#ugh this is so messy and all over the place im sorry

[kisses4reid]

scare | ·˚ ༘ spencer reid ,, (part 3)

synopsis - you’re in a relationship with some one else and have a pregnancy scare, both your own reaction and spencer’s makes you realise that you’re not happy.

part synopsis - you’re not happy. spencer’s not happy. this is not a good time for anyone + how spencer tries to help.

genre - bau!reader x spencer, friends to lovers, r is with someone else, douchebag bf trope, pregnancy scare, angst & fluff, comfort, reader is female with female anatomy and feminine

warnings - pregnancy, swearing, meltdowns, pregnancy scares, douchebag bf

w/c - take a guess honey it’s SHORT

a/n - third part. sorry for another cliff hanger babes it’s my favourite thing to do!!! are you mad??? well IM mad. at LLOYD. this part and the planning for the next one i got way too into the script and i got heated asf i can’t believe lloyd is doing this!!! guys someone stop me. anyways i could talk forever i hope u like this part and sorry it’s sorta rushed maybe some mistakes okay pia stfu and let them read

also this was heavily inspired by a comment from @upuntil6am. i did change some parts but thank you !!

There you were: sat on Spencer Reid’s toilet lid, leg bouncing up and down as your best friend carefully placed a pregnancy test screen down on on his bathroom counter.

He glanced at himself in the mirror, trying to decide if he looked as stressed and, honestly, as depressed as he felt. His best friend of four years, his crush, his love, the only one he thinks about at night, might be pregnant with another man’s child. Not just any other man.

A man who thinks she’s crazy, loud, annoying, uneducated, irresponsible… Lloyd.

You gulped and ran your hands through your now messy ponytail, the hair band basically useless as strands of hair covered your anxious face.

Those things that Spencer knew about your boyfriend didn’t come from you, it came from his own tendencies to go invisible and subconsciously eavesdrop on the girls in the BAU.

Prentiss and Garcia walked into the bullpen one morning complaining about a man.

“He’s so demanding, and ugh! I can’t even begin to describe him he’s just so-“

Spencer’s ears perked. why would two respectable women associate themselves with a man who was obviously beneath them?

“I can’t believe Y/n’s still with him.”

Spencer spun in his office chair, eyes wide and eyebrows furrowed, “Y/n’s dating someone?”

Emily turned slowly on her boot heel and bared her teeth in a cringe. “Spencer, when did you get here?”

“I’ve been here.”

That’s when he started learning about Lloyd. You excused his behaviour, excused his actions, excused his decisions. You let him move in, walk all over you, walk away.

And yet you stayed.

Why?

Spencer knew, from countless drunken spiels about life and the meaning of love, that you felt as if it wasn’t made for you. Coming from a tough and strict family, and growing up somewhat bullied and shunned, he understood you better than others. Maybe that’s why you confessed to him that, ‘Love isn’t in the stars for me. And I guess… I guess I’m going to have to learn to be okay with that. I’ll have to settle for something that isn’t true.’

But oh, how he wanted to prove you wrong.

Spencer looked at your bent body, your head in your hands and your breath rapid.

“Y/n-“

“What am I going to do? If I’m… pregnant. What am I going to do?” It was a rhetorical question, Spencer knew that. He learnt about how to recognise them with your help.

You groaned and felt tears approach your eyelashes once again. You were sick of it.

“Why did I do this to myself? Why did I stay with him, why did I start staying with him? Why did I go on that stupid date, why- what am I- what was I thinking?”

The bathroom light flickered slightly.

It was silent for most of the waiting. Spencer gave you his watch so you could watch the hands move across the face. The seconds were slow, you swore the entire watch just stopped for at least 10 seconds.

“Do you wanna look?” Spencer said, almost in a whisper (he had been counting in his head). He was just as nervous as you were, nearly as heartbroken. You nodded, but didn’t lift your head nor your body.

“Yeah… yes. Um.” God, you couldn’t move a muscle. You were being a coward, afraid of your own consequences. “Could you…just tell me?”

Spencer took a breath in shock, biting his lower lip and nodding, even though you couldn’t see it. His eyes zeroed into the white and pink stick a few inches away from his hand, his heart echoing in his rib cage to create a bass in his skull.

His grabbed it between his pointer and thumb, and gulped before turning it over.

Pregnant.

His heart sank, his stomach churned, his eyes darted to you, now looking at him and nothing but him.

Spencer glanced between you and the word.

“It’s positive.”

It was like a switch. You put you face in your hands a sobbed, cried, yelped, until Spencer crouched down and enveloped you in the tightest hug he could muster.

You sobbed into his shoulder and gripped at his back, leaving spit and tears stains until you couldn’t cry anymore. Your eyes were puffy, your throat sore, your mouth tight.

Your stomach was still churning, and you were still dizzy, and you were pregnant.

Spencer grabbed your shoulders and looked at you, his own tears threatening to spill.

“Y/n, hey, it’s going to be okay-“

“What the fuck am I going to do!? How the fuck is it going to be okay? Spencer, oh my god,” you covered your mouth with your hand and dipped your head in another fit of sobs, “Why did this happen, how am I going to- I don’t know how to- I don’t want to have a baby with that man. How could I do this? This is all my fault, Spencer, what am I going to do-“

Spencer placed a purple mug of hot chocolate in front of you on a knitted coaster you gifted him a few months ago. It steamed, and you watched the lines dissipate upwards until your eyes focused on Spencer. He didn’t wear a smile, he didn’t wear a frown. He was neutral. He didn’t feel it.

You faked a smile at him and tightened the blanket around your shoulders, bringing the mug up to your nose and smelling in the sugary goodness. The sweet feeling lasted less than a millisecond.

“It’s still hot.” Spencer mumbled, sitting next to you and grabbing his own blanket, placing the remote control on your thigh.

You followed his actions and wondered when the last time you got to control the TV was. Actually… it was right here, last month.

“I’ll have to tell Lloyd.” You whispered, and sipped. Spencer clenched his jaw and nodded slowly, already nervous for you about how that was going to go - based on the phone call he had with him only half an hour before.

You bit your lip and furrowed your eyebrows. How were you going to tell him? It wouldn’t be as easy as telling Spencer, it was riskier, heavier. It was… scary. You were scared of him.

“Oh god… I’m going to have to… break up with Lloyd.”

Spencer raised his eyebrows slightly, “Um.”

“He cannot be a father. At least not to my child.”

At least you were aware of that. You should’ve been a long time ago. Spencer nodded and took another sip of his drink. The remote trembled in your grip, you turned on the TV and searched for you and Spencer’s movie: Pride and Prejudice (2005 version of course). To be honest, it was only ‘your’ movie because you played it every chance you got. At first, Spencer was reluctant, but he learnt to love it. He learnt to love a lot of things you loved. And you smiled slightly at the thought of it.

In the back of Spencer’s mind, in the depths of his stomach, in his tip toes, he could admit that he had thought about this situation before. Except you were both happy and ecstatic, and you weren’t with an unloving man.

He looked at the screen and darted his eyes to you when he realised you hadn’t pressed play yet. You were distant, thinking, and then speaking.

“I have to do it now, or I never will. This isn’t like, a fight- or just a miscommunication thing, this is… big.”

Spencer nodded, and you huffed.

“Spencer, can you say something? Please.”

His heart broke when you pleaded with him, and nothing about him inside or out could deny you. But what could he say? I’m terrified for you, I’m terrified for me, I’m afraid I’ll never get the chance to love you how I do, I’m scared you’ll never love me back.

Your head was racing, pounding, and he was there silent. Your best friend who taught you more than any teacher has, who comforts you, who knows you, who lets you crash at his place, who makes your heart flutter and your cheeks redden even when you try to compress it, is silent.

Spencer gulped, eyes avoidant of yours.

“I don’t know what to say.”

You look away. Of course he doesn’t. Who does? But Spencer continues,

“I know you don’t want this. I know you’re not happy. And usually I know what to say, and what to do,” he motions at the hot chocolate and the still of Keira Knightley on the TV, “but I don’t. I wish I did, for you. And for me. I’m sorry.”

Spencer had seen you frustrated enough times to understand that you weren’t angry at him, you just didn’t know where to put your anger.

Your throat tightened a bit and you nodded shortly, sighing and running one last hand through your hair. You grabbed your phone and whispered to him as you got up, “Don’t start the movie without me.”

part 4.

taglist - @jeffswh0re @reap3erslov3 @candyd1es @0108s22m @aurorsworld @theoraekenslover @c-losur3 @littlelearningbrat @khxna @laurakirsten0502 @cultish-corner @yokaimoon @flow33didontsmoke @kitsunetori @yasmin12312 @softestqueeen @adoresami @hazza3000 @lov3-audz @issy25 @pleasantwitchgarden @pacmil @olives-and-sunshine @reidswifeyyyyyy

extra note: yall pls check that your tag permissions bc some of yall i don’t even have the option to tag. i’m rlly sorry i wish i could. if anyone knows if this is a glitch or if i can fix it on my end pls let me know bc i feel bad 😭

[cyber333angel]

Jj making you feel better on your period !

caution ⚠️ - period s*x!

“alright babydoll let’s roll.” your boyfriend says, ready to go to the connivance store to get all the snacks and extra pads you need. “jayj my tummy hurts real bad and my feet too! can’t you just go for me..” you say in a glum tone, already in your sweat pants and jjs sweatshirt. you were all ready to go until your cramps snuck up on you and putting you in a agitating and painful mood. “baby you know I would but you won’t tell me what you want, plus I don’t know what size pussy you have so you gotta come with me to check.” he says shrugging his shoulders and trying to be funny, you look at him with an unamused face. “oh c’mon mrs. grumpster, we’ll be quick all you have to do is walk and point out what you want.” he picks you up placing you on his shoulder for a moment, walking to the outside of your apartment door and placing you down, forcing you to actually walk to the car, you mumble “that’s exactly the problem! you never listen t’me my feet hurt and-“ you go in grumbling a bunch of nothings and the two of you reach to the car. driving on the way to the store jj puts his hand on your tummy, rubbing it in circles, it relives the pain a bit. he sees you sigh at the relief, “that feel good babycakes?” you nod taking his hand and putting it below your waistband, directly on top of your pelvis. “your hand is so warm jayj..feels nice.” he’s just happy to help you get rid of some of that pain, resting his hand there for the rest of the ride. arriving at the store the two of you enter and walk around, grabbing all your cravings, pain killers and pads.

jj pays for it at the counter and puts the bags in the trunk. your sat back in the passengers seat moaning and groaning at the sudden pain, your back hurts and everything is just overwhelming you! “mmm jj I can’t do it! everything hurts so’bad! ugh..!” your crutched over the seat, your tummy in your lap, jj takes his hands and rubs your back. “im sorry sweet girl..don’t worry we will be home soon.” he says disheartened at your pain, knowing he can’t really help much. you and your boyfriend get home, jj unpacks the bag and you run to lay down on your bed, shriveling and rolling around in pain. after jj is done packing the bags he comes up to to your room watching you perform the scene, upset at the fact his baby is in pain. “you know..I saw on the internet that masterbation and sex can help relive period cramps.” you stop rolling around the bed, wondering if you actually heard what he just said and look at him astonished. “what! I just saw it somewhere, s’not like I made it up.” you huff at the rash suggestion, “jayj you don’t think that’s gross? s’all bloody down there..it would be very messy.” he steps closer to the bed, shaking his head and sits next to you, “babydoll nothing about you is gross, it’s very natural and I want to help you. trust, there’s worse things I’ve eaten. like once I ate this moldy bread with-“ you interrupt him, “yeah I know how gross you are! but if your really fine with it then I guess we can try..”

“you know I am mama.” you shy away at his eagerness and nod, and he gets up to fetch you a towel to place under you. you clean yourself up a bit and lie down on the bed, sliding off your sweatpants and panties leaving only jjs sweater to cover you. a little nervous of how this will go, your boyfriend sits on the bed applying a condom. he has you in a missionary position quivering under him, he calms you down. “baby I promise you it’s alright. the only thing I want for you is to feel better. you could do that for me right?” nodding but still a little anxious he lifts your thighs up, putting them on his shoulders and lines his cock up to your reddened hole. “im going in alright princess?” you squeeze your eyes shut as he pushes in, his hand on your lower waist, pressing down you feel an intense pressure. arching your back you mewl at his prick prodding at your walls. “mmph jayj,.! feels so strange..” he thrust back and forth very slowly, “a good strange or..?” nodding at him, “s’good jayj just feels so deep!” your boyfriend loves that response providing deeper strokes to distract you from any cramps. “oh shit babycakes, you feel so fuckin warm..” you sit up on your shoulders and watch his cock go in and out, making such a mess of your pussy. you breathe hard through your nose and cringe at the pace. “jj i wanna cum..!” he looks down at you wrapping his arms around your thighs “you want me to go faster?” you nod frantically, “please!” jj pulls his hips back and thrust back in at a fast pace. your cunt squelching from mix of blood and arousal, pap-pap-pap. “hngh wait jayj s-slow down a bit!” you cry at the stimulation, “which one is it you want me to go faster or slower hm?” your unable to answer a the intensity, you feel a quiver in your stomach making you wince. “aw cupcake you feel like y’gonna cum? daddy making you feel good?” nodding, he rubs circles onto your cunt making you clench around him. “angh! feels so’good jayj..m’gonna cum!”

“c’mon baby..oh theeere it is good job.” you cream around his length, squealing and catching your breath from the orgasm. your boyfriend finishes in you and pulls out, leaving you feeling empty. “so how’s the cramps now mama?” sniffling, you tell him, “feels so much better jayj, thank you!” getting up you fling yourself on him to give him a hug. “no problem, anything to help you baby.” he smirks at you, “let’s get you cleaned up now sweet girl.” he takes you to the bathroom giving you a relaxing bath, doing all of the work for you. he drys you off, helps you into your pajamas and slides on your bonnet. giving you a painkiller with some water and tucking you into bed. “good night babydoll. tomorrow we will try some yoga, I heard that helps too.” you huff and grumble at the tiring sounding activity, “no m’sleeping tomorrow jayj!” he laughs at your lazy reaction and snuggles you closer to him.

[mamawasatesttube]

i know you arent a fan of n52 and rebirth era dc comics and i was wondering what would have wanted to see instead? im still pretty new to reading comics and i like your take on things.

oh man. oh mannnn now that's REALLY asking!!!! i could probably write a 2000 word essay in response to this question. WAHOO

okay, so the shortest form of it: it's genuinely hard to balance keeping a company afloat and having to worry about what sells, vs telling good stories when you're working with twenty to thirty years of comics as prerequisite reading sometimes. and i understand that as a principle, and that dc (and i mean. everyone) was worried about low sales numbers and the economy being not great etc etc. so i get that they wanted to do something big to mix things up and get people talking and get a lot of attention. however..........

if you haven't already read it, i'd totally recommend this article for a good breakdown of what a total shitshow n52 was and how little planning or foresight went into it whatsoever. like, you read this and you go good LORD no wonder it crashed and burned so hard they rebooted it again after just 5 years.

ANYWAYS. as for what i would have done instead...

well, it depends on how self-indulgent we're letting me be. if i could walk back geoff's lex retcon i would do that in a heartbeat, and simply confirm kon as just 100% A Clone Of Superman.

i would also love to play in the space of super comics post-new krypton more, specifically wrt kon and the steels. i would LOVE a run like superman: the man of steel set in this era, focusing a lot more on clark & the extended superfam; i'd also want searching for chris to become a real storyline - it could be a long, overarching superfam theme for a while, sending them all over the place following this or that lead on how to get chris out of the zone after mon-el finds him, etc. like, there's def things to be done with that.

in terms of my personal self-indulgence... i want to see kon & kara on a space adventure together. pleaaaaase. i want cousin bonding and i want shenanigans and i also want deeply emotional talks about new krypton and also about the fact that linda lang wears conner kent's old glasses. please. please. please. a 6 or 12 issue mini/limited series of them off in space together wouldve been everything.

in general tbh with clark, john henry, kon, kara, and nat (and lois, tho like, obvs she's a civilian) all around i think having a superman team book wouldve been really good in this era, especially with the fallout of war of the supermen and all the anti-alien sentiment sam lane cultivated. digging into kryptonians as immigrants and refugees in the wake of that could have made for some really good and poignant storytelling.

i also would love like... a new titans book. not tt03. i don't like mike mckone's art i'm sorry and also everything about what that series did to kon and bart and cassie was so... ugh. but maybe a new book focusing more on the team and all actually liking each other, for one, instead of being full of cattiness and. eugh. like, a new titans book launch for the era of cassie healing as leader, tim coming back, kon and bart Being back, etc. you know? something a lot more hopeful than tt03 feels.

in my rich inner universe this all leads to a beautiful long slow burn for tim and kon having their queer realizations and working through those feelings in longform stories, not just "and suddenly he realized he'd been bisexual all along! and instantly started making out with the first boy available." specifically i would love to have seen kon have a solo with an arc of him running off to space to try and cope with those realizations, getting into a very brief messy and bad relationship reminiscent of those of his youth but gay this time, and then ultimately accepting himself and returning home. to me kon is a gay genderqueer man, and the realization that he's not into women and was just fabricating attraction his whole life bc he assumed he had to be into women to be like superman is very jarring to him. and i would LOVE to see that journey in comic form. in space.

these are mostly superfam thoughts because honestly there are not that many other characters/groups whose storylines ive read through all the way through 2011 slkjdfkld but with more research i definitely could have more to say re: others too <3 thank you for the question, it was a fun one to ponder!!

[yeahyeahchloe]

It Wasnt in my Head (4)

(a/n: pls lmk if u see any typos! )

Summary: Abby is the starting linebacker at UW and when her team starts to falter her coach decides to get the team into ballet, in order to teach them that grace and stability is important in football too. Abby is just as upset about her teammates about this, until she sees her pretty new ballet teacher...

dancer!reader x football!abby

!!ABBY IS STRAIGHT IN THE BEGINNING. READER IS HER GAY AWAKENING!!

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

The light of my slightly opened blinds shone through onto my eyes. The birds were chirping and the sky was a lovely light blue.

And I was pissed off and hung over.

I decided now that its 10 am I should probably pick up Dina's incessant calling and answer Ellies 'im sorry i got u fucked up' text.

My dimly lit kitchen smelled of lavender and burnt toast as I dialed Dina's number and listened to the tone ring.

Oh, so now she isn't going to pick up?

"Hey, D," I said when the ringing stopped.

"Ugh, finally!! I've been calling you all morning," Dina scolded me as if I wasn't so obviously hungover.

"Yeah believe it or not I know,"

"Ok, so, I called to ask you...something,"

This tone with Dina was never good.

This tone means Dina is up to something.

"Oh, jesus, ok what,"

"So, my master plan went perfect last night, and I saw you talking to our new favorite muscle mommy-"

I cut her off by saying "Oh, that was your master plan? It had nothing to do with leaving me to fend for myself so you can make out with Jesse on a couch?"

".....No?"

I let out a quick exhale through my nose, "So whats the question?"

"Obviously my question is: How did it go?"

I sighed and thought back to my interaction with Abby the previous night. "Good. No, bad. Well, good and bad. Gad,"

"What is that even supposed to mean?"

"You knowww, we like talked for a bit and got to know eachother, but the heartbreaking news, is that she is not a carpet muncher,"

"WHAT! NO WAY!"

"I KNOW. You should've heard me she was all: 'you're gay?' and I went: 'you aren't??'"

Dina snorted into the receiver as I laughed along with her.

"Well shoot. That's a bust," She said, still chuckling. "Hey, wanna go to Laverne's? I'm craving pancakes and french fries real bad,"

"Yes please, 'vernies is the best hangover cure"

"Kay, Ill be at your place in fifteen,"

I hung up the phone as my kettle began to whistle at me from the stove.

I walked over, grabbing a mug on the way and poured in the boiling water. I grabbed my favorite tea and walked into my bathroom to help myself to look slightly more presentable.

Jesus I looked like shit.

I began brushing my teeth before there was a knock at my door.

I rolled my eyes at Dina's overestimate of arriving in "fifteen".

"Dina you said fift-" I cut myself off as I swung open the door and was not met with Dina's face.

Are you fucking kidding me.

Abby fucking Anderson was standing at my front door (looking handsome as ever of fucking course) while I looked like I had just crawled out of the sewers.

"Hi" She awkwardly said with a half smile.

"Oh, hey Abby,"

There was a moment of awkward silence before Abby seemingly jolted in memory of why she was at my door to begin with.

"You, uh, left this on the chair you were sitting on last night, figured you might be looking for it," She said, pulling my pink hello kitty wallet out of her strangely large pocket.

"Oh, shit, thanks Abby," I answered before grabbing my wallet back. "I guess that's pretty important,"

Abby exhaled through her nose in a chuckle. "Yeah well I cant be your knight in shining armor every time. Last night hitting hard, huh?" She looked my slightly up and down teasingly and I suddenly felt very aware of my messy hair, thin sleep tank, and pajama pants.

"Yeah yeah I'll be more careful. Thank you again."

"Yeah no biggie. Um, I gotta run, but I'll see you?"

"For sure, see you Abby,"

We smiled at each other before I shut the door.

Oh my god that was so embarrassing.

I glanced at the time and realized I didn't have long before Dina actually got here.

After fixing myself up and being halfway dressed the real Dina knocked on my door. I shouted a "just a sec" before throwing on my jeans and getting my things and opening the door.

"Hi D,"

"Hey sweets, how ya feeling?" Dina teased with a smirk.

I gave her a playful eyeroll accompanied by a middle finger.

She threw her head back with a laugh and wrapped her arm around my shoulder. "I told you not to do that shit anymore,"

"Yeah well after my wakeup call this morning I won't,"

'You're welcome,"

I sighed before replying with "Not yours, although that one was miserable too,"

"Oh? What wakeup call are you referring to, then?" She asked, turning her head in my direction.

"Ugh I'll tell you at Laverne's,"

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.‧₊˚

The familiar diner smelled like coffee and pie as it welcomed my senses.

Dina and I made a beeline for the back of the restaurant, where our usual table resided right by the kitchen door.

We plopped down in out usual seats and told the waitress our orders before Dina shot me a look.

"...What?" I asked looking around.

"Helloooo, your 'other wakeup call'??" She said looking at me as if I was stupid.

"Oh! Right right, well I had gotten your call, right? And no kidding like two minutes after we hung up there was a knock at my door, so, obviously I thought it was you and answered the door looking like some sort of extraterrestrial and you will literally never guess who was at the door,"

"Was it...girl I don't know just tell me,"

"It was our favorite muscle mommy," I said laughing with embarrassment.

"WHAT?? You're telling me Abigail Anderson was at your fucking apartment this morning??" She asked, a little too loud.

"Jesus, D, keep your voice down. And yes, she was totally there, and looked totally smoking hot,"

"And what did she want?" Dina suggestively wiggled her brows.

"Ugh, unfortunately that's never gonna happen. She was bringing me my wallet, said I dropped it last night,"

"Wait, what? She already have a girlfriend or something?"

"Dina, she's straight, remember?"

"Psh, are you sure? She's like the gayest looking girl I've seen,"

"Dude, I asked. She's straight as a square,"

"Whatever more like a circle"

"Wh-"

I was interrupted by what I thought was the waitress coming in, but was actually Ellie sliding into the seat next to me.

"Hello gentleman" she said with a smirk.

"Hey Els," I greeted my friend.

"Hey Ellie is your f-" I cut off Dina's sabotage with a kick to the shin and my best "you better fucking not" stare before she embarrassed me further.

"What?" Ellie confusedly looked between the two of us.

I gave Dina another look, this time softer and more pleading and I saw her give in.

"Oh, nothing, not important,"

"Hey, liar. What were your gonna say?"

Before Dina could conjure one of her perfect excuses the actual waitress came to give Dina and I our orders, while Ellie made one of her own.

"Ordered a lot of food there, Williams," I teased with a smirk.

"Nah, not all for me," She brushed off my statement.

"Who the hell else would it be for?" I asked, as the answer to my question walked right through the door.

You have got to be kidding.

a/n: hey...hey...how yall doin....

im so sorry for being gone for so long pls forgive me!! Starting up uni again has been rough, especially moving back in for the year. but i promise i will try and update as much as i can.

p.s...it's prob not who u think walking into the diner :3

ok thats all i will say luv u bye

˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖

[kiszuster]

LA . SEXY ✗ satoru .

hey hey .ᐟ note from manager kiszu ! singer! satoru x singer! reader, lowercase, fluff, slight crack, short drabble for the kiszu nation 😖, fem coded reader but race isn't mentioned !

satoru always acted as if being on time was hard. news flash, it literally wasn't, and the "fashionably late" excuse was getting old. his manager, god what was her face? oh. kiszu was it? oh god. she was gonna wear his ass out about this once again.

“so sorry, miss ( last name ), he's literally always like this.” kiszu spoke. a frown on her face as a familiar car pulled up. mmtch, you smacked your lips as you seen him get out the car waving with that same annoyingly cheeky grin on his face. yup, you already thought he was punchable by just looking at him.

"satoru! your late! again." kiszu scowled as she looked over to you, seeing your hand on your own hip. making kiszu frown worse.

you was completely second guessing this collab all together.

"you can't have someone waiting. especially when you wanted this colla—"

“quit yapping kiszu! i get it i get it, satorus so so sorry." satoru said pointing at himself as he walked past kiszu and to you. kiszu particularly could've slapped this punk. but, he's here now. so. i guess it didn't matter anymore, did it?

"ah, you must be ( name ) yeah?" satoru said, looking you up and down. your irritated expression— pretty lips with obvious glossy lipstick on them folded up into an annoyed frown already, to your pretty curly hair. holy shit, you were WAY prettier in person.

but satoru could never be seen getting nervous. not ever. but at the end of the day he was just some stupid loser.

"I'm aware." you say to his question. watching him laugh like you just said the funniest shit in the world, correction. you didn't by the way. your eyes narrowed down to a glare before you said: "okay, satoru. im not here to waste time. you wanted this collab remember?" you said crossing your arms and sitting on the leather couch in the producer room that you two stood in.

"oh im aware. so since i don't wanna waste the rest of your time. here." his tone was coy and smug, ugh. as he slid over a paper of some lyrics with little scribbled drawings by them. making your eyebrow perk up.

guess that help him when he had to read over his own lyrics? something. you picked up the paper and he caught a glimpse of your pretty light blue painted nails. making him grin a bit.

"oh you painted those for m—"

"no." you immediately shut him down. making his grin widen. oh, you were WAY more of a challenge for him. he liked that. maybe this collab wouldn't be so bad. he saw that you placed the paper down.

"sooo?"

"booooo" you said, giving him a thumbs down. making his grin flip into a quick frown with the quickness. that almost made you laugh and laugh hard— you were just kidding around with him.

"bye satoru I'm just playin'. but i can say one (1) thing." you said lifting a finger up, "why can't we change a few lyrics? like maybe a overlap. where both of our voices are heard singing some lyrics then i have a whole verse to myself."

satoru listened to you— he didn't hate the idea. he's heard your voice in some songs, and it was downright gorgeous. so the idea didn't make him wanna wrap his hands around his neck and scream. maybe this wouldn't be bad.

in his silence of thinking, that's when you really got to see him. blue glasses resting on his nose, pretty blue eyes and only slightly messy white hair, sitting in a ever so slightly man spreading position. whew. lord. he actually had a slight kick to him— but okay what if you threw a bomb at him instead.

“i totally see you eye balling me, ( name )." satoru spoke up, a lazy grin on his face. making your lips frown up because that grin looked nice on him.

but why was he acting like he wasn't eye balling you too? looking at your outfit and everything. he definitely thought you had nice fashion skills and even if you didn't, you were so damn pretty. but he wasn't gonna say that.

"oh shut your mouth, i saw you looking at me too. now what do you think of the idea?"

"ACKKKK, wrong." satoru said, making his voice sound like a game buzzer. which— made him start laughing. at his big grown age....you rolled your eyes before you heard his voice.

"okay kidding. i actually like your idea lots, i say we record it and put it all together and see how it comes out." satoru spoke with a shrug. leaning back into the couch opposite from you. you nodded your head with a slight smile. only happy because he agreed with you.

"okay, im game with that. pleasure doing business with you i guess. satoru."

"oh? you know that's the one time i seen you smile miss ( name ) do it again."

"ughhhh shut up you ruined it."

[xylatox]

The Way I Loved You || psh

Finally reading another one of nat’s fics oh my god. I swear like, before I was active on tumblr I read smoke screen & cigarettes and the tattoo on my ring finger (i vaguely remember yapping about this but maybe not) and god—I kid you not I love her work, I literally need to get to safe & sound soon, I promise. Anyways enough of me yapping.

[Added this after my review and Im so sorry its long af </3]

Listening to nat’s playlist as per her recommendation while reading and I am so excited hehe

Park Sunghoon. Even his name feels heavy in your chest.

I’m already so darn excited oh my god, this entire genre is going to break me I swear.

You know what already gets me? I think its so ironic that Yunah says make it personal and I’m just here like yeah…I think its already a bit personal for her before it even starts, its just going to be a bit worse I think and the most trying time to remain professional.

The question hangs in the air, deceptively light. You hesitate for a moment too long, and Yunah’s brows lift, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. “Ah, I see,” she says teasingly. “Well, use it to your advantage.”

I just know things are going to get so messy and Im living for it.

Yunah’s right—the story’s got legs. You just wish you weren’t the one chasing it.

Nat this line eats ugh, you have a way with words girl. Also Heartbreak Anniversary by Giveon is playing at this moment and it was so good I literally had to play it again, its def going into my 2025 playlist.

And yet, you can’t deny the tightness coiling in your chest—not jealousy, exactly. Not regret, either. Just something far messier. The kind of feeling that comes from watching someone you once loved be glorified by the same world that never saw the nights you spent waiting for him to call. The world that didn’t witness the quiet crumbling of a girl who poured so much of herself into someone who didn’t know how to hold it.

Oh my god. This entire paragraph speaks to me. I genuinely love how youre able to just phrase things so emotionally but casually at the same time.

Thank you for reaching out. Sunghoon has reviewed your request and is happy to make time to participate in the interview for your profile piece. We appreciate your interest in highlighting his journey and achievements.

Part of me hopes we get to see his literal thought process/ reaction to her being the one who emailed. Im so excited to see everything unravel. They were together for FOUR YEARS???? Thats a shame, it makes it so much sadder that they broke up now since thats a long time of ups and downs to be together. Like even if three years were good, I’d assume that there was at least some sadder times amidst that (but they were probs outweighed by the good).

Love you from a distance by Ashley Kutcher is so good too, I feel like it definitely encapsulates how the mc feels about her entire relationship with Hoon.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice even. “It’s been a while.”

I would either pass out or like cry. It feels too normal.

He nods, gaze unwavering. “Anything for the press, right?”

I will sob I cannot do this.

The breakup was as cold and sharp as the ice he mastered so effortlessly. Sunghoon’s inability to express himself had always been a quiet undercurrent in your relationship, but distance magnified the cracks until they became impossible to ignore. 

I cant wait to see what was the eventual breaking point of their relationship honestly.

The nickname "Ice Prince" had once made you laugh, made you tease him during post-practice ramen dates. But it wasn’t funny anymore. It became a prophecy fulfilled—he had built walls you could no longer scale, frozen over the places you used to call home.

Nat I am gushing over your words “It became a prophecy fulfilled” oh my god, youre going to kill me.

Your stomach drops. You’d forgotten those were even there—your sardonic, late-night annotations scribbled in red pen. Bitter, sharp, personal. And littered all over your research stack.

Her annotations made me giggle oh my god. I already love her. I would want the Earth to swallow me whole, I’m so embarrassed for her.

“Relax.” He folds the paper with exaggerated care and waves it around in the air, taunting you. “I’m flattered you still think about me. Even if it’s in your own… special way.”

If its one thing I come to appreciate with Sunghoon is that hes naturally irritating but not in like I don’t like you kind of way. He’s the type of guy to constantly push your buttons and keep you on your toes kind of thing.

Also her slipping on the ice?? That little moment is kind of cute, and I think Sunghoon’s comment makes it a little better for me, that small glimpse shows you just how sweet their relationship was before everything ::( Even the wince from him breaks my heart, sports injuries are no easy thing and its literally the most annoying thing to go through and it genuinely just makes you feel shitty

Niki’s lowkey is playing and oh my god. I’ve been so emo (music wise) for the last few years that I forgot how much I loved her music oh my god

“Don’t mention it,” he says, voice neutral again. “Would’ve been a liability issue.”

The way he goes from expressing the laughter to being neutral makes me feel like he wants to curate a certain public image of being emotionless and that probably was one of the reasons their relationship just ended? :( It makes me so sad

You nod slowly, tapping your pen against your notebook. “Unlearning can be the hardest part,” you say, and you’re not sure whether you’re talking about figure skating... or each other.

I can’t do this oh my god. I'm also super interested in this whole altercation with another figure skater. Like him asking her if its personal or for the interview makes me think im reading too much into it (i more than likely am) but im interested as to what happened

He studies you at that, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s trying to read a story written in a language he once knew by heart. “You’re bolder now,” he admits. “Sharper around the edges.”

I am actually so glad he noticed her growth and I’m glad for her that she grew as well

Sunghoon doesn’t answer right away. His jaw tenses, like he’s debating something with himself. Then, slowly, he nods.

Oh this is a small step in the right direction I think!!

“I came back because I didn’t know where else to go,” he admits. “I needed to feel... something familiar. Just for a while.”

Poor Hoon :( You know whats going to break me? The way the mc might have to tap into this entire thing for her story and honestly? I dont want see how messy that gets when it feels betraying to Hoon.

“I wasn’t sure,” he says after a beat. “Maybe I just wanted to see you.”

Oh Im not ready for this holy

“No,” he says after a moment. “You won’t. Off the record’s fine. Not like it matters now, anyway.”

Nooooooo :::( Hes colder again Im so sad

You made decisions faster than he could process. You said the things he only thought about. And you demanded a kind of presence, a kind of emotional honesty, that he had spent most of his life trying to avoid. A part of him had admired that about you. Another part? It drove him insane.

Omg loving that we’re getting his thoughts on her and just how he sees her 

Because the moment you sit down to outline your first paragraph, every sentence you draft sounds clinical. Distant. Like you’re trying too hard to keep your voice out of it. But your voice is in it. It’s everywhere. Between the lines, in the phrasing, in the careful omission of details only you would know.

I just know the hardest thing for them is keeping things professional; not personal and god. They just deserve to be happy.

Forgot how much I love wave to earth, seasons is so good <//3

To the public, it’s a blank space. But to you? It’s fertile ground. You were there. You knew the version of him who lived off convenience store food and energy drinks, who stayed up late tweaking final projects and icing swollen ankles at the same time. You knew the boy who forgot to reply to emails but remembered to text you good luck before your presentations. 

Nat….your words. This makes me so soft, they deserve all the happiness for real. Like despite his emotional distance, the way he remembered to tell her good luck before presentations means the world to me

I didnt expect us to get the actual story and everything oh my god Nat youre insane.

In many ways, Park Sunghoon remains an enigma. But for those who’ve followed his journey, that isn’t new. What’s new is the version of him that doesn’t seek to melt the ice—but instead, has learned to live with it.

I love her so much, that last line is so good.

OH MY GOD HIS EMAIL??? IM SO GIDDY “You still overuse em-dashes, by the way” oh shut up this is amazing😭Im actually so glad he wasnt particularly upset over the article. So now Im left to wonder on where this goes

“Didn’t get my email?” The tone is casual—annoyingly casual. “Or did you read it and purposely decide not to respond?”

Oh my god, what are the odds.

His response is immediate. “You changed your number a few years ago. Didn’t leave much choice.”

?????? Sunghoon you cant just say that what the fuck

He doesn’t flinch. “Some things are hard to forget. Especially if it's the most atrocious coffee order known to mankind.”

I just know he still loves her :( I cant take this

That earns a laugh from him—genuine and unguarded—and it catches you off guard. Not the manufactured chuckle he gives in interviews. Not the polite, PR-approved smile. This is real. Honest. The kind of laugh you haven’t heard in years, the kind that used to sneak up on you in moments that felt weightless.

Im so smily :( theyre so cute. Im being welcomed into something so warm rn and I know halfway Im going ot be losing my mind

Would “it was raining and thought of you” qualify? Or maybe, “accidentally bought your favourite chips at the convenience store and they’re expiring tomorrow”?

Anytime we see a glimpse of his thoughts I die a little bit on the inside ::( ugh I love how much more emotional he seems in his head when it comes to her

“Can you…” he starts, then falters, running a hand through his hair the way he always does when he’s nervous. “Will you wait for me?”

Omg, this breaks my heart

But... I saw something today that made me think of you.

Sunghoon stfu i cant oh my god. The way im so nervous lmfao this is so good

You look like a memory he’s been trying not to miss.

You look like the version of you he’s been carrying around all these years—

Nat I cant do this I will pass out

“And yet,” he says, tapping the box lightly with one finger, “I bought one almost every time I passed that Popmart near my place. For research purposes, obviously.”

I cant do this :::((( seeing them like this makes me hate the idea that they broke up. They truly are meant to be. Also loving how they go back and forth with eachother so easily. They keep eachother on their feet.

Taking a small singing break because Bills by Enhypen came up lol

Seeing him asl her to write the article for him actually makes me sad. Especially from his perspective as an athlete it actually hurts to even think of all the pressure hes under from sponsors or the federations. Its also amazing that even after all those years he still trusts her; yes I know she did a really good first article but even then, the way she doesnt need to send the draft to him actually just shows the extent of his trust in her, and I think that was something that just never changed when it came to their relationship despite the outcome it had.

Damn, I take it back but not really? Seeing the fall out from their past about the offer in Spain hurts. Like, you know she’d be happy for him regardless despite the pain with the distant so why did he still move so normally despite knowing that fact? :( 

Seeing him also breakdown (for a lack of better words) breaks me;

"I'm sorry for not telling you earlier... I was scared.” His voice is low, almost breathless, like he’s only just admitting it to himself. His hand reaches out, tentative at first, before settling over yours where it rests on the couch

Theres such a vulnerability to his words that actually hurts.

Of course he didn’t know. You’d already completed this series over a year ago. Bought the final missing figure off some reseller at a ridiculous markup.

…

You pick it up slowly, turning it over in your hand, and smile to yourself—small, worn, a little sad. He still thinks he knows you. Still buys you things like he’s allowed to remember you this closely.

What if I just start tearing up?

I again love how they converse so easily.

Also him trying so hard to hide the injury breaks me 

It hits you all at once: the déjà vu, the sick familiarity of it. He’s doing it again. Tucking pain behind a polite smile. Folding the truth into excuses he hasn’t said out loud yet. And this time, it’s not your relationship that’s fraying—it’s his body.

Honestly I cant even blame him for hiding the pain, for pretending its all okay. Its easier to hide the pain of an injury behind a polite smile if Im being honest. I sympathize with how he feels, I just hope he gets the help he needs before its too late

Man, Sorry by Halsey started playing at the worst fucking time oh my god.

“Doesn’t matter who he is,” he mutters, voice sharper now, almost defensive. “One day during practice, that prick made a comment. Said my standards had dropped since you left me.”

Wait oh my god, it makes so much sense why he reacted the way he did :( 

“He started talking about you. Joking—if you can even call it that. Said maybe he’d try you out next. That someone like you didn’t need love, just a good—” 

Oh my god Sunghoon, no wonder he lost it

“No, I don’t,” you cut in, and your voice wobbles despite your best efforts to sound composed. “I don’t understand how the guy who always told me to be honest, to be open with him, just decides on his own that I wouldn’t care? You didn’t even give me the chance, Sunghoon.”

My heart is freaking breaking here Nat wtf are you doing to me

He finally looks up, and his expression is raw, stripped down to something you haven’t seen in years.

I cannot do this rn oh my god

“After we broke up, I kept telling myself it was for the best. That I needed to focus on skating. But… after a while, it didn’t matter anymore. I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t even skating because I loved it. I was just… doing it. Because I didn’t know what else to do. Because I didn’t know who I was if I wasn’t moving forward. And without you… I just felt stuck.”

The more we get his side of the story the more my heart breaks honestly. I cant even imagine the amount of heartache and how alone he felt out there on his own without that kind of support system. Like, yes his family is there but there is something different when you just have your person supporting you, even with distance

Finally, he forces the words out, voice rough and unsteady. “I know it doesn’t mean much now, but I’m really fucking sorry, Y/N.”

My fucking heart

You’re not sure whether to scream at him for being so stupidly self-sacrificing or cry because he thought pushing you away was protecting you.

No because Im feeling so much right now its actually insane oh my god

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I swear. I just… didn’t know how to love you and love skating at the same time. And when skating stopped feeling like love, I didn’t know how to love myself either.”

NAT YOU CANT DO THIS TO ME, NO YOU CANT

I cannot believe you got tears to come out my eyes, I did not expect this. I love them so much, the deserve so much

Nat I cant even, I want to reference so much of your lines here but I genuinely cant do that 

But like someone who’s been cold for far too long, and finally, finally found warmth. Like your presence alone is something he's relearning how to deserve.

This and so many lines before this broke me in ways I cant even explain.

"Don’t take this the wrong way," you say, your fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his jacket. "This isn’t forgiveness. I’m not there yet. This is just… me showing you that I still care. As a friend."

I will pass out, shes right to protect herself still. It was so much information in one sitting

And still—that was the way you loved him.

Messy. Unfiltered. Brave in all the ways he wasn’t ready for.

You offered him your whole heart without a safety net, while all he wanted was to protect you from his fall.

I love her so much honestly. Also glad Hugo got what he deserved smh, I do not like him >:( 

I didnt expect the laughing pictures of Hoon oh my god Nat youll kill me.

ALSO HEARING YOONGI’S VOICE IN YOUR EYES TELL MAY HAVE KILLED ME OH MY GOD I CANNOT

I love how much lighter their conversations are :( they really do mean everything to me. I also love the inclusion of mc retyping her messages to reach out to Hoon to see if hes doing okay.

This is not a comeback. It’s about reclaiming why he ever skated in the first place.

I love this line, it makes me so happy. Its him falling back in love with his sport

I just love the entire moment of him on ice, the moments after with Coach Im, this line:

“Either way, it’s good to see you again. I remember you always being there in the bleachers during Sunghoon’s training sessions. It was nice knowing he had someone by his side. Kept him grounded, you know?”

It makes me so happy that they have closure and theyre better. Like even if they stayed friends I wouldve been surprisingly happy with that outcome

"I'm sorry, Y/N," Sunghoon cuts in, his tone gentle but clipped. He avoids your gaze, already half-turning away. "I promised to meet some old friends from uni to catch up."

Man everytime I get happy I feel like he takes 2 steps back :( 

“I’m retiring.”

I literally went “What” out loud wtf Sunghoon

His eyes meet yours, steady. “I wanted to remember what it felt like to skate—not for medals, not for judges, not for anyone else—but just for me. To feel that I could still love it, even if it no longer loved me back the same way.”

Oh my god my heart :( This, its making me tear up and miss my own sport <//3 oh my god I love this soso much

Actually I take back being happy if they were just friends, I fucking lied through my teeth I need them together I cannot handle this.

“Anyway,” you continue, your voice clipped but polite, a shield you know too well, “feel free to have your assistant text me. Thanks.”

I cant do this Nat I cant

Goodbye, Park Sunghoon,

And thank you for everything you didn’t have to say.

I will pass out I swear to God

Because he closes the distance and pulls you into him—arms wrapping around you in one fluid, desperate motion, like his body moved before his mind could catch up. There are no words. No explanations. Just the solid, trembling weight of him anchoring himself to you, like he’s been carrying the absence of this moment for too long, and can no longer bear it.

I cannot do this, genuinely I will lose my mind

“Don’t leave me,” he chokes out, the words low and fractured, muffled into the fabric of your t-shirt. You feel his breath at the side of your neck before you hear his next words.

I am going through so many emotions right now, I want to scream

“I know,” he says, his arms still around you. “But it did. It made me realise just how much I’ve tried to pretend I could move on from you.”

This might be my anxiety talking but I feel like I might throw up actually.

“I remember you as the girl who poured her entire heart into everything she touched—your academics, your friendships… me, even after I left for Spain. You were relentless in the way you showed up for people, even when they didn’t always know how to show up for you.”

The tears will fall again I swear, I cannot do this. Not hime recalling moments with her. I feel so sick oh my fuck. Hes so in love with her, so unapologetically in love with her in ways he never said

Your throat tightens. “And what if I don’t have anything left to give you?”

“Then I’ll understand,” he says, voice rough. “I’ll carry that. But I had to say it. I had to try. And I know it doesn’t make up for anything, but it’s all I’ve got. I’m standing here, telling you I love you, and I will wait—for however long it takes—because I don’t want to live the rest of my life wondering if you ever would’ve said yes.”

Oh my god Nat I will pass out

“And worst of all I hate that even after all of that—after the silence, the heartbreak, the wondering—I still can’t forget you.”

I feel sick oh my god

“Can I kiss you?” he whispers, voice hoarse and breaking with every syllable. “Please… tell me I still can.”

Nat no fucking joke, this and the 3 paragraphs before it I wanted to give back to you because WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO ME????

He kisses you like it’s the first time and the last time all at once.

Im going to throw up I cannot

“Believe me,” he murmurs into your hair, voice thick with restraint, “I want you so bad.”

I will scream and cry and throw up all at once what the fuck

You nod. “You can stay the night if you like… on the couch, of course.”

He grins, eyes flickering with something fond, something teasing—but there's warmth behind it, restraint. “Starting from ground zero, I see.” He lets out a breath, gentle and steady. “I’m grateful. Really. But I won’t overstay tonight. I think…” he pauses, gaze dropping to the floor for a brief second before finding you again, more grounded now, “I think we both have some thinking to do too. And frankly speaking, if you look at me like that any longer, I might actually lose my shit.”

Oh my god I will die

While skating may have been his first love, Sunghoon intends for you to be his last.

So you’ll love him with both hands open. With reverence for the boy he used to be, with gratitude for the man he’s become, and with tenderness for all the versions of him in between.

I feel sick oh my god :( I cannot

As for Park Sunghoon, he leaves behind a legacy not of statistics, but of stillness. Of dignity. Of skating that always seemed to speak in the spaces where words fell short.

And maybe that was the point all along. Maybe it was never about the podium. Maybe the real victory was simply finding your way back to loving something you once thought you had to leave behind.

Im going to throw up.

Nat this was the most beautiful thing ever oh my god. I literally went through all the emotions possible. I love every moment of this, your words, this world between them, the way that despite the distance and the time away they still loved each other even though they didnt say and god, the end feels so completed and the playlist is so good too!! I can see the progress in their relationship with the songs you chose and god its so good. So happy I read this and was part of this journey. <3

THE WAY I LOVED YOU — park sunghoon

Years after a quiet, painful breakup, you are assigned to write a profile on South Korea’s most elusive figure skater, Park Sunghoon, who just so happens to be your ex-boyfriend. What was supposed to be a byline quickly spirals into a collision of unresolved feelings, buried emotions that are edging too close to the surface, and the slow thaw between two people who once meant the world to each other. With every step you take back into his orbit, the line between story and truth begins to blur—and the version of him you thought you knew starts to unravel.

word count: 44k (LMFAOOOOOOO)

pairing: figureskater!ex!sunghoon x sportsjournalist!afab!reader

featuring: yunah, minju, and moka from illit

genre: figure skating au, exes to lovers, the one that got away, sunshine x midnight rain, second chance romance, right person wrong time but also becomes right time(?), opposites attract, slow burn, ANGST

warnings: this story contains miscommunication at its PEAK, emotional distress, mentions of injury, past breakup, abandonment, and themes of regret, long-distance, sunghoon ice prince stereotype, mutual pining, girl putting more effort than guy, hopeless romantic core, emphasis on love language, usage of profanities, slight indication of intimacy (literally like one paragraph if you squint), angst, angst, angst, and oh! angst, also maybe slight inaccuracies to real life sports delegations(?)

disclaimer: this is a work of pure fiction. If any context is similar to any other stories, it's either inspired (in which credit will be given) or just a coincidence. the characters' personalities, words, actions and thoughts do not represent them in real life. any resemblance to any real life events or person, present or past, are purely coincidental. i apologise in advance for any spelling or grammar mistakes. characters are aged up for plot purpose.

notes from nat: ngl. i almost didn't want to put this out. but I know people have been waiting and I can be overly critical with myself sometimes... and 44k words is ALOT to just leave it in the drafts, so here you guys go! highly recommended to read with the playlist i curated in order! without further ado, enjoy!

tags: #tfwy thewayilovedyou #tfwy au

perm taglist. @m1kkso @hajimelvr @s00buwu @urmomssneakylink @grayscorner @catlicense @bubblytaetae @mrchweeee @artstaeh @sleeping-demons @yuviqik @junsflow @blurryriki @bobabunhee @hueningcry @fakeuwus @enhaslxt @neocockthotology @Starryhani @aishisgrey @katarinamae @mitmit01 @youcancometome @cupiddolle @classicroyalty @dearsjaeyun @ikeucakeu @sammie217 @m1kkso @tinycatharsis @parkjjongswifey @dcllsinna @no1likeneo @ChVcon3 @karasusrealwife @addictedtohobi @jyunsim @enhastolemyheart @kawaiichu32 @layzfy @renjunsbirthmark13 @enhaprettystars @Stercul1a @stars4jo @luvashli @alyselenai @ididntseeurbag @hii-hawaiiu @kwhluv @wonjiya @gabrielinhaa @milkycloudtyg @kristynaaah @cripplinghooman

The office is louder than usual for a Monday morning. Keyboards clatter like a percussion ensemble, and the faint hum of printers competes with the buzz of hurried conversations. The aroma of coffee lingers, sharp and bitter. You sit at your desk, staring at your laptop screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard but typing nothing.

Your new assignment email glares at you with a subject line you never thought you’d see: "Profile Piece on Park Sunghoon."

Park Sunghoon. Even his name feels heavy in your chest.

Memories surge to the surface—his laughter ringing through late-night phone calls, the sparkle in his eyes when he spoke about skating, and the tension in his voice during those last arguments before everything unravelled. It’s been years, but the ghost of him lingers like a song stuck in your head.

“Y/N, you’ve got the Sunghoon piece, right?” your editor, Yunah, calls out, snapping you out of your trance. She’s a whirlwind of energy, dressed in a sharp blazer with a coffee mug permanently glued to her hand.

“Yeah,” you reply, trying to sound casual, though your voice wavers slightly. “I’ve got it.”

“Good,” she says, striding over to your desk. “The story’s got legs. Everyone’s buzzing about his reappearance and return to Korea. Olympic dreams, media darling, potential scandal… you’ve got to dig deep on this one. Make it personal.”

“Personal?” The word makes your stomach churn. “Isn’t that more tabloidy than what we’re used to?”

“Sports tabloids pay the bills, sweetheart,” Yunah says with a shrug. “And you’re the perfect person for this. You’ve got the knack for human stories, and Sunghoon’s story is nothing if not human. Besides, you went to the same university, right?”

The question hangs in the air, deceptively light. You hesitate for a moment too long, and Yunah’s brows lift, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. “Ah, I see,” she says teasingly. “Well, use it to your advantage.”

Of course. You forgot you're surrounded by people who read body language for a living. There’s no hiding anything from her.

She walks away before you can respond, leaving you with the sinking realisation that she’s not entirely wrong. Who better to cover Park Sunghoon’s meteoric rise—and whatever personal demons he’s carrying—than the girl who once loved him?

By lunchtime, you’ve done enough digging to know exactly what you’re up against.

Sunghoon’s name is everywhere.

His face—still frustratingly photogenic—plastered across articles, feature spreads, and fan-edited clips with dramatic music overlays. They all show a polished, confident man, far removed from the awkward boy you used to know. His dark hair is perfectly styled, his tailored suits scream sophistication, and his trademark smirk has only grown more enigmatic.

You scroll through write-ups that gush about his triumphant return to the ice. They speculate whether he’ll qualify for the next international season, drop cryptic mentions of a “new fire in his eyes,” and cite sources that can’t seem to agree whether his hiatus was due to injury or personal issues. Or both.

There are whispers about a reality show stint during his time in Spain—something lowkey, never officially aired, but leaked through blurry screenshots and strategically placed fan theories. A training arc in disguise, if you had to guess. Classic Sunghoon: disappearing, reinventing, and re-emerging like nothing happened.

And now? He’s starting to make headlines again.

Which makes sense, you suppose. He hasn’t been in the public eye for months. Not since that withdrawal from the Grand Prix final. Not since the buzz about that infamous tussle—the one that sports reporters avoided naming outright but loved to allude to. The speculation only made him more mysterious. More magnetic. The kind of story that writes itself: the fallen star, re-forging his crown.

Yunah’s right—the story’s got legs. You just wish you weren’t the one chasing it.

You stare blankly at the screen, lips pressed together as your cursor hovers over yet another article about him.

You were supposed to be over this.

And yet, you can’t deny the tightness coiling in your chest—not jealousy, exactly. Not regret, either. Just something far messier. The kind of feeling that comes from watching someone you once loved be glorified by the same world that never saw the nights you spent waiting for him to call. The world that didn’t witness the quiet crumbling of a girl who poured so much of herself into someone who didn’t know how to hold it.

You slam your laptop shut.

If he’s back on the ice, fine. Good for him.

But you’re not the same girl who used to cry over his missed calls and make excuses for his silence. You have a job to do. A byline to earn. And if this rink ends up being his comeback stage, then so be it.

You’ll be there—not as the girl who once loved him, but as the reporter who can write his rise without flinching.

The first step is setting up an interview, which means reaching out to his management. This whole thing could very well end here. You’ll send the email, Sunghoon will reject the request—just like he does with every other news agency or tabloid that thinks they can score an exclusive interview with him. Yunah will realise you’re not some journalistic prodigy, and she’ll move on to the next big headline.

That should comfort you. When Sunghoon says no, it’s over—no awkward reunions, no dredging up memories you’ve spent years trying to bury. And yet, you hesitate, fingers trembling as they hover over the keyboard.

The email stares back at you, every word perfectly composed, detached, professional. It doesn’t betray the tangle of thoughts fighting for dominance in your mind.

From: You Subject: Interview Request for Park Sunghoon Profile Piece Dear Ms. Yoon, I hope this email finds you well. My name is Kang Y/N, and I’m a journalist with Manifesto Daily. Our team is planning a profile piece on athlete Park Sunghoon, focusing on his inspiring journey as a professional athlete and his return to Korea. I would like to request an interview with Mr. Park to discuss his career, his aspirations for the future, and any personal insights he’d be willing to share with our readers. The piece aims to highlight his achievements and provide a deeper understanding of the person behind the athlete. Please let me know a time and date that would work best for Mr. Park’s schedule. I am happy to accommodate and can meet at his convenience. Should you require any further details about the story or our publication, please don’t hesitate to reach out. Thank you for considering this request. I look forward to your response. Best regards, Kang Y/N Senior Journalist (Sports Division) Manifesto Daily +82 XX XXXX YYYY

Highlight his achievements and provide a deeper understanding of the person behind the athlete. You scoff. As if you don’t already have enough material to craft an in-depth exposé on Park Sunghoon—complete with anecdotes, vivid details, and a treasure trove of receipts that you’ve kept buried at the back of your mind, and perhaps in a folder on your computer.

You know the kind of person Park Sunghoon is. You’ve seen him at his most passionate, the fire in his eyes when he spoke about mastering a new routine, and at his most vulnerable, when doubts about his own abilities kept him up at night. 

You’ve also witnessed him at his ugliest—those moments when he seemed completely disinterested during your calls, only for you to catch glimpses of him laughing unabashedly in his training mate’s Instagram stories. When he sent curt, dry texts that cut to your insecurities, leaving you questioning if you were the problem. And yet, now here you are, facing the daunting question: Who is he today? A polished media darling, exuding poise and confidence, or a jerk who simply broke your heart?

You’re not just writing a profile; it’s about untangling the complexities of the boy you once loved and the man he has become, all while confronting the version of him that’s lived rent-free in your head for years.

When you finally hit send, you lean back in your chair, exhaling deeply. It’s done. Now all you can do is wait.

The reply comes faster than expected.

For a moment, you stare at the screen, rereading the email as if the words might change. 

He said yes. The one answer you hadn’t prepared yourself for. A mix of relief and dread washes over you in waves, leaving you momentarily frozen.

From: yoon.jieun@hybe.com Subject: Re: Interview Request for Park Sunghoon Profile Piece Dear Ms. Kang, Thank you for reaching out. Sunghoon has reviewed your request and is happy to make time to participate in the interview for your profile piece. We appreciate your interest in highlighting his journey and achievements. The interview can be scheduled for this Thursday at 3:00 PM at the Olympic Training Rink in Seoul. Please confirm if this timing works for you. Additionally, let us know if there are any specific topics or questions you’d like Sunghoon to prepare for in advance. Should you require further assistance, feel free to contact me directly. Best regards, Yoon Ji-eun Executive Assistant, Park Sunghoon +82 XX XXXX YYYY

“Happy to make time,” you mutter under your breath, staring at the email on your screen. A bitter laugh escapes before you can stop it. Does he even remember you? Or are you just another journalist to him now, a faceless name lost among the countless people chasing for a headline?

He must remember you. Right? After all, you were together for over four years—four long, formative years that shaped so much of who you are. And out of those four, at least three were good years. Happy years. The kind of memories that even if you wanted to forget, you couldn’t. 

He isn’t just part of your past; he is your past. From the moment you met him in freshman year college during orientation, to your graduation, and all the way up to the day he left for Spain to chase his dreams, Sunghoon was a constant—a gravitational force you couldn’t escape.

Late-night study sessions that turned into early-morning phone calls. The excitement of travelling to watch his competitions, where his focus on the ice was matched only by the way his eyes would light up when he found you waiting in the stands. The quiet moments, too—the ones where he’d rest his head on your lap after a long day of training, eyes closed, his walls momentarily lowered. 

You remember all of it, vividly. How could you not? It’s etched into the foundation of who you are, whether you like it or not. He alone made up your youth. 

And he alone crushed it.

The day of the interview arrives quicker than you’re ready for. The sky is overcast, mirroring the grey swirl of nerves in your stomach as you make your way to the Olympic Training Rink. The moment you step inside, a wave of cold air hits you—crisp and unforgiving, seeping through your coat like a reminder of why you're really here.

The rink is quieter than expected. No coaches shouting instructions, no background music blaring. Just the sharp, rhythmic slice of blades on ice echoing through the vast, open space. The sound is hypnotic. 

You spot him immediately. His movements are unmistakable—precise, elegant, detached—just like the version of him the world sees now. It’s surreal. For a moment, you're frozen. He’s always been like this on the ice, as if he belongs to a world the rest of us can only watch from the sidelines.

When he finally notices you, he skates over, his expression unreadable. Up close, he’s both familiar and foreign. The boy you loved is still there, but he’s hidden beneath layers of polished professionalism and years of distance.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice even. “It’s been a while.”

You force a smile, clutching your research papers like it’s the only thing tethering you to professionalism. “It has. Thanks for agreeing to this.”

He nods, gaze unwavering. “Anything for the press, right?”

The faintest curl of his lip accompanies the words, not quite a smirk, but it lands somewhere between sarcasm and civility. There’s a hint of irony in his tone, and you can’t tell if he’s mocking you, the situation, or himself. Either way, it stings in a place you wish was long numb.

You follow him as he skates toward the side lounge near the rink, where a table and chair have been set up for you. You set your things down, press the recorder button, and glance at your questions. But already, you can feel it—the reckoning of something unspoken humming beneath every word, every breath.

The breakup was as cold and sharp as the ice he mastered so effortlessly. Sunghoon’s inability to express himself had always been a quiet undercurrent in your relationship, but distance magnified the cracks until they became impossible to ignore. 

At first, you told yourself it was temporary. A phase. Just the price of loving someone whose dreams demanded everything of him. While he trained under the Spanish sun—chasing medals, perfection, legacy—you remained behind, stuck in the grey stillness of routine. Every morning was a quiet scroll through his tagged posts: flashes of sunlight on ice, arms slung around new faces, effortless smiles captured in perfect golden-hour light. He looked happy. Free. And you… you were still waiting, clinging to half-hearted apologies and empty reassurances.

The timezone difference was a fact of life, yes—but it wasn’t the hours that made him feel far away. It was the way he spoke with one foot already out the door. Every call became more strained, the conversation shallow, like he was rationing his energy and you were the last on his list. His words were careful, rehearsed, as if emotional honesty was a risk he couldn’t afford on top of training and public scrutiny.

Sometimes he wouldn’t even call, and when they did come, they hurt more than the silence. His eyes flickered elsewhere on the screen, distracted by movement off-camera or the notifications lighting up his phone. His voice was flat, barely warm, like he was speaking to a colleague—not someone who used to fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat. The nickname "Ice Prince" had once made you laugh, made you tease him during post-practice ramen dates. But it wasn’t funny anymore. It became a prophecy fulfilled—he had built walls you could no longer scale, frozen over the places you used to call home.

When the arguments came, they were frigid and brittle, snapping under the weight of unspoken frustrations. You started to memorise the pauses in his speech, the way he hesitated before saying your name—as though he wasn’t sure how to feel about it anymore.

It wasn’t just the miles between you that drove you apart—it was the glacier of his guarded heart, one you couldn’t thaw no matter how hard you tried.

And then one night, wrapped in a hoodie that still smelled faintly of him, you sat curled up on the steep edge of your windowsill, your knees pulled tight to your chest, eyes scanning the city like it might offer you answers. The lights blinked on like constellations you couldn’t name anymore, and you realised—with a crushing, reluctant clarity—you were holding him back. 

But more importantly, he was holding you back. 

Your lives had become separate timelines that only intersected on screens and stilted calls, and even then, it felt like you were orbiting each other with no gravity left to pull you close again. The connection you once cherished had thinned until it became a thread you had to squint to see, and even then, it felt like a lie.

So you did the one thing that felt more honest than any of your recent conversations: you typed out the words you’d been avoiding for weeks, hands shaking, eyes blurry.

“Maybe we’re both better off letting go.”

And hit send.

Just like that, another four years passed without him. 

Time, as always, moved in quiet, unremarkable ways—through the steady ticking of clocks and the dull rhythm of workdays blending into each other. You had slowly, stubbornly, climbed the ranks of your publishing company, carving a name for yourself as a senior reporter. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was yours. 

Unexpectedly, you had found yourself swept into the whirlwind of sports journalism—ironic, in retrospect, considering how closely that world is being tied to him. But you told yourself it was coincidence. That it was your choice now. That your world, your career, your interests, were no longer shadowed by Sunghoon's orbit or shaped by the way he used to talk about the thrill of competing and nailing six-minute routines like they were sacred.

You insisted you were free. And maybe that was true. But in the quiet spaces between deadlines and press boxes, in the few spare seconds before interviews began or crowds broke into applause, you couldn’t stop that lingering, almost shameful thought from blooming: that maybe, just maybe, some part of you had always hoped to run into him again.

Not to rekindle anything. Not to reach for what had already slipped through your fingers.

But to show him. Show him that you had thrived. That you were still standing after everything. That the girl he left behind was long gone, replaced by someone sharper, stronger, more whole.

But now—now that you find yourself in this predicament, frozen in place on the edge of a rink you never expected to be at, watching the familiar curve of his form cut across the ice with the same breathtaking grace—you feel like a fool for ever thinking you were ready.

You want nothing more than for the ground beneath you to crack open and swallow you whole. Because seeing him again doesn’t fill you with triumph. It doesn’t validate anything. It just hurts.

Worse than it should.

And it terrifies you how easy it is to fall back into that ache.

“Hello? Earth to Y/N.”

You blink, startled out of your reverie by the sight of Sunghoon waving a hand in front of your face. You hadn’t even realised you'd spaced out.

“Sorry,” you murmur, clearing your throat. Your fingers fumble with the papers you had so meticulously prepped—highlighted, annotated, sorted in order—yet now you pretend to look for something among them, just to avoid his gaze. You know it’s a weak cover. And karma hits fast.

A gust of air from the heater overhead flutters your stack of papers, and before you can react, a dozen sheets slip from your grip and scatter. Some land across the floor. Others fly dramatically over the rink’s low barricade, drifting like paper snowflakes onto the pristine ice.

“Oh, shit—” you hiss, already scrambling to gather them, crawling after loose pages that slip under chairs and along the skirting of the rink. You’re mumbling curses to yourself under your breath as you pick up the pieces of paper off the floor when your eyes zone in on a particular page that landed upright. Your breath catches.

Reference 4: Compilation of Netizens’ Impressions on Athlete Park

+62 -12 wow as expected park sunghoon! young, rich and handsome. must be a dream to date someone like him Dream or nightmare? Not really sure but okay.

+120 -24 kyaaaa he’s so handsome!! I’m a fan! What’s the point of being handsome? He’s a jerk!

+82 -4 wow how can someone look so perfect… he looks like a disney character Correct. More specifically, that giant ice golem from Frozen -.-

+32 -6 i wonder if he has a girlfriend. There must be so much pressure dating someone as perfect as Park Sunghoon. It’s okay, i’ll volunteer!! No pressure. He doesn’t open up enough for you to feel pressure. Still, may the odds be ever in your favour.

Your stomach drops. You’d forgotten those were even there—your sardonic, late-night annotations scribbled in red pen. Bitter, sharp, personal. And littered all over your research stack.

You snap your head up, and horror freezes your limbs.

Sunghoon is on the ice leaning casually against the rink barricade, one of the annotated pages in hand. His expression is a cocktail of amusement and disbelief, and worst of all—a hint of knowing. He reads aloud in a slow, deliberate tone, his voice dripping with mockery.

“‘Park Sunghoon is a block of ice personified. If you want to know what it's like dating a block of ice, 10/10 recommend.’”

He scoffs, dropping the page slightly to meet your eyes.

“Interesting research.”

Your blood rushes to your ears. You feel exposed, raw, like someone’s just peeled the skin back from every nerve ending and left them pulsing in the open air. You can’t even remember writing that annotation—but of course it’s in red, underlined, and impossible to ignore. One of many off-handed comments scrawled across your notes, never meant to be seen. Certainly not by him.

“I—I didn’t mean for that to—” You falter. What can you even say? You were angry when you wrote those, bitter and alone at 2 a.m., trying to turn pain into sarcasm.

Sunghoon studies you, his expression unreadable again. But there’s something in the way he watches you—like he’s trying to figure out if you’re the same girl he once knew, or someone entirely new. Someone just as guarded now as he once was.

“Didn’t mean for what?” he drawls, raising an eyebrow. “You mean you didn’t mean to write all these berating comments in bold red ink all over your research paper?” He plucks up another sheet from the scattered pile, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Let’s see what else we’ve got.”

