baby, not baby

[undereuphoria]

۶ৎ it's so fun to show me now and watch you fall in lo-lo-love i'm your baby , not baby 널 깜짝 놀래킬 , 애기보단 별난 녀석 ( uh , i'm so fucking sorry — ah )

NOW ENTERING . . . SERA'S WORLD ! — 2001 / intj !! probably thinking about jungwon && #1 too close enthusiast 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 asks/requests are open and appreciated !!

[undereuphoria]

i hope everyone is having a good evening im Drunk and thinking of tipsy horny nicho who cant keep his hands off you after being shy abt wanting you so bad all night

[kiachiako]

SKIN ON SKIN [SOS] ✦ S.JY 심재윤

── kiachiako ⨾ sim jaeyun

PAIRING: hockeyplayer!jake x f!reader (feat. brother!sunghoon)

GENRE: brothersbestfriend-to-lovers au, uni au, smut, fluff, coming-of-age, childhood friends au

SYNOPSIS: you grew up orbiting your brother's fast-paced world, school days filled with your hometown rink and boys who were the personification of the biting winter chill. somewhere along the way — between neighborhood sledding and blacking out at uni house parties — you watch jaeyun turn from your brother's quiet best friend to jake sim, your university's most coveted star hockey player. one that you happen to have a devastating crush on, a friend you've known since childhood. [in otherwords] a story about crossing a line you can't come back from with a boy that you can't have, and realizing that you can't stand beside him when it hurts more each time you do.

WARNINGS: marijuana consumption, smoking (shotgunning), cussing, violence/blood (hockey fight), mentions of alcohol consumption, making out, fingering (f/receiving)

WC: 12.3k

AUTHOR’S NOTE: a fic not set in summer?? who am I omg 0.o i couldn't find an enha hockey fic that i liked, so i decided to write one for myself HAHA and now you guys can to read it too! this is super self indulgent, and there’s a note at the end w a hockey clip lmfao [ manhwa in banner from @/so_wha.1 on ig ]

APPLE MUSIC PLAYLIST ★

—

“Jake.”

Your eyes glance up from the hot cocoa warming your hands to the sharp eyes of a boy already looking at you, maintaining his gaze even when his name is called. His piercing expression doesn’t change, but as you peer up at him, you can feel a flicker of want before you look away with warming cheeks. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the edges of his mouth lifting before he turns away.

“Jake.”

It’s odd to hear his name on it’s own like that, not when you’re used to hearing it roared by crowds through jampacked uni rinks; not when Sim Jaeyun is something bigger than himself already, a household name in premier league hockey and a constant on your university’s community forum. 

While he’s like a myth of sorts to the rest of the student body, he’s definitely very real as he sits in the living room of yours and Gawon’s shared apartment, quilt thrown over his legs that he’s claimed from years of movie nights and sleeping over. 

He’s got his hoodie pulled low, bleached hair falling over his eyes and cuffed sleeves pulled up to his elbows, crowded into the arm of the couch by your other friends talking animatedly next to him. He fiddles with the delicate silver chain around his wrist, a matching gift you got him and your brother in primary school. Because that’s what he is to you.

Before ice hockey, before uni, before amateur fame, Jake was your hometown friend. 

If you can call it that.

“Jake, dude, come back to earth.”

Jake shifts, turning to his left at your brother’s voice. 

Realizing you spaced out staring at his wrist, you snap out of it with a jolt and catch Jungwon’s expression next to you, a grin on his face as he responds to your dazed look with a raise of his eyebrows. 

It’s mid January, the bite of vicious winter air unable to get to you in the warmth of the studio apartment you lease during the semester. In here, it’s all warm tones and paper garlands — ones you made together with Gawon during the holidays — candle warmers brightening the living room as your friends litter the space, their bright chatter and the clink of mugs filling cozy, sepia air. Soft indie-pop plays from the old radio your parents gifted you and your brother Sunghoon when you had moved away for university, his grace in letting you have it lost on you (he bought himself a new speaker with cash he “borrowed” from your wallet during Christmas instead). 

If you could keep this moment ingrained in your soul forever, you’d do it in a heartbeat; tangerine light spills out from your little kitchenette, Gawon and Sunoo’s mischievous giggles ringing out as they crowd around the oven, the smell of burnt cinnamon cookies faint behind the chilli hot cocoa wafting up from next to you.

Jungwon has his head on your shoulder as he pulls a fleece blanket onto your lap, his plaid pajama-clad leg thrown lazily over yours. You can see Ni-ki and Jay in your peripheral vision thumbing through your DVD bin thoroughly as they hunch in front of your TV. 

Your friendship has been steady throughout all first three years of uni, nights made up of late movie theater runs and overcooked ramen, attempted snowboarding down empty city streets at 3am and all nighters pulled at the sauna to escape the claws of studying. 

If Jake and Sunghoon were at hockey practice, you’d all pile into Jay’s 2005 Hyundai and drive to the rink to watch them, making raunchy commentary that would have your brother slamming his stick against the plexiglass in playful warning. You all knew that they secretly liked it, Jungwon’s consistent “I’d let you slam me into the barricade” echoing out and drawing a flicker of a smile out from their coach before he would threaten to make you leave. He let you all back in every time.

It was the same during the weekends, when you and Ni-ki would be holed up in the practical arts and sculpture department of your university, hands covered in clay and silt and pottery glaze as you chiseled away at your individual term projects before the start of the week. Ni-ki’s r&b playlist drifting through the still, dusk-masked studio would be broken with the loud shouts from your friends as they filed in with snacks and bottled coffee from the vending machine, determined to give you a caffeinated sugar high to make it through the next few hours of work.

The eight of you have been consistent since the beginning, and the last thing you would ever want is to be the cause of your dependable friend group dynamic to change.

Your brother scrunches his nose at you from across the room, now squished into a loveseat definitely made for one with Jake. 

“Stop chewing in my ear, Won.”

At your soft voice, Jungwon’s eyes widen innocently before he stuffs another marshmallow in his mouth and leans in, noise amplifying.

“That’s nasty,” you can’t help but giggle at your friend, your eyes creasing as he sticks his tongue out immaturely.

Your gaze subconsciously trails to Jake again, his attention now on your brother as he throws an arm over the back of the couch to reach for the TV remote. The bottom of his hoodie rides up a bit, a sliver of his toned stomach visible before he’s flopping back into the couch again. You will yourself to look away while the back of your hand comes up to feel your cheek, startling when your skin is hot to the touch.

It was a night just like this that you realized you were hopelessly in love with Jake, more than just a friend should.

In retrospect, how could you not? He was out of every little girl’s dream future-husband-wish-list, perfect to a T in a way that you couldn’t even describe with words. 

His professors, his coach, his teammates would say that he didn’t have a bad bone in his body, always approaching others with kindness and raw honesty that made him easily likeable, even with players on rival teams. His classmates would say that he’s personable and too outgoing, attracting people everywhere during group projects and library sessions but still getting the work done on time without fail. Your parents would say that he’s the son they never had — sheepishly covering Sunghoon’s ears, of course — polite, smart, and dependable, from helping your mom carry the groceries to washing garden vegetables in the kitchen with your dad when all of you were home for break.

But it was his flaws that made you like him even more. What made Jake so loveable to you were the sides that only a few people got to see, deep and thoughtful underneath the first layer that you had to get through first.

You were there when his childhood dog passed away, trying his best not to cry and stay strong for his mom even when you and Sunghoon were bawling your eyes out on the sidewalk. You were there when he got drunk for the first time, staring with horror as he got on all fours on the dirty asphalt in the alley behind your local bar because standing up felt too “wavy.” You remember shivering in the cold in a short skirt, hands on your knees from laughing so hard as Sunghoon frantically called an older friend to come pick you up, scared that you’d get busted for being underage.

When everyone else was too busy, Jake would be the one who sat for hours as your “model” while you sketched, scolding him when he moved and exploding into fits of giggles when he would give up in the middle. He believed in your art more than you yourself did, and that meant everything to you — even now. He still sits on the plastic chair next to your work station in the sculpture studio until late at night, content with just humming to himself as you work quietly.

You were also there when Jake and Sunghoon got their official hockey gear for the first time in year five, their thrilled squeals ringing around your neighborhood as your parents set up a practice shooting pad in your front yard. Even though hockey wasn’t as mainstream as baseball or basketball at the time, it still meant everything to them.

It’s funny to see the same setup now when they come back home as big stars, bigger than your small town has ever seen. The same town with the same dingy rink that raised them to stardom, good enough until it was too small to hold them. 

The three of you grew up in a one-major-intersection, snow-filled sidewalk kinda town, lamp posts covered in taped flyers about high school hockey tournaments in obnoxious red type that were miraculously still there after years. 

Sunghoon and Jake were better friends than you and Jake were, but you’d still run from your job at your local province radio station to the ice rink at midnight with your school friends, just in time to catch the last of late night practices. Old 90’s tunes would crackle out of the janky speakers from the local radio, pre-queued by you so that the three of you could listen to your favorite songs if you timed it right.

Your friends and their teammates would go home after a bit, but you’d stay, fighting the cold to sit with your brother and Jake on the foam mats just off the ice. It was tradition, the hum of the zamboni behind you as you brought them warm, watered down coffee in styrofoam cups from the 24hr convenience store outside. They’d still be in their hockey uniforms, hair slick with sweat. 

Back then, no matter how annoying or gross you thought they were, you still looked up to them with all of the admiration you had in your young body.

You can still feel it now if you wanted to, the shared winters that fill your well-loved memories of growing up in a scuffed-up rink. Fresh ice, rough leather, and the smell of sweat that clung to your clothes long after leaving, even if you weren’t the one skating. In your hometown, ice hockey wasn’t just a sport. It was the thing that raised Park Sunghoon and Sim Jake, larger-than-life players whose jerseys were mass produced and worn by thousands across the country now. 

When Sunghoon was drafted into the Winter Olympics’ reserve team in high school — the youngest to ever be — you had watched from your small living room TV with your parents and Jake, all wide eyed and hands held in anticipation.

You can still remember the feeling of Jake’s thigh against yours on the carpet, his warm palms enveloping yours as he prayed. He was sniffling and recovering from a cold, but he still prayed with all his might that his best friend would make it big for the both of them.

He didn’t have to. A month later, Jake was chosen as the last reserve team member, and both were scouted for the top university’s first division ice hockey team. A year later, and your whole neighborhood was in your living room celebrating your own acceptance into the same school; this time, enrolled as a studio arts student.

You’re all older now, life is getting a little too real, and you realize that falling for him had to be inevitable. 

You knew Jake when he was just Jaeyun, not Yonsei’s resident golden boy with a disarming smile and his signature cobalt blue jersey, #15 stitched across its back. But you’ve never wanted him like the people shouting his name through crowded university rinks want him.

You want him like you did when you were neighbors and eight, building life-size igloos with rainbow-dyed ice blocks and jumping for hours on his frozen trampoline. Just matching mittens knit by his grandmother, building snowmen and chasing winter hares, and a whole lot of feelings to go around. Just the two of you and infinite time. 

Nostalgia will be the death of you.

As you sit in your living room now, with Jungwon’s head on your shoulder and Sunghoon’s side pressed against Jake’s, you come to the bitter realization that you might not ever get Jake the way you’ve always subconsciously yearned for. You don’t want to offset your own relationship with your brother — and especially with the rest of your friends — because once you cross that line, there's absolutely no coming back. You don’t ever want to have your friends choose a side, and what you have right now is too perfect to taint.

You’ve convinced yourself that you can live with being just friends, just like you always have.

But man, is it getting hard.

No one talks about how disorienting and weird it feels to come to the slow realization that you like someone who you're definitely not supposed to like, especially when you’ve spent your entire life as good friends. It’s disarming and you can’t help but feel icky when you look at him. You’re not supposed to want him like this, where your head pounds and you feel too warm everywhere.

Sometimes, though, you feel like his gaze lingers on you a little longer than the others too. In those moments you let yourself daydream a little, thinking about an alternate reality where he loves you just as loudly as you do in your head. Those moments get shattered though, especially when you remember where you are and who you’re with—

“—and why aren’t you getting lit right now, Jakey-bear,” Jay’s voice carries over the sound of a kitschy, low-budget horror film rolling on your TV, the glow from the screen flickering across his face as he messes with the buttons on the side. 

Jake’s eyes lazily rake across the room before they land on his friend. Snorting, he offers a small smile before holding up his cocoa-filled mug.

“I don’t drink the night before games. We’ve gone over this.”

Jay shakes his head, standing up before collapsing on the carpet next to Jake’s feet.

“If only the world knew how fucking lame you are,” he mutters, throwing an arm over his face. “Maybe I’d be a hockey star too.”

Sunghoon turns to look at his friend on the floor.

“What?”

“You know, ‘cause I have a brilliant sense of humor and a fabulous personality. God knew not to make me athletic. I’d be unstoppable,” he says, patting Jake on the ankle. “Good thing you’re cute though. Makes up for the fact that you’re a…” Jay pauses to hold an ‘L’ up to his forehead before taunting, “loser.”

“Fuck off,” Jake says with a grin, pushing Jay’s shoulder with his foot for good measure.

You tune out of their bickering as Gawon settles down next to you, poking your cheek with a pout before offering up a plate of cookies. 

“Sorry I left you for so long with these monsters,” she grimaces, glancing around at the living room in mock disgust at the scattered plates and empty beer cans. Jungwon peers at her from around you, frowning. “Not you though, Won. You’re my favorite.”

“I know,” he says smugly through a mouth full of cookie, hands already reaching for more. You look at your best friends in adoration, their smiles making you feel all warm and gooey inside.

It’s only when you turn your attention back to the TV that you catch bits of the conversation happening across the room, your brother’s loud voice dominating the movie playing.

“You better play your damn hardest tomorrow,” he emphasizes to Jake, nudging his shoulder. “There’s this hot hot girl from my stats class that’s been bugging me about you, you lucky bastard. And because I’m your best friend, I made her promise that she’d come over after the game for you if we win.”

Your heart falls out of your chest as you quietly look up at the two of them, catching onto the way Jake rolls his neck before slowly coming to look back at Sunghoon.

“And?” He says, albeit quietly.

“And? What do you mean ‘and?’” Sunghoon smirks, putting his hand on Jake's arm. “Don’t you want some good victory head? I heard she’s really good, knows how to go down—”

“Ugh, you freaks are disgusting," Sunoo laments from the kitchen, holding out a whisk to shake at the two of them. “Have some decorum, please.”

You’re used to your friends talking so casually about their sex lives, but the fact that it’s Jake is a whole different thing. You’ve heard stories, yeah, but nothing prepared you for how much it would hurt to hear after coming to terms with your own feelings.

You watch his reaction closely, his silence making you chew on your lip. It’s almost like he’s contemplating it. You can’t help the unwanted feeling of jealousy that bubbles up in you, your throat closing up as you look at your lap.

“Anyway,” your brother continues, “you definitely need it. You’ve been so tense recently.” 

You refuse to look at them, instead distracting yourself by pulling at a strand of Jungwon’s sweater next to you. You can feel Gawon’s eyes on you. 

She and Jungwon are the only ones who know about your feelings for Jake, their sharp senses catching on quick when they’d catch you staring at him more than you ever had. You had threatened them to promise never to tell after a particularly bad night, making them swear on their bloodline that Jake would never find out.  

“Should I send her our address?” Sunghoon prods.

It’s silent for a few moments, before Jake's next words make your heart sink further. 

“...yeah, I guess.”

Oh.

You feel a hand slide over your leg, Gawon’s rings cold against your skin as you look up at her.

She furrows your eyebrows, as if silently asking you if she should say something. Your eyes widen, shaking your head with a miniscule no. Don’t.

She tilts her head, as if questioning why? 

Jungwon looks between the two of you with furrowed eyebrows.

She’s about to open her mouth when Sunghoon’s voice rings out again. You snap your head back in the rest of your friends’ direction, brushing Gawon’s concerned hand off your leg.

“Are you swinging by tomorrow’s game, Rockstar?” He calls you by the nickname he’s had for you since childhood, throwing a piece of popcorn up before catching it in his mouth. “It’s gonna be against KU. It’ll be a big one.”

You feel your eyes betray you as they flit to Jake quickly, finding him already looking at you. 

“Uhh,” you start, looking at Jungwon nodding beside you for confirmation, “yeah. Yeah, I’ll be there.”

You start to get up to escape this feeling that’s creeping up your throat, but you’re stopped in your tracks by Gawon who gives you a look from beside you. You know that look. 

Raising her voice suspiciously loud, she glances at Jake before grabbing your arm. 

“Right, and who was that guy that you said was cute last time, Y/N? The top center for KU, right? He dm’ed one of my friends asking for your number, you know,” she starts, your eyes widening as you realize what she’s doing. She’s digging for a reaction from Jake.

You see Jake’s head tilt slightly, not fully acknowledging your conversation but still showing that he’s listening. Sunghoon, on the other hand, snaps his head around to give you a pointed glare. 

“The fuck? Who?”

“No one.” You reply quickly, glaring back.

“Bullshit. Tell me, Y/N.”

“No one,” you say at the same time Jungwon says “Heeseung,” his figure immediately shrinking when you shoot him a look that you usually reserve for your brother.

“You’re kidding,” your brother starts, pulling out his phone before searching for something — someone — rapidly. “I’m gonna get his ass. He’s trying to get to us through my sister? Who the fuck does he think he is?”

With a sigh, you sit back down and close your eyes. You can already feel a migraine forming.

Yeah, you had thought Heeseung was cute the last time your universities had played each other, but that was only to desperately distract yourself from thinking about Jake. You knew you shouldn’t have said anything to your friends.

“Don’t talk to him, Y/N, I’m putting my foot down as your brother. You are forbidden from talking to him,” Sunghoon continues, exasperated.

Ni-ki snorts from the corner of the room, speaking up from underneath a swath of blankets.

“What are we in, the fucking middle ages?” He grins before pointing at you. “Watch out Y/N, your brother’s gonna ride out on a horse tomorrow and demand a duel with KU’s center.” Gawon laughs out loud before Sunghoon throws a piece of popcorn at her. 

Tuning out Ni-ki and Sunghoon’s rising voices, you can’t help but notice the way Jake has seemingly clocked out of the conversation. He stares at the side of your face and then the ground when you give him a questioning glance. He doesn’t look back up after that, playing with his bracelet instead. The moment passes, and everything returning back to normal as your friends settle in around you. They pass drinks and food around, but you can’t help but overthink the entire conversation.

It’s still bothering you when you flop onto your bed an hour later, tired from talking. Everyone is still in the living room outside, but you need quiet space to think. 

You’re laying off the edge of the bed with your knees up, hair lifting from the cool wind seeping through a crack in your window, when your door creaks open. Blue light spills in from the hallway before a figure slips into your room, stopping before you.

You turn onto your stomach, your sleep shorts riding up, and shoot Jake a small smile as he settles at the foot of your bed. He doesn’t say anything; he simply reaches for the bulky hockey bag he’s had since secondary school, left in your room from coming straight from practice earlier. 

It’s a comfortable, full silence as you watch him from your position. He glances up every once in a while, careful hands wrapping the end of his hockey stick with new grip tape. He doesn’t speak for a long while, face pale from the moonlight and lip caught between his teeth like he always does when he’s focused. Long fingers loop around each other carefully as he lines the stick, finally putting it down after a few long minutes. You’ve watched him do this a million times, but it feels more intimate when he does it in your space.

You blink at him when he looks back up at you through his messy bangs, gaze full of something you can’t quite decipher yet.

His hands shake slightly from the chill in your room, so you silently offer him the fleece blanket from your bed. Instead, he gently pushes your hand away, climbing onto your bed before laying his head down next to you. 

Tucking his chin on top of your childhood plushie, he tilts his head to look at you. Faint chatter from outside seeps under the crack of your bedroom door, the soft crackling of a burning candle filling the silence. His eyes seem to sweep across the expanse of your room before landing back on you.

“Nervous?” You finally whisper, with no need to talk at normal volume when he’s this close. Your heart is racing out of your chest but you regulate your breathing the best you can. 

It's just Jake. You’ve had millions of talks like this before.

“Yeah,” he admits, shifting so that his hair isn’t in his eyes. The collar of his hoodie is loose in the position, his collarbones and a thin silver chain peeking out.

“Last game before recruiting season,” you continue, glancing down at the bandaid across his knuckles.

“Oh,” he sighs out. “Yeah, I guess.” He follows your gaze before tucking his hand under the plush.

“You’re gonna try to go pro for real?”

Jake pauses before grimacing, his dimple slightly showing itself before disappearing again.

“Yeah, if I can,” he says, your chest stuttering when he lets that smile that he reserves only for you take over his face. “Signing my soul away to the devil or whatever.”

You giggle, nudging his arm lightly.

“And you promise you’ll remember me when you end up playing in the national league, right?”

“You know I couldn’t forget you if I tried,” he reassures back, his voice heavy as if he means every word. He points at you, letting the tip of his index finger touch your shoulder. “And you can’t forget me when you’re some hotshot artist who sells paintings for more than my yearly rent.”

“Mm,” you tease, rolling onto your back, “maybe you’ll just have to buy one to see.”

“Consider me sold,” he murmurs back, tenderly staring at the side of your face.

You let your arms fall off the bed, stretching languidly before tucking your hair behind your ear. You wordlessly blink at him as he reaches out with a slight tremor in his hand, fixing a strand that’s blown into your eyes. His hand lingers for a second before he pulls away again, eyes fixed on yours with an unreadable expression.

It hurts to look at a face you’re so familiar with, one that’s been steadily by your side since you can remember. 

“I’ll always root for you, Jake,” you say softly, honestly bleeding into your words.

There’s much to be left unsaid, but some part of you feels like he understands with the way he just peers at you, dark eyes never leaving your face.

“I know,” he whispers back, gaze leaving yours to travel to the doorknob, where his old skate laces are tied around the brass handle. They then flick over to your windowsill, where dark, scuffed pucks are stacked up the wood. Just below it is his worn hockey bag, stick poking out to lean against your tall stack of old CDs. There’s remnants of him everywhere, and not just physically either. He’s part of your core memories, from all eras of your life, and there will always be bits and pieces of him in the way you speak and behave too. “I’ll see you in the crowd tomorrow, yeah?”

“Always.”

You couldn’t get rid of Jake if you tried.

—

Everyone in this part of the city knows three things for sure: winter never really ends at Mokdong collegiate rink, Friday nights are for Yonsei ice hockey, and cobalt blue is law. 

You’re wearing Jake’s worn out leather bomber with #15 stitched proudly across its back, your brother’s original faded jersey snug underneath. It smells like the both of them, woody and sweet as you lean back with your shoes up on the seat in front of you. Gawon leans over you to clip your hair with barrettes of the team color, sitting back with a satisfied hum after brushing your hair back. Jungwon bounces his leg up and down nervously from next to you, keeping an eye on the clock as he waits restlessly for the game to start.

The three if you are in your university’s home rink, chalk full as people still trickle in from all sides, pouring down the stands and settling in just before the teams skate out. It’s a blue ocean, university students and parents alike filling the seats. Bleeding dots of red can be seen infiltrating the side across from you, donning opposing team jerseys and KU colors. 

You’ve been here plenty of times, but the air feels different today. It’s electric and alive, an audible hum filling the space as remnants of chants echo around the rink. 

You can’t help but be nervous for your brother who’s most likely the first in line waiting to come out of the player tunnel as team captain. You know firsthand how hard he worked to get to where he is today, and tonight, there will be international scouts in the audience looking for the next big names in ice hockey. Your brother is already a local hero in skates, but going pro would seal his professional career for him. 

And of course, you can’t help but think of Jake, who’s probably second in line right behind Sunghoon as the center. You can sense his nerves already, the way he fiddles with his gear when he’s anxious and looks up to the heavens to remind himself of the things that keep him grounded. From years of following him and your brother around to their practices, you can bet with confidence that Jake has one hand on Sunghoon’s shoulder and the other on the cross around his neck right now. They’re the faces of the team, and that means the worries they carry can't show. 

As much as hockey is pure athleticism and skill, it’s also a game of ego. 

Playing a home game means the university’s pride is on the line, and the winner be damned if it isn’t them. You, Jungwon, and Gawon aren’t the only ones waiting in anticipation; much of the student body is also here, as well as half of the hearts of the city through live broadcasting. 

You can pretend you’re not just another fan, hands wrapped around an overpriced paper cup of hot coffee, but the second #15 hits the ice, your pulse will match the drum of the crowd’s. 

Gawon clenches your hand in anticipation as the lights of the arena start flashing, beams of blue and red circling the ice. The crowd erupts in animated cheers, Jungwon sliding to the edge of his seat so he can be closer to the plexiglass. The analog scoreboard resets with a click, displaying a blinking ‘00’ for both teams, and the large screens hanging from the ceiling of the rink switch to show the entrance of the player tunnel. 

And then — in all their glory — there they are. 

The notorious Yonsei men’s hockey team pours out of the tunnel with their easy grins and bright blue gear, skating a lap around the large rink before lining up across its expanse. You can’t help but let your mouth fall into a wordless “wow,” the view awing you no matter how many times you see it. 

Your eyes naturally find Jake by habit, your breath catching as you spot him gliding to his spot just meters away from where you’re sitting. 

He looks like a true celebrity from here, slipping his helmet off and ruffling the resulting wavy hair with a gloved hand. His skates skim the ice with quiet precision, cutting effortless lines across its surface. The cold makes his breath come out in pale clouds, but his face is composed with a kind of stillness that only comes from someone deeply comfortable in their body and their sport. His jersey hangs off his body prettily, stretching across broad shoulders that shift with every movement as he handles his hockey stick with years of experience, hand wound around the handle tightly.

Coming to a sharp hockey stop just short of the barrier, he sprays snow towards the reactive crowd before reaching down to wipe the excess off his blades. The metal and the white of his teeth glint under the fluorescent lights as he shoots the stands a charming smile, screams ringing out in immediate response. 

It makes you feel faint in the head. 

Shaking out his hair again, his eyes shine with determination as they rake over the seats. Pink dusts his nose and cheeks, stiff eyelashes a result of the arena’s chill. He finds your familiar face in the crowd easily and gives a small nod in acknowledgment, your friends waving back excitedly before you turn to Jungwon. 

“I’m so fucked,” you whisper, forehead falling against his shoulder as he shakes with laughter. 

You turn back to the ice as the opposing team skates out, Gawon hitting your leg repeatedly when she spots Heeseung in all his glory, his blinding smile easily recognizable through the grates of his helmet.

You don’t catch the way Jake looks down and tenses when Heeseung glances in your direction, throwing a smug look your way from across the arena, but Gawon sure does. She observes Jake quizzically, trying to figure him out from the stands like staring hard enough will make everything clear.

The striped refs throw up symbols with their hands as the lights dim, the sharp crack of sticks startling you as both teams hit the ice once in unison. Coaches and managers in suits stand off to the side of the penalty box, guiding most of the team as they skate over to the players’ bench.

The air tastes metallic as you snuggle into Jake’s jacket further, eyes following his figure as he moves towards the middle of the ice with Sunghoon flanking him. Their postures are relaxed but you can see how tightly they grip their hockey sticks, moving into the starting face-off position. The arena quiets down as the timer gets ready to drop, Heeseung and Jake turning to face each other as both of their teams’ respective centers. 

The referee crouches low between the circles, puck balanced on his fingertips and breath fogging the air as steadily as the arena lights flicker overhead. His skates are planted wide, knees bent, eyes flicking back and forth between the two. Measuring. Waiting.

Jake positions himself tensely, blade angled, stick laid flat to the ice, and knuckles wrapped tight in black tape under his gloves. The position of his shoulders gives him away, coiled and predatory as Sunghoon backs him up from outside the circle. His visor catches the glare of the lights, briefly obscuring his eyes, but when he tips his chin down you could see them; sharp and unblinking, locked directly onto Heeseung across from him.

It’s a waiting game. For a beat, the rink feels impossibly quiet, like live wire. The crowd stills.

Jake doesn’t move, just lets a slow breath drift past his mouthguard, eyes never leaving his opponent’s face.

The referee’s hand hovers.

Then, in a flash, the puck drops between them, and the stillness is shattered into motion.

Heeseung is quick but Jake’s quicker, dashing out to shoot the puck to his teammate who appears in his peripheral. They pass it back and forth with practiced ease, moving down the rink towards the visiting team’s goal and attacking zone, slapshots echoing across the arena as it bounces off of the dasher boards.

The first point passes in a flash as the puck gets shot around the rink, Yonsei taking the lead within the first fifteen minutes.

Tension rises as KU scores a match point in the second period, the score tied neatly. An hour passes and neither team scores a second point in the third period, which means the game is launched into sudden-death overtime. The coach whistles, signaling a line change, and the crowd watches with tight suspense as Jake skates back onto the ice with a shout from the team manager. His finger subconsciously rubs over the tape on his stick that he redid in your room the day before. 

You can hear Jungwon get serious from beside you, leaning back with a steep inhale.

“He better not mess this up,” he mutters under his breath. You turn to him, tilting your head. “ALIH scouts,” he explains, pointing across the rink to a group of people you had missed, their clipboards and sharp suits a stark contrast to those around them. “They’re watching.”

With a bated breath, the puck drops for the last time, and Jake chases it like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Blue jerseys swarm into the opposing defense zone as he skids behind the goal and straight towards it. 

What he doesn’t account for, however, is a figure who comes in hot from the opposite side. Heeseung barrels towards the edge of the rink, colliding straight into Jake as they both slam against the barrier in front of you. The whole thing rattles, a whistle slicing through the rink as he tries to shove the opposing center away to go after the puck.

The snow of ice spray is still glittering in the lights when the crowd erupts. The row of people in front of you bang on the plexiglass, egging on a potential fight like they always do in hockey culture. It’s something you’ve never gotten used to, but never have you seen Jake at the center of it. He’s always prided himself in keeping his anger in check, so when he turns around to bodycheck Heeseung, your friends look at each other in shock. You see your brother ready to interfere on the ice, pushing his visor up.

You don’t even have time to register what’s happening before you see a glove come off, hard fist against hard chest as their skates dig into the ice with fervor. You don’t see whose it is, just that Jake’s got a mean snarl on his face that he rarely shows.

The puck skids uselessly away as the game comes to a pause, teammates hovering nearby as the refs standby, not a single person interfering just yet. It’s rooted in the sport’s culture to let fights play out, which renders you speechless as you watch Jake get aggressively pushed down onto the ice. You let out a worried sound as you jump up, straining to see what’s happening.

“What the hell is your problem?” Heeseung grits out, teeth bared through a mouthguard. Jake doesn’t answer, jumping right back up to shove him back into the plexiglass in uncontrolled anger. The impact makes the sound rattle up into the rafters, jolting the crowd as they leer in excitement. The people around you lean forward as one, the noise swelling into something feral and hungry.

“Holy shit,” Jungwon exclaims, grabbing your arm. “Get him, Jake!”

“Jungwon what—” you exclaim back, looking around wildly in worry. “Oh my God, guys, he’s bleeding.”

A punch lands fast, from Heeseung this time. It’s violent and cracks against hard plastic as Jake’s head is snapped sideways, silent fury locked behind his eyes.

“Look at me,” he hisses, grabbing Jake’s jersey and yanking him close. “You don’t do that to me. Ever.”

The refs rush in then, bodies wedging between them and arms locked around waists to pull them apart. Jake brushes them off, skating off himself with undeniable rage in his clenched jaw and stormy eyes. You can see the red already blooming from behind the grating of his helmet, lip most likely nicked in the short brawl.

From the stands, all you can hear is your own heartbeat pounding in your ears as you sit back down in your seat with wide eyes. The crowd is still jittery from the fight, the air buzzing with chatter.

The two of them are dragged to opposite penalty boxes, separated by a strip of frozen blue. Even just sitting there, breaths ragged and cheeks’ split, they stare each other down.

The crowd roars as the game plays on, but your eyes are locked on Jake and his defeated figure. He’s slumped on the bench unmoving, eyes closed and head against the plastic board behind him. He breathes slowly now, chest rising in controlled increments as the match comes to an end with a draw.

It’s over.

They tied.

Somewhere in the noise, he looks up and finds your eyes in the mass of people. He holds your gaze for a moment before furrowing his eyebrows and dropping his head down.

It feels like you don’t move for a long time until Gawon jostles you, a hand on your shoulder as Jungwon stands up with a stretch. 

“I can’t believe he actually did that,” he chatters excitedly, hands waving around. “I’ve literally never seen Jake fight like that before. That was so hot, right Y/N-ie,” he adds with a smug grin pointed at you. You’re still at a loss for words, unable to tear your eyes away from Jake’s form. 

Gawon shushes Jungwon before shooting you a concerned look.

“We’re gonna go meet Sunghoon out back, maybe head to the bar. Are you gonna… do you wanna stay and wait for Jake?”

You feel your head nod, not even hearing yourself as you tell them to go ahead without you. All you can see is him, and the way that he doesn’t even seem to know that he’s bleeding as he sits on the bench alone. Sunghoon whispers something to him before heading to the locker room himself.

You sit with your knees up in your seat as the arena clears out, the few people lingering behind the ice paying him no mind. The lights have faded, the scoreboard shut off for the night. It’s a complete 180 from just twenty minutes ago when the game was at its height. You feel like you’re watching Jake quietly lose his mind, his eyes blank as he touches his lip with his fingers. They pull away bloody, but he doesn’t even flinch.

The only people left are some helpers shoveling away the excess snow off the ice, so you decide to get up and make your way towards Jake. The familiar chill of the rink seeps into your bones as you wrap his jacket around you tighter, coming to a stop next to the penalty box he’s trapped himself in.

Knocking on the glass once, you lean down to catch his attention.

“...Jake?” You call, offering what you hope is a comforting smile, even when your heart breaks at the sight of his bruised mouth and torn knuckles. “I’ll drive you home. C’mon.”

He finally lifts his head at your voice to look at you, eyes softening as they catch you in his jersey number. 

He nods slowly, letting you pull him out of his confinement and back onto solid ground, the added height from the blades of his skates making him tower over you as you lead him out of the rink.

—

You can never tell what he’s thinking, Jake’s normally clear eyes thick with something heavy that you can’t quite place. 

Neither of you have said a word since getting to his and Sunghoon’s shared apartment, the latter most likely getting black out drunk at this very moment. The silence is new to you, especially when you’re used to your brother filling it with his outloud-thoughts at every waking moment. You appreciate the fact that he’s not here to ruin this moment though, especially when you’re currently closer to Jake than you’ve ever been.

You’re standing snug between his legs as he sits sprawled on the living room couch, bending down so that you can gently apply ointment on his lips without it getting everywhere. One hand cradles his jaw while the other brushes the medicine on, his sharp intakes of air letting you know that it stings more than he lets on. He’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath on your face, his eyelashes fluttering close with a grimace when you brush on another layer. His hands settle naturally on your hips — more so to keep him grounded than anything — his grip tight as you wipe away dried blood from his skin.

You chew mindlessly on your bottom lip in concentration, not even noticing until Jake reaches up to pull it from your teeth. His voice is hoarse as he speaks for the first time tonight. 

“Stop that,” he breaks the silence to scold you lightly, hand dropping back down when you still. “The skin will tear.”

“And look who’s talking,” you frown back, brushing a finger over the blooming bruise at the corner of his mouth. Even as pain flickers across his face, his gaze never drifts. He studies you from below, lids lowered, the heaviness in his eyes betraying how exhausted he really is.

His lips fall into a natural pout as you busy your hands, searching aimlessly for bandages on the coffee table behind you just to keep yourself from saying something you don’t mean. He’s so beautiful looking up at you like this, but thinking about his injuries and what caused them confuses you.

Your hands subconsciously tremble as you rip open the pack of bandages, Jake’s eyes on you as he leans back on the couch, legs spread wide. 

Hesitating, you ask the question that’s been running laps in your mind all evening. 

“Why did you do that? I’ve never seen you like that on the ice before,” you end up rambling, not accusing, just curious.

Jake stills. 

“...are you mad at me?” 

“Why would I be mad at you?” you muse, careful fingers gently lifting his right hand into yours. His fingers curl into your palm naturally, letting you brush over his knuckles before you begin to wrap gauze over them. His features soften as he observes the way you hold up his hand to inspect it for any missed injuries.

“I don’t know,” he admits, brows knit together in a shallow furrow.

You pause, dropping his hand before sighing.

“I was just worried, Jake.”

He lets a few moments pass before looking back up at you.

“Why were you worried?” He seems to hesitate before he whispers, as if fishing for a specific answer.

You say nothing, not sure if you can admit to him just yet why you care so much. You can’t even admit it fully to yourself. Biting your lip from saying something stupid in the heat of the moment, you toss the extra gauze behind you before sliding down onto the couch next to him.

He scans you for a moment. Realizing you’re not going to answer him, he reaches for a small metal tin on the table with shaky hands. He doesn’t prod further.

You can tell — through all these years of knowing him — when he begins to sink into one of his moods, the ones that make him turn to his vices to cope. It’s the way his eyes gloss over, unfocused as his mind drifts elsewhere. You saw it plenty when you were both eighteen and stupid, deep in the alley behind your local karaoke bar sharing a cig when the pressure of parents, school, and expectations got too much.

“You know, you’ve always been too good to me,” he mutters, voice low as he rolls a King Palm onto his open hand. Out of pure muscle memory, he sifts sativa in a line along his palm before packing it into a blunt. “...want a hit?” he whispers, almost like he’s ashamed of asking you to indulge in something that’s supposed to be his bad habit.

You’d usually chastise him lightly for smoking as an athlete, but you can tell he needs it tonight, the dimness in his eyes concerning you. 

You hesitate before nodding slightly, eyes in a trance as they follow his nimble fingers. You can physically feel your resolve crumble when he brings the cone to his lips, tongue darting out to slowly wet the edge of the rolling paper.

It takes everything in you to look away, hands furling and unfurling in your lap.

“I’m good to you because you deserve it, Jake. And don’t get used to this,” you admit, tucking your legs underneath you. You pause with a blink before admitting, “I’m only saying yes because it’s you.”

He swallows hard at your words, tension leaving his shoulders as he watches you. It’s as if he can see right through you, see your walls slowly crumble.

Holding a lighter up to his face, he lights the blunt with a sharp click before taking a deep drag, letting the warmth take over his body before blowing the smoke away from you. Color rises back into his cheeks as he holds it out for you to take. 

It’s been a while.

He must see the hesitation in your face because he pulls away suddenly, tilting his head like a puppy. His usual easy confidence seems to flicker. 

“Would it be better if… is it easier for you if I shotgun it?” He barely gets the words out without a stutter, eyes averting as your face burns at his suggestion. “To get a smoother high, maybe…” he tacks on with a mumble, like it changes anything he just said.

You stare back at him with wide eyes, mouth parting before slowly nodding.

“Maybe,” you peek at him before repeating yourself in a whisper. “I’d- I’d like that.”

His throat bobs like he’s holding himself back before scooting himself closer and bringing his hand up slowly to your face. You can sense his hesitancy, the way there’s a slight tremor in the movement. 

Your lungs stop working as his skin touches yours, fingers warm as they cup the side of your face gently. 

Both of you seem to pause, faces so close that you can see the way the space between his eyebrows creases, full lips just centimeters away from yours. The air feels warm and charged, your skin buzzing as he shifts to pull you in closer by the thigh. Strands of his wavy hair brush your forehead.

He braces an arm against the couch cushion before taking a long drag, eyelashes fluttering as he pauses before you. His eyes look different, like he’s fighting both something inwardly and the pull of the moment. They lower, betraying, and flicker to your mouth, lips pressed flat.

“Are you okay?” He asks so quietly that you almost don’t catch it, careful not to let any smoke out.

It only takes one nod from you before he leans forward in the slightest, coaxing your mouth open with his thumb before breathing out, letting it permeate your mouth.

“Breathe,” he talks you through it, letting his palm rest against your chest as it rises to feel the large inhale you take. “Let it go all the way.”

The smoke burns as it goes down, resulting in you coughing lightly as Jake moves to rub smooth circles into your back. His other hand falls from your jaw to your knee, bracing himself before taking another hit and letting the smoke curl its way up the ceiling. The smell clouds your senses, making your vision hazy as you let yourself relax into his side naturally.

His arm tightens around your back, a small smile making its way up his face — as if he can feel your eyes on him — as he continues to take long, sharp inhales. The tips of his finger drum against your waist for a moment before they tighten to pull you closer into him. 

“Again?”

“Mm,” you mumble in a daze, looking up with sparkling, wide eyes that take every last bit of his resolve. “Feels good.”

You don’t really know how you ended up in this position, with your body half in his arms, but you don’t complain. He doesn’t either.

Resting your head against his shoulder, he tilts your head back up to meet him halfway. He brushes your hair out of your face and behind your ear slowly, looking intently between your eyes before leaning down and blowing another bout of smoke into your mouth.

This time, your lips touch just a hair, his breath hot on yours. You jolt slightly.

Neither of you move away, scared to cross a line that’s been drawn since the first time you met him. 

He lets you inhale the smoke fully before starting to pull away.

Your hand comes up ever so slowly, shaking slightly, until your fingers make contact with his face. The space between his brows pinches when your thumb presses near the bruise on his mouth, then slowly smooths when he meets your eyes again.

Jake finds himself naturally leaning into your touch, a glimpse of his dimple appearing as his bottom lip gets caught between his teeth.

And when you see that, you decide you can’t take it any more. 

You’ve waited long enough.

You’re done being scared of consequences.

Threading a hand through his hair, you pull him down gently until his lips fully touch yours.

And then you’re kissing Sim Jaeyun. Your brother’s best friend. One of your best friends. And you don’t care, because this is the moment you’ve wanted more than anything, ever. 

And then he’s kissing you back. 

Jake doesn’t pull away like the fear in the back of your head thought he might.

It starts off sweet and short, chaste until he deepens the kiss slightly. After a few seconds, his eyes glaze over as he sits back to admire the way your lips glisten. 

A charged moment passes before his gaze turns dark, leaning in and invading your space once again. He captures your mouth even more intensely as he reaches out to cradle the back of your head, blunt forgotten to the side on an ash tray. His lips mold around yours, the pace escalating quickly like he’s been waiting for this moment just as much as you have. You can taste it on him, the bitter dregs of the sativa mixing into your saliva. 

His tongue darts out to drag against yours, taking advantage of your little gasps to deepen the kiss. Letting you melt into him, he nips and tugs at your lip gently with his teeth before licking it better. It’s hot and bothered and strained, and you’re not sure if you’ll ever be able to let go after getting him like this. He unabashedly moans straight into your mouth, the sound shooting straight to your core as you whine against him.

“Jake—” you gasp into his mouth, hand on his chest to slow him down. 

He brushes your hand away, pulling you onto his lap so you can sit with your thighs around his waist — all without disconnecting his mouth from yours. Tilting his head, he lets your hands roam across the expanse of his chest before threading themselves back in his hair with a tug.

“Shit— Y/N,” he barely gets out, lips on yours again. “Keep doing that, baby.”

You can barely keep up with his pace, overcome with white hot pleasure that renders you momentarily incapable of thinking about anything else. You let out another gasp at hearing the way he calls you ‘baby,’ the name so unfamiliar to you that you almost feel tears sting the back of your eyes. It feels so right hearing them fall from his mouth.

Dropping your head into his neck, you lick a stripe up to his jaw and press wet kisses over his bruises. His hips immediately jerk in reaction, hands squeezing your waist as his head falls back over the edge of the couch. You’re in the middle of sucking a hickey into the skin next to the bulge of Adam's apple when he starts rambling, hand sneaking up under your tank to press against your stomach.

“Sweet, sweet girl,” he starts, taking a breath and moaning out loud when he sees the string of saliva that connects where your mouths part. “I’ve wanted this for so long, you don’t even know.”

“Jakey,” you mumble into his skin, voice breaking when his hand wanders up to cup you through your bra. Jake’s at war with himself, but he can’t fight desire, especially not when he can feel you shiver against him like you’ve never trusted someone more.

“Fuck, say that again f’me,” he curses before dragging your shirt up your stomach with his teeth, dipping just below to press kisses just below your chest with fervor. His nose presses against your skin as he inhales, mumbling about how he feels like he could stay in this position forever.

“Jakey please,” you whine, needy hands reaching out so that Jake can pull you to him again. “Need you. Bad.” 

He complies happily, groaning at the way you fit perfectly in his hands.

At some point, the pleasure gets too much and you find yourself rocking into him, head tucked into his neck as he sings praises into your ear.

“Shit baby, c’mere,” his hands can’t seem to keep still, dragging down your back to your thighs and back up to your face. “Take what you need from me.”

Your face burns as you lay the side of your face against his chest, his hand guiding your hips right against the bulge growing in his sweats. The other holds your head to him, making sure you’re comfortable before matching the pace of your rocking. 

“I’m all yours,” he whispers down at you, smiling when you cry out his name in response.

Your stomach seizes when you feel his hand start to creep under the waistband of your sweats, playing with the string before dipping under the elastic of your panties. You’re pressed flat against him, and feeling his arm creep against your stomach makes you feel things no man has made you feel before.

“Is this… is this okay?” He hesitates, pausing as he watches you carefully.

You nod against his chest rapidly, shutting your eyes when his pointer and middle finger finally push against your heat. You’re embarrassingly wet, the sound clearly audible as he begins to move.

“Oh baby,” he coos, resting his chin on top of your head as he starts to move his hand back and forth slowly, coating himself in your juices. “Someone’s needy, mm? Can’t believe you were hiding this from me…” he trails off, biting his lip.

You fail to hold back a moan, muffling yourself with his shirt and biting the fabric between your teeth. Jake chuckles as he feels the fabric get wet against his chest from your saliva, gently pulling it from you. Tears prick against your waterline at the pleasure. 

“Let me hear you fall apart, baby.”

You shake your head against him, babbling nonsense as his fingers get quicker, rolling your sensitive bud between his fingers before dipping into you. It feels like all the times you’ve pleasured yourself thinking of him mean nothing — the real thing isn’t even close to being compared. It’s ecstasy that you’ve never felt before, the second-hand high from earlier hitting you fully now. White appears at the edge of your vision, your breath catching as you fall against Jake.

The second he feels your thighs start to tremble around him, the pleasure in the pit of your stomach starting to build, he pushes two fingers into you slowly, spongy walls swallowing them right up. He sets a rhythm, coaxing you to ride his fingers while he kisses along the crown of your head. 

“There you go,” he whispers. “Just like that. Made for me, aren’t you?”

His fingers are cold as they curl inside of you, hitting that spot deep in you that you’ve never been able to reach yourself.

Jake’s jaw clenches as he watches you fall apart on his fingers, the sight of you coming undone unlike anything he’s ever seen before. His erection is almost painful at this point, and if you keep making those noises, he knows he’ll be ruining his pants in no time.

Your hips jerk, movements uncontrolled as the pleasure inside you builds quickly. You know you’re close when he drags his thumb against your puffy clit, pressing down before drawing shallow circles around it.

“Come on, baby. Let go for me.”

You shudder at his tone that’s dropped an octave lower, an obvious rasp in his voice from all the overstimulation. His fingers are coated in you, your saliva still on his skin. The pace of his fingers double, helping you chase your release as he leans down to press a messy kiss to your lips.

It’s finally when he thrusts up against the fabric of your pants that you shatter, coming apart with a broken moan as you bite his shoulder. Jake rocks you through it, helping you ride out your high with his fingers still inside of you. He doesn’t stop, continuing to push in and out until you push against his hand in protest.

“Jake,” you whine out, unable to say anything except his name as you slow your movements. His fingers slowly slip out of you, completely soaked before he brings them up to his mouth. His eyes burn into yours as he licks them clean, tongue circling around them before pushing against his tongue with a smile. You almost climax again at the sight, cheeks burning as you watch him hum around his own fingers.

“You were so good for me,” he praises.

You look down in embarrassment, not getting very far before he’s capturing your mouth in a searing kiss once again. You taste yourself on him this time, eyebrows furrowing at the taste of cum and weed. 

Jake doesn’t give you even a second to think before he’s pulling away again, adjusting himself in his sweats. You shift your hips to reveal a dark stain on the front of his grey sweats, gaping in awe when you realize that he came from the mere act of getting you off. Your movements had dragged his pants halfway down his hips, the band of his boxers completely out as he makes no move to fix them. He lifts his hips, manhandling you to sit almost against his stomach as he settles back into the couch, breathing heavily.

“Did you…?” you start, staring at the space when your bodies connect.

Jake turns his head to the side, the tips of his ears reddening.

“You did this to me,” he says with a pout, dragging a finger through the wetness that’s both a mix of yours and his. Poking his tongue into his cheek in mock annoyance, he squints up at you. “Little minx.”

You hover, letting your hand drag slowly over his bulge and down his leg as he hisses at the feeling.

His jaw drops when you slide to the ground before him, knees hitting the ground between his open legs. Looking up at him with innocent, blinking eyes, you tilt your head before tossing your hair to one side and getting comfy with your arms in his lap.

Jake thinks he can cum from the view alone, that pretty mouth pouting at him as you paw at his sweats. You pull at the strings, focused. His head swirls with warning sirens, closing his eyes as he thinks about all the things you’ve already done and what would happen if he took it further. 

Would Sunghoon murder him in cold blood? Probably.

You make noises of protest from the back of your throat when Jake gently takes both of your hands in his, pulling you up until he can press his nose against yours. You can see the internal conflict in his gaze, guilt flickering through him as he looks from your messy hair to your swollen lips.

“Want you in me…” you start, clumsily trying to pull out of his hold before falling forward as he tugs you into him.

Smoothing a hand over your hair, he shakes his head before wrapping his arms around you. 

“Not today, baby.”

You frown, suddenly overly conscious of everything. The way the strap of your tank is halfway down your shoulder, the way Jake’s still out of breath, the way you almost just went all the way with him. You seem to shrink, shifting out of his hold to sit back on your heels. The heat drains from your face, hands suddenly cold as you fold them together.

“Why? You don’t want me…?” You say quietly, almost like you don’t want him to hear you. Your heart drops, and it doesn’t help that he stays silent as your mind runs through all of the possibilities as to why. Does he regret it? Already?

…maybe his friendship with my brother is more important than this.

“What? No— what, that’s not—” he splutters, bewildered at the way you start to pull away. He can feel his chest stop as he watches your face fall, starting to turn away from him before he desperately reaches out to have you close again.

“Y/N, listen to me,” he says firmly, heart aching when you look back at him with confused eyes. “Listen to me before you jump to any conclusions. I know that head of yours.”

Your throat tightens, lashes lowered.

“There’s nothing I want more than you. All I’ve ever wanted is you, actually.”

Your mouth parts, surprised at the sincerity in his voice as he clasps your hands with a film shake. He sounds firm and sure, gaze determined as he confesses. He looks to the side, pausing.

“I hate that you’re doubting yourself because of me. And I know I’ve been terrible at showing it, my feelings towards— towards you. I know I’ve fumbled maybe a thousand times at telling you how much you mean to me, especially considering our friendship and your brother and our friends and all that— but I want this to be real, and I don’t want you to think this is just a heat of the moment thing. You mean much more to me than just this… and you deserve a love that’s patient,” Jake stares at you, the one that you only see when he feels like he’s won something worth fighting for. 

“I want to stop running away from my feelings, and I’m so sorry I let my fear get in the way of telling you this earlier. Can’t stop thinking about the time we could’ve had together if I just told you how I felt,” he shakes his head, a bittersweet taste on his tongue. “I’m sorry that you had to be the one to initiate something for me to be honest with you. I want to take it slowly with you, if you’d let me—”

“Jake—” you interrupt his chain of thoughts, putting a hand on his knee.

“—and instead of telling you, I would get jealous on my own and do stupid things like bodycheck Heeseung—like fuck, why did I even do that? Now he probably hates me too, oh god—”

“Jaeyun,” you say firmly, cupping your hand over his mouth to shut him up. He stares at you at the abruptness, lips twitching against your palm.

“Where did that come from?” You say softly, unable to hide your grin as giddiness overtakes you. “I— I’ve been the same way, silly. We’ve both been stupid.” You rest your chin on his knee, peering up at him. “Don’t apologize.”

His whole body seems to release all the tension that’s been building up, fingers carefully brushing the hair out of your face.

“God, how did I get this lucky,” he sighs out, throwing an arm over his forehead at your cute expression.

You giggle, overcome with the fact that Jake likes you. Jake likes you too.

“So you like me, huh,” you tease, scooting forward. Moonlight bounces off the side of your face as you shift, every tiny sound amplified: the wind rattling against the windows, the hum of the fridge, the soft shift of fabric when Jake leans forward. You can still feel where his hand had been on your waist, the ghost of his thumb at your jaw.

“Shut up,” he mumbles with a bashful smile, slightly mortified at how intently you’re looking at him. “Yeah. Badly.”

