not just to see a sunrise, but to share one with you. To understand what it means when you talk about morning light, to see you the way the rest of the world gets to see you.
"I love you," you whisper, because it's the only response that feels adequate.
"I love you too, sunshine," he replies, and kisses you there in the shadow of the boulder, with the sun painting the world golden around you and the smell of warming earth in the air.
Later, as you drive back to the city with Sunoo dozing in the passenger seat (the sun exposure having exhausted him more than he'd admitted), you think about the photos in his collection. All those sunrises and sunsets, captured by other people, experienced secondhand through their eyes.
Now he has his own. Not a photograph, but a memory—the two of you sharing something impossible, something that exists in the space between his world and yours. It's better than any picture could ever be, because it's real, and it's yours, and it's proof that love can make even the impossible feel like coming home.
The sun compass at your throat catches the light streaming through the windshield, casting tiny rainbows across the dashboard. You smile, understanding now why he needed you to have it.
It's not just about always knowing where to find the sun.
It's about always knowing where to find each other.
¿se sellará la indescriptible atracción que sentías hacia Park Sunghoon con el pinchazo de un colmillo?
pair: vampire! park sunghoon x f!reader x (sightly?) vampire! park jay
summary: sunghoon ya no puede resistirse más a ti, especialmente después de que descubrieras su verdadera identidad y de que park jay se comportase de una manera demasiado amistosa contigo para su gusto
warnings of part 2: menciones de dios y del cristianismo (nada de lo escrito se aplica a la religión referida, es sólo ficción basada en ella), sangre, mordiscos y puede que un poco subida de tono en algunas partes (???) no nsfw tho, lenguaje malsonante
words: 3004 (im sorry)
quick note: resulta que no sólo van a ser dos partes... esta historia está volviéndose más interesante de lo que pensaba y puede que se vuelva una miniserie <3
primera parte tercera parte
Sunghoon conectó sus ojos con los tuyos y las palmas de sus manos guardadas en los bolsillos de su pantalón de traje podrían haber empezado a sangrar en cualquier momento de la fuerza con la que estaba clavando sus uñas en ellas, buscando con el dolor, distraerse a sí mismo de quién tenía en frente, de tenerte cara a cara.
Dios, había olido tu sangre desde mucho antes de que llegaras a la azotea y, pese a haberse apartado de la fiesta para ir a la zona más alejada y solitaria con la intención de no estar en tu radar, su instinto depredador consiguió igualmente atraerte hacia él.
Tu respiración agitada prueba de un corazón también agitado provocó la rebelión de sus colmillos. Dolían, y la fachada de indiferencia de Sunghoon cayó tras tres segundos de contacto visual, debido a cómo se encontraban pinchando su rojizo labio, buscando ser liberados de la presión que Sunghoon estaba ejerciendo, queriendo contenerse a sí mismo.
Porque si de ellos fuera, te mordería. Oh, si te mordería.
Aquella chispa de incomodidad, te hizo salir del estado de alucinación en el que te encontrabas. ¿Cómo que Sunghoon era tu sueño, o todo lo que necesitabas? No había ninguna prueba racional que explicase aquella premisa y no ibas a ponerte a buscarla próximamente. Así, fue ese ligero frunce de sus negras cejas lo que te hizo despertar. Tu respiración se empezó a calmar de la carrera que acababas de hacer, además de que ya empezabas a sentirte un poco mareada.
Recuperaste un poco la compostura dentro de lo posible ante la presencia de aquel hombre.
Sunghoon notó tu cambio y nunca creyó en dios, teniendo en cuenta su condición -aquella figura divina le parecía una simple invención a la que a veces se dirigía por desesperación-, pero le agradeció esa relajación por tu parte. Si seguías presa de lo que su interior más salvaje te hacia sentir, esa necesidad de satisfacción última por su persona, entonces él no podría hacer nada para contenerse. No tendría las fuerzas, ni siquiera la oportunidad, de reprimir aquel demonio interno que se encontraba babeando por probar tu sangre, por morderte, por marcarte, por sellarte como de su propiedad con sus colmillos.
Había oído hablar de conexiones similares: el regalo de Dios hacia los vampiros, el mayor acto de misericordia. Un vampiro destinado a un humano y un humano destinado a un vampiro. La satisfacción de su deseo asesino con un humano al que amará de por vida y que lo volverá bueno, correcto, humano.
Sunghoon nunca creyó estas patrañas pues jamás existió un vampiro cuyos colmillos fueran de la propiedad de un sólo humano, sólo pudiendo morderle a él y, cuando lo hiciera, no querer probar otra sangre nunca más.
Claro que éstas eran las palabras de la leyenda y el entorno de Sunghoon, lleno de vampiros casados con otros vampiros pero con numerosos mordiscos hacia múltiples humanos distintos, no le era el mejor contexto para creer en algo así como "tu salvación destinada".
Jake y Heeseung, además del resto de sus compañeros, solían encajar en las actividades de un vampiro adulto. La sangre humana es tentadora, pero no tanto como para perder el control, como muchas de las novelas vampíricas quieren probar. Uno puede saciar su hambre con su plato favorito conscientemente, disfrutando del sabor pero sin pasar los límites. En el caso de los humanos, son límites de quién come, cuánto su estómago puede aguantar; en el caso de los vampiros, el límite está en la persona de que se alimentan.
Esto ayudaba a que pudiesen convivir, pero Sunghoon, cuyo padre era un hombre sin prudencia, creció acostumbrándose a ver cuerpos totalmente secos saliendo de las puertas de su casa cada mañana.
Cuando vio el rostro sin vida de su niñera a la que en secreto llamaba madre, juró que él no iba a ser un asesino, no iba a dejarse llevar. No iba a alimentarse de sangre humana.
Pero tu cuerpo abrazado por ese vestido, tus ojos deseosos que le miran sin vergüenza alguna, tus labios brillantes y tentadores bajo la luz de la luna... Sunghoon sentía que iba a romper aquel juramento y lo peor es que lo haría sin remordimientos.
¿Creía Sunghoon que eras su salvación destinada? Lo único que Sunghoon sabía era que te detestaba por convertirle en la bestia que estaba destinada a ser, arrodillándose ante ti, ahogado en tu sangre.
Y estaba enfadado, verdaderamente molesto.
Sí, tras percibir cómo volvías a mantener la calma -dentro de lo que cabía-, Sunghoon, gran observador, se molestó más al darse cuenta de un factor y no pudo evitar mantener su silencio por más tiempo.
—Vengo más tarde, intentando evitarte y mírate... Los protegidos tendrían que haberse ido hace una hora y media— Ladeó la cabeza mientras levantaba unos centímetros su barbilla, suavemente. Sunghoon era absolutamente majestuoso con la luz de la Luna acariciando sus rasgos faciales. Entrecerró los ojos y temiste volverte transparente ante él. —Seguro que ya has visto por qué... ¿verdad?—
Sí, lo habías visto pero, ¿tu esperada hora de partida? No, no lo sabías. Ni Aerin ni Sunoo te habían comentado nada por el estilo. Pero antes de hacer esta reflexión, sentiste estar a punto de volver a caer en el abismo de pérdida de conciencia que Park Sunghoon te suponía. Después de tres intensos meses de un anhelo secreto, te había hablado por primera vez. Esa voz que siempre te despertó de un sueño desconocido, haciéndote consciente de algo que todavía no sabías denominar, se había dirigido a ti, mirándote, examinándote, prestándote toda su atención, tal y como en tus más oscuros sueños siempre habías sucedido.
Tu cuello volvió a palpitar y Sunghoon, como si lo hubiera notado, dio un paso atrás, casi chocando con el muro de cristal de la azotea, mientras giraba la cabeza hacia el otro lado, bajando la mirada y lamiéndose los labios con frustración. Notaste su nuez moviéndose tras tragar. Inconscientemente, tú también tragaste.
Sunghoon te estaba distrayendo demasiado del por qué tus supuestos amigos, tu supuesta mejor amiga, habían decidido omitir un detalle tan importante como la necesidad de irte hace media hora para evitar encontrarte con supuestos vampiros o, mejor dicho, evitar estar en un lugar en el que sus colmillos eran absoluta y legalmente libres, sin necesidad de ser retenidos, sin ser nombrados armas asesinas.
Evitar unos como los de Sunghoon. No, tanto tú como él lo sabían, no había otra opción, otros colmillos para ti. Evitar los colmillos de Sunghoon pues sólo podían ser ellos los únicos cuyo dueño podía llamarte proclamándote de esa forma.
Evitar que sucediera lo que estaba a punto de suceder si ninguno de los dos frenaba, si ni tú ni él deteníais este terremoto descontrolado. Y tú deberías ser quién lo hiciera. Tú, la presa, deberías escapar de tu depredador y, sin embargo, ahí iba un paso, dos pasos, tres pasos hacia un vampiro, hacia Park Sunghoon.
— Quieta, por favor. No — Sunghoon se pegó lo máximo posible a aquel muro, susurrando aquella negación casi con derrota en su voz, sacando sus pálidas manos llenas de marcas de frustración de sus bolsillos, tensándose con cada paso que dabas.
La azotea no era muy ancha de largo y ahora os encontrabais a cuatro pasos el uno del otro. Sunghoon nunca tuvo la necesidad de respirar y, pese a eso, ahora sus pulmones lo estaban haciendo.
Estabas a punto de caer y rendirte ante tu propia libertad pero, como él, la racionalidad todavía seguía de pie en la batalla. Y, buscando distraerte de su expresión frustrada que te producía una calidez placentera en tu vientre, la música que parecía hasta el momento sonar de fondo, incrementó en volumen, junto con los gritos de júbilo de los participantes de aquel ahora terrorífico evento.
Así, recordaste todo. Sunoo mordiendo a Aerin, los colmillos de Jake, la sangre de aquella chica que estaba con Heeseung, lo que de verdad servían en la cocina... ¿Realmente existían los vampiros? ¿Realmente todo lo que había sucedido eran pruebas claves para probar tu teoría? ¿Realmente estabas a punto de creer en la existencia de los vampiros? Sunghoon sólo te había dado una indirecta que podía hacer referencia a otra cosa.
Pero, si realmente era así y ellos eran eso, el enfado era lo que te encontrarías sintiendo. ¿Cuánto te habían manipulado exactamente?
Te dirigiste a él con una mirada que sin que fueras consciente de ello, era desafiante. Sunghoon, al ver la chispa encendida en tus ojos, tuvo que volver a controlarse mientras, sin poder evitarlo, sonreía ladinamente. Le gustabas, Dios, le volvías absolutamente loco.
—¿Tú también haces eso?— Preguntaste mientras sentiste tus rodillas temblar por un momento. El frío que acariciaba tus desnudas piernas fue al que culpaste, no queriendo pensar en los efectos de la sonrisa del hombre que tenías enfrente tuya.
Esa misma sonrisa que pretendías ignorar sólo se agrandó más, dejando, ahora sí, ver una chispa de aquellos colmillos, todavía no en su estado total de liberación pues Sunghoon seguía reteniéndolos. Pero tu voz le gustaba demasiado, como tus piernas desnudas. Le estabas provocando sed... Mucha sed.
—Vas a tener que ser más específica— Sunghoon contuvo su lengua antes de pronunciar tu nombre o entonces tendría la gran necesidad de conocer el sabor de tu sangre.
Le miraste entrecerrando los ojos. Habías visto las pruebas por ti misma, negar o intentar ser racional no servía de nada por mucho que supusiese afirmar la existencia de aquellos seres. Suspiraste y te lamiste el labio inferior antes de preguntar— ¿Muerdes a la gente inferior a ti?—.
Sunghoon alzó una ceja y se mantuvo en un extraño en silencio. Aquel gesto como respuesta despertó en ti un nerviosismo que sonó más brusco de lo que pretendías —¿Qué? ¿Acaso me equivoco? Vampiro—.
Oh, Sunghoon podría mirar tu expresión de enfado por toda la eternidad, temió. Pero en el fondo, intentaba distraerse del asco con el que expresaste aquella palabra, su verdadera identidad. Tu tono había rasguñado un poco su estático corazón.
Esta vez fuiste tú la observadora perspicaz y lo notaste. ¿Existía un punto débil en su gran armadura? Diste un paso y Sunghoon no pudo más.
—Corre— Su voz ahora gélida, sus colmillos ahora en su estado libre y natural, su hambre descontrolada.
Dudaste un segundo. ¡Aquellos colmillos parecieron a simple vista hechos para tu cuello!. Ese era tu lugar, tu sueño. Por un momento ibas a quedarte por iniciativa propia pero, antes de cumplir ese deseo, notaste el dolor en sus capas de desgrado, el alma en su intento de incendio y tus piernas se alejaron rápidamente al volver a recordar que él era un vampiro, un asesino. Park Sunghoon.