You instantly recognise that one. Your heart sinks. It’s that page—the one where you’d printed promotional shots of him modelling for an active sportswear brand. Not only had you annotated it with snide remarks about his ‘unnecessarily photogenic jawline,’ but you’d also drawn little devil horns and moustaches across his face like a deranged kindergartener with a vendetta.

“Oh my god, give me that!” you blurt out, reaching instinctively over the rink barricade in an attempt to snatch it back. But of course, Sunghoon is Sunghoon—a whole seven inches taller and built like someone who only lives and breaths protein. He easily keeps the paper just out of reach, lifting it higher with an infuriating flick of his wrist.

And then there’s the bloody barricade. Cold, unyielding metal pressing against your ribs as you lean further than you probably should. You’re close enough now to see the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, the smug glint in his eyes that says he’s enjoying this far too much.

“Wow,” he muses, inspecting the doodles with mock appreciation. “You even gave me fangs. That’s new.”

“Sunghoon, I swear to God—”

“Relax.” He folds the paper with exaggerated care and waves it around in the air, taunting you. “I’m flattered you still think about me. Even if it’s in your own… special way.”

You feel a slow, rising heat on your cheeks, accompanied by the realisation that you’re no longer sure who’s in control of this interview anymore—you or the boy you once loved who is now laughing at your annotated emotional breakdowns. 

You’re burning with embarrassment. Mortification. But more than that, you’re furious—at him, at yourself, at the stupid page still clutched in his hand like a golden ticket. Without thinking, you shove open the rink’s side gate and step onto the ice.

“Y/N—” he calls, warning laced in his voice. But you don’t listen.

Your flats hit the ice and your body immediately regrets the decision. You’re not dressed for this. The soles of your shoes slip against the surface, and gravity betrays you in a matter of seconds.

“Shit—!”

You yelp as your foot skids out from under you. The papers in your hand fly upward in a dramatic arc, and your arms flail as you lose balance completely. A part of you braces for the impact, the cold bite of ice against your back and the guaranteed humiliation that’ll follow.

Four years since you’ve seen your ex-boyfriend, and you’re about to face-plant onto the very place that drove him away from you.

Damn this ice rink. Damn you, Park Sunghoon.

But the fall never comes.

Instead, there’s a sudden blur of motion—fast, practiced, effortless. Arms wrap around you just in time, steadying your momentum as your body lurches forward. You slam into something solid—someone solid—and for a moment, all you hear is the rapid pounding of your heart and the low whoosh of his skates cutting against the ice.

You look up.

Sunghoon stares down at you, jaw tight, one arm around your waist and the other gripping your wrist where he caught you. The smirk is gone now, replaced with something quieter—unreadable.

You’re close. Too close. You can feel the steady rise and fall of his breath, the lingering warmth of his touch against your coat sleeve. He steadies you like muscle memory, like no time has passed at all.

“You never change,” he mutters under his breath, but there’s something indecipherable in his tone—annoyed, maybe. Or amused. Or maybe he just doesn’t know what to feel either.

You pull away quickly, too quickly, slipping again slightly before you regain your footing with a shaky huff. Your palms are planted against his chest, and you can feel the familiar beat of his heart under all that armour of fabric and calm. It rattles you more than the near-fall did.

You open your mouth to snap something biting—maybe about how you didn’t need his help, or how you’d rather eat the ice than owe him—but then you see it.

A flicker of pain across his face. A wince.

It’s subtle. So quick that anyone else might’ve missed it. But not you. You’d studied that face for years. You know what his mask looks like when it slips.

He straightens a little too stiffly, his jaw tightening as he shifts his weight from one leg to the other. It’s slight, but telling. Your brows draw together as a thought rises, uninvited and stubborn.

The rumours about his injury.

It wasn’t reported officially—just whispers that circulated through the sports journalism grapevine. A rumoured altercation in Spain with another figure skater. A "tussle," they called it. No names, no details, just speculation buried in a few poorly sourced articles and message board threads that vanished almost as quickly as they appeared. Some even said it was the real reason he disappeared from competition for two entire seasons.

At the time, it had seemed like nothing more than gossip. Now, watching the way he stands with deliberate caution, the rumour doesn’t seem so far-fetched.

“You okay?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

He pauses, then gives a short nod, not meeting your eyes. “Fine. You’re the one slipping all over the place.”

You bristle. “Well, maybe if you didn’t dangle incriminating evidence over the ice like a Bond villain—”

He actually laughs at that. It’s quiet, caught off guard, and so startlingly familiar that it sends a jolt through your chest. For a second, just a second, you forget everything else—the sarcasm, the history, the sharp words—and remember how that laugh used to feel like home.

But it fades quickly. And in its place is that wall again—the carefully constructed version of him the world sees.

You dust yourself off, avoiding his gaze as you mutter, “Thanks. For not letting me faceplant.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says, voice neutral again. “Would’ve been a liability issue.”

You roll your eyes and crouch to pick up another page, trying to focus on your scattered notes rather than the ache settling low in your chest. He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his eyes on you, can feel the weight of everything unsaid pressing down between you.

Your mind also lingers on the way he winced—on the possibility that something deeper still lurks beneath the polished exterior.

“I’m on a tight schedule today. Let’s get the interview started, shall we?” Sunghoon says coolly, handing you the last of your scattered notes.

You take it from him, eyes briefly flickering to the page. Another cringe ripples through you—more scribbled sarcasm in the margins, barely legible under your rushed handwriting. Fantastic. But you school your expression, swallowing the urge to snatch it back and set it on fire.

“Thanks,” you say evenly, forcing composure into your voice as you tuck the page into your folder. “Let’s begin.”

You sit back down, smoothing the creases from your notes as you click the recorder on again. Your pen hovers above the page for a second too long.

“Alright,” you begin, adopting your neutral reporter tone, “let’s start with something simple. You’ve been back in Korea for a little over three months now. How has the transition been, returning after so long abroad?”

Sunghoon leans forward slightly, arms crossed in that easy, guarded posture you remember all too well.

“Busy,” he says. “Familiar, in some ways. But the pace here is different. Everyone’s watching. Everyone expects something.”

You jot that down, even though it doesn’t say much. It’s a good warm-up answer. Controlled. Polished.

“Does that pressure ever affect your performance?” you press gently, eyes flicking up to catch his expression.

He shrugs, gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder. “Pressure’s part of the job. If it affects you, you don’t belong here.”

You resist the urge to raise a brow. There it is again—that edge in his voice, so calm it almost passes for indifference. Almost.

You move to your next question. “You’ve recently partnered with Belift for their new activewear line. What drew you to them over the other offers on the table?”

A pause. A flicker of amusement tugs at the corner of his mouth. You realise too late that this is the same line of questioning printed on the devil-horned page still sticking out of your folder.

“I liked their vision,” he says, but the glance he gives you is pointed. “Something about... sharp lines and ice tones. Felt on-brand.”

You cough lightly, ignoring the jab. “And the photoshoot?” you ask, pen poised again. “You received quite a response online. Some say it marked a shift in your public image—less ‘Ice Prince,’ more...”

“‘Devilishly handsome and emotionally unavailable’?” he offers, arching a brow.

You shoot him a look. “That’s not exactly what I was going to say.”

“Sure it wasn’t.”

A beat of silence passes before you recover. “Let’s pivot. In Spain, you were training under Coach Morales. How did his style compare to what you were used to in Korea?”

Sunghoon exhales, shoulders dropping slightly. For the first time, his answer comes without a filter.

“He was tougher. Stricter, but less traditional. He didn’t care how I was perceived—only what I delivered. And if I didn’t deliver, he made sure I knew it.”

Something flickers in his eyes—something heavy and lived-in. You don’t push. Not yet.

You scribble a note before asking, softer this time, “Was that hard for you?”

He pauses. “No,” he says after a moment. “What was hard was unlearning everything I thought I already knew.”

The sentence lands with a thud in your chest.

You nod slowly, tapping your pen against your notebook. “Unlearning can be the hardest part,” you say, and you’re not sure whether you’re talking about figure skating... or each other.

You glance at your next question, fingers tightening slightly around your pen. The rhythm of the interview is shifting—balancing between surface-level poise and the weight of everything that hasn’t been said.

“Your return to Korea has been a hot topic amongst our readers,” you begin, tone level. “It’s been a solid three years since the last time you were in the country for the Winter Olympics. Naturally, people are curious—what brought you back? Especially considering the new season is starting soon.”

Sunghoon leans back in his seat, arms loosely crossed. “I can't give away too many details,” he says, gaze cool but not unkind. “Long story short, I’m in the country for some personal reasons that I'd prefer not to disclose.”

You nod, jotting something down even though it’s barely usable. Your next question hovers on your tongue, heavier than the others. “I see. Well, there have been some rumours… surrounding an altercation with another figure skater—someone else under Coach Morales’ regime. Do you have any comment on that?”

His eyes flick to yours—sharper this time. He doesn’t respond right away. You hear the faint rustle of paper, the soft crunch of his skates shifting on the ice. “Is that part of the interview? Or just personal curiosity?”

You look up at him, your expression unreadable. “Does it matter?”

“Well, I assure you there was no altercation,” he says smoothly. “Just minor disagreements.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Care to elaborate?”

“Not really.”

The tension in the air thickens, more palpable than the chill radiating off the ice behind him.

You clear your throat. “Alright. Then what about your injury? How’s recovery? Two seasons is a long time to disappear. Many fans were concerned when you missed the CS Lombardia Trophy in Italy last year. That was a pretty high-profile absence.”

You don’t even know where that came from. The question is not on your list—not even in the margins. But the words slip out anyway, fuelled by instinct more than intention. A part of you just wants to know. Wants to see if he’ll flinch again, if he’ll tell the truth, if he’s still capable of letting someone in—even if it’s just for a moment.

At first, he’s stoic. But then you see it—the shift in his posture, the twitch of tension in his jaw. He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t even flinch.

Instead, he says, “That’s not the story you’re here for.”

“Maybe not,” you murmur. “But it’s the one people would care about.”

A long silence stretches between you, taut as a drawn wire. He’s no longer smirking. No longer deflecting. Just staring, as if weighing something inside himself.

“I don’t believe I ever mentioned being injured,” he replies, with a short, hollow laugh. “These rumours get way too out of hand and invasive sometimes, don’t you think, Reporter Kang?”

That tone again—playful on the surface, barbed just beneath.

You lower your pen slowly, your professionalism fraying at the edges. “Look,” you say, voice quieter, firmer. “If you're not going to give me anything to work with, why'd you even say yes to this interview in the first place?”

The recorder is still running. The room is still silent. But something in the air has shifted—subtle, but irreversible. The space between you no longer feels professional. It feels personal.

Not reporter and subject. 

Just you and him. Two people orbiting the same history, waiting for someone to say the next honest thing.

He moves first. Exhales through his nose—almost a laugh, but not quite. “You’re still the same.”

“No,” you say softly. “I’m really not.”

He studies you at that, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s trying to read a story written in a language he once knew by heart. “You’re bolder now,” he admits. “Sharper around the edges.”

“And you’ve learnt how to talk like a press release.”

He huffs a short breath, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Comes with the territory.”

“Right. Just a clean-cut, polished professional athlete now.” You tuck a paper into your folder, but your eyes linger on him a moment longer.

Still so familiar. Still so far.

You slide the last paper into your folder, but your hands don’t move to close it. You just sit there, the silence pressing down between you again. Your gaze drops to the recorder, still blinking softly.

“Do you want me to turn it off?” you ask quietly.

Sunghoon doesn’t answer right away. His jaw tenses, like he’s debating something with himself. Then, slowly, he nods.

You reach forward and press the button. The soft click echoes louder than it should.

For a while, neither of you speaks. It’s not awkward, but it’s weighty. Careful. Like standing on a frozen lake, knowing one wrong move could crack the surface.

“I didn’t come back for a sponsorship,” he says eventually, his voice lower than it’s been all day. “Or to prep for the season. Not really.”

You glance up, meeting his eyes.

“I came back because I didn’t know where else to go,” he admits. “I needed to feel... something familiar. Just for a while.”

His fingers tap a slow rhythm against his thigh, a nervous habit you remember well. The same one from when he used to sit beside you during exams, whispering under his breath that he was going to flunk—only to ace the paper every time.

You just nod, not sure how to respond to this sudden vulnerability. Truthfully, throughout your four years of dating, he had never truly let himself be vulnerable in front of you. Not fully.

Sure, you’d seen him tired. You’d seen him frustrated. You’d seen the cracks on the surface when pressure pushed too hard—but he always wore his pride like armour, always bounced back with a smirk or a shrug, always insisted he was fine, even when you knew he wasn’t.

But this—this quiet confession, this barely-audible tremor in his voice—it feels different.

Feels like he's reaching out to you.

And it guts you more than you’d like to admit.

You shift slightly in your seat, unsure if you’re meant to comfort him or just bear witness. “Is that why you said yes to this?” you ask. “To the interview?”

His eyes flick toward you, then away again.

“I wasn’t sure,” he says after a beat. “Maybe I just wanted to see you.”

Your breath catches. The words aren’t said with romantic flourish, not laced with sweetness or longing—but they still land squarely in your chest, knocking something loose.

You don’t know what to say. For once, your head isn’t filled with questions or comebacks. Just the ghost of a hundred conversations you never had, and the echo of all the things that could have been different if either of you had said the honest thing first.

But it’s too late for that now.

You glance down at your folder, lips pressed into a thin line. “Thanks for your time,” you say, and it’s so formal, so distant, it might as well have come from someone else entirely.

"I'm assuming I'll hear from your legal representative if I use any of these in my piece."

Your voice is calm, steady—too steady. The sentence lands like a wall slamming back into place between you, brick by brick. You don’t say it to be cruel. You say it because you need to anchor yourself in something safe, something distant. Because the moment felt too raw, too real, and you don’t know what to do with the part of you that wanted to reach across the table instead of retreat.

Sunghoon stiffens. Just slightly.

“No,” he says after a moment. “You won’t. Off the record’s fine. Not like it matters now, anyway.”

You nod once, curt. “Got it.”

And just like that, the spell breaks. The weight in the room doesn't lift, but it shifts—muted now, buried again beneath layers of detachment and professionalism. The kind you’ve both grown too good at.

You don’t look at him when you stand. Don’t give yourself the chance to. Your hands move on autopilot—closing the recorder, tucking your pen away, zipping your coat with fingers that tremble ever so slightly. And then you’re moving, steps brisk and deliberate, the sound of your boots against the concrete floor too loud in the quiet.

Behind you, you hear nothing.

No apology. No explanation. No plea.

Just silence.

Sunghoon opens his mouth—his hand halfway raised, like he’s about to call your name. But the words never make it past his lips. He watches you go, jaw clenched, the moment slipping through his fingers before he even realises he still wanted to hold onto it.

For him, seeing you again was something he knew he would never truly be prepared for, no matter how many times he rehearsed this conversation in his head. Because you were never a script he could memorise.

You were always unpredictable. Slipping through moments like sand through his fingers—too quick, too sharp, too full of feeling. He remembers how your emotions came in layers—some loud and impulsive, others quiet and impossible to decipher. And maybe that’s what scared him the most.

Because he never quite knew how to meet you where you were.

You made decisions faster than he could process. You said the things he only thought about. And you demanded a kind of presence, a kind of emotional honesty, that he had spent most of his life trying to avoid. A part of him had admired that about you. Another part? It drove him insane.

Now, as your figure disappears through the doors without so much as a backward glance, he feels that same ache blooming in his chest again—familiar and bitter.

He told himself that this would be closure.

But it doesn’t feel like the end. It feels like a page he never finished reading.

And you’re already gone.

You spend the next few hours drafting the profile piece that was supposedly meant to “provide a deeper understanding of the person behind the athlete.” Though with the material you’ve managed to gather, it’s unlikely you’ll even graze the surface. 

Whatever. Just give them the Sunghoon they want: the enigmatic comeback king, the prodigy turned recluse turned headline again. You’ll quote his stats, mention his precision, maybe even throw in a poetic metaphor about how the ice has always been his canvas. You’ll do your job. Professionally. Neutrally.

You’ve done harder things. Covered messier stories. Interviewed athletes who could barely string a sentence together. Sat through twelve-hour matches just to get three lines of gold. Writing about Sunghoon, someone you know—knew—should be easier. Right?

Wrong.

So incredibly, painfully wrong.

Because the moment you sit down to outline your first paragraph, every sentence you draft sounds clinical. Distant. Like you’re trying too hard to keep your voice out of it. But your voice is in it. It’s everywhere. Between the lines, in the phrasing, in the careful omission of details only you would know.

You stare at the blinking cursor on your screen like it’s mocking you. Because no matter how objective you try to be, there’s no deleting the fact that the man skating his way back into the spotlight is the same one who once skated straight out of your life.

And now you have to write about him like he’s just another assignment. Like he wasn’t the one story you never really finished.

Still, you’re a professional—and Park Sunghoon is nothing if not a compelling subject. Enigmatic, polished, untouchable. Every photo released of him looks like it’s been run through three rounds of edits and an entire PR team’s approval. His public image is a masterclass in controlled narrative, curated to the last detail, but his backstory remains a blank canvas to most.

Well, not to you.

You have a folder of photos from when he was still just Sunghoon—before the endorsements, before Spain. 

Sunghoon also never said you couldn’t dive into his university life. And it’s not like he gave you much to work with anyway.

That’s fair game.

No media-trained responses, no glossy interview clips—just a black hole of the years he spent quietly grinding through lectures and training sessions, tucked far from the spotlight. 

To the public, it’s a blank space. But to you? It’s fertile ground. You were there. You knew the version of him who lived off convenience store food and energy drinks, who stayed up late tweaking final projects and icing swollen ankles at the same time. You knew the boy who forgot to reply to emails but remembered to text you good luck before your presentations. 

You know the difference between the way he smiles for cameras and the one that used to slip out mid-yawn, when his guard was down. You know the scar above his ankle—not because it’s ever been mentioned in press, but because you were there when he got it, wrapping it in gauze while he hissed through gritted teeth. You know how he taps his fingers when he’s nervous. How he tightens his jaw before speaking truths he doesn't want to admit. How his laugh used to crack in the middle when something really got to him, how his voice used to trip over words when he was excited or flustered—not like the carefully paced cadence he gives the media now.

He may have grown into a mystery, but once upon a time, he was the most knowable person in your life.

So yeah, you dig. Not out of spite. Not exactly. You’re just doing your job. Sourcing old event flyers, class photos, public records, and a few strategically placed emails to former professors and classmates. You tell yourself it’s just research—nothing personal. Just building a fuller picture for the piece. The audience deserves depth. Authenticity. A glimpse of the man behind the athlete.

Besides, it’s not like you’re digging for scandal. You’re just… revisiting old ground.

Still, there's something undeniably sharp about the way your fingers move as you pull up archived yearbooks and student publication blurbs. How your lips twitch at the memory of him stumbling through a group presentation in first-year psych, cheeks red, voice shaking as he tried to explain semiotics with a skating metaphor. The same boy who once dropped his cue cards and muttered, “I’m better on ice, I swear,” to a room that actually laughed with him. 

And maybe—just maybe—it wouldn't hurt to slip the story into the draft. Tactfully. Casually. A humanising touch. A reminder to the world that he wasn’t always so untouchable.

You add a line about his time at university, his balancing act between training and lectures, the quiet discipline that preceded his fame. And though it’s not in your style to get sentimental, you let yourself write one soft line, just one:

You keep it sharp. Clean. Balanced. The words come easily, like muscle memory. You stitch together the facts, layer in the charm, and add a sprinkle of speculation where it’s appropriate—just enough to give readers something to chew on. You reference his decorated track record, his quiet re-entry into the spotlight, the way his name is starting to echo through rinks again like a whispered rumour of greatness returning.

You even write about the growing murmur among commentators: that Park Sunghoon might just be gearing up for a full-blown comeback.

Even though he told you—specifically, clearly—that he wasn’t prepping for the season.

But facts don’t sell as well as fantasy. And he’s always been better as a myth than a man.

So you keep your voice light. Objective. Not too close, not too distant. Just enough ambiguity to make it seem like you’re on the outside looking in. Just enough plausible deniability to protect you from the truth threaded beneath every line. You write him like a legend resurrected. Like someone who left the world breathless, disappeared, and is now daring to return.

Before you know it, you're signing it off.

And as you read over the final draft—flawless, well-paced, and entirely detached—you can’t help but feel the faintest pulse of something beneath your skin.

Because this isn’t just a story about Park Sunghoon.

It’s a story about how well you still know him.

And how expertly you’ve learned to pretend you don’t.

You don’t even attempt to read it over another time. You just hit send.

The email whirs off to your editor, and with it, the story. Not the whole one. Not the one you carry in your chest like an old wound. Just the one the world gets to see.

And if he reads it—

Well.

Let him wonder how much of the truth you chose to leave out.

[MANIFESTO EXCLUSIVE] The Ice Doesn’t Melt: A Closer Look at Park Sunghoon’s Return to Korea

By Kang Y/N, Manifesto Daily

Three years since his last appearance on home soil, South Korea’s beloved figure skater Park Sunghoon has returned—not with the fanfare some expected, but with a quiet presence that speaks volumes. After a two-season absence from competitive performance, Park, now 27, has chosen to settle in Seoul again, sparking both curiosity and speculation among fans and professionals alike.

“I needed something familiar,” he said during our brief but telling interview, when asked about his decision to return. He didn’t specify more than that, and true to form, left the rest hanging in the air unsaid.

Park Sunghoon has always been a study in restraint—on and off the ice. From the moment he first captured public attention as a prodigious teen gliding across the rink with terrifying precision, he has maintained an image both pristine and impenetrable. Nicknamed “The Ice Prince” by fans and media alike, Park built a reputation not just on technical skill, but on his ability to keep the world at arm’s length.

His return to Korea comes on the heels of years spent overseas—Spain, to be exact—where he reportedly trained under a discreet but rigorous programme with world renowned Coach Alex Morales.

Park was last seen in competitive skating during the 2023 Grand Prix, where he shocked the world by abruptly withdrawing from the final. At the time, he was considered a strong contender for the gold, making his sudden exit all the more startling. The incident was never formally addressed by his management, and Park himself has avoided discussing it altogether. The silence that followed only fuelled speculation—injury, burnout, conflict—but no answers ever came. Just absence.

Still, those who’ve recently spotted him during early morning solo sessions at the Seoul Ice Arena report that his technique is sharper, cleaner—almost startling in its control. But what truly draws attention is the absence of spectacle. No press conference, no sponsor-driven welcome, no grand statement announcing his intentions. Just quiet re-entry.

“He doesn’t skate like someone preparing for a comeback,” one former coach, who requested anonymity, shared. “He skates like someone trying to remember why he loved it in the first place.”

Yet, it’s not just his time abroad that shaped the man returning now. Long before the endorsements and Olympic buzz, Park had quietly juggled his dual identity as both athlete and student. Few fans are aware that between competition seasons, he completed a degree in media and communication at a local university. Classmates from that time recall him as a quiet presence—always punctual, often reserved, but not unfriendly. He kept to himself for the most part, but those who got close remember his dry humour, his encyclopaedic knowledge of classic film, and a surprising tendency to ramble nervously during group presentations.

“He once tried to explain a semiotic theory using a skating routine as an analogy,” one classmate laughed. “It didn’t make much sense, but he was so earnest about it, we just let him finish. After that, he was known as the ‘semiotic boy’ among our coursemates.”

Those stories paint a softer, more human picture of the man the public still views as near-mythic. But those who knew Park Sunghoon before the spotlight remember someone more boy than myth—equal parts unsure and brilliant, like he hadn’t quite figured out how to carry the weight of his own potential. Just a young man balancing essays and exhibitions. Late-night editing sessions and early morning ice drills.

This return has reignited questions about what Park wants now—what comes after the medals, the global tours, and the silence that followed. His name still commands weight, still trends with the slightest public appearance, yet there’s a noticeable shift in how he carries it. Less prince. More person.

There’s been no official word on whether Park will rejoin the competitive circuit, though murmurs within the skating community suggest he’s been quietly invited to participate in the upcoming 2026 Winter Olympics team tryouts. Whether he intends to accept remains unclear—Park has neither confirmed nor denied the rumours, keeping his future as intentionally unreadable as ever.

And perhaps that’s the story. Not a triumphant return. Not a redemption arc. But presence. The act of being. The quiet audacity of choosing stillness in a world that only ever celebrated his movement.

In many ways, Park Sunghoon remains an enigma. But for those who’ve followed his journey, that isn’t new. What’s new is the version of him that doesn’t seek to melt the ice—but instead, has learned to live with it.

Only time will tell what that means for the future of figure skating’s most elusive son.

“Our dear Y/N, you’ve done it again.”

Applause breaks out the second your foot crosses the threshold of the office. It’s 9 a.m.—too early, too loud, and at least three hours behind the amount of sleep you need to properly function. You blink, trying to place what exactly you’re being celebrated for.

“Bravo. That was an excellent article,” Minju, the team’s ever-enthusiastic publicist, grins as he pats you on the shoulder in passing.

Oh.

That was going out today?

You didn’t even have your morning coffee yet.

By the time you’ve dropped your bag onto your desk and opened your laptop, your inbox is already a mess. The subject lines blur together:

[RE] Manifesto Exclusive – Park Sunghoon IS HE BACK FOR REAL?? The Ice Prince has feelings?? Thank you for this. I cried.

You open a few out of morbid curiosity. Fans are flooding your public inbox with praise, speculation, and—because the internet is the internet—several unsolicited theories about a secret marriage and a love child. Your copy editor, Moka, forwards you one with the subject line: “if he doesn’t want to melt, i’ll melt FOR him.”

On social media, it’s even worse. Or better. You’re not sure yet.

His name is trending. #ParkSunghoon.

Followed closely by #IcePrinceReturns, and the truly cringy #TheColdDoesntBotherHoonAnyway.

Tweets fly across your feed:

@/ice_princess: this article just made me want to lie face down in the snow and whisper Park Sunghoon’s name to the frost

@/manifesto_daily_stan: Kang y/n i’m free on thursday if you want to do god’s work again

@/plscomebackhoon: she said he doesn’t need to melt. he just needs to exist. do you HEAR that??? DO YOU.

You rub your temples, overwhelmed, equal parts proud and terrified. It was just a profile piece. A quiet one. No exposés, no scandals—just a man and the silence he didn’t bother filling.

And somehow, that’s exactly what everyone needed.

Editors are thrilled. Readers are emotional. Former skaters are sharing it. Someone on Twitter even called it “the most human thing written about an athlete in years,” and you don’t know whether to be flattered or panicked.

Because it wasn’t meant to be that personal. 

Not really.

And yet—how could it not be?

You told the truth, sure. The visible one. But between the lines, there were pieces of you too. Tiny, hidden echoes of everything you remembered and everything you refused to say. And now it’s out there—immortalised in print and pixels—being consumed by people who will never know what you left out.

You’re halfway through scrolling a tweet thread titled “25 Times Park Sunghoon Looked Like a Heartbroken Studio Ghibli Protagonist” when a new email notification pops up.

From: theiceprince@gmail.com Subject: That Article

You squint.

How... tacky.

You open it, already bracing yourself for either legal threats or sarcasm.

Hey. Took your email off the internet, hope you don't mind. Nice article. Although, I don't think I approved any of those pictures you used in it. Especially the one where I’m mid-blink and look like I just saw God. Bold choice. P.S. You really quoted my classmate calling me “semiotic boy”? That’s... deeply unnecessary.

You stare at the screen, lips twitching despite yourself.

It’s so him—passive-aggressive, smug, and annoyingly charming. The kind of email only Park Sunghoon would send instead of just texting like a normal person.

At the bottom, there’s no sign-off. No best regards, no sincerely, not even a name.

Just one final line, added like an afterthought:

You still overuse em-dashes, by the way.

You exhale a laugh. God, of course he noticed that.

You stare at the screen, blinking. Once. Twice.

Of all the emails you expected today—from eager fans, nosy editors, one conspiracy theorist convinced Sunghoon is a time traveller—this was not on the list.

You lean back in your chair, arms crossed, rereading the message like it might change if you blink hard enough. But no. Still the same. Still signed off with zero punctuation, zero emotion, and 100% Sunghoon.

You scoff.

theiceprince@gmail.com. You can’t get over it. You don’t know what’s worse—the fact that he still uses the nickname he’s allegedly “not fond of,” or the fact that he sent this at 9:46 in the morning, as if he’s just casually emailing his accountant and not the ex-girlfriend who roasted his public persona to poetic effect.

Bold choice, he says.

This, from the man who once wore leather gloves indoors during summer and called it “a vibe.”

And semiotic boy? That quote was gold. If anything, he should be thanking you for making him sound like an emotionally tortured academic with cheekbones.

Still… your fingers hover over the keyboard.

The sensible part of you says to delete it. Or at the very least, archive it and go refill your coffee. You already got your exclusive. You did your job. The story’s out there, and it’s done.

But the curious part of you—the one that still knows how he takes his coffee, still remembers the shape of his laugh—can’t help but wonder what this email really means.

You don’t respond. Not yet.

But you don’t delete it either.

You just stare at the screen, lips pressed together, and whisper to yourself—

"I need a coffee break."

With that, you grab your cardigan, slip on your trainers, and leave the email open on your desktop as if stepping away from it might somehow make it disappear. The air outside bites at your cheeks—crisp, early, and a little too cold for spring. Your mind buzzes more from the lack of sleep than caffeine, and your only plan is to make it to the café on autopilot.

The café is still quiet at this hour, the kind of place where the clinking of ceramic cups and the occasional low murmur of conversation hums like white noise. The bell above the door chimes softly as you enter, and immediately you're greeted by the warm, grounding scent of roasted coffee beans and sugar syrup.

You exhale, shoulders easing slightly when you notice the queue is short. You move toward the counter, already calculating how much espresso you can legally ingest in one sitting, when a voice calls out from the seating area.

“Didn’t get my email?” The tone is casual—annoyingly casual. “Or did you read it and purposely decide not to respond?”

You freeze mid-step.

No way…

You turn, slowly—like you're afraid if you move too fast, the moment will solidify into something real you’re not ready for.

And there he is.

Park Sunghoon.

He’s standing just a few feet away, leaning with practiced ease against the edge of a table like he belongs there, like he hasn’t just completely upended your morning, looking frustratingly well-rested for someone who supposedly prefers early ice sessions. He’s dressed casually—black coat draped over a fitted charcoal jumper, those black-rimmed glasses he used to wear in university when he was trying to be invisible. But he was never very good at that.

His gaze locks with yours—calm, steady, unreadable—and it takes everything in you not to let your expression betray the punch of memory hitting you square in the chest.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter, half under your breath.

“Sorry?” he says, feigning innocence.

“Nothing,” you say quickly, crossing your arms, trying to compose yourself. “Just… surprised...”

“Surprised to see me,” he says, finishing the thought as if he’s been rehearsing it in his head. 

“Yeah, at my coffee spot,” you sneer, narrowing your eyes. “What, are you stalking me?”

He gestures lazily toward the table behind him, where a half-drunk latte sits beside a copy of some obscure paperback you’re certain he’s only pretending to read. “I was here first. Technically.”

You smile, tight-lipped, the professional mask slipping neatly into place. “Well, I apologise if you felt like I had something against you. I get thousands of emails every day—your mail must’ve just gotten lost in the flood of junk mail. If it was really that urgent, you could’ve just texted.”

It’s a big, fat lie. You won’t even pretend otherwise. You read it. Multiple times. But you’re not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing that. 

His response is immediate. “You changed your number a few years ago. Didn’t leave much choice.”

The way he says it is deliberate, a little too sharp around the edges, like he’s been holding onto that fact longer than he’d care to admit. And what is he implying? That he’s tried contacting you over the years? What for?

You raise an eyebrow. “Right. And instead of, I don’t know, asking your assistant for it—you know, the same assistant I literally emailed last week—you thought it would be less invasive to go digging through old contact forms and hope I still checked my public inbox?”

He shrugs again, shameless. “It was surprisingly easy. And I figured it’d be less awkward than asking someone for it directly.”

You narrow your eyes. “Because nothing says respecting boundaries like showing up at my local café after sending a mildly passive-aggressive email.”

“Oh?” he says, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “So you did read it?”

“No.”

“Then how’d you know it was passive-aggressive?”

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing just a touch. “Because I know you.”

The silence that follows is dense and immediate, settling between you with the weight of everything left unsaid. It hums beneath the chatter of the café, a fragile thread stretched so tight that you swear it might snap if either of you so much as blinked wrong.

Then, mercifully, the barista calls out for the next person in line—that’s you.

You move instinctively toward the counter, but before you can even begin to open your mouth, he’s already there, casually stepping beside you.

“Long black,” Sunghoon says, voice smooth as ever. “Make it a double shot.”

You turn your head slowly, eyes wide. “You remember my order.”

He doesn’t flinch. “Some things are hard to forget. Especially if it's the most atrocious coffee order known to mankind.”

And just like that, you’re thrown. Not by the gesture, but by the way he says it—like it means something. Like maybe he's not just here to pester you about emails and profile photos. Like maybe there’s something else behind those carefully guarded eyes.

But you're not ready to unpack that. Not here. Not now.

So instead, you nod stiffly, and say nothing.

Not because you have nothing to say—

But because you know, with Park Sunghoon, even the smallest word might start something you’re not sure you’re ready to finish.

You’re still reeling from the fact that he remembers minuscule details—like the exact way you take your coffee—when he casually steps in front of you and pays for it before you can even open your mouth to protest.

“You didn’t have to,” you say, surprised but keeping your voice neutral.

He waves it off, already pocketing the receipt like it’s no big deal. “Still have no idea how you even drink that shit,” he mutters, eyeing the dark brew with a look of theatrical disgust. “But consider it a compliment. For the article. It was… good.”

You glance up at him over the rim of your cup as you take your first sip, letting the heat hit your hands before the taste even registers. “Just good?”

He shrugs, nonchalant, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “You didn’t use my best angles.”

You pause, lips curving slightly. “Oh, don’t worry,” you reply smoothly. “I’m saving those for the next feature: Park Sunghoon’s Top 10 Most Smug Expressions.”

That earns a laugh from him—genuine and unguarded—and it catches you off guard. Not the manufactured chuckle he gives in interviews. Not the polite, PR-approved smile. This is real. Honest. The kind of laugh you haven’t heard in years, the kind that used to sneak up on you in moments that felt weightless.

It hits you like hearing a song you forgot you loved—familiar and warm, laced with a nostalgia you weren’t ready for. A reminder of the version of him that existed before all the distance, before the silences, before the press statements and polished answers.

You don’t say anything in response. Just shoot him a look over the rim of your cup. A quiet don’t push it.

He meets your gaze, and for a beat, neither of you speaks. Then he nods, like he understands exactly what you’re not saying.

And somehow, that nod feels like the most honest thing exchanged between you all morning.

You’re back at your desk, the café detour doing little to clear your head. The email is still open, still flashing on your screen like it’s waiting—mocking you, almost. You stare at it for a long moment, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

You shouldn’t. You don’t need to. But something in you itches to respond anyway.

So you do.

From: You Subject: Re: That Article Hey. Glad you thought the article was good. I’ll be sure to file that glowing endorsement under “career highlights.” Also, I stand by the photos. Especially the one where you blinked mid-sentence—you looked relatable for once. Anyway. Thanks for the coffee. – Y/N P.S. Don’t ambush me at my local café again. Only if it’s urgent: +82 XX XXXX YYYY

Sunghoon is lying on his couch, one arm draped over his eyes to block out the soft afternoon light filtering through the curtains, the other still loosely holding his phone against his chest. The café encounter from earlier keeps playing in his mind on a slow, involuntary loop—your face, your voice, the way your brows lifted when you saw him, and especially that look you gave him when he ordered your coffee like he had any right to still know that.

He knows he probably shouldn’t have emailed. The moment he hit send, there was a part of him that regretted it. But then again, he’s never been particularly good at letting things go quietly—not when it comes to you. Not when the silence between you has always felt more like a wound than a clean break.

It’s been years since the breakup. Long enough, he thinks, that you should both be able to function like civil adults. Maybe not friends, but at least... acquaintances. Whatever that word means when it’s wrapped in history and the kind of silence that’s never quite neutral.

His phone buzzes once against his chest, and he lifts it almost automatically—more out of habit than hope, not expecting much. Maybe a curt response, a one-liner soaked in professionalism, something non-committal that closes the loop without opening any new ones.

But what he finds isn’t quite that.

His eyes skim the message quickly the first time, catching on your usual clipped humour, your dry phrasing. Then he sees the P.S.—and it stops him cold.

Don’t ambush me at my local café again. Only if it’s urgent: +82 XX XXXX YYYY

He stares at the line, the digits at the end anchoring his attention. His thumb hovers over the screen, then lowers.

He reads it again. Then again.

It takes him a moment to process that you didn’t just reply—you invited a reply. Not in so many words, but you didn’t have to.

He blinks, the message still glowing softly in the palm of his hand, and feels something shift—subtle, but undeniable.

You had tried to play it off with that line—“only if it’s urgent”—like it was a formality, a throwaway detail tossed in for the sake of convenience. But Sunghoon knows you better than that.

You don’t do anything without intention.

Even back then, when things were good, your words were measured—never careless. Whether it was drafting an essay or choosing what to say during a fight, you always calculated the weight of your words before you let them go. He used to admire that about you, even when it frustrated him. Especially when it frustrated him.

So no, he doesn’t believe the number was a casual addition. Not from you. Not after all this time. You wanted him to see it. You wanted him to know.

He sits up slowly, the email still open in his hand, thumb brushing absentmindedly over the edge of the screen. For a second, he considers calling. Just to hear your voice again—to see if it sounds any different now that everything between you has changed.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he just quietly saves the number into his contacts—Y/N, no emojis, no titles. Just your name, plain and familiar, like it’s never really left his phone at all.

His thumb hovers for a moment as the screen confirms the entry, and then he leans back, eyes flicking toward the ceiling, letting his mind wander—almost involuntarily—through an absurd list of scenarios.

He snorts softly.

What counts as urgent, exactly?

Would “it was raining and thought of you” qualify? Or maybe, “accidentally bought your favourite chips at the convenience store and they’re expiring tomorrow”?

His mouth twitches at the thought, the corner of a smile he doesn’t let fully form.

He’s not going to reach out—not tonight. Whatever this fragile, undefined space is between you now, he doesn’t want to risk crowding it too soon. He knows better than to force something still learning how to exist.

But the number is there now, quietly saved, tucked away like a folded letter waiting for the right moment to be opened. And that—simple as it is—is more than he had before.

So he stays where he is, stretched across the quiet of his apartment, letting the silence linger—not as a weight, but as something strangely tender. Something almost sacred. Because it no longer feels like the end of something.

It feels like the pause before a beginning.

And he waits.

Just like you did for him all those years ago.

The airport is chaos, as airports always are—the dull roar of overlapping conversations, the mechanical drawl of flight announcements overhead, the clatter of suitcase wheels rolling over the slick, polished floors. But somehow, in the middle of it all, it feels like there’s a bubble around the two of you, a quiet space carved out by the sheer force of everything you’re not saying.

Sunghoon stands a few feet away from the security gate, backpack slung over one shoulder, his boarding pass crumpled slightly in his hand from how tightly he’s holding it. Mr and Mrs Park are with him, tearfully fussing over their son—Mrs Park tugging at the hem of the jacket that's too big for him, hanging awkwardly off his frame in a way that makes him look both older and younger at the same time—like he’s already halfway into another life and trying to pretend he isn’t scared.

You stand nearby too, arms crossed—not out of defiance, but because it’s the only way you can keep yourself from falling apart. You don’t trust your hands otherwise.

When Sunghoon finally turns to you, you force yourself to smile.

“You’ll do great,” you say, forcing your voice to stay steady even though the lump in your throat makes it hard to breathe.

He smiles at that—a soft, tired thing that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I don’t know about that,” he says, laughing under his breath, glancing down at his shoes like the words he really wants to say are hiding somewhere in the scuffed leather.

Your heart twists painfully at the sight.

And then he steps closer, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him properly, close enough that you can see every crease of worry etched into his usually smooth expression.

“Can you…” he starts, then falters, running a hand through his hair the way he always does when he’s nervous. “Will you wait for me?”

The words hang between you, raw and clumsy and completely un-Sunghoon-like. No flourish. No ice. Just a boy asking for something he doesn’t know how to promise in return.

You look at him then—not the rising athlete, not the polished skater everyone else sees—but the boy who once spent three hours helping you build a wobbly IKEA desk, who remembered exactly how you take your coffee, who mumbled useless astronomy facts at two in the morning when neither of you could sleep.

And you nod.

Because how could you say no?

“Of course,” you say.

He exhales, and for a moment, it looks like he wants to say something more—something that could make this easier, something that could anchor you to the idea that this distance will be temporary, survivable. But whatever it is, he swallows it down.

Instead, he squeezes your hand once, quick and clumsy, like he’s afraid that if he holds on any longer, he won’t be able to let go at all.

Then he steps back. One step. Two. The space between you widens in a way that feels irreversible.

You stand there, rooted to the spot, as he turns toward the security line, his figure blending into the tide of travellers wheeling suitcases and juggling passports. He doesn't look back, and you tell yourself that’s a good thing—that it’s easier this way.

You don’t realise you’re holding your breath until his silhouette finally disappears around a corner, swallowed up by the sterile white lights and directional signs pointing toward Departures.

Only then do you let yourself breathe out, shaky and slow.

The airport continues moving around you—announcements, crying babies, the low thrum of engines preparing to carry people across oceans—but somehow, it feels like everything inside you has stilled. Like the moment he walked away, something small and quiet inside you went with him.

You watch another plane lift off in the distance, disappearing into the clouds. And even after his parents insists you go home, you stay a little longer, long enough for the ache to settle, long enough to be sure you won’t cry until you’re safely back in the taxi home. Pretending that saying “of course” didn’t cost you more than you could admit at the time.

Because if there’s one thing you promised him, and yourself, it’s that you would be strong enough to wait.

Except you didn’t know what waiting would mean at that time.

You were confident this long-distance thing could work.

After all, at that point, you and Sunghoon had been dating for over three years. You knew each other’s routines, each other’s moods, each other’s silences. You had weathered exams, competitions, internships, stupid fights about stupid things—surely, you thought, an ocean between you couldn’t undo what you had built.

You believed that love, real love, was supposed to be enough.

But love, you will learn, isn’t always louder than distance.

And sometimes, people leave—not because they stop loving you, but because their dreams need a bigger sky than you can give them.

You told yourself the time difference was just an inconvenience. That the occasional missed calls, the shorter texts, the longer silences were normal. That he was just busy. Tired. Adjusting.

And for a while, you made it work.

You sent each other photos—your morning coffee, his late-night practices. You had clumsy video calls where the signal dropped and you’d laugh and call each other back like it was no big deal. You celebrated tiny victories over Wi-Fi connections, reassured yourselves that the months would pass quickly, that this was temporary.

You even started saving for plane tickets, bookmarking dates and circling holidays on your calendar, telling anyone who asked that yes, it was hard, but yes, it was worth it.

You meant it.

You meant every word.

But what they don’t tell you about long distance—the thing you only learn the hard way—is that sometimes love isn’t enough when the other person starts building a life you’re no longer part of in the daily, ordinary ways. When your names are still tied together but your days stop overlapping. When missing someone becomes part of your routine instead of your exception.

And Sunghoon—sweet, steady, ambitious Sunghoon—was chasing a dream that required all of him.

There wasn’t much left over.

Not for you. Not for the late-night phone calls he stopped picking up. Not for the promises that started to stretch thinner and thinner until they broke without either of you realising it at first.

You waited.

You waited longer than you should have. 

And even now, some stubborn, aching part of you still remembers how sure you were at that airport when you said, of course.

Because you weren’t just waiting for him to come back. You were waiting for the version of him that left—to stay the same.

But some things, you’ve learned, aren’t meant to be held in place.

And some people, no matter how tightly you hold onto them, will always belong to a future you don’t get to walk into with them.

Now, sitting at your desk, staring at the faint glow of the monitor, you can’t help but drag a hand over your face in frustration. God. What was I thinking?

You lean back in your chair, the cheap leather groaning under the movement, and close your eyes for a moment, wishing you could rewind the last ten minutes and snatch the email back before it left your outbox. Before it could make you look like the fool you swore you wouldn’t be again.

Because re-reading it now, all you can see is desperation threaded between the lines. You might as well have stamped please still care about me in bold at the bottom.

You told yourself it was nothing. A witty reply. A polite thanks for the coffee. A number offered up casually—as if you wouldn’t notice whether he used it or not.

But you know better.

And so would he.

The truth is, no matter how many years have passed, no matter how much you've convinced yourself you've moved on, a part of you still folds too easily around him. Still softens at the memory of a boy who once asked you to wait for him, and the girl you were—the one foolish enough to believe that waiting would be enough.

You hate that about yourself sometimes. Hate that a few casual words from him, a coffee, an email, still have the power to make you feel like you’re standing in that airport all over again, arms crossed against your chest, watching him walk away.

You open your eyes, exhaling slowly. The office hums around you—phones ringing, fingers tapping on keyboards, Yunah shouting about deadlines across the bullpen—and you’re struck by how absurd it is that your life has continued without him, and yet he still feels like an unfinished chapter you never really closed.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That he’ll probably ignore the number. That he’ll chalk it up to courtesy and leave it at that.

But deep down, you know it’s too late for pretending.

Because no matter how you dress it up—witty, polite, indifferent—you handed him a door. And now, whether he steps through it or not, you’ll have to live with the fact that you opened it first.

The days pass, slow and uneven, the way they always do when you’re waiting for something you’re trying to pretend you’re not waiting for.

You throw yourself into work—churning out profiles, editing pieces that aren’t yours, picking up assignments nobody else wants just to fill the spaces in your mind. You sit through endless editorial meetings, nodding at all the right moments, scribbling half-hearted notes in the margins of your planner like it matters. You grab late-night convenience store dinners with Minju and Yunah, laughing at their jokes even when your chest feels hollow.

You live.

You function.

You check your email more often than necessary, always under the excuse of work, even though you know exactly what you’re hoping to find. You flick through your phone sometimes too—half-scrolling through newsfeeds, half-wondering if maybe, just maybe, there’ll be a notification that isn’t there.

But Sunghoon doesn’t reply. No email. No text. No missed call.

Nothing.

And slowly, inevitably, you start to fold the hope away. The way you fold an old jumper you know you’ll never wear again but can’t quite bring yourself to throw out.

You told him he could reach out only if it was urgent. And clearly, you’re not urgent.

Maybe you never were.

And you take it as a sign—maybe the only sign you’re going to get—that you should finally do yourself a favour and move on.

Because apparently, you haven’t. Not really. Not after all this time. You didn’t expect his return to unravel you like this—to pull at threads you thought you had stitched up long ago. But it has. And you can’t pretend anymore.

So you’ll move on for real this time. Not the half-hearted version where you paste on smiles and throw yourself into late nights at the office, where you tell your friends you’re fine while secretly checking your phone at red lights, while pretending you don’t still wonder if he thinks about you too. Not the kind where you fold the memory of him into smaller, quieter compartments of your mind, pretending it's just nostalgia, not hope.

No, this time, you tell yourself, it will be the real kind—the clean break, the neat ending.

And for a while, you almost believe it.

Until your phone buzzes, cutting through the quiet.

Just a single, unremarkable vibration against the desk, one you almost ignore—because it’s late, because you’re tired, because you’re used to the world asking for pieces of you at all hours now. You glance at the screen without thinking, already preparing to swipe it away like a dozen other notifications.

But then you see it.

Unknown Number.

For a moment, your brain stalls, fumbling for a rational explanation—maybe it’s a delivery update, maybe it’s a scam, maybe it’s one of those automated text from some subscription you forgot to cancel.

Still, your hand moves on instinct, betraying every rational excuse you try to conjure.

You unlock your phone.

And you read:

Hey. It’s me. Not sure if this counts as urgent. But... I saw something today that made me think of you. Do you have time?

Your breath catches in your throat, sharp and sudden, and the world around you blurs for a second—the hum of fluorescent lights overhead, the muffled buzz of printers, the distant tap-tap-tap of someone typing across the office—all of it fading under the weight of those few simple lines.

You read it again. And again. As if the words might rearrange themselves into something else if you look long enough.

But they don’t.

It’s him. Sunghoon. 

Reaching out not because he had to. Not because it was "urgent."

But because he thought of you.

And even though your mind races ahead with every reason you should be cautious, with every reminder of how long it took to rebuild the parts of yourself he once splintered, you already know—deep in your chest, in the place you don't let logic touch—that you’re going to answer.

You don’t let yourself overthink it this time.

No typing, erasing, retyping. No staring at the blinking cursor until it mocks you into silence. You just move your thumbs over the screen, letting instinct take the lead before the part of you that’s scared has a chance to intervene.

You type:

You: You should probably introduce yourself next time. "It’s me" doesn’t really help if I don’t already know how you text. And depends. Is it something worth hearing about?

You barely have time to set your phone down before it buzzes again.

Sunghoon: Definitely something worth hearing about.

Another message follows almost instantly:

Sunghoon: I’m free tonight if you are. Just coffee. Nothing crazy. If you want. There's also a favour I'd like to ask.

You sit there, blinking at the last line, reading it twice as your mind scrambles to catch up. 

A favour?

It throws you off more than the coffee invitation itself. Coffee is easy—coffee is surface-level, casual, the kind of thing you can chalk up to old acquaintances being civil. But a favour? A favour means intention. A favour means he’s thought about this. About you.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, your pulse quickening in that annoyingly familiar way you wish you had outgrown by now. You’re not naive enough to think this is anything more than it is. He probably just needs help connecting with someone, getting a contact, maybe even needs something for the press if he’s easing back into the public eye.

Still, a part of you hesitates.

Not because you don’t want to go. But because you’re not sure if you trust yourself not to want more.

You take a breath, steadying your thumb over the screen.

You type:

You: Where and what time?

The message sends before you can talk yourself out of it, and you drop your phone onto the desk, face down again, like it’s too hot to hold onto for even a second longer. You exhale a long, slow breath, staring up at the ceiling, trying to calm the restless beat of your heart.

Because tonight, you realise, you’re going to see him again.

Not as professionals. Not as a lingering what-if. Not as a name floating in your inbox or coincidental meetings.

But real. Present.

And no matter how much you tell yourself that you’re ready—that you’re different now—you know a part of you is still bracing for impact.

Sunghoon arrives at the café first.

It’s your spot—he knows that now. He also knows you probably don’t come here because the coffee is any good—you always made that clear with a scrunched nose and a dry comment about “caffeine being caffeine”—but because it’s close, convenient, easy to fold into your day without having to think too hard.

He settles into a table near the window, where the soft spill of the sunset stretches across the tabletop in muted golds and pinks. He sits with his backpack slung over the back of the chair, a cup of hot tea resting untouched in front of him, and for a brief moment, he looks less like the man you’ve been writing about—and more like the boy you used to know.

He wasn't a hundred percent sure you'd say yes to meeting him. When he sent that message, part of him assumed it would disappear into the void, swallowed up by everything unsaid between you. 

But you answered. And you did in the way you always did—dry, sharp, a little guarded—but underneath it all, you answered.

And now, sitting here in this too-bright, too-loud café with a lukewarm tea and a racing heart he can’t fully rationalise, Sunghoon feels the weight of it settle in his chest.

He glances at the door again, even though he knows it’s still early. His knee bounces under the table, betraying the nervous energy he can’t shake, no matter how carefully he tries to hide it under indifference.

Maybe tonight won’t fix anything. Hell, it’s not meant to.

But you’re showing up.

And somehow, that already feels like more than he deserves.

The bell above the door chimes, sharp and familiar, cutting through the low hum of conversation and clinking cups.

Sunghoon looks up almost instinctively—and there you are, stepping into the café with a kind of restless energy tucked into the set of your shoulders, like you’re already bracing yourself for something you can’t name yet.

You don’t see him at first.

Of course you don’t.

Because out of pure, unconscious instinct, you’re scanning the corners of the café—the tucked-away tables, the quieter spots shielded from the main crowd—just like you always used to.

Sunghoon feels a tight tug in his chest, something that pulls and aches all at once, because he remembers.

He remembers how you used to tease him for always choosing the seats against the wall, how you said he acted like a cat looking for the best vantage point, somewhere he could see everything without being seen himself.

He remembers you pretending to sulk when he dragged you to the corner booths instead of the bright window seats you preferred—and how, secretly, you never really minded.

And now, without even thinking, you’re still looking for him in the places where you remember him being.

And without even realising, he had chosen a place where he remembered you liking.

He doesn’t call out to you.

He just watches.

Watches the slight purse of your lips when you don’t spot him right away. Watches the way your fingers tap lightly against the strap of your bag—an old nervous habit he’d forgotten he remembered—like your body is leaking out the anxiety you refuse to show on your face.

And God, you look—

You look pretty.

Not in the polished, deliberate way people try to look when they know they’re being watched.

You look real.

Soft in the fading light, like the world around you hasn’t quite caught up to you yet. Your hair a little mussed from the breeze outside, your cheeks flushed with the leftover heat of the setting sun. There’s a quietness to you, a rawness—like you’re still made of the same stubborn hope and sharp edges he used to love, except time has worn them softer, gentler, more dangerous in ways he doesn’t even have the words for.

You look like a memory he’s been trying not to miss.

You look like the version of you he’s been carrying around all these years—

Real. Tired, maybe. A little guarded. But still luminous in a way he can’t describe without sounding ridiculous, without pulling old, unfinished feelings up from the place he thought he’d buried them for good.

Something shifts in his chest, painful and sweet all at once.

Because in the handful of minutes he’s spent sitting here convincing himself to stay calm, convincing himself that this was just coffee and nothing more—you’ve walked through the door and reminded him, without trying, exactly why forgetting you had never really been an option.

He straightens slightly in his chair, the leg of the table bumping softly against his knee.

And for a moment—just a moment—Sunghoon forgets why he’s here at all.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder, scanning the café with a quiet frown starting to settle between your brows.

Sunghoon watches the hesitation flicker across your face—the way you linger a fraction too long at every corner booth, the way your fingers brush nervously against the hem of your jacket, like you’re grounding yourself without even realising it.

And then—finally—your gaze catches his.

The moment stretches, taut and delicate, like a held breath.

You blink, as if to double-check it’s really him. Your lips part slightly in surprise, a faint hitch of breath visible even from where he’s sitting, and for a second, neither of you moves, both suspended in that thin, brittle space where time slows down just enough to make you feel the weight of it.

You glance at the window beside him, your eyes catching the reflection of the streetlights bleeding into the glass, and for a moment, confusion flickers briefly across your face.

That’s why you didn’t spot him immediately when you walked in.

You weren’t looking by the windows—you never had to.

Sunghoon never sat there. He hated it. Hated having his back exposed, hated being on display. You’d spent years weaving through crowded cafés and restaurants, instinctively scanning the corners, the quiet spaces tucked away from the flow of people, because that’s where he would always be—where he could watch without being watched, where the world couldn’t reach him unless he let it.

But tonight, he’s here.

By the window.

Plain as day.

And without him saying a word about it, you realise it—another small, unconscious version of Park Sunghoon you were still holding onto without even realising it. 

A version you thought was set in stone, carved into your memories. 

A version you never prepared yourself to outgrow.

Sunghoon doesn’t smile. He doesn’t look away.

He just meets your gaze head-on, steady and quiet, letting the moment settle between you without rushing to fill it with anything easy or safe.

You square your shoulders after a heartbeat too long, forcing your body into motion, and start making your way towards him. Your steps are measured, careful, almost cautious, but there’s no mistaking the way your fingers clench slightly against the strap of your bag, no hiding the guarded look in your eyes that says you’re still ready to turn around and walk away if this goes wrong.

He stays seated as you approach, watching you close the distance between you, something tight and aching lodged in his chest, something he’s too afraid to name yet.

When you reach the table, you don’t sit down right away.

You just stand there, staring at him for a moment longer, as if trying to gauge how much of the boy you used to love is still sitting there, underneath the polished surface he’s learned to wear like a second skin.

Sunghoon clears his throat lightly, a small, awkward sound that feels jarringly loud in the otherwise soft hum of the café.

“You found me,” he says, voice low and almost shy, like he's not sure if he's allowed to sound relieved.

You shrug, shifting your weight onto your other foot. “Didn’t think you’d make it so easy,” you reply, your tone light, almost teasing, but there’s no real bite behind the words—just a tired kind of fondness that feels too familiar, too stubborn to shake.

And just like that, some of the tension splinters—

Not all of it.

Not enough to call this easy.

But enough to remind both of you why you’re here.

Wordlessly, you pull out the chair across from him and sit down, setting your bag carefully by your feet.

Sunghoon’s hand twitches slightly against his cup, the tea inside long cold by now, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

You fold your hands in your lap, lift your chin just a little, and say, “Alright. You’ve got my time. Let’s hear it.”

“You’re not even curious what reminded me of you?” Sunghoon asks, one brow lifted, his voice dipping into that familiar, teasing cadence you used to know so well.

Of course you’re curious. Of course your mind has been spinning endless possibilities from the second you read his first text. But you’re not about to hand that over to him so easily—not when you’re still trying to convince yourself you’re not sitting here half-holding your breath.

You lean back slightly in your chair, crossing one leg over the other in an easy, breezy posture you absolutely don’t feel, and shrug. “What reminded the oh-so-charismatic Ice Prince of me?”

The corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk—the same infuriating, boyish smirk that once had the power to completely undo you, the one you thought time and bitterness would have dulled. It hasn’t. Not even a little.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Instead, he reaches into the inside pocket of his coat, moving slowly, drawing out the suspense just because he knows it’ll get under your skin. 

When he pulls out a small box and sets it gently on the table between you, you blink down at it in surprise.

It’s a Popmart blind box.

The exact kind you used to collect like trophies after long study sessions or bad days, back when you needed small, ridiculous joys to get you through.

You stare at the familiar design, the cutesy pastel art printed on the cardboard, the gleaming plastic seal still unbroken—and for a second, it’s like the years peel away and you’re back in a different time, a different version of yourself. One who used to drag Sunghoon to random mall kiosks and lecture him on the probability rates of getting the secret rare figure, completely oblivious to how patient he was being with you.

He watches your reaction carefully, elbows propped lazily on the table, but his eyes are sharp—searching.

“You’re kidding,” you murmur, finally breaking the silence, your voice somewhere between disbelief and something softer, something a little too close to fondness.

He shrugs, that infuriating smirk deepening. “Saw it at a convenience store on my way to practice this morning.”

You shake your head, the smallest, almost unwilling laugh slipping out of you. “You used to roast me for buying these.”

“And yet,” he says, tapping the box lightly with one finger, “I bought one almost every time I passed that Popmart near my place. For research purposes, obviously.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t fight the smile pulling at your lips, nor the way your chest tightens at the thought of it—him, in another city, another life, still thinking of you in the small, quiet ways that mattered when words weren’t enough.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The box sits between you, unopened, full of some stupid, mass-produced trinket that somehow feels heavier than anything else in the room.

You glance up at him, and he’s already looking at you—not with expectation, not with the smugness you were half-braced for—but with something quieter. Something careful.

“Thank you,” you say, the words slipping out before you can overthink them, barely more than a whisper, but somehow steady. It’s the only thing you can conjure in the moment, the only thing that feels honest and real enough to offer. You’re a little surprised you manage to say it out loud at all, your throat tight with all the other things you’re not ready to admit.

Sunghoon leans back in his chair, his eyes bright with something that looks dangerously close to amusement as he tilts his head at you.

“It’s the least you could say,” he teases, tapping the box again with his fingertip, “after I spent almost twenty dollars on that.”

The exaggerated grumble in his voice cracks the tension like a hairline fracture, and before you can stop yourself, a laugh escapes your lips—short, surprised, but real.

The sound of it seems to hit him harder than you expect.

For a second, he just stares at you, like he’s been momentarily stunned, like some long-frozen part of him is trying to remember how to breathe properly.

And if you weren’t so caught up in trying to pull your own defences back into place, you might have noticed the way his posture softens, just slightly, as if the laugh is something fragile he’s afraid of shattering.

You smirk, shaking your head as you reach out and nudge the box with two fingers, sliding it just slightly toward you.

“You bought this to bribe me into helping you with that favour, didn’t you?” you say, lifting your gaze to meet his fully now, your voice laced with teasing accusation but your heart still hammering too hard against your ribs.

He has the audacity to look mock-offended, clutching his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Bribe?” he echoes. “Wow. No faith in me at all.”

“You literally showed up with a Popmart like some kind of peace offering-slash-negotiation tactic,” you point out, arching an eyebrow.

“And yet…” he trails off, a slow grin tugging at his mouth, “you’re still sitting here. You’re still talking to me.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the way the corner of your mouth betrays you, tilting upward just enough for him to catch it.

He sees it.

Of course he does.

And somewhere, buried deep under the layers of sarcasm and half-healed scars, you know he feels it too—the tiny, reckless flicker of something that neither of you is quite brave enough to name yet.

“So?” you prompt, your fingers idly tracing the rim of the coffee cup in front of you, the casualness in your voice a little too forced even to your own ears.

Sunghoon shifts in his seat, the easy smirk fading just slightly as he straightens, as if the weight of what he’s about to say demands a little more gravity.

“I wanted to ask if you could help me write another article,” he says, the words slow and deliberate, like he’s weighing each one carefully before letting it leave his mouth.

You blink, surprised but trying not to show it. “What about?”

He leans back, exhales once through his nose, and says it:

“I’m going to be participating in the Olympic tryouts.”

The announcement hits harder than you expect, knocking the air from your lungs for half a second. You sit up a little straighter, your mind racing to process it, because the last time you talked he was adamant he wasn’t preparing for the season. He said it so easily, so convincingly, that you hadn’t thought to press harder.

Sunghoon must catch the flicker of confusion across your face, because he adds quickly, almost defensively, “It’s not a comeback. Not really.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. “What do you mean?”

He pauses.

You can see it—the hesitation. The way his shoulders tense just the slightest bit, the way he looks down at his hands like the answer is written somewhere in the faint lines of his palms.

“I—” he starts, then stops, chewing the inside of his cheek in frustration. His fingers curl lightly against the table, the same nervous tic he’s had since he was a teenager trying to explain why he bombed a practice session.

“I just need you to write the article for me,” he says instead, voice softer now, almost tentative. “Please?”

Here’s the thing about Sunghoon.

He’s always been good at giving you just enough—just enough smiles, just enough softness, just enough quiet promises without ever saying the words aloud—to make you feel like maybe, just maybe, there was something sturdy here.

Something real.

Something worth holding onto.

And then, just when you reached for it, just when you let yourself believe you were on solid ground, he would pull back.

Carefully.

Effortlessly.

Leaving you standing there, empty-handed, wondering if you were the one who had leaned in too far, if you had asked for too much, if you had misread all of it from the start.

It wasn’t cruelty.

It was worse than cruelty.

It was kindness, just enough to hurt. Just enough to make you doubt whether it was ever real.

You lean back slightly, arms crossing over your chest, not because you want to be defensive but because you need the distance, need something to ground you against the sudden rush of old feelings. “Why me?” you ask, genuinely. “The last time I wrote something for you, you were too busy complaining about the photos I used to actually say thank you.”

It’s a weak jab, but you both know the real question you’re asking has nothing to do with photos.

It’s why now?

It’s why me, when you could have gone to anyone else?

Sunghoon meets your gaze without flinching, his expression surprisingly earnest.

“Because,” he says simply, “I trust you.”

You open your mouth to say something—something sarcastic, something to deflect—but he cuts you off before you can.

“I trust that you won’t spin this into something else. I trust that you’ll tell it the way it is. Not the way people want to hear it. Not the way the sponsors or the federations want it dressed up.” His voice stays calm, but there’s something raw underneath it, something that edges dangerously close to vulnerability. “Just… the truth. That’s all I want.”

You stare at him across the table, your fingers curling slightly around the rim of your cup, and for a moment, you don't say anything. You just sit there, letting the request hang in the air between you, heavy and trembling like a thread pulled too tight.

Part of you—the part that's bruised and still sore from all the years of learning the hard way—wants to say no. Wants to lean back in your chair, laugh it off, tell him to hire a better PR team like every other professional athlete with something to prove. Wants to remind him, and maybe yourself, that you’re not the same girl who would have dropped everything the moment he asked.

Because you know better now. You know how this story goes. You say yes, you step closer, you open the door just a crack—and he slips through, quietly, effortlessly, until you're standing in the wreckage again, wondering how you didn’t see it coming.

But another part of you—the stubborn part, the hopeful part you haven't managed to kill off no matter how hard you've tried—can’t quite look away from him. From the way he’s sitting there, tension riding his shoulders, fingers tapping a restless rhythm against his cup. From the way he asked—no bravado, no posturing, just a simple, almost clumsy honesty that feels so rare you almost don't know what to do with it.

You glance toward the window, watching the way the last blush of sunset catches against the glass, and for a moment you imagine what it would feel like to say yes.

Not because you owe him. Not because you’re chasing the past.

But because, somewhere deep down, you still believe in telling stories the way they deserve to be told.

You still believe some promises are worth making again, even if it terrifies you.

Your stomach twists, your chest aching with the sharpness of it, but you find yourself already knowing the answer before your mouth even moves.

You inhale slowly, letting the silence stretch for just a beat longer than necessary, then exhale through your nose, pushing aside the complicated tangle of feelings you don't have the energy to unravel tonight.

"Fine," you say at last, voice even, businesslike, like you're trying to convince both of you that this is just another assignment and not something heavier slipping under your skin. "Get your assistant to email me the details. I’ll personally send over the draft before pushing it to the editorial team."

You reach for your cup as you say it, needing something to do with your hands, something to anchor yourself to this new line you’re drawing in the sand.

But before you can even take a sip, Sunghoon leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table, his expression soft but firm in a way that pins you in place more effectively than anything else could.

“Don't bother,” he says simply. “You can just publish it directly.”

You pause, the cup poised halfway to your mouth, his words hanging there between you like an invisible thread you’re not sure you want to pull. You lower the cup slowly, setting it back down against the saucer with a faint clink, buying yourself a second to think. To breathe. To understand.

You search his face for the catch, for the usual hesitation he so often laced into moments like this—those little cracks where you could see him calculating the safest move, the one that let him stay just close enough without ever being vulnerable.

But this time, there’s none of that. Just him, sitting there, arms folded over the table, looking at you like he’s already decided.

"Are you sure?" you ask, the words slipping out lighter than you feel them. "No proofread? No management red flags?"

Sunghoon’s lips twitch into a smile—small, wry, but not mocking. If anything, he looks... relieved that you asked. Like he was expecting the pushback, maybe even hoping for it, because it means you’re still cautious enough to take this seriously.

"I’m sure," he says simply. 