“And you want me— mmph!” you exclaim in surprise when Jake hooks his arm around your waist, his biceps flexing against you as he pulls you back into his lap. He spreads out on the couch, letting you curl comfortably in his chest with your face buried in his neck. The scent of cedar and bergamot orange clouds you, snuggling into him as he chuckles.

“Hm? What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s what I thought, baby.”

You’re squirming in his arms, trying to get away from his wandering hands when the front door clicks open with a beep. You jump, flinching as it creaks open. Jake doesn’t seem surprised. A head peeks through the crack before rolling his eyes at the scene before him.

“Get out of my apartment,” Sunghoon deadpans, kicking off his shoes, shimmying off his jacket and throwing it at the two of you. It hits you in the leg before falling to the ground. Tossing his keys and wallet onto the kitchen island, he grabs an apple off the counter before taking a bite and leaning his weight against it. Raising an eyebrow, he eyes the two of you.

You blink at him nervously, staring off into space somewhere between his shoulder and his wall. You hope Jake says something, because you sure aren’t. What if he gets mad? What if he hates this? What if—

Your brother must see the look on your face because he sighs, putting his apple down before gesturing vaguely at you. 

“Don’t look at me like that, Rockstar,” he snorts, pointing at Jake. “Bro’s been pining after you since we were like ten. This,” he looks pointedly between you and his best friend, “was gonna happen at some point.”

You whirl around to look at Jake, a dusty rose spreading over his cheeks as he glares at your brother.

“Really?” You ask in wonder, ignoring the sound of Sunghoon’s fake retching behind you.

“God, I hate love,” he continues in the background, fully ignored by you and Jake as the latter stammers his words at your attention.

“Yeah, our friends always say that I’m painfully obvious,” Jake confesses quietly, thumb rubbing circles against your leg.

“But… but what about earlier today?” You hesitate to ask, turning back to Sunghoon who’s now spinning himself around on a bar stool. “The girl from your stats class?”

“What?” your brother says absentmindedly, spinning himself once more before stopping with a snap. “Ohh, the girl from stats!”

“There was no girl… I— I wanted to make you jealous. It was so stupid,” Jake admits, his face heating up even more as Sunghoon bursts out into laughter behind you.

“Actually,” your brother starts, a smirk spreading across his face as he takes another bite of his apple. “She’s very real. And she also just sucked me off in the bathroom of the bar I came from, sooo,” he trails off, “I think the real winner tonight is me.”

“Holy TMI, dude,” Jake complains from under you, the timbre of his voice humming against your side. He covers your ears from Sunghoon’s crass mouth as you make a face at your brother, his laugh reaching you even with Jake’s hands protecting you.

“Anyway,” Sunghoon swings his legs off the stool, grabbing his phone before sneakily taking a picture of the two of you snuggled together on the couch. “Imma send this to Jungwon so he can stop blowing me up on Kakao. He’s been waiting for this since our first year, probably.”

You just sigh contently, happily pushing yourself into the warmth of Jake’s chest and relieved that you don’t have to hide your feelings anymore. The softness of his arms around you are no longer a daydream. The world shrinks to just this, the smell of him, the heat of his skin seeping through the fabric of his old hockey tee, the gentle press of his chin near your temple. His embrace is possessive and reverent, like you’re the most precious thing to him.

Your own breath finally slows.

For so long you’d been orbiting him — watching from across rooms, stealing glances, cataloging every laugh and look — and now, wrapped in his arms, that ache resolves into something quiet and full. You feel small in the best way, tucked against him, fitting into the hollow of his body. His hand moves absentmindedly along your side, curling into your skin and reminding you that this is very real.

There’s no more guilt humming at the edges of the moment, the pressures of facing your brother or telling your friends gone.

You finally have him.

“So sorry to interrupt,” Sunghoon’s voice bursts the moment, popping up in front of you with an exaggerated smile. “Love that this is happening. Super cute. Mom and dad will be thrilled, I bet.” He pauses, biting his pointer finger between his teeth before looking at the two of you with a pointed stare. “If you have sex on my couch though, different story. I’m shooting everyone in this room and then myself. Thanks.”

You gape at him as Jake mutters a smug “can’t promise I won’t try” from behind you, earning a hard smack on the arm.

“Joking, I’m joking, holy shit,” he chokes out, dodging to the side with you in his arms as your brother tries to land another hit. 

“You better be,” he says, eyes snapping down to the wet patch on the crotch of Jake’s pants. “‘Cuz that’s fucking nasty, man. I should’ve let Heeseung knock some sense into you while we were still on the ice.”

You groan in mortification, burying your face deeper into his chest like you could disappear into the fabric of his shirt. From above you, Jake lets out a low, amused breath, his arms tightening instinctively around you as you hide. You can feel his chest shake beneath your cheek as he looks up.

You let out a muffled whine against him.

Jake, infuriatingly, only smirks, chin resting lightly atop your head. “You only said she was off-limits, not the couch.”

“Jaeyun,” your brother warns, raising a hand at him.

“Okay, okay,” Jake chuckles, finally easing back just enough that you can peek out from behind him, cheeks burning.

Your brother’s expression softens when he sees your face. You’re mortified and flustered, but still fully in Jake’s arms.

He exhales. “You’re lucky I trust you more than any guy at this goddamn university.”

Jake’s laugh follows him down the hall, and his arms don’t loosen. If anything, he pulls you in a little closer. Not for show, but because he needs it.

“I know,” he looks down at you, determined.

“And for what it’s worth,” Sunghoon adds with a wicked smile, already turning toward his bedroom, “if you make her cry, you’re benched for the season, Sim.”

END.

—

NOTE. thank you for reading this very self-indulgent fic ‪‪❤︎‬ I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it. pls leave any and all feedback, it always makes my day and helps improve my writing so so much! this was all solely fueled by my first college hockey game of the semester. ts was lit asf, i was so into it that i literally lost my voice the next day LMFAO [ i thought i'd share a small clip from the game, esp because of how much of this fic was inspired by the strong hockey culture where i grew up. for your viewing pleasure HAHA ]

xx, kiachiako

-

© kiachiako, 2026. all rights reserved.

[undereuphoria]

im gonna pass the fuck out. chat.

[undereuphoria]

SEULGI THEME IS MAKING ME TWEAK OUTTTT

VIIIII THANK UOU GEIAGEKD SHE'S MY OG MOMMY AND I CHERISH HER FOREVER

both of our themes being fox idols....... our bluetooth omg

[iclimbjungwon]

[chew toy] — nicholas wang

genre ﹒﹒smut

description ﹒﹒sucking on the charm of nicholas’ chain while he fucks you contains mentions of breeding, oral fixation, tummy swelling, dadanicho

vi’s note ﹒﹒SEALNON. SEALNON CAN U HEAR ME. it’s him. my life cannot function properly without dadanicho . iclimbnicho omg who said that?? must’ve been the wind

you’ve never been deft in mastering the art of maintaining eye contact with nicho — unless, of course, he’s looming above you, reeling your eyes toward his own with nothing more than the unspoken ‘don’t take your eyes off me’ beneath his gaze. not that a command from him ever required words, as you are deft in the subject of understanding how he’ll command you next before the breath of it even reaches his lips. in the current moment, the steel within his eyes was just as hard as the steel of his necklace’s charm, dangling atop your lips. and just as hard as his cock, which was embarking on a languid journey inside of you. a journey spurred by the forward surgence, and backward withdraw of his hips.

“that’s it, baby. let me see those pretty eyes,” the pattern of his hips continues, though now accompanied by pressured snaps against your skin as he hastens the pace. “you like that? come on, i need your words baby.”

ever the usual tease from him. spoken in such spite of the relentless gasps and moans emerging from your throat, and the frantic dig of your nails into his shoulders — as though the cues alone didn’t suffice in communicating just how much you ‘liked’ his current treatment of you.

“like… like it, weno… love you, weno,” each syllable escapes you in sounds hardly distinguishable from your raptured cries. though just as they do, the lock shaped charm of his necklace takes full advantage of the open space you’ve disclosed, abandoning its comfort atop your lips and resting upon your tongue instead. pure instinct encourages you, almost as if it were reflex — or more accurately, by autonomy — and you welcome the metal with a gentle envelopment, gentle suckle of your mouth. as you see it, a hug is the only appropriate way to ignite that welcome feeling — and as nicholas has taught you, anything from him should receive the same hospitality, only from your mouth instead. whether it’s his fingers, his cock, his belt — if he’s bringing it to your mouth, you recognize it as encouragement to suck. you’re only doing what you know.

“i know you, baby. i love you.”

that beautifully low, graveled tone of his sends a gentle chuckle toward your face in a huff. as his hand abandons the safety of the blankets beneath you, it cascades along your forearm before commencing its travels with an embrace of your own hand. his lips cuddle your palm in a tender kiss, the tension it received from clinging to his shoulder dispersing upon contact. the metal upon his rings shrouds you in such comforting familiarity, mimicking the metal within your mouth. regardless of the cold tenor, all your body truly seems to recognize is the warmth accompanying it — a reminder of the safety adorning every facet of him, laced into every thread of every entwinement of the bond you share.

“mmm… you’re adorable. how’s it taste, baby? you always need your mouth full, don’t you?”

the snap, snap, snapping of his hips refuses to cease, each movement cloaked in a precision that only practice could forge. he pistons with such control, such measured intent, you find difficulty in absorbing the fact that it’s instinct for him — or at least you would, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s dedicated years to reaching expertise in the subject of your pleasure. in that subject, he’s certainly a seasoned veteran.

he leans closer, the silk of his cheek nearly fusing with yours in a gentle caress. by result of his movements, the steel charm shifts within the confines of your mouth, though still remains enclosed by your lips. his lips nestle against your ear, the contact and proximity urging a soft shudder to travel through you, ripples of your skin in tow. transcending the realm of doubt, he notices — just as he does with even the most discreet reactions your body offers in retaliation to him.

“you love it when i fuck you like this? you like showing me love with that pretty mouth?” he insists on teasing you in that signature deep inflection, even with the knowledge that you cannot mutter a single syllable with your mouth full, nor could you navigate through the reflexive emergence of your moans to offer a single word aside from a narrow mutter of his name. the breath behind his voice seemed to cloak you ear — it only seemed to send you further into manic descent, for the fact that it seemed to decrease so drastically in volume while speaking to you, from the pressure of the intimacy and the squeeze of your pussy which only seemed to tighten around him with the constriction of a vine as he spoke.

“fuck, you do like it baby. squeezing my dick so fucking hard,” his eyes relent to the pleasure as they narrow for a moment, the furrow of his brows urging them to close. as they open, they only muster the strength to gaze upon you with half of their full potential, his lids hooded. “who am i, hm? who am i, baby?

the sudden command woven into his words seems encouraged by the sudden amplification of the bliss your pussy gives him — as does the sudden intensification in the pressure behind each thrust, kneading the spot within you that causes the sparks of pleasure to flare even further with each pass of his hefty tip. though even with the accompaniment of such a staggering distraction, you still know exactly what he’s asking of you.

the lock-shaped charm spills from your lips, stumbling along your cheek with gentle bounces as it endures the plows of his hips rattling each bit of you. the moisture of your own saliva adorns your face, glistening upon each patch of skin the charm makes contact with.

“daddy! my daddy… weno, my daddy…”

the gravel behind his beautiful voice only intensifies as it shapes into a groan, even through his attempt to conceal it within your mouth as he kissed you. his lips tug themselves from the plush of your own, though not with enough distance to part them entirely — with each syllable that passes his tongue, his lips prod yours with the ease of a petal.

“mhm… mhm, that’s right, baby,” he ushers his head to dance with a subtle nod, the huff behind his words increasing in succession, though still remaining gentle. his brows travel closer as though magnetized, and his expression morphs as his cheek creases from the nudge of his lips — they parted enough to disclose a glimpse of those teeth which you’ve never held any sentiment toward aside from adoration. just as you adored the manner in which the absolute delight performed along his features.

“ah fuck… come on, baby… you’re almost there, i got you.”

the encouragements propel you further toward the destination you were always guaranteed to reach when he had you. even in the absence of his words, you knew he was beginning to reach the peak, just as you were — the slight distraction behind his words has become distinct to you. though even as his own pleasure distracted him, he still trained his focus to the task of amplifying yours.

that, he certainly does. as though the graze of his lower abdomen against your clit wasn’t enough to offer you more than an abundance of pleasure, his hand abandons its hold on that of your own as he tasks his thumb with providing you incessant circles there. each pump of his hips sends you closer toward the direction of your inescapable haven of demise — it’s never up for debate with nicho, though you’d never want to escape it anyway. each of his movements prove his strength, his virility to you — though even with the movements, every facet of him made you blissfully aware of both traits.

you cum, spiraling above into an ascent of immobilizing rapture which never became simpler to process, no matter the number of times he’s sent you toward it. your body can only devolve into a descent of strained, unbridled cries, jolts, and shudders as his hand settles you with its warm pressure on your tummy — a presence which anchors you, secures you onto the surface of earth — because you’d certainly sail high enough to roam the domains of heaven without it — and more importantly reminds you of your own presence in the moment with him.

“you’re okay… you’re okay, baby… my beautiful, beautiful girl.”

the phrase commences the surge of his own orgasm, and his lips chase yours once more, pouring the heftier portions of his groans into your mouth as their demand to escape his throat becomes much too insistent to resist any longer. his cock jolts, pulses inside of you, battling against the constrictive latch of your pussy as you seem to lock him into position, prohibiting him from doing anything other than remaining nestled exactly where he is. though he knows it’s not voluntary, and regardless, it’s a lock he’d never even want the passcode for. he’s more than elated to be where he is.

the gushes of his release fill your womb, satiating the yearning you hold towards all of his liquids. your tummy swells with the overabundance he pours into you, obscuring the otherwise unmistakable shape of his cock sculpting your skin into a mold of him.

the silk of his lips meet yours once more, remaining stubborn until they retreat with reluctance to allow the space for his words to reach you, his palm meeting your cheek with sways of his thumb as it does. “i take it you like my necklace, baby. or is it just that you like having my things in your mouth?”

a chuckle from him joins the air as he admires your pout in fond annoyance. of course, he knew the answer, though he also knew the directions to that arrive upon that reaction. “shut up.”

“it’s alright, baby. i’ll always keep your mouth full.”

[undereuphoria]

new theme bc im planning on actually being an official enhablr writer this week aka i finally post one of these wips into the void.....

hope u all havent been too disappointed that man's best friend isn't going as scheduled (rip kinktober..... hello kinkmas) but i swear...... she will arrive

[undereuphoria]

sera i……… i………. uhm……… well………..

MMMMMM HE LOOKS SO BIG GAHHHH so bf coded..... gonna nibble on that bicep....... but also

long term bf!jungwon that takes you out on a date with a vibrator nestled between your thighs, suggesting it under the guise of "spicing it up a little" and how he'll "be gentle" with it—with you.

he takes you to the aquarium and a nice dinner and tries to not notice when you clench your thighs tighter under the table or start digging crescents onto his bicep where you hold him, soothing your thighs with a hand that's already been resting there or a soft kiss at your temple while you walk under the blue tunnel.

he rewards you with small bursts of the lower setting; when you finish your food, when you give small fun facts about the fish that you randomly remember from scrolling through the internet–or even just for giving him one of your sweet smiles. jungwon takes note of every twitch, the way your eyes glance around as if people will know just from the tiny hitch in your breath. tries not to smirk too big when you give him a tiny whine by the angelfish display.

and even though he tries not to punish you too much—jungwon finds that you're more of a brat under the threat of stronger pulses, doesn't bother hiding behind false pretense when you oh so obviously try to coax a reaction out of him. rushing him through one of the exhibits, sitting across from him instead of beside, holding yourself back from ordering your favourite food, or–god forbid–pouting at him because the restaurant didn't have dessert.

that's really what makes him push you to the very edge, smiling at your eyes widening and how quick you are to bite your lip, silencing the squeal that would've escaped you. his hand drifts towards your core, casually, as if you two weren't in a very public, very fancy restaurant, pushing the little bullet where it's nestled between your folds, grazing it towards your clit and chuckling when you bury your face into his shoulder. underneath the table, his one hand works itself within your skirt, fingers pressing every so slightly into your wetness through your underwear, his other playing with the settings to push you closer and closer to ruin. above, you two look like lovebirds who can't get enough of each other—you, leaned into jungwon's shoulder, hair covering your face and the hot flush of red rising from your neck, one hand pressed against his chest and the other holding his bicep, soft whines leaking through uneven breathing as jungwon presses kisses to your forehead, your temple, leaving the setting on high to cradle your chin and sealing your lips together when he feels the telltale clenching of your fluttering hole, the stuttering of your breath, and the instinctive press of your tits against his arm like you're trying to rub yourself against him (you are).

jungwon kisses you gently as you come down from the high, lips quirked like he didn't just absolutely ruin you in the corner of your favourite restaurant, asking the server for the cheque and whisking you back to the car so he can drive you both to the frozen yogurt bar down the street. where jungwon piles all your favourite toppings (he knows it forwards and back), and feeds you as many spoonfuls as you want.

[undereuphoria]

111 notes??? thank you guys???

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

the art & science of parenting 101 ─ p. js

↳ summary ── the art & science of parenting 101 (PSY1009): in this interactive course, students will explore the psychological, social, and biological foundations of parenthood. through a mix of theory and hands-on practice, you'll master the art of raising a simulated baby—aka the 'robot child'. late-night feedings, tantrum taming, and crisis control are all part of the deal.   what you didn't expect to be part of the deal? getting paired with jay park—the last person you'd trust to raise, well, anything. you’re pretty sure he couldn’t even take care of a pet rock. now, you’re stuck co-parenting this robot baby together for 40% of your final grade.  warning: sleep deprivation is guaranteed. and maybe, just maybe, some unexpected feelings for your disaster of a partner. good luck! 

↳ pairing ── jay park x y/n [ft. enha members!]

↳ genre ── e2l!au, college!au, (fake)parenting!au, he-fell-first, she-fell-harder type beat lolz || fluff, crack

↳ ✎ᝰ. 20.5k [ONCE AGAIN -- this was not intentional..if you know me i just have too much fun writing sometimes & get too attached to the characters...]

↳ contains ── mentions of parenting & parental neglect (sorta, only a smidge of like five words), crack! bc if you know me i self indulge in crack whoops, jay & y/n being opposites & school rivals, jay's annoying smirk like a million times, reader & jay are psych majors, jay's also a photographer, cheesy ass kisses, jay & reader are awkward! so awkward! there’s SO much tension . but in a cute awkward crush way

↳ addie's ✉ .ᐟ ── omg it’s finally done. tell me why it took me so long to finish, i promise i didn’t mean to but life’s been busier lately :’) aNyways! ugh i luv writing e2l!jay for some reason,,,he fits the trope so well in my eyes heh but i hope you all like him & the characters as much as i enjoyed writing them !!! as busy as i am i love indulging in my crack x enha writes :P hope u enjoy & tell me what you think <333

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

Welcome to PSY1009, The Art & Science of Parenting 101! Throughout the next 12 weeks, we’re going to dive deep into the wondrous world of parenting—dirty diapers and all. To kick off our course, we’re starting with our campus-famous project: raising your very own robot baby for the first half of the semester (with the help of your assigned partner, of course). Before our first class, we ask that you complete this pre-project questionnaire on your current views and opinions about parenting. No pressure—there are no right or wrong answers (maybe only judgements from your future robot offspring)!

Q1 – The Art & Science of Parenting 101 aims to apply different psychological approaches to parenting. What theories and methods do you believe are important to parenting? 

Y/N's Submission [8:25AM, September 18th]:

"I strongly believe that effective parenting revolves around a strict routine, which can be reinforced through the principles of operant conditioning, as developed by B.F. Skinner. Proper feeding schedules, consistent nap times, and regular development check-ins are essential—I think a structured timetable would ensure a baby's needs are met efficiently and consistently. With a set schedule and a focus on developmental milestones, I believe we can maximize a child's growth potential, even if it's just a robot baby.”

Q2 – What do you expect to learn and gain out of this co-parenting experience?  

Y/N's Submission [8:29AM, September 18th]:  

"I expect to confirm that a well-organized system is the key to successful parenting. I want to test my hypothesis that if you follow a set structure, yes, even with a robot baby, things will run smoothly. I am hoping that this experience runs smoothly with no unnecessary surprises.” 

✭・.・✫

Satisfied with your answers, you click 'submit' and close your laptop, feeling a wave of satisfaction as you settle into your seat—center of the second row—as you wait for the 9AM lecture to start.  

It's 8:30AM.  

You're the only one in the room.  

Yeah, you're a little early. So what? One can never be too prepared. You've waited for this course forever, and you're determined to not only ace it (like you do with every class) but to dominate. So yes, coming early is characteristic of you, as you want to ensure you get the best seat in the classroom: center of the second row—center to get the best view of the professor's podium, and second row to be close enough to show you're engaged, but not close enough that it screams, Look at me, I'm a tryhard!  

It's clear you've come prepared. Plus, this class isn't just any ordinary elective—it's the elective to take. Only the top students majoring in psychology get in, available only through direct invite by the professor. If you were invited to PSY1009, it meant you were the crème de la crème of psychology students. The best of the best. The elite. The— 

Your train of thought is derailed when an all-too-familiar figure strolls into the room with that signature smirk. Backpack slung lazily over one (1) shoulder (as if two straps are too much effort), hair clearly still bedhead status, wearing whatever clothes he fished off The Chair (you know, the one—where all questionable, semi-clean laundry lives). 

He strolls past you—of course—and plops down right in front of you.

Front row.  

Try-hard. 

"Y/N, fancy seeing you here," Jay Park spins around, a knowing look plastered on his face, eyes gleaming. "I missed seeing that frown of yours all summer." 

"What are you doing here, Jay?" You roll your eyes and scoff at his comment. "Don't tell me you got into this class. It's for serious students."  

Jay's grin only widens to your despair. "Contrary to your deeply misinformed opinion, Professor Kim actually loves me. I'm a great student."  

“I don’t believe it,” you deadpan back. “You never turn your assignments in on time, and quite frankly, I'm surprised you were even able to find this classroom."  

Jay shrugs, unfazed. "What can I say? Professor Kim doesn't just look at deadlines, she looks at talent. Guess that says a lot about me, huh?"  

You mumble something under your breath about ‘talent for procrastination’ but before he can fire back, Professor Kim walks into the room, cuing the silence of all the students who've filled up the class.  

"Good morning, class! I'm so happy to see so many familiar faces."  

Jay turns his head back towards the front of the room, as you instantly straighten up, flashing your favorite professor a smile. This is officially the fifth course you've taken with Professor Kim. It's no secret you’re one of her biggest fans—the countless early mornings you've spent waiting at your computer, finger hovering over the ‘enroll’ button the second registration opens so you can be one of the first students to sign up for her classes have proven that. Challenging but rewarding, her classes are always worth the effort.

And yet, for reasons beyond your comprehension, Jay Park—Jay Freaking Park—somehow always ends up in the same classes. Every. Single. Time. It’s like a curse.  

A loud, messy, procrastinating curse…

…that just so happens to have a side profile almost as annoyingly good that it only pisses you off more. 

You wonder if he’s actually here to learn or if he’s just here to spite you. Because, honestly, the amount of classes you’ve shared with him is no longer a coincidence. Five semesters in a row? Suspicious. 

But realistically, and unfortunately, Jay does study the same major as you, which means those last five semesters? Oh, those were five long semesters of endless debates on discussion boards, in-class duels over psychological theories, and the infamous showdown for the TA position in Professor Kim's Intro to Psychology course. And the worst part? Neither of you got the job because Professor Kim—in a diplomatic twist that made zero sense to you—deemed you both 'equally qualified.' So, the job went to the third best candidate instead. Tough luck.  

You open up your laptop again, opening a perfectly organized Google Doc, ready to take notes on whatever pearls of wisdom Professor Kim is currently bestowing about your upcoming project—which, in hindsight, you should really be paying attention to. You should be. But something so ridiculous, so blood-boiling, pulls your attention elsewhere.  

Jay's desk is completely...empty. 

No laptop. No notebook. Not even a measly little pencil. Did he bring an empty backpack? Or did he just walk in here like he's casually waiting for someone to present him his grade on a silver platter? He's just sitting there like this is a casual hangout—probably expecting his robot baby to parent itself while he simply supervises.  

Before your self-induced inner monologue spirals into complete rage, you suddenly hear your professor's voice cut through the class, breaking you out of your mental rant.  

"Y/N and Jay." 

Wait. What?

Your head snaps up so fast it's a miracle it didn't pop off your neck and roll away.

You blink. You must have misheard.

"Y/N and Jay," Professor Kim repeats as if she could read your confused expression, voice too nonchalant for the life-wrecking news she's about to deliver: "You two are partners."  

The words hit you like a bus. No, not even. The words hit you like a bus driven by a T-Rex that flips over, crashes into a building, and explodes into a million ashy pieces. And there you are—standing right in the middle of the wreckage, somehow (and unfortunately) still alive to suffer through every second of it—while Jay, smug as ever, whips around in his seat to face you.  

And of course, there it is: that look of his that screams 'This is going to be so much fun for me, and so much pain for you.' 

"Guess we're parents now, Y/N!" Jay chimes, his voice dripping with so much sarcastic enthusiasm you swear he just got handed an Oscar for Most Annoying Human. If that tone were a substance, you'd bottle it up and use it as insect repellent. On him. Repeatedly.  

You blink at him, you're sure—you're praying—this has to be some elaborate prank. Maybe Jay bribed Professor Kim with his rare attempt at turning in an assignment on time just to mess with you. Or maybe the universe just hates you and this is your karma for stealing your roommate's last ramen packet that one time a year ago.  

But no, Professor Kim keeps rattling off other pairs like it's business as usual, as if your entire academic career and sanity isn't currently being flushed down a metaphorical toilet, while you sit there, paralyzed, your brain rapidly melting into a useless puddle from the sheer thought of being paired with him.  

"What's wrong, Y/N?" Jay teases as he leans over the back of his chair towards you, puppy dog eyes on display. "You don't want to play house with me?"  

You narrow your eyes at him, mentally wielding your imaginary bug spray like it's a holy weapon. 

"I don’t," you reply flatly. "In fact, I’d rather perform open-heart surgery on myself with a plastic spoon than co-parent with you." 

Jay’s eyes light up as his hand goes to his heart. "Aw, you really know how to make a guy feel special. This is why I like our little relationship, you know?" 

"Relationship?" You scoff loud enough to make the people sitting three rows behind you to glance in your direction.

You bring your voice down to a whisper, leaning towards him. "The only thing we have in common is a shared oxygen supply." 

"See, that’s the spirit," he says, turning back to face the front like he didn't just ruin your life.

And somehow, that pisses you off even more. Is it his voice? His stupidly perfect hair? The fact that he has the audacity to breathe in your general direction? At this point, he could literally sneeze, and it would still feel like a personal attack.

Is it too late to switch majors? Or schools? Maybe even countries? Surely, restarting your entire college career as a super senior would be better than spending the next six weeks parenting with Jay. Jay Park, who has probably never held anything more fragile than a Red Solo Cup.  

Jay Park, who is just sitting there, all calm and collected, clearly loving every second of your misery.  

While you're frozen in pure, unadulterated horror.  

Your grade? Plummeting as we speak.  Your robot baby? Probably going to need therapy by day two. And you?  

You're screwed.

Q1 – The Art & Science of Parenting 101 aims to apply different psychological approaches to parenting. What are your current theories and methods that you believe are important to parenting? 

Jay’s Submission [10:09AM, September 18th]: 

"I think babies need more freedom to explore and make their own choices, even if that just means grabbing random things. Bowlby's attachment theory leans towards a secure attachment, but I don't think that means hovering over them 24/7. It's about being there when they really need you, not scheduling every second of the day. I also believe letting babies learn through their own experiences is key. Strict behaviorism, such as Skinner's, sounds exhausting and I don't think a rigid system is what makes a good parent. Babies are messy, and that's okay." 

Q2 – What do you expect to learn and gain from this experience? 

Jay's Submission [10:12AM, September 18th]:  

"I'm hoping to learn how to be a responsive, yet flexible parent without overcomplicating it. The goal is to find balance between being hands-on without hovering. And, I think this whole robot baby thing will teach me how to handle unpredictable situations—because no matter how much you plan, life is going to surprise you. And also, being able to say I know how to change a diaper under 30 seconds sounds pretty cool :)" 

✭・.・✫

Jay's screwed.  

Like, completely, utterly, hopelessly screwed. 

He was already kinda skeptical he’d make it past his 40s if he kept living the way he does, but now? Now, he’s not even sure he’ll survive the next 24 hours. Why? Well, today’s the first official meeting with you—as co-parents—at the campus coffee shop at 12PM sharp. 

It's 12:17PM.  

He's late.  

Seventeen whole minutes late. To your meeting. And you're basically the human embodiment of an atomic clock. You’re probably sitting there, checking your watch every few seconds, calculating his absence down to the millisecond. Jay can practically feel the murderous vibes you’re radiating from halfway across campus.  

And while Jay sometimes finds your need for punctuality weirdly endearing (but don't tell anyone that), he also values not getting scolded on a Saturday morning (12PM is still morning to him, don't judge), especially when he could be sleeping in.   

As the café comes into view, Jay considers just throwing the towel in. Maybe he could fake a sudden illness, or better yet, skip town and maybe fake his own death or something. 

There's no point. Knowing you, you'd probably hunt him down for sport.  

With a sigh, Jay pushes open the door to the café, bracing himself for impact.  

And there you are. Exactly how he imagined.  

Seated at a small table by the window, papers perfectly aligned, laptop open, and two different colored highlighters placed meticulously side by side. Your foot taps in perfect sync with the café's background music, your eyebrows knitted together in focus, and your teeth chewing your bottom lip as if you're about to crack the Krabby Patty secret formula. The window next to you allows the afternoon sunlight to spill through and reflect off of you, making you look...dare he say it...almost pretty.

If Jay wasn't fearing for his life, he might have actually stopped to admire the view. Might have.  

When Jay finally reaches your table—17 minutes and 46 seconds late (but who's counting)—you look up, meeting his gaze with a look that's somewhere between not surprised but definitely not impressed. 

"Well, well," you say, quirking your mouth up ever so slightly that Jay thinks he might see you smile for the first time in, like, ever. "Look who finally decided to join us! Must be nice living on Jay Standard Time."  

Jay flashes his usual, unbothered smile as he pulls out the chair across from you.

"Oh, c'mon, Y/N. Seventeen minutes is nothing in the grand scheme of life."  

"Yeah? Tell that to our future robot baby when you're seventeen minutes late to feed it and its batteries die."  

"Yikes. That got dark quick," Jay's mutters, grin wavering. "But hey, glad to see you're finally accepting the fact that it's our future baby!"  

"Future robot baby," you peer your eyes at him from above your laptop. "Anyways, did you read the guidelines?"  

Jay rubs the back of his neck as he leans back into his chair. "Uh, define 'read'."  

Without missing a beat, you slap a packet of papers down on the table.

"Here's the breakdown. Feeding schedules, emotional development tracker, diaper changes, mood swings—the whole shebang. We're going to have to approach this strategically."  

"Woah, okay," Jay's eyebrows shoot up, his brain trying to catch up with the words you just spewed at him. "First, how the heck is a robot going to develop emotionally—that's a little scary if you ask me. Like, dystopian, Black Mirror, scary. And second, since when is parenting just following a spreadsheet? Isn't part of it, you know, winging it?"  

At the words 'winging it', your eye twitches so violently, Jay half-expects you to reach across the table and strangle him with his own hoodie strings. 

"Winging it?" You shut your laptop and lean forward. "Winging it is exactly how we end up with a malfunctioning robot baby that starts a fire and fails us. Parenting is all about structure, consistency—"  

"—and having a little fun," Jay cuts in, mouth quirked with mischief. "I mean, what's parenting without some chaos?"  

"Chaos," you mutter, narrowing your eyes at him, "is what you bring into my life on a daily basis."  

"Yeah, and yet you secretly love it," Jay shoots back, leaning in to meet you, as if daring you to disagree.  

You stare at him, unblinking. It's either you're plotting his slow and painful demise or seriously considering what he just said. No in-between.  

And yet, somehow, Jay almost finds it endearing how you can look like the world's most innocent golden retriever while also simultaneously sending him six feet under with just one agonizing glare. Almost.  

Finally, you sigh, "This isn't a joke, Jay. This is 40% of our grade."  

"And I'm 100% ready!" Jay shoots back with a wink, to which you respond with a full-body eye roll.  

"Oh yeah? Alright, Mr. Ready-for-Anything, what's your brilliant plan?"

"Hmm," Jay leans back in his seat, folding his arms behind his head as if he's got it all figured out (he doesn't). "Well, for one, I was thinking maybe...shifts. We split responsibilities based on our schedules. I'll take the baby on certain hours, you take it other hours, and we'll spend our free days together. And if we're not together and there's a baby crisis, we stay on call." 

In complete honesty, that came from out of nowhere. Jay didn't even know any ideas were subconsciously cooking up within him until the words tumbled out of his mouth before he realized it. But there's no way he was going to tell you that, not when you don't immediately tear his idea to shreds. In fact, you actually look...impressed? 

Or so he thinks. Jay definitely needs to get better at this whole 'reading your expressions' thing.  

"Huh," you murmur to yourself, fingers tapping against the table. "That's...not the worst idea you've ever had."  

Jay feels elated. Validation? From you? Phew, this means his life is spared. Thank god.  

Jay flashes you a satisfied smile and while you don't return it, he hopes you're secretly softening. Just a little. Behind that straight face, you're probably low-key impressed, but no way are you letting him see that.  

"Don't get too excited," you say, as if you've got some sixth sense for whenever Jay throws a mental victory parade. "This is only day one. Of, like, 42. We've got a long way to go."  

"Okay, okay," Jay raises his hands in surrender, though there's no hiding the smirk on his face as he still mentally takes the win. "Message received. Let's just figure out our schedules?"  

You nod, pushing your laptop aside to make space for a sheet of paper you've already prepared—because of course you're prepared. It's like you're about to whip up some elaborate high-stakes legal contract that probably involves blood signatures.

"Okay," you say, clicking your pen, picking a bright blue that basically stabs Jay's eyes by simply existing, but whatever makes you happy, I guess.

You write 'Jay's Schedule' at the top, neatly highlighting it with a pink highlighter that somehow hurts even more. Jay wonders if this is a secret ploy to blind him into submission. He wouldn't put it past you.  

"What's your typical weekly schedule like?"  

Jay squints, clearly thinking hard, as he tries to remember what a 'typical' week looks like for him. Mostly it's a mix of spontaneous decisions, power naps, and gym sessions sprinkled between classes.  

"Uh...well," Jay rubs the back of his neck. "I usually sleep in until like 11...sometimes noon, depends on the vibe, you know? Classes after that, gym a couple times a week, maybe? And, um, naps are non-negotiable. Make sure you pencil those in too."  

Your pen freezes mid-air, hovering like you're considering whether to throw it at his face or not.  

"Naps? Non-negotiable? For someone who wakes up at 11AM? We're raising a child, Jay, this requires commitment!"  

Jay raises a calm eyebrow. "Hey, sleep is very important for brain function! You wouldn't want me underperforming as a parent, right?"  

Your eye twitches. "No, Jay. That's already my biggest fear."  

But instead of escalating the snark, you bite your lip, clearly restraining yourself from unleashing a full lecture on time management. Jay struggles to stifle his own laugh at your reaction. If looks could kill, you'd have him buried under six feet of color-coded charts and to-do lists by now.  

Finally, you sigh, accepting your fate and jotting down ‘Jay’s naps: apparently crucial for survival’ in your notes with a frown drawn next to it, while Jay gives you an approving nod from across the table. 

"Alright, my turn," you flip the page over with dramatic flair, carefully writing 'Y/N's Schedule' in the same stab-your-eyes-blue and pink highlight combo as Jay mentally braces himself for what's to come.  

"So," you continue, starting with that no-nonsense tone that's clearly meant to be serious—but to Jay, there's something almost charming about how strict you are. "I wake up at 6."  

Jay's brain immediately short-circuits. Forget charming.

You’re downright crazy. 

"6? As in AM? On purpose?"  

You blink back at him, as if he's the one saying something ridiculous.

"Yes, Jay. On purpose."  

His mind reels, purely amazed, yet utterly horrified at the thought. 6AM? Who does that? He's seen 6AM before, sure, but only when he's stayed up all night, probably cramming for an exam. His mornings start at 10AM at best, and that's very, very rarely. There are birds chirping at 6AM. Who wants to live in a world where birds chirp you awake?  

When he doesn't respond—still in pure shock—you keep going, undeterred by his obvious existential crisis.

"I usually have class at 8AM until 1PM, then I try to pick up a shift here," you gesture around the very café you two are in, "and then—"  

"Wait, wait," Jay holds up a hand, needing a mental pause button. "You work here?"  

"Yeah," you nod, like it's the most casual thing ever. "Why, is that surprising?"  

Jay squints at you. He's never considered the idea of you pulling espresso shots and dealing with caffeine-deprived college students—he's always pegged you more as a 'quiet math tutor for third-graders' type. Or maybe someone who sells cute stationery at the campus bookstore, organizing pens in rainbow order or something. But now that he's picturing it, yeah, it kind of makes sense. Maybe that's why you're so uptight all the time—too much exposure to coffee fumes. Or, more likely (and evidently), you're just an insanely busy person.  

He likes the coffee fumes theory better.  

"I guess not," he admits, then surprises even himself by adding, "that's kind of impressive, though."  

He gives you a genuine smile, and you blink back, as if searching for the hidden jab that's usually lurking beneath his words. But it's not there this time...oddly. Slowly, your expression softens, and you give him the tiniest of smiles.

"Thanks? It's alright, I guess."  

It's nothing big—no, not at all—but Jay feels a weird sense of accomplishment at your reaction. Better than nothing. 

He leans in over the table, all faux-innocence—eyebrows raises, large puppy eyes and all.

"Does this mean you can get me a free coffee?"  

You lean in too, mirroring him, and he's not sure why his heart skips a beat at the close proximity. 

"Yeah...no. Nice try."  

Jay groans, throwing himself back in his chair dramatically. Worth a shot.  

"Anyway," you continue, totally unfazed, "I usually work here until 5, then Mondays I have a study group for Econ 301, and club meetings scattered throughout the week."  

Jay's head spins for maybe the nth time since he's sat down. Honestly, you lost him way back at 'class until 1PM.' Your schedule is like some kind of twisted Sudoku puzzle, except much more intimidating.  

"So...you're, like, busy...all the time?" he asks, the words tumbling out of his mouth as his brain tries to process how anyone can function like this.  

You give him a look that almost convinces Jay himself that he's the crazy one here.

"Yes, Jay. I am."  

"Wow, okay. So why did you even take this class? What happened to being committed? You don't even have time to breathe."  

You narrow your eyes, and he swears you're about to launch into some motivational TedTalk.

"It's called efficiency, Jay. Also, I like to challenge myself. That's what parenthood is about, after all."

Jay stares at you like you've just self-declared yourself a cyborg.

"Oookayyy," he drawls, dragging out the word because, honestly, he's 99% sure you've completely lost it. The remaining 1%?  

It's slightly impressed by your sheer, terrifying level of commitment. He's over here winging life, including this conversation, while you've practically mapped out the rest of your entire existence. 

"Do you even, like, sleep? Or is that optional for you?"  

"Sleep is for the weak," you shoot him an amused glance, half-joking, half-serious.

Jay raises an eyebrow. "Good to know I'm weak, then."  

You stifle a laugh, but Jay catches the brief twitch of your lips before you quickly compose yourself. He’s known you for so long, and yet, this might be the first time he’s seen even a hint of your guard slipping. It’s subtle, barely there, but he notices. And for some reason, it makes him smile. You’re always so put together, so serious—but this small crack in your armor? Jay can’t help but appreciate it.  

Maybe, just maybe, he could get you to soften up more if he tried hard enough.

And yeah, he’s definitely going to try. 

But before he can try to tease you more, you snap back into business mode, instantly scribbling down more notes.

"Alright, so let’s just split the baby's care based on my work schedule and your...nap schedule, apparently."  

Jay leans back in his chair, catching that flicker of amusement in your voice—despite the serious look on your face—and he fights the urge to push a little more. There's something about that side of you—not the one behind the cold wall you've built of color-coded schedules and deadlines—that he wants to see more of. Somehow.  

"Works for me,” he shrugs and grins at you, “but if the baby's anything like me, it'll nap a lot. You might have it easy."

"And if it’s anything like me,” you mutter, barely pausing, “then it’ll easily get annoyed by you.”

Jay catches the ghost of a smile on your face, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it—which he definitely is. It’s enough to keep him intrigued. He leans forward, resting his chin in his hand like he’s watching some fascinating show. 

You don’t notice him staring—or maybe you do, but you’re too busy pretending you don’t. Either way, there’s a small, almost imperceptible shift in your body language that Jay senses. Your shoulders aren’t as tense, and you don’t look like you’re mentally calculating how many minutes you have left before you can escape this meeting.

Jay decides to take advantage of the moment. “So…do you think our robot baby is also going to be a superhuman genius? Like in a you way?” 

You finally let out a laugh, to his surprise, and he feels so satisfied he has to bite his lip to hold back a smile. “Definitely, but also part crazy. Like in a you way.” 

Jay chuckles, mentally declaring this conversation a victory. Your laugh fades but for a split second, he catches you studying his face like you’re trying to figure out what his deal is. And he doesn’t mind it at all—because, for once, you’re not giving him the usual death glare that sometimes seems permanently reserved for him.

Then, just as he starts to settle into this very rare, almost… pleasant vibe between you two, you suddenly snap back to reality, capping your pen and standing up. 

Jay frowns as he watches as you turn towards the coffee bar, not ready for this conversation to end just yet.  

"Wait, where are you going?" he blurts out, sounding more tragic than intended. 

You pause, turning back with a look that sends his pulse tripping.

"Do you want a free coffee or not?"  

The following Monday, at exactly 9:55AM, you and Jay are handed your robot baby—Jisoo, as Jay somehow convinces you to name it after his favorite celebrity—at the end of your class.  

You didn't even try to put up a fight. The moment Jay's eyes lit up at the idea, you knew you'd already lost. After three whole minutes of bickering and one PowerPoint titled 'Why Our Baby Deserves to be Named After Star Quality,' you realized there was no saving it. He had arguments. He had fan chants memorized. For a robot baby. Your robot baby. 

"Admit it, Jisoo has star quality," Jay beams, proudly looking down at the robotic baby in the baby carrier that came with her.  

You look from Jisoo to Jay, then back to Jisoo, unimpressed. "It's a robot, Jay. Not your bias."  

"Bias or not, she deserves only the best," Jay just shrugs, unbothered.

He glances down at the robot, which blinks its eyes open and closed with a soft whirring noise, its chubby plastic arms flopping lifelessly by its sides.  

There's a beat of silence as you both stare down at it, unsure of what to do next.  

"It's kind of creepy, right?" you finally mutter, breaking the knowing silence between you two.  

Jay snorts. "Not even 'kind of.' A lot."

He leans in to inspect it, his brows furrowed, "So, does it just…sit there?”  

"No, it's on schedule. It says here it won't eat for another three hours and it has a clean diaper, so everything should be fine. Babies are predictable once you understand their needs, Jay," you huff, already pulling out the meticulously detailed notes you took during class.

Jay lifts an eyebrow as he turns to face you, "Right...because in real life, babies are totally like robots and are totally predictable. Got it."  

You open your mouth to respond, probably with something unnecessarily snarky (you don't know what yet though, you haven't gotten to that part yet), when a loud, high-pitched wail shatters the air, cutting through the now-empty classroom you two are in. The robot baby's face contorts into an exaggerated crying expression, its mechanical arms flailing (which you didn't even know was possible) like it's preparing for takeoff. 

"What the—" Jay instinctively jumps back like Jisoo is a grenade on her last few seconds.

"Why's it doing that? What did you do?"  

"I didn’t do anything!" You snap, panic slowly rising as you flip through your notes quickly. "It's not supposed to be crying! It shouldn't be hungry, and it's definitely not tired yet!"  

The wailing intensifies, vibrating through the room as the cries echo louder and louder, Jisoo clearly not caring about your carefully crafted timeline. You glance down at your schedule. Why is it crying?  

You groan and snatch Jisoo out of the carrier, awkwardly holding her in a way that's probably not safe for any life form, real or otherwise. The wailing doesn't stop. In fact, it gets louder, as if Jisoo's personally offended by your existence.  

"Hold her!" You quickly thrust her into Jay's arms, a horrified expression written all over his face. "You deal with it."  

"Deal with what? It's a robot!" Jay stares at the baby in his arms like it's going to explode. "Oh god, are we even sure this is safe?"  

"Yes, Jay! It's a baby!"

You're sure you're borderline going insane from the combination of the screeching baby and Jay's apparent lack of brain cells.  

Jay's eyes widen as Jisoo practically vibrates with the force of its cries. He tries to mimic the way you were holding her, cradling her against his chest like she's made of glass. It doesn't help. Jisoo keeps wailing, and now Jay looks genuinely distressed. 

"Uh, shh, little buddy, it's okay...Should I, like, burp it? Sing to it?"  

“Sing?” You give him a look like he’s completely lost it, but Jay’s already humming off-key under his breath. 

The baby, predictably, continues screeching. 

You both just stand there, staring at the baby, then at each other, the panic palpable in the room. Jay continues bouncing it lightly, as if this will magically solve everything.

“Does it have an off switch?” he asks, glancing at you like you've parented a robot baby before. 

You continue to frantically flip through your notes, pages rustling in a blur. “No, Jay! We can’t just turn off our baby!” 

“Well, I don’t know, Y/N, but I’m pretty sure babies aren’t supposed to sound like they’re summoning a demon!” Jay retorts, his tone climbing the ladder of panic. "Maybe she's hungry or something."  

“It can’t be hungry, it's not supposed to be!" You’re still too busy scanning your notes as you shake your head in disagreement.

Jay just shakes his head, gently cradling the baby even though he's sure it's about to lift off into space from how much it was shaking right now. 

“Sometimes you can’t schedule everything, Y/N. Maybe it just needs a bottle, like, right now.” 

The idea frustrates you. “But it’s not time yet. If we feed it off-schedule, it’ll mess everything up for the day.” 

The baby’s cries reach a shrill pitch, like it’s protesting your protest. Jay looks at you, then back at the crying baby, then back at you again. 

“I think it’s already messed up, so maybe we just... feed it?” he says, half-grinning, half-exasperated. 

You hesitate. It feels wrong. Babies are supposed to follow patterns, stick to a routine...or so you thought. You let out a frustrated sigh, your brain bleeding from the sheer sound of the glass-breaking screams.  

“Fine,” you mutter, grabbing the bottle from the supply bag. “But if this throws off the whole schedule, it’s your fault.” 

Jay grins, but there’s something softer in his expression behind it as he watches you struggle with the bottle...and your need for control.

“Deal.” 

You hand the bottle to him, and he places the nipple into the baby’s mouth. The wailing stops almost instantly. The sudden silence is deafening, and both of you are stunned for a moment, looking down at the baby who’s now peacefully drinking. 

You let out a small gasp of relief and turn your head up to look at Jay, who's widened eyes meet yours.  

Jay lets out a held breath. “Well. That was traumatic.” 

You roll your eyes, though there’s a slight twitch at the corner of your lips as you mutter, “I think I just lost three years of my life."  

Jay watches as you carefully take Jisoo from his arms and place her back into the carrier, making sure everything is in order. He’s still catching his breath, but he glances at you—relaxed, for once, after the panic—and it makes him feel something weird. He almost laughs. 

“I dunno,” he says, a little teasingly. “I think we handled that pretty well.” 

“Great, now just five weeks and six days of this left." You give him a look, but there’s a tiny, fleeting smile this time. "I just don't understand why it was crying. It's not supposed to need food until—"  

Jay cuts you off with a chuckle. “Y/N, it’s a baby. Real ones don’t run on algorithms. They just... cry when they need something. Like this little gal. I mean, you can't exactly schedule crying, right?” 

The silence stretches for a moment as you watch him, realization dawning a little slower than you’d like to admit. “I guess,” you mutter reluctantly, earning yourself a content-looking Jay.  

"Look at us—team effort," Jay says, as he beams a smile to you before glancing at Jisoo. "We're naturals at this whole parenting thing."  

"Yeah, okay," you roll your eyes, but the smile on your face says differently as you reach out to unnecessarily fuss with the small blanket in Jisoo's carrier.  

Jay's eyes light up at your response.

"A smile? The Y/N gave me a smile? Admit it, we make a great team, huh?"  

You scoff, but the look on your face proves there's no bite to it—Jay knows there's no bite to it.  

Maybe, just maybe, he has a point.  

You'd never admit it to him, though. 

Not yet.  

To your pleasant surprise, the past two weeks have been...weirdly smooth. Like, suspiciously smooth. You and Jay have somehow managed to fall into an actual routine—dropping off and picking up Jisoo like two semi-functional adults who almost know what they’re doing. You still wouldn’t call it 'seamless', as Jay himself struggled with having a consistent schedule for once in his life, but at least you’ve gotten through the weeks without major incidents or spontaneous combustion. So far.

That doesn't mean you'll admit to anyone—least of all yourself—that you and Jay might actually make a decent team. His parenting methods are still objectively abysmal...to you, at least. I mean, just the other day, he almost put Jisoo's diaper on upside down. Upside down. You didn't even know that was possible, but leave it to Jay to surprise you more and more.  

Despite his questionable approach to baby care, Jisoo's still alive (you think), and somehow you've managed not to explode at him yet (key word: yet). So, that's...something, I guess.  

Today, though. Today is a different beast entirely.  

It's Sunday, and miraculously, you've managed to give yourself the evening off. No café shift, no emergency club meetings. The stars have aligned, and for once, you have free time. And what did you decide to do with this rare gift from the universe?  

Spend it with Jay. Parenting. Together. In his apartment.  

You blame Professor Kim for this cruel twist of fate. Something about submitting photographic evidence of co-parenting. After all, this is a partner project.  

Teamwork, she called it.  

You like to call it pure suffering.  

Which brings you here, standing outside Jay's apartment with a tote bag of baby supplies on one shoulder, Jisoo's carrier on the other, and a silent prayer on your lips. If this apartment is even half the disaster you're imagining—frat house, landfill, or some unholy combination of both—you're fully prepared to turn around and run for the hills.  

You take a deep breath, bracing yourself for whatever horrors await behind the door, and knock three times.  

Precisely five seconds later, the door swings open, and...yep, there's Jay. His hair is a mess, his clothes are rumpled, and you can't tell if he's been a) napping, b) playing video games, or c) all of the above.  

"Hey," he greets you with a lazy grin, eyes half-lidded like he's still half-asleep.  

It's 6PM.  

You stare at him, deadpan.

"You look like you've been hit by a truck."  

Jay snorts as he raises an eyebrow.

"You should see the truck."  

Before you can fire back with something equally sarcastic, you catch a glimpse of his apartment over his shoulder, and—you blink, confused. Wait. Wait.  

Well this can't be right.  

You were expecting a disaster. Maybe a few pizza boxes, a stray sock on the floor, some suspicious stains on the couch. But no.

Instead...it's clean. Like, really clean.  

The floors are spotless, there's a shelf with neatly stacked books, and are those...framed photos on the walls? Like, actual art? Your own apartment doesn't even have actual art, just print outs from Walgreens of photos you thought were cute on Pinterest and your Justin Bieber posters you got from a magazine back in high-school. Now you're starting to feel ashamed.  

You do a double-take, your brain struggling to process what's happening, as Jay still stands in front of you, confused at your gawking.

"Y/N? You good?"  

You snap your mouth shut, as you spot a vacuum neatly tucked in the corner of the living room.

"I...I'm just surprised you even know what a vacuum is." 

"You'll learn I'm full of surprises, Miss Y/N," he says, casually leaning against the doorframe as he looks down at you, his gaze making you shift in your stance in front of him. "Come on in."  

You step inside cautiously, like you're waiting for something to jump out at you—maybe a camera with someone saying 'You've been pranked, this isn't Jay's actual apartment!'  

But nope. His apartment is just...nice. It smells like eucalyptus and citrus, for crying out loud.  

You set Jisoo's carrier down on the couch, the robot itself still fast asleep, as your eyes scan the room, still half-expecting to find a hidden mess somewhere. But instead, something else catches your attention.  

On the wall, next to his kitchen, there's a collection of professional-looking photographs, all framed neatly. This is what caught your eye earlier from the doorway. You find yourself slowly walking closer to get a closer look: landscapes, city stresses, a few candid shots of people—all in the same style, same camera quality, same angles. You tilt your head, intrigued.

Jay comes up behind you to see what you're looking at and you turn to him, "Are these...yours?" 

"Oh," he scratches the back of his neck, looking almost shy. "Yeah. I do some photography sometimes. Just a hobby."  