Corriste escaleras abajo, temiendo que te atrapara, pero Sunghoon en ningún momento te persiguió o hizo ademán de hacerlo. Desde el primer momento sólo quiso que escaparas, siendo un depredador con el castigo de necesitar a una presa no deseada. ¿Lo hacía por ti? Sunghoon nunca era honesto consigo mismo, así que claramente lo hizo por él, para no volverse quién más odia, para no ser su padre.
‧͙⁺˚･༓☾ ☽༓･˚⁺‧͙
Fue un milagro que no te hubieras tropezado con las escaleras mientras, con la respiración entrecortada, te hacías paso entre alumnos SSR que ahora eran percibidos por tus ojos con temor. La música te hacía pitar los oídos y acostumbrarse a la oscuridad nunca fue tan difícil pero ahí estaba, la puerta de salida.
Miraste hacia atrás por un segundo tras escuchar un ruido demasiado cerca y no proveniente de la piscina. Ahí, en plena gloria, los colmillos de Sunoo volvían a penetrar el cuello de Aerin. Sentiste lágrimas acudir a tus ojos y, sin pensarlo más, atravesaste la puerta, saliendo de aquella casa.
Caminaste un tanto apurada por la acera de la desierta carretera y al momento te diste cuenta de que no sabías dónde estabas. Giraste la cabeza hacia la casa, buscando señales de un Sunghoon persiguiéndote, pero nada.
Una idea cruzó tu mente y decidiste caminar en el sentido contrario, retrocediendo en tus pasos, buscando desde la carretera ver la azotea. Escondiéndote un poco entre una moto y un arbusto, levantaste dirigiste tu atenta mirada hacia el lugar donde minutos antes casi sucumbías a tus deseos. Deseaste por un momento que no estuviese desierta, significando en la cercanía de Sunghoon, fruto de aquella parte irracional que seguía y, después de tu primera conversación con él, más que nunca necesitada de él.
Para tu decepción, Park Sunghoon no se había movido ni un milímetro del borde de la azotea, pero esta vez miraba las vistas, dándote la espalda. Aliviada, pero a la vez tremendamente avergonzada al haber caído en lo que no pareció minutos antes un engaño, soltaste un suspiro mientras tus mejillas se incendiaban.
—No te recomendaría mear ahí— Una voz grave y un poco raspada te sorprendió, haciéndote saltar y, de no ser por el arbusto, estarías en el suelo con uno de tus bonitos tacones rotos.
Tu cabeza se apartó de Sunghoon rápidamente dirigiendo la mirada hacia aquella voz.
Park Jay, con su característica ceja cortada, frente descubierta y ojos negros rasgados te recibió, dirigiéndote una mirada cansada. Al momento, te apartaste tanto de la moto como del arbusto, volviendo a la acera. Estabais frente a frente. —No estaba intentando mear —Tu voz sonó un poco más elevado de lo que pretendías y te hizo sentirte más avergonzada.
—Ya— Soltó Jay elevando una de sus cejas mientras encogía los hombros. En verdad, no le importaba mucho la respuesta, mientras su moto siguiera intacta. Porque así era Park Jay, el alumno de las SSR y del grupo de Sunghoon que menos destacaba salvo por ser el capitán de béisbol de la academia Bram Stoker, más concretamente, el primero en la historia del equipo en ser elegido en primer curso.
Como con el resto de SSR que no fuesen Sunoo o Aerin (salvo en esta fiesta en la que intentaste pasártelo en grande), mantenías tus distancias con Jay Park. Siendo del mismo curso que Sunghoon, ésta era también vuestra primera conversación.
Y así siguió Jay, mirando la moto. Todavía no habíais hecho contacto visual desde su inesperada aparición mientras mirabas tus tacones, buscando distraerte. Jay, una vez comprobado que su roja moto estaba en perfecto estado, se dirigió a ti.
La sorpresa fue evidente en la ampliación de sus orbes negros tras hacer contacto visual con el jugador de béisbol. Frunciste el ceño por un momento, no entendiendo muy bien su reacción. ¿Tenías algo en la cara..? Hasta que recordaste las palabras de Sunghoon. Hace tiempo que tendrías que haberte ido porque...
Diste un paso hacia atrás y tus brazos se tensaron a cada lado de tu cuerpo, ahora no tropezándote con tus tacones. Te mordiste el interior de la mejilla mientras rápidamente echaste una ojeada hacia tus alrededores, buscando una posible vía de escape si las circunstancias la requerían.
No sabías muy bien exactamente lo que había pasado en la fiesta, pero sí que había vampiros. ¿Cuántos? ¿Quiénes eran y quiénes no? El corto tiempo que había transcurrido desde esa revelación al presente de Park Jay hicieron que no tuvieras el puzzle completo, pero sí lo suficiente para saber dónde colocar la siguiente pieza. Y Jay premió tu inteligencia en su cabeza con un imperceptible asentimiento.
Se quitó la piruleta roja que desde el principio tenía en la boca y, acercando su brazo al casco de moto negro como el carbón situado sobre su moto, similar a sus ojos, casi soltó una carcajada.
—Así que ya sabes quiénes somos o, mejor dicho, lo que somos— Jay subió la mirada hacia tu figura, escaneando tu cuerpo. Gesto que no te ayudó a bajar la guardia ante su persona.
Tu ceño fruncido le pareció divertido y se apoyó en su moto, observándote con una chispa de interés en sus ojos. Pero no era el interés de Sunghoon, ni tampoco indicaba sed o lujuria. Tú tampoco te sentías de la misma manera cuando le mirabas a los ojos. Era como estar con Sunoo antes de saber que era... que era...
—¿Tú también eres un vampiro?— Preguntaste con un tono de voz un tanto grave, pero no titubeante.
Una sonrisa nostálgica fue lo que te respondió y tu confusión te hizo prestar más atención a la vez que él se volvía a llevar el caramelo a la boca. Ahí, entre su lengua y el resto de sus dientes, había un colmillo roto, partido.
La sorpresa fue evidente en tu cara y ahora si, Park Jay se rio abiertamente. Mientras sus carcajadas se mezclaban con el sonido lejano de la música, no sabías qué hacer.
— Para. Por favor, para— Dijiste intentando aguantar una sonrisa que se te moría por escapar ante toda esta locura que acababas de vivir. Jay hizo caso omiso a tus palabras y tardó varios segundos en recomponerse.
Te sonrió ladinamente y, tirándote el casco, dijo —Supongo que necesitas que alguien te lleve a los dormitorios. Sube— Jay, sin casco, detalle que no te sorprendió al entender más o menos la razón, se subió a la moto, esperándote.
Lo correcto y racional era negarse. Pero morder técnicamente no te podría morder y, pese a ser alumno SSR, su sonrisa llegaba a sus ojos, o por lo menos las que te había dedicado en el corto período de aquella conversación. No, conducir una moto era muy peligroso. Pero quedarte ahí suponía más peligros con un Sunghoon acechando y unos amigos que pueden que no sean tan amigos. Además de los vampiros. No, Jay también era un vampiro. Decidiste negarte obviamente-
—Está bien, pero debes responder a todas mis preguntas— Te acercaste y te colocaste detrás de un sorprendido Jay, el cual tras verte correctamente situada en su moto, sonrió caninamente.
—Eso ya lo veremos— Jay encendió la moto y os alejasteis de la casa.
Todo bajo la atenta mirada de un Park Sunghoon que juró en ese mismo instante hacerte suya y a la mierda su propio juicio.
‧͙⁺˚･༓☾ ☽༓･˚⁺‧͙
tercera parte
taglist: @strxwbloody @baaamkyu (open!)
notes: omg!! segunda parte lista. siento que sea un poco corta comparada con la anterior pero estas escenas me salieron más largas de lo que pensaba y no quería haceros esperar mucho. ¿qué tal la dinámica entre sunghoon y la prota? prometo que ellos dos son endgame!!! la aparición de jay es cosa mía jusjus <3333
hi im the same one who requested the whats your problem fic and i loved it sm😭 thank you for indulging m, u write so well <33
idk if you’ve seen the latest 8seconds photos with sunoo but he looks…scrumptious... he looks like a bad boy:0 may i request a fic where sunoo looks unapproachable and intimidating like the 8seconds photos, resting bish face but hes really a softie, sweet guy (the sunoo we know!). People around them be wondering why gf reader is with him but she just thinks to herself they dont know what hes like </3 im also thinking college setting but established rel since highschool:0
Soft Underneath ✧.* K.SN
pairing: rbf!Sunoo x reader
wc: 2.09k
content: college au, established relationship, intimidating!sunoo (but soft for reader), resting bitch face sunoo, protective boyfriend, fluff, misunderstandings
a/n: glad you enjoyed the fic anon!! based on those 8seconds photos where he looked like he could end me (I would let him) alsooo this lowkey reminds me of the trophy boyfriend fic w/hoon
taglist: @adriftingsnowflake @norihoyeon
-
“I still don't understand what you see in him."
You glanced up from your textbook to find your study group partner, Emma, staring across the library at your boyfriend. Sunoo was sitting alone at a corner table, dressed in all black—oversized hoodie, ripped jeans, chunky silver rings catching the fluorescent light. His dark hair fell across his forehead as he leaned over his laptop, and even from this distance, you could see the sharp line of his jaw, the way his naturally pouty lips were set in a firm line. He looked, you had to admit, completely unapproachable. Intimidating, even.
"What do you mean?" you asked, though you knew exactly what she meant.
"He's so..." Emma gestured vaguely in his direction. "Cold? I've never seen him smile, not once. And the way he just stares at people when they try to talk to him? It's terrifying." You bit back a smile, remembering this morning when that same "terrifying" boyfriend had spent ten minutes looking for your favorite pen because he knew you had an important exam. Or yesterday, when he'd shown up at your dorm with homemade soup because you'd mentioned having a scratchy throat in passing.
"He's not cold," you said simply.
"Y/N, I saw him make a girl cry last week just by looking at her."
"She was trying to cheat off his exam," you pointed out. "And he didn't make her cry. He just... has a face."
Emma shook her head like you were hopeless. "I just don't get it. You're so sweet and bubbly, and he's so... scary. You've been together since high school, right? Did he used to be different?"
You looked over at Sunoo again. As if sensing your gaze, he glanced up from his laptop, and the transformation was instant. His sharp features softened, the corner of his mouth lifting in a tiny smile meant just for you. He raised his hand in a small wave, and you could practically see the hearts floating around his head. Then someone walked past his table, and the soft expression vanished, replaced by that same intimidating mask.
"No," you said, gathering your things. "He's exactly the same as he's always been."
You made your way across the library, ignoring the curious stares that followed you. This happened everywhere you went together—people looking between you and Sunoo like they were trying to solve an impossible equation.
"Hi, baby," Sunoo murmured as you approached, his voice automatically dropping to library-appropriate volumes. He closed his laptop and turned his full attention to you, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
"Hi," you whispered back, settling into the chair next to him. "How's the paper going?"
"Terrible. I think I hate economics." He slumped in his chair, all sharp edges dissolving into soft complaints. "Can we go get bubble tea? I need sugar to function."
"Of course." You reached over to brush his hair out of his eyes, and he practically melted into your touch. "But you don't hate economics. You hate Professor Kim."
"Same thing," he grumbled, but he was already packing up his things. "Did you finish your presentation?"
"Mostly. I just need to—"
"Y/N?"
You turned to find three girls from your Communications class standing nearby, looking nervous. The one in front, Yuna, was wringing her hands.
"Hi, Yuna. What's up?"
"We were wondering if you wanted to join our study group for the midterm? We're meeting at the café tomorrow afternoon."
"Oh, that sounds great! I—"
"Actually," Sunoo's voice cut through the conversation, and you felt him straighten beside you. When you glanced at him, his expression had gone completely neutral, bordering on hostile. "She's busy tomorrow."
The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. The three girls took an unconscious step backward, and Yuna's eyes went wide.
"Oh! Okay, no problem! Maybe another time," she said quickly, already backing away.
"Wait—" you started, but they were already gone, practically fleeing.
You turned to stare at your boyfriend, who was back to looking like he could murder someone with his bare hands.
"Sunoo! I wanted to join their study group."
His intimidating expression immediately cracked. "Oh. Shit. Really?"
"Yes, really! Why did you scare them away?"
"I didn't mean to scare them," he said, looking genuinely distressed. "I just... we were supposed to have a movie marathon tomorrow. But if you want to study instead, that's fine! I can call them back, I can—"
"Sunoo." You put your hand on his arm, feeling him relax instantly. "We can have movie night after I study. But you can't just glare at people when they talk to me."
"I wasn't glaring," he protested weakly.
"You were absolutely glaring."
He was quiet for a moment, fidgeting with one of his rings. "They probably think you could do better anyway."
Your heart clenched. "What?"
"Everyone thinks that," he said, not meeting your eyes. "I can see it when they look at us. They think you're too good for me."
"Kim Sunoo." You waited until he looked at you. "You know that's not true."