A muscle ticks once in your jaw, the urge to press further bubbling up, but you force yourself to stop. And in it’s place, a lump forms in your throat, sharp and unexpected, because if there’s one thing you didn’t expect to find tonight—certainly not here, not like this—it was trust.

Not just trust in your professionalism. Not just trust in your writing.

Trust in you. 

Because whatever else has changed, you can feel it: This matters to him.

Not the article. Not the media coverage.

This.

Reaching out to you.

Trusting you with the fragile, unfinished thing he's trying to build for himself again, knowing full well you could burn him with it.

And somehow, hearing him say it—so plainly, so quietly—makes it harder to breathe for a moment. Because even after everything, even after the distance and the silences and the growing pains you both carried separately, some part of him still sees you as the person who would protect his story. The way you once protected his heart.

And you don’t know what terrifies you more—the fact that he still trusts you, or the fact that, deep down, you still want to be the person worthy of that trust.

It rattles something loose inside you—the version of yourself you thought you had to kill off to survive him once.

You shift slightly in your seat, trying to hold onto your composure, trying not to let him see the way those simple words—those few inches of offered faith—shake the foundation you’ve been standing on for years.

"Alright," you say at last, keeping your voice light, controlled, even though your hands tremble ever so slightly beneath the table.

"But don't blame me if you don't like how candid I get."

Sunghoon smiles at that, the edges of his mouth curling in that way that makes your chest hurt for reasons you’re too tired to name.

"I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t mean it," he says simply.

You let out a soft breath you hadn’t even realised you were holding and glance down at your watch, the second hand ticking steadily forward. It’s getting late. And even though neither of you says it, you both know this fragile truce you’ve built tonight can only stretch so far before it snaps under the weight of everything you’re still not ready to talk about.

You stand, gathering your bag with slow, deliberate movements, and Sunghoon rises too, out of habit more than necessity. Always the gentleman, even when he had no right to be.

You sling your bag over your shoulder, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and look at him one last time.

There’s so much you could say. So much you shouldn’t.

So instead, you just offer a nod. Small. Measured. Almost formal.

"I’ll be in touch," you say.

And before he can say anything that might make this harder, you turn and walk toward the door, the cool night air rushing in as you step outside.

You don’t look back.

But you feel it—the weight of his eyes following you, lingering in the space you leave behind.

You’re back in that tiny, overheated apartment off campus—the one where the windows always fogged up too easily and nothing ever really dried properly unless you left it near the fan. The scent of burnt popcorn still clings faintly to the air from earlier that evening, and the dull hum of traffic bleeds in through the thin walls, but even that doesn’t distract from the tension steadily rising in the room like pressure before a storm. Sunghoon is slouched on the couch with one hand tangled in his hair, exhaling yet another sigh—his fifth in the past ten minutes. You’ve been watching him carefully from across the room, patiently waiting for him to reach out first. But after three years together, you know better. Park Sunghoon doesn’t do well with vulnerability. He never has. "Something’s on your mind, isn’t it?" you ask, finally breaking the silence as you settle down beside him on the couch. He flinches at your sudden proximity, as if this isn’t your apartment, as if he’s only just realised you’re still here. He doesn’t look at you when he answers. "No, I’m just tired from training, that’s all." You let out a breath—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “You know, three years is a long time. Long enough for me to know when you’re lying to me. Just because I don’t call you out on it doesn’t mean I don’t see it happening.” That makes him freeze. His hand stills in his hair, and his jaw goes tight. “Park Sunghoon,” you say slowly, letting each syllable settle like a weight between you. The name sounds foreign in your mouth—formal, distant, pointed. He flinches. Not visibly, not dramatically—but you see it. A slight stiffening in his posture. The barest flicker of guilt behind his eyes. Because he knows what it means when you use his full name. You only ever say it like that when you’re done waiting. “You’re keeping something from me.” The words come out flat and exhausted, with none of the softness you’ve been clinging to for weeks—because whatever this thing is, whatever he’s hiding, it’s starting to rot the air between you. And you’re too tired—too frayed around the edges from all the late-night phone calls that ended too early, the dinners where he barely looked up from his plate, the countless conversations that brushed against the truth but never quite touched it. He blinks at you like you’ve just blindsided him. "Babe, what are you talking about?" "Don’t do that," you snap, your voice rising before you can stop it. "Don’t act like I’m imagining things. You’ve been distant for weeks. You barely look me in the eye when we talk, and every time I try to ask what’s going on, you throw me the same half-hearted excuses—‘I’m tired,’ ‘Training’s been intense.’ You expect me to just accept that forever?” His jaw flexes, and this time you see it—clear as day—that flicker of guilt he can’t hide fast enough. Your stomach sinks. You soften your tone, even if it cracks on the way out. "Sunghoon, we’re supposed to be in this together. I want to be there for you. Please." He hesitates, swallowing hard like the words are caught in his throat. "I—I received a training offer." For a second, you just blink at him, caught off guard. "That’s great, Hoon. Why would you hide that from me?" He doesn’t answer right away, and for a second you think—maybe it’s nothing. Maybe he really is just tired from training and you’re overreacting. But then, almost reluctantly, he says it.

“It’s in Spain.”

The words land heavy between you.

Spain.

Not just a different city. Not even just another country. Another continent. Another time zone. Another life.

The air leaves your lungs before you can stop it. Not in a dramatic gasp, not in a theatrical way—but in a slow, silent collapse, like something inside you just quietly folded in on itself.

If the offer’s in Spain… then it’s not just about training. It’s about moving.

Leaving.

Staying gone.

“When were you planning on telling me?” you ask, your voice cracking at the edges despite your best effort to keep it steady. “Were you going to let me find out through someone else? Or just… let me sit here, waiting for you to come clean?”

He winces, just slightly. “I didn’t know how.”

And that’s when it really hits you. The worst part isn’t the distance. You could handle distance. You’ve done long hours. Late-night calls. Time apart.

No—the worst part is that he didn’t tell you. That he’s been sitting with this, carrying it silently, while showing up in your apartment like nothing’s changed.

Because this isn’t just about fear or nerves or awkward timing.

This is about trust. About the fact that somewhere, deep down, he didn’t believe you’d understand. Didn’t believe you’d stay.

You feel the sharp sting of that realisation clawing at your chest. You’ve always known Sunghoon wasn’t great at talking about hard things, but you thought… you thought you were past that stage. You thought you were partners.

“I didn’t want to make you worry before I even knew if it was real,” he adds, and the moment stretches thin between you—just long enough for the ache to settle in properly.

Your voice comes out quieter this time, more hollow. “How long ago?”

He hesitates. Again. And you already know the answer’s going to hurt.

“A month.”

You blink. Once. Twice. Trying to understand what kind of person holds onto something that big for thirty days—sharing meals, messages, kisses—without so much as a hint.

"A month,” you repeat, because you need to say it out loud to believe it. “You’ve known about this for a month, and you didn’t think to tell me?”

He doesn’t answer.

And in that silence, your mind fills the blanks for him: You weren’t part of the decision. You weren’t part of the plan. You were just… something temporary. Something not worth factoring in.

You want to yell. You want to cry. You want to disappear.

But instead, all you can do is ask, barely above a whisper—

“How long would you be gone?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “The contract’s renewable. Season by season.”

So not just gone.

Possibly gone for good.

Your vision blurs for a moment—not from tears, but from the force of everything hitting you at once: the betrayal, the loneliness, the terrible, gnawing possibility that he’s been slowly easing himself out of this relationship long before Spain ever came into the picture.

"I'm sorry for not telling you earlier... I was scared.” His voice is low, almost breathless, like he’s only just admitting it to himself. His hand reaches out, tentative at first, before settling over yours where it rests on the couch. And you hate it—how that simple gesture, plain and quiet and embarrassingly overdue, still makes something inside you soften. The bare fucking minimum, and it still sways you.

"Hell, I’m scared too, Sunghoon," you whisper, not bothering to hide the shake in your voice. "But you should’ve told me. I deserved to hear it from you—not from the silence that’s been stretching between us for weeks."

His other hand comes up to run through his hair, eyes squeezing shut for a second. "I don’t even know if I want to take it up. I mean, I could stay. I could keep training here in Korea."

You shoot him a look—sharp, disbelieving, almost angry.

"Are you crazy?" Your voice wavers on the edge of breaking, not because you don’t mean it, but because meaning it hurts more than you want to admit. "It’s a good opportunity, Sunghoon. One you’ve worked your whole life for. You should go for it."

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just stares at you, searching your face like it holds the answers to every impossible question he hasn’t dared to ask. And you know the moment he finds it—the flicker of fear. The tightness in your smile. The regret you tried so hard to keep buried shows in every inch and crease of your face and he sees it as clear as day.

"I love you, Sunghoon." You say it firmly. Desperately. "And loving you means being there for you. Supporting your dreams. That’s what this is. It's not like we’re breaking up, right?"

He reacts instantly. "No! God, no.”

His grip tightens over your hands, voice urgent, pleading.

"I love you too, and I never want to lose you."

You hold his gaze. Let yourself believe him—for now. Because in this moment, with his hand wrapped around yours and his eyes wide and scared and filled with something real, you need to.

"That’s all I needed to know," you say softly.

And it is.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself. You eventually came to terms with it—because you’re good at rationalising things that hurt. You tell yourself that dreams come with sacrifice. That love, real love, isn’t always about staying close—it’s about staying with someone, even when they’re far away. That maybe love isn’t about convenience, but compromise. But still… you guess, even then, even in that moment where you let him go with your blessing—a part of you already had that small flicker of doubt gnawing quietly at the back of your mind. Did he see you in the life he was chasing? Or were you just the thing he had to let go of to chase it faster? The cursor blinks at you, tauntingly. A small, persistent beat on a completely blank page. Like it’s waiting for you to figure out how to write about someone you’ve spent years trying not to think about. It’s not like this is your first article about him. In fact, the last one made the rounds faster than you expected. People called it raw, honest, even moving. They praised your ability to write “authentically,” like you’d peeled back layers no other reporter had dared to touch. Like you knew him. And you do. Or at least you did. Can’t be that hard to churn out another article about him. Your gaze drifts to your desk, where a small, unopened box sits tucked to the side—innocent, pastel-coloured, with a soft shimmer under the lamp light. The Popmart. You blink at it, then let out a quiet laugh. Not bitter. Just tired. Surprised. Of course he didn’t know. You’d already completed this series over a year ago. Bought the final missing figure off some reseller at a ridiculous markup. You’d even double-sleeved it in plastic wrap and stuck it on the corner of your shelf, not because you still cared about the collection, but because it had started to feel like proof of something. Proof that you could finish something on your own. That you could love something—and walk away when you needed to. That you didn’t need anyone else to give you closure. And yet… here it is. Sitting unopened on your desk, brought to you by the very person you spent years training yourself not to miss. A memory in a box. A joke you both once shared, delivered too late and too gently. You pick it up slowly, turning it over in your hand, and smile to yourself—small, worn, a little sad. He still thinks he knows you. Still buys you things like he’s allowed to remember you this closely. And maybe that’s the problem. Because part of you still wants him to.

You're back at the ice rink, your breath catching slightly as the cold air settles into your lungs the moment you step inside. The familiar scent of ice and rubber greets you, sharp and sterile. It’s quieter today—no full team practices or busy skaters gliding across the surface—just the soft, distant hum of the facility and the occasional sharp cut of blades against ice. You texted Sunghoon earlier this week, asking for a favour. A simple photo op, you said—nothing serious. You needed fresh shots for the article. Every news outlet had been recycling the same tired gallery of him from years ago—arms raised in victory at the 2022 Winter Olympics, a candid smile from a post-win press conference, that one dramatic shot with his head bowed in slow-motion grace during a routine. Beautiful images, sure, but outdated. You needed something that showed the version of him now. And if you were being honest with yourself, a small, treacherous part of you just wanted to see him in motion again. To see the Sunghoon that only existed when he was skating. The one who couldn’t hide behind polished interviews and measured words. He agreed with barely a pause.

Sunghoon: Sure. Come by Thursday. I’ll block the ice for an hour.

So you’re here. The camera you borrowed from your illustrator slung over your shoulder, scarf tucked under your chin, fingers already tingling from the cold. You set your things down near the boards, scanning the empty rink until you spot him. And there he is. Sunghoon is already on the ice, warming up with long, fluid strides, his blades carving out familiar patterns beneath him. He hasn’t seen you yet. Or maybe he has, and he's just letting you watch first. Either way, for a moment, you forget you’re here to work. Because seeing him like this—alone on the ice, body moving like muscle memory itself—it tugs something loose in you. Something old and buried but not entirely gone. And you remember: this is what he was born to do. Even if it broke both of you along the way. Without wasting another second, you’re already moving to unzip your camera bag and pull your gear out. You work methodically, slipping off the lens cap, adjusting the settings, checking the battery with a practiced flick of your thumb. It’s almost muscle memory—this part of you that lives in quiet attention. The last time you held a professional camera like this was for a university project, one that had taken weeks to prepare and execute. Back then, Sunghoon had been your muse too—sharp lines, steady movement, that inexplicable sense of stillness in motion that made him impossible to look away from. And now here you are again. The lens finds him at centre ice, where he’s stretching out a tight muscle in his leg, movements slow and careful, like he knows you’re watching now. Maybe he does. Sunghoon always had a sixth sense for that—for when eyes were on him, especially yours. You angle your lens slightly, tracking the curve of his body, the set of his jaw. Click. The shutter snaps. He glances over at the sound, a half-smile tugging at his mouth—mischievous, unbothered, almost like he’s posing without trying. But that’s just how he’s always been. You used to call it his camera face. He used to call you dramatic.

Click.

Sunghoon starts skating again. He doesn’t ask for direction, and you don’t offer any. You don’t need to. You track him through the lens as he glides through a spin, body coiled and precise, before he launches into a clean double axel that lands with barely a sound. The shutter clicks with each motion, capturing his lines, the angles, the fleeting expressions that flash across his face like sunlight through a curtain. You capture the way the light reflects off the ice, how the blade flares white against the surface—it’s all a picture you’ve seen before, but never quite like this. Never with this strange ache nestled beneath your ribs. There’s a moment—between the leap and the landing—when he looks directly at you. And it almost knocks the breath out of you. Because in that split second, it feels like the ice disappears, the years disappear, and it’s just you and him again, the version of him that used to look for your eyes in every crowd. The version that used to skate not just for medals, but for you. You lower your camera slowly, heart thudding a little louder in your chest than it should. “Don’t tell me that was your good side,” you say, aiming for lightness, adjusting your grip on the camera as you lower it from your eye. The teasing is automatic, familiar—the kind of banter you used to toss back and forth like a tennis ball, soft enough not to bruise, sharp enough to mean something. Sunghoon coasts to a stop near the boards, blades carving a soft arc in the ice, his breath visible in the cold air. His chest rises and falls steadily, not from exertion—he’s not pushing himself yet—but from the kind of focused calm he only ever shows on the ice. “It was all my good side,” he replies, deadpan. You roll your eyes and let out a soft, incredulous laugh, more fond than you mean it to be. Of course it was. He’s always been like this—smug and quietly self-aware in the way only someone who knows they’re good can be. You roll your eyes, but your lips are already curling upward. You glance down at the display screen, reviewing the shots, already knowing you’ve got what you came for—and maybe a little more than you meant to take. “Tell me I don’t look good,” Sunghoon says, a quiet challenge in his voice as he raises an eyebrow, still watching you. You scoff, lifting the camera again mostly to hide the expression threatening to spread across your face. “Just try not to look like you’re holding a grudge against the ice,” you reply, letting the words land somewhere between playful and pointed. “I don’t,” he says, and this time, there’s something else there. Something softer. A hesitation in the space between his words. And for a second, it sounds like he means it. You lower the camera slightly, eyes on him through the frame but not taking the shot. Your voice drops without you meaning it to, just a notch lower, quiet like a memory surfacing. “You always looked best when you weren’t trying,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. A truth you’ve always known but never said aloud. But he hears it. And he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease. He just turns back toward the centre of the rink, pushes off without a word, and starts skating again. You track him as he speeds into another combination—a triple toe loop followed by a clean step sequence, blades carving elegant arcs into the ice. You’re almost lost in it, the way the movements catch light, the shutter syncing to the beat of his pace like muscle memory. Then it happens. It’s subtle. Barely a misstep. But you catch it—the way his landing falters, how his right skate wobbles just slightly before he corrects. It would’ve been imperceptible to most. But not to you. Your fingers freeze on the camera, instinctively holding your breath as you watch him pull out of the sequence early, gliding to the boards instead of continuing.

He’s hiding it. But not well. His right leg drags just a fraction longer than it should with each glide—barely noticeable to the untrained eye, but you’ve spent too many hours watching him skate not to catch it. It’s the kind of minute detail only someone who’s memorised his movement would notice. And it makes your stomach lurch. You lower the camera, resting it carefully at the edge of your bag, the weight of it slipping from your fingers like the moment itself is slipping from your grasp. Your eyes track his every motion as he skates to the edge of the rink, bends low—too low, too carefully—and begins adjusting his laces. A decoy. A deflection. His back is to you, but the lie is written all over the tension in his shoulders. You step closer to the rink’s edge. “Sunghoon.” He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t acknowledge you with anything more than a vague, distracted, “One sec.” It’s the way he used to respond when you caught him avoiding a question. The same rehearsed calm, the same nonchalance that always made you feel like you were overreacting—until the truth came out in pieces. “Don’t do that.” A pause. Then, reluctantly, he straightens and looks over his shoulder. His face is composed, but you see it—the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the way his hands clench a little too tightly around his laces like he needs them to steady himself. It’s in his eyes too. That flicker of guilt. That stubborn need to pretend. And for just a second, you see it flash across his face—that same look he wore four years ago in your apartment. When you said his name with a tremble in your voice. When you caught the lie before he could even shape it with his mouth. It hits you all at once: the déjà vu, the sick familiarity of it. He’s doing it again. Tucking pain behind a polite smile. Folding the truth into excuses he hasn’t said out loud yet. And this time, it’s not your relationship that’s fraying—it’s his body. “It’s nothing,” he says. You wait for him to add on, say something—anything—to reassure you. A quiet I promise or the don’t worry about it. But he doesn’t. Doesn’t matter if he did anyway. You know he’s lying. And just like that, the rumours—the whispers that had floated through the sports forums, half-buried in speculation and dismissed by press statements—crash into your chest with brutal clarity. The injury. The reason he pulled out of finals. The reason he disappeared. You cross your arms. “That ‘nothing’ looked a hell of a lot like something.” “I just landed weird.” “Bullshit,” you snap before you can stop yourself. “You’re injured.”

He freezes. The sound of your words—sharp, laced with something dangerously close to panic—hangs between you. The silence between you stretches like taut wire, thin and sharp and ready to snap. You watch the way his jaw locks, the way his arms hang stiffly by his sides, like he’s bracing for a blow you haven’t decided if you want to deliver. And maybe that’s what hurts more than anything else—not the lie itself, but the fact that he’s willing to let it hang in the air. Unchallenged. Unexplained. Like your concern isn’t worth the truth. Your hands clench into fists before you even realise it, nails digging into your palms as you watch him turn fully now, the faintest strain in his movement betraying what his mouth won’t say. He doesn’t even meet your eyes. And that—that makes something hot and sharp rise in your throat. Anger. That’s the first thing that hits. Because he knew. Knew this wasn’t something he could hide forever—and still, he didn’t tell you. Not when you asked. Not when you agreed to write the article. Not when you sat across from him in that café, trusting him with something you weren’t sure you even had left to give. And he did this again. Like back then. When Spain was just a pin on a map and you were left in the dark, forced to make sense of a future he already knew he wasn’t going to share with you. But right on the heels of that fury comes something else—something slower, heavier. Worry. Because you know him. You know how much the ice means to him. You know what it took for him to get here. And you can see it now, etched into every tight movement and every silent wince he tries to bury beneath composure. He’s skating on borrowed time. The sadness creeps in after, quiet and cruel. Because maybe you were hoping—foolishly—that this time would be different. That this new version of you and him, cautious but healing, would be built on honesty. And yet here you are again. Watching him lie to you, not with words, but with silence. Because you’ve been here before, haven’t you? Waiting on him to meet you halfway while he stands still. And still, a part of you—stupid, stubborn, impossibly soft—wants to close the gap.

You take a step forward. It’s instinct more than decision, your feet moving before your pride can catch up. The edge of the rink is cold against your palms as you lean over the barricade slightly, just enough to close the space between you. He looks like he might flinch again—like he’s caught somewhere between preparing to argue or retreat. But you don’t raise your voice. You just say, quietly, firmly, “Don’t do this.” His eyes flicker—just barely. But you see it. “Don’t shut me out like I’m just another reporter,” you continue. “Don’t feed me lines like ‘it’s nothing’ when you know I see through that better than anyone.” Still, he says nothing. So you press harder, voice trembling now—not with anger, but with the weight of everything you’re holding back. “I watched you limp, Sunghoon. I saw it. And you think I’m just going to nod and take your word for it?” He exhales slowly, but you can tell he’s holding his breath in all the places that matter. You shift again, trying to find steadiness in your words, even as your chest tightens. “If the rumours were true—if you’ve been skating on an injury this entire time—why wouldn’t you just tell me?” A pause. A breath. A crack. “Do you really think I wouldn’t have cared?” That lands. Because his eyes drop—not in shame, but something closer to fear. Not of you. But of what his silence might’ve already cost him. He doesn’t answer, not yet. He just stands there, your words still echoing in the space between you. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out—just a soft, frustrated exhale. His jaw works like he’s chewing on the words, trying to force them out, but they keep getting caught somewhere between his chest and his throat. It’s like he’s standing at the edge of something—something terrifying and uncharted—and he can’t bring himself to take the final step. You can almost see the war going on inside him: the urge to speak versus the instinct to protect himself, to guard the parts of him that still feel too raw to share. For a moment, you think he’s going to brush it off the way he always does—wrap it up neatly with a nonchalant shrug and a quick change of subject. Like he’s too proud or too scared to let you see that raw, unguarded part of him. It wouldn’t be the first time. After all, that’s what he’s always done—deflect, dodge, build walls where there should be bridges. He couldn’t be honest with you when you were dating. What makes you think he’d be any different now, when there’s even more distance between you? You almost let him off the hook. Almost open your mouth to tell him it’s fine, that you don’t need him to explain himself. You’re already bracing yourself to swallow the ache, to bury it with everything else that’s gone unspoken between you. You’ve become good at that—pretending it doesn’t hurt. Pretending the disappointment hasn’t lingered all this time, festering quietly just beneath the surface of your every breath. And Sunghoon sees it. Sees the way your eyes begin to glaze over, the way your posture shifts—not quite closed off, but tilting in that direction. A half-given-up look that reads like surrender. Like you’re moments away from letting go completely. And something in him panics. A wave of it crashes through his chest, sharp and suffocating. Because if he fucks this up—if he lets you walk away now, after everything—it’s really over. No more second chances. No more waiting. He feels the weight of it settle on him all at once. That this—you—is the moment he can’t afford to lose. So, unexpectedly for you, he speaks.

“A year after we broke up,” he says, his voice quiet but steady, like he’s forcing himself to stay composed. “I was sent onto a new reality programme in Spain. Kind of like a training feature-slash-documentary series. Mostly for sponsorships.” He swallows hard, his jaw clenching as he gathers his thoughts. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks—his eyes fixed on some far point beyond the rink, beyond this moment, as if the memory itself is something he can’t look at head-on. “During our break… there was this skater, Hugo.” The name clicks instantly—Hugo Franchez. You’ve heard of him. He’s one of Coach Morales’ other students, known for his flamboyant public persona and his tendency to stir up drama both on and off the ice. Brash, talented, and unapologetically loud. The kind of guy who thrives on attention, whether it’s positive or negative. Before you can fully process what that connection means, Sunghoon cuts through your thoughts, almost as if he knows exactly what’s running through your mind. “Doesn’t matter who he is,” he mutters, voice sharper now, almost defensive. “One day during practice, that prick made a comment. Said my standards had dropped since you left me.” “I didn’t care at first,” he says. “It was petty. Stupid. I’ve heard worse. And honestly, he wasn’t wrong. I was a mess back then. I didn’t care what anyone said.” There’s something tight in his expression, like he’s forcing himself to stay detached—to treat it like a story he’s telling rather than a wound he’s reopening. You stay silent, but you feel your stomach twist into a knot, cold and heavy. The words settle like stones in your chest, bitter and suffocating. You don’t know what to say—don’t know if anything you could say would make a difference. “But then he said something else,” Sunghoon continues, and his voice tightens like it’s physically difficult to push the words out. “He started talking about you. Joking—if you can even call it that. Said maybe he’d try you out next. That someone like you didn’t need love, just a good—” He cuts himself off, hand flexing slightly at his side. You don’t need him to finish. Your breath catches in your chest, a mix of disgust and disbelief building behind your ribs. Your hands tighten on the rink’s barrier, knuckles turning white. You can’t seem to move, your mind struggling to make sense of the sheer audacity—the venom laced into words that shouldn’t even exist. Sunghoon’s fingers drum restlessly against his thigh, a telltale sign that he’s more upset than he’s letting on. His mouth presses into a thin, unforgiving line, and for a moment, he just breathes—deep and controlled, like he’s trying not to let his frustration seep through, but there’s a tremor in his voice that betrays the anger still simmering under the surface. “Hoon…” you whisper, your voice barely audible, raw with sympathy and anger that doesn’t know where to land. Sunghoon’s heart leaps at the familiar nickname, but the feeling doesn’t last long as he’s reminded of the story he’s telling. “That’s when it happened,” he continues, finally lifting his gaze to meet yours. There’s something broken there, vulnerability seeping through the cracks in his usual calm. “I snapped. Took a swing at him. Next thing I know, we’re being pulled apart. Cameras everywhere. People yelling. Coach Morales losing his mind. The programme  was discontinued after that.” You take a small, steadying breath, unsure of whether to feel relieved that he defended you or angry that it came to this.

“And your injury?” you ask, the words careful, soft, like you’re afraid of breaking whatever fragile, rare occurrence is happening between you. He hesitates, the tension in his posture growing taut again. “When we went down, I didn’t even notice it at first. Adrenaline, I guess. I thought it wasn’t a big deal. It hurt, yeah, but I could still skate. I figured it’d pass. I didn’t want to make it anything more than what it was.” You watch the shift in his expression—the shame, the defensiveness, the echo of pain he’s tried so hard to bury. “That’s why you pulled out of the finals,” you say, the pieces clicking together all at once. He nods. “Turns out I tore a ligament when I landed wrong. I didn’t realise how bad it was until I couldn’t even put weight on it. Rehab took months. Had to retrain my whole posture. Thought I’d never land a clean jump again.” The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s heavy with everything unspoken. You can feel the ache settle in your chest, not just for him but for the both of you—the version of him who tried to hold it all together, and the version of you who never knew. You want to scream at him for being reckless. For not telling you. For carrying all of this alone when he didn’t have to. But instead, you just stare at him. And he stares back. Both of you standing there, in the middle of a truth that neither of you asked for—but one that’s been waiting, quietly, to be told. “But you’re better now, right?” Your voice comes out more hopeful than you intended, a tight, almost desperate note clinging to the words. “I mean… you’re skating fine. You’re prepping for the tryouts, right?” Sunghoon hesitates, his eyes dropping to his hands where his fingers are still restlessly drumming against his thighs. He swallows hard, and the tension in his jaw doesn’t ease. “Barely,” he admits, the word thick and reluctant. “The injury relapses whenever I overexert. Some days it’s fine, and other days… it’s like I’m right back to square one. There’s no pattern. No warning. Just pain.” You feel a hollow ache forming in your chest, and you can’t help the frustration that bubbles up alongside the worry. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He looks up at you then, a flicker of something pained and conflicted crossing his face. “Because it wasn’t your problem to deal with. You didn’t need to know. I couldn’t—” He breaks off, running a hand through his hair in a way that’s almost angry. “I couldn’t stand the thought of you worrying about me. Not after I’d already messed things up between us.” You open your mouth to argue, to tell him that’s not how this works—that you wouldn’t have seen him as a burden. But you can’t find the words, because deep down, you know Sunghoon has always carried things alone. It’s just who he is. Protecting people from his own mess, even when it tears him apart. He’s still watching you, shoulders tense, waiting for the backlash—like he’s already bracing himself for the worst. And you can’t help it—you laugh. Not a happy laugh. Not even a bitter one. Just a short, exhausted sound that slips out before you can stop it. “That’s it?” you murmur, shaking your head. “That’s the reason you didn’t tell me? Because you didn’t know how to believe that I’d want to help you?” Sunghoon’s jaw clenches, and his eyes flicker with something like hurt. “You don’t understand—” “No, I don’t,” you cut in, and your voice wobbles despite your best efforts to sound composed. “I don’t understand how the guy who always told me to be honest, to be open with him, just decides on his own that I wouldn’t care? You didn’t even give me the chance, Sunghoon.” He doesn’t respond. Just lowers his gaze, looking at his own skates like they might hold an answer. You take a slow breath, forcing yourself to ease back the frustration threatening to spill over. “You think I wouldn’t have cared? That I would’ve just—what—written you off as some failure because you got hurt? After everything?” His silence feels like an admission. And it hurts more than it should. “Was I really that easy to leave behind?” you ask, softer now. Your hands curl tighter around the edge of the boards, knuckles turning white. “Did I make it that easy for you?” He finally looks up, and his expression is raw, stripped down to something you haven’t seen in years. “No,” he says, almost too fast. “It wasn’t easy. Nothing about leaving was easy. I just—I didn’t know how to handle it.” You swallow the lump in your throat, letting his words sink in. You’re speechless, your mind a whirlwind of the why and the how and the what ifs that he’s not giving you. Then you zone into what he said: Not after I’d already messed things up between us. He’s aware that the reason for your falling out was because of him. “Never mind after we broke up. In the last few months of our relationship, why were you so distant then? Why wouldn’t you tell me anything? Why did we break up, Sunghoon?” His head jerks up, eyes widening. For a second, he looks like he didn’t expect you to ask, like he thought you’d just let it stay buried. But you can’t. Not anymore. “I didn’t mean to lose you,” he whispers, like it’s something he’s only just now realising. “But by the time I figured out how to come back… it felt like I didn’t deserve to. Not after everything.” You open your mouth, then close it again, the words heavy on your tongue. There’s a long pause—weighted, expectant. You shift slightly, pressing your palms against the edge of the rink as if to steady yourself. And then, quietly—because you need to understand, because you deserve to—you ask:

“What happened in Spain? Please, I need to know.” Sunghoon meets your gaze and for a second, it really felt like he was finally meeting you halfway. He lets out a shaky breath before he speaks again, voice low and unsteady. “When I left Korea, it was like everything just… fell apart. I thought skating would fix it. That if I just pushed through, everything would fall into place. It was going to be worth it, I’d feel like myself again.” His voice is quieter when he continues, almost like he’s talking more to himself than to you. “After we broke up, I kept telling myself it was for the best. That I needed to focus on skating. But… after a while, it didn’t matter anymore. I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t even skating because I loved it. I was just… doing it. Because I didn’t know what else to do. Because I didn’t know who I was if I wasn’t moving forward. And without you… I just felt stuck.” The weight of his confession presses down on both of you, heavy and unforgiving. You let your hands fall from where they’ve been gripping the rink barrier, flexing your fingers like you’re trying to shake off the cold—or maybe just the ache creeping into your chest. Sunghoon skates closer, not enough to close the gap entirely but enough that you can see the way his eyes are glossed over, the pain he’s too proud to let fully show. “I lost you. I lost skating. And I didn’t know how to come back from that.” You don’t know how to respond. You don’t even know if there’s anything left to say. So you just stare at him, taking in the vulnerability on his face—the way he’s finally, finally letting himself be seen. And despite the anger, despite the sadness, a small part of you—the part that never really stopped missing him—starts to unravel. Because this isn’t the Sunghoon you remember leaving. This is someone who’s been trying—fumbling, falling, but trying—to find his way back. You don’t move, but you don’t push him away either. You just stand there, caught between wanting to reach for him and wanting to protect yourself from being hurt again. And Sunghoon sees it—that hesitation. He takes a shaky breath, his hands falling to his sides, fingers flexing like he doesn’t know what to do with them. He’s still looking at you—eyes wide, raw, like he’s afraid of what your silence means. Finally, he forces the words out, voice rough and unsteady. “I know it doesn’t mean much now, but I’m really fucking sorry, Y/N.”

His eyes drop again, like he can’t bear to see your reaction. “I was an emotional wreck when I realised I was falling out of love with skating. It felt like I was losing the only thing I’d ever been good at, and I didn’t know how to handle that. And in the middle of that mess… I didn’t know how to give you the love you needed.” The admission hangs between you, heavy and unguarded, and it’s like you’re seeing the cracks in him for the first time—not the public figure, not the professional skater, but the boy who had once loved the ice so much that he didn’t know who he was without it. You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the tremble threatening your voice. “You should have just… told me. You didn’t have to go through it alone. I was right there, Sunghoon. I would have—” “I know,” he cuts in, voice almost desperate. “I know you would have. But I didn’t know how to let you. I kept thinking if I just pushed harder, trained longer, it would click again. That the love for it would come back. But it didn’t. And the more I kept failing, the less I could bring myself to tell you.” You swallow down the hurt lodged in your throat, forcing yourself to stay steady. “So instead, you just shut me out? Kept me in the dark?” “I couldn’t handle it,” he says, a bitter edge cutting through his tone. “All of it. You being so damn supportive. Telling me I could do it when I knew I couldn’t. I was falling apart, and you kept telling me I was going to make it. It just—” He shakes his head, lips pressing into a tight line. “It made me feel like a fraud. Like I was dragging you down with me.” You stare at him, disbelief and frustration mixing with the ache in your chest. “You’re kidding. And suddenly it's my fault? That I cared too much?”

“No! I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quickly, voice hoarse, trembling around the edges of regret. “God, that’s not what I meant at all. Fuck.”

He grips the back of his neck like he’s trying to ground himself, eyes flickering everywhere but yours—walls, floor, ceiling—anywhere that isn’t the firestorm in your gaze.

“I meant…” he finally forces out, lowering his hands. His shoulders sag. “I meant I didn’t know how to handle it. You gave so much and I—I didn’t know how to match it. I was scared I’d ruin it. So I pulled back. I shut you out instead of admitting I couldn’t keep up with the way you loved me.” Your heart clenches, torn between anger and sympathy. You take a deep breath, forcing the words out even though they taste like heartbreak. “You didn’t have to make that choice for me. I would’ve stayed, Sunghoon. Even if it hurt. Even if you were falling apart—” “That’s why I didn’t tell you!” The words burst out of him, louder than he meant them to. The sound echoes slightly in the quiet of the rink, raw and cracked at the edges. You flinch—not because you’re afraid, but because it’s the first time he’s raised his voice with you in a fight. Sunghoon’s expression falters the moment it leaves his mouth. His chest rises and falls unevenly as the weight of what he’s said settles between you. He blinks fast, and for the first time, you see the glassiness in his eyes—the way his lashes tremble under the strain of holding everything in. “I didn’t want you to feel guilty,” he says again, softer this time, like he’s trying to undo the sharpness from before. “Or worse… like you had to fix it. I couldn’t bear the thought of becoming something you felt responsible for instead of someone you just… loved.” He swallows hard, gaze falling to the floor as if he’s ashamed of the outburst, the truth, or maybe both. Your chest tightens at his words, but not out of anger. Not even sadness. Just this overwhelming ache for the boy in front of you—the boy who thought love was something that had to be earned only when he was okay. You exhale slowly, trying to steady the crack in your voice. “You think I loved you because you were strong all the time? Because you had it all together?” He doesn’t answer, but the tension in his shoulders says enough. “Sunghoon, I didn’t want to fix you. I just wanted to be there with you.

For a moment, he just stares at you, like he’s trying to understand why you’re still here, still fighting to know the truth. And in that silence, you realise that he’s never really stopped carrying the weight of that decision—never really forgiven himself for it. The guilt. The loneliness. The fear. It’s all still there, buried under years of trying to pretend it didn’t matter. And it hits you then—how much of himself he gave up just to make sure you didn’t drown with him. You’re not sure whether to scream at him for being so stupidly self-sacrificing or cry because he thought pushing you away was protecting you. His next words come out in a whisper, like he’s afraid of breaking the fragile truce between you. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I swear. I just… didn’t know how to love you and love skating at the same time. And when skating stopped feeling like love, I didn’t know how to love myself either.” Something inside you softens, and you feel the fight drain out of your body. You lean back, exhaling shakily, trying to process it all. Maybe you thought the anger would feel good. Like if you just yelled loud enough, it would drown out the ache that’s been festering since he left. But now, standing here with him—raw, exposed, finally admitting the truth—you just feel tired. And maybe, just maybe, a little relieved. Because at least now you know. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. It was that he didn’t know how. Without thinking, you reach out over the barricade, your fingers brushing against his. When he doesn’t pull away, you take his hand in yours. His shoulders slump, the fight draining out of him, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he lets himself lean into you—no walls, no distance, just the raw truth of it all between you.

He lets out a rough, almost bitter laugh. “Funny, right? I spent so long trying to protect you from my problems that I ended up creating a whole new one.” You squeeze his hand gently, feeling his warmth seep into your skin. “You didn’t have to go through it alone,” you whisper. “You didn’t have to push me away just because you thought you were sparing me.” His eyes dart down to your joined hands, but he doesn’t pull away. “I know that now,” he says quietly. “But back then, I thought keeping you out of it would make things easier. For both of us.” You swallow the knot in your throat, wondering how many more pieces you’d have to unearth before you finally made sense of everything that went wrong between you. “But it didn’t, did it?” you murmur, half a statement, half a question. Sunghoon’s shoulders sag, like the weight he’s been carrying finally buckles under your words. He breathes out slowly, shaking his head, a rueful, almost self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips. “No. It didn’t.” Sunghoon takes a deep, trembling breath. The kind that rattles from somewhere deep in his chest, like he’s holding back more than just words. Slowly, carefully, his fingers slip from yours. The absence of his touch is immediate—sharp, cold, like the air around you shifted. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, like maybe that’s the only way to keep them from shaking, from betraying just how unsteady he really feels. His gaze drops to the ice at your feet, avoiding your eyes with an almost boyish kind of shame, as though looking at you would only make the truth harder to say. “And I didn’t reach out to you after my injury because…” He pauses, swallows. His voice when it comes out is brittle, like he’s forcing it through a throat full of glass. “Because I didn’t want you to feel like you were a second option. Like I was only coming back to you because skating was no longer viable.” Your breath catches. The words hit in a place you didn’t expect, a sharp, unexpected pang that lodges deep beneath your ribs. You blink, startled, searching his face like maybe you misheard him. “What?” you whisper, barely audible. The word is soft, too soft. It slips from your lips like a secret, afraid to make the moment any heavier than it already is. He lets out a laugh—but it’s dry, hollow, laced with bitterness and self-loathing. “It’s stupid, I know. But I didn’t want you to think that… that I only wanted you because skating didn’t work out. I thought if I showed up after everything fell apart, you’d look at me and think I was just using you to fill the gap.” You shake your head slowly, the motion dazed, your thoughts struggling to keep pace with the revelation. “Sunghoon… I never—” “I know,” he cuts in, quickly, almost harshly. His voice cracks, raw and unfiltered. “I know you didn’t. But I was so fucking lost, Y/N. I didn’t know who I was without skating. And the idea of crawling back to you, looking for comfort when I had nothing left… it felt selfish. Like I was just dragging you into my mess because I couldn’t handle it on my own. You deserved better than that.” There’s a silence that follows—not the empty kind, but the kind that weighs down the air like fog. Heavy. Still. Unavoidable. Your arms fold in tightly against your chest as if bracing for something colder than the rink air. There’s a tightness there, something fragile pressing hard against your ribs, and it takes you a moment to recognise it for what it is. It’s the part of you that never really stopped caring. “You’re an idiot,” you say, voice thick, the words catching on the knot in your throat. You almost choke on it, the mix of pain and tenderness. “A complete idiot.” He finally looks up.

And it’s the way he looks at you that undoes you. Eyes rimmed red, glassy with unshed tears, but wide open—unguarded in a way he’s never let himself be. The vulnerability in them is devastating. It makes your own eyes sting, and you press your lips together hard, willing yourself not to break down in front of him. You can’t afford to. Not after everything. But the way he’s looking at you, the way he’s baring his heart after years of hiding—it hurts. The ice rink is eerily quiet now. The distant hum of the arena lights above buzzes like white noise around you, but everything else is still. Time feels like it’s slowed down, like the two of you exist in a bubble suspended in grief, in truth, in the aftermath of everything that wasn’t said when it mattered. You don’t know what to say—don’t know how to put into words the mess of emotions clawing at your chest. It’s tangled and bruised and beating far too loudly. There’s relief, yes. A bit of anger too. But mostly, there’s just this deep, aching sadness for the boy who thought he had to fight his battles alone. But eventually, you find your voice. Quieter. Softer. “I never needed you to be perfect, Sunghoon.” Your voice wavers despite how hard you try to steady it. “I just needed you to be honest.” He closes his eyes for a moment, like the words hit him physically. The mess inside his chest doesn’t have clean edges. It’s tangled and bruised and beating far too loudly. His brows pull together, and his shoulders—always so tight, so high, like he’s been bracing for impact for years—finally sink. The tension in him melts, slow and subtle, like he’s deflating under the weight of finally letting the truth out. Then he nods. Once. Barely. But it’s enough. Enough to know that he heard you. And that alone makes your heart ache. You know you shouldn’t give in. Not this easily. But you’ve never been one for restraint. It’s always been your fatal flaw—feeling too much, too fast, letting your heart speak before your head can catch up. And maybe that’s why this moment feels so inevitable. Because despite everything—despite the heartbreak, the silence, the years—you still want to close the distance. It’s a mystery how you and Sunghoon even started dating in the first place, how two people so fundamentally different found their way to each other. You, all fire and instinct, and him—quiet, composed, like he was always walking a tightrope with his heart tucked out of reach. You were sunshine, and he was midnight rain. You wanted comfort, but he was chasing medals and glory. Well… he used to. Back then, he didn’t know you’d come into his life. Didn’t expect that your laughter, your stubborn heart, your ability to see straight through him would start to matter more than medals ever did. Didn’t realise that somewhere along the way, it wasn’t skating he was chasing anymore.

It was you. And by the time he figured it out—by the time he realised you were the thing he’d always been reaching for—you were already slipping through his fingers. Not because you didn’t love him. But because he didn’t know how to stop running. Not for the crowd. Not for the gold. But from someone who would’ve stayed if only he’d asked. Maybe that’s why it worked for a while. Maybe that’s why he never stopped yearning. His eyes are still fixed on the ice, refusing to look at you, like if he stares hard enough, he can will himself invisible. His posture is closed in, like he’s trying to shrink himself, like if he folds in far enough, he can disappear into his regret. You take a step forward. Then another. Your shoes click softly against the rubber mats until the last one slips onto the smooth, glinting surface. You cross the threshold onto the ice without thinking, heart first, fearless—like always. The cold greets your ankles instantly, the faint burn of it rushing up your calves. Your feet come into his view, and he startles slightly, blinking as he realises how close you are now. “What are you—?” His brow furrows, alarm flickering in his expression. “Careful, you’re gonna fall again if—” You hug him. There’s no warning. No speech. No careful calculation. You just move, because your heart gets there before anything else can stop it. Your arms wrap around him—firm, grounding—and his breath stutters as if the contact knocks the wind out of him. He stays frozen for a second, like his body doesn’t believe it’s real, like he thinks if he moves, you’ll vanish. "It's okay," you murmur against his shoulder, your voice soft but steady. "I know you'll catch me even if I fall." And somehow, that’s what does it. That quiet faith in him—even now, after everything—cracks something open. He exhales, the breath hitching on its way out, and you feel the tension leave his body piece by piece. Slowly, hesitantly, he melts into you. His chin dips to rest against the curve of your shoulder, and his arms—those shaking, unsure arms—wrap around your back and hold on. Not tight. Not desperate. But like someone who’s been cold for far too long, and finally, finally found warmth. Like your presence alone is something he's relearning how to deserve. You close your eyes, steadying yourself with the quiet rise and fall of his chest against yours. Then you speak—gently, but with purpose. "Don’t take this the wrong way," you say, your fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his jacket. "This isn’t forgiveness. I’m not there yet. This is just… me showing you that I still care. As a friend." He stiffens slightly, but you don’t let go. You press on. "I’m sorry this happened to you," you whisper. "I know skating meant the world to you." Sunghoon doesn’t answer. Not out loud. But his arms tighten—just a little—and his breath shudders, and the thought echoes in his mind with a force that nearly brings him to his knees: You mean the world to me, still. He doesn't say it. He doesn’t need to. It’s there—in the way he holds you now, in the way he leans into your warmth like it’s the first real thing he’s touched in years. And for a moment, you let him. You both do. Not as the people you once were. But as the broken, rebuilding versions of yourselves—still trying, still reaching, still here. This quiet moment.

You remember this feeling. The stillness. The unspoken. The way the world seems to hush when you’re in his arms—not because everything is perfect, but because somehow, even in the mess, it feels safe. You used to crave more. Words. Reassurance. The kind of affection you could point to and name. But as time passed, you learned to understand him in these smaller, quieter ways. The way he’d wait for you after late classes just to walk you home, even when he never said why. The way he’d leave extra pairs of gloves in your bag before competitions. The way he never quite let go first. It’s the way Sunghoon has always shown love to you. Not through grand gestures or flowery words, but through presence. Through the way he leans in, silent and steady. Through the way he holds you like you're something he’s afraid to break. Through the quiet weight of his hand resting at the small of your back, like a promise he’s never quite been brave enough to say out loud. This right here—this silence filled with meaning—has always been his way of saying I’m here. I care. I love you. And that’s why, when his presence stopped feeling like love—when the silence turned from comfort to distance—you felt discarded. Unwanted. Like love had quietly exited the room and no one bothered to tell you. His inability to say what he felt, to put to words what you meant to him, only made it worse. Because you were still there, waiting for something—anything—to hold onto, while he kept retreating behind walls you couldn’t climb. But now, standing here, with his arms around you once again, you feel it. All of it. Even if he still hasn’t found the words. You realise then—he never stopped caring for you, too. The silence. The omission of truth. The way he held everything in, thinking he was protecting you by keeping you out. You used to mistake it for distance, for disinterest. But maybe that was just the way he loved you. Complicated. Flawed. Quiet in all the places you needed noise. It wasn’t the way you loved—not loud and vulnerable, not open and all-consuming—but it was still love. Just… his version of it. And you—all heart before reason. You loved like it was oxygen, like holding back would be the same as holding your breath. You said too much, felt too deeply, asked for honesty even when he didn’t know how to give it. You needed presence, yes—but you also needed words. Needed something solid to hold onto when his silence left too much room for doubt. And still—that was the way you loved him. Messy. Unfiltered. Brave in all the ways he wasn’t ready for. You offered him your whole heart without a safety net, while all he wanted was to protect you from his fall. And it hits you then, in a way that’s both soft and sharp—this was always the story. The gaps, the miscommunication, the mismatched ways of showing up. It was never about not feeling enough. It was about feeling too much, in entirely different languages. You, speaking in open wounds and raw confessions. Him, answering in silence and distance. Two people standing on opposite ends of a love that was real—just not always right.

And maybe that’s the tragedy of it.

Not that you didn’t love each other. But that you did.

Just in ways the other didn’t know how to hold.

You and Sunghoon spend the next few hours sitting on the cold bleachers, catching up on the last four years—what was said, what wasn’t, and everything that existed in between. It’s not an invitation to get back together. That much is clear—spoken and understood without the need for awkward disclaimers. This is something else entirely. A truce, maybe. An unspoken agreement to lay the past to rest without erasing it. An invitation to let go of the bitterness. To make sure the four years you spent loving each other—messy and imperfect as they were—don’t go down the drain as nothing but regret. And anyway, nobody ever said ex-lovers couldn’t stay friends… You learn that Hugo Sánchez—the skater Sunghoon had that infamous tussle with—was caught up in a drug scandal just a few months later. It never made headlines, swept under the rug with hush money and quiet handshakes behind closed doors. But word still got around. Coach Morales blacklisted him, and by extension, so did every major name in the circuit. “Guess karma’s real after all,” you mutter, brows raised as Sunghoon nods. “He got what he deserved,” he replies quietly, but there’s no real satisfaction in his tone. Just a kind of weariness. The kind that says it still wasn’t worth what it cost me. You offer a small, understanding smile, then shift the conversation—gently. You tell him about your career. How you fell into sports journalism by accident, how you hated it at first. How you stuck with it anyway. About the sleepless nights, the thankless deadlines, the rush of chasing a story and the heartbreak of killing one. You tell him how strange it is, writing about athletes when you once dated one—how sometimes you catch yourself comparing their routines, their postures, their voices to his. You don’t mean to say that last part. But it slips out, unfiltered. Sunghoon glances at you then, a soft crease forming between his brows, and for a moment, you think he might say something. But he doesn’t. He just listens, the same way he always used to—quietly, intently, like your voice alone is enough to anchor him. You’re halfway through telling him the story about your first major reporting slip-up—something about mistaking a gold medalist for a retired curling coach—when Sunghoon breaks into laughter.

Real laughter.

Not the polite kind. Not the breathy exhale he’s used to giving when he’s holding too much in. But the kind that lights up his whole face. His head tips back slightly, shoulders shaking, eyes squinting in disbelief as he nearly doubles over from how hard he’s laughing.

“You what?” he wheezes, clutching his stomach. “Please tell me you didn’t salute him and ask about his war medals too. He probably thought you were calling him a grandpa, not an Olympian!” You’re laughing too, unable to help it. “Listen, the man had a beard and a windbreaker and that very ‘I peaked in Vancouver 2010’ vibe.” “And that screams retired Olympian to you?” he chokes, still catching his breath. “You probably set athlete-media relations back a decade.” “I was nervous, okay?” you defend, wiping at your eyes, the kind of laughter that makes your ribs hurt already fading into little aftershocks. You lean back against the bleachers with a sigh, finally calming down—only to notice he’s gone quiet. You turn to find him just… looking at you. Not with amusement anymore, but something softer. His expression has shifted—gentle, open, a little vulnerable in a way that makes your breath catch. He’s watching you like he forgot what it was like to see you laugh like that. Like he’s trying to memorise the shape of your smile and hold onto the sound of it. You raise a brow, playful. “What? Do I have something on my face?” He blinks, startled, like you caught him in a secret. “No,” he says, quickly averting his gaze. Then, quieter, “Just... forgot what that sounded like.” “What did?” you ask, even though you already know. “You. Laughing like that.” He shrugs, keeping his eyes on the rink. You pause, suddenly aware of how close you’re sitting. How his knee brushes yours every so often when he shifts. How the warmth between you lingers even in the chill of the arena. “Well,” you finally say, nudging his shoulder with yours, “don’t get used to it. I’m a very serious journalist now. No more giggling.” He glances at you with a crooked smile, eyes full of mischief. “Sure. I’ll believe that when you don’t snort the next time you laugh.” You gasp, scandalised. “I do not snort.” Sunghoon leans in slightly, teasing. “You literally just did.” You stare at him, lips parted, fully ready to argue—until you realise he’s right. And then you’re laughing again, shaking your head as you gently shove his arm. “Asshole,” you mumble through your grin. And just like that, the weight between you both lightens again—still present, but tucked neatly beside something warmer. Familiar. Almost like the beginning of something new. Or maybe just the gentler end of something old. Either way, it’s something.

That night, when you finally reach home, your cheeks are still warm. You’re still smiling a little too easily at nothing in particular. The chill of the ice rink has long worn off, but Sunghoon’s laugh—low, genuine—lingers in your ears like a recent vocal stimulation. It’s been years since that sound last came from him, at least directed at you, and it sits somewhere in your chest now, unexpectedly soft and stubborn. You kick off your shoes, shrug off your coat, and collapse onto your couch with a sigh that’s half-exhaustion, half-daydream. Your mind is foggy, a little giddy. Like you’ve just had caffeine on an empty stomach or you’ve stepped into some alternate version of your life—one where the world’s been tilted just a few degrees off-centre and nothing’s quite the same anymore. Then your eyes fall on your laptop. Still open. Still glowing. And suddenly, reality tugs you back down. You’d forgotten about the article. The one you had barely started drafting. The one with Sunghoon’s name in the headline. The one meant to announce his participation in the Olympics tryout. You sit up straighter, the comfort in your muscles draining fast as a chill crawls up your spine. Because all you can think about now—over and over, like a stuck record—is the way he said it: “The injury relapses whenever I overexert.” He’d said it so casually, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it was just a fact of life now. A quiet asterisk next to his name. He said he wasn’t planning a full comeback. He said he wasn’t sure. But he’s still showing up to tryouts. Still skating. Still pushing. And suddenly, what once felt like a career milestone—this exclusive, this rare chance to write the first profile on Park Sunghoon’s inevitable return to the ice—feels... invasive. Too sharp. Too personal. Your fingers hover over your phone, the urge to text him immediate.

You type something—delete it. Type again.

Hey. Are you really okay to skate?| | Are you sure you’re not pushing too hard?| | Let me know if there’s anyway I can help.| | But none of them feel right. Because you barely just started talking again. Because one evening of laughter on a set of cold bleachers doesn’t erase four years of silence. Because you’re not sure if checking in now would cross a line you don’t have permission to step over anymore. So instead, you lock your phone screen and place it face down on the table. And you sit there in the quiet, trying not to worry. Trying not to think of the pressure on his leg, the sting in his joints, the way he’d smiled when he told you—not proud, not hopeful, just... resigned. But worry, of course, doesn’t ask permission. It settles in the pit of your stomach like lead. Because you know him. And you know he’ll keep skating—even if it breaks him again. And worst of all, he’ll do it without ever asking for help.

[MANIFESTO EXCLUSIVE] Park Sunghoon Announces Participation In 2026 Winter Olympics Tryout

By Kang Y/N, Manifesto Daily It’s been nearly two years since figure skating prodigy Park Sunghoon last performed on Korean ice.

Once heralded as one of South Korea’s most technically refined athletes, Park disappeared from the public eye following an abrupt withdrawal from the 2023 Grand Prix Final. No formal statement was ever released. No interviews, no explanations—just a silence that, for a time, swallowed even his most devoted fans’ questions.

Until now.

This week, Park’s name quietly reappeared on the athlete roster for the upcoming 2026 Winter Olympics tryouts. And in an exclusive conversation with Manifesto Daily, Park has officially confirmed his participation.

Park’s return marks a significant moment in the national figure skating circuit. Known for his precision, control, and signature composure on the ice, his performances have long drawn praise from both domestic and international judges. His participation is expected to bring renewed attention to the men's singles category in the upcoming season.

Tryouts are scheduled to take place early next month, where top-ranked skaters will compete for coveted spots on South Korea’s Olympic delegation. While Park has kept a low public profile in recent years, anticipation surrounding his return remains high. His past record includes a gold medal finish at the Four Continents Championships, a bronze medal at the Beijing 2022 Winter Olympics, and consistent placements in the Grand Prix circuit, making him a strong contender as the nation gears up for Olympic selection.

Fans and officials alike will be watching closely as Park takes the ice again—not only for his technical capabilities, but for what his presence brings to a new generation of skaters: legacy, poise, and a renewed standard of excellence.

Further details regarding the tryout schedule and national team lineup are expected to be released by the Korean Skating Union in the coming weeks.

For now, one thing is clear: Park Sunghoon is officially back in contention.

The day of the Olympic tryouts arrives cloaked in a biting chill, the kind that slips past your collar and lingers in your bones. You arrive earlier than necessary, nerves already humming beneath your skin. Not as a reporter this time. Not officially, anyway. Sunghoon had pulled strings—quietly, discreetly. A whispered favour here, a signature there. He got you in as “internal support staff,” listed under his team’s management, though you’re carrying nothing but your notepad, your name badge, and a heart that won’t sit still. Reporters aren’t allowed inside the venue during these closed sessions. That’s the rule. But Sunghoon has always had a way of bending the edges when he really wants something. And today, he wanted you there. You flash the ID badge at the security checkpoint, and it works. You’re ushered in with the rest of his team—coaches, assistants, the tech specialist checking his skates for calibration. You keep your head down, hands wrapped tightly around the warm paper cup of coffee you didn’t finish. You don’t think you could stomach anything right now anyway. You find yourself blinking a little harder than necessary as you take your seat in the shadows of the side bleachers, tucked away from the officials and judges gathering near the front. Your hands grip the edge of the bench automatically. Your eyes find the centre of the rink without thinking. And there he is. Sunghoon. Hair slicked back, posture impossibly straight, wearing a crisp black jacket with his country’s emblem stitched just above his heart. He hasn’t noticed you yet—he’s locked in, eyes narrowed, lips set in that focused line you know too well. It’s not his competition face yet, but it’s close. You feel a rush of déjà vu so strong it makes your chest ache. Because you’ve been here before. Not here exactly, but in a hundred different rinks just like this one. Sitting in the same quiet corners. Watching him from a distance. Sometimes holding your breath without realising it. Sometimes the only person in the arena clapping when he stuck a landing during rehearsal. Back then, you knew his routines by heart. Knew the way his fingers twitched before a jump. Knew when he was proud and when he was pretending to be. And now, somehow, you're here again. Only this time, there are four years of silence sitting between you and the memory of who you used to be in his orbit. Still, when he glides to the edge of the rink and spots you in the stands, his expression softens just a fraction. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t wave. But he holds your gaze long enough for you to know: He sees you. The same way he did four years ago.

When you used to wait by the edge of the rink with a scarf and a warm drink. When he’d skate over to you before practice just to tap your forehead with his finger and say don’t blink this time. When he was still learning how to balance pressure and affection—and you were still learning how to love someone who rarely said what he felt. The way he’s looking at you now—it’s not loud. Not grand. But it’s enough to pull at the thread of every memory you thought you’d neatly tucked away. Sunghoon exhales slowly, eyes trained on the centre of the rink as the announcer’s voice fades into the cold, echoing silence. The blades of his skates feel heavy beneath him—not because they’re any different, but because he is. His heartbeat thrums steadily beneath the layers of his costume, fast but controlled. A familiar rhythm he used to draw comfort from. Now, it only reminds him of everything riding on this final run. He flexes his fingers once, then again. The nerves are there—no point pretending they aren’t. They’ve settled deep into his bones, coiled tight like springs. But there’s no fear. Not of falling. Not of losing. Because he already did that. He already lost the version of skating that once consumed him. Already stepped away from the spotlight, already let go of the expectations. What remains now is something simpler. Smaller. This isn’t about medals anymore. This is the end of something. Or maybe the beginning of what comes after. He guesses that’s the one thing he was keeping from you. Not because he didn’t trust you, but because saying it out loud would’ve made it real—that the dream he built his life around had slowly started to unravel. That somewhere along the way, skating stopped being love and started feeling like obligation.

You think he’s here to chase after redemption. To reclaim what was lost. To silence the whispers, the speculation, the question marks that trailed behind his name for years. You think he’s here to prove that he still has it—that the boy wonder of South Korea’s figure skating circuit never truly fell from grace. But you’re wrong. Because redemption implies he owes something to someone. And Sunghoon’s done with owing. This tryout isn’t about reclaiming his reputation. He’s not here for the judges. Not for the headlines. Not even for the crowd that once screamed his name. He’s here for something far quieter. Something far more difficult to earn. Closure. Not the kind that comes with medals or press conferences, but the kind you feel in your chest when you finally stop running. When you stop skating to meet expectations, and start skating to meet yourself again. This is not a comeback. It’s about reclaiming why he ever skated in the first place. It’s about the quiet mornings on empty rinks. The way cold air fills his lungs and clears his thoughts. The ache in his legs after hours of training that no one ever saw. It’s about the pieces of himself he left scattered in every routine he never got to finish. He shifts his weight slightly, grounding himself. This routine isn’t built for spectacle. It doesn’t chase applause. It’s clean. Honest. Unforgiving in its simplicity. And if this is the last time he performs under Olympic lights—if this is the closing chapter of a decade-long pursuit—then he wants to be the one who chooses how it ends. Not the injury. Not the press. Not the silence. He takes one last glance toward the bleachers. And there you are. Watching. Just like you used to---back then, when his world was still laced with possibility, and your quiet presence was the only constant that ever kept him sane.

And with this last performance—with this one final act—it’s not about the world. It’s not about redemption.

It’s about himself. About stepping onto the ice one final time not to impress, but to release. To mourn. To honour everything this love once was

And maybe—just maybe—it’s for you too. The girl who believed in him before the world knew his name. The one who stayed long after the spotlight dimmed.

He wishes he could say that. Wishes he could turn and tell you: This is for you.

But Sunghoon has never been fluent in the language of declarations.

So instead, he skates, The music begins—something classical, restrained, just a touch mournful—and Sunghoon moves. No flourish. No dramatic opening gesture. Just a quiet push forward, blades slicing into the ice with the same precision you remember from years ago. But this time, there’s something different. There’s stillness in him.  Control so complete it doesn’t scream—it whispers. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t force it. He lets the music carry him, lets the silence in the arena wrap around him like a second skin. One edge. Then the next. Arms extended, posture flawless, his body slicing through space like he belongs to it. His first jump—a quad toe loop. Clean. Effortless. His landing doesn’t so much hit the ice as it touches it. The blade barely sings as it connects. The motion is seamless, and for a second, no one breathes. Not the judges. Not the staff. Not even the other skaters who’ve trained beside him years ago and know just how good Sunghoon really is. They fall quiet—everyone does—because what they’re seeing isn’t just a routine.

It’s artistry.

His movements are elegant, measured. Each spin folds perfectly into the next, centre tight, shoulders relaxed, neck lengthened. His step sequence flows like water—no excess, no hesitation. And then the triple axel—the jump that sidelined him years ago—comes out of nowhere.

He lands it perfectly.

Not a wobble. Not a check. Not even a breath out of place.

Someone in the stands exhales sharply, as if they forgot they were holding their breath. One of the younger skaters watching from behind the boards drops their phone in shock. Even the coaches—stoic, experienced, always hard to impress—exchange glances. Subtle, but wide-eyed. No one expected this. Not from someone who hasn’t competed in years. Not from someone they assumed was skating on borrowed time. But there he is. Moving like the ice never betrayed him. Like the injury never happened. Like he’s not returning from anything, but arriving exactly where he belongs. The closing spin begins—slow, low, deliberate. He lowers into a final sit spin so clean it looks animated, the motion a perfect blur. Then he rises, centres himself, and ends in silence. No dramatic bow. No fist in the air. Just Sunghoon. Standing still, chest rising, eyes closed. Like he just let go of something he’s been carrying for years. And for a moment—just one—no one claps. Not because it wasn’t brilliant. But because brilliance demands reverence. The applause comes late. Staggered. And then all at once. But even then, it feels too small for what they just witnessed. Because what Sunghoon gave them wasn’t just a performance. It was a goodbye disguised as grace.

The moment the tryouts conclude, the applause still echoing faintly in your ears, you don’t hesitate. You’re already halfway down the stands before your brain catches up with your legs. You weave through rows of folding seats, shoulder past lingering staff and curious onlookers, scanning the crowd of skaters, coaches, and judges now spilling onto the ice and rinkside floor. Your heart is racing. Not from excitement. From urgency. Like if you don’t find him now, this moment—his moment—might slip away before you get to say anything. And then you spot him. Near the far side of the rink, his posture relaxed now, his jacket back on and unzipped. He’s speaking to someone. You recognise the man instantly: Coach Im, his university coach. Stern but warm. Always had a thermos in hand and a stopwatch around his neck, even when he wasn’t timing anyone. You saw him often—back when you used to sit through Sunghoon’s practice sessions, bundled in jackets, pretending to read while keeping your eyes on the ice. Sunghoon laughs at something the coach says, his shoulders shaking with a lightness you haven’t seen in years. You feel something stir in your chest as you step closer. Coach Im spots you first. His eyes light up in recognition as you approach, his voice lifting cheerfully over the din. “Oh hey—isn’t this Y/N?” he says, clapping a hand on Sunghoon’s shoulder. “So lovely to see that the two of you are still going strong!” The words hit you like an unexpected gust of wind, warm and jarring all at once. Sunghoon startles slightly, glancing quickly in your direction with wide eyes—like even he didn’t see that coming. You blink, then laugh—just a breath, soft and awkward. “Oh, um… it’s not like that. We’re not—” But Sunghoon doesn’t say anything right away. He just looks at you. Not surprised. Not embarrassed. Just… thoughtful. A crease forming between his brows like he’s considering what to say next—if he should say anything at all. Coach Im looks between the two of you, clearly confused, then lets out a warm chuckle. “Either way, it’s good to see you again. I remember you always being there in the bleachers during Sunghoon’s training sessions. It was nice knowing he had someone by his side. Kept him grounded, you know?” You smile politely, heart doing a strange little dance in your chest. And as the coach excuses himself to greet someone else, you and Sunghoon are left in a bubble of silence.

Just like old times. Only now, everything feels different.

And yet—somehow—exactly the same.

You clear your throat, stepping a little closer, nerves fluttering at the base of your spine. "Hey, I just wanted to—"

"I'm sorry, Y/N," Sunghoon cuts in, his tone gentle but clipped. He avoids your gaze, already half-turning away. "I promised to meet some old friends from uni to catch up."

You pause. Blinking. The words take a second to land.

"Oh. Right. Yeah," you say, forcing a small smile as you nod, even though your chest tightens. "I'll... see you around?"

"I'll text you, yeah?" he offers, already moving backwards, already fading into the crowd.

You nod again, slower this time. "Huh? Oh. Yeah. Okay." And just like that, he’s gone. Swallowed up by the familiar buzz of coaches, skaters, and congratulations. You stand there a beat longer than you should, the cold of the rink creeping back into your fingertips. The moment you thought you were chasing slips quietly through your hands—unfinished. And all you can do is exhale. Pretend it doesn’t sting. Pretend it isn’t you who’s waiting for him again—who’s standing here with something halfway between closure and hope tangled in your chest. You tell yourself it’s fine. That he skated beautifully. That this day wasn’t about you. But beneath all that composure, you feel it—the ache of almost. Because maybe you expected too much. Or maybe, for a second, you forgot you were just someone he let in again—not someone he kept.

