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sungvrhs · 1 month ago

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Drunk Confessions; Sunghoon

SYNOPSIS ➺ After a quiet night in, your peace is interrupted when your brother Heeseung shows up with a very drunk Sunghoon at your place. Left to take care of him, you find yourself flustered by Sunghoon’s unexpected warmth and vulnerability. But when his drunken state leads to a sudden confession of feelings, you are left wondering if his words are just alcohol-fueled — or the truth you’ve both been avoiding.

PAIRING ➺ fem!reader X loser best friend!Sunghoon

GENRE ➺ brother's best friend trope, best friends to lovers, slowly burn (?), fluff, sunghoon is a shy nerd; roommates to lovers; a tiny bit of angst;

WORDS ➺ 8k

WARNINGS ➺ Mentions of alcohol, mentions of throwing up, tiny tiny tiny bit suggestive;

AUTHOR'S NOTE ➺ It took me a WHOLE WEEK to write this! It's very sweet and cute. It's shorter than i wanted to, but I was growing tired of it after all these days. I like it a lot, tho. I hope you guys love it too!! Likes and reblogs are always appreciated. Thank you so much! Masterlist

You had just finished taking a long, hot shower and changed into an oversized shirt and sweatpants when your apartment door was almost knocked down by whoever was on the other side. Your bedroom was quiet and cozy; the cheap projector you bought on Amazon was playing Netflix on your wall. Startled by the loud banging, your first instinct was to hide under the covers, afraid someone was trying to rob your place.

Your heart pounded violently against your rib cage. From beneath the covers, you squeezed your eyes shut and tried to ignore the sounds, but they didn’t stop for a whole five minutes. Then it hit you: Sunghoon had gone out with your brother Heeseung today, and that could be them. With your bottom lip caught between your teeth, you slowly got out of bed and made your way to the front door.

The banging had finally stopped, but you could hear muffled voices from outside. You shook your head and cursed under your breath, already promising yourself you’d beat up your brother when he got inside. As your hand slowly turned the doorknob, you were met with a sight you never thought you’d witness.

“Help me!” your brother complained, struggling to keep Sunghoon on his feet. “He’s heavier than he looks.”

Unfortunately, despite his plea, you stayed still, arms crossed over your chest. A smug smile tugged at your lips as your eyes traveled to Sunghoon, who was weakly resting against Heeseung for support. His head was down, his hands stuffed in his pockets, looking far too adorable for someone this drunk.

“Why are you just standing there? Help me!” Heeseung whined, clearly annoyed by your amused expression.

“I told you he could barely hold his alcohol, and you still took him out. Maybe you should just deal with him yourself,” you teased, arching an eyebrow. You turned to leave, but your brother quickly grabbed your wrist.

“Please, YN I know you’re right. But I really need to puke, and there’s no way I’ll make it in time if you don’t help.”

Your sleepy eyes studied your brother’s face, and the way his hairline was damp with sweat and his skin looked pale as paper made your stomach drop with worry.

“Fuck… okay. Hand him over,” you muttered, your heart sinking at the state Heeseung was in.

Your brother struggled to pass Sunghoon’s weight to you, his arms almost giving out. But the wasted man didn’t move an inch. His eyes stayed shut, his body slumped like dead weight, but you knew better than to think he was asleep.

“Come on, man. Cooperate,” Heeseung grumbled, giving Sunghoon’s face a few gentle slaps. “It’s YN. She can take care of you.”

At the sound of your name, Sunghoon’s eyes finally snapped open. His head lifted sluggishly, his face flushed from his ears to his neck, a stark contrast to his usual pale complexion. His lazy, unfocused gaze found yours, squinting like he was trying to make sure it was really you.

“Hoon, let me take care of you,” you said softly, offering him a gentle smile. You watched as his face relaxed instantly, and without hesitation, he stumbled forward toward you.

His heavy arm slipped off Heeseung’s shoulder and landed on yours, his body leaning into you for balance. Clumsily, his feet tangled beneath him, and before you could stop it, he tripped, falling forward. You caught him just in time, your arms slipping under his shoulders, but his face landed right against your chest, inches above your boobs.

Your cheeks burned with embarrassment, but to your luck, Heeseung was already sprinting to the bathroom, completely missing the awkward scene. Sunghoon slowly lifted his head from your chest, his red eyes looking up at you, dazed and unfocused.

“I’m sorry about that,” he mumbled, his words slurring as his tongue rolled lazily.

You didn’t respond, mostly because your heart was beating way too fast. He was closer to you than ever before, and despite the obvious scent of alcohol, traces of his cologne still lingered, making you even more flustered. How did he manage to still look so adorable, even while wasted? You hated how easily he charmed you without even trying.

“Let’s get you to your room,” you murmured, helping him stand properly and guiding him forward with slow, careful steps.

Sunghoon didn’t dare look at you, knowing damn well that if he did, he’d end up spilling his guts. But even without looking, the scent of your peachy body wash clung to your skin, and since he was taller than you, he could catch the faint fragrance of your expensive shampoo. It was familiar and comforting. Without even realizing it, he leaned down slightly, his nose brushing closer to your hair as he inhaled softly.

You noticed the way he kept sniffing at your hair, and while it was kind of weird, you brushed it off, blaming his drunken state. Still, the walk to his bedroom felt like it took forever; your body was already tired from supporting his weight. Heeseung wasn’t lying when he said Sunghoon was heavier than he looked. Potentially it was because, underneath the baggy clothes he always wore, his body was well-built with strong muscles defined beneath the fabric.

Sunghoon’s a shy nerd — you’ve known that ever since you met him years ago. Because of his reserved nature, he rarely walks around the house shirtless, but on the rare occasions he does, you do your best to ignore it, not wanting to make him feel uncomfortable. Even though you’ve been friends for years and have seen each other in swimsuits before, Sunghoon’s always been a respectful man. He knows it’s not exactly right to just wander around half dressed, the same way you don’t walk around without shorts or pants, so he rarely does it. It’s not that he’s uncomfortable around you; it’s that he respects you and cares about your comfort.

Sometimes, though, you wish he wasn’t so careful. Sometimes you wish you could just lounge around in an oversized shirt without a second thought. And you wish he’d just do whatever he wanted, but he’s too much of a gentleman for that.

When you finally reach his bed, you throw him onto it without an ounce of grace, your arms, and legs aching from carrying most of his weight. Sunghoon flops face down onto his perfectly made bed, and a giggle escapes your lips.

“Hoon, you think you can take care of yourself now?” you ask, circling the bed and bending down near his face.

He turns his head toward you, his dirty blonde hair falling over his precious eyes, blocking his view. Without even thinking, as if reading his mind, your fingers gently reach out and tuck the strands behind his ear, letting his eyes meet yours clearly.

Your hair was still damp, the heavy ends soaking little patches of your sleeping shirt. Sunghoon thought it was adorable how you always wore his old shirts to bed; the fabric was way too big on your frame. Your face was calm, a soft smile playing on your plump lips. He could feel your warm breath against his skin from how close you were, and he couldn’t help but let his feelings take over.

“Help me undress,” he murmured, rolling onto his back.

“Sunghoon—” you whispered, your face already heating up. “I… I can’t do that—”

“Why not? I can barely keep my eyes open. The room’s spinning, and your smell is everywhere. My head’s a mess. Please,” he insisted, lifting his head just a little, his hazy eyes focused on your flustered face.

You stayed frozen in place, panicking over his bold request.

“Come on, YN. Start with my trainers, then the pants. I’ll try to get the shirt off,” he said, his sudden confidence making your heart skip a beat. The alcohol was clearly making him bolder.

You took a deep breath and, with shaky hands, started to undo the knots on his trainers. You wanted to scold him for forgetting to take them off before stepping inside, but you knew it wouldn’t make much of a difference, not when he was this far gone. Holding his ankle with your left hand, you pushed his trainers off his feet with your right. When you finally glanced up again, you realized he’d already shrugged off his hoodie, leaving him in a sleeveless shirt.

“I feel like I’m going to puke.” Sunghoon complained, his lips forming an exaggerated pout.

“Please don’t. We don’t have another bed, and Hee’s probably passed out on the couch,” you pleaded, your face twisting at the thought of the mess that would cause.

“I could sleep in your bed,” he offered, his voice soft but unmistakably teasing.

You froze, completely caught off guard, but you managed to keep your cool.

“You wish, dummy,” you shot back with a laugh, brushing off the comment as you reached for the belt on his pants.

You avoided his face as much as possible after that, not wanting him to see the way your cheeks burned.

“Yeah… I do,” you heard him mumble quietly.

Your hands stilled midair, your fingers barely brushing against the buckle. Slowly, you lifted your head just enough to sneak a glance at him, but his right arm was draped over his eyes, hiding his expression.

The silence that followed was thick and heavy, making it hard to breathe. His words replayed in your mind on a loop. “Yeah, I do.” Was he… was he implying he actually wanted to sleep next to you?

Once again, your heart stumbled over itself, and you realized his drunk self was far harder to handle than you’d expected.

You forced yourself to focus, your fingers finally undoing his belt and working his pants loose. Sunghoon felt every slight movement, hyper-aware of your touch and your closeness. When he lifted his hips just enough to help you slide the denim down his legs, you gripped the fabric tightly. Your eyes squeezed shut, doing your absolute best not to stare at your ridiculously hot best friend lying there in just his underwear.

To calm your nerves, you turn around and neatly fold the clothes he just took off, placing them on the chair at his desk. As you do, you hear him move, and when you turn back, he’s already under the covers, sitting up against the headboard, his eyes fixed on you.

“Can you come here, please?” Sunghoon asks in a low, tired voice, searching for your gaze. But you keep avoiding his eyes.

He doesn’t understand why you’re acting so distant and shy. Usually, you’re the confident one, the one who leads him. Your confidence is what draws him in the most. When your eyes meet his for the briefest moment, he swears there’s something hidden behind those beautiful brown irises.

“Sunghoon, you need to sleep. You’re drunk,” you say, fidgeting with your fingers.

“No, wait, Y/N,” Sunghoon calls out, your name rolling off his tongue like a needy plea. “I need to tell you something,” he insists.

“No, you need rest.” You force a small smile and look away, already turning toward the door.

But Sunghoon feels like if he doesn’t say it now, he might never say it at all. So when he sees you walking away, he jumps out of bed and rushes toward you, his warm fingers wrapping around your wrist, stopping you in place.

“I like you,” he confesses, no shame or hesitation in his voice, his heart hammering against his chest. He lowers his head slightly, trying to catch your gaze, but you turn away, staring at the floor.

“You’re drunk,” you respond, refusing to look at him, your voice betraying you.

“That doesn’t change anything,” Sunghoon insists. His head remains lowered, still trying to meet your eyes, but you keep turning away. “Don’t date Jay. Please.”

So that’s what this was about. That’s why he’s been acting strange all week. He must have overheard you talking to your friends about Jay and about your date. The truth is, you didn’t tell him because you weren’t sure how he’d react. And besides, you and Jay weren’t even together yet. He had taken you out twice, but that was it.

Every time you think you might like someone new, Sunghoon begins acting weird and distant, making you feel guilty enough to pull away. But this time, he was going too far. Lying to you, saying he liked you? He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t play with your feelings like this.

“Sure. Tomorrow, you won’t even remember saying any of this, so I’m just—” You take a deep breath and finally lift your head. “I’m just going to pretend you didn’t say anything.”

Before Sunghoon can say anything else or even take a proper look at your face, you pull free from his grip and leave the room. He just stands there like a fool, hands sweating and chest tightening at your absence.

You walk quickly to your bedroom, which is just across from his. You don’t even glance at the living room, but you know your brother is still asleep on the couch, his soft snores echoing through the quiet house. Carefully, you close the door and rest your back against it, your heart pounding in your throat, tears welling up from the weight of it all.

As his confession lingers in your mind, you slowly slide down the door until you’re sitting on the floor, the warmth beneath you offering the faintest comfort. Your hands feel clammy, and your legs are weak like jelly. You want to believe his words were a lie, but there was something about the way he said them. You felt it in the way your heart raced the moment the words left his lips, the way a shiver ran down your spine when your eyes met his, even for just a second.

Finally, you squeeze your eyes shut and take a deep breath, letting your lungs fill to their max before slowly exhaling. But it’s useless. The memories of him flood your mind, drowning you completely. And before you know it, you’re pulled back to the day you first met him.

Your brother had just stormed into the house, a basketball in his hands, his hair damp with sweat. You were sitting in the kitchen, eating an apple, and reading a book. As Heeseung walked in, he greeted you with a big smile.

Behind him, a taller boy followed; his hair also dampened, sticking to his forehead. His laugh was deep, his smile revealing a pair of pretty fangs that made him incredibly attractive. For a moment, your eyes locked with his, and time seemed to slow, just like in a romantic movie. He smiled at you, then his cheeks flushed pink.

The air was sucked out of you, and you felt an instant pull toward him and that pretty smile. But the moment passed as he quickly hid behind your brother. You arched an eyebrow, looking at Heeseung.

“He’s a little shy,” Heeseung teased, handing him a cup of water. “He’s that guy I met at the park—the one who likes basketball,” your brother reminded you.

“Ah… right… It’s Sunghoon, isn’t it?” you asked, your gaze drifting back to the tall boy beside your brother. Sunghoon just nodded, offering you another faint smile.

You were sixteen when you met him. He was sixteen too, and your brother was nineteen. After that day, Heeseung and Sunghoon were inseparable. They played video games together at your house, spent weekends at the park playing basketball, and your brother even gave him rides to school sometimes.

At first, you thought of Sunghoon as just a cute boy who liked sports. But as the years passed, you realized he was so much more than that—a complete nerd who just happened to have an unfairly attractive face. Even though he’d been around you countless times, he remained just as shy as the first day you met, which somehow made him even cuter.

Back then, he was just your brother’s friend. You had a boyfriend at the time, and you stayed with him until the day after your seventeenth birthday. That day was a disaster. You found out your ex had been cheating on you with an older girl.

You still remember Heeseung’s furious expression, his hands gripping your ex’s collar, practically lifting him off the ground. His neck was red, his entire body trembling with anger. Sunghoon had appeared just in time to stop Heeseung from doing something reckless.

That summer, Sunghoon and Heeseung stuck by your side. They dragged you out with them, forced you to play PlayStation, and did everything they could to cheer you up. Looking back, you’re sure it was one of the happiest summers of your life. Days filled with laughter and warmth, healing your broken heart piece by piece.

Heeseung always tried to distract you from your feelings, but whenever you found yourself alone with Sunghoon, he let you talk about whatever weighed you down. He was a good listener, always paying attention to the details and asking the right questions, making you feel truly heard.

That was when you first felt it. That little tingle in your chest as you gazed into his brown eyes. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but it was there. Sunghoon had the prettiest eyes you had ever seen, and the way they sparkled under a star-filled sky only made them more mesmerizing.

Ever since that day, you’ve been hiding your feelings for him.

You didn’t quite understand them at first. You had just gotten out of a relationship, and Sunghoon had always been sweet and caring—it was easy to mistake gratitude for something more. But when he started university and suddenly all the surrounding girls became interested in him, you knew it wasn’t just a silly crush.

You used to tease him about how popular he was, but he’d always brush it off with a shy smile, never believing a word you said. And despite all the attention he got, he remained quiet and reserved.

A few years have passed, and now you’re in your last year of college. The reason Sunghoon became your roommate is actually pretty funny. This final year is packed with important exams and projects, and since you had to commute back home every day, losing hours in transportation, you decided it was time to get a place of your own.

That turned out to be way harder than you thought because the rent was ridiculously high, and even though you were working part-time at a local coffee shop, it wasn’t nearly enough to cover both food and rent.

It was Heeseung who gave you the idea of finding a roommate, and you liked it. So you spread the word that you were looking for a female roommate. Turns out, not a single person was interested, and you were in trouble. The deadline to pay the first month’s rent was creeping closer, and you barely had enough money to eat.

That’s when Sunghoon offered to be your roommate, way too excited about the idea of spending more time with you. Heeseung loved the idea too, since it meant he’d have an easier time hanging out with both of you.

You were hesitant at first. After all, he was a man. But then you realized you’d lived with a man your whole life, your brother Heeseung. After a serious conversation about chores and responsibilities, you finally agreed.

It turns out Sunghoon was cleaner than you expected. The house was always tidy and smelled nice, and even better, he was always there with you. That’s when the regular movie nights started happening, and the two of you got closer than ever. You learned that when Heeseung wasn’t around, Sunghoon became more touchy and relaxed, his usual shyness melting away bit by bit.

He started making breakfast for both of you every day, waking you up with the smell of freshly made food. But the best part was the sight of him cooking with that cute pink apron tied around his waist. He always greeted you with a warm smile and a soft kiss on the top of your head—a little gesture that never failed to make you melt inside.

Those small things made it impossible to forget him.

Sunghoon wakes up with a massive headache, each throb pounding violently every time he opens his eyes. He curses under his breath and shuts them again, curling his knees up to his chest under the covers. Outside the blankets, his head takes a deep breath, and he’s met with a faint, familiar scent.

Your peachy body wash.

As soon as his nose recognizes the smell, the memories from yesterday flash before his eyes like some tragic, pitiful movie. “Fuck, that was such a bad moment to tell her how I feel,” he thinks, groaning as he lightly knocks his fist against his forehead.

Sunghoon never meant to make you push other people away. He tries so hard to smile and listen when you talk about other guys, but no matter how much he pretends, he can’t help the jealousy that coils in his chest.

Still, deciding not to skip his usual routine of making breakfast, he drags himself out of bed, throws on a pair of sweatpants, and slowly makes his way to the small kitchen. But to his surprise, you’re not there. That’s strange because you always wait for him so you can go to campus together.

Frowning, he grabs some hangover pills he stole from Heeseung out of the fridge. As he swallows them, his body slumps against the counter, the cold surface offering little relief.

The sun outside is shining brightly, filling the apartment with warm golden light. Sunghoon walks over to the windows and opens them, letting the fresh air sweep inside before calling out for you.

“YN?”

No response.

He checks the bathroom; the door’s wide open and the lights are off. The uneasy feeling in his stomach twists a little tighter as he moves to your bedroom. After knocking a few times and getting nothing, he pushes the door open, only to find a perfectly made bed and an open window, clear signs that you’ve already left.

On his way back to the kitchen, it dawns on him that Heeseung who was supposed to be sleeping on the couch, is gone too.

Debating whether he should go to class or stay home, Sunghoon eventually decides to skip. Besides the pounding headache and the queasy feeling in his stomach, there’s an ache in his chest telling him something’s wrong.

With a heavy sigh, he runs a hand through his messy, dirty-blonde hair and drops onto the couch. His only plan is to sleep the bad feeling away. It doesn’t take long, and within minutes, his tired body gives out, and he falls into a deep, restless sleep.

Meanwhile, hours pass, and you find yourself bored out of your mind in class. Though your eyes stay glued to the whiteboard, your thoughts are light years away. You feel guilty for leaving early this morning, but you just couldn’t face Sunghoon yet, not after his drunken confession.

In your head, none of it makes sense. How could he suddenly like you? He never flirted back, never initiated any kind of intimate touch, never did anything out of the ordinary. He was always respectful and caring. A constant, safe presence.

Before you know it, you’re chewing on your pen cap, and you quickly shake your head, weirded out by your own behavior.

The warm rays of sunlight streaming through the windows spread across your skin, lulling you into an almost drowsy state. When you glance at the clock on your wrist, you realize it’s almost midday, which means it’s time to head home for lunch.

But your thoughts wander as you picture walking through that front door. You wonder how Sunghoon’s feeling; his hangover must be brutal, considering how wasted he was last night.

Shoving the rising nerves aside, you leave the classroom the second your teacher dismisses you and head to the nearest supermarket. You grab lunch and some extra things you know the apartment needs, and before long, you’re standing at the front door.

The moment your hand grips the doorknob, your heart starts racing, but to your surprise, when you step inside, the apartment is silent.

Quietly, you make your way to the kitchen and set the grocery bag on the counter, and that’s when you spot him. Sunghoon is curled up on the couch, fast asleep, his body pulled in on itself like he’s trying to chase warmth.

A small smile tugs at your lips at the sight. Despite everything, there’s something so comforting about seeing him like this.

Carefully, you reach for the fluffy blanket resting on the side of the sofa and drape it over him, watching the way his body relaxes with a soft, sleepy sigh. Then, when you reach out and press your hand against his forehead, your heart sinks. He’s burning up.

Worry blooms in your chest as you hurry back to the kitchen, pulling out everything you bought for him: his favorite ramen noodles, some medicine, and a special seaweed soup meant to help with hangovers. Because no matter how complicated things feel right now, you can’t just sit back and watch him suffer.

You sit quietly at the kitchen table, eating your ramen as silently as possible, careful not to wake him. You’re relieved he’s still asleep; facing him right now would be too hard, with your mind still overthinking and making excuses for what he said last night.

Would it really be so bad if he liked you? No — after all, you’ve had a crush on him for a while, too. But it just doesn’t make sense in your head. Sunghoon is handsome and smart. You’re sure there are plenty of interesting girls who want him. And then there’s your brother. He’d probably be furious if he found out. He’d told you both, very clearly, not to get involved—he said it would ruin the friendship between the three of you.

The soft sound of Sunghoon’s breathing fills the room as you finish your food, then you grab your books for your afternoon classes, and slip quietly out of the house.

Sunghoon wakes up around five p.m., still confused and with a heavy headache pounding in his skull. The soft material of the blanket brushes against his face, and the realization hits him— you’ve already been home and left again. He sits up slowly, his eyes landing on the things you bought, neatly arranged on the counter.

Next to them, there’s a small, handwritten note:

“Please eat everything and take the medicine; you had a fever when I checked on you.”

A silly, lopsided smile creeps onto his lips as he reads it, his heart giving an involuntary flutter. He takes a moment to admire your beautiful handwriting before folding the note carefully and slipping it into his pocket.

He does exactly as you instructed: eats the food, takes the medicine, then lies back down, his body still craving rest. Sunghoon grips his phone tightly in his hand, determined to stay awake so he can talk to you when you get home. But exhaustion wins, and before he knows it, he’s fast asleep again.

The day slips by faster than you’d like. Despite the sun still hanging in the sky, the air has grown colder, making goosebumps rise on your arms. As you walk through campus, your eyes drift over the crowd of students talking, laughing, and going about their lives. And you wonder if any of them know the ache of falling for their best friend or not being able to overcome it, no matter how hard they try.

When you step inside the apartment, silence greets you once again. A quick glance at the couch shows Sunghoon still curled up, fast asleep. The empty packets from the food you bought sit abandoned on the coffee table.

Carefully, you tiptoe around the table, gather the trash, and throw it out. Then, worried about him, you kneel beside the sofa and gently press your palm to his forehead. The fever’s gone; the medicine worked.

A satisfied smile spreads across your face as you tug the blanket higher over his body, making sure he stays warm. With a quiet sigh, you head to your room, already thinking about the mountain of studying you need to catch up on.

The air in your room smells fresh, and you notice the window’s been shut. Sunghoon must’ve done it. You settle into your comfortable chair and take a deep breath, determined to focus. It’s been nearly impossible all day, with everything swirling around in your head.

Reaching for the headset hanging on the side of your desk, you slip it on, hoping the music will help you concentrate. Luckily, it works. Soon, you’re completely lost in a sea of books and exercises.

Meanwhile, Sunghoon wakes up again, this time feeling a lot better. The ache in his head has dulled, and his body no longer feels like lead. He stretches with a lazy yawn and checks the time on his watch at eight p.m.

The realization hits him like a truck.

“Shit,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his messy hair. He’s slept the whole day away.

Panic creeping in, he heads toward your bedroom. But when he gets there, his feet stop in front of the closed door. His palm hovers just inches from knocking, but he can’t seem to do it.

His heart pounds faster, his mind whispering all the worst possibilities.

Maybe she needs time. Perhaps she doesn’t want to see me. What if she’s uncomfortable now? What if she hates me? What if she wants me to leave?

The voice in his head wins, and the guilt weighs heavier on his shoulders as he turns away and heads to the kitchen.

Deciding to cook something, Sunghoon distracts himself with the familiar rhythm of preparing food. The scent of marinated pork belly fills the air as it sizzles on the stove, but his mind drifts far from the kitchen. What if you really do want him gone?

The thought tightens his chest, and that’s when the burning pain snaps him back to reality.

“Fuck!” he hisses, jerking his hand away from the pan’s hot edge and rushing to the sink. Cold water rushes over the burn, but the sting doesn’t fade easily, and neither does the frustration building inside him. He takes a deep breath, fighting back the tears threatening to well up in his eyes.

Once the pain eases, he dries his hand and applies a thick layer of burn cream from the fridge. With his injured hand still throbbing, he checks the pork belly, taking it off the heat just in time.

He plates everything carefully: a bowl of fresh rice, slices of perfectly grilled pork belly, a side of kimchi, pickled radish, and a sprinkle of sesame seeds just the way you like it.

Proud of his little masterpiece, he balances the tray and walks toward your bedroom, but once again, he finds himself frozen outside your door. His fingers hover near the wood, his heart pounding too fast. He’s never been here before, never confessed to anyone, never been this vulnerable.

And the fear of what you might say — of what you might feel — keeps him stuck right where he stands.

He takes a deep breath, reminding himself that everything’s fine. You’re YN, his best friend, not some stranger. His knuckles tap against your door a few times, but after waiting a few moments with no response, his hand moves to the cold knob, and he slowly turns it.

Sunghoon finds you completely focused on your studies, the room dimly lit, your headphones snug over your ears. He notices the empty water bottle at the corner of your desk and the crumpled cookie wrappers scattered nearby.

You barely even register his presence; it’s the subtle shift in light that finally makes you glance up, your eyes landing on your best friend.

“I… I made dinner for you,” he says, his voice quiet and hesitant as he holds up the tray. “And… thank you. For taking care of me today.”

You stay silent, your eyes flickering across his face, unsure and guarded. After a moment, your hands reach out, taking the tray from his grasp and setting it on your desk, pushing your books aside.

“Thank you… and you’re welcome. I will always take care of you.” you murmur softly, your gaze fixed on the food in front of you.

“Yeah... you’re welcome,” Sunghoon echoes hesitantly, his hand brushing the back of his neck. His eyes stay on you as you pick up your utensils and start eating, though you never once meet his gaze.

The silence that fills the room is thick and suffocating. It presses down on him, making it hard to breathe, his chest aching with the weight of it. He watches you, and the way you deliberately avoid his eyes cuts deeper than he expected. But deep down, he knows it’s fair — his actions last night weren’t exactly his finest. With his bottom lip caught between his teeth, Sunghoon makes a decision — maybe it’s better if he just leaves.

He moves toward the door, his footsteps slow and hesitant. But before stepping out, he glances back one last time, hoping, possibly, that you’ll stop him. That you’ll tell him to stay.

But you don’t.

And when the door clicks shut behind him, the silence in the room remains.

The weekend passes unbearably slowly. Since you only work on weekends, Sunghoon finds himself alone on Saturday and Sunday, his only company being his pile of missing assignments and his computer. He spends most of the day holed up in his bedroom, either sleeping or studying. The only times he comes out are to use the bathroom or greet you when you get home.

Sunghoon tries to talk to you during those brief moments, but you always excuse yourself, saying you’re tired and need to rest. And so, your best friend lies in bed, staring up at the plain white ceiling, feeling lonely and heartbroken. He hates this brick wall you’ve been building between the two of you; he worked so hard to overcome his shyness around you, and now it feels like it’s all falling apart.

A frustrated sigh escapes his lips as he rolls onto his side, his eyes landing on the artwork you’ve hung around the house. He admires the pieces, but his mind inevitably drifts back to you. He can’t figure out what’s going on, and that’s what terrifies him the most. Do you not feel the same way? Are you scared? He’s desperate for answers, but all he’s met with is silence.

You, on the other hand, were grateful for the weekend; it gave you the perfect excuse to avoid Sunghoon. Work was slow, which wasn’t exactly helpful because it left your mind too much room to wander back to him. You busied yourself with filler tasks just to avoid standing idly behind the counter, lost in your thoughts.

But eventually, your panic started giving way to logic. You realized that, no matter how awkward things had gotten, Sunghoon was still your best friend. He was still the only person who truly understood you and cared for you.

So, on your walk home Saturday night, you rehearsed a few things to say—words that would clear the air between you. But the moment you stepped inside and saw his sleepy, soft expression, every carefully crafted phrase vanished from your mind.

He was moving around the kitchen, maybe making a late-night snack. He wore a pair of gray sweatpants and an oversized navy blue hoodie, his blonde hair falling straight into his face. His pretty moles dotted his skin, accentuating his tired eyes and pouty lips. When he heard your footsteps, his head snapped toward you, but instead of the usual sweet smile he always greeted you with, he just pressed his lips together and went back to what he was doing.

A sharp pang of guilt twisted in your chest. You knew your avoidance had hurt him, and you wanted to apologize, but despite that, your legs had a mind of their own, carrying you straight to your bedroom without a word.

Unknowingly, the two of you ended up the same way that night, lying in your separate beds, staring at the ceiling, thinking about each other but too afraid to reach out. When Monday rolls around, you find yourself alone in the apartment. Sunghoon has classes all day, and you have none. So you decide to take advantage of the rare solitude and indulge in a little self-care. You paint your nails, make a lazy lunch with no protein, and binge a few episodes of a new drama on Netflix.

Since Sunghoon won’t be home until six, you take the freedom a step further, walking around the apartment in nothing but your underwear and one of his oversized shirts, the collar still faintly smelling like him despite being washed.

Currently, you’re in the kitchen making a smoothie, music blasting through the speakers as you sing and dance around without a care in the world. Your loose curls bounce with every move, your hips swaying in time with the beat. You belt out the lyrics to the latest Sabrina Carpenter song, completely unaware of the door opening behind you.

Intrigued by the loud music, Sunghoon quietly makes his way down the hall, stopping at the end to peek into the kitchen. The sight in front of him makes his breath catch.

You’re completely oblivious to his presence, twirling and singing your heart out as you move around the room. Sunghoon leans against the wall, his eyes following the sway of your hips and the curve of your legs. You look so carefree and happy, so unlike the distant, guarded version of you he’s been seeing these past few days.And for a moment, he just stands there, watching you, his heart aching and his mind racing.

“AHH, WHAT THE FUCK?!” you scream, jumping slightly when your eyes finally land on Sunghoon. “Jesus, Sunghoon, you scared the shit out of me,” you complain, your hand clutching your chest as you try to steady your breathing.

“I’m sorry. You just looked so beautiful, I couldn’t take my eyes off you,” he says shyly, his cheeks flushing red at being caught red-handed.

“Next time, text me when you’re coming home early! I would’ve changed…” Your hands tug at the hem of your oversized shirt, trying to pull it further down, aware of just how little you’re wearing underneath.

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Sunghoon murmurs, his voice carrying a teasing edge.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Where’s my shy Sunghoon at?” you ask, no longer caring that your bare legs are on full display.

“I’m still here,” he mumbles, his hand reaching back to scratch his neck. A nervous habit of his and the familiar gesture makes you smile.

“Can we talk?” you both blurt out at the same time.

A brief silence falls before you break into laughter, and Sunghoon follows suit. Just like that, the tension begins to lift, and the house feels warm and easy again, playful and familiar, like it always was. You gesture toward the sofa, and he sits down across from you.

You notice his knee bouncing and his hands fidgeting in his lap. The sight brings a wave of fondness; his nervousness has always been endearing to you.

“I’m sorry for avoiding you these past few days,” you start, your voice soft. “I was confused. My heart was a mess, and I didn’t know what to do.”

“No, YN it’s my fault,” Sunghoon says quickly, his warm brown eyes fixed on your face. “I shouldn’t have said what I said… or, at least, not like that. You deserved something more thoughtful, more romantic. But I guess… I’ve just been so desperate to tell you.”

As your eyes meet his, Sunghoon’s mind drifts lost in memories of you, of all the little things you’ve done that made him fall so hopelessly for you. Things you probably never realized meant so much to him, but he never forgot them.

He remembers your old bedroom in vivid detail—the collection of books lined up by the window, the cherry-scented candle on your nightstand, and the way the soft blue light of the moon reflected off your face that night. The night when everything changed.

“I’m serious, YN. I wasn’t going to keep giving her false hope,” he’d said, his voice firm. “So I just… told her I wasn’t interested. And yeah, I guess it wasn’t the best timing, but I wasn’t trying to be mean, just honest. Still, she ran out of the canteen sobbing.”

“You can’t be serious,” you’d replied, eyes wide. “She’s the most popular girl on the dance crew; how could you reject her like that?”

“Because I’m not interested,” Sunghoon insisted, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

“You do know there’s more to life than ‘League of Legends’ and ‘God of War,’ right?” you teased, a playful smirk tugging at your lips.

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, I know.”

“You’re twenty, Sunghoon. In the first year of college. You’re supposed to go out, get wasted, hook up, and live a little.”

“Not even you do all that, you only work and study.” he shot back. “Besides… I like someone else. And I can’t even think about anyone else when she’s around.”

He thought he was being obvious after all; it was just the two of you in your room, your shoulders brushing as you sat side by side.

But the smile slipped from your face, and when you looked away, his heart sank.

“Maybe you should go back,” you said quietly. “My brother can’t know you sneaked in here.”

But Sunghoon wasn’t ready to let you shut him out. His fingers tilted your chin gently, guiding your face back toward his. His eyes searched yours, taking in every detail — the way the moonlight cast a soft glow over your skin, the uncertainty in your wide, startled eyes.

But then reality crashed back in. He realized what he was doing and let go, his hand falling away as he stood up abruptly.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he muttered, his face flushed. “I should go.”

He slipped out of your room and back into Heeseung’s without making a sound, but his heart was pounding so loudly it felt deafening. Despite his embarrassment, he smiled to himself. Even if he’d chickened out at the last second, the image of you — bathed in moonlight, your face inches from his. It will forever burn in his memory.

That was the last time he tried making a move on you. He’d mistaken your silence for rejection, convinced you didn’t feel the same way.

But the truth was… his eyes had always lingered on you longer than anyone else’s. He loved the way your face lit up when you talked about things you loved and the way your eyes sparkled when you looked at him. And no matter how hard he tried to push those feelings down, they always found their way back to you.

Only recently did he realize how close he was to losing you to another man, and that made him open his eyes. When Heeseung invited him out for barbecue with his other friends, Sunghoon initially declined. He knew they usually drank a lot, and he could barely hold his alcohol — but when he heard Jay’s name mentioned, he quickly changed his mind. Sunghoon had never seen Jay before, only heard about him. And he’d heard about him from you.

You’d been talking to your best friend, and since your bedroom door was open, Sunghoon ended up overhearing by mistake. That was enough to make him curious and a little jealous. The day of the barbecue night out finally came. Heeseung was waiting in the living room, chatting with you about some family stuff.

Sunghoon can still remember the way your mouth fell open, and your eyes widened when you saw him. He might’ve dressed up a little more than usual, but he needed to meet Jay, and more importantly, he needed Jay to know how close you and Sunghoon were. Maybe then Jay would back off.

“Woah, Hoon…” you said in a flirty voice, his favorite. “You look so handsome.”

You stepped closer, smoothing his clothes with your hands. He was wearing a white button-up shirt, black baggy jeans, and a long black trench coat. Sunghoon looked smart and attractive, making your heart flutter.

He felt himself flush at your touch, warmth blooming in his chest. You were so clueless about how many moments like this meant to him.

“Thanks, YN,” he replied with a shy smile.

“Let’s go then?” Heeseung asked, standing up.

“Don’t let him drink too much; you know he can’t handle alcohol,” you teased, sparing a playful glance at Sunghoon.

“I’m not going to drink. Don’t worry,” Sunghoon assured you. Your brother gave you a tight hug and kissed your forehead.

Sunghoon awkwardly stepped closer too, but under Heeseung’s watchful eyes, all he dared offer was a soft head pat and a smile. You giggled at his weird behavior and guided them to the door, saying goodbye one last time before it closed.

The barbecue place was lively, packed with laughter and chatter in the air, blending with the sound of meat sizzling on the grill. Heeseung’s friend group was no different, cracking jokes and drinking while the food cooked.

But Sunghoon only had eyes for Jay, studying his every move, trying to figure out if this guy was even good enough to deserve your attention.

To Sunghoon’s dismay, Jay was everything he feared. Polite, charming, and attentive, always making sure everyone was eating, serving drinks, and keeping conversations light and fun. The jealousy Sunghoon had been feeling twisted into something darker: insecurity. Jay was the kind of guy people gravitated toward—confident, well-spoken, and social. Sunghoon felt like the opposite. A nerd, awkward, and embarrassed more often than not, despite literally living with you.

“How’s everything going with YN?” Heeseung asked Jay suddenly, snapping Sunghoon out of his thoughts.

Wait, even Heeseung knew about Jay? But Sunghoon didn’t?

“We’re taking it slow,” Jay replied with a gentle smile. “She’s a wonderful woman despite being your sister.”

“Hey!” Heeseung rolled his eyes, laughing. “Oh, speaking of YN this is Sunghoon! He’s my best friend, but YN’s too. We’ve been friends for years now!”

Sunghoon cursed silently. Did Heeseung really have to make this about him? Now everyone’s eyes were on him, waiting for a response, and he could feel his palms start to sweat.

“Yeah, me and YN, we’re… friends,” he said awkwardly, taking long, uncomfortable pauses between the words.

“Good. I’m glad you’re just friends,” Jay teased. “It would be weird if you had a crush on her or something.”

Sunghoon choked on his water.

“Nah, Sunghoon likes someone else, right?” Heeseung added, patting his friend’s back to help with the coughing.

Sunghoon’s face burned partially from embarrassment, partly from the lack of air. He just nodded, which made everyone laugh and reach for the soju bottles. And that’s when it hit him—maybe drinking wasn’t such a bad idea. Potentially, it would help him calm down. That’s how Sunghoon ended up wasted.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts by your voice calling his name.

“Hoon?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you be honest, please?” you ask softly, your eyes searching his face.

“About what?” Sunghoon blinks, realizing he hasn’t been paying attention.

“Come on, don’t joke around right now. I need to know the truth about what you feel for me.” Your voice is quiet but serious, and your fingers are nervously picking at your cuticles.

“I’ve told you already. I love you, YN. I always have,” Sunghoon confesses, the words spilling out before he can stop them.

“You were drunk.”

“I was aware of what i said. I love you,”

The silence that follows is strangely comfortable. You avoid his eyes, like you’re trying to piece together your own thoughts.

“Sunghoon—” you start, but he interrupts.

“You don’t have to love me back. I just needed you to know. It was time I finally told you. You have no idea how hard it is to hear you talk about other people when all I want is you.” The words pour out faster than he can think to stop them. But for once, he’s grateful.

“No, wait, the thing is… I love you too,” you admit, your heart pounding so hard you’re sure he can hear it.

“Wait, you do? I thought—”

“Why did you think I flirted with you all the time?” you ask, tilting your head.

“I thought that was just your personality,” Sunghoon says, clearly confused.

You burst out laughing. “I mean, I am a flirty person, but only with you.”

Your eyes meet his, and you see the way his soft brown iris expands, his entire expression softening.

“I don’t understand how you like me, though,” you say. “You never showed it.”

“You’re joking, right?” Sunghoon looks at you in disbelief. “I cook for you every morning. I kiss your head to say good morning. I let you ramble about your K-pop idols for hours. Not only that, but I let you cuddle me when we watch TV. How was that not obvious?”

“I thought you were just being a good best friend,” you mumble, feeling heat rise to your face. You both shake your heads, laughing at how oblivious you’d been to each other’s feelings.

The sun outside fades, casting the room in soft blue shadows, and you can’t stop staring at the boy in front of you, so flushed, shy, and beautiful.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you lift yourself up and slide onto his lap, settling on his thighs. Sunghoon’s eyes track your every movement, his breath hitching. He watches how his shirt rises higher in your thighs, exposing more and more of your skin.

Your hands cup his face, and gathering all your courage, you press a soft kiss to his lips. But it’s over too quickly, and Sunghoon isn’t satisfied with just one. His hand finds the back of your neck, guiding you back into another kiss.

This time, it’s slow and lingering, full of quiet desire and the kind of happiness that only comes with finally having what you want.

When you pull back, your eyes stay locked on him. When Sunghoon's eyes open, you both start laughing like two teenagers in love.

“We’re so screwed,” Sunghoon murmurs, still grinning. “Your brother’s going to kill me.”

“We can figure that out later,” you tease, tugging gently on the his hair. “Can we go back to kissing?”

“Whatever you say, ma’am,” Sunghoon whispers, his lips chasing yours eagerly once again.

Happy that you are finally his, and he is finally yours.

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sungvrhs · 1 month ago

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Does anyone knows @jjunieworld's new acc or where can i find their new posts? #enhypen

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sungvrhs · 1 month ago

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sungvrhs · 1 month ago

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── THE MEMORY THAT BLEEDS.

𓍯 synopsis: "He was the love she couldn't kill. Now, he's the monster who doesn't remember her." Years ago, you let Sunghoon live—despite knowing he had become the very thing you were trained to destroy. When he resurfaced as a powerful vampire with no memory of your past, you're forced to face him again... but this time, as strangers on opposite sides of the battlefield. As old feelings stir and dangerous secrets unravel, you must decide: will you protect the man you once loved or end the vampire he's become?

ʚ(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )ɞ vampire! 박성훈 x vampire hunter! reader ᥫ᭡ content ex-lovers to strangers hurt no comfort inaccurate vampire lore explicit smut content blood (duh) pussy eating fingering unprotected sex (don't do this) there's way more plot than porn here i'm sorry angst sad ending major character death . . . wc: 8746...!? masterlist.

note. I FINALLY FINISHED... this was a wild rollercoaster for me to write as no words can describe how many times i have to rewrite certain scenes until i was fully satisfied with it... i hope you guys enjoy reading the first fic for desire unleashed!

Everytime you close your eyes, you are greeted with the same, horrifying scene. You prayed to whatever God out there, who was listening to your prayers that it was nothing but just a nightmare. A dream and not reality. But it seems like luck wasn’t on your side. Even if five months had passed, you still remembered the scene like it recently happened. It was like it had been forcefully imprinted into your mind, refusing to let you forget, no matter how hard you tried.

He’s late.

You sighed for the unknown time after glancing at the clock, noting how thirty minutes had passed. Today was supposed to be a day of celebration for you and Sunghoon’s third month anniversary. Initially, Sunghoon had planned on having dinner at a fancy restaurant but there was a change of plans when your boyfriend had to meet his client for a sudden appointment. He was tempted to change the date of the appointment but you were nothing but persistent, telling him he shouldn’t keep his client waiting any longer.

In the end, he agreed and had to cancel your dinner. But you weren’t mad or disappointed, shooing him out of your home and wished him luck. While he was away, you spent the past two to three hours preparing a wide range of dishes. It was a lot of hard work but you didn’t mind, for your love for Sunghoon easily served as motivation to push through.

No words can describe how pleased you were when you finished and wanting to set the mood, you even went to take a much-needed shower before dressing up—a simple dress and light make-up.

When you were done, you checked your phone to see if Sunghoon had texted you but he didn’t. You brushed it off, assuming he was too busy or his phone had died. That was your first mistake. You decide to pass time by scrolling through your phone while eagerly waiting for your boyfriend to return.

However, as seconds turned to minutes, you were getting anxious. You have heard news about how there was a sudden rise of vampire attacks in the neighbourhood you live in.

Being a vampire hunter, you were constantly sent on missions to kill vampires. The reason why you chose to be one is so you could protect your loved ones and innocent people from getting killed or worse, turned into a vampire.

You paused when you stumbled upon a news article about how yet another incident happened. Your entire world turned upside down when you recognized the victim’s name reflected on the screen, your surroundings going numb.

‘The unfortunate victim, who goes by the name of Park Sunghoon, was killed by a vampire. He was about to leave his client’s house, only to get ambushed by a vampire who was roaming around the area. Due to this, Park Sunghoon had risked his life to save the client, resulting in him getting bitten instead.’

Your phone slipped from your hands, landing on the carpet as you sat there, dazed. Only for you to snap out of your state when your ears registered the sounds of footsteps approaching your door. Immediately on high alert, you rose to your feet, reaching underneath the couch for your weapon—a dagger to protect yourself.

You slowly but cautiously moved to the closed door, left hand hovering over the doorknob while you looked through the peephole to see who it was. Your body went as still as a statue when you saw it was none other than Sunghoon.

Your limbs moved before your brain could process, flinging the door open and that was when you saw it. Blood. Dark crimson, thick liquid on his neck. His previously cleaned clothes were stained with blood and dirt. Although, you were certain that the blood belonged to him. You scanned him from head to toe, pure shock written all over your face.

“Sunghoon, you…” Your voice trailed off, unable to find it in yourself to finish your sentence. But the both of you knew what you meant.

Your boyfriend nodded, gnawing on his bottom lip. “I know, but I’m still me. So, please, let me in and we can talk about this, alright?”

He tried to enter but you stopped him, ignoring how hurt flickered in his eyes at your action. “Baby—”

You firmly shook your head, able to hear how loud your heart was banging against your chest. “I can’t, Sunghoon. You and I know if I let you in, who knows what you might do. You’re no longer human.”

The way he looked at you made you teared up, tightening your grip on the hilt of your dagger. “You know I won’t hurt you.”

You shakily exhaled, feeling your warm tears rolling down your face. “I…I’m sorry, Sunghoon. I love you. I really do but you have to go. Please, it’ll be easier for both of us.”

He barked out a humorless laugh, the light in his eyes gradually dying. “How are you sure about that? What if this makes us worse?”

You couldn’t hold yourself back and the words slipped from your mouth without hesitation. “I’m sure because you’re not yourself anymore, Sunghoon. You’re my enemy now.”

Silence.

And just like that, the remaining light in his eyes was extinguished. He was speechless for a moment, feeling hurt by your crude words but a small part of him knew you were right. His words don’t mean a thing now that he had turned into a vampire. And should the headquarters catch wind of you living with a vampire, you will be given a death sentence without question.

Sunghoon remained where he was, eyes fixated on your face as he imprinted your features in his mind, never wanting to forget how you looked.

“...Fine, I’ll go. But, I hope you know I still love you, forever and always,” he said, sparing you one final glance before turning and walking off.

Despite how you had fought countless battles, this was one of the hardest battles. You resist the urge to run towards Sunghoon, planting your feet firmly to the ground as you observe his figure getting smaller and smaller, until he is out of sight. On that day, what was supposed to be a joyous occasion turned into a heartbreaking moment for the two of you.

And that was the last you had seen him.

“...ock! Hello, earth to (Name)? Anyone home?” A voice snapped you out of your trance, followed by a light force hitting your head.

“Ow!” You yelped, protecting the very same spot, rubbing it while glaring at your co-worker, who was grinning like no tomorrow. “Yang Jungwon, you’re dead meat when I get my hands on you.”

The blonde hummed, unfazed with your threat as he unceremoniously dumped another pile of papers on your already messy desk. “Sure you will. But I think these papers are more important than you trying to kill me. I’d get to work immediately if I were you.”

You groaned, leaning back in your seat as you ran a hand through your hair. “I didn’t expect paperwork to come with the job of being a vampire hunter. Why do we even have to do this in the first place?”

Shrugging his shoulders, Jungwon returned to his desk, which was just as messy as yours. “Don’t ask me, I’m just here to make a living.”

You have known Jungwon on your first day of joining the company when you were at the mere age of sixteen, blinded by the hunger for vengeance after witnessing a vampire murdering your parents in front of you. Under the management’s instructions, you were placed under Jungwon’s supervision.

Your relationship kicked off with a rocky start and to the others, it was amusing to see him being all smiley and cheerful while you, on the other hand, have never once smiled in your entire life. Your eyes were dull and showed no signs of life.

At first, you disliked his personality. To you, there wasn’t anything to be happy about after watching your parents die in front of you. You tried to push Jungwon away but he was persistent, constantly sticking to you and following you everywhere you go.

The sight reminds people of a young duckling following its mother, much to their unspoken amusement. As time went on, he managed to break down the walls you built around yourself and thanks to him, you were able to see life from a more positive angle.

Jungwon was always there for you, lending you both a shoulder to lean on and listening ear when you were feeling under the weather. The two of you continued your respective work, silence surrounding your shared office room until it was interrupted with a sound made from the intercoms.

“To Ms (Name), please come to the main office immediately. I repeat: to Ms (Name), please come to the main office immediately. Thank you.”

Your shoulders dropped as you let out a long, exhausted sigh when you heard your name. Dropping your pen, you rose to your feet as you grabbed your coat, slipping it on while heading towards the door.

“Looks like duty calls,” you dryly retorted, patting Jungwon’s shoulders as you walked past him.

“Good luck and don’t die,” he bid you farewell. You merely flipped him off without looking behind and stepped out of the office, closing the door behind you.

The walk to the main office was quiet with you gradually getting drowned in your own thoughts. It didn’t take you long to reach your destination, entering only after being granted permission. Stepping into the room, you involuntarily shivered when you felt the temperature in the room dropped a notch. That was the first sign something was wrong. The second sign was the room was eerily dark and quiet. Too quiet for your liking.

The third sign was you felt a presence behind you.

You instantly spin around, whipping out your weapon hidden in your pants, only for your wrist to be grabbed in mid-action. Due to the lack of light, you couldn’t see your opponent and had no choice but to rely on your senses. With your wrist still grabbed on, you raised your knee, aiming it at their stomach. Only for them to dodge. You freed yourself the moment you felt their grip loosened, kicking out your feet, forcing them to move back.

“Who are you and how did you get in here?” You asked but they remained silent.

Then you felt it—the shift in the air. The shuffle of a boot on the carpeted floor.

Clank!

You turned just in time to block the incoming strike, able to feel the vibrations running through your entire body. Whoever they were, they were fast. Way faster than you for what a regular human being is capable of. You knew you’re fighting a vampire and the thought of these sickly creatures being able to slip past the defenses made your blood boil. You ducked, twisted, and countered, your blade slicing through empty air as your attacker disappeared into the shadows again.

Another strike—this time from behind. You stumbled, hitting the ground hard, your weapon skidding across the floor. The next thing you knew, you were being pinned down. They moved in with deadly precision, one hand at your throat while the other raised for the kill.

And that was when the moonlight caught their face. His face, to be exact.

Your world shattered, heart dropping to the depths of your stomach and bile rising in your throat. You couldn’t focus on anything else but him. For a moment, you thought you were dreaming. Or maybe this was some sick, twisted joke the Gods had planned for you.

“...Sunghoon?” You choked out, disbelief evident in your voice. You stared at him with wide eyes, mouth wide open and jaw slacked.

He froze in place, shoulders stiffen at the mention of his name. You watched as Sunghoon locked eyes with you, an unreadable expression on his cold, stoic face. He was different from before. You weren’t sure why but something about him feels…wrong.

The way he looked at you was like he never met you before. Like you were nothing but a complete stranger to him. Like this was your very first encounter. He lowered his blade and moved back, unaware of how such a simple action caused your heart to ache.

“...You’re not the one I came for,” he said in a flat tone, void of any emotion. “Be grateful.”

And then he turned, wordlessly vanishing into thin air. You sat there in the silence, chest heaving, the sting of his touch still burning on your skin—not from the fight, but from the realization that you were nothing to him.

But, he was still everything you couldn’t let go of.

You were left in a daze after that fateful encounter with Sunghoon. You don’t really remember what happened once he left, only able to vaguely recall the concerned shouts of your name followed by someone carrying you out of the room, bringing you to get your injuries checked. You were shell-shocked, unable to wrap your mind around the mere fact that Sunghoon didn't recognize you. You snap out of your thoughts when something hard and cold nudges your cheek.

“You alright? You’re unusually quiet,” Jungwon asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

Accepting the cold canned soda, you unhooked it, gulping it down without hesitation. Jungwon watched the scene, mildly impressed after you finished it in one go, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

“Slow down, the drink isn’t going anywhere,” he teased, causing you to chuckle as he playfully bumped his shoulder against yours.

“I…I met him,” you started, voice soft and timid as you stared at the ground.

Silence.

You could feel his gaze on you and you continued, tightening your grip on the empty can of soda, dryly swallowing. “When I was called to the main office, there was no one. It was dark and Sunghoon was there.”

You went silent, as if unable to continue but Jungwon rested his hand on your shoulder, the mere contact enough to bring you comfort.

“And then what? What happened back there?” He murmured, eyes fixated on your face.

“We fought but I didn’t know who he was at that time. And when I found out it was him, God, it felt like something in me broke,” your voice was borderline trembling. Warm, salty tears trickled down your cheeks, leaving a wet trail behind.

“(Name)...”