"Isn't it? You're like... sunshine. And I'm..." He gestured at himself.
"You're my sunshine," you said firmly. "Just because other people can't see it doesn't mean it's not true."
The soft look that crossed his face made your chest warm. "I love you."
"I love you too. But seriously, we need to work on your people skills."
"I have people skills," he protested as you both stood up. "I'm great with people."
"Babe, you made a barista quit last month because you didn't like how he was looking at me."
"He was flirting with you!"
"He asked if I wanted whipped cream on my latte!"
Sunoo was quiet for a moment. "Okay, maybe I need to work on it a little."
As you walked through the library together, you caught sight of Yuna and the rest of your study group. They were all staring at you like you'd just tamed a wild animal. You waved, and they waved back hesitantly.
"They think I'm going to corrupt you or something," Sunoo muttered, noticing their stares.
"Let them think what they want," you said, linking your arm through his. "They don't know you like I do."
"What do I do that's so bad anyway?"
You considered this. "Well, there was that time you made that guy in organic chemistry cry because he borrowed my notes without asking."
"He didn't ask!"
"And when you scared away that entire group of frat boys who were trying to recruit you."
"I wasn't interested in joining a frat!"
"You told them you'd rather die than participate in their 'capitalist social hierarchy.'"
"That's a perfectly reasonable response!"
You laughed, bumping his shoulder with yours. "See? This is what I mean. You're actually the most dramatic person I know, but everyone thinks you're this silent, intimidating guy."
"I'm not dramatic," he said dramatically.
"Last week you laid on the floor and declared your life was over because they were out of your favorite ramen at the convenience store."
"It was a limited edition flavor!"
"And then you made me drive to three different stores to find it."
"You offered!"
"Because you looked like a sad puppy!"
Sunoo stopped walking suddenly, turning to face you with a serious expression. For a moment, he looked like the intimidating stranger everyone else saw—sharp jawline, intense dark eyes, that natural pout that made him look perpetually unimpressed.
Then he spoke, and the illusion shattered completely.
"Do I really look like a sad puppy when I'm disappointed?"
You stood on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek. "The saddest puppy. It's very effective."
"Good to know," he said, breaking into a grin that transformed his entire face. "I'll keep that in mind for future ramen emergencies."
As you continued toward the library exit, you passed a group of freshmen who whispered nervously as Sunoo walked by. He didn't even notice, too busy telling you about some meme he'd seen on Twitter, gesturing animatedly with his hands.
"I don't get it though," he was saying. "Why would you put pineapple on pizza? It's like putting ketchup on steak, it's just—are those people staring at us?"
You glanced over at the freshmen, who quickly looked away when they realized they'd been caught.
"They're probably wondering how someone as sweet as me ended up with someone as ‘scary’ as you," you teased.
Sunoo's face fell slightly. "Am I really that scary?"
The genuine worry in his voice made your heart ache. You stopped walking and turned to face him properly.
"Sunoo, look at me." When he did, you cupped his face in your hands, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. "You have an… intimidating resting face. It's not your fault. But the people who matter—the people who take the time to actually get to know you—they see what I see."
"Which is?"
"The sweetest, most caring person I've ever met. Someone who remembers my coffee order and brings me snacks during finals week and listens to me complain about my roommate for hours without getting bored. Someone who cries during animated movies and sends me pictures of cute dogs he sees on campus."
Sunoo's cheeks flushed pink. "You make me sound like a softie."
"You are a softie," you said fondly. "You're my softie. And I don't care what anyone else thinks."
He leaned down to press his forehead against yours. "What did I do to deserve you?"
"Shared your animal crackers with me on the first day of senior year."
"Best investment I ever made," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your lips.
When you broke apart, you noticed the freshmen were still staring—but now they looked more confused than scared, like they couldn't reconcile the soft, gentle person they'd just witnessed with the intimidating figure they'd been afraid of moments before.
"Come on," you said, taking Sunoo's hand. "Let's go get that bubble tea. And maybe we can work on your unapproachable face."
"I don't have an unapproachable face," he said matter-of-factly.
"No, you really do. But that's okay. I like your face exactly the way it is."
As you walked across campus together, Sunoo swinging your joined hands between you while he debated the merits of different bubble tea flavors, you caught more stares, more whispered conversations. You didn't mind. Let them wonder. Let them think what they wanted.
They didn't know about the way he always walked on the outside of the sidewalk to protect you from traffic, or how he'd spent an entire weekend helping you move into your dorm, or the way he remembered every little thing you told him, even the stuff you forgot you'd mentioned. They didn't know that behind the sharp cheekbones and intimidating stare was someone who got excited about finding heart-shaped leaves and who always let you have the last bite of his food. They didn't know him like you did.
"You're thinking too hard," Sunoo said suddenly, stopping under one of the big oak trees near the student center. "I can practically hear the gears turning."
"Just thinking about how lucky I am," you said, leaning back against the tree trunk.
"Hmm." He stepped closer, bracing one hand against the bark beside your head, effectively caging you in. To anyone passing by, it probably looked possessive, maybe even threatening. But you could see the gentle way his eyes traced your features, the soft curve of his lips as he looked at you like you were something precious. "I think I'm the lucky one."
"We can both be lucky," you murmured, reaching up to play with the strings of his hoodie. He leaned into your touch immediately, all that intimidating energy melting away.
"Sounds fair." He ducked his head down, pressing soft kisses to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. "Love you."
"Love you more."
"Impossible," he whispered against your lips before kissing you properly, sweet and gentle and completely at odds with his dark, intimidating appearance. When you broke apart, you noticed a group of students had stopped to stare—probably trying to figure out if they should call campus security to rescue you from the scary guy.
"Think we're giving people the wrong idea again," you said, nodding toward the gawkers.
Sunoo glanced over his shoulder, and immediately his expression shifted back to that neutral, slightly menacing look that made people cross the street. The students quickly scattered.
"Good," he said, turning back to you with a grin. "More privacy for us."
Hai i just wanna say that the sun is mine is one of my fave sunoo fics🥹 aside from the writing and plot being so beautiful, for me, you were able to capture how vampire sunoo would be 🫶🏻 requesting more vampire sunoo fics juseyo:3
Midnight Covenant `✦ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹ K.SN
pairing: vampire! barista!sunoo x burnt-out writer!reader
The grandfather clock in your apartment strikes midnight with the solemnity of a funeral bell, each chime reverberating through the silence like a death knell for your creativity. Before you lies a manuscript as barren as winter's first grave, cursor blinking with the persistence of a heartbeat that refuses to still.
Three months. Three months since the words fled from you like spirits at dawn, leaving behind only the hollow ache of empty pages. Your editor's letters grow increasingly terse, your bank account dwindles with the inevitability of autumn leaves, and still the stories remain locked away in some unreachable corner of your soul.
The city beyond your window breathes with nocturnal life—a different creature entirely from its daylight self. It whispers promises of inspiration to those brave enough to walk its shadowed streets, and tonight, desperate as a drowning woman reaching for driftwood, you answer its call.
The flyer had appeared beneath your door like an omen, heavy crimson paper that seemed to absorb rather than reflect the hallway's fluorescent light. Nocturne Café, it proclaimed in script that flowed like spilled wine. Where night dwellers find sustenance for body and soul.
You dress in layers against the October chill, wrapping yourself in wool and leather like armor against the dark. The streets stretch before you, gleaming with recent rain that reflects the streetlamps in pools of amber light. Your footsteps echo against old brick and modern concrete, a percussion that seems to announce your passage to unseen watchers.
The neighborhood transforms as you venture deeper into its heart. Familiar shops appear different in the darkness—their windows black and watching, their signs taking on ominous new meanings. You pass beneath iron lamp posts that cast more shadow than light, their fixtures wrought in shapes that seem almost organic, like flowering vines frozen in metal.
Then you see it, and your breath catches in your throat.
Nocturne Café sits tucked between a vintage bookstore and what appears to be an antique shop that's definitely seen better decades. Light spills from its tall windows in shades of gold and amber, but it's a light that seems almost alive, flickering with the rhythm of a pulse. The glass is old—genuinely old—with that slight waviness that speaks of another century, another lifetime entirely.
Above the door hangs a sign painted in deep burgundy and black, the café's name written in letters that seem to shift when you're not looking directly at them. Ivy climbs the building's brick facade with unnatural persistence, its leaves too green for the season, too lush for the city's gray embrace.
The bell above the door doesn't chime when you enter—it sighs, a sound like wind through cemetery trees. The interior unfolds before you like a scene from a fever dream, all velvet shadows and candlelight that dances without any discernible breeze. The walls are lined with books whose spines bear no titles, and portraits of people with eyes that seem to track your movement hang in frames black as midnight.
But it's the scent that truly captures you. Coffee, yes, but underneath lies something else—iron and roses, like a garden built atop ancient battlefields. It's intoxicating and unsettling in equal measure, making your pulse quicken with an excitement you can't quite name.
The other patrons sit in pools of shadow, their conversations carried on in whispers that stop just short of silence. A woman in the corner booth cradles a glass of what looks like wine but moves too slowly, too thickly. Her skin is pale as parchment, her dress a shade of midnight blue that seems to swallow light. She hasn't touched the delicate pastries on her plate, hasn't even glanced at them, but she watches everything else with eyes sharp as winter stars.
Near the window, two young men lean across their table in urgent conference, their voices too low to catch but their gestures speaking of secrets and conspiracies. One's fingers drum against his coffee cup with nervous energy, while the other remains preternaturally still—so still you begin to wonder if he's breathing at all.
But all of this registers only dimly, because behind the mahogany counter stands the most beautiful man you've ever seen, and beautiful is too small a word for what he is.
He moves with liquid grace, every gesture economical and precise, as if he's choreographed each motion across decades of practice. His hair catches the candlelight like spun gold, and when he looks up at you, his smile is warm enough to chase away the October chill that clings to your bones.
"Welcome," he says, and his voice carries the music of distant thunder, "to Nocturne."
You approach the counter on unsteady legs, clutching your laptop bag like a talisman against whatever spell this place has begun weaving around you. Up close, his beauty takes on an almost painful quality—the kind of perfection that speaks of marble statues and renaissance paintings, of things too lovely for the mortal world.
"I'm looking for..." you begin, then pause, unsure how to explain the desperate hunger that's driven you into the night.
"Something to wake up your brain?" he suggests, and his smile is understanding. "You've got that look. Like you've been staring at a blank page for way too long."
It's not a question. Somehow, impossibly, he just knows.
"Is it that obvious?"
"You carry stories in your eyes," he says simply. "But they're all tangled up. Writer's block is like that—everything's there, but you can't reach it."
His choice of words makes you shiver, but not with cold. "Something like that."
"I'm Sunoo," he offers, extending a hand across the counter. His skin is cool as marble against yours, and his grip lingers a moment longer than strictly necessary. "And you are someone in need of the right blend."
He doesn't ask for your name, and you don't offer it. At this hour, in this place, it doesn't seem to matter.
"I've got something that might help," Sunoo continues, his fingers already moving between bottles and containers arranged behind him with careful precision. "A special blend I make for people who need to unlock things. Hidden thoughts. Forgotten memories. Stories that have been hiding."
You watch him work with the fascination of someone witnessing ancient ritual. Steam rises from the espresso machine like incense, and he moves between ingredients with the confidence of a practiced alchemist. The coffee he's building is darker than midnight, and when he adds what looks like cream, it swirls through the liquid like smoke through water.
"Just so you know," he says, sliding the cup across the counter, "this particular blend can be... intense. Some people say it helps them see things differently. Think more clearly."
The porcelain is bone white, delicate as eggshell, and the liquid within seems to absorb the candlelight rather than reflect it. Your fingers close around the cup, and the ceramic is warm against your palm, warmer than it should be. The scent rises to meet you—coffee, yes, but underneath something else. Something wild and ancient and utterly intoxicating.
"What's in it?" you ask, though you're already raising it to your lips.
Sunoo's smile grows mysterious, and in the candlelight, his teeth catch the light strangely. "Trade secrets. But I think you'll find what you're looking for."
The first sip sends fire racing through your veins, and for a moment, the world tilts on its axis. Colors become more vivid, shadows deeper, and you can swear you hear whispers in languages you don't recognize threading through the café's ambient music. Your mind, sluggish and empty for months, suddenly blazes to life with possibilities.
"Oh," you breathe, and Sunoo's laugh is genuinely pleased.
"Good?" he asks, and something in his tone makes you look at him more closely.
You find an empty table near the back, laptop open, fingers flying across keys that sing with each strike. The words pour from you like water from a broken dam, stories you didn't know you carried, characters who speak with voices clear as crystal. Hours pass like minutes, and you're dimly aware of the café's other patrons coming and going like shadows at the edge of your vision.
But always, you feel Sunoo watching you from behind the counter, his gaze warm as candlelight on your skin.