But the truth is, Sunghoon didn’t know how to face you without tearing up. Didn’t know how to walk toward you without pulling you into his arms and asking you to stay, to say something—anything—that might ground him after what just happened on the ice. But the moment Coach Im said your name, smiled like it was still you and him, like time hadn't split everything in half, Sunghoon panicked. Because he’s not sure what this is. Not yet. And he’s not sure you’re open to confronting it, either—whatever it is, this delicate thing hanging between you like a conversation neither of you has found the courage to start. Maybe he read too much into your eyes during warm-up. Maybe the way you looked at him wasn’t about wanting him back. Maybe it was just nostalgia—soft, forgiving, but not something you wanted to carry forward. Maybe you were just proud of him. Maybe you were just letting go. He doesn’t blame you. Because deep down, Sunghoon knows he never really forgave himself for the way things ended—for the silence, the confusion, the months where he let you carry the weight of a love he couldn't name, let alone hold properly. He knows he hurt you in the worst way: by making you feel like you had to ask to be chosen. And though time has passed, and the ache has dulled, another part of him still isn’t sure—still isn't confident—that he’s capable of giving you the kind of love you deserve. But then again—this. This miscommunication. This habit of circling around instead of stepping in. This assumption of what he thinks you want—what you don’t want—it’s what drove the two of you apart in the first place. All the things he never said. All the things you tried to. All the maybes that built a house out of hesitation and called it home. He thought silence would spare you. You thought silence meant indifference. And somewhere along the way—between protecting and pretending, between misreading and mistiming—you both forgot how to meet in the middle.

And now here you are again.

You, still waiting.

Him, still too afraid to walk closer.

Each of you assuming the other doesn’t want more. Each of you convincing yourselves that almost is close enough.

Even when it never was. Even when it never could be.

And as usual, the text he promised never really came. At first, you gave him the benefit of the doubt—told yourself he was probably just busy, caught up in post-tryout formalities, in media briefings, in reconnecting with old friends or navigating the aftermath of a performance that stunned everyone in the arena. But deep down, you knew the silence wasn’t unfamiliar. It never had been. After all, the foundation of your relationship in those final months was built on this same cycle Sunghoon giving just enough. Just enough warmth, just enough apology, just enough softness to keep you waiting—to keep you hoping that maybe if you held on a little longer, he’d choose you fully, finally, without hesitation. And you—God, you—with your foolish heart that had only ever known how to love in full measure, never halfway, never with one foot out the door—you waited. You waited like you always did. And maybe that’s why, when the Korean Skating Union releases the official roster of Olympic athletes and his name is printed boldly at the very top—like it never left, like it was always meant to be there—something in you shifts. You feel it, a spark lighting in your chest, sharp and sudden and wild, and before you’ve even thought it through, you’re already reaching for your coat, already grabbing your keys, already walking out the door with your heart hammering too loudly in your chest. You could’ve texted him. Could’ve called. Could’ve sent a simple message like “congratulations,” could’ve played it safe the way people do when they’re pretending not to care as much as they do. But you don’t. Because something in you needs to see him—needs to see his face, his eyes, the way he stands now that the weight is off his shoulders, now that he’s done it, now that he’s reclaimed skating the way he always wanted to. Because if any part of what you shared still matters—if any part of him still looks at you the way he used to—you want to be there to see it. Not through a screen. Not in a message thread that never starts.

But in person.

So you go. Because maybe this time, you're done waiting.

You stand just inside the entrance of the skating arena, the cold air hitting your skin like a memory. The official delegation is supposed to make a public appearance today—an Olympic tradition of sorts. Which means Sunghoon should be here. Somewhere. Your eyes scan the crowd. Clusters of athletes in sleek national jackets, coaches and press weaving through them like old threads. But it doesn’t take long before you spot him. Tucked away in a corner, half-shadowed by the edge of the bleachers. He’s deep in conversation with one of the national Olympic coaches—Coach Baek, if you remember correctly. The older man’s expression is tight, gestures sharp with frustration. You can’t hear what’s being said, but the energy between them is tense. Sunghoon stands there, arms crossed, nodding slowly, his jaw tight but unreadable. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t flinch. Just listens. When the coach finally exhales, the tension softens—barely. A few more words are exchanged, and then a hand lands on Sunghoon’s shoulder, firm and final. A goodbye, or maybe a warning softened into encouragement. Then the coach walks away. And as Sunghoon turns slightly to see him off—shoulders still drawn tight from the conversation—his eyes land on you. You freeze for half a second, caught mid-step, unsure whether to wave, speak, or turn back the way you came. But before the indecision fully settles, he starts toward you, closing the distance with a familiarity that shouldn’t feel as natural as it does.

“Hey,” he says, breath a little visible in the rink’s chill. “I was just about to call you.” You arch a brow, tilting your head. “You were?” His mouth lifts, half a smile, half something else you can’t quite name. “Yeah,” he says quietly, like he’s testing the weight of his own words. You cough, trying to mask the genuine surprise, and maybe joy in your tone. “What was that about? He looked like he was about to throw you back into juniors. Training hasn’t even started and you’re already pissing the coach off?” Sunghoon laughs, and for a second, it lightens his whole face. “Yeah… about that…” You narrow your eyes. “What now?” He takes a small breath, then meets your eyes. “What do you think about writing another exclusive?” You blink. Once. Twice. “What, that you made the Olympic team? That’s hardly exclusive.” His smile fades into something more serious. “No, that’s not it.” You watch him carefully now. “I’m retiring.” Your breath catches. “What? When?” “Effective immediately,” he smiles as he says. “I’ve officially pulled out of the Olympic delegation.”

You just stare at him, stunned. “But—Sunghoon. You worked so hard for this. Recovery took years. You’ve been training nonstop—” “I know,” he says, not unkindly, but firm. “And that’s exactly why.” You’re still trying to catch up, your brain scrambling to make sense of it. “I don’t understand. Then why did you go through the tryouts? Why fight so hard just to walk away?” He exhales, like he’s been carrying the answer for a while. “Because I needed to know it was still there. The feeling.” His eyes meet yours, steady. “I wanted to remember what it felt like to skate—not for medals, not for judges, not for anyone else—but just for me. To feel that I could still love it, even if it no longer loved me back the same way.” Then, softer—almost apologetically—he adds, “I’ll never be able to skate like I used to, Y/N. I’ve already accepted that.” It hits you then—that his silence, the tension with the coach, the performance that felt too clean, too perfect—it was all part of a farewell. You’re quiet for a moment. “So this was… what? A planned goodbye?” He nods once, steady. “Maybe not from the beginning. But somewhere along the way, yeah. I think I knew I needed to end it on my terms. Not when the pain told me to. Not when the judges did. When I decided it was enough.” “But—skating. It meant the world to you—” Your voice comes out softer than you expect, the disbelief tangled with something else. Not anger. Not disappointment. Just the ache of watching someone walk away from something that once lit them up from the inside out. Ironic, since you were once someone that lit him up—maybe still is. Sunghoon doesn’t flinch. He just looks at you, eyes steady, voice calm in a way that tells you he’s already made peace with it. “It did,” he pauses, breath curling in the cold, as if he's choosing his next words carefully. And in that moment, you realise that his performance wasn’t a comeback. It was a love letter.

And a goodbye. “Which is why,” he continues, quieter now, “this is the last thing I can do for myself. To leave it the way I want to. I didn’t want my last memory of skating to be hospitals, setbacks, or walking away because I had no choice. I want to remember it the way I’ve always loved it. For what it gave me. For who I was when I first stepped on the ice.” And you’re hit with a painful ache in your chest as he says it—sharp, sudden, the kind that lodges itself between your ribs and blooms quietly like grief. Because if this is the ending he chose for skating—on his own terms, with love and clarity and closure—then what about you? Where is your ending?

Where is your closure? The question surges up before you can catch it, before you can bury it under composure or timing or pride—and it spills out of you, raw and quiet and too honest. “In that case, what do you remember me by?” Sunghoon freezes. His shoulders tense, breath catching so subtly that only someone who’s known him—really known him—would notice. “Y/N…” he says, and you can hear it in his voice—how he didn’t expect that. How he doesn't know what to do with it. You didn’t even realise you’d said it out loud. The weight of it lingers in the air between you, heavy, uninvited. You straighten your posture, instinct snapping back into place. Professional. Controlled. Detached, even if your pulse is anything but. “I should go,” you say briskly, already taking a step back. “I’ll email your management the article draft. Or… do I not need to?” He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out fast enough. “Anyway,” you continue, your voice clipped but polite, a shield you know too well, “feel free to have your assistant text me. Thanks.” You don’t wait for his reply. You turn. And this time, you’re the one walking away from something that once lit you up from the inside out. Even if it hurts to do it. Even if every step feels like it’s tearing something open again. Because you can’t keep standing in spaces where you’re only half-held, half-answered, half-remembered. That evening, you write the article. You sit at your desk long after the sun has dipped below the skyline, long after the city has quieted into its nighttime hush, and you start typing with steady fingers—trying, desperately, to be as professional as you can be. Because this is big news. A world-class athlete pulling out of the Olympic delegation at the peak of national anticipation. A retirement no one saw coming. It’s the kind of journalism that gets you recognised. That fills portfolios and lands bylines in places that matter. But none of that crosses your mind. Because all you can think about—despite the ache still blooming in your chest, despite the lingering bitterness of unanswered questions and things left unsaid—is how to honour him. You still feel the weight of him on the page. Still feel the obligation to present him in the best light. To tell the truth, yes, but also the quiet parts—the parts no one else saw. The discipline. The years of pain. The choice to walk away, not out of defeat, but dignity. You write him with care. With empathy. With the kind of understanding that only someone who once stood in the inner orbit of his world could ever give. And no matter how hard you try, you can’t stop your heart from leaking into the words. Because telling his story means telling yours, too. Not the public version. Not the headlines. But the quiet history of two people who once thought love alone would be enough. The version of you that sat in cold arenas, waiting for him to look up. The version of him that carried the weight of a dream too heavy for his body to bear. The version of both of you that was too young, too scared, too stubborn to survive it back then. It’s almost midnight when you finish the piece. And when you read it back, you realise it’s not just about skating.

It never was.

It’s about letting go of something beautiful—not because it wasn’t enough, but because it ran its course. And for the first time, you understand what he meant.

To end it your way.

To remember the love, not the loss.

So you click send.

And in doing so, you decide—quietly—to let it go.

To let him go.

Ms Yoon (PA): Reporter Kang sent over the article draft. PR said it was good, but thought you might want to read it for yourself. [Attachment: 1 File]

Sunghoon is mid-workout when the message comes in. His hands are chalked, his hoodie damp with sweat, breath still recovering from his last set of strength drills. The notification buzzes faintly against the speaker where his phone sits docked, half-muted beneath the beat of the music pulsing through the rink’s private training gym. He almost ignores it—figures it’s a reminder or scheduling update—until he catches the preview of the sender’s name: Ms. Yoon. He wipes his palms on a towel, walks over, and unlocks his phone, chest still rising and falling in slow recovery. The file is there, bold and unopened. His fingers hover over the screen a moment longer than they should, suspended in a strange quiet. He’s not sure what he’s expecting to feel. Pride? Closure? Guilt, maybe. But whatever it is, he taps the file. And begins to read.

FINAL DRAFT [MANIFESTO EXCLUSIVE] The Final Bow: Park Sunghoon Withdraws from Olympic Delegation and Announces Retirement By Kang Y/N, Manifesto Daily . . . . . In related news, Park’s withdrawal comes just days after the delegation announcement, and in his place, 19-year-old rising star Han Jihoon has been selected to represent Korea in the men’s singles category. Han, who placed fourth at the national tryouts, is widely regarded as one of the most technically gifted athletes of his generation, with a growing fanbase and a reputation for innovation on the ice.

As for Park Sunghoon, he leaves behind a legacy not of statistics, but of stillness. Of dignity. Of skating that always seemed to say what words could not.

His career was never loud. But it was unforgettable.

Goodbye, Park Sunghoon, And thank you for everything you didn’t have to say.

Before he knows it, he’s halfway out the door—keys clenched in one hand, the other rapidly typing a message to his assistant.

Sunghoon: Do you happen to know Y/N’s address? Forward it to me asap. Thanks.

The article is still echoing in his head, playing back in quiet waves he can’t shut out. Lines that hit too close. Lines that cracked open things he thought he’d buried for good. Words that sounded like truths he never gave you the space—or the safety—to say out loud. Because was it just him—or did your article sound like a defeat? Not the kind written in bitterness, but in surrender. An epiphany dressed in grace. Like you had finally laid everything down—your hope, your waiting, your quiet what-ifs—and decided that telling his story was the only closure you were ever going to get. His heart pounds harder now than it did during his entire workout. Not from strain. From urgency. From the sudden, all-consuming fear that he might be too late—too late to explain, to show up, to fix the way silence unraveled everything. Too late to ask for something he didn’t know he was still allowed to want. Something that had always lingered just beyond his reach—not because it wasn’t there, but because he never dared to reach out and take it. That you were still willing to give after all these years, If only he had asked. If only he had trusted that maybe, just maybe, love wasn’t about timing or pride or silence—but about the courage to choose it anyway. And now, with your words still ringing in his head and the ache of what-ifs pressing into his ribs, he runs. Because for the first time in a long time, he isn’t afraid of falling. He’s afraid of missing the chance to fall with you. A notification lights up his screen, and it’s from his assistant—your full address, no questions asked.

Sunghoon doesn’t waste a second. He tosses his phone onto the passenger seat, starts the engine, and drives like his heart’s pacing him—fast, frantic, barely keeping rhythm. The city blurs past in streaks of gold and grey, and his knuckles grip the steering wheel like it’s the only thing holding him together. By the time he reaches your apartment, he doesn’t bother fixing his hair, or the way his hoodie clings to him, soaked from sweat and adrenaline. Or the fact that its well-past midnight and he’s here at your apartment building. He takes the stairs two at a time, too restless for the lift, too afraid the silence will make him second-guess what he’s come here to say. You open the door mid-knock, eyes wide, mouth parting in surprise. “Sunghoon?” your voice is a mix of concern and disbelief. “How did you know I lived here?” You stare at him, bewildered, heart stammering against your ribs. He looks at you like you’re not real. Like he’s been chasing something impossible and suddenly, impossibly, it’s standing right in front of him. There’s yearning in his eyes—raw and unguarded—and when he takes a step closer, you notice it. The limp. Subtle, but there. “Did you run here? God—your injury—” But you don’t get to finish. Because he closes the distance and pulls you into him—arms wrapping around you in one fluid, desperate motion, like his body moved before his mind could catch up. There are no words. No explanations. Just the solid, trembling weight of him anchoring himself to you, like he’s been carrying the absence of this moment for too long, and can no longer bear it. You stand frozen, caught off guard by the heat of him, the quiet urgency in his embrace, the way he fits against you like he’s spent the past four years trying to unlearn the shape of this—and failing. “Sunghoon,” you say, your voice fragile, unsteady, trembling at the edge of disbelief. “What are you—?” But he doesn’t let go. “Don’t leave me,” he chokes out, the words low and fractured, muffled into the fabric of your t-shirt. You feel his breath at the side of your neck before you hear his next words. “Please…” You feel it then—how hard he’s shaking. How tightly his fingers clutch at the back of your shirt like a lifeline. The weight of his body pressed against yours isn’t just exhaustion—it’s grief, longing, guilt—all of it simmering under the surface and spilling out in a single, vulnerable plea. Your hands hover awkwardly at your sides, unsure where they’re allowed to go. Unsure if they’re still his to reach for. And somehow, that hesitation—your silence, that flicker of doubt—it splits something open inside him. “I’ll wait,” he blurts suddenly, pulling back just enough so he can look you in the eye. His own are red-rimmed, glassy, but there’s a sharp kind of clarity there too. “I’ll wait for you, Y/N.” “Sunghoon…” you whisper, your voice unsteady, caught somewhere between confusion and something that feels dangerously close to hope. “Where is this coming from?” His chest is rising and falling against yours, uneven. He swallows hard, and you see it—the way his jaw flexes like he’s trying to keep himself steady. His eyes flicker, not away from you, but like he’s searching for the words he’s never learned how to say out loud. His breath catches once, then again, before he finally forces himself to speak. “I read the article,” he says, quiet but clear. And immediately, you understand. Because you know exactly what part he’s referring to—not the skating analysis, not the announcement of his retirement. He means the parts laced with goodbye. The parts where your words stopped being objective and became soft, tired farewells tucked between the lines that only he would recognise. It was a goodbye to skating. But more pressingly—for Sunghoon—it read like a goodbye to him.

“Let go—” you start, trying to get some space, to breathe, to make sense of the tangle you’ve both fallen into. But his grip only tightens. “That article—” You pause, biting down the rush of emotion rising in your throat. “That article wasn’t meant to change anything.” “I know,” he says, his arms still around you. “But it did. It made me realise just how much I’ve tried to pretend I could move on from you.” You freeze. Not because you don’t understand him, but because you do. Too well. And that terrifies you.

“Let go,” you say quietly, voice strained, like you need to put space between you before you drown in everything he’s saying. “Just… let go so we can talk.” He hesitates, then releases you with reluctance, his hands falling to his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them now that they aren’t holding you. You catch the way his shoulders rise, tense and uneasy. How his hands shake slightly at his sides. And when he blinks, that’s when you see it—his eyes glossing over, the shimmer of something threatening to spill. “I never stopped loving you,” he says, his voice cracking at the edges. “Even when I left. Even when I convinced myself it was better that way. I still loved you. I just… didn’t know how to be with you and still be okay with myself.” “Now suddenly you’ve figured it all out?” you ask, and the bitterness in your tone surprises even you. But it’s real. You’re not trying to punish him—you’re just scared. Scared of falling back into something that once left you hollow. “No,” he says immediately, and there’s no defensiveness in his voice—just quiet truth. “Not suddenly. But I’ve had time. And space. And it turns out neither of those things taught me how to forget you, Y/N.” You look at him—really look—and it hits you just how much effort it’s taking him to say these things. How his shoulders are drawn tight, how he can’t keep still, how his fingers twitch like they want to ball into fists but won’t. He’s not used to this—exposing himself, risking the quiet between you. And you hate how much you want to believe him. How even now, your heart betrays you by leaping at his words, melting at the sound of your name in his mouth like it still belongs there. You press your lips together, trying to swallow the ache building in your throat. You want to scream, to cry, to ask why he’s doing this now—why he always waits until it’s too late. Why he only finds the words once your heart’s already been rearranged around his absence. But all that comes out is, “You’re saying everything I wanted to hear back then, Sunghoon. But that’s the thing—it’s back then. I’m not the same girl you remember. I’m not the girl who was always waiting for you to show up.” And yet, even as the words leave your mouth, you know that was a blatant lie. Because the truth is, you were that girl. For far longer than you’d ever admit.

“You asked me then,” he starts, voice barely above a whisper, “What do I remember you by.” You freeze. It’s not the sentence itself that gets you—it’s the way he says it. Careful. Almost reverent. Like the question has been haunting him all this time, long after you threw it into the air thinking it would vanish unanswered. “I remember you as the girl who poured her entire heart into everything she touched—your academics, your friendships… me, even after I left for Spain. You were relentless in the way you showed up for people, even when they didn’t always know how to show up for you.” He doesn’t look at you immediately. His gaze drifts somewhere over your shoulder, like the weight of the memory is too tender to hold eye contact just yet. Your heart clenches. You hate how easily those memories come flooding back—the all-nighters, the deadlines, the way you clung to structure and control because it was the only thing you could manage while everything with him felt like trying to build a home on sand. “I remember our first day. Freshman orientation. You couldn’t even look at me properly when we got paired up. I thought you hated me,” his lips twitch, faintly, like he’s caught between a smile and something sadder. “But then you offered to carry half the pamphlets because I looked tired from training, and I realised—you were just shy. You were this quiet, nervous girl who still somehow managed to be kind when she was uncomfortable.” Now his eyes return to yours, and there’s something in them that makes your chest ache. He’s remembering you, in detail, like he carried those moments with him even when he left you behind. And that shouldn’t make you feel warm. But it does. And you hate that. “I remember the blush on your cheek when you asked me out for the first time,” he says, smiling faintly. “You were so nervous I thought you were going to change your mind halfway through. But you didn’t. You stood there, eyes wide, hands shaking, and still said it anyway.” You hate how clearly you remember that moment too. The way your heart had raced. The way he smiled at you like you’d surprised him in the best possible way. “I remember you sitting in the bleachers,” he continues. “Head down, focused on your notes, your laptop. But you were watching me, too. Even when you didn’t say anything, you were always there. And God, that meant more than I ever told you.” Your grip tightens over your sleeves, arms crossed to stop your hands from shaking. “I remember how your eyes would light up when you opened those Popmart boxes, like it was magic every single time. You’d show me the little figurine like it was gold. And you’d smile at me like you wanted me to be excited with you. I didn’t always get it. But I remember thinking, I hope she knows how loved she deserves to feel for the rest of her life.” Your eyes sting. He shifts, like the next words are heavier, harder to pull from his chest. “I remember your words,” he says now, gaze locked on yours. ”The ones you gave so freely when I was too buried in pressure to ask for them. I remember your voice when you encouraged me, when you believed in me, when I didn’t believe in myself.” “I remember the warmth of your hugs. I remember the shape of your lips when you kissed me. And everything in between.” His eyes lower for a beat. His tone changes—not dimmer, but honest in a way that hurts.

“And I remember the fights too. The arguments. The silences. The doors that closed too hard, and the words that came out sharper than we meant them to. I remember how frustrated you got. I remember how I pulled away. And I remember that, too—because even those moments mattered. Even those were you loving me in the only way you knew how: by fighting for us.” He looks back at you now, fully, like he’s trying to hand you all of it—every memory, every piece. Your chest tightens, breath caught between inhale and collapse. “You loved me enough to care. Even when it got messy. Even when I made it hard. You cared when I didn’t know how to. You stayed when I didn’t make it easy to be around me.” The tears come then. They track down his cheeks slowly at first, then faster, like something’s come loose inside him that he can’t hold back anymore. He doesn’t wipe them away. He just stands there, crying in front of you like he’s spent years trying not to.

“And I think about that version of us all the time,” he says. “Not just the good. Not just the beautiful. But all of it. The whole you. The real you.” “That’s how I remember you, Y/N. I remember you as the girl who loved me when I didn’t know how to love myself. And even now, I’m still trying to figure out how to be someone who was worthy of all that love."

Your breath catches, but you don’t let it out. Not yet.

Because something in you knows that if you exhale, if you react, you might fall apart entirely.

His words are still hanging in the air, soft but sharp, like silk laced with barbed wire. They’re gentle—but they hurt. Because they’re real. Because they’re him. The him you waited for. The version you wanted to hear from long before all the damage was done. And now he’s here, finally saying all the things you once begged for in silence. And you don’t know what to do with it. You feel a tear slip down your cheek before you even realise it’s there. Your heart is making too much noise in your chest. Every beat sounds like a memory—of those bleacher nights, of ramen cups shared between lectures, of the small, quiet joy of feeling seen, even when he never said it out loud. You remember all those things too.

And that’s the problem.

Because part of you wants to believe it. Wants to step forward. Wants to reach for him and say, I remember you, too. Not the public figure. Not the Ice Prince. But the boy who once laid his head in your lap after a long day and asked you to stay, even if he couldn’t say the words. But another part of you—older now, wearier—pulls back. Because love wasn’t enough the first time. Because his silence hurt. Because you were the one who waited. Who stayed. Who forgave and forgave and slowly lost parts of yourself trying to hold everything together while he figured out who he was without ever asking who you were becoming. And now, here he is. Saying the right things. Crying real tears. Standing still when he used to run. But what does that mean now, when you’ve taught yourself to survive without him? You feel your throat tighten, your arms crossed like a shield, like maybe if you just hold yourself hard enough, the years between you will stop trembling through your spine. You want to speak—but nothing comes out. Because how do you respond to something so tender when all you’ve learned since him is to protect yourself from softness? You blink up at him, your eyes burning, and part of you whispers, He means it this time. And another voice, quieter but steady, asks, But is that enough? So you say nothing for a moment. Just stand there. Your whole body a battlefield between memory and survival. And then, softly, you speak.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” you admit, eyes flicking away from him. “I don’t know how to trust what you’re offering. You hurt me, Sunghoon. You left. And I carried that.” You see the hope falter just a little in his eyes. But he nods. “I’m not asking you to do anything,” he says. “I just…  I couldn’t let your words be the last thing between us. I needed you to know that I remember you. That I never stopped loving you.” You don’t respond right away. You don’t know how to. Your heart is loud in your ears, screaming all the things you’re too scared to say. Because this feels like standing on a cliff again, and this time, you’re not sure if there’s anything on the other side to catch you. “I’ll wait,” he says suddenly, voice rough, but steady with something fierce. “If you need time, I’ll give it. If you need space, I’ll step back. But just—please” Your throat tightens. “And what if I don’t have anything left to give you?” “Then I’ll understand,” he says, voice rough. “I’ll carry that. But I had to say it. I had to try. And I know it doesn’t make up for anything, but it’s all I’ve got. I’m standing here, telling you I love you, and I will wait—for however long it takes—because I don’t want to live the rest of my life wondering if you ever would’ve said yes.” And just like that, you feel the air leave your lungs in one long, shaking exhale. Not from panic. Not from pain. But from a bittersweet relief. The sincerity in his voice is unmistakable—stripped bare of pride, of performance, of everything he used to hide behind. This isn’t the Sunghoon who pulled away, who stayed silent when it mattered. This is the boy who finally understands what it means to show up.

After four years of silence, a leg injury that will never truly heal, and a heart broken into a million pieces—yours, his, both—shattered by time, by distance, by everything neither of you had the words to fix back then. And Sunghoon—your Sunghoon, the one who knows you better than you’d like to admit—watches you carefully, like he’s afraid you’ll misinterpret everything he’s just said—afraid you’ll think this is another case of bad timing or misplaced nostalgia. Then, after a long, tentative pause, his voice softens—but there’s no doubt in it. “And I know we already talked about this the other day,” he says, his voice careful. “But just so we’re clear… I need you to hear it again.” You look up, heart thudding as he meets your gaze head-on. “This… us… me being here,” he says slowly, deliberately, “it’s not because skating didn’t work out. It’s not some knee-jerk reaction because the ice stopped being kind to me.” His throat bobs as he swallows, blinking back the weight behind his words. “I fell out of love with skating a long time ago,” he continues, “but I never fell out of love with you, Y/N.” The silence that follows is immediate. Heavy. Because no matter how hard you’ve tried to bury the thought—or pretend it never crossed your mind—it still lingers in the quiet, persistent and sharp: If he hadn’t lost skating… would he have come back at all? But now, with that truth laid bare between you, your breath catches.—and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like someone he remembered too late. You don’t feel like the consolation prize. Or the safe fallback.

You feel chosen.

He’s here. He finally ran to you—not out of impulse, not out of guilt, and most certainly not because he had nowhere else to go. But because he wants to stay. In the mess he created. In the aftermath. In whatever comes next.

He made sure to communicate that clearly to you. And for the first time—he’s the one offering to wait. He’s not asking for guarantees. He’s not walking ahead, expecting you to catch up. He’s right here. Meeting you halfway. The same halfway that, truthfully, you’ve never walked away from. Not really. Not fully. Because even in the silence, even in the years you spent convincing yourself you’d moved on, there was always a part of you standing in place—waiting—in every version of yourself you tried to become without him, wondering if he’d ever meet you there. Now he has. And the truth is, you still want him just as much as he wants you. You don’t know the exact moment the clarity came. Maybe it was the way his voice cracked when he said your name, like it physically hurt to speak it aloud. Maybe it was the way he remembered every tiny, unremarkable piece of you—the girl who sat in the bleachers, who lit up at Popmart figurines, who loved so loudly it scared him. Maybe it was the way he cried—openly, without shame—or how he waited for your silence like he was willing to carry whatever your answer might be. But when it hit, it was quiet. Gentle. Unmistakable. You still love him. You never stopped. You tried. God, you really tried. You built a life without him, crafted a version of yourself that didn’t flinch at his name, convinced yourself you were fine—that you could breathe without the weight of his absence crushing your ribs. But even on your best days, there was always that ache. That dull, ever-present ache that no one else ever quite touched. “I’m sorry for making this complicated for you,” Sunghoon says suddenly, voice so soft it nearly gets swallowed by the quiet. “I’ll give you time to think.” He starts to turn away, the line of his shoulders already retreating, his eyes cast to the ground like he’s ready to disappear again. You should say something. But you don’t. You just move—more instinct than anything. One step, then two, and wrap your arms around him from behind like you’re anchoring yourself to the only thing that’s ever felt simultaneously this terrifying and this right. Sunghoon freezes. Completely still. You feel it first in the way his shoulders tense, tension rippling through his body like your touch startles something buried too deep to name—then the slow, excruciating way he exhales, as if he’s been holding his breath the whole time.

You press your forehead lightly into his back. He’s warm. Solid. Real.

Sunghoon shifts, beginning to turn toward you but your grip tightens ever so slightly. “No. Don’t turn around yet,” you say, your voice trembling. “Not yet. Just… listen.” His breath catches again, but he nods, hands limp at his sides, letting you press your heart against the shape of his back like it might finally say all the things your mouth never could. You close your eyes and let the words come—raw and unpolished, everything you’ve buried for far too long. “I hated how you shut down when things got hard between us. I hated how I always had to be the one to reach out, to fix things, to guess what you were feeling when all I wanted was for you to just say it.” His shoulders flinch slightly. You can feel the guilt settle into the line of his spine. His heartbeat picks up, echoing between you like thunder. Still, he doesn’t move. “I hated how you always made decisions on your own—like I wasn’t part of the picture. Like love was something you had to protect me from instead of something we could’ve fought for together.” Your voice cracks on the last word, but you push through. “I hated how you walked away without telling me the truth. How you let me believe I wasn’t worth holding onto.” Your grip loosens as your voice softens. And as you do, Sunghoon’s fingers twitch near yours like he wants to reach for your hand but doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

“And worst of all I hate that even after all of that—after the silence, the heartbreak, the wondering—I still can’t forget you.” His fingers curl slightly, not quite fists, but as if holding himself in place. As if your words are the only thing keeping him from falling apart. “I love the way you lace your skates, the way you scrunch your nose when you laugh, the way you never let go of your childhood dreams even when they broke you. I love how you tried to protect me—even if it hurt. I love how you remember everything about me, even the things I thought didn’t matter. Even the things I was sure you forgot.”

You speak.

“I love how you cuddled me in my sleep—I hate how you let the quiet speak for you. I love how you loved me, even when you didn’t know how to show it. Even when I hate the fact you didn’t know how to show it.”

He listens.

And with every word you spill, every confession you finally give voice to, something in him unknots. His spine softens against you, leaning back into your embrace—just enough for you to feel the weight of him, the way he surrenders to the moment. His heartbeat thrums steadily beneath the fabric of his hoodie, loud and alive where your cheek presses lightly into the space between his shoulder blades. “And I hate how I still love all those parts. The beautiful ones, the difficult ones, the ones that tore me apart.” Sunghoon doesn’t speak right away. Doesn’t even move until he’s sure you’re done. “I never stopped loving you, Sunghoon. That’s the problem.” When you whisper those words, you swear he stops breathing altogether. You feel it rush out of him, like the weight of that truth floors him where he stands. “I don’t need time,” you add, barely audible. “I just needed to be sure this was real. That you were.” You take a shuddering breath, close your eyes, and press your cheek more firmly against him—hoping, in some impossible way, that you can feel him even closer than he already is. “I’m scared,” you admit. “I don’t know how to do this again. I don’t know how to trust what we were, or what we could be. But I know I still care. I know I still want you.” “And I’m tired of pretending I don’t.” God, you want to laugh. Or slap yourself in the face because of how terrifyingly easy it was to believe him again. How a few trembling words and tear-soaked confessions cracked through years of hurt like they were never there to begin with. How your heart, traitorous and stubborn, still knows the shape of him like a story it never stopped rereading. And your stupid, foolish heart—bruised from all the almosts and maybes—is choosing to continue writing that story.

You don’t say anything more.

And that’s when he moves.

Slowly, cautiously, Sunghoon turns in your arms, and the look in his eyes nearly shatters you. Hope. Guilt. Wonder. All of it, all at once. His eyes are glossy, lips parted in disbelief. His hands rise, trembling as he cups your face—so gently, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he blinks. You feel the pulse in his fingertips where his thumb brushes your jaw—still racing, still loud. Like your presence alone is enough to send it surging. Like he’s never been more alive than in this quiet, fragile moment with you. He gently rests his forehead against yours, the space between you shrinking until it barely exists. His hands are trembling, but his touch is impossibly tender—thumb brushing against your cheek, catching a tear, and then another. You hadn’t even realised you were full-blown crying until his fingers found the evidence. And then—just when you think your heart can’t take any more—his next words knock the air from your lungs like a punch and a prayer all at once. “Can I kiss you?” he whispers, voice hoarse and breaking with every syllable. “Please… tell me I still can.” The plea hangs between you, fragile and breathless. His chest is rising and falling in shallow, uneven rhythm, his pulse frantic beneath your fingertips as you reach up—slowly, instinctively—and wrap your fingers around his wrist. You can feel it there: the raw, aching thrum of his heartbeat, louder than words. Like your touch alone is enough to undo him. He’s never looked more vulnerable. Never more real. There’s no mask, no distance, no practiced calm—just him. Just Sunghoon, standing in front of you with nothing left to offer but his whole heart, held out in both hands. You let out a shaky breath, the corners of your lips lifting despite the tears still wet on your skin. And then—soft, quiet, but certain—you say, “Yes.”

As soon as the word leaves your lips—soft, breathless, and trembling with everything you’ve held back for years—Sunghoon moves. There’s no hesitation. No time wasted. The moment he hears your yes, he closes the distance like a man starved for something he thought he’d never taste again. His hands frame your face with a yearning so delicate it makes your heart ache. And then—he’s kissing you. It isn’t hurried or rough. It’s deep and devastating, like an apology and a promise all wrapped into one. Like he’s trying to pour four years of silence, of longing, of every missed chance into a single touch. He kisses you like it’s the first time and the last time all at once. And you—god, you melt into it. Into him. Into the feeling of home rediscovered, of time folding in on itself. Your fingers find their way into the hem of his hoodie, clinging onto him like you’re afraid he might vanish if you let go. But he doesn’t.

He stays.

And so do you. When you finally find it in you to pull away, you do so slowly—reluctantly—as if your body hasn’t quite caught up with your mind yet. As if some part of you still isn’t ready to let go. Your foreheads stay pressed together, breath mingling in the narrow space between you, warm and uneven. You’re both breathless. Messy. His hair is damp at the edges, your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes sting with the remnants of unshed tears. His thumb lingers at your jaw, gently tracing the skin as if to memorise the feel of you all over again. You feel the tremble in his breath when he exhales, feel the soft thud of his heart still racing beneath your fingertips. He doesn’t speak right away. Neither do you. Because in that moment, there’s nothing to say that could possibly match the weight of what just passed between you. You’d been broken once. Both of you. But right now—in this quiet, tangled stillness—it feels like the pieces are finally trying to come back together. You lean in again, lips parted, drawn to him like gravity—like your heart still hasn’t had enough. But just as your breath brushes against his skin, he gently places a hand on your shoulder and eases you back. The moment stalls. You blink, startled. A flicker of panic rises in your chest—was this a mistake? Did he change his mind? But then he smiles. Soft. Steady. The kind of smile that anchors you. He pulls you into his arms, wrapping you tight against his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he holds you any less carefully. “Believe me,” he murmurs into your hair, voice thick with restraint, “I want you so bad.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, thumb tracing your cheek, his gaze unbearably tender. “But not like this. Not when your heart’s still racing and your thoughts are a blur. I don’t want this to be another moment we look back on and wonder if it was real.” His forehead rests gently against yours again, breath fanning over your lips. You’re stunned by his honesty—by the weight of his restraint, the care in his voice. And you can’t help but compare him to the Sunghoon from four years ago. The boy who never quite knew how to sit still in the presence of raw emotion, who’d grown so used to skating past vulnerability that he forgot how to let someone in.

Back then, he would’ve kissed you anyway. Not out of selfishness, but out of fear—fear of the silence that might follow, fear of what waiting might reveal. He didn’t know how to confront intimacy without flinching. But this—this Sunghoon in front of you now—isn’t running from the stillness. He’s standing in it. Letting the quiet settle between you like a promise. He’s not rushing. He’s not deflecting. He’s choosing you with intention. “I want to do this right. Slow, if that’s what it takes. With all of you—not just the part that’s still reeling from the fall. ” You nod. “You can stay the night if you like… on the couch, of course.” He grins, eyes flickering with something fond, something teasing—but there's warmth behind it, restraint. “Starting from ground zero, I see.” He lets out a breath, gentle and steady. “I’m grateful. Really. But I won’t overstay tonight. I think…” he pauses, gaze dropping to the floor for a brief second before finding you again, more grounded now, “I think we both have some thinking to do too. And frankly speaking, if you look at me like that any longer, I might actually lose my shit.” You laugh, soft and disbelieving, the sound muffled by the sleeve you raise to your mouth. And as much as your heart aches to keep him close, to fall back into the comfort of familiarity, you both know tonight can’t be about slipping into old rhythms too soon. Not when everything between you is still new and fragile in its honesty. He reaches out and brushes a hand over your arm. “Let me put you to sleep,” he says, voice lower now, softer. “And then I’ll go.” And you don’t fight him on it. Because for the first time, he isn’t leaving to run. He’s leaving to give you room to choose. The moment your head hits the pillow, and you feel his lips press a gentle kiss to your forehead, your body sinks into the mattress like it's exhaling. You're not sure if it's the exhaustion from everything that’s unravelled between you earlier, or the undeniable familiarity of having him close again—his scent, his warmth, the quiet hum of his breath near yours—but sleep finds you almost instantly. It's as if your body remembers him. Trusts him.

Sunghoon lingers. He sits by the edge of your bed, watching the rise and fall of your chest, the soft creases of worry smoothing out from your brow now that you're resting. A small, breathy chuckle escapes him as he leans down, brushing a few strands of hair from your face. “So peaceful,” he whispers, almost to himself, “and still somehow managing to look like you carry the weight of the world.” He stays a second longer than he should. Maybe two. And then, quietly, he stands to leave—only to catch the soft glow of your laptop screen still open on your desk. He walks over, intending to shut it, give you the rest you deserve. But as his eyes flicker toward the screen, he recognises the subject line immediately. It's the email to your editor. The article draft. The cursor blinks steadily at the end of the draft—the same paragraph that started it all. Goodbye, Park Sunghoon, And thank you for everything you didn’t have to say.| The words land like a quiet echo in his chest. He glances back at your sleeping form on the bed, a faint, solemn smile tugging at his lips. Then he turns, quietly taking a seat at your desk. His fingers hover above the keyboard for a moment. And then—backspace. Letter by letter, he deletes the final paragraph. In its place, he types slowly. Carefully. Like each word is a stitch trying to mend what’s been frayed for too long. When he’s done, he hovers for a moment, rereading every word—then clicks “Send.” The email spins off toward your editor. He stands, casts one last look in your direction, and quietly lets himself out.

The next morning, you wake groggy but oddly clear-headed, like your body is still catching up to the storm of feelings it weathered the night before. The room is quiet. Sunlight spills in softly through the blinds, casting golden slats across your blanket. For a moment, you wonder if any of it was real—if he really came, really stood in your doorway, cried in your arms, asked to kiss you like it meant everything. But the slight indent on the couch cushion. The mug he used. The scent that still lingers faintly in the air—all of it confirms: he was here. It was real. Your heart thumps at the memory, but it’s interrupted by a harsh vibration rattling on your nightstand. You blink at your phone, screen flooded with notifications—dozens of missed calls, texts, and pings from your editorial team.

Chase headlines, not men. Catch exclusives, not feelings. ✍️

Yunah: @/you I know you're off today, but I just wanted to say CONGRATS on your story!! See, I knew you could pull this off. [Attached: 1 Link]

Moka: The internet is LOSING it over the article!!!

Minju: Still can’t believe you landed exclusive on top of exclusive with Park Sunghoon. Legend behaviour.

Yunah: I’m equally shocked he’s been hiding that injury all this time 😭

Minju: I don’t want to stress you out but… our public inbox is full of people sending selfies of themselves crying. Literal tears.

Moka: I mean did you READ that last paragraph??? I sobbed too.

You blink at your phone, stunned. Messages keep pouring in—some from colleagues you barely know, others from strangers outside your publication, all echoing the same thing: the article hit them hard. Which is… strange. Because you don’t remember sending the draft. Brows furrowed, you scroll up through your texts until you find the link Yunah sent. You tap it. The article is live. You hold your breath as you read through the byline—your name, front and centre. The formatting. The intro you agonised over. The quotes, the story, the soul of it. And then you scroll to the end. A smile tugs at your lips, and you pull up your chat with Sunghoon.

You: [Attached: 1 Screenshot] Was this your doing?

His reply is almost instant.

Sunghoon: Good morning :) Maybe? PR said they wanted to switch it up.

You: And by PR you mean... you?

Sunghoon: 😂 I meant every word. It’s what I wanted to say to you and to the world. Why… was it too corny? I’m sorry if I overstepped.

You bite your lip, heart stupidly fluttering as you reread his words.

You: No no. Just kinda mad I didn’t think of that myself 🙄

Sunghoon: Well, you can’t beat years of media training 🤷‍♂️

You: Sunghoon, I WORK for the media…

He replies almost immediately, like he’s been waiting for your comeback.

Sunghoon: Let me make it up to you for one-upping you. Dinner tonight? My treat.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a beat before you reply.

You: I would not accept otherwise.

You set the phone down, unable to contain the quiet laugh that escapes you. Because despite everything—the heartbreak, the years apart, the mess of it all—you’ve never felt more like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

The two of you walk slowly along the riverbank, hands gently entwined, his thumb occasionally sweeping across your knuckles like he's still making sure you're real. The evening is still, like even the world has paused to listen. A breeze brushes past, gentle and cool, carrying the scent of spring and something sweet that lingers—something that smells like beginnings.

You glance down at your interlocked fingers, how naturally they fall into place—like no time has passed at all. The rhythm of your footsteps syncs without effort, the silence between you not heavy, but full. Comfortable. Honest. Familiar in all the ways that matter.

“This feels like our first date,” you say, smiling without meaning to, the corners of your lips tugged by something warm and indescribable.

He laughs under his breath, a soft, breathy sound that makes your heart swell. “Maybe it is,” he replies. “The first one where I finally know what I’m doing.”

You don’t reply. Not because you have nothing to say, but because every part of this moment already says it for you.

The sky above is endless, dark velvet speckled with stars. The world moves quietly around you—boats drifting in the distance, couples passing by, the faint sound of laughter from a nearby cafe. But for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like you’re watching it all from behind a glass wall. You’re here. Present. With him.

And he’s here too—really here, not as a shadow of a memory, not as someone you're chasing or mourning. But as a man who's finally choosing to stay beside you.

And you think—if the world ended right now, if the river froze and time stopped still—you would not ask for more than this. Not more than his hand in yours, his voice low beside you, his presence finally steady after years of disappearing acts and empty spaces.

You look at him—not the athlete, not the headline, not the boy who once walked away—but the man who returned with no armour, no excuses, only truths. Who stood in front of you trembling, terrified, and still chose to stay. And when you speak, your voice is quiet but certain.

“You could’ve come back with promises, with charm, with all the right words at the wrong time. But you didn’t.”

There’s a small beat of silence where he stops walking and you do too, feet planted at the edge of the path where the river glistens. He faces you fully now, his hand still holding yours.

“You came back to me with everything I ever needed,” you continue.

He opens his mouth, but no words come—just the subtle tremble of his chin, the storm of emotions flickering behind his eyes. You take a step closer, pressing your forehead against his, feeling his breath shudder out as though even now, this is too much to believe.

“This,” he says, almost to himself, “is what I should’ve fought for back then.”

"All that matters is you are now," you whisper. "You left, and then you learned. You grew. And then you came back.”

And that’s the difference. That’s everything.

This isn’t about returning to the past. This is about two people, standing in the aftermath of everything they weren’t ready for then, finally finding each other in a version of the world where they are. Choosing to begin again—not from scratch, but from everything they’ve carried and learned and lived through.

His hand stays in yours, steady and warm, like a vow made without words.

You kiss him.

And this time, the kiss isn’t a promise or an apology. It’s not an act of desperation or regret. It’s a homecoming.

It tastes like relief. Like forgiveness. Like all the years that tried to pull you apart finally surrendering to the truth that you were always meant to find your way back.

When you pull away, he doesn’t say anything right away. He just holds you closer, like letting go would unravel the universe itself.

You rest your head on his shoulder, and in that embrace—quiet and undramatic, warm and steady—you finally understand what it means to be loved not just in the way you wanted, but in the way you deserved.

Because he loves you now in the way that matters most.

Not as the boy who left. Not as the echo of a love lost to time. But as the man who finally came back to put every broken piece back together with his own hands.

This isn’t the love you spent years waiting for.

It’s the love he had to fight to grow into. The kind born from mistakes, shaped by time, and strengthened through absence. It’s messy. Flawed. Earned. Real.

It's the kind of love that's loud in his words as much as it is in his presence.

It’s the kind of love that sees all of you. Not just the polished, loveable parts, but the fractured ones too—and stays anyway.

And for Sunghoon, this is the love he has worked to deserve. The kind of love that took almost losing everything to understand.

Skating. Himself. You.

Skating was his first love—the kind that demanded everything and gave just as much, until it didn’t. And like most first loves, it burned bright, glorious, then quietly slipped beyond reach.

And when he said he fell out of love with it a long time ago, something inside you aches.

Because you remember. God, you remember how much he loved it. How much it meant to him. You were there for the early mornings, the ice-burned skin, the sacrifices. You watched him speak with his body when words failed, carve art into frozen ground like it was the only way he knew how to breathe. Skating wasn’t just something he did. It’s his compass. His language. His sanctuary.

You mourn the love he lost—because it was beautiful. Because it made him who he was. Because you can only imagine what he must’ve gone through to lose that love. To say it out loud. To bury it. And because it hurts to know that even something so beloved can slip away.

And yet… here he is. Standing in front of you, offering up the ashes of what once fuelled him, just to prove that loving you never burned out. That you outlasted the thing that defined him for most of his life. That somehow, someway, you came out on the other side—not as a consolation, but as a constant.

Even now, you don’t know what to do with that kind of love. A love that gave up the world just to come home to you.

Because you know what it cost him. What it cost you.

And even though some part of you swells at the thought that he never stopped choosing you, there’s another part that grieves for everything he lost along the way.

But one thing is certain:

While skating may have been his first love, Sunghoon intends for you to be his last.

So you’ll love him with both hands open. With reverence for the boy he used to be, with gratitude for the man he’s become, and with tenderness for all the versions of him in between.

You will carry the echoes of the boy who once chased gold on the ice and hold space for the man who let it go.

And that’s the way you’ll love him—

The way he loves you.

[MANIFESTO EXCLUSIVE] The Final Bow: Park Sunghoon Withdraws from Olympic Delegation and Announces Retirement

By Kang Y/N, Manifesto Daily

In a move that has taken the sports world by quiet surprise, South Korean figure skater Park Sunghoon has officially withdrawn from the 2026 Olympic delegation and announced his retirement from competitive skating.

Park, who recently stunned audiences with a breathtaking performance at the national Olympic tryouts, was widely anticipated to lead the men’s singles category for Team Korea. His name sat at the top of the final athlete roster released by the Korean Skating Union, cementing his spot after years spent away from the competitive spotlight.

However, behind the seamless technique and poise he displayed during the tryouts, Park had been skating through pain. After sustaining a severe tendon injury to his right leg during training abroad in 2023, he underwent a long and difficult recovery—one that, according to the athlete, never fully restored his capacity to train at the level he once held. Despite managing the condition in silence, Park made the decision to step away before risking further damage to his body.

Having spent the last few years recovering and training quietly overseas, Park re-entered the national circuit not to chase medals, but to rediscover what skating meant to him beyond the pressure of podiums and public expectation. His performance at the tryouts was not only a technical feat but also a statement. A reclamation. A reminder that skating, at its core, was always more than a career. It was a language of feeling.

In his official statement, Park expressed gratitude for the opportunity to return to the ice one last time: “I want to remember it the way I’ve always loved it. For what it gave me. For who I was when I first stepped on the ice.”

Park’s career has never been defined by loud declarations. He was known for his quiet discipline, his ability to translate stillness into power, grace into precision. From his early victories on the junior circuit to his more introspective, mature performances in recent years, he has remained one of the few athletes whose artistry often spoke louder than any press release.

Though his departure from the delegation was unexpected, it wasn’t without intent. Park’s decision to step back at the height of anticipation is a reminder that not all victories are won under stadium lights. Some are claimed in the quiet resolve to walk away on your own terms.

In related news, Park’s withdrawal comes just days after the delegation announcement, and in his place, 19-year-old rising star Han Jihoon has been selected to represent Korea in the men’s singles category. Han, who placed fourth at the national tryouts, is widely regarded as one of the most technically gifted athletes of his generation, with a growing fanbase and a reputation for innovation on the ice.

As for Park Sunghoon, he leaves behind a legacy not of statistics, but of stillness. Of dignity. Of skating that always seemed to speak in the spaces where words fell short.

And maybe that was the point all along. Maybe it was never about the podium. Maybe the real victory was simply finding your way back to loving something you once thought you had to leave behind.

Copyright© 2025 thatfeelinwhenyou All Rights Reserved

[delreystars]

BIRDS OF A FEATHER

pairing: childhood bsf!reader x jj maybank

summary: you and jj against the world, thats how its always been but now, it seems as if the world was fighting against the two of you and only jj had a chance to stop it. but he couldn't. not when this was happening.

quote: 'nothing left to lose, without my baby'

warnings: a lot of angst, swearing, reader death/killing, alcohol addiction, flashbacks, main part set in season 3, some use of y/n, mentions of blood, foreshadowing, stabbing etc, mild description of murder.

a/n: may cause heartache or crying, im sorry :(( make sure you remember the first part, put it in your brain. ALSO BETTER TO READ IN LIGHT MODE.

PART 2

7 YEARS OLD. 5,259,600 minutes.

"y'know your holding it completely wrong, jj."

there you were, sat on a wooden chair outside the backyard of john b's house, the chateau. it's what his dad called it, its what big john called it. Big john had always been a second father to you and jj. Your father had never been in the picture, and your mother had always been a workaholic. And, we all know jj's story with luke. "oh, come on!" jj whined, spongebob shirt covered in dirt from the recent activities down by the water. John b laughed mockingly, pointing a finger at jj with a ukulele tucked under the opposite arm.

yes, you were teaching them your most loved hobby.

"dude, your holding it upside down!" john b's high pitched words made jj pout and flip the ukulele around. You stood up, shorter than both of the boys but did they care? nope. "okay, look, you wrap your fingers round the top part and then the other one flicks the strings, got it?" you grabbed his wrist gently and placed it in the correct area.

jj nodded, eyes on his fingers while the blonde locks of hair fell in front of his face. "ugh, y/n my hair! i can't!" he whined once again, his head propping back up. you sighed and grabbed your hair tie, chunking his hair up and tying it onto the top of his head, making john b laugh harder.

you clapped your hands together enthusiastically, smiling with your rows of small teeth, some growing in and some still waiting to be pulled out. "okay, better?" you asked jj, putting a hand on your little hip. he nodded and went back to trying to put his fingers in the right place, unphased by the makeshift ponytail on the top of his head.

"Kids?"

Big john shouted, trudging his feet across the uncut lawn with a smile on his face, a very ancient looking piece of paper in his hand. "whats that, dad?" john b questioned, placing the ukulele on the outdoor table and swiping a curl out of his face, walking toward his father with curious eyes.

"jj, y/n c'mere i got a story" big john waved the two of you over, getting down on one knee to be level with all of you. When you and jj walked over there, you gasped and looked at big john. "Is it about unicorns?"

JJ chuckled and shook his head. "no! unicorns aren't real, dude"

you furrowed your small brows at him, lips forming into a pout. "yes they are!"

john b huffed. "stop arguing, dudes" he spoke sassily, crossing his arms and shifting his attention back to big john. Big john chuckled at the three of you and then nodded his head, adjusting his glasses. "this," he pointed to the map. "this is a treasure map, but it's not just any treasure map."

"what is it then?" jj asked, tilting his head, voice laced with interest.

"the golden merchant.."

little did you all know, this paper, this map, this plan? could change everything.

16 YEARS OLD. 525,600 minutes.

"and then- then he was like, bam!, then he did like, a flip! boom, the guy is knocked out blue. " jj rambled from the messy kitchen to pope and john b who probably weren't even listening. you and kie in the living room, creating friendship bracelets. "its 'knocked out cold', jj" you corrected, not looking up from the bracelet.

"ah, knocked out cold- then he was.." jj continued and continued, making you sigh and turn to kiara. "so, we're still doing a barbeque tonight, right?" With a questioning look on her face, kie looked up. "this place has a grill? and food?" she asked sarcastically, smiling cheekily.

"uh huh, crazy right?" you chuckled, tying off the last part of the bracelet. kie nodded, continuing her own. "JJ, c'mere dude" you half-shouted toward him, making his head snap toward you. "hmm?" he slid off the counter he was sitting on, beer bottle loosely hung in his hand as he made his way over.

you shifted on the couch, leaning on the backrest as you held out a bracelet, specifically reggae colors for him. "here ya go." you grabbed his wrist gently and tied the bracelet onto his wrist (which was already occupied with multiple others)

"oh, why thank you." he tipped his beer toward you, smiling- actually smiling. He loved when you made those for him and only him. Not kie, Not john b, Not pope. Him. "mmhm" you hummed, lips in a small smile as he observed the different colored bracelet.

"i got a whole wrist of em" he wiggled his fingers in front of his wrist, at least 3-6 different colors and different shaped bracelets covering some of his skin. some matching with you, some with john b, or some he stole from crappy stores.

"mmhm, and you ain't ever taking them off, right?" you teased, tilting your head with a little smile.

"you bet." he twirled around on his heels and moved his way back to the kitchen. you smiled, watching him before moving to face kie again. "m'kay, so, we still gotta go to the store to buy burger patties because my mama gave me some money, also we gotta bring jj, we need em for the stealing beer part"

…

"when were burgers invented?" jj asked out of nowhere, biting a whole chunk out of a hamburger. “uh, no idea.” John b spoke, laying a bun on the burger Pattie. Pope, ever so smart, answered easily.

“people are still debating but close to the 1900’s, near there.”

JJ nodded, making a ‘mm’ sound when he swallowed the food. “y/n, you got some sort of magic? Cause this shit is to die for.” you swallowed your burger and looked at him, crossing your ankles on the table. “you’d die for a burger?” You chuckled, making him smile. “Duh, y’know what else I’d die for?”

“hm?”

“you.”

His words made your heart skip a beat. Is he for real? You didn’t know. But, you’d do the exact same. “well I’d die for you too, maybank” you placed the burger on the paper plate, wiping small crumbs off your shirt. “And we’ll always be together, like- no fuckin falling apart, no cliche shit” he added.

“promise?”

“I promise.”

It sounded playful- to the pogues. But the look on your face, no, the look on JJ’s face? said the truth. You both promised.

but do promises always get kept?

17 YEARS OLD. 2,880 minutes

yes, it'd been a long year.

a year filled with mysteries, near death experiences and most importantly, gold. To be specific, the golden merchant. the one thing john b had been keeping most of his focus on. To either find his dad- which he did, and the gold- what his father wanted to find. And of course, he isn't doing it alone.

"Dude, where are they?" jj rasped, stood on the concrete of the runway beside you. John b sarah and kie in front of you two. "i dont know." john b sighed, running his fingers through his dirty curls. "We should get em, we should get in the twinkie and go get em," jj almost shouted, pointing a finger at the van.

"hey, there's pope and cleo." sarah turned toward the sound of a motorcycle engine. there they were, pope and cleo. "god." jj muttered, slinging his hand down to pick up his travel bag. "you guys waiting for us?" cleo shouted over the engine, arms wrapped around popes waist.

"yes we were, you're late." you said, throwing your hair up in a real messy bun, hair tie between your teeth as you got your hair bunched up. jj turns to pope and cleo, exhaling. "now did you actually convince your pops this time or.."

pope got off the bike, chucking a thumb toward cleo. "cleo convinced em"

jj hummed, clasping hands with cleo. "mmhm, that's it, that's what i'm talkin bout"

"okay, let's get on this..plane."

"its a jet, jj" you corrected.

The jet passes over wild tree covered mountains, the area specifically named, 'Orinoco basin'. It'd been a whole 12 hours, you'd all slept and now all of you are on the way to find john b's dad, and to find the golden merchant. "So tres rocas, that's where Neville said he would find the guy." john b said, sat on the leather seat of the jet, map in hand.

"Solona. that's the archaeological site."

you sat on the seat beside sarah, jj on your side- dead asleep. his head on your shoulder as he snored under his breath. He’d fallen asleep about 1 hour into the flight and you couldn’t do a thing to get him up.

while john b continued his rambling & his plan, you just focused on the clouds outside the window- what if something happened? What if someone got hurt? What if there is no gold? What is big john is already dead? What if-

“your doing that thing again.” sarah’s voice ran through your ears, making the repeated thoughts come to a end, your head moving over to the blonde. “what thing?” you spoke quietly, afraid you’d wake up JJ.

“the thing where you doze off and overthink.” Sarah answered, her tone suggestive- as if she could see right through you.

which she could. Because you were doing the thing.

“yeah it’s just, I hope big John’s okay. I hope you guys will be okay.” there it was, the thing you always did. The thing JJ noticed years ago. You never cared about yourself or what would or could happen to you.

“what about yourself?” sarah crossed one leg across the other, leaning forward absentmindedly.

“oh, me? I’m fine, I got this one.” you tried shrugging her concern off with a joke and a thumb chucked toward jj- still sleeping- beside you.

Sarah hummed, nodding and shifting her focus back to her boyfriend.

finally, an hour later, the plane came to a stop and you woke up JJ with a slap to the bicep and a little pinch on his cheek. all of you exited the plan one by one, JJ still walking with a lazy sway.

“ugh, y/n, my hair.” he pouted. god, and the not so subtle whine- it reminded you of years ago. Ukulele lessons and all that..

you snorted looking at him with a hand on your forehead, blocking the brightness of the sun with the back of your hand. “what? ya want a little ponytail?”

he nodded eagerly with exaggerated excitement, already bunching up a little bit of his hair. “mmhm.”

“alright, alright” you smiled, grabbing a black hair tie from your wrist and getting on your tippy toes to tie a fast pointy tail onto the top of his head, making him chuckle.

“he looks like a kid again,” John b chimed in, walking beside JJ with a backpack slung around his one shoulder.

“oh shut up i need somebody to be my hairdresser, duh” he made a dramatic sway with his hip, tilting his head up and making a loud sigh. …

“we gotta split up and I know it sounds stupid but we have to.” John b spoke, leaned against a tree with his hand clasped around his backpack strap.

“what?”

“No, hell no.”

John b sighed, obviously expecting that answer. “no, no- I’m saying we go in groups of two. Pope and Cleo. Y/n and JJ. me and Sarah. You all make sure nobody’s following- me and Sarah will do the big deal, please- I know it’ll work.”

15 minutes.

jj held up his machete like it was a shotgun, aimed toward ward. Sarah and the others all surrounded near the edge of a cliff, trees filled with outgrown vines, and the chime of crickets.

“Sarah, just- just give me the gold, and it will all be over.” ward pleaded, feigning innocence. no, he wasn’t innocent. Not at all.

“No. We found it. We keep it.” John b chimed in, stepping up next to Sarah. “god.” ward whispered to himself it seemed, pulling the trigger of his pistol and raising it to John bs chest with shaky hands.

Your eyes widened, about to step in when JJ grabbed your wrist and pulled you back with a firm grip. “stop.” He whispered through gritted teeth, eyes on you with an intensity that made you go silent immediately.

“dad, stop.” Sarah spoke while stepping infront of John b, lifting her hand to grab the skin of her father’s wrist. ward froze, eyes widening as he opened and closed his mouth.

Sarah grabbed the barrel of the gun and placed the tip of it on her chest, looking at her father. “If you’re going to shoot anyone, let it be me.”

but then, another voice joined in. raspy, cold and low. “wait a minute, ward.”

All of it. All the voices. All the people. All the tension. It all elevated into something you’d never expect. First, It was Sarah holding a loaded gun to her chest, then it was a new man coming into the already crazy area, then it was ward running toward one of Singh’s men, a gun getting shot into the air and into his chest while the other men ran him down toward the edge of the cliff.

but something did happen. Something nobody noticed until ward had been knocked dead onto the jungle floor. When that man had been running and shooting a gun, a bullet did not just only enter wards body.

It also entered yours.

it all hit you when you felt as if you needed water. Like you needed it in one instant or you’d collapse. But, it wasn’t water you needed. You brought your dirty, shaky hands down to your abdomen where there was some sort of clenched feeling, holding your breath while stood beside JJ- who was staring down at the two dead men at the bottom of the cliff.

Did he know yet? No.

Did any of them know? No.

when your skin touches the fabric of your shorts, you felt it. The blood. And you could smell it. The metallic scent. your eyes widened when you looked down- the hole in your jean shorts, the blood slowly seeping out of the fabric and skin. The pain shooting through every section of your already aching body. your eyesight blurred around the edges, making your brain feel fuzzy inside.

that’s when JJ noticed.

and then John b.

And then everyone else.

JJ froze. Like literally. His hands went still, his body wasn’t moving- not one bit. The only thing that was moving was his face. His mouth. His eyes. His eyebrows- but you couldn’t see it. It was like the only thing you could see was the blurry, blonde color of his hair.

then, your knees buckled, JJ caught you before you could collapse to the floor and rushed to sit you down against one of the tall trees, making you groan when the pain increased and increased in your abdomen.

“hey, breathe, it’s fine- just a scratch, yeah, right? Right pope?!” He shouted toward pope, his fingers trembling as he ripped a piece of fabric from his greasy shirt.

Pope didn’t answer. He just kept pacing and pacing while talking to himself- ‘we don’t have any service here, there’s no hospital near here, we’re done. We’re done. We’re done.”

JJ sniffed and looked back at you with wide, panicked eyes. He looked at your already weak face and you could just barely see the little beads of tears on the rims of his eyes.

7 minutes.

It felt like time had all paused in that agonizing moment. For him, the world seemed to have just narrowed down to you and him. It’d been only one minute since he saw the blood but it feels as if it’s been a whole life time. His breathing is labored, his chin won’t stop wobbling And tears have already stumbled there way out of his eyes. his lungs won’t seem to work.

You blink up at him, eyes blurring with now darkness. He looks at you- you’re too fucking pale, you’re dying but he won’t admit it. He can’t. His hair falls infront of his face, the hair tie had already fallen out from all the running and you’d picked it up and snapped it back onto your wrist.

a small, weak smile came to your lips and a shuddering breath left your throat. “y/n, my hair..” you mocked with amusement- half sadness though it just made jjs tears fall harder. Faster.

“shut up..” He whispered and continued applying pressure to the wound. He hated how you sounded as if you were giving up. Breaking the promise.

But the blood would not stop.

5 minutes.

JJ whipped his head back, jaw clenched and teeth gritted so hard John b swore he could hear the sound of teeth against teeth. “Somebody do something! Now! Don’t just stand there!” he tried being loud. He really did. But every word just had a small crack.

“we’re trying, okay?” John b shouted, crouched beside JJ while searching through his backpack with trembling hands. He didn’t want to lose you- nobody did. You didn’t deserve it. Not at all.

you could feel the panic coming from them. The desperation. But you couldn’t hear it. You could only hear the ringing in your ears and just muffled voices. And the pain? The pain was too much. It felt as if the bullet was hitting you again and again each time the pain shot through your body.

“you just gotta- you gotta breath..please, I’ll help- I’ll help you yeah?” JJ rambled, desperately trying to stop the bleeding. But it wouldn’t stop. and you couldn’t hear him- you could only feel his shaky hands. That’s all.

“I ca-“ you tried, the attempt making your throat squeeze. Blood clotted up to your mouth in which you couldn’t swallow down. You coughed, blood dribbling down the corner of your lip. jjs eyes widened, his breathing fastening. He wiped the blood from your lip with his thumb, a choked sound- like a groan and a sob- left his throat as he realized.

There’s no hospital near here. No doctors. Not fucking anybody.

“please don’t- don’t leave.” he started. “you promised. We both did.” he sniffed, wiping his blood- your blood- covered hand against his cheek to wipe a few tears.

1 minute.

pope watched frozen. Silent. His hands barely shaking as tears silently left his eyes. He watched JJ- back to him, his shoulders shaking almost at the same pace as his heart with sobs. He looked worse than the time in the hot tub, bruises scattered across his skin. And who was there? You. Who made him feel better? You. And now? JJ couldn't do anything. Nothing to make you feel better, to make the wound go away.

50 seconds.

“you promised. you did!-“ he stopped. Dry sobs leaving his throat. He looked directly at your face. Your eyes closed but your chest still slightly rising and falling- but barely. Not enough. “you promised..” he whispered. Quieter. Hushed.

you don’t respond. your eyes remain shut, breathing becoming more labored.

Terror squeezes JJ’s chest, gripping him like a vice. He shifts, cradling your head in his lap as he adds pressure against the wound in a futile attempt to stanch the bleeding.

“No, no, no,” he murmurs, stroking your face, your hair. His hands shaking violently. “You don’t get to do this, you don’t get to leave me, do you understand? You don’t get to leave me.”

45 seconds.

JJ reached toward your wrist, grabbing all 4 of your bracelets with trembling hands, his shoulders still shaking. “your going to be okay.” He whispered. Either to himself or to you, he didn’t know. He slid your bracelets onto his wrist and watched your limp body- slumped against the tree.

You looked like you were sleeping. God, he wished you were. But you weren’t-

JJ’s dreams and wishes never came true. He’d always wanted a normal life- he never said that. He’d always wanted a mother. He’d never admit it. He’d always wanted a surf trip with you. He never got that. He never will. And most importantly? He will never have you. He’ll never get to say that he loves you.

Or will he?

“I love you.” He said. It sounded Iike a question. Not to himself. Not to you. It sounded desperate- like his words would make you come back and tie up his hair, like usual.

And somehow, it did. Not the way he wished it would be- you coming back- but, you answered. “I love..you too.” you whispered. Weakly- it sounded so weak. But he knew you meant it. He always trusted you.

5 seconds.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, breath shuddering as he watched your chest stop. It stopped moving. JJ held his breath and lifted his hand just as your head lolled to the side. He rushed to check your pulse, holding it there for 3 seconds. Your gone. Your gone.

“No. No- John b..she’s not. She’s not dead. She was just..just” He trailed off, hands falling to his side, head dropping down to the floor as he squeezed his eyes shut- pinching his leg to see if this was actually real. He wishes it was.

But his dreams and wishes never come true.

and now that you're gone? he doesn't have any more dreams.

he only has nightmares.