You turned to your friend with misty eyes, hurt written all over your face. “He doesn’t remember me, Jungwon. Those past few years we spent together, it’s all gone. Like I have vanished from his mind and life. But, you know what's even worse?” You barked out a bitter, humorless laugh.

“I was the one who pushed him away. It’s my fault that he ended up like this. Which is why I’m going to kill him,” you continued, tightening your grip on your empty can of soda further until it was crushed into half.

Jungwon sighed, rubbing circles with his thumb. “(Name), are you sure about that? Can you really kill him the next time you see him? What if he does remember you? What then? What will you do?.”

You sniffled, raising your left hand to wipe the tears away. “I don’t know, Jungwon. But, I’ve made up my mind.”

“(Name)—”

You stood up, tossing the can into the nearest rubbish bin with terrifying accuracy, watching as it landed bullseye. “Jungwon, whatever you’re planning to say won’t make me change my mind. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Jungwon pursed his lips. “Are you sure that’s what he wants? To die under your hands?”

You looked ahead of you, unable to find it in yourself to face him. “It doesn’t matter. It’s my fault he turned into a vampire. I have to kill him, even if it’s the last thing I do.”

After spending the next two hours talking to Jungwon, you decided to finally head home, considering how close it was to midnight. You bid him farewell and went your separate ways. Goosebumps formed on your skin when a gust of wind blew past you, making you curl into yourself as you hugged your coat tighter to your body. You quickened your pace, not wanting to spend another second longer outside in the cold weather.

Rustle, rustle.

Stopping, you looked to your right where the sound came from. It leads to a dimly lit alleyway situated between two apartments. The only source of light was the moon hanging high above your head in the abyssal-like sky. Hovering your hand over your sheathed dagger that hung by your hips, you entered the alleyway. You scrunch your nose at the overwhelming stench of rubbish. You visibly jumped out of your skin, startled when you saw a movement in the corner of your eyes, only to sigh when it was just a mouse.

You continued moving forward and that was when you saw him.

Sunghoon leans against the wall, cradling his sides with one hand. Unlike his previously emotionless facade, he was gritting his teeth, thick eyebrows furrowed with his canines digging into his lip.

Snap!

His head snapped to your direction the moment you accidentally stepped on a twig, alerting him of your presence. He paused, regaining his composure and scowled, pressing himself against the wall but didn’t move away. Although, you weren’t sure if he could even move in the first place.

“What are you doing here? Are you stupid enough to show up in front of a vampire?” He sneers.

“Shut up, I came here because I thought I needed to save someone,” you retorted, stopping while maintaining a safe distance from him, ignoring how your heart was screaming at you to be closer. “I didn’t expect that it’s you, out of all people.”

He snorts, shuffling his feet on the spot. “Sorry to disappoint. Now you know it’s me, are you going to leave me alone now?”

You shot him an incredulous look. “What? You really expect me to just turn around and walk away? And leave you here to bleed to death?”

“Vampires can’t die,” he hissed, offended at the mere thought of him dying.

You rolled your eyes, closing the distance with five large strides. Sunghoon went as still as a statue the moment you placed your hands on his shoulders, like he was allergic to the touch of you. The thought of it shattered your heart. His reaction was a huge contrast to how he was previously—clinging onto you like a koala bear, refusing to let you go and always whining about how he wants your attention. You dryly swallowed, rapidly blinking back the pre-formed tears and clearing your throat.

“Getting help from someone doesn’t mean you’re weak,” you said in a soft tone.

He barks out a humorless laugh, eyeing you with something unreadable. “And what do you know about being weak, human?”

“I know more than you think,” you replied, able to hear how loud your heart was pounding against your chest.

His eyes narrow, a flicker of something, curiosity, maybe, flashed across his face before he schooled it into indifference. “Let me guess. A tragic past? Lost family? Betrayal?” He sneers, words dripping with disdain. “You wear your grief like a badge and call it strength.”

“I know what it’s like to lose someone,” you say quietly. “To look them in the eyes and not recognize who they’ve become.”

Silence.

“You don’t know anything about me,” he said, defensive and laced with a certain sharpness that could easily sliced a rope into half.

But I do. I knew you before all of this happened.

You swallowed the words and instead, replied with something else. “No, I don’t. I’m just a stranger who managed to see you. Now, are you going to let me help you or not? I hope you know that if you don’t get any blood soon, you’re really going to die.”

“I know that,” he bit back, sending you a sharp glare. If looks could kill, you’d be dead on the spot. “And how are you going to help me? By letting me drink your blood?”

“Well, yeah. That’s kinda the point,” you answered, blinking.

Sunghoon recoiled, acting like a disgusted cat that was sprayed with water. “Are you insane? You don’t even know me and you’re already offering me your blood? Are all humans as crazy as you are?”

You rolled your eyes, running a hand through your hair. “I’m just trying to help you. Why are you being difficult?”

The vampire muttered something inaudible under his breath before relenting. “Fine, I��ll accept your…generous offer, but on one condition.”

“Which is?”

“I’m not drinking your blood while we’re in an alleyway,” he continued.

“...You cannot be serious,” you deadpanned.

Sunghoon scrunched his nose, in the same exact way he used to do when he faked his disgust. “I am serious. Do you know how unhygienic it is here? And mind you, drinking blood from someone is a rather intimate act. I’d rather not do that in public.”

Your cheeks flushed red at his words, despite knowing about it. “Fine, let’s go to my place then.”

The walk to your apartment was filled with nothing but tense, awkward silence. Thankfully, it was late at night which means there weren’t anyone around to be the unfortunate ones witnessing a pale-looking man bleeding until his clothes were soaked in blood. You tried your best to ignore his eyes boring holes into the back of your head as you unlocked your front door. The silence thickens once both of you are in your apartment. A startled gasp left your lips when you were pinned against your door the moment it closed.

Your keys dropped to the floor with a loud series of noises but it was muffled with a desperate growl from the vampire. Shivers ran down your spine and heat stirred in your lower stomach at the sight of Sunghoon’s eyes glowing slightly, making him look rather intimidating. His fangs had peaked out from his lips, gleaming underneath the dim lights.

“Sunghoon, you—!?” Your voice dies in your throat when he leans in, his nose brushing against the expanse of your neck.

An involuntary whimper slipped from your lips when you felt his soft lips graze your skin. You swore he smirked against your skin. Reaching out, you blindly tried to push him away but Sunghoon was one step ahead of you.

He pinned your wrists above your head with one hand while the other tilted your head back, forcing you to expose your neck. You felt unusually warm at how vulnerable you were in your current position. You could sense the vampire’s grip on you was loose—giving you a chance to back out.

But you didn’t. Or maybe, you couldn’t back out even if you wanted to?

You held your breath in anticipation at the fleeting sensation of Sunghoon planting kisses along your neck, trying to find the perfect spot where your blood smells the strongest. When he finds it, his eyes flickered to your face for a brief moment—searching for any signs of hesitance. Only for him to find none. He took that as a sign to proceed, more of his fangs poking out as he aimed at a certain spot on your neck.

You've heard from other people on how it's like to get bitten, able to feel their blood being drawn out by a vampire. You've also read reports and articles about people describing it. Some described it as a pleasant feeling. Some said it feels like a quick vaccine and you won't be able to feel anything. But they were wrong. The moment you felt Sunghoon sink his sharp fangs into your skin, something in you exploded.

A white-hot shock lanced through your veins. It wasn’t from pain, that you were certain. Heat surged from your spine, your pulse roaring loudly in your ears and your knees buckled as you felt light-headed. Sunghoon had long released your wrists, now holding you by your waist as he firmly pressed you against the door behind you.

You weren’t sure when Sunghoon had released your wrists but you were grateful. For it allows you to clutch at the sleeves of his shirt—to push him away or to hold him close, you weren’t sure.

Your heartbeat pounded against his lips, and for a split second, you felt his grip on your waist falter. His once firm and deliberate hold on you trembled. A low sound rumbled from the depths of his throat, halfway between a growl and something softer. Almost as if he was…startled with how sweet you taste. Like he wasn’t expecting you to taste like this.

Opening your eyes, breathing shallow and ragged, you caught the moment his expression shifts. His perfectly thick eyebrows knitted, bloodstained lips hovering over your neck, but what took your breath away was his eyes. They were clouded with pure desire.

“Sunghoon, stop. You’re not in your right mind,” you weakly protested, only for your voice to be borderline trembling as he slid his chilling hands underneath your shirt, tracing along your spine.

“You tell me to stop but I can smell how much you want me,” he murmured, hands trailing down but never moving past the hems of your pants. But it was enough to remind you of how easily he can reduce you to a pliant and flustered mess.

You whimpered, head tilting back with whatever remaining space there is left as the vampire pulls you closer. You nervously gulped when you felt something hard poking your thighs, lighting your senses. The final push comes in the form of Sunghoon cupping your face, thumb tracing the skin underneath your left eye, forcing you to face him.

“Tell me to stop and I will. Because I don’t think I can control myself anymore,” he murmured, lips grazing against yours with every word uttered.

“Then don’t, take me.”

The moment you finished speaking, Sunghoon crashed his lips against yours. The kiss was intense, messy and fiery. It was nothing compared to the sweet, loving and languid kisses you shared previously. You felt like you were being devoured whole, like a prey being caught by a predator, who has no intentions of letting you go. A startled hiss left your lips when he bit down on your bottom lip, allowing you to feel a metallic taste. The vampire apologetically licks the new wound with his tongue, like a cat demanding for affection from its owner.

Sunghoon tapped twice on your thighs and you jumped without hesitation. No words were needed. He easily carries you, moving you to the living room and unceremoniously tossed you onto the couch. He was quick to hover over you, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of being separated from you for another second.

Once again, he kissed you but with the addition of tongues. He swallows your angelic sounds, briefly wondering if this was how Heaven feels like for a cursed species like him.

His hands had a mind of its own; tracing your body and touching you wherever he could. Sunghoon made a move to remove your denim jacket, followed by your inner black shirt and bra, leaving you in your pants. You squirmed about on the couch, head laying on the armrest at his unwavering gaze. You attempted to cover your chest, only to be stopped by him.

“Don’t hide from me, I want to see all of you,” he murmured, sincerity evident in his voice, something you were taken aback by.

In another life, your heart will skip a beat at your sweet, loving boyfriend’s words. But right now, you weren’t sure what to think. Not wanting to let your mind run wild, you tugged him closer and kissed him squarely on the mouth, feeling him reciprocate immediately. Unlike you, Sunghoon doesn’t need to breathe and if possible, he’d prefer to keep kissing you but you had to break it, leaving a string of saliva that snapped into half when you leaned away.

He didn’t give you time to breathe, ducking his head to trail butterfly kisses down your neck, lips lingering longer than usual over the slightly faded bite mark.

“Sunghoon, please…” You whined, arching your chest into his when he wrapped his lips around your left hardened nipple, eliciting a high-pitched cry.

You gripped onto the armrest with one hand while the other desperately grabbed a fistful of his pitch-black hair. Sunghoon moved the sensitive bud with his tongue in circular movements, his free hand trying to pull your pants and panties down. You lifted your hips off the couch, granting him an easier time and just like that, you were completely naked.

Tugging on his shirt, the vampire gets the hint. He pressed a gentle kiss on your now swollen red nipple before moving back, making quick work of his shirt.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the faint muscles on his stomach, only for your chin to be tilted up, making eye contact with him.

“Eyes up here, princess,” he coos.

“Shut up and do something,” you snapped.

Sunghoon narrowed his eyes at your tone, grabbing your legs and spreading them apart, revealing your glistening, throbbing pussy. You cried out when he lowered his head, his tongue darting out to give quick, kitten licks at your puffy folds. You instinctively kicked out your legs but he held you down with a firm grip but it wasn’t tight enough to leave marks behind.

“Oh god,” you moaned at the feeling of him spreading your pussy lips apart, followed by his tongue sliding in. You twitched when he pushed one long, thick and slender finger in, easily going in until he was knuckles deep.

A cacophony of sounds spilled endlessly from your lips, along with the loud squelching sounds of Sunghoon fucking you with his finger. He felt light-headed at how tight you felt, making him wonder how it’d feel once his cock was inside you. Unable to wait any longer, he pulled out, ignoring the sound of protest you made.

You raised your head, clenching down on thin air at the sight of his lips glistening with your slick. Some were dripping down his chin, staining the couch, making the sight even more obscene than it already is.

He didn’t bother in completely removing his pants and boxers, only pulling them down just so he could free his cock. The sight of it standing upright, already in an angry shade of red due to lack of attention made you clenched your fists. Sure, you’ve taken him before but you weren’t certain if it could fit, considering how he had turned into a vampire.

“What’s wrong? Cat got your tongue?” He arched an eyebrow, shifting to a more comfortable position as he aligns himself against your entrance, rubbing the head against your folds to collect the slick.

“N-Nothing, just hurry up and put it in,” you stuttered, head tilting back when he finally pushed in.

Inch by inch, you felt a stinging pain that eventually melted into pure pleasure at the insatiable feeling of you being stuffed full with his cock. Sunghoon’s eyes landed on your neck, his fangs itching to sink into your skin, wanting to get another taste of your blood. Normally, he would’ve asked for permission but with how tight your walls are hugging him, he was beginning to lose himself.

After what felt like years, he bottomed out. He readjusted his position, hands on your waist and he leaned forward until your hardened nipples brushed against his firm chest.

“Lemme have a taste again, please?” He pleads and you already knew what he was referring to, nodding your head in agreement.

What you didn’t expect was for him to start thrusting into you at the same time as him digging his fangs into your neck. The combined feeling of the vampire drinking your blood and his cock sliding in and out made your eyes roll up. The living room was filled with the sound of skin against skin, along with your whimpers and pants. The couch had shifted slightly from its original position, nearly knocking into the coffee table placed in front of it.

“F-Fuck, taste ‘o good,” Sunghoon groans, licking at the new bitemark he left behind and he moved upwards to kiss you, giving you another taste of your own blood. The kiss was filthy and bloody but none of you cared, getting drunk on your bodies being connected.

“G-Gonna cum, fuck,” you whimpered against his lips, tightening around him when he gave a harsh suck to your tongue.

“Yeah? You wanna cum?”

You frantically nodded your head, wrapping your legs around his waist to lock him in place, not wanting him to pull out. Your stomach tightened, thighs trembling as he moved your legs over his shoulders instead. The slight change allows him to hit deeper, his cockhead kissing your cervix with every thrust.

“P-Please,” you begged and who was he to say no?

All it took was one final, hard thrust and you came with a loud, hitch-pitched cry. Sunghoon was quick to follow suit, releasing his hot, thick cum inside you, pumping you full of it. Your bodies were sticky and sweaty. Silence engulfed the two of you as you caught your breath.

You hissed when the vampire slowly pulled out, not used to the sudden feeling of emptiness. You closed your legs, able to feel his cum slowly dripping from your stretched-out cunt. You remained laying on the couch while Sunghoon moved about in your home, like he owns the place.

He vanished from your sight, only to reappear a few seconds later with a damp cloth. He used it to wipe you down and when that was done, he aided you in wearing your clothes again, before doing the same for himself. At this rate, you were beyond exhausted, causing you to fall asleep once you were fully clothed.

Seeing this, Sunghoon quietly carried you in his arms. For some reason, he knows where your bedroom is. He gently placed you down on the bed, pulling the sheets up and stared at your peaceful, sleeping state. He didn’t really care about the fact that he just had sex with you. What was more astounding was the fact that he feels like he knew you before.

Which is impossible. How could he, a vampire, have known a human before?

“Just who are you and what have you done to me?” He muttered, leaning down to tuck a few stray strands of hair behind your left ear. He spares you one final glance before leaving, gently closing the door behind him.

The next morning, you woke up to find yourself in your bed. You weren’t sure why your heart sank at the sight of emptiness on your side. Sighing, you rolled onto your back to stare at the ceiling of your bedroom. Brief memories of what happened last night flashes in your mind, making your chest tightened. You didn’t know how to feel after that.

Closing your eyes, you could visualize Sunghoon over you, faint bloodstains on his swollen, bruised lips and the lust in his eyes. You remembered the way he held you, like how a pair of lovers are during their most intimate moments. You remembered the way he kissed you, like how he did before he turned.

You told yourself that you were supposed to kill him. That was a promise, an oath. But now, you weren’t sure anymore. You felt lost because when you remembered the way he looked at you yesterday—lust, desire and yearning, your resolve was shaken. You pulled the sheets up, covering you from head to toe, as if doing that will block out the world—something you wish could happen and drifted back to sleep.

“Sunghoon, have you ever wondered what you’d do if you turned into a vampire?”

You asked, breaking the silence that had engulfed the two of you. At this rate, you weren’t paying attention to the movie playing on the television right now, tilting your head up to look at your boyfriend. Sunghoon glanced down, the frames of his glasses reflecting the movie as he rubs circles on your clothed shoulder. You welcomed his touch, pressing yourself further into him with your cheek resting against his shoulder.

“Why the sudden question?” He questioned, curious.

You sighed and straightened yourself, hands resting on his thigh and fully turned to face him. Sunghoon pushed himself up when he saw you change your position, his entire attention now on you.

“I saw another body today. It was a kid this time and her body was drained completely, like the others. I couldn’t even identify her face. I know I chose this job. I know what I was signing up for when I became a hunter. But lately, I…”

You paused, hesitant to continue your sentence. Frowning, Sunghoon rested his hands above yours, intertwining your fingers and giving it a reassuring squeeze. You knew what he meant behind that small action.

“I can’t stop thinking about what would happen if I ever found you like that. If you ever— I don’t want to lose you,” you confessed, tears brimming in your eyes and the sight of it made your boyfriend’s heart shattered.

He pulls you in, embracing you with his arms that never fails to make you feel safe. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, arms hanging loosely on his shoulders. He chuckled at your clinginess, leaning his head back so he could kiss your forehead and brushed his hand through your hair.

“If I did turn into one, then I’d want you to kill me,” he confessed, watching as you jerked your head back, disbelief written all over your face. He shushed you by placing his finger on your lips when you were about to protest.

“Sunghoon—”

“I mean it. If I lose myself or if I turn, I want you to end it. It has to be you.”

Tears rolled down your face, your vision turning blurry. “Don’t say that… Please, Sunghoon, don’t do this to me…”

“I need you to promise me,” he whispered. “Promise me you won’t hesitate.”

You shook your head, now a sobbing mess. “You’re asking me to kill the person I love.”

“I’m asking you to protect the part of me that still remembers who I am.”

He leaned in then, kissing you softly—a promise, a plea, a final moment sealed in fragile hope. You gripped onto the front of his shirt, unable to stop yourself from crying as you returned the kiss.

You woke up for the second time, realising it was already late noon. Thankfully, you didn’t have to report to work today as it was one of your rare off-days. You pushed yourself up, walking over to the vanity table where a few framed photos were placed on top of it. You stopped, picking a particular photo up to look at it.

The image was captured during your first date with Sunghoon. He had brought you to an open-air park where you had a picnic together. You faintly smiled when you remembered how nervous he was, resulting in you squishing his cheeks out of pure cute aggression.

Your thumb traced Sunghoon’s face in the picture, who was grinning from eye to eye but he wasn’t looking at the camera. No, he was looking at you. The way he looked at you was like you were his entire world right there.

“I mean it. If I lose myself or if I turn, I want you to end it. It has to be you.”

His voice echoed in your head like a curse. You didn’t know why that memory surfaced now. Maybe it was a sign from the Gods watching you from above. A gentle push of guidance, guiding you to the right direction. He had asked you to do this. Not out of fear, but trust. He trusted you more than anyone to put an end to the misery. A long, shaky breath escaped your lips, now filled with certainty. You moved to where your sheathed weapon laid, brushing your hand over the hilt of the blade and dagger.

The part of you that agreed to that promise, the you who cried over him, was ready now. This was your burden to carry. With that in mind, you changed out of your clothes and stepped out, getting ready to hunt him down.

You spent the next few days and weeks throwing yourself into monitoring Sunghoon’s movements. Your already messy work table was filled with discarded reports, laptop showing surveillance footage and whatever information you were able to get your hands on. Jungwon was concerned but he knew you were too stubborn to listen to him. All he could do was watch from the sidelines, only stepping in when you were on the verge of fainting. After what felt like forever, the pattern clicked.

Sunghoon was circling back. He was always returning to the same part of the city: Sector Nine, just near the industrial outskirts, where the street lights flickered more often they worked and buildings stood like forgotten skeletons.

You couldn’t figure out the motive for his patterns but you didn’t care. All that matters was you had found him. You get to action the very next night, arriving at one of an abandoned warehouse. According to your research, this warehouse was the one he frequents the most.

You hide behind a crumbling ware of the warehouse, gripe on your blade tightening as it was hidden beneath your coat. It was quiet, too quiet that you could even hear your own breathing. Then, you heard it.

Thud, thud. Thud, thud. Thud, thud.

Footsteps that are too silent and smooth for a human. You risked your life by peeking around the wall and you saw him. Sunghoon stepped out from the shadows, his form lit by the faint yellow glow of a rusted streetlamp. His coat billowed with his movement, black as night and his pitch-black hair fell into his eyes.

He hasn’t noticed you yet. You could ambush him, take him down before he had the time to react. You have the advantage—the element of surprise.

But, you couldn’t move.

Instead, you observed him, the way his gaze swept the street, slow and searching. For a moment, he looked…lost. He doesn’t look like the cold vampire you had bumped into during your first encounter or a vampire who has something against the alleyway during your second encounter. Your mind was screaming at you, to do it now but you couldn’t move an inch, like your legs were rooted to the ground.

Then, his head snapped up and his eyes met yours.

It was too late.

In a blink of an eye, Sunghoon appeared before you. You barely had the time to dodge when he struck. Metal clanged against metal as you tumbled, rolling to your feet just in time to block his next attack. Your blades clashed, yours forged of silver and rage, his hands crackling with inhuman speed and precision. Invisible sparks lit between you as the warehouse air thickened with tension.

“Why did you follow me? Couldn’t get enough?” He sneered, fangs peeking through parted lips as he backed away.

You didn’t answer, studying him—searching for any signs of weakness you could exploit.

“I asked you a question,” he growled, voice darker this time.

You raised your blade, narrowing your eyes. “You’re a threat.”

He smirked, cocking his head to the side. “Really? Then why haven’t you killed me yet?”

Your hands trembled—just barely but Sunghoon saw it.

“You know me,” he said softly, testing the words on his tongue. “Don’t you?”

Again, you remained silent. But unlike before, your silence was the loudest answer of all. For a moment, everything came to a halt. The wind howled through the broken windows. Your heart banged against your chest. And then, slowly, he said it, the words you dreaded up to this day.

“...Have we met before?”

His question struck deeper than they should have. Your grip on the blade tightened and your knuckles turned white. You couldn’t afford to waver now—not when you had come this far. Not when you were close to fulfilling your promise to him. You swallowed hard, swallowing the emotions threatening to spill from the depths of your throat.

“No.”

His eyes narrowed. “You hesitated.”

“I didn’t,” you lied through your teeth.

Sunghoon didn’t buy it, stepping forward, slow and cautious. This time, the sharp edge of his usual hostility was dulled by confusion. “You knew my name last time.”

“That’s public knowledge,” you replied. “You were reported missing a year ago and I saw your name on the news.”

Sunghoon tilted his head slightly. “But you looked at me like you knew me. Like that night.”

You forced out a bitter laugh. “Don’t worry, I look at every monster that way.”

He flinched. And it tore something in you, the way pain flashed across his face like he didn’t quite understand why that word: monster, hurts so much.

“Is that what I am to you?” he asked quietly, almost to himself.

“That’s what you are,” you said. “You don’t get to play innocent. You drink blood. You kill. Don’t act like you’re still human.”

Sunghoon’s lips parted like he wanted to say something else, only to get interrupted when your ears registered a sound. The scuffs of boots against gravel followed by snarling that grew louder and louder. Your hunter instincts flared too late. Multiple figures burst from the shadows: pale, fast and snarling. They were rogue vampires and by the looks of them, they have gone feral, due to the lack of blood for a long period of time.

You barely had time to shout before the first vampire lunged at you, fangs and claws aimed at your throat. Steel met flash as you blocked the strike. You were being pushed back with their strength easily overwhelming yours. Another vampire came from your blind spot, knowing you’re nothing but a sitting duck—

“Look out!”

You twisted just in time to see him stabbed his blade into one of the rogues, killing them on the spot. Sunghoon’s movements were too fast for the naked eye to follow as he ducked . Your breath hitched. He was fighting for you. You jumped in, blade swinging. Your movements synced with his, despite how you’ve never fought on the battlefield with him before. However, there were too many of them. No matter how many you had cut down, more seemed to spawn from the shadows.

One vampire managed to move past your defense, gashing your arm, drawing blood at the same time. You cried out as pain surged through your veins.

And then, it happened.

A flash of movement.

A blur of black and red.

CRACK!

Sunghoon had stepped in front of you but this time, with claws pierced straight through his back. Your entire world came crashing down. His eyes widened in shock—not from the pain, but from the realization: he had protected you, like he always would.

“NO!” You screamed, slashing the remaining vampires with everything you had. Your weapon sang through the air, silver flashing in pure fury, until the vampires were finally dead. You dropped to your knees, casting your bloodstained blade aside and pulled him into your lap.

“No, nono, stay with me, Sunghoon, please,” your voice trembled violently, hands shaking as you cradled him against you. His blood soaked into your jacket, sticky and slow, like time itself was trying to drag him away from you, inch by inch.

His eyes fluttered open, unfocused and then settled on your face. “You’re… crying.”

You let out a broken, teary laugh. Your tear droplets landed on his face but he didn’t wipe them away, no longer having the strength to do so. “Of course I’m crying, you idiot.” you sobbed, brushing blood-matted hair away from his face. “Why did you do that?”

His lips quirked up but the smile didn’t last.

“It… felt right,” he whispered. “Like something I couldn’t ignore. Like I had to… keep you safe.”

Your throat closed up. He may not remember you anymore but something in him still chose you. And that itself hurts worse than anything else.

“But why?” You choked out. “Why did you have to be the one to save me?”

Sunghoon was growing cold in your arms. You clutched onto him tighter, trying to keep him warm. Trying to keep him here, not wanting him to leave. His gaze softened as his fingers, already losing strength, reached out to touch your face. You grabbed his hand, pressing them to your cheek instead, biting down on your lips to stifle the sobs.

“Your voice…” He croaked out. “I remembered how you used to sing me to sleep when I was having nightmares.”

You lowered your head, eyes squeezed shut as you tighten your grip on his hand.

“I don’t remember your name,” he continued, voice borderline trembling. “But I remember… how I loved you.”

A sound cracked from your chest, something between a cry and a gasp. He smiled faintly, though his eyes were starting to lose focus.

“You were mine.. weren’t you?”

More tears rolled down your cheeks. Nodding your head, you leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his. “Always, and you were mine too.”

His hand slipped from your cheek, falling to your lap like a leaf on water.

“Will I… remember you… when I wake up again…?”

You shook your head frantically. “Don’t say that—Sunghoon, no—don’t you dare—”

But he was already fading.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I promised I’d never leave you…”

You clutched him like he’d disappear if you let go. “Please don’t—please, Sunghoon, please—just hold on—!”

“But…thank you for loving me.”

There was no miracle.

No heartbeat.

No second chance.

Just silence.

And then, the world collapsed.

You screamed his name like the sound might bring him back, like the sheer force of love and agony could restart the heart that once beat only for you. But there was only the echo of your voice… and the boy who died in your arms, still trying to remember the name of the girl he loved.

The sky was a quiet gray, not stormy but heavy. It was like even the heavens knew silence was more fitting as compared to rain. Jungwon walked slowly through the overgrown path, hands buried in the pockets of his coat. A gentle gust of wind blew past, kissing his cheeks as he stopped before a pair of headstones that were resting side by side. The names had weathered slightly over the years, but he still traced them with a gloved hand, like it was a ritual.

Park Sunghoon 199X – 20XX "To be remembered is to never truly vanish."

Beside it:

[Your Name] 199X – 20XX "She followed the stars, even when they led her into the dark."

The flowers he bought were fresh: simple white lilies. He laid them down carefully, brushing a fallen leaf from your name with a tenderness that made his throat tighten.

“You always said you’d handle it yourself,” Jungwon murmured, crouching between the graves. “And you did.”

His gaze shifted to Sunghoon’s.

“And you proved her wrong... You weren’t just a vampire. You were still you.”

The breeze whispered through the stones like a sigh. He let out a quiet breath, sitting back on his heels.

“I think about you two a lot,” he admitted. “The way you looked at each other... even at the end. It was like the world could’ve ended and you still would’ve chosen each other.”

A slight pause.

“I used to think we’re all just pawns in some cruel cycle,” Jungwon added. “But maybe... just maybe, love really can change something.”

He stood up slowly, dusting the dirt off his knees.

“I hope that wherever you are... you’re together now.”

The wind picked up slightly — a soft gust that brushed past his cheek like a whisper, like laughter carried from a distant memory. And Jungwon, for once, allowed himself to smile. Then, with one last glance at the names carved in stone, he turned and walked away.

taglist: @byshens, @yourislandgirl, @cutehoons02, @nugwon, @blooqz. @elairah, @sofiafromvenus, @mi-nyeo, @m1kkso, @dreamiestay, @baedreamverse, @hoonstqr, @rustymoons, @cripplinghooman, @in-somnias-world, @firstlcassjaylee, @starfallia, @kryllea, @chaewonmyheartt, @iamliacamila, @semi-wife, @fancypeacepersona, @ilovhoonie, @woniescheeks, @jungwonswife4life, @ikeugirly, @jakessrealwife

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sungvrhs · 1 month ago

Text

WAITING ROOM ──★ ˙

꒰ ‎﹒ pairing: heeseung x fem!reader ... ﹒ friends to lovers, fluff ... ﹒ w/c: 21k synopsis: for three years, you and heeseung have hovered between friendship and something more—stolen glances, late-night car rides, hands brushing under tables. but when the waiting finally ends, you realize you were never just friends to begin with. ꒰ ‎﹒ warnings: smut, mdni! explicit sexual content, petnames, unprotected sex (dont do it!!!!) not proofread 💿 % (◠﹏◠ ✿) #nowplaying: waiting room - phoebe bridgers

Three years ago, you met Heeseung at a Halloween party. And, in a way, he never really left.

You remember the night in sharp, neon clarity, the kind that only exists in memories warped by time and too many cheap drinks. The bass of the music was rattling against the walls, distorting into something unrecognizable by the time it reached your ears. The air was thick, humid with the breath of a hundred strangers crammed into an apartment too small to hold them. It smelled like spilled alcohol, synthetic fog from a cheap smoke machine, and the faintest trace of cinnamon, probably from some idiot who thought Fireball was a good idea.

You were standing in the kitchen, gripping a plastic cup half-full of something blue and questionably sweet, when you felt it. The warmth of someone moving too close. The press of a shoulder against yours. And then—disaster.

A smear of green, across your arm, your ribs, your stomach.

You stared at it, confused. It looked like paint. Wet, sticky, and clinging to the fabric of your skeleton costume like it belonged there. You blinked once, twice, before dragging your gaze upward, locking eyes with the culprit.

“Oh, shit.”

He was green. No, really, he was covered in it, from his jawline to his collarbone, down his arms, streaked across his hands. He was, in fact, one of the Ninja Turtles.

“Are you radioactive?” you asked, because that felt like a genuine concern at this point.

Heeseung—though you didn’t know his name yet—blinked at you, then looked down at his own arm as if just realizing that, yeah, maybe painting his entire body for a costume wasn’t the best idea. “I, uh—fuck, I didn’t think—”

“Didn’t think what?” you repeated, glancing down at your once-pristine skeleton costume. “That maybe body paint takes a while to dry?”

“No, see, I thought it was dry. I waited, like, an hour before putting the costume on.” He sounded both defensive and regretful, like someone who had just now realized the full extent of their mistake.

You sighed, poking at the stain. “Well, congrats. You’ve officially made me the first skeleton in history to die of green slime exposure.”

He let out a breath of laughter, then scratched the back of his neck—a habit you’d later come to recognize as his go-to nervous tic. “On the bright side… at least now you match me?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re trying to make me feel better.”

“Is it working?”

“Not even a little.”

A slow grin spread across his face, lopsided and teasing. “Damn. Guess I’ll have to try harder.”

And he did.

That was the beginning of it, you suppose. A stupid mistake, an even stupider conversation, and a boy painted green who somehow managed to wedge himself into your life like he belonged there. You didn’t know then that he’d become your best friend. That in three years, you’d be sitting next to him in a car at two in the morning, singing along to songs you didn't really know. That you’d learn the exact way he liked his coffee, the rhythm of his breath when he fell asleep next to you on your couch, the way he always looked at you like he was on the verge of saying something important but never quite did.

No, back then, all you knew was that he was an idiot. And that, somehow, against all odds—you kind of liked him anyway. But you and Heeseung became friends by accident.

It wasn’t an immediate thing, not like some cosmic force snapped its fingers and tied the two of you together. No, it was slower than that, more like a series of small collisions, a gradual intertwining of orbits. And most of it had to do with Yunjin.

You and Yunjin had been friends since the beginning of college. One of those friendships that happens fast, like flipping a switch. One day, you were just two people forced into the same group project, and the next, you were sneaking snacks into late-night study sessions, texting each other memes at 3 a.m., and laughing until your stomach hurt over things that weren’t even that funny. She was the kind of person you felt like you had known forever, even though it had only been a few years.

But somehow, despite all that time, you had never actually registered who she lived with. You knew she had a roommate—she’d mentioned him in passing a few times, usually accompanied by an exasperated sigh or an eye roll—but you had never put much thought into it. The guy could’ve been a faceless NPC for all you cared. Just a background character in the world of Yunjin’s apartment. Until one fateful Tuesday afternoon.

You had gone over to Yunjin’s place to work on a mind-numbing, soul-draining research paper, and the two of you were sitting cross-legged on her living room floor. The atmosphere was calm, quiet—at least, until the front door swung open with the force of someone dramatically entering a scene in a sitcom.

“YUNJIN,” a voice rang through the apartment, loud and excited. “I JUST BOUGHT ZELDA: BREATH OF THE WILD. I NEED TO PLAY IT IMMEDIATELY.”

You barely had time to process before the source of the chaos came bounding into the room. A guy, slightly breathless from what must have been a very passionate journey home, clutching a Nintendo Switch game case like it was the most important thing in the world.

And he was green.

Well, not literally—he wasn’t still covered in body paint—but your brain made the connection instantly. The excitement, the unfiltered enthusiasm, the slight air of someone who had been making questionable life decisions since birth.

It clicked.

“Oh my god,” you blurted. “You’re the Ninja Turtle guy.”

Heeseung froze mid-step, eyes flickering to you like he was only now realizing there was another person in the room. For a second, he just stared, lips parted in muted shock, like you had just caught him committing a crime.

Then, in a tone that was both confused and slightly mortified, he said, “Oh. Uh. Yeah. That’s me.”

You squinted at him, taking in the full picture—the messy hair, the slightly wrinkled hoodie, the expression of someone who had absolutely not been expecting to relive his Halloween mistakes today. Then, you turned to Yunjin.

“You live with the Ninja Turtle guy?”

Yunjin, who had been watching this interaction unfold with barely concealed amusement, grinned. “I guess.”

Heeseung cleared his throat, regaining some of his composure. “For the record, my name is Heeseung.”

“Really?” you said, nodding slowly. “I thought your name was Donatello”

He looked mildly offended. “Excuse me?”

“Well,” you said, gesturing vaguely, “I feel like I at least deserve to know which turtle was responsible for my suffering. I thought it was Donatello.”

Heeseung rolled his eyes but played along. “Leonardo. Sunghoon was Raphael, Beomgyu was Michelangelo, and Jake was Donatello.”

You considered this for a second, then turned back to Yunjin. “I can’t believe you live with Leonardo.”

Yunjin, deadpan, replied, “Trust me, I can’t either.”

And that was the second collision.

You didn’t know it then, but this was how it would always be with Heeseung—dramatic entrances, loud declarations, and an energy that burst into the room like an unexpected firework. You had met him twice now, and both times, he had been the human embodiment of chaos. But for some reason, that chaos felt a little less like a background character now. And after that day, Heeseung stopped being just Yunjin’s roommate.

You started seeing him everywhere. Not because you were seeking him out—not at first, anyway—but because he had a tendency to appear in your life like some kind of recurring side character in a sitcom. You’d be minding your own business in Yunjin’s apartment, and he’d burst through the door, ranting about how someone stole his favorite study spot in the library. You’d go to grab coffee before class, and there he’d be, dramatically arguing with the barista about why oat milk was a scam. He just kept showing up, like the universe had decided that, for better or worse, he was part of your story now.

And then, you found out you had a class together. It wasn’t a real class. Not in the sense that it required effort or critical thinking. It was one of those ridiculous elective courses that the university offered purely to fill up credit requirements—something slapped onto the catalog as an afterthought, designed for students who were too lazy or too exhausted to take anything serious.

You had signed up for it without even reading the description, choosing it solely because it fit into your schedule and had a reputation for being an easy A. Heeseung, apparently, had done the same.

That was how the two of you ended up in "The Philosophy of Memes and Internet Culture."

The class was exactly as stupid as it sounded. The professor was a guy in his late 40s who still said things like “epic fail” unironically. The syllabus included assignments like “analyzing the impact of Vine on modern humor” and “writing a 500-word essay on the evolution of the Rickroll.” It was the kind of class that could only exist in a university desperate to appear progressive and relevant, and you were 90% sure the school administration had no idea it was happening.

It was, in short, the best class either of you had ever taken.

You and Heeseung immediately became the worst students in the room. Not because you weren’t paying attention, but because you were paying attention too much—finding everything so absurdly hilarious that neither of you could take it seriously. Every lecture felt like a fever dream. Every assignment was an excuse to see how much nonsense you could get away with before the professor caught on.

And then, of course, came the group project. It was a simple assignment: pick a meme, trace its origins, and present its cultural impact. Most people chose something predictable—Doge, Grumpy Cat, Distracted Boyfriend.

You and Heeseung, however, chose Shrek. More specifically, you chose Shrek’s cultural legacy as an ironic meme figure.

It was supposed to be a joke. A way to entertain yourselves in a class that was already ridiculous. But the further you got into your research, the more serious it became.

Somewhere along the way, you and Heeseung stopped just pretending to care and actually started caring. You spent hours deep-diving into obscure Shrek forums, analyzing the rise of “Shrek is Love, Shrek is Life” discourse, debating whether or not the character’s internet resurgence was fueled by genuine appreciation or detached irony. You became scholars of the Shrek Renaissance.

The night before your presentation, you were in Yunjin’s apartment, sitting on the floor with your laptops open, surrounded by a mess of half-empty snack bags and unfinished slides. The clock blinked 2:37 AM, and neither of you had any business still being awake.

Heeseung was slouched against the couch, staring at his screen with the expression of a man who had seen too much. “I think I know too much about Shrek,” he said, voice hollow.

You let out a dramatic sigh, rubbing your temples. “Yeah. We flew too close to the sun on this one.” There was a beat of silence.

Then, Heeseung slowly turned his laptop around, revealing a slide titled ‘Shrek and the Post-Ironic Era of Internet Humor: A Critical Analysis.’ And for some reason, that was it. That was the moment you broke.

Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the fact that you had just spent the past three hours watching deep-fried Shrek memes with Gregorian chants in the background. Maybe it was just the sheer, stupid absurdity of the entire situation. But suddenly, you were laughing.

Not just laughing—cackling. The kind of breathless, full-body laughter that made your stomach hurt. That made you feel like you were going to die right there on Yunjin’s living room floor, lost to the void of Shrek academia.

And Heeseung—poor, equally sleep-deprived Heeseung—was right there with you. He doubled over, gasping for air, his head nearly colliding with your shoulder as he choked out, “We’re never recovering from this.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You turned to him, trying to catch your breath, and found him already looking at you. His eyes were crinkled at the edges, his cheeks flushed from laughter, his whole body still shaking slightly from the aftermath. And for a moment—just a moment—you thought, this is nice.

Not just the laughing. Not just the inside jokes and the chaos.

But him.

You pushed the thought away before it could settle.

Because, at the end of the day, Heeseung was your friend. Your dumbass friend who still had green body paint under his fingernails two weeks after Halloween. Who got irrationally angry at mobile game ads. Who had just spent the last six hours dissecting Shrek memes with you like it was a matter of academic integrity.

And that was all he was.

Right?

Heeseung, on the other hand, wasn’t sure when it started. That feeling.

That weird, stupid, barely-there feeling. The one that sat quietly in the back of his mind, like a notification he refused to check. Like a waiting room. A vague, almost imperceptible awareness that he enjoyed your company a little too much—that your laugh had started to feel like background music in his life, something he didn’t know he needed until it was gone.

Not that it meant anything. Obviously.

He liked lots of people. He was a social guy. He made friends easily, enjoyed being around them, and—despite Yunjin’s many accusations—was not emotionally repressed. He just… liked the things you liked. That was normal.

It was normal that he started watching that terrible reality show you always talked about, even though he swore he hated it. It was normal that he got a random impulse to buy you a weirdly specific snack he saw at the store because “it just screamed your vibe.” It was normal that he sent you voice notes every time he saw something even remotely related to Shrek, even months after your presentation.

That was just friendship. Which was why, as a friend, he invited you to an arcade.

It was one of those places that felt like it had been stuck in time since the 90s—neon lights, sticky floors, a vague smell of burnt popcorn in the air. The kind of place that probably hadn’t passed a health inspection in years, but had an undeniable charm to it. You were too good at skee-ball.

It was honestly annoying. Heeseung had challenged you three times, and each time, you had obliterated him without breaking a sweat. It wasn’t even close. “You’re cheating,” he accused, arms crossed as he watched you land another perfect shot.

You grinned, tossing the last ball effortlessly. “You’re just mad because you suck.”

“I don’t suck,” he argued. “This game is just—rigged. The physics are all off.”

“Oh my god. Did you just say ‘the physics are off’ in a skee-ball game?”

“Yes,” he said, completely serious. “I am a man of logic and reason.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “Sure. Okay. Man of logic and reason. If you’re so smart, let’s see how well you do at Dance Dance Revolution.”

Heeseung froze. “I—uh—what?”

“Come on,” you said, already dragging him toward the machine. “Let’s see those skills.”

Here was the thing about Heeseung: he was good at a lot of things. He could play video games for hours without blinking. He could talk his way out of almost any bad situation. He could even recite the entire “All Star” lyrics from memory.

But he could not dance. At all. And that became painfully clear the second the game started.

Heeseung missed every step. Every single one. While you moved effortlessly, barely even glancing at the screen, he was flailing. His feet weren’t in sync with his brain. His arms kept jerking awkwardly, and he could hear you laughing beside him, and somehow, that made it worse.

By the time the game ended, Heeseung was defeated. He doubled over, hands on his knees, gasping dramatically. “I think I died,” he announced.

You patted his back. “You fought bravely.”

He looked up at you then, about to retort, but the words got lost somewhere in his throat. Because you were smiling at him—really smiling. Your eyes were crinkled at the edges, your face still flushed from laughing. The neon lights flickered against your skin, casting everything in shades of blue and pink, making you look—

Well. Heeseung swallowed. That weird, stupid, barely-there feeling? Yeah. It was there.

But you were just his friend.

So, when Beomgyu casually mentioned, in the most offhanded, unbothered way possible, that he thought you were cute, Heeseung should’ve just let it go. But he didn’t.

“You think she’s what?”

Beomgyu raised an eyebrow. “Cute. You know, in a hot way.”

Heeseung felt something in his chest twist. It was irrational. Objectively, completely irrational. Because, yeah, you were cute. That wasn’t news to him. He had eyes. He was aware. He had just… never thought about the fact that other people might also be aware.

Heeseung almost laughed. It was a knee-jerk reaction, the kind of dry, disbelieving scoff that came when someone said something so absurd it didn’t even process at first. But then, Beomgyu kept talking.

“I was thinking of asking her out.”

And Heeseung felt it. That twist, low and tight, in the pit of his stomach.

He blinked at Beomgyu, waiting for the usual rush of banter to kick in, for the easy teasing to roll off his tongue. But for some reason, his mouth felt dry. Beomgyu liked you. Beomgyu thought you were cute. Beomgyu wanted to date you.

It wasn’t that wild of a concept. People liked you all the time. You were funny and charming in that effortlessly chaotic way, the kind of person who made friends in the span of a single conversation. It made sense that Beomgyu, out of all people, would look at you and go, Yeah, she’s my type.

And it wasn’t like Heeseung had a say in the matter. So he shrugged, leaning back against the couch, and said, “Yeah, good for you, man. Good for you”

And that should’ve been the end of it. Except. Beomgyu actually did ask you out. And the worst part? You said yes.

At first, Heeseung didn’t think much of it. He was fine. It was fine.

So what if you had gone out with Beomgyu last Friday and came back looking kind of flushed, kind of happy? So what if, the next time he saw you, you had that soft, secretive look in your eyes, the one that said you were thinking about something that made your stomach twist in the good way?

So what. You weren’t dating. You weren’t his. And he sure as hell wasn’t jealous. Except then it wasn’t just one date. Because you went out again. And again. And again. And suddenly, Beomgyu wasn’t just one of Heeseung’s friends anymore—he was the guy you were seeing. And that, for some reason, was so much worse.

The thing about Beomgyu was that he was annoying. Like, Heeseung had always known this, but now, for the first time in his life, it felt personal. “Dude,” Beomgyu groaned, stretching his arms behind his head as they sat in their usual spot in the campus lounge. “Y/N is so fun, bro. Like, actually so fun.”

Heeseung clenched his jaw. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. She’s, like… different.” Heeseung made a face. “No, I’m serious,” Beomgyu whined. “She’s not like other girls.”

I’m gonna walk into traffic, Heeseung thought.

“No, like—” Beomgyu hesitated, looking off into the distance. “She’s just cool, you know?”

And Heeseung didn’t know why that pissed him off. Maybe because he knew that already. He had always known that. He had known it before Beomgyu, before any of these dates, before whatever the hell this was.

He had known it since the night he met you. Since the moment you called him Donatello when he was, in fact, Leonardo. Since the first time you said his name with that teasing edge, like you were permanently in on some joke he didn’t even realize he was making.

So, yeah. Maybe he didn’t like hearing Beomgyu say it like he had discovered it first.

But whatever. Heeseung let it go. Because it wasn’t like this was going to last forever. And then, it didn’t.

One day, you walked into Yunjin’s apartment, kicked your shoes off in a way that sent one flying across the room, and threw yourself onto the couch with all the weight of someone carrying a great and terrible burden.

Heeseung, sitting on the floor, scrolled mindlessly through his phone, pretending he hadn’t immediately noticed you. But then, you sighed. A deep, world-weary, existentially exhausted sigh.

Yunjin looked up from where she was painting her nails. “Jesus,” she muttered. “What.”

You groaned, stuffing your face into a pillow. “I think I’m over it.”

Heeseung’s thumb froze mid-scroll. Casual. He had to be casual. So, without looking up, he mumbled, “Over what?”

Another dramatic sigh. You rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers to life itself. “Beomgyu.”

Heeseung blinked. Okay.

Yunjin, who had been the biggest advocate of this whole thing, frowned. “Wait, what do you mean? You were literally texting him heart emojis yesterday.”

“I don’t know.” You stretched out your legs like the weight of your own existence was exhausting you. “I just… don’t feel like it anymore.”

Yunjin gave you a look. “Like, what? He’s a hobby you got bored of?”

“No! It’s just—” You hesitated, pressing your lips together. “Like, I liked the idea of him. And at first, it was fun. But then, the more time we spent together, the more I realized… I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

You exhaled, shutting your eyes. “I feel like I was trying to make myself like him the way I was supposed to. But it just wasn’t working.”

And that was when Heeseung’s grip on his phone tightened. He forced himself to keep his face neutral, tilting his head slightly as he looked at you. “The way you were supposed to?”

You turned your head towards him. “Yeah. Like, Beomgyu is great, okay? He’s funny, and he’s cute, and he’s nice, and I should like him.” You paused, expression softening. “But every time he kissed me, I just…”

You trailed off, lost in thought. Heeseung swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He wasn’t sure why.

Yunjin made a gagging noise. “Okay, ew. Please don’t get all sentimental about kissing Beomgyu on my couch.”

You laughed, pushing her half-heartedly with your foot. “I’m just saying—it’s not clicking. You ever get that? Like, you try to like someone, but no matter how much you do, it just doesn’t fit?”

And the way you looked at Heeseung when you asked that—like you expected him to understand—made something in his chest tighten. Because yeah. He knew exactly what that felt like. He just… couldn’t say it.

So he swallowed, rolling his shoulders back, and forced a small smirk. “Damn,” he said, voice light. “Tough loss for Beomgyu.”

You let out a soft huff of laughter. “Yeah.” Then, a pause. “Guess I’m single again.”

Something in Heeseung’s chest lurched. But he just nodded, keeping his expression neutral, easy, unfazed. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like it didn’t change everything.

A few weeks later, Heeseung showed up at your apartment. It was raining that day.

Not in a dramatic, cinematic way, but in that soft, half-hearted drizzle that made everything look just a little bit duller. The sky was gray, the streets were damp, and Heeseung had definitely stepped into at least two puddles on his way up to your place.

Which, in his opinion, was already way too much effort just to fix your stupid kitchen cabinet.

“Okay, I just wanna say,” he announced as soon as you let him in, dragging his slightly-wet socks across your floor, “I don’t know how the hell you managed to completely detach a cabinet door, but honestly? I’m kind of impressed.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping aside to let him in. “Are you gonna help me or are you gonna make fun of me?”

“Oh, I’m definitely gonna make fun of you.” He grinned, toeing off his shoes before making his way to your kitchen. “But I’ll fix it after.”

You followed behind him, crossing your arms as you watched him inspect the broken cabinet. It wasn’t like you had meant to break it. You had simply been existing in your own kitchen, minding your own business, when the handle somehow got caught on the sleeve of your hoodie—one tug too strong, and suddenly the door was in your hands instead of on its hinges.

“I literally don’t understand how this happened,” Heeseung muttered, crouching down to assess the damage.

“Okay, handyman,” you shot back. “Can you fix it or not?”

Heeseung snorted, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah, let me just—” He held out a hand. “Pass me my phone.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“My hands are kinda full,” he said, nodding towards the cabinet door that he was currently balancing on one knee. “Look up how to fix this real quick.”

You huffed but grabbed his phone from the counter, unlocking it without thinking as you leaned against the kitchen island. You didn’t love the idea of looking up a YouTube tutorial like some kind of DIY newbie, but considering that Heeseung was already physically here fixing your problem for you, you figured you could at least meet him halfway.

So, with one hand holding his phone, you typed "how to reattach cabinet door" into the search bar—

And then, your thumb froze. Because right there, at the top of the screen, was a notification. A message. From Chaewon. Your stomach twisted.

It wasn’t like you didn’t know who Chaewon was. Of course, you did. You weren’t stupid. Chaewon was his ex.

The one he never really talked about. The one who had, at one point, been a name you’d only heard in passing, just a piece of his past that you had no real reason to care about. Except… you did.

Because now, here she was. On his screen. Texting him. And suddenly, you felt fucking ridiculous. Because why were you even reacting like this? It wasn’t like he was your boyfriend. It wasn’t like he owed you an explanation. So, then… why did it feel like this?

You forced yourself to look away from the message, pressing the YouTube link on the screen as if nothing had happened. But something had. Because when Heeseung glanced at you, waiting for your next words, you just… couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eyes.

“Uh.” You cleared your throat, suddenly hyper-aware of the way your voice didn’t sound normal. “It says you need a screwdriver.”

Heeseung raised an eyebrow at your abrupt shift in tone, but he didn’t question it. “Okay,” he said slowly, getting up to grab one from his bag.

You took the moment to shove his phone back onto the counter, clenching your jaw as you crossed your arms tighter over your chest. It was fine. You were fine.

“Hey.” His voice cut through the air, slightly muffled as he rummaged through his bag. “Can you hold this while I—”

“No, it’s fine.” The words came out too fast, too stiff.

And Heeseung noticed. He glanced at you, pausing with the screwdriver halfway in his grip. “You good?”

You forced out a laugh. “Yeah. Why?”

He narrowed his eyes slightly, tilting his head. “You just got all weird all of a sudden.”

“I didn’t.”

“You definitely did.”

You exhaled sharply, schooling your expression into something that wasn’t betrayal or insecurity or whatever dumb thing was currently buzzing inside your head. “I’m just tired.”

It wasn’t a total lie. Heeseung didn’t look fully convinced, but he didn’t push. He just hummed under his breath, turning back to the cabinet as he started working again.

And maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was irrational. But you couldn’t stop thinking about it. The notification. The name. The way your stomach had twisted on instinct before you even had a chance to tell yourself it didn’t matter.

Because maybe… Maybe it did.

The next time you’re at Yunjin’s apartment, Heeseung isn’t there.

It’s not intentional, not entirely. Maybe there’s a small, petty part of you that’s relieved when Yunjin mentions he’s out, like the universe decided to grant you a break from the exhausting push and pull of whatever this thing is between you. But mostly, you’re just here because you always are.

There’s an old episode of some dating reality show playing in the background, and Yunjin barely glances at it as she paints her toenails a shade of red so deep it’s almost brown. You pick at the hem of your sleeve, casual, too casual, before finally asking, “Does Heeseung still see Chaewon?”

Yunjin snorts, like it’s the dumbest thing she’s heard all day. “God, I hope not.”

Something in your stomach untwists just slightly, but you don’t let the relief settle. You just raise an eyebrow, feigning indifference. “What happened with them, anyway?”

Yunjin pauses, her brush hovering mid-air. She gives you a look. The kind that says she sees through you. The kind that makes your skin prickle with the discomfort of being known. But then she sighs, leans back against the couch, and says, “They burned out.”

You blink. “That’s it?”

Yunjin tilts her head. “You ever leave a candle burning too long?” She dips the brush back into the bottle, shaking her head. “They were good until they weren’t. And when they weren’t, it was obvious. Chaewon got tired of waiting for him to catch up.”

You frown. “Catch up?”

Yunjin shrugs. “She loved him first. And she wanted him to love her back just as fast, just as much. But Heeseung…” She sighs, blowing lightly on her nails. “Heeseung takes his time. He doesn’t fall in love all at once, he kind of… eases into it. Like the dumbass that he is.”

Your chest tightens.

Because you think about the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching. About the way he always notices when you’re cold before you even say anything. And then you think about the way he doesn’t say anything. About the way he’s always on the edge of something, always almost.

Yunjin is watching you. You can feel it. And you know, you just know, she’s about to say something that’s going to ruin you.

So you get up, stretch your arms above your head like you can shake the weight of this conversation off your skin. “Right. Well. That was fun. Thanks for the gossip.”

Yunjin smirks. “You’re so fucking obvious.” You ignore her, grabbing a handful of popcorn from the bowl on the coffee table. But before you can shove it in your mouth, she says, “Heeseung’s not stupid, you know. He just doesn’t like to move until he’s sure.”

You pause. And because you’re you, and because this is Heeseung, and because everything about this whole thing is a goddamn waiting game— You pretend you don’t hear her.

And then it’s 2:14 a.m. when your phone buzzes.

You’re half-asleep, curled up in bed, the glow of your screen slicing through the darkness. You squint at it, groggy, before reading the message.

heeseung: you awake? heeseung: also. do u want mcdonalds

You blink. Then again. You type out a response with fingers that still feel half-dead from sleep.

you: is that even a question heeseung: valid. be outside in 10

And just like that, you’re stepping into your slides, and slipping out the door like this is the most normal thing in the world. Because with Heeseung, it kind of is.

The streetlights cast long, tired shadows across the pavement, and the air is that weird mix of crisp and stale that only exists at this hour, like the city itself is pausing, caught between the last breath of night and the first inhale of morning.

Heeseung’s car rolls up exactly nine minutes later, music already playing low through the speakers. When you slide into the passenger seat, he barely even looks at you before reaching into the back and tossing you his hoodie.

“You’re gonna get cold,” he says simply.

You huff, but you put it on. It smells like him—faint detergent, something vaguely woody, and the unmistakable scent of McDonald’s fries from however many late-night runs have preceded this one.

Heeseung pulls out onto the street, the familiar hum of the engine settling between you. He’s got one hand lazily resting on the steering wheel, and there’s a soft shadow of exhaustion under his eyes, but he still looks… at ease.

It’s quiet for a while. Comfortable. The kind of silence that doesn’t feel like it needs filling.

Then, as he turns onto the main road, he says, “You ever think about how weird time is?”

You glance at him. “That’s an insane way to start a conversation.”

“I’m serious,” he laughs, tapping his fingers against the wheel. “Like, right now. It’s 2:30 a.m. for us, but somewhere else, it’s a normal afternoon. Someone’s getting lunch, someone’s going to work. And here we are, about to eat McNuggets in a parking lot.”

You hum. “I feel like this is your way of convincing me that time isn’t real.”

He nods solemnly. “Nothing is real.”

“Except McNuggets.”

“Exactly.”

A beat passes, the soft rumble of the tires against the road the only sound for a moment. Then, quieter, more thoughtful, Heeseung asks, “Where do you think you’ll be in a year?”

The question catches you off guard. You tilt your head, thinking. “I don’t know,” you admit. “I mean, I have plans, but… life never really goes how you expect it to, does it?”

Heeseung exhales a small laugh. “No. It really doesn’t.”

You hesitate before adding, “Where do you think you’ll be?”

He takes a moment. His grip on the steering wheel tightens just slightly, like he’s holding onto the words before letting them go. “I don’t know either.” He pauses, then glances at you with something unreadable in his eyes. “I just hope I’m somewhere that still feels like home.”

You feel something shift. A small, almost imperceptible weight settling between the two of you.

And maybe it’s the hour. Maybe it’s the fact that your brain isn’t fully awake yet. Or maybe it’s just him—this version of Heeseung that only exists at 2:30 a.m., the one who speaks in half-truths and unspoken things. But you suddenly feel like you understand exactly what he means.

The McDonald’s drive-thru is basically empty when you pull in. The girl at the window looks like she hates her job, and Heeseung, being Heeseung, makes it his personal mission to get her to smile.

“Are McFlurries still a scam?” he asks solemnly.

The girl raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “You mean, is the machine broken?”

“Yeah.”

“Obviously.”

Heeseung sighs. “I knew it. A tragedy, really.”

Her lips twitch—just barely—but he sees it. He shoots you a triumphant look as he pulls forward.

With the food secured, he parks in a near-empty lot. There’s something about eating fast food in a car past midnight that makes it taste ten times better—something about the way the city is so still, like the world has shrunk down to just the two of you and the glow of the dashboard lights.

For a while, you just eat in silence, the occasional rustle of a fry bag or the quiet click of a sauce container the only noise. Then Heeseung says, “If you could live in any movie, which one would it be?”

You think for a moment. “Probably something stupid and fun. Like… a rom-com where everything works out in the end.”

Heeseung snorts. “Yeah? You want to be the main character that badly?”

“Obviously.”

He grins, dipping a fry into his BBQ sauce. “You’d be the chaotic best friend, though.”

You throw a fry at him. He catches it in his mouth.

“What about you?” you ask, popping a nugget into your mouth.

Heeseung leans back against the seat, thinking. “I don’t know. Something small. Quiet. One of those movies where nothing really happens, but it still makes you feel something.”

You tilt your head. “Like a waiting room.”

Heeseung turns to you. “What?”

“A waiting room,” you say, like it’s obvious. “That’s what those movies feel like. Like something is about to happen, but you don’t know what, and maybe it’s okay if nothing does.”

He stares at you for a long moment. Then he smiles. And it’s not his usual grin, not the teasing, lopsided smirk. It’s something smaller, softer. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Like a waiting room.”

Neither of you say anything after that. The city hums in the background, neon lights bleeding into the darkness, the last remnants of fries sitting forgotten between you.

And then, a party. Not the kind you remember from three years ago, not the one where you met a boy covered in green body paint who changed your life without even meaning to. But still, a party. The music is just as loud, the air just as thick with heat and laughter, the night just as full of things waiting to happen.

You’re not sure why you came. Yunjin had begged, of course, had stood in your doorway with her most dramatic expression, wailing about how you never do anything fun anymore. But even then, you could have said no. You could have curled up in your apartment, wrapped yourself in something soft and safe, ignored the way your stomach flipped when you thought, what if Heeseung is there?

But you didn’t.

And now, you’re here, standing in the middle of someone’s too-small living room, holding a lukewarm drink, feeling like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit. And then, you hear your name.

It cuts through the music, through the laughter, through the static in your brain. It pulls you toward the kitchen, toward the familiar lilt of a voice you know better than your own. And there he is. Heeseung.

Standing in front of the fridge, cracking open a beer, wearing a faded t-shirt and jeans that hang just right. His hair is a little messy, his eyes a little bright, and when he sees you, he grins—that same lopsided, teasing, dangerous smile.

"Look who finally decided to show up," he says, raising his drink in a mock toast.

You roll your eyes, taking a sip of whatever’s in your cup. "Don’t make a big deal out of it."

Heeseung hums, leaning against the counter. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

But he’s looking at you like it is a big deal. Like maybe he’s been waiting for you all night. Like maybe he always is.

Hours pass, the party moves around you—people spilling in and out of rooms, music shifting from one song to the next—but you and Heeseung stay where you are, orbiting around each other.

At some point, someone suggests a game. Cards, or maybe something more ridiculous—something designed to make people confess things they wouldn’t say otherwise. You should say no. You should step away before you find yourself caught in something you can’t get out of.

But you don’t. You sit next to Heeseung on the floor, close enough that your knees touch. The game starts, questions fly, people laugh. And then—

Jake turns to you. "Alright, Y/N. Who was your first college crush?"

You blink. "What?"

The group whoops in unison. Jungwon throws an arm around your shoulder. "Come on, don’t be shy."

Your throat goes dry. Your eyes flicker to Heeseung, just for a second, but it’s enough. His smirk twitches—just barely, just enough to be noticeable—and suddenly, you know you have to get out of this.

You clear your throat, reaching for your drink. "I think I’ve blocked it out," you lie.

A chorus of boos erupts, but the game moves on. The moment passes. But beside you, Heeseung is watching you, his fingers tapping against his knee, like he’s putting something together. You pretend not to notice.

Later, when the party has blurred into something soft and distant, when most people are drunk or half-asleep, when the night has stretched itself out into something too fragile to hold forever, Heeseung finds you on the balcony.

You’re leaning against the railing, breathing in the cool air, staring out at the city lights. "You hiding from me?"

You don’t turn around. "You think everything’s about you, don’t you?"

He laughs—soft, amused, something warm threading through the sound. "It usually is."

You roll your eyes, but then he’s beside you, resting his forearms on the railing, close enough that you can feel the heat of him even through the night air.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The music inside is muffled now, the party nothing more than background noise. The city stretches out before you, endless and alive, full of people who have no idea that this moment is happening.

And then, quietly, Heeseung asks, "You really don’t remember your first college crush?"

Your fingers tighten slightly around the railing. You exhale. "I remember."

A pause. "Yeah?"

You glance at him. He’s watching you, expression unreadable, something deep and knowing in his eyes. You swallow. "Yeah."

Heeseung tilts his head slightly, and for a second, you think—Is he going to ask? Does he already know? But he doesn’t.

He just nods, looking back at the skyline, and says, "Me too."

And somehow, that’s worse. Because you think—no, you know—that he’s not talking about some early college memory, some long-forgotten infatuation.

He’s talking about you.

And for the first time, you wonder if this thing between you—this waiting, this almost, this three years of something unspoken—has been more obvious than you thought. You wonder if maybe, just maybe, you’re not the only one waiting.

One month later. The thing about time is that it moves whether you’re ready or not. It stretches, it folds, it carries you forward even when you feel like you’re standing still.

And ever since the party, things with Heeseung have been… different. Not in an obvious way. Not in the way that people would notice, not in the way that Yunjin would tease you about over breakfast. But in the small things.

In the way his eyes linger just a little too long. In the way your stomach flips when he says your name. In the way every conversation feels like it’s balancing on the edge of something you can’t name.

Because you and Heeseung have always been close, always been drawn together like something written into the universe itself. But now? Now, it feels different. Like someone turned up the volume on something you didn’t even realize was playing in the background.

And the worst part? Neither of you are talking about it.

Instead, you’re doing what you do best—pretending. Pretending that nothing is different, that things are still light and easy, that three years of something unspoken aren’t finally starting to spill over the edges.

Until one day, when you’re sitting on Yunjin’s couch, your phone rings. It’s your mother. You hesitate before answering, already bracing yourself for whatever she’s about to say.

And the moment you put your phone down, you groan, collapsing onto the couch, like the weight of the conversation is physically pressing down on you. Heeseung and Yunjin are both looking at you expectantly, their attention fully on you in a way that makes you regret opening your mouth at all. But it’s too late now, so you just exhale, pressing your fingers against your temples before muttering, "My mom called."

Yunjin snorts. "Yeah, we got that much. What did she want?"

You roll your eyes, but the annoyance in your chest is directed at yourself more than anything else. "There’s a wedding. My cousin’s. Next weekend."

Heeseung, who had been absentmindedly rolling a bottle cap between his fingers, finally glances up, eyes curious. "You going?"

"Yeah." You sigh again. "Didn’t really have a choice. If I said no, she would’ve found a way to guilt-trip me into oblivion."

Yunjin grins knowingly. "Classic mom move."

You hum in agreement, then hesitate, picking at the hem of your sleeve. "And then she made it weird," you mutter.

Heeseung raises an eyebrow, shifting slightly on the couch so he’s facing you more fully. "How weird?"

You pause for a second, then groan, throwing your head back. "She brought up the fact that I’ve never brought a boyfriend to anything."

Yunjin cackles. She actually leans forward, hands on her knees, cackling. "Oh my God," she wheezes. "That’s so embarrassing for you."

You glare. "Thank you, Yunjin, for your endless support."

But Heeseung doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t tease. He just tilts his head, watching you with an unreadable expression. "She said that?"

You nod, rubbing your temples. "Yeah. She was all, ‘You can bring someone, you know,’ and then just immediately went for the ‘You’ve never brought a boyfriend to anything,’ like I don’t already know that."

Yunjin wipes a fake tear from her eye, still far too entertained. "Damn. She really called you out like that."

"Okay," you deadpan, "I think we’ve established that this is humiliating for me. Can we move on?"

But Yunjin grins, her eyes practically glowing with mischief, and that’s when you know you should have never said anything at all. "Well," she says, stretching out the word, "if it bothers you that much… you could always bring Heeseung."

Silence.

You feel it immediately—the way the air shifts, the way your stomach twists, the way your breath catches for just a second too long. You don’t look at Heeseung. You can’t.

Instead, you scoff, shoving her shoulder. "Oh my God, shut up."

"I’m serious!" she laughs. "It makes sense, doesn’t it? You need a date. Heeseung’s around."

Heeseung is silent. And that—that’s what makes your chest tighten. Because Heeseung is never silent.

You finally force yourself to glance at him, just a flicker, just to see how he’s reacting to this. And when you do, you find him already looking at you—his expression unreadable, his fingers stilling where they had been absently playing with the bottle cap.

Something tightens in your throat. Because it’s one thing to laugh it off. It’s one thing to pretend this isn’t something charged, something delicate, something that feels like standing on the edge of something too big to name.

But Heeseung isn’t laughing.

When you open the door on the wedding day, Heeseung is already leaning against his car, hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks, looking entirely too good for someone who is supposed to be doing you a favor. His hair is neat but still has that slight, careless tousle to it, his sleeves are pushed up just enough to reveal his forearms, and his black dress shirt is criminally well-fitted.

You try very hard not to notice any of that. But Heeseung is looking at you like you just stopped time.

It’s not obvious—he doesn’t say anything right away, doesn’t let his jaw drop like some kind of movie cliché—but his fingers twitch slightly where they’re resting in his pockets, and his throat bobs as he swallows. His eyes move over you in a way that isn’t just admiration but something deeper, something heavier, something that makes your chest feel too tight.

You pretend not to notice that, either. Instead, you lift an eyebrow, shifting your weight onto one foot. "You gonna open the door for me, or are you just gonna stand there?"

Heeseung blinks, snapping out of it. He clears his throat, pushing off the car, his usual smirk creeping back into place. "Right, yeah. My bad."

You roll your eyes, but your face feels warm anyway. The ride starts out easy. The hum of the road fills the space between you, the occasional comment about the directions or a song playing on the radio breaking the silence.

"You, uh," Heeseung starts, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel. "You sure your mom’s gonna be cool with me coming?"

You blink. "What? Yeah, of course. I already told her."

He raises an eyebrow. "You told her?"

"Yeah," you say, adjusting the hem of your dress. "I mean, I talk about you all the time, so it’s not like it’s weird or anything."

Silence. You don’t notice it at first, but when you glance over, Heeseung is staring straight ahead, gripping the wheel a little tighter than before.

And the thing is—Heeseung is not someone who gets flustered easily. He doesn’t trip over his words, doesn’t get all weird when people talk about him. But now, he’s sitting there, completely silent, like his brain just blue-screened.

Because you talk about him all the time. To your mom. His ears burn at the thought.

Because it’s one thing to be close. It’s one thing to be your best friend, to be the person you go to for late-night McDonald’s runs and life-altering conversations on balconies. But it’s another thing entirely to know that he exists in your life even when he’s not there.

That when you’re on the phone with your mom, when you’re recounting your day, when you’re talking about the people who matter—he’s there. And it’s so stupid how much that does to him.

He coughs, forcing himself to sound normal. "Oh. Cool. Yeah. That’s cool."

You snort. "I told her you’re my friend, and that’s it."

Heeseung hums, tapping his fingers on the wheel again. "Yeah. Right."

But for some reason, the word friend doesn’t sit right in his mouth.

The wedding is beautiful. Not in the over-the-top, fairytale kind of way, but in the way that feels real. The ceremony is held outdoors, the late afternoon light draping everything in gold, the air carrying the soft hum of laughter and clinking glasses. There are flowers on every table, music drifting lazily through the air, and a warmth that lingers beneath the chatter of distant relatives catching up.

And you almost forget that you’re here with Heeseung. Almost. Except—you can feel him.

You can feel him next to you at the table, the warmth of his presence settling into your skin. You can feel the way his hand brushes against yours when he reaches for something, the way his eyes flicker toward you when he hears you laugh.

And the worst part is that he looks good as hell.

It’s almost unfair, the way he carries himself. The way his sleeves are still rolled up, the way his shirt is slightly undone at the collar, the way he leans back in his chair, legs stretched out, watching everything unfold like he belongs here.

And for the first time in a long time you don’t know where you stand with him.

Because this is Heeseung. The boy who sends you Shrek memes at 2 a.m. The boy who once argued with a barista about oat milk for a full five minutes. The boy who makes you laugh until you can’t breathe.

But right now? Right now, he’s something else, too. Something that makes your stomach flip. Something that makes you forget how to breathe.

The music shifts. It’s not immediate—not some grand, dramatic moment where the world slows down—but you feel it.

The moment the first notes of the song drift through the air, you feel it in your chest. Like something tightening. Like something pulling at a thread you don’t want to unravel. Because you know this song. Of course you know this song. And so does he.

You don’t even have to look at Heeseung to know he recognizes it too. That he knows exactly what’s playing, that he knows how much you love her, that he knows you’ve played this song before—in his car, in your apartment, in the quiet spaces between friendship and something else.

You know he knows. And yet, he still turns to you, his voice a low murmur beneath the hum of conversation. “Phoebe Bridgers,” he says.

You swallow. “Yeah.” Heeseung hums, watching you carefully. His fingers drum lightly against the table, slow and steady, in time with the beat of the song. Then, after a second—

"You should dance with me."

You blink. You blink again. Your stomach twists. “What?”

Heeseung shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t mean anything. “You love this song.”

Which—okay. That’s true. But this is not a song you dance to. This is a song you listen to alone, in your room, in the quiet, when it’s too late and you’re too restless and you’re thinking about things you shouldn’t be thinking about.

This is not a wedding song. And yet, Heeseung is still looking at you like that, like this is a dare, like he’s waiting for you to say no, to call him out, to pull away before it’s too late.

And yet, his hand is outstretched, waiting, patient, warm. And yet— You take it. You don’t think, you just do it, just let yourself be pulled. And Heeseung holds you like he’s afraid to press too hard.

One hand on your waist. The other clasping yours loosely, like he’s letting you decide how close to be. Like he’s still waiting for you to laugh and push him away and say, ‘This is so stupid’.

But you don’t. You just breathe. You just exist here, in this moment, with him.

If you were a waiting room, I would never see a doctor I would sit there with my first-aid kit and bleed

Your throat tightens. Because God, this song.

Because you know every lyric by heart, because you know what it means, because there’s something about it that always makes you feel like you’re standing in the middle of something you’ll never quite have.

And now, here you are, dancing to it with him.

Heeseung exhales softly, tilting his head toward you. “You ever think about that?”

You blink. “Think about what?”

His fingers twitch slightly against your waist. “How music reminds you of people.”

Your stomach flips. Because of course you do. Of course, you think about it. Of course, this song, this moment, this whole damn night is going to be tied to him now, forever, no matter what happens after.

You nod. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “I think about it.”

Heeseung hums, like that makes sense. Like he already knew what you were going to say. Then—

"Does this song remind you of me?"

Your breath catches. The air between you thickens.

Because that shouldn’t be a question. Because he already knows the answer. Because you’re standing here with him, swaying to a song that makes your chest ache, and you know, you know he hears the lyrics just as clearly as you do.

I wanna be the broken love song that feeds your misery.

You clear your throat, forcing yourself to sound normal. “Maybe.”

His lips twitch. “Maybe?”

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t push it.”

Heeseung laughs, soft, breathless. And God, you hate him.

You hate the way he makes everything feel like a game, like he’s always hovering right at the edge of something and waiting for you to push him over. You hate that it’s working.

And when broken bodies are washed ashore—who am I to ask for more?

You shiver. Because this is the part of the song that gets to you every time. Because who are you to ask for more?

Who are you to ask for something that maybe, just maybe, was never meant to be yours? But then Heeseung, of all people, says “I think this song reminds me of you, too.”

Your heart stops. You look at him, and he’s already looking at you, and suddenly this doesn’t feel like pretending anymore.

This doesn’t feel like something you can laugh off. Because Heeseung is serious.

Because his hand is still on your waist, his fingers still brushing against the fabric of your dress, his breath still warm against your cheek, and you don’t know how to go back from this. You don’t know if you want to.

Heeseung shifts slightly, his grip tightening for just a second. “You ever think about it?”

You blink. “Think about what?”

Heeseung hesitates, his eyes flickering over your face. His jaw tightens—just barely.

"Us."

Your stomach drops.

Because he says it so simply, like it’s nothing, like it’s a passing thought, like he hasn’t just destroyed your entire world in one syllable. Us. The word sits heavy in the air between you, impossible to ignore, impossible to pretend you didn’t hear.

Heeseung doesn’t move, doesn’t look away, doesn’t do anything to make this easier for you. He just keeps holding you, keeps swaying with you, keeps waiting—like he has all the time in the world.

You want to say something.

You want to throw your head back and laugh it off, tell him he’s being ridiculous, tell him to stop playing with you. You want to scoff and roll your eyes and pretend that the thought of you and Heeseung has never crossed your mind, that it hasn’t been haunting you for years, that it hasn’t been living under your skin since the first time he looked at you like you were something worth remembering.

But you can’t. Because this is Heeseung. Because he knows you too well, because he’d hear the lie in your voice, because there is nowhere left to hide when he’s looking at you like this.

So instead, you stall. You breathe in, slow and careful, and say, "What about us?"

It’s a cheap move. A pathetic attempt at deflection. And Heeseung knows it.

He exhales, the ghost of a laugh slipping past his lips, his fingers tightening ever so slightly on your waist. "You know what I mean."

You glance down at your hands, the way your fingers are still laced together with his, the way your other hand rests so easily on his shoulder, like this is something you’ve done a thousand times before. And maybe you have.

Maybe you and Heeseung have always been dancing around each other like this. Maybe you’ve just never let yourself notice. The song keeps playing, keeps taunting you, keeps threading its meaning between your ribs, pulling you closer and closer to something you don’t know how to name.

I wanna make you drive all night just because I said, maybe you should come over

You let out a slow breath, forcing your voice to stay steady. "We’re friends, Heeseung."

He hums. "Yeah. We are."

But he doesn’t let go.

He doesn’t move away, doesn’t drop his hand from your waist, doesn’t step back into the safe distance you’re used to. He stays. And that’s the part that gets you.

Because if he really believed that was all this was, he wouldn’t be holding you like this. If he really believed that was all this was, he wouldn’t have asked the question in the first place.

You glance up at him again, searching, waiting for him to say something else, to give you an out, to change the subject, to laugh and let it go. But he doesn’t. He just watches you. And suddenly, you feel exposed in a way you never have before.

Like every late-night conversation, every half-smile, every almost has been leading here, to this moment, to this song, to this feeling that you don’t know how to escape. You force yourself to swallow.

"Why are you asking me this?" you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

Heeseung tilts his head slightly, considering you, considering his words.

"Because I think about it, too."

Your breath catches in your throat. Your fingers tighten against his shoulder. Your heart slams against your ribs.

You feel like the whole world has shrunk down to just this. To the space between your bodies, to the way he’s looking at you, to the fact that he thinks about it, too.

Heeseung’s fingers twitch slightly against yours, but he doesn’t let go. He’s watching you with this careful intensity, like he’s waiting for something, like he’s giving you the chance to decide what happens next.

And that’s the problem.

Because you don’t know what happens next.

Because you’ve spent years existing in this strange, untouchable place with him, in this in-between, in this waiting room of a relationship that never moves forward but never lets you leave either.

And now, suddenly, here you are. Standing on the edge of something irreversible.

She'll be the best you ever had if you let her

Your heart stumbles. Because this song knows too much.

Because this song feels too much like the two of you, like something ripped from your ribs and put into lyrics, like a truth you weren’t ready to confront. And maybe—just maybe—Heeseung feels it, too.

Because he leans in. Just a little. Just enough.

Not enough to cross the line, not enough to destroy the thing you’ve built, but enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath, enough that the scent of him—clean soap, something faintly woodsy, something entirely him—wraps around you.

Enough that you could close the distance if you wanted to. And God, you do.

But you don’t. Because you’re afraid. Because you don’t know what happens when you let this become real.

Because Heeseung is still looking at you like that, like he could ruin you if he wanted to, like he’s giving you the chance to ruin him first.

I know it's for the better

You exhale, too shaky, too uneven. And Heeseung notices.

His gaze flickers, barely, to your lips, to the space between you, to the way you haven’t moved away from him yet. And then his jaw clenches.

Like he’s just realized how close you are. Like he’s just realized this is about to happen if neither of you stop it. And that’s the thing, neither of you stop it.

Not immediately. Not when his fingers tighten slightly on your waist. Not when your grip on his shoulder trembles just a little. Not when the air between you stretches so thin it might snap in half.

Not until you hear, Know it’s for the better…

The song starts to fade. The moment fractures. And just like that, you both pull away.

Not much. Just an inch, a breath, a single second too late. But it’s enough.

Enough for reality to settle back in. Enough for the noise of the wedding to come rushing back, for the chatter and laughter and clinking glasses to remind you where you are, who you are, what you almost did.

And Heeseung, he knows it, too. You see it in the way his throat bobs, in the way he blinks hard, in the way he forces himself to take a step back, to drop his hand from your waist, to roll his shoulders like he can shake off whatever just happened between you.

The song ends. And neither of you say a word.

And three months later, silence.

At first, it’s subtle—just a missed text here, a conversation that doesn’t last as long as it used to, an inside joke that no longer lands the way it should. But then it becomes something else. Something colder. Something that feels less like a pause and more like a choice.

And that’s what happened to you and Heeseung.

You didn’t stop talking completely. That would have been too obvious, too final, too much like admitting that something had shifted beyond repair. You still sent the occasional meme, still ran into each other at Yunjin’s, still had conversations that skimmed the surface of what they used to be.

But it was different. The late-night McDonald’s runs stopped. The effortless teasing felt strained. The ease of being around each other—the one thing you never questioned—was suddenly gone.

Neither of you did anything about it. You let it happen. Because it was easier that way.

Because acknowledging it meant admitting that something had changed, that you had gotten too close, that something had almost happened that night at the wedding. And you weren’t ready to admit that.

You weren’t ready to ask if Heeseung had almost kissed you, or if you had almost kissed him, or if you had both just been caught in some stupid, fleeting moment that meant nothing at all. So, you didn’t.

And now, three months later, all that’s left is silence.

The rain comes down in sheets, heavy and relentless, drumming against the windows of your apartment. You sit curled up on your couch, blanket wrapped around you, phone abandoned on the coffee table. The storm had rolled in an hour ago, sudden and unforgiving, and now the whole city feels swallowed by it, the streetlights barely visible through the downpour.

Then, there’s a knock at your door. You weren’t expecting anyone. It’s too late, too stormy, too much of a nothing kind of night for visitors.

But something in you knows—before you even open the door, before you even take that first breath—that it’s him.

And it is. It’s Heeseung.

Standing in your doorway, soaking wet, hair plastered to his forehead, breathing unevenly like he just ran here.

You freeze. "Heeseung?"

His eyes flicker over your face, searching, desperate, wild in a way you’ve never seen before. His clothes are damp, sticking to his frame, his hands clenched at his sides. But it’s his expression that gets you.

Like something is breaking inside of him. Like something has already broken.

“I can’t—” His voice catches, hoarse and raw, and then he shakes his head, like words are failing him, like they’re too small for what he’s trying to say.

Your heart is pounding. “Heeseung, what are you—”

"I can’t stop thinking about you."

The words crash into you like a wave, knocking the breath from your lungs. You stare.

Heeseung swallows hard, shaking his head like he’s trying to clear it, like he’s trying to find a way to make you understand.

"I’ve tried," he continues, voice shaking. "I really, really tried. But you’re always there. You’re in every song I hear, in every dumb inside joke, in every single thing that happens to me. I see something stupid and my first thought is always, ‘Y/N would think that’s hilarious.’ I go to text you and then I stop because I don’t know if I’m supposed to anymore. I—"

He lets out a sharp, frustrated laugh, dragging a hand through his wet hair. “I thought if I just gave it time, it would go away. I thought I could just—move past it. But I still feel like I’m standing in that damn Halloween party with you, waiting for something to happen.”

Your throat is tight. “Heeseung—”

“I miss you,” he interrupts, pushing forward, stepping into your space like he’s afraid you’ll shut the door on him if he doesn’t. "I miss you so much it’s making me lose my goddamn mind."

Your pulse is roaring in your ears. You should say something. You should do something. But you can’t. You just stand there, staring at him, your body frozen in place. And Heeseung just keeps talking.

"I don’t know how to be your friend anymore," he admits, wrecked, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t know how to sit next to you and act like I don’t want more. I don’t know how to look at you and pretend that you’re not the first person I think about when I wake up and the last person I think about before I fall asleep. I don’t know how to listen to that fucking song without remembering the way you looked at me that night."

The air is too thick. Your vision is blurring.

Heeseung breathes out a shaky, desperate laugh, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "And the worst part?" He meets your eyes, and it destroys you. "I don’t think I want to stop thinking about you."

And that’s it.

That’s what breaks you. That’s what makes you move.

You don’t think. You don’t hesitate.

You step forward, grab the front of his stupid wet shirt, and kiss him.

The storm rages outside. And for the first time in three years, neither of you pull away.

The moment your lips crash into his, Heeseung stumbles back a step, caught off guard, but then he’s pulling you closer, like he’s been waiting for this forever.

His hands cup your face, fingers threading into your hair, holding you like you might disappear if he lets go. And you grip the front of his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you standing, like if you let go, the moment might shatter around you.

Heeseung sighs into the kiss, like he’s relieved, like this is something he’s needed more than breathing itself. He tilts his head, deepening it, and you melt into him, the heat of his mouth sending shivers down your spine.

It’s surreal, familiar and foreign all at once, like stepping into a dream you’ve had before but never been able to hold onto. Because this is Heeseung. The boy who has always been by your side, the boy who has spent years making you laugh until your stomach hurts, the boy who has always been a constant in your life.

But now, he’s something else too. Now, he’s the only thing you can feel. And that’s the strangest part, how utterly consuming this is. Because your brain is struggling to keep up, still caught in the absurdity of it—Heeseung is kissing me, I’m kissing Heeseung, this is happening, this is happening.

And then he moves forward, stepping into the apartment fully, finally, his hands still tangled in your hair, still refusing to let you go. The door clicks shut behind him, the sound almost lost beneath the roar of the storm outside.

Heeseung doesn’t hesitate. His lips find yours again, his hands skimming over your waist, like he’s memorizing the shape of you, like he’s trying to make up for all the time he spent pretending he didn’t want this. And you can’t breathe. Because this isn’t like any kiss you’ve ever had before.

You’ve kissed people you liked. You’ve kissed people you thought you could love. But you have never, never felt this. This heat, this ache, this impossible, indescribable pull. Like your entire life has been leading up to this moment.

Like every other kiss you’ve had before this was just a poor imitation of what it was supposed to feel like. And that’s terrifying. Because how do you go back after this? How do you pretend this doesn’t mean something?

Heeseung exhales against your lips, his breath uneven, his fingers tightening just slightly against your waist. Like he’s thinking the same thing, like he’s struggling just as much as you are to make sense of this.

You should stop. You should pull away, take a breath, process. But you can’t.

Because he tilts his head, kisses you deeper, and suddenly, you’re walking backward without realizing it, your body moving on instinct, your hands clutching at his shirt as if he’s the only thing keeping you steady. Heeseung follows, one hand sliding down to rest against the small of your back, guiding you without thinking, without hesitation.

Your legs hit the couch. You stumble slightly, your balance faltering for the first time, and Heeseung, on pure reflex, catches you. His hands tighten instantly, pulling you against him, steadying you before you can fall.

But the movement leaves zero space between you. You can feel everything, his chest rising and falling against yours, the heat radiating off of him, the way his fingers twitch slightly where they’re curled into the fabric of your shirt.

His breath brushes against your lips, his nose bumping against yours as you both hover, just for a moment, just long enough to realize how close you are, just long enough to make it worse.

Before you can stop yourself, before you can think, you kiss him again. This time, it’s slower. This time, it’s deeper. This time, it’s not about the rush, the adrenaline, the storm raging outside. This time, it’s about everything else.

About the way his hands move carefully now, like he’s trying to remember every single detail, about the way he tilts his head slightly to fit his mouth against yours like he’s done this a thousand times in his head, about the way he lets out a soft, wrecked sound when you slide your fingers up into his still-damp hair. And you’re drowning in him.

You fall back onto the couch, pulling him with you, and he follows without hesitation, bracing himself with one hand on the cushion beside you, the other still gripping your waist, his fingers trembling just slightly against your skin.

His lips leave yours only for a second, just long enough for him to breathe, just long enough for his eyes to flicker over your face, like he’s trying to memorize you at this moment.

And then, so softly you almost don’t hear it—

“Tell me you want this.”

Your breath catches. Because God, you do. You do. You always have. So you don’t say anything. You just pull him down and kiss him again.

The weight of him settles over you, his body pressed against yours, his hands everywhere and nowhere at once—on your waist, your ribs, twitching like he doesn’t know where to hold you first, like he doesn’t want to stop touching you long enough to decide.

It's overwhelming. His warmth, his scent, the soft, unsteady breaths he exhales between kisses, the way his fingers slide under the hem of your shirt just slightly, just enough to brush against bare skin. It’s careful. Hesitant. Like he’s testing something fragile.

Heeseung groans softly, his grip tightening, his lips parting against yours in a way that sends a full-body shiver down your spine. His hands move up your sides, down to your hips, fingers pressing into the fabric of your clothes like he wants to commit this exact moment to memory. You arch just slightly, chasing his warmth, and the movement makes Heeseung suck in a sharp breath, his forehead pressing briefly against yours.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters.

You laugh, breathless, hands sliding up into his hair, tugging just enough to make him shudder. “That’s dramatic.”

His lips graze yours again, barely there, just enough to drive you insane. “You have no idea.”

And you could stay here forever—wrapped up in him, in his weight, in the way his lips brush over your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he’s learning you one kiss at a time.

He shifts just slightly, pressing more of his weight into you, his thigh slipping between yours, and your breath catches. Heeseung notices immediately. You feel it in the way his body tenses, in the way his grip on your waist tightens, in the way he exhales shakily against your cheek.

You don’t move. He doesn’t move. The air changes. Slows. Thickens. And suddenly, it’s not just kissing anymore. Suddenly, it’s so much more than that. It’s every feeling you’ve been ignoring, every second of the past three years, every single moment leading up to this one catching up to you all at once.

And Heeseung feels it too. Because he pulls back, just a little, just enough to look at you properly, his expression wrecked. His fingers brush against your cheek, light, careful, like he’s waiting for you to tell him to stop. Like he’s scared of what happens if you don’t.

You stare up at him, breathless, your pulse pounding in your ears, and— God, he’s beautiful.

His hair is still damp from the rain, strands falling over his forehead in a way that makes him look softer. His lips are kiss-bruised, parted slightly as he catches his breath, his chest rising and falling in time with yours.

You exhale slowly, one hand sliding down his chest, feeling the way his heart slams against his ribs, and he shudders. You know what this means. You know there’s no going back after this. So you whisper—soft, shaky, everything all at once—

"Heeseung."

And that’s all it takes.

Heeseung exhales—a shaky, uneven breath, like he’s barely holding himself together. His fingers tighten slightly where they rest on your waist, his body still hovering over yours. Then, softly, barely above a whisper—

"Say my name again."

Your stomach flips. You don’t, not at first. Because you feel lightheaded, because this is Heeseung, because what the hell is happening right now?

But Heeseung isn’t impatient. He doesn’t push. He just watches you, his gaze flickering over your face—your lips, your eyes, the way your breath catches in your throat. And then, carefully, deliberately, he grabs your wrist.

Your breath hitches as he lifts your hand, as he guides it slowly, until your palm is pressed flat against his chest. You can feel it. His heartbeat. It’s slamming against his ribs, too fast, too unsteady, completely out of control.

You stare at your hand, at where it rests over his racing pulse, at the way his skin burns beneath your touch. Heeseung swallows hard.

"You feel that?" he murmurs, his voice low, rough, wrecked.

And you do, because it’s all you can feel, because it’s like his entire body is responding to you, and you nod, your fingers twitching slightly against his shirt.

Heeseung lets out a breath like he’s relieved, like he needed you to know this, to feel this, to understand what you do to him. Then, slowly, carefully, giving you every chance to stop him, he leans down, brushing his lips against the curve of your jaw. You suck in a breath, your eyes fluttering shut as he moves lower, pressing the softest, slowest kiss to the side of your neck. Your fingers curl against his shoulders, your pulse hammering beneath your skin, and he feels it.

“Heeseung,” you breathe, and it’s embarrassing how it comes out, a little too soft, a little too needy, like you’re already losing yourself in him.

He shudders, letting out a sharp breath. “Fuck—”

Then, his teeth graze your pulse point, and you gasp, back arching instinctively into him. Your hips shift beneath his, your hands moving without thinking, fingers grasping at the hem of his hoodie, your skin itching for more of him, more warmth, more of everything.

Heeseung lets you. He lets you push the fabric up, lets you brush your fingers over the bare skin of his stomach, lets you feel the way his muscles tense under your touch. He exhales a groan, head dropping to your shoulder like you’ve just taken the breath right out of him.

He murmurs your name, voice strangled, his fingers digging into your waist as if you’ve completely unraveled him. You suck in a breath, your hands still fisting his hoodie.

“I want to hear you,” he admits, so quietly, like he almost wasn’t planning to say it out loud. “I want to—”

He cuts himself off with another soft groan as you push the hoodie all the way up, your fingers skimming over his bare chest before you finally tug it over his head. It hits the floor with a soft thud, but you barely register it.

Because Heeseung is above you, half-naked, breathing heavy, flushed, and looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that exists. You don’t know what to do with yourself. So you just stare up at him, breathless, waiting. And then, finally, you whisper—

"Heeseung, tell me what you want."

Heeseung exhales sharply, his breath warm against your skin, his fingers still pressing into your waist like he’s trying to ground himself, steady himself, like he’s trying not to lose his mind completely.

His hand slides up, fingertips grazing your ribs, slow and deliberate, and you shudder beneath him. His thumb brushes the fabric of your shirt, his touch gentle but knowing, and he meets your eyes, and God, he looks ruined.

"I want—" He starts, but then he laughs breathlessly, shaking his head like he can’t believe himself, like this is too much, like you are too much. His hands are still moving, still exploring, still teasing at the fabric of your shirt, still making your body burn in ways you’ve never felt before. "I want all of you."

Your stomach flips. Because he’s not even touching you properly, and yet it’s the way he says it, the weight of his voice, the truth in it, that makes your pulse stutter.

And then, before you can respond, before you can tease him for how wrecked he sounds, his hands move, slow and deliberate. Fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt, pushing it up, knuckles skimming over your stomach, over your ribs, over every single inch of skin he reveals as he goes.

Your breath stutters, your body arching up into his touch. His jaw clenches, his lips part, and then he’s leaning down, pressing his mouth to your collarbone, trailing featherlight, open-mouthed kisses along your skin as he slowly tugs your shirt over your head.

And then, finally, your shirt joins his hoodie on the floor. And suddenly, you’re both bare and breathless, staring at each other like you don’t know what to do next, even though you both know exactly what’s about to happen.

"Heeseung," you whisper, and his eyes flicker, dark, burning, like your voice alone is enough to unravel him.

"You’re not making this easy," he murmurs, his fingers skimming up your sides, his thumb brushing along your ribs, his body pressing down just slightly, just enough to feel how perfectly he fits against you.

Your breath catches. "Good."

And that ruins him. Heeseung groans, low and deep, and then he’s leaning down again, lips trailing along your jaw, down your neck, to your collarbone, soft, open-mouthed kisses, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every single second. His voice is strained, thick with something raw, something undeniable.

"You feel so good."

You whimper at his words, your nails digging into his shoulders, and Heeseung reacts immediately, his hips pressing down, his body slotting perfectly against yours, his breath catching as he feels you, all of you, right there beneath him.

"Shit," he mutters, his head dropping to your shoulder, his hands gripping your waist like he needs something to hold onto. You’re both breathless now, bodies pressed so close there’s no space left between you, every single movement sending heat crashing through your veins. "You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this."

Your heart stumbles. Because neither of you were supposed to say it. Neither of you were supposed to acknowledge it. But now—it’s out there. And there’s no taking it back.

And then Heeseung looks at you, really looks at you. His eyes, dark and hooded with something deeper than just desire, trace every inch of your face, your parted lips, the flush spreading down your neck, the way your chest rises and falls, rapid and uneven beneath him.

“You’re…” He swallows hard, his voice thick with something close to reverence. “God, you’re so beautiful.”

His hands move lower, squeezing your thighs before dragging up again, pushing your legs further apart beneath him. Heeseung exhales sharply, his pupils blown wide as he takes in the way you look beneath him, flushed, needy, completely and utterly his for the taking.

“Fuck.” His voice is raw, thick with barely restrained need. “You’re perfect.”

His mouth finds your collarbone, lips hot and insistent as he moves lower, tasting, worshiping. His tongue flicks over the sensitive skin, his teeth grazing lightly before he sucks, leaving a mark. His fingers dig into your skin as he rolls his hips down against yours, pulling a sharp gasp from your lips. He watches, fascinated, as your body reacts to his, as your fingers clutch at his arms, as your lips part with another breathy whimper that shoots straight through his bloodstream.

“You like that?” he murmurs, dragging his lips up to your ear, his voice nothing but a low rasp. “Like feeling me this close?” You nod, but it’s not enough. Heeseung needs to hear you say it. “Tell me,” he demands, his fingers tightening just enough to make you squirm.

“Yes,” you gasp, your voice barely more than a breath.

Heeseung smirks against your skin, the sound of your desperation fueling the heat building between you. “Good.” His lips trail back down, kissing, tasting, exploring every inch of you. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”

Heeseung hovers over you, his breath warm against your skin as his hands trail lower, fingers grazing the waistband of your pants. His fingers toy with the fabric at your hips, teasing. His voice, when he speaks, is deep and laced with restraint.

“Can I take these off?”

His eyes flick up to meet yours, and the sight of him like this—his lips swollen, his gaze dark with barely contained desire, sends a shiver down your spine. Your stomach tightens, heat curling low in your belly as you whisper, “Yes.”

And the second the word leaves your lips, Heeseung exhales sharply, like he’s been holding back this whole time. His hands move with deliberate slowness, sliding under the waistband, his fingers warm and firm against your hips as he starts to pull your pants down.

His hands guide your pants lower until they slip past your thighs, pooling somewhere near your ankles, and he takes his time, his lips pressing slow, reverent kisses along the soft skin of your lower belly, just above the edge of your underwear.

He groans against your skin, his voice husky. “You have no idea how good you look right now.”

His hands splay over your thighs, his lips follow the same path, pressing kisses, biting gently, dragging his tongue across the warmth of your skin as he moves lower. You let out a shaky breath as he spreads your legs just a little more, his fingers gripping, massaging, his lips marking every inch of your inner thighs as he inches closer to where you need him most.

Heeseung hums against your skin, his breath hot, teasing. “So soft,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with admiration, with hunger. His hands squeeze your thighs, his fingers digging in just enough to make you arch slightly. “So perfect.”

His lips brush dangerously close to the edge of your underwear, his nose nuzzling against the sensitive skin just beside it, inhaling deeply like he wants to drown in you. His grip tightens. His lips part, and he looks up at you.

The sight of him between your legs, hair messy, lips swollen, his dark eyes filled with something you can’t quite name—it’s almost too much.

His voice is thick, teasing but affectionate. “You’re shaking,” he notes, his thumb brushing the inside of your thigh in slow, soothing circles.

Your breath catches. “Because of you.”

Heeseung groans softly, his hands gripping tighter, his lips trailing higher again, back to your hip, back to your stomach, his teeth scraping lightly against the sensitive skin there. “You have no idea how much I love hearing that,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

Slowly, he starts to move up. His fingers slide up to cup your face, his thumb brushing softly over your cheek, like he needs to feel every part of you, like he’s grounding himself in your presence. He exhales sharply, his forehead resting against yours for the briefest second, like he’s gathering himself, like he’s trying to hold back.

“I need to taste you,” he murmurs, his voice nothing but a raw, desperate rasp. “Please.”

Your breath stutters, your fingers gripping onto his arms, feeling the tension coiled tight beneath his skin. You swallow hard, trying to steady yourself, but the truth is, you want this just as much.

“I need to hear you say it,” he murmurs.

Your pulse is a pounding rhythm against your ribs, your whole body thrumming with heat, but somehow, you manage to find your voice.

“Yes,” you whisper. “I want it. I want you.”

Heeseung groans, his grip tightening for just a second before he’s moving again, kissing down your neck, your collarbone, your chest. His hands slide back down your body, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring every inch of you.

And then he’s sinking back down between your thighs, his eyes never leaving yours, his hands parting your legs with a reverence that makes your head spin.

Heeseung grips the hem of your underwear between his fingers, his breathing ragged, his hands slightly trembling as he looks up at you. His eyes search yours, dark and full of something raw. “Can I?” His voice is hushed, reverent, like a prayer whispered into the silence.

Your chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, as you nod. “Yes,” you murmur.

Heeseung exhales, almost like he’s relieved, like he was afraid you’d stop him. Then, with slow, deliberate movements, he slides the fabric down your legs, his fingers grazing your skin as he does, his touch both featherlight and electric.

And then he sees you. His breath catches in his throat, his hands tightening slightly around your thighs as he takes you in. His gaze, hooded and heavy with admiration, rakes over you like he’s trying to commit every inch of you to memory, like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, his voice almost disbelieving.

The way he’s looking at your body, so intense, so completely captivated, sends a flush of heat racing up your spine. Your instincts kick in, your legs twitching slightly as the urge to close them overtakes you. But Heeseung doesn’t let you.

His hands move quickly, firm but gentle as he grips your thighs, keeping you open for him. “Don’t hide from me,” he murmurs. “You’re fucking perfect.”

Your breath hitches, your whole body thrumming under his touch. Heeseung leans in, lips ghosting over your inner thigh, his breath hot against your already burning skin. He looks up at you again, his eyes locking onto yours, and what he says next sends a sharp pulse of anticipation straight through your core.

“I’m going to make you feel so good,” he promises, his voice low, edged with something sinful. “So good that you’ll never forget me.”

And then he dips down. The first press of his mouth against your clit is enough to steal the air from your lungs. Warm, wet, hungry—Heeseung doesn’t just touch, he devours. His tongue moves slow at first, tasting you, savoring every single reaction you give him.

You gasp, arching against him, your body already trembling from the sheer intensity of his touch. Heeseung groans against you, the sound vibrating through your core, sending shockwaves up your spine. His grip on your thighs tightens, his fingers digging into your flesh as he keeps you exactly where he wants you.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your heat. “Just like I knew you would.”

Your moans come freely now, breathy, desperate, the pleasure crashing over you in waves as Heeseung works you open with his mouth. He hums against you, pleased, lost in you, whispering praise between every stroke of his tongue. “So good for me.” Kiss. “So fucking perfect.” Lick. “You’re mine.” Suck.

And when you whimper his name, broken and pleading, Heeseung only grips your thighs tighter and pulls you even closer, determined to ruin you completely.

Heeseung groans against you, the vibrations sending a shiver up your spine as he keeps his mouth latched onto your clit, sucking, licking, savoring you like he’s starving. Then, slowly, he moves one hand between your legs, his fingers tracing a teasing path through your slick folds. You shudder, your hips instinctively bucking at the sensation, and Heeseung chuckles, a low, rough sound against your skin.

“So wet for me,” he murmurs, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh before glancing up at you through dark lashes. “So fucking perfect.”

And then he presses a finger inside you. The stretch is slow, deliberate, his touch both gentle and utterly devastating as he sinks into your heat. You gasp sharply, your walls fluttering around him, and Heeseung groans, low and guttural.

“Fuck,” he hisses, watching the way you take him in. His finger curls inside you, testing, feeling. “You’re so tight, baby.”

The words send another wave of heat crashing through you, your body tightening at the sheer hunger in his voice. Heeseung doesn’t stop, he eases his finger in deeper as he continues working you open, his tongue never once leaving your clit. Your back arches, your fingers tangling in his hair, and Heeseung groans again, the sound muffled as he devours you, the heat of his mouth sending you spiraling closer to the edge.

“Heeseung—” His name slips from your lips, breathless, desperate.

Heeseung growls against you, deep and possessive, and you swear you can feel the sound reverberate through your entire body. His grip tightens, his pace quickens, his finger thrusting deeper, curling, coaxing pleasure out of you with every calculated stroke.

And then he adds a second finger. Your body tenses, the stretch just enough to make you whimper, and Heeseung groans at the way you clench around him.

“You’re taking me so well,” he praises, his voice thick, raspy, dripping with admiration. “So fucking perfect for me.”

His lips wrap around your clit again, sucking hard, and your body seizes, heat curling so tight inside you that you can’t hold back any longer. Heeseung feels it, and he sucks harder, pumps his fingers deeper, his other hand pressing down on your stomach to keep you still as your moans turn into cries, your body trembling beneath him.

“Cum for me,” he murmurs against your skin. “Let me feel it.”

And you do. The pleasure slams into you all at once, stealing the breath from your lungs, leaving you gasping as your body locks up, your thighs trembling around his head. Heeseung doesn’t stop, he keeps licking, keeps sucking, drawing every last drop of pleasure from you as you fall apart beneath him.

Your body shudders, aftershocks rippling through you, and Heeseung finally slows, his touch turning soft, reverent, as he presses one last lingering kiss to your sensitive clit before pulling back.

He looks up at you then, his lips glistening, his pupils blown wide, his breath ragged. And then he smirks, his voice low and utterly wrecked.

“Told you I’d make you feel good.”

You smile softly, but before you can even reach for him, he moves, fast, precise. A startled gasp escapes your lips as he manhandles you, lifting you effortlessly off the couch, your legs instinctively wrapping around his hips, his hands gripping your thighs with a possessiveness that sends a shiver through your entire body. His hold on you is strong, unwavering, his fingertips pressing into your skin like he’s afraid to let go.

You cling to him, your arms locking around his shoulders as he carries you with ease, moving through the dimly lit apartment. Your lips find his neck, tasting the warmth of his skin, inhaling his scent. The closeness, the heat between your bodies, makes you whimper softly against his throat.

And Heeseung groans. A low, deep sound that rumbles in his chest as he grips you tighter, his pace quickening like he’s growing just as desperate as you are.

Because this isn’t just anyone. This is Heeseung.

The boy who has been stitched into your life for years, who has laughed with you, argued with you, known you in ways no one else has. This is the person you love most in the world—and you’re finally having him like this for the first time. The thought makes you cling to him even harder, your lips trailing messily along his jaw, your fingers gripping at his shoulders, needing more, needing all of him.