You blink up at him. Jay Park? A photographer? This was not on your Jay Park Bingo card. 

"Huh," you say, before realizing how dumb you sound. "I didn't know you were into that."  

"Well, there's a lot you don't know about me, Y/N. Full of surprises, remember?" Jay replies, his head tilting to match yours with a cocky smile, which—ugh, okay fine—makes you feel just the tiniest bit flustered. Not that you'll admit it.  

"Oh, really?" You raise an eyebrow. "And here I thought your only hobbies were napping and showing up late." 

"That's just the surface level," he says with a wink, walking over to his coffee table and grabbing his laptop. "I was actually editing photos before you showed up." 

Intrigued, you follow him to the couch and sit beside him as he flips open the laptop. You squint at the editing software on the screen—full of layers, sliders, and all sorts of professional-looking tools that immediately make your head hurt. Jay scrolls through the images, and honestly?

They’re good. Really good. Like, if you didn’t know better, you’d think some of them could be in a magazine. And not the kind of magazine you got your Bieber Fever posters in.  

"Wow," you say, nodding, genuinely impressed. "That’s… actually really cool." 

Jay freezes, his head snapping toward you with a look of disbelief. He stares at you, eyes narrowing like you’ve just broken some unspoken rule.

"It's been ten seconds...you just gave me an actual compliment without a sarcastic follow-up."  

You let out a small giggle, "Geez, you always make me sound like some soulless witch or something."  

"I mean… soulless witch might be a bit much. But, like… emotionally unavailable overlord? Hmm, maybe," Jay grins, leaning back in mock thought.

You burst out laughing before you can stop yourself, the sound catching Jay off guard. He looks at you, wide-eyed, like he’s just witnessed a rare phenomenon. And maybe he has—because even you can’t remember the last time you laughed this freely.

"Wow. I should annoy you more often," Jay smirks, clearly way too satisfied with himself. You’re not entirely sure if he meant it to sound that smooth, but your brain certainly processed it that way. Heat rises to your cheeks before you can stop it, and you quickly clear your throat, a small, flustered smile playing at your lips. 

You try to gather yourself, praying your voice doesn’t betray you.

"Don’t push your luck, Park," you manage, but the teasing edge in your voice is softer than usual—way softer. And, of course, Jay knows it. You know it. You’re still smiling, and—unfortunately for you—so is he. 

Jay suddenly clears his throat as he shifts in his seat, "So...should we order like a pizza or something? Are you hungry?"  

And because lately the universe apparently has a personal vendetta against you, your stomach chooses that exact moment to let out a sound—one that resembles between a whale’s mating call and a frog being strangled. 

Jay stifles a laugh, trying to act casual but failing miserably, "Okay… pizza it is." 

“Shut up,” you mutter, giving him a playful shove that’s just enough to make him fall back into the couch cushions. 

"No, you tell your stomach to shut up," Jay snickers, grabbing his phone to place the order. 

You’re about to fire back with something—anything—but a soft wail interrupts you from the baby carrier. 

"Someone needs attention," you say, scooping Jisoo up and cradling her in your arms. “It’s about time for her to eat anyway.” 

As you juggle Jisoo with one hand and dig through the baby bag for her fake bottle of milk with the other, Jay watches you from his spot on the couch, a curious look in his eyes.

“While you feed her, I’ll take care of the pizza. I’m guessing you’re more of a plain cheese type, huh?” 

You freeze for a second, then whip your head around to give him a mock-offended look.

“First, you think I’m a soulless witch, and now boring? I at least add pepperoni and sausage. Give me some credit.” 

"Okay, okay, noted," Jay lifts his hands up in surrender, "So adventurous. I'll remember that next time you call me irresponsible."  

You roll your eyes at him as you adjust Jisoo in your arms, holding the bottle steady at her mouth. It’s quiet for a few moments, the only sounds being the soft hum of your fake baby and Jay tapping on his phone. 

Suddenly Jay puts his phone down, turning to you with an unreadable expression. “You’re really serious about this whole parenting thing, huh?” 

You blink, still rocking Jisoo in your arms.  You're thrown off by the sudden shift and sincerity in his tone.  

“Well… yeah. I think it’s important, you know? Responsibility, structure… that’s what makes people feel safe. Especially kids. They need to know they’re taken care of.” 

Jay’s expression shifts as he listens, a more thoughtful look settling on his face.

“You're a strong believer of that, aren't you? Structure and schedules and all that?"  

His voice is a lot quieter now, lower, and you realize you've never really had a serious conversation (that wasn't a class debate) with him before—at least not long enough to hear this version of Jay. The serious Jay. And if you're being honest, it's making you a bit flustered. You hesitate, hoping your voice doesn't crack or something equally embarrassing.  

“I mean… I guess so. I was raised that way. My parents always had everything planned out. It was like...nothing ever went wrong because there was always a system, a backup plan.” 

Jay raises an eyebrow, leaning forward a little in his seat.

“But didn’t that feel, I don’t know... suffocating? Like, what if things don’t go according to plan? You can’t control everything.” 

Your first instinct is to scoff, but something stops you. It's a valid question, and for some reason, you don’t feel the need to throw up your usual defenses for once. That's new.  

“Maybe sometimes,” you admit. “But I don’t know any other way. It just feels like if you’re not prepared, things fall apart. And that’s the worst feeling—like watching everything crumble because you weren’t ready for it.” 

Jay is quiet, studying you with an intensity that feels new. His teasing smirk is gone, replaced with something more serious.

“Yeah, I get that. I didn’t have a lot of structure growing up. Parents were kinda… there, but not really. I think that’s why I don’t plan much. Life happens whether you’re ready or not.” 

You blink as you sit back in your seat, absorbing his words. It’s the first time you’ve really thought about Jay outside of his 'laid-back' image of him you've had in your head, and honestly, you’re surprised by how heavy his words feel. 

“But…you’re actually good with Jisoo,” you say, almost cautiously, unsure if you’re diving into uncharted territory. “You’ve been handling this project better than I thought you would.” 

Jay laughs softly, shaking his head as he looks at Jisoo in your arms.

“It’s just a robot baby, Y/N. No big deal if I mess up.” 

"It’s not just about the robot baby,” you counter, realizing you're saying more than you intended. “You actually care. You’re not graded on how well you change diapers or keep her entertained, but you’re still putting in effort. You’re trying. And that matters.” 

There's a beat of silence as you see Jay pause. For once, he doesn't have a comeback. Instead, he's just looking at you—really looking at you—like he's trying to figure something out, and you feel the heat slowly creeping back onto your face. You're sure you're turning an unflattering shade of red under his gaze on you, and part of you, no, all of you, is begging for him to say something immediately before you combust.  

Then, with a suddenness that almost makes you jump, he leans over and nudges your arm lightly.

“Okay, Dr. Phil. Don't go getting all soft on me now."  

You let out a playful scoff to mask your relief, thankful for the release of tension in the air. But something about the conversation lingers in the air, hanging like a question neither of you is ready to ask. And despite the teasing, your mind can’t help but circle back to how Jay had looked at you—serious, curious… something else. 

Before you can dwell on it too long, the doorbell rings. Saved by the pizza gods. Jay springs up from the couch to answer the door, and you gently place the now-snoozing Jisoo back in her carrier. The conversation still swirls in your head as you watch Jay grab the pizza, too caught up in your thoughts to not even question how suspiciously fast it arrived. 

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, watching Jay at the door from your spot on the couch, your thoughts too heavy for someone who is literally holding a pizza box. 

For someone who sure likes to plan everything out, you definitely weren’t prepared for Jay Park—and how he's quickly becoming the exception to every rule you've ever made. 

✭・.・✫

The first thing that jars you awake is a piercing scream—Jisoo's, of course. Your eyes shoot open as you squint into the dim light, your eyes adjusting and blinking your way out of the accidental nap you fell into. You're trying to make sense of your surroundings through your blurry vision when...it hits you.  

This isn't your room. You're still at Jay's apartment, wedged into the corner of his couch, and apparently, you fell asleep. Post-pizza-food-coma style. And also apparently, your mutual robot child has decided now was a perfect time for a meltdown.  

The second thing you notice is the faint background noise of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire still playing on Jay's TV in front of you. Your memory jogs back to when you two finally came to a consensus on which movie to watch over dinner, and naturally, the deciding factor ended up being 'young Robert Pattinson,' and no, it wasn't your deciding factor. You didn't expect Jay to even have an opinion on this, but apparently, his love for Cedric Diggory is a hill he's willing to die on.  

And then...that brings us to the third thing. A sound from the other end of the couch—Jay's soft snores. You two must have dozed off at some point during the movie somehow and of course, he's still passed out cold, totally oblivious to the screams of robotic despair coming from the baby carrier seated between you two. You glance over at him, out cold with his head tilted back, looking completely unbothered by Jisoo's increasingly offended screams.  

But even through all these realizations, what really slaps you awake, more than Jisoo or Jay or Cedric Diggory, is the smell. It hits you like a rogue sock to the face, and for a moment, you're convinced that Jay definitely has some biological-grade garbage decomposing somewhere in the apartment after all. The smell is like a powerful, radioactive wave, and all you can think is, What in the world is this guy hiding in here? And why is it now coming to life?  

You sit up from your spot, still half-asleep, and follow the foul scent in horror until you realize the source.  

Jisoo.  

Sure, you have changed Jisoo's diapers plenty of times over the last two weeks, but before? There was no smell. At most, you get these weird, vaguely sticky robotic poops in her diaper that barely registered. Now? Now it’s like Professor Kim somehow remotely gave Jisoo a software update and coded her to emit a scent so pungent that it feels borderline illegal. You're convinced this is Jisoo’s final boss form—peak realism unlocked—solely just to spite you and your nostrils.

While you’re here on one end of the couch, one button away from confirming an Amazon Prime order to ship over a bottle of bleach for you to dip your nose into, Jay is still in blissful dreamland, not even flinching. You stare at him in disbelief, hoping your sheer mental outage might magically wake him up. No such luck. 

You grab the throw pillow that's wedged under you and chuck in right at his face.  

"Jay!" You're still half-asleep, so your voice comes out like a strangled whisper, somewhere between pleading and passive-aggressive murder.  

Jay jolts, sitting up with a sleepy yelp, blinking in confusion.

"Huh? What happened? Is Cedric okay?" His panicked gaze darts around the room wildly before they finally settle on you, across the couch. 

"What happened?" You raise a finger to the screaming, stinky, betrayal-machine between you two. "That happened, Jay. Jisoo happened."  

Jay blinks slowly, squinting at Jisoo, his brain clearly struggling to boot up, and then makes the fatal mistake of sniffing the air. The realization suddenly dawns slowly, and you can see the look of horror hit.

"Oh my god, how is she even capable of...of that?!" His voice breaks three octaves as his hand shoots up to pinch his nose.  

"I don't know!" You squawk, equally traumatized. "She's never done this before—I didn't even know she could!"  

Jay groans and rubs his eyes, hoping this is all a bad, bad dream. No such luck, yet again. He glances around helplessly. "So, uh, who's changing her?"  

You shoot him a glare as you get up from the couch and start looking for the baby bag.

"We're changing her, Jay."  

"We?" Jay winces, inching towards Jisoo with all the enthusiasm one has when approaching a radioactive waste barrel. He slowly reaches down to take Jisoo out from the carrier and he starts muttering to himself.

"Great. Fine, this is fine. Just another bonding moment with our adorable robo-daughter." He finally picks her up, reluctantly holding her at arm's length like she's a ticking time bomb. It's so ridiculous that, despite the war-crime-level smell permeating the room, you can't help the small laugh that you let out.  

"What?" Jay glares at you, though a look of amusement tugs at his lips. "You think this is funny?"  

"No," you say, barely stifling your giggles. "It's just—you're holding her like she's about to explode."  

Jay gives you a doubtful look, "Y/N, I'm not convinced she's not about to explode."  

You shake your head, still giggling as you shuffle the carrier off the couch and lay out a blanket, turning Jay's couch surface into a makeshift changing station.

"Alright, c'mon. Lay her down and hold her legs up. I'll handle clean-up duty. And maybe...brace yourself."  

Jay exhales like a man about to face his greatest fear. He gently lays Jisoo down and lifts her legs up with the tips of his fingers, his face still contorted as if you're both dealing with a toxic hazard. At this point, it probably is.  

"Oh my god," he breathes. "This is it. This is how I die."  

You crouch down in position so you're at level with the couch and say a mental prayer before you pull open the tiny diaper. The moment you do, the both of you immediately recoil as a scent that should not even be allowed to exist wafts up and fills the room.  

“Oh god.” 

The scent is so ungodly it feels like it came from the depths of hell itself and punched you both right in the face. It doesn’t just waft up—it attacks. You’re pretty sure you lost at least another three years off your life from one breath alone. 

"That's not legal," Jay chokes as he flings himself back at the sight, dropping Jisoo’s little toes in the process, flailing around as if the air itself betrayed him. "There's no way that's legal." 

You freeze in sheer horror, staring at the scene before you: Jisoo’s somehow realistic poop smeared across every surface of her bottom it possibly could spread to, the stench intensifying with every passing second.

Jay starts pacing the room, spiraling into an existential crisis.

“No, no, no, this isn’t normal. This is—this is a crime scene! This can’t be right.” 

“Jay,” your voice is muffled as a hand tries to cover both your nose and mouth from the contaminated air, “Jay, focus!” 

Jay looks at you from across the living room, wide-eyed and pale, like a deer caught in headlights.

“You expect me to—in this economy—” 

“Grab. The. Wipes.”

Jay groans and he stumbles back towards you, hesitantly rifling through the baby bag. His hands finally find the pack of wipes and he peers over your shoulder from behind you, as if you’re his shield. 

“Are you just gonna stand there, or are you going to help?”

“I am helping,” Jay protests weakly, waving the pack of wipes like they’re a magic wand that might save you both.

You roll your eyes and turn back to Jisoo, “Okay, grab her legs again. I’ll wipe.” 

His eyes watch in horror as he reaches over you to take hold of the robot’s feet. With a deep breath, you start furiously scrubbing Jisoo’s little body, trying your best to breathe as minimally as possible, sticking your hand out towards Jay whenever you need a new wipe. 

“I signed up for fake parenting, not surviving a biohazard. This isn’t bonding; this is trauma,” Jay incoherently mumbles, placing a wipe in your hand. 

"I think this trauma is exactly what we're supposed to be learning and 'bonding' from," you retort, carefully tossing a soiled wipe into the designated waste bag.  

"Oh, so Professor Kim is forcing us to bond over mutual suffering? Very sweet," Jay deadpans as he hands you another wipe. 

"Exactly. Parenting at its finest."  

Finally, after you definitely lost three years of your life, the horror show is over. Jisoo is cleaned, diapered, and—somehow—actually looks peaceful for once. Like she didn't just commit a crime against humanity. 

Jay exhales, looking at her with a newfound joy. "Well. She's definitely...less terrifying when she's not screaming and emitting toxic fumes."  

You plop yourself on the couch and cradle Jisoo like she's a tiny, innocent angel instead of the cause of your collective suffering.

“I’m genuinely afraid to know what they put in her system for this to happen.” 

Jay collapses onto the couch beside you, visibly relieved, "Whatever it was, we did it. We survived. We did that." 

You can't help but laugh, still a bit punch-drunk from the adrenaline and exhaustion of it all, "We better get an A+ on this project."  

Jay chuckles, leaning his head back against the couch. The room falls into a brief silence, just the two of you sitting there, basking in the weird accomplishment of it all. Then, as if on cue, you both start laughing—a deep, exhausting kind of laugh that two people only share after a 'you had to be there' type moment. There's something about the whole ordeal—how ridiculous, how hilariously awful it was—that just makes it impossible to not laugh.  

"Now do you think we make a pretty good team?" Jay grins, nudging your shoulder with his.   

You roll your eyes at him, "I don't know...depends."  

Jay raises an eyebrow, "Depends on what?"  

"Depends on whether you can make it through the rest of the project without crying again," you quip, lips twitching into an amused grin.  

Jay gasps dramatically, clutching his chest. "Excuse you, I did not cry. My eyes were sweating from Jisoo's toxic fumes. A completely normal biological response, thank you very much."  

"Sure, Jay," you deadpan, shaking your head.  

"Besides," he continues, leaning back smugly, "I did all the heavy lifting. Literally. I held the live grenade."  

You snort, glancing down at Jisoo in your arms before handing her off to Jay, "You're unbelievable."  

"And you're stuck with me, partner," he grins back, rocking Jisoo in his arms. "You too, Jisoo." 

You lean back into the couch, watching Jay coo at the now-peaceful baby. Somewhere between his flair for over-the-top dramatics, his secret love for young Robert Pattinson, and (for some reason) endearing passion for photography, you realize…maybe Jay Park isn’t the complete disaster you thought he was. 

"Yeah," you murmur, a small smile tugging at your lips. "I guess I really am stuck with you."  

And for the first time since this ridiculous project started, you don't mind that as much as you thought you would.  

Jay would like to make a few things clear. 

First of all, none of this is his fault. 

He hopes you understand that, as his thumbs fly over the keyboard of his phone like his life depends on it.

Because, in a way, it does. 

Jay [11:32 AM]: “i swear it’s not my fault, but my friend, jake, his entire load of laundry is now the color of strawberry milk. and apparently i’m the only one that can help him. can i drop jisoo off with you for like… an hour? tops?” 

He stares at his phone, waiting for your response like you hold the key to his survival.

Because, in a way, you do. 

He hears Jisoo coo from her carrier, like even she knows how dire this situation is. Finally, his phone lights up with a buzz. 

Y/N [11:33 AM]: “i’m volunteering at a dog adoption event on campus, but sure, drop her off here :)” 

Jay blinks at his phone. A dog adoption event. Of course, you'd be saving puppies on a Saturday. Of course. Like some kind of unreasonably perfect human. And here he is, about to save a fully grown man from having to wear solely pink t-shirts for the next week.

Fantastic.   

With a sigh, Jay turns to Jisoo, who blinks back a stare that can only be described as the (robot) baby equivalent of good luck, bro. 

By the time Jay reaches campus, he's bombarded with the sight and sound of...dogs. Dogs everywhere. It's as if he's entered the chaotic lovechild of a Disney movie and a petting zoo, complete with wags, barks, and the smell of kibble. And then he sees you. 

You're smack in the middle of a fenced playpen, laughing, surrounded by every breed of fluffy chaos imaginable and passersby cooing 'aww' at the sight. And what a sight it is.  

You look ridiculously happy, and for some reason, that makes something in Jay's chest feel weirdly tight. He wonders what it must feel like to be able to make you smile that widely, that brightly. It's unnerving. He's not used to seeing you so relaxed, so content—or maybe he's just not used to noticing how good you look when you're not glaring at him.  

"Y/N!" a voice calls from the volunteer tent, snapping Jay out of his daydream. Jay watches from the distance as you haul a golden retriever pup into your arms and walk over to the tent, naturally falling into conversation with your friend and immediately organizing papers. Meanwhile, Jay stands there, dumbfounded at your unbothered, graceful rhythm that you seem to fall into like second nature. 

Jay thought he had you figured out, filed neatly in his mental drawer of uptight-control-freaks-that-happen-to-smell-like-roses-and-have-perfect-smiles, but now? Something about the way you look—so confident, so caring, so...natural—catches him off guard.

Now, you're like some serene multitasking goddess in the middle of pure chaos.  

That brings us to the second thing Jay would like to clarify (more so to himself): he definitely doesn't think you look good in, like, an attractive sense, or anything insane like that. Absolutely not. He just is simply impressed at how you seem to manage and carry yourself quite elegantly. This is pure admiration. Admiration, okay?  

But...while he's here, staring in 'admiration', it suddenly hits him—you're not just good at taking care of Jisoo. You're good at taking care of everything.  

And that makes his heart do a weird flip.  

The realization that he's been staring for way too long jolts him back to the present. Focus, Jay. There's a Jake somewhere out there, lost in a sea of pink underwear.  

Jisoo carrier in hand, Jay manages to push his way through the dog-packed crowds until he reaches you, but the second you turn around, flashing him that wide, carefree smile that he's still not used to, he's back to stumbling over himself.  

He’s 99% sure he audibly gulps. 

“Oh, Jay, you made it!” you say, shifting the puppy to one side of your arms to free a hand to grab Jisoo's carrier immediately. Your smile is disarmingly genuine. Jay thinks he may need to sit down.  

“Uh, yeah—um, thanks for taking Jisoo," he swallows, his voice barely steady as he's unsure what this feeling is that came over him. He doesn't know if it's the fact that he's seeing you in a completely different light right now, carrying both a live, adorable puppy, and a (not-so-live) baby, but something is different, and he's at a loss for words. "You look pretty—uh…busy.”  

He curses himself. Busy? Really? 

“Oh, no biggie,” you give him an easy, encouraging grin, one so casual that it really shouldn't make his knees feel like Jell-O. "Honestly, I'd be out here every weekend if I could. But you of all people know my schedule."  

Of course, you'd say something like that. Jay tries to think of a normal response, but his brain is spinning with all sorts of not-normal things about you—like how you look so aggressively pretty right now. 

And it’s a little infuriating. 

"Yeah, no, totally," Jay clears his throat, scratching the back of his head. "Because who doesn't want to be covered in dog hair and slobber for fun?"  

You roll your eyes, smiling. "Says the guy who's about to be knee-deep in a laundry crisis. Isn't that a little messy, too?"  

Jay huffs, feeling himself return just a little bit back to normal. “Listen, Jake’s a special case, okay? You can’t just leave him in that pink laundry disaster and expect him to survive.” 

"Right..," you laugh, rocking back and forth on your feet, your smile lingering as a comfortable silence falls between you.  

Maybe it's the way you're looking up at him, or the fact that a literal golden retriever is currently nuzzling into your neck, but Jay is doing everything in his power to keep his cool. You're looking at him in a way that isn't remotely judgmental (for once), and it's throwing him completely off-balance.  

Before Jay can pull it together and say something else, another voice calls your name, waving you over to a different table. You turn back to Jay, giving him an apologetic glance.  

"Do you mind watching Jisoo—and, um, this puppy—for a sec?"  

Before he can answer, or even process your words, he's standing there with an actual puppy in one arm, and Jisoo in her carrier in the other, and his life has become a circus he never auditioned for.  

"Sorry! They just need me real quick!" You say with a grateful smile as you hurry off.  

As you rush off with another apologetic smile, Jay's brain, for better or for worse, decides that grin of yours is now his mental screensaver. He watches you go, dumbly smiling before he catches himself. 

Not attraction, he reminds himself. Totally not attraction.  

He looks down at his arms—one occupied by a carrier with a robot baby, the other holding a wriggly puppy.  

"Bet no one's ever been in this situation before," he mutters, awkwardly standing there as he waits for your return. Honestly, Jay has never felt so awkward or nervous before. Right now, he feels like the epitome of the standing emoji, just simply existing and there, waiting for your next command and hoping he doesn't screw it up.  

Jay tries to hype himself up. You can do this, Park. It's just a dog. And a baby. And you. You've got this. You totally have everything und— 

Before he can finish his mental pep talk, the sound of your laughter rings from across the event, making Jay's head snap over in record time. He tries not to look—he really does—but the sound is too angelic to not. But right when he does look over, he immediately wishes he didn't. 

You're standing there between two of your friends, and you're giggling. With some guy he's never seen before. And this guy, is nudging your shoulder and making you laugh so hard you're practically doubling over. He feels a distinct twist in his chest. 

Jay’s definitely not jealous. Nope. Not even a little. It's just...curiosity. Pure, innocent curiosity about what that guy could possibly be saying to make you laugh so hard. Because Jay has never seen you laugh like that with him—ever.

And suddenly, the longer you continue laughing with that guy, Jay feels something hot and uncomfortable bubbling up inside.  

Fine, it’s jealousy.  

Definitely jealousy.

He scowls at himself. Now he’s basically a bitter standing emoji, clinging to Jisoo and a puppy while glaring from afar. 

And there Jay stands, bitterness levels maxed, holding both a puppy and a robot baby, while across the way, your roommate Esther gives you a knowing smirk while you're recovering from your giggling fit. Your giggling fit which was caused by Heeseung making a comment about how he stepped in dog poop more times than the average human-being accidentally should.  

“You didn’t tell me that was Jay Park,” Esther says, trying not-so-subtly to sneak a glance at the bitter standing emoji himself, awkwardly shifting his feet in the distance, avoiding to look in your direction. “You said he was annoying, lazy, and a pain to be around. You didn’t mention he’s a total cutie.” 

“He was annoying, lazy, and a pain to be around,” you scoff, though you're clearly not thinking that right now as you catch a glance of him trying to balance both the puppy and Jisoo. "But...I don't think he's so bad anymore."  

You definitely don't add that he's a total cutie. Okay, maybe you think it, but saying it out loud is a whole other thing.  

“Oh, so you totally like him,” Heeseung snickers from your other side, nudging you again.  

You make a sound that's half out-of-tune trumpet, half hiccup, before breaking into a laugh to cover your sudden panic.

"No, I don't!" You clear your throat, trying to stay cool.  "We're just—look, we're just stuck together for this project. That's all. Even if I did like him, which I don't, he definitely doesn't like me back. We're probably just going to go back to bickering with each other to no end."  

“Right,” Heeseung chimes in, giving you a look that says he's clearly unconvinced. “Just saying, though—someone who doesn’t like you wouldn’t be staring at you like that, and looking at me like I just committed a first-degree crime just for breathing in your direction."  

You follow Heeseung’s gaze and, sure enough, you catch Jay trying to look casual while bouncing the puppy and acting like he totally didn’t just get caught. Your eyes meet, and he does a 180 so fast he nearly launches Jisoo into orbit. 

You quickly turn back to your friends, heat rising to your face as you catch Esther and Heeseung giving each other a knowing look before smirking at you. You roll your eyes and grab the both of them by the back of their shirts, turning them in the direction of the event, "Okay, okay, enough with the delusions. Shouldn't you guys be signing off some puppies or something?"  

"Don't say we didn't tell you so!" Esther calls after you as you turn on your heels towards Jay, furiously convincing yourself that they're so wrong.  

There's no universe in which Jay Park, the Jay Park, would ever be into you. The Jay Park, who can get any girl he wants, the Jay Park who's just too different from you, the Jay Park who you proclaimed your school rival (self-proclaimed). Absolutely not.  

When you get back to him, Jay’s desperately trying to look natural—so, naturally, he’s scratching the puppy’s belly while Jisoo clings to his chest like a tiny koala. Your heart gives a little traitorous squeeze, but you ignore it. Get a hold of yourself, Y/N.  

“Looks like he likes you,” you say, trying to sound casual as you nod to the puppy, who's squirming excitedly under Jay's attention. 

“He’s adorable,” Jay replies, blushing faintly as he shifts the puppy around.

“So, uh, everything okay over there?” he asks, totally not imagining a deep, romantic conversation to explain your laughter. 

You’re caught off-guard, blinking, wondering if Jay somehow became psychic and caught onto your previous train of thoughts about him, until you realize what he meant.

“Oh! Yeah, they just… needed help with paperwork.” 

Jay’s expression hardens ever so slightly as he tries to imagine a world where paperwork could possibly be that funny.

“Cool, cool,” he nods stiffly, side-eyeing Heeseung in the distance who’s still chatting with Esther. 

"Well," Jay shifts awkwardly as clears his throat, "I should get going to Jake. He's probably in tears by now, honestly."  

You frown at that, and Jay instantly self-identifies himself as the worst person on the planet. He barely resists the urge to apologize for everything he's ever done, from breathing in your direction to any other crime against humanity he's committed in your eyes.  

"Aw, come on," you say, teasingly, though even you're not sure why. It's just...fun having him around. "Stay a little longer. For the puppies!"  

Jay opens his mouth, fully ready to decline when he catches sight of your expression—those big, pleading eyes that make it impossible to say no. 

And that's it. He's doomed. Right then and there, Jay knows he's doomed.  

Is Jay currently surrounded by more puppies than he ever thought could physically exist in one place?

Yes. 

Does he think your puppy eyes are somehow cuter than all the puppies combined?

Annoyingly, also yes.  

And so, Jay would like to make some new things clear, for the record:  

First, there is no way any of this is his fault. If Jake ends up crying over outfit choices and demands to know why Jay ditched him for puppies, Jay has a rock-solid explanation. He’ll explain the situation, which obviously couldn’t be helped. Hanging out with you? Totally justified. Perfectly valid.  

And second, well—Jay would like to clarify that it's official now. Whatever he was feeling before?

Yeah, definitely attraction.  

Your fingers drum against your blanket. You stare blankly at your bedroom ceiling. You let out another deep sigh. You toss and turn, adjusting your position for maybe the hundredth time. It's no use.

You're bored.  

And that, in itself, is a shocking revelation. You're never bored. Your schedule is usually packed to the brim—between assignments, club meetings, work shifts, and impromptu Save the Puppies campaigns, there's hardly room for boredom. But today?  

Today, life has gifted you a rare stretch of free time. No assignments to finish, no midterms to study for, no dog adoption events or café shifts. And apparently, you have no idea how to handle that.  

You turn to look at Jisoo, who's chilling in her spot on your bed next to you, not having a single ounce of consciousness for you to share your boredom with.  

With another sigh, you grab your phone and scroll aimlessly through your apps. You eventually land in your Photos app and swipe through mindlessly until a recent picture stops you in your tracks.  

It's a selfie Jay took of the two of you, Jisoo sandwiched between your faces. The infamous day of the pizza-night-turned-accidental-nap-turned-godforsaken-poop-incident. You'd submitted the photo to Professor Kim as proof of your co-parenting efforts, but now, looking at it again, you can't help but smile.  

It's strange. The memory should be traumatic—okay, it is traumatic—but in hindsight, it's also...kind of fun. The chaos, the banter, the way Jay somehow managed to make everything feel less overwhelming just by being there.  

Funny enough, that day was also the last time you remember having any sort of free time, and you remember complaining that you had to spend the day with Jay of all people. But now, looking back at it, you honestly did have fun. Being with Jay was...fun.  

Your thumb hovers over the screen for a moment before it unconsciously drifts towards the Phone app. You hesitate, realizing with a jolt that you're one tap away from calling Jay. It's like your brain suddenly shut off and something took over you. What's gotten into you?  

You blink at Jay's contact on your phone, your thumb still hovering over his name.  

No. Bad idea.  

You don't need Jay to entertain you just because you're bored. You're perfectly capable of having fun on your own...obviously. Obviously, even though the last hour of groaning and ceiling-staring suggests otherwise.  

Besides, Jay's probably busy doing...whatever it is Jay does at 4PM on a Saturday. Napping, probably.  

And what would you even say? Let's hang out? Like some middle schooler asking out their crush? Not to mention, you already have your 'Jisoo' plans in two days, so it's not like you have an excuse to see him.  

You sit up abruptly, shaking your head as if to clear the fog of ridiculous thoughts. Seriously, do you even hear yourself right now? Looking for an excuse to see him? Since when did you need excuses for anything, let alone something as absurd as spending more time than necessary with Jay Park?  

This has to be some kind of stress-induced meltdown. It's the only logical explanation. All those late-night study sessions, midterm panic attacks, Jisoo diaper changes, and endless extracurriculars must've finally fried your brain. And now, here you are, teetering on the edge of reason, actually wanting to see Jay Park.  

Great. Now you have a new problem.  

Because as much as you try to convince yourself otherwise, the truth is glaringly obvious: you want to see him. And that, more than any amount of free time or boredom, is the real problem. 

You've officially lost it.  

I've officially lost it, you chant in your head as your thumb hovers dangerously close to Jay's name on your screen again.  

I've officially lost it, the words grow louder, taunting you, as you hover over the call button. 

I've officially lost it, your thoughts scream as you give in, pressing down and watching in horror as your screen shifts to Calling Jay Park. 

And now, your heartbeat picks up with every ring. You can't decide what's worse—him answering or him ignoring the call. Maybe if he doesn't pick up, it'll be a sign from above that you're better off leaving this madness alone. Maybe—

"Hello?"  

Your train of thought screeches to a halt.  

"Y/N? Are you there?"  

"I'm here!" You blurt out, your voice jumping two octaves higher than usual. Real smooth, Y/N.  

"Hi...what's up? Are you okay? Is something wrong?" His voice is soft over the phone, a little concerned, like you're about to tell him Jisoo had another diaper emergency.  

You falter for a moment, staring at the ceiling like the answer might be written there.

"No! Nothing's wrong! I just—uh–" Quick, think of something normal!

"I was wondering what you're up to."  

"Me?" He sounds genuinely surprised, and you can practically hear the smile in this voice. At least, you think. Or, once again, you've officially lost it. "I'm at the campus gallery, setting up for my photography showcase. It's tonight."  

The campus gallery. His photography.  

You blink, this is news to you. You vaguely remember Jay asking if you could watch Jisoo tonight, and he hadn't given you a reason back then, but this is why he couldn't be on Jisoo duty today. Because of his showcase.  

"Wait, really?" You ask, hoping the interest in your voice doesn't show too much.  

"Yeah. I didn't mention it? Guess I forgot," he chuckles lightly. "It's not a big deal, just a student showcase. I'm just setting up now, making sure my pieces are hung straight and stuff."  

You swallow, a sudden wave of curiosity washing over you. You find yourself smiling to yourself, feeling a wave of endearment wash over you for some reason. The idea of Jay being completely focused and serious about a passion of his is...it's nice. It’s hard to reconcile the carefree, sarcastic guy you know with the thoughtful perspective he must have to capture the kinds of photos he does. 

"You should come by," he says suddenly, breaking you out of your thoughts. His voice is casual, but you think you catch a small, hopeful note in it. "If you're free, I mean. No pressure."  

You hesitate, your mind racing. Go? Don't go? It's just a showcase. It's not like it means anything. Right?  

"I'll think about it," you manage, trying to sound nonchalant.  

"Cool." There's a smile in his voice again. "Let me know. I'll save you a front-row seat."  

"Front row seat? For a gallery?" You deadpan, rolling your eyes as if he can see if over the phone.  

"Hey, I'm just being a good host."  

"Hmmm," you smile to yourself again. "Maybe. We'll see."  

But your decision was made the second he suggested that you should come. 

It doesn't mean anything. Friends come support each other all the time, right? Wait—

Are you and Jay even friends? You shake your head, trying to dismiss the warmth starting to spread in your chest.  

It's just photography.

It's just Jay.

Nothing to overthink here.  

✭・.・✫

“Okay, Jisoo, in and out,” you whisper to the robot baby in the carrier that's perched in your arms as you stand frozen outside the campus gallery doors. "We're just stopping by to say hi. Two minutes max. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. Nothing dramatic."  

Jisoo stares back at you, wide-eyed and unhelpfully silent, which you take as strong moral support.

"Thanks, Jisoo," you mutter, like a lunatic seeking validation from a robot.  

Maybe you shouldn't even go in. It's basically the end of the event anyway—what are the odds he'd even notice you didn't show?

Slim. Probably. Right?  

It's not like you didn't have a valid excuse for your lateness. You did have to change Jisoo’s diaper before you left, and that was a whole thing. But let's be real. 

The real delay?

The real delay was you standing in front of your closet for a solid half hour like a contestant on America's Next Top Existential Crisis. What do you even wear to casually drop by someone's photography showcase? Something that says, Hey, I'm effortlessly supportive, but I totally don't care if you notice me (yes I do).  

Spoiler alert: that outfit does not exist.  

And then—because clearly, you love to torture yourself—you spent another thirty minutes pacing around your room trying to figure out why you cared so much in the first place.  

It's Jay. Jay. The guy who thought sticking googly eyes on Jisoo's bottle would make her drink faster. Why are you stressed? Why are your palms sweaty?  

But despite all that, you somehow made it here, standing outside the gallery with your stomach doing flips like you're about to walk into your own trial. You made it all the way here, so might as well go in, right?  

You swallow hard, adjust your grip on your emotional support robot baby, and push the door open. 

And there he is.  

Center stage, right where he belongs—or at least where he seems to thrive. Standing in front of a massive wall of his framed photographs, the studio lights catch his profile just right. It's almost unfair, like he's been personally photoshopped by the gods themselves. He's surrounded by a small crowd, gesturing animatedly with his hands as he speaks, his smile so bright you're convinced it's starting to hurt your eyes.  

But his eyes? There's this sparkle in them. Not the usual playful glint you've grown used to, but something deeper, softer. You've never seen him look so alive, so utterly in his element, and it's doing weird things to your chest. 

You can't help but wonder—what does it feel like to make him look that happy? Not that it matters, obviously.

It's just a thought.

A completely useless, irrelevant, go-away-right-now kind of thought.  

If you weren't busy trying not to trip over your own feet and accidentally drop Jisoo, you might have stopped to take it all in. To admire the way he looks standing there, talking about something he clearly loves, like he's found this magical pocket of the universe where nothing else matters. Might have.  

But instead, your thoughts screech in a halt, jolting you out of your daydream.  

Abort mission. This was a terrible idea.  

Why did you come here? Why is your face hot? Can Jisoo smell fear?  

Before you can think of a single coherent reason to not turn around and bolt, Jay glances up. And he spots you.  

His eyes light up even more—if that's even physically possible. "Y/N?" He calls out, grinning widely.  

Great. Now you're here. He's happy to see you. You're standing in the middle of his gallery with a robot baby that can most definitely smell your fear.  

Fantastic. Just fantastic.  

Jay's voice cuts through your existential spiral, "Y/N!" He's waving you over as he calls out your name again, like you're a long-lost friend who's just returned from war. 

Well, to be fair, you are fighting a war—against your own dumb feelings.  

"Hey!" You croak, trying to sound casual but ending up somewhere between a dog's favorite squeaky toy and a rusty car horn. You internally flinch at your own voice.  

"Wow, you came," he says, his sweet smile still on display as you shuffle over to where he's standing. "And you brought Jisoo! My biggest fan."

He reaches out to cup Jisoo's cheeks, and you almost smack yourself in the head for feeling jealous over your own robot baby.  

"Yeah, well," you start, trying to sound nonchalant. "I figured, you know, project partners should support each other...teamwork and all that."  

Jay raises an eyebrow, clearly trying to stifle a laugh, "Right. Teamwork. Totally."  

You shift your weight from one leg to another, awkwardly looking up, eventually landing your eyes on the wall behind him, scanning the photos on display. Each photo is so him—a little chaotic, a little bold, but somehow...strikingly beautiful. There's a photo of a rainy city street, the light catching every droplet; a close-up of a sunflower against a brilliant sky; a candid of a kid laughing, his face tilted up toward the sun.  

You suddenly feel a weird, warm pull in your chest. It’s one thing to see Jay cracking jokes and making sarcastic comments during late-night baby meltdowns. But this? This is a side of him you’ve never seen before—one that’s thoughtful, intentional, passionate. 

You don’t realize how long you’ve been staring until Jay speaks up, his voice softer now. “Do you like them?” 

You blink, startled, and then nod a little too quickly. You hope he doesn't notice (he does).  

"Yeah. I mean...these are really good, Jay. You're–" you cut yourself off, realizing you're about to say something embarrassing.

''–talented," you finish lamely.  

"Thanks," Jay tilts his head, looking almost shy. "That means a lot, actually."  

His voice is so genuine that it throws you off. You weren't prepared for this level of sincerity. It makes your stomach flip in a way that's both exciting and mildly terrifying.  

Jay gestures toward the wall, his hands shoved into his pockets like he's trying not to fidget.

"I wasn't sure if this was your kind of thing, thought you'd be busy and stuff, but I'm glad you came. I, uh..," he scratches the back of his neck sheepishly, "I was kind of hoping you would."  

Oh.  

Oh?  

OH.  

Your brain immediately short-circuits. He hoped you'd come? Like...in a we're-in-this-together-as-project-partners way, or in a please-let-this-mean-something-more-than-project-partners way? Is this what cardiac arrest feels like? Should you call someone? Should you call him? No, wait, you're already talking to him—focus! 

You clear your throat and try to channel every ounce of chill you simply do not possess.

"Well," you say, attempting to keep your voice steady and failing miserably, "I'm here."  

It comes out barely louder than a whisper, and you immediately regret every life decision that's led you to this moment. But then Jay smiles—soft, something smaller, more private—and it's like the world shifts slightly off its axis.  

"Yeah," he says quietly, his eyes meeting yours with a warmth that makes you forget how to breathe. "You are."  

And just like that, the noise of the environment dissolves, and the rest of the world shrinks to nothing but the space between you and him. The moment feels impossibly big like it might swallow you whole, and yet so small it could shatter with the slightest breath.  

You're pretty sure you're about to combust. Explode. Turn into a human firework fueled entirely by sheer tension and whatever it is that's happening right now. God, why does he have to look at you like that? Like you're not standing here internally unraveling?  

You break eye contact to glance down at Jisoo, and you're positive she's giving you a look that screams, Stop being weird, you two.  

"Anyway!" You blurt out, desperate to break the tension.

"Which one's your favorite?" You gesture to the photos, your eyes darting anywhere but his own. 

He laughs, and the sound is warm and unguarded, "C'mon, I'll show you."  

He grabs your free hand without thinking, tugging you toward the far end of the wall. And just like that, you're helplessly following him, heart racing again, wondering how the hell you got here—and why you never want to leave.  

So much for in and out.  

Jay pulls you towards the far end of the gallery, his hand wrapped around yours like it's the most natural thing in the world.  

It's not.  

Your brain is in full-blown meltdown mode. Red alerts, sirens blaring, a voice screaming, "WE'RE HOLDING HANDS, PEOPLE!"  

But there's no way you're about to let him see how much this is affecting you, so you shove the chaos down, pretending like your hand isn't currently experiencing the touch equivalent of fireworks...and hoping that it isn't sweaty.  

"This one," Jay says, stopping in front of a photo that's somehow both ordinary and magical. It's a simple shot of your campus football field, taken from the bleacher stands. You've stood in those very bleachers too many times to count—for school events, games, the occasional half-hearted attempt to pretend you like sports. But somehow, in this shot, the field looks...different.  

The grass glows like it's soaked in liquid gold under a sky caught between dusk and twilight. The field is empty, yet it doesn't feel lonely. There's something about it that Jay managed to capture—like it holds a thousand stories and secrets, quietly hopeful in its stillness.  

"It's beautiful," you murmur, the words slipping out before you can catch them. 

"Yeah," Jay lets out a breath. "It's my favorite spot on campus. I go there a lot when I need to think or just...get away a bit."  

You glance at him, startled at the sudden vulnerability in his voice. Jay never strikes you as someone who gets lost in his head; he always seemed too confident, too effortlessly sure of himself. But right now, he's not looking at you—he's staring at the photo, like he's seeing something beyond it.  

"I took it on one of those days—I was just overthinking a lot about life. About who I am, I guess," he continues. "I didn't think it'd turn out good or anything, but...I don't know. It felt right."  

Your chest tightens. There's something so raw in the way he's speaking, like he's letting you see a side of him he usually keeps hidden. It makes you wonder how many other layers Jay Park has, and why it feels so important to uncover them all.  

The silence between you stretches as you watch Jay continue to study his own photograph. There's a softness in his gaze, a quiet vulnerability that makes you feel like you're seeing him a way few people ever do.  

But then he blinks, breaking the moment, and suddenly he's looking at you. You stiffen, panic bubbling up at the possibility that he might've noticed you staring at him.  

"Sorry," he says, his voice carrying a self-deprecating chuckle. "It's really cheesy and stupid."  

You find yourself shaking your head before he even finishes his sentence.

"No! Not at all, really," you blurt out, the words stumbling over themselves in their rush to escape. You feel the heat creeping up your neck, mortified at your sudden intensity.  

Jay raises an eyebrow, amused, but doesn't say anything, so you clear your throat and try again, softer this time, "I mean it. You have a good eye, Jay."

You mean it more than you've meant anything in a while, and you hope he knows that.  

For a second, he just looks at you, like he's taking note of something, his head tilted ever so slightly. And then, slowly, his lips curve into that small, genuine smile that makes your chest feel annoyingly warm.

"Thanks, Y/N."  

Your heart does a little somersault. Oh great. There it goes again.  

And as if Jisoo can sense the moment might be getting too serious, she lets out a cry. You stumble back, jump scared enough by the loud and sudden sound, and Jay reacts instantly, steadying you with his hands on your shoulders.  

"You okay?" He asks, his face so close that you can now confirm there are literal, actual flecks of gold in his eyes. Of course there are.  

You blink. I've officially lost it. Completely, utterly, hopelessly, lost it.  

You nod, your voice stuck in your throat. Am I okay? No. No, you are not okay. You are decidedly not okay.  

Jay clears his throat, stepping back—though his hands linger a beat longer than they probably need to, but still a second too short than you should probably want to. 

You want to scream into the void.  

"Looks like it's time for Jisoo's dinner," he says lightly with a small chuckle. 

You fumble for words, your brain still offline.

"Uh—yeah. I left her bottle at my place, and I should probably get going anyways," you manage, your voice a little too breathless for comfort.  

Jay glances at his watch, pausing for a moment before looking back at you, something hopeful flicking in his eyes.

"I'm pretty much done here," he says, tilting his head towards the door. "It's late. Let me walk you home."  

You hesitate, torn between insisting you're perfectly fine on your own (you're not) and letting him (you want to). But the way he's looking at you—like it's no big deal, like he simply wants to—makes the decision for you.  

"Okay," you say, quieter than you mean to, and before you can second-guess yourself, Jay's already taking Jisoo's carrier from your arms, effortlessly shifting it onto his own.  

"Let's go," he says, flashing you a small smile that feels like a punch to your stomach in the best way possible.  

And just like that, you're walking side by side into the cool night air, your breaths visible in the chill, easily falling into a comfortable rhythm as you walk through the quiet campus, the streetlights above casting long shadows ahead of you. 

There’s something easy about walking with him like this. It shouldn’t feel this natural—your heart’s doing somersaults and pirouettes like it’s auditioning for a circus—but it does. You steal a glance at him, and he’s focused on the path ahead, his profile calm and soft in the glow of the lights. 

"So," Jay breaks the quiet as he stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets, "Can you believe the project's almost over?"  

You let out a small laugh, tilting your head, "Honestly, no. Feels like just yesterday I was praying you'd drop the class."  

Jay laughs, a sound that seems to echo in the quiet environment.

"Wow, Y/N. I thought we were bonding."  

"We were," you tease, turning to him with a barely concealed smirk. "I just also thought you were going to be a disaster of a partner."  

He scoffs, giving you a mock-offended look, "I proved you wrong, right? I was amazing since day one."  

"You handed Jisoo to me like she was a bomb, Jay," you remind him, unable to stop yourself from laughing.  

"I was assessing the danger!" Jay protests, his grin widening. "And excuse me, I've stepped up. I've made bottles, I've cleaned her, I even know how to put on a diaper the right side up!"  

"Jay, the fact that you had to learn which way was right side up is concerning in itself," you manage to let out with a giggle. 

"Details, details," he waves a dismissive hand. "Point is, I'm practically father of the year."  

You roll your eyes, but you're smiling. A sharp breeze suddenly hits the both of you, and you visibly shiver from the lack of warmth your outfit provides. All that time choosing an outfit, and you still couldn't pick a weather-appropriate one. Stellar, Y/N.  

And of course, Jay notices immediately. Before you can so much as form a protest, he's shrugging his jacket off and draping it over your shoulders, your body immediately stiffening as his hands brush against you lightly in the process.  

You open your mouth to say something—anything, even just a whispered thank you—but Jay beats you to it, sparing you the effort of finding actual, coherent words. 

“So,” he says casually, like he hasn’t just sent your brain spiraling, “what do you think you’ll do when it’s over?”

"Uh," you blink, still needing a second to reorient yourself. "Sleep, for once."  

Jay laughs again. "Fair. You deserve it. But you'll miss me, right?"  

"Not even for a second," you deadpan without hesitation.  

"Liar," he teases, bumping your shoulder lightly.  

You reach your building all too soon, the doors looming in front of you like an unwelcome reminder that this walk, this moment, is about to end. You stop just before the steps and turn to face him, rocking on your heels.  

"Okay, maybe a little," you admit, shrugging. "But only because you make me look like the competent one by comparison."  

"Wow," Jay shakes his head, but there it is again. The smile—the small, amused one that makes his eyes crinkle just enough to be unfairly attractive. 

You glance up at him, wishing the walk had been just a few blocks longer. Or a few miles.  

"Well," you say finally, forcing your gaze away from his own. "Thanks for walking me. And for carrying Jisoo." 

You reach for Jisoo's carrier, and Jay hands it over without hesitation, but not before shrugging like it's no big deal.

"No problem," he says. Then, as you're adjusting the carrier on your arm, he adds, "And thanks again, Y/N. For coming tonight. It really meant a lot."  

Your heart does that stupid fluttery thing again it's been doing all night, and you're starting to think you need a medical consultation.  

"Yeah, well," you clear your throat. "Partner support, you know?" You sound dumb, Y/N. Dumb.  

Jay smirks, but there's something gentler in his expression now, a flicker of something you can't quite name. 

"Goodnight, Y/N. And goodnight, Jisoo," he says, giving a small wave to the baby carrier, making you giggle slightly.  

He takes a few steps back, his hands slipping into his pockets, and gives you one last smile before turning to walk away. But before he gets too far, something bursts out of you, unwarned.  

"Jay!"  

He stops, turning on his heels, his brows lifting in surprise. "Yeah?"  

You step forward, closing a bit of the distance between you, suddenly hyper-aware of how your voice wavers.

"Um, I was wrong. You're...not all that bad." Why am I doing this? "I'm sorry if I've been...you know, intense. These past few years."  

Jay blinks at you, his surprise turning into something softer. You take a deep breath, pushing through the self-inflicted awkwardness. 

"You've been a really good partner," you add, offering a small, genuinely smile. "And well...you're pretty cool."  

His studies your face for a moment, the look longing and careful, like he's piecing together something fragile. A faint smile tugs at his lips, and there's a warmth in his expression that sends heat rushing to your cheeks.   

For a moment, the two of you just stand here, caught in the glow of the streetlamp. The world around you feels distant, like someone's hit the mute button on everything but the sound of your heartbeat.  

Jay's smile widens ever so slightly, and he nods, his voice quiet but firm, "I'll see you around, Y/N."  

He takes a few steps backward, his gaze holding yours until he finally turns and starts walking away. You watch him disappear into the night, the outline of his figure fading with the streetlights, and only then do you realize you've been holding your breath.  

As you step into your building and climb the stairs to your apartment, the night replays in your head on a loop—his laugh, his smile, his everything.  

When you finally reach your door, you lean against it for a moment, his large jacket still wrapped around you. Your thoughts crash into you all at once, and two things become alarmingly clear:  

You are completely, utterly, hopelessly in like with Jay Park.  

You're in so much trouble.  

“Congratulations, everyone!” Professor Kim clasps her hands together at the front of the classroom, a wide smile on her face. “You’ve survived six weeks of parenting. Hopefully, you’ve learned something useful—and that it hasn’t scared you off from actual parenthood one day. Each baby had a monitor tracking its status, so I’ll be extracting that data, combining it with your progress reports, and factoring it into your grade.” 

Jay leans toward you from his seat next to you, his breath warm against your ear.

“That’s a little creepy…she’s going to take Jisoo apart? The poor thing.” His smirk is half-guilty, half-amused, and you have to bite down on your lip to keep from laughing out loud. 

This is new. Six weeks ago, he was Mr. Front-Row Enthusiast, and sometime between then and now, you’ve somehow managed to convert him into your next-row-back partner. He’d grumbled at first when you insisted about your theory that the front row screamed try-hard, but since then, he doesn’t even glance at the seats up front anymore. 

“Grades will be out soon! I’ll see you all next week,” Professor Kim announces. “And don’t forget to submit your reflection posts!” 

The shuffle of bags and jackets fills the room as students thank her on their way out. Slowly, the lecture hall empties, until it’s just you and Jay lingering at your seats. 

“Well,” you say, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you stand. “That’s it. No more parenting lessons for us.” 

Jay heaves a dramatic sigh, his lips pulling into a pout that’s far too endearing for your peace of mind, “I can’t believe it. I already miss Jisoo.” 

You chuckle lightly but feel an odd tug in your chest, “Right? I got so used to carrying her and her baby bag everywhere. It’s weird not having her around.” 

And it is weird. You never thought you’d feel this way about a glorified hunk of plastic and wires, but now, without Jisoo, something feels…off.  

Or maybe it’s not just Jisoo. Maybe it’s the fact that this project, unexpectedly enough, turned into an excuse—a reason to spend so much time with Jay. Now that it’s over, what happens next? 

The thought hangs between you as the two of you head out of the building. The campus is alive with the hum of students, the energy buzzing around you as everyone heads to their afternoon classes. You both stop outside, standing awkwardly side by side as the silence stretches. 

No more 'Jisoo days' to plan for. No more excuses to text. No more shared tasks or inside jokes. 