[nebuvoid]

btw finished rewatching vinny playing ffviir. not my own playthru tho im still in the first sewer section ugh. slowest playthru of my life, of anything ever. the burden of only playing with an audience (the irl).

but anyway this really reminded me just how prominent they make the zack reappearance at the end of it. like its not just to wow you or to impress on you how fate changed. they make it a big deal. its the literal last shot. the game ends with Hollow(the song) like. how funny would it be if disc 2 is just fully the zack au and if the whole 'the party kinda fucking died' from the trailer isnt a red herring it could be like zack in a party with like wedge and biggs (sorry i mean BIGGS! WEDGE!) and really, hard to say if this is farfetched or incredibly in the realm of possibilities lol. and if it IS a red herring. what if instead its an au where cloud stays in a coma and zack takes his place. but then again i dont think even they would want two of each party member thats too messy. theyll have to find a way to have OUR party meet zack anyway, otherwise whats the point. (because like otherwise they couldve just skipped the entire fighting fate thing and just literally made a lil au for funsies of zack replacing cloud. but fans wont want that. they want cloud, the guy they tried to imitate when they were 13 and cloud was the coolest epicest guy of their 90s life)

its also pretty clear theyll be continuing the whole zackaerith thing, i mean obviously really, and just. ugh lots of thoughts. like cuz its A ZACK but not OUR zack you know. fundamentally the exact same person but not OUR person. that ones still very much dead. ...UNLESS

unless. because like we thought its au zack because of the different stamp right. but what if thats just shown so in your face not to show its an au seperate from OUR story but instead just to show how the story changed in general now. then it would indeed be OUR zack. id certainly prefer that. could be as easy as "zack dropped cloud off somewhere for safety then gets caught by the turks and eventually they release him because theyve got a soft spot for him but by then cloud already did the entirety of the remake storyline and zack returns to the church expecting aerith tending to cloud but instead everyones fucking gone". ...if nothing else a good idea for a fic anyway lol. not like cloud would remember zack dropping him off since he has terrible amnesia regardless.

in the end it all comes to how they handle the whole 'beat up fate thing and it changes things retroactively'. will their actions also have changed the past? or did it only open up the possibility of a different future? just because aerith i think? said the past is set in stone doesnt mean its true. characters can lie or be wrong.

idk just stream of consciousness-ing it lol. sometimes its nice to just ramble to clear it all out a bit. feel free to talk at me over this. please actually

[kuni-is-daddy]

cuddling with kabukimono scara

Sub!Kabukimono x Male! Kaedehara clan reader

Fluff + Smut(hint of angst at the end. IF YK. YK)

1.2k words Scara masterlist

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

"12.." you took a deep breath while counting another soon to be dead nobushi samurai. "Its truly a shame.. such distinguished warriors as ourselves can succumb to banditry." You raised your cursed blade. preparing to kill the nobushi samurai as the rain drenched through your hair. "Y/n!?..Y/n? are you here?!" You lowered your katana as the sound of pattering footsteps through the forest grew louder, along with a familiar voice. "Kabuki?..What are you doing here?" the shorter man approached you. Unbothered by the rain as his amulet dangled from his kimono. "Well..Niwa said you would be here..So I went looking for you!" You sighed, cursing your brother in your head for bringing your lover all the way out here. "Buki.. Its been awfully dangerous in inazuma. You should be back at the estate, WITH niwa." He sucked his teeth at your remark. "Ugh. Who cares about that Y/N. Cmon.. I wanna hang out with you already~ and maybe have some fun~" He peaked his head over your shoulder to notice the wounded samurai behind you. "Who is this?" You turned around, now holding your blade up again. "THIS. Is the danger ive been trying to tell you about buki.'" Kubuki scoffed andwalked around you Infront of the nobushi. "Looks weak to me." he grabbed the samurai by its helmet, watching as thin streaks of blood could be seen brushing through the outside. He then whispered into its ear. "A pathetic excuse for a samurai like you shouldn't have existed. If it was up to me, I would've killed you already. Humans like you always take up my time with y/n..My everything. Know your place."

The rain picked up, Now turning into roaring thunder and lightning which crackled through the sky. Your primary concern of killing changed once your lover arrived. Now you we're focused on getting him back to the estate safe. You held onto his hand, He turned away from the samurai and blushed as you sheathed your sword. Now walking him through the forest. The walk was silent, mostly consisting of you looking around at your surroundings and Kabuki in absolute love with your dedication to protect him. A simple eep or yell and you'd be ready to protect him in a heartbeat. You then broke the silence. "Our almighty shogun hasnt been doing a good job of maintaining order within inazuma. Day after day things get worse buki. More samurai leaving the clan, more people betraying us. Thats why i keep telling Niwa to not send you on wild chases for me." He frowned while gripping tighter onto your hand. 'The almighty shogun' was his mother. He couldnt do much to change her will regarding eternity. After all, To her. He was nothing but a liability. "im..sorry..I cant do much about my mother y/n. If only I wasnt so..Emotional..Like she said things wouldnt have-" He was cut off when you suddenly smashed your lips against his. Pulling him into a messy kiss then pulling away to witness his dummed out expression, how the rain fell against his shiny purple hair. "Dont be sorry baby. Your perfect just the way you are. Infact If you we're our archon i think id have to put in more work to impress you."

You two eventually made it back to the clan's estate, fingers intertwined together as you both settled into the kitchen. You sat on the couch. Resting and wiping off any remaining blood from your weapon. "Oh Y/n! I was with some blacksmiths earlier and they offered me some tea. I didnt think much of it, but they insisted I tried it and it was really good!" He sat beside you and placed a cup on the table. Seeing kabuki so happy over something as dull as tea made your heart ache. You grabbed the cup and blew onto it before consuming the drink. "Huh...whats this buki?" He smiled at your reaction. Did he like it? "Its bitter black tea! its great right? I took one cup but then i just kept drinking more and more until they had none left! hah hah.. but some old man gave me his recipe so I can make some for you!" "Thats great kubuki, Im glad your starting to enjoy being around everyone."

You sat closer to him. Now placing your hand along his body. "How about..I make you feel even better? Would you like that?" His body shivered at your request. "Y-yes..Id like that.." you got up off the couch and the shorter man followed you to your room. Closing the behind him then pushing him against the wall. "mmm..How about I treat you right here tonight buki? would my baby boy like that?" He let out a small moan at your sudden agression. "Ah~ yes~ I want it." You bit and licked along the side of his neck. Kabuki covered his mouth at the sudden wave of pleasure. "Shit..Bet this cock is so hard for me isnt it?" he nodded his head while still covering his mouth. You slightly pulled down his pants, enough to reveal his cock already covered in precum. "Your such a needy boy buki~" You whispered into his ear. Rubbing the tip of his cock with your thumb "Y..Y/n..~" "Yes baby?" "W-want.. more.." you laughed. "Hmm? what was that buki? Need you to get a little louder f' me." tears began to form in his eyes. He wanted you to push him harder against the wall and stroke him so roughly he screamed for you to let him cum. "Please! Go faster Daddy!!" he yelled out desperately. "Anything for you baby boy~" You grabbed him by the hips, pushing his body closer against your own as he held onto the wall, Crushing him in-between you and it. "Oh fuck~ YES~" You roughly grinded your body against him, grabbing tight on his cock while stroking it. "Fuck...Love how desperate you get for me buki' like a slut." "I Wanna be your slut daddy~ Wanna be your good boy~" he panted hard with how close he felt to cumming, how much his body burned for you. "you are buki~ so fucking good for me. Cum on daddys hand, let me taste you baby~" he yelled out your name with a sharp cry. Ropes of his cum oozed onto your fingers. "hah..Such a good boy buki'" you tasted his cum. Letting him watch as you licked it all off of his fingers. His grip fell light against the wall, falling back into your embrace "Y/n..." "Shh... come baby.. lets relax a little." you guided him to your bed, helping him take off the rest of his kimono and switch into lighter clothes of yours, Rubbing your hands through his hair as he laid besides in bed. "Y/n...I love you, I love you so much..is that okay?" You pulled him into a hug. Letting him sink into your touch by how happy yet sad you we're by his words. 'is that okay?' "Of course it is Buki, I love you more than anything else in the world." He smiled, then suddenly remembering his conversation with your brother. "Y/n..Are you not going to be home early tomorrow? Miwa said you we're going to be busy." he pouted, hoping you could cancel what ever you had to do to stay with him again.

"Im afraid so my love, I have to bring him on a acquaintance he has with a man known as 'the doctor' We're going far out into tartarsuna and I dont want him getting injured on the way there or back. But please, Dont worry about me. I will be back for you. No matter what."

[fangel]

KIPO, MY LOVE !!!!! ｡･ﾟ･(つㅿ⊂)･ﾟ･｡ i may or may not have read this live commentary over several times bc the joy it brings me like omg praise kink going brrrrr anyways i will also ramble a bit with you bc YOUR MIND ?? THE ANALYSIS YOU DID !!!! you Get It 🤍

this is so messy and i’ll try and get to everything — my life has been so hectic from my phone breaking to new meds that sedate me and now having a boyfriend who is so clingy that i don’t have a moment to get online and open tumblr / reply abdwbaknaksoa (not hating on him but DAMN !! i have to get back to my people 😭) anyways, I LOVE YOU SO FREAKING MUCH, KIPO !!!! 🤍☁️

small towns and their many churches like WHAT IS GOING ON !!! being a small country town girl myself i literally just imagined this setting as where im from bc its too easy !! like there’s not shit here but oh wait !!! there’s 10s of churches….

i believe that everyone can find a piece of themselves in this mc. she’s so me and i LOVE that so others can related to her as well </3 WE LOVE A CURIOUS AND VIOLENT GIRL SHES SO RAW AND BEAUTIFULLY HUMAN !!!

insane and dark sided is what i know best. had to do it to em 😞

I DIDNT REALIZE I MADE HER LIFE SO MISERABLE I WAS JUST LIKE YEAH LORE LORE !! THERES A REASON SHES LIKE THIS. and it’s straight depression LMAO

YES !!! I was heavily inspired by the Pearl, X, and Maxxxine trilogy. literally Pearl is one of my favorite movies and I was watching them back to back while writing this 😭 with Ethel Cain was playing so yeah it’s HEAVY in this story. I love that you realized this hehe <3 !!!

NOT THE WAKE UP AND DAY ONE 😭😭😭

UGH ZHAJSKAJAOWLAPAO HEHHEHE thank you so much my lovely sweet angel baby Kipo ): this paragraph of feedback literally feuls me and makes me want to keep going and improving. i cannot explain how much this means to me honestly <3 !!!!! i literally put my whole pussy into writing this fic and even reading it back im like how the hell did i do that.. how could i ever top this ??

I WILL PUBLISH A BOOK ONE DAY !!! (i scream through the tears and anxiety of actually sitting down and writing a whole book)

THE STUPID FUCK EVIL DAD WAS THE PROBLEM FROM THE START !!! there had to be a villain and he was it.. #NoRegrets

YES !!! i love your brain and critical thinking skills like thank you media literacy 🤧 !! the toxic environment mc grew up around with religious parents who are anything but holy yet portray a ‘perfect and clean’ simple life etc. my brain fog is so bad i can’t explain but i know you understand it perfectly I mean you clearly hit the nail on the details here 😭 ily ily ily AND NO YOURE NOT READING TOO MUCH INTO THINGS LIKE YOURE SO RIGHT AND PERFECT ABOUT EVERYTHING YOU COULD DO NO WRONG OMG KISS ME I MEAN WAIT—

coward mother and insane father = hot deranged socially underdeveloped daughter. i speak for all the people (not just daughters) of tumblr. like we’re all on here and none of us can possibly have perfect parents.. we’re here for a reason……….

SIDE NOTE MY FUCKING WIFI KEEPS CUTTING OUT AND I KEEP LOSING PLACE ON WHERE I AM SCROLLING ON MY LAPTOP IN THE REVIEW IM SO SORRY IF I MISS POINTS YOUR MAKING UGHHSHHSHAKSNAK

OMG YES MC MISTAKING HER OWN DESIRE FOR ANGER IS SUCH A HUGE PRESENCE THROUGHOUT THE STORY !! i don’t think many people noted that but I knew you’d come through ♥️

YOURE THE ONLY ONE WHO POINTED OUT THE MEANING OF THE FLOWERS BEING PURITY AND INNOCENCE AND HOPE OH MY GODDDD 😭♥️‼️ there’s meaning behind all my choices here holy fuck i adore you so bad you deserve the world

stop 😭😭 the singing in the reviews and every comment has me smiling or laughing LIKEEEE this is so fun hehe

I had to make a love story be dark and questionable. because honestly i feel like that’s how love has been for me my whole life. i always wondered if i was capable of being vulnerable around others and able to reciprocate kindness in the traditional relationship type way and i honestly just let it all here. like this is just me speaking through a fan fiction 😭😭 and im so beyond happy that others relate bc it gives a sense that it’s normal to feel this way. it’s still human to doubt and hate yourself bc of how life has treated you. i’m rambling and idk what im saying anymore *cries in corner*

THE LAMB !!! everything you said is *chefs kiss* I need to send you stickers and love letters and candies and all things sweet because Yes. i love symbolism and metaphors. i will eat it down every time. — the lamb, the blood and cleanse, the tears, the teachings and lessons of giving / stripping innocence or purity. she hates her father but cannot help but resemble him because it’s so ingrained into her. and sunghoon is NOT like the other lambs !!!! YES SAID IT !!!!!!!! he does challenge her and all the ways she never expected. they balance each other so well :( yin and yang, the sun and the moon. AND REDEMPTION!!! another big part of the story !!! SHUTUP KIPO :(( ♥️ i can’t.. you will be hand delivered a copy of this physical from me as well as 1 million dollars bc FUCKKK you just GET IT — i love your passion 🤓👆🏼

IM GIGGLING AT THE COMMENTS I CANTTT IM SMILING SO MUCH AAAHAHAHHHHHHHHH

i have such a strange relationship with religion. the jesus fandom ruined it for me 🙄 like why can’t we just enjoy the aesthetics and cool lines from the book. why are people so sick and twisted about it like it rules how we live our life?? i could say more but ill stick with that….

BEING UNCOMFORTABLE WITH COMFORT PEOPLE ‼️‼️ we exist ‼️‼️ and i will represent them 😏

ATTIC ANGEL REFERENCE !!! 📢 also I do imagine that this is the same universe and Jake before Attic Angel takes place…… i don’t remember all the details from AA but I know I mentioned a private religious college he went to and yes this is that. my multiverse. also noticed how HoP mc can always pinpoint a ‘bad’ man… she notices things — YOU ALSO CAUGHT THE OTHER SMALL JAKE REFERENCE !!! YESSSS everything has a purpose

YEP !! for the first time, during actual sex, SH isn’t crying but mc is… oh how things change

I WAS DEADASS JUST USING MAXXXINE FOR INSPO HERE LIKEEEE “I KNOW NO PUNISHMENT, ONLY MERCY” is my just version of “I WILL NOT ACCEPT A LIFE I DO NOT DESERVE” HEHEHEHE

#UnlearnShame

My dear Kipo, I just read all of your kindness with the absolute biggest smile on my face. This means the entire world to me and it’s because of people like you that I believe I can pursue my dream of one day being a published author. I know this is ‘fanfiction’ but I truly do my very best whenever I write. I sometimes question if I take my ‘hobby’ too seriously or if i’m wasting time on something that may lead to nothing but when I read responses like yours it gives me hope that I can continue to do great things. I have such a passion for storytelling and it’s one of the only things i’ve ever loved doing and am actually proud of, so thank you. Thank you so so so freaking much for taking your time to not only read my story but also give such lengthy feedback. In genuinely gives me hope and happiness like no other. I love you so much not only for this but for inspiring me to get back into writing. (I will be front row and center of the stage for The Lighthouse rework because it’s truly that story.) I mean this with every fiber of my being that I owe it all to you. You’re not only a beautiful and talented soul, but an inspiration to many. Thank you, thank you, thank you. ♡ I wish I could show you how much this means to me the words aren’t enough i fear

and i’m sorry if i missed anything, having shitty wifi and a broken phone is fcking me rn :(

harvest of purity — sunghoon [ 박성훈 ]

pairing ⦂ sunghoon ⨯ fem. reader

synopsis ⦂ au in which an innocent, shy, and faithful sunghoon takes a summer job as a farmhand. he’s never indulged on his desires until the farmer’s daughter shows him a taste of sin. although riddled with guilt, he cannot deny or escape the new rousing feelings that impurify him. especially when she's set on ruining him every chance she gets.

genre ⦂ smut, slow burn romance, strangers to lovers word count ⦂ 29k tags ⦂ fluff and angst, repressed desires, innocence loss, guilt and shame, exploring relationships, falling in love, southern gothic vibes, summer au, clingy down bad sunghoon, ‘mean’ morally gray reader, both are weirdo loser freaks content advisory ⦂ mdni ! dark-ish content ⚠︎ sexually explicit content in four scenes: handjob, oral (m. rec.), dry humping, thigh fucking, unprotected sex, virginity loss, corruption!kink, degradation!kink, praise!kink, switch!hoon, he whines whimpers and cries; religious themes, concepts, corruption, and criticism; manipulation, animal death, blood, intense scenes, abusive parenting, gun mention and use

note ⦂ poured my heart out. i hope you love it as much as i do. dedicated to my other evil, off-putting, and/or weird girls┊reblogs and feedback encouraged ⇀ playlist ⸝⸝ masterlist 🌾

　You’re not sure what life in your small town was like before you were born. You can imagine it’s not too different from what it is now though. The thing about old country towns is they never seem to change. Open fields and miles of farmland. Two gas stations, one grocery store, a few family owned vegetable stands or in-home produce product shops. Only one notable neighborhood where the majority of the townspeople lived if not hidden somewhere else in the countryside. And too many churches to keep track of if the abandoned ones were included in the count. 

You like to think your parents were happy before you too. Hopeful and optimistic when offered to take over your uncle’s farm. Excited for the next step in their relationship after their marriage. They were the ideal family dream coming to life: high school lovers, engaged after graduation, married, a career handed to them through family with a large property of land and lovely farmhouse. All that was left was to grow that family. To have children to not only help tend the fields and animals but run around barefoot, all smiles, and wide eyed. 

You were positive that it was something they wanted. 

But life couldn’t have been that easy for them; it would’ve been too gratuitous of a blessing.

The day you were born, your father knew there was something greatly wrong with you. He claimed that on the day you ripped your mother open, screaming and crying, that God spoke to him for the first time. He called it divine intervention. Believing the birth of your soul was a red-herring of all that was set to come but God would show him the light, the truth: that you were nothing short of evil and needed saving. 

That year on the farm there was nothing but death. It only furthered your father’s harsh thinking of you. The crops and produce either died or rotted before it had the chance to grow or ripe. The animals were dropping dead from unknown illnesses. Every female livestock that gave birth passed in doing so. Barely any profits were made that year. Taxes were rising and so were the prices of nearly everything. It was a huge toll for your family, especially when raising their first child. Before you were even conscious of the situation everything was already deemed your fault. 

Through the harrowing struggle, your father’s optimism turned to resentment. He claimed that bringing you to the farm was not like bringing a daughter home, but a corrosive parasite. He believed that you were the reason for the life being sucked away from their perfect farm life. So, he turned to the only thing that he could trust to save the family from your curse: God. Begging and pleading through prayers every morning and night to the sky for a better season. 

He studied religion here and there before taking over his brother-in-law's farm but with the farm failing for the first time, he took a change of career paths. He was already well known among the locals, close with the church goers in the community. And somewhere along the way, he managed to start preaching himself. Nearly every christian in your town moved churches to follow where he went. Like sheep to a shepherd. 

If only they knew what you did, what he was truly like behind the closed doors of your home. How his devotion was turning to violence. Day by day, becoming uglier. 

While your father busied himself with his new found family, often away from home on the farm, the crops and animals began to thrive again. Slowly but surely, growing and regaining health. He would say it’s God’s doing, a small taste of His salvation. 

Your early years were mostly troubled by the relationship of your parents. Too young to fully understand their disputes, drawing at the kitchen table with their yelling sounding the house. It was always about you, that much you knew. Because you watch and you listen. Quick to learn that they tried for another child but never had any success. They wanted someone else to be their baby. Something that felt more like a blessing than you. Your father constantly spitting in your mother’s face that you were the rot to the fruit of her womb. And then he would always end up leaving by slamming the door and your mother would always join you at the table with tears and a bottle of wine. You always just watched, listening in silence. Perhaps just born resilient.

Growing up was different for you compared to most of the kids in your town. You never had the opportunity to make many friends being homeschooled. The only time that was spent around others your age was kindergarten. Kindergarten was short lived because of your behavior; the teachers at school were concerned about you. How you were mean, rough, and sinister with your actions towards others. Picking on the kids you were simply interested in because of how different from you they were. Drawing pictures of gutted cattle or dead, half developed baby chicks still in their shell and giving them as gifts to the teachers. Sharing to classmates the cruelty of farm life and why it was pretty with a smile. 

Your father loved to find out about this, you could see it in his eyes. The way they were wicked and screamed I told you so to your mother. You didn’t understand why it was bad or caused trouble. You were only having fun for the first time. The way the kids ran away crying or the teachers wore faces of shocked horror, it made your insides light up in joy. A new feeling—a sense of excitement. You didn’t know it was sick. And of course, it was taken from you. You were removed from school and your mother became your teacher. Your classmates became stuffed animals and the real ones in the barns. It was hard for you to find that joy you briefly felt with others. 

Sometimes you had a glimpse of it again when your father would punish you. But even that you grew sick of. The mess, the stench of it all. Sticky and red, worse in the heat of summer. He drilled the sick moto for his actions into your head, “I know no punishment, only mercy.”

Father took you both to church more often after that. He had a false image to uphold afterall, one of a happy, God loving family. In his ego he had to prove that his preaching and prayers could fix you, save you. But that was only admitted at home, loud and scary to your mother. Your poor mother, weak and defensive of you, eventually waved her white flag. You wished she kept fighting for you and that she wouldn’t begin to see you the way your father did. 

Childhood and adolescence was a string of questions about yourself. Never quite finding out what made you so bad to be seen as devilish when all you thought of yourself was curious. Perhaps just unlucky to be correlated with negative happenings on and off the farm, always gone without a chance of understanding. Despite it all, you knew well enough the way your parents talked and looked at you was without unconditional love. 

On your 17th birthday, the family dynamic made the biggest shift to be experienced. 

At this age, you had such a strong sense of independence and with the lack of parental guidance and monitoring, you would leave town when you could. Ride your bike down the long road to the bus stop at the center of town and take the bus into the city over. Your mother was generous with allowance and you saved your money well, only spending it on books or trips to the movie theater. A form of escape that allowed you to learn more about the world and all the things your parents tried to keep hidden from you. A way to learn how to be human. 

So when your father was tearing your room apart in search of the same gift he re-gifts you every year, he found some things that made his stomach churn. Every year for your birthday he rewrapped the same, first ever, bible he’d given you. Funny enough that he gave you anything at all considering he never even referred to it as your day, only his day of revelation. And to his disgust, on his sacred day, he found books and journals of explicitly detailed copulation and debauchery. 

He almost fainted. Stumbling over his own feet, hands shaking as he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the words on the pages. That was the only time you smiled on that day. Just for a second. And then a glimpse of hell broke loose. 

In a rage, he destroyed everything. Your mother stood next to you in tears, telling him to stop and stop. Her hands covered her face but she saw everything through her fingers. You only watched in silence, hands balled in fists by your side. A silent hatred and anger coursed in you. He called you names that no man of God should, especially to his own daughter. 

“You’re a disgraceful deviant of Satan! I should’ve known. My own day of revelation is a curse!” You watched him rip pages apart, his voice booming through the house. “Years spent praying for you and this is how you turn out?! Succumbing to nothing but a dreaming whore?!”

A part of you liked his mean words. It was so rare for him to use such colorful language. 

You knew what would come next. He was going to have you ‘cleansed’. Something he always did when he discovered something new and sacrilegious of you. 

But it didn’t come. Because there was no dying, old sheep on the farm at the time. He did make a promise to not forget though. A promise to have you washed in sacrificial, blessed blood on a day you least expected. 

Your father left after that, leaving you and your mother behind. He moved to the city to continue his preaching at a larger church. He became known as the closest reverend to God for miles and miles. Lost in his ways, he only made visits when he needed to sort things out for the business of the farm.

You were content with his departure, yet couldn’t quite understand why your mother missed him. As far as you’ve seen, he was never kind towards either of you. 

　But now, it’s several years later. And although you’re free of your father’s heavy presence and homilies, he still makes his trips to the farm. You can feel the air change whenever he does, as if you’ve gained a sixth sense for his coming. Naturally intuitive to things having spent your childhood walking on eggshells in your own home. 

And today, the air feels particularly chill for summer. The breeze sweeps in through your open window. The forecast called for nothing but sunshine all week, yet there’s an angry, dark cloud hanging over your farm. A foreboding feeling shivers through you, and you know he’s going to fulfill his promise today. You sigh and slide out of bed. “Let’s get this over with.”

You spend the morning doing your usual routine. Brushing teeth, washing your face, then dressing in farm work attire. Your breakfast consists of tea and your mothers homemade strawberry scone. Next is tending to the animals. Your mother usually takes care of the crops and gardening. It’s a quiet and early morning, as most are. The both of you keep to yourselves, just doing what needs to be done day by day. 

The sound of a car is heard coming down to the long dirt road and you know who it is by the sound. It’s a fancier vehicle than the one he left this property with years ago. A meaner part of you likes to think his greedy hands got into that mega church’s donations but you’re too self aware of the successful farm your family owns. 

Your father parks in front of the house and your mother is quick to rush over to him, presumably with many questions: How have you been? Are you hungry? Thirsty? What brings you here so early in the month? 

You roll your eyes at her desperation to cling onto the relationship that clearly ended when you were a child. 

You place a hand on your hip, leaning your weight to the side that isn’t carrying the heavy bucket of chicken feed. Walking away from the coops and back towards the shed by the house, you make eye contact with your father despite only taking a glance. 

He watches you with narrow eyes from the lowered window of the car he’s still sitting in, very much not listening to a word your mother is saying. 

He calls your name before you can open the shed. Spinning on the heels of your boots, you turn around with raised brows of questioning. 

He mouths the words sacrificial tree as he exits the car. Your mother sees this. She wears pained disappointment as she scurries away. Presumably to the barn where the sheeps and lambs are kept. She might as well be a sheep too, you think. 

The bucket slips from your fingers and drops to the patchy dirt grass by your feet with a thud, spilling over in a mess that will be cleaned later. 

You don’t bother giving him a nod of understanding. You just turn around and begin your walk to the tree line where the man made path is. Knowing it would take some time for his preparations, you walk to the lake that’s hidden behind the farmland. 

It’s a brief walk through your familiar woods. Once at the short wooden dock, you sit down at the end, taking in the gloomy summer scenery. A light fog hugs over the water. You bring your knees to your chest, in your sitting position, and hug yourself the same way. 

This is your favorite place out of all the land your family owns. It’s serene, mostly. Always quiet. You’re the only one who comes here. And it’s nice to swim with when the weather warrants it. There’s a feeling here that’s hard to feel anywhere else you find yourself. Sometimes you imagine what it would be like with someone else, but you doubt it would be as nice. Trouble has a way of following you, it seems. You frown at the thought. 

It’s silent like this for a few minutes, just you trying to find a sense of calmness before the impending chastisement. Then you hear some rustling of leaves, heavy footsteps following. You don’t turn around yet, you only wait for the call of your name. Your time of tranquility is too brief. You sigh before giving yourself a squeezing hug. 

“It’s time,” the reverend calls out loudly, “quickly now, we have new farmhands arriving soon.” The sound of his feet walking away is when you stand. You wave a goodbye to the foggy lake before parting ways. Your feet move unconsciously, taking to where your body knows to go. 

Leaves crinkle underneath your boots and twigs snap. The trees’ branches sway in the gentle morning breezes that pass. 

In the mix of the small forest, man made crosses of sticks or plywood are spaciously scattered. Like a graveyard to all your bad doings. Most small but one large. Old rotted wood that stands crooked and begging to fall over right next to the largest, strongest tree. Your eyes, that are trained to ground, move upwards the cross and then to the tree. Your father stands there with a large knife in hand. Your mother waits cautiously not too far away. Her demeanor is frightful as if this is the first time. Coward.

An old sheep hangs by its hind legs from a sturdy tree branch. Unmoving and defenseless. Big beady, dumb eyes look in all directions but you. You think it must feel the same guilt as yourself, sorry that its life purpose is to embarrass you, make you hate what you are. 

“God told me to make a sacrifice to prove my faith. He guides my hand in washing your soul clean of sin. So here I am with our blessed, dying lamb.” He’s said this every time. His voice is always miserably rehearsed and preacher-esque. 

You thought long ago that this was their, the lambs, only use on the farm. It’s a shame. All that devotion has made him so ugly and violent. 

You make small steps closer to the lamb. It’s whining in bleat baas and mehs. Does it know what’s happening? Is it scared? You like the lambs, sheeps. Pure white, soft, and docile. They never fight back. They just take it. I doubt they need restraints. You could hold them above me just the same and they’d never resist. 

“Move faster, for the love of God. Yeah, stand right there underneath like you know how to.” He instructs you, annoyed. His patience running thin as the distant sounds of a truck makes way down the dirt road to the farm property. 

“Okay…” You don’t fight him, with arms crossed behind your back and a hand squeezing around your own wrist, you move closer. Maybe you’re a lamb too. 

Maybe all your father really was is the executioner. 

He raises the knife as he begins to speak, it slides over its cotton, white throat but does not cut, “Revelation 7:13-17 Then he told me, ‘These are those who come from the great tribulation, and they’ve washed their robes, scrubbed them clean in the blood of the Lamb. That’s why they’re standing before God’s Throne. They serve him day and night in his Temple. The One on the Throne will pitch his tent there for them: no more hunger, no more thirst, no more scorching heat. The Lamb on the Throne will shepherd them, will lead them to spring waters of Life. And God will wipe every last tear from their eyes.’” He slits its throat in a quick, harsh movement. The blood spills just as fast, squirting spurts of red before it comes pouring down onto you. “Face up,” you obey even though it brings you rage, “it ought to cleanse those unholy thoughts I know that are still in there.” 

Head raised to the sky with eyes and mouth squeezed shut, you let it consume you. Warm, thick and wet washes down from your head onto your clothes then down to your feet. The smell of animal, metallic iron covers you. It’s sticking to your hair, eyebrows and lashes. You can already feel your clothes clinging to your skin in the dirtiest ways. 

You stand there, drenching in the its blood. Your father speaks again, firm and slow, “Say it with me now, ‘I know no punishment, only mercy.’” All you feel is the animal’s rain of life flooding you.

You open your mouth to speak but are quick to spit and cough out the blood that manages to get into your mouth. Smack. 

“I don’t have time for this,” his voice sounds like an echo, your head is ringing from the harsh swing of his hand. The skin of your cheek stings. He hits like a bitch, you think. “Say it with me now, dammit!” You can feel him wipe his bloodied hand on the side of your shirt. 

You step back from under the red shower. “I know no punishment, only mercy.” Your words align with his in the perfect paced harmony you’re trained to do so. Enunciated, slow and strong, through gritted teeth.

There’s a beat of silence before the sound of your parents footsteps walking away. 

Standing there in red, yet to open your eyes, you breathe out a shaky sigh of defeat. It sounds more like a growl. With the mostly clean hands you kept safely behind you, you bring them up to wipe the blood from your face. You don’t dare to look at the dead animal in front of you. Being covered in it is enough alone to make you feel sick. 

You think of going back to the lake, jumping in and letting the blood wash off you there, but knowing you’d either walk back with further drenched clothes or naked didn’t seem like options you wanted to deal with either. So you just head back to the house. It’s a slower walk than need be, but you just felt like avoiding the eyes of the newcomers, hoping they’d be off in the fields or in a barn by the time you walk through. You feel numb. 

You’re wrong though, by the time you’re passing the barns and coops, the group of new farmhands are already lined up outside the horses’ stable. Your mother is talking to them, although not all are paying attention. Only a few pairs of wide eyes follow you. Catching the sight of you must really shock them but you can’t blame them. Something about this makes you excited. You stop in your tracks and look around to see if your father’s car is gone. It is. The realization feels like a wave of relief and it suddenly feels brighter outside already. 

You take a glance down to your disheveled appearance. Shirt, pants, and boots painted like the barns. You look back to the group, brushing the soiled hair back from your face. Some pieces stay stuck, in the early stages of drying against your skin.

It’s safe to have a little fun. 

You begin a slow walk over to the group. You take a headcount and there’s five of them. Two younger men, closer to your age. The other three look a bit older, not by much but definitely older. Your mother is yet to turn around from whatever rundown she’s giving them. Too dense to even recognize that now none of them were paying any attention to her. 

You creep up beside her and open with, “Hello,” your voice is louder than even you’ve heard it be in a long time. It’s nice to be heard, noticed. You usually avoided the farmhands, but this summer was going to be different. You decided this on the walk over. 

Being cooped up on the farm for so long made you different, it’s obvious to anybody. Not properly socialized in your developmental years caused you to be an anomaly to the ones who did come across you. Enigmatic from far away and up close. Now isn’t the greatest example though, the situation is too clear as to why. 

Your mother turns to you, gasping and jumping back slightly in the shock of your gross state and sudden introduction. “My goodness, girl, whatta ya doin’ here like this?” Her voice is hushed, clearly unsettled with the situation. 

They all just stare at you, open mouthed and bewildered. You take the time to get a good look at each of them up close. Your eyes follow their faces individually down the line. And then they stop. 

At the end of the line is a man more beautiful than the ones you’ve seen in the movies. You feel stuck in time, left with parted lips, staring at the man before you. And far too intently for your character. He stands tall, sharp, pale, and elegant. What is a boy like this doing here? He averts his eyes from you, clearly uncomfortable by what’s before him. He looks uneasy, shifting his weight foot to foot with his hands behind his back. His pretty eyes glance around from you to your mother to the other men and the ground. He simply doesn’t know what to do with himself. You find it dangerously darling of him. 

You don’t even realize the small smile that takes your lips. You step closer to him and he steps back, now looking at you with wide eyes of small fear. You extend your hand to him, it’s coated in drying blood. He gulps and the sight, his adam’s apple bobbing in such a biteable neck stirs something in you. This will be far more fun than you intended. 

You say your name softly for introduction and step a little closer, “Nice to meet you," you feign cuteness as much as you can, looking up at him through your blood clumped lashes. It’s clear to everyone there is something off; there’s little to no real emotion behind your voice and face. 

Your mother eyes you suspiciously as you corner the handsome man, but she says nothing. Sometimes she fears you too. 

He looks from your eyes to your hand, having an internal battle with himself on what to do, “Ah, I am Sunghoon... Nice to meet you too.” His politeness must be stronger than his frighteness, because he takes his hand in yours and shakes it gently. His hand is large in yours, nearly covering it entirely. You squeeze it hard, your eyes never leaving his, trapping him in the scene. 

He wants to look away, to hide somewhere. The way his skin crawls tells him he’s a prey already in the mouth of a predator. And you know he’s nervous under your intense gaze because your hand feels like a lamb is still bleeding above you. His palms are sweating, and it’s nowhere near hot enough for that yet. Your smile grows to a smirk. 

Although you’re wearing the lamb, having Sunghoon’s hand in yours made you feel like a wolf. 

　Sunghoon’s first day of his summer job starts off duller than he imagined. The sun isn’t out this morning and it only intensifies his anxiousness, as if the grey skies reflect his inner emotions. He’s already new to the area, away from home and staying in an apartment not far from his college in the city. A private, christian school that he studied hard to get into with his friend. He wishes his best friend and roommate, Jake, was joining him in this job, but Jake already had plans to teach at a summer soccer camp for kids through their school. 

He found this opportunity through the college church they attend together. A reverend from another church in the city came to visit one Sunday, handing out flyers to the young men in hopes of finding farm help. The pay is good and the bus fairs to the small town over where the farm’s located is covered. He’s never done work like it before, nevertheless was he going to let a simple offer pass him up. 

Things are going smoothly to start, being told how to care for, clean, and feed the animals to crop preservation. Everyone would have their own specific roles on the farm. Sunghoon was assigned the easier of the tasks, either feeding animals or watering and fertilizing the vegetables and fruits crops. He learns there are already regular farm workers that would come throughout the week to collect produce, material, and use the machinery for the more laborious work. And if she wasn't around when needed then they could ask any of the regular employees for assistance or find her at the house. 

As the farm owner is about to give details on the horses’ maintenance, a girl saunters in. And the anxious feelings become of Sunghoon all over again. His eyes are wide, taking in her appearance. The smell of the farm dissipates and putrid copper takes over. The worst part is how calm she appears, and the fact that she’s unbothered with all that she wears. 

He thinks his brain short circuits, everything seeming muffled and unreal. He doesn’t even realize he introduced himself or touched her. It all was too quick and unfamiliar for him to grasp. 

He watches as she walks away, back to the house that sits slightly over the hills and valleys of the property. His expression is blank, blinking slowly at the strange girl then down to his hand that’s stained red too. 

“Don’t pay her no mind,” the woman speaks up, she sounds as if she’s warning them. “Just get yer work done and when everyone’s finished y’all can head back home. I won’t ask too much of ya in yer first month here, alright? That might be a different story later.” She tries to end the statements in humor with her forced laugh. 

Sunghoon nods but his eyes don’t leave his dirty hand. The other men nod along too and give their ‘yes, ma’ams’ in return. 

The woman continues walking them around the farm, listing rules and guidelines they must follow, along with advice and tips for the work they’ll be doing. 

The day flows as easy as it can for Sunghoon. He doesn’t talk much with the other farmhands. He also doesn’t know them well enough to be comfortable in their conversations, so he just exists in awkward silence, sometimes reacting. While they can joke around and find fun in the work, his mind keeps wandering off to the girl from earlier, to you. How your empty eyes held onto his and small hand even tighter. He thinks the palm of his hand still burns from the interaction. 

Around the afternoon time, Sunghoon and the guys are sitting around a picnic table near the house. The sun is beating down on them all now while they chug down water and eat their lunch. The owner was kind enough to provide their refreshments and meals. They were all thankful. 

She adds that there’s a small lodge up the dirt road. It’s a little old but homey and has space with two spare bedrooms if they need to wash up or rest at any time. It was originally built for the farm workers that worked late and needed a place to stay if need be. 

Once done, the boys stand up and talk about what they have left to do. The next bus back to the city isn’t running for another two hours so they speak of taking some leisure time and exploring the farm property. Meanwhile Sunghoon is still sitting, watching them huddled in conversation. He wipes some sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand as they begin walking towards the fields.

Sunghoon, taking what the farm owner had mentioned previously, decides that he’d like to stay inside to get away from the beating sun for a while. So he gathers his trash to throw away in the bin by the road near the house’s mailbox and begins his walk to the lodge. 

Once inside he takes in the rustic, outdated furniture. It’s a little dusty and the floorboards creak beneath his feet but he finds it somewhat comforting. The living space has two couches by an old stone fireplace, a center table with board games and cards, a kitchenette, and a large dining table with enough space to seat six people. 

The decor is very farmers-life-esque. From a cow print rug in the small kitchen area to the antlers mounted on the wall near the dining table. There’s scenic southern paintings hung up along with antique crosses and prints of bible verses, all adoring the faded and peeling floral wallpaper. Above the fireplace hangs a painting depicting Jesus healing a blind man. 

He walks down the only short hall in the lodge to find the two spare bedrooms the woman had mentioned along with a bathroom. He takes this time to wash his hands thoroughly and splash some cold water on his face. With his hands resting on the sink, he stares at himself in the mirror. The cold drops of water slip down his face, jaw, and back into the sink. 

In his mind he’s questioning whether or not he’s sure of this job. It’s all too different from what he knows and he can’t help but feel out of place here. With a sigh, he drops his head and watches the water slip down the sink. 

He jumps slightly at the sudden sound of the front door opening and closing, not expecting the others to join him here quite yet. No noise follows the action for a moment, not even footsteps. Then there’s the sound of a click, like the door is being locked. He straightens his posture and peaks out the bathroom door, listening for their voices or any sound other than silence. It offers nothing to him so he begins to feel tense. 

“Hello?” Sunghoon calls out skittishly, but there’s no response. His heart rate picks up a little and he starts to think the boys are trying to pull some sort of childish prank on him. He leaves the room and makes slow steps down the hallway to the main area of the lodging house. 

As he rounds the corner he doesn’t find any of the boys there though, he just sees you. His heart jumps at the realization. Sitting on the couch, in overall shorts and nothing else. Bare legs crossed and hands against the couch by your sides as you watch him peer around the corner with apprehension. You’re  just sitting there, leaning forward and waiting for him to come find you. 

Cowardly, Sunghoon makes a half turn. He presses his back against the wall of the hallway as if he could hide away or disappear into it. He even closes his eyes, thinking of a quick prayer to save him from this circumstance. 

“Are you pretending to be shy or are you really this cute?” Your voice is teasing, and he can hear the wicked smile in it without seeing. 

Feeling caught, he just sighs and slowly makes his way to the living area. He tries not to look at you, thinking you are too revealing. So he looks everywhere else and then to large windows that give view to the farm; none of the guys are in sight. Most likely somewhere goofing off. All he can see is the fields and farm buildings standing large in the distance. 

He doesn’t move and speaks softly, “I should probably go find the others-”

You speak before he can finish his attempt of an excuse, “Come sit with me.” You pat the space on the couch next to yourself. Your voice sounds welcoming but he knows there’s an undertone of mischief. 

He makes a quick glance to you and sucks in a breath at the view of your body that’s exposed from your overalls. The glimpse of the curve of your breast disappearing under the denim already makes him feel like he’s seen too much of you. And he has. He’s never seen such bare skin on a girl and he’s never been alone in a room with one either. 

“Come sit with me, now.” You’re more stern this time, demanding in a gentle way. Your hand makes small movements, soothing over the material of the couch like you’re warming the space for him. 

He visibly swallows as he makes his hesitant steps over to you. His heart is racing and with every beat there is a question of his strength. He sits down on the same sofa but not directly next to you like you want. You smirk nonetheless and turn to face him, sitting with your legs criss-cross now. 

With your elbows to your knees you hold your head in your hands, watching the side of his face. You’re again realizing how sculpted his features are. Dark thick hair on his head, eyebrows and lashes too. An array of moles sprinkle his pale face. A sharp nose that sits above pink, full lips. You wonder if he knows of his own beauty. It’s fascinating to see such a person like him in front of you. 

He’s sitting with perfect posture, not relaxing into the couch. Alert like a deer that’s waiting for too sudden of movement to pounce away. His eyes just watch the table, reading through the names of the board games that lay there as a way of distracting himself. He’s awkward. 

“Uhm… d-does your family own this farm?” he tries for small talk to break the silence. His bottom lip finds itself between his teeth as he makes one quick look over to you. Luckily your overalls sit high up or he’d have a full view of your chest. He can’t help but think of the fact and it makes him shift uncomfortably. 

“Do I make you nervous?” you question, seriously so. Brows pulled tight in a furrow with a straight face. You lean in even closer to him, watching for every change on his face. 

“Yes,” his response is honestly quick and ends with a tight lip, like he’s holding his breath. He is yet to comprehend what is happening, still in a whirlwind of thoughts of what could—will—happen. 

“Why?” Your head tilts slightly to the side, it makes him think of his roommate briefly. And man does he wish he were here to ease the tension. 

He doesn’t want to admit that he’s never been in such close proximity with a girl alone before, so he just clears his throat and remains quiet after doing so. 

Curiously, you bring a hand up with a pointed finger and brush the tip of it over the mole on the side of his nose. He jolts back at the sudden touch, his cheeks flushing a warm pink. His eyes now watch you with gentle confusion. He touches the same spot you did with a trembling hand. 

“You have a constellation on your face. So many moles… Do you have a girlfriend?” 

His face burns a little more, both from the observation and the question. He shakes his head, sitting himself further into the couch and further away from you. He can’t quite understand the situation. Are you messing with him? You seem too serious for such. Maybe you’re just weird like he initially thought. Either way he can feel his faith slipping; he is cupping holy water in hands during an earthquake. 

“Did I do somethin’ wrong? Am I not pretty?” You pout to be playful with him, acting as if his actions are offending you. He takes it literally though. 

“No!” his hands rest on his knees and he holds them hard, trying to find stability despite sitting down. “Y-you are… pretty,” his words grow quieter, like he’s sharing a secret. “I just don’t know you or why you want to talk to me.” 

“Hm.” You lean your head back against the couch. With your eyes still on his face, you speak just as quietly, “I’m still trying to figure that out too.” After some beats of muted air you speak up again, but with more presence, “You came to work here. Why?” 

“A man was handing out flyer ads at the church. I wanted a summer job.” 

Is he always this direct and boring? And church, of fucking course. You roll your eyes, pushing yourself off the back cushion and even closer to the man. Your knees touch the side of his body and his thigh. He looks like he’s trying to control his breathing, to feign lack of disturbance, but his face says everything you need to know. 

You place a hand on his thigh and his whole body stiffens at the action. Your smirk to yourself. It’s only resting there on the top of his jeans. “You act like a girl has never touched you before.” You give him a soft squeeze and he sucks in a sharp breath. “Well? Has a girl ever touched you?” 

He shakes his head quickly, “No,” he breaks, feeling overwhelmed and wrong, “and I don’t think you should be. It’s against the churches values-”

“At your age you still follow the rules?” Your hand slides lower and back up his thigh, it’s a slow and teasing motion. There’s enjoyment in how scared he’s becoming. 

Sunghoon knows that this is only going to lead him down a path he swore to God not to take. And if his parents were to know that in his first year away from home in the summer since college was locked in a lodge with a promiscuous girl he’d have it handed to him. The thought of their wrath makes him shiver all the more. 

“I just don’t want to sin.” His eyes close and he bites down onto his lip again. He no longer cares if a stranger sees him as a loser or prude. His virtue is being tested in real time, and he’s feared facing this battle many times in the night because even in his dreams he loses. 

“I’m only touching you. How is it a sin?” The tone of your voice changes, it’s soft like the hand that moves closer to in between his thighs. Your fingertips press into his clothed skin here and there, curiously feeling him up. You just try to get a reaction out of him. There’s a warm feeling in your stomach that you don’t recognize; it’s faintly familiar. 

“Your hand isn’t supposed to be… there.” He makes a strained sound, something like a low whine, as your hand ghosts over his cock. 

You look down to your movements for the first time and realize he’s sporting a half chub. You snicker quietly, cupping him in your palm. “Then why are you getting hard, Sunghoon? Do you like the way I’m touching you? I bet you’ve thought about doing this before too.” 

He makes another noise, a whimper. He can’t bring himself to open his eyes and accept what’s happening. He also can’t find it in himself to stop you, or get up and leave. This wasn’t just a struggle with evil’s temptation but his own biological nature. Something yet to be explored, something that’s been scratching at his ribcage for years to be fed. 

There’s too much he can’t admit in this moment. Starting with how he enjoys the sound of your voice, the slight accent and dialect difference he picks up. How the way his name leaves your lips makes him want to crumble like a burning church. And how he silently likes the fact he can’t control the way his body is reacting to your hands on him. 

It’s all wrong, wrong, wrong. And he is weak.

“Answer me, Sunghoon.” Your hand presses down on him, feeling the growing hardness under your palm. You give him a small squeeze, massaging over the bulge. To your surprise he feels big. Your eyebrows quirk at this and then you look back to his face. A single tear runs down his face and you find satisfaction in it. “Lying is a sin too,” you remind him. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his hands fist the couch cushions at his sides. He grips the material so tight that his knuckles turn pink through the pale of his skin. His chest rises and falls through slow and deep breaths. 

“You shouldn’t feel sorry for something that makes you feel good.” You palm over him a few more times, drawing out little moans and whimpers from him. He’s struggling to sit still. You can even feel him try not to push his hips back up into you; if only he would admit that he wants it. He’s practically pulsing beneath you, like there’s never been such a rush of blood to his cock in his life. You sigh dramatically and pull your hand away from him, sitting back to give him space. “That’s too bad. A good dog will always be loyal, huh?”

His eyes shoot open when he feels your hand is gone. He looks at you desperately with wet eyes, a small pout to his lips. You make him feel sick for wanting to ask why you stopped, or if he did something bad for you to take away his short-lived pleasure. 

You smirk at his expression, so pitifully beautiful with want. “Have you ever touched yourself?” you ask, placing your hand over his that hasn’t let go of the couch. It takes you back when he flips his hand around to hold onto yours, clingy and wretched. His thumb brushes over your knuckles. Repulsed, you react quickly and take your hand away from him at his impulsive intimacy. It makes him frown with a meek whimper. 

He shakes his head slowly, looking down to his lap. “I can’t.” He knows he’s not allowed to. His father was adamant through his puberty that he mustn’t succumb to his body’s natural taste for sin. He was told that sometimes the devil had a funny way of sneaking into a man’s mind. That Satan would haunt boys in their sleep to wake them up with guilt of uncontrollable lust to be like him. 

“But you like when I do it, right?” You rest your head on his shoulder and look up at him. His eyes look from your face to the thin opening of your overalls where your chest can be seen from the angle. He bites down hard and nods slowly. You coo, moving your hand back to his still hard, clothed cock. “I can make it go away if you want. You want that?” 

He’s battling all the repressed things he’s been too afraid to explore; fearful of the swing of his parents belt he felt once long ago after being caught in a misunderstanding. In spite of it, he nods again. “It hurts.. Please, help me.” His voice is so quiet. Even he doesn’t want to hear his own pathetic begging. 

Your fingers find the zipper of his jeans then you tug it down slowly as you stare at him. “You have to pull them down for me, okay? I can’t help you with just this.”

Sunghoon freezes for a second knowing he has control over being the one to take out his own cock. Yet apprehension leaves in a breath. Then he’s pulling the clothing down to his knees with frantic haste. You didn’t expect him to take everything off so fast but there’s a sense of pride in how eager you’ve made him become in such a short time. 

You weren’t sure what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t this. His cock is as beautiful as him. Pale and raging pink, crying at the tip much like his eyes. He’s also big, bigger than you knew dicks could be. You thought they’d be ugly, gross and worm-like. But his is clean and pretty. It’s your first time seeing one in person; you wouldn’t let him know that. 

You take him bare in your hands, feeling him like a foreign object. More curious of his body than in his pleasure in the moment. His body tenses then relaxes against the couch. A shaky, breathy moan leaves his lips. His eyes flutter at the contact of skin. 

You squeeze him, making his moan weakly again. It’s heavy in your hand. Truly just a stick of warm flesh. A part of you wants to squeeze him as hard as you can just to see if it can break, but you withhold on hurting him for now. Not wanting to scare him too much in hopes of exploring him further through the summer. 

Your hand wraps around the length as much as it can, pads of fingertips brushing over every vein and curve as you slowly move your hand up and down. When your thumb circles around his tip and flicks the leaking hole, his body lurches forward with a loud cry of a moan from him. You wonder if he’ll cum in the next few seconds of simply touching him. 

“I think you’re a slut for a little pleasure, Sunghoon.” You use your palm to gather his precum, circling over the tip to smear the thick cream around. Then you drag it back down himself, wetting his cock in his own prerelease. It slides easier now, your hand. You move faster, jerking him off in lazy, inexperienced motions. Not that he would know anyways. “You gave into lust so easily, didn’t you? Must’ve wanted this for so long. Your body’s nasty, eager for it.”

In his ears, you make the nasty words sound delicious. And he wants to devour more and more, like the starved man he is. His hips snap up into your hard, sudden and rough. You wrap your free arm over his shoulders, a hand sneaking up into his hair to tug aggressively on the thick dark locks. You’re pulling his head back, forcing him to look at you. “Don’t be a whore. I’m helping you. I didn’t say fuck my hand.” 

“Ahsh- I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” he whines, tears burning his eyes, “it, it f-feels good. I feel so good.” His head falls to lean against yours, face burying into your hair. His head makes little shakes as he begins to cry, telling himself no, no. 

“Shut up...” You don’t like how close he is to you. You only like doing so to tease him, but when he does it, it makes you feel a fiery anger in your chest and belly. Uncomfortable. Smothering.

Your hand works in sloppy motions. Pumping his pulsing cock to reach his orgasm. At the tip your wrist makes flicks with your thumb, working him up further and further. 

He stutters out incoherent apologies into your hair throughout his sobs of wanton, whimpering moans. Everything about his body is sensitive to the new sensations. He can’t help but move his hips up into your hand, humping the small fist that’s fucking down onto him. 

Confused by the warm, tight feeling flexing of his abdomen he whines against you, “I can’t- I can’t take it. My body feels weird now. Mmph, ‘m sorry. I don’t know what’s h-happening.” His body feels volcanic, ready to burst. 

You continue your movements, jerking his reflexing length until he’s cumming into your hand. It’s a heavy load of thick, creamy mess. His voice is too close to your ear as he moans a drawn out needy sound. Your face remains plain while you pump him until he’s milked dry. His body flinches and curls into yours through the aftershocks, clearly overstimulated and over-sensitive. His arms snake around your waist to pull you against him.  

You stare down at your hand that was earlier covered in the blood of a lamb and now the cum of a virgin. It looks like fucking snot, you realize with repulse. Without thinking you bring your hand up and lick the strange release. Your face scowls at the unknown taste so you just wipe the rest on your overalls. “You are disgusting,” you mutter. 

Sunghoon remains silent aside from his sniffles, eyes peeking through his bangs to watch what you’re doing. He still hasn’t stopped clinging to your side, as if you could save him from his first lustful sin. 

You push yourself up and off the couch, his body slightly falls to the side where he was leaning on you but he catches himself. He watches you with sad, scared eyes. You stare blankly in return then look out the window to see the group of men walking around the picnic table they ate at earlier. 

“Farmhands will be leaving soon. Clean yourself up in the bathroom.” You don’t spare him another look, you just walk to the front door, unlock it, and leave. You ignore the way he looked like a sad abandoned puppy. Something about it angered you in the same way he was being clingy. 

You walk back to your house with a slight skip to your steps. As you step through your front door, you’re about to head upstairs to your room but stop in your tracks because your mother speaks.

“Hate him all ya want,” your mothers words slur, she speaks slowly and tired-like, “but he was a good man. He used to love me… And then you came along.” You turn to the living room on your left where your mother lays on the couch, wine glass in hand and eyes heavy lidded. “I know what yer capable of. I’ve seen the things ya do on this farm, in this home.. When ya think no one is watching.. He just might be right about you.” You glare at her now. “There is something evil in ya, child. Leave that boy outta yer wickedness.” 

Her wine glass falls to the floor from her fingers and she groans, turning to her side. You stare at her for a moment before walking up to your room. 

Meanwhile Sunghoon spends his next 20 minutes in a spiral of guilt and shame. He cleans himself up in the restroom like you told him to. Then waits, watching outside the window for when the boys are gathered around the truck they drove in from the bus stop to leave in. It was hard for him to get the tears to end. He fell right into sin’s lustful trap and it made him feel so- No, it only made him feel hurt. Stupid. Bad. 

On his bus ride back into the city he prays. Sitting in back, alone with his indignity, and head bowed low so no one could see his red rimmed, glossy eyes. Time goes by so fast that he nearly misses his stop to get off. 

He ignores his roommate when he’s home. Jake, excited and curious of Sunghoon’s first day, is left cold. Sunghoon showers for longer than usual. He scrubs so harshly at his skin he turns red; unable to feel clean no matter how much he washes. He doesn’t eat dinner because he feels he doesn’t deserve to. He gets into bed earlier than most days too. He tries to sleep but the day haunts him, keeping him awake. 

He’s up all night in tears, face in his pillow with the blanket thrown over his head, trying to hide from He who watches. The begs of forgiveness seem endless. 

“Dear God,” he whimpers, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” He doesn’t sleep much that night because he can’t find it in himself to stop humping into his mattress in hopes to chase and achieve the feeling you gave him earlier. His hips rock his aching hard cock into the bed, anguished yet titillated. “Please, forgive me. Forgive me. I’m so sorry.” He continues to cry, drowning in his pillow, knowing he will do it again. 

　The next day on the farm is an early morning for everyone. Sunghoon sits quietly in the truck with the other summer volunteer farmharms. They talk amongst each other about the day’s schedule of duties and tasks. He struggles to keep his eyes open, head leaning against the window despite its bumps from the uneven dirt road. He thought about calling it quits on the whole job after yesterday, but couldn’t bring himself to. It’s for selfish reasons too. The ones that deepen his guilt. 

The arrival to the farm is quicker than anticipated. Sunghoon forces himself to be more alert and awake, starting to pick up on the conversations between the others as he exits the parked truck. 

“Do you think it’s still hanging there?” One says. “The lamb of slaughter?” Another dumbly asks with a snort. “Well yeah, dipshit. You guys think that girl did it? She was weird as hell.” A third voice chimes in, “Being covered in blood and then leaving a dead animal hanging from a tree is creepy as fuck. The lady was right, stay the hell away from her.” He laughs. The others walk away in continuous chatter, leaving Sunghoon by the truck. 

Sunghoon is confused by this conversation and deeply disturbed. He doesn’t follow or press them with questions though. But it will give him much to think about for the day. He’s so exhausted from the lack of sleep, he wonders if he even heard them all correctly at all. Yeah, your whole introduction was strange but killing an animal and acting like nothing happened and then toying with him on the same day? Was all that really something a girl like you would do? He can’t say for sure because he doesn’t know you. 

He goes about his morning tasks lazily. His mind is too busy with the thoughts of you. He thinks of when or if he’ll see you today. You haven’t shown around the farm all day. It’s only an hour before noon, he tries to rationalize with himself. He still ponders throughout his work. What time will you come? Will you mysteriously show up like yesterday? Will you touch him again? Will you let him feel good? Is he forgivable or going to burn in hell for wanting more?

He shakes his head to rid it of the thoughts. Perhaps he’s too hopeful. After lunch time he goes back to the farmers lodge to take a nap. At least that’s the realistic excuse he used. He struggles to even fall asleep because he’s so anxious about listening for any sound of you possibly coming back here. 

His eyes, sullen and tired, just can’t stay open after half an hour of waiting. So eventually he does fall asleep. You never show up. When he wakes up from his long needed nap he somehow feels worse knowing you didn’t visit than he did committing his first sin. 

The following day of work is a repeat. He doesn’t see you at all yet you occupy all of his thoughts. He thinks badly of himself for many reasons. 

　On the fourth day, you finally decide it’s time to check up on the poor boy. You watched Sunghoon mope around the farm for two days and it was cute at first but you’re getting bored again. You did like how his eyes were always searching around, hopeful that every sound he heard from behind or around corners was you. Knowing you had such an effect on him made you wonder how much more you could do to him. 

From the window of your room, you watch when they all arrive. Your mother greets them like she does in the mornings and gives them all tasks that need to be completed for the day. It’s Thursday which means she’ll be out for a few hours to go into town and sort out business for products: cow and goat milk processing for cheeses and soaps. At least you assume considering you overheard her phone call about such the day prior. 

You spend the morning around the house, reading and snacking on fruits, waiting for your mother to leave so you can proceed with your plan. There was some effort into your appearance today. You wear a spaghetti strapped white babydoll dress, lined at the bottom with sewn embroideries. It’s simple and flows nicely above your knees when you walk. You hate it because it alludes to soft purity but at least it feels good to dress light in the summer heat. And it might make you all the more approachable to feeble Sunghoon. 

After about an hour, your mother finally leaves. You give it about 10 minutes before you’re shoving on your boots and leaving the house. Some of the blood from earlier in the week still stains the brown leather; you did clean them off but clearly not to the best extent. You’re okay with that though, it seems prettier this way to you. 

Looking and walking around the property, you see the scattered farmhands busy with different things. The sun isn’t kind today, it’s piercing in brightness and temperature. The sweat begins to seep from your pores in a matter of minutes, making you feel sticky. You run a hand through your tangled hair, fingers getting caught in unbrushed knots that you yank through anyways. You don’t see Sunghoon anywhere that’s directly under the sun. You continue to search around the farm, gaining a few cautious looks from the other workers. As you walk past their gazes you wear a wry smile with a tilt to your head. They look away quickly after being caught staring. 

Some wandering in and out of the different barns and coops are done. He wasn’t in any of them though.  You greet the animals you pass by and give pats to some of the cows. “Have you guys seen him nearby? I’m not a fan of hide and seek.” You mumble to one of the goats, scratching lightly beneath its chin while it chews away at grains and hay. It maas in return. You pull your hand back out from the stable then leave to continue the manhunt. 

It’s when you’re walking by the horses’ stables that you see they’ve already been cared for, telling you that someone was here already. You glance to the smaller shed nearby, having a suspicious inkling that it's where Sunghoon is. You walk to the shed and see yourself inside. And he is. He has his back turned to you, standing at a work bench table and cleaning something off. 

You walk up behind him, the sound of your footsteps being dulled by the scattered hay on the wooden floors; he doesn’t notice that you entered the space, clearly lost in his own thoughts. You tap his shoulder which makes him spin around in surprise, dropping the brushes he was cleaning. 

Sunghoon’s eyes are wide at the sight of you standing so close to him. You can tell he’s lost sleep by the dark circles around his eyes and how his complexion is impossibly paler. His mouth is stuttering to find words, opening and closing. 

You step closer to him and he steps back, his backside now pressing against the table. It wobbles on the uneven wooden stilts that hold it up. Reflexively, his hands reach back to hold onto the table, but he’s using it for his own stability. You simply stand there in between his legs, staring up at his face and taking in all the details that differ from the last time you saw him. He swallows, quietly watching your face in return. 

“I haven’t seen you around.” Sunghoon speaks first, his voice a soft surrender. You feel his breath on your face. 

“I know. I saw you though. You missed me.” You state bluntly, taking note of the little fangs he has for teeth. He probably bites good, you think, licking the back of your own teeth. 

“If you saw me then why didn’t you…” he trails off into a quiet again, closing his eyes for a moment with a sigh. “I wouldn’t call it that.” His eyes open again as he feels your hands on his chest, sliding up his white tank and underneath the sleeves of his denim jacket to his shoulders. He bites down, suddenly stiff. 

Ignoring his response you continue, “How can you wear this when it’s so warm out?” Your hands slide over his shoulders and down his toned arms, the jacket slips down to reveal the toned limbs. Your eyebrows raise at the sight yet your face remains relatively blank. “You’ve got muscle. Good for farm work.” Small hands continue to run over the smooth milk-like skin, learning every curve of his lean built physique. It’s not sexual, just exploratory. 

Sunghoon sucks in a breath, watching you inspect him. He begins to feel flustered, relishing in the contact of skin on his. You notice his tense body and ask him if it’s okay, to which replies a raspy stutter, “Y-yeah.” Your hands slide down his arms and back up to his shoulders. Then down his chest and body to stop at the waistline of his jeans. He has a nice body; he must be athletic. You don’t care to ask in what ways. Your fingers dip into his jeans just slightly to pull him in closer to you, he gasps, his growing cock pressing against your stomach. 

“Sunghoon,” You ridicule him, tsking under your breath at the pressure you feel of his arousal. “Already?” You look up at him but he can’t meet your eyes, feeling embarrassed. You play with the waistline, your fingertips running back and forth between the denim and his skin. “Is this sinning?” It’s a soft question yet mocking. He only shakes his head, nervously gnawing at his bottom lip. “Do you want to?” He whimpers, slowly nodding his head. You take your hands off him, crossing your arms. “You have to tell me. Look at me and tell me.” 

He looks back at you dispirited. He knows that you know what he wants. And here you are making him admit it outloud, both to you and God. “Please.” He begs quietly, hoping it only reaches your ears and not the sky’s. “I want you.” 

There’s that feeling again. The lit match that falls from your throat to the gasoline of your stomach that erupts in flames. Fire to your abdomen and loins; it’s an angry feeling, sparked by his honest admit of want, and for you specifically. You watch him with narrowed eyes while mumbling, “you revolt me.” 

He doesn’t reply to your venomous insult. It stings to hear the degrading words in both his heart and pants; he thinks himself disgraceful too. 

You drop to your knees, hands finding place back on his jeans to undo his zipper. He stares down at you in bated breath, hands still gripping tight on the table behind him. His are pulled down slowly, purposely so. You watch him writher, body and face. “Did you do it again?” you question, looking up at him from below. He would never avow to how the sight of you on your knees alone makes him ache all the more. 

He wants to tear his eyes away from you but he can’t. The image of you in your white dress on the ground before him needs to be burned into his memory. He stutters a mumble of words but you don’t catch anything, if he even said a coherent response at all. You ask again, pinching his thigh. He tries to hum over the strained noise in the back of his throat, “Yes.. I mean no! B-but I didn’t touch myself.”

You try not to giggle, biting the inside of your cheek. Knowing he wanted to feel that way again but couldn’t on his own gave you a funny sense of power over him. One of your hands traces the outline of his hard cock through his boxer briefs. “You make a mess?” He shivers at the feeling of your breath on his suffocating length. He breathes out a ‘no’ while you lick a strip over the material. “Why not? I showed you how.”

He moans softly, trying not to let his hips chase after the feeling that he’s been after for days. “You know I can’t,” he exhales. You roll your eyes, mouthing and licking at him languidly. Your hands are still half tugging at the material that keeps him hidden. A faint pool of precum quickly stains his boxers. 

“Sunghoon,” you look up at him with your chin resting on the bulge. He swallows hard, acknowledging you with a hum. “You will never be free from it. The sin I let you taste will forever linger on the tip of your tongue, begging and licking to taste more in crave. No holy blessed water can possibly cleanse you even if you drown in it.” 

His bottom lip pouts out with a little droning whine. He should defend himself, say that his faith is stronger than he is and that his soul is saveable by mercy. But a part of him also feels that doesn’t want to be. His eyes begin to well with tears. 

“Not even a god could make you pure again,” you give him a small smile and pat his naked thigh before pulling down his underwear. His cock now free slaps his stomach to which he breathes out heavily. You grab him with both hands, giving him one last look before taking the leaking head into your mouth. Hands working on him steadily. 

“T-that’s dirty!” he leans forward with a low sounding moan, his hands on your head and in your hair. Your eyes go wide at this. “Why would you put that in your mouth?!” he gasps, the warm wetness around his tip making him dizzy. “This is so vulgar, oh God, forgive me.” he cries, not pulling your mouth off of him but holding you there. 

You circle your tongue around the tip and over his leaking slit, licking the beads of precum that leak out. It makes your grimace before you lean back, a wet pop as your mouth leaves. “Enough of your penitence, and take your hands off me.” It sounds like a warning to which he complies without question, only a hushed apology. He’s the one who wants to be touched anyways, not you. 

You take him into your mouth again, your lips wrap around him in a painful stretch to accommodate his size. He sits heavy on your tongue that lays flat underneath, doing what you can with it. Your hands at the base work around him, jerking and squeezing him like you did before. You weren’t really sure what you were doing, mainly just mocking the actions you read about in books. It seems to be working for Sunghoon regardless because he can barely hold himself together. Whining and whimpering through fat tears, whole body shuddering from the overwhelming wet heat of your mouth. 