When Heeseung reaches your bedroom, he doesn’t hesitate. He kneels onto the bed with you still wrapped around him, letting your back sink into the soft mattress as he gently lays you down, his body hovering over yours.

His breath is heavy, his chest rising and falling as he looks down at you, his gaze deep, searching. His Bambi-like eyes, so wide, so full of something tender, something real, hold you in place more than his body ever could.

His hands, still gripping your thighs, slowly loosen, his fingers tracing gentle patterns along your skin. Like he’s memorizing you. Like he’s realizing, holy shit, this is happening.

And then, without breaking eye contact, he reaches for his belt. The soft sound of the buckle unfastening fills the space between you, followed by the quiet rustle of fabric as he pushes his pants down, revealing his bare skin, the strong lines of his toned body, every inch of him that you’ve never seen before but already crave more than anything.

You exhale sharply, your eyes dragging over him, admiring the way the soft glow of your bedroom light casts shadows over his sculpted stomach, the definition in his arms, the sharp cut of his hips. He’s breathtaking. And every second that passes, the ache inside you grows, the need twisting tighter and tighter.

You swallow hard, your voice soft but certain when you finally whisper, “I didn’t know I needed you this much until now.”

Heeseung stills. For a moment, his breath catches, his fingers twitching where they rest against your skin. The flush that spreads across his cheeks, blooming down his neck, his lips part slightly, his eyes flickering between yours, something breaking, something giving way inside him.

Then he looks down at you again. And this time, his gaze is molten. Dark, intense, filled with something raw and unfiltered as he leans down, his lips hovering just above yours.

“I think,” he whispers, his voice low, breathless, “I’ve always needed you like this.”

And then he kisses you. Deep, slow, pouring everything into it, every ounce of longing, every unsaid word, every moment spent waiting for this. His hands roam, tracing the curves of your body, feeling, memorizing.

The moment you feel him, thick and hard against your aching core, you let out a soft, needy moan against his lips. Heeseung still has his underwear on, but the heat of him, the way his hips press down, grinding slowly against you, makes your body arch instinctively, chasing the friction.

Heeseung groans into the kiss, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating against your lips. His teeth catch your lower lip, tugging gently, before he soothes the sting with a slow, lingering kiss.

Your hands wander, trailing down his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, the firm ridges of his toned stomach, lower, until your fingers reach the waistband of his underwear.

Your breathing is ragged, your body thrumming with anticipation as you whisper, “Please, take this off.”

Heeseung curses under his breath, his body tensing above you. He doesn’t want to tease you, doesn’t want to drag this out. He wants you just as much, he needs you just as badly. Without hesitation, he pushes his underwear down, freeing himself completely. The air between you thickens, the weight of the moment settling in as his bare body hovers over yours, his skin flushed, his muscles taut with restraint.

You lean in, hands splaying across his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breath. Your fingers trace every inch of him, his collarbones, the defined lines of his stomach, the dip of his lower abdomen, moving lower. But before you can go further, Heeseung catches your wrist. His grip is firm but gentle, his breathing heavy, his eyes dark and searching as he looks at you.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “I need to ask you…” He swallows hard, his thumb brushing slow circles against your wrist, like he’s grounding himself in your touch. “Are you totally sure?”

Your chest tightens at the rawness in his voice. His expression—so open, so vulnerable—makes your heart clench.

“Because once this happens,” he continues, his forehead nearly touching yours, “I’m not ever letting you go.”

And there it is. The unspoken truth, finally laid bare between you. This isn’t just a night of pleasure. This isn’t just a long-overdue release. This is everything.

Your lips part, your throat tightening with emotion, and for a second, you can only stare at him, overwhelmed by how much he means to you, how deeply you feel this. Then you whisper, with more certainty than you’ve ever had about anything in your life:

“I’ve never been so sure about something before.”

The moment the words leave your lips, something shifts in Heeseung. His entire body tenses for a beat, then he exhales shakily, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time, like he’s just now letting himself believe this is real.

And then he kisses you. It’s not slow. It’s not careful. It’s hungry, possessive, filled with all the pent-up emotions neither of you ever dared to voice until now.

His hands slide up your arms, capturing your wrists, pinning them above your head as he presses you deeper into the mattress. His body presses against yours, skin to skin, warmth melting into warmth.

And then you feel it, the tip of his cock, hot and heavy, pressing against your entrance, so achingly close. Heeseung breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his breath uneven. He looks down between you, his jaw clenched, his grip tightening just slightly on your wrists as if this is the moment he’s been waiting for all his life.

His voice is nothing but a hushed rasp when he says: “Tell me if it hurts.”

Heeseung lets go of your wrists, his hands sliding down your body with a deliberate slowness, like he’s savoring the feeling of your skin beneath his palms. His fingers find your hips, gripping them gently before one hand moves lower, wrapping around the base of his cock.

He watches you carefully, his gaze dark, hungry, yet filled with something soft, something almost reverent, as he presses the tip against your entrance. He doesn’t push in just yet. Instead, he rolls his hips slightly, dragging himself against your slick folds, teasing, his length brushing against your clit in slow, deliberate strokes. The sensation sends a shiver through you, a breathless whimper escaping your lips as your fingers dig into his biceps, your body tensing in anticipation.

Heeseung groans, his grip tightening around himself as he watches the way your body reacts to him. “Fuck,” he breathes, his voice wrecked. “You’re so wet… so fucking perfect for me.”

Your nails sink deeper into his skin as he finally begins to press inside, the stretch slow and steady, filling you inch by inch. The feeling is overwhelming, him, thick and hot, splitting you open so exquisitely that all you can do is moan softly against his shoulder, your body trembling beneath him.

Heeseung curses under his breath, his forehead dropping to the crook of your neck as he stills, letting you adjust. His hands slide up your sides, fingers grazing over your ribs, your waist, gripping you firmly like he’s afraid to let go.

“You feel so good,” he rasps, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “So fucking good, baby.”

His words send another rush of heat straight through your core, and you can’t help the way your hips shift slightly, taking him even deeper. Heeseung groans at the feeling, his lips parting against your skin.

He lifts his head, searching your face, his eyes filled with both need and restraint. “Is this okay?” he murmurs, his thumb brushing softly over your hip. “Can I move?”

You nod quickly, breathless, your fingers tracing over the muscles of his arms, his shoulders, needing him closer. “Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

Heeseung exhales sharply, his grip tightening on your hips as he begins to move, rolling his hips in slow, deep thrusts. Your breath stutters, a moan slipping from your lips, and Heeseung loses it.

His movements quicken, his hips snapping against yours, his grip turning bruising as he holds you in place, thrusting deeper, harder. His breath is ragged, his chest heaving, and with every stroke, he sinks further into you, like he’s trying to become a part of you.

“Fuck, baby,” he growls, his voice rough against your skin. “You’re taking me so fucking well. So perfect for me.”

His lips find your jawline, tracing a path down your neck, his tongue flicking against the sensitive skin before he sucks, leaving a mark, claiming you in every way possible. Your moans grow louder, your body arching against him, and Heeseung groans, loving the way you respond to him, the way you cling to him like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

His lips travel lower, over your collarbone, down to the valley between your breasts. He kisses, licks, nips, worshiping every inch of you as he keeps thrusting into you, each movement deep and unrelenting.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice wrecked, possessive. “Only mine.”

His grip on your hips tightens as he pounds into you, his pace growing desperate, wild, his body completely losing control in you. And all the while, he praises you. “Tighter than I ever imagined.” Thrust “So fucking beautiful.” Kiss “You feel like heaven, baby.” Groan.

His words, his touch, his everything push you closer and closer to the edge, your body trembling beneath him as the pleasure coils tightly inside you, ready to snap. And Heeseung feels it. He knows you’re close. And he’s not stopping until he sends you over the edge.

Your body trembles beneath him, pleasure curling tight inside you, hot and overwhelming. Your fingers cling desperately to his skin, your legs wrapped around his waist, trying to ground yourself against the way he moves, deep, unrelenting, perfect.

“Heeseung—” Your voice is breathless, wrecked. Your nails dig into his back as another wave of pleasure crashes over you. “God, you feel so good.”

Heeseung groans at your words, his hips stuttering for just a second before he leans in, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re such a good girl for me,” he rasps, voice dripping with praise, with something darker, something possessive.

And that’s when you snap. The coil inside you tightens dangerously, winding so tight you know you’re seconds from breaking. But you don’t want to break, not yet.

So, with the last shred of control you have left, you grab Heeseung by the side of his neck, your fingers tangling in the damp strands of his hair, holding him in place. “Let me ride you,” you plead, your voice thick with desperation. “Please.”

Heeseung growls. A deep, guttural sound that sends a shiver through your entire body. His fingers dig into your hips, his thrusts faltering for a moment as your request sinks in. Then, he moves. In one smooth motion, Heeseung shifts, rolling over and pulling you with him. The world tilts, and suddenly, you’re on top, straddling him, his cock still buried deep inside you.

A sharp, choked moan leaves your lips as you feel him fully, the angle changing, the sensation making your entire body tremble.

“Fuck,” Heeseung groans beneath you, his hands flying to your waist, holding you steady as his eyes drag over your body, your heaving chest, the flush painting your skin, the way you’re clenching around him, barely able to contain yourself.

His pupils are blown wide, his lips parted, his entire expression wrecked with need. “You look so fucking beautiful like this,” he murmurs, his voice thick, reverent.

His hands move, Heeseung slides them up your torso, fingers splaying across your ribs before catching your breasts in both hands, squeezing, worshiping. His thumbs flick over your nipples, and the sensation sends another jolt of pleasure straight through you, making you whimper.

“You’re so delicious,” he groans, his thumbs circling your hardened peaks, his hips rolling up slightly into you, making you gasp.

Your head tilts back, your hands bracing against his chest, your body arching into his touch. The heat between you is unbearable, your body already on the edge, but you refuse to let this end too soon.

You start to move, slowly at first, rolling your hips in a deliberate, teasing rhythm, feeling every inch of him stretch and fill you completely. The sensation sends a shiver up your spine, pleasure pooling deep in your stomach as you watch Heeseung’s reaction.

Heeseung groans, his grip on your thighs tightening, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s trying to ground himself, trying not to lose control too soon. His head tilts back for a moment, his chest rising and falling with deep, uneven breaths as he tries to contain himself.

“Fuck,” he grits out, his jaw clenching as his eyes squeeze shut, his muscles tensing beneath your touch. His hands flex on your thighs, squeezing, like he’s trying to hold back, like the feeling of you around him is too much.

But then he opens his eyes, and the second his gaze locks onto you, dark and hooded with raw, unfiltered hunger, your whole body burns. His pupils are blown wide, his lips parted, sweat glistening along his collarbones as he watches you move above him, taking him so perfectly, so effortlessly.

“You’re fucking unreal,” he groans, his voice rough, biting down his lips, barely above a whisper. “Just like that, baby. You feel so fucking good.”

His words send a jolt of pleasure through you, making you clench tighter around him. Heeseung feels it, and his breath hitches, his fingers twitching against your skin.

One of his hands moves from your thigh, sliding up your body, tracing along your stomach, your ribs, before finding the back of your neck. He grips you there, firm but gentle, and pulls you down until your foreheads almost touch, your breath mingling with his.

His other hand stays on your thigh, stroking, soothing, before he snaps. A deep growl rumbles in his chest, and he picks up the pace, his hips rolling up to meet yours, his hands guiding your movements. The pleasure intensifies, your thighs burning with the effort, but Heeseung doesn’t let you slow down.

His hands slide to your hips, gripping hard, his fingers pressing into your flesh as he takes control. And then he slams into you. A sharp, broken moan escapes your lips as he thrusts up, driving deeper, harder, filling you so completely that you swear you might lose your mind.

“That’s it,” he groans, his grip unrelenting as he pounds into you, chasing the feeling of you wrapped so perfectly around him. “Take it, baby. Take all of me.”

His voice, deep, rough, dripping with praise, sends you spiraling, pleasure building, your body trembling under his relentless pace. His mouth finds your jaw, then your neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses along your skin between ragged breaths. His tongue flicks out, tasting the salt of your sweat, and then his teeth graze your pulse point, his lips closing around it as he sucks.

Your fingers claw at his shoulders, your body arching against his, your moans coming faster, higher, completely overwhelmed by the way he’s taking you.

Heeseung doesn’t slow down. His thrusts stay deep, hard, relentless, his grip unyielding as he drives into you, chasing the pleasure building between you both. His hands remain at the back of your neck, keeping you close, keeping you exactly where he wants you, his breath hot against your skin.

He groans, voice wrecked, rough. “Fuck—baby, you feel so good. So fucking perfect.”

His words send another wave of pleasure crashing through you, making your thighs tighten around his hips. You’re close, you can feel yourself unraveling, your body tightening as the coil inside you threatens to snap. And Heeseung knows. He feels it.

His fingers tighten against your skin, his movements growing desperate, erratic, as his own release begins creeping up on him. His forehead presses against yours, his breath uneven, his voice nothing but a strained rasp.

“Cum for me again, baby,” he pleads, his words like fire against your skin. “Let it go.”

The command, the way his voice drips with authority and adoration, is what finally undoes you. A sharp, broken moan rips from your throat as your body tenses, pleasure surging through you like wildfire. Your walls clench around him, pulsing, milking him, and Heeseung loses it.

A deep, guttural groan escapes his lips as he thrusts into you one last time, burying himself deep, his entire body shuddering as he lets go, his release spilling into you. The pleasure crashes over both of you at once, your moans mixing together, filling the room, raw and unrestrained.

And then, stillness.

Your body, still trembling, collapses against his chest, your forehead pressing into the slick heat of his skin. Your breaths are ragged, uneven, matching his as he tries to catch his pace, his chest rising and falling beneath you.

Neither of you speak for a long moment, the silence filled only with the sounds of your slowing breaths, your racing heartbeats.

Heeseung moves his hands, still firm but now gentle, slide down to your lower back, his fingers tracing lazy, soothing circles against your damp skin. His touch is tender, reverent, like he’s memorizing you all over again, like he can’t believe this moment is real.

His lips brush against your hair, barely a whisper of a kiss, before he exhales shakily. And then, he murmurs—soft, breathless, like a vow.

“I’m never letting you go.”

Your chest tightens at the raw emotion in his voice. His arms wrap tighter around you, holding you impossibly close, his hands never stopping their slow caresses against your back. His lips press against the top of your head, again and again, each kiss softer than the last.

“Never,” he whispers. “Never, never, never…”

His words sink into your skin, into your bones, into you. And as you melt further into his embrace, letting the warmth of him envelop you completely, you realize: You never want him to let go.

You slowly lift your head, your breath still uneven, your body still thrumming with the remnants of pleasure.

You meet his eyes, his Bambi-like, doe eyes, wide and full of something so deep, so undeniable, it makes your chest tighten. They glimmer under the dim light of your bedroom, reflecting every unspoken word, every silent confession hanging thick in the space between you.

You let out a breathy, almost disbelieving smile, your gaze sweeping over his face, his flushed cheeks, his damp hair clinging to his forehead, the soft sheen of sweat on his skin. He looks wrecked. He looks perfect.

And he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

Heeseung mirrors your smile, soft and hazy, his expression filled with something tender, something so Heeseung that it makes warmth flood your entire body. His hands find your face, large and warm, his knuckles grazing your cheeks in slow, delicate strokes, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

You lean into his touch, nuzzling against his palm, and the way he exhales, soft, shaky, like he’s feeling everything too, sends a shiver down your spine.

Then, barely above a whisper, you say, “I…”

And suddenly, you stop yourself.

Because the weight of what you were about to say hits you all at once.

Your lips part slightly, your throat tightening. The words are right there, sitting heavy on your tongue, aching to spill out. But there’s fear too, fear of what this means, fear of how much this changes everything.

Heeseung notices. His fingers pause against your cheek, his brows twitching just slightly, his gaze flickering between your eyes like he’s searching, trying to read you.

But then, he smiles. Soft, knowing, patient. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, his touch featherlight, his voice a quiet murmur in the space between you.

“I know,” he whispers.

Your breath catches. Because you believe him.

Heeseung has always known you better than anyone, always understood you in ways that no one else could. And right now, in this moment, with the way he’s holding you, looking at you, you realize you don’t have to say it.

Because he already knows.

Heeseung leans in, his nose brushing against yours, his lips hovering just above yours, waiting, giving you the choice. And when you press your lips to his in the softest, most deliberate kiss, you’re telling him everything you couldn’t say in words.

Heeseung sighs into the kiss, his hands sliding down your back, pulling you closer, pressing you against his warmth, his heartbeat steady beneath your palm.

And when you finally pull away, when you rest your forehead against his and breathe him in, you realize: You were never afraid of loving Heeseung.

You were afraid of admitting that you always have.

But now, with his arms around you, his lips brushing against your temple, his heartbeat syncing with yours, you don’t have to be afraid anymore.

Because he’s never letting you go.

And neither are you.

That’s why he stays at your house the next day. And the day after that. And for the few days that follow, until time becomes a blur and neither of you think to question it.

Because how could he leave, how could either of you go back to a world where you weren’t tangled up in each other like this?

The first morning, you wake up wrapped in Heeseung’s arms, your head tucked against his chest, his fingers absentmindedly tracing soft, lazy circles against your back. Neither of you move for a long time. Neither of you want to.

His lips press into your hair, a silent good morning, and you melt into him because it feels natural, because this is Heeseung, your best friend, the boy who has always been a constant, and yet, now, everything is different.

And it’s better. He doesn’t leave. You don’t ask him to.

Instead, you spend the morning like you have a thousand times before: lounging on the couch, talking about nothing, watching movies you’ve seen a hundred times. Except now, there’s a new rhythm, an unspoken understanding.

His fingers brush yours absentmindedly. His arm finds its way around your waist without hesitation. His lips press against your temple between conversations like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Because maybe, it is.

The second night, he kisses you in the kitchen while you’re making dinner, stealing a taste of the sauce on your lips, grinning when you roll your eyes. The third night, you fall asleep with your fingers intertwined, his breath warm against your neck, his hand resting over your heart like he’s afraid you might slip away in the night. By the fourth day, he’s using your shampoo, leaving his clothes in your drawers, stealing your socks because he swears they’re more comfortable than his own.

By the fifth, you don’t even realize he never went home. Because this is home now. Not the walls. Not the bed. But this. Him. You. Together.

One night, a week after everything changed, you find yourselves in your living room, curled up against each other, laughter spilling into the quiet air.

It feels surreal, how easy this is, how natural. And yet, when you look at him, really look at him, you realize this was never sudden at all. This wasn’t a moment. This was a lifetime in the making.

It was in the late-night phone calls when you both should’ve been asleep. It was in the way he always kept your favorite snacks in his kitchen without thinking. It was in the stolen glances, the inside jokes, the nights spent shoulder to shoulder, pretending you didn’t feel the weight of something more. It was in every single thing before this.

And now that the truth is out in the open, now that you know, you don’t ever want to live in a world where you don’t wake up next to Heeseung. And it doesn’t feel real.

Not because you don’t want it to be—but because it still catches you off guard. The quiet way Heeseung reaches for your hand without thinking. The way his presence in your space isn’t something fleeting, but something constant. Something permanent.

It’s been two weeks since everything changed, and somehow, the world didn’t shift to match it. The sun still rises the same way. Your friends still send memes in the group chat. Life moves on, but now, there’s this.

This is Heeseung pressing a sleepy kiss to your shoulder when he wakes up before you. This is him playing with your fingers absentmindedly when you’re watching something together. This is the way he still teases you the same, still makes fun of you the same, but now he kisses you after like he can’t help it.

Yunjin is the only one who knows.

She had her suspicions, she always had her suspicions, but it became painfully obvious the moment you showed up at her place wearing a hoodie that was at least two sizes too big, one she distinctly remembered seeing Heeseung wear last week.

Which is why, at her birthday party, there’s this lingering tension in the air. It’s subtle, the way you and Heeseung hesitate just slightly when you’re around the others, the way you don’t know if you’re supposed to act like you always have or like something’s changed.

Because something has changed. But the world doesn’t know yet.

You and Heeseung sit at the dining table, pretending everything is normal, pretending that you’re not constantly aware of the warmth of his body next to yours, the way his knee brushes yours every time he shifts.

And then, under the table, he takes your hand. It’s subtle, careful, the warmth of his palm slipping against yours, his fingers threading through yours in a way that makes your stomach flip. Heeseung doesn’t look at you, doesn’t acknowledge it, just holds your hand beneath the table, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Finally,” Sunghoon mutters, watching Heeseung with a knowing smirk.

Heeseung freezes. You both turn to see Sunghoon leaning against the chair next to him, arms crossed, eyes flickering down to where your hands are intertwined beneath the table.

“I was wondering when you were gonna stop being a coward,” Sunghoon teases, nudging Heeseung’s foot under the table. “Took you long enough, man.”

Heeseung groans, dropping his head back against the chair. “Jesus, Sunghoon.”

Sunghoon just grins, clearly enjoying this way too much. “Nah, I’m happy for you guys. But also, I knew you two had something going on.” He points a lazy finger at you. “Your whole ‘we’re just friends’ thing was so fake.”

The table erupts in laughter, and you sigh, shaking your head. But then, Heeseung squeezes your hand, and when you glance at him, he’s already looking at you. Soft. Quiet. Certain. And you realize, this feels right. Being here. Being together. Being this.

The night winds down. People leave. And you end up in Heeseung’s car, the windows slightly fogged from the cold air outside. The soft strum of Waiting Room fills the quiet, the melancholic chords settling deep into your chest.

You watch Heeseung, his hands gripping the wheel loosely, his face relaxed, bathed in the glow of the streetlights.

“Wanna go to McDonald’s?”

You blink. “What?”

Heeseung smirks, eyes flickering to you before turning back to the road. “You heard me.”

A beat of silence. You laugh. “Yeah. I do.”

You order fries and ice cream and talk about the dumbest things. about how Niki's new girlfriend is the worst, about how Jay got too drunk, about how Jake still doesn’t know how to properly pour a drink.

But somewhere between the laughter, somewhere between the way Heeseung licks salt off his fingers and tosses fries into your mouth, somewhere between the way you lean against his shoulder in the drive-thru line.

Heeseung sighs. And then—

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy.”

You still. Your fingers tighten slightly around your drink, your breath catching at the quiet, vulnerable way he says it. And when you turn to look at him, he’s already looking at you, soft, so soft, his gaze deep, searching.

Your chest tightens. “Heeseung…”

He smiles, a little shy, a little unsure. Then, he reaches out, sliding his fingers over yours, his thumb brushing your knuckles.

“I just—” He swallows, then exhales. “I think I’ve loved you this whole time.”

Your breath catches. And in that moment, in the soft hum of the radio, in the glow of the streetlights, in the taste of salt and ice cream and the warmth of Heeseung’s fingers against yours, you know.

“I thought maybe it would go away,” he continues, his lips quirking slightly, like he’s laughing at himself. “Like—it’s just Y/N, right? My best friend.”

You hold your breath, watching him, the streetlights casting soft shadows across his face, making his eyes look even softer, warmer.

“But then,” Heeseung shakes his head, laughing under his breath. “Every time I thought I had it under control, you’d do something stupid, like wear my hoodie and refuse to give it back, or make me watch Shrek 2 for the tenth time, or grab my hand in a crowded room like it was nothing.” He swallows, his voice dropping to something even softer. “And I’d realize—I was never going to stop feeling this way.”

Your chest tightens. Because it’s always been like this, hasn’t it? The quiet kind of love. The kind that slips into the cracks of everyday moments, unnoticed until one day, it’s too big to ignore.

You feel the words sitting heavy in your throat, pressing against your ribs, and when you finally speak, your voice is barely a whisper.

“Heeseung.” He looks at you, his brows lifting slightly, like he’s bracing himself. You take a slow breath, steadying yourself, then squeeze his hand. “I think I’ve loved you this whole time, too.”

The tension in his shoulders dissolves instantly. His lips part, his eyes searching yours like he wants to make sure he really heard you right.

And then, he smiles. Not the teasing kind, not the smirk he throws at you when he’s making fun of you, but something real. Something deep. The kind of smile that says, I know. I knew before you even said it.

You shift closer, your forehead brushing against his, the warmth of his breath mixing with yours. “I don’t know why it took me so long to realize it,” you murmur. “But I do now.”

Heeseung hums, tilting his head slightly. “You sure?”

You laugh softly, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Good.” He squeezes your hand, his nose nudging against yours. “Because I would’ve had to spend another three years waiting for you to catch up, and I don’t think I could survive that.”

You groan, shoving his shoulder lightly, and he chuckles, his arms wrapping around you as he pulls you in, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your head.

And just like that, it’s easy again. The way you tease each other, the way you fit against him, the way you fall back into the rhythm of your friendship except now there’s no pretending.

Now it’s all out in the open. And it’s better.

As Heeseung drives you home, the song still playing softly in the background, your mind drifts back. To three years ago. To that stupid Halloween party where you met, you in your skeleton costume, him in that ridiculous Ninja Turtle onesie.

To the late nights spent working on that Shrek project, arguing about PowerPoint transitions like it was life or death, only to laugh until your sides hurt. To the wedding where he spun you around on the dance floor, looking at you like he already knew, like he was just waiting for you to catch up. To every car ride, every inside joke, every time you almost realized what he meant to you.

Your fingers tighten around his, and Heeseung glances at you, his eyes flickering between you and the road.

“What?” he asks, a small smile tugging at his lips.

You shake your head, but you’re smiling too. “Nothing.”

Because you understand now. Because Waiting Room plays softly in the background, and the lyrics echo in your chest—know it’s for the better.

You do. You know now that keeping Heeseung in your life like this, is the best thing you’ll ever do.

And when Heeseung looks at you, his grip on your hand tightening like he knows too, you realize.

For you, it was worth waiting.

my masterlist 🧦 ☆★ // previous fic

author's note: hey guys! this is my first long fic about heeseung, the first one i've ever written, and i hope you liked it! i know 21k+ words is a lot, but i had so much fun writing it. thank you for reading! <3

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sungvrhs · 1 month ago

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To Be Devoured

𓂃𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞

| 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢'𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

〻(muse.) park sunghoon

〻(wc.) 15.1k

〻(genre.) vampire au! smut. dark romance.

〻(cont.) fem! reader. description of female anatomy. unprotected sex. making out. soft dom! hoon, but he turns into hard dom! hoon. virginity loss. fingering. cunnilingus. multiple positions. overstimulation. squirting. mentions of cum. mentions of blood. hoonie feeding. basically porn with no plot.

She is already limp under him, but Sunghoon is a man of his world. His beloved begged to be used, claimed, broken—and he's going to deliver.

You lie beneath him, your breath feathering the air between you, shallow and trembling. The room is lit only by the silver wash of moonlight through velvet curtains, painting your skin in soft shadows he traces with his eyes—eyes that have seen centuries pass, but have never lingered like this. Never stayed.

His touch comes slow, deliberate. Fingers that once crushed bone and wielded power like a god now ghost along your waist, reverent. As though he’s afraid to break you. As though you’re made of something more fragile than glass and more precious than anything he’s ever known.

He exhales softly through his nose as his hands travel upward, brushing the dip just beneath your ribs. You flinch slightly, more from the intimacy than surprise, though the coldness of his skin also plays a part. He notices. Of course he does.

“You’re trembling, my love,” he murmurs, voice low and velvet-rich.

Then his hands shift again, climbing higher, until they find your breasts. He cups them with both hands, gently—thumbs brushing over your sensitive peaks, slowly, like he’s learning you by memory. As though this moment could stretch on forever, and it still wouldn’t be long enough for him.

He leans down, lips hovering just over your collarbone. You can feel the coolness of his breath. Hear the restraint in it.

“I can feel your heartbeat,” he whispers, the words sinking into your skin. “It’s so loud… like it’s calling out to me.”

He doesn’t move to take more—not yet. He just holds you, listens, worships with touch alone. His thumbs stroke you, coaxing soft gasps from your lips. You feel the tension building in the pit of your stomach, slow and warm. It’s not overwhelming, not yet. But he’s not rushing.

He’s savoring.

Because tonight, he’s not just going to take your purity. He’s going to earn it—inch by inch, breath by breath.

He doesn’t move up or down, not right away. He just stays, thumbing your nipples with careful strokes until your back begins to arch beneath him, and your breath trembles again, this time from want.

“Patience,” he says, soft but firm, a smile in his voice. “Let me love you slowly.”

His hands slide back down, fingers splaying over your stomach. He traces the soft plane there, dipping into the gentle curve of your navel, brushing featherlight over the sensitive skin just below it. Your hips twitch instinctively, but he hushes you with a press of his lips to your shoulder.

Then he begins to move—lower, but not where you ache. Not yet. His mouth follows the path of his hands, scattering kisses along your ribs, your side, the curve of your waist. His fangs don’t touch you—only his lips, plush and cool, searing heat in their wake.

He shifts, nudging your thighs apart with one knee, settling between them without pressing forward. His palms wrap around the outside of your thighs, slowly sliding down until he’s at your knees.

And then he does something simple—he kisses the inside of your knee.

You hadn’t expected it to feel that intimate. But it did. You felt it high in your chest and low in your belly. That place between your thighs pulsed with sudden, aching heat, as though your body understood before your mind could. It wasn’t just a kiss. It was a claim.

He stays there a moment, as though your knees, your thighs, deserve the same worship as your lips or breasts. Then another kiss, a little higher. Then again. And again.

He kisses the hollow of your ankle, the tender dip where shin meets foot, then moves back up—taking his time. You feel his lips on the swell of your calf, soft and lingering. You didn’t know that part of you could be so sensitive. But under his mouth, it’s like your skin has bloomed—become something fragile and new.

Each time he lifts his mouth from you, the air feels cold. Each return is a blessing.

By the time his mouth reaches the softest part of your inner thigh, your fingers are clutching the sheets.

He chuckles softly, eyes flicking up. “Even here, you taste like devotion.”

He doesn’t go further. Instead, he shifts to your other leg, starting over—kissing the outside of your knee, your calf, even your ankle, before trailing back up. You feel every breath, every brush of his lips as if it’s branding you.

Only when he’s kissed both thighs, both hips, and every inch between does he rest his cheek gently on your lower belly, just below your navel. His arms encircle your waist, holding you like something irreplaceable.

“I could stay here forever,” he murmurs. “Do you understand that? Your body… It’s not just beautiful, it means so much more. And by the end of tonight, it will belong to me.”

Then he kisses just above your mound, achingly slow. Not quite where you want him—but close. His lips hover, teasing.

Your skin is aflame, not with fire, but with something slower—thicker. Every kiss Sunghoon lays on your body leaves behind a pulse, like an echo that ripples through your nerves long after his lips have moved on.

He shifts slightly and presses a kiss just below your hipbone. Then another, on the opposite side. His hands stroke your thighs, smoothing down the tension, murmuring something low in a language you don’t recognize. It sounds ancient. Reverent.

Your breathing comes faster now. You feel open. Not just your body, but something deeper. Your chest feels exposed, your heart trembling inside your ribs. You don’t feel afraid. Just… vulnerable. Raw. Like you’re giving yourself away, piece by piece, and every piece matters.

Then he moves higher.

His mouth finds the underside of your breast—a place untouched, unnoticed. And he lingers. He kisses there softly, then drags his lips to the side of your ribcage, and then to the curve of your breast, never quite reaching your nipple. It’s maddening. And exquisite.

Every brush of his lips pulls a new sound from you—a gasp, a whimper, a whispered plea that you don’t even realize you’ve made.

You feel like you’re floating. Like your body is unraveling in slow motion.

He’s doing this. With just his mouth, his hands, and that impossibly calm voice that cuts through your haze like silk.

“I can feel you surrendering,” he says, lifting his head to look at you. “It’s beautiful.”

And it is. You’ve never felt so seen before. So known. Not just your body, but the hidden parts of you. The secret hunger you never voiced. The craving to be touched not just with lust, but with purpose.

And he gives it to you.

His hand slides back up your chest, palm warm now from your skin. He cups your breast again, this time brushing his thumb slowly over your nipple, watching how your lips part.

You feel everything: the rush of heat between your thighs, the fluttering in your stomach, the way your toes curl into the sheets. It’s overwhelming—but not too much. It’s just enough to make you ache.

He leans down again and kisses the top of your breast, then just beneath your throat, and finally, your lips—slow, deep, like he’s drinking from you.

You taste yourself in his mouth. Want. Wonder. Need.

And still… he’s holding back. Worshipping you with lips and hands, teaching you the art of desire—before he even thinks of taking what you’ve offered.

His hand begins its descent.

You feel it, even before he moves—just the intent in his posture makes your thighs tighten, your breath catch. One hand stays on your waist, holding you steady, grounding you as the other travels lower, fingertips tracing that familiar path over your navel, your belly… until it hovers just above the place where your heat has been building for what feels like hours.

You can feel yourself clenching—wanting, waiting.

He watches your face as his fingers finally brush down, between your thighs. His touch is light at first, barely there, but even that sends a jolt through your entire body. And then he finds you.

Two fingers slip between your folds, slow, precise. He parts you gently, stroking down the center until he finds the source of your wetness. He doesn’t push in. He simply lingers there, sliding his fingers through the slick arousal pooling at your core.

His breath catches faintly, and his eyes darken.

“My love…” he murmurs, his voice hushed and reverent, “You’re drenched.”

The words shouldn’t make you blush as hard as they do—but they do. He’s not mocking. He’s marveling. Like your body has given him a secret, and he’s honored just to witness it.

He brings those fingers up, just slightly, and spreads the wetness across your folds with practiced gentleness. Each movement is slow, exploratory, like he’s studying the way your body reacts—how you twitch when he brushes your clit too lightly, how your hips rise when he glides lower again.

“You ache for more,” he says softly, kissing your temple. “I can feel it in the way your body pulses under my hand.”

Then, without asking—because your body has already answered—he slides two fingers down again. This time, he presses inward. Just enough to feel the resistance.

You tense, instinctively. You never imagined it would feel like this. The stretch is foreign, but his voice, his hand on your leg, the warmth in his gaze… they guide you through it.

“Shhh…” he whispers, stroking your thigh with his free hand. “Let me in slowly. Let me prepare you. You’re so tight, sweetheart. So perfect.”

He draws back just a little, circling your entrance, gathering more of your wetness before trying again, pushing his fingers in with agonizing care.

The moment his fingers breach you—even just a little—your entire body seems to fold inward around the sensation. It’s not pain. It’s not even discomfort. It’s pressure—a firm, stretching fullness that sends a ripple of awareness from your core to the edges of your limbs.

Your breath catches. Your thighs tense. Your walls clench around him instinctively, like your body is trying to hold him there, to make sense of the invasion.

You feel impossibly full, and he’s barely inside you. The realization sends a dizzying heat through your belly—tight and low—and your body pulses around his fingers again, your entrance fluttering.

“You’re doing beautifully,” he breathes, now buried just the first knuckle deep. “You feel like heaven. You don’t even know how badly I want to lose myself in you.”

But he doesn’t.

He’s still patient. Still gentle. His fingers move in slow, shallow thrusts, coaxing your body open inch by inch. Preparing you. Worshipping you with every stroke.

And all the while, your heart beats wildly against your ribs. Your skin burns. Your thoughts dissolve into a haze of need.

Because you know what’s coming.

And the thought of him replacing those fingers with something deeper, something more—it’s enough to make your body tighten around the digits already inside you, your hips rising greedily to meet them.

And he feels it.

You’re soaking.

You didn’t know you could be this wet. But you are. You feel the slick heat coating his fingers, easing their path as he slowly presses deeper—just a little more, pausing again as your walls tighten reflexively.

“Breathe,” he murmurs. “Let your body open for me.”

You try. You let your lungs fill, and as you exhale, your body gives just enough. He sinks in a little farther, and your jaw drops, a soft moan slipping from you before you can stop it.

His fingers curve gently inside you, stroking the tender walls—not rough or fast, just steady, exploratory. You can feel the ridges of your inner muscles reacting to him, gripping him, trying to memorize the shape of him.

And god, the stretch.

It’s not overwhelming—but it feels. You feel everything. Every inch he moves, every subtle shift in angle, sends a cascade of sensation up your spine.

Your thighs tremble. Your stomach tightens. Your lips part around a breathless gasp as he curls his fingers ever so slightly—and that… that makes your entire body jolt.

A spike of pleasure blooms inside you—quick, sharp, then slowly unraveling. Your inner walls clench around him in response, and your wetness gushes, coating his hand.

You hear the soft sound of it—your arousal—and it makes your cheeks burn, but also… something else.

Need.

Raw, consuming need.

Because now that you’ve felt this, now that your body is giving way to him, you want more. Deeper. Harder. You want to be taken. Not carelessly—but like this. Like you matter. Like your pleasure is everything.

And he knows. Of course he knows.

“You’re gripping me so tightly,” he says, voice low and warm against your ear. “Your body wants this. It’s begging.”

His fingers slide out slowly, and you whimper at the loss—but then he pushes back in, deeper this time. Your walls stretch again, fluttering around him, and it’s almost too much.

Almost.

But not quite.

He begins to move in a rhythm now—slow thrusts, each one sending a new wave of sensation through your lower body. It’s not just your core that reacts. Your nipples tighten, your thighs quake, your mouth opens around soft, helpless moans that echo in the quiet room.

And you can feel the tension building.

It coils low in your belly, a warm, tight knot of pressure that grows with each stroke of his fingers, each brush of his knuckle, each shift in angle as he curls just right.

Your hips begin to rock into his hand without thought. You’re chasing it now. The pressure. The high.

And Sunghoon watches, his gaze dark, hungry, but still so unbearably gentle.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he breathes. “Let go. Let me feel you cum around my fingers.”

And you know he will keep going. Keep working your body until it shatters around him. Because this isn’t just sex. It’s worship. And you’re the altar.

Your hips have taken on a rhythm of their own now, rolling against his hand in small, desperate movements. You’re not thinking anymore. You can’t. The pressure coiling deep inside you is too tight, too fierce. It’s all-consuming, every nerve in your body trained on the place where his fingers slide in and out of you with reverent precision.

Sunghoon stays focused—never speeding up, never slowing, just holding you there on the edge, perfectly balanced between madness and release.

And then he curls his fingers again.

There.

You cry out—sharp and breathless—your back arching as that spot inside you explodes with pleasure, the wave hitting so hard it steals the air from your lungs.

“Oh—” The sound tears from your throat, ragged and raw.

Your walls clamp around him, fluttering wildly. You can feel the gush of wetness pouring out of you, soaking his fingers, your thighs, the sheets beneath. But there’s no room for embarrassment. There’s no room for anything.

Because the climax crashes over you in a rush of heat and light, white-hot and unrelenting.

Your hands clutch at the sheets. Your thighs close in around his wrist, trembling violently as the pleasure crests, then crests again, pulsing through you in waves that don’t stop. Your breath comes in sharp, broken gasps. Your heart hammers against your ribs, loud and frantic.

And through it all, he never stops.

His fingers keep moving, slow but firm, dragging every last drop of sensation from your shuddering body. You can feel yourself pulsing around him, squeezing, trying to milk the pleasure for all it’s worth. Your core clenches with each aftershock, your body not ready to let him go.

You’ve lost control. Completely.

Your lips part in a silent moan, your neck arched, your whole body stretched tight around the center of that pleasure like a string pulled to breaking.

And still… he doesn’t stop.

He watches your face, drinking in every twitch, every helpless sound you make. His free hand strokes your hair back from your damp forehead, his voice a low murmur, threading through the haze:

“That’s it, sweetheart… Look at how beautifully you fall apart for me. You were made for this. For me.”

The words only send another shiver through your spine. You didn’t think you could cum harder. But you do. Your body convulses, hips jerking uncontrollably as another wave seizes you. You gasp—sob, almost—your voice cracking from the intensity.

You don’t know how long it lasts.

All you know is the weightlessness. The loss of yourself. The way your mind blanks, drowned under the sheer power of your own pleasure. You can’t speak. Can’t think. You can only feel—and it feels like you’re being remade from the inside out.

When the wave finally begins to ease, you collapse into the mattress, boneless. As he withdraws his fingers, your body clenches around the absence. And from that perfect, trembling space between your thighs, a glistening string of arousal stretches—clinging to his fingertips, to your folds, like your body refuses to let him go.

The sight alone is obscene.

Delicate. Vivid. Sacred.

His gaze darkens. His cock throbs, twitching with need—restrained only by the years he’s mastered his own control. But this… this is different. No kingdom has ever made him feel like this. No blood. No war. No century.

Only you.

Your scent is rich now—intimate, warm, laced with the raw edge of climax. It clings to his fingers, to the air, to him. He lifts his hand, the one slick with your arousal, and parts his lips.

And then he tastes you.

Slowly.

His tongue glides along the length of his index finger, savoring the silken wetness, letting the flavor bloom on his tongue. Salty-sweet. Earthy. Utterly you.

His eyes flutter closed for just a moment.

It’s not just the taste—it’s the meaning of it. The fact that this wetness came from you, from the body he worshipped, from the pleasure he coaxed out of your untouched core. You gave him this. Not through pain or force, but through the softest surrender.

And now you’re lying there, boneless and glowing, your thighs still parted, your chest rising and falling like you’ve run miles through a dream.

He opens his eyes again and stares at you. There’s reverence in his gaze—but also something darker now. Hungrier. Deeper.

“I’ve tasted many things in my life,” he says, his voice low, tight with restraint. “But none have ever stayed with me.”

He slips the second finger into his mouth. Slower this time. Watching you.

“But you,” he murmurs around it, his eyes heavy with desire, “You linger. You ruin me.”

He swallows slowly, and for the first time tonight, his composure falters. He shifts—his body hard and aching, the press of his arousal unmistakable. He’s still holding back. But only barely.

Your pleasure has marked him.

Not just your arousal on his tongue, but your trust. Your body, so soft and willing beneath his. Your moans. Your trembling thighs. Your first orgasm given entirely to him.

And now—he wants more.

He wants to take you fully. To feel that wet, trembling heat stretch around the full length of him. To bury centuries of restraint between your thighs and lose himself in the warmth of your purity.

But not yet.

He leans over you, brushing his lips along your throat, and whispers:

“Do you feel what you’ve done to me?”

His hips press down—just enough for you to feel the weight of him against your entrance. Still clothed. Still restrained. But solid. Throbbing.

You’re still trembling, your body soft and spent, slick and open. But he doesn’t let you fall into the haze of afterglow. Not yet.

Not when he is trembling, too.

“I haven’t even claimed you yet,” he says, his breath hot against your skin, “and already… I belong to you.”

There’s something in the air. It feels changed. Charged. You feel it before he moves, like a storm building beneath the surface of his skin. He looks at you, and his expression is… ravenous. But not wild. No. This is the kind of hunger born from centuries of control finally cracking.

You’ve woken something inside him.

His hand slides back down between your thighs, gentle but insistent, spreading you once more. And you don’t resist. You can’t. Not when your body is still aching, your core still pulsing faintly, needy even in its sensitivity.

He settles between your legs again, lowering himself slowly, as if in reverence to something sacred.

And then you feel it.

His breath.

Warm and steady, ghosting over your already-wet folds. It makes you shiver. Your thighs twitch, instinctively trying to close, but he places a firm, commanding hand on your hip to keep you open.

You glance down, and his eyes are locked on your center like a starving man denied too long.

“I need to taste you again,” he says, voice like gravel softened by silk. “I haven’t felt this kind of hunger since the night I was turned.”

You open your mouth to speak, to say yes, to tell him to take what he wants—but the words catch in your throat.

Because he doesn’t wait.

His mouth descends, and this time… he doesn’t hold back.

The first stroke of his tongue is broad and slow, dragging from your entrance to your clit in a single, devastating pass. The contact steals your breath. Your hips lift off the bed, and a broken sound escapes you—half-moan, half-shock.

He groans against you. Deep. Like a man drinking ambrosia. Like he’s been dying for this.

And then he dives in again.

His tongue works you open with expert pressure—circling, flicking, then flattening again. He laps at your folds like a man possessed, the soft sounds of his mouth against your soaked heat sending heat racing up your spine.

You can feel the wet slide of his tongue parting you, dipping just inside your entrance, then dragging upward to swirl around your clit. Every motion is deliberate. No hesitation. No mercy.

Your legs start to shake.

You reach for something—anything—hands scrambling until they find his hair, soft and thick between your fingers. You clutch at it, not pulling him away, but closer.

“Sunghoon—” His name spills from your lips, cracked and desperate.

He hums in response, the vibration rippling through your entire pelvis. You cry out, your body jolting.

He doesn’t stop.

He devours you.

He alternates between slow, languid licks and short, fast flicks of his tongue directly over your clit—each one sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through your core. And just when you think you might fall apart again, he flattens his tongue and sucks gently, then harder.

Your whole body locks, and it is on fire.

Your vision goes white at the edges.

The tension that had only just begun to fade is rebuilding with terrifying speed, the coil snapping back into place, tighter and hotter.

And through it all, he holds you open with one hand on your thigh, the other wrapped around your hip, anchoring you to the bed, to him.

You’re soaked, breathless, legs trembling around his head. His mouth is relentless—each swipe of his tongue building pressure deeper in your core, making your clit ache with hypersensitivity. You can feel it growing again—that hot, maddening tension—but it’s just out of reach. You’re teetering, clutching the edge with fingers made of smoke.

You need something.

And then you feel it.

His fingers.

They return without warning—slick and sure, sliding back into you with the same reverence as before, but now paired with the hunger of a man who wants to feel you cum hard.

He groans against your clit as your walls stretch to take him again, two fingers plunging into your heat with a wet, obscene sound that only makes your stomach clench tighter.

You cry out—sharp and loud—your hands fisting the sheets now. The stretch is deeper this time, the sensation more intense. Your inner muscles flutter around him, soaking his hand as he begins to move in rhythm.

He matches the thrust of his fingers with the rhythm of his tongue—sucking your clit into his mouth, then releasing, licking with rapid flicks before diving deep again.

It’s too much. It’s perfect.

Your body locks up, thighs squeezing around his head, your hips rolling up helplessly into every thrust. You feel your orgasm approaching fast now, sharp and violent, like a wave you can’t outrun.

And he knows.

He feels the way your cunt clenches down on his fingers, how your moans break apart, how your stomach tightens like you’re trying to hold it in.

He pulls his mouth away for just a second—just enough to murmur into your wetness:

“Don’t fight it. Let it take you.”

Then he curls his fingers just right—pressing into that perfect spot inside you with precision that no mortal lover could ever match.

And your world shatters.

Your orgasm slams into you without warning, without mercy. Your body bows off the bed, your mouth falling open in a silent scream before sound finally tears free—raw and high-pitched.

Your cunt pulses wildly around his fingers, sucking them in with every clench, gushing wetness in a flood of release that spills over his hand, your thighs, the bed.

You can’t stop shaking.

Your legs are convulsing, your chest heaving, your vision going dark at the edges. You’re sobbing now—not from pain, but from the intensity. You didn’t know your body could feel this much. Could give this much.

And through it all, Sunghoon stays between your legs, holding you through the storm. His fingers keep stroking you, drawing out every wave, prolonging it until you’re gasping for breath, trying to pull away—but your body won’t let go. It wants more. He gives you more.

Only when you collapse back against the sheets, utterly spent, does he finally withdraw his fingers—slowly, carefully, watching the way your soaked walls twitch at the loss.

Another string of your arousal follows his hand, glistening between his fingers. He looks at it like a man holding something holy.

Then he brings it to his mouth and sucks each digit clean—eyes fixed on you.

Your body is still twitching, trembling, flooded with the aftershocks of your second climax, but Sunghoon isn’t done.

Not even close.

He lifts his head for a moment, mouth wet with you, lips glistening, eyes burning with something wild and unrelenting. And then, slowly—deliberately—he slides his hand back between your thighs and spreads you open with two fingers.

The cool air hits your soaked, swollen folds, and you gasp. You can feel how wet you are—see it in his eyes as he gazes down at your cunt like it’s the most sacred thing he’s ever laid eyes on.

He spreads you further, opening you completely.

And he stares.

There’s awe in his face. Hunger, too. But deeper than that—devotion. Like your slick, twitching little hole is the center of his universe.

“Look at you…” He breathes, voice rough, reverent. “So wet, so perfect… your body still quivering from the pleasure I gave you, and yet you’re begging for more without a word.”

He leans closer. His breath skates over your exposed folds. Your thighs twitch.

And then—he dives back in.

But this time, he doesn’t just lick you. He enters you with his tongue.

You cry out—shocked by the depth, the invasion, the heat. His tongue pushes inside you, wet and thick, writhing as it seeks every inch of your soft, sensitive walls. It’s not a flick. It’s not gentle.

It’s devouring.

Your back arches as he fucks you with his mouth—tongue plunging in and out of your dripping hole, working you open again from the inside. The sounds are obscene—slick and wet, your arousal smeared across his lips, dripping from you onto his chin.

And just when the sensation starts to push you toward madness—he adds his fingers.

His free hand slides up, two fingers finding your clit with terrifying accuracy. He doesn’t start slow. He knows you’re ready. He circles it firmly, rhythmically, matching the thrust of his tongue with the press of his fingers.

The dual stimulation is too much.

You scream—sharp and breathless—your thighs trying to close around his head again, but his shoulders hold you wide open. Helpless. Exposed. Completely at his mercy.

Your cunt clenches around his tongue, your body dripping wet, your clit throbbing under his touch.

You can’t think.

You can’t breathe.

You can’t do anything but feel.

Every flick of his fingers sends electric pleasure shooting through your core. Every thrust of his tongue floods you with a deeper, wetter ache. Your hips move without you, chasing the rhythm, grinding against his face.

And he growls against you—low and deep, the vibration sending a shock straight through your clit.

You nearly cum again right there.

Your voice breaks into whimpers. Your hands clutch his hair, desperate for something to hold onto. Your body is unraveling, piece by piece, soaked and pulsing and begging for release.

And Sunghoon?

He’s in ecstasy.

Buried between your legs, his tongue deep inside your cunt, his fingers sliding slick and fast across your clit—he’s feasting like a man starved for centuries.

The sounds between your legs are soaked and obscene—his tongue plunging deep inside your cunt, his lips suctioned around you like he’s drinking your soul, his fingers working your clit with practiced urgency. He’s relentless. Unstoppable.

And you’re breaking.

The pleasure is no longer a slow build—it’s a current now. An unstoppable wave rising, rising, rising, and this time… it doesn’t crest gently.

It snaps.

It starts right there—right where his tongue is buried inside your dripping core. A sharp, crackling bolt of sensation that ignites your womb and then spreads, fast and wild.

Like electricity.

It surges outward, up your spine, down through your thighs, wrapping around your nerves like fire in your blood. Your toes curl. Your calves lock. Your back arches violently off the bed, your muscles seizing as the orgasm detonates through you.

You scream—raw and breathless—your voice splintering in the air.

Your cunt clamps down on his tongue, convulsing in rhythmic spasms, so tight it nearly traps him there. Your walls pulse with frantic contractions, milking him for something he can’t give—but he stays inside you, fucking you with his mouth as your body floods his lips with your release.

You gush.

Soaked and helpless, your climax pours out of you in waves, wet and hot, coating his mouth, his chin, your inner thighs. And he moans into you—moans, like the taste of your orgasm is a drug, and he needs every drop.

The sensation only intensifies—his fingers don’t stop, circling your clit with wet, rapid precision that sends aftershocks tearing through your already-oversensitive flesh. Your legs shake. Your stomach tightens. Your hands slap at the sheets, grasping for something solid in a world that’s crumbled beneath the weight of your pleasure.

You can’t speak.

You can’t think.

You are nothing but pleasure now. A body undone. A girl trembling at the hands—and tongue—of a creature who was made to worship you.

And he takes everything.

He holds you open as your orgasm ravages you. He lets you ride it, scream through it, sob against the air as your body pulses again and again, your clit aching, your core soaked and twitching, until finally—finally—the wave begins to pull back.

And even then… he doesn’t stop.

He slows. Softens. Gently licks the mess from your folds, savoring every drip, every shiver of your exhausted body. He kisses your inner thighs, your mound, your belly. Worships you in the aftermath of your own destruction.

You’re panting. Trembling. Every nerve still echoing with the ghost of your climax.

He moves up, hovering above you, his lips swollen, his face slick with your arousal, his eyes dark with awe.

“You broke so beautifully for me,” he whispers, voice rough, reverent. “And you’ll do it again.”

Your chest rises and falls with the weight of three climaxes, each more devastating than the last. Your thighs are limp, your skin flushed and damp, your core still twitching with little aftershocks that ripple through you like echoes.

And still… Sunghoon doesn’t move to take what you’ve offered him.

He lifts his head from between your legs, lips glistening with your essence, and just looks at you—gaze heavy with something older than time, something more primal than lust.

And then… he leans in again.

But not to your core. Not yet.