Will he go back to his front-row seat, forgetting these last few weeks? Or will he—will you—pretend none of this ever happened? 

Jay shifts beside you, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes flicker to yours, then away again, as if he’s waiting for you to say something first. 

“Well,” you finally say, breaking the quiet because it’s just too heavy to bear. “I have to head to my next class.” 

“Right. Yeah,” Jay says quickly, too quickly, his hands both fidgeting with the straps of his backpack. “Makes sense.” 

He hesitates, his mouth opening like he’s about to add something, but then he stops. You notice the way he’s looking at you, like there’s a thousand things he wants to say but can’t figure out how to start. You feel that familiar heat creep up your neck, the same one you tend to get whenever you’re around him nowadays.  

“Alright,” you finally say, shifting on your feet. “See you around, then?” 

Jay’s lips turn up in a small, almost longing, smile, “Yeah. See you.” 

He doesn’t move, though. Neither do you. It’s like both of you are waiting for the other to take a step away first, and the pause grows longer and longer until you can practically hear the universe screaming at you to just go already. It’s getting unbearably uncomfortable for all of us, Y/N.  

And when you finally start to turn, before you can even take three steps, his voice stops you. 

“Hey.” 

You glance back over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah?” 

Jay scratches the back of his neck, looking like he’s fighting some kind of internal battle.

“Uh, you were also a really good partner. You know, with Jisoo. I mean, you were kinda terrifying at first with all your color-coded schedules and spreadsheets, but…” 

His smile softens, and his voice drops a little, “You were great. Really. I think I learned a thing or two from you.”  

Your stomach flips in a way that’s both infuriating and addictive. 

“Thanks,” you say, trying to sound casual even though your brain is short-circuiting. “Means a lot from someone who had to Google which way a diaper goes.”  

He laughs, the sound bright and warm in the cool air, “Okay, one time, Y/N. Let it go.” 

“Nope.” You grin, turning fully toward him now, your nerves settling under the familiarity of teasing. “You’ll never live it down. It’s my parting gift to you.” 

Jay presses a hand to his chest, feigning hurt, “Wow. I pour my heart out, and this is what I get in return?” 

“Exactly.” 

He chuckles again, shaking his head before finally stepping back, breaking the invisible bubble that’s been holding you both in place.

“Alright. I’ll see you, Y/N.” 

“Bye, Jay,” you say, forcing yourself to turn and start walking away.  

You make it a few steps before you hear his voice a second time, softer this time, almost hesitant. 

“Y/N.” 

You glance back, your heart skipping a beat. 

Jay looks at you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before his lips curve into a small, lopsided smile.

“Text me when you get home later tonight, okay? After your day is done.”  

You blink, caught off guard.

“What?” 

“Just…so I know you got there safe,” he says, shrugging like it’s no big deal. But the way his voice dips at the end betrays him. 

Your chest tightens in a way that officially feels dangerous. But you know you never want to get enough of this feeling.   

“Okay,” you manage to say, the word quieter than you meant, but it was the most you could muster up with the bubble stuck in your throat.  

Jay nods, his smile widening just a little.

“Good.” 

And this time, when you turn away, you can’t stop the smile that sneaks onto your face. 

✭・.・✫

By the time you get home, it’s late, and the apartment is quiet. Esther is nowhere to be found—probably out with Heeseung or at the library pretending to study. You toe off your shoes and drop your bag by the door, the routine feeling strangely empty without Jisoo’s carrier on your arm and her baby bag strapped to the other.  

With a sigh, you find your way to your room and collapse onto your bed, scrolling aimlessly through your phone. Jay’s parting words have been echoing in your head all day, barely letting you focus during the rest of your classes—“Text me when you get home.” 

You hover over your messages for a second longer than necessary, typing and deleting a draft once, then twice, then a third time, before finally hitting send: 

Y/N [8:52PM]: home safe 👍 

You stare at the screen for exactly three seconds before flinging your phone across your bed. You roll over, face buried in your pillow, half hoping he doesn’t reply so you don’t have to overanalyze the significance of a thumbs-up emoji. 

But, of course, your phone buzzes almost instantly. 

Jay [8:53PM]: good 👍 sleep well. 

A small, ridiculous smile tugs at your lips. You really shouldn’t be this giddy over such a mundane exchange, over a thumbs up emoji, but somehow, here you are. 

And that’s when you start going insane. You shoot up from your spot in bed.  

Why did he tell you to text him? Does he say that to everyone? Or was it just…you? And why does he keep looking at you like that? You’ve never been the kind of person to spiral like this, but lately, everything about Jay has you unraveling in ways you don’t know how to handle.

Clearly.  

You groan, flailing your arms like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

“Get it together, Y/N,” you mutter to yourself, but it’s no use. Every little interaction from the past six weeks replays in your head on a loop—his laughter, his stupid jokes, the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles. 

Your thoughts are interrupted by a sharp buzz from your phone. You glance over, half expecting a random notification (the other half hoping Jay double texted you) but instead, it’s the one you’ve been waiting for without realizing it: 

Professor Kim: Final grades are posted! 

Your heart leaps. Practically fumbling with your phone, you open the grading portal, scanning the page with a held breath. And there it is, staring back at you in bold letters: 

Semester Project Grade: 100% 

“YES!” you exclaim, punching the air like a successful cartoon character. You’re grinning so wide your cheeks hurt, practically bouncing in bed. It’s the kind of happiness that makes you feel like you’re going to burst if you don’t share it with someone. 

And there’s only one person you want to share it with. 

Before you know what you’re doing, your closet doors are wide open, your hands rifling through. Your hands land on his jacket—the one he lent you after the showcase—and something about it feels right. You shrug it on, ignoring the way it smells faintly like him (and comfort), and grab your keys without a second thought. 

By the time you realize what you’re doing, you’re already halfway to Jay’s apartment. It’s not like you had a plan—just this overwhelming need to see him.  

Because somehow, he’s become the first person you want to share everything with, want to experience every moment with, want to feel every feeling with, and that thought is both exhilarating and terrifying all at once.  

But you’ve never been so sure of anything else before.  

Your breath hitches as you reach his familiar door, hand raised to knock. You hesitate for a moment, suddenly aware of how ridiculous this is. Who shows up at someone’s place at this hour, unannounced, just to tell them about a grade? What if he already saw it and didn’t even think twice? You look insane, Y/N. Insane.  

But then you think about the way he looked at you earlier, the way he smiled when he said “good job.” 

And you knock.  

✭・.・✫

Jay doesn’t know what’s happening. One second, he’s on his couch editing photos, and the next, someone’s trying to break down his door. At least, that’s what it sounds like. The pounding is so aggressive it makes his mug of tea tremble slightly on the table. 

Heart racing, Jay tosses his laptop aside and scans the room for a weapon. Nothing. Great. In a flash of panic, he grabs the TV remote because, sure, it’s sleek, ergonomic, and maybe intimidating in the right light. 

Bracing himself for certain doom, he yanks the door open— 

“Oh.” 

It’s you. 

At his doorstep. 

Unannounced. 

In his jacket. 

Jay flatlines. All he can do is stare at you in the oversized jacket—his oversized jacket—looking like you walked straight out of one of his dream scenarios. The rational part of him is trying to keep it together, but the feral part of his brain is screaming She’s in my clothes. Marriage now. 

You tilt your head, studying his expression.

“Jay? Are you…okay?” 

He blinks, realizing he’s been standing there for a good five seconds with his mouth slightly open.  

“Uh. Yeah. Totally. Uh—what’s up?” 

“Well first, why are you wielding a TV remote like it’s a sword?” 

Jay glances down at the remote in his hand, then back at you.

“…I thought you were a robber.” 

“A robber?” you repeat, struggling not to laugh. “What kind of robber knocks?” 

“I don’t know, maybe a polite one!” 

You let out a giggle and shrug, “Fair enough. But anyway, I’m here because—did you see?” 

“See what?” He frowns, confused, and still recovering from his adrenaline rush. 

“Professor Kim posted our grades! We got a 100%!” 

Jay stares at you for a second before the words sink in.

“Wait—what? We got a hundred?” 

“Yes!” You’re practically bouncing, a bright smile lighting up your face. “A perfect score, Jay!” 

He laughs and steps forward, grabbing your shoulders in his hands.

“No way. We actually did it?!” 

“We did it!” You beam back, jumping up and down. “We crushed it!” 

Jay’s grinning so hard his cheeks hurt, but he doesn’t care. There’s something about seeing you this happy, standing in his doorway like a whirlwind of energy, that makes his chest feel way too full, too complete.  

And for a moment, the two of you are just standing there, caught up in the moment, smiling at each other like idiots. 

When the excitement dies down, Jay notices the way you’re still slightly breathless, like you’d run all the way here.  

“Wait,” he squints. “You could’ve just texted me, you know.” 

“Oh,” you shift your weight, suddenly looking a little shy. “Yeah. But I just…wanted to see you.” 

Jay blinks. His brain is once again malfunctioning.  

“Oh.”  

Oh? 

OH.  

“Yeah. So…here I am,” you add, failing miserably to conceal the wobble in your voice.  

“Here you are,” he repeats, his voice back to that soft tone that knows how to make your heart go into overdrive.  

His eyes flicker to yours and stay there as the air between you suddenly feels heavier. Charged. 

“Is that all?” Jay asks, his lips twitching into a teasing smile. 

“Uh,” you clear your throat, looking anywhere but at him. “I guess.” 

Jay leans against the doorframe, studying you with that stupidly charming smirk of his, “Well, then.” 

“Well, then,” you echo, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his jacket like it’s the most fascinating thing you’ve ever encountered (spoiler: it’s not. That would be Jay’s face. But we’re not admitting that just yet). 

Neither of you moves. Not even a millimeter. The silence stretches so long that you’re pretty sure somewhere in the world, a Netflix show just autoplayed its next episode. 

Then, suddenly, Jay watches as your face cycles through the emotional Olympics: panic, resolve, regret, and whatever it is that makes your eyebrows do that cute scrunch thing he secretly loves. 

“I should go,” you say, finally breaking the silence, your voice quieter now. “Sorry for barging in like this.” 

You look down at your feet, hands still mindlessly playing with the sleeve of his jacket. Jay’s stomach twists at the sight—at the quiet, unsure way you’re suddenly retreating.  

No. Absolutely not. He doesn’t know where his bravery is coming from (he suspects it’s sheer desperation), but he refuses to let you leave like this. 

Before you can fully turn away, Jay reaches out and gently grabs your sleeve, tugging you back like you’re his favorite person in the world—which, spoiler again, you totally are. 

“Wait,” he says, pulling you close enough that you bump into his chest. Both his hands find their way to your waist, steadying you with an ease that feels practiced. Like it’s where his hands were always meant to be. 

And that's when Jay knows for sure: he likes you. He likes you bad. Painful highlighters, confusing spreadsheets, and all. He likes the way you carry your stubbornness like a badge of honor. He likes the way you chew on your pen when you're deep in thought. The way you turn his every sarcastic comment into a competition he's somehow thrilled to lose.  

“You forgot something,” he murmurs, his voice soft and low as his eyes search yours, then your lips, then your entire face.  

Your heart stumbles, your brain short-circuits, and you’re pretty sure your face is now the color of a stop sign. 

“Oh, uh, the jacket?” you stammer, looking down at where he grabbed your sleeve, grasping for any logical explanation. “You’re right. Sorry, I almost—” 

But before you can finish, Jay does something both incredibly bold and incredibly reckless. He leans in and presses his lips to yours. 

For a moment, you freeze. This isn’t real. Is this an alternate universe where Jay kisses you instead of just driving you insane? 

But then, the realization sinks in—Jay is kissing you. Like, actually kissing you. And wow. 

The first touch of his lips sends a rush through your entire body, like every nerve has suddenly woken up all at once. He’s hesitant at first, almost like he’s giving you the chance to pull away, but when you don’t—when you finally let go of all the confusion, overthinking, and denial—you lean into him, your hands both instinctively reaching up, gripping the fabric of his shirt to ground yourself as you kiss him back, now realizing how much you desperately wanted this.  

And that’s all the encouragement Jay needs.  

His hands tighten on your waist, pulling you flush against him, his fingers brushing the hem of the jacket you’re wearing—his jacket, you remember with a strange, fluttering thrill. The kiss deepens, gentle but insistent, a slow, breathtaking unraveling of all the tension that’s been simmering between you for weeks. 

It’s like the air shifts around you, the space between you collapsing into nothing. You feel his breath, warm against your skin, and the faintest hitch in it when your hand moves up to lightly curl against the back of his neck. 

He’s so close, and everything about this moment feels right—his familiar scent, the steady warmth of his hands on your waist, the way he tilts his head slightly to meet yours like he’s memorizing the shape of you. 

Your heart pounds, the world spinning just a little too fast and too slow all at once. It’s electric, and dizzying, and somehow everything and nothing like you imagined (because, yes, you’ve imagined it—so what?). 

Jay pulls back just slightly, his forehead brushing yours as he grins, his voice a playful mumble against your lips, not wanting to break the kiss, “You can keep the jacket.” 

Your laugh bubbles out before you can stop it, your forehead dropping to his shoulder as you clutch at his arms for balance.

“Seriously? That’s what you’re thinking about right now?” 

“I’m a multi-tasker,” he replies, deadpan, his lips turning into a teasing smirk as he leans in and steals another quick kiss. He starts to pull back again, but you don't let him—your hand catches his sleeve as you dart up and chase his lips for one more peck, light and fleeting, but enough to make him smile like a fool.

You're completely, utterly, hopelessly obsessed with him.  

"Besides," he adds, the words smug as his arms tighten around you, "I've already sacrificed my jacket. Might as well give up my dignity too."  

You roll your eyes, “You’re still an idiot.” 

“And yet, I’m the idiot you kissed back,” Jay fires back, brushing a strand of hair from your face.  

You shake your head, your voice soft and teasing, “You’re so—” 

The words trail off as you meet his gaze again, and before you can even think about stopping yourself, you tilt your head up, close the remaining distance between you, and kiss him first this time.  

Jay freezes for a second, caught off guard, before he fully melts into the kiss again, one hand instinctively curling around your waist to keep you as close as possible. There's no hesitation now, no teasing, no holding back—just the two of you in the quiet of his doorway, and the overwhelming certainty that neither of you wants to let this—this moment, this feeling—to end. 

When you finally pull back, Jay’s eyes are sparkling, his gaze holding an undeniable warmth. 

“You know,” he starts, voice light but tinged with something deeper, “if you keep doing that, I might start thinking you actually like me or something.” 

You raise an eyebrow, leaning in just close enough to make him squirm, your smirk playful. 

“And if you keep talking,” you murmur, your voice low and teasing, “I might change my mind.” 

Jay blinks, momentarily stunned, before letting out a breathless laugh, his arms instinctively circling your waist again, pulling you just a little closer.

“Noted. Say less. I’ll shut up forever. You’re stuck with me now.” 

Stuck with Jay? As in a more-than-project-partners kind of way? 

Yeah, you think, meeting the smile he’s giving you. 

You don’t mind that idea one bit. 

Now that the six weeks of parenthood is over, we ask that you write a reflection post in response to your pre-questionnaire answers we asked you at the beginning of the project. Were your expectations met? Exceeded? Any surprises along the way?

Y/N’s Submission [11:15AM, October 30th]:

Parenting, even with a robot baby, turned out to be nothing like I expected. I’ve learned that no matter how much you plan, babies (and life) have a way of completely ignoring your carefully crafted schedules. It was frustrating at times, but it also made things…unexpectedly fun.

Speaking of unexpected—let’s just say my partnership for this project caught me completely off guard, in the best way possible. Turns out, some surprises are worth breaking the plan for :)

Jay’s Submission [11:30AM, October 30th]:

Honestly? I expected surprises, but I wasn’t ready to lose three years of my life over a diaper change—or nearly go deaf from tantrums. Safe to say, I learned the hard way that being a little prepared isn’t such a bad idea.

But here’s the thing: turns out, babies (and certain project partners) have a way of growing on you. Who knew spreadsheets and sleepless nights could actually be…kinda great? I guess what I’m saying is, sometimes the best things aren’t planned. And also, I know how to change a diaper in 30 seconds now. The right side up :)

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・

the end! let me know what you think °ʚ(*´꒳`*)ɞ°

m. list here!

tag list (tenk u for all the luv): @neozon3nha @duckling-niki @somuchdard @jkslvsnella @jjongstar111

@haechsworld @joieouioui @zl-world @getoxo @onlyjjong

@puma-riki @e-r-i-15 @st4rwon

@jayla240 [ wouldn't let me tag you,,,sorry! i also had to format the tags weirdly to get this to work :') ]

cue all tags now...

[undereuphoria]

have an idea for a jungwon smau bc i feel like there's a Drought of jungwon fics and i just want fluff and domesticity and and and

SOMEBODY SEDATE ME i have no one to talk to abt this au

[brokenengene]

𝐍𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐲 or 𝐍𝐢𝐜𝐞: A Winter Collab ❆

Hosted By @brokenengene

The holidays are (almost) here!! Be prepared to get both naughty and nice hehe. Welcome to Naughty or Nice, a collaborative winter event for Enhypen writers and readers to celebrate the season with warmth, angst, love, and maybe a little spice.

❆ 𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰𝒕 𝑰𝒔:

A 24-day collab running December 1–24, featuring short fics, drabbles, and oneshots inspired by a mix of winter romance and spicy holiday prompts.

Each participating writer will:

Choose one Enhypen member

Pick one prompt from the Naughty or Nice list

Post their fic on their blog during the event window, tagged with → #NaughtyAndNice2025 

All works will be reblogged here and added to the official Event Masterlist!

❆ 𝑻𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆:

Sign-ups open: November 9 Sign-ups close: November 29 Posting window: December 1-24

❆ 𝑹𝒖𝒍𝒆𝒔:

001. Open to all Enhypen writers!! 002. Any genre/tone welcome: fluff, angst, smut, etc. 003. Word count flexible (drabble to full fic). 004. Please include appropriate warnings + rating tags. 005. Post on your own blog and tag the event so your work is reblogged!

❅ How to Join:

⤷ Choose one Enhypen member + one prompt from the list ( limit of one naughty and one nice prompt per writer!) ⤷ Send me an ask or DM to claim it. ⤷ Post your fic anytime Dec 1–24 and tag it #NaughtyandNice2025 so I can reblog + link to the masterlist.

Please reach out to kate 【@brokenengene 】 with any questions!!

❅ prompt list below ❅

disclaimer! I am aware that not everyone celebrates christmas, so i tried my best to include a mix of prompts so everyone can participate!! while keeping the event focused on the winter season as a whole.

❆ 𝑵𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝑳𝒊𝒔𝒕 ❆

001. snowed in. 【 @all4yoi 】

002. gift exchange. 【 @dollhoonki 】 ❆ n.rk

003. ice skating date. 【 @spicy-secret-sauce 】

004. new years eve. 【 @vanillaxbambi 】 ❆ s.jy

005. baking holiday cookies. 【 @kikidoul 】

006. under the mistletoe. 【 @orxngebloods 】

007. tree decorating.

008. giving you their scarf, gloves or coat. 【 @toastmenace 】 ❆ y.jw

009. opening gifts. 【 @undereuphoria 】

010. putting up holiday decorations.

011. snowball fight. 【 @jaywalks007 】 ❆ n.rk

012. building a snowman or gingerbread house. 【 @seungsoftly 】 ❆ k.sn

❆ 𝑵𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒚 𝑳𝒊𝒔𝒕 ❆

001. spicy gift exchange. 【 @holdmyhypen 】

002. baby its cold outside. 【 @vanillaxbambi 】 ❆ l.hs

003. tied up with bows. 【 @bambiihee 】

004. snowed in.

005. not so silent night.

006. under the tree. 【 @honeykiisss 】 ❆ p.js

007. cuddling to keep warm. 【 @rikismura 】 ❆ s.jy

008. sleigh ride.

009. stocking stuffing.

010. sucking on a candy cane.

011. cozy cabin with only one bed. 【 @brokenengene 】

012. 'all i want for christmas is you'

feel free to get as creative as you'd like with the prompts! I can't wait to see what everyone comes up with!!

xoxo kate

𑣲 perm. taglist: @aggarwaldrishti @kristynaaah @vanillaxbambi @ninistranaut @dulcetnostalgia @1-itsneverthatserious-1 @nesquikluvr @osakinanadesu @m1kkso @yazmike @lovcheol @luvksnn @taesnumber1 @kookiesnkim @skzenhalove @seungsoftly @ziiao @opalsunrise64 @wondash @saraabbas

[undereuphoria]

you canadian aint you

and if i said yes..... what gave me away 😵‍💫😵‍💫

[undereuphoria]

BEAUTIFUL PERSON AWARD! once you are given this award you're supposed to paste it in the asks of 8 people who deserve it. if you break the chain nothing happens, but it's sweet to know someone thinks you're beautiful inside and out ♥️🧜‍♀️

WAHHH VI I DID NOT SEE THIS EARLIER CURSE TUMBLR NOTIFICATIONS ily so bad

[undereuphoria]

sera i……… i………. uhm……… well………..

MMMMMM HE LOOKS SO BIG GAHHHH so bf coded..... gonna nibble on that bicep....... but also

long term bf!jungwon that takes you out on a date with a vibrator nestled between your thighs, suggesting it under the guise of "spicing it up a little" and how he'll "be gentle" with it—with you.

he takes you to the aquarium and a nice dinner and tries to not notice when you clench your thighs tighter under the table or start digging crescents onto his bicep where you hold him, soothing your thighs with a hand that's already been resting there or a soft kiss at your temple while you walk under the blue tunnel.

he rewards you with small bursts of the lower setting; when you finish your food, when you give small fun facts about the fish that you randomly remember from scrolling through the internet–or even just for giving him one of your sweet smiles. jungwon takes note of every twitch, the way your eyes glance around as if people will know just from the tiny hitch in your breath. tries not to smirk too big when you give him a tiny whine by the angelfish display.

and even though he tries not to punish you too much—jungwon finds that you're more of a brat under the threat of stronger pulses, doesn't bother hiding behind false pretense when you oh so obviously try to coax a reaction out of him. rushing him through one of the exhibits, sitting across from him instead of beside, holding yourself back from ordering your favourite food, or–god forbid–pouting at him because the restaurant didn't have dessert.

that's really what makes him push you to the very edge, smiling at your eyes widening and how quick you are to bite your lip, silencing the squeal that would've escaped you. his hand drifts towards your core, casually, as if you two weren't in a very public, very fancy restaurant, pushing the little bullet where it's nestled between your folds, grazing it towards your clit and chuckling when you bury your face into his shoulder. underneath the table, his one hand works itself within your skirt, fingers pressing every so slightly into your wetness through your underwear, his other playing with the settings to push you closer and closer to ruin. above, you two look like lovebirds who can't get enough of each other—you, leaned into jungwon's shoulder, hair covering your face and the hot flush of red rising from your neck, one hand pressed against his chest and the other holding his bicep, soft whines leaking through uneven breathing as jungwon presses kisses to your forehead, your temple, leaving the setting on high to cradle your chin and sealing your lips together when he feels the telltale clenching of your fluttering hole, the stuttering of your breath, and the instinctive press of your tits against his arm like you're trying to rub yourself against him (you are).

jungwon kisses you gently as you come down from the high, lips quirked like he didn't just absolutely ruin you in the corner of your favourite restaurant, asking the server for the cheque and whisking you back to the car so he can drive you both to the frozen yogurt bar down the street. where jungwon piles all your favourite toppings (he knows it forwards and back), and feeds you as many spoonfuls as you want.

[flrtwoo]

r/BadParking | 28

✐ᝰ jungwon’s idea of commitment starts and ends with his 9-to-5: deadlines, structure, and way too much overtime. then you show up, and suddenly he’s the one off balance. he’s falling fast, but you’re crushing on someone else—and also, someone keeps stealing his damn parking slot!

previous | masterlist | next

a/n: not sure how i feel about this chapter... more filler vibes! but y/n is inching closer and closer to admittance 🙏 in a mental hospital 😂

taglist 1 (open!): @bestboileeknow @won1yoiz @rikidaze @maverickroyalromanoff @cara9065 @starboy-library @kimuranirisi @kirakun @veulette @swetmeal @sourkiki @somuchdard @misxteri @melhorentidade-morte @s0shroe @nariyuwu @wonnieluv @jucybondylizard @hyunjinslongasslegs @dammit-jjk @desireunleashes @weepingsweep @leomcshizzle @ikeufied @soobsdior @w3willris3 @frosten9-11 @nyfwyeonjun @fairyofcassi @hoondolls @soobundle1009 @wonuziex @amatariki @yunkiism @whoisaleki @petitnrk @reikaxslvr @tsukheeshima @fatalhee @areikii @moarmy7

[flrtwoo]

taglist 2 (open!): @jayhoonsgf @iilyri @winpoohhh @devdozes @n0rthst4rr @kristynaaah @corazondemelonporti @rikchic @tootles-doodles @astrophia13 @mailovesreading @starrydreamin @brbgottablast @jaystardust @starsmew @vanillakirstein @kyutiepeachy @chanhee-hee @kukkurookkoo @danlovestay @mandylip @heng-garae @wonkisie @cumtrov3rsy @leisurewon @hyunjinoir @klxrify @undereuphoria @uhokluna

comment or send an ask to be added <3

[romancentold]

☤ TEETH. ❝ PART FOURTEEN ❞ 박성훈⸝.ᐟ⋆

PAIRING 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗌𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗇 ۶ৎ 𝘧𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋. (ᴄᴏʟʟᴇɢᴇ ᴀᴜ)

゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ S in which nothing cuts deeper than your hatred for park sunghoon, except the desire that waits underneath it. 、masterpost

𝓦 。ᐟ heavy smut (p in v), dirty talk MDNI ⨾ mentions of abuse, angst, unhealthy coping mechanisms, dom!sunghoon, brat tamer!sunghoon, they’re just very kinky and freaky 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒌 ꧁𓊈 prev 𒆜 next 𓊉꧂ 。WC 26000

゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ 𝓢ummer。 no further warnings — you’re on your own kid ♡ happy reading! just another heads-up, there’s plenty of smut ahead (like… a lot). Now Playing ⨾ ghostin by Ariana Grande, Wicked Games by The Weeknd 🕯️

“Do you want me to die of old age before I eat that, or—”

“Shut up,” Sunghoon mutters, squinting down at the peel. His tongue’s poking out a little in concentration, fingers moving so carefully like the tangerine’s some kind of precious stone. “You’re so impatient.”

Some moments live inside you forever, even if you spend years trying to pretend they never happened. 

The first time you kiss your best friend is one of them.

THREE YEARS AGO

You don’t remember how the two of you ended up on the floor, only that it’s late and everyone else is gone and the living room is half dark except for the warm glow from the TV that no one’s really watching.

Sunghoon is sitting on the floor with his back to the couch and his legs stretched out in front of him, a tangerine turning slowly in his hands as he peels it—and you’re stretched out beside him with your head resting on his thighs and your hair spilling over your cheek. There’s a bowl of peels next to you—the sharp citrus smell bleeding through the heavier, sweet smell of whatever (suspicious) syrupy thing Heeseung poured into your drinks and called “the Evan classic.” (whatever that meant.)

Yunah hadn’t wanted to drink alone, and you’d never been able to say no to her (she mirrors her mother in a scary way) when she pouted at you across the kitchen island. Sunghoon had frowned at the first clink of bottles, told you you didn’t have to, but you’d just grinned and shrugged and told him he’d take care of you anyway. Now, neither of you is drunk enough to forget tomorrow, but you’re tipsy enough that the ache between your ribs is beginning to slip out in all the small ways you both always shy away from.

You pout up at him. “You’re mean, slow, and annoying,” you mumble, and then you tilt your head up from his lap as you watch him. “I could’ve peeled five by now, Grandpa.”

“Then get off my lap and do it,” he huffs, not even glancing at you.

“Nuh uh,” you hum immediately, grinning wide. “You’re warm. And sooooooo comfy.”

Then, without looking at you, he holds one of the segments above your head. But instead of just taking it from him, you open your mouth expectantly without even bothering to move. 

He snorts. “You’re like a literal child. Are your hands broken?”

You grin and tilt your head back farther on his thigh, making yourself comfortable like a cat would. “Too tired. Feed meee.”

He dramatically sighs, but he gives in anyway and presses the tangerine to your lips. You bite down gently, sweet juice bursting over your tongue, and he watches you chew with a look of exaggerated exasperation.

“Happy now?” he asks, wiping a bit of juice from your chin with his thumb. 

“Mmm. Happiest girl ever,” you nod as you chew contentedly, and he sticks his tongue out and shakes his head—then he’s smiling and already peeling off another segment. But before he feeds it to you, he uses his free hand to gently brush your hair back from your cheek, tucking it behind your ear. 

You squint up at him and notice how red his ears are. “Oh my god. You’re blushing.”

Sunghoon immediately makes a face and glances away. “Shut up. I’m not blushing.”

You poke his leg. “You soooo are. Look at your ears! They’re like cherry red. Wait—hold still.” You reach up like you’re about to pinch his cheek, but he swats your hand away, which only makes you laugh harder. “I need to take a picture of this and add it to my collection of blackmail—”

“Don’t you dare—”

You just stare up at him for a moment and giggle while he stares down at you, still all flushed. You’re sure your own cheeks are properly red now, too.

“Don’t go,” he says quietly after a while—like he almost didn’t mean to say it out loud.

Your brows pull together. “Huh?” you say through a mouthful—though you know exactly what he means. 

“Don’t go,” he says again, quieter this time. “Just… stay.”

You’re quiet for a second. You search his face and silently hope he’ll finally say something. Something you’ve been hoping for your entire life. Something you know he won’t ever say because you know he doesn’t feel the same way, but you still, still wish for every time it’s just the two of you like this, or even when it’s not just the two of you and he still makes you feel like you’re the only two people in the world, let alone the room.

“Why?” you breathe.

He doesn’t answer right away. He peels the last bit of rind off the tangerine, splits it neatly in half, and gently feeds it into your mouth again, then meets your eyes again and huffs a quiet laugh. 

“Because, you’re somehow the only one who can keep Hee in check,” he shrugs, and grabs the glass beside him, “How else am I gonna survive without you? The second a drink touches his mouth, he starts calling the remote his butler and tries to order pizza from it.”

Of course. 

You roll your eyes (mostly at yourself for still being a hopeless romantic), but you snort as you picture Heeseung doing just that a few hours ago.

“You’re talking like I’m leaving forever,” you say softly, despite the ache in your chest—and nudge your shoulder into his knee. “It’s just for the summer. Plus, you’ll be too busy skating to even think about me.” 

Then he smiles—though it doesn’t reach his eyes entirely.

“Right,” he swallows and turns the empty glass in his hands, thumb tracing where your lipstick left a ghost of a mark. “Yeah, I’ll be… skating.”

You catch the look on his face then—the shadow that’s been lingering all month, something too heavy for someone so young. You’d wanted to ask before, a hundred times, but every time you’d tried, he’d brushed you off, swearing up and down that everything was fine. 

“Hoonie?”

“Yeah?”

“You know you can tell me anything, right?”

Sunghoon just gives you a lopsided smile, a little bit sheepish, a little bit sad. “Yeah. And you can too, you know?” he says quietly (clearly deflecting, because you can always tell). “Doesn’t matter what it is. You could tell me anything.”

You know he means it. Deep down, you know—no matter how much you mess up or how ugly your thoughts get—he’d never turn you away. Even now, with half your heart aching for more, you know you could bare your soul to him and he’d hold it in his hands, gentle as always.

You don’t say anything. Instead, you just nod, the words you want to say piling up at the back of your throat. I wish you’d tell me what’s hurting you so I could fix it. I wish I could tell you how badly I want you to kiss me. I wish I could say I love you—even though I know you don’t believe in that. Even though I know you’ll never love me back, not the way I want, not with all the walls our families have built between us.

But some things are easier to leave unsaid. You tuck the thought away and you push yourself up from his lap as you suddenly remember something. 

“Oh, wait! I almost forgot—” you scramble up slightly and reach for your bag on the couch with an excited grin, then you add on in a singsong voice, “I have something for youuuuu.”

“Huh? Is it another friendship bracel—”

“No,” you giggle and pull out the journal you bought for him and wiggle it at him. “Ta-dah! You know how I like to write down everything. Soooo… I thought you could do it, too.”

He takes it from your hand and squints down at it, then looks back at you with a puzzled expression. “A… diary? What am I, a twelve-year-old girl?”

“Shut up. It’s a journal,” you correct and point your finger as a matter of fact. “Not just any journal, either. It’s limited edition Tiffany. Look—” you point at the lock—the tiny engraving on it that says Hoonie My #1—and you grin. “I even had it engraved for you.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “You’re such a nerd. What do I do with it?”

You nudge his knee with your foot. “Well, write in it? Duh?” you shrug. “This is the first summer we’re apart… since like… I was seven. So like, write down anything you want—what you’re thinking, stuff that happens, dumb things Heeseung says. Then, when I come back, we trade journals, and it’ll be like I never left.”

“Why do you want me to write in it, anyway?” he teases, his eyes dancing as he watches you struggle. “My life isn’t as interesting as yours.”

“So you don’t forget about me while I’m gone.” You blurt it out before you can stop yourself, and it comes out a little too quietly, so you drop your gaze right after, eyes fixed on the rug as you start picking at a loose thread.

He’s quiet for a moment, so you look back at him. Something shifts behind his eyes—and his voice is quieter when he answers, “I couldn’t forget you even if I tried.” Your breath stutters in your chest, but you barely have a second to process the fuzzy feeling before he adds, “You’re too annoying to forget.” 

The fondness in his eyes betrays the jab—but you scoff and shove at his shoulder. He turns the blue journal over in his hand and hums.

“Okay, I think I already have my first entry,” he says sarcastically, and pretends to ponder it for a moment longer. “Dear diary, day one: Y/N left for Paris today. The birds are singing, the sun is shining, and my ears have stopped ringing from all the whining—”

You cut him off by shoving him; then you stick your tongue out at him and reach for the journal. “Fine, forget it, you asshole. Give it here—”

“Nahhh,” he holds it up higher while grinning wide and stupid and impossibly bright—all teeth and trouble, the sort of smile that crinkles up the corners of his eyes and makes his whole face light up, annoyingly soft and a little bit cocky, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “I have day two planned too—Dear diary, I finally don’t have to listen to Ariana Grande anymore—”

You gasp very dramatically. “Hey! You said you liked her songs! Ugh—Give it back, Hoon!” You reach over him this time for the notebook again, and you get a grip on it. “I’m revoking your rights—”

“Hey—no, I want it,” he says, and you laugh and tug harder, and he tugs back even harder, and your hands tangle, and then you’re suddenly a little too close, laughing too hard, and you trip forward and land straight in his lap. “Y/N—”

And you both stop breathing for half a second.

The laughter dies between you, and you’re both quiet—too quiet and too nervous and already half flushed from the alcohol—and staring and staring and staring at each other like it’s the first ever time.

You both lean in for the kiss at the same time.

The kiss is impossibly soft and sweet, barely there at first—lips brushing so tenderly as you lean into each other even more. It’s even sweeter when he brings his hand up, fingers trembling just slightly as he tucks your hair behind your ear, his palm fitting over your cheek like he’s memorizing the feel of you. He exhales into the kiss, a shaky breath that feels like relief, like he’s finally breathing for the first time. You lean into his touch and deepen the kiss, and everything softens, even the ache in your chest.

When you part, he keeps his forehead against yours. Neither of you says anything for a long time.

You’re the one who tries first. “That was—”

“Stupid,” he cuts you off quickly. Then he shakes his head and rubs a hand over his face. “That was stupid.”

You blink. The words land like a slap to your face. “Oh,” you say after a second, forcing a laugh. “Um, yeah. Totally stupid.”

He looks away. “We probably shouldn’t—”

“—talk about it?” you finish for him.

He nods once, eyes on the floor.

So you hold out your pinky.

“Then we won’t,” you say, despite how badly you want to.

He looks at your hand, hesitates, then hooks his finger around yours all the same. “Promise,” he says softly.

You smile—small, and you’re aching entirely too much for a teenage girl. “Promise.”

He looks at you then, properly, and for a moment he seems older—exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with the drinks you’ve had or what just happened at all. 

The thing is, Sunghoon hasn’t told you that he’s quitting skating and that you’ll be gone for his last competition. He hasn’t told you he doesn’t have a choice, or about the coldness at home, about the bruises that have been blooming near his ribs lately—how his father’s drinking gets worse every week and how his mother has given up on him entirely. There are so many things he hasn’t told you, really, because there’s a part of him that wants to protect the last person who still looks at him and sees something soft, instead of something broken or pathetic that shouldn’t be there. He doesn’t want to change the way you look at him. He doesn’t want to put the weight of his world on your shoulders. Maybe it’s selfish, maybe it’s cowardly, but it’s the only thing he can still control.

So he keeps the words behind his teeth, where you’re still just two best friends with tangerine juice (and a soft, innocent secret kiss) on your lips, pretending you have all the time in the world.

He nods and rubs his thumb over the edge of the bottle by the couch. “We’re… um… drunk, anyway.”

You’re not, not really. But you nod anyway. “Soo drunk.”

In two months, you’d leave for Paris, and you didn’t know it then, but that was the night everything between you stopped being simple. And no, the kiss didn’t really change anything, not really—not when the two of you were always so good at pretending. But still, somehow, that was the summer nothing between you was ever quite the same again.

You’d come back with a journal filled with so many things you wanted to tell him about, only to find that the boy you knew would be gone, scattered somewhere you couldn’t reach for ever again, without ever knowing why, no matter how hard you tried every day after that. And that’s just how it happens sometimes… You love someone so much and you think you’ll always know them, never imagining they could just wake up one day and turn into someone you don’t know at all in the blink of an eye. 

It’s a strange kind of mercy from the human mind that memories stay warm even after the people in them go cold, because holding onto the feeling of what was is the only way to survive what is, no matter how hard you pretend not to care anymore.

You have a problem.

It’s a big problem. Massive, really.

You can’t stop having sex with Park Sunghoon.

But before we get to the part where you spiral and make the most diabolical decisions of your life, let’s rewind a little—to the part right after you slam that bathroom door and try to remember how to be a functioning human being.

“Um—are you guys… actually okay in there? Wait, don’t answer that. I’ll just tell the stylists to head to the new room, okay? Thirty minutes—uh, take your time! I mean—don’t take your time, but, you know, just… Uh, I’m leaving!”

Ningning’s voice comes from behind the door—and then you’re stuck staring at your own reflection again. 

News flash; it still hasn’t gotten any better.

You sigh and start counting the… bite marks (Dear God.) first, and you really wish you hadn’t.

They’re fading… but there’s about five below your jaw, then your neck, your collarbone, your tits, your shoulders, your thighs. And, oh my god, your fucking arms. What the hell is he? A vampire?

You give up on counting the hickeys because some things are better left a mystery—so you just tug on the bathrobe and cinch it tighter than necessary. Your legs are starting to ache in places you didn’t even know could ache, and you try not to think too hard about it as you quite literally force yourself out of the bathroom.

Sunghoon is on the couch with his head tipped back and a new shirt thrown on, but still just in his boxers. You naturally ignore him completely and pretend he’s part of the hotel decor.

Speaking of the hotel decor… Jesus Christ. It’s actually so much worse from this angle. Sheets tangled and half on the floor, rose petals stuck to the broken glass on the floor, the champagne bottle still rolling by the window—Oh! The fucking window with literal fluids and imprints on it. Yeah. Okay. You’re mortified. No, not even mortified—beyond mortified. You’re on another astral plane of shame.

Despite how destroyed you are, you walk over to the desk (weakly and shakingly) and you drop to your knees and carefully start picking up shards of glass. You don’t even think; you just do it, running on adrenaline and humiliation at the thought of some poor cleaning lady seeing this room and knowing exactly what went down, and you can’t have that because no one gets paid enough to deal with this. 

Sunghoon watches you for a second with his brows furrowing. “You don’t have to do that.”

You glare at him. “Oh, right, because housekeeping loves cleaning up broken glass and mystery fluids for… for… there’s no wage in the world that I could possibly state. Do you want them telling stories about how the great Park Sunghoon trashes his own hotel rooms?”

He looks annoyed. “That’s not what I meant.”

“What the hell could you possibly have meant, sitting there sprawled up like that?” you scoff, “Have a little shame for once in your life. Or are you just that fucking spoiled?”

He shakes his head and huffs a laugh. “You’re one to talk.”

You roll your eyes and dump broken glass into a trash can. “Well, at least I’m not going to be the reason someone’s traumatized. Correction, extremely petrified. And you—” you point at him with a balled-up tissue, “—are helping. I’m really not letting some poor staff deal with your… animal instincts.”

He scoffs and raises a brow. “Animal instincts? Really?”

You open your mouth, ready with another biting remark—but then he huffs and gets up and suddenly starts pulling his shirt off over his head.

You freeze.

Then he turns around with his back to you, and the words properly die in your throat… Because his back—holy shit. Talk about hypocrisy, woman. 

His back is a mess of angry red lines, nearly bloodied, scratches crisscrossing over his skin so deep and so jagged that you can’t even tell where one ends and another begins. There are even more on his shoulders, along with… hickeys and bite marks… (?) on his biceps that you don’t even remember leaving. Not to mention, there are hickeys blooming up all over his neck and down his chest too, and some of them are already turning a dark, sickly color. It’s bad. It’s really bad for both of you.

You’re still staring when he throws a look over his shoulder. “Go on,” he taunts. “Do tell me more about animal instincts.”

You swallow once and then blink. 

“Are you actually serious right now?” you snap, and before you can think, you untie your robe and pull it open—exposing all the marks, the bites, and the angry purple-red patches mapped across your skin just the same. “You wanna go there? How the fuck am I supposed to cover all this up? At least you get a suit—”

There’s a half-beat where neither of you moves, and you realize—Oh. So, you’re just… naked in front of him again. Great. Amazing. Lovely! You catch the way his eyes flicker down, the way he drags his teeth over his top lip, almost like he’s contemplating something deeply sinful. More so than what just happened here.

You pull the robe back — yanking the tie so tight you wince at the way it feels against your sensitive body. “Shut up.” You look away from him and bend down weakly again.

“I didn’t say anything.”

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts and grab another fistful of broken glass, mumbling under your breath, “Fucking beast.”

He bends down to help you clean up anyway. “You started it. Try not to maul me next time,” he murmurs.

You shoot him a look and lob the balled-up tissue straight at his stupid, perfect chest. “There won’t be a next time, jackass,” you snap, but the words barely even sound convincing to your own ears.

The thing is, your body’s already betraying you with the ache between your legs that isn’t just from how fucked-out you are (you’re beyond satisfied… actually, infuriatingly so, but… you’re still horny. Plain and simple.)

“Yeah? You sure about that?” he taunts. “Because from where I’m standing, you’re already eyeing me like you want a third round.”

Oh, for fucks sake.

Your glare at him. “I’ll kill you.”

“Uh-huh,” He just shrugs. “We’re both adults. We’ve established that we don’t like each other, but… clearly...” His gaze drops pointedly, lingering on the mess of bruises and marks on his (still) shirtless self. “We’re good at something together.”

You do agree with him… You obviously hadn’t even meant it when you’d said there’ll be no next time… but you still glare at him and carefully shove another handful of glass into the trash. “God, you’re so—” you start, but you don’t have the energy for it. “Just shut up and clean before I actually kill you and add a dead body to the list of atrocities in this room.”

The two of you move quietly after that, and there’s a weird sort of rhythm to it—him sweeping up the larger shards while you collect the smaller ones in a towel, both of you avoiding each other’s eyes. And somehow, you actually manage to tidy up most of it — Almost enough to look normal, if you ignore the sheets missing from the bed, the very broken headboard, the very obvious bodily imprints on the window you can’t scrub off… but hey! It’s something.

Then you spot a shard you missed glinting by the window, and you sigh as you crouch down to grab it—

“FUCK! OW!” 

The glass slices into your finger because you underestimated your bodily strength and just how wobbly your legs are—and sort of fell into it—and the blood blooms instantly.

Sunghoon’s instantly there, crossing the room before you can blink. “Are you fucking stupid?” His hand closes around your wrist, turning your palm up so he can see. “I told you not to—”

You try to yank back, but you wince. “It’s fine, it’s not—” you look down at his wrist and then at how his brows are knitted together, and your chest aches for a moment. “Let go.”

He scoffs and drops your wrist instantly. “Just go shower,” he clicks his tongue and drags a hand down his face. “You can barely even stand.”

You scowl and lick the blood off your finger. “Why the hell do you care?”

“I don’t care,” he huffs, but he still reaches for a tissue and hands it to you. “I do care, however, about showering. And you’re taking too long right now. Just be grateful I’m letting you go first.”

Asshole.

You huff and take the tissue from him and throw it back in his face, but then you limp your way to the bathroom anyway. You close the door, take off your robe, and weakly step into the shower without another thought. You turn on the hot water — hissing at the way it feels on your skin — but you let it scald you, hoping it’ll erase something—anything.

You’re barely one round into washing your hair when you hear the door open.

Of course.

You glare over your shoulder, too tired to even curse properly. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” you hiss, and then you press your hands to your chest and attempt to cover yourself up.

Sunghoon just steps in, bare as the day he was born, eyes raking over you and giving you a look that says he’s absolutely baffled at how you’re trying to cover up. “Showering,” he raises a brow. “You’re taking too long. And I realized I don’t care.”

“You fucking—” you grit your teeth and refuse to move. The shower is big enough for two, but you’d rather drown than share it. “Use the sink or wait for me, asshole.”

He ignores you entirely, steps in, and reaches for the shampoo bottle. “I’m not waiting for you any longer. Move, or I’ll move you.”

God, you hate him.

You’re so mad you could slap him, but you’re also so fucked out and still needy you could scream. You try not to stare down at his dick—soft, but still huge, ridiculously huge, a fucking monster—ENOUGH. He steps in closer, and how your body goes tight at the thought of him even half-hard, let alone—

You shake your head. No. No, no, no.

You grab the shampoo like you might actually throw it at his head, but instead you squirt a generous amount into your palm and continue lathering your hair furiously. You tell yourself over and over again that you’re not affected by how you’re both naked again and actually showering together after having the craziest sex of your life.

God, You’re so, so full of shit. 

But you try not to stare at him again, and just focus on getting yourself the hell out of here. (You still catch yourself sneaking glances anyway—the way water beads down his muscular chest, the way you’ve marked him up, the lazy way he runs his hand through his hair with those ridiculously big hands of his… Christ.) 

At first, it’s almost fine. Too fine, really—he ignores you completely, acting like you’re just… casually sharing a shower, not like he was just inside you an hour ago. Not like he’s visibly hard again or anything. He steals the conditioner right out of your hand, and you mutter a string of curses under your breath, but he still shrugs you off. It’s all so normal to him it actually pisses you off more.

So, maybe you do it on purpose. 

Maybe you start working the shower gel lower, letting it drip down over your breasts as you slide your hands over your skin in slow circles—pretending you’re just trying to get clean on purpose. You let your head tip back a little too far as you work the suds over the soft swell of your skin and hiss at how tender your breasts feel as you give them a squeeze. 

You’re not even looking at him, but you can feel his eyes on you, and you pretend not to notice. 

You drag your hands down even slower over your nipples, working them between your fingers until they stiffen up, the water washing white suds down your stomach. Then you finally glance over at him innocently through your wet lashes.

He tongues his cheek and huffs a low laugh. “Ah. Where are my manners?” he tuts, then he shakes his head and suddenly steps right behind you, and you feel his cock right against your ass—thick and heavy and so, so hot you might actually lose your mind. “I just realized I didn’t even give you proper aftercare.” 

He leans in even closer until his nose brushes your ear, “Let me clean you up.”

You snort, but your heart starts pounding in your chest. “Aftercare? Yeah, right. If you touch me, I’ll kill you.”

He ignores you completely as he reaches for the douche. “No, really, I insist.” His breath is warm against your ear as he pushes a thick strand of wet hair off your neck. “Let me take care of you.”

He brings the hot water down over your body, like he’s actually just washing you, and then he brings it around your back. For a second, you almost let your guard down, and also almost think he might not be a huge dick after all, but then—

He grabs the shower head and fiddles with the settings to change the water pressure, and before you can even process what he’s doing, he brings it in front of you and moves the shower head lower and presses it right between your thighs. The water hits your clit dead on, and you gasp—no, you fucking scream because your knees nearly give out from the shock. 

“AH—you ASSHOLE—” you yelp, but it melts into a gasp, a whine, then a moan as he presses the shower head even harder, angling it just right so every pulse of water slams into your clit. You scramble for the wall — nails scraping tile — and Sunghoon just laughs into your ear, sliding an arm around your waist to hold you upright.

“You wanna fucking tease me?” he growls, mouth right against your ear. “This is what you get.”

“Fuck—Sunghoon, you—bastard—” you choke out and try to pull away, but he just tightens his grip and presses the shower head even harder against you. “Sunghoon—that’s—stop, I can’t—”

“Not until you count for me.” His hand comes down and smacks your ass. “Go on. Count,” he orders.

You grit your teeth and try to yank at his arms, knees wobbling from the water pressure. “Fuck you—Ah—”

Another slap, even harder this time. “I said count.”

You glare at him over your shoulder, breath coming in ragged gasps from how he’s circling the shower head on your clit. He slaps you again and your skin stings, the heat blooming up your spine, and your mouth betrays you with a moan that makes you want to punch yourself in the face.

“Are you fucking crazy?” you moan. “I’ll slap you right back—“

His lips brush your ear as he lands another stinging slap on your ass even harder. “Still not counting?”

“That was four! You ass!” you spit through gritted teeth, then your hand flies up and you grab for his hair—and you tangle your fingers in it and yank on it very hard until he hisses right back. 

“Fucking bitch,” he grits out, and it just makes you pull his hair harder—dragging his face down closer until his mouth is right against your neck. You’re trembling so bad now you can barely hold yourself upright, but you still tilt your head back with your eyes squeezed shut, mouth falling open as you arch into him and grind into him shamelessly for more friction. 

“You’re such a fucking slut,” he laughs, voice muffled as he sucks another mark on your neck. “Look at you. Can barely stand up straight, and you’re still fucking yourself on my hand. Can’t get enough, huh?”

“God, you talk so much. It’s annoying—just shut up,” you manage to huff, then he lets go of your waist and shoves his hand down between your legs, and he starts circling your clit in time with the water. He pinches down hard on your clit and holds you tighter when you buck against his hand. 

“Maybe I should keep you here all day—see how many times I can make you come until you finally stop running your mouth like a brat. Is that what you want?” you just moan in response, and he smirks and drags his teeth down your already marked-up throat. “Thought so. Open your fucking legs—yeah, just like that. Fuck, you’re dripping.”

He slides one finger inside you and crooks it in a way that makes you buck so hard against him that your knees finally, properly give out, but he just grips you tighter and practically holds you upright with one arm.

You reach behind you, and your hand finds his hard cock, and you squeeze it just to get a reaction, and he sucks in a breath and snaps his hips forward so quickly you almost lose your grip.

“Fuck—” he chokes out, voice cracking as you pump him once, twice, dragging your thumb over his angry, leaking head, feeling him twitch in your palm. “Such a needy brat.”

“Yeah, I’m fuckin’ needy,” you snap, but it comes out as a moan as he fingers you harder and meaner. “So just—f…fuck me already.”

“No next time, huh?” he mocks, cock straining against your palm. “Tsk. You’re pathetic. Didn’t even last a full ten minutes.” 

You grit your teeth and squeeze his cock as you start pumping him furiously. “It’s just… Sex. Too much talking, not enough fucking,” you shoot back, “God, you’re such a fucking—mph—asshole, just—” your words die in your throat when he curls his finger inside you and hits that spot.

He yanks your wrist away from his cock and lands another slap right on your ass. “That’s for touching me without permission. What number are we at?” he grunts, and when you don’t answer; he grips the flesh hard enough to make you moan out a curse. “I can do this all day. I said count.”

“Five—fuck—Sunghoon, I swear to god I’ll kill you in this—”

You don’t even finish before he turns you around and grabs you, strong arms lifting you up so fast you let out a startled yelp as you wrap your legs around his waist. He hauls you out of the shower and back into the room with water dripping everywhere. You watch him dig a condom out of his wallet again, tearing it open with his teeth, and all you can think again is… just exactly how many condoms does he carry in that thing? You don’t even process anything else — suddenly, he has you back in the shower, bracing you up against the tile with your legs locked tight around his waist, lining himself up and making you beg for it. Then he thrusts into you in one rough, breath-stealing stroke, making you moan so hard you nearly bite your tongue off trying to hold it in. You’re already aching despite being violently sore and overstimulated from the last three hours—but the pain from how he’s stretching you again only makes it better and more addictive. 

Then you just grab his hair and drag him into you and… shit.