His jaw goes slack, mouth hung open only to elicit a breathless moan. His head rolls back on his neck and his eyes flutter to a close. The feeling of your mouth wrapping around him is hot heaven. His body trembles with the new, sweeping sensation. Stomach already tight with contracting muscles. He thinks he could pass out. 

Watching his face, him, discover and feel pleasurable sin is slightly euphoric to you. You’ve seen it in movies and read of it in books, but it was something you never quite fully explored yourself. There’s been a few instances that you did touch yourself; it always felt empty or like something was always missing. There’s little to no excitement when doing it alone in shameful hiding. Witnessing, causing such debauchery is different somehow. Safer in ways you didn’t dwell in thought on. You do wish he would stop crying about it, you find it pathetic of him in a provoked way. 

Involuntarily, he thrusts himself down your throat with a guttural groan. You gag and cough around him, tears sting your eyes that make you squeeze them shut—refusing to let a single one dare to escape. Now it felt like a challenge. One to which you wouldn’t back down in fear of looking weak. 

Your hands hold his thighs roughly, bruisingly so if you had the strength. You move his body in a small back and forth motion, encouraging him to continue his movements. You’re looking up at him with glazed over eyes and a slight nod. He chokes a sob at the sight, you on your knees not to pray but to devour him.

“Ah, I- I’m sorry. Your mouth is so wet, so warm.” He starts off with shallow thrusts, dragging his cock along your wet muscle. His hips stutter while his world seems to be crashing down. “This is so dirty. You look so dirty. And—ngh—it’s.. it’s so good. It’s so good,” he babbles, pushing himself as far down into your mouth as he can. His tip kisses the back of your throat making you gag around him. Your nails digging into the flesh of his strong legs. He can’t stop moaning and whimpering, becoming a slave to pleasure. 

He watches your face. Hollowed cheeks sucking and swallowing around him, the tightness of your throat around him hugging and contracting through chokes that reverberate your body to his cock. The spit that leaks from your lips and all over him is obscene, such a sinful mess. He so badly wants to grab your head and force himself down further, but his nails dig into the wood of the table instead. 

“Hm, I can’t—” he moans your name, thrusting rougher now. His whole body crumbling in on itself, chasing the feeling of release. 

Then there’s the sound of footsteps and a few voices that follow. Sunghoon sucks in a deep breath, taking a fist to his mouth to bite down onto. He looks at you in fear because of the proximity of the other farmhands right outside. This only makes you smirk around him, a glint of evil in your eyes. He shakes his head hurriedly, stopping his movements—as if that would make you both disappear. 

You push yourself off his cock, licking over your cracked and saliva covered lips. You bring a finger to your lips and shush him. “Be quiet or they’ll find out what a nasty whore you are. Unless you want that.” Your voice is quiet and raspy from the abuse of him fucking himself down your throat. You stare into his eyes intently before taking him back in. He glances from you to the door of the shed, his body shaking. 

You slurp and suck him up, purposely loud and sloppy. A hand jerking off the base that doesn’t quite fit in your mouth. He cries quietly with his mouth open, meek and desperate sounds escape that he can’t withhold. “Please…” He’s whimpering, begging for something that he doesn’t know the context of. 

“Do you think the extra feed is in this one?” A voice questions, the door being opened just a crack. 

Sunghoon quickly tries to bend down for his jeans but you slap his hand away, pushing him back into the table. You grip his thighs and force yourself to take all of him down. You gag around him, eyes never leaving his panicky and fucked out face. His face silently begs for you that enough is enough but you don’t stop, because a part of you knows he doesn’t want you to either. 

“It doesn’t hurt to check, does it?” The other replies with a light chuckle. “Could take a break for some shade too while we’re at it.” The door opens slowly with an agonizing creak, sunlight barely pouring. 

Each passing second feels like an eternity to him. The door is still only cracked, not enough for them to see inside but it’s cutting it close. His cock twitches at the thought of being caught with his dick down the throat of the farmer’s daughter. A blazing adrenaline rushes through him. 

Sunghoon can’t bear it any longer. His hands find purchase on the back of your head, pushing himself completely into your mouth. His hips stutter with a whimper on his lips as the hot cum pours down your throat. “Ah, sh- ngh!” You smack at his legs for him to release the hold, choking for air to breathe. You instinctively swallow around him, consuming his load of sin.  

“You dumbass! The horses are already fed, let’s just go for a water break.” The door slams back on itself to a close. Their footsteps can be heard walking away. 

Sunghoon breathes heavily, letting go of you. His body instantly relaxing back with his elbows on the table to support him. Meanwhile you fall onto your ass, a hand around your throat while you gasp for air through rough coughs. “What the fuck did I say about putting your hands on me?” You rasp before coughing again. The taste of him sits on the back of your tongue no matter how much you swallow. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “we shouldn’t get caught.” He pulls his pants and boxers back up then extends a hand to you, an offering to help you stand back up. 

You scoff, ignoring his hand and stand up on your own. You brush the dirt and stray strands of hay from your knees. “Whatever. We both got what we wanted.” You start to turn for the door to leave the shed with the thought of brushing your teeth in mind. 

Sunghoon, confused as to what you could’ve gotten out of helping him, just reaches for your hand. He grabs you and pulls you back to look at him. His eyes are sad, maybe even a little afraid by your haste to leave. “Y-you’re just going to leave me again?” He sounds broken by the fact. 

“What?” You can’t help but breathe a laugh, “Did you expect me to do more?” You ask with raised brows. 

“No! No, not like that.. But..” He swallows his pride, “I- I don’t know. Just don’t leave yet. Please.” 

You blink at him, scanning his features like a robot in calculation. The pleading of his expression and his words aggravate you. A fiery burning to your insides and the skin that he touches, that he reached for. You look down to his tight grip on your hand before yanking it away. You don’t say anything more, and neither does he. He wipes his eyes from whatever salty wetness is still there. 

A moment of silence solidifies your decision. You beckon him to follow you out and he does. 

For the rest of his work day you remain. You try not to think about why. But subconsciously you know it’s because for the first time someone willingly wants to be by your side. At first you imagine it’s because of what you’ve done for him—gave him what any man desires: pleasure. A man falling into temptation is far too easy. 

Though he doesn’t ask for more and he doesn’t bring it up. Almost like it never happened. 

It seems like he really just wants to be around you. There’s little said between each other. It’s just idle farm work with company. And it’s more peaceful than you expected it to be. He didn’t touch you, question you, or do much at all to bother you in general. 

Sometimes he stares at you, but you do the same to him. He even gives a sheepish smile when he catches you; it doesn’t get returned. That doesn’t bother him though. He thinks you look beautiful on the farm in your dress with dirt covered hands and hair messy from the wind. He hopes to tell you that one day but for now he stays shy, still weary and afraid. 

The sun shines relentlessly unless a cloud mercifully passes by. The breeze is rare yet kind. The animals make their sounds to sing a collective song. The trees and crops sway like waving hands of hellos and goodbyes, depending on where you’re headed to or from. It’s not so bad. 

　Two weeks go by. Time flies by for both you and Sunghoon. He comes to work during the week, and he spends his weekends missing you. He doesn’t know what you two are to each other, and he’s too scared to ask. There’s definitely been changes to the dynamic, however. Subtly so. You still don’t smile, or let him touch you. You roll your eyes and insult him if he’s too emotional. But you’re there. 

Certainly not everyday, but most, you spend his work days with him. It’s easier to be around one another. There can be small talk, usually about the farm or the weather. Still much to be learned about on a personal level, but he’s fine with the pace of the relationship (outside of the unholy acts that are committed). Sometimes you even end up helping him. Or at least he thinks of it that way. In reality you don’t like how he does things and take over to do it yourself. 

You still tease him in your cruel ways. Always ending with him in a mess because he’s easily worked up by your handsy curiosity. He caves into you every time because he can’t fight the divinity that you show him. 

There are other times where you confuse him. You suggest a water break knowing he’d gone hours without hydration under the summer heat. You insist on having him take a break under a roof away from the sun when his skin gets too sweaty or red. Which is followed by a reminder that sunscreen is important if he wishes to keep his milky complexion. It’s critical statements that you provide him, but he can’t help to think it’s a weird way of showing you care. 

Sure, it could be seen as you selfishly saying these things because it’s what you want for yourself, but in the back of his mind he’s very aware of how you watch and cater to him. It makes his heart jump every time and butterflies swarm his stomach. He can’t help it. The little things, the small acts of kindness—that you might not even intend—make him delusionally overthink. 

On the third weekend since starting his summer job, Jake can’t help all the questions he’s been building up and dying to ask. Jake doesn’t understand what Sunghoon has been going through, especially when his moods change so drastically. At first, Sunghoon was self isolating and pouty, clearly in his own head and sulking. But then he would come home from work beaming with an afterglow to his aura. And then on the weekends he was back to his reclusive, depressed state. 

Sick of being left out of Sunghoon’s inner turmoil, Jake finally pesters his friend. 

“When are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Jake stands in the doorway of Sunghoon’s room, staring at his friend who’s laying face down in his bed. 

“I don’t know…” Sunghoon’s words are muffled in his pillow. 

Jake walks in with a sigh and sits at the end of the bed. He playfully slaps Sunghoon’s leg. “Dude, just tell me. You’re obviously going through something. You know I can keep a secret. I won’t judge.” 

Sunghoon rolls over on his back, his hands clasped together over his stomach as he stares up to the ceiling. He confides in Jake, telling his story from the beginning of when he first met you. He stutters over his words when he admits to the sinful acts he partook in with you. He tells Jake of his guilty conscience and how he enjoyed indulging in the feelings. Then he tells Jake about how he simply likes your company even without the sexual circumstances involved. How he’s mystified by your complex personality and only wishes to know you more. However, he does leave out the viciousness of your nature, since a part of him doesn’t quite believe in it. 

“It seems like you’re starting to develop a crush.” Jake laughs lightly, “And if it’s about religion, don’t overthink it too much. Nobody dies completely pure.” He reassures him. “You should show her more of you. That you like her too.” 

Sunghoon groans and covers his face at the terrifying suggestion. If only you were that easy to approach in such a vulnerable way. “I guess… I’ll consider it.” 

The next day is Sunday. Jake and Sunghoon attend church as normal. Sunghoon participates less in his prayers and songs than usual. His mind is too preoccupied with all he has going on in life. He feels guilt and frustration. 

Sunghoon, lost in his own world, fails to realize that his best friend—Jake—battles something similar internally. 

You’re never as alone as you think you are if you take a better look around. Everyone is riddled with their own self disgust, guilt, or shame. How else would the churches be so full? 

　Entering the fourth week of summer should feel easier than it does for Sunghoon. The work seems to be picking up regarding responsibilities. The weather is only becoming less forgivable. The peak is yet to hit, but that only means the seasonal storms are right around the corner. More care is needed in the fields and barns in terms of protection in case of unpredictable weather. 

Aside from the work, Sunghoon is anxious because of you. He hasn’t seen you yet today and he feels nervous about it. Perhaps he has grown too clingy, finding close comfort in knowing you’re there with him on the farm. There’s a sense of safety when you’re in the line of sight; you make things easier for him and he enjoys the presence. 

While he’s watering plants and checking the sprinklings through the fields, an older man approaches him. It’s a familiar face that he’s seen around a few times over the past month. The man waves with a smile and Sunghoon does the same. 

“It’s amazing what you’ve done, boy.” The man begins, Sunghoon questions where he’s going with the start because he’s just an extra hand of help and doesn’t feel he’s accomplished or improved the farm in drastic ways. “I’ve worked here, hm, well I’ll be damned! Nearly 15 years! And I’ve never once seen that farm girl talk to anyone. Much less spend time.” the man chuckles. 

“Oh!” Sunghoon blushes and hopes it’s only mistaken as feverish from the summer. He smiles small and stares down to the bundle of plants he brought with him to the farm today. He feels special knowing this much of you. “She’s something…” 

“Sometimes I’d see her talk to herself and the animals.” The man pulls out a cigarette and lighter to smoke. “She’d walk around aimlessly like a ghost. Used to scare the hell outta me.” As he laughs, smoke escapes his lungs. He wheezes a little before continuing, “But now she follows and watches you like she’s worshipin’. If only she did the same with her daddy. Although with a face like yours, I can’t blame the girl.” 

“Pardon? What do you mean by that?” Sunghoon, bemused, watches the man smoke and laugh between weak coughs. “She has a dad?” His last question is overroad by the man who speaks over him. 

“You keep up your work, kid. I outta get back to mines too.” And then he’s walking away with a low chuckle, shaking his head to himself. 

Sunghoon’s aware of your mother. He always thought it was just the two of you running things. He’s never once seen a man, your father, leave the house or so much so be around it. This gives him more to think about, especially on the fact that he still doesn't know much about you at all. You’re still an enigma to him, but he wants everything. 

By the afternoon when all the guys are finishing up their break, you finally come out of the house. With the sound of the front door opening, Sunghoon is quick to straighten his posture and find your eyes. You’re already looking at him, watching him and his surroundings with no expression. His cheeks burn and he can’t help the smile forming on his lips. 

Two and a half days without seeing you feels like so much longer. 

He stands up from the picnic table, grabbing his newspaper wrapped bundle of greenery and shyly hiding it behind his back. He walks over to you, tripping over his feet as he approaches the porch steps to the house. You stand there in front of the door but at the top of the few stairs, arms crossed and amused. 

He’s diffident, arms behind him and modestly attempting to hide how nervous he feels on the inside. His stomach is doing flips, his heart racing. On top of already sweating. He feels like he could throw up his lunch right in front of your feet. He swallows thickly before slowly bringing his hands out in front of himself. 

“I,” he clears his throat, “ehem, I got these for you.” With outstretched arms, the bundle of flowers shake in his trembling hands. He suddenly feels he’s too nervous to even meet your eyes, so he watches the chipped paint wood of the front porch steps. 

You just stand there, watching him with wide eyes and your heart in your throat. Your mouth is lost for words, glancing around at the few farmhands who haven’t left yet and are staring at Sunghoon’s exchange in a similar bewilderment. Some are trying to keep themselves from bursting out into laughter.

“Are you some kind of stupid?” You whisper harshly for only him to hear, snatching the flowers out of his hands. “Why the hell would you do this?” Your words like your tone are mean, but in your chest there’s a raging pounding. It’s a seething raw emotion that doesn’t know how to be dealt with. You’ve only just stepped out of the house and your body feels like it’s inside a furnace. 

Sunghoon’s head shoots back up to look at you, his face and heart drop. “I-I’ve never had a girlfriend before so I wasn’t sure what to do.. This is what boyfriends do, right?” He takes a hand to scratch at the back of his head. Inner turmoil takes over and he thinks he’s fucked up. He bites at his lip, doing his best not to instantly cry in regret. 

You notice this and sigh, irritated. You look from the neatly wrapped white roses and tulips and back to Sunghoon. “So you are stupid,” you mumble before taking your own bottom lip between your teeth. A part of you wants to sneer, but you spin on your heels to hide the warmth that floods your face in substitution. “I’m throwing them away,” you announce, opening the door and walking back inside your house. 

Sunghoon, broken, just drops his head and turns back. A few of the farmhands are snickering from not too far away, chattering among each other and eyeing Sunghoon. He wishes God would smite him on the spot from the humiliation. 

Wanting to avoid everything for a little while, he thinks of heading to the lodge to lay down in hiding. But before he can walk away, the front door of your house swings open once more. He glances back at you, meeting your eyes like he always seems to do. 

“Done for the day already?” You call over to him, now leaning over the banister of the porch with crossed arms. 

Sunghoon, unable to refute you, offers a weak smile and shakes his head. “No.” 

He walks back over to you and you meet him halfway. You don’t say anything else. You don’t bring up the fact that he had bought you flowers or confused the odd relationship you share for dating. It’s cute in all its blind innocence, but that just goes to show you that you have more work to do with him. 

You don’t think of messing with him today. He’s distinctly grown too clingy with how much time you’ve spent with him. Yet you can’t ignore him either. The two of you carry out the rest of the day’s farm work in silence. The inner fury you feel with him doesn’t seem to go away, despite how he hasn’t said much or even brushed skin with you. 

You don’t know how you’re remaining pacific by his side. The rampaging of your heart strings tug like a screaming instrument just from being next to him. How he can keep walking tall, stare at you when he thinks you aren’t looking, or even smile at you is beyond what you know is capable of humans. Men like him only existed in books and movies. You wonder if he’s perhaps playing a game like you.

By the time he’s in the truck to go back to town to catch a bus into the city, you’re sitting at the lake dock. Criss crossed legs, a bouncing knee, and fingernails being ripped at by your teeth. You stare blankly at the water, hoping for that sense of serenity to encapsulate you. It never seems to come. It just feels cold.

So you decide on punishing him for making you feel this way. 

You don’t leave your house for the next three days. You don’t make yourself known, heard or seen. However, you’re peeking out every window of your house to get any chance of a view of him. You hate yourself for being so curious of him in the first place. What was supposed to be good fun has only left you feeling angry. Taking his innocence was never going to heal you, or even make him like yourself. In fact, it’s making you sicker.

And on the night of the fourth Thursday, you’re laying in bed staring at your ceiling. A stuffed animal is hugged tightly to your chest. You can’t sleep and you can’t stop thinking about someone for the first time in your life. No amount of tossing and turning, counting sheep, or button presses to your distorted singing, stuffed bear made it easier. 

Somehow, you ended up punishing yourself. You always had a knack for that, historically, but this time felt different. It actually kind of hurt. Being alone came naturally to you, but tonight it hits you just how lonely you’ve always been. 

　Friday, the farmhands are huddled on the front porch of your house. All the animals are safely away in their designated homes thanks to their help. It started to storm in a heavy downpour only minutes ago. What started out as a dark gray gloom and windy rain quickly turned into an early flooded property, illuminated by strikes of flashing lightning and roaring thunder. 

You stand dry under the protection of the porch roof by the front door. Watching and listening to your mother suggest the shaking cold, soaked men take shelter in the lodge until the sky lets up so they can head home. 

Sunghoon hasn’t spared a look to you all day, but you know that he feels his eyes on you. It’s in the way he shifts awkwardly amongst the men that ignore him. How his eyes are trained low and unfocused yet always trying to move in your direction. His wet hair falls over his face, concealing his emotions you wish to dissect. He comes off as stoic but you know he wears his heart on his sleeve; how his body language speaks volumes. 

Your mother pushes past you to get back inside, saying she’ll check the basement for a spare heater that the boys could use at the lodge. There’s something in you that makes you move without thinking. Suddenly a hand is tugging at the bottom of Sunghoon’s damp jacket for his attention. The material is too thin for this weather and the thought of him becoming sick crosses your mind. 

“It’s warmer here,” your words, for once, came out soft. Too much so, being lost in the cracking sound of thunder. He looks at you through his bangs. The wave of alleviation from whatever he was dealing with is palpable. His eyes and body almost look relaxed. You tug him towards you once more, insinuating that he follows you. 

He does. Like whatever subconscious emotion made you approach him also made him follow you in. As he steps in, he notices the indistinguishable vibes of the farmer’s lodge. It’s updated and cleaner, but similar in aesthetics. A shotgun sits leaning up against the wall by the front door. His brows furrow and eyes narrow. “Those aren’t safe to have lying around…” he mumbles. 

You tug him towards the staircase to walk up, “It’s protection. Only my mother and I are here,” is mumbled back as you lead him up the wooden, creaking stairs. Your feet move light and quick, like a mouse in a home not theirs. If your mother saw you, there would be unnecessary consequences. And the possibility of your father’s involvement would only worsen such. 

Sunghoon cautiously steps into your bedroom, his body tenses at the sound of you shutting and locking the door. He feels on edge, wrapping his arms around his shivering body and soaked clothes. You move around him to sit on your bed, telling him to remove his sopping attire. He does so with shaking hands, leaving him in nothing but his underwear. He shyly looks around the room while using his hands to cover his manhoon. 

His eyes scan over you, sitting quietly on your bed with a look of contemplation that stares past him. A wooden cross hangs on the wall above your bed, the dark wood matches the decadent bed frame. The nightstand nearby has a pile of books and journals with a low light lamp and unlit candle. 

The large window has sheer white curtains drawn open and a vase on the windowsill. A glass vase filled with the flowers he gave you earlier in the week. His heart aches at the sight of the still healthy white roses and tulips, and a smile graces his lips. You liar! You kept them! Is what runs through his thoughts. 

Without Sunghoon realizing, you got up to grab a towel and drape over the back of his shoulders. He’s taken aback by your ghost-like actions, but offers you a small smile of appreciation. “Thanks…” 

You nod for response and glance from him to the vase of flowers he was lost in thought over. You didn’t have it in to explain yourself, mostly because you didn’t understand why you had done so either. 

He dries himself off and finds a place to sit at the end of your bed. You’re on the other end with your back pressed to the headboard, watching him, counting every mole you can find on his pale canvas. The stuffed animal you sleep with is being mindlessly fumbled around in your hands. 

Sunghoon turns to face you directly, he reaches a hand out, eyes shifting from your face and the winged bear. You shoot him a mean look at first, only holding it closer to yourself before your face softens to slowly extend it out to him. 

He takes it with careful hands and looks down to inspect the old toy. Its cream colored fur is dirtied and matted with age. The holographic satin wings on the back have loose stitching and its halo is crooked. Across the chest of the bear reads ‘Jesus Loves Me’ but it’s obvious the sewn name Jesus has been ripped away at. One paw has a red heart embroidered saying ‘press me’. His thumb brushes over the button heart before pressing down. The bear sings in a distorted happy voice the lullaby of Jesus loves me. 

“His name is Saint Michael,” you say quietly and he almost doesn’t catch it. Sunghoon can only breathe a laugh because he finds the dichotomy cute. You almost laugh too, but bite your tongue and look back to your empty hands. You don’t know it but he can see you try to fight your little smile. To him, this moment means more than anything; he’s starting to see you’re more tender than you realize. It brings him a sense of surety in knowing that he can break you like you to do him. 

Silly as it may seem for a troubled girl, the bear was the only comfort you had throughout childhood. There was no kindness from your father, no solace from your mother, no guide in knowing life or love. But there was Saint Michael, the stuffed angel bear; he may not have defended you in battle but he hugged you back, and that was enough to cherish him like a deity. 

Sunghoon crawls across the bed and sits himself next to you, too close for your liking, but you don’t push him away. He hands the stuffie back to you and you place it on the nightstand to face away from you. You lower yourself in the bed, shuffling under the covers of the blanket and he does the same. His skin naked bare yearns for more warmth, yours specifically. 

You feel him turn on his side next to you, pressing up against you despite there being enough space on the bed. His movements are awkward and nervous like he is. You feel a certain pressure against your thigh that isn’t his bones or limbs. You spare him a glance, he doesn’t know if it’s a warning or dare. 

“...Have I ruined you?” You wonder aloud, looking back to the ceiling. 

“No,” he answers quickly, shaking his head against your shoulder. The way he’s missed you in his desire to touch you, hands tingling with want to snake around your waist and pull you in tight. “I think I just want you all the time now. I can’t help it, m’sorry.” He sounds ashamed in his soft mumbles. 

“I’ll only keep stripping all that purity from you. Once it’s mine it’ll remain mine, you know that right?” You look back at him before brushing some of his drying hair from his eyes. He tries to lean up into the touch but your hand is taken back. “And I will pretend it’s healing all that’s missing from me. Do you really want to be mine, Sunghoon?” Your words are so gentle yet laced with threat. 

“Yes,” he exhales, “I want to be yours. Let me be yours please.” It’s hushed, a secret prayer with hope. His hips push further into the skin of your leg, where the hip meets the thigh. He wouldn’t mind going to Hell if it meant more time with you. 

“You beg like a needy barn animal in heat.” You use a hand to cup his face, he sighs into the hold as he eyes flutter to a close. You push your leg in between his, terribly close to his exposed and vibrating body. “So hump me like one.” 

“W-what?” he stutters out before licking over his lips, his thighs squeezing around the plush of yours now trapped in his. His eyes already wet with desperate want, staring back at yours.

“Do it. Like it’s mating season and you want to claim me before anyone else.” 

A cracked voice whine falls from his lips and he begins to roll his growing bulge against you. You watch as he sucks in breaths between quiet breathy moans. His pink, plump lips pursing and falling open. His eyes try to stay on your face, how close you are to him, but they fall shut sometimes in his basking of rapture. It’s a slutty sight of a faith-sickened boy. 

He loves the little to no proximity that there is. His hands find place on your waist, and he’s aware of how that makes you feel, but he can’t stop it. He wants more and more of you. His hands slide up under your shirt, the feeling on your bare skin in his hands makes his body shudder. Untouched, warm flesh for his large hands to explore and learn every curve of. 

Even you stiffen at his exploration, holding in your breath as if you’ve forgotten how to breathe. Your shirt lifts up more with his hands and the exposure is daunting like you’re revealing your insides. 

The pit of your stomach lights up and you're frozen under his clutch. The pads of his fingers hold you so tight as if he’s scared you’ll disappear. His cock is raging and you can feel every pulse of blood that his heart beat floods to. He’s humping into you desperately, chasing the euphoria that he could never find on his own. Such a delicate, shy boy now driven by lust and longing. 

“You’re pathetic and disgusting. You’re practically fucking me through our clothes,” you murmur while you try to push his hands down off you, but his grip won’t let up. Instead his nails dig further into you, a barely sounding broken noise escapes you from the pain. This makes his body collapse further into you, his head dropping between your shoulder and neck. His movements are sloppy and rushed. 

“N-no, I’m still good. You make me feel good, I am so good,” he whines, tears beginning to fall from his eyes to your shoulder. You try to imagine his holy water is washing you clean but it only singes. 

“Tell me that only I make you feel good, that you’re only good for me.” 

“Only you—can only be you to make me good,” he cries against your warmth, rocking himself into you roughly. His leaking cock begins to twitch against you and his hips won’t quit their stuttered jerks. 

You hum lightly and run a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face. He looks up at you with those desperate, wet, dark eyes and you can’t help but acknowledge how pretty he is like this. His puffy cheeks are flushed pink as the tip of his nose. “Only for me,” you mumble.

“Yes, thank you, I am yours. Yes.” His breaths are jagged and heavy. There’s a coiling in his abdomen that feels borderline explosive. You were right, he craves this feeling. It’s surreal to him how he’s gone so long without it. His arms wrap around you completely now, holding you down while his body rolls on top of yours, situated between your legs. His heart hammers against your chest; he wants to mold into you, to become a singular rot. 

You squeak a gasp, being caged down by him. Your heart beats with the same veracity. One of your arms wraps around his waist to hold his back while the other holds the back of his head that hasn’t left the safety of your neck. He continuously sobs through meek moans. His hair tickles your skin like sparks while his lips brush over your jaw and neck making the tingle feel like crackling flames. 

Under his weight you feel yourself slipping in both confidence and dominance, your body wanting to sink down in submission from the unknown comfort of his control. Your heart aches and you feel something you’ve never felt before. You think you’re scared of it, yet your body pulls him closer. Hand in his hair, tugging with fearful aggression. Nails piercing the skin of his shoulder blade. You’re pliant under his heavy thrusts and sounds of sin. 

The rain pours harder outside with whips of harsh winds smacking the window. It’s almost like God’s wrath is screaming to be seen, to shout that He is watching. 

Sunghoon’s hard cock is relentless against your core. The rough grind of him is stimulating in ways   you’ve never felt before, your body sensitive and starving for more. You squeeze your eyes shut and moan within your closed mouth, hating yourself for feeling this way because it was never supposed to be about you. You are betraying yourself more than your fathers.

The sounds you try to withhold make Sunghoon weaker. He feels uncontrollable, only becoming needier and hungrier with his movements, “I can’t stop. I can’t stop.” He whines, begging for you to vocalize how you feel it too. 

You feel like you’re breaking underneath him, and it feels shameful. Like every harsh word your father ever spat at you was true now that you’re a part of the experience and not just the cause. Everything is too much. It takes every ounce of strength you have to turn both of your bodies over. Now sitting up on top of his lap, you can finally breathe again, sighing in relief. He whimpers at the distance between you both but also from the view of you. 

He moans your name softly as he grips your hips, pushing himself up into your clothed pussy like he’s fucking you. Your hands push down on his shoulders. You stare into his eyes with a plain expression and contrasting sharp eyes, grinding your hips back down on top of him. It’s hard to ignore the way it makes you feel, watching him fall apart beneath you as his pulsing cock fucks against you, but you manage. 

“Cum for me,” you demand quietly, “make a mess and imagine it’s inside me.” 

“Holy fu—ngh,” his entire body spasms and shudders with a low groan falling from his open lips. His movements slow down only to become lazier and uncoordinated. You can feel the warm wetness he spills soak through your thin pajama shorts and underwear. 

“You’re right. You are good for me,” you coo softly, cupping his face and using your thumbs to wipe away the tears. Your hips circle and swivel slowly on him until his quivering cock finishes cumming. 

Sunghoon has a sparkle to his wet eyes. The way the gentle praise left your lips makes him melt, and he can’t stop the flickering glance between your eyes and lips. He breathes heavily through his post clarity. Still he basks in your touch with a hopeful look in his eyes. His tongue slides over his lips before he’s leaning up towards your face, hands affixed to your waist to pull you closer to him. 

This makes a wave of panic wash over you, knowing what he wants to do. You shake your head no and pull yourself away, slipping off of his lap only to turn away from him. 

“None of that. It’s not what-” 

And then there’s a press of lips to your cheek. Your face burns as if a hot coal was what kissed your face. Your eyes go wide, turning to see the boy sitting up next to you. He only wears a shy smile as he sees your reaction.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a week now,” he admits with a small laugh. “Not exactly there but that’s fine. I wish you would let me help you feel good too.” he whispers, looking back to the windowsill where the gifted flowers stood in their vase with the raging storm as their backdrop. 

“That’s dumb and I don’t need to,” you reply, still watching him stare forward. Your chest feels painful; it’s an ache like shattered glass trying to piece together in the wrong ways. Stabbing but trying.

“I think you deserve to,” he argues. “But I understand if it’s not what you want. I was really touchy and I shouldn’t have been because you don’t seem like it. I was too caught up in the moment.” His mind goes to the mess he’s still sitting in and he feels self-conscious all over again. “Is it embarrassing how much I need you?”

You blink at him, swallowing the words that were never going to come out because you didn’t even know what they should or would be. So you settle with a simple, “No.”

You think it would kill you to admit how much you actually always wished to be wanted, needed, or loved. A bigger part of you didn’t think you were worthy of it, let alone capable. The world had such a way of saying otherwise. Until it brought Sunghoon to you; the boy who showed you feelings and experiences you never thought possible. 

As if he could read your mind, he asks, “Why did you choose me out of everyone?” He falls back onto the bed, laying down and pulling the blanket over himself. 

“I think you reminded me of a lamb.” 

“Pardon?” His brows furrow. 

You lay back down next to him, facing him like he is to you. “Pretty, white, and docile. You were so nervous when I first saw you—sometimes you still are.” You even laugh a little. “When you shook my hand I knew I could do anything to you because you’d let me.” 

“You think I’m pretty?” He smiles wide, scooting closer to you. 

You scoff with an eye roll, leaning further away from him. “Oh shut up, you’ve seen a mirror.” 

And then it’s his turn to laugh a little. He looks at you like you’re the reason the sun rises and falls. It kind of hurts you to see him like this because it reminds you of your initial rotten intentions and how they’re dissipating the more you’re with him. 

Time passes faster than the two of you realize. There’s light banter and easy conversations. You learn more about Sunghoon. Where he goes to school, what he studies, and who his friends are. He tells you of the sports he used to do and what he does in free time with his best friend. The more you learn about him, the more you understand his naivety and how despite what you’ve done, he won’t change. There’s something lovely about it. 

You don’t have much to share about your life the way he does, at least not in the same light. But you show him your favorite books, drawings you made over the years, and share the stories of movies you found interesting. He savors the moment of you simply confiding, enjoying the more he can know about you. 

The storm passes later in the evening. So caught up in borrowing time, the rain has slowed down to a simple pitter patter. The clouds dispersed and the setting sun only came through to say goodbye to the day. 

The sound of the truck that the farmhands use to take back to town is heard roaring to life, signalling you and Sunghoon that it’s safe and time to head out. 

Sunghoon jumps out of bed but by the time he’s shoving himself into his still damp jeans and looking out the window, the truck is already speeding down the dirt, now mud riddled road. 

“They just left without me,” he breathes out. “I’m used to them leaving me out, but t-this is.. How am I going to get home?” He looks back to you with sad eyes, not the light they had earlier. He’s not shocked by their actions, but he is disappointed. A hand runs through his hair in his stress. 

“Should I kill them?” Your question is brazen, body and voice eerily still in your seriousness. 

“W-what?!” he whispers in shock, freezing for a moment. 

“I’m joking.” You sit up and watch Sunghoon resume getting dressed. “I think you should head back to the lodge for the night. There’s a washer and dryer for your clothes. And spare food for dinner too.” 

Sunghoon nods slightly, “your jokes are weird, but okay.” He looks like he’s thinking of something, taking his bottom lip between his teeth in thought before speaking again. “Can you stay with me for the night at least?” he asks shyly. 

“No,” comes out quicker than you intended. “...But I guess I can walk with you there.” 

He nods again but now with his signature small dimpled smile. You almost forgot about being angry at the other farmhands for taking it away. 

You have to make sure the coast is clear before leaving the house. You tiptoe down the halls and stairs, weary of where your mother is inside the house. To your luck, she’s in her usual state. She’s passed out on the couch with two empty bottles of wine on the floor. The television volume is low, playing a rerun of the reverend’s sermon; the devil himself of your childhood, preaching about how he lost his child to the otherside. 

With a finger to your lips, you silently signal for Sunghoon to be quiet and to follow you out. 

Once safely out of the front door, you take his hand in yours and start running for the lodge. The tall boy is behind you, so you don’t get to see the bright smile on his lips or in his eyes as you run through the light run towards the lodge. 

Now standing in the front doorway of the farmer’s lodge, wet from the sky all over again and still hand in hand, Sunghoon bravely speaks up.

“I don’t like it when you disappear on me,” he breathes out shakily, honestly. “Nobody else sees me like you do,” he squeezes your hand tighter in his, feeling you begin to pull away. “Come with me into the city tomorrow. We can- I’m not sure yet, but I’m sure I want more time with you.” 

His eye contact is unwavering, begging. Both of his strong hands hold onto yours. You glance from your hand then back to his pleading expression. He will always remain so sweet, no matter what you do to him. 

“I felt less lonely before I met you,” you confess, eyes unblinking as you stare up at him for a long pause. “I’ll meet you here in the morning.” 

In only seconds, he’s pulling you into a hug. His arms wrap around you so tightly as he holds you to his chest. You go stiff in his arms, forgetting how to breathe for a moment. What feels suffocating at first turns into a warmth you’ve become all too familiar with, and it was never anger. The indignation you always wear is just a hand me down from your parents; it doesn’t fit you right even though it’s comfortable. 

With a shaky exhale, you wrap your arms around him too. The hug surrounds you like a blanket of unknown comfort. Your ear pressed to his chest listens to the sound of his racing heart. You can feel the pound throughout his entire body too. Every emotion held within is trying and fighting to be seen. It’s still so cold from the rain but he feels contrast, only warm. His lips press a kiss to the top of your head, making your body burn even more and your hold all the tighter. 

　True to your word, you meet Sunghoon at the farmer’s lodge the next morning. He seems happier than usual. Very giddy to be spending a weekend day with you without work in the way. No distractions or excuses to leave. Just the two of you and a new day with zero obligations.

Because you had a spare bike, you both are able to peddle towards town to the bus stop together. Having made these frequent trips alone, you’re familiar with the owner of the gas station at the stop. He’s a deaf older man, and it surprises Sunghoon that you know how to sign and ask him to hold onto the bikes until you’re back. You tell Sunghoon that you learned some basics from reading a book you bought a long time ago. 

Stunned, Sunghoon realizes that you went out of your way to do so for one man who watches your bike while you endure solo trips. You, the odd girl who was mean and sinful, used your money and learned a language for one man who did a simple favor. He’s learning more to admire you for by the day, and it’s crazy to him how you don’t see your own charm. 

Sunghoon pays your bus fares even though you insisted on being capable of doing so yourself. Sat in the middle of the bus that’s only barely half filled, he asks if there’s anything you’d like to do for the day while in the city. Nobody has ever asked you such an effortless thing, and you like it more than you imagined. Just uncomplicated curiosity of your wishes. 

“The book store. The small yellow one on main street. Maybe see a movie if anything is worth seeing.” You shrug, spewing out the usual things you do. Looking around the taken bus seats, you notice some familiar faces. 

“That sounds nice,” he smiles, “our first real date! I think there’s a cafe near that book store too. Do you like coffee?” 

Your cheeks burn as you stare at him in bewilderment, “you think we’re going on a date?!” 

“Of course we are,” he laughs like it’s obvious and wraps an arm around your shoulder, looking out of the window. All that the town can offer him other than you passes by. “I’m a fan of americanos. You seem like you’d take your coffee black.” 

“I don’t even like coffee,” you mumble, turning your attention out of the window as well. “Tea is nice though.” You add in, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“Hm. I can see that too,” he hums as he pulls you closer into his side. 

So much can change in such little time. You’ve experienced this many times in one life. How one day can open a new door to a path otherwise not taken. Showing Sunghoon more of you has made him bloom into a larger ray of light. He seems more comfortable, and now you’ve become the awkward one. 

The ride to the city doesn’t normally take this long, or at least you don’t think it does. Every second with him by your side makes the experience feel brand new. The theme of time being unreal is common with him, you’ve discovered. It’s when you’re in the bookstore and see a holiday sale that you realize it’s not even June anymore. 

While Sunghoon looks for books for his upcoming college semester, you find yourself in genre sections you never really cared for before. The dark and racy ones were fun to bring home, sure. But innocent, cliche romance was always something cringey to you. Now if you change your perspective to that of research then it’s less daunting, right? Perhaps you’d make sense of all the things you’re discovering about yourself and him. Yeah, that’s convincing enough. 

He teases you at the checkout counter when he sees what you picked out. Your face flushes in embarrassment and you can’t even bite back at him or defend your choices. So you smack him with the book on the way out while he laughs and makes jokes that aren’t very funny. 

The two of you do manage to catch a movie. You honestly didn’t care to see one, but having to sit silently in a theater for at least an hour and half seemed like enough time for him to, hopefully, forget and drop the whole book situation. It’s a summer slasher film. A group of teens go camping and the plot is very ‘who done it’ style. Overall, it’s a fun choice. You have your turn to laugh and joke when Sunghoon gets jumpy or scared. 

After the movie, you both end up at the cafe Sunghoon mentioned while on the bus. There was something painfully intimate about everything today. But especially sitting down to eat with him. Not even your mother could meet you at the table anymore. 

“You seem softer today,” Sunghoon states, setting his half-drunk coffee down. “Almost nervous. Is it because we’re out together for our first date? Or just the people in general?” 

You raise a brow at his brazen curiosity and observation. “Maybe you’re rubbing off on me,” you play with your fork to move around the barely touched food in front of you. “Or maybe it’s a bit of both.” 

“If you come to the city enough to know sign language for the man who watches your bike, do you like it better than the countryside?” 

“Don’t know. I’m used to the quiet life, but leaving it behind and pretending it’s not there is nice too.” 

“What keeps you there?” 

“The scenery. The air. The lake. Being friends with the animals.” You look up from the plate to Sunghoon who is watching you like a lecture: attentive and learning. “I’m not very good with people, so I think it suits me alright.” 

“You’re good with me though,” he argues softly.

“No, not really. I wish I was more like everyone else,” you inhale deeply as your eyes wander around the bustling cafe. There’s a choir of laughter, conversations, and social dynamics you would have to study to master. “If I were a good person, everything would be easier.” 

“...but I like you as you are,” he mumbles loud enough for you to hear, watching you shift in your seat. He doesn’t think you’re not a good person, and it hurts that you see yourself as such. 

As Sunghoon speaks, there’s a chime that follows as the front door of the cafe is swung open. A disheveled man stumbles inside, heavy feet stomping the tile floor to attempt to stabilize his disorientation. The man burps obnoxiously loud, and many eyes find him with the grand entrance. 

He scratches at his lengthy, unkept beard as he looks around. When his sunken eyes find you sitting at the table nearby his eyes grow wide and his mouth falls open. His hand shakes with a pointed finger in your direction, “y-you! The girl from the reverend’s sermon!” He’s loud, capturing the attention of everyone now. His sloppy movements make way towards you and Sunghoon; you feel everything within you freeze, and your heart knocks at your chest fast and hard with anxiety.  

He slams his hands on the table, causing your plates and drinks to rattle. He reeks badly of alcohol and his crazed eyes never leave yours. You swallow thickly, fight or flight mode still trying to understand the situation before you. Meanwhile Sunghoon, worried and confused, slowly begins to stand up and grab your bags. 

But you, you’re frozen staring at the messy man who talks of your greatest hate. Your hands tremble on the table. 

“I thought the reverend made you up for stories, but my God! You’re the real living thing just like the pictures; his only sin,” he laughs boisterously in your face and you try not to gag. “I saw him a little whiles earlier, ya know,” his voice goes quieter, it’s taunting even. You wish to remain calm but your eyes tremble and a frown takes your face. “I should go find him and tell him you’re here. He really-”

Sunghoon takes your hand, practically dragging you away from the table. You almost fall from your seat, like a baby deer just learning to walk, there’s little strength to your legs. 

“It’s not too late! You can be on the right side of things!” his voice ricochets off the walls of the now quiet cafe. “If I can be saved by his preaching, so can you! Look at me!” His mad laughter follows you and Sunghoon outside. 

Sunghoon watches you stand on uneasy feet, zoned out staring at the sidewalk. It didn’t take much to put the pieces together that the drunken man was talking about your father. Your father being a reverend who’s not in the picture gave him much to wonder about, but now isn’t the time. He just wanted to get you somewhere away from this memory. 

He crouches down in front of you. You slowly blink back to reality, now looking down at his back. You don’t want to speak so you poke his shoulder in questioning.

“Hop on. Let’s go somewhere else.”

“What if I’m heavy?” you look at the bags he’s already holding, feeling that you too are a burdened weight he doesn’t need to hold. 

“I’ve got good muscles, remember? Good for farm work,” he’s patient and calm with you while his eyes watch the man from outside the glass cafe windows. “Come on, baby.”

Without thinking, you end up on his back. He carries you on his back, strong arms holding your legs while yours are loosely around his neck. Your insides are a flared up hurricane but at least that allows your body to forget the empty ache you left at the cafe. With your chin hooked over his shoulder, you watch the many people and downtown stores that pass by.

Sunghoon doesn’t exactly know where he’s walking, but thinks it’s best to end the day here and return you to the bus stop. He’s never seen that look on your face before—the one you had when the man was loud in your face. He didn’t like it, and he’s sure you hated it. You looked intimidated, or afraid. 

“Would you kill him for me?” you watch the side of his face, “the reverend, I mean.” 

He stops in his tracks and turns his head to look back at you, “w-what? I can’t kill someone… and you should joke like that.” he panics, looking around to see if someone was listening to the wild conversation and request.

“Yeah, I know. I’m fucking with you,” you look away to hide your smirk, “and only half joking.”

“Did you believe him before?” He starts walking again, but this time at a slower pace knowing the bus stop isn’t too far now. 

“Who? My dad or Our Father?” There’s a use of air quotes at the end of your question. 

“Both?” his head tilts. 

“Neither,” you confirm. There’s a pause for thought and Sunghoon waits for you to further explain. “My relationship with both is too similar. They’ve both known me my whole life, right? Seen all of my wrong doings and in return shown wrath through unnecessary punishments called forgiveness. In what good world is tolerance violent?”

“What do you mean? What did he do?”

“Sometimes, after my mother set the table for dinner, he would knock my plate to the floor. Tell me to eat off the ground like the animal I was or starve.” Sunghoon frowns at this, coming to a slow stop when he sees the bus shelter bench. “Sometimes I had days and nights locked in the barns, but he switched it up to the basement when I was too close with the animals.” You laugh a little, but he senses the pain behind it. “I watched him kill the animals, too, only to smother me in their blood. Beatings were rare, but I think only because he despised the thought of even touching me.”

Sunghoon slowly sets you down to the ground and breathes out your name safely, taking your hands into his. He looks at you with sorrow, like he was the one who endured it with you. 

“God’s orders, am I right? My father, the church goers, speak of God like they’ve seen his face and heard his voice, but they haven’t. I would’ve by now too.” 

If He was really in everything, all around, why did He always turn a blind eye? Why does He pretend to not know you? It only made it harder to believe in—something that would bring you here, torture you then watch you suffer for not living how it pleases. God wants to be believed in, but so do you. Only you would never beg for compassion. 

Sunghoon squeezes your hands in his, “I don’t think you should stay there. You never deserved that… even if you’re volatile and strange… because you’re also kind and caring. It’s why I like you. It’s their fault for not seeing that,” he reassures. “I haven’t been through what you have, and I can’t understand. I-I mean I can try to, ya know… it’s not like I’d leave if I didn’t.” His words begin to stumble nervously, not confident in its sympathy reaching you where needed.

You laugh nervously, trying to tug your hands away from his grip that doesn’t let up. “Okay sure whatever, this is really embarrassing now…” You swallow hard and find difficulty in meeting his eyes. 

That’s all that matters, what he said to you, but you didn’t have it in you to say it. He already knows it though, smiling small and holding your hands still. Without words or excessive displays he can still see it in your eyes, the subtle comfort of acceptance. 

He could never blame you for your nature. He sees your anger as you just trying to be strong all while being sad. Whether you are his lover or executioner, he would accept you as you are every time with open arms, receiving hands. Even more readily, now.

　Even more time has passed since knowing Sunghoon. Summer has never flown by so fast. The calendar doesn’t exist to you anymore. It’s only the days you see him and the days that you don’t. The season will be wrapping up in the next few weeks, but only for him. He has to return to his regular scheduled routine of pursuing education while you will stay here, on the farm. It’s rare for you to feel this emotion: fear. You are scared of losing him. And the concept is something you do your best to avoid thinking about because it makes your skin itch with anxiety. It crawls over you like something that needs to be cut out. 

And then an idea hits you. Something far more deep-seated than everything else you’ve done with Sunghoon that would solidify that this summer is real and yours. Something that will always stay; a reminder that good things are possible despite how the world has made you. 

It’s a damn near perfect day. The sun is so bright, and only peers down onto you both through the gaps of the trees. It’s just warm enough. Just quiet enough aside from the sound of Sunghoon’s gentle breathing and natural composition of the nature that surrounds. Rustling of leaves, chirps of birds, and scurrying of whatever life that wishes to not be seen. 

You both sit criss cross at the wooden dock by the lake, simply enjoying the scenery and all it has to offer. His large knee is affixed to yours. If this was early June, you would have moved away. But now it’s a week into August and you wouldn’t have it anywhere else. Just like you always imagined, and secretly wanted, the view is nicer with someone else. 

He didn’t bother asking why you never brought him here before, or why it is that you chose to now. He’s just happy that you decided to at all. 

You slip a hand into your boot and pull out a pocket knife. You flick it open and do a brief inspection of the cleaned blade. The sun glints off the metal as you turn it. 

“Sunghoon, do you trust me?” 

His eyes flicker from your blank face to the blade. He nods slowly with a swallow, “of course.” There’s a subtle apprehension to him. You hand him the small blade and leave your palm facing up, open to him. 

“Cut a diagonal line down my hand,” you point and draw a line down the middle of your palm. 

“Huh, seriously?” he takes the blade confused and concerned with what you’re asking of him. “Why? I can’t hurt you.”

“Do it. Don’t think of it as hurting me, but still do it deep enough to leave a scar.” 

He struggles to understand the situation, but you’re so serious and clearly waiting for him to do as you asked. He exhales deeply, taking your hand in his while the other holds the knife just above the bared skin. Hesitant and slow, the tip of the knife pressed down into your flesh. You wince a little, which makes him pause. You nod, encouraging him to continue and he does despite hating the act. He slices the palm of your hand open just as you wanted. You hate blood, but it’s not so bad when caused by him.

“Shit, it stings,” you swallow through the pain. The feel of open flesh burning and stinging. “Your turn,” you exhale while taking the knife back with your free, unharmed hand. 

“My turn,” he agrees as if all logic has left him and readily displays his palm to you. Deep down, he feels guilty for hurting you, so to make it even he wants to feel the same.

Just as hesitant and careful, you create a matching wound in his hand. A deep enough, bleeding, lesion in his left hand to match  your right one. He cringes at the sight and the pain before looking back to your face. Your expression is so soft yet attentive, almost awestruck. 

“Even when you hurt me you’re gentle,” he remarks, watching you in amazement with a meek smile. 

“I am not gentle. I have sullied you,” you remind him, your eyes attempt to glare but they’re too bright in his. 

“In the softest way, why?” His voice is delicate and still like the lake that sits before you. You blink slowly at him because there are no words to be found. He continues, “I never thought of you as a bad person,” he pauses as you drop the red stained knife, unsure if he should continue at first but does regardless. “And, uhm, I’ve thought a lot about this summer. What I've learned from you. Purity is constructive—like something made to bring shame.” You don’t move, watching him. “I don’t have to be clean to be good…and your hands never made me dirty. Because they never were either.” 

Like an excavator to your tall, strong built walls Sunghoon has knocked your shield down. The facade of your character is breaking down, crumbling into the broken pieces that made it. A single tear escapes your eye and runs down your cheek. It’s rare for you to cry and you’re disgusted with the reality as to why it’s now that you break. Simply falling apart from kind words. 

You try to use everything in you to ignore the heat in your body, to show the anger you think you’re feeling inside. So your eyes remain sharp and strong, boring into his, as they still water. You swallow the dry lump in your throat and without a word, you take his hand into yours to join in a mix of blood. 

At first, you had one goal; one similar to murder. The sparkle he had in his eyes, you wanted to eat—to make them empty—and see the world ugly and godless like you. Yet somehow, somewhere along the way, his eyes shone even brighter. You only wanted to take and take of the innocent boy, but in this moment you realize, maybe I just wanted to give him some of me. 

You wipe the wet drop away from your face with haste, pretending as if it was never there. Whatever blood oath you’re making with Sunghoon allows you to feel something indescribable. You don’t know if it’s deserved, but you smile anyways. Because the indescribable feeling feels like it’s an unknown, unspoken promise. 

He’s seen you smile before with insidious malice, but this time, for the first time, you are really smiling. It’s a raw expression of surfacing emotions, and he returns the emotion like the sun. He thought of you beautiful before but with your brightness finally peering through your clouds, he believes you to be heaven sent. A part of him always wanted to see you cry—usually it was him with tears in his eyes; which is funny, because he wasn’t much of a cryer himself. You just had that way of breaking him down. He knows now he does for you too. And he can tell that you’re probably the type of person who needs to cry the most. 

His hand squeezes yours tighter, a grip so loving, as you bind in one. Neither of your eyes or smiles leave each other until the bleeding stops. 

　A week later, Sunghoon asks you on a date. The summer fair is in town. It’s something like a festival where all the locals from towns around the city come to visit and join in on festivities from carnival games, rides, food, and uncommon entertainments. You think of being mean, denying him the acceptance of the date, but you have always wanted to go. So you said yes without your words: took his scarred hand in yours and nodded. 

The evening sky is a watercolor of warm tones as the sun begins to lay down for the night. The bright lights of the fair illuminate the large open field turned carnival. There’s a sea of people here tonight, and although it makes you nervous inside, having Sunghoon by your side makes the ordeal easier to handle. 

The line for the ticket booth is lengthy but it passes by. You approach the booth, standing a little behind Sunghoon who takes out his wallet to buy your entrance wristband passes and tickets. You look around at the many people: families, friends, and couples, all immersed in their own experience as the music and sounds blend in the background of conversations. 

“Oh wow! You’re really handsome,” the girl at the ticket booth gawks at Sunghoon. She straightens her posture and fixes her hair from her face, “one ticke-?”

Catching this, you step forward and snatch Sunghoon’s wallet from his hands, “he already knows that. Do your job or I’ll feed you to pigs.” You slap the cash amount for what you need down onto the table top with a straight face and mean eyes. 

Her eyes go wide and she hushes an apology, quickly giving you both wristbands and tickets for the evening. She even threw in extra tickets as you stared her down. 

Sunghoon watches you with a flushed face, even the tips of his ears burn red at your jealous threat. You both walk off into the fair, a sheepish smile on his face as he leads you through the crowd with an arm wrapped around your back and hand to your waist. 

“Was that one of your jokes too?” he grins down at you.

“Nope,” you glance at him with a small smile. You weren’t sure what came over you in the moment, but it was something internally deep, and territorial. An innate reaction to someone trying to appeal to something that belongs to you. It felt ugly and you didn’t like it. 

The idea that he could possibly be taken from you was a phenomenon you’ve thought of for a while now. Knowing he has an existing life outside you, outside of this summer, that he would return you made you sick. You’re far from perfect, or the right thing for him, and he could find a safer option if he ever pleased. Pushing the thoughts away is harder than you imagine, so you cling to his side even more. 

You and Sunghoon use up your spare tickets for carnival games. You toss rings around bottles, shoot water guns into the mouth of a clown frame, and throw darts at balloons. The both of you aren’t very skilled at any of the games, but it's fun enough to enjoy the time without winning a prize to show for it. 

Eventually, Sunghoon does find frustration within the ‘rigged’ set up of the games. He even pulls out his wallet for cash when the tickets are gone. You’re surprised at how competitive he is; his determined nature is something that stirs your insides around. You don’t know if you’ve ever smiled so much in your life. 

After 3 rounds of throwing a ball to knock over a moving target, he does manage to win. Going 3 for 3 and not missing a single shot. The excitement you feel when he succeeds takes over and you’re proud, doing little jumps in place and clapping your hands together. 

“You did it! You won!” you exclaim, hugging onto his side. 

He can only smile down at your joyfulness. A fire burns in his heart and he hugs you back, kissing your forehead. “All for you. Which prize do you want?” 

“It’s yours, you should pick it,” you blush, elbowing his side with a shy smile while your eyes keep looking up to the stuffed white lamb with a lace ribbon around its neck and a cushion gold bell adoring the throat. 

Of course, that’s the prize he ends up choosing. It might not be Saint Michael the stuffed bear, but it’s something far happier, cleaner, and softer. 

The stuffed animal never leaves your hold throughout the rest of the evening. It rides the many rides you and Sunghoon do. And sits at the picnic table with you both as you share fair snacks. Popcorn and cotton candy was never so sweet for either of you. Like contentment melting on your tongues. 

Cliche as ever, Sunghoon wants to end the night there with a round on the ferris wheel. The line moves quickly and when it’s your turn to step into the carriage, he takes your hand and sits you down the seat next to him. 

It moves slowly and rocks back and forth with shaky movements that have you gripping the side handles. With an arm around your shoulder, he holds you close to him. The array of flickering colorful lights and people below you feels almost magical. 

Taking your eyes from the heightened difference between you and the ground, you look back to the boy beside you who is already looking at you. The reflection of rainbow luminescence glistens in his eyes. It’s even prettier than the view from the top of the little world you’re in. You give him a shy smile, finding it impossible to look away. 

He says your name in a whisper, taking your chin between your fingers. “Thank you for choosing to let me in.” 

Confused and wide eyed, you watch him lean into your face. You gasp when his lips meet yours before returning the notion. With eyes closed, you melt into his kiss. It’s sweet as all the things you’ve experienced today because of him. 

It’s also as clumsy and messy as a kiss can be for two people who’ve never done so before. However, human nature and desire take over and ease the rest for you both. Lips move over another in a gentle waltz, careful and slow. 

And as if the situation couldn’t get anymore cliche, fireworks light up the sky. At first you thought it was just your imagination and all the books you’ve read flooding your consciousness, but the booming sounds and cheers of the crowd are too loud to not be real. 

You pull away from him first, and he’s already wearing a shit eating grin so wide that you can’t help but roll your eyes, fighting the urge to smile back at him. Your face burns in both embarrassment and adrenaline from the kiss. 

After that, you don’t leave the city like you should. The bus takes you both back downtown but neither you or Sunghoon feel it’s time for goodbye. So, for the first time, he takes you back to his apartment. You’ve never been to anybody else's home before, and it’s nerve wracking to say the least. The complex is large and somewhat modern, housing many of the second and third year private college students.

When you step inside, it’s quite plain but at least clean. You’re immediately greeted by a boy shorter than Sunghoon. He has a big mouth smile and shining dark eyes. His hair is shaggy but it suits him. He’s practically bouncing on his toes. You shift yourself behind Sunghoon and hold onto his shirt, hiding slightly from the excited puppy-like roommate. 

“How did it go? Oh, and nice to finally meet you,” he rambles out quickly, “I’m Jake. The best friend and roommate. I’ve heard a lot about you.” He shoots Sunghoon a wink before grinning back at you. He extends a hand for you to shake but you don’t reach out. Something about his eyes doesn’t sit right with you. 

“She’s shy,” Sunghoon laughs a little as he guides you past Jake and towards his room. “It was fun though. I recommend going before it’s gone.”

“Ah, you got yourself a nice little angel, huh?” Jake leans over the kitchen island, watching you both. His smile falters. “I’ll have one of my own some day.” For some reason, you think of him as a secret pervert.

Sunghoon laughs his comment off and tells Jake goodnight before showing you to his room. His room is neat and as simple as a college boy’s room can be. A bed, desk, dresser, closet, and bathroom. One poster of a musician you’ve never listened to and a window with unopened blinds. 

You sit yourself at the end of his bed and he sits down next to you. There’s some awkward silence as you look around, unsure of what you’re supposed to do. He feels similarly to your internal dilemma. 

“I-I’ve never had-”

“It’s okay,” you cut him off. Of course he’s never had a girl over. And of course you’ve never been over to a boys house. 

“Are you tired?” he asks, and you lie by nodding your head. So you both get ready for bed. He gives you a shirt to borrow for bed that change into in his bathroom while he changes into sweats and a t-shirt in his room. 

In minutes you’re both laying in his bed under the covers and staring up at his ceiling in the dark room. Not a word is said as you both lay there wide awake and untouching. But you know he’s wanting to by the way his body is shifting and turning, inching closer with every minute movement. 

And before you know it, although expected, his body is nestled closely to yours. His arms wrap around you, pulling you into an embrace. For the most part, he usually does keep his space. Knowing how you are when it comes to physical touch that feels too sudden or invading. But with barriers breaking down more over time, he thinks you’re learning to handle the comfort better. 

“I thought you were tired?” he mumbles, head on your shoulder. His hands trace up and down your arms that are wrapped around yourself like a guard. 

“I lied,” you whisper. Your eyes can’t look at him yet, so they remain aimless to the ceiling. Some moonlight slips through his cracked window blinds, giving you enough view of the spinning ceiling fan. 

“I had fun today. Mostly because you did. I like seeing you happy,” he smiles after kissing your shoulder that’s exposed in the neckline of his shirt too big for you. “And… I liked when you kissed me back,” his voice is quiet and shy-like. 

“Do you want to do it again?” Your eyes shift to him and you can barely see the warm flush to his cheeks. He’s cute. 

Taken aback at first, he just blinks at you with a parted mouth. Then he nods his head slowly, licking over his lips. 

You turn over onto your side to face him and his hands don’t leave your waist. Unsure of what to do with your own, you wrap them around his neck. Good thing they sit behind him and it’s dark in the room because it would kill you for him to notice the slight tremor in your fingers. 

With a scarily racing heart and stiff, trembling body you surge forward to kiss him. His lips are quick to capture yours. Soft and pillow-like, they mold into yours in waves. What starts off as clumsy and unskilled turns into hunger. Something desperate and needy. His grip feels bruising to your hips but in a nice way. In a way you want it to hurt more. 

His nails digging further into your flesh to keep you impossibly close make your lips gasp, or maybe it’s the lack of air, or just both. And instinctively his tongue is licking its way past your lips and into your mouth. He kisses you like he’s starved for it. His wet tongue drags over yours, and your teeth, then as far as it can inside of you. He whimpers, pressing his already hard cock to you as he licks and kisses you open. 

Your stomach has never burned this way before, and you feel the hot sensation all over then down to your core that aches like it’s hungry too. You feel disgusted by yourself but can’t fight the hum you make as you devour him right back. You’re getting wetter every second he’s in your mouth. 

This time, he pulls away first. Panting for air and staring at you with glazed over dark eyes. He licks over his wet lips again, savoring the taste of you on himself. He bites down onto it and a part of you wishes it was you he sunk his teeth in. 

“Can I do what I did last time?” he breathes out, his hips involuntarily jerking up against you at the thought alone. 

While trying to act like you’re not catching your breath too, you say quietly, “do whatever you want.” 

He kisses you again but with more desperation. You try to do the same but you can feel your heart and your head preparing for battle. The way he’s feeling you up and grinding himself on you is in no way unwanted, and that’s part of the reason you’re struggling to maintain presence. 

It’s so much happening so quickly, but you’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t imagine this happening eventually. Sex was inevitable. The way his body yearns to be one with yours makes you feel special almost. He’s already engraved into you but in his mind he has to be inside of you and it hurts so badly how you think the same. 

But is the last thing that keeps him pure really yours to take? You’ve stripped so much away from him for all the wrong reasons before and now it feels strange. You are no good and that’s all he is. 

The only thing keeping you here, in the moment, is him. His exploratory and gentle yet rough hands, his body grinding into you, his lips that can’t leave yours or your skin for even a second, and the weak wanting sounds that leave them. 

“I need more, please. I want- I need to feel good with you. Please,” he’s whining into your ear. Then pressing kisses along your jaw and neck that are all so tender, slow, and deliberate. Large hands caress you like you’re breakable, as if not already just a body of fragmented pieces made whole and called a person. 

Your still shaking hand reaches down between your two bodies and slips past his sweats. He had the nerve to go commando and you wish you could tease him, but you can’t. You’re lucky you’re even here right now and breathing his air. Your hand wraps around his aching length and gives him a few tugs to which he’s quick to moan. He kicks off his sweatpants while you bring him closer to you. The plush of your thighs trap him; he whimpers against the soft heat of your flesh. 

Your hips grind up into him once, showing him what he should do too. He’s slow to start, rocking himself between your thighs. Slutty and hopeless sounds leave him in a string of his want. His leaking hard cock is so close to your core. Only the thin layer of your underwear keeps him from feeling your clear need for him too. 

Wrapped in each other's arms, you bury your head to his shoulder. You can feel the pulse of his aching desire rubbing and grinding against you. It makes you shiver in sensitivity and cower further into his neck. You don’t bite down onto your lip, but his neck. There’s a sting to your eyes because you hate it—the wet warmth that pools out of you. Your sin sticks to your underwear and your skin like the red raining life of all the animals you made leave the earth; your haunting subconscious correlates with your growing pleasure. 

You know you’re not religious yet every time Sunghoon touches you there’s a divinity to it and it makes your hands want to join in prayer to thank the universe for sending someone like him to you. Because his hands roam your body as if they have in every world; as if there is not one timeline where you have not been made for him. Like you were carved from his rib every time. 

Your body smolders in that angry way it always did whenever Sunghoon got too close to you. Whenever his words were too kind, his touch too gentle, or god forbid when he just smiled at you. That fire is just the divine nature of your relationship, lighting up everywhere he touches and leaving flames in the wake. You thought it was your body rejecting his purity, but you were only denying the likeness. He made you feel good. And in the most ironic way possible. You just didn’t think you deserved it. 

Yet an anguished moan leaves you, rumbling against his skin as you bite down harder. Regardless of it all, he is yours right now. 

The feeling of your sinking teeth in him, the sounds you’re now making, and the damp heat between your legs he can’t stop chasing all makes his head spin. He bites down onto you just the same and it only makes you moan louder. 

“Please,” he’s whining again through the bite. His voice a needy tremble while his hips stutter and thrust between your legs that only squeeze tighter together. The way the fat of your legs hug his raging cock through his desperate grinds makes him chase more and more for that feeling he just can’t seem to reach. The crying tip kisses and pushes up then past your leaking folds every time. It drives you both insane. 

If your body is the fiery lake of creation's deepest pit, then he is the cleanest ocean of earth’s highest point. If anyone could extinguish you, and possibly make you feel whole, it was Sunghoon. 

This is the most horrifying reality you’ve come face to face with. Not just intimacy, but a stronger driving emotion. You have to open yourself, rip open your chest and bare your beating heart in all its naked vulnerability. Let it scream out I like being with you. You have allowed this person into your world that nobody else has dared to step foot in. To see you in such ugly ways yet still extend their arms for you. It’s a terrifying level of closeness that you’ve never once experienced and you don’t know what to do with. You’re beyond perplexed by what he’s done to you, in both terror and awe.  

You pull back from Sunghoon and he pauses everything for a moment to look at you, noticing your wet eyes. Before he can ask what’s wrong you reach down and slip off your underwear. You shift your body and maneuver him as best you can until he’s on top of you. Rattled with concealed embarrassment you remove his shirt and toss it somewhere to the floor, and he does the same. 

You take a deep breath and reach back down to his cock, lining it up with your pussy. You blink and swallow away all the things trying to stop you from allowing yourself him. Pliant beneath him, you grab his shoulders and pull him down to you for a quick kiss. Foreheads now pressed together with lips ghosting over the others, you tell him, “I hate you.” 

Sunghoon only smiles down at you before kissing you once more. With his arms caged around you, he slowly pushes himself forward. The fat tip of his cock fails to go through you, only sliding up and past the wet folds. He whines feeling the warm slick coat the head; his entire body shudders. He nearly cums from that alone. 

He looks at you confused, and nod once while trying to shift your hips around for a better angle. It’s not like you to be so quiet during things like this. It only tells him that for once, you’re nervous about new things the way he was. 

So he tries again, this time a little rougher. He thrusts his hips forward, the tip pushing past the tight walls but still barely in. You whimper at the intrusion and the feeling of you being stretched open. Your hands squeeze hold onto his biceps for purchase. 

The tight sensation of your pussy squeezing his tip feels otherworldly to him. He can’t help but need to sink deeper into you. His cock pushes in further at an agonizing pace until he’s as deep as he can possibly go. His arms shake while he tries to maintain his strength and keep himself from collapsing onto you completely. The wet walls that surround him flutter and try to pull him further inside, making him feel lightheaded. His moans are so needy it’s almost like he’s crying from the feeling. 

“Oh, f-fuck!” you whimper. Having Sunghoon completely inside of you feels so full. You’re stuffed with him and it hurts so good. “You gotta move, Hoon. Feels like you’re splitting me open.”