His mouth finds your belly, just beneath your navel. He kisses you there softly, lips slow and deliberate, as though the skin there matters more than anything else in the world.

He presses another kiss—lower, deeper. Right over the space where your womb rests.

His hands stroke your sides as he kisses you there again. Slower. More lingering this time.

“You carry your pleasure here,” he whispers, voice like dark velvet, warm against your skin. “It blooms behind this soft flesh. I can feel it… It calls to me.”

Another kiss. Then another. His mouth moves in lazy, worshipful patterns across your lower abdomen, marking the center of you—the place from which your desire poured, the space that will soon take all of him.

Your breath hitches.

The attention there—over your womb—feels different. Intimate in a way that sex alone never could be. It makes something flutter in your chest. Something deep. Something tender.

But then he shifts again.

His mouth trails down your hips, then slowly, sensually to the insides of your thighs—those trembling, well-used muscles that still bear the proof of how thoroughly he’s taken you apart.

He kisses just above your knee, where the skin is soft and delicate. Then higher.

And higher.

His hands stroke along your thighs as his mouth works its way upward, pausing to press his lips into the sensitive junction where thigh meets hip. He lingers there, lips and tongue working slow circles, as though tasting the memory of your climax from your very skin.

You twitch.

Your legs part a little wider—reflex, invitation, surrender.

He smiles into your skin.

“Even after everything I’ve given you… Your body still calls for more.”

It’s true.

Though you’re weak, breathless, flooded with warmth, there’s still a glow beneath your skin—a need that never truly dulled. The ache is deeper now, quieter, but it’s there. Nestled low in your belly, where he kissed. Where he’ll soon be.

And he knows.

Which is why he kisses the inside of your other thigh, just as slowly. Just as soft. His fangs brush the skin, not biting, just grazing. A reminder. A promise.

Your body shivers in response.

And you realize: this is still foreplay to him.

Not because he wants to draw it out… but because you deserve to be unraveled, adored, prepared like a temple before he dares to step inside.

His breath fans against your soaked folds, warm and intimate, and then you hear it—his voice, low and rough, nearly a growl veiled in silk.

“But you need rest, my love…”

You inhale sharply.

“…because once I start…”

His lips brush your entrance, and your hips jump.

“…I might not be able to stop.”

The words land on your flesh like a touch—hot, possessive, deep.

And your body responds.

A pulse starts low in your belly, tight and hot. Your core clenches—clenches—around nothing, a fluttering, instinctive reaction to the promise in his voice. Your clit throbs, still tender from the climax he stole from you moments ago, but already aching again.

You’re wet. Wetter. Soaking in response to just a handful of whispered words.

Because it’s not just what he says—it’s how he says it.

The reverence.

The restraint.

And beneath it, the quiet, throbbing threat that once he takes you—once he lets go of the centuries of control holding him back—there’ll be no turning back.

You moan. Soft. Breathless.

Your thighs fall open farther on instinct, exposing your spent, glistening cunt to his mouth, as if your body is answering for you: I don’t want you to stop.

But still, he doesn’t move.

He simply hovers there, letting the heat of his breath kiss your folds, letting his words sink into your core like silk-wrapped daggers.

And you feel it—your womb fluttering with anticipation, your slick walls spasming lightly, the ache between your thighs transforming from soreness to craving.

You should be spent.

But you’re not.

You’re awakening again—set aflame by nothing more than the promise of what he’s holding back.

And he knows it.

He smiles softly, eyes hooded with desire.

“You see?” he whispers, his lips grazing your swollen clit. “Even exhausted, your body begs to be claimed.”

When he rises over you, you’re still gasping in the afterglow of that last orgasm—every breath shallow, your chest rising and falling in soft tremors. Your skin is flushed, damp, and hypersensitive. Even the sheets brushing your thighs feel like fire.

And then he kisses you.

Really kisses you.

It’s not a gentle press of lips this time—it’s hot and wet, all tongue and teeth and heat. He takes your mouth like he owns it. Like he’s been starving for the taste of your moans. His tongue parts your lips, sliding deep with confidence, exploring you with a hunger that makes your toes curl.

You let him. You want him to. That’s the truth you’ve been holding inside this whole time.

You don’t just want to be touched.

You don’t just want to be loved.

You want to be used.

And he knows it.

Your mouth opens wider under his, letting him in, letting him take. His tongue tangles with yours, slow but deliberate, tasting you, marking you. His lips are plush and firm, but then you feel something sharper—fangs, grazing your bottom lip, teasing without piercing. A soft whimper escapes you.

The kiss alone sends a jolt straight down your spine, right to your already aching core. It clenches instinctively—empty, fluttering, wanting. Your thighs twitch. Your nipples harden again, oversensitive but alive. Even the softest brush of his fingers along your waist makes your muscles seize and flutter beneath the surface.

You can’t keep still.

Your body writhes beneath him—subtle shifts of your hips, your thighs spreading wider, your hands clutching the sheets and then relaxing, only to tense again. You’re trembling in waves now. His kiss is too much. But it’s also not enough.

Everything feels tripled.

Your mouth feels like it’s burning. Your lips are swollen from the pressure of his. Your tongue aches to follow his own. And when he growls low into your mouth—low and possessive—it vibrates through your whole skull, down your throat, right into your chest like a shockwave.

You moan into his mouth, and your hips roll upward without thought, trying to find friction against the press of him above you. There’s nothing there yet—not his cock, not even his hand—but your body wants it. Your cunt clenches around the emptiness, slick and pulsing with new need.

You feel tears at the corners of your eyes—not from pain, not even from pleasure—but from how much you want. From how deeply the need runs now.

You’re unraveling all over again, just from the pressure of his mouth on yours.

He pulls back slightly, and your lips chase his—needy, shameless. You’re panting now, open and wet and trembling beneath him.

He smirks, lips shiny with your spit. His voice is ragged when he speaks.

“You’re shaking again,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your jaw. “And I haven’t even touched your cunt this time.”

You whimper at the word. The way he says it—low, vulgar, reverent—makes your walls flutter again.

“I think you like being ruined,” he says. “You want to be used, don’t you, little one?”

His voice is low, taunting—but soaked in reverence. Every syllable curls around your skin like smoke, warm and thick and inescapable.

You nod.

It’s the only thing you can do. Your body won’t let you speak. Your lips are parted, swollen from his kiss. Your chest is rising in sharp, shallow gasps. Your heart pounds like it’s trying to escape your ribs.

And then the word spills out of you—yes—fragile, broken, desperate.

You feel it tremble out of your throat.

His expression shifts instantly. The tension he’s held back for what feels like hours—the centuries of restraint braided into his every breath—begins to unravel.

His lips curve into a smile, but it’s not soft this time.

It’s sharp. Dangerous.

A glimpse of his true nature blooms behind that smile—his long, perfect fangs gleaming faintly in the low light. It should make you flinch. It doesn’t. It makes your thighs twitch.

Then he leans in—so close his lips nearly brush your ear—and he promises it:

“Oh, my love…”

A kiss to your jaw, wet and slow.

“I’m going to break you.”

The words don’t just make your breath stutter—they reach inside you and pull. Your core clenches hard, slick and aching. Your back arches. Your nipples tighten painfully, every nerve lit up in response.

You feel everything.

The ache. The hunger. The pulse between your thighs, louder than your heartbeat. You’re still trembling, still soaked, still wrecked from the orgasms he’s already given you… But now, your body craves destruction.

Not violence. Not carelessness.

Ruin.

The kind that’s slow. Deep. Intentional. The kind only he can give.

And he knows it.

He gazes down at you like a god at his offering—his lips parted, his fangs glinting, his body ready. His hips press forward, not fully, but enough that you feel the weight of him now—heavy, hot, restrained no longer.

And you… You don’t flinch.

You open your legs wider. You tilt your hips upward. You offer yourself with a breathless gasp and eyes half-lidded in submission.

Because this is what you’ve wanted all along.

To be undone. To be remade.

To be ruined by him.

You can still feel the echo of your last orgasm humming in your thighs, soft tremors that haven’t quite let go. Your body is stretched open, slick and sensitive, every nerve along your skin tuned to the soft drag of the sheets, to the warm air kissing your swollen core.

And then he descends again.

You gasp.

You’d thought he might press forward—finally, finally fill the emptiness inside you—but instead, his hands return to your thighs, gently parting them again, spreading you wide like you’re something delicate… delicate, but his.

Then his mouth lowers.

And he begins to kiss you there.

Not just a lick. Not a flick. Not teasing.

Wet kisses. Messy. Open-mouthed. Devotional.

He kisses your cunt like it’s your lips—no, deeper than that—like it’s the center of your being. The place he’s been waiting to worship for centuries.

You can hear the sounds—his tongue dragging over your folds, the faint, obscene smack of his lips pressing into your slick entrance. He groans into you as he kisses low, then higher, then right at your clit—just a soft, swollen brush, and your body jerks.

He doesn’t pause.

He kisses you again.

Another open-mouthed press right against your folds, and this time, he lingers. His tongue flattens against your entrance, then slides up slowly—slow, wet, deliberate—before pulling back and pressing another kiss lower, right at the spot where his tongue had been buried moments ago.

Your thighs tremble.

You feel your cunt clench helplessly, empty, aching, fluttering at the lips just from the kiss.

And it feels like a kiss—not licking, not oral technique—but intimacy. Pressure and mouth and breath. He’s making out with your pussy, and it’s not just pleasure—it’s too deep for that. It’s possession.

You moan, broken and quiet, your hips rocking into his face, but he doesn’t speed up.

He’s patient.

Each kiss is a statement.

Each press of his lips says mine.

He groans softly against you, and the vibration sparks a fresh jolt through your core. You can feel your arousal thickening again—smeared across your thighs, dripping down your folds, warm and endless.

And still, he keeps kissing you.

His tongue pushes between your lips, dipping just inside your fluttering entrance before pulling out to swirl around your clit, then lower again. You’re not sure how long he stays there, mouth locked to your cunt, lips wet and moving, tongue sliding and tasting and worshipping—but it’s long enough that you lose the ability to think.

You melt.

You float.

Your body is trembling again, that same raw, desperate sensitivity tightening back into something dangerous. Another orgasm? No—something else. Deeper. Slower. A fullness that hasn’t even happened yet, and still your body prepares for it.

He moans softly into you.

You hear him whisper something, but it’s muffled by the slick sounds of his tongue against your cunt. You feel the hot puff of his breath against your swollen lips, and it sends another twitch through your thighs.

And all the while, your mind whispers: He’s making love to me with his mouth. Not for show. Not for dominance. Because he wants to. Because he needs to.

Because this is part of the ruin—breaking me not just with force, but with unbearable devotion.

His mouth is still locked to your cunt, lips slick with your arousal, his tongue moving in slow, reverent circles like it’s his only language. He licks and kisses and breathes into you like your body alone is keeping him alive.

You’re whimpering again, legs trembling, your back arching off the bed in small, uncontrolled pulses. Every time he presses his lips to your entrance—slow, wet, aching kisses—you feel the tension building again, the need winding tighter in your belly.

And then he pauses—just barely, lips still ghosting your folds—and speaks.

His voice is low and shaking now, rough with want, thick with centuries of hunger he’s barely kept chained.

“Will you let me take everything from you, my love?”

He kisses your clit, tender and slow.

“Will you let me satiate my hunger with your body?”

The words hit like lightning.

You cry out—your voice sharp, a moan twisted with desperation. Your thighs clamp around his head, hips rolling upward into his mouth, your hands fisting the sheets as your answer tears from your throat:

“Yes!”

It’s not polite. Not soft. Not whispered.

It’s screamed, breathless, raw and aching, your entire body echoing the word. Every pulse of your core, every twitch of your oversensitive clit, every wet contraction of your cunt—all of it screams yes.

Yes, take me. Yes, ruin me. Yes, I’m yours.

He moans—moans into your cunt—and the vibration sends another shudder rolling through you. His tongue dives back between your folds, kissing you deeper, hungrier, like your answer finally unshackled him.

He devours you now, tongue pushing deep into your entrance, his nose brushing your clit with every movement. His kisses become wetter, messier, more desperate. You can feel his mouth sealing over your core, as if he’s trying to drink the sounds from your throat, the tremors from your thighs, the heat from your womb.

And you give it to him.

Your body rolls, rocks, offers. You sob his name like a prayer. You beg without words, every breath a plea for more.

And he gives you everything.

Because that yes wasn’t just permission—it was submission.

And he’s waited centuries to be given someone like you.

You’re gasping, soaked, trembling, your legs still parted wantonly as he finally pulls back from the mess he’s made between your thighs. His mouth, chin, and cheeks are slick with you—glossed in the raw, intimate proof of your pleasure. Your arousal shines on him like a mark of devotion.

He rises slowly, crawling up your body with the grace of a predator… and the gaze of a lover.

Your skin burns beneath him—everywhere he kissed, everywhere he touched. You feel open, split wide by sensation, and yet not taken. Not fully. Not in the way your body now aches for.

And then he leans down—not between your legs, but higher.

To your face.

You expect heat again. Fire. Teeth. Tongue.

But instead…

He kisses your lips.

Soft. Slow. Chaste.

His mouth brushes yours with the barest pressure, a whisper of contact. No urgency. No devouring.

Just him.

His lips are warm and slightly sticky from where he tasted you, but the kiss is gentle, reverent. Like he’s sealing something sacred.

And it wrecks you.

Your heart stutters in your chest. Your face flushes hot. After all he’s done to your body—spreading you, tasting you, worshipping and wrecking you—this is what makes you blush.

This innocent kiss.

Because it’s not about possession.

It’s about love.

His fingers cradle your jaw as his lips hover for a heartbeat longer, and you feel tears sting the corners of your eyes—not from pain, or even overwhelming pleasure—but from how deeply you are seen.

Owned. Yes. Used. Yes. But also… cherished.

You gasp quietly into his mouth, and he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze.

His eyes are soft now. Still dark. Still dangerous. But softened around the edges, like velvet stretched over steel.

“You are everything,” he whispers. “And soon you’ll also belong to me.”

And you nod again, this time without shame. Without fear.

Blushing. Trembling. Ready.

You watch him rise over you, the heat of his body sinking into yours even before he touches you. His eyes roam slowly down your form—your parted legs, your glistening thighs, your flushed chest—and then they lift again, meeting your gaze.

Silent.

Heavy.

And then he begins to undress.

He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t tease. He simply removes—button by button, layer by layer—and with every inch of pale skin revealed, the warmth in your face spreads like wildfire.

You’ve felt his mouth between your legs. You’ve screamed for him. You’ve begged him to take everything from you.

And yet, watching him bare himself—watching centuries of composed elegance stripped away before your eyes—it undoes you in an entirely new way.

His shirt falls from his shoulders, revealing sculpted muscle beneath porcelain skin, lean and powerful, lined with strength earned across lifetimes. His pants come next, slow and fluid, and then—he stands before you, naked.

And beautiful.

God, he’s beautiful.

The lines of his body are impossibly perfect—his chest broad, his waist narrow, his thighs strong and commanding. And his cock…

Your breath catches.

He’s thick. Long. Heavy. Already hard, flushed at the tip, arousal pulsing down the length. And all you can think is—that’s going inside me.

Your face erupts in heat.

You cover it with both hands, a helpless squeak catching in your throat, your thighs pressing together on instinct. Your body still aches to be filled, still throbs between your legs—but your embarrassment blooms too fast, too real to hide.

And for a moment… It’s quiet.

You hear nothing but your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Then you hear him chuckle.

Soft. Warm. Disbelieving.

You peek between your fingers, and he’s staring down at you with his head tilted slightly, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

And his voice—his voice is full of something deep:

“How,” he murmurs, stepping closer, “can you be so adorable?”

There’s wonder in his tone. Not mockery. Not pride. Awe.

As if, after everything he’s done to your body—after hearing you moan and beg and scream his name—he’s still stunned by the softness in you. The blush. The shyness. The contrast of your purity, even now, when you’ve given him everything.

He kneels back between your legs, his hands finding your wrists.

Slowly, gently, he pulls your hands from your face and leans in close, brushing his lips against your temple.

“You don’t have to hide from me,” he whispers. “You’ve never been more beautiful than you are right now.”

And you believe him.

Even as the blush lingers, even as your chest flutters wildly, you believe him. Because the way he looks at you isn’t just hungry anymore, it’s devoted.

He doesn’t move right away.

He takes you in with one last look—your flushed skin, your parted lips, the way your legs fall open for him like a flower blooming under moonlight. Your cunt is glistening, folds swollen, the evidence of your pleasure coating your thighs, your heat radiating up into his hands.

He exhales softly, then shifts—settling between your legs with the same care one would show a sacred relic. And then you feel it.

The press of his cock.

Heavy. Hot. Smooth against your slick folds.

Your breath stutters.

He doesn’t push in yet—no. He slides it up first. Slowly. His shaft drags through your wetness, collecting it, slicking himself in the mess of your arousal.

And your body responds.

The thick ridge of him glides along your entrance, up through your folds, and then—there. His tip bumps against your clit.

You gasp.

Your legs twitch.

The contact is light, but after everything he’s done to you, it sends a jolt straight through your belly. Your clit pulses, oversensitive and needy, and you shivers beneath him.

He does it again.

Another long, slow stroke of his cock through your folds, bumping your clit at the top, then sliding back down to your soaked entrance.

You moan this time—a soft, broken sound—and he groans above you, the sound low and guttural.

“You’re so wet,” he murmurs, eyes locked on your cunt as his length glides through you again. “Your body wants me so badly.”

You can’t speak. Your breath is caught, hands gripping the sheets, hips lifting slightly to meet the next stroke.

And then he stops.

The head of his cock nestles at your entrance.

Right there. Poised. Waiting.

He leans over you, bracing himself with one hand beside your head, the other guiding his cock to your core.

His forehead brushes against yours.

“This is it,” he whispers. “I’m going to feel you for the first time. Every inch.”

You nods. Your eyes shimmer. Your legs open wider.

You're ready.

And then—he pushes.

The tip breaches you.

And your world changes.

It’s not fast. It’s not brutal. It’s deep. Stretching. You can feel every ridge, every vein, every impossible inch of him pressing into you, and your body, tight and untouched, yields around him.

Your breath catches in your throat.

It’s not pain. It’s fullness.

Unbearable fullness.

He groans again—sharp this time, as your slick heat wraps around his cock like a vice, tight and hot and pulsing with life.

“God,” he breathes. “You feel… incredible.”

You clutch at his shoulders, your eyes fluttering closed, your mouth open in a soft, helpless moan.

It feels like he’s opening you from the inside.

Stretching you in ways you didn’t know were possible.

Your walls flutter around him, trying to adjust, your body trembling as he sinks deeper—inch by inch—holding your eyes, holding your hips, murmuring soft, steady praise as your virgin cunt welcomes him inside.

Emotion swells behind the pleasure.

He’s inside you.

Truly inside.

Your first and only.

And he’s not just taking your body—he’s claiming the hidden, aching part of you that always longed to be known. To be seen. To be used and loved in the same breath.

Tears prick your eyes—not from pain, but from the depth of it all.

You feel filled. Not just physically, but emotionally. Spiritually. Like something inside you has finally been answered.

And then… he bottoms out.

Fully sheathed.

Pressed to the hilt.

His hips nestle against your ass, his chest against yours, his cock deep in the clutch of your heat.

They both freeze for a moment.

Breathless. Wide-eyed.

“I’m inside you,” he whispers, voice thick with awe, his breath shaking against your lips. “Finally.”

You feel it—all of him, every inch of him stretching your virgin walls, pressing into places that make your toes curl, your stomach flip, your chest ache with the weight of something too big to name. He’s deep. So deep. You feel the throb of him inside you like a heartbeat not your own.

And yet—

It’s not enough.

Your body is on fire. Every inch of your skin is vibrating with overstimulation, your cunt fluttering around his cock, struggling to adjust to the girth, the length, the impossible fullness—but beneath the stretch, beneath the overwhelming tightness…

There’s hunger.

The kind that makes your mouth open on instinct. The kind that comes from the marrow of your bones. The kind that demands.

“Hoonie…”

Your voice is breathless, trembling.

He looks down at you instantly, his eyes wide, his mouth parted, sweat clinging to his temples. He thinks you’re overwhelmed. He thinks you need gentleness.

He doesn’t know that what you need is more.

You reach up, grab his face in both hands. Your fingers shake, but your grip is firm. You hold his jaw—force his gaze to see you.

And then you speak.

Not meek. Not blushing.

“I want you to fuck me.”

His breath catches.

“I want you to use me.”

His pupils dilate.

“I want you to ruin me, Hoonie. Break me. Breed me. Fuck me like you’re in heat—like your life depends on it.”

He goes still.

Frozen.

Your nails dig into his cheeks, your legs wrapping around his waist, locking him inside you. You arch your hips up, grinding your soaked cunt around his cock, still stretched, still adjusting—but your mind doesn’t care. Your body doesn’t care.

You’re already wet. You’re already split wide. You’re already his.

Now you want to be wrecked.

“Please,” you whisper. “Take me. Don’t hold back. I want to be fucked like you’re losing your mind.”

And that’s when you see it.

The snap.

The worship flickers. The restraint uncoils. And something else fills his eyes now.

Possession.

Raw. Unfiltered. Ferocious.

He growls—growls, low and deep in his chest—and then his hands are gripping your thighs, spreading you wider, locking your hips to the bed.

“Oh, fuck, my love…”

He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing hard through his nose, trying to hold the last thread of control.

But you feel it trembling.

“You want to be fucked like you’re mine?” he breathes, his voice a rasp of barely-contained need. “You want to be bred like a filthy little thing in heat?”

You moan—yes, yes, that’s exactly what you want—and your hips try to rise again, but he slams them back down.

“Then don’t take it back,” he warns, his voice low, feral. “Because once I start… I will not stop until I’ve emptied every last drop inside you.”

And then he pulls back.

His cock slides out slowly, dragging against your soaked, stretched walls, and you feel every inch leaving you. You gasp, your core clenching, already aching from the loss.

Then—he slams back in.

The first thrust knocks the air from your lungs.

Not because it hurts—but because it’s too much.

Too deep.

Too fast.

Sunghoon doesn’t ease into it. Doesn’t hold back. The second you gave him permission—begged for it—he became something else entirely. Something darker. Something real.

And your scream echoes through the room, your nails raking down his back as he begins to fuck you exactly how you asked—like an animal, like a beast in heat, like a man finally giving into the hunger you unleashed in him.

He’s still Sunghoon. Still your lover. But now he’s a creature of need, and you are the only thing that can satisfy it.

His hips slam into yours again, and your entire body bounces beneath the force of it. The impact sends another pulse of heat through your core, your cunt clenching desperately around him, still trying to adjust to the girth of his cock, still fluttering from the stretch of your virgin walls.

But he doesn’t slow.

He thrusts again.

And again.

The rhythm builds, brutal and fast, and your body is struggling to keep up. You feel it—your slick squelching around his length, dripping from where he’s pounding into you, your clit catching friction with every push of his hips, overstimulated and screaming in silence.

Your mouth falls open.

But nothing comes out.

You want to cry his name, but it’s like your brain can’t form the shape of it. All you can feel is the stretch. The impact. The hot ache of his cock splitting you open and owning you.

Your walls try to grip him with every thrust, but he’s too big, too fast, and the fullness becomes unbearable. Your core is clenching—a desperate, fluttering attempt to take him deeper, to hold him in place, but he just keeps fucking into you, your cunt squeezing and sucking and dripping as your body tries to survive the assault it begged for.

You’re burning.

Sweating.

Tears prick the corners of your eyes—not from pain, but from the sheer overwhelm.

Your legs twitch around his hips, your hands scrabbling at his back, your head tilting to the side as you gasp brokenly—

“Sunghoon—ah—too much—”

He growls, fucking into you even harder, his hands pinning your wrists to the bed as he leans in and whispers:

“You said you wanted to be used. You said you wanted to be broken.”

And gods help you—your cunt tightens at those words.

Because it’s true.

You wanted this. You need this. And now your body is being reformed around him. Every thrust reshapes you. Every wet slap of skin against skin writes a new truth into your womb: you are his now.

Your nipples are painfully hard, your clit swollen and throbbing, your voice reduced to mewling little moans that barely make it past your throat.

You’re losing control.

Losing yourself.

And deep down, beneath the shock and overstimulation and unbearable fullness…

You love it.

Because this is what you asked for. Not to be loved sweetly. Not to be kissed like a flower. But to be fucked—like prey caught beneath something ancient and starved.

And Sunghoon?

He’s just getting started.

You don’t even realize what he’s doing at first. One moment you’re pinned to the bed, your body jolting with every brutal thrust, your vision swimming, mouth open around moans that don’t even sound human anymore—

And then his grip tightens.

Rough hands grip your hips—no longer soft, no longer careful—and he pulls. Your lower back lifts off the bed, and your ass rises with it, dragging your slick body higher into his lap.

You cry out—loud, raw, uncontrolled—as your legs fall wider, your spine arching as he holds you there, suspended in the air.

And then he thrusts.

Deeper.

The change is instant.

His cock drives into you at a new angle, hitting a place so deep, so unforgiving, that your whole body seizes. Your head jerks back into the pillow. Your thighs shake violently around his waist. Your cunt clamps down around him like it’s trying to keep him in that spot.

You scream.

You can’t help it.

It’s not pain—it’s too full, too much, the angle making every thrust feel like he’s punching the air out of your lungs. His cock grinds against your womb now, thick and unrelenting, and your body reacts like it’s been bred for this.

Your hips are no longer yours. They’re his, suspended in the air, pulled into every brutal, rutting thrust.

He’s fucking up into you now, hard and fast, his cock slamming into your cunt with wet, obscene sounds that echo louder than your moans. Your slick is smeared across his thighs, dripping down his balls, everywhere.

Your body is twitching uncontrollably—your stomach tightening, your nipples stiff, your cunt gushing.

And your mind?

It’s shattering.

You’re not thinking anymore.

Your thoughts have been reduced to three desperate truths:

He’s inside me. He won’t stop. I need this.

You can’t form words. You can barely see. Your hands claw at the sheets, at his arms, at nothing. Your mouth opens around a choked cry—his name, maybe, or just a noise that lives where language fails.

The stretch is unbearable. The depth is devastating.

And still he fucks you—grunting, panting, growling into the air like a beast finally allowed to rut. His hands grip your hips so tightly you’ll have bruises. You want them. You want the proof.

He leans over you, your legs still high, still folded open, his cock buried deep in your cunt as he thrusts again, again, again, and it feels like he’s not just inside you.

It feels like he’s inside your soul.

You feel broken.

Beautifully, brutally broken.

And there’s only one thought left in your mind now, floating through the haze:

‘He’s going to break me open and fill me.’

And gods… You want him to.

He’s still fucking you like he’s in heat. Like there’s no one else in the world but your soaked, trembling body clinging around his cock. His grip on your hips is bruising, your thighs suspended in the air, your back arched off the bed—his thrusts punching into you with brutal precision, again and again, deeper than your body should be able to take.

Your cunt is soaked, stretched, pulsing, overflowing—but somehow it still wants more.

And then he throws his head back.

It’s sudden. A snap of the spine. His chest expands, his cock buried to the hilt inside your womb, and for a moment, everything freezes—except him.

His mouth opens.

His fangs drop.

And he moans.

Not a groan. Not a growl.

A moan—thick, hoarse, pornographic. It’s so raw, so deeply broken, it sounds like his soul is being pulled from his body through your cunt.

It fills the room like thunder.

And that’s it.

That sound—that is what takes you under.

Your orgasm detonates with no warning. It doesn’t build. It erupts.

Your entire body locks—arms stiff, legs trembling, back arched like a bow. Your mouth opens around a silent scream, and your cunt clamps down on his cock so violently it’s like your body’s trying to milk the pleasure straight out of him.

Your vision goes white.

Your ears ring.

Your stomach clenches. Your thighs shake. Your hands claw at the sheets as wave after wave of brutal, blinding pleasure floods you—sharp, hot pulses radiating from your core, all the way to your fingertips.

It’s your fourth. Or maybe your fifth. You don’t even know anymore.

You just know that this one breaks you.

You sob.

A ragged, breathless, desperate sob—half pleasure, half surrender—as your cunt gushes around him, slick pouring out of you, soaking everything. You can hear it—wet, obscene, like a flood of need pouring down his cock and onto the sheets.

And he feels it.

His head snaps forward. His fangs glint. His eyes are wild.

He growls—deep and low, like your orgasm is a trigger inside him, too—and he thrusts harder, chasing his own edge now, fucking you through your orgasm, into the madness beyond it.

And your body?

It’s done.

You’re twitching. Gasping. A tear slips from the corner of your eye as your cunt continues to pulse helplessly around him, every nerve lit up, every breath a struggle.

But inside all that—inside the shattered pieces of you—there’s one glowing truth:

You wanted to be broken.

And he is. Beautifully and completely.

You’re still coming. Still twitching, still clenching, your cunt fluttering in frantic, helpless pulses around his cock. Your back is arched, your throat raw from your cries, your mind barely holding on—

And then he strikes.

His head snaps down, and his mouth crashes against your chest—your right breast, lips closing around the soft swell of flesh just above your nipple.

And then—the bite.

Fangs pierce your skin with a sharp, sudden pressure that steals your breath.

You gasp—a choked, high-pitched sob that turns into a moan as your nerves catch fire. The pain is brief, bright, but it melts into something hotter, something deeper.

Because the moment his fangs sink in—he feeds.

You feel it. The suction. The pull.

Not just blood—you.

He’s taking something from you with every pulse of his mouth. Not just your body, not just your cunt, but your essence. Your life.

And you give it.

Your hand flies to the back of his head, fingers sinking into his hair, holding him there, pulling him tighter against your chest as he drinks. You need it. You need him to feed from you like this—desperate and starved and yours.

And gods, your body responds.

You clench again around his cock—harder this time, tighter, impossibly so. Your walls grip him like a fist, like your body is trying to milk him in rhythm with his feeding.

And he moans.

Mouth full of you, blood slicking his lips, his cock buried inside your gushing cunt—he moans into your chest, and the vibration rolls straight through your ribcage like a second heartbeat.

It’s too much.

It’s everything.

Your thoughts stutter, scatter, and dissolve into primal, burning instinct.

All you can feel is:

He’s drinking me. He’s inside me. He’s mine. I’m his.

There’s something dizzying in it—the pull of blood, the rush of endorphins, the painful pleasure blooming behind your nipple. Your skin is buzzing, hypersensitive, your clit still throbbing, your cunt still soaked and stretched wide around his cock.

Your body starts to float.

A high beyond orgasms. Beyond touch.

You’re not even sure if you’re crying or laughing or moaning anymore.

It’s all too much.

And still, you hold him to your breast, cradling him like a lover, like a monster, like a god, your legs wrapped around his waist, your body arched to give him everything.

Because you want it.

You want to be emptied.

Ruined.

Fed from.

And in this moment, you don’t care if it kills you. Because you’ve never felt more alive.

His mouth is sealed to your breast, his fangs sunk deep into your tender flesh, the pull of his feeding strong, rhythmic, relentless. Each draw from your veins is slow, greedy, intimate. You feel it—your blood flowing into him, your warmth feeding his cold hunger.

And it turns you on.

More than it should.

Your head tips back, lips parted in a soundless cry. Your hand stays tangled in his hair, clutching him to you as if you’re afraid he’ll stop. As if your body needs to be emptied by him, drop by drop.

And then—

His other hand moves.

It slides between your bodies, down your trembling stomach, over your slick mound.

You barely register the movement—until his fingers find your clit.

And press.

You scream.

There’s no other word for it.

His touch is firm, deliberate, circling your swollen clit with practiced ease, and your body jerks, helpless and oversensitive, the shock of pleasure blending with the strange, blissful drain of his feeding.

You don’t know where the sensations begin or end anymore.

Your nipple is hard against his cheek. Your cunt is still stretched wide around his cock. Your clit is throbbing under his fingers. Your blood is flowing into his mouth.

And you’re losing yourself.

Your thighs try to close. Your hips jerk up. Your cunt clenches around him, milking his cock with desperate, fluttering pulses, your slick soaking the sheets beneath you.

And he moans into your chest.

The sound is low and vibrating, and it echoes through your breast, down your spine, into your womb.

His mouth sucks harder.

His fingers move faster.

And your body gives in.

Your back arches.

Your toes curl.

Your entire body tightens like a wire about to snap—

And you shatter.

Your orgasm hits like a storm.

You cry out—raw and wrecked, tears spilling down your cheeks as your body convulses under him. Your cunt pulses violently around his cock, tighter than ever, soaking him in another flood of release. Your clit throbs against his fingers, your breast aches beneath his mouth, and your chest heaves with every broken sob of pleasure.

You’re gushing. Trembling. Clawing at him like you’ll fall apart if he ever stops.

And he doesn’t.

He feeds.

He rubs.

He fucks you through it—still buried inside you, still drinking from you, still pulling every last drop of pleasure from your ruined, sensitive, offered body.

It feels endless.

It is endless.

And when it finally begins to fade—when your limbs go slack, your eyes heavy, your lips parted in soft, stunned whimpers—he finally slows.

His mouth lifts from your chest.

His tongue licks the wound—soft, reverent—closing it with a kiss, sealing the mark that will never fade.

And he looks down at you.

Blood on his lips.

Eyes blown wide with something beyond hunger.

And he says, voice rough, hoarse, ruined:

“Now you’re mine.”

You’re so gone, you only notice him slipping out of you when your cunt twitches at the loss, empty and aching, still fluttering in the aftermath of your orgasm. Your limbs are heavy, useless, your chest rising and falling with ragged, open-mouthed breaths. You feel like liquid—spread across the bed, broken in the most beautiful way.

But he’s not finished.

You hear the shift of the mattress. Feel his hands curl around your waist—tight, intentional.

And then—he moves you.

In one smooth, effortless pull, he flips you onto your stomach, your cheek pressed against the sweat-dampened pillow, your mouth parting with a soft, surprised gasp. You try to lift yourself, but your arms buckle, too weak.

And he doesn’t let you recover.

He grabs your hips and raises you.

Your ass lifts high, your knees pressed into the sheets, your thighs spread open by the positioning of his hands. You’re bent perfectly—spine arched, ass exposed, your soaked, swollen pussy on full display, still dripping with the mess of your last climax.

You can feel how open you are. How wrecked. How used.

And yet—your body reacts.

Your cunt clenches at the exposure, the cool air hitting your wet skin, the knowledge that he’s behind you now, staring. Silent. Waiting.

He hasn’t touched you.

Not yet.

But you feel his eyes—burning into you.

Sunghoon kneels behind you, his cock thick and slick, heavy in his hand, still glistening with your juices and desperate for release. But he doesn’t thrust back inside. Not yet.

He watches.

His eyes trace the curve of your spine, the lift of your ass, the wet gleam of your slit as it twitches with overstimulated need.

You’re breathing hard. Twitching. But you don’t move.

You can’t.

And he still doesn’t touch you.

Not because he doesn’t want to.

Because he does.

Too much.

You feel the tension in the air—coiled like a beast between you. His hunger. His need. His possession.

And then you hear it—his voice, low and reverent, almost in awe:

“Look at you…”

His hand slides over your ass—slow, reverent—just one palm smoothing over the soft flesh, watching how your body twitches at the touch.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers. “And still offering yourself.”

He grips your ass, spreading you slightly, and groans when your folds part for him—wet, raw, open.

“You asked me to fuck you like an animal,” he breathes. “And now you’re here… trembling… leaking… mine.”

He leans forward, one hand pressing down between your shoulder blades, making your back arch more, your cheek sinking deeper into the pillow, your ass lifting higher in response.

You barely register the shift behind you—his weight adjusting on the mattress, his thighs sliding between yours—until you feel it:

The blunt, hot press of his cock at your entrance.

You whimper, your fingers tightening into the sheets, your cheek mashed into the pillow, ass lifted high as your swollen, twitching cunt flutters around nothing. You’re already so wet, so open, so used, but that thick head stretching your folds again pulls a sharp, broken gasp from your lips.

He slides the tip up and down your slit once—coating himself in your slick, collecting it like the precious thing it is—and then—

He slams into you.

In one brutal, wet thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, forcing your body to take him, stretch again for his impossible girth, your walls clamping down like they’re trying to refuse—but they don’t. They yield. Barely. Desperately.

You scream.

Your vision flashes white. Your knees nearly buckle beneath you.

The stretch is excruciatingly perfect—a mix of pain and pleasure so intense it steals your breath. Your cunt flutters violently around him, juices flooding down your thighs, soaking the bed beneath.

And he doesn’t give you a second.

He fucks into you.

Hard. Brutal. Deep.

His hips slap against your ass with wet, punishing sounds, cock driving into you over and over again, spearing through the tight grip of your cunt like it’s nothing. His hands hold your hips so tight your skin burns, pulling you back into every thrust, using your body like he owns it.

Because he does.

Your back stays arched, your ass bouncing with every impact, your moans turning to cries, to sobs, to broken little pleads that mean nothing—because you don’t want him to stop.

You want this.

You need this.

Your cunt is gushing, soaked beyond logic, pulsing around him in chaotic spasms that only drive him faster.

He groans behind you, filthy and low, his breath ragged, sweat dripping onto your back as he fucks you like you were meant to be taken from behind.

“Fucking—perfect—” he growls, each word punctuated by another violent thrust. “So tight—so wet—so ready to be bred.”

Your orgasm builds again—somehow. You don’t even know how your body has anything left, but it does. You feel it like a rising scream, coiling in your belly, dragging you toward another edge you swore you’d already fallen from.

And he knows.

He feels it in your cunt—how it tightens, how it pulses.

And he chases it.

He fucks you harder, the sound of skin slapping skin wet and lewd and endless, your moans turning into screams again, your vision gone to stars as he ruins you from behind.

His hands find your shoulders now—gripping them, slamming you back onto his cock with every thrust, using your body like a toy, like a vessel, like a whore who asked to be ruined.

You did.

And now, he’s delivering.

The world doesn’t feel real anymore. Everything is rhythm, motion, heat. His cock driving into you over and over—deep and brutal, dragging across every hypersensitive inch of your walls. Your body is already ruined, already wrung out, but he doesn’t stop. His pace is punishing, merciless, and your mind can’t keep up.

You’re drooling into the pillow. Eyes glassy, lips parted, breath sobbing from your lungs in short, frantic gasps. Your cunt is a mess—gushing slick with every thrust, stretched to its limit, used.

And your voice?

It’s gone.

Replaced by incoherent babble.

“Mmm—ah! Hoonie—fuck—so deep—please—too much, I—ah!, I can’t—I—”

He doesn’t slow. Doesn’t even falter. His grip on your hips is brutal, fingertips digging into your flesh, slamming you back onto his cock with a force that makes your ass bounce and your body jolt. He’s growling behind you now, panting like an animal in rut, his cock so hard inside you it feels like he’s splitting you in half.

And your brain breaks.

The pleasure is too much. The fullness is too much. The sound of him, the feel of him, the need building in your chest—it all breaks open into one singular thought:

“Fuck—feed from me!” you scream.

It rips from your throat—sudden, raw, desperate.

“Hoonie—please—bite me—feed from me again, drink from me—fuck!, I need it, please, please, please, please—!”

Your hands claw at the sheets. Your body arches, thighs trembling, cunt clenching around his cock like you’re trying to pull the bite from him.

And behind you—you feel him freeze.

Just for a breath.

Then his voice, low and wrecked:

“You want me to feed again?”

You nod wildly, tears in your eyes, your body twitching and shivering under him. Your voice cracks into sobs:

“Yes! I need you to—I-I need to feel it, Hoonie please, I can’t—I need it—drink from me while you fuck me, I-I want to give you everything—please take everything, please—!”

His hand slides from your hip to your throat, tilting your head back and exposing your neck. He growls against your throat. Not the cold, controlled sound of a predator.

It’s giddy.

Almost playful.

“God,” he pants. “Listen to you… begging for my bite like a good little toy.”

You whimper, breath catching. Your hands scrabble against the mattress, nails clawing for something to ground you, anything to hold on to as he keeps you right on the edge of unraveling.

He’s still inside you.

So deep.

His cock is throbbing, thick, soaked in your slick, buried to the hilt inside your wrecked, overstimulated cunt. Without slipping out, he moves.

One of his hands grips your waist. The other slides beneath your stomach, pulling you up slightly. And then—

He shifts position.

Still behind you, still connected, but now he plants one foot on the mattress, rising into a half-kneel, half-squat.

And the angle—gods—

Your mouth drops open.

His cock grinds deeper now, dragging against your front wall with every thrust, hitting something dangerous, something brutal. His new position gives him total leverage—power and angle and reach—and he uses it.

He thrusts.

Hard.

Sharp.

Deep.

And you shriek.

Your vision swims. Your mouth trembles. Your legs go limp beneath you, your back forced into an even deeper arch. Every nerve in your cunt fires at once—blazing—as his cock spears into you with obscene precision.

He moans now—high and shameless, the sound of a man with a woman wrapped perfectly around him, wet and ruined and his.

“Fuck, you feel that?” he gasps, his voice cracking with laughter, feral delight in every word. “This little cunt’s never letting me go again.”

You babble something—words melted into moans—but he doesn’t slow. Doesn’t care.

His foot plants harder, thrusts sharper, slamming into you from beneath. Your body jolts with every impact. Your breasts sway. Your back arches perfectly, your neck still exposed to his mouth, waiting.

And he revels in it.

He hovers there for a moment, mouth open just over your skin, his fangs dragging along your throat, not biting yet—teasing. The tension of his breath, the heat of his cock, the stretch—it all blends into something unbearable.

“You begged for it,” he says. “So tell me again, love…”

His hips grind forward, cock grinding into your soaked walls.

“Tell me whose girl you are.”

His thrusts grow crueler.

Deeper. Sharper.

Each one lands with a wet slap, your ass slamming back into his hips as he drives himself into you from below, one foot planted firm on the bed, the other knee grounded for leverage. Your body jolts with every impact, breasts swaying, skin slick with sweat, your moans turning into broken sobs of overstimulation.

And still—he doesn’t bite.

Not yet.

He’s waiting.

Hovering over your throat, fangs dragging along your pulse like he’s tasting your fear, your surrender, your worship.

“You begged me to feed,” he growls into your skin, his cock grinding in deeper with the next thrust. “So say it. Say who you belong to.”

You’re sobbing now, cunt clenching, your legs trembling.

But you speak.

“Yours—I’m yours—Hoonie, I’m yours, I’ve always been—”

He grunts, fucking you harder.

“Say it again.”

You scream.

“I’m your girl!” you cry. “I’m your—fuck—I’m your toy, your meal, your whore—please! Please bite me—feed from me again, I’m yours, I’m yours—!”

That’s all it takes.

He snaps.

With a growl that’s half lust, half unholy hunger, his fangs pierce your throat in a single, savage motion. No warning. No gentleness. Just teeth sinking in right where your pulse pounds the loudest.

You wail.

Your back arches impossibly tight. Your cunt explodes around him—clenching, pulsing, gushing as your orgasm detonates in the same instant his fangs break your skin. The pleasure is blinding—a burst of white-hot light behind your eyes, your walls fluttering wildly around his cock, milking him, soaking him, screaming for him.

And he drinks.

Gods, he drinks—deep and steady, groaning against your throat as your blood pours into his mouth, as your body twitches and clenches and gives.

You feel the pull. You feel the bond—the ache in your womb, the twist in your soul, the devotion that burns like fire beneath your skin.

He’s not fucking you anymore.

He’s using you.

Feeding and fucking and owning you all at once, your body trembling, overstimulated, your breath stuttering through parted lips as you try to survive the dual invasion.

Your body is in chaos—shaking, clenching, gushing. Your cunt contracts around his cock in wild, erratic pulses, and then—like a dam breaking—you squirt. A sudden, hot release rushes from deep inside you, soaking his thighs, splashing against his stomach, dripping down the insides of your legs.

And that’s when he loses it.

You feel it before he even moves—his entire body tensing, his cock twitching violently inside you, so deep, so thick, so full—

Then he groans.

A deep, guttural, wrecked sound that vibrates against your throat as his hips slam into you one last time.

He buries himself to the hilt.

And he cums.

You feel it—hot and thick, a flood of heat spilling into your womb, wave after wave as his cock throbs and empties inside you. It’s not a release. It’s a claim.

You gasp—sharp and high—as his seed fills you, stretching the already ruined ache inside you wider, deeper, hotter. Your cunt is still spasming, milked dry and still milking him for more. Every pulse from him matches a pulse in your clit, every twitch of his cock pressing more heat inside you.

And gods—there’s so much.

You feel it flooding you. Dripping back out around the base of his cock, running down your thighs, mixing with your slick and sweat and scent. You’re overflowing with him.

And through it all—he’s still drinking.

His fangs are still deep in your throat, his lips sealed tight, your blood sliding down his tongue, into his chest, into the very core of him.

It feeds him.

It connects you.

And in that moment—flesh locked to flesh, blood flowing, his cum flooding your cunt—you don’t just feel taken.

You feel chosen.

He growls again—quieter now, weaker, spent—and finally, finally, his mouth releases your neck.

He licks the wound slowly, reverently, sealing it with a kiss, then rests his forehead against your back, both of you panting, trembling, wrecked.

He’s still inside you.

Still leaking into you.

And all you can feel is this:

You are full. You are claimed. You are his.

You can’t move.

You’re limp beneath him, your body trembling with aftershocks, every muscle twitching from the inside out. Your skin is wet—sweat, slick, blood, his release. Your thighs ache from how wide he forced you open. Your cunt is throbbing—raw and filled and fluttering around his cock, still buried so deep it feels like he’s part of your body now.

And he’s still inside you.

You feel him—hard still, thick, even softened just slightly, he’s overwhelming. He’s not pulling out. He’s not letting anything go. His hands still grip your hips, now gentler, but firm. Holding you there. Holding you in place.

And then—

He shifts his weight, leans over your back.

You whimper, a fragile noise, and his body presses against yours, skin on skin, cock lodged deep inside your twitching cunt. He drapes over you like a blanket of heat, fangs brushing your shoulder now, his voice low, thick, dripping with the afterglow of pleasure and pride.

“Perfect,” he murmurs.

You shiver beneath him.

“Look at you,” he whispers against your ear. “Still clenching. Still dripping. So full of me.”

You moan, weak and broken, your body twitching with the reminder—his cum leaking out around his cock, sliding down your thighs, your pussy fluttering in soft aftershocks that just won’t stop.

He rolls his hips once—just a slow grind, not even a thrust—and you sob into the pillow.

“Sensitive?” he teases gently. “You wanted to be fucked like an animal in heat, didn’t you?”

You nod, breath caught in your throat, tears slipping down your cheeks—not from pain, but from sheer overwhelm.

His hand slides to your stomach, palm resting over the low curve just above your womb. He presses there, firm, possessive.

“You’re holding so much of me,” he whispers, almost in awe. “My girl.”

Another slow roll of his hips.

Another broken cry from your lips.

And he moans softly, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he feels your cunt squeeze around him again.

“Keep me inside,” he breathes. “Let me stay here. Let me watch what I’ve made you.”

And you do.

You stay just like that—cunt stuffed full, body limp, back arched, cheek to the pillow—his. His cock still pulsing inside you, his hands resting on your trembling skin, his voice low and reverent.

“You’re mine now,” he murmurs. “Inside and out.”

He doesn’t move for a long time.

He stays there—cock still buried inside your ruined, pulsing cunt—his weight pressed over your back, his hands gentle now, resting on your hips, stroking lazy, reverent circles into your damp skin.

You’re still trembling.

Your body is sore. Sensitive. Soaked in sweat and slick, and him. His cum leaks from your stretched hole in thick, slow drips, pooling between your thighs, seeping into the sheets—but he doesn’t pull out.

He won’t.

Not yet.

He groans low in his chest, head dipped between your shoulder blades, voice breathless and awed.

“Still so warm,” he murmurs, hips giving a subtle, instinctive roll that makes your breath catch. “Still milking me like you want every last drop.”

You whimper, weak, your fingers twitching against the sheets.

And he smiles.

Not cruel. Not mocking.

Proud.

His hand moves up, over your back, then down again—slow, soft, possessive.

“Mine,” he breathes again. “Every inch of you.”

He finally shifts—gently this time—pressing a kiss to your shoulder as he slowly lowers you both down, careful not to slip out. You whimper as he brings your bodies down together, side by side now, his cock still buried deep as he wraps himself around you.

You feel caged. Kept. Held.

And you’ve never felt safer.

He nuzzles into your neck, brushing a kiss to the healing bite mark on your throat, then another to your jaw, your temple, your sweat-damp hair.

You’re still trembling in his arms, cunt fluttering faintly around him, overstimulation fading into a full-body hum.

And he adores it.

“Shh,” he whispers, one hand sliding to your stomach, resting possessively over your womb. “You did so well for me, little one.”

You sigh—tired, bliss-heavy, floating.

“You let me break you,” he murmurs against your ear, “and you’re still here. Letting me stay inside you. Letting me hold you.”

His voice cracks slightly, fangs gone, his hunger sated.

“You’re everything.”

His hand strokes your thigh, sticky and wet and trembling beneath his touch. You feel the mess between your legs—the slick of your orgasms, his seed still leaking out in hot pulses around his cock—and you don’t flinch.

You love it.

You love him.

And in the soft silence that follows, he whispers one last thing—low and reverent, meant only for you:

“I’ll never take from anyone else again.”

2K notes · View notes

sungvrhs · 1 month ago

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This clip....this fucking clip why WOULD HE DO THAT DAMN I HAVE NO APPROPRIATE WORDS TO SAY.

2K notes · View notes

sungvrhs · 2 months ago

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KISS ME MORE | PARK SUNGHOON

summary: freshman year is just around the corner, and you still haven’t had your first kiss, so who better to ask for help than your best friend?

word count: 3.2k

MINORS DNI!!

warnings (18+): smut. fluff (just a smidge). kissing. swearing. oral (f. receiving). fingering (f. recieving).

A/N: this was literally just an excuse to write the ‘teach me’ trope im currently obsessed with lmfao. decided to return with another short fic while a longer one is currently in the works!

Your saturday was lazily drawing to a close, the amber light of the late afternoon bathing your room in a rich, golden hue as it filtered through the sheer curtains. Sunbeams danced across the floor, casting long, dappled shadows that shifted gently in time with the breeze from your fan, its low hum blending with the quiet outside. The heat of the day still lingered, but your room felt cool—a refuge from the summer heat beyond the window.

You and Sunghoon spent another day in the slow, unhurried rhythm of summer break. You had wandered through quaint little shops in town, indulging in some ice cream from your favourite parlour—before ending the day by hanging back at your place.

Soft, flickering light from the television illuminated the room, casting faint shadows over the cozy disarray of blankets and pillows on your bed.

The movie playing was one of your favourites—a classic romance that you knew almost every line to. Your gaze was fixed on the screen, eyes wide and captivated, but Sunghoon seemed content to only half-watch. His attention was mostly absorbed in a book he had got from one a thrift shop you’d visited a while ago, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as he read quietly.

Sunghoon lay sprawled beside you, completely at ease, the quiet shuffling of his turning pages blending in with the murmur of the movie’s dialogue as the two of you comfortably sat in silence.

Every now and then, Sunghoon would glance up from his book, watching you for a moment with a fond, almost amused smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He silently chuckled at how deeply you were invested in the story, even though he knew you had seen it more times than you could count.

As the movie played on, the flickering shots of the couple lost in passionate kisses filled the screen, but your mind was elsewhere. Each romantic scene tugged at a part of you, stirring feelings of uncertainty that you tried to brush away.

The effortless intimacy the characters exchanged seemed so foreign and so far removed from your own experiences. A soft sigh escaped your lips as you shifted slightly on the bed, that weird feeling in your chest only returning.

Fall was approaching, and the thought of starting college without ever having kissed had been gnawing at you. You were always the one admired from a distance—some guys flirted but that was all they did. The real experiences, the ones you saw in movies and tv shows still remained an elusive mystery.

It felt like you were missing some crucial part of your youth, something that was supposed to happen naturally, yet it hadn’t.

In the locker room, when your friends would share their stories about their latest flings or kisses, you’d smile, laugh along, but inside you’d cringe, hoping no one asked about your own love life. It was your secret, the thing that made you feel out of place despite how perfect you seemed to everyone else.

Then, there was Sunghoon.

You glanced at him, your best friend, lying beside you with a cute focused expression etched into his features. He didn’t talk much about his romantic escapades, but you’d heard enough to know he wasn’t inexperienced.

Sometimes you’d catch a glimpse of faint hickeys on his neck or the way girls would glance at him. It left you with a strange feeling, one you couldn’t quite name…was it jealousy? Insecurity? Maybe both. You felt your face heat up, embarrassed by how much it bothered you.