The kiss is different this time—the water makes everything messier, slicker, and impossibly filthy. Your lips are crashing together with water and spit; both of you moaning straight into each other’s mouths and eating every sound the other gives. You can’t even pull back… It’s like your lips are stuck to his, and the sensation of the wetness and softness of his lips actually makes your head spin. You just want more. more. more. Everything feels so heightened and so good, especially as he fucks you harder, faster, and deeper, curses muttering from both of your mouths the harder he goes. Somewhere in the haze, he grabs the shower head again and presses it right to your clit, and you almost sob — (honestly, you could be sobbing right now and you wouldn’t know) — at how the water pounds into your nerves in perfect sync with the way he fucks into you.

“Yeah? You like that?” he pants between moans against your ear as you clench around his cock, “Fuck, I can feel you squeezing around me again. Didn’t… get enough the first seven times, you fucking slut?”

“Y...you’re such—Nghh—a cocky bitch. All you do is talk, talk, talk—”

He pulls out and slams back into you so deep you choke on your own words. “Still running your mouth?” he exhales, “Didn’t I say I’d fuck you quiet?” He thrusts harder, and you actually sob into his mouth, and your moan gets swallowed up by his lips.

You snap right back despite how your entire body is tingling, biting at his jaw as you gasp for breath, “If you could actually fuck, maybe I’d be quiet—SHITSHITSHIT.”

You don’t even bother keeping your screams in as you cry out while stars burst behind your eyelids when your orgasm hits you just right, and he moans right into your mouth and keeps fucking you straight through it until you’re sure he’s rearranging your insides while you practically sob into his mouth.

You’re truly only upright because he’s holding you up against the tile—your whole body is trembling, your clit is throbbing, your is cunt still pulsing around him, so tight it’s a miracle he can even keep moving, but he does… he drags out until only the swollen head of his cock is left inside you and then he slams all the way back in with a filthy, wet smack so deep you swear you feel him in your fucking heart. His forehead presses to yours, and you both just look down between breathless pants and watch as his cock slides in and out and in and out of you — you see the obscene stretch — his cock glistening, slick with your wetness and from the shower, veins bulging, so long and thick you keep wondering how you’re even taking all of him. The sight alone makes your pussy milk him even more.

“Look at you, taking it like a good little whore,” he spits roughly. “This pussy was made for my cock, wasn’t it? So tight, so wet—fuck.”

You’re so far gone from the pleasure, but you still manage to harshly drag your nails down his stomach—leaving red trails in his wet skin and making him groan. The sight in front of you… He’s dripping wet. Water beads down his chest and drips from his slicked back hair as he thrusts into you with every muscle tensed. His thick brows are drawn together in pure concentration while he stares down between your bodies, watching his cock disappear into you with his mouth open as he gasps for breath. Naturally, your eyes fall onto his biceps… And you mindlessly bring your hand up to feel them… The arm he’s holding you up with is flexed so hard you can feel the veins and every tight muscle beneath your palms. You dig your fingers into his bicep just to feel how hard he’s straining to keep you up and tear you apart while his thrusts start losing rhythm.

It’s the hottest fucking thing you’ve ever seen.

“You’re… the fucking whore,” you manage to gasp, voice barely there as he slams his cock into you so deep it knocks the air out of your lungs. “Gonna cum, pretty boy? Can’t get enough of this—”

He cuts you off with a rough moan and shoves two fingers into your mouth—and starts thrusting into you even harder. “Fucking talk now,” he snarls.

You moan around his fingers with your eyes rolling back as your whole body burns from being overstimulated — and you feel his cock twitching inside you. He yanks his fingers from your mouth just to grab your jaw, forcing you to look him in the eyes as he pounds into you — and you’re barely clinging to reality when he suddenly pulls out and tears the condom off. 

“On your knees,” he grunts.

You blink at him, brain short-circuiting. “M’too sore,” you manage, but you’re already letting yourself slide to the floor anyway. He presses a hand to your shoulder to steady you, and then he guides you down all the way, and you end up weakly kneeling on the slick shower tiles with your thighs trembling to bits.

Sunghoon grabs your chin and tilts your head up. “Press your tits together for me,” he rasps, and you’re past the point of fighting back—so you push your breasts together, and he starts stroking himself over your chest. “Fuckk, just like that—look at you. Obedient little thing,” His hand is in your hair as he fists his cock, once, twice, and then he’s coming all over you — smearing it across your tits, watching it drip down your skin as he pants — and then he brings his cock down between your tits. You lean in and drag your tongue up his tip, but before you can take him into your mouth; he pulls your hair slightly and stops you.

“Not so fast,” he growls. “Who said you could?”

You lick a stripe up his cock anyway — locking eyes with him as you do — and you drag your tongue over the sensitive head until he hisses. 

“Your face did. You look desperate enough to me,” you shrug, then brush your mouth over his tip and grin wickedly, "Actually… why don’t I make you beg for it right here?”

Sunghoon clenches his jaw. “Don’t fucking test me.”

He watches as you press your tongue against the tip to lick his cum off, and then you smear it across your lips as you hum and pull back. “Mhmm, I can make you feel good… I’ll clean you up,” you tease—and it’s truly a miracle you’re even speaking at all, but you still manage the strength to reach up and wrap your hands around the base of his cock. “Unless… you can’t handle it?”

“Fucking brat,” he curses, but he doesn’t stop you this time when you open your mouth and bring his cock closer to slap the head against your tongue to smear what’s left of his cum across it. Then you close your lips around the tip and start sucking him slowly, eyes never leaving his as you swirl your tongue around his head — making a show of it even as you glare up at him. “Shit—” he moans, and you hum around him and bob your head forward to take him in slightly deeper, dragging your nails over his thighs just to make him twitch as he tips his head back. “Fuck, you’re such a fucking tease. That’s Enough—” his knuckles whiten in your hair as you suck him clean and lick every drop from his cock, until he pulls out and drags your head back and swipes his thumb messily over your mouth.

Neither of you says a word about how there’s maybe five minutes left before you’re supposed to be downstairs, or how you’re both still catching your breath from the fact that you just fucked for the first time—and then did it three more times. No, the only words exchanged are when he tells everyone to fuck off, to then spend the next ten minutes with you bent over the sink with his mouth buried between your thighs, determined to wring out every last sound you have left to give him.

So, yeah. 

You have a problem.

By the time you manage to throw some clothes on and limp (like, seriously, limp) your way to the new room where the stylists and glam team are waiting, your legs are barely cooperating — honestly, you’re kind of surprised they’re still attached at all. You barely have enough time to register the horror on the stylists’ faces before you make a beeline for the bathroom, dragging Ningning in with you and slamming the door shut.

Ningning looks terribly concerned. “Is… everything okay?”

You hesitate for a beat, then just give up and pull your robe open a little—just enough to expose the absolute horror show of hickeys and marks all over your skin.

“Help,” you squeal. “I don’t want all of them out there to see this. At least not… entirely.”

Ningning’s eyes go comically wide. “Oh! Is that—wait—is that a… um... a bite mark on your arm?”

You flap your arms and panic. “Don’t look at the arm! Actually, don’t look at anything. I know, I know, I look insane. This is so unprofessional, right? I mean, you’re my assistant, but you’re also kind of my only friend here—Oh God, are you my friend? I really hope you’re my friend. I want to be your friend. I just—” you stop rambling for a shaky breath, “I… I needed a girl to talk to here. I’m sorry I’m putting you through this. I give you permission to blackmail me or leak this to the press… I literally don’t care, I’ll die of actual shame before that happens anyway—”

Ningning snaps you out of it when she holds up her hands and places them on your shoulders and shakes you gently. “Y/N. Breathe,” she says softly, and you meet her eyes and slump under her touch. “Look… I promise, you’re not the first person to show up to hair and makeup looking like they got… mauled by a tiger. I mean, okay, maybe not exactly like this, but you get what I mean.”

You let out a weak laugh and groan into your palms, but before you can say anything, Ningning adds, “Wait. I’ll be back.”

She ducks out of the bathroom for a split second, leaving you alone to panic in front of your own reflection again. But she’s back before you can spiral any further—arms loaded with what looks like an entire makeup kit; foundation bottles clattering together, brushes poking out at every angle, and concealers in every shade known to man.

She drops everything on the counter with a dramatic flourish. “Girl, sit,” she orders, already grabbing a concealer palette. “You’re in luck. Covering up questionable hickeys is, like, my third superpower. First is perfect eyeliner, second is making grown men cry. We’ve got this.”

You stare at her, and you swear a halo appears above her head, and a tremendous bit of awe washes over you as you throw your arms around her in a messy hug. “Oh my God, you’re an angel. How are you this sweet? Are you even real, or am I hallucinating you as a coping mechanism?”

Ningning pats your back gently and squeezes you once while giggling, and you let go of her and sink down onto the closed toilet lid, relief flooding you so hard your legs go a little more jelly, and you just… let her work her magic in silence.

“Okay, um…” she hesitates and bites her lip as she blends concealer over the hickey blooming by your collarbone, “it’s totally unprofessional of me to gossip… if this is even gossip, but, uh… just so you know, Sunghoon already told everyone that if you’re not feeling up to attending anything today, it’s not happening. Like, he was weirdly… insistent about it. Protective, honestly.”

You blink at her. “He said that?”

Ningning nods as she dabs a peach-colored corrector along your neck. “Yeah, he’s usually really polite, you know? Super formal with everyone. But he was like, ‘If she wants to skip, she skips. Anyone says otherwise, they answer to me.’ Like, literally. The hotel director looked like he was about to cry. I think I was, too.”

Why would he…? Your breath stutters. But you don’t think too much about it because you can’t afford to add that to your list right now.

You groan and hide your face in your hands. “God, that’s so fucking embarrassing.”

Ningning pulls your chin up with gentle fingers and pries your hands away. “Oh! Also… apparently, room service came by your room at some point? And, um, overheard some… noises? And it’s kind of going around right now. One of the stylists nearly dropped her coffee. She was apparently betting with her other stylist friend that the two of you were a PR relationship, but I totally defended you two even though, obviously—wait—sorry, I know that’s so unprofessional to say—”

You blink up at her, barely even processing what she’d said. “Ningning, you’re literally covering up my hickeys. And you already know that we literally—” you bring your voice down into a whisper, “are a PR relationship.”

Ningning pauses and gives you a slow, sarcastic raised brow as she silently glances between your marked-up neck and then back to your face.

You clear your throat, suddenly aware of how ridiculous it sounds. “Um… I can explain, well… I don’t know how to—”

She cuts you off with a laugh. “No, you don’t need to explain anything, Y/N. Seriously. As long as you’re okay, that’s just your business,” she gives your hand a little squeeze. “Now hold still.”

You hum softly, trying not to fidget as she starts patting foundation over your collarbone again. But then your gaze drifts to the mess of makeup on the counter—and you spot a small, elegant navy box tucked beside the brushes that looks entirely… too suspicious and out of place in between that mess. 

Harry Winston. 

That’s not just any box.

“Ningning,” you say quietly, jerking your chin towards the box, “what is that?”

She glances where you’re looking. “Oh. That,” she blinks and reaches for it on the counter and turns it open in her hand. “I was given this, um, right before you came down here. Apparently, it’s an ‘important image requirement’ from Mr. Park himself.”

You stare at her and try to ignore the ring in the box. “An image requirement?”

She nods and lowers her voice so just the two of you can hear. “He said it was non-negotiable for tonight, to strengthen the ‘narrative’ he’s selling for investors at the dinner. Oh, and making sure the photographers get good photos—”

You don’t hear a single word she’s saying after that. Your eyes are glued to the engagement ring glimmering under the light with your heart thudding in your chest, and you feel bile rising in your throat.

“I want to speak to Sunghoon.”

They’d told you to wait until the two of you were done with hair and makeup before you could speak to him, and that was that. 

At some point, a makeup artist leaned in and said, “These two lovebirds, huh? Can’t keep you apart for five minutes.” She grinned at your reflection, and you had to force yourself to laugh, all while you tried not to throw up every time you glanced down at the navy box in your hand, clutching it so tightly that the corners were digging into your palm painfully so.

Your mind is a thousand miles away.

You barely even react as they prod, tug, and pin you into something sleek and shiny. You don’t care to hear a thing—someone’s yanking a brush through your hair, someone’s pinning you into a dress. It’s all so far away it may as well be happening to someone else. Some luckier, dumber girl who never learned any better.

It’s only when the door beeps open that you actually come back to your body for a second.

Sunghoon enters the room, and the stylists immediately scurry out like mice while casting anxious glances between the two of you.

Then it’s just you and him.

God, despite how mad you are, despite everything, you can’t help but notice the way he looks standing there… He’s wearing a black dress shirt that sits perfectly around his stupidly broad shoulders with a tie that’s knotted low and loose, his sleeves are rolled up just enough to show his forearms, and his belt is cinched tight around his waist—all of it tailored so perfectly to his body that you have to bite down on your tongue to keep from staring. It’s ironic to your circumstances, because he looks like husband material if you’ve ever seen it. He looks every bit the man you used to imagine growing old with back when you were still naive enough to believe in things like that. 

But it isn’t him. It’s just someone wearing his face — that empty look you can’t seem to get past—dressed up in a dream you don’t believe in anymore.

He crosses his arms and arches a brow. “You wanted to see me?”

You don’t answer at first. Instead, you hold up the box in your hand and give him a look. “What the fuck is this?” you snarl.

He just slowly looks at you, then at the box, then right back at you with a blank face. “You know what it is.”

You let out a bitter laugh and shake your head in disbelief. “Really? That’s what you say?”

“Yes,” he shrugs. “It’s just a fucking ring.”

You want to kill him. “Just a fucking ring—” you bark at him, but before you can spit out another word, something catches your eye. 

Gold. 

An unmistakable band wrapped right around the ring-fucking-finger of his left hand.

Everything else fades away. 

You don’t even care about how you can barely stand upright — adrenaline rushes through your veins as you storm across the room, and you grab his wrist and yank it up between you. “Why the fuck are you wearing this?” you snap. “Are you kidding me?”

He wrenches his hand out of your grip. “Keep your voice down,” he grits out and jerks his chin towards the door. “You want them all listening?”

Your vision blurs around the edges. Shit. “I don’t care who hears me! I’m just—this is not—this isn’t what I want. This isn’t even… This wasn’t part of anything. I don’t want this from you.” You shake the box, and your voice drops lower. “…Not like this.”

Sunghoon just stands there with his arms crossed and watches you, and his silence makes you feel even smaller, more foolish, and all the more trapped.

You shove him, or at least you try to—your strength is gone. Your hands barely make an impact against his chest. “Don’t just stand there like you always do! Say something!” you choke out. “Anything. Just—say something!”

He doesn’t even meet your eyes. “There’s nothing for me to say,” he says. “Wear the fucking ring and stop whining. We have to be downstairs for photos in fifteen minutes.”

“Can you fucking hear me?” Your voice wobbles. “I said I’m not wearing that thing. I’m not—Are you fucking serious? Look at me!” you snap and step closer. “You just fucked me for hours and hours upstairs—couldn’t keep your hands off me, couldn’t stop touching me and running your mouth, and now you can’t even look at me? You can’t even say shit?!”

He finally meets your gaze then. “Yeah,” he spits. “I fucked you. So what? I’ll fuck you again right here if you want, and I wouldn’t think twice about it.”

You muster all the strength you have left in you and— 

You slap him.

His face turns in your hand and your hand stings from the force of it, but he doesn’t even flinch or take a step back—he just takes it, then slowly turns his head and looks right back at you.

“You’re disgusting. How can you… wear that?” You feel tears running down your cheeks properly now, and you hate yourself for crying in front of him, but you can’t stop them. “How can you just—take it off. Take it off NOW.”

Your hands reach for his again, trying to pry the band from his finger—like if you just get it off, maybe all of this will stop, maybe you’ll wake up and none of it will be real. 

He jerks his hand away again. “Enough. Stop acting like a fucking baby.”

You stare at him and just… You want to grab his face and just shake him until he says anything that isn’t rehearsed or cold or just… empty.

You swipe at your cheeks; your makeup is smudged all over your hands now. “God. Look at me, I’m—fuck, my makeup’s everywhere—” Your voice cracks right through the middle, and you look away, just so you don’t have to see the way he’s looking at you. “I just… I can’t do this, I really can’t—are you seriously not gonna say anything?”

“No.”

That’s it. That’s all you get. 

“I wanna go home,” you murmur, and it comes out so small because you’re not even sure who you’re talking to anymore. “I just… wanna go home. I wanna call my mom.”

This time, you get nothing from Sunghoon. He just stands there with his arms crossed and his eyes somewhere over your shoulder.

“Do you really not care at all?” you whisper. “Do you even know what this means?” 

You hold up the box between you with shaky hands. 

“This is… real. This… means so many things. For one… It isn’t just for a headline or a few weeks of photos. If I put this on tonight—” your voice cracks again, “I stop being me. I’ll never get to be my own person again. You’ll always be the perfect Park Sunghoon. But me? I’ll never be Y/N Y/L/N again. I’ll just be your fiancée forever, some footnote to the fucking Park family, something you can discard tomorrow, but I’ll never get to take back! I never… signed up for this. We agreed to play pretend for a year, not for us t..to actually… even after that stupid statement you gave, your father—”

Sunghoon finally snaps. “God—You really think he cares? My father will do whatever it takes to get what he wants.” He snarls, and his voice comes out so loud you actually flinch. “You, me—none of it fucking matters as long as he wins.”

“You didn’t even tell me,” you whimper, pushing at his chest with both hands weakly. “Ningning… handed it to me. I had to find out from her like I’m—like I’m some prop… Like I’m not… Just—talk to me, Sunghoon. Don’t you feel anything at all? Don’t… you remember us?”

“Again with this… Remember?” his nostrils flare with anger. “What is there to remember? There’s nothing anymore. You’re nothing.”

Before you can even think of something to say, he snatches the box right out of your hand and drops down on one knee. 

“What, do you want me to ask you properly? Is that what this is about?” he scoffs. “You want me to get down on my knees and pretend like I ever had a choice in my goddamn life? HUH?!”

You’re sure your heart stops beating.

“ANSWER ME.”

You flinch again. “No. No, no. Stop it,” you whisper as you shake your head. “Just stop it, please, please—”

“No. You want the performance? I’ll give you the fucking performance.” His hand trembles as he holds up the ring and looks up at you. “Will you marry me, Y/N? Will you do me the honor of wearing the fucking ring now, like everyone wants?”

“Shut up. Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up—just get up!” you choke out. “Get up! Why are you—”

“No!” He scowls, but his voice is shaking, and so are his hands. “I said, will you fucking marry me?”

The sight of him down on one knee… 

Your knees buckle and you collapse beside him—and you bury your face in his neck and sob so hard your whole body shakes. 

“Please—don’t do this to me. Please, stop it…” Your hands are on his face before you even know it, thumbs shaking as you try to get him to look at you. “I’m tired, Sunghoon… It’s me… Don’t m..make me—” You sniff hard and wipe your thumb over his cheek, and he squeezes his eyes shut. “Look at me. Please. Do you want me to beg? I’ll beg. I’ll beg you, I’ll do anything. Just don’t make me do this… Don’t talk to me like that. Not when—” Your voice catches on a broken sob, and you look down at the ground, and inhale a long breath.

You press your forehead to his. “…Not when there was a time when I would’ve given anything to see you like this, to have you, to be yours. But not like this. You’re not—” your voice is barely above a whisper, “You’re not him anymore. You’re just… this. And I’ve accepted it—I’m okay with that now, I am. Really. I just don’t want anything to do with you anymore, not like that, never—so please, just don’t do this to me. Please…” 

You pull back because, stupidly, you’re desperate for a flicker of warmth on his face — for any sign that he cares, really. But all you find is steel and ice… and then he opens his eyes and wrenches himself from your hands and stands abruptly, and you flinch back and wrap your arms around yourself on the floor.

“I can’t do this with you right now,” he exhales. “I can’t—fuck—” He pauses and drags his hand through his hair. “You keep turning this into… You think this is what I dreamed about when I was a kid? Fucking hell, Y/N, do you truly think that I dreamed about getting paraded in front of cameras like a fucking puppet, pretending that I’m marrying you, when I would never—” He cuts himself off. 

You wipe your cheeks and force yourself to look up at him through the blur of your tears. “Don’t you dare fucking stop,” you weep. “Don’t stop. You always stop, Sunghoon. Just—just tell me! For once, stop being a coward and just say it. Whatever it is. I can fucking take it. Just tell me the truth!”

He looks at you then, and his eyes are colder than you’ve ever seen. “You want the truth? I told you I meant it when I said I’d marry anyone but you,” he clicks his tongue. “And I still do. You hear me? If it were up to me, you’d be the last person I’d ever stand next to, the last name I’d ever say out loud. IF it were up to me… So stop crying like I can fix any of this. Stop looking at me like I’m supposed to save you. I can’t. I won’t.”

You can’t stop crying. You hate yourself for it, for every humiliating, wrecked sound that escapes your mouth. Out of everything that’s happened today, it’s this—this moment—that you know you’ll never live down. Not ever.

“Fuck you,” you breathe between tears. “Fuck you, Park Sunghoon. I hate you.” 

“Glad to hear it.”

Then you pull your knees up to your chest and curl in on yourself so small you almost disappear. “Get out,” you choke out. “Get out, get out, get out, get out—” each word comes out more desperate, a snarl and a plea at once. “I don’t want to see you right now. Just go. Please. Get out.”

A beat of silence passes between you two.

“I’ll tell them you can’t make it to the event tonight,” he says quietly. “But the photographers…” he shakes his head, “You have ten minutes to pull yourself together before the press starts asking questions. Then... Do whatever the hell you want.”

Then he turns on his heel and leaves without waiting for you to respond—not even glancing back as the door shuts.

You miraculously make it downstairs in time for the photographers. Well, “in time” is generous…  It’s the ten minutes that bastard gave you to pull yourself together. Technically, you’re both an hour late to the original schedule, but nobody says a word about it—at least not while you’re standing right there.

Nobody said a word when they redid your makeup, either. You just sat there biting your tongue to stop yourself from crying again, not caring at all how pathetic you must’ve looked to them.

Anyway, right now you’re just a mannequin standing there draped in satin with pearls digging into your skin. You don’t remember how you got there, and later, you won’t even remember what you said to the press, or who you thanked, or if you even spoke at all. But you let the flashes blind you anyway. Someone’s telling you to “move left! Show the ring! Can you lean into Sunghoon a little more and smile wider?” and you’re just nodding and doing the whole obedient little porcelain doll routine. You’re limping and your hand is shaking, but nobody notices. Or if they do, nobody cares.

You’ll be a photograph someone else will find in an article or a magazine soon, smiling so beautifully that no one will ever know you spent the whole night wishing you could just disappear.

The camera's flash, over and over.

You are nowhere at all.

At some point, a reporter steps forward and asks Sunghoon if he wants to say a few words for the “special edition.”

“Sunghoon-ssi, could we get an official statement? It’s just—” she tilts her head as she looks between the two of you, “—it all happened kind of fast, didn’t it? The news about your relationship only came out a week ago, and now this?”

She’s not mean about it. She’s just doing her job. She’s just doing her job. — You repeat over and over again in your head to stop yourself from launching your heel at her head.

Sunghoon shifts beside you, and he’s quiet for a second. Then you feel him look at you for a second from the corner of your eye, and he clears his throat. 

“Ah,” he starts, and you feel his hand tighten around your waist. “It’s not that complicated… I’ve known her my whole life.” He pauses and glances at you again. “I met her, and I knew it would be her every day after that.”

What?

He just…

You reach for him and wrap your arm around his neck and tuck your face in there—half because you have to play along, but mostly because you can’t let anyone see your face for a second as you squeeze your eyes shut and try not to cry all over again.

And that’s the photo that’ll end up everywhere—the one with you flushed and half-hiding in his neck, your fingers tangled in his shirt, and your eyes closed. People will say it looks romantic, that you two are so happy together. You’ll know it’s anything but that.

When they all finally get what they came for—when every possible angle of your new shiny fake life has been immortalized forever—Ningning appears at your side as if conjured by mercy. She loops her arm around your waist and steers you away from the swarm, back into the elevator, up and up and away from everyone. She doesn’t even say anything dramatic. Maybe she says something soothing, maybe she doesn’t. You honestly black out for a while and don’t remember. You just remember how gentle her hands are as she wipes the mascara off your face, peels off the fake lashes, takes the pins out of your hair, and then orders room service for you and tucks you in. 

You curl up on the bed with your knees pulled so tight to your chest it hurts, and you don’t even last ten seconds after you hear the click of the door shutting behind her when she leaves.

“It’s not that complicated… I’ve known her my whole life… I met her, and I knew it would be her every day after that.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

There’s really no use pretending or burying anything anymore, you think. So you let yourself feel everything—or, well, you try to… The only problem is, when you spend three years refusing to acknowledge emotions and bottling everything up like a lunatic, it’s not like you get some nice little waves of sadness that come and go… No, it just slams into you all at once, like someone cracked open your ribcage and dumped everything inside at the same time. 

You cry and cry and cry for the girl you will never get to be. The one who could have been loved by the boy he used to be — before the world made him sharp and cold and cruel, before you learned that some things can’t be fixed, and not all wishes come true, no matter how hard you want them to.

And you do mourn for that boy, too. Not because you’re wishing for things to go back to the way they were—you’re too tired to even want that anymore—but you mourn for him. He really, truly is gone, and now you’re stuck with this stranger who just happens to have his face, or at least the ghost of his face. 

And you don’t know what to do with that. Not at all.

Sunghoon hasn’t fully registered a single word being said to him for the past two hours.

It all just goes in one ear and out the other. People congratulating him, shaking his hands, glasses clinking, the drone of someone mentioning numbers, praising his father, his own name, and the ghost of yours said over and over and over again. 

All he can think about is you.

And this time, he doesn’t even try to lie to himself about it. 

You; crying so hard to the point where your whole face was red, with your hands fisted in his hair, begging him over and over again.

And then, as if his brain wants to make it worse, he closes his eyes for a moment, and suddenly he’s twelve years old again and half-hidden behind the door as he looks into his parents’ bedroom. His mother is on the floor, and she has got her hands twisted in his father’s pant leg with her hair falling in her face and tears spilling out of her eyes, and she keeps saying his name and asking for something she was never going to get, while her father didn’t even glance at her and tried to pry her off his shoes like she was a mere irritant and nothing else. And Sunghoon just stands there frozen in the shadow because he doesn’t know what to do. He’s too small to do anything, too powerless to move, and all he wants is for someone to save him or for the floor to open up and swallow him whole so he doesn’t have to listen to it anymore.

He never really left that spot.

He zones out so bad he almost forgets he’s still standing there, so when someone asks him something, he just…. Maybe he says he needs air, maybe he just stops answering and they finally get the hint and leave him alone. Either way, he slips out through a side door and just walks until he ends up in some empty hallway off the lounge. 

And then, out of nowhere, someone grabs him by the arm and spins him around, and for a split second, everything quiets down in his head because he thinks it might be you. Before he can even process anything else, a pair of lips crashes against his and pulls him into a kiss, and he freezes for a moment. But then instinct kicks in when he recognizes the voice, and he jerks away so hard he nearly stumbles back.

“God, you look terrible,” Sooha croons, not sounding all that concerned or particularly fazed by how hard Sunghoon just pulled away from her. “I couldn’t wait to get my hands on you.”

Sunghoon wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and just stares at her with anger building up in his chest.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he sneers.

She toys with his tie, and he bats her hand away immediately. “What, I’m not allowed to say hi? Relax, you looked so lonely in there, I thought you might need some company.”

He holds up his left hand and flashes his ring at her, not really sure why he bothers, considering he knows it’s void of any meaning whatsoever—but he does it anyway.

“I have all the ‘company’ I need,” he huffs and jerks his chin towards the ring.

He turns to walk away, but she grabs his sleeve. “Oh, please. Where is she then, huh?” Sooha looks around theatrically, like you might jump out from behind a potted plant or something. “And you really expect me to believe your lovesick fiancé act? When that—” she jabs a finger at the ring, “was supposed to be ours?”

For fuck’s sake. He really doesn’t have the time for this right now.

He slowly looks down at her hand on his arm, then looks back at her. “Let go.”

Sooha just shrugs and steps in closer like she’s not hearing a thing he’s saying. “C’mon… Cheer up. Not to mention how you were fucking me just a few months ago,” she says with a cruel little smirk. “So don’t bullshit me. I was kind enough to play along this afternoon, so where’s my reward? Don't you miss me?”

“That was a mistake,” he says through his teeth. “And you know it. I was fucking drunk, Sooha.”

Sunghoon truly thinks he might be hallucinating this exchange because Sooha doesn’t even bother backing down. If anything, she steps even closer. “But it wasn’t just that one time, was it? We both know I’m the only one who can actually keep up with you.” Sooha practically purrs.

Sunghoon almost laughs—and then he actually does a little, but not because it’s funny. Because for a moment, he thinks of you again. You. You. You. And how you’d probably punch Sooha right in the face if you were here, and then punch him twice for good measure. He shakes his head then, and he doesn’t bother telling her to let go again. He just yanks himself free out of her grip and walks off without another glance in her direction.

“Fine. Be like this!” Sooha calls out behind him mockingly, “You always come crawling back to me, anyway!” 

He almost laughs again, and this time, it’s because it’s funny.

He finds himself in the elevator going up and up and up, then the doors open to the hush of his father’s office—and he slowly enters the dark room and sits at the edge of the desk, because it feels less like trespassing than the chair. 

He pulls out his phone and he scrolls—barely able to see past the sting in his eyes—and once again calls the one person who’s been the only family to him if he ever came close to having one.

“Sup, HoonHoon?” Heeseung answers, and Sunghoon can hear the rapid clicking of his mouse on the other end.

Sunghoon doesn’t answer. He just inhales and exhales and counts to ten internally while pressing the heel of his palm to his sternum like he can force his heart to slow down.

Heeseung waits a beat. 

“Yo, man, is this a butt dial? Because if you’re gonna make me listen to you breathing into the phone at midnight, I at leastttt hope you’re doing something interesting with your other hand.”

Another beat of silence passes.

“Wait. Aren’t you supposed to be at that dinner for the opening night or whatever? Wait—don’t tell me, are you thinking about me right now? Awwww, Hoon-ahhhh. You miss me that bad?” He tries again.

There is nothing but the sound of Sunghoon’s ragged breath in the receiver.

“…Hoon?” Heeseung’s laughter falters. “Hey… Uh. You good?”

“…I fucked up,” Sunghoon says finally after a while. His voice is hoarse and barely there, but then it tumbles out all at once, “I fucked up, hyung. I think I really, really fucked everything up this time. We should’ve never gotten drunk at the gala that night… My father’s forcing us to do this, hyung. He’s making us go through with it. I… I tried—She… she’ll end up like my—”

“Huh? Whoa, whoa, whoa—slow down. Hey. Hey, slow down, okay? What happened? What’s going on? Are you drunk?”

“No,” Sunghoon croaks and shakes his head, even though Heeseung can’t see him. “I’ve had two drinks, but… no. It’s not that. I’m—” He swallows hard. “Hee, have you seen the news?”

There’s a beat, then Heeseung huffs a soft, nervous laugh. “I’m gonna be real with you, man. I’ve been playing League for, like, fourteen hours straight. I haven’t seen myself in the mirror, much less the news.”

Sunghoon squeezes his eyes shut. “Just… look up my name.”

Heeseung sighs. “Alright, alright, give me a sec—” 

There’s a quiet shuffling—then a low mutter and a few strings of curses about his monitor being too bright, and a few seconds of mouse clicks on the other end of the line.

“Okay… the mighty Park Sunghoon… let’s see…” He pauses. “WHAT? Oh, brother. Oh, that’s… yeah, that’s a ring if I’ve ever seen one. Oh, look at the size of that rock. Jesus, Yo. You two are fuckeddddd. But, hey, lil sis looks good… Okayyy first ladyyyy… And you’re there… Wait...” the sound of his chair rolling closer comes from the other end, “Is that… Is that a hickey on your neck? Man—is that a hickey on HER neck?! Bro?!” 

Sunghoon wonders why he always lets him go on for that long. “Heeseung,” he grits out.

“Aye, sorry, bro. I lost the plot... I, um... Are you okay, man? For real.”

“Do I sound okay?”

“Fair,” Heeseung sighs. “Man.. Did you two… at least try to talk this time? I mean, really talk, not just… You know, emotionally repress in each other’s vicinity and hope your ancient psychic connection does the rest.”

Heeseung waits, but Sunghoon doesn’t answer. He’s just staring at the floor with his jaw clenched so tight it hurts.

“Hey,” Heeseung’s voice is softer when he speaks again. “Do you want to tell me what happened? Or do you want me to just do the thing where I talk to you for a while and we both pretend I’m some wise thinker?”

“I don’t… It was bad. She was crying on the floor, hyung… she was fucking begging me…” Sunghoon lets out a shaky exhale and rubs his hand over his face, “And I felt just like—”

Heeseung clicks his tongue. “Hey. Hey. Breathe, okay? Just… actually talk to her, man. You can’t keep doing this. You know what I always tell you.”

Sunghoon just shakes his head and rubs at his eyes. “I don’t want to talk to her. You know I can’t. If I see her, if I even hear her voice, I’ll—” His throat closes up. “I’ll say something I can’t take back. I don’t know how to look at her right now.”

“Christ, man,” Heeseung sighs, “You know, if I didn’t know any better…” He clicks his tongue, “Hating her isn’t going to fix anything, you know? I know you, bro—I know you both… But some days I can’t even tell if you’re trying to keep each other close or push each other away as far as you can.”

“Doesn’t really matter, does it? It’s…” Sunghoon swallows and huffs a shaky laugh, “Nothing matters anymore. This is how it is now. She hates me, I hate her, we ruin each other, end of story.”

For a second, all he can hear is Heeseung’s breathing on the other end. Then Heeseung says, quietly, “Do you want me to come get you, bro?” he pauses for a moment. “Shit, you’re in fucking Japan… Uh… say the word and I’ll hop on the next plane. For real, Hoon. Just say the word. I’ll be there.”

Sunghoon laughs weakly despite his state. “And what, exactly, would you do?”

“I’ll do whatever the hell you need. But… you have to tell me what you want, Hoon. I can’t help you if you don’t even let yourself want anything.”

“Just... Stay on the phone with me?” Sunghoon says.

“As long as you need, man. I’m not going anywhere,” there’s a faint crackle in the background, then Heeseung groans, “AWW MAN! They killed me! I was AFK—but, uh—yeah, I’m here.”

And so they stayed like that for a while and just talked about nothing, really. Heeseung started telling him about how he finally gave Valorant a shot today, and it was dumb, but it worked because Sunghoon started to feel sort of normal again. Sort of.

He ignored the sea of missed calls from his father’s assistant waiting for him, because he honest to God couldn’t bring himself to give a shit about any of that. He’ll deal with it in the morning, or never, whatever. It’s not real right now.

What’s real right now is how he can hear you silently crying in the dark.

He’d come back upstairs after the dinner, after all the bullshit and the empty congratulations and the endless parade of handshakes and fake smiles, to find you curled up and asleep in the middle of the bed with a tray of room service untouched beside you. And he couldn’t—God, he just couldn’t—share the bed with you tonight. So he’d just walked straight to the couch in the corner and tried to force himself to sleep, even though he knew that wasn’t going to happen, because the couch may as well have been made from fucking stone, given how uncomfortable it was.

It started with the tiniest sob at first—a muffled hiccup he told himself he’d imagined—but then he heard it again, and then it was a sniff, and then came another. 

And this is the part that really pisses him off: Every single part of him wants to rip itself out of his own chest and offer it up just so you’d stop making that sound. He wants to tell you to yell at him, throw something, call him a bastard again, or break his nose if you have to—literally anything but that sound. But he stays rooted to that goddamn couch because he knows—he knows—if he moves, if he opens his mouth, if he lets himself care, it’ll be the end of everything he’s been telling himself for the past three years.

He listens to your crying like a selfish bastard until it fades out, which somehow feels even worse because it’s like you’ve finally bled yourself dry. He squeezes his eyes shut and tells himself that it doesn’t matter, over and over and over again, until it’s enough to partly drown out the noise of your sobs in his head even long after you’ve stopped crying.

It’s for the better. This is the best way, Sunghoon.

He stays awake all night just to make sure you don’t start again.

You know what’s worse than crying yourself to sleep until you’re damn near dehydrated?

Waking up, catching sight of yourself in the mirror, and realizing, Wow! You actually look how you feel.

You honestly have no clue how many hours you spent lying on your side, staring out at the city through the hotel window while Ningning braided and unbraided your hair. She didn’t ask any questions you couldn’t answer and never told you it would all be alright, either. The two of you simply just existed together softly in a cocoon of silence as you watched some Gossip Girl, and it was honestly the only thing holding your atoms together. She’d left only a while ago and had promised to return in the morning with coffee and sweets.

You haven’t seen Sunghoon all day.

He is probably out there right now being the perfect son and slipping into whatever role gets him through the day. Ningning told you he’s got some things to oversee here, but she also let slip that last night, when you didn’t go to the dinner, Mr. Park was apparently furious, and it twisted something inside you.

And you, on the other hand? You’ve managed to set a personal record for most hours spent not moving. You’ve been ignoring every call, even the ones from your parents, and you’re simply pretending your phone doesn’t exist—because the mere idea of seeing any photos from last night makes you want to start sobbing all over again, and God knows you’ve cried enough to last a lifetime today. Every inch of your body is sore to the point of oblivion—No, scratch that. Everything hurts, actually. Physically, emotionally, whatever-ally. Nothing is working for you right now, like, not one single thing. Isn’t that just so lovely? 

You bury your head under the covers and tell yourself that eventually you’ll move, eventually you’ll shower, and eventually you’ll become a functioning human again. 

This is your life now.

So, you didn’t exactly expect your plans to shower to extend all the way to about eleven pm, and it was only when you heard the door beep and Sunghoon return that you immediately wince and throw yourself in the shower.

It’s not like you’re avoiding him. You’re just… thinking. And honestly, you don’t trust yourself when you think too much… especially when that’s literally all you did today—just thinking, and then thinking about the thinking, and then overthinking the thinking, and then overthinking the overthinking. You’re not proud of the conclusion you came to, by the way. Hence, the shower... It felt like the only place you could rinse it off for a minute… but by the time you were done, you didn’t even know if you felt better or felt worse. (definitely worse.)

But now here you are, standing in the bathroom in your nightgown (which you packed last minute because of Sunoo), once again staring at your own reflection like maybe you’ll see someone else there if you look long enough. But you don’t. This is really you.

Your eyes fall on the stupid ring you brought into the bathroom with you. 

You’d spent a solid five minutes this morning just staring at it, and another five plotting out the logistics of launching it off the balcony while Ningning tried to talk you out of it, and then ten minutes throwing it in and out of the trash.

Fuck it.

If pretending is all you’re good at, then you might as well be the best at it. If being Mrs. Park is the only thing left for you, then you’ll be her on your own terms. You’ll be anyone if it means you can stop feeling like this, even for a night. 

So when you hear Sunghoon moving around in the room, you just… accept it. Because you know exactly what you want to do next. And is it pathetic that you barely lasted a day or that you didn’t even put up a good fight? Yeah, probably. Definitely. Is this a healthy course of action? Definitely not.

But honestly, what’s the point of hurting and tossing and turning in bed when you could just… do something about it? 

You take one more breath, slide the stupid ring on your finger, and open the door.

Sunghoon is sitting on the edge of the bed with his glasses on, propped up against the headboard with his phone in his hand. He doesn’t look up right away. Maybe he’s ignoring you on purpose, maybe he’s just tired, or maybe he’s trying to prove a point. You have no idea, and you really don’t care.

You cross the room over to him with your heart pounding so hard you’re positive he can hear it from where he’s sitting, and when you stop in front of him, you reach out and you just… take his phone out of his hand and set it face down on the nightstand. He blinks and finally glances up at you and raises his brow just a fraction. 

There’s a split second where you almost lose your nerve, where your mind starts up with all its usual bullshit—what if I look too pathetic, what if I regret it, what if, what if, what if—

“I need you,” you say.

There it is, out loud, hanging between you, honest and ugly and true.

Sunghoon looks… surprised. Like, actually surprised. He tongues his cheek as he looks you up and down and drinks in the sight of you just standing there in your red nightgown that hugs every inch of you just right, barely covering your thighs. His gaze darkens as it lingers at the hem and slides back up over your hips and your chest, and you watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows once. Well. He didn’t laugh in my face or call me pathetic. That’s something. (And honestly? With you standing there in that, there’s no way he’s thinking straight, you also think. It may be cliché, but game is game.) He opens his mouth to say something, but you stop him.

“Don’t say anything. Just… wait.”

Then you crawl up onto his lap and place your knees on either side of his thighs, and you hold your hand up and show him the ring on your finger. You watch his brows knit together for a moment as he looks between it and you. 

“Isn’t this what you want?” you breathe shakily. “For me to wear the ring? To pretend? Who says we can’t just… extend that here? Pretend with me,” your nails dig into his shoulder; it’s a plea, and it sounds like one. “I’m not asking for anything else. I don’t want anything from you. I just want you to fuck me like it means something, even though it doesn’t.”

Sunghoon doesn’t move for a second, but you see something shift in his face. And then—this is truly the worst thing he could have done, you think—he reaches up and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear and brushes his thumb over your jaw so gently it nearly makes you bite your own tongue off. 

“Go to bed,” he says quietly.

You blink. “What?” 

“Go to bed, Y/N,” he says again. 

Okay. So… you’d thought way, way too much about this all day, but not a single scenario in your brain had prepared you for him to actually refuse you. You didn’t even have the energy to be angry about it… Yesterday, you (insanely) fucked him to release your pent-up anger, but today…. It’s not anger at all. It’s just need, exhaustion, and desperation. Maybe he sees that in your face or hears it in your voice. Or maybe it’s just obvious in the way you immediately crawl off his lap and curl yourself up on your side without another word.

If you thought crying in front of him was rock bottom… The universe sure loves reminding you there’s always a new low. 

So you just lie there. You face the wall and pretend he’s not right there, and that none of that just happened as you try to keep your breath even and swallow down whatever the hell is left of your pride. (Spoiler: there isn’t anything.) You stare into the dim room and fight to keep the tears at bay, and after a while—maybe a minute, maybe a century—the voice in your head quiets down. But just as you’re about to drift into that weird, numb nothingness, you feel Sunghoon move and—

He finds your hand on the mattress and laces your fingers together.

Not all the way, but his palm slides over yours and his fingers curl tenderly around your hand… and he just… holds it. 

And that’s all it takes for your breath to stupidly catch in your throat. You don’t even dare move, or react, or look at him, and you can’t even process why he’s doing this—mostly because he doesn’t let you. He lets go almost instantly, and before you can even blink, he’s on his feet and out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him.

Great. Another low. You’re really just collecting them tonight, huh?

You’re not even sure when you started crying again. Maybe you never really stopped. Maybe you’d been crying longer than you knew; maybe you were crying when you came out of the bathroom. What the fuck is wrong with me?

You toss and turn, and the sheets tangle around your legs for what feels like hours, and your mind is spinning faster than your heart can keep up. You think you might actually go crazy if you have to stay in this bed one second longer, so you sit up, just wanting out, wanting anything—maybe a cigarette (which is crazy cause you rarely ever smoke), maybe just to smash your stupid head into the wall until you can’t feel anything—

And then the door beeps, and before you even have time to register what’s happening, Sunghoon is crossing the space between you in a single stride. 

“Sunghoon, I—” 

The words die in your throat when his hands find your jaw and tilt your face up… And then he kisses you.

It's… Your brain tries to catch up with what’s happening, but instinct still takes over, and you melt into his wet kiss as you bunch your fists in the fabric of his shirt and moan into his mouth. He breaks the kiss, just long enough to rip his glasses off and toss them somewhere behind him—and your eyes meet for a breathless moment. Then you drag him back in by yanking his shirt in, and you push him onto the bed with more force than you mean to. He lets you, for a second. But then he grabs you, flips you under him, and he’s right back on you—even harder and sloppier, like he needs to fuck the ache out of you with just his tongue in your mouth—it’s all teeth and tongue and panting. He’s pressing you down into the mattress, and you could cry from relief. Maybe you were. His hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back so he can mouth at your throat, and you swear you could just come from this—just from the way he’s on you and how filthy his tongue feels in your mouth again. Your lips part, and he groans against your mouth, the sound vibrating all the way through your body, and it makes you clutch him harder, needing more, needing anything that isn’t the cold ache that’s been rotting you from the inside out.

“Say it.” he pulls back and mutters against your lips, “Tell me exactly what you want from me.”

For a split second, you consider laughing in his face or making him work for it just for the hell of it—but you don’t. Because that’s not what you want right now. 

“Everything,” you whisper, and it’s probably the most honest thing you’ve ever said to him—only, no part of you means it in the way you once would have meant it. You reach up and pull his hand until he’s holding your face, until his ring is pressed right up against your teary cheeks. “I want everything you can give me, and I want it to mean nothing at all.” 

“You want me to fuck you like this is real, is that it?” 

If you weren’t all out of fight, you definitely would have slapped him for the way he’d just said that so mockingly. But you nod anyway, and of course, he doesn’t let you off the hook that easily. Because he’s Park fucking Sunghoon.

“No, sweetheart. Use your words,” Sunghoon says smugly. He looks so cruel and complacent that it makes your skin burn. “If you’re going to be this fucking pathetic, you better tell me exactly what you want. So beg. And make it pretty.”

You reach up and press your palm right over his mouth. “Don’t. None of that,” you plead, and hold your other hand up to show him the ring again. “I told you what I want. I’m playing my part,” you say quietly. “Now I want you to play yours.”

He laughs against your palm, then he bites the base of your thumb, and you gasp and pull away. Then he grabs your wrist and pins it above your head, his fingers laced tight with yours—the ring digging into your knuckles.

“None of what, hmm? You think just because you’re wearing my ring, you get to call the shots?” he murmurs, dragging his mouth down your jaw and leaving a wet kiss just beneath your ear. “But fine. I’ll bite. You want to play house, baby? That you’re Mrs. Park, begging for it like a good little wife?”

You meet his eyes, and you don’t even try to hide how devastated you sound or look. “Stop. I want you, Sunghoon. Without any baggage. Just for tonight. Just… Please don’t make me ask again.”

Before you can blink or process the way his brows furrow as he takes your expression in, his mouth is on yours again. You moan into it when you feel the hard line of his cock pressing up against your thigh—and you immediately hook your legs around his waist. For a second, you just breathe him in while kissing him… His sharp cologne, the clean scent that’s only ever him. You clumsily push at his shoulder and try to roll him over, wanting—needing—to take control, if only for a moment, and he pulls back with an eyebrow raised. He lets you move again just enough to give you hope, and then he huffs and stops you. 

Sunghoon looks like he’s about to laugh. “What do you think you’re doing?”

You lean in closer and press your lips to his jaw, then lower, trailing wet kisses down the stubble along his throat.

“What do you think?” you murmur as you lightly scrape your teeth on his jaw. “I want to be on top.”

“Tsk,” he shakes his head and huffs a breath. “I don’t think so.” 

You want to slap that smug grin off his face, but it also just makes you want it even more. So you find it in you to push the bastard—just a little.

“What, you can only fuck if you’re on top?” you mutter, as you sink in a mark right beneath his ear with your teeth. “Didn’t know you were that boring.”

Sunghoon’s tongue presses into his cheek, and, for a second, you think he’s going to pin you down even harder, judging by the ridiculous look on his face. But instead, he flips the two of you over—and suddenly you’re straddling his waist with your knees braced against his hips. He leans back until his head is tipped into the pillows, and he watches you with hooded eyes. 

“Go on then,” he murmurs as his hands settle on your thighs. “Take what you need.”

You don’t hesitate—you immediately grab his neck and tangle your fingers in the hair at his nape, and you kiss him. You just kiss him and kiss him until your lips feel swollen, until you’re both gasping for air, and all the while you groan and grind down on him, rubbing yourself on the thick length straining through his sweatpants. You brace yourself on his chest with your palms pressed flat—using him for leverage, and he lets you; lets you take what you need, lets you use his body like it’s the only thing left tethering you to earth. His grip on your ass tightens until you’re sure he’ll squeeze bruises into your skin, and he drags you back and forth harder over his cock, making you throb even more.

“Fuck—such a good little bride, huh?” he pants, “So fucking eager for me, even when you’re sore.”

You don’t bother dignifying yourself with a response—No, you double down and drag your nightgown up—but his hand catches yours, and he stops you.

“No,” he rasps. “Keep it on.”

You blink down at him with your nightgown bunched in your fists, but the way he’s looking at you through his heavy-lidded eyes makes your whole body go hot and tight. He slowly traces along the neckline, toys with it, and then slips his fingers just under the red lace.

“Makes it better, don’t you think?” he leans up, mouth finding your throat, and he drags his tongue slowly over every hickey he left there yesterday—like he’s counting them one by one. “You’re all dressed up and acting like a real wife—just for me.” His hands fists in the hem. “You wanna play pretend that bad, hmm? You wanna see how fast I can ruin you in this pretty little thing?”

Oh. His head is getting bigger by the moment, it seems… And sure, you may be desperately horny and wrecked — but you still have to say something. “Don’t let it get to your head, Sunghoon.” You huff a laugh and lean in so your mouth is right against his ear. “You know I’m just doing this to feel good, right? Don’t start thinking you’re special.”

He threads his fingers into your hair and yanks your head back hard enough to make you hiss. “Ah. I think you just forgot who you’re talking to,” he tuts and holds his left hand up again to wiggle his ring finger. “If you want to feel good, you'd better learn some fucking manners, Mrs. Park. Want to try again?”

You click your tongue and pout. “Mmm. No need for that,” you coo, “I’ll be good tonight.”

You slide both your hands over his raised hand—God, he’s so much bigger than you. Even with both your hands wrapped around his, his palm still dwarfs yours. You trace your thumb along his ring finger and toy with his ring. Then you lock eyes with him and you lean in and—without breaking eye contact—slowly wrap your lips around his ring finger. He lets out a filthy, low groan when you start to suck and let your tongue flick over his knuckle and around the band—dragging your lips up and down the length of his finger until it’s slick with your spit. You feel the tremor in his hand and the way his other hand’s grip tightens in your hair, clearly fighting for any semblance of control. You press your tongue right under the ring and start working it loose, and then you pull it off with your teeth. He hisses and watches you the entire time, then, with a shaky little grin and the ring in between your teeth, you bring your lips to his and kiss him. 

His tongue is greedy. He licks into your mouth like a starved man. You moan right into him, grinding down on his cock so hard it makes you dizzy—rolling your hips and using every inch of friction, and he lets out a moan that vibrates against your tongue, and his hands clamp down on your ass to drag you over his achingly hard, clothed cock again and again until the noise in your head quiets down. You finally pull back just slightly with a line of spit stringing between your mouths, and the ring still glinting between your teeth. 

For a moment, neither of you moves as you stare at each other.

Then he reaches up and tugs you closer by the nape of your neck, and he slowly kisses you again—open-mouthed and wet—before gently prying the ring from your mouth with his teeth. Then he flips you beneath him in one quick movement.

“What are you—” you start, but he cuts you off with his low voice.

“I’m gonna make you feel it,” he groans as he drags his mouth down your neck and kisses every mark he left on you. He moves lower and lower until he's right at your thighs, then he pauses, the gold band glinting between his teeth again. “Isn’t that what you want?” 

You arch a brow and scowl at him even as your heart stupidly pounds under your ribs. “I said I wanted to be on top.”

He huffs a laugh, and you see him tuck the ring in the inner corner of his cheek with his tongue. “A good husband takes care of his wife first, doesn’t he?” he says, and then he drags you closer to him by your legs. “Spread your legs.”

Your heart jumps straight up into your throat. But you do. You spread your legs for him, and he immediately hooks your legs up onto his shoulders, and his big hands settle on your thighs to keep you right where he wants you. He starts trailing kisses terribly slowly on your calves, then the inside of your leg, open-mouthed and maddening. 

“This”—kiss—“is”—kiss—“what”—kiss—“you”—kiss—“want?” he murmurs against your leg as he trails lower and lower between kisses. “You want me to be soft? Gentle? You want me to whisper sweet nothings, hmm?”

Your hips buck and you glare down at him with your cheeks burning. “Get to the fucking point, Sunghoon.”

He suddenly bites your thigh—hard enough to leave a brand new mark—and you yelp. “Tsk. I was generous enough to agree to play along with your desperate act, and now you’re not even behaving properly?” he squeezes your thigh and grins cruelly. “I should leave you here for being so fucking ungrateful.”

Okay. No more self-sabotaging, even if he’s being a total fucking jerk. Don’t you want this? You think.

“Yes… God, that’s what… I want. Just… make me feel good. Please,” you plead. You hate how it sounds coming out of your mouth, but you strangely don’t feel ashamed.