When you finally surface from your creative trance, the sky outside has begun to lighten with the first hints of dawn. The café, you realize, has been growing steadily emptier, until now only you and a handful of others remain. The woman with the untouched pastries has vanished, as have the whispering young men, leaving behind only coffee cups and wine glasses that gleam like rubies in the dying candlelight.
You've written fifteen pages. Fifteen pages of the best work you've done in years, maybe ever. Your fingers ache pleasantly, and your mind buzzes with the satisfaction of creation fulfilled.
"Good night?" Sunoo appears at your elbow, moving with that same fluid grace you'd noticed earlier. Up close, you can see that his skin has an almost luminous quality, like he's lit from within.
"Amazing," you admit, looking up at him. "I haven't written like that in months. What was in that coffee?"
"Inspiration," he says simply, beginning to clear empty cups from nearby tables. "And perhaps a touch of magic."
You laugh, but the sound feels strange in the hushed atmosphere of the café. "Magic?"
"This is a special place," Sunoo explains, his voice soft as velvet. "It draws certain people—artists, dreamers, those who feel more alive in the darkness than in the day. The coffee is good, but the real magic comes from finding where you belong."
Something in his words makes your heart skip, though you can't quite say why. "And where do I belong?"
He pauses in his clearing, fixing you with a look that seems to see straight through to your soul. "That remains to be seen, doesn't it?"
The sky outside has grown definitely lighter now, painting the windows with shades of gray and gold. You realize, with something approaching panic, that the café will likely close soon, and the thought of returning to your empty apartment and lifeless manuscript fills you with dread.
"When do you open again?" you ask, already knowing you'll be back.
"Sunset," Sunoo replies, his smile warming like sunrise itself. "We'll be here."
We'll be here. The words follow you home through the brightening streets, echoing in your mind as you fall into the first peaceful sleep you've had in months. And when you dream, it's of golden eyes and silver laughter, of coffee that tastes like starlight and shadows that dance with lives of their own.
You don't yet know that you've taken the first step into a world where the impossible brushes shoulders with the everyday, where beauty and danger wear the same face, and where a café that exists only in the darkest hours of night will become the center of everything that matters.
But Sunoo knows. Behind his warm smile and gentle words, he recognizes what you are—what you could become. And as he watches you disappear into the dawn, he allows himself a moment of something that might be hope, or might be hunger.
In the Blood Moon Café, the two have always been remarkably similar.
You return the next night like a moth to flame, telling yourself it's purely practical. The coffee worked, didn't it? Fifteen pages of your best writing in months—surely that's worth investigating further. The fact that golden eyes and a voice like velvet thunder have haunted your dreams all day is entirely coincidental.
The café appears exactly as you remember it, though somehow the ivy seems to have grown overnight, its tendrils reaching further up the brick facade with an enthusiasm that defies the approaching winter. The same warm light spills from the windows, the same mysterious energy pulses from within like a heartbeat made of shadow and flame.
This time, you notice things you missed before. The way the other patrons' reflections seem slightly delayed in the antique mirrors lining the walls. How the candles burn without ever growing shorter, their flames dancing to music you can't quite hear. The books on the shelves—when you try to focus on their spines, the titles seem to shift and blur, as if written in a language your eyes refuse to process.
Sunoo greets you with the same warm smile, but tonight there's something different in his gaze—a recognition that makes your pulse quicken.
"The writer returns," he says, and his voice holds a note of genuine pleasure. "I wondered if you would."
"The coffee," you say, then pause, realizing how inadequate that sounds. "It was... remarkable."
"Was it the coffee, though?" He begins preparing something without asking what you want, his movements carrying that same hypnotic precision. "Or was it finding a place where you could finally breathe?"
The question catches you off guard with its accuracy. That's exactly what it felt like—breathing after months of holding your breath, existing after merely surviving.
"Both, maybe," you admit, settling at the same table as before. It's been left empty, you notice, despite the café being busier tonight. "How did you know I'd want the same thing?"
"Call it intuition," Sunoo replies, bringing over the same bone-white cup filled with liquid darkness. "Some people are creatures of habit. Others are creatures of instinct. You strike me as the latter."
The coffee tastes even better than you remember, if that's possible. With the first sip, that electric clarity floods your system again, but tonight you're more aware of its effects. Your senses sharpen until you can hear conversations from across the room, smell the rain that's still hours from falling, feel the subtle vibrations of the city's underground railway system through the floorboards.
"What exactly is in this?" you ask again, studying the liquid with new suspicion.
Sunoo's smile grows mysterious. "Would you believe me if I told you?"
"Try me."
He leans against your table, close enough that you can see the way candlelight plays across his features, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the almost luminous quality of his skin. "Coffee beans grown in soil blessed by moonlight. Water drawn from springs that have never seen sun. And perhaps a drop or two of something that doesn't appear in any cookbook."
You should laugh. It's clearly some kind of marketing nonsense, the sort of mystical babble designed to make pretentious coffee shops seem more interesting. But looking into his eyes, you find yourself believing every word.
"And the something else?" you press.
"That," he says, straightening with fluid grace, "is a secret I reserve for very special customers."
The way he says special sends heat spiraling through your chest, and you have to look away before you do something embarrassing like blush visibly. Instead, you focus on your laptop screen, letting the words flow as they did the night before.
But tonight, you're more aware of the café's other inhabitants. The pale woman from yesterday hasn't returned, but her place has been taken by a man in an expensive suit who conducts what appears to be a business meeting entirely in whispers. His companion never speaks, only nods, and you could swear his shadow moves independently of his body.
Near the window, a couple shares what looks like wine but pours too slowly, too thickly. They don't drink so much as taste, lifting the glasses to their lips with reverent care. Their conversation, what little you can hear, seems to span decades—references to events that should be historical, people who should be long dead, places that might not exist anymore.
As the hours pass, you begin to notice patterns. Customers arrive individually but seem to know each other, acknowledging familiar faces with subtle nods and meaningful glances. They order from Sunoo's mysterious special menu, receiving drinks in cut crystal glasses that never seem to empty. And gradually, as dawn approaches, they simply... disappear. Not leaving through the door, exactly, but fading like mist until suddenly they're no longer there.
"Interesting crowd," you comment when Sunoo stops by to check on you around four in the morning.
"The night draws particular people," he agrees, sliding into the seat across from you uninvited. This close, you can see that his beauty has an almost ethereal quality—too perfect, too symmetrical, like looking at a painting of an angel. "Those who find daylight... limiting."
"Are you one of them?"
Something flickers across his expression—surprise, perhaps, or approval. "What do you think?"
You study him more carefully. His skin has that luminous quality you noticed before, but now you realize it's not makeup or good genes. He literally glows, a subtle radiance that seems to come from within. His hair catches light that isn't there, and his eyes hold depths that speak of centuries rather than decades.
"I think," you say slowly, "that this place isn't exactly what it appears to be."
"And what do you think it appears to be?"
"A café." You pause, choosing your words carefully. "But cafés don't usually have customers who don't eat food, or baristas who look like they stepped out of Renaissance paintings, or coffee that makes you feel like you can hear colors and see music."
Sunoo's laugh is genuinely delighted, and when he smiles, you catch a glimpse of something sharp and white. Fangs, your mind supplies helpfully, though the rational part of you immediately rebels against the thought.
"You're very observant," he says.
"I'm a writer. Observation is my job." You lean back in your chair, studying his face in the candlelight. "So what are you really?"
"What do you want me to be?"
The question hangs between you like a challenge, and you realize that he's giving you a choice. You could laugh it off, dismiss the strangeness as elaborate theater, finish your coffee and never return. Go back to your safe, mundane life of writer's block and ordinary problems.
Or you could step through the door he's opening, into whatever strange and wonderful world exists in the spaces between reality and dream.
"I want you to be exactly what you are," you say finally. "Whatever that is."
His smile softens, becoming something warmer and more genuine. "Dangerous words."
"I'm a writer," you repeat. "Danger is my specialty."
The third night, you arrive with questions burning on your tongue and find the café transformed. The lighting is dimmer, all candleflame and shadow, and the usual jazz has been replaced by something older—music that sounds like it belongs in centuries past, all strings and haunting melodies that seem to bypass your ears and speak directly to your soul.
The clientele is different too. Where before you saw business meetings and quiet couples, tonight the café hosts what can only be described as a gathering. Beautiful people in clothing that spans decades—some in modern dress, others in styles that look like they stepped out of history books—fill nearly every table. Their conversations flow in multiple languages, some of which you're sure died out long ago.
And they're all looking at you.
Not obviously, not all at once, but you can feel their attention like weight against your skin. Curious glances, whispered comments, the sense of being evaluated by standards you don't understand.
Sunoo appears at your side before you can fully process the change in atmosphere.
"You came back," he says, and there's something almost vulnerable in his voice.
"Did you think I wouldn't?"
"I hoped you would. But hope and expectation are very different things." He guides you to a table that's been set apart from the others, positioned so you can observe the room while maintaining some privacy. "Tonight is... special. A monthly gathering of sorts."
"Gathering of what?"
But before he can answer, a woman approaches your table. She's stunning in that ageless way that speaks of good genes and better skincare, her dark hair swept into an elegant chignon, her dress a shade of midnight blue that seems to absorb light. When she smiles, you catch a glimpse of the same sharp canines you thought you saw in Sunoo's mouth.
"So this is our little writer," she says, her voice carrying an accent you can't place. "How fascinating. It's been so long since someone new joined our circle."
"Heeseung," Sunoo says, and there's a warning in his voice.
"Oh, don't fret, darling. I'm not going to frighten her away." Heeseung—though she looks nothing like any Heeseung you've ever imagined—slides into the empty chair beside you with liquid grace. "Though I am curious. What do you see when you look at us?"
The question feels loaded, important in ways you don't fully grasp. Around the room, conversations have quieted, and you realize that everyone is waiting for your answer.
"I see beautiful people having coffee in an extraordinary place," you say carefully.
"And?"
You look around the room again, taking in details that have been nagging at the edges of your consciousness. The way shadows seem to cling to certain customers like living things. How some people's reflections in the antique mirrors are slightly out of sync with their movements. The fact that in three nights, you've never seen anyone actually eat the food they order.
"And I see people who aren't entirely people," you say quietly.
A collective sigh seems to ripple through the room, though it might just be the wind outside. Heeseung's smile grows wider, revealing teeth that are definitely sharper than they should be.
"Clever girl," she murmurs. "No wonder Sunoo is so taken with you."
Heat floods your cheeks at the implication, but before you can respond, Sunoo returns with your usual coffee and something else—a small glass filled with liquid so dark it seems to absorb light.
"A choice," he says simply, setting both vessels before you. "Coffee, and the life you knew before. Or..." He gestures to the darker liquid. "Truth, and everything that comes with it."
Your hands tremble slightly as you reach for the glass. The liquid inside moves like it's heavier than wine, heavier than water, and when you lift it to your nose, the scent is metallic and rich and utterly intoxicating.
"What is it?" you whisper.
"Life," Sunoo says simply. "In its purest form."
Blood, your mind supplies, and this time you don't push the thought away. The rational part of your brain is screaming warnings, telling you to grab your things and run, to get as far away from this impossible place and these impossible people as quickly as possible.
But the writer in you, the part that has always been hungry for stories and experiences and truths that exist beyond the mundane world, is fascinated. This is the kind of moment that changes everything—the kind of choice that divides life into before and after.
"If I drink this," you say, still holding the glass, "what happens?"
"You'll see us as we truly are," Heeseung says. "And we'll see if you can handle the truth."
"And if I can't?"
Sunoo's expression grows pained. "Then I'll make sure you forget. All of this, all of us. You'll go back to your life exactly as it was, and we'll become nothing more than a half-remembered dream."
The thought of forgetting him, of losing this strange and wonderful place that's brought your creativity roaring back to life, fills you with something approaching panic. Whatever these people are, whatever this place truly is, it's become more important to you than your rational mind wants to admit.
"And if I can handle it?"
"Then you become part of something extraordinary," Sunoo says softly. "Part of a world that exists in the shadows of the one you know, full of beauty and danger and possibilities you've never imagined."
You look around the room one more time, taking in the expectant faces, the otherworldly beauty, the sense of standing at the threshold between the mundane and the magical. Then you lift the glass to your lips and drink.
The taste explodes across your tongue—copper and iron and something indefinably wild. It's horrible and wonderful and utterly addictive, and as it slides down your throat, the world around you shifts and changes.
Colors become more vivid, shadows gain depth and texture, and suddenly you can see them all for what they truly are. The elegant customers with their ageless beauty and sharp smiles, their eyes that reflect light like cats' eyes, their movements that carry the predatory grace of apex predators.
Vampires. The café is full of vampires, and you've just drunk blood, and somehow this feels less like a revelation than a confirmation of something you already knew in your bones.
"Well?" Heeseung asks, her voice now carrying harmonics that seem to resonate in your chest. "How do you feel?"