“You're so tight, mm.” His hips stutter from your words alone and he whimpers again. He pulls himself out halfway while your gummy walls kiss around him in an attempt to suck him back to be filled again. He begins to rock himself in and out of you. It’s inexperienced and awkward, but he gets the hang of it quickly. Doing what feels best for him and what seems to be the best for you too. 

“I hate you. I fucking hate you,” you whisper harshly, looking up at him with tear filled eyes. It all burns while feeling like heaven. Never have you been so full, held so gently, or seen than this summer. You bite back the breaking moans and whimpers. You claw at his skin. You even begin to cry when your hips can’t stop chasing his thrusts. 

“I love you too,” he whispers back. A kiss is pressed to your forehead as his cock pistons you. Sunghoon is smart enough to know you’re a liar. Your mean words that used to hurt him, he now understands. You’re not really a bad person. And you don’t hate him. You were just really damaged and if he’s damned for trying to heal that then he’s fine with that too. 

“I mean it,” your body shudders, feeling his tip pound so far and deep in places inside you that you didn’t know reachable. His fat cock drags out and forces through your tight hole, making you cream all over him more and more. The sounds that leave your body, the sounds your bodies are making, it’s so obscene. Fighting off the disgust and focusing on how he makes you feel is war. It’s so hard for you to win. 

“No you don’t,” he shifts himself to sit on his knees, taking your legs and wrapping them around his waist. He leans forward and kisses both of your cheeks before fucking himself into you again, only harder and faster than before. 

“Ngh,” you moan again through broken sobs, blinking away the tears as you stare up at him. “I’m t-trying to.” 

“I know, baby.” he mumbles before capturing your wobbling lips into a searing kiss. “It’s okay, haah, don’t cry. You’re good. You’re so good for me,” he says against your wet lips. You can only sniffle and try to turn your head away from him in your embarrassment. “No, no.” he takes your chin with his thumb and finger, forcing you to look back at him. His thrusts never letting up during his care. “Look at me. You’re so good to me.” He reminds you over and over. “We’re so good together. I’m yours. you’re mine.” 

“Say it again,” you sniffle through little sounds of sin. Your hand finds a place on his cheek, and your thumb rubs over his lips that wear a smile. 

“You’re so good, good for me. We are so good together. I am yours. And you are mine,” he says softly. His eyes are so filled with love, and if you could see your reflection in his then you would know yours are too. “Say you’re good, baby, it’s okay.”

“I’m good,” you sob through your whimpers, “I’m yours.”

To Sunghoon, the idea of sex was always sacred. Something that’s only done and shared between lovers bound by marriage of the church. But now, he thinks differently. He knows that there is no shame in him loving you now or years later. And he was more than happy to make love to you all night until you believed it too. 

　Perhaps there was a thing such as divine intervention and if God’s timing was alway right, he knew how to be evil with it too. Because the next day, when Sunghoon takes you home, he’s met with your maker. 

Your mother, aware of the frequent trips you’ve been making and how close you’ve grown to the summer farmhand boy, is quick to make a call to your father the night you don’t return home. It wasn’t necessarily because she cared for your well being. You’re more than capable of handling yourself. But it was an excuse to try and get him to come back. Only it doesn’t go how she wanted.

When you see the reverend’s car parked in front of your house, your heart drops. Sunghoon picks up on your tension, He sees how you go blank at the sight and slowly turn back into the empty girl he met months ago. He tries to hold your hand but your fingers can’t move, can’t return the embrace. 

When the reverend walks out of the house with his infamous weapon of sacrificial forgiveness, you know what to do. Your body moves on its own, leaving Sunghoon to reach out for you that walks towards the woods. He goes to follow you and the desolate man that stalks behind, but your mother stops him. She’s hysterical as she drags him towards your house saying, “it’s going to be okay.” But she’s crying. 

Once out of their sight, the reverend takes you by the hair. He yanks your head around, pulling you towards that cursed tree. He’s uncharacteristically rough and your scalp screams for a release but you don’t show it. You don’t even look at the man. Not even when he’s tossing your body to the ground. 

“So you’re whoring around with my employees now, huh? Was ruining this farm not enough for you?” His words mean nothing to you. You dust off the dirt and go to stand again, but he kicks you back down. You tsk under your breath as he speaks again, “I’ve seen all the things you’ve done. Seen you leave my barns with red hands and smile. Cut heads off chickens like an anatomy project. Is he next? That church boy?” 

Now you look up to glare at him. Seeing the reverend was aggravating enough, but to say something about Sunghoon was infuriating to you. “I am not a killer. You are! And those animals were already dead.” You spit at his black leather church shoes. 

“Oh, you disgusting little devient,” he laughs lowly, untying the rope from the tree. “Your cruelty shouldn’t bring you joy. Sick and twisted, I should’ve dealt with you sooner regardless of what your drunk bitch mother protested. I can save the boy when you’re gone.” 

“What?” you shuffle backwards from him, angry and confused as he stalks closer to you until you’re backed against the tree. “All those things I did was because of you. Your righteousness made me rotten!” Your hands shake, gripping at the dirt ground for anything to make the fear stop. You glance up to the empty tree branch then the rope in his hands. Where is the lamb? You think briefly before it hits you. “You’re crazy,” you whisper, “I will not be your martyr… not now what I’m finally-”

“Condemn me to Hell for all I care,” he crouches down in front of you, “This is the last time I’ll be a killer.” He throws the rope to your lap and tells you to tether yourself. 

“Why do you hate me?” The words scratch at your throat. When you were younger, you did want the reverend to hate you. It was when he noticed you most, and it’s all you really knew. But now you’re older, and his disdain never made sense. 

You can’t bring yourself to move even if you wanted to. Was this His plan? To allow you one good thing in life before ending it? Was ruining Sunghoon your final sin? 

The rope shakes with your fingers as you stare down at it. The twine of the rope burns over the palm of your hand where Sunghoon carved his promise. Your throat feels dry, tight and suffocating; choking on everything you’ve ever done. And your eyes still puffy from the night before well with tears all over again. 

“I just do,” he thinks of slicing your neck open right there. So fuck tying you down, you were always secretly another lamb anyways. He raises his knife and the metal sits cold under your chin as he lifts your head up to look back at him. 

“Okay…” you swallow. 

Your eyes squeeze shut and so does your mouth, as you raise your head to the sky with an exposed throat. Why isn’t this easy? Unlike the animals, you do know what’s coming. And it’s scary. Scary not because of death, but because you aren’t ready. You haven’t told Sunghoon goodbye or that you love him back. And the thought of him finding something in this world to hate, is such an ugly feeling to die with. 

And then there’s a loud noise. A booming bang, followed by unsteady feet falling back and the ground rumbling with a thud. 

You open your eyes and your father is on his back clutching his abdomen. He coughs and gasps before raising his hand. It’s dripping in deep red. And you can’t help but smile with tears in your eyes as you exhale a jagged breath.

You turn your head and Sunghoon stands there with the shotgun in hand, open mouthed and wide eyed. 

“Sunghoon!” you scramble to your feet and run over to him, taking the gun from his hands as he’s frozen in shock. 

“H-he was going to- he was about to hurt you. I had to-!” he stutters, his eyes already crying and hands shaking, still feeling the weight and recoil of the gun. 

“It’s okay,” you coo softly. “Just- go back to the house and I’ll be right there, okay?” You rush out. Still in shock and dazed, he blindly trusts you and does as you say. 

When he’s no longer close by, you walk over to the reverend with a blank face. You stare down at him as he tries to crawl away, dirty and bleeding. The smile you make doesn’t reach your eyes. 

You point the gun back down at him, and place your foot over the shot wound Sunghoon created. The man gasps and tries to swat at your leg but you only press the gun further into his face, making him surrender. 

“Divine intervention, huh? Say it with me now. I know no punishment, only mercy.” Your voice is quiet, calm, and mocking of his tone. With the barrel to his forehead, you watch him writhe in pain and cough up a little blood. 

“Go to Hell,” he spits his words like venom. 

“If you say it, I’ll let you live. But if you show your face to me or Sunghoon again, I’ll shoot you right between the eyes.” Your foot presses down harder. You can feel that angry little girl inside of you jumping with joy.. Knowing his God demands to be bled for, and making him know the sacrificial suffering, well it feels good to say the least. “Say it. With me. Now.” Each word pronounced with the growing applied pressure to his shot wound. And then he begs for forgiveness. He’s never seen you smile the way you did when he was below you with those words. Empty eyes were never so alive for him either. He cries and chants ‘I know no punishment, only mercy’ over and over. It was like the most beautiful hymn.

　There wasn’t much to be said about that day. Sunghoon and you just pretend you shared a nightmare. Neither of you talked about it. It was just another thing that tied you together. 

Sitting there in the peak of summer’s heat. A day before Sunghoon returns to college classes. Birds chirp. The leaves of the tall trees thistle in the light breezes that pass by. Sunghoon sits criss crossed and while you have your feet hanging off the edge of the dock, kicking in the water. 

“I’m sorry,” you break the silence. Shocked, he looks over to you. He never would have expected you to apologize for anything. “I was selfish when I approached you. I wanted to take all that goodness out of you and keep it for myself. I thought I wanted to hurt you, but after sharing all this time with you, I realized I was wrong. It’s weird to say it out loud,” you laugh small, awkward, “but I really am sorry. I love you more than even I know.” You stare down to your feet in the water that has gone still. A tear falls from your eye, and down to your cheek. 

“I know. I love you too,” he wraps an arm around your waist. “But now the same sins bind us.” You hiccup silently and turn to look up at him. “Harvest all of my purity, farmer’s daughter.” 

For the first time, you really laugh. It’s bright and loud like the big smile he’s seeing for the first time on his favorite face. It’s morning sunlight that whispers through trees to kiss the forest floor. Birds that sing songs of hope to awake life into a new day. Nostalgic, expansive days of childhood where the concept of time doesn’t exist. To him, you look like the epitome of summer; he doesn’t want this season to end. 

You were never the lamb. Or the wolf. Not an animal at all. Nothing like the ones you grew up with. You were just a girl, scared and alone. But not anymore. Because it’s your last day on this farm, and tomorrow is the first with only Sunghoon. 

“Your humor is poetry.” you continue to laugh until tears prick your eyes all over again. You love it. 

“It wasn’t supposed to be funny.” he looks away shyly, blushing. It only makes your giggle more, but you stop to press a kiss to his cheek. He blushes harder. 

“I’ll keep doing it, harvesting all of your purity, for as long as you’re good.” you say with a smile. 

“Do you promise? I am always good, especially with you, so it could be a long while.” He bumps your shoulder playfully with a laugh. 

You take his scarred hand in yours and you laugh like he did, pure and true, “I do.”

© fangel ┊ do not copy, repost, modify or translate my content ໒꒱ tysm for reading, ⌗unlearn shame ⌇ taglist @tinycatharsis @simjaexy @leehsngs @511rkive @beomluvrr @jjongsaengzz @slvtella @jaerisdiction @kkamismom12 @rayofsunshineeee @nshmrarki @m3wkledreamy @hanjisbeloved @filmnings @stercul1a @hooniesfvngs @moriwori @sleepyhoon

[aspiring-house-husband]

“good thing i’m immune to hypnosis, right?” you say, your face messy with saliva and slick. 

“of course, dear.”

“if i were so impressionable, i’d be incapable of making decisions for myself. i probably wouldn’t have chosen to leave my stressful career, too gripped by what’s expected of me.” 

“mhm.” their fingers tighten in your hair. 

“im not so swayable. i know where i’m happiest, and that’s right here.”

“that’s- that’s right.”

“oh, i’m so sorry, were you about to cum? hold on.” your tongue resumes it’s dutiful work, skillfully bringing them over the edge. you relish in the crush of their thighs around your head.

“what were you…” they’re breathy and panting. “what were you saying, darling?”

“yes, i just know what i’m supposed to be doing, you know? i know what my true calling is. this is much better than anything else i could’ve spent my life doing.”

“is it, love?”

“oh, it’s the best. tending your every whim, seeing you happy, tasting you, letting you do whatever you want to me… i dream of it. i drool for it.”

“do you now?”

“gods, yes.” you feel the truth of it pulling deep at your heart. “when you’re away doing whatever you do, and you’ve left me here all alone to fend for myself, i find myself cleaning and thinking of you. some days i can hardly keep myself from rutting on table corners, thinking about how badly i want to be with you.” 

“remember when you could hardly stand the sight of me?”

“ugh, don’t remind me, i can hardly imagine it. the thought of seeing you in the university lecture i didn’t even really want to be in and not wanting to crawl under your desk and really put my mind to its real purpose. good thing i’m immune to hypnosis, right, or id have never come to my senses.”

“of course, gorgeous.”

“babe, have i ever told you how much i love these tattoos?”

“what, the spirals? the ones inside my hipbones?”

“the very ones. they’re just so sexy, i don’t know. mesmerizing, colorful, and right over some of my favorite places to put my mouth… like whenever i’m in my true place, i get to open my eyes and see such a gorgeous sexy tattoo and i’m reminded how much i adore you.”

“you flatter me, sweetheart.”

you go silent for a moment, staring at those very tattoos. brilliant and colorful and… they almost look like they move. 

“babe, can i..?” you trail off, softly sliding your hands over their hips and to their thighs, so freshly slick with their cum and your spit. 

“sweetheart, not again. i’m way too sensitive- you’ve had me all afternoon.” you pout and whine, playfully, but draw up the drama by nuzzling your face into their thigh like a pleading puppy. 

“oh, don’t be like that,” they whimper, running their fingers through your hair. “not the puppy dog eyes… ugh, maybe i’m the one hypnotized. fine, baby, find your favorite place. just promise you’ll fuck me after, okay?”

“oh, deal,” you say, immediately pulling their calves over your shoulders. you lick and suck dutifully, the flavor of fresh cum making your body sing. they grip into your hair, twitching and jolting and locking your head between their thighs at the oversensation. they whimper and moan, and you feel them arch their back. 

“good thing i’m immune to hypnosis, right?” you say, your face messy with saliva and slick. 

“huh?” they can barely push the word from their heaving chest.

“i wouldn’t be able to suck you off nearly this well if my mind was all foggy, right?”

“right.”

you chuckle and get back to pleasuring them. it’s where you belong. 

[watermelonsugacry]

Hello! I'm sorry if this is bothering you but can you write something abt Harry falling for bandmate!yn and Y/N interacting with the boys while in the band? Again, Im sorry if I'm annoying

A Race To The Brits

A/N: Had this little blurb in my files so thought it fit the prompt :) and you: not annoying 💚 oh and...THANK YOU FOR 500+ FOLLOWERS?? I LOVE YOU ALL MUCH TYSM

SUMMARY: It should be known that Harry falls in love with YN multiple times, over and over again, throughout the years. One of the times he realizes he's falling for her is at the 2014 Brit Awards. (1.9k)

GENRE: 1dbandmember!reader

MASTERLIST

The boys are getting ready in their green room while YN is getting dressed in the room adjacent to theirs. As their styling team wraps up doing some finishing touches, they turn their heads to a knock at the door. YN peaks her head inside with a hand hovering over her eyes, careful not to mess up her freshly done make up.

"I better not see any weenies out." 

"Eh, wait." Louis jests, making a dramatic sound with his zipper. "Alright, you're good."

Harry's breath gets caught up in his throat when YN fully comes into the room. She has her hair curled up and tied in a messy low bun, some strands of hair framing her face. Her dress is essentially all mesh with a bustier.

She looks absolutely stunning, he thinks. And her smile, ugh that smile. It's enough to make his knees buckle if he wasn't leaning on a couch to put his shoes on.

YN puts her hands on her hips and looks around at the rest of the band. "Well don't you all look absolutely dashing."

"And yeh actually look like a girl." Zayn jokes only to retrieve a middle finger in return.

"Piss off," She chuckles before nodding over to the blonde lad. "How's the knee, babe?"

Niall shrugs as he grips his crutches. "S'alright. Once we get to our table with the booze, it'd be even better."

"I'm sure it will." YN giggles. The rest of the people in the room go back to their previous conversations but, as disgustingly cheesy as it sounds, he can’t seem to take his eyes off of her. That is until she meets his eyes and he feels like he’s back in primary school, embarrassed that he was caught looking at his crush. 

Especially when YN makes her way over to him after his stylist finishes him up and he breathes out a, "Hey." 

“Hey. Oh, lemme get that for you." Before he can even process what's happening, YN reaches out and adjusts the collar of his dress shirt. She’s so close to him that when he breathes in her vanilla perfume he might combust.

He wants to kick himself for feeling a bit of heat rise to his cheeks. He has screaming fans try to come onto him all the time, he can literally have anyone at the drop of a hat, so why does he get all flustered by this one girl? This beautiful, stubborn girl. "Thanks, lovie."

"What would you do without me?" She gives him an amused smile as she dusts off some lint from his shoulders. How's he supposed to act normal while she looks up at him like that?

"Don't even wanna think about tha’. You look really beau—"

"Alright kids, let's go!" Paul says while entering the room. Harry's both irritated and thankful for the interruption. He's always trying to find that balance of whether or not his compliments to her every now and then are from a place of platonic feelings or more.

YN raises her eyes at Harry, giving him a smirk. "Show time."

Harry knows that he shouldn't think about her in that way, he’s reminded nearly everyday by their check-ins with management, analyzing them individually by looking at their interviews, performances on stage, etc. Telling him to keep his eyes on the crowd, the interviewer, literally anyone else but on her.

Why can't he be like the other guys? Like now, as the rest of the band walks in front of him down the venue halls, Louis brings an arm up behind her and taps her opposite shoulder. When she looks back and sees no one there, she turns to a laughing Louis and shoves his shoulder. 

The others see her as a little sister, and while at times he does too, he knows he feels something a little more than sibling love.

Do the other boys get a little heart-eyed when they watch her smile and wave at the fans at the barricade outside the venue?

Or get butterflies in their stomachs when they feel her hand on their backs when they're on the red carpet, posing and looking out at the paparazzi?

Or have their heart beats quicken when she squeezes his arm in a form of gratitude after making her a sweet drink once they’ve been seated at their designated table?

Probably not.

“M’gonna go to the loo.” Harry leans over to YN, already pushing out his chair.

“Wait, can I come with? Need to stretch my legs.” He extends a hand out to her with a nod in the general direction of where the backstage entrance is at.

Before she can fully get out of her seat, Liam quickly reaches out and grabs a hold of her wrist. “You guys can’t leave without Paul.”

“Chill out, Daddy Direction. We’ll be back in two minutes.” 

YN shrugs him off before her and Harry navigate down the halls of the venue. The sound of the announcer sounds through the speakers around the building, but they begin talking and laughing so much that they don’t even hear that they were nominated for anything.

“Hey, um, I didn’t get a chance to say it earlier but you, eh, you look really beautiful tonight.” Harry says, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his trousers from keeping to reach out and brush a strand of hair away from her face.

Whenever he tends to give charming compliments to someone like this, the blush usually rushes to their cheeks in an instant, teeth biting down on their bottom lip to keep the giddy smile from forming on their face. It happens so often that he’s left waiting for it to happen to her. 

But he never gets it. What he does get is an eye roll and a finger pressed to his dimpled cheek.

“Y’such a sap. Did y’know that?” 

And there he goes again, falling head over heels for a girl he could never have.

“Do you want anything from the vending machine?” 

“Haribos, if they have ‘em please.” Harry says as he scurries over to the loo. He really does have to go to the restroom.

YN takes out her little stash of money from her bustier and shoves it in the machine full of snacks.

“And the winner is…” 

YN watches as the little metal spiral retracts itself and the bag of gummies gets pushed off its little ledge. 

“One Direction!”

“Yay.” YN says to herself as the bag falls to the bottom of the machine with a thud. She can sometimes have the worst of luck when it comes to these machines. 

YN remembers a time on tour last year where one of these machines at the venue the band was performing at had eaten her dollar without having been given her snack. She smiles fondly at the memory of how the boys offered their help and began to shake the whole machine—. 

YN furrows her eyebrows and tries to rack her brain as to why she feels so off.

She turns her head to the sound of the restroom door opening and sees Harry popping his head from the loo, his confused expression mirrors her own.

“Did we—?”

“Was our—?”

Paul comes bursting through one of the hallway doors with a worried expression. “What the hell are you guys doing?”

“Snacks.” YN points to the machine in front of her, still trying to figure out what just happened. 

“Get your bums on stage right now!” 

Harry turns his head towards her with a tilt of his head. “Are we performing tonight?”

“You guys won! Come on, you two. Hurry!” Paul frantically waves his hand for the two teenagers to follow him. 

“Really?” YN says excitedly, putting her hands over her chest. Harry quickly bursts from the loo and wraps his arms around her. He lifts YN up and gives her a spin as they both laugh in giddiness, congratulating each other.

“Let’s go!” Paul presses on.

With her heels in one hand, YN holds the length of her dress with the other as she prepares herself for the run. Before the three of them completely go through the door, she suddenly remembers something.

“Wait!” YN turns back around and quickly shoves her hand through the metal flap of the vending machine and grabs her snacks.

A laugh tumbles past Harry’s lips as she races back to them while Paul looks like he’s about to pass a brick. 

“We’ve lost the curly headed ones.” Liam’s voice comes through the venue speakers above them. After rounding a couple corners, they finally arrive at the big room where everyone is waiting. Side by side, YN and Harry run to the stage with big smiles on their faces. 

“There they are!” Liam yells in excitement. They both fly up the stairs and are greeted by the other boys, the audience members cheering along at their arrival. Her and Harry shamelessly wave at the crowd as they attempt to catch their breath.

“I’m really sorry I was having a wee.” Harry says out of breath once Liam hands him the microphone. YN raises up their snack by her head like a trophy before placing it on top of the podium next to their Brit award. She grabs onto Zayn’s shoulder and begins to put her heels back on.

“Professional, as always.” Louis says in a whisper, leaning over Zayn. Both of them have smirks on their faces. 

“It’s what ’m known for.” YN snickers back, straightening up and adjusting the bottom of her dress.

“The loos are ages away. Eh, what did we win?” Harry leans over to YN while doing a horrible job at being discreet with his question as the microphone is still slightly below his mouth. 

YN gently puts her hands on top of his, the one that's holding the microphone, as she brings it closer to her mouth.

"Um, we just wanna say a massive thank you to our fans. You guys are the best fans in the world and we are so happy to have you guys supporting us. Thank you so much!"

And with that the audience claps and cheers as the band leaves the stage.

YN seems unbothered by their shangagins or the fact that they might get a good scolding later by their management as they get escorted backstage, opening up the bag of Haribos.

She looks at him with raised eyebrows, a hand midway towards her mouth with a little gummy between her fingers. The corners of her lips start to curl up in an open mouthed smile and Harry might as well just float away on Cloud 9.

"Did yeh even wash your hands?"

Of course he did but he decides to tease her just to hear her laugh.

He gives her a shrug of shoulders, reaching for the bag. "Does it matter?" YN is quick to pull the candies back.

"Harry!" A giggle tumbles past her lips. "That's nasty! I just touched your hands."

"Wait, think there might be something on your face." His chest swells up as she ducks away from him, laughing and gripping his wrist to keep from coming in contact with her face.

He doesn't care if he gets in trouble later because having her here, an arm around her waist, her nose scrunching up in the cutest way possible, and her laughter sounding like music to his ears, is completely and utterly worth it.

Taglist:

@wobblymug @be-with-me-so-happily @ashtongivesmebutterflies @kiwiskiwiskiwi @darlingdesire @obsesseddd @hopefulwastelandcreation @cacapeepee @breezie-b00 @harrysfolkloreore @theekyliepage @sunshinemoonsposts @nervousspiderling

[kyurizeu]

#14 - kisses and hugs (Im)possibly fate (TEXT)

★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★

Previous - masterlist - next

Warnings: fluff. Fluffy fluff. Angst and stress. Also not proofread bc yk me;)

Word count: 1,4k

★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★

“I have to go now guys… byeeee annyeong!!” Just as you shut the live off you felt how every drop of energy drained out of your body. Your lips faded into a line trying to hold still to not fall into a frown. Your eyes became teary and you felt your breath getting shaky. Deep breaths yn. It’s okay.

“Kiranaaaaaa are you here?” You peeked into the kitchen and soon the whole house until you had to go check her room. “Knock knock? R u here kira?”

“Yep! U ready?”

“Yeah”

She came out of her room and soon plopped into the drivers seat of her new shiny car. “Damn this is cleaner than I expected” you slid your finger over the surface of the steering wheel as if you were looking for dust. “I just got it so… haven’t got time to trash it yet” “makes sense”

“Where do i drop u off?”

“Oh yk where the nearest seven eleven is, right? Drop me off there”

“At the seven eleven..?”

“Their dorm is most likely surrounded by people and i do not want to get caught near his dorm.”

“Okay smart”

——

“Ty kira bye!”

“Bye! Also call me when u need a ride back! Dont be too late and call me if u need help!”

“I’ll be fine dw”

You sneaked into their backyard and knocked onto their glass door which you saw a very startled Niki through. You mouthed “i’m sorry” to him and he rolled his eyes before sliding the door open. “Where is-“ “Jungwonnn!! Your girlfriend is here” he yelled reaaallly loudly facing the direction of jungwons room. Jungwon soon sprinted out of the room to hug you tightly. “Ugh get a room.” Niki muttered as he went back to the kitchen table to eat his cereal. Jungwon placed a million soft kisses all over your head also letting out little “mwah” sounds on purpose as he hugged you softly and moved both of you back and forth slowly. “Jungwon- i cant breathe..” he chuckled and placed his hands onto your cheeks to plant the final kiss on your soft lips. For a second he just adored your face and smiled at you lovingly. “Let’s go into my room so i can kiss you in peace” he glanced at niki annoyingly and grabbed you by your wrist.

His room was cozy but messy…ish… i mean there werent clothes all over but the room was a bit unwell decorated. That didn’t matter though because he was laying on his bed with open arms and a warm smile. You took the opportunity to jump onto the bed and hug him tightly. He started kissing your cheeks and caressing your hair. “Honey look at me” you looked up at him into his soft and gentle eyes. “Youre so beautiful”

The words that usually made you smile, blush or feel butterflies now made your eyes teary and throat dryer. Your slight smile turned into a downward one and your lips started shaking. Jungwons eyes widened a little and his hands came back onto their favourite place on your cheeks. “Yn… did i do something wrong?” The poor boy looked confused and concerned. You bursted into tears and hid your face in your hands. “I-i’m sorry honey are you okay?” He pulled you into his chest to hug you as he rubbed your back and head softly. “N-no you didn’t do anything wrong…” you mumbled against his soft hoodie. He just hugged you more tightly and placed you onto his lap.

After a while your eyes started drying a bit and you sniffled once before backing away from him to smile softly. Your nose was a little red and eyes were swollen. “Im sorry won.. i ruined the night” he tilted his head with furrowed brows and still wide eyes like a deer in headlights. “No no no you didn’t it’s good that you’re here. You’re safe and you can cry. I’m here” his hands were resting on your waist and they connected together behind your back. “Do you want to talk about it or just cuddles?” He pouted at you and watched as you wiped some tears into your sleeves. “I-It’s just that… I can’t stand my job right now. My manager is a pain in the ass and i’m just ruining everything. I was so bad during our last comeback and i dragged you into this solo album dating rumour mess and- and i ruined your life too and i’m such an idiot and on top of that-“ you felt yourself being pulled into a hug again. “Yn… you are the sweetest most precious soul and I hate to think that you’ve been feeling like this because you deserve nothing but happiness and love. You haven’t ruined anything and you’re one of the most professional idols i know. You have nothing to worry about baby. Tell me, what would ease your mind right now?” He pulled away from the hug and kissed your forehead tilting his head after. “I.. i think some kisses and hugs.. and my fav movie.” You smiled through the teary eyes, red and puffed up eyes. “Anything my princess wants” he kissed your lips softly and scooted onto the back of his bed with you in his lap, letting his back hit the wall. “Make urself comfy and i’ll find the movie on my laptop” you cozied yourself on his chest and he placed a pillow on your thighs and the laptop on top of the pillow.

He was the sweetest man. His cologne wafting through the air was making you even more comfortable. When the theme song of the movie started playing your boyfriend started playing with your hair and running his hands through it.

In the middle of the movie jungwon thought he was hallucinating because of the small sound he heard. He looked over your shoulder as much as he could and then he heard the sound again— soft snores coming out of your mouth. Aw she’s so cute.. he adored you so much.. he took a 0.5 picture of you and laughed a little at it before thinking his possibilities through. A) wake you up and get you mad, B) let you sleep but you’d get mad because you’re late, C) let you sleep here the night but get you fired.

“Sweetie..?” He shook you softly and as you started opening your eyes softly he lifted you up onto his lap by your armpits. “Did u sleep well?” He smiled as he kissed your neck softly and pressed his face against the side of yours. You slightly blushed and felt embarrassed and annoyed that you had fallen asleep but you’d rarely gotten any sleep these days. “I’m sorry wonie… i-” a yawn interrupted your sentence and Jungwon chuckled at you. “I was so comfortable there… what time is it?” You turned to your boyfriend now. “It’s uhh… 22:28pm” he checked his phone before focusing all his attention back to you. “22:28pm?! Oh no i have to go home” you pouted and leaned in to hug him tightly.

“It’s okay sweetie we see each other almost daily” he laughed at the way you started clinging onto him suddenly. “You feel a little cold.. wait there..” he left the bed leaving you to lay on your stomach hugging the pillow in disappointment. “Here you go” you got up to sit on his bed until your eyes focused onto your favourite hoodie of his. Suddenly jungwon was dressing the hoodie on you. “I want you to stay warm” he smirked like always when he has something in his mind. “Jungwon… you just like seeing me in your clothes, right?” You laughed with a disappointed expression. “So what you’re cute with my oversized clothes” he shrugged and lifted you to stand up and hug him. “You like wearing my clothes too hm?” He rested his chin on top of your head and swung you two back and forth again. He loves giving these kind of hugs oml. “Yeah they’re comfy and smell like you” your hands rested on his lower back and you tried pulling away and pouted “jungwon i really need to go..”

“Okay.. just text me that you get home safely, mmkay?” He patted your head as you stopped hugging. “Yes okay… bye wonie.. i love you” he smiled as you left his room while rubbing your eyes with your hands in fists. “Love you too ynnie”

★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★

Taglist: (open)

@harperwasstaken @strwberrydinosaur @letapostropheesgo @yngwife @chogolei @ddeonmixx @j-wyoung @xiaoderrrr @vivibelov3d @ablackbtsstan @chaechae-23 @vizstars @tlnyjoong @ahnneyong @deobitifull @jungwonnieee @yumilovesloona @ikeu4life @nyxtwixx @s02zjy @choclate32 @soobiverse @maimoirs @gigi-honeyjaes @aeriti @kimiplx @jakeify @sullkyoons2

[xylatox]

Bite, ink, repeat - until i stay || psh

Going to eat up my love’s work sm ugh <//3 literally so excited

Love the description in the beginning, the way you literally bring a scene to life on the screen :( 

“I mean — I thought this was someone else’s table, honestly. But I guess yours isn’t bad. I’ll let it slide.”

LOL i fuckin love it

Shes so fucking bratyy from earlllylyyyy

“You strike me as the type who always has something to say,” he said, placing it in front of you on the table. “Here is something to keep that mouth busy.”

So many other things can keep me busy rn 

“I’m counting on it.” He retorted, not breaking eye contact. “Bring that stubborn mouth with you.”

ON MY KNEES TOOOO

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… you absolutely looked up the second you got home. Just to verify, obviously. For research purposes, due diligence.

I love this because same ugh, hes hot and annoying

Also berry i hope you know im literally weak knees and crazy for Soobin, gonna lose it whenever he appears

 Each piece looks like it was made to live on skin and not on screens. 

Your words :( literally in love with you

Also i freaking love the tension like fuck me. I love Sunghoon because i feel like the tension is always there and drives you crazy

“Wait — what about your break, Hoon?” Sunoo called after him.

He didn’t pause. “Didn’t sound that important.”

Would **** *** *** right there i cant lie

“See? Knew you could handle it.”

Berry, love, you scrambled my brain

“Shhh,” his voice filled with quiet encouragement. He placed a hand on the dip of your hips, the latex cool against you but the pressure’s gentle. “You’re doing great. Need a break?”

I cant do this, hes too fucking hot

By the time he finished, you felt completely drained and wrung out; but underneath it all is a hushed sense of pride swelled in your chest. 

Gonna be the same way when hes done with you in other ways

As he rubs the ointment over your skin, he glances up from under his brow. “Now stay out of the sun, alright?” He tuts as he starts wrapping you, “no matter how cute your dress is.” 

FUCKKKKK MEEEEEE

ALSO HIM NOT CHARGING WHAT THE FUCK SUNGHOON, Just say you want her rn🫵🫵

Also i am loving the style of this fic, the mix between scenes and headcanons is so freaking cute and a breath of fresh air

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… keeps a slim, black portfolio near the front desk with Sunoo — tucked neatly beside the appointment book and labeled ‘designs just for Y/N’ in his own handwriting. 

Oh my god this is hot

SOOBIN UGH

“She’s not even here yet,” Soobin deadpans from his station. “Are you tattooing her or summoning her?”

Would have you too <//3

“Oh, that one?” he’ll say, all polite charm. “Sorry, that’s reserved for my girl.” 

He doesnt know im freaking crazy

Also i fucking love how cute he is where he just has an angy resting face ::( im so fuckin soft rn

Originally labeled ‘better than Soobin’s’, it’s now been quietly renamed to ‘not mine but mine’.

Im going to sob

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… tells you not to get tattooed by anyone else. Not just because he’s confident in his work (which he is, to a borderline arrogant degree) but because the idea of someone else — especially another guy — leaning in close, pulling at your clothes, touching your skin, mapping it like it’s theirs to read, marking you? Yeah, no. Absolutely not.

Biting my lip i love when people are possessive

“Go ahead. Let Soobin ink you.”

You raised a brow, testing him further. “Really?”

“I’ll just tattoo over it, babe.”

I LOVE HIMMM OMG

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… can’t help but get a little messy when it comes to you — filthy hands, filthier mouth, mess all over you and him.

Need this need this need this

“I’m mean, huh?” He echoes, voice gravel-soft, rasp when you’re this — open and so easy to read — it’s almost cruel to you. His mouth is everywhere but where you want it most, making you lean backwards on the island, hoping he gets the message. And Oh he does, but he's savoring the control and not giving in yet. “We both know that’s not true.” 

I cannot do this ill pass out

“Mm,” he hums, voice low against your mouth, “tastes even better when you’re bratty.”

I CANNNNNNNT RELEASE ME

“Keep testing me,” he pants as his hips thrusts hard enough for his tip to nudge your cervix, “and I’ll tame you all the same.”

Berry i cant fucking do this 

"I’ll fuck it back in if I have to."

HELL FUCKING OOO

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… lets you talk him into getting a tattoo to commemorate the trip. 

DOWNBAD (Same)

“Studio’s always open for you. Couch too.” He murmurs, thumb tracing the curve of your cheek, “but next time, just go home, yeah? I’ll be right behind you.”

Im so soft :(( 

I would fuck Sunghoon silly with long hair

*clears throat*

Sorry

Its so fucking cute when she tattoos him oh my god

“She’s mine today,” the other tattoo artist, now truly a friend of yours, calls from her chair with a shrug, eyes never leaving the digital tablet in her hand. “Finders keepers.”

Me whenever i flirt with women :3

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… pretends to act unfazed when you walk into the studio, lean against the counter with your chin resting on your folded arms, and dead-seriously say, “I think I want a tramp stamp.” 

Me. its literally one of the sexiest placements in my opinion

Also th ematching lollipop tattoos?? So fucking cute

Literally my brain is freaking scrambled i cant do this

He leans in, catching your lips in a kiss —  like he’s done it a thousand times and will do it a thousand more. Soft and annoyingly sure of himself. “No, I won’t.” he promised against your mouth. Because this one? Like the subtle constellation he hid behind his ear (your birth stars), the micro heart near his collarbone (lifted from one of your silly iPad doodles), the flower tucked behind his bicep (your favorite kind)? 

I fucking cant oh my god

Berry oh my god. I literally loved this so much. I love your writing, Its genuinely so damn good i cannot. Like, I enjoyed all of it so much, i love them and I love this style, its so cute to get the headcanons and snippets while also seeing their relationship progression. I love them so much :(

bite, ink, repeat — until i stay

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who...

Synopsis: Sunghoon’s hands were made for ink —  but you, untouched and inkless, became his favorite canvas long before the needle ever kissed your skin. (a series of drabbles from the Tattoo Studio Collective: “Fated Ink”) Word count: 17.7k Warnings: tattoo artist AU, slice of life, first tattoo experience, friends-to-lovers energy, softdom!sunghoon x brat reader (with a lot of love), Soobin (TXT) as Sunghoon’s coworker, Sunoo at the front desk (aka emotional support), mentions of Jake hehe, tattoo shop family vibes, slow burn but also unhinged at times, warm domestic moments, acts of service as love language, lowkey loverboy hoon, very much “lalala” (yn) x “okokok” (hoon),  fluff + smut (MDNI), messy feelings but even messier smut, i didnt mean to write rough sex but here we are, backshots + tramp stamp combo (yeah… I had to), oral (f. receiving), creampie / cumplay, breast play, tattoo kink adjacent, some (... a lot) of overstimulation, praise + slight teasing, marking kink, breeding kink, aftercare (emotional and physical), matching tattoos duhhh, and sm more...

a/n: hiii this is in collaboration with my baby @hoonieyun after i dreamt about this tattoo artist sunghoon hehe… this is part of my birthday present you to kiki <333 happy birthday cutie, i hope all the coming years treat you with love, joy and health <333 this is my very first time NOT writing a full fledged fic and writing in yn's 2nd pov … so im veryyyy nervous about this but wtvvv enjoy guys lol.

⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯⌯

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… you met at a tattoo expo where he was a featuring artist, you were just a curious first-timer. You’ve been toying with the thought of a tattoo for a very  long time, yet hesitation keeps holding you back. What design do you want to get? The placement? What about the pain? What if you regret it? So you told yourself that coming here was a way to get you inspired, to see the artists in action, to get a real feel for the culture — a step towards making it real. As a matter of a fact, you went with a list, literal Notes app receipts of artists you'd stalked online for weeks: this was your research mission.  

The expo pulses with life before you’re even through the gates — a tangle of music, voices, and the unmistakable whir of tattoo machines drifting through the summer heat. It’s all fluorescent lights and the constant hum of tattoo machines, mixing with the faint thump of bass-heavy music from a DJ booth tucked somewhere in the far corner. 

People weave around you in all directions, skin on display like walking museums — fresh pieces glistening under plastic wrap, it was all healing layered work. Booths line the convention center floor, some extravagant and flashy portfolios open on tables with neon signage, others grungy and industrial with metal panels and graffiti art.

You approach an artist’s booth you’ve been eyeing for days — one of many that you have bookmarked obsessively, saved every design that caught your eye. The booth was minimalist, almost stark in its simplicity. The sleek setup with matte black banners and moody lighting feels familiar, absorbing the harsh expo lights rather than reflecting them — exactly what you were expecting. Small spotlights are strategically placed to illuminate a few framed sketches and carefully pinned flash sheets — each design detailed, precise, and clearly crafted with serious skill. 

A portfolio lies open on the table, the plastic sleeves faintly glossy under your hands. You begin flipping through the pages — delicate linework, expert shading, black-and-grey florals swirling into intricate dotwork patterns that catch your eye.

At the second page, you pause, brow furrowing. This style, this artist… it’s not the one you were searching for. The designs are stunning, but completely different from the color work you’d been studying. Your lips part slightly in surprise as you realize: you’ve wandered into the wrong booth. “…Wait. Shit. This isn’t — this isn’t who I thought it was.” You said, flipping through the portfolio once more. 

From behind the booth, a calm and dry voice pierced in through the noise. “Disappointed?”

“No,” you said, raising your eyebrows as you glanced at him — and immediately wished you’d worn sunglasses. His gaze was razor-clean, cutting straight through whatever bluff you were about to make. “I mean — I thought this was someone else’s table, honestly. But I guess yours isn’t bad. I’ll let it slide.”

His lips twitch, the beginnings of a smirk tugging at the corner. “Let it slide?”  He crossed his arms over his chest, forearms flexing beneath ink and fabric. “How generous. High praise coming from a girl who’s been stuck on the same page for two minutes.”

Rolling your eyes, you snapped the portfolio shut a little harder than needed. “Please. Don’t flatter yourself.” you said as you pushed it back on the table. “I’m just being polite.”

He leaned forward slightly, his tone dipping a bit with him. “You don’t strike me as the polite type.” You tilt your head to the side, curiosity piqued — you were maybe a little too ready to press the edge of his patience, a little too eager to get under his skin. “Oh yeah? And what ‘type’ do I strike you as?”

There’s a beat where he just looks at you — and then, with an exhale that might be a laugh, he grabs a lollipop from the small jar beside him. “You strike me as the type who always has something to say,” he said, placing it in front of you on the table. “Here is something to keep that mouth busy.”

Oh, he thinks he’s funny. This smug little shit. 

“I do, but I’m not sure that you…” Your tone breezy before pausing as you let your eyes drop, up and down, openly sizing him up now — tattoos slipping out from under his sleeves, muscle coiled just enough to catch the light, jaw tight like he’s fighting a smile.  “…are qualified.”

He let out a quiet huff, something close to a scoff, then set a business card beside the lollipop. “Right. My qualifications” he said, laced with sarcasm. “How reckless of me to forget I need approval from the girl who walked up to the wrong booth.”

You glanced down at the card, then back up at him — jaw tense, pulse ticking in your neck. “I am serious. Just… picky about who gets to put a needle in me.”  He lets out a soft hum, “sure you are,” as he nodded toward the card. “You can find me here, if you’re actually serious about getting inked and not just talking shit.”

You snatched what he offered on the table. “Might swing by.” The wrapper of the lollipop crinkles as you peeled it. “Just to prove that you are all talk.” You challenged, popping it in your mouth. Your eyes don’t leave his, even as you lean back a little to leave. 

“I’m counting on it.” He retorted, not breaking eye contact. “Bring that stubborn mouth with you.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… you absolutely looked up the second you got home. Just to verify, obviously. For research purposes, due diligence.

The studio instagram account loads — sleek handle, booking link in the header, clean bio with two names: Soobin and Sunghoon. Meaning it's two artists who share the space, or probably built it together. However, there were no clear faces to match the names to, which is annoying. Now, you’re realizing… you only talked to one of them at the expo, and you forgot to ask his name... too busy running your mouth, apparently. 

Now here you are, deep-diving an instagram account, trying to reverse-engineer names from tagged highlights and healed back pieces. You scroll… then scroll some more, before one post turns into five. The posts make the split between the two artists even clearer. Some are punchy and playful, others quietly meticulous. Eventually, you figure out who is who, and who actually runs the page.

Soobin posts frequently — flash sheets and dumb behind-the-scenes clips. In one of  his story highlights where tattoo guns buzz in the background of low chatter, the camera drifts across the shop and lingers just long enough on him — who you're now deducing has to be Sunghoon — at his station, head down and headphones in. He’s sketching, completely absorbed. You find another time-lapse video posted six months ago of him working. Gloved hands hovering just above someone’s back as he lines up stencil to skin. His sleeves rolled, head down, brows slightly knit — completely focused. He's frustratingly handsome, annoyingly hot — leaving you caught between wanting to look away and needing to see every little movement.

The worst part is that he barely posts, especially compared to Soobin’s constant flood of updates. When he does post, it’s quick — maybe a flash drop, a booking form, or the rare repost of a freshly healed tattoo. His feed is a curated gallery of ink masterpieces: clean lines, sharp blackwork, delicate fine details. Each piece looks like it was made to live on skin and not on screens. 

You close the app, then open it again. Shit, you might actually want him to tattoo you.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… You booked the appointment partly out of spite — a petty, simmering need just to prove a point, to keep him from thinking he won. You weren’t about to let some smug tattoo artist win that easy. But the other half of it — the part you didn’t say out loud — was curiosity.

The studio hit differently the second you stepped inside — all exposed brick and matte black walls, low lighting humming quietly overhead. A flickering neon sign pulsed in the back with a lazy heartbeat, casting a soft red glow across the floor. It smelled like antiseptic, ink, and leather — sterile, but soothing in its own gritty way. There was a gumball machine by the front door, chipped chrome and faded pastels, nestled next to a hand-painted spin wheel labeled with things like ‘free flash!’, ‘$50 off’ or ‘try again…’ and ‘lucky pick’. 

You were still eyeing it when the man behind the front desk looked up. “Hi! Are you here for Soobin or Hoon?” He asked, voice chirpy like you’d met before, giving you that kind of smile that felt like a shot of espresso. You blinked, you recognized Soobin… not the other name. “Hoon?” You echoed, confused.

Before either of you could say anything else, the black curtain at the back swayed aside with an easy flick of a wrist. A figure stepped through with casual ease, voice trailing mid-sentence as he strolled in, not even glancing your way as his head turned toward the front desk. “Hey, Sunoo, I’m gonna clock out for a —”

The figure’s voice cuts off, stopped like someone pressed pause. You turned toward the sound, just as he looked your way. The two of you catching each other in full view. He stepped into the light — black shirt stretched smooth over his chest, sleeves shoved up haphazardly, forearms marked with faint smudges of stencil ink and skin-safe gloves tucked into his back pocket. His hair was pushed back in some places and falling into his eyes in others.

He stalled for a beat before that unmistakable smile curved across his face. “Oh, color me impressed,” he said, voice dripping with a quiet edge of amusement, “look who wandered in.” Now you're sure, it's Sunghoon unmistakably. 

Of course he recognized you. That first conversation had practically scorched itself into his memory. That attitude, that mouth, that very specific expression you wore when you knew you were about to stir the pot — yeah, he’d remember you anywhere. He leaned a shoulder against the counter, relaxed but dialed in, eyes tracking over you. “You lost, or just window shopping?”

You crossed your arms, brows raised. “Maybe. Depends.”

He tilted his head, playing along. “On?”

“What your rates are.”

He chuckled, almost in disbelief. “Oh, you mean my qualifications?” he teased. Of course he also remembered how you tossed jabs at him without hesitations, like you weren't the least bit interested. He found it entertaining — charming, even. Most people shifted under his stare and silence, but you weren't intimidated in the slightest. And fuck, it made his pulse stir with hotter blood to all his body. 

With one hand braced on the counter, you step closer to him — not overtly, just enough to tilt the space between wonder and provocation. “Figured I’d let you plead your case.” you said with a sweet smile, a disarming contract with your constant sharp digs at him. Standing this near, your perfume wrapped around his senses — soft, sultry vanilla folded into warm amber — it slashes and stands out through the shadows of his dimly lit studio. Impossible to ignore, impossible not to follow. “It would be fun to see you trying to convince me.”

Behind the desk, Sunoo blinked like he was watching a game without knowing any of the rules — eyes darting between you and Sunghoon, trying to keep up.

Atlas, he spoke. “She’s with me, Sunoo.” he tossed over his shoulder, gaze locked on yours. His voice was casual, but there was something definite in it — like this wasn’t up for discussion. Then, he tilted his chin toward the back of the studio, already turning. “Come on in.”

“Wait — what about your break, Hoon?” Sunoo called after him.

He didn’t pause. “Didn’t sound that important.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… could tell you were very nervous but stubborn as hell, refusing to back down and leave the appointment. Honestly you’d bite down on your very last nerves before admitting to them. You told yourself it wasn’t faintheartedness, just anticipation. Still, you fidget your feet a little too rhythmically under the desk.

Sunghoon flipped open a thicker binder, one you didn't recognise. “Didn’t bring this with me last time at the expo,” he said, thumbing through the new crisp, clear plastic sleeves. He angled it toward you, letting you take in the pages — clean, intricate linework, delicate shading, wings layered with downy texture so light you could almost feel the breeze they’d stir, tiny motifs were tucked into the corners — pieces that felt personal, not just flash and filler. He showed you some ideas, some of his own favorites, pointing out a few softly as you turned the pages — he’s not pushing, just letting you find something that fits. 

He was hoping that by letting the art speak first, it might say what he wouldn’t — that the quiet weight of ink and pencil might calm your shaky hands better than any rushed reassurance.

You flipping slowly, simply at awe. The designs weren’t just good — his work is remarkable, impressive even. A thoughtful mix of fine-line florals, anatomical sketches, many abstract concepts that made you pause. “Okay,” you said after a moment. “You’re… actually decent.”

“A compliment needs to be dragged out of you, huh?”

“Wouldn’t want it to go to your head.” Even with your heart racing, you fired back your reply without missing a second. A low, knowing sound rumbles out of him — more breath than laugh, but still laced with an unbothered grin. He already knew not to take your deflections seriously.

You hovered over one of the more intricate pieces — fine lines, some soft texture, deceptively simple but elegant. Your jaw slackened just slightly, tension dropping from your shoulders. “That one,” you murmured, tapping the corner of the sketch with your finger. “I like it.”

His smile softened, the usual smugness dimming and settling into something genuine. “Yeah?” he said, already sliding the binder away with care. “We can do that one.” He laid the page flat on the table, smoothing the edges like the piece deserved gentleness now that it was yours to carry. “Okay. Next up — placement. Where were you thinking?”

You gestured towards your side, just above the curve of your hip. “Right here.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Instead, his eyes dropped, studying the spot you pointed to while shifting his weight to kneel in front of you — a better viewing angle. He moved with practiced efficiency, you could see the way his mind was already tracing invisible lines, envisioning how the piece would sit on your skin. He glanced at your hip through the tall mirror, head tilted in quiet concentration. “Are you sure you want it here? It’s a pretty sensitive spot.” he asked, gaze flicking up to meet yours in the reflection.

“That’s kind of the point.” You retorted, trying to sound assertive even as your pulse thudded a little faster where his gloved fingers hovered on your skin and clothes. He cocked a sly eyebrow, “you like making my job hard, don't you?” he taunted, already reaching for the stencil from his drawers.

You’d usually fire back with some clever, witty — or just something, anything — but right now, your confidence was slipping through your fingers like sand. Your nerves were successfully eating at your bones. Sitting on the edge of his tattoo bed, you focused on steadying the erratic rhythm of your pounding heart and quieting the whirlwinded breathing inside your chest.

“Wait!” You blurted before you could bite your tongue. Your eyes locked onto his, wide and a little vulnerable — like a deer caught in headlights. He froze instantly as he was putting on his black gloves, turning his full attention to you. Your voice barely a whisper now, betraying the jitters you couldn’t hide anymore, “what if I cry?”

He chuckled, an amused sound that made you realize you’d scared him for nothing. Shaking his head, he laid out his tools. “You won’t cry.”

“Glad you’re confident.”

He gave you a knowing smile, one that held reassurance. “More like experienced,” he corrected, fingers steady as he prepped the needle. “And don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of tissues ready to catch any tears.”

You huff and circle back to the tattoo bed, letting Sunghoon’s hand settle against your side again, warm through the glove. He guided you into position with a quiet sort of supervision, fingerspads pressing the stencil onto your skin. No wonder he pulled so many clients — it's the way he worked: every touch felt attentive, respectful, almost reverent. 

Eventually, everything was set. 

“Alright. Now, no moving.” He instructed before the machine buzzed to life behind him, the sound louder than you expected in the quiet of the room. You forced yourself not to flinch when the first drag of the needle caught on your skin — sharp, precise and blooming into heat beneath the surface. You frowned, fingers tightening reflexively on the edge of the bed, though it wasn’t exactly painful.

He stepped back, giving you space and letting it sink in. “Okay, first little line. How do you feel?”

You exhaled slowly. “It’s not so bad.”

“See? Knew you could handle it.”

A few more minutes passed, you stayed still — mostly. The sting was manageable now, but your muscles tensed every time he hit a new line. You squeezed your eyes shut, focusing on steadying your breath and tuning out the hum of the machine with his occasional soft swipe of his hand as he wiped ink from your skin. At one point, he must’ve pressed a little harder than usual, drawing a subtle wince from your lips. 

He pulled the needle off from your skin instantly, but the machine continued to buzz. “Shhh,” his voice filled with quiet encouragement. He placed a hand on the dip of your hips, the latex cool against you but the pressure’s gentle. “You’re doing great. Need a break?”

You shook your head, because stopping meant thinking and registering how close he was. “No. Keep going.” You weren’t sure what stung more: the tattoo or the way your brain wouldn’t shut up about the dip of his breath against your flushed skin, the smell of his cologne, the steady heaviness of his hands…

By the time he finished, you felt completely drained and wrung out; but underneath it all is a hushed sense of pride swelled in your chest. You did it — body spinning and a little sore, but also... content. When he started cleaning the freshly inked skin, you expected him to be methodical, yes — pieces like his needed coherent structured aftercare — but you didn't expect him to be so tender, like he cared just as much about the healing as the art itself. 

As he rubs the ointment over your skin, he glances up from under his brow. “Now stay out of the sun, alright?” He tuts as he starts wrapping you, “no matter how cute your dress is.” 

“Didn’t know you were keeping tabs on my wardrobe.”

“Someone’s gotta keep an eye on trouble like you.” He said with a low voice that’s effortlessly magnetic, that unexpectedly curls and sinks in your stomach. He nodded toward the exit of his station, he drawled — smug as sin, “now move it, pretty.” You heard him say before his hefty boots thudded against the studio floor, each step was louder over your skipping heartbeats. 

With Sunoo chatting away at the front desk, you dug into your bag and pulled out your wallet, already bracing for the damage to your bank account. “So… how much is it?” You asked cautiously. Before Sunoo could answer, Sunghoon cuts in, ginning like a cat with playful intent. “Consultations are free.” 

Wait, what? Your brows furrowed, confusion flickering through your thoughts. “I wasn’t here for a consultation.”

He shrugged as he peeled off his gloves, fingers flexing like an artist unwinding. “Still not charging you.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… keeps seeing you show up at the shop’s doors again and again, session after session — each time with a new design in mind, always requesting him by name. You two pretend it’s about work and business, but he secretly scans the booking sheet every morning, searching for your name.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who…  should be taking those rare moments between appointments to rest, to stretch his back, close his eyes — but instead he sketches extra pieces with you in mind. Spontaneous ideas and designs he hoped might catch your eye if you happened to walk in unannounced and need something fresh on the spot, like always. That familiar impulsive spark in your eyes when you see something new, just before kicking off your shoes, pulling up your sleeves, and saying, “put it here,” like your body was made to wear his work? It never got old to him. It only urged him more to create something just for you, right then and there.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… listens — really listens — during appointments. He’s careful with his hands on you but focused with his ears, eyes occasionally flicking up from your plush skin to catch the way your soft, glossed lips move when you talk. You tell him about your job, your playlist, the dumb thing your roommate did this morning. Whatever it is, he would listen and drink in every word like it’s the most important thing in the room.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… says he doesn’t play favorites, but Soobin knows better. There is always a saved slot in his schedule, open and waiting just for you.  

All those new tattoos you got are starting to heal, the skin still tender but the ink already vivid and alive. Today, you find yourself back in the studio again — partly to show him how well they’re mending, but mostly because it’s a perfect excuse to see him again. You roll up your shirt sleeve just enough to let the soft studio light catch the crisp, healed lines of your latest piece. The delicate shading and fine details seem to glow under the light of the overhead lamp.

Sunghoon leans in, careful not to touch but his eyes skim over you with an artist’s meticulous attention — focused, assessing, appreciative. “You did a good job taking care of it.” He hummed with approval. 

“I was under strict instructions.”

“You follow orders well when you want to, huh?”

You rolled your eyes, letting your sleeve fall back into place. “You're such a pain in the ass.”

He gave you that look — the one laced with amusement and the tiniest spark of challenge — as he stepped in close, the scent of clean skin and aftershave curling right into your space. “Takes one to know one, brat.” He whispered against the shell of your ear like velvet, only wanting you to hear it, before a sharp smack against your ass just bold enough to make you jolt. 

You flinched as your breath caught on, but didn’t move away. If anything, your spine straightened, warmth flooding your cheeks — not from embarrassment, but from how easy it was to feel seen by him. Teased and tracked down with ease. He was already turning back like nothing happened, resuming his work with maddening facility. 

His smile was still there. That smug, irresistible thing he wore whenever he got the upper hand. Equal parts infuriating and unfair — the kind of smile that made you want to throw something at his head… or drag him into the nearest empty room.

Depending on the day, or depending on the hour… hell, maybe even depending on the next breath.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… keeps a slim, black portfolio near the front desk with Sunoo — tucked neatly beside the appointment book and labeled ‘designs just for Y/N’ in his own handwriting. 

It’s not official like the other portfolios are, but not something he offers anyone else. Frankly, you’ve come in enough times now, asked enough questions, changed your mind last minute, circled back with new ideas — that he’s kept track of every single one, filing them in his head first then later on paper. 

It's simply a personal archive of you and your style, your taste, the placement ideas you've wavered on, sketches he’s made on a whim because ‘it just reminded me of you’. You caught that portfolio once, half-hidden under a clipboard when Sunoo moved it aside looking for a pen. You blinked at the familiar sketch on the top page — something you’d rambled about weeks ago.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… always puts on your playlist before tattooing you. You’d mentioned offhand what you liked to listen to when you’re on edge — and the next session, he already had them queued as the needle buzzed. Soft synths, sugary vocals, crooning through the shop speakers. A little Sabrina Carpenter, some Ariana thrown in like glitter, and Janet Jackson rounding it out with groove-heavy nostalgia. 

In fact, the second he sees your name on his day’s schedule, he’s already switching playlists. Even before you walk through the door, your playlist is bleeding through the shop’s speakers. And by now, the others have caught on. Sunoo groans from the front like clockwork. “I swear I’ve heard this ‘Dandelion’ song twelve times this week.”

“She’s not even here yet,” Soobin deadpans from his station. “Are you tattooing her or summoning her?”

Sunghoon would just say it's about atmosphere or client comfort, pretending it’s clinical. What they don’t know is that sometimes, when the studio is empty and the floor's dead quiet… he plays it anyway. Late at night, he would be sketching under low light, nodding his head while his studio bathed in your soft pop hooks. It’s the kind of music he’d never put on himself, but in his eyes, it makes the wait between your bookings feel a little shorter. 

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… wasn't kidding about that portfolio labelled ‘designs just for Y/N’. 

When other clients flip through his books and want something from your folder — the linework catches their eye, or the subject matter hits just right — Sunghoon doesn't hesitate. “Oh, that one?” he’ll say, all polite charm. “Sorry, that’s reserved for my girl.” 

It doesn’t matter if they offer double, triple, if they pout, beg, or pull the whole ‘but I’ll change it a little’ routine. He stays unmoved, like it's a rule. “Nah,” he’ll say easily. “It's priceless. Pick something else.” 

Honestly? He knows you’re not going to get all of them inked. He’s drawn more for you than your skin could ever hold. Pieces too large for what you asked, too delicate for your usual style. But the point is that they’re yours and not for sale. Every curl of linework, every intricate design, every bit of blooming ink — made with your name already stamped on it — in his head and heart, that is.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… is a sweet boy in disguise. A buff lover boy in a compression tee, really. When he’s laser focused on his work or deep in his own thoughts, his brow naturally furrows into what most people mistake for a glare of doom.

People who come in and out of the building are terrified of him sometimes, giving him a wide berth. Not because he’s ever actually rude — but because his default face just... looks agitated. Like he's already halfway through plotting something violent. You found this out the hard way when Jake pulled you aside one afternoon. He glanced over his shoulder, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Hey, uh… is he mad at me?” 

You blinked. “Who?”

“Sunghoon,” Jake said, like it should’ve been obvious. “He’s always squinting at me — like glaring at me. I swear I didn’t do anything.”

You raised an eyebrow, still confused. “Why would he be mad at you?”

Jake shrugged. “I don’t know? I just… came to see my girlfriend upstairs. She is working this weekend. But every time I walked through, he looked at me like I keyed his car or something.”

You bit back a smile — because it was silly — how that man who barely spoke more than a few words but always noticed the little things, could look so fierce without meaning to. Jake wasn’t even a client of his. And still, Sunghoon noticed and locked him, involuntary of course. You laughed and decided it was time to intervene. You walked straight over to Sunghoon, who was at his station, bent over a sketch, brow furrowed and lips pressed in a line — maximum concentration. “Relax your face, grump.” You said, voice lilting as you nudged his shoulder.

He looked up, caught off guard like coming out of a fog. “Huh?”

“You’re scaring people again.” 

He cracked a sheepish smile, stretching his brows upward, deliberately exaggerated, until they arched like a cartoon character caught off guard before relaxing them. “Better?” 

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… lets you hang out at the studio after hours and pretend you’re just ‘browsing flash tattoos’, but really you’re stalling and he’s hoping you’ll stay a little longer.

The studio is quiet now — the droning of the machines long gone, the fluorescent lights switched off except for a single dim lamp on his desk casting soft shadows across the room. It feels more like a secret hideout than a workplace right now. The air still carries the metallic bite of ink and antiseptic, but under it mingles a faint trace of the cologne you once bought him — the very same one he struggled to pick out himself, so you took matters into your own hands, grinning as you said, “now i own your smell, you can’t escape me.” — it’s a scent he only wears when you’re around.

You sat perched on his desk while swinging your legs slightly, the vinyl cool against the backs of your bare thighs. He stood between your knees, hands planted firmly on the table behind you, subtly caging you in. He’s close enough to count your breaths, the heat of his body seeping into yours. He held your gaze with that familiar quiet intensity — a little fierce, a little soft — as his face tilted down. Lips so close you can feel the words before hearing them, close enough to test the space.

“You know,” his voice lowered with fake reprimand. “I should probably kick you out right now.”

With that slow, stubborn smile — half-angel, half-trouble — the way you always do with him, you toss back, “then why haven’t you?”

His eyes drop to your lips like it’s muscle memory — something he can’t help. A few strands of hair fall across his forehead, softening the edge of his usual cold expression. Then, almost like gravity made the choice for him, he leans in. The kiss came slow, almost tentative at first. His mouth brushed against yours with a gentleness that matched everything about the way he carried himself: it was mellow, patient.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only an inch — close enough that you still feel the warmth of him, his breath fanning over your cheek. His hands stay where they are, resting on either side of your waist. His eyes flicker between yours, searching for something — maybe trying to gauge if it’s too much, too soon. “I like you,” he admits, the words small and stupidly sincere, almost shy, “like… a lot.”

Your heart is doing laps in your chest at this point, chaotic and embarrassing from his kiss and his confession. But your mouth is still working overtime to keep your pride intact — still as stubborn as a mule. “Took you long enough,” your voice came out breathless, “I was starting to think I’d have to tattoo it on your forehead.”

He lets out a laugh as he shakes his head, eyes squinting just slightly — both exasperated and completely smitten. His fingers curl deeper around your waist, drawing you in even closer until your inner thigh bumps his hips. “Mouthy even when you’re swooning,” he cooed, nose brushing yours. “C’mere.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… never minds when you steal his iPad and start doodling absolute nonsense on it — crooked stars and hearts, a sword with a bow tied to the handle, angry little frogs, a tiny cartoon him with hearts eyes and a caption underneath that reads ‘cranky tattoo boy’. He never deletes any of it, in fact he saves them. All of them. One quiet evening, while you’re curled up sideways on a worn chair in the waiting area, and he’s finishing up with a walk-in client, you accidentally stumble across a hidden folder in his files. Originally labeled ‘better than Soobin’s’, it’s now been quietly renamed to ‘not mine but mine’.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… only ever books you in at the end of the day — last appointment, every time. 

He would dim the lights low, put on your favorite playlist, and tell the rest of the shop to head out early. It's the time of day where no other clients with wandering eyes linger around. He never said it outright, but you noticed how Sunoo was always slipping on his jacket when you came in and Soobin’s already gone. 

After all, when it comes to you, he wants to take his time. He doesn’t rush, he never does with you. “I want to focus on you.” He’d say simply. No distractions, no one else in the room to see the way your shirt rides up, or how your lashes flutter when the needle hums to life. 

“You just want me all to yourself, don’t you?” you teased one night, reclining back slightly with a smirk dancing on your lips, trying not to show how flustered his attention made you. He leaned in then, gloved fingers brushing your waist as he adjusted your posture, “damn right I do.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… tells you not to get tattooed by anyone else. Not just because he’s confident in his work (which he is, to a borderline arrogant degree) but because the idea of someone else — especially another guy — leaning in close, pulling at your clothes, touching your skin, mapping it like it’s theirs to read, marking you? Yeah, no. Absolutely not.

He’d never say that part out loud. Not directly, anyway. Sometimes he’s subtle about it and say things like, “most of them don’t even know how to line properly. I’ve seen it. Plus, the places they chose are too shallow — you'd be lucky if that thing lasts the year. You’d regret it.” 

Other times... less so. You once mentioned a different artist in passing — someone you'd bookmarked on Instagram in passing — he didn't even bother to hide his reaction. “That placement? From him?” Sunghoon wrinkled his nose in disgust, “symmetry’s garbage.” Maybe he’s right, but deep down, you know it’s not just about technique. It’s about you: your skin, your time, your attention.

One day after finishing work, you sprawled out on the cracked leather lounge chair near the front desk, your legs draped over the arm, idly flipping through your portfolio — the thickest binder in the shop by far. Across the studio, Sunghoon was bent over his iPad at his workstation, scribbling away with his habitual furrow in his brow. His whole posture was tight, head low, wide shoulder blades flexing beneath the fabric of his shirt. He's the perfect picture of hyper-focused dedication.

However, you were in the mood to poke the bear. “Hmm,” you hummed, just loud enough for him to hear. “Maybe I’ll let Soobin do the next one. Y’know… just to switch it up.”

The scratching of the stylus on glass stopped. He didn’t turn around right away, just tapped the pen against the screen once, twice. When he finally spoke, his voice came out light, too light, “yeah?” A smirk of victory came to your face, oh, you hit a nerve in no time. He didn’t stop, “you in the mood for crooked lines and shaky hands now?” 

You bit down on your smile. “So dramatic.”

Still not looking at you, but his next words came with a quiet edge. “Just make sure he spells everything right. Would be a shame if your skin got stuck with a typo.”

You snorted, Soobin wouldn't be his coworker — let alone his friend — if Sunghoon didn’t respect his work. “He’s good, you know that.” 

Finally — finally — he turned, slowly and lazily. One elbow propped on the armrest of his chair, head tilted slightly, eyes dragging over you like he was daring you to keep going. Like your comment hadn’t just lit a fuse in his chest. “Sure,” he said, smile curling, sharp and toothy. “Go ahead. Let Soobin ink you.”

You raised a brow, testing him further. “Really?”

“I’ll just tattoo over it, babe.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… has coworkers who all know exactly who you are the second you walk through the door. 