He looks up at you from between your legs, looking entirely too pleased with himself. Then, as if he’s got all the time in the world, he carefully sets your legs back down on the mattress, and he sits back on his knees and yanks his shirt off over his head. He’s… your mouth actually goes dry. You want to scream at him, maybe throw something, because there’s no reason a person should look like that—broad shoulders, cut abs, that little dip at his waist you hate yourself for noticing. It’s infuriating, honestly, the way your body aches just seeing him undressed, especially knowing what he’s about to do to you. He drops the shirt off the edge of the bed and leans back over you with his hands roaming up your thighs, and he bunches your nightgown higher and higher until it’s barely covering anything. 

“Up,” he orders as he curls his finger around the waistband of your panties. You lift your hips for him immediately, and he drags your panties down slowly, little by little, all while never looking away from your clearly impatient face. He tosses it to the side, and then he drags his fingers up your inner thigh and traces lazy, teasing circles on the skin. Then he spreads your folds open with his other hand — thumb brushing your clit just lightly enough to make you whine.

He spits the ring out onto his palm.

“Now,” Sunghoon looks at you and bites his lip, “Let’s hear it, Mrs. Park. Beg for me,” he coos. “Make it so pretty I almost believe you’re really my wife. Make it worthy of me.”

You saw that coming. You force yourself to hold his gaze as you spread your legs even wider. “Is that what you want, Mr. Park? Want your good little bride to beg for your cock?” you breathe, and it’s actually physically painful to let the words out because you are so not the begging type. “Please. Fuck me so dumb that I’ll sign any contract you want—make me beg to keep your last name.”

“Such a fast learner—who knew you could be this obedient?” he huffs out a low laugh, and for a second, he just watches you—sprawled out and embarrassingly soaked before he’s even really started. “Jesus, you’re already this wet?” he rasps, “I haven’t even touched you properly yet. You’re this needy for your man, sweetheart?” 

Your cheeks burn, and you bite down on the urge to tell him to eat shit.

Then he grabs the ring and you gasp at the feeling of the slick metal as he presses it right on your clit and starts rolling it in slow, rough circles. He lazily spits right onto your clit, and you watch hungrily as it drips down between your folds and pools at your entrance. You whimper as his fingers reach down to mix your wetness with his spit—gathering it up and dragging it back up to your clit as he continues to work it with his ring. The sensation is maddening—so different and obscene, the symbol of everything that’s fucked between you now pressed against the place you’re aching for him. 

“You feel that?” he growls, “Is that real enough for you?” he drags the ring over your clit again and again, making your whole body jolt with every pass. “Is this what you wanted? To be fucked with a promise and nothing underneath it?”

You choke out something between a moan and a curse, back arching off the bed as he circles your clit even harder.

“Answer me,” he growls.

“Yes—God, Yes!”

You feel him grin against your thigh, and then he brings his head down and drags his tongue over your clit right where the metal was a second ago. And… Shit. The way his mouth latches on and his tongue flicks over you again and again… You squeeze your eyes shut so hard out of pleasure that you feel like your head is going to explode.

He’s sucking so hard your back arches off the bed again, but he presses you down harder and groans into you, and it vibrates right into your core. Then he drags his tongue down slowly and fucks it into you, properly tongue-fucking you like it’s his cock. His stubble scrapes your inner thighs, and the sensation only adds to it and burns you in the best way as he buries his face deeper, tongue pushing in and out as he fucks you with his mouth.

“Oh shit—fuck—” you gasp and pull his hair to tug him even closer so you grind down on him deeper… you’re practically riding his face at this point. He alternates between pressing sloppy, wet kisses all over your clit, sucking, licking, and even softly nipping it just to hear you yelp. “Oh my god. Oh my GOD—”

“No,” he huffs and pulls back slightly, but it’s enough to make you whine and chase his mouth with your hips. “Say my name.” 

You hesitate—just for a second, the remaining scrapes of pride prickling at your skin even though your brain is hazy with want, but you do it anyway—because you’ll do anything if it means he keeps doing exactly that. “Shit—Sunghoon,”

“Wrong. Say it like you mean it.”

“Sunghoon,” you practically moan it like a prayer, but he’s still unmoving.

“Tsk. Still wrong,” He squeezes your thigh and keeps you in place as you try to buck your hips up. “Try again. Say it right if you want me to keep going.”

You blink as you try to figure out what he wants, and you realize the answer is right there—disgustingly glinting on your finger.

You swallow and whisper, “Mr. Park—please, I need you.”

“That’s more like it,” And then his mouth is on you before you can even register it, tongue circling your clit again, harder, faster, drawing out every desperate sound you can give him and more. He holds you down as you writhe beneath him, grinding against his mouth with all the desperate need you’ve been trying to drown all day. And just as you begin teetering on the edge…

He pulls back entirely.

Your eyes fly open. “Don’t—Why’d you stop—?”

He bites his lip and smirks up at you. “Almost forgot to put this back where it belongs,” he drawls, holding up his ring between his fingers.

You open your mouth to say something, but the words die in your throat as you watch him bring the ring right up to your pussy again; only this time he places it flat against your hole.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he takes his ring finger and slides it right through the center of the ring, pushing in right into your hole until the band is back on his knuckle with his finger buried inside you. It nearly knocks the breath from your lungs—your cunt clutches around his finger as he starts fingering you, and every pump makes his ring drag against your walls as he starts to stretch you.

“There. Much better,” he smirks, and curls his finger inside you just right as he starts circling your clit with his thumb. “Now tell me you feel that.”

You can barely breathe. “I—fuck, Sunghoon—Yes,”

And then he starts to fuck you faster with his finger—you’re gasping, moaning, legs shaking, completely and utterly at his mercy. You can barely keep yourself together—all that tension and ache you’ve carried all day is burning up, being turned into something so raw it’s almost unbearable. You don’t even realize you’re the one dragging your nightgown up even higher than it already is, baring yourself to him completely as you start playing with your own tits.

“Fuck,” Sunghoon growls, and his free hand slides up to grab your breasts roughly, and he squeezes them hard enough to make you let out a pornographic moan—then he kneads and pulls at your nipple, thumbs rolling over your sensitive peaks as he pinches and flicks it in tune with how he’s fingering you. Then he lowers his mouth right down to your pussy again and starts devouring you like he’s starved and you’re the only thing that will ever satisfy him. His tongue is relentless as he circles your clit in tight, merciless patterns, while his finger keeps pumping in and out of you — the weight of that fucking ring making every single shove that much dirtier. Your eyes flutter shut, and you just let yourself drown in it, letting his mouth and hands and the rough burn of his stubble against your thighs turn your whole world inside out as every muscle in your body coils tighter, desperate for the relief only he can give you.

You’re so fucking close—your thighs start trembling as you clamp them tighter around his head, fingers twisting harder around his hair, and when you glance down at him through your haze, you moan when you catch the diamond ring on your hand in his hair, glinting in the dim light.

Sunghoon groans against you, and you swear you feel him smirk into your pussy—lips wrapped around your clit. “Is my good little bride about to cum for me?” he breathes into you. “Should I let you? Do you think you deserve it?”

You dig your nails into his scalp, hips bucking up into his mouth as you try to force him closer. “Yes. Sunghoon, please—please, I’m so close, just—”

“Louder. Say it again,” he growls, his eyes meeting yours as you look down at him. “Say you want it, Y/N. Beg for it.”

And you do—because, well, you know why. “Fuck y—I want it, I want to cum, please, Sunghoon—please, make me—” 

He doesn’t even give you time to breathe after that. He presses his mouth right back to your clit, sucking hard enough to make you see stars, and the combination of his tongue and the steady drag of his ring finger inside you is pure, electric agony. You fall apart so hard you nearly black out—your whole body going tense, thighs shaking, toes curling, your grip in his hair turning borderline violent, but it only makes him groan harder into you. You cry out as your cunt clamps tight around his finger. It’s dizzying how deep the sensation goes… Every pulse and flutter of your orgasm throbs around him, how wet you are, how he just keeps fucking you through it, his tongue working you until your body gives out and you’re twitching, limp, unable to do anything but sob his name over and over again. He stops for a moment and spits right onto your swollen cunt and spreads it with his tongue before he goes back to sucking on your clit, slower now, almost lazy, like he has all night to wring every last bit of feeling out of you. You try to pull away—more like twitch away out of instinct—but he just grabs your waist and drags you right back to his mouth.

“Did I say you could move?” he murmurs as his lips brush your oversensitive clit. “I’m not done with you yet.”

He grabs your tits again and squeezes them harder. He’s so slow now, so thorough, tongue circling your clit and then sucking it between his lips, not letting up for a second as your body goes tight all over again—nose pressed right up against your clit as he eats you out like it’s what he was made to do.

“Sunghoon—fucking hell, give me a second—” you choke out, not even sure if you mean it. You grind your hips down against his soaked face because again, your body has a mind of its own, and she truly never knows what it wants. “I’m still—fuck—sore,”

Sunghoon doesn’t even bother stopping… He’s fucking relentless. You don’t know if you want to cry or cry. You buck your hips up into him.

“What? Didn’t you want to play house, baby?” he taunts, his voice muffled by your thighs. “You can take it, can’t you? Look at you still grinding up into me,” He squeezes your tits again and pinches your nipple roughly until you gasp. “I’m just doing my husbandly duties.”

Then he shoves two fingers inside, and your eyes roll back so hard you’re sure they’ll stay stuck there. “This is what being Mrs. Park means—taking everything I give you. Can you handle that?” he groans as he works your pussy open with his fingers, pumping them in and out, “Fuck. Tightest fucking pussy.”

“Fucking—God, I hate you—” you hiss through your teeth. The burn of the stretch hurts so good as he starts pumping faster — you’re still twitching around from the aftershocks of your last orgasm. “I can take it—you bitch—”

“What was that?” he tuts, and his fingers go still inside you as he shakes his head mockingly. “Ahh. On second thought, let’s just go to bed, hmm?”

Your back arches, and it slips out before you can stop it, “No. Don’t you dare stop,” 

He chuckles. “That’s what I thought,” he grins, and then he crooks his fingers up until you’re gasping, hitting that spot that makes your legs shake. “Look at you. Fuck, you’re already about to cum again, aren’t you? That fast? Such a needy little thing—embarrassing, really.” Your cunt clenches around his fingers again, the pain and pleasure blurring together until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. “That’s it—Fall apart on me. Let me feel you.” 

You can’t even argue because he’s right. You come again shortly after that, so hard, screaming his name a bit (way more than a bit) too loud for this time at night—your hips jerking helplessly as you cry out for him, every single muscle burning, mind gone, nothing left but the feeling of being absolutely wrecked and ruined—exactly how you wanted. Then, after a moment, he lets you go. You watch as he presses his tongue flat on your hole and starts licking a slow stripe up over to your clit, then your stomach, and all the way up between your tits. He pauses to drag his tongue over one nipple, then the other, sucking it between his lips. The friction of his stubble against your already sensitive and tender tits… Fuck. You moan and arch your back to press yourself further into his mouth as your hands slide up his arms, placed by your side, and you squeeze his biceps—God, the veins, the muscle, the strength of him holding you open and down. 

“Sunghoon—” you manage to choke out, “Take your fucking clothes off. S’not fair.”

“Not fair?” he mocks, nipping at your nipple lightly and tugging it between his teeth. He gives your breast a wet, open-mouthed kiss, then drags his tongue over the soft swell of your breast and bites it hard enough to make you cry out. “Life’s not fair, sweetheart. Didn’t anyone teach you that?” 

You mockingly pout at him. “What a shame… Good thing your bride can teach you just how fair it can be,” you tease, though it comes out as pants, and then you weakly tug at his waistband to yank him closer, not even caring if you sound stupid. “Off. I want you naked for me, Mr. Park.”

He laughs and pushes up to his knees, and you watch as he finally shoves his sweats down—and his cock immediately springs free (the bastard wasn’t wearing underwear.) He’s so flushed, precum leaking insanely at the tip, and just so so heavy against his thigh. God. You don’t think you’ll ever get used… to this. The sight of him makes your mouth actually, properly water and your cunt clench tighter, even through the aftershocks.

“Better?” he drawls, stroking his length once just to tease you.

You’re literally sore in places you didn’t even biologically consider could be sore from (every part of your legs, the inner parts your shoulders, the crook of your elbow, for fuck’s sake), but the thing is… you’re coming to find out that when you’re this horny—when he’s right in front of you, naked and cocky and flushed… You don’t care about anything. You push up and practically launch yourself at him—wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him so deep he nearly topples over. He laughs right into your mouth, and you feel his cock drag between your bodies, smearing wet against your stomach. 

“Always so impatient,” he murmurs, biting at your bottom lip as he slaps your ass hard enough to make you whimper. “Pathetic.”

You chase his mouth, rolling your hips up, whining when the head of his cock presses against your inner thigh. “I said none of that. Just—” You break off, moaning as you grind against him, “—just fucking kiss me, Sunghoon. Please.”

You drag him down onto the bed with you—mouth never leaving his—and Sunghoon lets you. He’s smirking into the kiss and letting you push him down until you’re straddling his hips. You pull back for half a breath just to see him laid out beneath you—hair a mess, lips swollen, cock flushed and leaking… The power rush goes straight to your head and it makes you oh, so bold. You lean down and start trailing kisses down his jaw, then his throat, kissing your way to his chest and his abs, dragging your tongue slowly down his body. Then you reach his cock and you glance up at him as you wrap your hand around the base and dip your head with your lips ghosting over the head, tongue flicking out just to taste the precum collecting on the tip. But before you can do more, his hand flies to your hair, and he pulls you back with a little more force than necessary.

“No,” he says, voice low and deep. “Not tonight.”

You cock a brow. “What, you get to have all the fun? It’s my turn.”

His grip in your hair tightens, and he yanks your head back further. “This isn’t about turns,” he rasps. “I don’t need your mouth on my cock to feel good. You think I eat you out because I expect you to do it back?” 

Oh wow. Heaven have mercy.

The way he said that so… smugly and infuriatingly composed just makes you feel hotter. But you lower yourself anyway, and you drag your tongue up in a slow stripe from his balls, then up the thick, long length of his cock—just because you can—then over his abs, your mouth trailing spit all the way up his stomach, his chest, the sharp edge of his collarbone, up to his jaw, and he practically groans with every lick. You straddle his bare stomach, your pussy pressed wet and hot against his abs, and you lean down and lick right up to his ear as he fucking whines.

“You sound so needy, Mr. Park,” you tut, and nip at his earlobe. “You’re just gonna lie there like a good husband and let me ride you?”

His hands grip your hips as you slowly grind down on his abs. “Needy?” he taunts. “You’re the one making a mess everywhere. Go on. Fuck yourself on my cock. Let me see just how desperate my good little wife really is.”

You settle with your knees bracketing his hips, but there’s a sudden hesitation—one second of tension between you right before you reach down to line him up, and he catches your wrist. 

“Wait—shit, I’m out of condoms,” he groans.

“It’s fine,” you say quietly and too quickly. “I don’t want you to use one.” 

It slips out like a secret, like a confession—and the moment the words leave your lips, you see it: Sunghoon’s pupils blow wide, and something wickedly dangerous and absolutely sinful flickers over his face. He actually fucking groans—and for a moment, he just stares at you with his head tipped back against the pillow. 

“Fuck—say it again.”

“I want you to fuck me raw. I want to feel you. Just you, Sunghoon. Nothing else.”

“You sure?” his voice is pure sin now, all gravel and want and the threat of something that feels bigger than both of you. “Don’t say it unless you fucking mean it.”

You nod and bite your lip. “I’m sure. Just—please, Need it.”

He pushes up and grabs you hard by the hips and drags you flush against him. His back hits the headboard, and you end up half-kneeling in his lap. “You’re sure,” he says again, almost like he’s saying it to himself—and his hands find themselves splayed over your bare ass. He squeezes, hard enough to make you shiver. 

You roll your eyes. “If you say it one more time, I’ll change my mind,” you huff, but your voice isn’t nearly as steady as you want it to be.

He tsks. “Still a fuckin’ brat,” he mutters, but he’s already shifting you higher. “C’mere.”

He kisses you roughly, and you melt into it, your hands flying up to his hair—fisting at the roots like you’re angry with him for how much you want this. Somewhere in the middle of the kiss, you feel his cock—fuck, all of him, it’s too much, you swear it’s too much—sliding up against your pussy, and you moan right into his mouth. He breaks the kiss, forehead pressed to yours, both of you just breathing, breathing, breathing. One of his hands comes up to your jaw to tilt your head so you look him in the eye properly.

“Go on,” he purrs, “If you want it so bad, take it.”

You whimper—then you raise yourself a bit, reach down, wrap your hand around his thick cock to line him up, and then you slowly start to sink down on the head. You both gasp as you take his fat head in one push. The stretch is so intense it makes you scream and bury your face in his neck as you start to take more, forcing yourself down inch by fucking inch. He’s tearing you open, and you can feel every vein on his cock inside your walls, and his hands are everywhere—digging into your hips, sliding up your back, tangled in your nightgown as he brings it down again and—

RIIIPPPPPP.

He fucking tears the nightgown clean in half and rips it open right down the middle with one vicious pull, and you freeze any movement in sheer disbelief, despite how full you already feel and how badly your thighs are shaking as you look down at your ruined nightgown and the lace shredded in his fist. 

You slap at his chest. “What the fuck—you asshole, that was—!” 

“Payback,” He cuts you off, looking insufferably pleased with himself as he leans in to kiss your neck. “I’ll buy you another one,” he rasps, “And another. And another. And another—I’ll buy you ten in every single color. I’ll spoil you fuckin’ rotten.” He says, and grips your ass harder as he thrusts his hips up slightly to push in deeper. “Now quit whining and ride me, Mrs. Park.”

“Fuck—Sunghoon—” you moan. Your thighs are shaking, and your pussy’s gripping him so tight it must hurt, but he just groans and thrusts up to push you down even further as his arms wound around your waist to hold you up. “FUCK—”

“Easy,” Sunghoon grunts. “Take it slow—Shit, you’re so fucking tight—Relax.” His hands slide lower, palms splayed across your ass as he guides you down. “How are you this tight—Fuck,”

You press your forehead to his, breath hot and shaky, and mind absolutely GONE to even register what you’re saying. “You’re too big—fuck, you’re actually too big—you bastard, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can. You’ve already done it, haven’t you?” his voice drops to a filthy purr as he watches you through half-lidded eyes, all lust and something else you won’t let yourself name, and it only makes it harder to breathe. “You take it so well.”

“FUCK—Just—hold me,” you moan. “I can’t—my legs—”

“I got you,” he exhales, and takes your weight as he stretches you out. “I got it. Let me do it for you, yeah?”

You finally, finally sink all the way down, taking every inch until your ass is flush against his thighs and he’s buried deep inside you, and it feels like he’s everywhere—stretching you so wide you’re not sure you’ll ever recover. For a moment, you just stay like that as your pussy accommodates to his cock again. Then he slowly drags his cock back out almost all the way to the tip—and thrusts back in just as slowly. The moan you both let out into each other’s mouths is obscene (and, again, too loud for this hour, but you don’t particularly care.)

“Wait—you asshole,” you moan as he starts to fuck into you deeper, not even sure if you mean it as a complaint. “It’s—fuck, Sunghoon, it’s too much—”

“Shh, sweetheart,” he soothes, but there’s nothing gentle in the way he grinds your hips down and fucks up into you. “You’re my fiancée, aren’t you? Gotta get used to it—get used to me.” He leans down and sucks a mark on your neck, “Gotta stretch you out so you fit me perfectly.”

You can’t do anything but moan as he moves you slowly—up and down, up and down—making you ride him. “Fuck—Sunghoon, I can feel you… Here,” you gasp and grab his hand to press it on your lower belly where the thick head of his cock nudges at your walls.

“Fuckk,” he groans and snaps his hips up harder as he presses down on your stomach, “Take it. Take all of it—my good little fiancée, letting me fuck her so full she can’t even remember her own name.”

You can’t, honestly. All you can do is moan into his mouth as the filthy slap of skin on skin echoes in the room as he moves you up and down — But then you start bouncing in his lap and fucking yourself on his cock properly — ass slapping down against his thighs and making every thrust hit deep. Your hands twist in his hair, and you lean in and bite his jaw, licking over the bruises you’ve left there, moaning shamelessly louder when he fucks up into you just as deep.

“Feels so good,” you breathe, almost shocked by your own honesty. “You make me feel so fucking good, Sunghoon.” Your forehead drops to his, noses brushing, breaths mingling, and it’s so intimate you almost can’t stand it. But you don’t care. This is what you want. “T…Tell me what you want, baby. Tell me how you want it.”

“Just like this,” he whispers, and it’s not a command, it’s a plea. He fucks up into you so deep you see stars, “Don’t stop, just like that. Fuck, I—” he stops. “Fucking… made to fit me.”

You grind harder, loving the way his voice cracks. “Mhmm,” you moan and drag your nails down his chest hard enough that he grunts, “I…I want you to feel me—every time you even think… about someone else touching you.” 

His eyes flutter shut, and his head falls back as you muster up some strength and rise off and then slowly sink back down onto him, and he lets out a low, rasped moan. “No one else,” he groans quietly, so low you barely even hear it. “Only… you.”

You don’t even hear the words he says—not really, not over the blood roaring in your ears, not over the sob that tears itself out of your throat. You’re shaking—face buried in the crook of his neck because it’s all too much. You’re sobbing, properly sobbing now—but you don’t care, not when Sunghoon snaps and grabs your hips harder and starts fucking up into you, hard enough that you swear you can feel him in your fucking chest. “Sunghoon—” you gasp, your words dissolving into a scream as he drives up into you, hard enough that your ass slaps against his thighs, his cock hitting. He groans against your shoulder, mouth hot and open against your skin, his teeth dragging along your collarbone as he drives his hips up again and again and again.

“That’s it—” he pants. “Fuck, listen to you. You’re crying all over my cock. Can you feel that? Fucking dripping down your thighs, soaking me.”

You clamp your teeth down on his shoulder so roughly that you feel the way his muscle tenses under your mouth. He hisses, a deep, guttural sound torn straight from his chest, and you feel his cock throb inside you as he grinds up, impossibly deeper, grinding you down hard enough you see white behind your eyelids. “Fuck—” Sunghoon groans, and his hand flies up in your hair to tug your head back enough so that your throat is bare for him. You gasp, eyes fluttering open just in time to see the wild, wrecked look in his eyes before his mouth crashes down on your neck. His teeth sink into your skin, biting you so deep you cry out—screaming, arching into him, as your cunt clenches tighter around him.

He thrusts up into you again, then he drags every fucking inch out and slams back in to make you feel every stretch and drag of his thick cock inside you, hitting all the right spots. “Sunghoon—oh my god—fuck, don’t stop, please, please—” you sob, your voice breaking into a high, keening wail as he rocks you down to meet every thrust.

“Never stopping,” he grits out, and he brings his other hand down and starts circling your clit — and he bites you again, right beneath your jaw, so hard you’re not sure if you’re crying from the pain or the pleasure or the absolute way he’s destroying you or maybe something else.

And then—you can feel it, that rush building, the heat coiling low in your belly, spreading through your legs… but it’s different this time. “Sunghoon, I—I-I’m gonna—” you choke, your whole body starting to shake. Everything is tingling—you’ve only ever felt anything close to this once before, and even then, it hadn’t been like this—

And then—oh god—it hits you, so hard you nearly black out. Your cunt clamps down around him so tight — and then it’s like your body just breaks. You gush all over him — slick, wet heat pouring out of you, soaking his cock, his thighs, and the sheets underneath. It’s so much, you can’t even process it — you don’t even realize what’s happening until Sunghoon groans.

“Holy fuck—!” he chokes as he looks between the two of you, his hands digging into your ass. “You’re—shit, you’re fucking squirting—fuck—”

You can’t look, you can’t breathe, you’re just sobbing and shaking, legs trembling uncontrollably as your body lets go, as you ride out the most intense, mind-melting orgasm of your entire fucking life. The pleasure is electric and endless, rolling through you in waves that leave you limp, shaking, tears streaming down your cheeks as you collapse against his chest. He just kisses you everywhere he can reach. 

You’re barely even in your body anymore, honestly. The taste of your own tears snaps you out of your haze for a moment as Sunghoon kisses you. You don’t even register it at first when he maneuvers you, hands gripping your hips as he flips you back onto your back, his cock never once slipping from your cunt. He’s still buried so deep it feels like you’re split in two, and he’s fucking you so slowly and pressed so close to you can’t even tell where you end and he begins.

He’s close; you can feel it in the way he moves, the way he can’t stop groaning, the way his mouth can’t stop moving over your skin—your jaw, your cheek, your lips, your throat, back to your mouth. His cock drags through your overstimulated, soaked cunt, and for once, you actually think it’s too much. 

His hands frame your face, thumbs swiping at your tears. “Come back to me,” he mutters, “C’mon, darling, look at me.”

You force your eyes open, blinking through the haze. He’s so close you can see every fleck in his brown eyes, every line of hunger, and something that could almost be tenderness etched on his face. He’s all you see, all you feel—Sunghoon, Sunghoon, Sunghoon.

“Ho—” you gasp, voice a shaky sob, “I can’t… do this—oh my god, I can’t—”

He shushes you, kissing your lips, your jaw, your temple, murmuring against your skin, “You can. You feel that?” he groans as he reaches between you to press a hand on the faint bulge in your lower belly from his cock. “That’s real. This—right here—nothing’s more fucking real than this.”

He pulls back — his cock dragging almost all the way out — then, with one insanely brutal snap of his hips, he slams back into you so deep you cry out, your back arching off the bed as his cock splits you open all over again.

“Fuck—” he groans, biting down on your shoulder as you clamp around him. He does it again, even slower this time, letting you feel every single inch as he slides out, and then he slams home—hard, deep, so rough the bed shakes beneath you. Your hands fly to his back, nails sinking in, dragging him closer. He presses his whole body down over yours, hips grinding deep and flush to yours, every inch of him pressed so tight you’re pinned beneath his weight. He doesn’t move—just stays there, cock throbbing deep inside, his chest heaving against yours. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his heavy-lidded brown eyes wild, sweat slicking his thick brows. “Where do you want me?” he rasps, voice so low it feels like a secret between just the two of you. “Tell me where you want it, baby.”

You wrap your legs tighter around his hips, holding him in place. “Inside,” you moan, and your voice is so needy and raw it doesn’t even sound like you. “Sunghoon—inside, please, I want you inside—”

He presses his forehead to yours as he rocks into you even slower. “Shit—Yeah? Inside?” he groans, a wicked smile twitching at his lips as he breathes between thrusts. “Want me to fill you up? Fuck a baby into you right here? Want me to actually make you my wife, Mrs. Park?”

You whimper and nod frantically. “Yes. I want it, Want you—I want all of you—just do it, please—”

The mere idea of him filling you up—of Sunghoon spilling himself deep inside you—it’s enough to send another bolt of heat twisting low in your belly, your cunt clenching around him as your next orgasm starts to build. He lets go of your face just long enough to tangle his hand with yours, fingers lacing tight—Then he brings your ring finger up to his mouth, pressing a slow, reverent kiss right to the band—his eyes never leaving yours—and that itself shatters you a little bit more.

His thrusts are starting to falter, but he’s still going, slowly. The drag of his cock, the press of his hips, the way his thumb brushes over your ring and then dips down to rub tight circles over your clit—it’s too much. You can feel him everywhere, body and soul, filling you until there’s nothing left of you but this.

“Let go for me again,” he whispers as he pulls your leg higher up his waist, opening you even wider for him. He drives in impossibly deep, grinding against your clit every time he sinks home. “Give me one more, sweetheart. You can do it. Just one more. Fucking show me who you belong to.”

You’re gone—completely, utterly, deeply gone. 

And under his weight, with his cock filling you so perfectly, with his lips stealing your breath and his hands locked with yours, you realize—you’ll give him anything he wants. Anything. You’re his. For tonight, for as long as he keeps fucking you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. You feel it start to crest inside you — all-consuming — your cunt milking him for everything he has as you arch into him harder, breasts pressed up against his chest. “Sunghoon—fuck, I’m coming, I’m—I can’t—oh my god, please, I need it—need you—” Whatever you were going to say turns into a scream as you come again, so hard you feel like your heart stops — whole body burning, shaking, crying as you lose yourself in the pleasure. “I can’t—I can’t—I can’t, shit—I CAN’T—” 

He loses it. “I got you—shit,” he moans and buries his face in your neck as his hips messily snap forward. “I got you, f—fuck. Gonna fill you up, just like you want. Gonna fuck you so full, you’ll never forget who you belong to.” 

“Fuck—oh, fuck—” he moans, and then you feel it. Thick and hot, spilling inside you, flooding you, filling you to the fucking brim as he groans your name against your mouth. His cock pulses and throbs inside you, your bodies locked so tight there’s no room for anything but the heat and the ache and the feeling of being completely, utterly, and entirely full of him.

For a long time, neither of you moves. Sunghoon just stays pressed over you with his face buried in your neck. You can feel his heartbeat pounding against yours as you cling to him. He gives a few more lazy, messy thrusts—pressing you even deeper into the mattress, and his mouth finds your throat, mouthing kisses—soft, shaky, too gentle—while you both try to catch your breath. You could stay like this forever and never come back down.

The drag of him leaving you is unbearable when he starts to pull out—your whole body aches at the loss (you’re greedy.) Then you feel the mattress dip at your side. You blink down to see Sunghoon shifting lower, dropping between your trembling thighs—you feel his hands spreading you wider for him, and he just… stares. He looks absolutely fucking wrecked, and the sight alone is enough to make you feel like you might start crying again, this time from something that isn’t pain or pleasure, but something messier that you shove right down.

He drags his thumb along your swollen pussy, spreading you open even more as he watches his thick milky mess leak out of you and down your thighs and onto the sheets. He doesn’t even try to hide how much he loves it—doesn’t say a word, just watches, completely transfixed, as he pushes his cum back inside just to see it leak out again. And then slowly, so fucking slowly, he pushes two fingers right back into your swollen cunt. You mindlessly jerk away for a moment because you’re too sensitive, and he grips your thigh tighter. 

“Tsk. Don’t move,” he croons, as he pumps his fingers in and watches his cum spill out around them, only to push it right back in, over and over again. “You wanted to be filled, didn’t you? Gotta make sure you keep every past drop.”

“Shit—Just like that—” you whine. Your hips twitch up against his hand, greedy even though you’re shaking and fucked out. “God—I can take it, just—I need—”

“Yeah? Can’t help yourself, huh? You like having my cum inside you this much?” His thumb starts rubbing tight circles on your clit, and you almost scream. “What am I gonna do with you, huh?”

“Anything. Fucking anything, I don’t care, just—keep going—”

“Shit. You insatiable little slut,” he mutters, and slides his fingers in deeper, scissoring them, fucking his cum back into your swollen, sensitive cunt, thumb brushing your clit until you’re sobbing and moaning and screaming and shaking again—too much, too far gone to care. “There. Hold it all in for me.”

He relents after a while when you’re truly spent, fingers slipping out with a filthy wet sound. He leans down, presses one last kiss to your cunt, then wipes you clean with a damp towel he grabs from the bathroom with no particular gentleness, but it’s still more than you expected. He tosses the towel aside, and when he sees the look on your face, he shrugs and grumbles.

“Don’t get any ideas… Someone’s gotta clean up your mess. Part of my role, isn’t it?”

You roll your eyes. You’re not particularly proud of what you’re about to say… but the thing is, if there’s one thing that’s more insatiable than your sex drive… It’s that you’re entirely too needy, and like, you’ve come too far at this point to even pretend to care about your pride or who you’re doing this with. So why the hell not? It’s only for tonight.

“Shut up. Come here and hold me,” you huff and demand, and when he raises a brow, you add, “Don’t look at me like that. God forbid I want to be held after all that?”

He shakes his head. “You’re so fucking clingy, you know that?” he mutters, “No.”

“No?” you cock a brow. “Really? You’ll fuck me stupid and fill me up, but you draw the line at a little cuddling? Are you a pussy, Mr. Park?”

Sunghoon clicks his tongue. “Watch your mouth.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Come here.”

He exhales. “I said no.”

You only snort. “Are you seriously that pathetic? What, you think if you hold me for five seconds it might actually mean something?”

He scoffs. “None of this means anything.”

“Good. Then we both agree,” you jab a finger at him, “And you have nothing to lose. So come here, Mr. Park. You still have a role to play.”

“You’re fucking impossible,” he grumbles, but he crawls up behind you anyway with a rough sigh. He slides his big arms around your chest and pulls you back against him, skin to skin, your body fitting perfectly against his. You tuck your head under his chin, letting him nuzzle into your hair, as your fingers find his biceps — tracing the muscle just to be annoying. Then he shifts and slides his arms up, snaking them over your chest and around your throat—biceps framing either side of your neck. The bulk of his biceps presses against your throat as he flexes—hard. Bastard. He knows exactly what he’s doing. You tip your head back just a little, letting your throat bare itself over his arms.

You feel Sunghoon smiling against your hair. “You like that?” 

You mouth kisses along the curve of his bicep just for the hell of it, tongue tracing the veins just because you can. “Show off,” you mutter and bite him, and he just flexes harder, rolling his hips forward so you feel the hard line of his cock pressed against your ass.

He doesn’t say anything; he only tightens his arms around your throat just enough to make your breath catch. You swallow and focus on tracing lazy circles over the veins in his biceps, pretending not to notice his cock hardening right against your back, and especially pretending you’re not already clenching around nothing cause you want to go again. For a while, neither of you speaks. You just let yourself sink into the warmth of his arms, and ignore the way your heart won’t slow down. 

But then Sunghoon presses his mouth to your ear and practically purrs into it, “Practice makes perfect, Mrs. Park. How many times do you want to try for a baby tonight?”

And for a long, long while, you don’t think of anything at all. Not the past, not tomorrow, not what any of this means. He just fucks you slow, again and again, until the sun’s bleeding through the curtains and both of you are too tired to remember where pretending ends and real begins.

“Y/N! Hello? I brought you sweets and matcha just like I promised,” Ningning calls with a set of knocks on the door, too cheerful for the hour or the state of your dignity. “You'd better be decent!”

Oh. You had entirely forgotten about that.

You shoot upright in bed. “I’m—” you start, but the sound comes out as a strangled moan, which, in your defense, is not your fault at all. You cough and try again. “I’m—fine! I’m decent!”

“Hmm. I don’t think you’re decent at all.”

Uh…

Sunghoon is currently between your thighs, half hidden under the hotel comforter, lazily mouthing at your pussy like he’s got nowhere to be and nothing to prove. You clamp a hand over your mouth and try to muffle yourself, but he just pins your hips down and glances up at you with that infuriating, insufferable smug look of his. He licks a slow, filthy stripe up your cunt, and you nearly buck right off the bed. 

“Ning, give me ten minutes! N… Need to shower first!” you yell, voice an octave too high, before lowering it tremendously and slapping at Sunghoon’s hair weakly, “Get the fuck off—”

“Okay! I’m counting!” 

This time, you properly tug at Sunghoon’s hair. “That’s enough—” you whisper, whine, moan—you’re not sure, but your words betray you as you shakingly buck into his mouth, “That poor girl— Don’t do this again. She brought me breakfast—”

“Yeah?” Sunghoon glances up from between your thighs with his mouth glistening, smirking like the absolute bastard he is. “I’ve got mine right here.”

You squeeze your thighs around his head and groan into the pillow and try your absolute best to smother another moan as he latches his lips around your clit again. Remember when you thought you had a problem? You had no fucking idea.

Somehow, you survive. (Barely.) You honestly don’t know how you’re still alive. You lost count of the orgasms at some point between the second round last night and… the literal fucking sun rising. 

You and Sunghoon didn’t talk about anything as you got ready to leave for the airport. Of course you don’t.

You managed to shove him off of you, then locked yourself in the bathroom and attempted not to look like you spent all night being ruined in six different ways, all while running on maybe two hours of sleep. Ningning gave you a suspicious look over her drink when you finally went down to the lobby, but bless her, she doesn’t ask why you look like you haven’t slept in a decade. 

And just like that, you and Sunghoon fall right back into your usual routine. He’s back to his usual resting bastard face, you’re back to rolling your eyes at every single thing he does, and if anyone saw you two right now, they’d never guess you’d spent the entire night (and about thirty minutes this morning) fucking each other dumb. (Well, maybe they would, considering how you’re limping…) Point being, it’s actually kind of impressive, the way you both manage to keep it together like none of it ever happened. Who would have thought the two of you would be this good at pretending, huh? It’s just sex. Just to feel good. No strings, no feelings, no questions asked.

A totally normal agreement between two functioning adults. (You’re so colossally fucked.)

It’s only after takeoff that you dreadfully check your phone for the first time since yesterday. Your thumb mindlessly swipes through the flood of unread notifications when something catches your eye at the top of your screen. One attachment from an unknown number… You almost ignore it, but something about it snags your attention and attaches right to your gut, so you click on it.

Your heart drops out of your chest so fast it leaves you dizzy.

It’s a photo of… 

It’s taken from a distance, probably with a shaky hand… She’s pressed up against him, so close it’s like she wants to crawl inside his skin, her hands clutching his jacket for dear life. His own hands are tangled in her hair as he kisses her. There’s nothing polite or gentle about it; if anything, it looks desperate, like neither of them can get enough. You can’t see their faces clearly, but you don’t need to. You’d recognize the shape of him anywhere, even if you were blindfolded, even in the dark.

You, of all people, should know better by now. And you do. So this didn’t matter. It’s the fucking principle of it that gets you… And… Fuck.

You turn off your phone and shove it face down into your bag like that’ll be enough to keep it from burning a hole straight through your chest, and tip your head back against the seat. The only thing you can hear is the blood pounding in your ears—well, that, and the fucking announcement about turbulence or whatever. You put your headphones on and press play on whatever playlist drowns out the world best, then you pretend not to notice the heat of Sunghoon’s body right next to you.

You stare down at the ring on your shaky finger and don’t say a word, even after you’ve landed back in Seoul. 

You really are so fucking good at pretending.

FEEDBACK & REBLOGS ALWAYS APPRECIATED ( ˘⌣˘)♡(˘⌣˘ )

⟢ TAGLIST @baedreamverse @badtzsan @wonuziex @ti--red @lovingjongseong @scarredbytheworld @angelhyuka @vandelsoki @sosaphiee @demrotic @zoe1love @weepingsweep @lilidiors @kikidoul @heelovesmeknot @shnnzsworld @sunghoontv @lyserie @lustfor1ife @hoonbabe @dontfuckwithmenow @areikii @sumzysworld @chobitos @flrtwoo @en-lov @immelissaaa @jae-n0 @dodohees @newmjri @yuuuuzai @honey-bunnysweet @sirriag @enhastolemyheart @kenzo3tenzo @aehrizone @vvarkiki @mahungexe @psychotic-girl-666 @beomgyus11 @nothingcvmpares @rikifever @pradaheeseung @vrusha01 @hyuckville @minhaemin @lillotus17 @blooqz @itzmi4u @tessa365 @runjungkook @cloud-yy @vrusha01 @joshuflwr @iamjusttryingtoreadapost @hhoonieeswifxyy @devdozes @firstclassjaylee @snoopyjae @stbevoli @tiramisuhn @xxueisa @lolznoelle @wonpires @bellsjakesgf @hoonberries @rikisblog @cutiepatootiejungwon @liloaeu @lyhoon

[undereuphoria]

literally how i feel after reading the past like three chapters oh good heavens

[romancentold]

☤ TEETH. ❝ PART THIRTEEN: PART TWO ❞ 박성훈⸝.ᐟ⋆

PAIRING 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗌𝗎𝗇𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗇 ۶ৎ 𝘧𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋. (ᴄᴏʟʟᴇɢᴇ ᴀᴜ)

゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ S in which nothing cuts deeper than your hatred for park sunghoon, except the desire that waits underneath it. 、masterpost

𝓦 。ᐟ MDNI ⨾ SPOILERS INCLUDED、 profanity, angst, alcohol, unhealthy coping mechanisms (sex), denial, dissociation, jealousy, possessiveness, mutual obsession, ungodly amount of smut (17k words), dom!sunghoon, angry sex (with hoon) (finally), very rough sex, big dick hoon, p in v (wrap it), dry humping, oral (f rec), boobplay (reader has a rack), they both have very high sex drives, they’re both just insanely freaky tbh, brat reader, brat tamer!sunghoon, a very normal obsession with hoons biceps, diabolical amount of biting, just lots of teeth (lol), power play, rough manhandling, spit, fingering, size kink, mutual masturbation, overstimulation, orgasm denial, degradation, hair pulling, lots of dirty talk, heavy marking, edging, slight choking, spanking, window sex (it’s a one way window), he breaks the bed, praise kink, multiple orgasms, hand kink, condom / cum play 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒌 [✧] ꧁𓊈 prev 𒆜 next 𓊉꧂ 。WC 25000

READ PART ONE OF THIS CHAPTER HERE

FRIDAY MORNING  

You weren’t planning on talking to him at all.

And you hadn’t—unless, obviously, you had to. For the sake of the public or whatever.

Because there’s only so much you can say to someone you’re legally bound to pretend to love when you can’t even look at him without wanting to punch him or throw up or cry or maybe do all three and then some more, and you haven’t decided which one would feel better yet. If at all.

You’d barely even gotten any sleep last night because you couldn’t shake a terrible feeling you had—though it wasn’t anything related to what you’d texted Sunoo about. No, your mind was quite made up on that matter.

You’d called Riki yesterday—just to make sure—and he’d said yeah, he was the one who took you home that night. So that should’ve been that. Except… it didn’t feel like that. But whatever. You had bigger things to worry about this morning.

When you got to the airport this morning, you did what you’ve always done; you schooled your face the way you’ve known your whole life—chin up, smile that doesn’t reach your eyes, turn towards the best lighting angle, and give them something pretty to photograph. You’d actually thought to yourself for a second that this might be easy if you just do the thing where you step outside of yourself and pretend you’re also watching it happen from somewhere in the crowd. 

And then he’d touched you.

He slid his hand around your waist—his palm flat and warm against the dip of your waist, and for one stupid second, your whole body had gone absolutely rigid. 

Smile. Just fucking smile—you’d thought to yourself.

And then you leaned into him like you’d done it a hundred times before—because you had, in another lifetime. Because pretending is the only thing you’ve ever been good at your whole life.

Someone had yelled both your names, and he must have noticed how tense you’d physically been because at one point he’d dipped his head close enough that his mouth almost brushed your ear, and he whispered, “Relax, darling.” Just to taunt you.

You wanted to elbow him in the ribs. You wanted to grind your heel into his stupid, polished shoe and to keep walking and let the whole world watch him flinch like an idiot.

Instead, you’d breathed through your teeth and kept smiling until you were finally through the sliding doors and the noise of the crowd had faded behind the glass.

And then you went back to keeping your distance—because the hardest part was done. You hovered near him just enough for it to seem believable, and after a while, once you were inside the gate, he slid his hand around your waist again, ever so casually.

You stopped dead. “Don’t.”

He didn’t even glance at you. “Don’t be a fucking brat.”

You blinked. “The hell did you just say?”

“People talk.” He smiled simply and jerked his chin forward, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Behave.”

You stared at him for a long second, then looked around. “There’s no one here, you dick.”

“There’s always someone here, sweetheart,” he said with that mocking kind of smile of his that made your blood boil, and then tilted his head toward the corner where two assistants were whispering behind their tablets, pretending they weren’t watching. 

You had dug your nails into your palms so hard that the crescents stayed there for several minutes afterward.

By the time you got on the plane, you were seconds away from fully losing it. Maybe it was the fact that you were heavily sleep deprived, or how your head still had a faint ache to it, or maybe, just maybe—crazy—the fact that this… this is actually your life now. But anyway, you didn’t wait for him to say a word—just immediately slid into the window seat and turned your face away like the sight of him would physically burn you if you stared at him a second longer.

He sat down beside you, of course. Because of course he did. Because where else would he sit?

“Don’t start,” you said under your breath without even looking at him.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, well, don’t.”

He leaned back in his seat, and his voice was low. “You always this pleasant in the mornings?”

You turned your head just enough to glare at him. “You wanna die?”

He didn’t say anything back this time. Not even a smirk. Just looked at you for a second too long, the muscle in his jaw ticking once before he clicked his tongue and turned his head toward the aisle.

You furrowed your brows a little at that—not that you cared, obviously, but it was weird. He usually always had something smug to say back, some shitty comeback waiting on his tongue. 

But you don’t see the way he looks back at you then and almost opens his mouth to say something, not really—you’re too busy pretending the window’s the most fascinating thing you’ve ever looked at in your life. 

The thing is, Sunghoon remembers that night enough for the two of you. 

He remembers it in a way that makes him want to claw it out of his own head. The way your voice had gone small, how your fingers had curled weakly around his arm, how you’d leaned into him like you used to before everything went to hell, and how you’d whispered that you miss him into the crook of his neck like you’d been holding it on the tip of your tongue this whole time.

And it had gutted him, sure, but not in the way you’d think. It wasn’t tender, it wasn’t sad—it was anger tearing through him. Because even drunk, even out of your mind, you still managed to sink your teeth into the one part of him he’d killed off years ago. He wanted to say a million cruel things—to throw it all back at you, to make you feel the same sick heat that had been rotting in his chest since that night. 

But you didn’t seem to remember.

So he let it go and told himself it was better this way. That it would be easier for you to hate him if you never remembered, and easier for him to hate you even more if you did.

But anyway, you shoved your earbuds in and continued to stare hard out the window as the engines started rumbling. You felt him glance your way once—maybe twice—but you don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing you noticed. You shift against the window, fold your arms, and will yourself to sleep.

When you finally drift off, your head tips slightly toward him.

He doesn’t move.

Not for a long time.

FRIDAY NOON

The hard part, for most of it, was over.

Well. Not really. But at least you’d somehow already gotten through the ribbon cutting—the cameras, the press, and all the polite laughter and smiling that made your cheeks ache. 

The two of you had barely spoken after the plane ride, and the car ride from the airport to the hotel had been so painfully silent you’d felt bad that Ningning had to sit through it. You almost considered talking to him just so the poor girl wouldn’t have to suffer in there. 

Almost.

You walked beside Sunghoon while the hotel director—who was practically bowing every time Sunghoon opened his mouth—showed you around. He went on about where the guests would come in for the event later tonight, how the dinner would be set up, where the photographers would stand, and a bunch of other things you didn’t really wanna know. Honestly, you’d stopped pretending to pay attention halfway through. 

The stale politeness of everyone trying too hard to impress Sunghoon, seeing as he is here in his father’s stead, makes you want to crack your head against the nearest wall just to feel something real. That’s the whole reason you were sent here in the first place. Mr. fucking Park couldn’t oversee the grand opening of his own godforsaken hotel because of some last-minute business elsewhere, and that left Sunghoon and, of course, you.

The tour he was giving you had gone down toward the main lounge to a wide open space just off the lobby where a handful of investors and partners had already gathered for drinks and light refreshments. So that’s where you are right now.

You’d already had to talk to so many men that you’d lost count, and every single one of them somehow managed to make you feel worse than the last. All you wanted was to sit down somewhere quiet and take these goddamn heels off somewhere—anywhere but here—anywhere that didn’t make you feel like a fucking display piece beside him.

You were already at your limit, and the day hasn’t even properly started.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Sunghoon, on the other hand, was doing just fine. Too fine. To the point where it actually pissed you off (like every other thing he did.) Seeing him all polished and well-spoken like this, you’d almost forget the filth and cruelty that could come out of his mouth when it was just the two of you. 

For just a second there, your mind almost drifted somewhere else… back to a time where you hadn’t even thought he was capable of ever being cruel entirely, but you shook your head and stopped yourself before it went too far.

Anyway, point being, you were about one more bit of small talk over a champagne flute away from losing your fucking mind.

“Your father must be proud,” says one of the international partners—who looks like he’s in his mid-fifties—loud enough to pull you out of your thoughts. His wedding ring looks like it hasn’t been worn with love in years, and you already hate him. But he’s important, which means you have to be nice, even if the sight of his hungry eyes lingering on you longer than necessary makes you want to hurl your guts out. “You’re so young and already carry yourself with such poise and intellect, and I’m sure you’ll make a fine successor soon enough. Especially with a beautiful wife like that by your side.”

Beautiful. That’s all you get.  

Meanwhile, you’d think Sunghoon built the whole goddamn hotel with his bare hands with how they’ve been praising him ever since you set foot into this building. It’s actually getting ridiculous.

You can feel yourself being made smaller and smaller with every passing minute—and the main part of you worth acknowledging in this room is the fact that you’re here with him. 

And fucking hell, the way these men look at you is so fucking invasive to the point where you want to crawl out of your own skin just to escape it—or better yet, shove your half-empty champagne glass into the eye of the next man old enough to be your father who looks at you like you’re some kind of toy or something.

You come from a family that built entire industries, and your father alone could buy out half the men in this room and still sleep just fine at night. They all know it, too. They just choose to forget the second they look at you. And it’s fucking driving you insane… because you’ve spent your whole life trying to be taken seriously, learning and doing things most people your age wouldn’t even know how to ask about, let alone think of—to prove that you actually belong in the world you’ve been born into. But it doesn’t actually matter, does it? Not when all they see is a neckline and a pretty face standing next to a better suit and tie.

“And Mrs. Park,” the man turns to you with a creepy grin that makes your stomach actually twist in disgust, “You are quite the vision, such a fine accessory for such a fine gentleman.”

Well.

If you’ve learned anything this past week, it’s that it can, in fact, always get worse. 

The fact that he called you an accessory is surprisingly not even the worst part about the filth that just left his mouth—it’s the Mrs. Park attached to it ever so casually—and it’s about… exactly the fifth time that has happened ever since you landed in Japan… You two weren’t even fucking married whatsoever. No, seriously, what the fuck is everyone’s problem? You truly only exist in relation to him in this fucking building. Do they know who you are?

You consider going off script and actually responding to him—maybe to ask if he plans on actually addressing you directly or just through your proximity to the stupid, putrid asshole beside you, maybe to even tell him to go to fucking hell and stop eyeing you in a way that is making your skin prickle with anger and humiliation—but you don’t get the chance.

Because suddenly, he’s speaking.

“Ah, Mr. Nakamura—She’s not Mrs. Park,” Sunghoon says, all too easily and politely, as he lifts his champagne to his lips and takes a slow sip, then, after a moment, he adds, “Not yet, anyway.”

Your mouth might’ve dropped open a little bit, but you catch it. Sort of. You try to recover and force a small, polite smile that feels like it doesn’t belong on your face. 

He goes on, “My apologies, I seem to have forgotten to properly introduce her. This is Y/N Y/L/N. Daughter of Chairman Y/L/N of Han Empire—surely you’re familiar?”

That gets him. The man blinks and his smile falters nervously, and you can almost taste the awkwardness in the air.  

Sunghoon’s mouth curls into a practiced smile as the man in front of him eyes him with surprise, and a clear apologetic look. “She actually laid the foundation of the entire PR direction for this launch herself and balances a full course load at university on top of that,” he adds and sets his champagne down. “If you knew half the things she’s capable of, you’d know I’m the accessory here.”

Huh?

For a second, it almost hit something soft in you—something that makes you think of your father, the way he’d always step in for your mother when men like this used to do the same thing. The quiet, dignified way he’d shield her without making her feel small.

But you know better than to mistake what Sunghoon just did for that.

It’s not about you. It will never be about you. And you don’t want it to be.

It’s only ever about optics for him. He’s made sure to remind you of that time and time again.

And you really, really hate that you needed someone else to speak for you at all—especially him—when you’ve never once felt small in rooms like this before.

The man nods and laughs a little too loudly, and then he does the whole “Oh, of course! Your father is such a blah blah blah; your family is blah blah routine," as he finally reaches out to shake your hand properly. But you barely register it. All you can see is Sunghoon and his infuriating smug face, and the way he lifts his champagne toward you with that faint smirk tugging at his mouth. Then the man in front of you excuses himself a moment later, muttering something you couldn’t quite understand before slipping back into the crowd. 

And just like that, it’s only you and Sunghoon again for the first time since the airplane.

You look at him again, and he’s still looking at you with the same smirk plastered on his stupid face. You consider slapping it off for a second—just to do something with all this pent-up anger bubbling in your chest. But instead, you take a smooth step closer, your arm brushing his as you lean in—close enough that anyone walking past would think you were whispering something sweet to your boyfriend.

“Are you fucking enjoying this?” you say through your teeth. 

Sunghoon’s smile doesn’t even falter. “Who said I’m enjoying this, sweetheart?” he murmurs back, voice low enough that only you can hear.

“Stop that—it’s written all over your face,” you say flatly, still smiling as you watch people pass you by. “You look like you’re having the fucking time of your life.”