"Alive," you say, and realize it's truer than you've ever been. "More alive than I've felt in years."
Sunoo's smile is radiant, and when he reaches across the table to take your hand, his skin feels exactly right against yours—cool and smooth and perfect.
"Welcome," he says, "to the Blood Moon Café. Now let me tell you what we really are."
The story he tells you spans centuries, a hidden history of creatures who chose to live alongside humanity rather than prey upon it. The Blood Moon Café serves as a sanctuary, a place where vampires can gather safely, where those who feed on donated blood rather than unwilling victims can find community and purpose.
"We're not what the stories make us out to be," Sunoo explains as the night deepens around you. The other patrons have gradually dispersed, leaving you alone with him in the flickering candlelight. "Most of us, anyway. We don't kill, we don't turn humans against their will, we don't skulk around in cemeteries wearing dramatic capes."
"Some of us look quite good in dramatic capes," Heeseung calls from behind the counter, where she's taken over the evening's cleaning duties.
"We live ordinary lives during the day—well, evening," Sunoo continues with an amused glance at his friend. "We have jobs and homes and relationships. We've just learned to find sustenance without causing harm."
"The coffee," you realize. "It's not actually coffee, is it?"
"Oh, it's coffee too," he assures you. "But enhanced with blood from willing donors. Humans who know what we are and choose to help us. It's not as... nutritionally complete as feeding directly, but it sustains us."
You think of the electric energy that's flooded your system each night, the way your creativity has exploded back to life, the sharpened senses and heightened awareness. "And what does it do to humans?"
"Enhances natural abilities," Sunoo says carefully. "Makes you more yourself, in a way. Writers become more creative, artists more inspired, athletes stronger and faster. It's temporary, mostly harmless, and utterly addictive."
"Addictive?"
"Why do you think you kept coming back?" His smile is gentle but knowing. "The coffee was remarkable, yes, but what you were really craving was the way it made you feel. Alive. Powerful. Connected to something larger than yourself."
He's right, and the knowledge should disturb you more than it does. Instead, you find yourself fascinated by the implications.
"So this whole place is basically a front for supernatural creatures to exist in the modern world?"
"More than that," Heeseung interjects, appearing at your table with inhuman speed. "It's a bridge. A place where two worlds can coexist safely. Some of our human customers know exactly what we are. Others, like you were until tonight, simply know that something here is special."
"And which am I now?" you ask.
Sunoo's expression grows serious. "That depends entirely on what you want to be."
The question hangs between you, heavy with implication. You understand now that this is about more than just knowing their secret. This is about choosing whether to remain on the periphery of their world or step fully into it.
"What would stepping fully into it mean?"
"It would mean accepting that your life has just become infinitely more complicated and infinitely more interesting," Sunoo says. "It would mean learning to exist in both worlds—the mundane human one and the hidden supernatural one. It would mean danger, because not all vampires share our philosophy, and not all humans would understand our choices."
He pauses, his golden eyes searching your face in the candlelight.
"And it would mean spending a great deal more time with me, if that's something you'd want."
The way he says it—tentative, almost vulnerable—makes your heart skip. "And is that something you'd want?"
"I've been wondering that since the first night you walked in here," he admits. "You're not like other humans. You see things others miss, accept impossibilities others would reject. You're curious rather than fearful, excited rather than disturbed by the unknown."
"Maybe I'm just a really good writer," you suggest, though your pulse is racing.
"Maybe," he agrees. "Or maybe you're someone who was always meant to exist between worlds. Someone who understands that the most interesting stories happen in the spaces where reality blurs at the edges."
You look around the café—your café now, you realize, because leaving it behind is no longer an option you can seriously consider. The candlelit atmosphere, the sense of secrets and possibilities, the feeling of belonging somewhere extraordinary rather than ordinary.
"If I say yes," you ask, "what happens next?"
Sunoo's smile is radiant. "Next, we see where this story goes. Together."
Three months later, you've settled into a rhythm that would have seemed impossible in your old life. Days are for sleeping and editing, evenings are for writing in your apartment, and nights—nights are for the Blood Moon Café and the strange, wonderful community you've somehow become part of.
Your latest manuscript, a urban fantasy novel about supernatural creatures hiding in plain sight, sold to a publisher within a week of submission. Your editor called it "remarkably authentic" and "deeply atmospheric," praising your ability to make the impossible feel utterly believable. If only she knew.
But the real changes are smaller, more personal. The way Sunoo saves your favorite table every night, how he's learned to read your moods in the set of your shoulders and the particular way you chew your pen when stuck on a difficult scene. How he brings you coffee enhanced with just enough blood to sharpen your creativity without overwhelming your human system, a careful balance he's perfected through weeks of observation and adjustment.
How, somewhere along the way, friendship has deepened into something warmer, more complex. The careful touches that linger longer than necessary, conversations that stretch until dawn, the way he looks at you like you're the most fascinating creature he's encountered in his very long life.
Tonight finds you in your usual spot, laptop open, working on a scene that's been giving you trouble for days. The café is quieter than usual—a Tuesday in late January, when even vampires prefer to stay home—and Sunoo has abandoned the pretense of working to sit across from you, reading a book that's definitely older than your great-grandmother.
"Stuck?" he asks, looking up as you sigh in frustration.
"My protagonist needs to have a revelation about love, but I can't figure out how to make it feel authentic rather than contrived."
Sunoo sets down his book—something in what looks like Latin—and leans forward slightly. "What kind of revelation?"
"That love isn't always the big, dramatic, world-stopping moment fiction makes it out to be. Sometimes it's quiet. Sometimes it creeps up on you so gradually that by the time you recognize it, it's already become part of who you are."
"Ah," he says softly, and something in his tone makes you look up from your screen. "That kind of love."
He's watching you with an expression you've never seen before—tender and vulnerable and full of something that makes your breath catch.
"Sunoo?"
"I think," he says carefully, "your protagonist might realize that love is like finding the perfect café. You can search for it desperately, try to force it, visit a dozen places that almost work but don't quite fit. And then one night, when you're not even looking, you stumble across exactly what you need. And suddenly you can't imagine how you ever lived without it."
Your fingers freeze over the keyboard as the implications of his words sink in. "Is that... are you saying..."
"I'm saying that somewhere between that first night and now, you stopped being just an interesting human who wandered into my world." His voice is soft, almost hesitant. "You became the person I look forward to seeing every evening. The one whose creativity and curiosity and courage constantly amazes me. The one who looked at a room full of vampires and felt excitement instead of fear."
He reaches across the table, fingertips brushing against yours.
"I'm saying I love you," he continues, "in that quiet, creeping way that happens so gradually you don't notice until one day you realize that person has become part of your story. Part of who you are."
For a moment, you can't speak. The words you've been struggling to write for your fictional protagonist suddenly seem laughably simple compared to the reality of hearing them from Sunoo.
"I love you too," you say finally, and watch his face light up like sunrise. "Though I have to say, falling in love with a vampire wasn't exactly in my five-year plan."
His laugh is pure joy. "The best stories rarely go according to plan."
"No," you agree, closing your laptop and leaning across the table to kiss him properly for the first time. His lips are soft and cool and taste like coffee and possibilities. "They really don't."
Later, as dawn approaches and the café prepares to close, you help Sunoo with the cleaning routine you've gradually become part of. It's domestic and ordinary and perfect—this life you've stumbled into, this love you've found in the most unlikely place.
"So," you say as he locks the front door behind the last customer, "what happens in our story next?"
Sunoo pulls you into his arms, spinning you once in the empty café before setting you down among the flickering candles and velvet shadows.
"Whatever we want," he says, and kisses you again under the watchful eyes of painted portraits and the gentle glow of lights that burn without ever dimming.
Outside, the city prepares for another ordinary day, full of ordinary people living ordinary lives. But inside the Blood Moon Café, surrounded by magic and mystery and the kind of love that exists in the spaces between reality and dream, you know that your story is just beginning.
Content: angst, tragedy, romance, terminal illness, death, moral dilemma, gothic romance, tragic love
a/n: this was inspired by me listening to A Match Into Water by ptv, I've never written in a gothic style before but I've read a lot so I tried
The grandfather clock in the corner of your bedroom chimes midnight, its hollow toll echoing through the Victorian manor like a funeral bell. Thirteen chimes—an impossibility that makes Sunoo's jaw tighten as he adjusts the heavy curtains against the storm raging outside.
You've been bedridden for three weeks now, your body finally surrendering to the illness that's been devouring you from within like some gothic curse. The four-poster bed, with its dark mahogany frame and bloodred velvet canopy, has become your world—beautiful and suffocating in equal measure.
"The clock is broken again," you whisper, voice barely audible above the thunder that shakes the ancient windows.
"Time has no meaning in this house," Sunoo replies, settling into the wingback chair he's claimed as his vigil post. Shadows dance across his pale features in the candlelight—you'd banned the electric lights weeks ago, preferring the romantic gloom that suits your current Gothic novel existence.
He looks like a painting himself, you think—something tragic and beautiful that might hang in a museum with a placard reading "The Mourning Lover" or "Death's Companion." His dark hair frames a face carved from marble, perfect and cold and utterly inhuman in its beauty.
"You're staring," he murmurs without looking at you.
"I'm memorizing." Your fingers trace patterns on the silk coverlet, each movement requiring more effort than it should. "In case."
"Don't."
"In case this is the last time I see you looking at me like I'm still alive instead of already dead."
His head snaps toward you, eyes flashing with something dangerous. "You are not dead."
"Not yet." You manage a smile that feels like autumn leaves—brittle and ready to crumble. "But we both know I'm dying, Sunoo. The doctors confirmed it yesterday. Days, not weeks."
The storm outside seems to intensify at your words, lightning illuminating the room in stark, electric moments that make everything look like a daguerreotype—beautiful and haunted and somehow not quite real.
"I could—" he begins, then stops himself.
"You could turn me." The words hang in the air like incense, heavy and intoxicating. "We both know it. We've both been thinking about it. Why won't you say it?"
He rises from the chair with fluid grace, moving to the tall windows where rain lashes against the glass like tears against a casket lid. "Because saying it makes it real. Makes it a choice instead of a fantasy."
"Maybe it's time for it to be real."
"You don't understand what you're asking." His voice carries the weight of centuries, of watching too many people die, of living with choices that can never be undone. "You think vampire novels are romantic—the eternal love, the passionate darkness. But you don't know what forever actually means."
"Tell me."
He turns from the window, and in the candlelight his eyes look ancient, haunted. "It means watching everything you love turn to dust. It means feeling your humanity slip away piece by piece until you're not sure if you ever had a soul to begin with. It means hunger that never truly ends, no matter how much you feed."
"It means never having to say goodbye to you."
"It means becoming a monster."
"You're not a monster." You struggle to sit up against the mountain of pillows, your wedding dress from last month now hanging loose on your wasting frame. You'd insisted on marrying him when the diagnosis came back terminal, a gothic romance playing out in a candlelit chapel with more shadows than guests.
"I've killed people," he says simply. "Drained them dry because I was hungry and they were convenient. I've walked away from dying children because saving them would mean damning them. I've lived through plagues and wars and done nothing to help because preserving the secret of what I am mattered more than human life."
"That was before me."
"Was it?" His laugh is bitter as winter wind. "Three months ago, I fed from a young woman in the village. She reminded me of you—same hair, same laugh. I told myself it was just hunger, but I know the truth. I wanted to practice, wanted to know what it would feel like to sink my fangs into your throat."
The confession should horrify you, but instead it sends a thrill through your dying body. "And how did it feel?"
"Empty." He moves closer to the bed, and you can see the self-loathing in his expression. "Because she wasn't you. Because no matter how much I took from her, she couldn't give me what I actually wanted."
"Which is?"
"You. Forever. Unchanging and perfect and mine for eternity." His voice drops to a whisper. "And that's exactly why I can't do it. Because I want it too much. Because I'd be turning you for selfish reasons, not because it's what's best for you."
Outside, the storm rages with renewed fury. Lightning splits the sky and in its brief illumination, you see something in Sunoo's face that takes your breath away—raw, desperate longing barely held in check by iron will.
"What if I want it too?" you ask. "What if I want to be yours forever?"
"You're dying. You're not thinking clearly."
"I've never thought more clearly in my life." The effort of speaking leaves you breathless, but you push on. "I know what I'm choosing. I know what I'm giving up. And I know what I'm gaining."
"You're giving up your soul."
"My soul is already yours." The truth of it rings through the room like a bell. "It has been since the night we met. The only question is whether you'll take the rest of me too."
He sinks onto the edge of the bed, the mattress barely dipping under his slight weight. His hand finds yours—cold marble against fevered flesh—and for a moment you sit in silence, listening to the storm and the irregular rhythm of your failing heart.
"I had a sister once," he says finally. "When I was human. She died of consumption—wasted away just like you are now. I held her hand as she died, listened to her beg for more time, more life. And I swore that if I ever had the power to save someone I loved, I would use it."