Sunoo’s already sliding the clipboard off the counter before you reach the front desk. “Before you ask,” he says, eyes glued to his phone, like he’s done this a thousand times. “Yes, Hoon’s with a client.” And without missing a beat, you smile at him, “I know,” as you skip through the hallway like you own the place — because, at this point, you kind of do. 

You slip into the chair in the far back corner — the one you’ve only recently started calling yours. After weeks of perching on counters, switching seats, and pretending not to hover, you’ve finally landed here. It’s tucked just close enough to Sunghoon’s station that you can hear the hum of his machine and the low tone of his voice when he speaks to a client. You don’t interrupt, just sit and wait, content to exist in his orbit.

 And Sunghoon? He’s mid-session, black gloves tight over steady hands, eyes narrowed in concentration as he lines a delicate design into the crook of someone’s arm. But the second he hears your voice from the front — muffled but familiar beneath the quiet music and the buzz of his machine — something in his jaw eases. The tension he didn’t even know he was holding unspools. His lips twitch into the barest smile, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it shift. Like somehow, your presence tilts his day back into place.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… can’t help but get a little messy when it comes to you — filthy hands, filthier mouth, mess all over you and him.

The rest of the night after your chest tattoo — a new piece you’d been craving for weeks, high on your sternum just above your heart — wasn’t the easiest to say the least. At home, he got you sat perched on the kitchen island while your tattoo sat nestled between your breasts, a fresh red and wrapped in cling film. 

He moved around the kitchen, pulling things from drawers, heating the kettle. Maybe for tea, maybe to clean your tattoo again. You don’t know and you couldn't care less. You watch the way his forearms move under the soft sleeve of his shirt, the faint sheen on his skin where sweat clings just barely, proof of the hours he spent bent over you. His hands are steady as ever, even now — long fingers, inked knuckles, clean palms wiping absentmindedly against a towel slung over his shoulder. You try not to stare — really, you do — but it’s hopeless. 

He looks irresistible like this — domestic, tired, hair a mess, still smelling faintly of  that sterile scent but mostly of his musk with soft tobacco — like he hasn’t just spent the entire evening memorizing the curves of your chest. There’s something about seeing him like this, worn down but glowing faintly in the soft kitchen light, that sends heat skimming along your spine.

You shift without meaning to, thighs pressing together as if that will help your leaking throb on the cold table. The squirming made the cling film crinkle slightly against your skin, which in turn made his eyes glance over — checking in on you. It was enough to catch the sight of your knees drawing inward in a pressing motion. 

He stops in front of you to rest a hand on your knee — a solid grip that burns nonetheless. "You okay?" he asks, voice’s a little worn around the edges from the long day, but still gentle with you. His thumb traces slow circles on your thigh, featherlight. 

You nod, eyes flicking away for half a second. “Just tired.” That was your first lie of the night. You’re many things at this current moment — sore, burning,  aching, buzzing from endorphins — but mostly? Restless, overwounded, and so, so frustrated. He’d been alluring and riling you up the whole time during the tattoo session — and the kicker? The worst part? He wasn't even doing it intentionally. He was endlessly tolerant, and kind in every little way.

However, from the way you’re acting… you’d think he’d performed open-heart surgery instead of tattooing your chest. 

The pressure was stirring harder as your mind replayed every movement of his fingers on your skin, Every gentle press of the needle, every low instruction, his sultry breath close as he's tattooing you or speaking to you, “breathe for me, baby, I’ve got you” and “Almost there…” and “I need you to relax and open up for me” . You didn't even know a voice could do that to you, or that a touch could stay burned into your nerve endings. You got up from the tattoo bed damped and with wobbly knees — he just mistook it for post-tattoos faintness. 

He tilts his head a little with a furrow between his brows. "You’re all red, baby," he murmurs, genuinely sounding concerned. His eyes rake over you — taking in your flushed skin, the glazed, unfocused look in your eyes, the slight parting of your lips as you keep swallowing the wet heat pooling in your mouth, struggling to keep your breathing quiet. The air between you two stretched like elastic, threatening to snap like a live wire. 

Then his hand lifts, palms are a little cold as it settles a press against your warm cheeks. “Hm,” he hums, thumb brushing along the bone beneath your eye before trailing lower. His touch slips down to the curve of your jaw, then your throat, where he pauses, pressing the backs of his fingers lightly to your neck — like he’s checking your temperature. "You got a fever?" 

No, but technically, yes. Your temperature is up. But not from sickness, or any flu or cold. It’s him and everything he’s doing to you now and earlier. The weight of him, the scent of him. The soft silken hands, the sweet honeyed voice. The way he’s close enough to kiss. That thumb trail back up to your cheek again, prompting you to speak. Your fuzzy eyes scan his face, “I…” You trailed off, really trying. 

He leans in closer, lips barely grazing the skin of your jaw,  his stubble catches on your delicate skin leaves a heat that makes your thighs twitch. You're pretty sure this stopped being about your temperature fairly quickly. “You what, baby?" His lips now are just millimeters from yours. "Hm?"

You rock your hips where you sit, beats pulsating at the base of your throat. The kitchen suddenly feels too bright, too quiet, too charged all at once. You could kiss him, you could beg him but you were unyielding. It is unfair how he gets to break you to pieces, and he’s blissfully unaware. “Fuck — you’re mean.” You whisper your second lie. 

It makes him pause before laughing — that low, gorgeous boyish laugh, bubbling up from somewhere deep in his chest which vibrates in your ribs before it even reaches your ears. A slow smile spreads across his face as his fit dies down. “I’m mean, huh?” He echoes, voice gravel-soft, rasp when you’re this — open and so easy to read — it’s almost cruel to you. His mouth is everywhere but where you want it most, making you lean backwards on the island, hoping he gets the message. And Oh he does, but he's savoring the control and not giving in yet. “We both know that’s not true.” 

He cradles you like an fucking angel — weather in or out of bed, his attentiveness never falter. Even in the thick of it, when your heart is frantic and your thoughts scatter like smoke — he's attuned to every shiver, never forgetting to care for you. Always patiently devoted. 

A kiss was pressed just beneath the cling wrap framing your still-tender tattoo. The warmth of his mouth soothes and sparks at once, each brush of his lips prudent but intentional. He knows how sore you are — which spots are raw, which are sensitive. “If I was mean, I wouldn’t have spent three hours working between those pretty tits.” He says before kissing lower, the cold metal of his chain brushing your belly. “Could’ve sworn I kissed every spot that made you flinch.”

“You teased the hell out of me the entire time,” you argued, your words barely carrying any weight — they’re more like an acknowledgement than an accusation. You mewl as his mouth lifts again and bites just above the fresh ink, just enough to make you jolt and arch into him. The pain is deliciously light, fleeting and dances on the edge of your ache. You feel his breath puff out against your skin before the stretch of a smile you can’t see as you're laid down on the kitchen island, but know all too well. “Did I?” His voice was too assured, too amused by the view. “Is that why you look so fucked out right now?”

Before you can respond, his palm is already sliding between your thighs to your needy, deprived cunt through your shorts. His knuckles dragging just right, his fingers cupping you with practiced ease. It’s not even skin on skin yet you feel your whole body lean into the contact. You tilt your head instinctively towards him as he noses along your neck — your body’s already surrendering and greedy for more.

“This pretty pussy missed me? Is that it?” he mutters, voice dipping into something actually mean. Now he's just being vulgar. You bite your lip, thighs trying to clamp shut again, but his firm hand keeps them open. “Don’t pout,” he mocks, soft but cutting as his lips ghost your ear. “She’s the one asking for it. Not me.”

You keen as your heart skitters, your hips grind ever so slightly against his hand. You’re restless now, burning up from the inside out, your body practically vibrating with impatience. This friction is simply not enough for what he accidently started at the studio. “I’ve had better from my vibrator,” you threw back, getting reckless but your third lie crackling in the space between you. “Either you fuck me or I’ll finish the job myself.” 

It's a bold, hard bait. You both know it. Because toys? You tossed them the morning after your first night with him — nothing’s ever felt like him since, not even close.

He just smiles, he knows exactly what game you’re playing — and he’s already winning. He leans in and kisses you, savoring something sweet that he earned. His mouth parts against yours, warm and coaxing, his tongue sweeping slowly across your bottom lip — licking into the kiss like it’s sugar. “Mm,” he hums, voice low against your mouth, “tastes even better when you’re bratty.”

The halt of his hands left you empty, twitching. Your legs instantly hook around his waist, pulling him to you with a strength you didn’t know you still had. “Don’t you dare stop,” you whisper, voice shredded and near a desperate whine. “But I thought I was mean,” the words dripped with feigning offense. He tilts his head like he’s genuinely considering it — oh, this asshole — gaze burning through your skin like a slow drag of heat. "Aren't I?”

Your lips are kiss-bruised, your body nothing but limp nerves and need.  “I’m sorry,” you gasp, the words breaking on your tongue. “I’m sorry.” It’s humiliating how pliant you’ve become. How quickly he’s undone you. You know he’ll hold this out until he drags it out from your lips. His palm finds the curve of your ass again as he squeezes, fingers digging in just to hear the sound you’d make. “For what?” He croons. “You know I don’t take empty apologies.”

“For…”you whisper, barely above a breath. “Calling you mean.” You finish off, sounds small coming from you, mustering the best helpless, heart-melting gaze you could give him.

He smiles down on you — fond, wicked and satisfied. "Now how could I ever say no to that face?” 

The space between you disappears, every touch setting fire to the air around you — and just like that, you’re lost to the wild rhythm that’s been building all evening. His hand moves to your lower belly, fingers splayed wide as he groans, feeling just how deeply he fits in you — needing to remind you, wanting you to keep remembering him. 

“Keep testing me,” he pants as his hips thrusts hard enough for his tip to nudge your cervix, “and I’ll tame you all the same.” The kiss that follows was sloppy, possessive regardless, before breathing against your mouth like a promise he will keep, "I’ll fuck it back in if I have to."

You believe him, he's a man of his word after all.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who…  you end up feeding more than yourself whenever you show up with lunch. 

Many times find him hunched over the inner curve of his own bicep, tattooing something new — a design you recognize as yours because it’s always about you lately. “Just a sec, babe.” He’d say without looking up, his needle continued to dance above his skin. He’s used to you being part of his space — like the sound of your footsteps is just another thing he learned to listen for. He doesn’t need a glance, he just knows it’s you. 

You cross the floor in soft steps, careful not to bump the tray as you set the drinks down gently on the side table next to him. You reach out — just your fingertips, brushing the inside of his forearm, light enough to ask without interrupting his flow.

That’s all it takes: he stops immediately and sets the machine down. “Okay, okay,” he surrenders with a breathy chuckle, finally looking up. “Gimme a bite.” You laugh softly, fishing out his plate before holding the fork out to him like you’ve done it a hundred times. He leans in carefully, making sure his ink-stained hands don’t brush against you, and takes the bite with a small, pleased hum, “God, you always bring the best shit.”

“I’m starting to think you only keep me around for lunch.” You giggled, holding out another spoonful toward his waiting mouth. His chewing stops to raise a brow at you, “only?” He echoed before shaking his head, “you’re underestimating how greedy I am when it comes to you.”

Your hands feed him, his hands ink you. It’s balanced, really.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… keeps a blanket just for you at the studio, folded neatly over the back of your chair…

There’s also a mini fridge in the corner near his station, tucked behind his rolling cart of inks and sterile packs. It has your favorite drinks — not just one or two, but full color-coded rows of the exact brand and flavor you always reach for. You’ve never seen it empty. And the snack cart? Off-limits, everyone knows that. Sunoo even calls it your ‘VIP buffet’. One time Soobin tried grabbing a granola bar without asking, he got hit with a look that could have curdled milk from Hoon.

Then there is THE drawer… the second one from the bottom. You didn’t even know about it at first. It wasn’t until you opened it one day looking for a charger, finding that it’s filled with little pieces of you: the lip balm you left behind once, now replaced in multiples. The hair ties you always lose. Two packs of your favorite gum. Advil. Bandaids. A fresh pair of socks. A mini mirror. Two kinds of heat patches and endless period supplies. He never made a show of it, never pointed it out or bragged. because to him, it's the bare minimum.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… believes in a lot of aftercare — after tattoos and after sex. 

Quiet attentiveness stitched into his every movement. He keeps your sunscreen and creams in his drawer next to his own supplies, always warming it between his fingers before applying it to your skin with slow, gentle strokes that border on devotional. “Gotta protect my work.” He’d say as his hands — large, ring-heavy, deceptively skilled — move the same way they do when he inks you: careful but softer now, if that's even possible. 

“Sealing it in,” he’d mutter against your neck, leaving a kiss behind your ear as his tattooed knuckles ghost over your thighs. The pads of his fingertips trace over fading patches of blush pink, soft imprints on you from hours of being tangled in his sheets. If you’ve still got enough energy to tease, you would respond, “the ink or yourself?” With a voice that’s sleep-drunk and worn out. His digits pause where they’re stroking your skin, like he wants you to really hear it. Then, with a kiss just above your hip, “both.”

After a long night  — whether spent beneath the sharp hum of his tattoo machine or laid in the burning friction of his mattress — when you're all skin-warm, sore and sleepy, he tucks you into his bed. His fingers trace the edges of the piece he inked the week before, still not over how stunning it looks on you. His mouth follows with cloud-soft kisses, “this one’s my favorite,” he’d whisper against your skin, awe in his voice. He says this about every single one, just before biting near the skin — gentle but playful, just enough to make you stir under his blankets… then plants another kiss on another tattoo. “Fuck — actually, they’re all my favorite.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… you notice doesn’t really do social media.

He doesnt have a personal insta account, no twitter, no stories of what he’s eating or where he’s going. Just that one business insta page where he shares his work. Clean, minimal, clinical even — at first glance that is. If you scroll through, it becomes obvious real fast who is his muse. He tags you every time, on every post — like a quiet brag to the world.

Regardless, your tattoos show up on his grid more than anyone else’s — close-ups of healed ink on skin his hands have memorized, shots of stencils across your ribs, your wrist, your spine. A favorite of his is the one where your head’s tilted down, hair pulled to the side, and the caption just says, “healed perfectly”. Once you two started dating, he stopped posting other clients unless it’s a joint project, a convention promo, or something contractual. 

Every new design sketch he uploads sparks the same responses from his followers: “let me guess — hers?”, “you’re not even subtle anymore and I respect that”, “at this point just tattoo ‘in love’ on your forehead”. And they’re never wrong, he just likes the comments. 

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… is always hustling to grow his business — his books are full three months out, getting DMs from big-name shops across the country, running on fumes and his sketchbook’s overflowing with new concepts. Which means traveling for guest spots, conventions, and collaborations. He’ll do them — but not without you. He can’t imagine going without you. “Every time I travel with you,” he’d admit, “it feels less like work.”

At the airport, he's navigating terminals, checking bags, scanning the board without ever letting go of you. You’d think he worked TSA or he was a luggage concierge by the way he handles both your carry-ons, slinging them over one shoulder, his own gear already strapped tight to his back. When you reach for one, trying to lighten the load — he just flicks his eyes over at you and scoffs, “you think I’m gonna let you haul your own shit while I’m here? Not happening.”

One hand always hovers at your back, guiding you through crowds with quiet certainty. He opens doors, stands between you and the rush of bodies, pulls you into his side when lines stall or flights delay. His palm finds yours mid-escalator, thumb tracing idle circles against your knuckles.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… lets you talk him into getting a tattoo to commemorate the trip. 

He pretends to roll his eyes when you beg with a smile, but he gives in faster than he wants to admit. When you both walk into the unfamiliar shop — your excitement bubbles, while his focus sharpens. His eyes don't stay still from the moment you step in, they flick across the room, landing on every tray, every stencil, every move the artist makes. He’s calm on the surface — but you know that look. That slight pinch between his brows? That’s scrutiny. He's already reworking the design in his head long before the needle even hits your skin.

When the fresh tattoo is covered in wrap and still tingling across your skin, he finally lets it out. “I could’ve made it a hundred times better,” he grumbles, bitter. You laugh, kissing his cheek, but the glint in his eye says he’s not joking.

Later, in your hotel room, it doesn’t take long before the air is thick and humid with sweat, steam, and whatever lingering tension hadn’t been fucked out of you yet. He’s bottomed out — missionary, the classic, favorite way — that’s how Sunghoon likes to indulge his so-called ‘attention to detail’, but you know better. You call it what it is: jealousy. Yet, he always fucks like he’s working on something permanent. 

Your thighs and poor cunt are still sticky and full from the last couple of times he came, coating your insides with his thick, cream colored load. You hadn’t even finished coming down from your own orgasms before he was pumping back in, fucking his own cum deeper, muttering something about ‘layering technique’. He’s fucking like he’s building something inside you again — not just pleasure, but proof. His body pushes in close, lips brushing your neck. “Next one’s mine,” he mutters, lips grazing your skin. “Gotta fix the symmetry.”

You reach for a comeback — but you cannot answer properly, not with the way you’re gasping. All you manage is a strangled, breathy whimper that doesn’t sound anything like defiance. You’re too gone to be smug, too full to be sharp. Sunghoon knows it, he hasn't given you a moment to recover like usual. Every time you try to meet his thrusts, he changes the tempo — faster when you chase slow, meaner when you try to melt. It’s not just overwhelming or rough. It’s strategic, ruinous stuffing. 

When he hears no response, you find your wrists clasped low together in his hands and held right between your bodies. Your arms arch like some devotional offering while your palms rest against the edge of his V-line — sticky from saliva, tears and most probably both of your cum. The new position pushes the fluff of your chest towards him, giving him an unguarded, full view. He knows he doesn’t need ropes or cuffs when it comes to you — just patience, you’ll puddle in his hands eventually. His voice brushes your ear, dark and velvet-rough. “Do I make myself clear?”

You nod, that’s all you can really do when you're cockdrunk and pliant. Your lips won’t form real words anymore, your eyes glassy and wide, clinging to him like gravity might flicker if you let go. His hips roll — agonizingly steady — hitting places inside you that make your body seize and melt all at once. Your cunt is such a tight fit even while trying to accommodate his size, hypersensitive but insatiable. The sound between your bodies is obscene — wet, slick, loud enough to echo. Like he’s stirring up everything he already gave you, then asking for more.

“You’re too big,” you mewled, voice cracking on a whimper as your walls trembles around him. It slips out before you can help it — overwhelmed, stretched, aching in all the sweetest way. “Yeah?” he groaned, his cock’s the one doing the thinking for him now. One hand gripping your thigh, the other steadying your waist. “Then why’s she taking me so well? Mh?” The words tumbled out of him, cuntstruck for sure. 

Nails rake down his back, dragging enough to leave angry pink lines, enough to make him hiss — but he doesn’t falter. “I’m coming again — baby, please —” You blabbled, you’re fucked dumb to say the least, mind all fuzzy. You barely register your own voice until you’re begging again until your limbs shake, your head lolls: you’re unraveling all over again.

“There she is,” He whispers against your mouth as you cling to him, his voice maddeningly calm with smug precision. “There’s my good girl.” He’s still moving — slow now, cruelly slow — like your pussy isn’t clenching from being used up, like your body isn’t begging for mercy and more at the same time.

You don’t realize you’re crying until his thumb sweeps under your eye, brushing away tears. “Want me to stop, baby?” he asks softly, mouth pressing to your cheekbone. You manage to whimper out the cutest “no”, your arms curling around his neck tighter. He hums to your response as he kisses the corner of the corner of your damp lashes, then your nose, your jaw. “You’re doing so good. So fuckin’ sweet like this.”

You feel him twitch inside you for the nth time tonight — still hard, still wanting and insistent. He’s still not done and simply insatiable.

He pulls out just enough to look down between your warmed bodies — where his cum leaks out like syrup, glossy against your folds and thighs. “One more time, baby?” He breathed as he ran two fingers through your slit, catching some of his release and yours before lazily pushing it back in. You just nod, lower lip trembling, hips shifting up to meet him again. “Yeah? Wanna make sure it sticks.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… known for his sharp lines and darker motifs, yet secretly enters one of your sketches into a mixed media show. 

It’s the dumb little doodle you made one night when he was too focused on a client to notice you snatching his iPad. You’d been swinging your legs at the edge of his table, nibbling on leftover takeout when you sketched a wide-eyed Kuromi and a permanently grumpy Badtz-Maru —  insisting they looked just like the two of you.

He had saved it like usual, but now it's in a goddamn gallery. The night of the exhibit, you’re drifting from one of his pieces to another — all dark strokes and matte finishes, monochrome palettes and heavy emotion. His work stands out even here: each one meticulously composed, a perfect reflection of his precision and control. You’re halfway through reading a small placard beside one of his more abstract designs when you round the corner — and you stop short.

There it is, your sketch. Projected ten feet tall against a clean white wall. It’s so… stupidly soft. Next to his broody, moody pieces., your favorite shade of pink is practically glowing. It’s surrounded by charcoal realism and shadowplay canvases — and it shines like someone hung valentine decorations in a haunted house. Your jaw drops, “you absolute ass,” you whispered, swatting his arm — not out of anger, but because your heart is doing too much. He’d smiled back like a boy caught red-handed. 

Later, in the stairwell — just past the main exhibit space, where the bustle of the crowd fades into the hush of polished concrete and gallery-glow — you finally get him alone. You kiss him hard like the whole night’s been leading to it, the projects on that wall have rewired something in you. Your hands tangle in his hair, fingertips skimming the tattoo behind his ears, pulling just enough to make him groan low into your mouth. It isn’t teasing — it’s gratitude, awe, longing pressed into the seam of your lips as he exhales into you like you’re the only oxygen he wants. You don’t even know how long you’re pressed up against that stairwell wall with hearts thudding out of sync.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… insists on covering your nail appointments like it’s not even a conversation, “you use those hands to feed me, the least I can do is keep 'em cute.” He’d say, already sending the transfer. 

He’d also tag along every time, no matter how booked his week is. At first, he sits beside you and observes: legs spread wide, arms crossed, eyes sweeping the space like a bored security guard. The buzz of the nail drill hums under your laughter and the back-and-forth chatter you and your nail tech have built over months of soft girl gossip and inside jokes. 

But soon enough, he starts to sink. The rhythm of your voice, the occasional brush of your fingers on his thigh between sets… it all lulls him. You glance over — and sure enough — his head’s tipped back against the wall, arms relaxed now with soft snores ghosting past parted lips. 

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… is a man who only has two modes: working or with you… sometimes both at once. 

The studio’s quiet after hours have set in, the buzz of machines long faded with the low music. You’d started the night talking to him between sessions and clients, curled up on your chair with legs pulled up under you. But now… your head’s tilted against the armrest, eyes fluttering closed every few minutes. You’re not even pretending to stay awake anymore. Still, mid-line work, mid-shading — doesn’t matter — he’d glance over constantly to check up on you.

By the time his last client leaves — a long appointment, full sleeve, his shoulders were tight with fatigue at the end — but he’s already moving toward you. He crouches beside the chair, one knee to the floor, just to be eye level when he gently brushes a few strands of hair off your cheek. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice gravel-soft from hours of talking, “let’s get you home, baby.” You’ve done this two nights in a row already: waiting up on him, staying past closing time with the very last client, eyes droopy with sleep but never leaving him.

The keys jingle as he shuts the door behind you, then leans in to press a kiss to your forehead and your drowsy pout. It’s like the last thing on his list that he refuses to skip, no matter how tired he is. “Studio’s always open for you. Couch too.” He murmurs, thumb tracing the curve of your cheek, “but next time, just go home, yeah? I’ll be right behind you.”

You blink up at him, bleary-eyed but still flickering with that stubborn spark, your arms curl around him. “I didn’t want to leave you alone.”

He exhales slowly — a ragged sound that’s equal parts fondness for you and exhaustion from his day. “I know, baby, I know,” his fingers trace lazy circles on your back now, “but you’re really gonna choose that lumpy-ass couch over our bed?”

You shift in his arms, your body instinctively leaning close into his, “it’s… fine. I’m fine.” You mumble something incoherent that's more like the sleepy whine of someone too hardheaded to admit he’s right. He presses his smile into your hair, inhales the scent of your shampoo — making his whole world soften. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… you wake up before him, the early light just began to filter through the blinds, casting soft patterns across the bed and tracing the curve of his bare shoulder where the blanket’s slipped down. 

The room is quiet except for the faint sound of his steady breathing. You can tell he’s still deep under, mouth parted the slightest bit with his hair tousled across his forehead. As you were trying to nudge closer towards him under the covers, you pause when something resting on his nightstand catches your eye — a worn sketchbook left open. It’s one of his older ones, you recognize it by the frayed edges and worn leather cover. 

You reach out with careful fingers, sliding it closer without disturbing the way his arm is still draped over your waist. In loose, dreamy pencil lines is the outline of your profile — your face nestled gently against his pillow and safe in his bed. Next to the sketch, in his familiar handwriting, there’s a simple annotation: “♡ sleepy girl”. With a swelling heart, you realize that you’re loved in all the quietest ways.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… absolutely melts whenever you offer to massage his back and neck after a long day. 

He’s a hardworking man through and through, always putting in long hours at the studio with clients, focused on every line and shade but always ends up tight and sore from the constant strain. He never asks — not once — but you can see it in the slope of his shoulders when he walks in, the quiet sigh he exhales when he finally shrugs off his work clothes and rolls his neck.

You’ve watched him work for hours without a break. Even when the studio closes, he stays behind — cleaning, organizing, prepping for the next day. He’s never one to complain, never says he’s tired. Tonight, he finally drops on the couch after showering, smelling like aftershave and with his hair damp. He groans as he’s sinking in like it’s the first time he’s been still all day. 

It never stops tugging at you — how much he gives, how little he asks for in return. So you settle in behind him, folding your legs on either side of his hips and begin to work your thumbs into the taut knots between his shoulder blades. Your touch is like pure relief, he sighs deeply and leans into your hands like it’s the best part of his day. “Holy shit,” he mumbles, voice hoarse. “I swear your hands should be licensed or something.”

You smile, dragging your nails lightly along the base of his neck, just the way he likes — soft but just enough to itch the right spots. “You forget who paid for these?” You tease, referencing the soft-but-deadly manicure he insists you keep up with.

He huffs a low laugh, tipping his head back slightly until it rests against your collarbone. “Best investment I ever made,” he mutters, eyes fluttering closed. “You’re lucky I don’t make you scratch my back all day.”

You press a bit deeper and feel the muscles shift under your hands — tight at first, then slowly giving in — making him dip lower on your lap, every breath a little softer now. “Promise me you’ll never quit this job,” he murmurs, almost too quietly to hear. You kiss the crown of his head, a smile playing on your lips. “Only if you promise to keep pampering me like a spoiled housecat.”

That earns you another low chuckle from him, eyes still closed. He turns just enough to catch your hand in his and presses a kiss to your palm, warm and slow. “That’s a deal I’m happy to sign up for.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… is a little bit of a nerd when it comes to his craft. Okay — not a little. A lot.

You’ll be curled up next to him in bed, half in his lap, scrolling aimlessly through your phone with your ankle looped over his thigh. You pause on a trendy, hyper-detailed tattoo — some fine-line celestial piece with stars trailing over a collarbone — and you turn the screen toward him, “think this would look cute on me?”

His brows furrowing slightly, eyes flicking over the image with laser focus of an artist. At first it's a thoughtful hum, then he starts talking. Like, really talking. “That ink saturation wouldn’t hold — especially with that much negative space. Would fade fast, too. Line weight’s not balanced either. They used too tight of a needle grouping here — you see it? There, see how it’s already fuzzing even though it’s fresh? That’ll blur in a year, tops. And yeah, placement’s cute, but if you ever wanted to add anything later, it might trap the flow. You always want to leave room to grow the piece, not corner it…”

You stare at your usual quiet, broody boyfriend, who is now suddenly animated, explaining gradient blending and machine stroke length and how certain pigments heal under different skin tones. He picks the whole thing apart with surgical precision. It's art meeting science meeting poetry.

You’re used to being the chatterbox in every room, filling every silence without meaning to. However now he’s fully in his element, and you’re the one listening  — you really can't help but listen. The way his voice dips with knowledge, how his fingers ghost across your skin in thought, like he's mapping something there.

When — and if — he catches himself over-explaining, he reels it back in, “but if you want it, I’ll make it work.”

Your heart’s already doing flips. He doesn’t even know what he does to you when he’s like this, so unflinchingly competent. There’s something magnetic about his confidence — not loud or showy, but built from calloused hands, long hours, and a mind that notices everything. 

You’re not sure if your heart or your thighs react first, to be completely frank… Who knew watching your tattoo artist boyfriend nerd out over needle depth and pigment retention could be this unfairly hot?

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… lets his hair grow out — not on purpose, not at first. 

It just got a little too long one week… then another. A few too many back-to-back weeks, until  strands are falling into his eyes mid-linework, tickling his cheek when he’s trying to focus. He huffs, frustrated, trying to blow them away with a puff of air while he’s sketching a design for an important client. 

Digging into your bag, you fish out a pink bunny clip you keep for emergencies. “Hold still,” you giggle, brushing his hair back. He doesn’t even flinch, just tips his head slightly to give you room. You secure the glittery thing in place, and smile at how ridiculously adorable he looks. 

He didn’t take it off, not even when Sunoo poked his head in and snorted, “nice accessory, Hoon.” Not even after the sketch is done… not even when his client shows up.

Soon, the bunny clip is joined by a sparkly bow, a red snap-barrette, even one shaped like a tiny strawberry. One by one, they find their way into a little glass jar on his workstation — tucked between ink caps and spare needles like they belong there. You caught him once, staring into the jar like he’s choosing a weapon, “need a new one?” You teased, you couldn’t help it — he looks like something out of a pastel daydream when he puts them on, “we can go to the store.” 

But he would just shake his head, voice soft and a little shy. “Nah. I want one of yours. Yours are better.”

What you don’t realize is… he could’ve cut it months ago. He should’ve, but it came down to your hands, always tugging gently at his roots and threading through the strands  when you kissed him. How you grip him when he’s between your thighs — clutching, curling, grounding yourself on him like you’re not sure where else to hold. He notices how tight you hold when his tongue slows down between your folds and clit, when his hands spread your thighs wider to give him more access, when you breathe out a broken version of his name. 

He pays attention — of course he does. He’s an artist painting his canvas with his tongue. And he loves it — the taste of you, getting his face soaked in your pussy like it’s the only way to really clear his head after a long day. “Fuck, angel —” He groans, voice muffled against your skin, hair’s already a mess. “You’re dripping.”

“All your fault,” you fuss, just to be difficult. It gave you a slow, smug bite — teeth sinking into the soft of your inner thigh — not rough, just enough to whine beneath his mouth. “Sensitive today, huh?” He tuts, lips brushing just beside the mark he left. His tongue follows soon after, soothing over the spot like an apology and a claim in one. He always makes sure to sooth it with his tongue, all while your hands tangle hardens and loosen in his once-groomed hair.

His digits found their way to your glistened lips — two of them already messing up your gloss to rest heavy on your tongue. “Suck, baby.” The words leave him low and firm — but when your eyes met his, clearly about to test your luck, he caught it. “Nicely.” He instructed a subtle warning, gentle only in tone. You huff, just for show, before finally obeying — lips wrapping around him with slow, deliberate pressure. Your cheeks hollow ever so slightly as your tongue swirls — giving him exactly what he asked for, but still on your terms.

There’s a glimmer of something playful in your eyes as you glance down at him, lashes low. You make sure to keep eye contact as you drag your tongue between the space of his two fingers, mimicking exactly what he promises. You let out the faintest hum, just to feel his fingers twitch to your preview dressed up in sugar. And he watched every second of the way your mouth works like he’s in a trance, expression impossibly fond and ravenous. “Jesus,” he mutters over his shallow breath.

His free hand slid beneath your thighs, thumbs pressing into soft flesh, folding you open like he’s studying a piece of art. He pulls them out with a soft pop, using those spit-slicked digits to part your swollen, puffy folds, spreading you open. “Too pretty to be this messy,” he breathed, his lips hovering just above your soaked skin. His mouth follows, deliciously cruel — with a long languid lick traced from your needy, dripping hole all the way up to your swollen clit, savoring every slick inch.

One palm drifts to your lower belly, applying gentle pressure that makes you keen — you feel his cold rings on your warm skin. The other comes up to your chest — calloused fingers and warm palms cupping your tits, brushing over your nipples in circles as his mouth stays sealed between your legs. His eyes never left your face, watching how your eyes flutter shut and your chest rises with every shaky breath by the co-stimulation.

Long after you cum, he keeps eating like he means it, tasting his own victory — like he doesn't want to waste a drop of you. Every flick of his tongue is deliberate, every hum against your skin sending aftershocks through your hips. He doesn’t just taste you — he savors you.

By the time he finally rises, his lips are slick, cheeks are flushed, hair is sticking to his forehead. He doesn’t bother wiping his mouth or acknowledge his own weighty bulge straining beneath his denim. Instead, he kisses you so you can taste yourself on his tongue — like he’s giving you a piece of his mind about how palatable you are, “taste how sweet you are, my love?” He whispers between your damp lips. You nod, breathless and boneless, dizzy from your second orgasm — adorable in your daze, your fingers still tangled in his hair long after the high has passed.

He swears, it makes him want to grow it a little longer — just to give you more to grab.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… always, always shows you his sketches first. 

Even when the design isn’t completely finished, he would find you — whether you’re tucked into the corner of the studio or lounging somewhere around his apartment — and with that boyish tilt of his head, he’d ask, “what do you think, babe?” While his eyes flick between the page and your face. Your answer is almost always the same: an unfiltered smile and a soft, “I love it” because you do. You really, genuinely do. 

The truth is that he really values your opinion. Not just because he loves you, but because your reactions, your little gasps, how your eyes light up, the way you notice and study the details — they remind him why he does what he does.

Later, when the piece is fully inked, fresh and glowing on someone else’s skin — the cilent would stand in front of the mirror, grinning wide, praising the design — he’d murmur, “yeah… my girl saw it first.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… agrees — maybe too confidently — when you suggest a Mario Kart bet one lazy afternoon: winner gets to tattoo the loser.

Twenty chaotic minutes, three banana peels, one blue shell and a very unfortunate tumble off Rainbow Road later — he’s dramatically slumped on the couch with his face buried into his hands, groaning like he’s just faced mortal defeat. You’re already tugging him to his feet, smug as hell. “A deal’s a deal,” you sing-song, practically skipping toward his own studio chair. “Get comfy, loser.” 

He watches you prep with exaggerated seriousness — slipping into gloves that are a little loose (one inside out, which he gently helps you fix), your brows furrowed in concentration as you fumble to pick out the smallest and the friendliest needle you can find. He’s biting back a laugh the whole time. “I’m gonna give you the stinkiest, cutest little prison tat,” you gleamed with mischief as you sketch the design — a tiny, lopsided heart — on the side of his ankle. “Yeah? can’t wait to walk into the next guest spot with this.” He mused, settling onto the tattoo bed with how arms crossed over his chest like a stoic soldier. 

Despite all the teasing, he still walks you through it — instructions softened by affection: “angle your wrist more… yeah, like that.” and “careful, don’t press too hard — gentle, babe. There you go.” Of course, the moment you get too confident and accidentally jab just a little too deep, he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth — a tight hiss breaking through his grin. “Oh, okay — shit,” he winces, but he's still smiling. “Damn, straight to the bone, huh?”

When your hand trembles slightly, heart pounding with the pressure of not screwing up permanent ink on a professional tattoo artist, he immediately steadies it with his. His fingers are warm over your glove, his thumb brushing gently across your knuckles. “You’re fine, baby,” he’d say quietly, eyes on you instead of the machine. “Keep going. You’re doing great.”

Later, when it’s done — crooked little heart and all — he fawns at it. “I’m retiring,” voice completely serious.  “You’ve outdone me.” 

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who... finds you curled up in someone else’s studio when he’s done with his last client for the afternoon — legs folded, drink sweating in one hand, flipping lazily through a portfolio that’s definitely not his.

“You always make yourself at home wherever you go, huh?” Said a wry voice — not his. You grin over your shoulder at her, one of the other tattoo artists in the building. She’s a little blunt, a little sharp around the edges. No-nonsense, usually hard to read. But once you cracked her tough exterior, she’d started leaving her studio door open whenever you wandered by. Letting you hang around her space like a stray cat she’s decided to keep. 

“I bring snacks,” you say in your defense, shaking the half-empty bag of gummies you mostly ate. She snorts, reaching over to steal one just as Sunghoon leans into her doorway.

“There you are,” he says, his voice softer, worn from hours of work and not seeing you. Hands still smudged with stencil markers, brows a little furrowed like always when he hasn’t seen you in a few hours. “You ghosting me for other artists now?”

“She’s mine today,” the other tattoo artist, now truly a friend of yours, calls from her chair with a shrug, eyes never leaving the digital tablet in her hand. “Finders keepers.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… picks you up from work even on his busiest days.

No matter how packed his schedule is, no matter how late he stayed up finishing designs the night before — he’s always there, without fail. You spot him leaning against his car from across the lot, hands tucked into his pockets, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, the tapestry of ink on his forearms sets in motion. His sunglasses are perched slightly low on his nose as he watches the entrance, waiting for you. He looks like he will cut someone's jaw in any second, but when he sees you? That edge softens instantly. 

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs when you reach him, voice still laced with that sleepy rasp like he hasn’t used it all day — like he’s been saving it just for you. “Tired?” He asks gently, eyes scanning your face like he’s already reading the answer. You nod, too drained to even think properly. “And missing you,” you mumble almost into his chest as you lean into him, wrapping your arms around his middle. 

He doesn’t say anything at first — just one arm comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading softly through your hair. The other wraps around your back, palm smoothing down your spine like he’s pressing you back together. You feel the deep breath he lets go against your hairline, like your touch alone loosened something in his chest he’d been carrying. He felt your absence all day.

He pulls back just enough to guide you to his car, opening the door with one hand and keeping the other steady on the small of your back. Not pushing, not rushing — just waits until you settle inside before leaning in one last time, pressing a kiss. “Missed you too.”

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… pretends to act unfazed when you walk into the studio, lean against the counter with your chin resting on your folded arms, and dead-seriously say, “I think I want a tramp stamp.” 

His head doesn't lift right away from sanitizing his workstation. His back stayed turned, gloved hands still moved with mechanical ease — but you notice the pause before he glances over his shoulder, “yeah?”

You nod, feigning innocence with glimmering eyes but you continue to push, “something cute. Lower back. Real classic, y’know?” You tilt your head, watching him closely with your grin already threatening to break through. He meets your gaze just long enough for you to clock it — the way his jaw flexes, the faint twitch of a muscle beneath his sharp cheekbone. There it is, bingo.  

He’s recalibrating every thought in his head because you just short-circuited his brain. Still, he keeps it cool, turning back to his tray like you didn’t just test every ounce of his patience and professionalism in one sentence. “Send me references.” He says casually, but you don’t miss the way his grip tightens slightly on the spray bottle. He’s already picturing it — his symmetrical design on you, in that placement, your skin — all his.

And references you were sure to send — dutifully.

Later, when his phone buzzes with your name lighting up the screen, he's already reaching for it before the second vibration. It’s maybe the third photo you’ve sent him that day. The earlier ones were tame: a Pinterest board,  some half-serious meme about butterfly tattoos. This one’s different, though. Closer and clearer. 

It was a mirror shot with your back on display. Shirt pushed up messily with one hand, the other tugging your waistband low across your hips. Just enough to reveal the curve of your spine, the soft dip of your lower back. Your skin is warm in the dim light of your room, cast in golden tones, and there — drawn faintly in pink marker — is a tiny arrow pointed right to the spot you wanted him. Underneath the photo, you wrote: ‘Make it pretty, Hoon.’

Sunghoon’s patience is the kind that stretches. He’s meticulous by nature, measured in every word, every breath — but, you — oh, you test the limits of that discipline.

He sat up straighter in front of his phone before leaning back in his chair, dragging a hand down his face and trying to breathe. He never stood a chance — not with you, not like this. Now he’s designing your tramp stamp at war with his own sanity.

When you actually show up for your appointment, the studio's air is already tight and inflated all at once — like the walls, and especially him — remember every message and photo you’ve sent, leaving them to burn into the back of his brain.

You strip off your shirt before stretching out on his tattoo bed with a lazy grace, like a big, spoiled cat basking in attention. Waistband’s tugged low revealing your hip dimples to him under the overhead lights. You fold your arms under your cheek, angling your head just enough to catch  his reflection in the mirror — the way his broad shoulders fill the frame, strong and solid, casting a shadow that covers most of the glass.

You bat your lashes at him when his eyes meet yours, making him mutter something low under his breath — like he’s trying to curse the thoughts you’re putting in his head before they take root. He didn’t even say much when he saw you — trying hard to stay composed, contained. Yes, he’s always the type to go quiet when focused — but this is unusually muteness. The silence sat thick between you two as he preps the stencil, jaw tight like he's chewing on the words he won't say, gloves already snapped on.

When the machine starts — that low, distinct buzz slicing through the studio — you take a deep breath, bracing yourself, a conditioned reflex at this point. 

Ten minutes in and the needle failed to drown out the sound of your shallow breathing you were trying to control. “Still with me?” He asks, tone dripping with honeyed ease even though he hasn’t smiled once since you walked in. You hum in response, barely audible, eyes heavy-lidded from the rhythmic sting and the warmth of his palms against your bare skin. 

His gaze drags to the hollow of your lower back — that dip where muscle softens and spine curves, the exact spot you pointed out in that photo. The same one that’s been seared behind his eyelids every night since. He leans in closer, needle’s still buzzing in his grip, but his focus has shifted entirely. “You’re doing so well,” he murmurs, lips brushing hot over your ear. His free gloved hand settles at the base of your ass, right where the swelled curve meets your trembling thigh. “Taking it like a fucking angel.”

Your fingers curl into the sheet with every tripped heartbeat. It floods you — his closeness, his quiet reverence wrapped in filth. “Hoon,” you whisper, and it sounds more like a plea than a warning.

That response from you makes it hard for him not to smile as he pressed a feather-light peck on the tip of red ear before trailing down to the back of your exposed neck. Every inch he closes the distance feels like an act of revenge — a slow payback for testing him. It’s his way of settling the score, a delicious kind of retribution just for you. “You gotta stay still,” he says, all velvety patience, he’s enjoying this way too much. “You want me to finish this or not?”

“Okay okay. I promise I’ll be good.” you mumble, voice half-drunk on endorphins and half-intention.

He clicked his tongue to that. “Liar.”

His reprimand made you twitch — hips squirm just slightly, barely perceptible. However, it’s enough for his palms to register instantly, that tiny flinch of guilt or want — he knows the difference. Immediately, the buzz of the machine falters for a beat before he kills it altogether, setting it down with a sharp click of it hitting the tray that's louder than it should be. “That’s it.”

Your eyes snap open. “Wait —”

“You keep moving,” his voice was stern like he’s teaching a simple lesson you clearly keep failing. “I take my lines seriously, you know that, I can't do them right if you keep moving.”

With your breath catching at the edge of frustration and something else that makes heat crawl up your neck, you're still persistent. “And you said you’d finish.” You fire back.

He pauses and then just sighs, unbothered, before grabbing a paper towel from behind him. With careful precision, he dabs over the half-inked lines and does a full swipe on the whole stencil. Not all of it is gone, but most of its outline is barely visible. You feel the pure force and heaviness of his touch, what’s been building for hours.

“You —” You turn while on the bed, incredulous and flushed, “are such a dick.” He doesn't bicker back, he just slips his gloves off with a snap and a lazy smirk. “You’ll come back tomorrow.”

“Oh, will I?”

“You will,” His voice softens just a little as he confirms for the both of you. His hand rises, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek with the backs of his fingers. It’s jarringly tender for someone who was just threatening to leave you with a half-done tattoo. “You don’t like unfinished things.”

Your throat bobs, but you keep your eyes on him. “You’re just drawing this out.” He doesn’t deny it — the endurance in his self-restraint allows him to indulge and also stretch the tension. Instead gives you an unfairly pretty smile — cocky nonetheless — with dimples peeking through his blown pupils. 

“You’re my favorite canvas...” he says, voice dipped lower than before — like he means every word and then some. He’s close, impossibly so, the air between your lips barely exists. “So why would I rush?” He finishes off — like the answer had been obvious all along — before his hands flip you gently, but with a finality that leaves no room for protest, guiding you back onto your stomach. A quiet oomph escapes you, stunned by the motion and the sheer audacity. 

The cool air kisses your skin again where the stencil used to be. “You know what they say — you gotta stretch the canvas, warm it up...” He spoke as he settled behind you, like he’s got all the time in the world — and you’re the only thing worth spending it on. No one else is on his mind but you. “Gotta break them in to make them fit like a glove…” You can’t see his face, but you can hear the grin over the sound of his heavy belt unlooping. 

“Except you?” His voice is hoarse as his swollen, neglected tip first rests on the plush of your ass, then dragged along your slit before he parts in slowly, like he doesn't want to miss a single second of how you try to wrap around his size — his proportions extending you to your limits. 

You try to bite back the noise that leaves you, but it slips anyway — soft, broken mewls. “You are tight enough to make me never want to pull out.” He groaned, quite simply you’ve knocked the breath out of him just being this snug, this soaked — this goddamn perfect.

One of his hands fists the sheets beside your head, the other slides under your thigh, lifting it just a little higher — angling you to take every inch of his girth. His hips grind the flush of your bottom, making your thighs jiggle with it. “There we go… told you I’d make it fit.” He’s speaking under his breath, staying there motionless with a buried, smothered cock before grinding once more just to feel your walls clench around him. He then sinks the rest of the way in, rougher now — deeper than you thought your poor cunt could take, “I was patient all damn day — this is what you do to me.” The spread of your walls makes your vision blur as he bottoms out in you. “Is this how you repay me? Mh, baby?”

He’s acting like you orchestrated all of this, like some grand seduction to drag something primal out of him — and he’s the helpless victim who’s drunk on you. And the thing is … he’s not exactly wrong. 

You tilt your head just enough to glance back at him, even as your breath hitches with every thrust, you can't keep your tongue tamed, “not my fault if — mmph — my pussy’s better than your self-control.” Your words drip off like syrupy venom. You keep sparring with him — with your words, sharp tongue, your stubborn pride — but everything else betrays you. 

Your body’s already sold you out. Your knees are unsteady, muscles twitching with every slow grind of his strong hips. Your lips continue to part with soft, involuntary whimpers and little ‘fuck, fuck, fuck’s. Your breath became shallow and shuddered like your chest can’t decide whether it wants to fight or melt.

And he notices all of it.

He huffs a low, amused laugh at the sight of you — wrecked and trembling around his cock — before his big hands find your arms, guiding your back to his chest with an unhurried pull. There’s no resistance in you, just pliancy. One strong arm snakes around you, securing both your wrists in his grip behind your back — while the other drifts to the base of your neck, just holding you there steadily without pressing. You gasp, not just from the sudden shift, but from how your spine arches for him so easily, so naturally. Like your body already knows how to obey him.

“Is that so?” He tutted right into your ear, almost a threat. Pressing deeper until your next moan chokes itself halfway out before it dissolves into something more desperate. His cock continues to edge your cervix, unforgiving. The hand at your neck slides up, fingers curling firm beneath your jaw. He tilts your head back with practiced ease, just enough to make you look up at him, revealing you to be vulnerably trembling in his grasp.

His eyes rake over your face like he’s inspecting you, every twitch of your long lashes, every shiver in your pump lips, every glint of subversion that's fast unraveling under the weight of him. “Look at you,” he murmurs — not mocking, no, his eyes are way too soft for that — but rather possessive. His calloused thumb brushes your cheek, deceptively gentle compared to his gut arranging pushes, “so sweet when you’re fucked open like this.”

Soon the stencil is long wiped clean, forgotten really. Part from him rubbing it off with that crumpled paper towel, part from his messy hick ropes spilling across the plush of your ass and the soft slope of your back. Some are still slowly cooling down, others already smeared into your heat-slick skin. Round after round, each one more feral than the last, now decorating your behind. 

So yes, he made sure it's pretty — but first, pretty with his dripping release. Then, and only then, with his design. You know he won't stop until you're sobbing his name into his tattoo bed. Dragging every orgasm out of you like he wants to memorize your pulse from the inside of your cervix.

You don’t even know what hour it is anymore. Morning? Night? All you know is that he’s still behind you, only now one his fingers are slowly dragging over the sticky remnant streaks on your skin, tracing the rope lines as if admiring a map. The other hand is drawing circles on your puffy clit. His teeth nibble along your neck and shoulders to leave red and pink blemishes, making you tense and relax beneath him. You hear the soft click of his jaw — not with anger, but satisfaction — as he surveys the aftermath, his aftermath. 

You still try not to melt into him and his engulfing scent just by how close he has you again. But your body is already singing for him, aching in all the places he ruined. “You gonna behave for the stencil this time?” He asks, mock-polite, brushing your hair away from your shoulder with his cum dripping fingers. His hips snapping hard against you when your answer took a moment — each thrust greedy, not giving you a second to catch your breath. 

You bite back a moan and shift just enough to meet his rhythm, daring him. Not only can you feel him inside, but also everywhere: on your skin, under your nails, in the throb of your clit. It’s not just sex… it’s claiming. He’s painting you from the inside out. You swear you can feel the imprint of him by now, like he’s marking you in a way no tattoo ever could. “You’re gonna stencil me up just to fuck it up again?” You huff, breath hitching from the force of him. 

“You’re stubborn as hell,” he grits with another thrust, the kind that knocks every thought from your head — again, “and that’s exactly why I’m gonna keep fucking you through every goddamn stencil until you learn.” His voice was unrepentant before he sighs, “guess we’ll have to start again tomorrow.” He muttered, not sounding even a little sorry.

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who... doesn’t finish the tramp stamp that first session. Not because of technique, or timing, or because he’s tired. But because the second you whimpered his name, squirmed just a little too much beneath his hands… and the way you turned your head to look at him after he wiped off the stencil? Dazed, pouty, half-pissed? Yeah. That look on your face was enough reason for him to keep the machine from ever moving past idle.

The second session began much the same. You find yourself perched on the edge of the tattoo bed, hips bare and still faintly pink from last time visit, the imprint of his ink work lingering. You avoid his gaze when he smooths on the fresh stencil. “Still sure about the placement?” You hear the smirk laced between the syllables.

“Sunghoon,” you say, meant to be firm but it comes out more like a whine than a warning. He hums, brushing the pad of his glove across your back. “Just checking, baby.”

But none of it mattered — your body had already made the call before your mouth could, arching into his touch. your hips canting back like you need him to touch you, like you need him to forget the stencil again. Gloves off, cast aside — again. 

“Fucking hell — You’re so fucking addictive.” It’s not just a statement — it’s a ragged confession, groaned under his breath, more to himself than to you — like he can’t believe how good you feel, how easy it is to lose himself inside you. You've got this man wrapped around your pinky, and he doesn’t even care. He’s not fighting it, he’s chasing it. The stretch from his length is a sting and a sigh all at once, your cunt is dewy slick is clenching around him. Every slow drag out feels worse than the push in — empty, then full, then empty again. 

“That tattoo’s not gonna finish itself, y’know.” you choke out, breathless as you roll your hips on his cock, just enough to test the sharp edge of what’s left of his control, taunting beneath his grip. You don’t even need to see his face to know it worked, the sharp inhale behind you gives it away. You can feel the heat of his stare burn into the back of your neck. 

His fingers trailing down to the soft dip above your tailbone, pushing you to an even lower arch with your back before he shifts you, tipping you onto your side to an unbearable angle — your thigh slung over his, your spine curled into the curve he demands. While the other palm hooks around your bent knee, keeping you wide open. “Shit, babe —” You jolt, barely manage a gasp before he’s inside you again, leaving no room for teasing. 

"Keep talking like that," he said, frayed with want while pulsing inside you, waiting for your bite back. “and we’ll never finish it."

TattooArtist!Sunghoon who… surprises you by agreeing almost instantly when you suggest getting tiny matching lollipop tattoos — just a small, playful token of something only the two of you understand. 

Later, when you're both comparing the finished pieces — standing shoulder to shoulder by the mirror — you realize he didn’t just match the design. He mirrored everything. Same size, same shade of pink, placed just above the wrist. “You’re gonna regret this when someone asks what it means,” you giggled, it looks absurdly and comically out of place on him, nestled between all his badass tattoos. 

He leans in, catching your lips in a kiss —  like he’s done it a thousand times and will do it a thousand more. Soft and annoyingly sure of himself. “No, I won’t.” he promised against your mouth. Because this one? Like the subtle constellation he hid behind his ear (your birth stars), the micro heart near his collarbone (lifted from one of your silly iPad doodles), the flower tucked behind his bicep (your favorite kind)? 

This one’s yours too. Just another mark you left on him.

[theboytatu]

anon back from a week ago re: bbh being a messy bitch who likes drama and his ability to shape his fans opinions. still would love your take on this topic if you don't mind

i am sooo sorry omg i have the attention span of an alcoholic toddler!!!! yes ok so I don't have that many examples on hand because i'm not a library of exo content, all my bookmarks on twt are a mess ugh

but re: manipulation and what i would actually call being an expert at exploiting an atmosphere but everyone else calls being an attention whore

exhibit A: him "drunk texting" fans on bubble during exo fanmeet in april. mind you this was right in the middle of the legal battle with SM which we had no idea about at the time. fans were so emotional - first exo performance as a full group in over 3 years, baekhyun fresh off his military life, yadda yadda yadda - he was pretty drunk from the post concert dinner the group had. yet later we found out idols need to review messages THREE TIMES before sending anything on bubble lmao 😭 i'm not saying he was faking it - i'm saying even drunk he knew exactly what these texts were gonna do to the fans. he is that good at riling people up like that + preemptively digging his parasocial nails into the fandom cause he knew shit was about to hit the fan.... I love his mind

exhibit B: the most recent example and something that had me crawling up the walls. i'm not saying he faked it or that he planned to fall asleep on purpose during a livestream, i completely believe baekhyun is careless and overworked enough to do that. what makes me scream into a pillow is the way he was UNFAZED by that shit when he woke up. had his manager blowing up his phone asking him to wake up and +40k people hearing him moan in his sleep and he woke up and stayed in the livestream. FOR 30 MORE MINUTES. he laughed it off and started joking teasing people etc etc like he genuinely dgaf.

might I add this pattern of starting twitter lives early in the morning only started after the comeback which i think is very interesting. i dont think its a coincidence at all but i need to gather my thoughts on that

exhibit C: not manipulative per se but this fucking clip is so insane to me i love how the worst things happened to exo completely unprompted it's like seeing an episode of the office. anyway baekhyun taking one for the team and distracting fans with his silly little dance.. THAT'S RIGHT HE'S THE GUY THAT STEPPED UP. and i think it showcases his quick thinking and social skills perfectly cause the rest of these men were frozen in place with half their asses out but baek just took it like a champ lol. he just wants to be seen <3 and told he's done a good job <3 give him all the praises please

exhibit D: this horrible fucking live. just baekhyun as a whole in superm.... like he's not dumb he knew nctzens were eating him up and shipping him w taeyong and what did he do? he went ahead and gave them exactly what they wanted.. while wrapping taeyong around his little finger might I add. now i think irl baekhyun and taeyong aren't that close, they're like those friends from work that you genuinely like but it's not someone you would seek out outside of pretty specific social settings. but baekhyun isn't fucking stupid he knew nctzens were a segment of kpop fans he could tap into and either turn into his own fans or he could get slapped in the face by exols turning on him.

anyways this is so fucking long im sorry to ppl following me i'm on mobile and can't make a read more. no one cares about the weird things i only notice about baekhyun but yes there's more to it i just dont have links for most things... but there's not a lot of specific examples idk once you notice it you just watch content with baekhyun and it becomes pretty clear.

[aliceblisss]

i was wondering if you could do a part 2 for the undercover couple one ? I LOVED IT SM

Yes I most definitely can! Sorry this took so long but here it is; enjoy!

AN: IM FINALLY POSTING THIS AAAHHHH SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG

CW: dom Spence, unprotected sex, lil bit of degradation, pet name (kitten), rough sex

——————————————————————————

It has been the most torturous 3 days of my life.

Having to work with Spencer and act like everything is normal has been insanely hard. Our dynamic has changed completely.

Usually we have our banter and everyday arguments. I don’t like him. He doesn’t like me. And that’s the way things are.

But now every snarky comment comes charged with sexual tension. Every look, every slight touch feels more intense than it should. I get flustered around him, something that never happened before. And I hate it. I hate all of it.

All because we kissed. Well technically he kissed me; so really it’s his fault.

Spencer. Ugh.

I hate him now. I hate him because the kiss was so good. I hate him because he’s invaded my thoughts. Every time I look at him I think of his lips on mine, his hands wrapped around me, me grabbing onto his perfect head of hair.

Shit. Since when does Spencer Reid have sex appeal?

I’m standing in the kitchen making myself a coffee and I feel the presence of someone behind me; it’s Spencer.

He stands right behind me and says lowly, “You’re in the way”

I ignore him.

He sighs and simply leans forward to reach over me for a mug in the top cabinet. His body is practically pressing against mine and I freeze in place. The way he towers over me makes my mind run wild with very inappropriate scenarios.

God y/n snap out of it.

“Must you always be a nuisance?” He mumbled.

“Must you always be an uptight prick?” I mumbled back.

He dropped his spoon and inhaled sharply through his nose, clearly irritated.

I sneak a glance at him and notice his under eye circles are deeper and darker than usual.

“You look like hell” I say.

“Gee thanks y/n! I feel like it too” he said sarcastically.

He was pissed. There was definitely something else going on because I had barely said anything and he was already in a mood.

“Wow, the stick is really up your ass today huh?” I spoke without a second thought. And when I saw the death glare he sent me I regretted it; I regret poking the bear.

His eyes pierced my soul as he stepped forward, eliminating the distance between us and towering over me. He looked like he wanted to say something but didn’t. He looked like he wanted to grab me but didn’t.

I watched as his hand flexed and closed into a firm fist, then fell onto the counter next to me. He took a deep breath and quickly left without saying a word.

I was frozen in place once again, dazed, confused, and slightly turned on for some reason.

~~~

It’s been a slow day of just paperwork. For the first time in weeks we don’t have a case. A case would be handy right about now to keep my mind off Spencer.

I’ve been mostly day dreaming and trying to sneak glances at him. He seems to be focused on his work and it’s so sexy.

He’s rolled up the sleeves of his button up shirt, exposing his forearms. They’re stronger and veiner than I expected.

I watch the way he licks his lips every few minutes, the way he rubs his temple with his middle finger when he’s stumped on something, the way he occasionally runs his hands through his messy hair.

I’m getting all hot n’ bothered in my desk at 2:34 in the afternoon. This is ridiculous.

I abruptly stand up and stomp over to García’s lair.

I burst in, “García give me something to do”

“Don’t you have like tons of paperwork?” She turns around in her swivel chair.

“Yes,” I begrudgingly admit, “but it’s boring. I need something else. Anything.”

She sighs and looks over her desk to see if she can find something for me to do. “Oh!” She exclaims.

“Here,” she rolls over to me with a flash drive in her hand. “There’s some files in here we need to print”

I scrunch up my face in confusion, “What for?”

“Small town police station that only uses paper and the one computer they do have is older than Rossi” she rolls her eyes.

I can’t help but laugh, “Okay Pen, you got it”

I take the flash drive and walk out as I hear her very enthusiastic “Thank youuuu!” from behind me.

~~~

There’s a lot of files to print so I’m in the copy room for a while. This is somehow even more boring than the paperwork.

After about fifteen minutes I hear the door open behind me and an annoyed scoff.

I wonder who it could be.

Of course it’s Spencer Reid, the very man I’m trying to escape.

I sigh, “What are you doing here Reid?” I keep my back to him.

“I came here to work out—what do you think I’m doing here y/n?” He said very sarcastically.

It’s the second time he’s been extra nasty towards me today and not in a good way.

“Okay what’s your issue?” I blurt out, turning to face him only to find him just a few centimeters away from my face.

“It’s quite simple; you” he replies.

I scoff. “Look I know you don’t like me, I don’t like you either. But if you have an actual problem with me just say so. Don’t go around being all passive aggressive with me; I’m not JJ”

His mouth fell slightly open and he glared at me. I glared back.

“Yeah I have a problem with you y/n, in fact I have many. So many I wouldn’t even know where to start”

“Well start somewhere bud because I have plenty of time” I cross my arms over my chest and lift up my chin. We’re still quite close to each other and I’m backed up against the printer.

He nods while pursing his lips as he looks away for a second. He looks back at me and gets closer, lower, and says lowly, “You really wanna know my problem with you?”

I gulp. Admittedly I’m all bark and little bite. And seeing the dark look on Spencer’s face is making me very nervous.

“The memory of your lips on mine. How good it felt. How much I wanna do it again,” he pushed me fully up against the printer and placed both his hands on it at my sides, getting at eye level with me.

“How much I wanna taste more of you” he practically whispered now as he stared at my lips. “And I hate that I can’t get you out of my head y/n. It drives me insane. I couldn’t sleep last night. Instead my head was flooded with how much I want—no, need you”

“Spencer I-” I can’t even remember what I was trying to say. All I remember is Spencer cutting me off with a kiss. A quick yet deep kiss that left me wanting more.

He pulled away and said, “Meet me in the men’s bathroom in the hallway with no cameras in eight minutes. Make sure nobody sees you” and walked out.

“What the fuck just happened?” I whispered to myself as my lips tingled with the phantom feeling of his lips.

Am I really gonna meet him in the bathroom? If I do what’s gonna happen? Well I have an idea of what could happen; it’s precisely what I’ve been day dreaming of non stop. I wanna go. I wanna do bad things with that man.

Once the eight minutes are up I decide I’m gonna wait one minute more and see what happens. He seems like the type that would punish me for being late. He already berates me about my tardiness daily.

Now that nine minutes have passed I leave the copy room and make sure nobody is around. I make my way to the hallway with no cameras and once I’m sure nobody will catch me I walk into the men’s room.

As soon as I open the door a strong hand pulls me in by my arm and then pushes me up against the wall. Spencer immediately locks the door. He puts one hand on the wall next to my head and another next to my waist.

He leans in, “You’re a minute late”

“Upset I made you wait?” I tease.

“I don’t think you realize how badly I want you y/n. I’m not even ashamed of admitting it anymore. And since you came in here I can assume you want me too, is that right?”

I nod as I stare into his lust filled eyes. He grabs my waist and pulls me closer.

“Use your words kitten” he growls.

I can feel the wetness in my panties grow more and more. “Yes, I want you Spencer” my voice betrays me so it comes out as a whisper.

He smirks devilishly before pulling me in more and kissing me again. This time it’s hungrier, desperate. We both pull at each other’s clothes to somehow get closer to each other. There’s a growing heat between us and it’s taking over.

He grabs my ass with both hands then moves them to my thighs to lift me up; my legs are now wrapped around his hips and I can feel his hard arousal.

The kiss is sloppy with tongues tangled and teeth clashing. Fingers tangled in hair and moans trapped in the middle of it all. It’s chaotic to say the least but we both need more.

He moves us over to the sink tabletop and plops me down; my legs still straddling him. He unbuttons my shirt clumsily and I breathe out, “If you rip my shirt I’ll kill you” and he chuckled. But it was dark, as if he took it as a challenge. Thankfully though he didn’t rip my shirt.

Instead I was met with his warm sweet mouth on my skin. He kissed and licked up my stomach and chest. He pulled my bra down and I could’ve sworn I heard a small whimper escape his lips at the sight of my breasts.

But the moans escaping my lips were undeniable as he sucked softly on my nipples. My vision was blurry. I was overwhelmed with lust for the last man I ever expected to feel lust for. Yet here I am, at his mercy, buckling my hips frantically, desperate for more.

He stopped and looked up at me, “Easy kitten, we’ll get there” with a smirk that made me want to slap him across the face.

“Stop teasing me Reid” I said through gritted teeth.

He got up and said, “Okay,” as he traced his finger up my core, “but you can’t make any noise”

This motherfucker.

And so he started tracing circles over my clit through my pants. I was so sensitive, every nerve was aching for his touch. He began kissing me again. And I had to make him suffer so I started palming his dick through his pants.

I felt him shudder and heard him groan, and I couldn’t help but smile.

“You bitch” he breathed out in between heavy panting. I simply smiled again and said, “No noise”

He grunted in annoyance but buckled his hips into my hand, craving more friction. And it was as if we read each other’s thoughts when we began taking each other’s pants off at the same time.

We continued kissing as we lined up our bodies, we were both too turned on to keep waiting. I pumped his dick which was fully erect to the point where it almost looked painful and oozing with precum. He started panting loudly so I put my finger up to his lips and said, “Shh, no noise” with a cocky grin.

“Oh yeah?” he replied. And next thing I know he was lifting me onto his dick.

He’s…big, to say the least. So it hurt, but it was the good kinda pain. I moaned, loudly. He quickly placed a hand over my mouth and smiled at me as he slowly thrusted into me.

I had to keep my eyes from rolling back as the waves of pleasure washed over me. My entire body was tingling. His thrusts started getting faster and faster and I was already nearing my climax.

I don’t know what was blowing my mind more; how good he was fucking me or the fact that the man fucking me this good was Dr. Spencer Reid.

Suddenly we hear a stern knock at the door followed by a, “Reid, you in there?”. It was Hotch.

Shit shit shit

Reid took a second to compose himself well enough to respond, “Yeah! Sorry I think I had some bad Thai food last night.” But he hasn’t stopped. He’s still fucking me into oblivion. I’m holding onto his neck and shoulders for dear life.

“It’s alright I just need you to verify something for me from today’s paper work so I can send it” Hotch replies from the other side of the door.

“Okay I’ll be out in a minute!” Reid replies and we hear Hotch’s footsteps getting farther away.

I look at him and say, “A minute?”

He looks back at me and grins, “I said I’d be out in a minute, you and I will be done in 30 seconds”

My brain was mush at that point, his thrusts were getting harder and deeper.

“Count back, 25, 24,” he started.

“23, 22, 21–shit Spence, 19” I continued but I could barely form words.

He was hitting my g spot over and over again. I threw my head back and moaned the numbers, “15, 14, 13–oh Spencer!”

He covered my mouth again and continued counting for me, though I could tell he was struggling, his knees were getting shaky and his thrusts sloppy.

He kissed me once more before there were only five seconds left. “5, 4, 3, 2–oh!” he gasped as we both came together.

I was almost screaming but it was muffled by his hand as my orgasm crashed my body and caused me to shake and spasm. His knees gave out and he fell forward.

We held each other as we both caught our breath and I could feel his cum oozing out of my pussy.

Once he regained some strength he straightened himself and put his pants back on. He then quickly got paper with water and helped me clean off.

Once he was done with that he checked himself in the mirror one last time, gave me a wink with a cocky smirk and left without another word; leaving me speechless and satisfied this time.