As another kiss scene plays out on the screen, your gaze flickers back to the couple. You bit your lip, the pang of longing growing sharper. What did it feel like? To be kissed—or to have someone look at you like you were their whole world, if only for a second?

The thought of entering college without knowing something so simple yet so intimate made you feel…painfully awkward.

You tried to focus on the movie, but the thoughts kept circling back, louder and louder. The movie no longer held your interest, and the weight of your unspoken feelings became too much.

Unable to shake the feeling, you sat up as your mind ran on impulsivity. The movie played on, but you no longer cared about the plot or the characters. All you could think about was the current problem you had and the one person who would listen to you.

You shifted on the bed, turning to him. “Sunghoon." you murmured, your voice softer than usual.

He responded with a low, distracted hum, barely lifting his gaze. One hand rested on his chin, finger grazing his bottom lip in a way that drew attention to the curve of his mouth, while his eyes flicked over the pages with slow, deliberate focus.

"How does…kissing feel?"

That got his attention. Sunghoon’s eyes snapped up from the book, the words clearly catching him off guard. He pushed his glasses up with one hand, studying you with a mix of curiosity and amusement. “What are you on about now?”

You cringed at how juvenile your question sounded now, already hesitating, “I…” your face flushed with a mix of embarrassment, “I haven’t…kissed anyone before. And with college coming up, I just feel…I don’t know…insecure.”

Sunghoon’s brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “Wait, you’ve never kissed anyone?”

You rolled your eyes, “Okay, Mr. Midfielder. I’m not like you, alright? It’s not like I’ve had tons of people drooling over me.”

A soft laugh escaped him as he sat up, expression softening. “No (Y/N), it’s just hard to believe.” he said, a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re… like, insanely pretty.”

Sunghoon’s words sent a little flutter in your stomach—but you brushed it off, chalking it up to him just being nice.

“Of course, you would say that,” you muttered, playfully shoving his shoulder.

“I’m serious,” Sunghoon insisted lightly, catching your wrist, gently lowering your hand. His eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, you couldn’t look away.

There was something in the way he looked at you making your heart race, your breath catching in your throat. You tore your gaze away, suddenly feeling exposed under the weight of his attention. “This is stupid,” you mumbled with a wry laugh, already regretting bringing it up.

But Sunghoon wasn’t letting it go. He muttered your name softly, his voice coaxing you to meet his eyes again. He reached out, his fingers gently tilting your chin up until your gaze locked with his once more.

His touch was soft, barely there, but it made your cheeks warm. “It’s not stupid,” he murmured, his eyes searching for yours. “It’s okay to be new to things. Everyone is at some point.”

“Yeah, I guess,” you muttered, staring at the comforter as if the intricate embroidery held the answers to everything swirling in your head.

Sunghoon watched you intently, his heart aching at the sight of your lips forming a soft pout and your expression so full of uncertainty. How was it possible that you had never been kissed?

He couldn't understand it, and yet, the thought of you being with someone else, experiencing that first kiss with someone who didn’t know you like he did—it twisted something in his chest.

Sunghoon would kiss you in a heartbeat if given the chance, but after ages of trying to ignore his feelings—of pushing aside how much he actually wanted you, he wasn’t sure he could handle it without letting everything else spill out.

His hand was still holding yours, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles over your skin, and for a moment, the touch seemed to blur the lines of just simple camaraderie. The warmth of it messed with your thoughts, and before you could second-guess yourself, the words tumbled out.

“Well, you’ve done it before, right? You could, I don’t know… teach me.”

“What?” Sunghoon froze, his breath catching in his throat, his eyes wide with surprise. His voice dropped an octave,“you’re asking me to… kiss you?”

You nodded, scooting just a little closer, close enough to feel the faint warmth of his body against yours. “Come on, Hoon. We’re best friends. It’s not like it would… mean anything.”

Even as you said it, you couldn’t really believe the words yourself. There was an undercurrent, a dull gut feeling, that told you it wouldn’t feel like practice.

To you, maybe. The thought tore through Sunghoon’s mind.

He ran a hand through his hair, messing up his bangs as he tried to think. For the first time in a long while, he seemed genuinely flustered, “I don’t know, (Y/N).”

His voice was thick as he swallowed, cheeks slowly turning pink. “That’s not exactly something you just… teach.”

“It’s just a kiss. I just wanna know what I’m doing when I eventually have to kiss someone for real.”

Sunghoon’s gaze flickered, his eyes betraying more than he wanted to show. For a split second, his eyes darted to your glossed lips, his breath hitching as he quickly looked away.

He pushed his glasses up again, licking his lips as he huffed. “This is a bad idea,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

“Why?” You asked, the plea in your voice betraying your own feelings. “It’s just one kiss, Hoon.”

Right?

You tried to keep it light, casual, like it didn’t matter. Like it was just a small favour between friends. But inside, your heart hammered against your chest, your skin felt flushed, and the air between you both had clearly shifted.

The way Sunghoon was looking at you now, though, like he was really considering it—like he was seeing you in a way he’d never let himself see before—it was almost too much.

“Are you… sure?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper, as if speaking too loud would shatter the moment.

Your fingers brushed against his knee, lingering for just a second longer, “I mean, it would just be practice.” You stated, but underneath it all, your heart skipped a beat, a buzz coursing through your veins as you looked back at him.

Sunghoon’s resolve crumbled at the feeling of your hand on his knee. How could he say no to you when you looked at him like that—those wide, pleading eyes making it impossible to refuse?

He swallowed hard, his breath shaky. “Just… a practice thing,” he muttered, his eyes flickering between your gaze and your lips, fighting the gravitational pull on them.

“Yeah,” You muttered quietly, reaching up to remove the wire rimmed glasses from his face and placing them on your bedside table before glancing back at him.

Sunghoon’s hand moved up, threading through your hair before gently brushing it away from your face, his touch slow, deliberate.

His thumb traced the edge of your cheek, pausing to brush against your bottom lip in a way that sent a shiver through you. The touch was soft, almost hesitant, but it ignited something deep inside you, making your breath hitch.

Your stomach fluttered as you met his intense gaze, his dark eyes trained on your lips. He leaned in closer, close enough that you could feel his breath fanning lightly over your skin, teasing, heightening the anticipation.

Sunghoon’s lips hovered over yours, just barely ghosting against them, brushing so softly that it made you ache for more.

Unable to resist the pull any longer, you closed the distance, pressing your lips gently against his. The kiss started soft, tentative, your body hyper-aware of every detail—the warmth of his breath, the way his lips responded immediately, moulding into yours with an eagerness that surprised you.

Oh.

You pulled away for the briefest moment, eyes flickering down to his lips, your heart pounding through your ears. Without a second thought, you leaned in again, this time a lot bolder, your hand finding the side of his face.

Sunghoon didn’t hesitate. He kissed back within a heartbeat, a soft sigh escaping his lips that sent a rush of warmth to the pit of your stomach. His hands slid around your waist, pulling you against his chest, the space between you vanishing as your bodies pressed together.

Your fingers slipped into his hair, the soft strands curling around your fingertips as you tugged on them softly, his soft groans between kisses making your pulse race.

Sunghoon’s lips were firmer this time, more needier with every kiss, sending a rush of heat through your body as his grip on your waist tightened.

You softly fell back into the bed as he hovered over you, his tongue tracing your bottom lip before you parted your lips a little more, a low groan rumbling through his chest as he licked into your mouth.

Your hands slowly drifted down Sunghoon’s body, slipping beneath the thin fabric of his shirt to trace the contours of his torso, his breathy moans travelling straight to your core.

“Fuck.” He rasped, pulling away, “maybe we should stop.” Sunghoon’s eyes were glazed over, lips were swollen and tainted with your lip gloss, “I don’t think I’ll be able to control myself (Y/N).”

“Then don’t.” You rushed, breathless and wasting no time kissing him again, an unmistakable moan leaving Sunghoon’s chest as he kissed back desperately.

He pulled away—already missing the feeling of his lips on yours before they moved to your jaw, trailing soft sloppy kisses that travelled down to your neck, the feathery feeling creating a dull ache between your thighs.

Your sighs of pleasure almost bordered on moans as he gently sucked your delicate skin—pink and purple marks blooming on your skin, recklessly marking you from your neck to your collarbone.

Sunghoon’s hand drifted over the small of your back, sliding over to find their place on your ass squeezing the soft flesh with a lewd groan—an involuntary moan slipping past your lips at the feeling, tugging his hair.

Everything had your mind spiralling. Sunghoon’s lips were on your neck, his hand roaming every inch of your body.

You’d be lying if you said you didn't want more—craved more.

He trailed wet kisses along your chest, lifting your shirt to press a few more along your stomach, revelling in the way you leaned into his touch, your soft whines and sighs driving him up the wall.

You admired the way Sunghoon looked when he glanced up at you with his eyes, weaving your fingers through his already dishevelled hair, moving to his face and caressing his rosy cheeks.

Sunghoon’s fingers finally met the waistband of your shorts, lifting your hips up as quickly pulling the layer of clothing away, “fuck, you’re so beautiful.” He hissed, running his hands up and down your thighs.

His other hand brushed over your underwear, groaning at the sight. His finger traced over your wetness on the silky fabric, and you leaned into his touch, with the most beautiful moan he’d ever heard.

“Fuck baby, you’re so wet.” Sunghoon groans as his thumb taps at your clothed clit, clenching around nothing at the mention of the pet name he’d just given you.

He kissed your thigh, hooking his finger into your underwear and sliding the damp pink fabric down your legs, almost moaning at the sight of your dripping cunt.

Sunghoon lifts your leg and holds it over his shoulder, swiping his tongue over his thumb before meeting your clit and your head falls back, “Hoon, fuck.” You moaned, grabbing at your sheets.

“Tell me if you want me to stop, okay?” Sunghoon says softly, and you nod—watching him dip below your thighs, lips move to your clit and sucking on it gently.

You never fathomed anything would feel this good. Sure, you’d touched yourself a couple of times, but nothing could beat the feeling being eaten out.

You cry, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of his tongue dipping into your folds, letting his thumb swirl around your bundle of nerves while his tongue enters your core, moaning into your entrance.

The vibrations from his moans sent shockwaves up your spine, head tipping back in from the sensation with a broken cry, legs attempting to fly shut but he pushed them apart with a sound of disapproval.

His tongue swiped upwards, and his eyes fluttered closed at the taste of your arousal, reveling in the insanely beautiful moans that tumbled from your lips.

Your hands weaved into his hair, tugging the soft strands as you shamelessly bucked into his mouth with broken whimpers.

Sunghooon held you firmly against the sheets to stop you from squirming, unable to stay still from the feeling of his nose causing friction on your clit as he lapped at your pussy.

Your eyes peer over at him and the pornographic sight of him buried between your thighs makes your cheeks burn. When his hand moves from your thigh you don't think much of it, until you feel his fingers circle your entrance.

Sunghoon pulls away from you, just in time to watch your plump lips fall open when he easily slides his fingers into your dripping core.

“You have know idea how good you look baby.” He panted, plump lips covered in your arousal biting his lip at sight in front him, completely enamored by your fucked out expressions.

Sunghoon’s fingers curl inside of you and they brush over your sweet spot, your mouth opening in a broken moan.

“F-feels so good, Hoon” you mewl breathlessly, grabbing his free arm as you bucked into his fingers, pumping them into you at a perfect speed.

You cheeks flushed furiously at the sounds of his fingers fucking your sopping wet core, broken raspy moans leaving your chest as his lips pressed kisses to your overstimulated clit—your mind a scrambled mess.

All you could think about was the pleasure that was currently surging throughout your entire body, making your toes curl and your head dizzy. A few whines and broken moans was enough to tell Sunghoon you were close, furiously clenching around his fingers as you begged him not to stop.

“That’s it baby, come for me.” He coaxed, his voice raspy and breathy, moaning at the sight of his fingers easily slipping in and out of you.

Your body jerked forward and your hand flew to his arm, blunt nails digging into his skin as you let out a whimper, back arching as his name tumbled past your lips in high pitched moans.

You were almost embarrassed by how fast Sunghoon made you come, mind clouded and hazy as he continued pumping his fingers, your walls clenching around his digits as he fucked out your high.

He pulled away shortly after, fingers slipping out of your entrance and placing a gentle kiss to your inner thigh.

You watched the messy haired brunette suck his fingers into his mouth, eyes closed and moaning at the taste of you—before you leaned over, softly grabbing him by his shirt and pulling him to your mouth for a kiss, lightly tasting yourself on his tongue.

"So we both agree that this wasn't just practice, right?" He mutters against your lips and you laugh, still dazed and high from the aftermath of your orgasm.

"Yeah, I don't think I wanna do this with anyone else. You're my only option, Park." His smile grows and he pecks your lips again.

2K notes · View notes

sungvrhs · 2 months ago

Text

SWEET INHIBITIONS | PARK SUNGHOON

summary: you know what they say, never answer a call from your boss when you’re drunk off your mind—oh, and never tell him that he desperately needs to get laid.

word count: 6.4k

warnings (18+): smut. swearing. pet names (sweetheart, baby). alcohol. kissing. heavy petting. spanking. semi-public sex. rough sex. office sex. unprotected sex. light teasing. minor brat taming (?). slight dacryphilia.

MINORS DNI!!

A/N: been dying to do an office siren fic for the longest time, lol. and being a huge fan of ‘the devil wears prada’ this just had to be done.

People-watching was a secret pleasure.

When writer’s block struck or your motivation dipped, your gaze naturally wandered across the sea of Vogue employees—the editorial department, buzzing with energy, some typing furiously, others fighting off yawns as they cradled half-empty lattes.

It was a vibrant chaos, punctuated by the occasional sound of heels clacking or phones ringing.

For the past week, your unofficial subject of interest has been Audrey Klein, one of the junior beauty editors.

Every day at precisely 1:00 PM, Audrey would reapply her signature lipstick—Dior Addict 922, a sultry red that had headlined Vogue’s “Power Lips for Winter” feature last month.

She’d peer into her compact mirror with laser precision, tousle her bangs into submission, and sashay toward the pantry with the confidence of a supermodel strutting the red carpet.

Her heels echoed through the bullpen, catching a few glances like she anticipated. The cacophony of staff chatter and the steady hum of keyboards seemed to fade when she passed.

“She’s at it again,” Anton, your cubicle neighbor and the office gossip, murmured as he perched on the edge of your desk.

He nodded toward the pantry where Audrey now leaned against the counter, laughing at something your features editor, Park Sunghoon, had just said.

“Do you think he even notices her?”

Park Sunghoon was practically a Vogue institution. At a young age, he gracefully ascended to Features Editor after a meteoric rise from editorial assistant.

With his impeccable tailoring, razor-sharp instincts, and a résumé that included stints at L’Officiel and Harper’s Bazaar, Sunghoon embodied everything Vogue stood for: brilliance, beauty, and an aura of untouchable mystery.

But the real excitement around the office? Sunghoon was devastatingly handsome. Unfairly so, as Anton liked to say.

He was like a dreamboat from Ancient Greek mythology, beautiful eyebrows, perfectly aligned moles, hypnotic brown eyes that seemed to see right through you—and a smile that drove the young seasonal interns crazy, though that was a very rare occasion.

And yet, he was maddeningly aloof, entirely unbothered by the countless women who lingered a little too long at his desk.

“Dedication or desperation?” you mused, glancing at Audrey. “I’ll never understand why everyone worships him. He’s…exhausting.”

Anton snickered, twirling a pen effortlessly between his fingers. “He’s also fine.”

He stops, tapping the pen against his chin in pensive thought, “I guess his beauty is an apology for his scary personality.”

Anton was only partially right.

Sometimes, you hated the way your stomach would twist whenever he glanced at you during a meeting, willing away your unfathomable fantasies—because, at the end of the day, his looks couldn’t overcompensate for his personality.

Park Sunghoon terrified you.

Not in the obvious sense though. He wasn’t loud or explosive. Sunghoon didn’t need to raise his voice to make his point. He could slice through your confidence with a single look or a flat, unimpressed tone.

And yet, despite the intimidation, you couldn’t help yourself.

You were stubborn. Always had been. And that stubbornness meant that every time he ripped apart one of your articles—usually with a sigh and a biting comment—you couldn’t just sit there and take it.

You’d defend yourself, argue your points, even as your palms got clammy and your voice wavered just slightly under the weight of his simmering gaze.

“You’re insufferable,” Sunghoon said once, after a particularly heated debate over a piece you’d written about emerging fashion tech trends.

You’d stayed late in his office, going back and forth until he finally waved a hand and let you keep half your original draft.

“And you’re impossible,” you’d shot back, clutching your notes to your chest like a shield.

But you’d do it anyway. You’d rewrite your drafts, re-interview sources, and pull all-nighters just to meet his exacting standards. No matter how stubborn you were, the truth was you always gave in.

You did everything Park Sunghoon requested—eventually.

And maybe that was what frustrated you most. Because no matter how hard you fought, he always won in the end.

It wasn’t just you, either. Sunghoon had a way of getting under everyone’s skin. You’d seen seasoned journalists break under his criticism, storming out of meetings or retreating to the bathroom to cry.

He was unrelenting, unapologetic, and always right—or at least, he acted like he was.

Still, despite everything, you weren’t like the others. You didn’t quit. You didn’t crumble.

And that, in itself, was something of a miracle.

Sunghoon had once acknowledged it in his own infuriating way—after tearing apart one of your drafts and sending you back to rewrite for the third time, he’d leaned back in his chair and said, “You’re stubborn. But you’re good. That’s why you’re still here.”

It wasn’t a compliment—not really. But coming from him, it almost felt like one.

So yes, Park Sunghoon intimidated you. He frustrated you. Sometimes, you even despised him.

You grumbled, returning to the half-written article on your screen. “101 Tips to Get the Guy” wasn’t your finest pitch, but it had been approved begrudgingly.

Now you were stuck trying to make a glorified listicle feel worthy of Vogue.

“Oh- three o’clock,” Anton whispered knowingly before retreating to his own desk.

The sound of Sunghoon’s voice startled you.

“(Y/N),” Sunghoon greeted, appearing beside you. His tone was just as sharp, cutting through the din of the office.

He held a coffee cup—likely a black coffee, cold foam, his usual drink of choice—and a clipboard tucked under his arm.

“How’s the article coming?”

You turned, only to be met with the sharp lift of his brow. He adjusted his glasses, the motion precise and maddeningly deliberate.

“Don’t bother lying.” His voice was cold, laced with quiet disdain. “I’ve seen you staring at Audrey all day.”

“I wasn’t…” you trailed off, voice growing small as his brown eyes narrowed slightly, looking away as your face flushed.

“Sure,” he said dryly. “Bring me what you have. My office. Ten minutes.” Sunghoon didn’t wait for a response, striding back to his glass-walled corner office.

You winced, shrinking into a puddle while Anton flashed you a sympathetic smile. “Great,” you groaned under your breath, scrambling to pull your draft together.

Sunghoon’s office was as intimidating as the man himself: a sleek mix of polished mahogany and chrome, with towering shelves of art books, Claude Monet impressions and archival issues of Vogue.

He leaned against his desk, sleeves rolled to his elbows, looking like a dreamy editorial spread come to life.

But this somehow felt more reminiscent of a REM Nightmare.

“Let’s see it,” he said, motioning for you to hand him the printout of your article.

You stood awkwardly, clammy hands clasped behind your back as he scanned the first few paragraphs.

The silence was deafening.

Crashing a friend’s psychology class one time in college, could only tell you so much about body language.

Furrowed brows, then raised. Short, irritated huffs between each paragraph—the bottom line? It wasn’t looking good.

After a moment, he sighed—long and dramatic—before dragging a hand through his hair and shoving his glasses up into it.

Why did he have to look so hot when he was disappointed?

“This… reads like something out of Seventeen magazine.” Sunghoon dropped the pages onto his desk with a thud.

“Excuse me?” you said, trying to keep your voice even.

“This isn’t Vogue, sweetheart,” he continued, ignoring your indignation. “This is…fluff. A cute checklist for teenagers who are still figuring out contouring. We don’t do fluff here. We do substance. Style and sophistication. This? It’s juvenile.”

Your fists clenched at your sides. “With all due respect, Sunghoon, the concept was approved. I’m simply delivering exactly what was asked for.”

Sunghoon straightened, his sharp gaze pinning you to the spot. “And I’m asking you to elevate it. Vogue readers don’t need ‘101 Tips to Get the Guy.’ They need insight. Depth. Why not reframe it? Something like, ‘The Science of Seduction: Beauty Hacks Proven to Work.’”

“That’s…” You paused, begrudgingly acknowledging it was a better angle.

“It’s Vogue,” Sunghoon said simply, leaning back. “Rewrite it. And please, try not to bore me this time.” He waved you off like a rejected textile, dismissing your presence as he made a call.

The walk back to your desk felt much like a walk of shame, slamming your notebook down with a frustrated sigh.

“Rough?” Anton asked, biting into his sandwich.

“Rough is an understatement. Sunghoon called my article juvenile,” you hissed, collapsing into your chair.

Anton shrugged. “He’s probably just stressed y’know? Winter issues are always chaotic.”

“Yeah, but chaotic doesn’t give him the right to be a jerk,” you shot back. “Honestly, he just needs a good lay.”

Anton almost choked on his food, “with his face?” He smirked, “He probably gets more action than anyone here.”

“With his personality?” you countered, turning to his office.

Over the frosted partition, you could spot him pacing, grateful you weren’t the one being yelled at over the phone.

“Highly doubtful.” You continued.

Anton raised an eyebrow. “I…wouldn’t be so sure. And if I didn’t know better, I’d say you wouldn’t mind finding out yourself.”

Your glare could’ve melted steel. “Not even in my worst nightmares.”

But even as you said it, your mind wandered—briefly—to how Sunghoon had looked leaning against his desk, adjusting his tie with his sleeves rolled up, tearing your work to shreds.

Infuriating. And annoyingly hot.

But he was still an insufferable prick. So, you pushed the thought aside and focused on your screen, hammering out an article that might—just might—finally earn a fragment of his approval without the usual snide remarks.

The city sparkled under the glow of Manhattan’s nightlights, alive with the usual buzz of life roaring in the busy streets.

The day of work was finally over, and you, Anton, and Yunjin, fresh from the trenches of Vogue, stood on the corner of Fifth Avenue impatiently flagging down a cab in the gelid air.

Yunjin had her coat draped over her shoulders like a makeshift cape, exuding effortless elegance as always, while Anton clutched a bag of takeout fries he’d snagged from a food truck on the way out.

“Where are we going again?” you asked, voice slightly muffled by the scarf you were wrapping around your neck.

“Lustra,” Yunjin beamed, checking her phone with a practiced flick of her wrist. “Chic but not pretentious—and they make a mean Moscow mule that’ll change your life.”

Anton let out a low whistle, his breath slipping through the sharp hisses of cold air. “It better for the prices they charge. You sure they’ll let me in? I’m just a humble journalist. Not exactly a hot commodity like you two.”

“Oh please, Anton,” Yunjin scoffed, stepping gracefully into the cab that had finally pulled up. “You’re literally gorgeous, they’ll let you in.”

Lustra was everything Yunjin promised: dim lighting, plush velvet seating, and a DJ spinning music at just the right volume to feel alive without completely drowning conversation.

The three of you nestled into a corner booth, Moscow mules in hand, and dissolved into the kind of freewheeling, tipsy conversation that made you forget the stress the day had given you.

Yunjin, as usual, was glowing—slightly moving to the music’s beat. “Did I mention Scarlett and I hit six months last weekend?” she said, her tone humble yet smug.

“Congrats!” you said sincerely, raising your glass as the man beside you gave the beaming girl a congratulatory hug.

“Yeah, yeah, rub it in,” Anton groaned sarcastically. “Meanwhile, I went on a date with a girl who ditched me the second I started talking about my favorite filmmakers. Can you believe that? How do you date someone who doesn’t know who Coppola is?”

You paused, a bit confused, “wait, Francis or Sofia?”

“Sofia.” Anton simply states and Yunjin snorts into her drink, “Okay, very tasteful but you really need to leave the fanboying for like, fifth dates, Anton.”

“What about you, (Y/N)?” Anton asked, eyeing you amusingly, nudging your shoulder. “Any love life updates?”

You swirled the remnants of your drink. “Not much to report. Between deadlines and Sunghoon riding my ass, I barely have time for one-night stands,” you paused, downing your drink, “let alone a relationship.”

Anton chuckled. “Oh, here we go again. Another Sunghoon rant incoming.”

“No, seriously!” you insisted, waving your glass.

“That man is the bane of my existence. He’s so uptight, and his looks—fine, I’ll admit he’s hot—do not make up for his sour mood. And you know what he needs? A good one-night stand. Someone to take the edge off so he’ll stop ruining my life.”

Yunjin raised an eyebrow, her lipstick-stained glass hovering mid-air. “And who, pray tell, is this mysterious someone?” She shot a brief conspiring glance towards Anton who smirked.

“Yeah…do we know her?”

“Oh, shut up,” you shot back with a roll of your eyes, laughing. “It’s not me. I wouldn’t touch that man with a ten-foot pole.”

“Hmm,” Anton said, smirking. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

You were just about to retort when your phone buzzed on the table. The name on the screen making your stomach drop.

“Oh, no,” you groaned.

“What?” Yunjin asked, leaning in.

“It’s Sunghoon,” you said, swiping to answer. “I’ll be right back.” You sifted through the crowd, briefly apologizing for the noise as you stepped out.

Outside, the winter breeze bit at your skin as you stepped away from the club’s noise. Sunghoon’s voice finally came through the line, crisp and formal. “(Y/N), I need you to come into the office. Fifteen minutes.”

Your eyes widened as you slowly processed his words, holding back an incredulous laugh—at this hour?

“Are you serious?” you asked, irritation creeping into your tone.

“Very,” Sunghoon replied. “Unless, of course, you’re too busy… gallivanting at clubs.”

Oh you could taste his sarcasm on your tongue, and you would’ve let it slide if it wasn’t filled with such derision.

You huffed, crossing your arms. “Gallivanting? People with hobbies call it living, Sunghoon. You should try it sometime.”

His radio silence on the other end—or maybe the alcohol—suddenly gave you the courage to keep going.

“Screw it, you know what your problem is?” you said, words spilling out faster than your brain could process them.

“You’ve got a lot of pent-up anger, and you know what the cure is? Getting laid. Seriously, you’d be doing everyone a favor. Maybe then you wouldn’t be such a miserable ass all the time.”

“Excuse me?” he said, his voice colder than the air around you.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. You’re gorgeous, fine. But your personality? Yikes. That’s probably why women run the other way. Just…” you groaned, “let your inhibitions go for one day, Sunghoon.”

“Maybe then I wouldn’t be standing in the fucking cold because of you!”

With that, you hung up, your heart pounding.

You brushed the setting panic away as you stepped back inside.

You didn’t remember much after that. Brief flashes of hitting the dance floor, and sipping a couple more drinks flickered in your memory, until Anton took you home.

The next morning, you stumbled out of the elevator nursing a hangover that could bring a lesser mortal to their knees.

Sporting oversized sunglasses and clutching a venti black coffee, you mustered up weak smiles to your coworkers in greeting, before you slumped into your chair.

“I must say, those glasses go with your blazer quite well.” Anton greeted you with a knowing grin.

He handed you a Tylenol, and you pouted at him with a grateful smile.

“Rough night?”

“You could say that,” you muttered, sipping your coffee.

“Remind me to never drink like we’re in college again.” You groaned and your best friend chuckled, “but it was fun, our first night off since like, ever.”

“At least I could sleep in after that.” You whined, recalling your haphazard morning routine when you missed your alarm.

Anton leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Ooh, looks like someone else had a rough night, too.”

You followed his gaze to Sunghoon, who was pacing the office, angrily critiquing an intern's layout with the precision of a surgeon.

You watched the intern subtly dab a tissue at her eyes when he walked away, immediately restarting her layout.

“Uh-oh,” Anton whispered. “What’s his deal?”

Wait…

Your jaw dropped in horror, as the memories of your call flooded back, ducking under your cubicle.

Anton noticed immediately. “What’s wrong?”

You turned to him, eyes wide. “I think I know why he’s in such a bad mood…”

In a hushed, frantic whisper, you told him everything, recounting your drunken tirade from the night before.

Anton stared at you, his expression a mix of shock and glee—grin growing by every word and detail you dropped.

He placed his croissant down slowly, like he needed his hands free to fully process the chaos.

“You what?” he whispered, leaning in so close it felt like he was about to crawl into your lap.

“I told him to get laid!” you hissed, slumping further into your chair. “I basically said his entire personality is why women run screaming! And I said it while I was drunk in the middle of the street!”

Anton’s face twisted as he tried—and failed—to suppress his laughter. “Oh my God, (Y/N). You didn’t just burn the bridge. You nuked it.”

“Not helping, Ant!” you groaned, burying your face in your hands.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Anton paused, his grin so wide it looked painful.

“Let- let me get this straight. You—our beloved, mild-mannered coworker—called Park Sunghoon, the Ice King of Vogue, an uptight, sexually frustrated killjoy who needs to let loose. Do I have that right?”

“Essentially,” you muttered through your palms.

Anton sat back, folding his arms with a hum as if to fully savor the moment. “You realize you’re my hero now, right?”

“This isn’t funny!” you hissed, peeking over your sunglasses to make sure Sunghoon wasn’t within earshot. “He’s already in a bad mood. What if he fires me?”

Anton waved a dismissive hand. “Please. Sunghoon doesn’t fire people. He just makes their lives a living hell until they quit.”

“Great,” you deadpanned. “Super comforting.”

“Honestly, though,” Anton said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “he probably needed to hear it. You’re not wrong. He is an uptight control freak, and let’s be real, he could use a night of… recreational activities.” He let out a chuckle, stopping himself when he noticed your glare.

“You’re supposed to help me, not encourage my demise.”

Anton smirked. “Fine. Damage control time. First, don’t mention it unless he does. Second, be professional, act like nothing happened. And third…” He trailed off, eyes lighting up mischievously.

“What?” you asked warily.

He grinned, snapping his fingers and pointing out, “if he does bring it up, double down. Tell him you’re just looking out for his uh well-being.” He covered his mouth to avoid another giggle from slipping through.

You groaned, leaning back in your chair. “I’m doomed.”

At that moment, Sunghoon walked by your desk, his perfectly tailored suit somehow making him look even more intimidating.

He glanced in your direction—just a flicker of his sharp dismissing glare—before continuing down the hall.

Anton leaned closer. “That look was…scary.”

“His looks are always scary,” you muttered, though your stomach churned with nerves.

“No, this was different,” Anton stated. “This was like…‘I’m planning your funeral and choosing tasteful florals for the casket’ scary.”

Before you could respond, Yunjin appeared, holding a stack of mood boards and looking utterly unbothered. “Why do you two look like someone just died?”

“Oh, no one’s dead,” Anton said cheerfully. “But (Y/N)’s career might be.”

“Thanks, Anton,” you said dryly.

Yunjin raised an eyebrow. “What happened now?”

Anton wasted no time filling her in, embellishing just enough to make your drunken tirade sound like a full-on Shakespearean monologue.

Yunjin listened, her expression shifting from confusion to horror to amused admiration.

“Well,” Yunjin said finally, “at least you were honest.”

“That’s not helping!” you snapped.

She giggled with a hopeless shrug. “Look, if he hasn’t confronted you about it yet, maybe he’s letting it slide. Or maybe he secretly agrees with you.”

Anton snorted. “Yeah, because Sunghoon is definitely the kind of guy to take constructive criticism well.”

Yunjin looked thoughtful. “Or,” she said, a mischievous glint in her eye, “he’s planning to make you pay for it in the most passive-aggressive way possible.”

You groaned again, face sinking further into your hands. “I need a time machine.”

“Or a therapist,” Anton said.

“Or both,” Yunjin added.

The three of you fell silent as Sunghoon reappeared, this time striding toward his office with a stack of proofs in hand.

He didn’t look at you, but the tension in his jaw was impossible to miss.

“Yep,” Anton concluded. “He’s plotting your doom.”

You shot him a withering glare. “I hate you so much.”

“Don’t worry, (Y/N)” Anton said with a grin. “If he does fire you, I’ll buy you a consolation martini.”

“Because that’ll fix everything,” you muttered sarcastically as you mentally prepared for whatever wrath Sunghoon was surely about to unleash.

The office printer room was its own little world—tucked into the far corner of the writers floor, dimly lit, and constantly humming with the soft whir of machines churning out drafts, proofs, and pitches.

It was the perfect place to avoid people, particularly a certain brooding features editor who had taken up far too much real estate in your thoughts since last night.

You spent the morning successfully avoiding him, hiding back in your workspace and typing whatever nonsense to look busy, pretending to speak to coworkers when he passed by and making your coffee in the fashion department.

But, of course, you couldn’t evade him forever.

Every passing moment was spent trying to find the right words to say something when your worlds inevitably collided.

You tapped your foot impatiently as the printer sputtered and beeped, taking its sweet time with the twenty-page document you needed for your pitch meeting tomorrow.

You glanced at the door nervously, praying that fate wouldn’t bite you in the ass.

What would you even say? You’re sorry you told the truth? You’re sorry you got “unreasonably” upset that he called you off work?

“Six more pages,” you muttered under your breath, watching the slow machine spit out the pages like it was mocking you. “Just six more…”

The door creaked open, and for a brief, foolish moment, you thought about pretending you hadn’t heard it. But then you caught a whiff of cologne, that telltale wood scent with notes of vanilla and bergamot.

Only he would wear Tom Ford.

“(Y/N).” His voice was low, clipped, and far too close for comfort.

You forced yourself to look up. Sunghoon stood by the door, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a folder.

Even without the blazer, he looked effortlessly immaculate, his white shirt sculpted to perfection, his expression a familiar mask of indifference—except for the way his jaw ticked slightly when your eyes met.

“Mr. Park,” you greeted, your voice straining for neutrality.

You turned back to the printer, focusing on the flashing green light like your life depended on it.

Sunghoon took a few steps closer, the sound of his leather shoes on the tile making your pulse quicken.

“Avoiding me?” he asked casually, but there was an edge to his tone that made your stomach drop.

“No,” you quickly lied.

The printer suddenly shut off, and you cursed under your breath—grabbing whatever stack of papers remained.

You didn’t even bother aligning them, too focused on your escape. “Just busy. You know how it is.”

You turned to leave, but Sunghoon sidestepped, blocking your path. “Busy club hopping?” he asked, arching a brow.

Your face burned.

Of course he remembered.

“I had a night off, it was a personal evening” you said, clutching the papers to your chest like they could shield you from his piercing stare.

"Hmm. Personal," the tall male repeated, the word dripping with irony. "Interesting. Because I recall a very personal call from you last night.”

You cringed, wishing the ground would swallow you whole.

“Something about my... personality? Stressed. Uptight. And my supposed need for, what was it again? Oh, right-getting laid." Sunghoon’s voice was calm, but the restrained anger in his tone was palpable.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, your brain scrambling for something, anything, to say. “I—well, I was…drunk.”

“Clearly.” He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “Drunk enough to think that telling your boss at midnight to psychoanalyze his personal life was a good idea.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he wasn’t done.

“Drunk enough to suggest that I—how did you put it?—‘let my inhibitions go.’”

The way he said it made your face flush even hotter, and your thoughts briefly betrayed you, wondering what it would look like if he ever did.

“Look, I’m sorry,” you blurted out. “It was unprofessional, and it- it won’t happen again.”

Sunghoon tilted his head slightly, studying you with an intensity that made your breath hitch.

“You’re right,” he said after a moment.

“It was unprofessional. And reckless. And frankly…” He leaned in, just enough to make you feel the heat of his presence. “…you’re lucky I don’t have HR on speed dial.”

Your heart was pounding now, and you couldn’t tell if it was from fear, embarrassment, or the undeniable air crackling between you.

“I said I’m sorry,” you said, your voice coming out softer, more desperate than you intended. “I shouldn’t have said—any of that.”

Sunghoon didn’t respond immediately. He simply stepped closer, gaze locked on yours, unreadable and unrelenting.

“Sorry doesn’t fix it, sweetheart.” he said, his voice low and almost dangerous.

“You don’t just…” he trailed off, his eyes dragging over you slowly. “Get to say whatever you want and walk away.”

You stepped back again, only to feel the cool, unyielding surface of the printer against your back.

He was close now—too close. The scent of his cologne made your head spin, and you couldn’t tell if it was the lingering hangover or his intense presence.

“I wasn’t trying to—” you stammered, your throat dry. “I didn’t mean—”

“Didn’t mean what?” Sunghoon interrupted feigning confusion, his hands braced on the machine on either side of you, trapping you in.

“Didn’t mean to call me uptight? Didn’t mean to tell me I needed to get laid?” His tone was sharp, but his gaze softened ever so slightly, his lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smirk.

Your heart was hammering against your ribcage, and you hated how your breath hitched as his face inched closer.

The atmosphere between you was suffocating, the air charged and stifling all at once.

You couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe.

“I—I was drunk,” you reasoned again, your voice barely audible.

“And yet,” Sunghoon murmured, leaning down slightly, his dark eyes boring into yours, “you said it. You think I don’t know what you meant?”

You could feel the faintest brush of his breath on your skin as he bridged the thinning gap. Your knees felt weak, and your grip on the papers loosened slightly.

You turned your head, trying to look anywhere but at him, but he reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against your chin, tilting your face back toward him.

“Look at me,” Sunghoon said, his voice quieter now, almost a command, but it wasn’t harsh—it was soft, almost…intimate.

You obeyed, your eyes flickering to his, and that was your mistake.

His gaze flicked down briefly to your lips, and your breath caught as his face drew closer, his lips just inches from yours.

The tension was unbearable at his point. Your chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, your pulse roaring in your ears.

Every logical part of your brain screamed at you to stop, to say something, to step away. But you couldn’t.

And then, before you could think it through—before you could stop yourself—you surged forward, crashing your lips against his.

The stack of papers in your hand fell to the floor in a forgotten mess as your hands reached up instinctively, clutching the fabric of his well pressed shirt.

He groaned against your lips, his voice rough and full of something you couldn't quite name.

For a second—a fraction of a second—you thought Sunghoon might pull away, but then his hands were on your waist, pulling you flush against him, and the kiss deepened.

It was everything you didn’t know you needed—hot, consuming, and utterly intoxicating. The taste of espresso and something uniquely him lingered on your tongue as his fingers tightened around your waist, anchoring you to the moment.

You only briefly pulled back, gasping for air, before Sunghoon’s lips chased yours again, kissing you with a force that almost made your knees buckle.

It was frantic, needy and messy in a way that came from too much tension snapping at once.

Your heart threatened to beat out of your chest as your hands rushed for his buttons, each one revealing a much more intimate vision of him only the naive interns could dream of.

Your hands landed on his chest as he lips grazed along your jaw, planting kisses on your neck that made you fall back in breathy sighs.

They traveled up his neck and into his soft dark strands, moaning softly as he skillfully unbuttoned your blouse, palming your breasts over your lace bra hungrily.

Without any warning you were quickly spun around, and bent over the printer, a soft gasp escaping your tingling lips at the cool contrast of the machine on your hot skin.

“Is this what you meant?” He asked, hating the way your heart skipped at the sound of his belt unbuckling behind you.

His hand crept up your skirt, sending shivers up your spine as he hooked his fingers around the band of your panties, tugging them down without care.

You felt your cheeks flush at the cool air hitting your glistening cunt, practically aching for him.

“Hmm?” He mused, awaiting an answer before landing a sharp, yet pleasurable smack on your ass.

The sound of your gasp echoed off the walls, gripping the machine as you anchored yourself, swallowing a choked moan.

You felt the heat of him pressing against your entrance, the head of his cock teasing your sensitive clit. You let out a breathy moan, trying to rock yourself backwards to feel him inside you.

Sunghoon’s hand pressed firmly on your back, holding you in place with tut. You felt another smack on your reddening skin, holding back a whimper.

“I need you to answer me, sweetheart,” he instructed, “is this what you wanted?”

You nodded, begging he would take the hint.

Of course he didn't, continuing to tease the both of you as his hand caressed your backside, his lips planting kisses across your exposed skin.

When you didn't say anything else Sunghoon spanked you once again, a louder whimper escaping your mouth this time.

"I can’t hear you," he instructed, a smirk tugging his lips, "is this what you wanted?"

"Yes! Fuck." You rushed, with desperate cries.

Without a moment of hesitation his cock slid inside of you, both of you lowly moaning in pleasure.

You had never felt so good in your life.

His hand found its place on your waist, gripping tight as he started a rhythm, bottom lip slipping between your teeth as you willed yourself not to moan.

The last thing you needed was for the whole office leaning their ear against the printing room door in scandalous curiosity.

“Don’t make a sound, ‘hear me?” He instructed, with every slow thrust, inching deeper as you whimpered in response, nodding hastily.

"That's it, sweetheart," he praised, his cock meticulously stretching you out with every passing second, "So fucking tight.."

You shudder under his tight grasp, swallowing a few moans as he slowly bottoms out into you with every drag, arching into him as he bites his lip at the pornographic sight.

“You take me so well, don’t you?” He groaned, practically sensing the cocky smirk on his lips as he reveled in your sweet whimpers.

He was such a prick.

“You’re— you’re a— fuck.” you cry, biting your lip to stifle your moans.

Sunghoon leaned over, his groans tickling the shell of your ear like he wanted you to break, “I’m a what, baby?”

Your brain was too foggy to form a coherent sentence, irritation a mere afterthought as he hit every spot, his cock filling you perfectly. You couldn't even remember the last time someone fucked you so full.

So much for declaring that you wouldn’t even touch Sunghoon with a ten foot pole.

You let your guard down for a few seconds before his hips experimentally snapped into you, lewd moans tumbling past your lips before his hand instantly clamped your mouth.

“You never listen, do you (Y/N)?” Sunghoon grunts, grabbing your hips and slamming himself into you, his cock reaching even more profound places as you cry out, desperate moans muffled by his palm.

His brows furrow, low groans escaping his lips, “so fucking stubborn.”

Your hands search for any surface to grip onto, surging forward from the sheer force of his hips snapping into you, gasps drowned into his palm.

“Walking around challenging my authority?”

You couldn’t respond, pretty eyes rolling to the back of your head, eyes fluttering shut as he pounded into you, making sure to hit the most pleasurable spots inside you.

“Mr Park? Are you in here?” a voice called through the door, loud enough to cut through the haze of everything.

You froze, rising up in alarm before he pushed you down. Sunghoon’s jaw clenched, indifferent to the reality of the situation that teetered on the lines of danger.

“Yes,” he called back, his voice calm and steady, yet still rutting into you.

His grip finally left from your side, instead slipping a hand between your thighs and circling over your sensitive clit, jolting as your muffled cries of pure ecstasy were heard by him and no one else.

The voice on the other side hesitated, then added, “I have the updated layouts you asked for.”

Your nails dug into the skin of your palms, fighting the urge to scream as he hitled himself deeply, making a mess of you as he fucked into you over, and over again.

You were damn near the cusp of falling apart from everything, yet the fact that he had the audacity to be so calm and collected while stretching you out, sent you over the edge.

“Leave them on my desk,” Sunghoon replied coolly, not even glancing toward the door.

The footsteps retreated, and you closed your eyes in sheer relief. You were a teary mess now, crying at the dizzying sensation of fingers on you, velvety walls tightly hugging him as his thrusts picked up.

“You crying for me, princess?” He moans, and the soft delivery of his words makes your cunt flutter around him.

He finally moves his hand away from your mouth, as if challenging you to make a sound.

“Sunghoon, fuck.” You cry, in a broken whisper, clenching around him uncontrollably as he tries to hold you still.

“I know baby, I know.” He cooed, savoring the way your legs shaked, pupils blown wide with lust as his pistoned in and out of you so easily.

With his fingers, he continued his assault, working your clit in tight circles as your hips bucked wildly. He groaned, feeling your walls squeezing him, threatening to bring him over the edge.

But he wouldn't cum before you.

Sunghoon’s lips ghosted over your ear, his soft guttural moans shooting straight to your core, “such a pretty mess for me, aren’t you?” his lips curled into a grin as you finally tipped over the edge.

A soft, yet long moan slipped was quickly muffled by his hand as he fucked you through it, your toes curling and thighs quivering.

White hot pleasure washed over you like a tidal wave, drowning you in sheer bliss. But just when it was starting to subside, he was slamming his cock into you.

The sound of his skin meeting yours was like music, and his fingers returned to your clit, sending you spiraling back into ecstasy.

Your weak cries of pleasure only seemed to encourage him more.

Sunghoon moaned, a beautiful sound leaving him as his cock twitched. With a few hard erratic thrusts, he came, filling you up completely, not wasting a single drop.

He groaned softly, riding out your highs before you whimpered at the feeling of him slipping out of you, both panting.

The silence between the two of you was mutual as you caught your breaths. Sunghoon leaned down, sliding your panties back up and pressing a soft kiss on your asscheek.

It was infuriating to admit that, just as good as he was with everything else, he was really good at fucking.

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sungvrhs · 2 months ago

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Can i get the cockwarming but sunghoon ver🙁

⚠︎ smut. mdni. cockwarming, brief hint of somno at the very end.

sunghoon who loves to have you wrapped around him at all times, especially because you get so damn needy when he doesn't move for too long. he think you're so adorable laying on his chest, whining and begging in his ear to please move.

he's such a lover boy, so wanting to feel you at all times is a no brainer, but he can be a tease too, so it's perfect for him.

even worse because he can be so patient when he wants to, he basically just likes to drive you mad without having to break a single sweat.

it's a punishment for when you're being bratty and not listening to what he tells you to do, but in a way, it's also a reward.

like when at the end of the night, you're all sore and spent from all the orgasms sunghoon got out of you. you're sweaty, melted to a pool underneath him on his own bed, still catching your breath as he cleans you up carefully.

once he's done, he lays right behind you, one arm around your waist, and guides his softening cock inside you once again. he shushes your initial complaint with a sweet kiss, massaging your hip with his thumb slowly as you get used to the feeling of him inside you.

even though you know how he loves to use cockwarming as a punishment, you can't deny how nice and intimate it feels when you're on the brink of sleep and with no energy left, especially after all the bending you around and rough treatment from earlier.

and also, usually it just means one thing: some very lazy, sloppy morning sex once you two (or just one of you, really) wake up.

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sungvrhs · 2 months ago

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Idk but i feel like sunghoon would be big on overstim and pushing each other's limits. i can totally imagine him using a vibrator on his partner/having a vibrator used on him until tears run

this is literally so sub x sub and i…. i started foaming at the mouth

imagine wanting to treat sunghoon for his birthday since he’s always been so good to you, always taking care of you in and out the bed.

but the moment you propose to him that you want to take care of him instead, he refuses. you're too precious- he needs to savor you and treat you like the angel you are. but you don't take no for an answer; you only agree to let him treat you if he also lets you treat him.

he didn't understand you at first, but now he does.

"ahh..." sunghoon hisses, already overstimmed cock sliding into your warm entrance for the first time. he's already came twice from your hands alone with your bullet vibrator cupping against the veins of his cock.

you're not any better, squirming underneath him as you can feel every single twitch from his cock as he's beginning to bottom out in you. "w-wait!" you yelp, a useless hand coming to his lower stomach in a weak attempt to push him away, but sunghoon is too lost to comprehend your pulsating cunt around him.

"oh fuck, wh- oh god," he pants, his entire body enveloping yours as he buries his face into your neck. his lips pressed against your skin, intending to leave bruising hot kisses but he feels like he's going mad, his hips not daring to move as he closes his eyes to try and restrain himself.

but what a wrong move that was. he feels even more euphoric, his senses overloading with you, you, you, and your cunt spasming on his cock solely from friction and his body heat, you're cumming for the nth time that night.

"no, no no," sunghoon whines, his hips unintentionally thrusting deeper into you, balls meeting your ass into a wet squelch, thanks to your slick from leaking down your entrance. "shhiiitt," he gasps, teeth biting into your shoulder to restrain his moans but you don't miss the sudden droplets hitting your skin that you can only assume his tears.

"h-hey.." you try your best to soothe but you're also in no state to talk since you're not faring any better, your hand coming up to play with his hair but it only makes his hips stutter more, feeling your nails in his scalp.

you cry out, sunghoon's grinding slowly turning into short thrusts that has his pubic bone hitting your clit. "cum, cum again, pleaseee," he whines again, lazy and weak hand coming in between your bodies as he goes to rub circles on your overly sensitive bud.

"no! wait- i-i can't!" you stutter out, eyes wide as you watch the man above you, focused on where the two of you are conjoined. his brows are furrowed, lips wet from his tongue poking out in concentration, fresh tears also staining his porcelain skin.

"you will. need to feel you around me again..." he pants, thrusts beginning to become meaner but you can tell he's losing his resolve again, his moans becoming more whinier. "have to.. have to keep g-going... until it hurts."

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sungvrhs · 2 months ago

Text

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

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sungvrhs · 2 months ago

Text

FROSTBITE p.sh

synopsis ⤑ Sunghoon’s injury was comparable to the end of the world, at least for him it was. Having not been cleared in time to start practice with his team, Sunghoon is stuck practicing alone after hours, except he's not alone. Forced to share the rink with the practicing figure skaters was his version of hell, especially when one of them couldn't shut up about the fact that the world was their oyster and taking a positive look on life was the only way to live? How could he be positive when the only thing that made him happy was taken away from him. She had felt like frostbite sinking into his skin. Frostbite was quick, it stung and then it killed before you could even see it coming.

pairings ⤑ hockey player!sunghoon x figure skater!reader word count ⤑ 25k

warnings ⤑ smut, mentions of injury, grumpy x sunshine, ft. Ruka from baby monster, angst, probably more I'm missing...reader is heavily inspired by my yapping baby @beomiracles (serene).

crossing the line masterlist here.

Prologue.

Sunghoon walked into the rink like a fallen prince returning to a ruined kingdom.

The cold welcomed him. Not with open arms, but with teeth. It bit through the seams of his hoodie, gnawed at the edges of his breath, and curled around the ache in his knee like a reminder. The air here was always sharp, always clean, always brimming with the promise of speed and sweat and glory. But tonight, it only felt hollow. Like an echo of the past, stretched thin over the bones of now. His blades scraped against the ice with a sound that used to thrill him. Now it felt surgical, sterile, like a scalpel carving open the truth he couldn’t avoid.

He wasn’t on the team. Not really. Not anymore. Not while he recovered. And to Sunghoon, that meant the end of the world. Not playing hockey was his apocalypse. Jay said he needed time. Coach Bennett had nodded, voice clipped and clinical, masking the decision behind phrases like “risk mitigation” and “long-term recovery.” But Sunghoon knew what it meant: they didn’t trust his body, and maybe just maybe they didn’t trust him. What a load of bullshit. Sunghoon could play through the pain. He’s done it before. He wasn’t one to shy away from a little leg injury. Who cares, he’d push through. That’s what real pros did and Sunghoon would be a real pro one day.

He clenched his jaw as the thought burned through him. His knee twinged again, and he tried not to limp, tried to walk like it didn’t hurt, tried to be the player he used to be. Every movement felt like a performance for an audience that had already left the theater. And then he heard it. A laugh. Light and lilted, drifting through the rink like glitter in a snow globe. He didn’t need to turn to know who it belonged to.

The figure skaters were still here. Of course they were. Sunghoon let out a groan, loud enough to be heard, sharp enough to cut. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered. She was the worst of them. Not in talent, but in spirit. Always smiling, always talking like life was some golden sunrise just waiting to be kissed. She had that annoying, relentless optimism, the kind that made Sunghoon’s blood itch. It wasn't just naive — it was offensive. Especially to someone like him, whose world had cracked open and swallowed him whole. How can someone look at the world and life and all that it offers and be happy about that? Life chewed you up and spit you out like old gum whenever it had the chance.

She was all light. He was the void that light avoided. Still, she twirled like the world had never wronged her. Every glide, every spin, every leap across the ice was effortless. She was a poem written in motion. And somehow, her presence made the silence of his isolation scream louder. He dragged a puck across the rink, his stick slicing through the quiet like a blade. The sound was dull, defeated. She didn’t leave. Of course not. She was too kind or too stubborn or too oblivious to understand that he didn’t want to share this place. Not with anyone. Especially not her. She skated past, the breeze of her motion catching his hoodie, lifting it for a fraction of a second. She left behind a sentence as light as her blades: “Pretty night, huh? Ice looks good.”

Sunghoon didn’t respond.

Not because he hadn’t heard, but because he had. Her voice sank beneath his skin like snowmelt — cold, but oddly soft. He hated that about her. Hated how she turned everything into beauty. How she made it look easy. But figure skaters didn’t know what it was to fall and stay broken. They didn’t know what it was to wake every day and feel your identity splinter under your ribs. They didn’t know how it felt to sit in the stands while your teammates practiced without you. Laughed without you. Moved on without you.