"Then why won't you save me?"
"Because I also swore I'd never force this curse on anyone else." His thumb traces across your knuckles with reverent care. "Because I've spent two hundred years trying to atone for the monster I became, and turning you would undo all of it."
"Even if it's what I want?"
"Especially if it's what you want." He looks at you with eyes full of centuries of regret. "Because I love you too much to trust my own motives."
The clock chimes again—impossible fourteenth chime that echoes through the house like a death knell. Your vision blurs at the edges, and you can feel your strength ebbing like tide going out to sea.
"Sunoo," you whisper, and his name sounds like a prayer. "I need you to listen to me. Really listen."
He leans closer, close enough that you can see the gold flecks in his dark eyes, can smell the faint scent of roses that always clings to his skin.
"I'm not afraid of becoming a monster," you tell him. "I'm afraid of leaving you alone. I'm afraid of you sitting in this room for the next hundred years, surrounded by my things, talking to my ghost."
"I would survive."
"Surviving isn't living." Your hand tightens on his with what little strength you have left. "And I won't condemn you to an eternity of mere survival because you're too noble to give us both what we want."
Thunder crashes overhead, and in the silence that follows, you can hear your heartbeat growing slower, more irregular. Time is running out, and you both know it.
"If you won't turn me," you say quietly, "then I need you to do something else."
"Anything."
"I need you to let me go."
His face goes ashen. "What?"
"The morphine. Dr. Whitmore left extra, said to use it if the pain became unbearable." You gesture weakly toward the medical supplies on the bedside table. "It would be peaceful. Quick. Better than wasting away for days while you torture yourself watching."
"No." The word comes out fierce, absolute. "I won't kill you."
"You wouldn't be killing me. You'd be loving me enough to spare us both a slow goodbye."
"I can't—"
"Then turn me." Your voice carries a strength that surprises you both. "Those are your choices, Sunoo. Save me or let me go peacefully. But I won't lie here dying by inches while you punish yourself for wanting to help me."
He stares at you for a long moment, something breaking behind his eyes. Then he's moving, standing and pacing to the window where lightning continues to fracture the sky.
"You make it sound so simple," he says to the storm.
"Love is simple. It's everything else that's complicated."
He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Simple. Yes, I suppose watching the person you love most in the world die could be considered simple."
"It could be beautiful," you whisper. "If you let it."
Another impossible chime from the broken clock—fifteen now, as if time itself is unraveling in this house where life and death dance together in the shadows.
When Sunoo turns from the window, his face is set with terrible resolution.
"If I do this," he says slowly, "if I turn you—there's no going back. No changing your mind in fifty years when you realize what you've lost."
"I know."
"You'll never see another sunrise. Never feel warm summer rain on your skin. Never have children, never grow old, never know peace."
"I'll have forever with you."
"You'll have forever with a monster."
"I'll have forever with the man I love." You struggle to sit up straighter, pouring everything you have left into your voice. "The man who reads me poetry in languages that died centuries ago. Who brings me flowers he's grown in moonlight. Who loves me enough to damn himself rather than damn me."
Something shifts in his expression—the last wall crumbling, the final defense falling away.
"And if I can't do it?" he asks. "If I lose my nerve?"
"Then you help me leave this world with dignity instead of pain."
He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, they're shining with unshed tears. "I love you," he says simply.
"I love you too."
The storm outside begins to quiet, rain softening from a torrent to a gentle patter against the windows. Sunoo moves back to the bed with the grace of a creature born to darkness, settling beside you on the bloodred coverlet.
"Tell me about the garden in Prague," you whisper, settling back against his chest.
It's a game you've played before—him describing the places he's been, the beauty he's witnessed across centuries of wandering. Tonight, he tells you about a monastery garden where he once spent a winter, watching snow fall on ancient stones while monks sang vespers in the distance.
His voice is soothing, painting pictures of beauty in the midst of everything dark about this moment. As he talks, your eyelids grow heavy, your breathing more shallow.
"Sleep," he murmurs against your hair. "I'll be here."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
You drift toward unconsciousness, his voice following you into dreams of snow and stones and songs that echo through eternity. In your dreams, you're walking through his garden, snowflakes in your hair, his hand in yours. The sun has set forever, but you're not afraid.
When you wake, the room is silent except for the soft patter of rain. The candles have burned lower, casting longer shadows across the Gothic architecture of your bedroom. Sunoo sits exactly where he was before, but something has changed. There's a stillness to him that speaks of decisions made, of crossroads chosen.
"What time is it?" you ask, though the broken clock has stopped chiming entirely.
"Nearly dawn."
Your body feels different—lighter somehow, as if you're already beginning to fade from the world. The monitors Dr. Whitmore insisted on installing beep slowly, erratically, marking the irregular rhythm of a heart that's forgetting how to beat.
"It's time, isn't it?"
He nods, unable to speak.
You study his face in the dim candlelight, memorizing every line, every shadow. Even in anguish, he's beautiful—otherworldly in a way that once made you wonder how someone like him could love someone like you. Now you understand that love doesn't follow rules of logic or fairness.
"Have you decided?" you ask.
"Yes." His voice is barely a whisper.
"And?"
He leans down, taking your face in his hands with infinite tenderness. His skin is cold as marble, but his touch burns like starfire.
"I've decided to love you enough to give you what you truly want," he says. "Even if it damns us both."
"What do I truly want?"
"To never have to say goodbye."
He kisses you then, soft and sweet and tasting of eternity. When he pulls back, his eyes have gone completely black, pupils blown wide with hunger and love and terrible purpose.
"It will hurt," he warns, voice rough with emotion. "But only for a moment."
"I'm not afraid."
"You should be. You should be terrified of what I'm about to make you."
"I'm only terrified of leaving you alone."
He nods, settling beside you fully now, pulling you against his chest. Your heart monitor beeps slower, more irregular—a countdown neither of you acknowledges.
"I love you," he whispers against your throat, lips finding the pulse that flutters there like a trapped bird.
"I love you too."
The pain, when it comes, is nothing like you expected. Instead of agony, there's a sharp sweetness, like the moment between sleeping and waking when anything seems possible. You feel your life flowing out of you and something else flowing in—cold and ancient and eternal.
Your last human thought is that you're not afraid. You can feel Sunoo's arms around you, holding you through the transformation, can hear him whispering promises against your skin.
The heart monitor flatlines with a long, steady tone that fills the Gothic bedroom like a funeral dirge. For a moment, there is only silence and the sound of rain against ancient windows.
Then—awakening. No breath needed, no heartbeat required, but a different kind of life flowing through veins that no longer carry warmth.
In the candlelit darkness, you open eyes that see too clearly, hear too much, feel everything with supernatural intensity. The world has become sharp-edged and overwhelming, every shadow deeper, every sound a symphony of noise you never noticed as a human.
But it's the hunger that hits you first—immediate, consuming, unlike anything you could have imagined. Not the gentle craving Sunoo had described, but a ravening beast that claws at your insides with desperate need.
"Sunoo," you gasp, sitting up too quickly, the movement unnaturally fluid. "Something's wrong. I can hear... everything. The mice in the walls, the servants' heartbeats three floors down, I can smell their blood and I want—" You stop, horrified by your own words.
His face is stricken as he reaches for you. "The hunger will settle. It always does. You just need to feed, and then—"
"No." You pull away from his touch, suddenly understanding what you've become with devastating clarity. "This isn't what I thought it would be. This isn't beautiful or romantic. I can hear Mrs. Chen crying in the kitchen because she thinks I've died. I can smell the fear on Dr. Whitmore as he climbs the stairs. I want to hunt them, Sunoo. I want to kill them."
"Those feelings will fade," he says desperately, but you can hear the lie in his voice. "With time, with practice—"
"Will they?" You look at your hands—pale as bone, fingers ending in subtle claws you hadn't noticed before. "Is this how you felt? When you were turned? Like a monster wearing the face of someone who used to be human?"
He can't answer, and his silence is answer enough.
"You saved my life," you whisper, and tears that will never fall again burn behind your eyes. "But you couldn't save me."
The realization settles between you like a death shroud. You have forever now, just as you wanted. Forever to love him, forever to never say goodbye. But the woman who loved him—the woman who read poetry and laughed at his stories and dreamed of growing old together—she died on this bed.
What sits here now wears her face and carries her memories, but the soul is something different. Something hungry and cold and beautifully damned.
"I'm sorry," Sunoo breathes, and for the first time in two centuries, fresh tears track down his marble cheeks. "I'm so sorry. I thought... I hoped you might be different, might retain more of yourself. But the hunger, the darkness—it takes everyone eventually."
"Not your fault," you say, though part of you—the monstrous part—whispers that it is. "I begged you for this. I chose this."
"You chose love. You got damnation."
You reach for him then, noting how your touch no longer brings him comfort but makes him flinch slightly. Even he can sense what you've become, what you've lost in the transformation.
"At least we have forever," you say, trying to find some comfort in the promise you'd clung to as you died.
But even as you say it, you both know the truth. You have forever, yes—but not the forever either of you had dreamed of. Not growing deeper in love, but growing deeper in darkness. Not finding joy in eternity, but finding new ways to hunger, to hurt, to become the very monsters he'd warned you about.
The broken clock chimes seventeen times, eighteen, nineteen—time fracturing around the weight of what's been lost and what's been gained. Outside, the storm breaks, leaving only the gentle sound of rain that you now hear with supernatural clarity, every drop a percussion that will never fade, never become background noise again.
"Forever," you whisper, and the word tastes like ashes and blood.
"Forever," he agrees, and pulls you close as dawn approaches hidden behind heavy curtains.
You are saved. You are damned. You are together.
And in the candlelit darkness of the Gothic manor, two monsters hold each other and mourn the humans they used to be, while eternity stretches before them like a beautiful, terrible dream from which there is no waking.
The rain washes the world clean, but some stains can never be removed.
¿se sellará la indescriptible atracción que sentías hacia Park Sunghoon con el pinchazo de un colmillo?
pair: vampire!park sunghoon x f!reader
summary: park sunghoon volvió a por ti y esta vez, selló lo que debería haber sellado desde que hace tres meses.
warnings of part 3: sangre, mordiscos, besos en el cuello, menciones de dios, traición de una amistad, lenguaje malsonante y si veis alguno más decidme pls
words: 4587
quick note: esta es la penúltima parte escrita escuchando compulsivamente moonstruck y folklore porque estoy obsesionada, de ahí el cambio de título! disfrutad <3
primera parte segunda parte cuarta parte
Park Sunghoon miró a la Luna desde aquella azotea, lejos del lado por el cual podías llegar a verle desde la entrada. La miró con un corazón tembloroso y entrañas temerosas. Se sintió un niño, aquel que una vez fue él, mirando desde una de las grandes ventanas de su cuarto a la misma Luna que ahora todavía le proporcionaba esa simpatía que muchas veces, sintiéndose la criatura más horrorosa del mundo, necesitaba.
Te extrañaba.
Su pequeñez e iluminación de plenitud le provocaban paz, la misma que junto a ti minutos antes, dentro de toda la excitación y nerviosismo de vuestro primer encuentro, sentía. Porque os pertenecíais. Erais uno del otro.
Con una mano en su boca, intentando notar la relajación de sus colmillos, se dio cuenta de que todas aquellas veces de niño que hacía lo mismo, mirar a la Luna buscando una compañía específica, ya no se repetirían. ¿Por qué? Porque tú eras esa compañía que siempre su solitario corazón necesitó.
Tú eras su Luna. Y no podía perderte.
Tus manos, agarradas a los soportes laterales que tenía la moto en su asiento trasero, empezaban a congelarse mientras Park Jay conducía por la autopista.
Su camiseta holgada de tirantes sufría cada golpe del viento con pasividad, moviéndose descontroladamente mientras su pelo se revolvía al mismo ritmo. Tu corazón se relajó en tu pecho tras notar la prudencia con la que este ser que suponías inmortal conducía, preocupándose por seguir las normas de tráfico correspondientes pese a conducir una moto, conducta no muy seguida por la mayoría de los mortales.
Y, en verdad, mientras Sunoo te peinaba escasas horas antes preparándote para la fiesta, el trayecto no te había parecido tan largo.
Recordaste lo emocionada que te sentías entre las risas de Sunoo y los comentarios de Aerin y tu estómago se revolvió, rememorando por algún motivo muy claro, el sabor a sangre de animal que habías ingerido pensando que era ese vino de mala calidad que Aerin te recomendó -con ella las recomendaciones son prohibiciones- no beber.
Volver a pensar en ellos, en tus hasta el momento amigos, no te produjo buenas sensaciones. Aerin no estabas del todo segura pero Sunoo sí... Sunoo era lo mismo que el chico que te llevaba a los dormitorios sin pedir aparentemente nada a cambio; un vampiro. No sabías si por esa similitud Jay te había recordado a Sunoo, o si eran sus acciones amables. Comportamientos de Sunoo contigo que ya no te parecían tan bondadosos.