He doesn’t respond right away and only studies you with that unreadable look of his before saying, “Tsk. You think I like standing here listening to them talk like that? To speak to them about you?”

Fucking prick.

“Then don’t fucking speak. I don’t need you to speak for me,” you murmur after a moment, still keeping your face pleasant. “And you can keep your stupid compliments to yourself. I’m capable of introducing myself just fine.”

You barely register the movement until you feel the light pressure of his hand sliding around your waist again—his touch is warm. Too warm. It settles at your hip like it belongs there, pulling you in just enough that from across the room, you probably look like you’re in love.

You feel sick.

“You sure?” he murmurs, leaning in just enough that his breath brushes your ear. “Because the last five times they called you Mrs. Park, you just stood there and smiled like a good little wife.”

Your fingers tighten around your champagne glass as you turn to face him, and you’re so close it’s almost ridiculous—to the point where you can see the media training assistants in your head with your eyes going wide—close enough to feel his breath when he speaks. You consider shoving him off, but there are entirely too many people around for that.

“Okay,” you say, too sweetly, and give him a very ridiculous mocking smile. “Next time they say it, I’ll just shove this fucking champagne glass up their asses, then. No—seriously, what the fuck did you want me to do? Ridicule your name in front of your father’s precious investors? Hey! Maybe I should even tell them that we’re not even a—”you mouth the word couple.“—Like a real good little wife.” 

He smiles at a couple walking past and lifts his hand to gently adjust a strand of hair falling over your shoulder. 

You stay frozen.

Then he dips his head even lower until his lips brush the shell of your ear. “Maybe just try growing a spine instead,” he murmurs. “You talk big when it’s me, but the second someone else speaks over you, you just stand there and take it.”

This fucking asshole. You were actually at your limit.

“You’re one to talk about spines, Sunghoon,” you snap, though still composed. “You don’t even have a fucking backbone—”

You stop yourself immediately.

Because what you’d almost absentmindedly said was you ran away from me for three years. You avoided me like I was nothing. Like I hadn’t meant anything. Like we never—you clench your jaw, swallowing it all down so hard it makes your throat burn. You hate your brain; you truly, truly, do.

He brushes his fingers just slightly over your waist and leans in again with that same smug fucking smirk. “Don’t get shy,” he murmurs. “What is it you wanted to say about me and my backbone? Hmm?”

“Fuck off,” you whisper, your voice still sugarcoated in a smile, as if you’re teasing. Like you’re flirting. Like you’re normal. “And get your fucking hands off me.”

But he doesn’t move. He just looks right at you.

It feels like the entire room has shrunk down to just the space between you.

“You’re annoying, you know that?” he mutters under his breath after a beat and catches you off guard. “You turn everything into a fucking moral standpoint and take it personally. It’s fucking exhausting.”

You clench your jaw. “You’re such a fucking—”

“Careful,” he interrupts and squeezes your waist enough to make you hiss for a moment—he’s smiling wider now and whispering right into your ear. “We’re in public.”

You step aside a bit, and then your hand moves down to where his hand is on your waist, and you try to brush it off subtly, but he tightens his grip and keeps it there. 

You just stare at him.

“The whole point of us being here is to sell the image that we’re a strong couple,” he goes on smoothly. “That just now? I didn’t do it to defend you. I couldn't care less what they call you.”

“Right,” you scoff. “God forbid I ever forget what a gentleman you are.”

But he doesn’t stop. He goes on. 

“I wouldn’t even waste a breath if the circumstances were different,” he says, and pauses—just for a second—when a waiter steps in between you to quietly take his empty champagne glass. He’s smiling like his jaw aches from holding something worse back when he whispers to you, “But unfortunately, as long as they think we’re a couple—” he tilts his head just a fraction, “you’re my responsibility. So shut up and take it.”

Like fucking hell he could talk to you like that. 

You shake your head and laugh lowly. “Get right with God today, because I’m going to kill you—”

“Tsk,” he interrupts, smiling wider now, whispering right into your ear. “Again, people are watching. Be a good girl, Hmm?”

You’re about to open your mouth and tell him not to ever call you that again if he wants to live to see another day—

“Sunghoon?”

A soft voice comes from in front of the two of you, and for a second before your mind even registers it, a decayed pit reopens in your stomach. 

And then you look up, and it’s her.

“Sooha,” Sunghoon greets her, and you feel the way his hand loosens around your waist. The sound of her name still makes something in you go tight, just like it used to when you were seventeen. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Neither did I,” Sooha smiles at Sunghoon as she walks towards the two of you and ignores you entirely. “I heard Mr. Park couldn’t make it, so I thought—well, it had to be you filling in. It’s been so long… well, a few months. But still!”

Right. This is the part where you go back in your head. Well… You’ve been in here the whole day. Anyways, did she just say I thought it’d be you filling in? Pfft. Liar. Your joint appearance was all over the news.

Wait. A few months? 

Your teeth catch the inside of your cheek. You don’t know why that small addition makes something inside you burn. Maybe it’s the tone… how she said it like she wants you to know something you don’t. Or that she knows something she shouldn’t.

Sunghoon smiles softly, and your nails absentmindedly dig into your palms again. “Yeah. It really has been a while.”

You don’t miss the way she’s still pretending you don’t exist. You can see it written all over her—the pointed glances, the deliberate tone, and the small tilt of her head when she speaks only to him. The fuck? Are we seventeen again? As if you have time for this fucking bullshit right now. 

Doesn’t matter if she ignored you or not, because you and Sooha have always been on opposite ends of the room, even when you weren’t—God, you really thought you were over this. All this ancient, dried-up, pathetic bullshit that makes your stomach turn inside out, all because of some night when you were seventeen and stupid and too young to know that there are some memories that stick in your ribs forever.

Not that you care. You don’t care. It was forever ago. It was before anything—before everything, actually. Just a party, a door left half-open, someone moaning, and then you, standing dumb and frozen, watching Sooha’s leg slide over Sunghoon’s hip while he kissed her neck like he meant it. You remember thinking you should leave, or maybe just set yourself on fire in front of them to burn their eyes the same way. Instead, you frantically apologized and stormed out like an idiot, and Sunghoon chased you down the hall—tripping over his own shoes, saying your name like he owed you something when he didn’t really, like he even had anything to explain in the first place.

You had your first proper ugly fight that night. The first of way too many. He was red-faced and breathless, and you were crying so hard you couldn’t breathe, and you swore you’d never think about it again. And you hadn’t until now.

(You are, obviously, an adult. It does not matter. You are not mad. You do not care.)

And the worst part? Even before that night, even before any of it, Sooha always had a way of making you feel… small. This wasn’t even really about him. She never had to say much (though, God help you, she did)—just the way she’d look at you, the tilt of her chin, the mocking laughter at anything you said like you’d said something weird, and all the sly little digs you’d pretend not to hear because you like to think you’re above passive-aggressive childish shit. All in all, She’d been making you feel out of place since the day you met her, always so amused at your expense. 

Then—Sunghoon’s hand tightens again at your waist, just slightly, but it’s enough to pull you a little closer to him and out of your thoughts, and you immediately see Sooha’s gaze drop to where his hand rests against you and then back up to your face. You also don’t miss the way her smile twitches for a moment.

She lets out a breathy laugh. “Ah, Sunghoon-ah… you were always one for public displays of affection.” Sooha shakes her head a little as if she’s recalling a memory fondly. “Oh, sorry—where are my manners?” (Have you ever had any? You think.) “I guess congratulations are finally in order for you two.” Then she actually turns to you with amusement and a wide smile, like you’ve only just materialized beside him. “Y/N, it’s so nice to see you again. I almost didn’t recognize you without your glasses—you look so different.”

Here we go… 

You didn’t even wear your glasses that often for her to be saying that. Like you actually can’t remember the last time you’d worn them publicly yourself. 

You bite down on a scoff. “You too, Sooha. You look exactly the same,” you say, smiling ever so politely. “Lovely as always.” 

Her eyes dart between the two of you, and you can tell she has a million things she wants to say. She settles for, “You two seem… happy,” and you can practically hear the mocking punctuation on it.

Sunghoon holds you just a little tighter, and he looks at you for a brief moment. “We are,” he says, and caresses the side of your waist gently. Then he turns back to Sooha and clears his throat. “How’s your father doing?”

Sooha turns back to him, and her expression immediately softens in a way only you could ever tell. “Oh, he’s good. Busy, as always. I’m mostly here on his behalf—he still insists on doing everything himself, but he’s finally realizing he’s not thirty anymore.” She laughs softly, brushing her hair back. “He was just telling me about the last time you came to Tokyo with him. That must’ve been, what… two years ago now?”

“Three,” Sunghoon corrects, and he’s still smiling, and you hate the way that smile of his hits you like a punch. It’s easy. Soft. Effortless. Familiar. Too familiar and not familiar all at once.

Sooha laughs again. “God, I remember that trip too,” she touches his arm lightly as she says it, her fingers just barely grazing the fabric of his sleeve, like she has every right to. “You and my brother got into that ridiculous argument over dinner—what was it even about again?”

Sunghoon didn’t pull away from her touch.

“I just remember getting very drunk, to be honest,” he says, a small grin tugging at his mouth as he shakes his head. “Your brother wouldn’t let it go for days.”

“And he still refuses to tell me what you’d rambled about that night!” she laughs again, and you almost scrunch your face to mock her. 

What the hell do you look like just standing here? It just pisses you off even more—obviously because you’re exhausted—and you keep your chin up and let them talk or catch up or whatever… this was. 

You’re just tired. That’s all.

Sooha glances at his hand on your waist again before looking back up at him. “No, but seriously, Sunghoon, I’m so happy for the two of you,” she smirks, and you can tell she’s about to say something diabolically passive-aggressive by the look on her face. “Didn’t actually think you had it in you to settle down.”

There it is. 

You can’t help it—your fingers curl around his sleeve and you tug him even closer. You don’t even give a fuck, really. It’s the principle of it—the way she thinks she can talk like that, like she’s the one standing on higher ground. Especially after the day you’ve had.

You smile sweetly at her. “He’s full of surprises,” you say.

You’re fucking tired, you think again. That’s what this was about. No fucking way are you taking this from her, too. Though honestly, maybe you should. Poor girl. Maybe you should let her have it. Let her hold onto whatever scraps she’s grasping for. Because that’s all this is, isn’t it? A sad little reach for something that doesn’t exist anymore. You all left that behind a long time ago.

“Not that surprising, honestly,” Sooha murmurs almost to herself, swirling the champagne in her glass.

Just about why was she still here, exactly? 

It’s hard to tell if she meant that as a compliment or a dig, but at this point you don’t care enough to figure it out. Your head is pounding, your toe’s throbbing in your heel, and you’ve been so good all fucking day. 

You’re allowed one slip.

“Ah—we have a busy night ahead,” you coo softly, turning to Sunghoon. “We should get going. Haven’t even had the chance to freshen up upstairs yet, right, Hoonie?”

The nickname drips from your tongue like venom dressed as sugar, and it takes everything in you not to burst out in laughter at the way Sooha’s expression twists—and just how silly you actually felt—and you feel Sunghoon tense beside you.

You turn to look at him and he’s already looking at you like he’s trying to figure something out.

He licks his lips. “Right,” he says and smiles mockingly at you—which, to Sooha might seem genuine, but you know it too well to mistake it for anything sweet—then his eyes flick over to Sooha and he tips his head towards you, “She gets cranky if I keep her waiting too long,” then he looks back at you. “Wouldn’t want that, would we, sweetheart?”

Piece of shit. (To be fair—again—you started it.)

You turn back to see Sooha’s smile gone entirely as her eyes flicker between the two of you. A win is a win.

“Of course,” she says, stepping back. “Don’t let me keep you. It was… nice seeing you both.”

You hum, lips curving into a tight smile. “Oh, it was so nice seeing you.”

Sunghoon nods once, gaze flicking between the two of you. “I’m sure I’ll see him later—but send your father my regards,” he says. “It was good seeing you.”

Sooha reaches out again, resting her hand on his arm—slower this time. “You too. Really.” Then her eyes cut back to you and her smile is syrupy-sweet and all too fake. “Enjoy the rest of your night, Y/N.”

This time, Sunghoon shifts away from her touch.

You mirror her smile and take a sip from your champagne. “Oh, we will.”

The second Sooha turns her back and disappears into the crowd, you move without thinking. You grab Sunghoon’s hand where it’s still resting at your waist—and this time, you don’t care who’s watching—and shove it off.

He barely flinches, but when you look up at him, his expression is… unpleasant. His nostrils flare once, and you can tell he’s pissed. 

Good. That makes two of you.

Though pissed doesn’t even begin to cover how you’re feeling right now.

“Don’t ever,” you start, voice just low enough for only him to hear, “fucking touch me again.”

You don’t wait for a response. You just turn on your heel and start walking. You can hear him follow almost immediately, his shoes clicking against the marble floor just behind yours.

“Y/N,” he says roughly.

You don’t turn around. You don’t even slow down. You just keep walking.

“Y/N.”

This time it comes out even sharper, and you’re just about to turn and tell him to fuck off when a voice distracts you again—though this time it’s the hotel director, and he’s coming toward you.

“Ah! There you two are! Mr. Park, Miss Y/L/N—everything’s been arranged upstairs,” the hotel director says as he steps forward, bowing politely with a nervous smile. Ningning is right beside him, tablet in hand, eyes darting between you and Sunghoon. “The staff will begin closing preparations here soon, so you’re welcome to head up and rest before the event. We’ll notify you once the final checks are complete and preparations start—we will be on standby should you need any assistance in the meantime.”

Ningning smiles and adds quickly. “The event starts in five hours, so you’ll have some time to rest before then and before the photographers arrive.”

You force a small smile that doesn’t touch your eyes. “Perfect,” you say. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” The director bows slightly, then gestures toward the elevators. “Please—this way.”

HOTEL ROOM

The suite is bright and cold and perfect.

Of course it was. Everything under the Park name always was. 

Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the city, the skyline glinting beneath the faint layer of rain that had started to fall. There was a long couch by the window, beige and perfectly arranged. A tray on the desk held a bottle of champagne in ice, with two glasses neatly and beautifully placed next to it like it was waiting for someone to celebrate something worth celebrating, and a folded card with Park Group’s crest embossed in gold.

And then there was the bed.

It looks like a goddamn honeymoon spread. Ridiculous rose petals are carefully scattered — though still elegant and simple — across the blanket, and there are two perfectly folded robes waiting on the armchair.

You can almost hear the universe laughing at you.

You stood still for a second. “There’s one fucking bed,” you huff to no one in particular.

Sunghoon barely glances at you. “Yeah?” He sounds bored. “So?”

What the hell does he mean by that? So? So?

You glance at the couch by the window. It’s long, sure, but not long enough for a man his size. A part of you almost wants to tell him to enjoy breaking his neck trying to fit on it.

You scoff. “So, you’re sleeping on the couch.”

He follows your gaze. He seems to have come to the same conclusion as you, because he lets out a short, humorless laugh. “No, I’m not.”

“You are,” you snap.

“I’m not.”

You ignore him and walk over to the bed, staring at the stupid petals lined up on it. “Actually, no, forget it. I’m getting another room.” You turn toward the door again, because there’s no way in hell you’re sleeping on that bed in the same fucking room as him. “You can enjoy your lover’s suite or whatever the hell this is—”

“And how the fuck do you think that’s gonna look?” he cuts you off. 

You turn around with your brows furrowed. “Like I want another fucking room!”

He leans against the desk and rolls his sleeves up. “You really think you can walk up to the front desk and ask for another room when half the staff already thinks we’re married, Mrs. Park?” He tilts his head, voice low, and you flinch at the way he called you that. “You want that story getting around before they’ve even finished setting up the ballroom downstairs for tonight? Huh?”

“I don’t care how it looks,” you sneer. “And don’t call me that.”

He huffs a small laugh. “Yeah. You say that now.”

See, the thing is, you wanted to argue. You really did. But you couldn’t. Because you knew he was right. And you obviously weren’t going to get another room… you just— you just… you don’t know anything anymore.

You swallow back the first response that comes to mind. But then you remember you don’t have to pretend anymore. 

“You’re such a dick,” you mutter.

He hums. “You’ve said that before.”

“Yeah, well,” you shoot back, "I'll say it again. And again. And again. You’re a dick.” you glance at the bed again and then point to the left side of it. “You’re a fucking dick, and you’re staying on your side of the fucking room.”

He lifts a brow. “Wasn’t planning otherwise.”

“Good,” you bite.

“Great,” he huffs back.

Then he shrugs off his jacket, and the mattress dips under his weight as he sits down on the bed—the petals shifting slightly where he leans back on his hands.

You stand there for another few seconds, watching him, and then you raise a brow.

The hell is he playing at?

“Get the fuck out,” you hiss.

Sunghoon groans and drags a hand down his face. “Jesus fucking Christ, will you just shut up for one second?”

“I’m serious,” you say, “Get the fuck out of this room.”

He looks up at you slowly, like you’re being ridiculous. “I’m not getting out.”

Your nostrils flare. “I’m not joking, Sunghoon.”

He clicks his tongue. “Think I’m joking?”

“Unbelievable,” you mutter under your breath, pacing a few steps away just so you don’t throw something at him. You stop by the window, breathing hard, trying to remember the last time you didn’t feel like you were about to explode. Then you turn back to him. “I want to shower.”

He finally looks up properly, an eyebrow raised. “So?”

“So?” you mock him. “So! stop saying so, you bitch! so get the fuck out, that’s what! You’ve lost your damn mind if you think I’m showering with you in here.”

He grins faintly. It’s nothing short of twisted. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

You let out a sharp laugh that doesn’t sound like one at all. “Oh, go fuck yourself. Do you think this is funny?”

He finally looks at you properly then—really looks. His head tilts, eyes narrowing a fraction, voice calm in that infuriating way of his. “I think you’re losing your shit over a hotel room.”

Oh, okay.

You feel something in you start to snap — that thin thread you’d been holding onto all day, through the flight, through the car ride over here, through Sooha and her smug little smile, the exhaustion, the demeaning conversations, the pretending, and the way he gets under your skin so easily. The whole fucking day. The whole fucking year. 

It all spills out at once. 

“Over a hotel room?” you repeat, disbelief twisting your mouth into something that’s not quite a smile. “You—” you take a step closer, jabbing a finger toward him, “—don’t get to tell me what I’m losing my shit over, do you fucking understand? you have no idea how I’m fucking feeling—you’re just—” You stop, breath catching halfway through, hands trembling at your sides. “You’re just—”

He rises slowly from the bed, and that stupid, unreadable expression drops from his face. He’s looking at you now, properly looking, and it’s infuriating—because he’s looking over your shoulder like he’s bored.

“Go on,” he says quietly, and the calm in his voice is the kind that makes your teeth grind. “Finish it.”

“Forget it.”

He takes a step closer. “No. Say it.”

Your pulse thuds in your throat. “I said forget it.”

Another step. He is close enough that you can see the faint line where he pins his tongue to the roof of his mouth when he thinks. “You don’t get to start and not finish,” he says.

His face is so blank, so infuriatingly composed. That smug, patronizing calm of his. That same look he wears when he thinks he’s right. You feel heat rush up your neck. You want to scream. You want to slap it off his fucking face.

“You think I’m losing my shit over a hotel room?” you say, voice rising. “You think this is about a fucking bed?” you shove him very hard then, and the contact jolts through your arm. “You want me to fucking finish it?” you spit. “Fine. I’ll fucking finish it.”

You don’t even give him time to react.

“I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be in this room with you. I don’t want to be doing this fake—whatever the fuck this is. I don’t want any of it. I don’t want to keep pretending like everything’s fine when I feel like I’m losing my mind every time you so much as look at me!”

He shakes his head and clicks his tongue, and for a second he looks almost bored.

Then he gestures with the faintest lift of his chin at the bed, at the ridiculous petals, at the robes folded like an invitation. “You think I wanted to do this?” he snaps, and the vein in his neck ticks. “You think I signed up for this bullshit so I could spend a weekend in a honeymoon suite getting bitched at every ten seconds?”

“I don’t give a fuck what you want and don’t want,” you bite back, and your throat burns. You don’t even know if you’re making sense anymore, but the words keep coming, tumbling out before you can stop them, then you jab a finger at him, “And you shut the fuck up. I’m talking.”

He clenches his jaw. “Don’t fucking tell me to shut up.”

“I just did,” you scowl. “Shut. Up.”

“Y/N,” he warns.

You step forward, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Shut up.” Another jab. “Shut up.” One more, harder this time. “Shut. Up.”

“Stop it—”

“No, you stop it!” you snap, and it’s even louder.  “I’m so tired of pretending! And it’s only… This is our first fucking bullshit trip together! I don’t want to sit next to you and smile and act like everything’s fine when it’s not. I don’t want to do it anymore. Today was… Do you have any idea what it’s like to walk into a room and feel people sizing you up like you’re not even a person?”

You press your palms flat to your thighs because you cannot keep your hands still. “I don’t want to step inside a room where I feel so fucking uncomfortable I can’t even breathe. Where people look at me like I’m just a body to stand beside you. Like I’m not—” Your voice shakes, and you force the last word out. “Like I’m not me.”

For a second, all you can hear is the sound of your own heartbeat.

He closes his eyes for a fraction of a second, and when he opens them there is an expression you have only seen a few times before—an unimpressed amusement that looks exactly like someone watching a child have a tantrum. It makes something ugly crawl under your skin all the more.

“Done?”

You stare at him, shaking. You can’t tell if you want to laugh or scream. You let out a sound that’s somewhere in between, shaking your head because—really? That’s still all he has to say?

You shove him again without thinking. This time you put everything into it and he actually really stumbles back and his foot catches on the edge of the rug. He blinks—looks surprised—then annoyed, then the annoyance melts into something small and close to a smile that he poorly tries to hide.

“You’re such a fucking dick,” you spit, chest heaving. 

His voice drops to a whisper so low you almost miss it. “You’re so angry you don’t even know what you’re angry at anymore.”

You glare at him.

“You.”

A beat passes.

“You. Always you,” you huff.

“Then get it out of your system,” he says. 

You scoff. “What?”

“All of it,” he shrugs, tone maddeningly calm. “Say everything else. Go on. There’s more.” 

For a moment you wonder if he’s fucking serious, and anger floods you again, hotter and more precise—and your hands ball into fists so hard your knuckles whiten. Your nails dig into your palms and the sting grounds you for a moment. 

“You’re not worth the fucking breath anymore,” you snap, because if you keep going, you’re going to spiral, and you know it, and if you spiral, you’re going to do something very fucking stupid, and you can’t—

“Oh, really?” he cuts in quietly. “That why you played house so well downstairs? Acting like some clingy little girlfriend in front of—”

“Acting!” You cut in before he can finish. “Yes! Acting!” You shove him—hard, all over again—because you can’t stand his face for another second. He barely stumbles this time, and it pisses you off even more. “Because I have to act! You said it yourself—we have to keep up appearances. We have to sell the fucking story.”

You can hear yourself getting louder, but you can’t stop. “But the second it’s not some old man eyeing me like he wants to fuck me—” you jab a shaking finger into his chest, “—the second your dick gets wet, I’m wrong? That’s where you draw the line? Why the fuck are you angry?”

“Maybe I am angry,” he spits. “Maybe I’m fucking furious. Maybe I want to shake you until you get it through your thick skull that none of this matters. That none of them matter. That you—” He stops, veins ticking in his neck. “God, you make me so fucking mad.”

Before you can shove him again, he grabs your wrists—both hands locking around them tight. The sound that leaves you isn’t quite a gasp, not quite a curse, just something raw that dies halfway in your throat. You look down at his hands around your wrists, then up at him. 

And it’s stupid how close you are. 

And it’s even more stupid how the room instantly shrinks down to the two of you and the rain and the stupid spread of rose petals on a bed neither of you will sleep on, and a simmering heat pooling in your chest since God knows when.

You can feel his breath. You can feel your pulse in your throat and in your wrists and under your skin, pounding loud and fast. And for one dizzy second, you can’t tell if you want to hit him or just—

You want to. God, you want to—

You wrench your hands out of his grip and reach for his shirt. He startles, glancing down at your fingers fumbling at the first button, then back at you with his brows knit together.

His eyes drop to your hand, then back up to your face. “What the fuck are you doing? Stop—”

“Shut up,” you hiss, still pulling at the button. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Y/N—”

“Shut up.”

He grabs your wrist again, tighter this time, like he’s trying to get control of the situation before it slips entirely out of his hands, but you’re done playing this game by halves, and you don’t stop. You yank back, teeth clenched, and the button snaps clean off and hits the floor somewhere between you.

“You don’t want this,” he says.

You don’t think. You just try to move. 

You twist out of his hold completely. “Don’t fucking tell me what I want.”

And before he can say anything, before he can do that thing he always does where he looks at you with that goddamn expression like you’re a child losing control, your hands move again and you grab at the rest of the buttons and RIIIIIIIPPPP—the fabric splits under your hands, buttons flying across the carpet. His shirt hangs open, his chest rising hard under the mess of it, and your hands are still trembling where they hover between you.

You grab the shirt again, this time just to hold on to something, but he moves faster and grabs you back — both hands wrapping around your arms and holding you in place.

And then he pushes you.

Not gently, not playfully, not like he’s teasing—no. He drives you back with force, and your shoulders hit the wall behind you, a thud echoing through the room as you suck in a breath and gasp from the impact—and you just stare at him, and the way he’s looking at you now with his gaze so dark and unreadable feeds into something simmering low and hungry in your chest. 

His eyes drag down once, taking in his shirt and your furious expression, and then back up to your face. 

He clicks his tongue and his voice drops just enough to make your skin crawl. “Fucking brat.” 

His breath fans hot across your skin. “Go shower,” he mutters after a beat, and his grip loosens on you. “We’re done here.”

Done? Right.

You breathe out a bitter, humorless laugh, because you just can’t help it. Your whole body feels like it’s about to snap in half from the tension. “What?” you push, and his own words tumble out of your mouth before you can think better of it. “Afraid to blow off some fucking steam? Think it might mean something?”

He exhales hard and finally lets go of you, and his jaw is clenched, and it looks like he’s trying not to say something he’ll regret. You can hardly breathe anymore, but you laugh again — lower this time, and you shake your head.

“You’re so fucking soft and pathetic.” you huff, “Go then. Get the fuck out.”

That’s when it happens. 

His whole face stills. His expression doesn’t change right away, not completely — just a flicker of something in his eyes, something dark and dangerous, and then everything in him shifts. 

His gaze drops to your lips again, but this time slower. Then to your throat. And then his own bare chest where his ruined shirt still hangs open.

He looks back up at you and you don’t even give him a second to think about it (like everything else that has happened in the last few minutes); (you don’t even think of it yourself, really.) 

You just want somewhere to put all of this anger—you just need—

You grab a full fistful of his hair roughly and yank him closer, dragging his mouth down toward yours like you’re daring him to do something, anything, just react, just stop pretending he doesn’t want to tear this entire room down.

But he doesn’t kiss you.

He grabs your face and keeps you from moving another inch.

He cups your cheeks, fingers splayed wide, firm but careful—careful like he’s trying not to hurt you or something and it only makes you angrier, more desperate, because he always does this, always pulls back right when you need him to break.

He holds you there and keeps you still, staring at you, and your breathing is uneven while his chest is also rising fast—his hand tightening a little where it cradles your jaw. 

Your lips are so close they’re practically touching. 

You could lean in the smallest bit and close the distance. 

You could ruin everything.

So you do.

You lean in — you’re right there, so close you can feel his hot breath — but before you can actually close the distance, his grip on your jaw tightens even further, and he stops you with nothing more than that — his fingers pressing into your cheeks, his thumb under your chin, forcing you to look at him. You can feel the tremor in his hand as his gaze burns into you, and for a second neither of you move.

Then—

You don’t even know who moves first. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it was both of you at the same time… But suddenly—

You’re kissing.

It’s not sweet. It’s not soft. No, it’s anything but soft. It’s not the kind of kiss you ease into slowly. It crashes into you like a fucking truck, all teeth and breath and heat and hands. His mouth slants over yours like he’s trying to prove something, and you kiss him back like it’s the last goddamn thing you’ll ever do. Your hands go to his shoulders, his neck, his arm, and his chest—clawing, grabbing, grounding. His hands drop to your waist and he pulls you closer, his fingers twitching and splaying out across you like he doesn’t know what to hold onto first.

You gasp into him and he groans against your mouth—a filthy sound that vibrates through your whole body, and it only makes you want more. His teeth graze your bottom lip, and then you nip back at his—harder, and he just groans again and pushes you harder into the wall.

It’s too much.

And not even close to being enough.

You tug at his hair and drag his head back with your grip so he’s forced to look at you, and his eyes are heavy-lidded and hungry. His chest heaves once, twice, and for a split second, neither of you move as you look at each other through your heavy breathing… It’s all so… The way he looks… His mouth is parted, his breath is hot, and he’s staring at you like he’s about to do something stupid.

So he kisses you again, and somehow, it’s messier than the first.

It’s even rougher, more desperate, and you’re barely holding yourself upright with how fast it’s all happening, hands roughly clawing at his shoulders to stay grounded again, to keep him close, pull him in closer until you’re practically one, and then suddenly he’s also properly grabbing you. His hands slide down your waist — rough and very fast — until he grips the backs of your thighs, then your ass, and he hoists you up like you weigh absolutely nothing. Your back hits the wall again—harder this time, and you wrap your legs around him to lock him in place.

You’re not thinking.

You moan into his mouth before you can stop yourself, the sound sharp and high and embarrassingly fucking loud—and he responds with a groan so deep in his chest it rumbles through both of you.

“Fucking slut,” he groans against your mouth, “Couldn’t even hold this in, huh?” His hand shifts lower and grips tighter at your thigh—hard enough to make you hiss out of pain—and his lips brush messily along your jaw, right up to your ear. “We just got into the fucking room. This what all that was about? The screaming, the shoving, the bullshit? You’re needy?”

“Shut the fuck up,” you pant, and drag his hair again and pulling him in until his mouth is on yours again. “Stop talking.”

You bite down on his bottom lip hard enough to make him grunt, and you feel the sound vibrate through his chest and into your mouth—so rough and low and so fucking good you want to do it again and again and again. Then he pulls back just a few inches and his lip is still caught in between your teeth—and you drag it out slowly until he shoves you back and slips it free.

“No. You stop talking. You’re fucking done with your cute little attempts of telling me what to do,” he growls. “You listen to me now.”

You’re not proud of it, but you actually almost moan at the sound of his voice when he says it and how he says it. It’s like… you almost feel giddy? What the fuck is happening?

And fuck… he looks infuriatingly fucking good like this. Face flushed. Hair absolutely ruined from your hands. Muscular chest rising hard beneath the wreck of his open shirt. His lips are so, so red and wet.

You manage to slide (well, not exactly slide… really, you shoved it off very hard) his shirt off before he can stop you, your hands rough and clumsy, pulling it down his shoulders until the fabric slips off completely and lands somewhere on the floor. His skin is hot under your palms—chest muscular and bare—and you barely have a second to breathe before you’re reaching (or trying) for his belt even quicker, angry fingers.

But before you can properly even touch it, he drops you and you yelp.

His fingers wrap around your wrists and he shoves them up above your head, pressing them flat against the wall.

“You really think you get to do that?” he practically growls. His grip tightens when you try to wiggle free. “Think you can touch me whenever you want?”

You whine—terribly frustrated because your body is lit up and aching and you don’t know what to do with all of it. “Just take your fucking clothes off,” you snap, and it comes out almost like a plea, but you refuse to let it sound like one, so you quickly add, “Don’t be fucking boring. You know what I want.”

He laughs under his breath. “Ask nicely,” he whispers, slow and taunting. “And I’ll think about it. Think.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. You just want to get fucked.

“Don’t fucking start this bullshit with me again.” You try to yank your wrists down, but he’s stronger and you know it and that only makes you angrier and hornier. “I swear to god, Sunghoon, if you turn this into some stupid power trip—”

He cuts in with a low laugh. “Power trip?” His breath brushes your mouth just enough to make you chase his lips without meaning to. “You think you’ve had a single second of control since you walked in here? Since anything?”

You don’t say anything. Can’t, really. 

He leans even closer—lips hovering just shy of yours—eyes half-lidded. “Go on then,” he murmurs. “Keep talking. You like running that mouth? Use it properly. Let’s see if you can still talk when I’m done with you.”

It’s kind of embarrassing how close you are to whimpering, how your whole body is already leaning toward him like you’ve forgotten how to stand on your own. Every inch of you feels wired, hot, and restless—your pulse loud in your ears—and the thought of him finally touching you just makes it worse.

“You’re all talk,” you finally bite out and click your tongue. “You’re gonna bore me to death before you even manage to make me come or something.”

His jaw twitches. “Say that again.”

You roll your eyes, tilt your chin up, and let your head fall back against the wall just enough to look up at him through your lashes, so careless and cocky you can see the way it sets him off even before you open your mouth. “Oh my god,” you scoff. “See? All talk again. You actually are gonna bore me to death before you—”

It happens so fast you don’t even finish the sentence.

He releases your wrists and grabs your face with both hands in one fluid, rough movement — fingers digging into your jaw, forcing your head to tilt the way he wants it, and then he’s on you — mouth dragging down, and then lower — finding the curve of your neck with his lips parted and breath ragged. And then he bites your fucking neck hard enough to make your knees buckle, and everything inside you short-circuits like someone pulled a plug. 

“You asshole—” your moan punches right out of your throat before you can stop it and your body arches into him; then he bites you again and you rake your nails down across his back hard enough to make him hiss—shit—against your throat. “Fuck!”

His mouth is all over your neck now, sucking and biting and mouthing wet and sloppy trails with his tongue so slowly and messily. And you… you’re not thinking. You’re dizzy with how much you want to feel something—with how hot your skin feels where he just bit you (and how good it felt, and how you want him to keep doing it; but you’d never tell him that.) Most of all you’re dizzy with the ache that’s been clawing at your chest and your stomach and between your legs since the second you stepped into this room—or maybe even longer than you’d want to admit.

You grind up against him without thinking just to feel him. And he’s so fucking hard against your center—thick and once again, unmistakably large through both your clothes. You just want to feel it. Anything. Him. You move again, slower this time, dragging your hip against his cock in his pants just enough to make him groan low in his chest.

But then he stops and pushes you back, and he places his hand flat against your stomach and holds you right there against the wall.

He leans in—mouth brushing your collarbone—and his tongue flicks over the mark he just made. Then he licks slower, up the side of your throat, and murmurs against your skin.

“The more you try to rush this, the longer I’m going to make you wait.”

His tongue drags higher, tracing your jaw, and you actually have to fight the urge not to moan (when he hasn’t even touched you) — because you don’t want to give him the satisfaction — then his lips hover just beneath your ear. “You want it?” He nips at your ear. “Then fucking beg for it. Otherwise, I’m going to spend this whole trip making you wish you had.”

Is he out of his fucking mind? Cause you definitely are. Your thighs clench around nothing and it’s almost humiliating how fast you try to move again and chase the feeling, but he presses you firmer against the wall like he already knew you’d try.

“Tsk,” he groans. His hand is still gripping your jaw, the other sliding down your side to your hip, holding you still. “Keep doing that and you’re gonna regret it.”

“Maybe I don’t care.”

His thumb digs into your hip. “Yeah?” he huffs. “You don’t care?”

You shake your head and shrug. “No.”

You can feel the smile in his voice, feel it when he licks a slow stripe up your neck and hums against your skin. “Fine. You wanna grind like a needy little bitch? Go ahead. Just know every second you do, I’m keeping score.”

He adds, “So be a good girl and answer me, hmm? What do you want?”

Then—you huff a laugh and manage to shove him back a step, just enough to get a sliver of space. 

He doesn’t even get to blink before you’re yanking your top off over your head and letting it drop to the floor, standing there in your bra and skirt, flushed and breathless and entirely too horny to back down. “Is this an answer for you?”

His eyes drop to your chest—to the curve of your breasts spilling over the black lace bra you’re wearing—and you don’t miss the way his jaw clenches. Then you start sliding one strap off your shoulder slowly, just to see how far you can push him. (Apparently, not far, because he immediately steps in and grabs your wrist hard enough you feel it to your bones.)

You grin at him. “Either fuck me right now, or I’ll go lock myself in that shower and make you listen while I finger myself.” 

His nostrils flare. “You think I’d let you?”

You shrug and bring your other hand up to pull the other strap off just as slowly. “Guess you better stop me, then.”

That’s all it takes.

He grabs your ass and lifts you up so fast you gasp and wrap your legs around his waist—and you dig your nails right into his muscular bicep. He’s so fucking strong, every muscle in his arms straining as he holds you up and presses you into him, and for a second you can’t even think about anything except how stupidly massive his arm is—how you want to lick a line down it bite, suck, leave bruises just to see if it actually leaves a mark on him—but you wouldn’t tell him that, not ever.

You squeeze tighter with your thighs, your hands clutching his bicep just to feel the way it bulges beneath your fingers, and you actually feel insane. You roll your hips right against the head of his cock from where he’s holding you up, and then he laughs lowly under his breath and mutters. “That’s three,” then he slaps your ass so hard you jolt.

“Fucking bitch!” you yelp in pain, and then with one hand—while still holding you up—he finds your bra clasp, flicks it open with ease, and throws you onto the bed. You land hard—so hard your breath gets knocked out of you—and then he crawls up onto the mattress slowly, the way a predator stalks prey. 

He stops and kneels between your thighs, then he slides the bra down your arms slowly, and just watches your breasts spill out—heavy and so flushed—and you catch his gaze right as his lips part and he flicks his tongue out to wet them, hungry and desperate like he’s actually losing his mind or something. Good. You were too.

He just stares for a second, and you swear you see his cock twitch against his pants.

“Fuck,” he breathes, almost to himself — then he licks his lips again as he takes you in longer. “Could just fuck your tits alone.”

Your mouth waters at the thought, and a shiver may or may not have just rolled down your spine. You don’t want to admit that.

You keep your chin up and try to act like you’re not picturing having his cock between your tits right now. “And what do I get out of that exactly? You get to get off, but I don’t. What’s in it for me?”

You’re still catching your breath when he smirks and bends his head down. Then—before you can even process it—he opens his mouth and spits. It lands right between your tits, and you don’t have time to say a word before his tongue is there, licking it up and spreading it—wet and messy and oh so loud, tongue circling your nipples until you whine. “You get to be my whiny little fucktoy; that’s what you get,” he says around your nipple.

Then he lifts his head and grabs both of your tits in his hands, pushes them together and stares at them for a moment, before he leans down again and—

He bites the swell of your breast so fucking hard you don’t recognize the sound of your own voice when you scream.

“Ahh—SHIT!” you cry out despite how badly you don’t want to react, and you arch your back and shove your chest deeper into his mouth. The feeling of his teeth on your breasts while he circles your nipples with his fingers is so sharp and dizzying and so new you almost get mad all over again, because it’s him making you feel this good—and because you never want him to stop. 

But he stops.

He looks up at you, and his other hand comes up just to slap your tits, one after the other. “You like that? Huh?”

Well, obviously you did. But were you gonna make it easy for him? No.

So you don’t say anything—instead, you reach down to grip his wrist, or something—grinding your hips up into him like you’re about to lose your mind. 

He clicks his tongue and presses into you to still you, but you feel his cock against the fabric of his pants, and you moan. “That’s four,” he mutters.

Then he’s on your tits again — He takes one nipple in his mouth and sucks on it harshly and lets go with a wet pop — then he trails his mouth lower, and starts licking a filthy path down your stomach. His tongue drags over your belly button, lower and lower, never breaking eye contact. When he reaches the waistband of your skirt, he pauses, glances up with that stupid cocky smirk of his, and then hooks his fingers in the fabric and pulls it down excruciatingly slowly. 

When he finally gets it off, he tosses it aside, and now you’re left in nothing but your tiny black lace panties. 

For one blinking second — just one — you realize what you’re doing. And who you’re doing it with. But just as fast, you shove the thought down, and for the first time you actually succeed in doing so.

You get to feel good. That’s all. 

None of this means anything.

“Now,” His thumb brushes teasingly along the waistband of your panties, and his voice drops low and filthy. “Be a good girl and tell me what you want.”

You think of a hundred different snarky things to say, maybe even get up and spit in his face, but instead you just stare at him and bite your lip. 

He arches a brow, and his fingers drag lazy little circles over the damp lace of your panties. “Come on, say it. You’ve got such a big fucking mouth; use it for something useful.”

You weigh it in your mind for a second. It being your pride versus the ache to be fucked. Unfortunately for your dignity, the latter wins.

You almost choke on the words. “I want your dick, asshole,” you breathe out.

He grins. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

You’re about to tell him to just shut up and take it out, but then he hooks his fingers under the edge of your panties — nails roughly grazing your skin when he does it — right where your thigh meets the lace, and he doesn’t break eye contact when he leans down, and then—fucking hell—he takes the panties in his teeth and pulls them down, slowly, making sure you see every filthy second of it.

You truly can’t help the way your mouth falls open, and you just stare as he drags them all the way off with his fangs and tosses them away onto the floor.

He sits back for half a second, and for once, he doesn’t say a word. He just looks and lets his gaze devour every slick inch of you—tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip again like he can already taste you. There’s something almost exciting to you in the way he stares—his fists balling in the sheets like he’s holding himself back from just wrecking you right there. 

Then his gaze flicks up to meet yours again, and his mouth twitches into the ghost of a smirk. “Shit.” He almost sounds awed, though his voice is rough and low. “Spread your legs for me. Let me see you.”

“Just take your fucking pants off,” you demand (it was kind of a whine, to be honest with yourself), even as you slowly spread your legs for him.

He raises a brow again. “Tsk. Just because you finally said what you want doesn’t mean I’ll give it to you,” he cocks his head. “I just wanted to hear you beg. You’re still not doing a good job.”

Before you can say anything, he leans forward and spits right onto your pussy—the wet heat landing right on your clit—and you can’t do anything but watch as he slowly slides a finger between your folds and spreads you open, just to feel how fucking wet you are. “Fuck, you’re soaked,” he mutters, staring between your legs as he drags his own spit up and spreads it lower and into your folds, “I haven’t even touched you properly and you’re already dripping. What, you like running your mouth that much? Huh?

At this point, you’ve stopped trying to hold your moans back. You jerk your hips up, but he presses his other hand down and keeps you still. 

“Didn’t I tell you?” his voice is so low it’s almost a snarl. “The more you grind, the more you try to rush me, the longer you’re gonna wait. You remember the count?”

You try to glare at him. You try. “Fuck off, Sunghoon, just touch me already—”

He slides two fingers over your clit, and then in one quick, ruthless thrust, he pushes one finger deep inside your pussy. Your back arches off the mattress and a strangled scream punches right out of you. “Sunghoon—FUCK.”

“That was five,” he growls, and you don’t even get a second longer to feel it before he pulls his finger right back out, leaving you empty and throbbing. “You just don’t fucking learn, do you?”

He smirks and licks your wetness off his fingers slowly, his tongue dragging along his knuckle in such a cruel way—like he wants you to watch. And you do—God, you do. Your eyes are locked on his mouth as he sucks his own fingers clean and finally lets go with a filthy little pop. Your body actually burns at the sight, so close to the edge that you almost bring your hand down to touch your own clit just to get some relief.

He hovers over you again, his palm sinking deep into the mattress by your head, his body caging yours in completely. You can feel the heat of him, the weight of him, and the way his bicep bulges right by your face, and your mouth waters all over again at the sight. “If you want it that bad, you'd better learn to be patient, sweetheart. Or maybe I’ll just keep counting and see how many times I can get you to fuck yourself on nothing.”

He actually talks too much, you think. You almost miss when men did not even care enough and immediately got to the point.

You scoff, though it’s weaker than you wanted it to be. “Shut up,” you jerk your hips up again and reach up with both hands, grabbing at his shoulders—nails raking down his bicep, trying to pull him in. But he just laughs, pulling back so your fingers catch uselessly in the air.

“Six.”

“You’re a fucking asshole,” you spit, voice shaking from how wound up you are.

“Keep going, brat. I can do this all night,” he tongues his cheek and grins.

All night? Oh, you need it now. 

You push yourself up, and this time, you actually get a good grip on him. You grab his jaw hard and yank his face down to yours, and you kiss him hard.

You bite at his lips just to hear that sharp groan that ripped out of his throat again before — and he tries to pin you down but you’re faster — you slide your hand into his hair and yank it back so you can lick a filthy, wet line down his jaw, your lips finding his throat and sucking hard enough to leave a mark. He groans again, this time even deeper, and you can feel the sound vibrate against your tongue. You moan right back because you’re too fucking needy and frustrated, and you grind yourself against the bulge in his pants one more time. 

You want to make him snap, want to make him lose it, and just fuck you already. 

There’s just no way he can drag this out any longer, right?

He snaps just for a second. 

His grip on your hips tightens, and he presses down, grinding his cock against you, rolling his hips into yours until you both gasp into each other’s mouths, and the friction of his cock pressing up against you feels so fucking good you whimper right into his mouth again. You can feel just how hard he is, and you want more, want all of him—just to feel good, you think—and you dig your nails into his back, dragging them down hard to the point where you think one of your nails may have snapped off.

“Fuck, look at you,” he grits through his teeth, hands digging into your waist as he rolls into you, his cock rubbing against your bare cunt from his pants. “So desperate you’re grinding on my cock like a bitch in heat. Can’t even behave for five fucking seconds. You want to come so bad, you’re going to embarrass yourself like this?”

Your face burns at his words, but you snap back at him because he’s the fucking one being ridiculous. “Maybe if you’d stop being a little bitch and fuck me, I wouldn’t have to embarrass myself. I’m naked and in front of you, and you’re not fucking me, who is the pathetic one?”

He laughs and presses you down even harder. “You want to act like a brat, you get treated like one. I told you, I’m counting. Every time you act up, you’re waiting even longer to get what you want.”

“God, you’re such a fucking tease—”

He pulls your face to his and kisses you messily and deeply, sucking on your tongue until you moan into his mouth. Then he shifts, spreading your thighs and sliding one of his own between them, so you’re straddling him now, his thigh pressed hard against your bare cunt. Then he growls, “Keep grinding, sweetheart. Rub yourself all over me—I’ll let you make a mess on my thigh if you want to be a needy little slut so bad. But that’s all you’ll be getting.”

You ignore him. “I’m saying this one last fucking time. Either fuck me or get the fuck off,” you sneer, barely above a breath. “We don’t have time to be doing all this shit.”

“Time?” he repeats, voice dripping with disbelief. “Time? You think I give a fuck about time?”

His hand slides up your thigh, fingers pressing into your skin, “I could keep you here all fucking night if I wanted. No one’s gonna bother us, cause I could tell them not to. You’re not going anywhere until I decide you can, so you better start behaving, or I’ll drag this out for the next three days if I have to.”

He grinds his thigh up, testing you, eyes dark and daring. “But go on. Tell me again how we don’t have time.”

The way he’s looking at you now, you know he could keep you here under him, pressed into this bed for hours…. And for all your bravado, for all your threats— Yeah. No, actually. What the hell. You like this back and forth. Plus, you’re not about to give him the satisfaction of seeing you break that easily. This is… Sunghoon, after all. 

You shake that thought away again.

So you lean in and run your hand up his chest slowly, fingers dragging across the muscle on his chest until you’re right at his ear. “You wanna know what I think?” you whisper, letting your voice curl into something wicked, just to rile him up, then you go on before he can speak. “I think you’re scared you can’t satisfy me. Maybe you’re stalling because you know you’re all talk.” You pout at him—slide your palm over his chest and pinch his nipple for good measure. “All that control, and for what? You're scared you’ll come before I do? 

The muscle in his jaw tenses so hard, and you almost flinch at the way his gaze darkens, but you keep going because you fucking love seeing him angry. “Y’know, if you ever even get me there.”

That does it.

Finally.

“Have it your fucking way then,” he bites out, and before you can even think of smirking, his hands are on your waist and he’s shoving you back down into the mattress so hard your breath stutters. 

He spreads your thighs wide, pushing your knees up until you’re completely open for him, and then he’s right there—kneeling between your legs.

He drags his hands up your thighs, all the way to your hips, thumbs pressing in so hard it almost hurts, and you whimper and arch up for more. 

“You want to be a brat? Fine. But you’re going to fucking take it. Don’t cry about it,” he growls, then he grabs your thighs, spreads you wider than you thought was possible, and settles lower right between them. His palms slide up, thumbs digging into the soft inside of your thighs until he’s got your legs high up on his shoulders, pressing you flat against the mattress, and when he squeezes the flesh there—so fucking hard you actually scream—he grins.

Then he bites the inside of your thigh—fuck, it’s turning you on so much—and you think that’ll surely be leaving a bruise. 

You want to snap—rile him up even more, some half-formed curse already spilling from your lips—but his head drops and you feel the first hot breath against your cunt. Then he licks up so close to your pussy you almost buck right off the bed.

“Hold still,” he growls, and you feel his fingers flex, pinning your thighs wider, spreading you even more, just so he can stare. “Look at this. All wet and needy, and all for me.”

“Fuck you—” your voice gets lost in a gasp as he suddenly, finally, sucks your clit into his mouth. He’s rough and messy—his grip on your thighs tightening as he alternates between sucking and flicking your clit with his tongue.

The sound that rips out of you is so fucking raw, so insanely filthy and loud, you clap a hand over your own mouth to muffle your moan.

But Sunghoon, of course, isn’t having any of that. 

He stops instantly and lifts his head. “Hands where I can see them,” he snarls, then he catches your wrist with one hand and pins it to the mattress. “Don’t hide those fucking noises from me. I want to hear you fall apart.”

Then he dips his head back down. 

He starts slower this time, licking a thick wet stripe up your slit, teasing at your clit just with the tip of his tongue, breathing hard against your skin. “I could do this all night, keep you right here, legs open, crying on my tongue until you learn how to fucking behave.”

Then he goes faster. Your legs tremble on his shoulders as he licks and sucks and flicks his tongue over your clit until you’re babbling his name over and over again—you’re too high on the feeling of how fucking good it feels to care anymore. 

“Fuck—Don’t stop, you bastard—SUNGHOON—” 

His tongue is swirling and flicking in filthy circles that make you see white behind your eyes, and you feel his nose rub against you every time he moves—and the wetness and the sound of his sucking are so absolutely pornographic they bring you even closer to the edge.

Then—without warning—he pushes two thick fingers inside you all at once, and you clench so tight around him it actually hurts—your body is practically trying to force him out. “Fuck. My fingers barely fucking fit,” he grits out, “Such a tight fucking slut.” 

The stretch is so overwhelming it burns, and you choke on a moan, then try to arch your back off the mattress to try and give yourself some way to adjust — or move away — but he pins you down with one heavy arm thrown over your stomach, holding you in place so you can’t do anything but take it. “Don’t run, brat. Thought you wanted me to touch you?”

God. You can’t be bothered to speak anymore. 

He curls his fingers inside and pumps slowly, then faster, filling you so good it makes your eyes roll back. It’s so fucking thick, Honestly—his two fingers alone are thicker than everything you’ve had in your entire life. You’re not sure if you’re angry about that—but you moan all the same. and his mouth never lets up on your clit, sucking and licking, tongue flicking until your whole body shakes.

You reach down frantically and grab a fistful of his hair very hardly to have something to hold onto—and he groans into your pussy again in response, and the vibration nearly rips you apart. 

You’re so gone, shaking so hard you can barely keep your eyes open. “Sunghoon, shit—” You babble his name because it’s the only thing you can manage despite how badly you don’t want to be saying it, and he licks even harder somehow when he hears the way you moan his name — sucking your clit between his lips and sending vibrations up through your whole body as he hums into it.

“That’s it. Louder. Who’s making you feel this good, huh? Tell me. Say my name.”

You whine, head thrown back, voice breaking, “Shut up—fuck, Sunghoon, it’s you, you fucking bitch—”

You’re clenching around his fingers and soaking his hand, and when he moans into you after you scream his name—it’s so filthy, so hungry—you know you’re about to break apart right there on his tongue.

You’re already too close, and some part of you, the petty stubborn part, thinks for half a second about not giving in, about not letting yourself come just to spite him—but he senses it, the way you try to squirm away from the edge, and he snaps his teeth lightly at your clit in warning. “You try to hold back, and I’ll keep you like this all night.”

You watch as he slips his fingers out and spits on your clit again—making everything slicker and dirtier, and suddenly his mouth is everywhere—tongue pressing flat against your dripping slit. He licks into you, tongue fucking you deep as he groans, the sound low and hungry like he’s the one fucking getting off on it.

He pulls back just enough to breathe, mouth shiny and swollen as he grins and licks his lips. A tiny part of you twists at how devastatingly beautiful he looks like this—hair messy, jaw sharp, face wrecked and flushed, and all of it just from being between your thighs. It almost makes you ache even more, and you’re not sure in which way—and then his thumb finds your clit, rubbing rough, furious circles over it, so aggressive you jolt under the touch.