He looked at her then, really looked. And for a moment, he thought of frostbite.

Not because she was cold, but because she was warm — the kind of warm you feel right before the skin goes numb. Right before the blood stops moving. Right before the damage sets in. She had felt like that from the start. Quick. Unexpected. Beautiful.

And by the time he noticed her, by the time he realized she was changing something in him, it was already too late.

After.

Sunghoon didn’t look at you again. Not when you moved like a falling star tracing soft-burning arcs in a frozen sky. Not when your laughter spilled into the rafters, bright as windchimes caught in a spring storm. Not even when you passed close enough for your perfume, warm citrus and something he couldn’t name to slip beneath his guard and settle in his lungs like memory. He focused instead on his own rhythm. On fury and fire, on the merciless repetition of sprints. Forward, brake. Backward, pivot. Turn. Drive. His blades carved the ice with the same fury that burned behind his eyes, every motion a prayer to reclaim what he’d lost.

Jay said he wasn’t ready. Coach Bennett nodded like a verdict had been passed, and just like that, his kingdom of ice and glory had crumbled beneath him. Now, he ran drills alone in the shadow-hours, a ghost trying to resurrect himself one sharp breath at a time. This was supposed to be penance. Precision. Control. But then there was you.

You weren’t supposed to be here. Not really. Not like that. Not with your reckless grace and your endless optimism. You spun where he sprinted. You leapt where he lunged. And you smiled like life hadn’t carved a hole in your chest and left you breathless in the wreckage. You were a contradiction. Light in a place he’d turned dark on purpose.

Still, he moved around you. Like a storm steering around a cathedral. Like a soldier tiptoeing through a garden he didn’t believe in. Until you skated into his path. He didn’t see you at first, he was locked in the repetition, the heartbeat-thunder of his blades slicing the world into before and after. But then, there you were, gliding in without hesitation, your body all poetry and provocation.

Sunghoon veered, instinct sharp and immediate. His edge caught. Balance tipped. His world lurched and for one heart-clenching second, he was weightless and helpless and human. He caught himself on the boards with a sharp breath, pain flashing down his leg like a warning flare. Behind him, your voice rose, bright, amused, infuriating.

“That was a triple lutz of fury. You okay, Mr. Thundercloud?” He turned slowly, every muscle tight with the effort not to snap.

“This is a hockey rink,” he bit out, eyes dark, voice heavy with disdain. “Not a ballerina recital.”

You just grinned, like you hadn’t heard the venom — or worse, didn’t care. “It’s called figure skating,” you replied, the words wrapped in sunlight and sarcasm. “But I’ll let the insult slide… this time.” He stared at you for a beat too long. You were smiling. Like you’d won something. Like this was a game and he was your opponent. And for the briefest, strangest moment, he forgot how to breathe.

Then he scoffed under his breath, muttered something bitter and small, and pushed off again away from your voice, your grin, your golden defiance. But your laughter followed him across the ice, light as snowfall, impossible to ignore. He skated harder. Faster. Angry at the sound. Angrier at the way it stayed. You were the flame he never meant to touch. But you’d already left blisters behind.

The house loomed before him, golden-lit and quiet in the blue hush of evening. Sunghoon stepped across the threshold like a soldier returning from war, though the battlefield had only been frozen water and a girl who laughed like she belonged to the light. He limped. Not dramatically he would never allow that but enough that each step sent sparks of fire through his knee. His leg was screaming, a symphony of torn sinew and stubborn pride. He didn’t slow. Wouldn’t. Not for pain. Not for anyone.

The frat house was unusually still for a Friday night. No bass shaking the walls. No shouted dares or the sound of someone racing through the halls with a fire extinguisher again. Just a soft, echoing quiet that pressed against the walls like an old quilt — threadbare, familiar. Heeseung was probably with his girlfriend, tangled up in the kind of love that softened even his sharpest sarcasm. And Jake, well, Jake had been quieter lately too. Ever since his girlfriend’s due date began casting long shadows across his smile. The house had learned to tiptoe around anticipation, around the hush of something sacred arriving.

Sometimes Jay played his guitar in the evenings, those bittersweet chords bleeding down the stairs like spilled wine. But tonight, there was no music. Only the faint crackle of something cooking and the rhythmic clink of a wooden spoon against a pot. Sunghoon followed the scent to the kitchen, where Jay stood at the stove in a hoodie and sweatpants, sleeves pushed to his elbows, stirring something that smelled warm and nostalgic, tomato sauce, maybe. Garlic. Something close to comfort.

Jay glanced up, eyes flicking to the limp before Sunghoon could hide it. “You okay?” he asked, brow creasing. “You’re pushing too hard again. You need to slow down.”

Sunghoon’s jaw clenched. The words hit like cold water, shocking, unwelcome. He dropped his stick against the wall with a dull thunk, the sound far too final. “I don’t need your concern,” he snapped, voice low, bitter. “And I sure as hell don’t need advice from the guy who kicked me off the team.”

Jay’s stirring paused. The kitchen seemed to hold its breath. “You weren’t kicked off,” Jay said carefully, like choosing the wrong word might light a fuse. “It’s a recovery period. You know that. It’s just protocol—”

“Protocol?” Sunghoon echoed, a scoff splitting the word in two. “You think I care what the official term is? You benched me, Jay. You and Coach. And now you want to play big brother?” Jay turned fully now, eyes steady but tired. “It’s not about playing anything. I care, Sunghoon. That’s why we’re doing this. You’re not ready yet.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“Someone has to.”

There it was. The truth, bare and blunt. And it cracked something in Sunghoon, something already splintered beneath the surface. He stepped back, breath short, throat tight with all the things he didn’t want to admit: that the rink didn’t feel the same, that he wasn’t sure he’d ever skate like he used to, that you haunted the corners of his mind like a flame that refused to go out. He turned on his heel, ignoring the flare of pain that shot up his leg. “Whatever. Just—keep your advice to yourself.”

And then he was out of the kitchen, storming up the stairs two at a time like he could leave the conversation behind if he moved fast enough. The pain chased him anyway. At the top of the landing, he paused, one hand on the railing, the other clenched into a fist. The house was silent again. Jay hadn’t followed. The scent of sauce still lingered, but it no longer smelled like comfort. It smelled like a life that was continuing without him.

He exhaled shakily. And behind his eyes, he saw the rink. Saw you. Spinning like the world was made of light. Smiling like you’d never been broken. He hated that it stayed with him. Hated it more that he wanted it to.

Your dorm room was warm in the way a lived-in space should be. Golden light pooled against the far wall like honey, slanting through the blinds in stripes, soft and sleepy. The hum of a quiet Friday night filtered in through the window, distant laughter, footsteps echoing down the hall, the occasional door creak or hallway chatter swallowed by plaster walls.

Ruka was where she always was at this hour, curled up at her desk like a monk in silent study, her headphones draped loosely around her neck, textbooks spread like sacred offerings across the surface. She barely glanced up when you opened the door, nose buried in something with a terrifying title, highlighter held like a dagger mid-stroke. You didn’t mind.

The two of you weren’t close, not in the way girls braided hair and whispered secrets into pillows at three in the morning. But there was a quiet kind of companionship in coexisting. She listened. You filled the air. She was younger than you, ran with a different crowd.

As always, you started talking. Words spilled from your mouth like marbles from an upturned jar, clattering over every thought you hadn’t had time to process. You flopped onto your bed and kicked off your shoes, legs hanging over the side like punctuation. “I swear the rink was cursed today. I could feel it in the air — like the ghosts of last season were judging me. And someone — won’t name names — almost ran me over. Again. Do I have a sign on my back that says ‘human speed bump’? Honestly, it’s impressive how fast he moves for someone with a busted knee. Like, hello? Take a nap, eat a granola bar, embrace mortality or something—”

You paused to take a breath, dragging your fingers through your hair. “Anyway,” you continued, flopping dramatically onto your back, staring up at the ceiling as if it held answers. “I survived. Mostly. Though Park Sunghoon nearly gave me frostbite with just a look. I swear, I’ve never seen someone skate like they’re mad at God.” That was when Ruka looked up.

It was subtle — a tilt of the head, a flicker of curiosity beneath her steady gaze. But you caught it. The way her highlighter froze mid-air. The way one perfectly arched brow quirked in delicate, deliberate motion. “Wait,” she said slowly, voice soft but edged with intrigue. “Park Sunghoon?”

You blinked, propping yourself up on your elbows. “Yeah?”

“The hockey player?”

You nodded, slower this time, as if each motion unlocked some hidden meaning. A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, so rare and quiet it felt like catching a butterfly mid-flight. “He’s really cute,” she said simply. “I kind of have a crush on him.” And just like that, the air shifted.

Not drastically, no thunderclap, no sudden gust, but in the way a still lake ripples when someone tosses a stone. The world tilted a few degrees. You stared at her. Not out of disbelief, but in the strange, dissonant surprise that came from hearing someone else say his name with softness instead of frustration. Because you had only ever spoken of Sunghoon with fire in your voice. Sharp-edged. Wry. Annoyed, mostly.

But Ruka’s words were wrapped in ribbon. Gentle. Blushing. You laughed, more to yourself than at her. “Well, that makes one of us.”

She looked at you then, really looked, head tilted, eyes curious. “You don’t think he’s cute?” You hesitated. The thing was… you didn’t know. Not really. He was all sharp lines and silent storms, the kind of boy who walked like he didn’t belong to the earth. Beautiful, maybe, but in the way wolves were, wild, cold, untouchable.

“I think,” you said finally, drawing each word like a thread between your fingers, “he’s complicated.”

Ruka smiled again, turning back to her textbook with a knowing kind of grace. “Those usually are.” And just like that, the moment passed. She was back to her quiet, and you were left staring at the ceiling again, wondering when his name had started tasting different in your mouth. Like something that might linger. Like something that might matter.

Monday morning clung to the world like a yawn that never quite finished. The sky was that dreamy kind of blue, the color of notebook margins and sleepy eyes, and you were already two sips into your iced coffee, pretending it had magical properties. Your lecture hall buzzed softly with life, pages flipping, keyboards clacking, the distant groan of someone remembering they had a quiz. You sank into your seat and opened your laptop, but your fingers hovered above the keys like dancers unsure of the next step. Your mind? Miles away. Lost somewhere between calculus and chaos.

“Okay,” you whispered to yourself, drawing shapes in the condensation on your cup. “Finals are coming. Sure. Death approaches in a syllabus-shaped cloak. But we’re gonna be fine. We’ve survived worse. Like that chem lab last semester. Or the time you accidentally locked yourself in the practice rink because you thought the red button opened the door. That was fun.” You laughed a little to yourself, a soft musical thing, then added quietly, “Sharing a rink with Park Sunghoon? Pfft. Easy. He’s just one very grumpy man with a stick. It’s basically like living with a thunderstorm. Moody, loud, and occasionally electric — but you bring an umbrella and move on.”

You told yourself this because optimism was your armor. Because the world was already heavy enough, and if you didn’t keep spinning, you feared you’d sink. And besides, you liked spinning. You liked believing that everything, in its own way, would bloom eventually. Your fingers tapped absent-mindedly on your notebook. You were mid-thought — something about figuring out a study schedule, maybe, with your chin resting in your hand, your eyes soft and unfocused, when the air in the room shifted.

Louder voices broke through the usual murmur like a crack of thunder across calm skies. You blinked, sat up straighter. At the back of the lecture hall, four silhouettes gathered in a tight circle. You recognized them instantly. Jay’s dark hair, Jake’s easy posture, Heeseung’s lazy slouch. And Sunghoon, standing like a blade half-drawn from its sheath, tension coiled in every muscle. Their voices weren’t loud loud, but they carried.

“I told you, I’m fine,” Sunghoon bit out, arms crossed like a shield. “You’re treating me like I’ve lost a leg.” Jay said something quieter — calmer — but you couldn’t make out the words. Sunghoon shook his head, jaw clenched.

“I’m not some kid who needs babysitting. I could be out there with you. But instead? I’m stuck skating in circles with the goddamn figure skaters.” The words hit like a slap. No warning. No mercy. You blinked once. Twice. You looked down at your notebook, at the spirals you’d been doodling that suddenly looked like a fall. Like something unraveling.

You weren’t surprised, not really. Not when you’d seen the anger in his shoulders, the way he moved like something had been carved out of him. Grief in motion. Frustration dressed in skates and scowls. Still, hearing it out loud… hurt. Just a little. Like biting into something sweet and finding the bitter underneath.

You forced a smile. Told yourself, He’s just mad. Just hurting. And people in pain say things they don’t mean. You knew that. You’d always known that. So you tucked the ache somewhere deep, beneath the layers of warmth you wrapped around your heart every day. You held your chin a little higher. Kept the sunshine burning in your chest even when the clouds gathered.

Because that’s what you did. You stayed soft. You stayed bright. Even when the world gave you every reason not to. You glanced back at them one more time, just long enough to catch the storm still brewing in his eyes. Then you turned away. And smiled again. Even though this one didn’t quite reach your eyes.

The late afternoon folded over the campus like a well-worn quilt, stitched in gold and quiet. Shadows stretched long and slow across the sidewalks, and the sky blushed softly, unsure whether it wanted to be day or night. You walked back to your dorm with your headphones on but no music playing, just the hush of your own thoughts echoing in the space between footsteps and fading sunlight.

The building was its usual self: scuffed floors, sleepy corridors, the scent of someone's attempt at instant noodles clinging to the stairwell air. You climbed the steps like you always did, counting them beneath your breath like charms.

One, two, three, four—everything will be fine.

Five, six, seven—you're stronger than this.

Eight, nine—just lace your skates and keep moving.

Your key clicked into the lock, the door creaked open, and — Silence. Stillness, not unfamiliar, but… different. Ruka’s side of the room sat in its usual state of meticulous calm. Bed made like a hotel sheet ad, her books aligned like soldiers on her desk. But the chair was empty. Her headphones were gone. Her little desk lamp, usually the only star in your shared little galaxy was off. Your brows furrowed. She wasn’t the type to vanish without a trace. She was quiet, sure. Steady as a heartbeat. But dependable as gravity. On Saturdays, she studied. With her color-coded notes and an herbal tea steaming gently beside her elbow. A ritual. A rhythm.

You dropped your bag onto your bed and stood for a moment, frozen between thoughts. The silence was thick, pressing at your ears like water, and you almost called out her name, just to hear a sound bounce back. But you didn’t. You let it go. People have lives. Maybe she went out. Maybe someone swept her into a spontaneous adventure, a brief rebellion against her usual constellations. Maybe she just needed to breathe outside these four walls. You told yourself all of this, gently, while pulling open your bottom drawer.

Inside, your skates gleamed dully in the late-day light, blades catching the edge of dusk. You ran your fingers over the laces, the leather warm from where your dreams lived inside them. Then you pulled out your duffel, began packing with practiced hands, pads, gloves, that ridiculous fleece-lined jacket you never actually wore but always brought just in case. Each item folded like a promise. Each zipper, a punctuation mark. Each movement, a ritual. This is how we prepare. This is how we carry on.

You glanced again at Ruka’s desk as you slung the bag over your shoulder, something quiet fluttering in your chest. Not quite worry, not quite longing. Just the awareness that something familiar had gone just a little bit strange.

You left the dorm with that feeling trailing behind you like a thread, caught in the breeze of your footsteps. Outside, the sky was starting to darken. Time to skate. Time to shine.

Even if someone else’s words still echoed like bruises in the back of your mind.

The rink was a cathedral of echoes when you arrived, cold light spilling from the overheads like moonlight dragged down to earth. You stepped through the side door with your duffel swinging low and your breath fogging in the air, a silent offering to the frozen gods of routine. The chill kissed your cheeks the moment you entered, familiar and unbothered by your presence. The ice welcomed you without question unlike the boy skating circles at the far end of the rink, cutting lines through frost like he was angry at the surface itself.

Park Sunghoon.

You saw him the moment you stepped through the arch of metal and fluorescent glow. Sharp lines of movement, precise but edged with frustration, like a dancer trying to turn fury into choreography. He didn’t look up. Of course, he didn’t. You might as well have been a ghost to him, a passing flicker in his periphery. And still… his words from this morning clung to you like fog to a mirror. “I’m stuck skating in circles with the goddamn figure skaters.”

You could’ve held onto that. Let it curdle in your chest. But you didn’t. You’d already chosen to let it melt like frost under sunlight. Because that was how you survived people like him, people with cold hearts and stormy eyes. You stayed warm. You stayed soft. Gooey, like a cookie. Even if his silence sliced like wind over bare skin.

You moved toward the bench in the corner, began lacing your skates with steady fingers. A familiar rhythm. Loop. Pull. Loop. Pull. You took a deep breath. Told yourself that the ice was still yours. That joy could still be found here. And then you stepped onto it. The rink hummed beneath your blades. You skated a gentle warm-up, smooth glides and soft turns, tracing patterns in silence like a painter laying down the first strokes of something that might become beautiful. You didn’t look at him. Not really. But you felt him, like a shadow trailing just out of view.

He kept his distance. Good. Let him.

You spun into your routine, finding the quiet joy in motion again. Practicing your turns, letting momentum carry you like a whispered secret. And then, a voice loud and shrill broke the icy silence between you two. “WOO! GO, SUNGHOON!” Your skate caught slightly on the edge of your turn, not enough to fall, but enough to blink you out of your trance. You slowed to a glide, turning toward the source.

There, in the bleachers near the glass, waving like she was at a concert and not a cold, half-empty rink, was none other than Ruka. Your brows lifted before you could stop them. She had swapped her usual hoodie-and-headphones look for something more casual-cute. Perched on the edge of the seat like a cat in a sunbeam. And her eyes? They were locked onto Sunghoon like he was something out of a dream she’d once dared to whisper aloud.

“Come on, you look great out there!” she called, clapping. “That last sprint? Totally NHL-worthy!” You blinked. Slowly. Sunghoon, mid-stride, skidded slightly, his jaw ticking as he looked over at her. Not a smile. Not a nod. Just the sharp exhale of a man who’d rather be anywhere else. His annoyance was visible in the set of his shoulders, the way he stared past her like she was fog on the glass, there but inconvenient.

Your heart tilted sideways in your chest. Not because of the awkwardness. Not because Ruka was cheering for the very boy who had called your world a joke in a voice laced with disdain. But because you saw him. You saw how he stiffened under her praise, how his skates moved sharper, faster, like he was trying to outskate her words. Like kindness grated on him more than silence. Like admiration was a language he didn’t know how to read.

You stayed still for a moment, one hand on your hip, the other brushing a strand of hair from your eyes. You watched the way he avoided your gaze with deliberate precision. Like even eye contact might unravel him. Then you took a breath. Pushed off. Returned to your own practice.

Because the ice didn’t belong to him. And your light didn’t need permission to shine.

Still, as you skated, you felt something settle into your bones. Not quite sadness. Not quite jealousy. Just… the sharp awareness that everyone wore masks. Even the ones who scowled at sunshine and rolled their eyes at laughter. Especially them.

The hours unfurled like ribbons across the ice, silver and slow. You and Sunghoon spun your separate galaxies across the same frozen sky, orbiting each other in careful silence. His skates tore into the rink with force, blades slicing like twin swords, while yours curved and dipped with the grace of moonlight slipping through branches. He was precision and thunder. You were rhythm and light.

You didn’t speak. Not once. But you felt him. And somehow, that was worse. Every time he passed, your chest tightened just a little, remembering the way his voice had clipped those words this morning, how he’d tossed your world aside with a single breath. But the cold has a way of preserving more than just bruises; it clears the mind, too. By the time practice wound to a close, your hurt had melted into determination, soft and fierce.

The locker room door creaked as you stepped off the ice. And there he was, Sunghoon, perched on the bench like a statue carved from winter itself. He sat hunched over his skates, fingers tugging sharply at the laces, his jaw tight, sweat painting constellations at his temple. You watched him for a beat. The way his leg trembled slightly. The sharp inhale when he shifted. Pain. Not just ghost pain, not the phantom ache of healing. Real. Present.

Your eyes narrowed, and the words came out before you could swallow them. “You’re doing it wrong,” you said, stepping forward, breath curling in the cold.

Sunghoon didn’t look up. “Doing what wrong?”

“Your stride,” you said, matter-of-fact but warm, like you were offering a cup of tea to a frostbitten soul. “That’s why your leg still hurts so bad. Your form’s all off.”

He finally glanced at you, those glacier eyes narrowing, irritation flickering just behind them like lightning beneath snowclouds. “I’m what?”

“You’re playing wrong,” you repeated, standing tall despite your worn skates, your cheeks pink from the chill and adrenaline. “You’re putting too much pressure on the outer part of your knee when you push off. You’re compensating for the pain, which is making it worse.”

He scoffed. “And you’re what, a doctor now?”

“Nope.” You smiled, brightly, undeterred. “Just someone who’s fallen on her ass about a thousand times. Figure skaters crash constantly, but we know how to angle our bodies so the impact spreads. It’s all physics. Leverage. Balance. Control.” He looked back down at his skates, tugging harder now, the muscle in his forearm twitching.

“I can help you, if you want,” you offered, genuine, hopeful, stubborn. “Just with the angles. Not to overstep. Just to help you skate without pain.” He didn’t answer right away. For a heartbeat, you thought maybe — just maybe — he was considering it. That something in his storm-cloud gaze might soften. Then he snorted. “No thanks, Sunshine.”

The nickname was sharp, but not cruel. More like a brush-off wrapped in thin sarcasm, tossed over his shoulder like a towel. He stood, grabbed his jacket, and limped toward the exit, each step radiating quiet fury. You watched him go, your hands still resting on your hips, heart stung but not shattered. Because here’s the thing about sunshine. It doesn’t need permission to rise. It just does.

So you exhaled. Smiled again, just for yourself. And whispered under your breath like a promise: “Tomorrow, then.” Because you weren’t done. Not even close. The ice hadn’t melted between you yet.

You slipped through the dorm door with your skates still swinging from your shoulder, the scent of cold clinging to your hair like snowflakes that refused to melt. The hallway was dim, the kind of golden hush that only existed in the sliver of hours between late afternoon and true evening, and the air in your room felt just a degree warmer than the rink, barely but enough to sting your fingers with returning blood. And there she was.

Ruka. Curled cross-legged on her bed, laptop open, notebooks spread like wings around her. Her hair was tucked into a low bun, earbuds in, and she was scribbling something down with a pencil that had been chewed nearly to death. For a moment, you paused in the doorway. Something felt…off. Not visibly. Not loudly. But you knew people the way skaters knew their balance points — by instinct. You could feel when someone had shifted, even if they looked the same. She didn’t look up when you came in.

Still, you offered a bright little sigh, a soft smile breaking across your face like morning light spilling across your pillow. “Hey, you disappeared before I left the rink.” You tossed your bag gently onto the floor and began tugging off your coat, the fabric whispering across your skin. “Didn’t even hear you leave. Were you skating again?” You played dumb, of course.

Ruka blinked at her notebook, then slowly pulled an earbud free. Her eyes met yours. cool, calm, unreadable. “I wasn’t skating,” she said simply.

You tilted your head, fingers pausing mid-zip on your hoodie. “Oh. So… what were you doing there?”

it was a harmless question. Light as air. But her answer landed like a stone. “Just watching.” She turned back to her notes like punctuation, and you blinked. Something in her voice had been dipped in frost. Not biting, but distant. Measured. Not her usual soft-spoken stillness, the kind that let you chatter through silences without ever feeling unwelcome. No—this was different. This was cold. You stood there for a beat, hoodie half unzipped, heart tilting a little sideways.

“Right,” you said, voice laced in artificial warmth. “That’s cool. I didn’t know you were a fan of the rink.” Ruka didn’t reply.

You let out a little laugh, quiet, the kind that fills a space just to prove you still can. And then, still smiling, you crossed the room and sat on your bed, your bones aching from practice, your mind unraveling in quiet questions. You didn’t press. You didn’t pry. That wasn’t your way.

But you thought about the way she had cheered earlier, about how her voice had filled the cold air with warmth meant for someone else. You thought about Sunghoon, skating like he could outrun something, and the way her gaze had followed him like he was the sun she’d never dared look at before. You lay back against the pillow, eyes on the ceiling. Sometimes, things shift before you see them coming. And sometimes, people surprise you in the quietest ways.

But still, you stayed kind. Stayed bright. Because even if the room was colder than you remembered, you refused to stop being the warmth.

The night had softened by the time Sunghoon made it back to the house, the sky bruised with the fading violet of dusk, and the air bit at his skin like it resented his stubbornness. His leg burned. Not the sharp, immediate pain of an old injury flaring, but the deep, heavy ache of something being pushed past its breaking point. Again.

The front door creaked open under his weight, and the warmth of the frat house spilled over him like syrup. thick and too sweet. Familiar voices tangled together just past the hallway. Laughter. The clink of plates. The low strum of Jay’s voice. He almost turned around. But pride is a chain wrapped around the ribs. And his wouldn’t let go. He stepped inside.

The living room glowed gold, lit by the low hum of lamplight and the occasional flicker of the muted TV. Jay was leaned back on the couch, an open water bottle in hand, while Jake sat beside his very pregnant girlfriend, who had her feet propped up on a pillow. Her belly rose like a gentle tide beneath her sweater, and her eyes shone with that ever-glowing light. soft, observant, and infinitely kind. Three heads turned as Sunghoon limped through the door, his hoodie half-zipped and damp with leftover sweat from practice.

“You’re limping worse than yesterday,” Jay said, always the captain, always the voice of reason.

Jake chimed in a beat later, his brows drawn in concern. “Why won’t you just rest, man? You’re not gonna heal if you keep pushing like this.” Sunghoon dropped his gear by the door with a heavy thud, his jaw tight, the pain crawling up his leg like a storm trying to find a place to land.

“I’m fine,” he gritted out, not looking at them. “I don’t need a lecture.”

Jay sighed, the sound edged with exhaustion. “It’s not a lecture, Hoon. It’s basic logic. You’re tearing yourself up out there. You think Coach Bennett’ll let you back in if you break yourself completely?”

Sunghoon turned, irritation flashing sharp and raw in his eyes. “I wouldn’t be ‘breaking’ if you hadn’t pulled me off the ice in the first place.”

“You’re not off the team,” Jay replied calmly, setting his bottle down. “You’re on a required recovery period.”

“The same thing,” Sunghoon snapped. “Don’t split hairs.”

A quiet cough cut through the tension, and Jake’s girlfriend — sweet as spring rain — shifted a little on the couch. “I think what they’re trying to say is… maybe listening to your body isn’t the worst idea,” she said gently, her voice like a balm. “I mean, sometimes we think we’re fine just because we want to be.”

It should’ve landed like comfort. But it struck like a match. “Mind your business,” Sunghoon said sharply, the words out before he could call them back. The room froze.

Jake’s head snapped around, his eyes flaring. “Hey. Don’t talk to my girl like that.” The silence that followed was molten. Sunghoon’s anger flickered, dimmed, and died out in a single breath. He stared at the floor, guilt pooling heavy in his chest like sleet.

“I didn’t mean…” His voice cracked, quieter now. “Sorry. That was—stupid. I’m sorry.” Jake’s girlfriend gave him a small, understanding smile. She always forgave too easily. That only made it worse.

Sunghoon grabbed his water bottle and turned away, shoulders stiff, shame clinging to him like another layer of sweat-soaked fabric. He climbed the stairs slowly, every step a needle driven into the muscle behind his knee. When he reached his room, he shut the door softly almost tenderly and stood there in the quiet, staring at nothing for a long moment. The pain was still there, pulsing like a second heartbeat. But deeper than that — beneath the bruised ego and the battered pride was something else.

Your voice, bright and persistent, kept echoing in his mind.

“You’re playing wrong.”“It’s all physics. Leverage. Balance.”“I can help you.”

Sunghoon ran a hand through his hair, fingers trembling just a little. It had sounded ridiculous earlier. But now, with the pain sharp and unrelenting, and the silence of the room pressing in like a judgment, your offer didn’t seem so foolish. Maybe it wasn’t pity. Maybe it wasn’t an insult. Maybe you actually knew what you were talking about.

He sighed and sat on the edge of his bed, leg stretched out in front of him like a broken line. The ice, the skates, the ache, the quiet praise you gave him even when he hadn’t earned it… it all blurred together. And for the first time in a long while, he didn’t try to push the pain away. He let it sit beside him like a mirror. Maybe see you again tomorrow. And maybe… he’d listen this time.

The sky was the color of wet pearls as you made your way to the rink, the kind of soft gray that promised rain but never delivered. Your skates were slung over your shoulder, biting at your hip with every step, and your breath came out in visible puffs that floated like little ghosts of determination. You were a girl on a mission, fueled by blind optimism and an unyielding belief that even the most frozen things could melt if you were warm enough, loud enough, kind enough. And Sunghoon? He was a glacier. But even glaciers cracked under time and pressure.

The door to the rink groaned open and welcomed you with that familiar chill, that bite of air laced with the perfume of ice and steel. You stepped in like it was a cathedral, reverent in your own way, eyes scanning the space that had become your evening altar. He was there. Already. Park Sunghoon. Laced in shadow and silence.

He sat on the bench near the boards, bent over his skates, fingers threading laces with a quiet intensity, jaw set like it was carved from marble. His hair was damp at the edges, the kind of mess that spoke of someone who didn’t care enough to fix it but hadn’t quite let go of vanity either. The light caught on the sharp curve of his cheekbone, and for a moment you paused just a moment because something about him looked… different. He looked Less angry. Or maybe just tired of being angry. You couldn’t figure out which was which.

You marched up anyway, smile already blooming like a sunflower on your face, warmth radiating off of you in a way the ice couldn’t fight. “Okay,” you said, breathless not from the cold but from the flurry of thoughts bursting behind your eyes. “Hear me out. I’ve been thinking and don’t roll your eyes, this is important I’ve been thinking that maybe, just maybe, you need me.” He didn’t look up. You didn’t let it stop you. “Your form is off. I’m not just saying that to be annoying. I mean, I am annoying, but not this time. You’re straining the wrong muscle groups and you’re compensating for your knee in a way that’s going to make it worse. You’re going to tear something again and then you really won’t be able to play. And I know, I know I’m just a figure skater and you think I don’t get it, but we fall for a living. Literally. And we fall well. We learn to twist midair so the ice kisses us instead of cracking us open, and I could show you, I could help you—”

“Okay.”

You blinked.

“What?”

Sunghoon finally looked up. His eyes met yours, dark and steady, but not cruel. Not cold. Just quiet. “I said okay,” he repeated, voice low but clear. “Meet me here. Every weekday. 6:30 p.m. sharp.”

You stared at him, stunned into something dangerously close to speechless. “Wait. Wait, did you — did you say yes?”

“I did.”

“Well don’t deny me — wait. What.” A ghost of a smirk, barely there, almost imaginary curved at the corner of his mouth. “Meet me here on time, Sunshine.”

You laughed, half in disbelief, half in relief, the sound tumbling out of you like birds startled into flight. “Sunshine, huh? You really can’t help yourself with the nicknames.” He stood then, tall and limping slightly, but not so much that you missed the way his frame shifted lighter. Like saying yes had peeled off a layer of armor. Like hope, when it finally arrived, it didn't have to announce itself loudly; it just had to be there. “6:30,” he repeated. “Don’t be late.”

You saluted with mock seriousness, grinning wide. “Sir, yes sir.”

He rolled his eyes and skated toward the ice, but this time… this time he didn’t avoid you. Not entirely. And just like that, a crack had opened in the glacier. Small. Fragile. But real. And you, all sun and stubbornness, were ready to shine straight through it.

The next day dawned with a sky stretched in pale watercolor, as if the heavens themselves were yawning awake. And you moved with purpose, energy stitched into your limbs like golden thread, skipping down the hallway with your skates in one hand and a banana in the other, mid-bite, mid-monologue about how today was going to be the day Sunghoon learned the art of surrender. Not to defeat — oh no but to gravity. To momentum. To pain that teaches rather than punishes.

The rink was quieter than usual when you arrived, its emptiness echoing with the soft hum of the refrigeration system beneath the ice. The air was its usual crisp kiss, sharp enough to sting but not to bruise. Sunghoon was already there, of course, punctual and pouting. He sat on the bench with his skate half-laced and his hoodie still on, like a knight begrudgingly preparing for a battle he didn’t believe in. You practically twirled in, dropping your bag with theatrical flair. “Alright, Captain Crankypants,” you called out, voice bright and bell-clear, “today we begin with the basics. Lesson one: how to fall like a pro.”

He groaned, long and low, as if your very presence was the headache he couldn’t shake. “You want me to fall? On purpose?” His eyes flicked up at you, unimpressed. “Yeah, that sounds super smart.” You beamed at him, entirely unbothered. “Not just fall. Fall well. There’s an art to it, you know. A science. A rhythm. You can’t just slam into the ground like a dropped dumbbell, you’ll wreck yourself that way.”

He scoffed, standing slowly, testing his weight on that healing leg with guarded precision. “Pretty sure falling’s the last thing I should be doing if I want to get back on the ice with my team.”

“But that’s exactly why you should,” you replied, tilting your head, as if the answer was written in the frost forming along the glass. “Because falling isn’t the problem, Sunghoon. It’s how you fall. We don’t learn to stop gravity. We learn to meet it, roll with it, get back up without it stealing anything more than our breath.” His eyes narrowed, a storm cloud gathering, quiet but looming. “That’s figure skating stuff.”

“Exactly,” you chirped. “Which is why you’re lucky you’ve got me.”

He looked at you like you were speaking in tongues. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Oh, absolutely,” you said, laughing as you tugged on your gloves. “But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” With slow reluctance, like a stubborn mountain giving in to time, Sunghoon followed you onto the ice. His strides were careful, a ghost of his former fluidity trailing behind each push. You watched him move with a softness in your gaze, knowing he was fighting something far deeper than physical injury. He was mourning a version of himself that had been left behind in the locker room that day, when his knee gave out and the world fell with it. You stopped near center rink and turned to face him. “Okay. Watch me.”

You let yourself fall, dramatically and deliberately. A gentle twist of the hips, a tuck of the arms, a controlled slide that kissed the ice instead of collided with it. You rose just as quickly, nimble and unbothered. “See? Easy peasy, gravity is greedy but we’re smarter.”

He muttered something under his breath, something about this being ridiculous, but you caught the way his lips twitched, not quite a smile, not quite disapproval. Just… conflict. And curiosity. “Try it,” you said, your voice dipped in sugar and sunshine. “Don’t think. Just fall. Trust that I’ll teach you how to land softer.”

He hesitated, eyes flickering across the rink like it might mock him, like it might remember how once, not long ago, it had hurt him. But finally, with a sigh that could have been mistaken for wind, he crouched a little, awkward and stiff, and let himself go. It wasn’t perfect. Not even close. He landed with a thud and a grunt, half-turned and slightly off balance. But he didn’t scream. He didn’t wince. And he didn’t stay down. You clapped, delighted. “Not bad! You’ve got the makings of a Bambi-on-ice!”

He rolled his eyes, but he was sitting up now, flexing his leg, and something in his face had shifted. A flicker of belief. A spark of possibility.

You offered your hand. He didn’t take it. But he stood on his own. And that, in your eyes, was progress painted in frost and stubborn hope. Practice ended in a flurry of silence and exhale, the kind that leaves your lungs aching and your limbs trembling from exhaustion masked as endurance. The rink had settled into a sleepy hush, the overhead lights casting silver puddles onto the ice like pools of moonlight spilled from a weary sky. Sunghoon had spent most of the hour gliding just beyond your reach, stoic and brooding, a storm cloud in a jersey, orbiting your sunshine in quiet, reluctant circles. But progress had been made. Not in leaps or bounds, but in small things: the twitch of a smile that he didn’t quite manage to kill, the way he didn’t protest when you told him his weight distribution was off. Tiny steps, quiet victories.

You both sat now on the bench that bordered the rink, his skates half-untied, yours dangling from your fingers as you caught your breath. His hoodie clung to him in damp creases, his hair plastered to his forehead, and yet he still managed to look like he’d stepped out of some tragic poem. A sonnet of scraped ice and stubbornness. “So…” you began, voice light as lace, “about Ruka.”

He didn’t look at you, only furrowed his brows deeper into the shadows of his lashes. “Who?”

You turned slightly, lacing one skate in slow loops as you stole a glance at his profile. “The girl who was here the other day. Cheering for you like it was the Olympics.” Realization flickered across his face like lightning fast, dismissive. “Oh. The cheerleader.”

You laughed, not unkindly. “She’s not a cheerleader, she’s my roommate. And she might have a tiny little crush on you.” Sunghoon groaned, tipping his head back as if the ceiling above might offer him divine rescue. “Great. Just what I need.”

“What, adoration?” you teased, nudging his knee with yours. “Must be so hard.” He didn’t answer right away, his jaw working through something he didn’t say aloud. Finally, he muttered, “I don’t date.”

You raised a brow. “Really?”

“Hockey’s the love of my life,” he said, eyes sharp like ice shards, like truth he’d carved out long ago. “That’s enough for me.” You tilted your head, letting your hair fall like a curtain of gold and starlight across your cheek. “That’s a sad way to live,” you said gently, not accusing, just… observing. “Everyone deserves to love. To be loved.”

He looked at you then, a long, lingering look, as if trying to decide whether your optimism was a costume or a calling. “I do love,” he said, softer this time. “I love the game. That’s all I’ve ever needed.”

“But maybe you just haven’t met the right person yet,” you offered, voice barely more than a breath. He let out a short laugh — dry, not cruel. “Sounds like something out of one of those cheesy rom-coms you’d make me watch.”

You smiled, undeterred, pulling your coat tighter around you as the cold began to kiss at your skin. “You’d be surprised what stories can teach you.”

Sunghoon didn’t reply. He stood, the worn laces of his skates now untied completely, his posture tight, shoulders stiff with the ache he wouldn’t admit. He slung his bag over one arm and glanced at you, his expression unreadable under the dull glow of the rink’s overhead light.

“See you tomorrow,” he said, voice low.

“At 6:30,” you replied, standing too.

He nodded, already walking away, and you watched him disappear into the tunnel that led out of the rink, his shadow swallowed by silence. Still, even as the chill pressed into your bones and your breath misted in the air, you smiled. Because he hadn’t said no. And sometimes, that was the first word in a yes.

The frat house was pulsing, alive with sound and sweat and lights that flickered like epileptic stars. The bass thumped through the walls like a second heartbeat, the kind that didn’t come from within you but pressed on your ribs from the outside, trying to break in. It was the kind of night made for forgetting, flashing cups, flushed cheeks, dizzy laughter. But Sunghoon had nothing he wanted to forget, only things he was trying to survive. His body was a map of ache, his knee a smoldering ember, his back tensed and twisted, his temples drumming a painful rhythm. He should’ve gone to bed. Should’ve wrapped himself in the quiet and left the world to burn without him.

Instead, he pushed through the crowd, ignoring the limbs that bumped against his shoulders, the haze of perfume and cologne, the drunk declarations and loud, sloppy choruses of songs everyone pretended to know. The lights made everything look fake — skin too bright, eyes too glassy. He moved like a ghost among the living. The kitchen was a marginally calmer pocket of air, though even it buzzed with tension. Soobin stood near the counter, arms crossed, stoic in a way that looked practiced. Yunjin stood in front of him, animated, eyebrows tight and lips moving too fast, too sharp. Sunghoon didn’t catch the words, but the emotion slapped against the tile floor like broken glass. Love turned into a battlefield over cheap beer and pride.

Heeseung leaned against the fridge, sipping something bright and unholy from a red plastic cup, and Jay stood beside him, eyes flicking from Soobin and Yunjin to Sunghoon with a practiced detachment. “Rough night?” Heeseung asked, his tone too casual to be innocent.

Sunghoon didn’t answer. He glanced at the tension in the room, the cracked silence in Soobin’s stance, the hurt in Yunjin’s voice. “What’s their deal?” he asked, jerking his chin in their direction. Jay shrugged, reaching for a half-empty bag of chips. “Who knows. Been like that all week.”

“We try not to get involved,” Heeseung added, a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. Sunghoon gave a noncommittal grunt and moved to grab a water bottle from the counter. The cold plastic stung his palm, grounded him for a second. The kitchen smelled like too many people and too many drinks, but it was better than the noise outside.

Jay leaned in slightly. “Hey, by the way — a girl was walking around asking for you earlier.”

At that, something in Sunghoon stuttered some quiet spark of thought, unspoken and unacknowledged. His mind flicked to you, impossibly bright and smiling, always halfway through a sentence, your words cotton candy and conviction. It was a fleeting hope, gone before he could even name it. Then Jay nodded toward the hallway, where Ruka stood, wearing confidence like perfume and eyeing the room like she owned it.

Sunghoon’s mouth twisted. The little spark of hope snuffed out before it could catch flame. “Of course,” he muttered. He didn’t wait for her to notice him. He turned on his heel and left the kitchen, weaving back through the crowd, avoiding her gaze like it might pierce him. He wasn’t in the mood for polite smiles or coy compliments, not in the mood to be someone else’s fantasy when he couldn’t even bear being himself right now.

He was almost free, fingers brushing the door to his room, sanctuary just a heartbeat away when her voice cut through the noise behind him. “Sunghoon, wait.”

He froze. Not in obedience, but in dread the way a predator might freeze in the moment it realizes it’s been cornered. He didn’t turn around. Didn’t slow. Just kept walking, because if he didn’t look at her, maybe she’d vanish into the static of the party behind them. But Ruka didn’t vanish. She chased. Her heels clicked across the floor like punctuation in a sentence he didn’t want to read. Then her hand was on his arm — cloying, too warm, too familiar. He yanked away from her grasp like her touch burned. And maybe it did. Maybe everything burned lately.

She flinched at his reaction, then softened her voice into something apologetic and breathy, practiced like a song she’d sung too many times. “I’m sorry, okay? I just— I wanted to say something.” He said nothing, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the stairwell. “She’s not who you think she is,” Ruka said then, her voice low but sharp, like a knife being slipped between the ribs. “That girl you’ve been skating with. All that sunshine and sparkle? It’s a show. She’s not that happy. She's actually really depressing.”

The words echoed strangely in the space between them, bouncing off the noise of the house and falling like lead at his feet. Sunghoon turned then, slowly, like something ancient and brimming with wrath. His face was calm, but his eyes — his eyes held storms. Not the kind that pass, but the kind that drown entire cities. “Mind your business,” he said, his voice cold enough to crack glass.

Ruka blinked, taken aback. Maybe she’d expected amusement. Maybe she thought he’d nod in agreement or laugh, or at the very least, care. But he didn’t laugh. And he did care and that infuriated him even more. He didn’t wait for her response. He turned and stormed back down the stairs, shoving past strangers with empty smiles and red plastic cups. The house felt suffocating, bloated with sound and people and things he didn’t have the patience for. His skin felt tight, his heart loud, his thoughts louder.

Why did it bother him? Why did her words sink under his skin like a splinter?

She didn’t know you. Not really. Not the way he’d started to. Not in the way you spoke about falling like it was an art form, not in the way you tried to fix him like he was something worth mending. He shoved out the front door, the cold air biting at his skin like it, too, had something to prove. His breath left in bursts of fog, pain pulsing behind his kneecap as if to remind him of every bruise he carried, every truth he refused to name.

He walked towards the diner that nearly everyone frequented on campus. Hoping and praying for some sense of solace.

The booth by the window smelled of syrup and coffee and the kind of late-night grease that clung to the bones of a day too long lived. The diner was warm in the way a memory is warm, buzzing neon lights humming above like lullabies, and the soft clink of forks on ceramic drifting through the air like wind chimes in a storm's lull. You sat alone, chin propped up in your palm, tracing swirls in the condensation of your water glass, legs still sore from practice but your spirit untouched, untouched the way a flame dances even after the wax is nearly gone. Your plate was half full, pancakes cut into clumsy quarters, syrup pooling in the valleys. You were halfway through recounting your own day in your head out loud, of course, because silence had never been your companion when the bell above the door rang.

You looked up. The words on your tongue stuttered into stillness. Sunghoon. It was Sunghoon.

Still dressed in the hoodie he’d been wearing at the rink, his hair damp with sweat or melted frost, eyes dark with something that stormed just beneath the surface. He paused when he saw you, shoulders sinking with theatrical dread. Of course, he thought. Of course you’d be here, light personified, smile too wide for the hour and heart too open for someone who’d barely gotten a thank you out of him.

“Sunghoon!” you beamed, like the sky had cracked open just to drop this moment into your lap. Your voice, effervescent as soda fizz, bounced toward him like a pebble skipping across water. He groaned. It was low, dramatic, and pulled from somewhere that wanted desperately to be annoyed, but didn’t quite make it. “Of course you’re here.”

“Where else would I be?” you grinned, motioning to the seat across from you like you’d always meant it for him. “So… what brings you to this fine establishment at such a glamorous hour?”

“I was hungry,” he deadpanned, walking over with the kind of gait that whispered of pain. He didn’t explain the limp, didn’t bother to soften his tone. “Why else would someone come to a diner?” Your smile didn’t waver. If anything, it grew.

“Touché,” you said, then leaned in with a twinkle in your eye. “Want to sit with me?”

He opened his mouth, likely to decline with something sarcastic and sharp-edged, but the words caught on the way out. Maybe it was your smile, or the glow of the booth light painting soft halos in your hair, or maybe — though he’d never admit it —i t was just that being near you quieted something in him, something he didn’t know needed quieting. “Sure,” he muttered.

He slid into the seat across from you, his movements slow, like each inch of space between pain and stillness had to be negotiated. You didn’t mention the way he winced as he sat. You just smiled again, folding your hands in front of you like this was a normal thing, the two of you, alone together in a corner of the night that didn’t feel so lonely anymore. Sunghoon didn’t tell you what Ruka had said. He didn’t tell you how it sat on his chest like a stone, how her voice echoed in his skull like wind through a cracked window. Because it wasn’t his to say. And because, deep down, he already knew it wasn’t true.

He saw you fall on the ice and rise again like it was a song your body knew by heart. He heard the way your laughter curved around your words and the way your voice filled silence with life, not noise. No — whatever Ruka thought she knew of you, it was only a fraction, and not the kind he cared to carry. Instead, he stared down at your plate, brows raised.

“Pancakes at midnight?” he asked.

You shrugged, delighted. “Midnight pancakes fix all problems. Haven’t you heard?”

He smirked then, small, fleeting. Like sunrise just peeking over frostbitten windows. “Heeseung says that all the time.”

“Well he sounds like a pretty smart guy.” You quirked, picking at your pancakes leisurely.

Sunghoon huffed a laugh — small but still there. “Sure.” For a while, the two of you sat in something not quite silence, not quite conversation, but alive and breathing all the same. And in the quiet hum of syrup-sticky booths and flickering neon signs, something invisible began to shift. The hiss of the coffee machine behind the counter had become a kind of lullaby, murmuring softly beneath the quiet chatter of the few remaining night owls nestled into booths and barstools. Across from you, Sunghoon picked at the edge of a sugar packet, his fingers deft and idle, not quite meeting your eyes, but listening in that particular way he always did, like he was preparing to argue but got caught up in your melody instead.

You sat across from him, legs tucked under you like a child curling into a story, your face glowing with the heat of possibility rather than the diner’s neon haze. And he watched you, not that he’d admit it. Not that he knew what to do with someone like you. “I’m going to make the podium this year,” you said, sudden and certain, stabbing a lone pancake piece with your fork like it was fate itself. “I don’t care what place. Bronze, silver, first runner-up to the crowd favorite. I just want to stand there, see the crowd, and know I didn’t fall flat.”

Sunghoon blinked at you. “Figure skating finals?”

You nodded, then grinned. “The big ones. My coach calls it the crown jewel. The end of the season, the whole year in a single performance. I tanked last time. fell on my opening jump and never recovered. My blade caught the edge, and it all spiraled. Couldn’t hear the music over the panic. I was supposed to shine and instead I… dulled.”

The words weren’t bitter, just honest. You spoke of failure with a sort of reverent gentleness, as if it were a bruise you had long since accepted. It surprised him how freely you gave that part of yourself away. No dramatics. No self-pity. Just truth. He leaned forward, arms crossed on the table. “And you’re trying again?”

“Of course.” Your voice was light, but sure. “I owe it to the version of me that cried backstage and promised to do better. I owe it to the dream that didn’t die just because I messed up once. Besides, we fall all the time in figure skating on ice, off ice. You just get up and do it again.” Something in him shifted at that. The ice in his chest cracked a little more, as if the warmth in your voice could thaw even the places he'd long buried under frost and fury.

You caught the flicker in his eyes and smiled, like sunshine breaking through cloud cover. “Don’t look at me like I’ve grown a second head. You’re the one always brooding like the main character in a sports anime.” Sunghoon rolled his eyes, but the edge was gone. He stared at the last of his fries, then slowly pushed the plate aside. “You’re weird,” he muttered, almost like it was a compliment.

You beamed, unbothered. “Takes one to know one.” And just like that, between the flicker of fluorescent lights and the taste of melted syrup, the world felt a little less heavy. He didn’t tell you about Ruka. He didn’t mention the ache in his knee or the fact that, for the first time in a long while, he hadn’t felt like lashing out or retreating. He just sat there, listening to you talk about your music selection and how you were planning to bedazzle your new competition costume yourself “with enough rhinestones to blind the front row” and something quiet inside him settled.

He didn’t believe in miracles. But maybe… maybe he could believe in second chances. Especially the ones that came in the shape of bright eyes, chipped diner mugs, and a voice that refused to give up. Even on him.

The night air was a velvet hush wrapped around the world, stitched with distant traffic and the occasional hum of streetlamp flicker. The diner door swung shut behind you both with a bell's chime like the last note of a lullaby. Outside, the cold kissed your cheeks and painted your exhales into fleeting ghosts, trailing behind you like forgotten sentences. You walked beside him, your boots crunching gently over old salt and fractured pavement, the glow of the diner still soft behind you. He walked with his hands buried deep in his coat pockets, shoulders tense, as if he were always prepared for winter — even in spring.

But you, you carried warmth like it bloomed from your chest. You talked, because silence begged to be filled and your thoughts were too colorful to keep caged. "I always liked walking at night," you began, voice barely louder than the rustle of your jacket. "When I was little, my dad used to say the stars came out just to eavesdrop on our dreams. I used to whisper to them before bed. Tell them everything I was too scared to say out loud." Sunghoon said nothing, only shifted slightly, head tilted as though your words trailed behind his ears like music on low volume. His footsteps matched yours, deliberate, steady. Listening. Always listening.

You glanced up at the sky, where stars flickered shyly through the sprawl of city haze. “Some nights, when I’m scared before a competition, I still talk to them. Like, ‘Hey, I know I biffed the last triple loop but if you could just not let me crash this time, that’d be amazing.’” You laughed lightly. “They’re probably tired of hearing about my spiral sequences.” He almost smiled. Almost. You kept going, because silence in his company no longer felt daunting, only deep. A pool that welcomed your words, let them sink in, soak through. He didn’t need to speak. He just needed to be there, and somehow, he was.

“I don’t think people realize how lonely it is to try to be great,” you mused. “Everyone sees the sparkle, the applause, the medals. But they don’t see the bruised knees. The missed meals. The days where you cry on the cold rink floor because you can’t land a stupid jump you’ve done a thousand times. Sometimes I wonder if I’m just chasing a spotlight that’ll burn me up before I ever reach it.” Still, no answer. Just his steady breath beside you, vapor blooming and vanishing. But his eyes had that quiet fire, the kind that flickered only for the things that mattered.

“I think… that’s why I don’t let myself stay down. Because even when it hurts, I still want it. Not the spotlight. Just the chance. To be better. To feel like I’m flying again, even if only for four minutes.” The street turned quieter, the neighborhood dipping into darker corners, sleepy houses pressing close together like secrets being kept warm. You stole a glance at him then, expecting — what? A laugh? A scoff?

But Sunghoon’s gaze was forward, brows drawn in thought. He didn’t look at you, but he didn’t walk faster, either. He stayed at your side like a shadow that had chosen you. And then, after a silence long enough to count heartbeats, he said, low and rough, “What’s your program this year?”

You blinked, surprised by the breach in his usual barricade. “It’s set to Clair de Lune,” you said quietly, suddenly shy. “I wanted something soft this time. Something like… falling in love with the sky.” He nodded once. Just once. And somehow, it felt like the biggest applause. You didn’t need him to say more. You didn’t need him to match your sunshine with light. He was the stillness where your words could echo and not be lost. And for that, you walked beside him in silence the rest of the way, the night folding around you both like a promise waiting to be made.