El frío de tus manos empeoró mientras salíais de la autopista, volviéndose sumamente doloroso. El frío quema, y no sentías las cenizas de tus manos mientras Park Jay al entrar en la carretera que dirigía hacia el pueblo cercano a dónde se situaba la Academia Bram Stoker, era parado por un semáforo en rojo.
Rápidamente, tras él sacar sus pies de los soportes de la moto apoyándolos en la tierra para estabilizarla y cuando tuviste la seguridad de que la gravedad no te haría caer, llevaste tus manos a tu pecho, intentando de alguna forma calentarlas. Jay giró la cabeza hacia ti, notando tu movimiento y, tras chasquear la lengua -gesto que te asustó al relacionarlo con molestia por ti cuando en verdad era hacia él mismo por no haberse dado cuenta de que probablemente hacía un frío de muerte- desató la sudadera que tenía atada a la cintura y te la entregó.
Guiada por esa percepción de molestia causada por ti en ese ceño fruncido suyo, negaste con la cabeza efusivamente. El semáforo se puso en verde pero Jay siguió tendiéndote aquella prenda de ropa. Gesticulaste hacia el semáforo -considerabas que al tener el casco no te escucharía si hablabas, en fin- pero Jay ni se inmutó. Pese a coches pitando o adelantándole, la mano de Jay seguía dirigida hacia ti con la sudadera. Tus mejillas se calentaron de, lo que supusiste, frío y decidiste aceptar la oferta, poniéndotela rápidamente. Mañana seguramente te despertarías con fiebre.
Tras terminar de ponértela, te diste cuenta de que Jay seguía girado hacia ti y, antes de que pudieras comentarlo, agarró una de tus manos que llevó consigo hacia delante mientras el volvía a mirar al frente, colocándola en su abdomen, rodeándolo. Tu primer instinto fue apartarte, pero volver a pensar en estar en la posición de antes cuándo ésta era mucho más cómoda te hizo replantearte la situación hasta acabar aceptando, rodeando el otro lado de su abdomen con tu otro brazo.
Además, Jay no tenía intenciones de arrancar y seguir con la marcha hasta que te situaras de esa forma. No viste su sonrisa satisfactoria después de que lo hicieras y antes de encender el motor al sus anchos hombros bloquear tu campo de visión.
No pudiste evitar darte cuenta de lo relajado que estaba tu corazón y pensar en a cuánta velocidad latiría si tus manos estuviesen sobre los abdominales de Park Sunghoon y no sobre los del capitán del equipo de béisbol.
Buscando distraerte de cómo la adrenalina se instauró en tu diafragma ante el mero pensamiento de tener a Park Sunghoon a esta mínima distancia, pensaste en las preguntas que le harías a Jay una vez llegado a la Academia.
Toda las dudas que te podría provocar esta situación (tener pruebas de la existencia de vampiros) se podrían ramificar de muchas maneras, centrándose en diversos efectos. Pero, por tus vivencias y tú ya existente sospecha de la Academia y los alumnos SSR, tus se centraron en la identidad: ¿Quién era vampiro y quién no? ¿Eran todos los alumnos SSR vampiros? ¿Era la Academia una Organización secreta de vampiros? ¿Era Aerin... un vampiro?
Sunoo, Jay, Jake y Heeseung lo eran. También Sunghoon aunque no necesitaba morder a nadie para demostrarlo. No eras estúpida, la atracción que sentías hacia Sunghoon no era una conexión posible entre dos meros humanos. Ni siquiera os conocíais ni habíais hablado más de las palabras que hacía menos de una hora habíais intercambiado... ¿Cómo podías sentir que lo necesitabas para existir cada vez que vuestros ojos se encontraban y amar semejante disparate? No, los vampiros tenían que tener algún tipo de poder atrayente o de manipulación física y mental de la que los cuentos de hadas no hablaban.
Esta era otra de las preguntas que le harías a Jay con confianza y seguridad pero... ¿Entrarías en detalles? Una especie de poder como el mencionado tenían que tener los vampiros y el hecho de que el colmillo de Jay estuviese partido podría ser una explicación de por qué con él no sentías ese indescriptible que se volvía una droga con Sunghoon.
Aunque luego pensabas en Jake y Heeseung, incluso en Sunoo, y te dabas cuenta de que tampoco lo sentías. Sólo con Sunghoon. Recapitulando algunos momentos de vuestra interacción, a veces Sunghoon ni siquiera parecía atraerte voluntariamente, frunciendo su ceño como si no pudiera controlar sus acciones pese a querer la anulación de ellas cuánto antes.
Tenias una pieza de un puzzle que no era parte del que Park Jay podía darte pistas sobre su colocación exacta. Eso sí, el resto de alumnos veían a los SSR con esos ojos de admiración que no solía provocar el simple hecho de una capacidad adquisitiva mayor, no. Eso normalmente daba envidia y no admiración.
Así que llegaste a la conclusión de que los propios alumnos SSR tenían algo que ver siendo ellos los responsables de la actitud de los azules.
Justo cuando ibas a dejar que tus pensamientos buscaran alguna otra cuestión o que simplemente tuviesen la oportunidad de recordar lo bonitos y definidos que lucían los lunares de Sunghoon a la corta distancia a la que habías llegado a estar de él, en el camino oculto por grandes árboles que llevaba directamente a la verja gótica que conformaba la entrada de la Academia, Jay bajó súbitamente de velocidad hasta quedaros parados en medio de naturaleza.
Le miraste extrañado pero antes de que pudieras preguntar, Jay te indicó bajar con la cabeza. Así hiciste, con su sudadera en tu cuerpo, apoyando los tacones en la gravilla de la carretera. Tras unos intentos de encender el motor, un Jay frustrado se dirigió a ti.
—Parece ser que nos hemos quedado sin gasolina de repente. Lo que no tiene ningún sentido porque este cacharro suele avisarme casi horas antes— y no dudabas las palabras de Jay pues aquella moto parecía haber costado una fortuna.
Jay se llevó una de sus manos cubiertas por guantes de cuero a la frente, resoplando mientras bajaba del vehículo y se dirigía a tu figura de brazos cruzados y mirada inocente.
—Creo que vamos a tener que seguir andando, menos mal que estamos cerca— Estableció mientras observaba. Asentiste sin remedio y comenzasteis a caminar: tú más cerca de los árboles y Jay tirando de la moto situándola en la carretera, caminado a tu lado izquierdo. Tras unos pasos de silencio cómodo hablaste.
—Es hora de mis preguntas— Tus palabras sonaron más serias de lo que esperabas y te sentiste una detective en una novela de Poe. Jay sonrió.
—¿Qué es lo que quieres saber?— Ladeó la cabeza mirando al frente mientras seguíais caminando.
—Antes de nada, ¿por qué me has ayudado?— Jay susurró algo entre las líneas de sabía que ibas a decir eso. Te miró de soslayo, girando su cabeza para conectar sus ojos rasgados con los tuyos, dijo — Cuando vives tantos años, los actos pierden mucho significado. Te ayudé porque vamos los dos al mismo destino. Además de que va en contra de mis valores dejar a una chica tirada en la calle rodeada de vampiros a estas horas—.
Te sorprendió sus largas respuestas al tener en tu cabeza la idea de que Park Jay era bastante reservado. Hasta su comentario final te había hecho sonreír.
—Que yo sepa, tú también eres un vampiro—.
—Sí, pero soy algo así como un retirado de guerra— El movimiento burlesco que realizó con sus cejas te hizo reír. Jay te miró con una expresión indescriptible.
Sorprendentemente, te sentías a gusto en la presencia del vampiro, demasiado a gusto. Deberías desconfiar de este sentimiento, de él, ya que no lo conocías. Pero no, seguiste con tu sonrisa, volviendo a mirarle tras tu explosión de risa. Hiciste contacto visual con esa mirada tan extraña y decidiste falsear tu antes verdadera sonrisa.
—No voy a preguntar acerca de vuestra condición porque ahora no podría procesarlo todo. Sólo necesito saber ahora mismo dos cosas, pues mi madre me enseñó a no ser avariciosa y la verdad siempre acaba saliendo a la luz— Tu mirada se tornó un tanto oscura, sorprendiendo a Jay. Ni de broma ibas a aceptar su amable gesto hacia ti como insignificante. Los vampiros no tenían tan mala fama en los cuentos sin razón.
Rápidamente ocultaste tu verdadera desconfianza al continuar con tus preguntas. —Bram Stocker es un refugio de vampiros, ¿verdad? Y manejáis vuestra identidad como secreto a través de la manipulación, ¿verdad? Tal y como ahora lo estás haciendo. Para que sienta confianza contigo sin apenas conocerte—.
Jay permaneció pensativo durante unos segundos mientras miraba al frente, ya distinguiéndose las verjas de entrada a la Academia. No te lo demostró, pero en el fondo estaba sorprendido porque no se esperaba esta forma de actuar por tu parte. Sin duda, eras estudiante becada por alguna razón. Después de varios pasos, habló.
—He de ser honesto, no eres la primera alumna azul o, en general, humana en descubrirnos porque la Academia no es un refugio, no es un escondite. Es nuestro lugar, somos nosotros los que tienen el poder. Si te das cuenta, mira de quiénes somos hijos los alumnos SSR. — En tu cabeza apareció el recuerdo de Aerin relatándote su primer encuentro con su ahora ex suegro, el presidente del país —Básicamente, tu sociedad está gobernada por mi sociedad. Pero no hay nada que temer, no nos interesa acabar con los humanos ya que ellos mismos podrían acabar con nosotros al conocer las formas de matarnos y porque siguen siendo nuestro mayor placer— Evitaste hacer contacto visual con Jay mientras seguíais caminando, reflexionando en sus palabras. Tras aclararse la garganta, Jay prosiguió.
—La paz existente es esta. También está relacionada con lo que acabas de decir. Los vampiros os atraemos, pero no conscientemente como piensas. Hay algunos que sí que lo hacen, al fin y al cabo somos manipuladores por naturaleza, pero lo que tú estás sintiendo ahora, esa confianza, no te la estoy produciendo voluntariamente. Nosotros, por nuestra complexión y físico, hasta por la propia voz, atraemos a nuestras presas sin mover un dedo. Sois vosotros los que venís hacia nosotros— El contacto visual fue ahora inevitable y la sudadera de Jay ya no servía para protegerte del frío mientras un brillo rojo parpadeaba en sus pupilas. —Por eso los que descubren lo que somos, no se escandalizan, porque les gustamos. Quieren más de nosotros. Salvo tú, claro. No sé por qué desconfías. No deberíais y esa condición tuya, sólo aparece en estúpidas leyendas imposibles—.
Sólo se escuchaban el ruido que tus tacones provocaban al entrar en contacto con la gravilla de la carretera y las suaves pisadas de las botas de Jay mientras, pensativa, masticabas sus palabras internamente, siendo consciente de las respuestas que indirectamente te estaba aportando.
La primera, todos los SSR eran vampiros, incluyendo a Aerin. La segunda y que deriva de ésta, nuestro mundo parecía gobernado directa o indirectamente por ellos. La tercera, no había forma de resistirse o denunciar o nada. Parecía ser que su existencia en verdad era un secreto a voces. La cuarta, había una aparente paz que era mejor que no rompieras. La quinta y última, tal y como temías, eras diferente y Sunghoon lo sabía mejor que nadie.
Buscando poder especificar qué era esa diferencia que te separaba del resto, decidiste preguntar más.
—¿Qué leyendas?— Tras tu pregunta, el capitán del equipo de béisbol te miró por un momento guardando silencio. Un silencio que notaste lleno de secretos.
—Eso yo no te lo puedo decir— Su tono de voz sonó un poco frío, lo que te hizo captar el mensaje que se escondía detrás de éste. Por ahí no podías seguir con tus preguntas.
Finalmente, llegasteis a la entrada de la Academia y la hora de separarse al Jay tener que dirigirse al aparcamiento destinado a los coches y motos de los alumnos SSR.
En silencio os situasteis cara a cara. Te quitaste su sudadera.
—Gracias Jay— Dijiste devolviéndole la prenda de ropa. Jay esbozó una misteriosa sonrisa después de fijarse por unos segundos en tu cuello.
—No hay de qué, amiga de Aerin— Se giró y su oscura figura empujando su moto desaparecieron en la niebla nocturna que se había empezado a formar.
¿Acaso no sabía tu nombre? Aquello te había molestado, especialmente tras el tono de burla que había empleado para designarte como amiga. Ya no sabías muy bien si podías encajar en esa categoría y no necesitabas que alguien como él te lo especificara.