Then he plunges his fingers back inside you, and your hips buck out at how deep they are and how badly they stretch you. You can barely even fucking take two of his fingers. 

“Asshole—fuck, slow down, I’m gonna—” You can barely even speak. 

He hums, low and taunting, not stopping for a second. “You’re gonna what? Come all over my mouth? Yeah, that’s the fucking point.”

You’re so close, so fucking close so fast, and he only just started; it’d be embarrassing if you weren’t so fucked out right now. You just grind up onto his face and scream, and he keeps pumping his fingers, faster, harder, mouth never letting up, tongue punishing your clit while his nose brushes right into it too, until you finally snap. 

You shut your eyes so hard it genuinely hurts—and you scream so loud you think that the whole world could hear you—let alone the entire fucking hotel. Your body spasms and your cunt clenches tightly around his fingers, soaking his hand and mouth completely.

But he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even say anything.

He just keeps sucking, keeps fucking you with his fingers, lapping up everything you give him, and groaning into you obscenely.

You manage to shove at his head; you feel so fucking sensitive it hurts, even though it feels so good. “Are you crazy—stop, fuck, I can’t—”

He lifts his head just for a second, and the asshole fucking grins, lips and chin shiny with your slick, while his fingers rub aggressively over your overstimulated clit. You’re not sure how you’re looking at him right now.

“You can take it. You can take all of it. You wanted to come, No? You’re gonna come again and again until I say you’re done.” His mouth latches to your clit again, even rougher—while his fingers go so deep it makes your vision go black at the edges. 

The stretch, the heat, the filth pouring from his mouth, the way he keeps fucking his fingers into you, the way he just made you fucking come in under a minute—your head spins, and somewhere inside you, despite the fact that you can barely even think, you still manage to wonder, where the fuck did he learn to do this?

You can’t even get words out anymore—just broken, desperate moans and halfway curses as he pumps his fingers in and out. You feel your body seize, your legs shaking so bad your calf cramps up, but you can’t stop, can’t breathe, and you’re—fuck, fuck—you’re fucking coming again— 

“Look at me. Look at me when you come.”

You shake your head, eyes squeezed shut, half sobbing. “I can’t, fuck, I can’t—Sunghoon, I fucking hate you—”

“Yeah? Good,” he huffs and shoves his fingers even deeper, curling them up so you scream. “Say it again.”

You gasp for breath, the pleasure burning through you so hard you feel like you might break apart right there. “I hate you—” it rips out of your throat, high and ragged, your whole body trembling as his fingers curl deep and hit that perfect spot so hard your back arches right off the bed, making you see white. You can barely hold on; you’re clenching around him so tight your muscles ache.

“Again. Louder. Scream it for me.”

Your back arches off the bed, hands fisting aggressively in the sheets, and you scream it so loud you’re past the point of caring who hears, “I fucking hate you, Sunghoon—fuuuuuckkkk—I HATE YOU.” The words stutter out, twisted in a sob as you come again, cunt spasming around his fingers.

You barely know where you are, your vision still flickering at the edges, and every inch of your skin burning under his touch. Your thighs are trembling, slick and sticky and bitten and bruised, and his hand is still between your legs—thumb rubbing lazy circles over your clit. 

It makes you twitch, makes your hips jerk away, too much—you’re so fucking sensitive you feel like you’re about to die. And you love it.

Then—

Sunghoon leans in and grabs your jaw hard enough—and you have to force yourself to look at him—even while your gaze is all glassy and unfocused.

“Satisfied?” he purrs.

Asshole.

You try to smirk, try to sass him, but your voice is ruined, so raw and thin it’s barely there when you speak. “You wish. Could barely even feel it—”

He cuts you off by shoving his slick fingers into your mouth, filling it until you have to choke around them. “Tsk. You never were a good liar,” he hisses. “Open wider,” he commands, and you immediately obey because you can’t even think straight with him hovering over you like this—you slightly choke, but you suck on his fingers anyway and glare up at him while he watches, eyes dark as sin. You taste yourself and you moan around his fingers, and his mouth drops slightly open at the sight, and he pants and forces them deeper. “Good fucking girl.”

He finally lets go of your face and sits back on his heels.

Then he looks at you.

“Show me how you touch yourself,” he says. “Now.”

You blink, still dazed, a little defiant—because fuck him, you’re not some performing doll—and he notices the hesitation and grabs your wrist and presses your hand down right on your clit.

He raised a brow. “Don’t make me wait. You were so eager before, bragging about how you’d finger yourself and make me listen. Do it now. I want to see.”

You want to laugh in his face.

Instead, your fingers ghost over your clit, and everything is so sensitive it almost hurts. You try to pull away to spite him, but he grabs your hand and makes you rub slow, torturous circles.

“Go on. Just like that—If you stop, I’ll leave,” he mocks, dragging his words out just to taunt you. “I’ll go fuck my own fist in the shower, let you listen to me, and you’ll have to touch yourself and think about how you can’t take my cock anyway.”

“You’re fucking sick,” you manage—voice hoarse, but you don’t stop. You’re entirely past the point of feeling any sort of shame or whatever, so you grind down into your palm.

He shrugs. “You want me to fuck you? Then you do what I say. It’s not that hard.”

And then—finally—he reaches down, the leather of his belt hissing as he unbuckles it. He takes his pants off slowly, and you can’t help but stare. The outline of his cock is straining so hard against the fabric of his boxers that it looks painful, the head leaking through—your mouth waters at the sight.

He shoves his boxers down just enough to free himself, and when he pulls it out, you genuinely forget how to breathe for a moment. 

God—you’ve felt him before, you knew he was big, but actually seeing it… It’s ridiculous, really.

It’s angry red at the tip, flushed all the way up, with big veins throbbing up the shaft, the head slick with precum to the point where it’s actually dripping and swollen; and it hurts your clit to look at. Your pussy clenches just at the sight, and you rub faster circles into your clit unashamedly as you watch the way he adjusts himself in his hand.

And shit—his hand… his hands have always been big—cartoonishly big, stupidly strong, the kind of hands that make you feel small just by being near them. You’ve seen his hands look ridiculously large while wrapped around a steering wheel, a beer bottle, or even your wrists. But now, for the first time, his hand actually looks…normal while it’s wrapped around his cock. Almost small. That ridiculous length and girth… You almost can’t believe it.

For a second, you’re genuinely worried it won’t even fit. It’s so long, so fucking thick, you can barely wrap your head around it. You could barely take his fingers, how the fuck—then, you see the half smirk on his face as he’s eyeing you through his half-lidded eyes.

You’re not about to give him the satisfaction. 

“I’ve had bigger,” you sneer, though with the way you’re clenching around nothing and how desperately you’re touching your sensitive self… yeah. Obviously, you’re fucking lying.

He just laughs lowly and spreads his precum all over the head of his cock with his thumb. 

It angers you that he doesn’t even bother responding to that taunt. God. Your fingers keep moving, even as you glare at him, and you’re so fucking wet it’s… You don’t know if you’ve ever been this wet before.

“Stop just—touch yourself too, asshole.” you snap, voice hoarse as hell, “Or are you just gonna sit there and watch like a pervert?”

He smirks and shakes his head. “No. That’s not how this works.” He strokes himself, but slow and lazy—just enough to tease you, not to actually chase his own release.

You rub circles even faster, spreading yourself with your other hand. “I’m starting to believe—mmpphh—you’re actually scared you’ll finish before you even get inside.”

He huffs a laugh and clicks his tongue.

Then he finally lets his hand tighten around the base of his cock. “You want this?” he strokes himself slowly—more properly now—clearly showing off, and his precum is dripping onto his thigh and onto the sheets. His eyes are glued to your cunt, watching every shaky circle of your fingers. “If you stop for a second, I put it away. You keep going, maybe I’ll fuck you. If you’re good. Otherwise I’ll just make you come on my tongue again and again.”

Your mind is finally starting to clear, just enough to feel the anger and want bubble back up under your skin. You’re so sensitive your thighs are shaking, but the sight of his cock has your mouth watering… so without thinking—fingers still rubbing messy, desperate circles on your own clit—you push up off the bed on shaky elbows and practically throw yourself at him. 

You straddle his lap, his cock standing thick and slick right between your thighs—your lips catching his jaw—and you grind down on his thigh because you just can’t take another second without feeling him.

He grabs your hips and tries to shove you back. “I said, don’t fucking stop, brat.” But you only smirk and meet him eye to eye—then you drag your hand up into his hair, fist a handful, and make him look at you.

“I heard you,” you pant, lips almost brushing his. “You said if I stop touching myself, you’ll put your dick away or whatever.” You squeeze your thighs around him, feeling the heat of his cock and the way it throbs against your inner leg. Then you don’t look away from him as your other hand drifts further down between your legs, and you push a finger into your own pussy right there as he watches. His jaw clenches. “You never said I couldn’t move.”

Your lips part, and you moan low and shameless, hips rocking against your hand. “You gonna punish me for that, too?”

He pumps his cock faster, precum smeared everywhere. “Fuck, you’re asking for it,” he growls.

Adrenaline is the only thing keeping you upright at this point—you’re also so high on wanting him it’s like you’ve left your own body. You pull your wet finger out of your cunt and bring it up to his mouth.

“Spit,” you order—filthy and sweet and bossy all at once.

He scoffs, looking at you like he’s about to bite your hand off. “Think you can tell me what to do?”

You let out a little whine and rock against his thigh. “Mmhmm, just wanna fuck myself properly, isn’t that what you want, Sunghoon? M’being good.”

You’re so wet, you don’t even need his spit. But you need his spit. You also like it when he’s angry. So you add, “Or are you scared I’ll do it better?”

His gaze flickers for a second before he leans forward and spits—hot, wet, filthy—right into your palm. “Tsk. Show me how desperate you are for it. Go on.”

You hum, satisfied, and press your finger back into yourself, moaning as you rock onto it. You bite down on his shoulder and start fucking yourself on your own fingers—hard and loud, body arching, hips grinding shamelessly.

You watch the way he’s pumping himself, and you clench around your own finger at the sight. “Wish this was your cock, don’t you?” you breathe, then you let your head fall against his shoulder, lips brushing the curve of his neck as you moan, your own fingers moving faster. And then you drag your tongue up the side of his throat, licking a slow stripe from his collarbone all the way up to his jaw. You taste the saltiness of his sweat, hot and wet and so him it almost makes your head spin. He shudders under your mouth, his cock jerking in his hand.

To be honest, you did that out of pure self-fulfillment cause you were enjoying this a little too much, but—

Sunghoon’s control actually slips, because he grips your hips and shoves you back down flat onto the bed, manhandling you so roughly you gasp.

“Don’t fucking move,” he snarls, voice ragged. “Don’t you dare touch yourself again.”

“Or what? You gonna keep standing there and jerk yourself off like a pussy?” you huff, frustrated, trying to reach for him, but he just pins your wrists over your head with one big hand and sits up, his cock hanging heavy and wet. 

It looks like it’s going to fucking explode.

“Don’t move.” he warns.

He moves over to the desk, muscles rippling, sweat slick on his skin, and grabs his wallet. He pulls out a condom and then turns back to face you, and then he tears the wrapper open carefully with his teeth. You watch the way he rolls it down, the veins on his massive cock so prominent it’s actually insane. 

Your stomach twists. You’re on the pill—you’d never let him fuck you raw, not in a million years—but there’s this tiny, traitorous voice in your head, sick with want, whispering to fill yourself up with him, take every fucking drop he has — and you snap at yourself. Get a fucking grip. (though, at this point, what grip?)

Then he’s crawling back over you with his cock heavy in his hand and for a moment, he just looks at you. And you look at him.

And it hits you all at once. This is happening. 

The only boy who’s ever made you feel anything real at all, the one you’ve liked, hated, and wanted in every possible way. The first boy you ever loved. The only—

You don’t let yourself finish the thought before you’re moving.

You grab him, wrap your arms around his neck, and drag him down until your mouths meet in a brutal, teeth-clashing kiss. Your thighs fall open, and you can feel his cock pressing up against your soaked cunt, briefly grinding up into your folds, and you gasp right into his mouth.

He moans—actually moans into your mouth. “You want it so fucking bad, don’t you?” he snarls against your lips. “Filthy little brat.”

You bite back, teeth dragging down his bottom lip, pulling again until he hisses. “You’re the one moaning like a dog, Sunghoon. Maybe you should be begging me to let you fuck me.”

He leans in and drags his tongue up the side of your neck and stops at your ear, “Why would I beg for something that’s already mine?” he whispers.

Your breath stutters at the way he says it.

You dig your nails into his back—hard enough to make it sting—but he just grins against your skin and bites down on your shoulder. Then his hand is everywhere—palming your tit, squeezing, rolling your nipple between his fingers, then sliding down until he’s rubbing the head of his cock against your clit, smearing your wetness everywhere. “Look at you,” he grits out, eyes glued to how you’re spreading your legs for him. “So fucking greedy. I can barely get my fingers in you, and you want me to stretch your pussy out with this?” he leans in, tongue dragging up the side of your neck, biting your jaw, “Maybe I should just jerk off on your tits and leave you crying for it. Maybe you’d finally learn how to ask nicely.”

Was he still on about that? 

Before you can think of something to bite back with, he presses his cock harder against your slit—but he doesn’t push in. He just slides the head up and down, catching on your clit, making your back arch and your voice break into a filthy, desperate moan.

You buck up and try to force him in, but he’s relentless—he drags it out, dragging the tip up and down your slit again. “That’s seven, you needy whore.”

“Come on, are you scared?” you tease, voice breaking on a moan. “What, you worried you really, truly won’t last long and live up to the talk?”

He huffs a laugh—then he shoves the tip in just a little more, making your whole body arch off the bed. “Tsk. You think you can handle it?” he says, and you’re not entirely sure if you can—you’re actually almost certain you can’t, but you don’t give him the satisfaction of saying it. 

Instead, you bite his shoulder hard.

“Shut the fuck up and fuck me already, Sunghoon.”

He growls, and presses his forehead against yours as he properly pushes in—and fuck.

The first inch feels like it’s actually fucking tearing you apart, a thick, burning stretch that makes your mouth fall open in a silent gasp because your scream dies in your throat. You grip his shoulders harder, nails digging into his skin, trying to breathe, trying not to let him see how much it hurts, how much you’re actually struggling to take him.

You try to squeeze your eyes shut against the sting, but he grabs your jaw. “Look at me,” he breathes. “Keep your fucking eyes on me. I want to see you take it.”

So you open your eyes, even though they’re already welling. You moan the second you meet his gaze, breath tangled with his as he inches in deeper, filling you in ways you’ve never felt, stretching you so wide you swear you’re going to split.

“Fuck, you’re tight—shit—” Sunghoon hisses between his teeth, his grip so punishing on your waist you feel it sting. For just a second, his brows furrow when his eyes flick over your face as you wince, but you’re too focused on the feeling of being stretched out so roughly to say anything—his grip eases just a little, and his thumb rubs a rough circle over your hip. “Relax. Breathe. I know you can take it. You want to, don’t you?”

You gasp and cling to his shoulders. See, there’s sex, and then there’s this. The pain was entirely too fucking much. 

It’s too much and still not entirely even close to being enough to satisfy you. 

Your cunt flutters, trying to accommodate the thick head of his cock, and every inch he pushes in feels like your body’s actually being forced open and reshaped to fit him. “Wait—WAIT—fuck, just—S—Hoo—”

He cuts you off with a roll of his hips and goes a bit deeper. “You want to stop now? After all that talk?” He bites at your jaw again, lips hot against your skin. “No. You can take it. I know you can. Be a good fucking slut and take my cock.”

You’re barely holding on, and you can hardly breathe—but it pisses you off how much it hurts and how slowly you’re taking him and how he’s actually dragging it out.

He needs to get to the fucking point.

So you snap, “So fucking slow—What, you going soft now?”

He scoffs.

And before you can even take another breath, he slams all the way in, burying his cock to the hilt in one brutal thrust. 

The stretch is just painful, so much you can’t even think—your scream rips right out of your chest, nothing but pain and shock and your nails clawing desperately and maddeningly at his back. You’re so full it’s terrifying, so full it feels like he’s punched the air from your lungs.

He barely gives you a second to breathe. 

Sunghoon draws back just enough for you to feel him again, then slams right back in, rough and brutal, and sets a punishing pace. It’s like he’s trying to fuck you through the mattress, like he’s trying to fuck you until you can’t walk or think or do anything except scream for him. 

“What?” he whispers after a beat, the tip of his cock grinding deep and slow and filling you to the brim. “Pussy too full to talk back now?”

“You’re not even that big,” you lie through your teeth.

He laughs again, the sound shredded by a groan as he fucks harder into you. “God—fuck—you were clenching around me so fucking tight when I put the tip in. Like a virgin—” his voice breaks on a moan, hips rolling harder,  “—couldn’t stand not having my cock, could you? Had to start a fight just to get fucked, huh?”

You try to say something back — really, you do — but he thrusts again and it knocks the sound right out of your throat.

You’ve stopped trying to dignify anything in your mind at this point — you arch up and drag your nails down his back again violently —and he hisses — then your legs wrap tight around his waist, locking him in place as if you never want to stop him from fucking you like this. He says something against your mouth and his voice is a ruined rasp—something you can barely make out over the filthy, wet sound of skin slapping against each other and your own desperate cries.

“Fuck—FUCKKKK, Sunghoon, oh my GOD—” It’s half a sob, half a moan… you don’t even know.

“That’s it, say my name,” he growls into your ear, one hand pinning your thigh up so he can fuck you even deeper, “Shit—so tight—can barely fucking move.”

He’s too fucking big. You can feel everything—the head of his cock dragging over every spot inside you, the stretch at your entrance, the way your pussy tries to clamp down and push him out, but he just holds you there and keeps fucking you harder.

You’re shaking. The pain is blurring into pleasure until you’re not sure which is which. “Harder. Don’t fucking stop, I can take it—need you—, fuck, just—”

The bed creaks violently under you two. “Yeah? You want harder? Want me to fuck you so deep you feel me in your fucking throat?

You nod frantically. “Sunghoon—oh, fuck, fuck, don’t stop—please—” You’re so gone you don’t care about begging anymore, you just need him to keep fucking you, need him to make you come, need him to never, ever stop. “FUCK—”

Then he slows, and his hand presses down onto your lower stomach. The pressure is so much it makes you gasp, but he presses down harder, eyes fixed where his cock is splitting you open, “Feel that? I’m so deep you can feel me here—fuckk. You’ll never take anyone else after this. I’m gonna ruin you.” His free hand grabs your chin and forces your gaze down. “Look. Look at how fucking full you are.”

You blink and actually look—and fuck, it’s… it’s insane. You’ve never been this full in your life, not even close. 

“Shut. up—GOD—”  you lose your grip on the sheets and reach for his face and drag his mouth down to yours. Then you kiss him like you’re trying to swallow every moan out of his mouth, and he meets you with the same messy and filthy desperation, tongues tangling, teeth knocking, both of you moaning so loud it vibrates right into your bones. 

His hips slam out and then slam back in with one harsh thrust that knocks the wind out of you. 

“Fuck, you sound so good when you’re like this,” he groans into your mouth, “Too stupid to —fuckk—to run your mouth. Just—clenching around my cock like you’re trying to milk me.”

You just scream.

“Listen to you,” he snarls. “All that mouth earlier just to end up whimpering under me. You gonna cum again? Huh? Wanna soak my cock like a fuckin’ slut?”

Yeah. You’re so close you’re almost delirious, hands clutching at his hair now, your legs trembling as you grind up to meet every thrust. “I’m—fuck you, Yes! Yes—I’m gonna come—don’t you fucking stop—”

He pounds into you, unrelenting, and then his thumb starts rubbing furious circles on your clit—and you know you’re fucked. 

His cock is hitting so deep you see stars, and all you can do is scream his name as you break apart for him. Your orgasm rips through you so hard your vision whites out and your voice breaks on a ragged, guttural scream that barely even sounds like you—your cunt clenching so hard around him you nearly push him out—so full, so fucking full. 

But Sunghoon doesn’t let up. If anything, he starts fucking you even harder somehow, his grip bruising your hips as he pounds into you, making the whole bed shake. You barely got a second to breathe—your body is still trembling, and the aftershocks are almost violent, really.

“Sunghoon—Are you insane—” Your voice is just a gasp, but you’re not even sure if you’re begging him to stop or begging him for more. 

He snarls, “No. You’ll take it. You’re gonna take every fucking thing I give you.” His thumb keeps circling your clit relentlessly, and you try to push his hand away but he just grabs your wrist and places it right above your head. “I know you can take it.”

Then he lets your wrist go, only to reach up and grab the top rail of that heavy, wooden headboard—his knuckles going white, muscles flexing, his cock somehow driving even deeper—and he looks so focused. His brows knit together, and his mouth is parted with shaky groans and pants escaping it. God, he looks so… 

You feel another orgasm building up so quickly—if you even came down from your last one—and your vision blurs out, then Sunghoon growls into your ear, hand moving from your clit to grab under your thigh, shoving your leg up higher so he can fuck you even deeper. “Come again. Now—fucking come on my cock, let me feel—shit.”

Stars explode behind your eyes as another orgasm rips through you like an out-of-body experience. 

You can barely breathe, let alone form words, but you manage to spit out, “Fucking—god, fuck you, Sunghoon—shit—don’t stop—fucking—asshole—” but they just dissolve into raw moans, and your body spasms so violently it feels like you might actually break.

“That’s it, take it—good fucking girl. That’s my good girl.”

“Not your—not your fucking girl—” you pant, and rake your nails down his back again and again for the hundredth time, and he groans—actually, he moans—and his hips stutter for a second, so out of control you almost want to laugh.

“Fuck, keep doing that,” he moans, and you do it again, “God, you’re so fucking tight—Shiiiiit.” 

The whole bedframe rocks, the headboard groaning under his grip—until suddenly—CRAAAACKKK.

The wood gives away—he rips the whole headboard right off the frame. But he doesn’t stop… the bastard barely even glances at the wreck, just tightens his hold on your hips and keeps fucking you like nothing happened.

But the splintered wood is nothing compared to the way your body’s splitting open on him. 

Then—he grabs you beneath your thighs and yanks you up as he gets up, still buried deep inside you. He palms your ass then brings his hand down in a hard slap that makes you whine—moan—gasp—scream, you don’t even know anymore—you’re just nearly sobbing, at the sharp sting and the overstimulation—and then he moves.

You’re so fucked out you hardly notice you’ve left the bed until your back slams into something cold and hard—the desk. 

The bottle of champagne, the glasses, whatever is on there—he swipes them all to the floor with a harsh sweep of his arm, and it barely registers over the sound of your moans. 

And this fucking angle…

His arms are under your knees, spreading you wide right there on the desk, your body shaking with the aftershocks. 

The thick drag of his cock as he stands and sinks in deeper—his mouth parting on filthy moans—going deeper than you ever thought possible, filling you in a way he never could on the bed. 

He thrusts up into you, the force of it making your head fall back—then he leans down and his mouth latches onto your tits, biting and sucking so hard your whole body arches up again when his teeth graze your sensitive nipple— and your  hands shoot out to tangle in his hair.

“Can’t—can’t—oh my god—” you sob, but your hips are meeting his every fucking thrust, because you’re greedy and ruined. “Too much—”

“No such thing.” He finally lifts his head and grabs your jaw and forces you to look at him. “Keep those eyes on me. Wanna see you when I come—”

You’re barely there, fucked out and shaking, and you’re not sure if your orgasm ever even stopped. “SUNGHOON—” 

“Fuck, that’s right,” he snarls, rutting harder. “Say my name—look at me and fucking say it—”

You purse your lips together violently and try to hold back, but a moan slips out. “Fuck you—” 

He grins—then pulls all the way out and slams back into you, making the desk rattle as he tightens his grip on your jaw. “Say it—now.”

You cry out, the sound torn from your throat before you can even stop it, “Sunghoon—fuck—Sunghoon—”

He growls. “That’s it—good fucking girl—fuckfuckshit—”

And then you feel him come, cock pulsing so deep inside as he spills his hot load right into the condom, his whole body shuddering as he keeps thrusting into you, drawing every last bit out.

You press your forehead against his—you’re both shaking, flushed, panting, and soaked, and you barely feel anything other than how his cock still feels inside you, and you’re clenching so hard, shaking through another aftershock, that you don’t even realize what’s happening until he pulls back a bit.

He hisses, “Fuck—wait. The condom—shit, hold still.”

Your heart skips, and it jolts you out of your haze. “What? What do you mean—” 

You try to sit up, but he grabs your hips and pushes you back down, then he pulls out a little, just enough for both of you to look down. 

And… The condom—well, there’s no easy way to put this. 

It’s not there.

There’s a sudden rush of fear rushing through your body at the thought of it being stuck inside you. “Get it out—fuck, get it out, Park Sunghoon—”

He leans over you, still panting. “Shut up. Relax.” Then he slides out slowly, and you feel the condom still inside you, the ring barely at your entrance. “I’ll get it.”

Did he just… say… Relax? Relax? 

You swat at his chest. “Don’t tell me to relax, that shit could get stuck, and—”

He interrupts. “You on the pill?”

You glare up at him breathlessly. “Are you stupid? Yes, I’m on the pill—But it’s—” you go to reach for it, but he catches your wrist and pins it to your side.

“I said I’ll do it,” he growls, and then he slides his fingers between your thighs. “Spread.”

You hesitate, and he arches a brow. “I said spread your legs.”

So you do. You spread wider for him, and then he reaches down, and you feel his finger curl inside you, hooking the rim of the condom. 

Except he doesn’t pull it out—he pushes it in deeper with his finger. 

You whine, back arching off the desk as your head tips back at how he curls his finger inside you, “Asshole—what are you—”

Sunghoon groans. “Look at me. Don’t even think about looking away,” he says, and you find yourself doing it, meeting his gaze through half-lidded, fucked-out eyes.

“Your pussy is so fucking tight. Shit,” his words come out in little pants and moans as he keeps fingering you, working you open even more. “Squeezed the condom right off my cock—practically milked it off—so fucking greedy, aren’t you?”

Your body is so sensitive, you’re twitching and gasping at every single push of his finger. “You’re sick,” you manage, but your voice is barely a breath.

“Yeah?” He curls his fingers up just right. “You’re even sicker. Look at you, letting me finger you with my cum inside you.”

Then the fucking asshole moves his thumb down and starts pressing small, relentless circles against your insanely sensitive clit, making your hips buck. 

“Fuck—Sunghoon, I can’t—you dick, Slow down—”

But you still arch into his touch, and you pull him even closer—digging your nails into his biceps and feeling him up.

He smirks when he feels your nails drag down his arm, and he flexes his bicep under your touch like he’s showing off on purpose. “Look at you, can’t keep your hands off me even when you’re falling apart. What, you gotta thing for ‘em? You gonna start begging to be choked next?”

You glare up at him, breathless and pissed and still rolling your hips helplessly against his hand. “Shut the fuck up—cocky bitch—” you spat, but… God. The thought of his biceps around your throat… You clench around his finger at the thought.

He leans in, mouth right by your ear, “That’s it, squeeze my fingers, slut. You wanna come like this? Just from this?”

You don’t even bother trying to cuss him out, not when you can feel how close you are again — the filled condom inside you only adding onto the sensation. You don’t care, you don’t fucking care, you just need to come again, need him to ruin you all over, need—

He doesn’t take his eyes off you for a moment. “Shit—How are you—You’re so fucking cock-drunk you can’t even talk, huh?” he taunts. “Fucking perfect. That’s how I want you.”

He pushes another thick finger in and the sensation burns all the more. 

“Sunghoon—fuck, that’s—shit—” your voice breaks, and he clamps his big palm around your throat. 

“You’re really gonna come all over my fucking hand again, aren’t you?” he rasps, and you nod, just desperate, the pressure so much you can barely stand it. “With my cum inside you? Filthy girl.”

Then he leans in and trails his mouth down your neck — sucking harsh marks into your collarbone and tits, all the way down. 

Then he drops onto his knees in front of you, and it’s the most cruel sight you’ve ever seen, and you can’t look away.

He spreads you open wider, and then his mouth is on your clit, sucking it between his lips, while his fingers continue pumping in and out of you. You buck up so hard you nearly throw yourself off the desk, and he just growls, holding you still, staring up at you the entire time.

“Come,” he snarls. “I’ve been fucking nice to you all day—let you run that bratty mouth, let you come as many times as you wanted—so come on, show me how grateful you are. Make a mess all over my mouth. Know you got one more in you.” 

You’re losing track of your own words, your hands scrambling uselessly on the desk for something to grab that isn’t his hair, which you’re already clinging to for dear life. “I’m gonna die. I’m literally going to die—you idiot—oh my god, Sunghoon, don’t stop—too much—” and your legs are actually shaking, your hands trying to push him away even as you’re grinding your hips up into his mouth, because your body doesn’t know what the fuck it wants.

Your orgasm hits you so violently it’s almost unfair to the previous ones you’ve had. 

He’s still licking you, still sucking your clit, still drawing out every last twitch of pleasure—honestly, what more does he want from you? “Sunghoon—stop—stop it, oh my god, you freak!”

You grab a fistful of his hair and tug on it harshly, and he actually finally pulls away, mouth wet and shiny. “Since you were so good for me…” he says, licking his lips.

Then he dips his head back down and sinks his teeth into the rim of the condom hanging barely inside you—and you watch, half in disbelief, as he pulls it out with his mouth, and he presses his tongue right against your swollen, fucked-out cunt—and you immediately gasp, legs jerking, and he grins up at you with the condom clenched between his teeth—so filthy, so fucking cocky, your body betrays you and you clench around nothing. God—Honestly, woman, what more do you want?

He spits the condom out onto the floor, wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist, and smirks at you. “Didn’t think you actually had it in you to be such a good little slut.” 

You glare down at him, and even though you’re breathless as hell, you manage a shrug. “Didn’t think you actually had it in you to fuck me good… enough.” 

He tongues his cheek — then suddenly brings his palm down in a loud slap right over your pussy, making you jolt and hiss, the sting shooting straight up your spine. “FUCK—Are you stupid in the head?” you bite.

Then your breath stutters as you watch how he leans in and presses a slow kiss right against your swollen, ruined cunt. He flicks his tongue out, tasting you one last time—humming low in his throat before he gets up again. 

And—Sunghoon stands over you, fingers glistening, then he brings his fingers up, holding them just in front of your lips. “Open,” he commands.

You glare at him, lips parted from how you’re still panting, but your mouth still kind of twists into somewhat of a smirk because you have an idea. 

“No.”

His brow lifts. “No?” He looks genuinely thrown, just for a second, but his cock twitches, hard and heavy between you—Christ.

You shrug even as your heart’s pounding. “No. You wanna see me suck your fingers?” you weakly jerk your chin at the floor, “Pick up the the condom.”

For a second, he just looks at you like you’re insane. But you watch his throat bob, and you watch the way his cock jerks at the idea. God, he’s so fucking easy, it’s honestly embarrassing for both of you.

“Go on,” you coo, “Be a good boy. Collect your mess and bring it here. I’ll suck you clean. Isn’t that what you want?”

His jaw clenches. “Nasty fucking girl,” he mutters, then—while still holding your gaze—he briefly bends down to grab the spent condom from where he spat it on the floor, tying it off and squeezing until the milky fluid gathers in the tip. 

His jaw is so insanely clenched you think he might shatter a tooth, but he does it anyway, and you watch eagerly — biting back a mean little smile, maybe even a whimper — as he still holds your gaze and works his thumb along the slippery latex, gathering his own cum on his thick fingers and there’s so much of it, more than there should be, you think, but it just makes you giddier.

Then he towers over you again, fingers gleaming with his own mess, and you don’t even wait for him to speak this time. You just part your lips and pull his hand to your mouth, tongue flicking out to taste, and the look on his face is pure disbelief and dark, like he can’t believe you’re actually doing it — or maybe even how easily he’d just listened to you. You suck, slowly at first, and you let your tongue swirl around his fingers — tasting him and you and the mess you’ve both made, and you hear the way his breath catches, and you see the way his big cock twitches against his stomach when you hollow your cheeks, moan around his fingers and swallow him down.

He looks nearly pained.

His free hand goes to your jaw, and he digs his thumb into your cheek to keep your mouth wide open for him. “Jesus fuck, you’re insane,” he practically growls. You don’t break eye contact, just hum around his fingers—letting his cum slide down your throat, eyes fluttering just a little because it’s so much, salty and hot and his, showing him your tongue as you let him go with a wet pop.

You try to reach down to wrap your hand around his dick—God, he’s so hard, and you’re kind of baffled at how you still haven’t felt him properly—but he immediately clicks his tongue, and his hand darts out to swat your wrist away. “No,” he snaps. “Did I say you could touch? Fuck, you’re never satisfied, are you?”

You actually whine. Your hips lift off the deft and your cunt clenches uselessly around nothing — like it wasn’t just stretched to its limits — clit throbbing, and you glare up at him, spit and cum smeared all over your lips and so, so empty.

You pout. “You’re no fun.”

“Fuck. Filthy, dirty girl,” he rasps, but it comes out as a whine. “You really want it all, huh?”

You barely register the broken glass on the floor or the champagne bottle rolling under the desk. 

No, the only thing you register is the throbbing ache between your legs, the taste of his mouth still lingering on your skin, and especially how Sunghoon is so hard. 

Like extremely fucking hard. His cock is heavy and hanging like he didn’t just fuck you stupid. And then he glances up at you, and the look on his face is so fucking smug you want to claw his face off.

Then you watch as he looks around the room, and you do the same.

The sheets are in absolute ruins, the headboard is snapped in half, there are broken shards of glass on the floor, water is pooling under the desk, and petals are… clinging to your skin?

You almost throw up at the thought of the staff or literally anyone seeing this mess… you don’t think you can live down the humiliation of asking for a new room because you and your… your? 

You shake your head. 

Before your mind can catch up — before you can think about what the fuck you just did, before the idea of it all can hit you, before you can even blink — you’re off the desk and lunging for him, shaking legs be damned.

You grab him by the jaw and crush your mouth to his, not caring if you’re too desperate or too fucking obvious. He groans into your mouth, and he tastes like you, like sweat, like salt, and he kisses you back just as rough. “You’re—fuck—” he hisses as you bite his lip and drag it out, “Shit—fucking needy whore—”

His hands fumble on the floor for his wallet, never breaking the kiss, and when he finds it, he pulls out another condom—doesn’t even look at you, just rips it open and rolls it down, his cock so hard it’s almost angry, the tip swollen and flushed.

You lean against his chest to stay upright, and then you glare at him and scoff. “How many condoms do you even have in that thing?”

He doesn’t answer. Just meets your eyes and jerks his chin at the window. “Bend over,” he growls.

You blink, taken aback, and your whole body buzzes with something like adrenaline and giddy panic. “Huh?”

He grabs your hips and spins you around, pushing you toward the window, his palm flat and rough on your lower back. “I said bend over. Now.”

You shiver, but God, you fucking love it. You brace your hands on the cold glass and arch your back—wiggling your ass out towards him. You can see both your reflections in the window—him behind you, hair a mess, scratched and marked and sweaty, and it only turns you on even more.

He presses up behind you, crowding you into the glass, and you barely have time to think before the thick head of his cock is nudging your entrance, and he leans down, voice right at your ear. “Still want it?” he grits through his teeth with a tone, “Tell me how much you want it, sweetheart. Or I’ll stop right now.”

You roll your eyes, grinding your ass back against him, and spit, “Just shut the fuck up and put it in.”

His hand comes down on your ass, hard, and you gasp, the sting blooming through your skin. “Wrong answer,” he growls. “Think you can touch me and kiss me like that and get away with it? Tsk. I should just walk away right now.” 

You try to grind your ass back into him again, desperate for any friction even after everything, but Sunghoon just pushes you harder into the window, pressing your chest and cheek to the cold glass. 

He brings his hand down on your ass again—SMACK—harder this time, and you hiss a curse under your breath. “You really don’t fucking listen, do you?” he says. “That was seven. Keep wiggling like that, and I’m just going to have to spank you until you beg me to stop. That what you want?”

Your lip almost curls at the thought. Why is he threatening you with a good time? “Oh no… I’m falling asleep,” you pretend to yawn instead, though it kind of comes out as a whimper, “I’m soooo bored.”

He laughs—and you can hear how wrecked he is, how much it’s taking for him not to just slam into you right then and there. “You’re lucky I like it when you’re mouthy,” he says, gripping your hips even tighter, keeping you right where he wants you. He leans in—God—biting at your shoulder, his cock pressed between your thighs, but not giving you anything. “Say please,” he whispers, his voice nothing but hot filth right at your ear.

You scoff, and your voice is mocking, but it comes out as a whine when he rubs his tip against your clit. “Please, Sunghoon, fuck me. Is that what you want to hear?”

His grip tightens on your hip as he lines himself up better and drags the thick head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing you with it. “We’re getting there. That’s more like it,” he murmurs, and then—finally—he pushes the tip in.

Sunghoon groans from behind—and you moan at the sound and also at the feeling of being stretched to oblivion again—your breath fogs up the window as he starts to push in deeper, filling you up so slowly it’s torture. 

“Fuck, you’re still so tight. How—” he groans, and his hand slides up to grab a fistful of your hair, forcing you to arch your back even more for him. “Look at yourself,” he says, eyes flicking to your reflection in the window. “Look how desperate you are. City out there has no fucking clue what a needy slut you are for my cock, do they?”

“Shut up, you’re just as needy—JESUS—”

He slams in the rest of the way, bottoming out with one brutal thrust, and you scream—so fucking loud—your body clenching around him so hard you both have to stop and breathe for a second. But it’s not long before he’s fucking you hard, his hips snapping into your ass, making the whole window rattle in its frame.

You barely recognize your own voice when you moan out, “Harder—harder, fuck—show me you can actually fuck me properly.”

He laughs and yanks your hair so your back is flush to his chest as he fucks you harder, and then his other hand slides up and grabs your tits, kneading them roughly, pinching your nipples until you arch and whimper and burn under his touch, nipples already too sensitive and tender from before.

He bites down on your shoulder and then licks the mark. “Bet the whole fucking city would pay to see you like this, Mrs. Park,” he taunts with a shaky moan, “So desperate and too drunk on cock to—fuckk—to speak.”

Bastard.

You snarl, head lolling back against his shoulder as he rolls your nipple between his fingers. “Don’t call me that. I’ll jump out t..this window.”

He just ruts into you deeper and harsher, his fangs scraping up your neck. “Yeah? You don’t want everyone knowing you’re mine now? Gonna have to get used to it, sweetheart.” his mouth finds the soft skin beneath your jaw and he sucks hard and wet — leaving another angry, blooming mark. “You sound so pretty when you whine. Say it again. Tell me not to call you that while I stretch you out.”

Well. You try. Or maybe you don’t, you’re not entirely sure with the way he’s fucking you—It’s gotten to that point again where your only answer is a breathless moan as his thumb circles your nipple and his cock hits so deep you see white. 

“Sunghoon—just—fuck me, don’t fucking stop—”

“That’s it,” he groans. “Taking me so well,” he punctuates it with a deep thrust, cock buried to the hilt, and when you scream, he grins into your skin and pounds into you even harder. “You want them to hear you? Want my father’s entire staff to know how desperate my pretty little fiancée is for me?”

You shake your head frantically, but you can’t stop the moans that spill out of you. Not when the bastard is so deep you can feel him in your guts. Not when you can feel yourself close again already—God, how is he fucking doing this?

His hand slides back down, fingers rubbing your clit rough and fast. “Oh, and if you come without me telling you to, I’ll fuck you against every window in this fucking hotel. You got that, Mrs. Park?”

Well… too bad, you think. Or maybe too good.

Your thighs start to shake, your stomach tightens, all your muscles lock up around his cock and his hand, and you know—fuck—you know you’re going to come if he keeps it up for another second. You open your mouth and moan, “Sunghoon, I’m—”

But suddenly, he fucking stops. Everything. 

His hips go still, cock buried as deep as he can get, and his hand leaves your clit—and the only sound in the room is both of you panting. You whine—hips pushing back, trying to get anything—but he tightens his grip, holding you in place so you can’t even rub yourself against him.

He scoffs, and it comes out as a growl. “What did I say? Did I say you could come?” He draws his hips back, just enough to tease, and you feel furious and so fucking close you could sob. Maybe you were sobbing.

You whine. “Are you fucking serious? Don’t play. Sunghoon, I need—”

He slaps your ass. “No. Not until you ask me like you mean it,” he growls, “Beg.”

Your pride flares up, but your body is shaking, aching for him, for anything. You choke out, “I’m not begging. Just fuck me. Finish what y…you started, asshole.”

Another slap. “Not begging? Tsk. Guess you don’t want it, then.” then he pulls out halfway, making you feel every single inch leave your body—leaving you so empty you gasp and clench down on nothing. 

God, the things you do for pleasure. You’d rather die than beg—seriously, you would rather throw yourself out this fucking window—but some sick, twisted part of you also realizes you’ve never had dick this big in your entire life, and then suddenly your body is betraying you—willing to say anything just to feel full again. You're so, so close you’d say almost anything. And so you do.

“Just—fuck, just give it to me, please—” It slips out, more of a sob than a plea.

He clicks his tongue again. “Hmmm… I don’t know… wasn’t very convincing.” He drags the head of his cock over your clit, rubbing circles, making you jerk and moan. “You gonna do better, or do I have to teach you how to beg?”

Thank God you’re too fucked-out to think better of this right now. “Please, Sunghoon. Please—fuck me. Need you to make me come, please—” 

He doesn’t even let you finish. He slams back into you so hard you nearly hit your head on the glass, but his hand catches you by the throat and he yanks you back into him. His mouth finds yours, practically swallowing your scream, and he kisses you and moans right into your mouth. “That’s it. Good fucking girl—finally learned how to ask for it,” and then he pulls away just enough to watch your face.

“Come for me,” he hisses. “Fucking come all over my cock.”

You’re gone again—completely, totally gone. All you can do is sob his name (unfortunately), claw your nails at his hand on your throat, and lose every shred of control and strength as your orgasm crashes through you. 

Then he grabs your hips and spins you around—and he barely gives you a second before he’s in you and fucking you stupid again, chasing his own release while you’re still shaking.

Sunghoon is saying something, growling and all, but your vision actually blurs and your legs buckle and nearly give out — but he holds you up — you swear you blackout for a second — but  he still doesn’t stop, not for a second, driving you through it, over and over. You’re still spasming around him, and you feel him chase his own end, hips snapping harder, faster, sloppier, and messier now—until he finally buries himself to the hilt and you feel him throb inside you and fill the condom.

For a second, it’s just the sound of both of you breathing again, and nothing else.

Your vision is… well, not quite good. Don’t have rough sex with contacts on, maybe? Your brain is a fried livewire—and then you look at Sunghoon.

God. His forehead is slick with sweat, his hair is a complete disaster, and for some reason, he’s never ever looked better. It actually makes you angry somehow. He leans his head back with his chest heaving, mouth dropped open because of how hard he’s panting—and he is still inside you. He doesn’t even bother to move.

You just… look at him. 

You bring your hand up to his chest and drag your nails down—like you’re marking him up for fun, or just to make sure he’s there—not even thinking about it. He hisses, but it comes out all fucked up and like a whine.

Then he glances down between the two of you.

And he gives you a lazy, evil thrust, rolling his hips ever so slowly (Somehow, impossibly, he’s still half-hard inside you, which should be physically impossible, but apparently, not for him)—making your mouth let out a noise you hope to God you never hear come out of you again. And you watch with your mouth dropped open as he spits between your bodies and then drags his thumb through it, rubbing it right into your clit—you twitch violently, but you both just moan as he slowly starts thrusting again.

You want to tell him to stop. You really do. You want to say, “That’s enough, I can’t, I can’t,” because you’re “sore” all over and everything hurts, but the truth is you don’t want him to stop, not at all, not ever—and it’s always been like this for you—with your stupid, embarrassing, insatiable sex drive, always the one with the higher sex drive, always left off after one, maybe two average rounds at best, forced to fake it, pretending you’re satisfied, laughing it off and saying, “No, I’m fine, I’m good, I’m tired,” when really you were just wired and frustrated and thinking about getting yourself off in the bathroom ten minutes later.

And now it’s him—of all fucking people, it’s him—It’s infuriating, actually. Completely humiliating. Why does he get to be the best you’ve ever had? No. You refuse to admit that. Even in your own head. You’re not giving him the satisfaction. 

“Insatiable,” he mutters, mostly to himself—and it’s mean, but his hands are soft when he slides them down your waist. “You just don’t know when to quit, do you? Greedy fucking thing,” he drags his thumb back to your clit, rubbing slow circles, watching the way you arch for it, watching your mouth drop open. “Look at you—still want more? You want me to keep going, pretty girl? I can do this all night.”

You grit your teeth. You do. You really fucking do. But you still moan all the same.

And then, because the world is sick and you’re in hell, the doorbell goes off.

RIIIIIIIINGGGGGG.

For a second, neither of you moves. You shut your eyes tightly and actually start praying.

Then another second. 

Then—knock knock knock—followed by a voice, high and nervous and guttingly familiar, through the heavy hotel door.

“Um… hello? Y/N? Sunghoon?” It’s Ningning. Why? God? Why? Must you make this poor girl suffer? “You guys in there? They need you for photos—like, now. Like, actually now. The stylists are—um—freaking out. Are you decent?”

No, Ningning. Oh, dear sweet girl. You’re not decent. Oh… you’ve never been less decent in your life.

Then you stare at Sunghoon—and he just stares at you, breathing hard, like you’re both waiting for the other person to say something, but nothing comes out.

“Don’t answer,” he mutters. “Let them wait.”

Another knock. More urgent. “Hello? Please? You’re not answering your phones—the staff are panicking, the event is in two hours—please don’t make me open this door. Are you in there?”

Sunghoon thrusts once, and you bite down on his shoulder not to moan.

“Stop it,” you hiss and try to glare at him, but your face is all wrecked, and his mouth just quirks up in this infuriating, smug, absolutely smiteable smile.

Sunghoon raises his brows at you—he has the most annoying glint in his eye, and you could kill him, honestly; you could murder him right here and now and feel absolutely nothing except justified.

You groan, flop your head against his shoulder, and try to shove him away (he does not budge, obviously, because he’s a fucking mountain), and then you slap your palm weakly against his chest, nails dragging down the sweat-slick muscle just to make him flinch. He does not. Instead, the sick freak’s cock twitches inside you, and you both feel it, and then he rolls his hips—and you both whine, and it’s almost funny, really.

Outside, Ningning’s voice climbs another octave, and she sounds so sweet and oh so oblivious to what’s going on, it makes your insides twist. “Y/N? Sunghoon? Please—if you guys don’t come out in the next two minutes I’m—um—supposed to use the master key and—oh my god, please don’t make me do that.”

Your eyes widen.

The fucking room… if anyone sees this…

You pinch his bicep and manage to gasp out, “You better pray she doesn’t walk in, Park Sunghoon, or I swear to God I’ll kill you, and then myself, and then you again somehow for good measure.”

“She’ll go away,” he shrugs, then he fucking thrusts again. “Or maybe not.”

“You’re actually insane. She’s right there. I’m—oh my god—get out, get out—” but your voice is all basically half a whine and not convincing at all.

Sunghoon leans in and bites your jaw, right under your ear, and you hiss and swat at his chest again, but he grins against your skin. “Let her wait. You think I give a fuck about some stupid event? They could set this whole fucking hotel on fire and I’d still keep you here. I’ll fuck you all year if I have to.”

And for some fucked-up reason, you almost whimper at that, which is the final, humiliating straw, you think.

“Y/N? SUNGHOON?” Ningning just sounds like she’s about to lose it. “Please, are you—are you okay? Please just answer me—say something—I’m coming in—”

Oh hell no.

You quickly manage to choke out, “We’re fine! We’re—just—” and you can hear your own voice, breathless, weird, totally suspicious. And what’s worse is you don’t even finish your sentence.

You hear Ningning sigh and say something in relief outside, but Sunghoon… actually laughs. And you hate him so much you might actually kill him. 

“You think this is funny?” you hiss, jabbing a finger at his chest, “Get out of me—”

“You’re pathetic. It’s a little funny,” he shakes his head — the bastard — still buried inside you, still so fucking hard it’s actually criminal. “Come on, say please.”

Not this shit again. 

You stare at him, and consider actual, legitimate murder. “I will bite your fucking nose off, Sunghoon, I’m not joking—” you muffle your voice before you can moan, because he rocks into you again, so slow, so goddamn deep, and you can feel your brain short-circuiting with every inch.

“You’re done! You’re done! MOVE—oh my god, if she comes in here and sees—” you start to laugh, but it sounds a little too close to a sob.

He finally, finally pulls out—slow, way too slow, and you almost sag to the floor with relief and frustration and God knows what else. Then you carefully step around the glass on the floor and try to stumble for your robe (where even is that robe? Did you ever even put it on?) but Sunghoon yanks you back in—then he grabs your jaw and kisses you filthy—nothing gentle, nothing sweet, just tongue and the taste of both your ruined pride. He groans into your mouth, palm sliding between your legs one last time—just to feel how wet, how fucked-out he’s left you. 

“This—” he mutters against your lips between kisses, “didn’t—” kiss “—mean anything.” kiss “You get that?”

You huff a laugh against his mouth and grip his cheeks. “I just wanted a good fuck,” you shrug—and then you bite his lower lip hard enough to make him grunt (one last time.) “And you barely managed that.” You lie.

His hand comes down across your ass in one last, stinging SMACK—and you hiss—but you shove him away and grab whatever clothes are closest (you honestly hope it’s not his shirt, but you literally can’t tell anymore) and throw yourself into the bathroom without another thought.

You slam the door behind you and lean against it for a beat—heart pounding, body wrecked, legs shaking and barely holding you up—and try to remember how to breathe. Or walk. Or exist. Or, god forbid, face a camera after this. Uh… Maybe you could fake your death?

Outside, you hear Sunghoon’s voice—calm, almost infuriatingly bored, as if he wasn’t just trying to fuck you through the glass two seconds ago, “We’re coming, Ningning. Chill.” he pauses. Then he adds, “And let the front desk know this room is… just tell them we need a new suite.”

Then you finally catch sight of yourself in the bathroom mirror—and for the first time in a long, long time, you recognize the girl staring back at you.

And you really wish you didn’t.

FEEDBACK & REBLOGS ALWAYS APPRECIATED ( ˘⌣˘)♡(˘⌣˘ )

𝓝 ⟢ legend says they would’ve fucked forever if they hadn’t been interrupted 🥱🥱 this might actually be the most Insane chapter (TUMBLR YOU WILL NOT SILENCE ME) i’ve ever released and it’s not just because there’s 17k words of absolute filth (address me 🐘 🐘 🐘 ) but because this is genuinely the chapter where they’ve both been themselves the most mamas…. and AGAIN, I KNOW i say this at the end of every chapter BUT!!!! i mean it a thousand times over this time. i really mean it. i blacked out writing this. and WHEW i went all out with the smut LOL. They’re too freaked out don’t look at me like that…. thank you so much for reading AAAAA i would genuinely pay to hear every single one of your thoughts and all your favorite parts and opinions . i love you. i love you. i love you. ♡:(；ﾞﾟ'ωﾟ'): 🌷

⟢ TAGLIST @baedreamverse @badtzsan @wonuziex @ti--red @lovingjongseong @scarredbytheworld @angelhyuka @vandelsoki @sosaphiee @demrotic @zoe1love @weepingsweep @lilidiors @kikidoul @heelovesmeknot @shnnzsworld @sunghoontv @lyserie @lustfor1ife @hoonbabe @dontfuckwithmenow @areikii @sumzysworld @chobitos @flrtwoo @en-lov @immelissaaa @jae-n0 @dodohees @newmjri @yuuuuzai @honey-bunnysweet @sirriag @enhastolemyheart @kenzo3tenzo @aehrizone @vvarkiki @mahungexe @psychotic-girl-666 @beomgyus11 @nothingcvmpares @rikifever @pradaheeseung @vrusha01 @hyuckville @minhaemin @lillotus17 @blooqz @itzmi4u @tessa365 @runjungkook @cloud-yy @vrusha01 @joshuflwr @iamjusttryingtoreadapost @hhoonieeswifxyy @devdozes @firstclassjaylee @snoopyjae @stbevoli @tiramisuhn @xxueisa @lolznoelle @wonpires @bellsjakesgf @hoonberries @rikisblog @cutiepatootiejungwon @liloaeu @lyhoon ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪꜱʜ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ, ꜱᴇɴᴅ ᴀɴ ᴀꜱᴋ ᴏʀ ʀᴇᴘʟʏ!

[undereuphoria]

god forbid i EVER.... E V E R MISS A TEETH BY USER ROMANCENTOLD UPDATE EVER IN MY LIFE !!!! FUCK !!!!!!!!!