‧͙⁺˚･༓☾ ☽༓･˚⁺‧͙
Mientras caminabas a paso ligero por la bóveda central a partir de la cual se elevaba el resto de la estructura de la Academia, las palabras de Jay te perseguían mentalmente. ¿No era muy pronto para llegar a una conclusión exacta? Sí, te había dejado sola en la guarida del lobo, formando parte ella de la manada, además de todas aquellos comentarios o actuaciones que podían cuestionar perfectamente su moralidad como tu amiga. Siempre fuiste consciente de ello, pero a la vez, Aerin fue quién nunca te dejó sola y quién te hablaba de su vida con una elocuencia un tanto íntima. ¿Verdaderamente no significabas nada para ella? Y, si te lo esperabas, ¿por qué te dolía tanto?
Pero, ¿cómo de buena amiga eras tú si te encontrabas suspirando por su exnovio?
Seguiste caminando inconscientemente, sumergida a gran profundidad en tus pensamientos y emociones. Toda aquella noche había sido digna de las historias más fantasiosas del mundo y, aún así, era tu realidad. Giraste una esquina, acercándote a la salida trasera del edificio de piedra, donde se situaba el camino al aire libre hacia los dormitorios de los alumnos azules.
Pensar en Aerin te hacía pensar inevitablemente en Sunoo y en la proximidad en la que estos dos se habían encontrado durante el evento. Imagen que te hizo recordar la existencia de los vampiros y las palabras de Jay y... Era definitivamente demasiado.
La idea del mundo estar gobernado por vampiros no te hacía sentir muy cómoda. Aunque Jay habló de paz, la Academia te parecía ahora una granja en la que los depredadores criaban a sus presas con amor para después matarlos con esos colmillos. Podía ser que estuvieras exagerando un poco, pero ahora estaba todo demasiado reciente. La necesidad de estar con tus padres casi te atragantó.
Saliste del edificio principal hacia los soportales de los dormitorios, siendo bañada por una lluvia repentina y la luz de la Luna. Mañana definitivamente tendrías fiebre y un resfriado.
Tus pisadas hacían contacto con la hierba y tus pies estaban sufriendo demasiado en aquellos rojos tacones. Sin pensártelo mucho debido a lo agobiada que te encontrabas por toda la situación necesitando tumbarte en tu querida cama cuánto antes, te quitaste esos tacones, liberando tus pies para que hicieran contacto con la húmeda hierba. Estaba muy fría y, si no tuvieses esas heridas en los pies, correrías para resguardarte de la lluvia.
Con cada ligera pisada eras más consciente del silencio que te rodeaba. Con la nieblilla que se había instaurado y la ausencia de luz artificial, la escena que te rodeaba era bastante tenebrosa. Digno de Poe, otra vez.
Cuando tu imaginación empezó a crear sombras oscuras semejantes a seres extraños o personas con la nieblilla, decidiste caminar más rápido y lo escuchaste. El eco de tus pisadas que semejaban otras.
Sentiste los pelos de tu nuca erizarse. Caminaste todavía más rápido, intentando convencerte de que era una ilusión provocada por tu cerebro, que nadie te estaba siguiendo. Pero ahora ese eco que decidiste pensar que era de tus pisadas empezó a sonar más fuerte, diferenciándose de tus pasos. ¿Alguien estaba caminado detrás tuya?
Probablemente sí, pero llegaste a la tranquilizadora conclusión de que seguramente era otra alumna o alumno que volvía de la fiesta. Hasta que tu corazón empezó a latir a una velocidad sólo conocida en momentos determinados y sólo provocada por un único estímulo.
Dejaste de caminar súbitamente, rezando a Dios o a alguien esperando que el alumno o la alumna que te seguía pasase de largo, demostrando que no eran quién creías que era.
Pero con el fin de tus pasos vinieron el fin de los pasos que te seguían. Respirabas lenta pero profundamente mientras lo único que se movía eran las gotas que resbalaban por tu frente hasta decorar tus pestañas, junto con los árboles lejanos por el baile del viento. Con el corazón en un puño, las manos temblando y la boca repentinamente seca pese a la humedad de tus labios mojados por la lluvia, giraste tu cabeza lentamente para después acompañar el movimiento con tu cuerpo, dando un paso hacia atrás, apoyando la punta de tu desnudo pie derecho en la hierba. Dejaste de respirar, forzando los huesos de tu cuello y tu clavícula en un frío instante.
Un Park Sunghoon con la cabeza baja y el flequillo húmedo de la lluvia te recibió. Al escuchar la detención de tus pasos, él también se había parado, esperando con paciencia. Sus piernas ancladas en la tierra con firmeza, sus manos todavía en sus bolsillos. Escuchando como cesó el ruido de tu respiración, levantó la cabeza, dejando de mirar simplemente las huellas que tus pies habían dejado en la hierba para mirarte.
Unos ojos de sangre te recibieron entre las cortinas que su húmedo pero luminoso flequillo formaban. Hiciste contacto visual y tragaste la sequedad de tu garganta, pasando tu lengua brevemente por tus labios, frunciendo levemente el ceño en un gesto de puro anhelo.
Las indescriptibles sensaciones volvieron pero, buscando que no consiguieran dominar tu mente y hacerte perder el sentido, en medio de la adrenalina de su repentina aparición te provocó, hablaste.
—¿Qué haces aquí? Por aquí no se van a tus jodidos dormitorios— Intentaste sonar distante, cortante, fría. —No te acerques ni un segundo, Jay me ha contado todo y esto no es normal. Yo no debería...— Tus palabras finales sonaron débiles llenas de oxígeno más que de sonido mientras el anhelo que sentías por él incrementaba demasiado. Estabas cansada de toda la situación, de sentir incomprensibles.
En medio de tus agotadas palabras pestañeaste y Sunghoon, un vampiro con la antinatural velocidad que los caracterizaba, apareció a un sólo paso de ti, paso que cerró rodeándote con un brazo la cintura y con una mano acariciarte el cuello. Su tacto era gélido. Su voz sonó con el mismo cansancio y el mismo anhelo que habías impregnado en la tuya.
—Jay... Jay... Después de meses, meses aguantando esta estúpida necesidad de tenerte en mis brazos y de que por fin me hicieras el caso que necesito, que necesitamos, te pones a hablar de otros. Lo tuyo es— Se acercó a tu cuello, oliéndolo y sentiste como todo su cuerpo temblaba de necesidad —... Absolutamente increíble. ¿Crees que yo quería sentirme así hacia una mera humana aun sabiendo mi propio disgusto a gustaros, a probaros, a... —Su voz calló y sin fuerza alguna susurró con el limitado aire de una última respiración —¿morderos? Dime, ¿tienes alguna absoluta idea de esto? Hasta romper con Aerin sacando de quicio a mi padre para que luego huelas a ese capitán de pacotilla— Se apartó de tu cuello, haciendo contacto visual contigo.
Este era el momento de apartarlo. Separarte de un vampiro, del ex de tu mejor amiga, del maldito Park Sunghoon hijo del presidente del país. Deberías apartarlo, ¿no? Empujarlo y llamarlo asesino, llamarlo frío y egoísta y narcisista y... —¿Por qué sólo me siento así contigo, Sunghoon? ¿No era que todos los vampiros pueden..?— Tus palabras quedaron apagadas ante la jodida sonrisa y el leve movimiento hacia atrás que Sunghoon realizó tras tú llamarle por su nombre. —Dios, hoy ya no sé quién soy— Murmuró y tus cejas se fruncieron, no entendiendo ninguno de sus actos pero sintiendo un gran aprecio hacia él, pese a ser un desconocido. Sunghoon levantó la mano de tu cuello, acariciándote la mejilla. Su voz sonó rota. —Porque soy jodidamente tuyo y me acabo de dar cuenta—.
Una frustración interna desconocida se desató al verlo en ese estado y, sin darte cuenta, te acercaste a él mientras la lluvia te dificultaba ver claramente sus ojos ahora rojos, su cuerpo entero. Sunghoon, notando aquello, inclinó su cara hacia la tuya y llevó la mano que estaba en tu cuello a tu mejilla, rozando con su pulgar pestañas, quitándote el agua de éstas que no te permitía ver la sinceridad de sus palabras en su rostro, que no te dejaban observar la puerta a sus honestas emociones que sus ojos eran, que toda su expresión era. Lentamente dejó de rodear tu cintura para con la mano de ese brazo, hacer lo mismo en tu otra mejilla, en tu otro ojo.
Tras segundos de este íntimo cariño silencioso, susurró débilmente —Me vuelves loco. Dime que tú también sientes lo mismo, por favor—Notaste el temblor de unas manos que luchaban por no perder el control, por no expresar al cien por cien su deseo.
Aún en las últimas, Sunghoon quería escucharte. Quería saber si esto también lo sentías como él, que tú también compartieras el momento con la misma pena. Porque no deberíais desearos, necesitaros. Te anhelaba de una forma que iba más allá de algo terrenal, casi parecía una unión del destino y él no había elegido esto. Tú no habías elegido esto. Él odiaba notar el fuego de sus ojos ahora carmesís, lo puntiagudo de sus colmillos y el temblor de sus manos. No quería ser lo quién era y toda su vida se había comportado como un humano hasta que tú llegaste y activaste sus más olvidados sentidos. Tú odiabas tu incapacidad de separarte porque lo necesitabas y ¿quién era él? Un vampiro y además, el exnovio de Aerin, de tu maldita mejor amiga.
Pero, ¿cómo podíais resistiros a vuestro propio destino cuando él tenerte en sus brazos y tú estar en ellos se sentía tan correcto? Porque si Sunghoon quitaba su propio miedo a dejarse llevar contigo, ese futuro presentándose como suyo jamás se había sentido tan perfecto, encajando con el resto de su vida sin imperfecciones ni esquinas forzadas, la verdadera pieza de su puzzle existencial.
Lo mismo sucedía contigo. Él te proporcionaba la compañía que en tu solitaria infancia habías buscado en libros con personajes tolerantes y relatos apasionantes. Sunghoon era tu historia.
—No te conozco Sunghoon y aún así..— Te miró con unos ojos rotos de necesidad— Aún así, es como llevase toda la vida buscando tu compañía—.
Sunghoon tras tu confesión perdió cualquier tipo de control.
—¿Puedo probar una cosa que realmente nos ayudará a saber si esto es puro deseo o pura necesidad?— Sunghoon te miró como si te fueras a romper, hablándote con una intimidad muy personal. Tragaste tras escuchar un relámpago y, con tu corazón latiendo de emoción, asentiste mordiéndote el labio. Sabías perfectamente qué es lo que iba a hacer, qué es lo que necesitaba, cómo se podría probar esto.
Así Sunghoon, con una velocidad demasiado lenta buscando grabar cada segundo de este encuentro en su memoria, se acercó con cuidado, como si temiera romperte si actuase con toda la fuerza con la que te deseaba, como si de ti dependiera el silencio, como si necesitase concentración en semejante tiro para que su flecha encajara perfectamente.
Tu mente, cuándo sintió su gélido aliento sobre tu mojado cuello, se bloqueó. No hubo miedos, no hubo nerviosismo. Estabas a absoluta merced de su contacto, sintiéndote lo más segura que te habías sentido nunca. Sunghoon acercó sus carnosos labios casi violetas por la temperatura a tu cuello, permitiéndose rozarlo con ellos, mientras uno de sus brazos volvía a rodearte la cintura, acercándote a él. Vuestros cuerpos chocaron suavemente.
La delicadeza con la que te tocaba no era para nada la de un depredador hambriento, siendo consciente de cada uno de sus movimientos para negar cualquier posibilidad de dañarte. ¿Era verdaderamente deseo si a la hora de la verdad podía ser tan racional?
Notó tu acelerado pulso en sus labios y con el brazo que te rodeaba ejerció más presión, empujándote un poco más hacia él, besándote el cuello con más presión, gesto que hizo que emitieras un sonido ahogado que fue directo a su propio control, desafiándolo. Con una de tus manos, agarraste el bíceps del brazo que te rodeaba, necesitando un soporte.
Sunghoon escuchando tu petición desplazó la mano que había quedado en una de tus mejillas hacia tu otro brazo, deslizando sus dedos por tu desnuda piel hasta llegar a la palma de tu mano, juntándola con la suya y entrelazando vuestros dedos. Cuando apretaste su mano como respuesta, supo que eras suya y así lo selló.
Sus imposiblemente afilados colmillos penetraron tu piel y nunca habías sentido tanta satisfacción en tu vida. No era un placer sexual pero te sentías completa de una manera que sólo eso podía dar. Y Sunghoon, cuando probó tu sangre, sólo supo una cosa.
Estaba destinado a ella.
‧͙⁺˚･༓☾ ☽༓･˚⁺‧͙
taglist (open!): @strxwbloody @baaamkyu
notes: omg la parte 3 está aquí!! espero haberos acelerado un poco el corazón JAJSJAJAJ me gustaría saber vuestras impresiones so... comentarlas pls!!! ilysm <3