The night had mellowed into something hushed and golden, a quiet that settled over your shared footsteps like falling petals. The city exhaled slowly, as if sighing into sleep, and still you walked beside him, two shadows drawn in parallel ink, aligned but never touching. Then, out of the hush, his voice rose like a single note plucked from a cello string, low and sudden. “What’s your deal with Ruka?”

You blinked, startled by the sound, by the question, by the way his words cut through your stardust-thoughts like a falling star slicing the sky. You turned to him with raised brows, lips parted with a breath that hadn’t yet become a word. “Ruka?” you echoed, the name tasting foreign when it came from your mouth.

He didn’t look at you, just kept walking, hands still in his pockets, his jaw set like stone worn smooth by time. It didn’t sound like idle curiosity. But then again, nothing about Park Sunghoon ever felt idle. You wrapped your arms around yourself, not because of the cold, but because something inside you had curled up, uncertain.

“Oh, um. We’re not really close,” you said, the words spilling like marbles rolling across a hardwood floor — easy, but a little scattered. “She’s my roommate this year, just this year. My last roommate, Sakura, graduated early. We were kind of inseparable.” You smiled faintly at the memory, soft and aching. “She used to help me with my hair before competitions. Always had a bobby pin in her pocket, even if we were just going to the store. I miss her.”

He said nothing, just nodded once. The moonlight caught his profile and painted it silver. “She’s really smart, Ruka,” you went on, feeling the silence ask for more even if he didn’t. “Always has her headphones in. Always studying. We talk sometimes, but mostly she just… lets me ramble. Which, you know, I tend to do.” You gave a light laugh, hoping the sound would cut the tension, soften the edges.

But he didn’t laugh with you. He didn’t look at you. Just nodded again, like your words were being filed away in some hidden drawer inside him. And for a moment — brief and bitter and fleeting you felt a twinge. A single pulse of something dark and unfamiliar. It settled beneath your ribs like a secret. Jealousy. You didn’t want to call it that. You didn’t want to name the way your throat tightened when he asked about her, or the way your heart gave a suspicious little stutter at the thought of her name brushing his interest.

Did he like her? The thought was ridiculous. Maybe. Maybe not. But it lodged in your chest like a thorn. And what surprised you most wasn’t the question. It was how much it mattered. You shook the feeling off with a practiced smile, the kind you wore in the mirror before competition, the one that told the world everything was okay, even if your knees were shaking.

“She’s alright,” you said, voice light, breezy, so casual it almost disguised the knot in your gut. “But I think she prefers silence. I talk too much for her taste.” Still, he said nothing.

And you wondered, as the two of you drifted past sleeping houses and rustling trees, if you could ever stop wanting to know what was running behind his quiet eyes. Maybe he’d never say it. Maybe he didn’t even know it himself. But tonight, walking beside him through the tender hours of the dark, you wished he’d turn and say something that would loosen the twinge in your chest. Instead, he walked on. Still and silent. And you matched his pace, wondering if maybe that was enough. At least for now.

The dorm room welcomed you with the kind of stillness that felt staged, like a scene waiting for the actors to step into place. The air was warm, tinged faintly with lavender and printer ink, the signature scent of shared space and sleepless study. You slipped inside quietly, the door closing behind you with a hush instead of a click. For once, your voice didn’t follow you in.

You didn’t start with a story or a sigh, didn’t fill the silence with your usual cascade of chatter about a late-night craving or a skater’s cramp or how the moon had looked like a sugar cookie on the walk back. No, tonight you simply moved through the space like a ghost of yourself soft-footed, uncharacteristically quiet. Ruka was there, as always, hunched over her desk like a cathedral of discipline, shoulders drawn tight under the glow of her desk lamp. Her highlighter moved like a slow metronome across the page, precise and deliberate. But when you entered without a word, she paused.

You didn’t notice at first. You were too focused on your routine kicking off your shoes, dropping your bag by the door, tucking your food container into the small fridge like you were sealing away the last hour of your night. The remnants of warm laughter and cool night air still clung to your skin, even as the fluorescent light washed everything colorless. It was only when she turned, slow and deliberate that you met her gaze. “I went to see Sunghoon tonight,” she said, her voice smooth but wrapped in something slippery. Something rehearsed.

You blinked. Tilted your head. “Oh?”

She nodded, looking back at her notes for a second like they might give her the courage to lie again. “Yeah. We talked for hours at his party. I just left from seeing him.” The words hung there like wet clothes on a line, dripping, sagging under the weight of their own fabrication. And you knew. You knew in the marrow of your bones, in the quiet thrum of your heartbeat still synced to the rhythm of footsteps beside Sunghoon’s. You knew because you had just walked home with him, the ache of his silence still pressed like thumbprints into your thoughts. But you said nothing.

You didn’t call her out or laugh or ask her why she thought you wouldn’t notice the lie curling like smoke between her syllables. You didn’t say, “Actually, I just walked home with him,” or, “That’s strange, he didn’t mention you.” No. Instead, you sat down at your desk, unzipping your jacket, fingers steady as you untied your shoes. You offered her a smile — small, polite, hollow in the middle and said, “That’s nice.”

Ruka turned back to her notes, and you turned to face the wall, blinking slowly as if you could paint over the moment with enough quiet. And though you didn’t say it out loud, a strange new feeling began to settle beneath your ribs, something like suspicion, something like sadness. Not because of the lie itself, but because you couldn’t understand why she’d told it. What purpose it served. What it meant. But more than that, what unsettled you the most was how your heart gave the tiniest tug at the idea that she wanted Sunghoon to herself. That maybe, just maybe, she knew you were starting to want him too. And you hated how that made you feel.

By the time Sunghoon returned to the frat house, the storm of music and voices had softened into something gentler like rain losing its temper. The halls no longer throbbed with bass, just pulsed quietly with leftover laughter, the clink of bottles, the occasional shriek from the living room where someone was trying to revive a dying game of beer pong. The air smelled like stale cologne, cheap beer, and exhaustion.

He pushed through the front door, body aching in ways he didn’t dare name, shoulders stiff with memory. The walk home had helped, a little. The diner even more so. Or maybe it wasn’t the diner, it was you. That smile. That damn voice of yours, all melody and motion, coloring every dull corner of his night until it looked like morning. He hadn’t even meant to go out. He just couldn’t stay there, not after the lies that curled out of Ruka’s mouth like perfume.

Heeseung was sprawled across the couch with a bag of chips, half-asleep and still wearing his shoes. Jay sat nearby, nursing a water bottle like it was whiskey, his guitar leaning against the side table, untouched. They looked up when Sunghoon walked in, both of them clocking the shift in him, the unbrushed hair, the frown lines that had softened just barely, like something had tried to loosen their hold. Jay raised an eyebrow. “Where’ve you been?”

“Diner,” Sunghoon muttered, heading toward the kitchen to grab a glass of water. His muscles cried out as he moved, his knee barking like it wanted to collapse. “You missed the show,” Heeseung said through a yawn. “Your little fangirl was here. Again.”

Jay snorted. “Ruka. She was asking around for you. Whole place thought she’d get a kiss out of you before midnight.” Then came the question, as casual as it was crude, tossed out like a beer can into a bonfire.

“So?” Jay leaned back, grinning. “You tap that?”

The words hung in the room like fog, heavy and misplaced. Sunghoon didn’t even look up from the sink as he filled his glass. He stood still for a breath. Then another. “Hell no,” he said flatly. “I just went to the diner.”

it wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t even irritated. It was simply true delivered with the sharp edge of certainty. A line drawn clean in the dirt. Jay let out a low whistle. Heeseung chuckled under his breath. “Didn’t know you were such a gentleman.”

Sunghoon didn’t answer. He just sipped his water, jaw tense, eyes fixed on a spot on the counter like he was trying to smooth it out with sheer will.

Because what he didn’t say not to Jay, not to Heeseung, not even to himself was that he didn’t want Ruka. Had never wanted her. Not with her lipsticked lies and her eyes that always seemed to be searching for attention like it was currency. And yet, somehow, your voice kept echoing in his head like a melody he didn’t want to forget. “Falling is inevitable unless you can stop gravity.” He couldn’t stop gravity. Not on the ice. Not in his chest. And it was starting to terrify him.

Monday came with the bite of wind and the soft shiver of pre-dawn blue, the kind of chill that kissed your skin and whispered promises of something new. The rink sat like a cathedral of silence, your shared sanctuary of sweat and bruised ego, laughter and aching limbs. The boards were cold. The air was colder. But you… you were warm, incandescent, still grinning as you laced your skates with hope braided into every loop.

Sunghoon was already there, stretching his legs like the world had done him a personal disservice. He looked like he hadn’t slept well, but his eyes those, wintry things, found you easily, like a compass that refused to point anywhere else. His movements were stiff, his expression unreadable, but he didn’t complain as you chirped about your new routine, about your bruised knee from the spin you biffed on Saturday, about how this week felt like the start of something. He didn’t say much. He rarely did. But he skated. And fell. A lot.

You counted at least thirteen crashes before you stopped keeping score—some clumsy, some oddly graceful, all equally frustrating for him. Each time, he’d scowl, curse under his breath, and brush himself off like he was made of pride stitched too tight. But you never stopped encouraging him, your words a steady stream of sunlight spilling through his clouds.

“Better!”

“That fall was cleaner!”

“You angled your shoulder perfectly!”

He looked at you like you were ridiculous. Which, maybe, you were. But you were ridiculously happy to be here. With him. By the time the clock curled toward the last stretch of practice, he’d finally done it. Not a fall, but a landing. A descent that didn’t jar his bones, one where his body absorbed the impact like water receiving rain, smooth, natural, right. You gasped and your joy exploded out of you, bright and loud and uncontainable.

“You did it!” you cheered, skates clattering against the ice as you skidded over to him. “You actually did it, Sunghoon!”

He looked up from where he was still crouched slightly, his breath misting the air, eyes wide. And for the first time, the very first time, he smiled. It wasn’t a smirk. It wasn’t that half-tilted, cynical curl he used when he was being sarcastic or amused. It was real. Unburdened. And somehow, it made him look like a boy again, soft-edged, bright-eyed, touched by something other than pain or pressure. The moment lingered. Too long.

His smile stayed, your breath caught in your throat like a fluttering thing. The distance between you thinned until there was only the sound of the ice humming beneath your skates, and then, Then you kissed him. You didn’t think. You didn’t plan it. You just leaned forward, heart drumming in your chest like a war cry and a lullaby all at once, and kissed him — soft and sure, like the ice beneath your feet had whispered that you wouldn’t fall.

But he didn’t kiss you back.

You pulled away instantly, horror creeping into your chest like cold water. “Oh my god—I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—well, I did, but not like that—I mean I wasn’t trying to—ugh—Sunghoon, I just got caught up in the—” And then he was kissing you. Fast. Sure. No warning, no wind-up, just his lips on yours like punctuation, like a sentence he’d been writing in his head for days but didn’t know how to say out loud. You blinked when he pulled back. He looked stunned, maybe a little dazed. You were definitely breathless. And then, as if nothing had happened, you both went back to skating. Circling each other like stars in orbit silent, spinning, on fire. Neither of you mentioned the kiss. But neither of you forgot it.

Outside the glow of the floodlights, just beyond the fragile safety of the rink’s boards, a shadow lingered silent and still like frost waiting to bloom. Ruka stood there, tucked in the hollow between concrete and glass, her presence cloaked by the buzz of overhead lamps and the trance of celebration that unfolded before her. She hadn’t meant to come. She had only wanted to stop by, to catch another glimpse of him, of Sunghoon in that candid, breathless space where his armor sometimes slipped. Maybe she would pretend it was a coincidence again. Maybe she’d bring him something warm, an excuse wrapped in a paper cup and a shy smile. But what she saw was not Sunghoon alone.

Through the gleaming haze of the ice, through the rhythm of blades carving truth into frozen ground, she saw you. Beaming. Radiant in your joy. And she saw Sunghoon — grinning back. Not his usual strained grimace or practiced smirk. No, this smile was something else. Real. Unearthed. Unearned, in her eyes. And then, the kiss. Her breath caught like a gasp in winter wind. She pressed her palm flat against the glass as if to steady herself, as if to break through the divide between her and what she saw, a moment that didn’t belong to her but felt like it should have. That soft, charged touch of lips in the heart of the rink burned like a betrayal, even if no promises had ever been made to her. It was a kiss that seemed to split the ice beneath her feet. And she hated how gentle it was, how true.

The rage came slowly, like an icicle forming drip by bitter drip. A seethe in her gut. A fire in her lungs. She had spent so much time watching, studying, calculating, positioning herself at just the right angle to catch his eye. She knew the timing of his strides, the way his brows furrowed when he was lost in thought. She had noticed him long before you had ever touched the same ice. And yet it was you — scatterbrained, sunny, ever-yapping you — that he kissed.

She backed away, breath coming out in little bursts of fog, eyes trained on the scene unfolding before her like a play she hadn’t auditioned for but still wanted a lead in. She didn’t care that he pulled away quickly. She didn’t care that you stammered your apology. All she could see was the connection, the tether stretching invisible and unbreakable between your smile and his rare, reluctant joy. She could feel the bitterness pool in her chest like ink in water, spreading fast and without mercy. You hadn’t seen her. Neither had he. You never noticed the fracture blooming quietly in the corner of the world you shared. But she did. And it stung, not because it was love lost, but because it never even had the chance to begin.

The walk back to the dorm felt like treading on the edge of a dream, your feet barely touching the ground, your breath catching on the remnants of laughter that still lingered like glitter in your chest. The night air was cool, brushing your cheeks like a secret, the kind that only stars overhead seemed to know. You tucked your hands into your coat pockets, smiled like a secret was blossoming behind your lips, and tilted your face skyward, as if asking the moon to keep your moment safe. You had kissed him. Or maybe the moment kissed you, soft and strange and suspended in time, like a snowflake caught mid-fall. It didn’t matter who leaned in first, or that he hesitated, or that nothing had been said after. What mattered was the way the world tilted after. The way his eyes had widened before he kissed you back like something inside him had cracked open. Like he’d been waiting all along but just didn’t know it. Something had changed, undeniably and irreversibly, and it made your limbs feel like cotton, your thoughts like honey.

There was a shift now. Subtle but seismic. You could feel it humming in the soles of your feet, echoing in the memory of the moment. You didn’t know what it meant yet, not exactly but something had softened between you two, and in that softness, you found a kind of quiet joy. When you reached your building, you entered with the reverence of someone carrying something precious. The hallway lights buzzed faintly, and your steps echoed gently down the corridor, a rhythm almost musical in its contentment. You reached your door and turned the knob, half-expecting to see Ruka with her usual mess of notebooks and headphones, wrapped in her silent storm of thoughts and solitude. But the room was empty.

The lights were off save for the sliver of streetlamp that painted silver lines through the blinds. The air was still, undisturbed. Ruka’s bed was neatly made, her chair tucked in, her world untouched. And for once, you were grateful. You slipped inside and let the door close behind you with a soft click, as if trying not to disturb the fragile bubble that wrapped around your joy. There was something beautiful in the quiet, something that gave you space to breathe, to process, to smile without anyone asking why. You moved slowly, deliberately, putting away your things, peeling off layers like petals until only your giddy little heart remained.

And then, standing there in the low light, you allowed yourself to relive the glide of your skates, the crispness of the air, the look on his face just before he closed the distance. You pressed your fingers gently to your lips, almost to confirm they still tingled. It didn’t matter that you hadn’t spoken about it. Not yet. It mattered that it happened. It mattered that, for the first time in a long time, your heart felt like it had been seen. And for that, you let yourself float just a little longer on the dream of it all.

The walk home was quiet, but for once, it didn’t feel heavy. Sunghoon’s limbs ached as usual, the kind of ache that seeped into marrow and muscle and made itself at home but tonight, it was quieter. Like even the pain had decided to take a breath, loosen its grip on his body and allow him a moment of peace. There was a strange calm moving through him, something light and unfamiliar. His mind replayed that kiss, not obsessively, but gently, like turning over a smooth stone in his pocket. The softness of your lips. The way you smiled before it happened. The burst of something warm and startling that bloomed in his chest when you leaned in, and even more so when he kissed you back. Like an ember flickering to life in a long-cold hearth. He didn’t want to overthink it, and yet, it sat with him now — steady, glowing, undeniable. But as the frat house came into view, that flickering warmth began to dim. She was there.

Perched like a stormcloud on the stone steps, her knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them, face streaked with tears that glistened under the porch light. Ruka. Her presence felt like a sudden cold front, a sharp drop in temperature, a wind that bit instead of kissed. Sunghoon paused at the edge of the sidewalk, every instinct screaming at him to turn around and disappear into the dark. But she looked up. And she saw him.

He kept walking. Slow, steady, bracing himself. The steps creaked beneath his weight as he stopped in front of her. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice low and laced with quiet exhaustion.

Ruka sniffled, wiping at her cheeks with the sleeve of her too-expensive cardigan. “I saw you,” she said, voice breaking on the edge of accusation. “I saw you guys… kissing.”

Sunghoon blinked at her, unimpressed. “Okay?” he answered flatly, as if that alone should be the end of it. But of course, it wasn’t. “She’s a fraud,” Ruka spat, sitting up straighter now, her voice rising with that familiar, jealous tension. “That whole sunshine act? It’s fake. She’s just pretending to be all sweet and happy. But it’s all a show. She’s actually, she’s miserable. She’s depressing. She’s not what you think she is.”

He stared at her for a long moment. The wind rustled the trees, and somewhere in the distance, someone laughed a sound so far removed from the bitter drama at his feet. Sunghoon exhaled, slow and sharp like a blade pulled from a sheath. “You know what?” he said, voice like ice over steel. “Maybe you could stand to be a little more like her.” Ruka’s mouth parted in shock, but he didn’t give her time to respond.

“She’s kind,” he went on. “She shows up for people. She cares even when she doesn’t have to. She’s loud and ridiculous and warm, and yeah, maybe that annoys the shit out of me sometimes, but at least she’s not hiding behind fake tears and whispering poison about other people to make herself feel better.” Her expression crumpled, her mouth trembling.

“You don’t know her,” she whispered. “Neither do you,” he snapped. “You don’t get to decide who she is because she threatens your tiny little world.”

Ruka’s hands curled into fists on her knees. “If you really want to know who she is, look her up,” she hissed, the venom returning. “Look up last year’s figure skating finals. Her name. Go ahead. See it for yourself.” He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

“Fuck off, Ruka,” Sunghoon said, and his voice was calm. Steady. Done. He pushed past her without another glance, the door slamming shut behind him like the end of a chapter. The warmth inside him didn’t dim this time. Not completely. In fact, it burned brighter now not in spite of her words, but because of the fact that he’d chosen to ignore them. That he’d defended you, and meant every syllable. He didn’t need to search your name. He didn’t care about the past you carried like quiet luggage. Because when he looked at you, all he saw was someone who got back up. Again and again. And that, more than anything, was real.

Upstairs, behind the closed door of his room where the noise of the party below had faded to a dull, insignificant hum, Sunghoon sat on the edge of his bed like the silence itself had weight. It pooled in the corners of the room, settled on his shoulders, curled around his ankles. The warm echo of your kiss still lingered, on his lips, in his chest but so did Ruka’s voice. Sharp, needling. Insistent. “Look it up. Last year’s figure skating finals. Her name.”

He didn’t want to. He knew better. He should have let it die on the doorstep where it belonged. But curiosity was a sly little creature. It nudged at him like a breeze slipping through a cracked window, whispering just look until he caved. So he did.

With stiff fingers and an unsteady breath, he typed your name into the search bar, letting muscle memory carry him when intention hesitated. The first result glowed like a ghost: “Skater Meltdown at Regionals – Full Clip.” A thumbnail of you frozen mid-fall, your face blurred by motion, your body crumpling like something once fluid and graceful now shattered. He clicked play.

The screen lit up with harsh white ice and the sound of polite applause. There you were, twirling onto the rink, arms extended, posture poised, the embodiment of elegance. And then it happened. A stumble, a miscalculation. The slip. The crash. You hit the ice with a sound that wasn't picked up by the microphones, but he could feel it all the same, sharp and echoing in his bones. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst came after. The camera didn’t cut away. It kept rolling as you stood up, only to fall again. And again. And again. Until your hands were shaking and your breathing was uneven and your eyes — oh, your eyes — were wild with disbelief, glazed with tears that refused to fall quietly.

You broke. On camera. In front of judges and coaches and strangers and teammates and the faceless audience of the internet. You wept, not just from pain, but from something deeper, something raw and human and jagged with betrayal. You shouted through your tears, voice cracking like thawing ice, about how people only came to see the crash. How they clapped louder for the break than the recovery. How they waited for failure like it was a performance. Sunghoon felt something crawl into his throat and settle there — tight and aching. Not pity. Not embarrassment. But fury.

Fury at Ruka, for daring to use this as a weapon. Because what he saw wasn’t weakness. What he saw was someone who got back up. Someone who, even in the middle of a storm that stole her breath and shattered her pride, still stood. Still tried. Still gave the world her tears because hiding them would’ve meant giving up entirely. He didn’t want to close the video. But he did. And then, with that same fire that lived in his limbs when he skated, he opened his phone and typed fast, not giving himself the chance to rethink it.

Sunghoon [11:43 PM]: Meet me at the rink. Please.

It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t even a plan. It was an instinct, pulled from somewhere honest and immediate. Because he needed to see you, not just the practiced, cheery version of you that lit up rinks and rooms, but you, unfiltered, unguarded, as real as you’d been in that video. He needed you to know that it didn’t scare him. That it didn’t change anything. No. If anything, it only made him want to fall with you. And this time, not get back up alone.

The rink was dark when you arrived, the overhead lights low like the stars were keeping secrets. The air was biting, laced with the cold whisper of ice and memory. Your breath puffed in clouds before you, and your heart thundered a frantic beat in your chest. You’d gotten Sunghoon’s message and hadn’t hesitated, you didn’t even change out of your practice clothes, just threw on a coat and sprinted across campus as if your soul had sensed something fragile waiting on the other end. The moment you stepped inside, your voice echoed in the stillness. “Sunghoon?”

No response. The silence felt unfamiliar, too thick, too full of unsaid things. You found him in the locker room, perched on one of the benches, still in his practice gear, his elbows resting on his knees, head bowed. The second you saw him, panic flickered behind your eyes. Was he hurt? Was something wrong? “Are you okay? Are you—oh my god, did something happen?” you rambled as you rushed to him, your hands fluttering over his arms, down to his knees, then back to his shoulders like you were checking for breaks or bruises. “Why did you call me? Are you hurt? Did you fall again? Why didn’t you just text what happened, Sunghoon, seriously, what is going—?”

He didn’t say a word. Instead, his hands found your waist. Not rough or hurried, just certain. He pulled you into him like gravity had finally done its job. And before your voice could form another word, his mouth was on yours. Soft. Fierce. Unapologetic. Your breath caught in your chest, surprise flaring wide in your eyes, but you melted into him with instinct. There was no hesitation in the way you kissed him back. For a moment the ice outside, the night, the ache of the past, none of it existed. There was only the warmth of his touch, the sincerity of his hold, the vulnerability in that kiss.

When he pulled back, your fingers lingered near his jaw, your gaze flickering with confusion. “Sunghoon… what’s going on?” He looked at you like he was still catching up to his own heartbeat, his voice quiet but steady. “Ruka showed up at the house. Told me to look you up. Last year’s finals.”

The words dropped like ice in your stomach. You stepped back, just slightly, and your body stiffened before you could stop it. “Oh.” Sunghoon saw it immediately, the way your shoulders curled inward, how your eyes shimmered with tears you didn’t want to spill. Your lips parted like you wanted to defend yourself, but no argument came, only the truth, raw and trembling. “I had a breakdown,” you whispered. “A really bad one. I’d been practicing that routine for weeks, getting up at dawn, going to bed at two, skipping meals, skipping sleep. I thought… if I could just nail that trick, I’d prove I was more than just the bubbly girl with the pretty smile. I was exhausted and wired and terrified. And when I fell… it was like the world collapsed with me.”

You paused, voice cracking. “But I got back up. I always do. Even when it hurt. Even when the crowd didn’t cheer.” Sunghoon stood, eyes never leaving yours, and took your hands in his — warm, calloused, steady. “I know,” he said simply. “I watched the whole thing. And you — you — were the strongest person I’ve ever seen.”

Your lips quivered. “But I broke down. I was angry and ugly and scared and—”

“And you got back up,” he said, firmer now. “You didn’t stay on the ice. You didn’t let it define you. I—” he exhaled, voice softening, “—I was going to quit. When I got hurt, when it felt like everything I’d worked for just vanished, I wanted to give up. I didn’t see the point.” He reached up, brushing a tear from your cheek. “But then I met you,” he continued. “And you reminded me that even when it hurts, we keep skating. That it’s not the fall that defines us, it’s the moment after.”

A silence stretched between you, delicate and profound. And in that stillness, you smiled. Not the bright, performative kind you wore in hallways and crowded rooms, but something quieter. Realer. “Thank you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. He didn’t need to reply. The way his fingers laced with yours said everything. The space between you fizzled like ice cracking under a sudden flame. There was a flicker of hesitation in your eyes, an instinct, perhaps, to hold back but it crumbled under the heat of the moment. Your hands were still curled inside his, trembling slightly, not from fear but from the rawness of being seen.

Then you kissed him. No hesitancy this time. No uncertainty. You surged forward, your mouth finding his with a quiet kind of desperation, the kind that had been building for weeks, hidden behind teasing words and soft glances, behind shared practices and unspoken understandings. His lips met yours like a dam finally breaking, and suddenly you were both lost to it.

Sunghoon responded with a heat that startled even him. His hands slid from your waist to your back, holding you like he was afraid you might disappear. Your fingers curled into the hem of his shirt, clutching at the fabric like it could anchor you to something real, something burning and alive. There was nothing cautious about it now, the kiss deepened, mouths parting with breathless urgency, tongues tangling, exhales catching like thunder on the edge of a storm. You gasped softly against his mouth when he walked you backward, your spine brushing the cool lockers behind you. The contrast only made you shiver more, and he kissed you again to chase it away. His hands were in your hair now, cradling the nape of your neck like you were something precious. And you were, he kissed you like you were rare, like you were the first warmth he’d felt after winter.

Your body curved into his as if you’d always belonged there. You could feel the way he was holding back, restrained despite the tension humming through every inch of him. And maybe that’s what made it even more electric, knowing how tightly he was wound, how carefully he moved against you even as his breath quickened and his hands lingered. “Sunghoon…” you murmured against his lips, dizzy from the intensity.

He didn’t answer, not in words. But the way he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth, the way your breath hitched, the way your hands trembled where they clutched at his chest was its own kind of vow. The air between you felt heady, thick with longing, the room humming with the pulse of everything unspoken. You weren’t sure how long you stood there in the glow of the locker room light, locked together in something fierce and tender and brand new.

But when you finally pulled back, your foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling, the silence that followed didn’t feel empty. It felt full of everything still waiting to be said, still waiting to be felt. And neither of you ran from it. No, you welcomed it like an incoming tide washing over your heart and your entire being. Your forehead stayed pressed to his, your breaths mingling in the space between like steam curling from a fresh cup of tea. His hands still cradled your face, thumbs brushing gently over your cheekbones as if to memorize the texture of your skin, like maybe touching you was the only way to make sense of the storm inside him.

You whispered his name again, barely a breath, and that was all it took. He kissed you once more, slower this time, deeper. There was a reverence in it, a kind of awe like he still couldn’t believe you were real and here and kissing him back. His hands slid down from your face to your waist again, and he pulled you in until there was nothing between you but heat and air. Your fingers wove into the dark strands of his hair, curling just slightly at the ends, tugging him closer in the most delicate, desperate way.

The kiss grew from soft to smoldering, like fire catching slowly at first, then flaring brighter when the wind shifts. His lips moved against yours with more certainty now, more hunger, and yours responded in kind. It was dizzying, this exchange of breath and want, of emotion too big to name. Every brush of his mouth against yours made your knees weak, every sigh from his throat made your heart race like a drum in a thunderstorm. You tugged at the hem of his shirt, not to take it off, but just to feel the warmth of him under your hands, the dip of his back, the rise of his spine, the solidness of muscle beneath skin. He shivered under your touch and kissed you like he was unraveling.

He pressed you back against the lockers again — not harshly, never harshly — but close enough that you could feel every breath, every heartbeat, every inch of tension. His hands gripped your waist like he needed the contact to stay steady, like if he let go, the whole world might stop turning. “God,” he muttered against your lips, his voice thick and rough and nothing like the usual sharp-edged sarcasm. “You drive me crazy.”

You laughed softly into the kiss, breathless and glowing. “Good crazy or bad crazy?”

He kissed you again instead of answering, and the answer was everything. For a long, lingering moment, the rink, the cold, the ice, the noise of the world, all of it faded away. There was only the warmth between you, only the taste of each other’s names on your tongues, only the ache of something new blooming fast and bright like spring breaking through the frost.

With your back still pressed against the cold metal of the lockers you allowed yourself the luxury of tracing your hands up and down Sunghoon’s broad chest, feeling every contour, every muscle beneath your palms. Filthy thoughts filled your head as Sunghoon’s lips trailed down the expanse of your neck and collarbone. A gasp fell from your lips as he sucked on the skin where your neck met your collarbone.

“Oh!” You squeaked, running your hands through his hair fisting the tufts in your nimble hands like your life depended on it. “Sunghoon…” Your voice trailed with heat laced in the words, want. “I want you.”

“You want me?” He hummed, continuing his exploration of your neck. “How badly do you want me?” He was toying with you, playing with your need for him — your want.

“So bad.” Your voice was airy — needy almost. His smirk said he loved it, the way you were willing to beg for him and willing you were. You don’t even remember the last time you’ve been touched so intimately, with someone you cared for so fiercely. The pure lust and adrenaline coursing through your veins had left you feeling like you were ablaze.

“Beg for it.” His voice was sharp — stern. It was so so hot. The way lips let your body, the way his eyes searched your traveling down your body drinking you in. The way your chest rose and fell as red hot searing need coursed through you. You do anything he asks of you at this moment, anything.

“Please” You whimpered, hands grabbing at his hoodie. “Please, fuck me.” Your voice was sweet and light your eyes wide as you stared up at him. “I need it so bad.”

“Fuckkkk” He groaned and next thing you knew his hands were under your thighs lifting you in his arms in one fail swoop. “I can’t resist you, Sunshine.”

“I don’t want you to.” You pant as his hands find your skirt lifting it enough to show your panties. It was going to be quick, dirty. And that's exactly how you needed him.

“Take me out.” He hissed at you. Your hands reach for his sweatpants pulling them down just enough to release him from his boxers. He was hard, of course. The tip red and angry with need. Your hand made a fist around his shaft pumping up and down.

“Oh fuck.” He groaned, his forehead falling forward to meet yours. “Touch yourself before i fuck you.”

You listened carefully, moving your other hand down, pulling your white cotton panties to the side and rubbing at your sensitive nub with your fingers. “Oh my god.” You whined out. “Please Sunghoon, please”

“Just a little bit more, baby.” He cooed, “You’re almost ready for me.”

“I’m ready now.” You couldn’t contain the whimper that threatened to fall from your lips. “I need you, so bad.”

“Okay, Sunshine.” He nodded, taking his length in his own hand all the whilst holding you up against the lockers. “I got you.”

Sunghoon’s gazed fell from your face to where the two of you met, his tip slapping against your entrance like a knock. A gasp leaving your lips the instant he pushed into you — creating a beautiful stretch you felt through your entire body.

Sunghoon started with a slow pace, allowing hips to tap against yours lightly. It was almost romantic the way his forehead rested against yours. His breath fanning your face with short pants. You were in love with this feeling — in love with this moment and how it consumes you whole.

“Faster.” You whined, hands gripping Sunghoon’s shoulders with white knuckles. You were trying to ground yourself, the pleasure taking you to a whole other planet entirely. “Faster please Sunghoon.”

Sunghoon said nothing, his only response was the quick motion of his hips against yours. The sound of skin slapping filling the silence of the locker room like a melody, it was a tune you’d grow to love if given the chance. “Oh– my god.” You chanted. “Oh my god.”

“You close?” Sunghoon grunts, his voice gritty and harsh. “Take it.”

“Yes.” Your head was weightless as it bobbled up and down in tune with Sunghoon’s harsh thrusts. “I’m so close.”

“Gooood girl..” He cooed in your ear. “Cum for me.”

Your end splashed into you like a tidal wave, washing over your body in an overbearing pleasure you’d never felt before. Your thighs trembled in Sunghoon’s hands as you rode out your high. Sunghoon falling suit, moaning your name like a mantra. You had never felt more connected to someone then you did in this moment. Tied together a web of emotion and something that felt so close to love.

You were falling in love. It was fast and blinding and scary but it was true. You were falling in love. And you hoped and prayed Sunghoon was too.

By the time you situated yourself it was almost too late into the night to try and sneak back into your dorm room. Plus the thought of seeing Ruka right now with the knowledge of what she had done had been sickening. Sunghoon offered for you to stay at his place and you were in no position to turn the offer down. You allowed him to take you home. You allowed him to worship your body until all hours of the night. And most importantly you allowed yourself to fall in love deeper and deeper as the clock ticked on.

The morning sun trickled through the blinds in gentle stripes, painting golden bars across the sheets tangled around your legs. The air was still tinged with last night’s sweetness, a lull of warmth that lingered between your skin and his, and the scent of cold air and something distinctly him like mint and pine and a little bit of wild. You stirred slowly, your limbs heavy but content, the kind of ache that whispered of a night where nothing was said aloud but everything was understood in touches, in sighs, in the soft tremble of lips pressed together in quiet devotion.

Sunghoon was already up, standing near the edge of the room, half-dressed and slipping his hoodie over his head. The light hit his face just right, catching the soft curve of his cheek and the tired determination in his eyes. He looked like someone ready to face something, and for once, not run from it. You sat up, the covers pooling around your waist like the soft folds of a curtain falling back. “You’re up early,” you murmured, voice still raspy with sleep and something sweeter.

He glanced at you, and there was a flicker in his gaze, that rare smile he barely gave anyone, small, crooked, a secret stitched between two hearts. “I’m going to talk to Jay,” he said, adjusting the sleeves of his hoodie. “I want to ask him… to let me play again.” For a second, it felt like everything stopped. Not because you were surprised — no, you’d seen it coming, inching closer each time he took a fall and got up again, each time he looked at the ice with something softer than hate but because this was a moment of return. A full circle. A boy broken now choosing not to stay shattered.

You smiled, and it was bright enough to make the room feel warmer. “You should,” you said, voice thick with pride. “You’re ready.” He stepped over to the bed, leaned down, and kissed you, quick and soft, like a promise sealed in the hush of morning. It wasn’t heated like the night before, but it burned all the same, quiet fire beneath skin.

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him like the final note of a song, leaving you alone with tangled sheets, sunlit silence, and a chest full of warmth. You fell back into the pillows with a sigh, fingers brushing your lips. Something had shifted. And you knew, with a certainty that reached down to your bones, that things were only just beginning.

The cold kiss of the arena hit Sunghoon the moment he stepped through the doors, but it felt different now, less like an echo of pain and more like a memory rediscovered. The air smelled of ice and rubber and worn leather, a scent that once haunted him, now stirring something in him that almost felt like peace. Almost. He walked toward the rink, skates slung over his shoulder, confidence stitched into the rhythm of his steps. The moment he stepped past the glass, heads turned. Jake was the first to notice, eyebrows lifting in surprise, his helmet tucked under one arm. Heeseung followed, stopping mid-lace with a crooked smile playing at the edge of his mouth. Jay’s brows drew together in disbelief, and even Soobin looked up from where he was adjusting his gloves. Coach Bennett, stoic as always, stood at the edge of the rink with his clipboard like it was a shield.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Jay muttered, not unkindly, but wary.

Sunghoon didn’t flinch. “I’m here to show you I’m ready.” The words settled into the air like frost, and no one moved for a moment. Coach’s lips pressed into a flat line. “Sunghoon…”

“I’m serious,” Sunghoon said, voice sharp as skates on fresh ice. “I’ve been training, I’ve been pushing myself. I’m not here to sit on the bench and clap for everyone else. I want to play.” There was a silence, heavy and cautious. Jake rubbed the back of his neck, looking at Heeseung, who gave him nothing but a tight nod. “You’ve been through a lot,” Soobin offered gently. “It’s not about wanting. It’s about being cleared.”

“I am cleared,” Sunghoon snapped, the warmth from earlier that morning slipping through his fingers like melting snow. “I’m cleared, I’m stronger, I’ve been working every goddamn day. But every time I come back here, you all look at me like I’m broken glass.” Coach Bennett looked down at his clipboard, unreadable. “It’s not about doubt, it’s about safety.”

“Bullshit,” Sunghoon muttered. His jaw tensed, breath fogging in front of him. “You think I’d put myself back on this ice if I wasn’t ready?” Still, they didn’t move, didn’t soften. And something in him snapped, not the injury, not the tendon, but something deeper. A flare of frustration bloomed in his chest, blooming red hot. Heeseung, trying to defuse the crackle in the air, said, “Maybe just keep training with the figure skater—”

Sunghoon’s head snapped up, and without meaning to, without even thinking, the words spilled out sharp and cruel. “I’m done wasting time with that ballerina on ice.” It felt like the words echoed, like even the boards flinched from them. A sting curled behind his ribs the moment it left his mouth, regret instantaneous, but pride, wounded and loud, kept him from pulling it back. “I want to come back to the real game,” he added, voice quieter, but iron-edged. “I’m done sitting out while you all pretend like I don’t exist.”

A thick pause. Coach Bennett looked at him long and hard, then said slowly, “You can skate at next week’s practice. We’ll see then.” And just like that, it was done. But the victory tasted hollow on his tongue, and when Sunghoon sat to lace up his skates, the chill of the words he’d thrown, not at them, but at you, clung to him like frostbite.

In the dim hush of the arena’s far bleachers, behind a column of shadow where the sun dared not reach, Ruka sat like a ghost in waiting, silent, calculating, and out of place. The buzz of the overhead lights hummed above her, flickering faintly, illuminating the sharp gleam in her eyes as she angled her phone just so. Her hand was steady. Patient. She shouldn’t have been there, wasn't allowed, wasn’t invited but Ruka had learned long ago that the world didn’t bend for those who asked politely. It bowed for the ones who took what they wanted. And right now, what she wanted was to unravel the ribbon of warmth that had started to thread its way between you and Sunghoon, to cut it with precision, to remind the world of who belonged in the spotlight and who didn’t.

Her phone was already recording when Sunghoon stormed in, voice clear and edged with fire. She leaned forward, breath caught, her ears tuned sharply to every syllable. And then, there it was. The perfect storm. “I’m done wasting time with that ballerina on ice.” it hit the air like a slap, reverberating across the rink, and Ruka’s mouth curved into something that might have been mistaken for a smile if it weren’t so cold. Her thumb paused just long enough to ensure it had been captured, every inch of his exasperation, the tension in his voice, the pride bleeding into his posture. She tucked the phone into her coat pocket like a prize, one she’d deliver when the time was right, when the sting would land deepest.

She didn’t care if Sunghoon hadn’t meant it. She didn’t care that he might already regret it. She wasn’t after truth, she was after control, and perception was always stronger than honesty in the court of whispered judgment. As the team fell into uneasy silence, she slipped out like a wisp of smoke, unnoticed and unseen, her heels light on the concrete floor, her breath misting in the chilled air. The doors of the arena sighed open and closed behind her with a hush. Outside, the sky stretched pale and gray, the wind carrying a sharpness that mirrored her resolve.

Ruka wasn’t stupid she’d seen the way you looked at him, the way your smile bloomed for him like the first flower of spring. And more than that, she’d seen the way he looked back, that faint, unguarded flicker that once might have belonged to her but now seemed to burn only for you. So fine, she thought. If fire was what it took to make him see, then she’d set the whole thing ablaze. Let the ballerina dance on thin ice. She’d make sure the cracks came quick.

The front door creaked open with a burst of wind and sunlight, and Sunghoon stepped inside, shoulders high and heart thundering like blades against ice. His cheeks were flushed, not from the cold but from the triumph still coursing through him like static. The house was quiet, a rare lull between chaos, there you were. Sprawled across the living room floor in one of his oversized sweatshirts, your legs curled beneath you, your eyes bright as twin stars as they landed on him. The moment you saw his face, your own lit up like the sky on New Year’s Eve.

"Did they say yes? What did they say? Oh my god, are you back? When do you start? What did Jay say? Wait, did Heeseung—" Your words spilled out like a melody, fast and tumbling and effervescent, each one building on the last in that way only you could manage. It was a deluge of sunshine, and Sunghoon didn’t answer — not with words, not yet. Instead, with one smooth movement and a grin tugging at the corners of his lips, he crossed the room in three long strides, swept you up with one arm around your waist, and kissed you. Firm, grounded, and breath-stealing. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for permission because it already knows it’s home.

You let out a delighted squeal, half-laughter against his mouth, your hands flying to his shoulders as your feet dangled above the floor. “I take it they said yes,” you murmured when you pulled back, breathless, the corners of your mouth lifting in that way that always made his chest ache a little in the best way. “Yes,” he said, barely above a whisper, but his voice held so much more than just agreement. It was relief and victory and hope. “Practice starts next week.”

You beamed like you had swallowed the moon whole, eyes soft and full of a pride that wasn’t loud, but deep and unwavering. “I knew they’d say yes,” you said, cupping his cheek. “You were born for the ice.” He kissed you again, this time slower, with a touch more reverence, as if he was grounding himself in you. As if your faith in him was the thing tethering him to the world. And maybe it was.

He set you gently down, but your arms remained looped around his neck, unwilling to let go just yet. You leaned your forehead against his and closed your eyes for a beat. “I’m so happy for you, Hoon.” His name on your lips still made something in him tremble. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You would’ve,” you whispered. “But I’m glad I got to watch you do it anyway.” Outside, the wind whispered promises against the windows, and inside, in the soft glow of late afternoon, Sunghoon realized that somewhere between all the broken things, the injuries, the pressure, the pain he had found something whole. You.

That night, the frat house was glowing, music vibrating through the walls like a heartbeat, laughter spilling out into the cold night air, the scent of cheap beer and cologne wrapping around the porch in a familiar haze. When Sunghoon leaned against your doorframe earlier, looking all casual with his hands shoved in his pockets and a soft smile threatening the edge of his mouth, asking you to come with him to the party, your yes had come quicker than your breath. There was no way you’d miss it not after the week the two of you had. So now, walking in beside him, hand ghosting near his like some secret tether, you tried not to look too amazed at the wild warmth of it all. Lights strung from the ceiling blinked like dying stars, red cups swirled in every hand, and voices collided like waves. It was chaos, but it was the good kind, the kind where possibility clung to the air like perfume.

Sunghoon didn’t even hesitate. He kept his hand on the small of your back, leading you through the crowd with a quiet confidence, and then he said it, just loud enough for the group clustered near the kitchen island to hear. “This is my girl.” It took you a second to process the words. Your heart leapt to your throat, and your smile tried to hide behind the cup in your hand, but you felt it. The gravity of it. How he said it so simply, like it wasn’t anything new, like it had been true for ages and he was just now stating a fact everyone should already know.

His friends turned toward you all at once, a mix of grins and raised brows. Jay was first to reach out, pulling you into a quick, one-armed hug. “So you’re the figure skater.”

You laughed. “Guilty.”

“I’m Jake,” said the one with dimples, his voice warm and curious, like he’d been waiting to meet you. “You’re way too happy to be hanging out with Sunghoon.”

You giggled and nudged your shoulder into Sunghoon’s. “I think I balance him out.”

“Or drive him insane,” Soobin added dryly from the couch. His arm was loosely slung around a girl who looked like she’d rather be anywhere else. She was beautiful, no doubt, sleek and poised, but her smile was more of a formality than anything real. That had to be Yunjin. She gave you a quick nod. “You’re very…bubbly.”

“Is that code for loud?” you asked, grinning wide. “It’s okay, I get that a lot.” Soobin cracked a half-smile, and even Yunjin let out the tiniest huff that could’ve been a laugh if you squinted. Still, there was tension between them, an invisible thread pulled too tight. They stood close but didn’t seem to touch, not really. Their words skipped past each other like stones across water, and you wondered what storm brewed quietly behind their silence. Heeseung leaned in then, arms crossed, eyes flicking between you and Sunghoon. “She’s the opposite of you, man. Like…completely.”

Sunghoon only shrugged, sipping his drink with a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Yeah. I know.” And the way he looked at you when he said it like it wasn’t a flaw, like it was the best thing about you, made your chest bloom with something warm and wild. You reached for his hand, and this time he didn’t hesitate. His fingers curled into yours like they belonged there, like maybe they always had. The music shifted into something slower, the kind of beat that made everything else fade, and the crowd swayed around you like the sea. You weren’t quite sure how the night would end, but for now, wrapped in the golden hum of laughter and light, with Sunghoon by your side and your name spoken like something precious between strangers who might become friends you were exactly where you were meant to be.

The night had curled itself into comfort, like a candle-lit secret shared between strangers now growing familiar. You stood with Sunghoon and his friends in the corner of the room where the music wasn’t too loud, where voices could still dance freely. You were mid-laugh, something Jake had said, your face lit with that easy, golden joy you wore like a second skin. Sunghoon stood close to you, his arm brushing yours every so often, eyes softer than anyone had seen them in weeks. You didn’t know it, but he’d been watching you like you were a lighthouse in the storm, something to steer by. And then the room chilled.

It was subtle at first, just a shift in air, the way conversation dulled, footsteps falling heavy behind the group. You turned before Sunghoon did, and there she was. Ruka. Her presence bled tension into the moment, a sharpness that made smiles go stiff and gazes flick downward. She stood with her arms crossed, dressed like she belonged and yet looking so out of place. You smiled at her anyway, your voice honeyed and warm.

“Hey, Ruka! You made it, have you met everyone?” The sweetness in your tone was genuine, like you hadn’t noticed the way her eyes cut through you, like maybe this time would be different, like maybe she’d smile back and offer a polite nod. But she didn’t.

Instead, her lip curled, and her voice dropped low, sharp enough to wound. “Drop the act.” The words sliced through the air like glass breaking. The laughter stopped, your own breath hitching slightly as confusion passed across your face. “What?” you asked, softly, not in disbelief, but in the kind of gentle hope that maybe you’d misheard her.

“I said,” Ruka stepped closer now, venom twisting in her pretty mouth, “drop the fucking act. The bubbly sunshine girl thing? It's fake. And everyone here’s falling for it, but it’s pathetic.” A heavy silence fell. Jake blinked, Soobin muttered something under his breath. Yunjin folded her arms tightly. And beside you, you felt Sunghoon stiffen, like his muscles remembered rage before his mind caught up.

“Back off,” he said, his voice low and dangerously calm. But Ruka only laughed, a cold, humorless thing that curled at the edges like smoke. “Really? You’re defending her?” She looked at him, eyes glinting with something twisted and triumphant. “That’s rich, coming from the guy who said he was wasting his time with the ‘ballerina on ice.’”

You froze. The words hung between you like frost. You turned, your head tilting slightly toward Sunghoon, expression unreadable. But he was already shaking his head, already stepping forward. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, voice rising, urgent. “I was pissed, I was trying to prove I was ready to play again, and I said something stupid—”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Ruka said smoothly. “They can hear it for themselves.” She pulled out her phone, unlocking it with the ease of someone who’d been waiting for this moment. The recording played loud and clear, his voice unmistakable: “I’m just wasting time with the ballerina on ice. I want to come back to the real game.”

The words hit like a slap. Your chest ached, something invisible curling tight around your lungs. You stood still, perfectly still, like movement might make it worse. The others glanced between you both, some awkward, some stunned. Heeseung winced. Jay looked furious. Jake muttered, “Dude,” under his breath. Sunghoon reached for you then, eyes wide, desperate. “I didn’t mean it—” You didn’t flinch. You didn’t pull away. But your smile, your radiant, effortless smile — wavered. Only a flicker, barely there, like a candle in the wind.

The music faded. Or maybe it didn't, maybe it still pulsed behind you, still thudded with the bass of cheap speakers and louder laughter, but in your ears it was gone. Replaced by the sound of your own heartbeat — wild and feral, pounding like fists against a closed door. Your cheeks flushed hot, but your hands had gone cold, and everything in the room blurred with the sting of unshed tears. Your eyes found Sunghoon’s, but it wasn’t safety you felt.

It was betrayal. And shame. Shame so sudden it roared up your throat and turned the warmth in your chest to something molten and broken. “Wait—” he whispered, stepping toward you. You pulled back.

He looked like he’d been struck, like the reach of his hand had meant everything. Maybe it had. But you were already moving, weaving between people, ignoring the murmurs and awkward stares, the way the group parted like water around you. Your heels scraped the floor. Someone said your name, maybe Jake, maybe Heeseung, but you didn’t turn back. You pushed through the door and into the yard where the cold night air hit your face like glass. You breathed it in too fast, too hard, hoping it would drown out the heat of humiliation clawing at your throat. The stars blurred above you, cruel and glinting. Behind you — footsteps.

“Wait—please,” Sunghoon called out, breathless. You spun on him just as he reached the porch, voice trembling with hurt and rage. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t mean it,” he said, voice cracking. “I swear I didn’t mean it.”

“Don’t lie to me.” You tried to keep your voice strong, but it wavered at the edges, shivering like frost under sunlight. “Don’t act like I didn’t hear it. Everyone heard it, Sunghoon.”

“I was angry,” he said. “They wouldn’t let me play, I—I said something I didn’t mean because I was desperate. I didn’t mean it like that. You know I didn’t.”

“You called me a waste of time,” you whispered, voice breaking now. “You said I wasn’t the real game.” His expression collapsed. “That’s not what I meant—”

“You think I don’t know what it’s like to want something that bad?” You laughed, but it came out brittle and sharp. “To work every night until your legs give out? To fall and fall and fall and keep getting up? I gave everything to this. To the ice. To you.” Tears spilled hot down your cheeks, and you hated how fast they came, how they betrayed the tremor in your heart.

“I didn’t ask for any of this. I didn’t ask for you to kiss me. I didn’t ask to be anything more than the annoying figure skater who shares your rink time.”

“You’re not—don’t say that,” he said, stepping closer. But you stepped back.

“I should’ve known better,” you said, voice low now, shaking. “You were always going to go back to them. To the game. And I was just practice. Just something to pass the time.”

“That’s not true.” His hands curled into fists at his sides. “You’re more than that. You mean—fuck, you mean everything.” And then he said it.

“I love you.”

The words cracked the night in two. You stared at him, eyes wide, breath stolen clean from your lungs. But it was too late. You shook your head, tears still slipping down your cheeks, chest heaving. “Don’t say that now.”

“I mean it.”

“Then why did you say that?” The question hung between you like a blade. And he had no answer. Or maybe he did, but not one that could stitch the wound he’d just made. So you turned. You turned before he could see the way your whole body broke in half. Before he could see the shiver in your spine and the way your hands curled into your coat like it could somehow hold you together. You walked. Past the yard, down the sidewalk, away from the party that once felt like light. Sunghoon didn’t follow this time. And maybe that’s what hurt the most.

The days pass like shadows beneath your skates, faint and fleeting, yet always there. Each morning you wake with a hollow echo in your chest, a silence that’s grown too familiar. You lace up your skates like armor, wear your routines like battle hymns. You skate harder now, faster, carving the ice like it wronged you. Blades slicing through your thoughts, breath fogging in the cold as you spin through everything you can’t say. You haven’t spoken to Sunghoon since that night. You’ve seen him in passing, walking across campus, laughing with Heeseung outside the rink, nodding at Coach Bennett with that quiet intensity in his eyes, but you never linger. You turn corners when he comes close. Pretend not to hear when his voice drifts from down the hallway. You are your own silence, sharp and unyielding.

The dorm is no better. Ruka has become a ghost, and you let her be. You don’t look at her, don’t respond to her passive remarks or the way she sighs when you walk in. She’s tried to speak, maybe once, maybe twice, but you shut her out with the same coldness she once offered you. You spend more time out of the room than in it. Your application to switch dorms is in the system now, a silent wish sent to the stars. All you can do is wait. But the nights… the nights are the worst. Sleep doesn’t come easily anymore. Your mind replays everything, his voice, his kiss, the look on his face when you turned away. You wonder if he’s been practicing. You wonder if he hates himself for what he said. You wonder if he meant it.

That night, the silence in your room presses in too tightly, the hum of your mini-fridge too loud, the shadows too long. You grab your skates and your coat. The rink calls to you not just as an escape, but as something close to home. Familiar. Honest. The moment you step inside, the air hits you like memory. Cold. Quiet. Unforgiving. You walk past the front lobby, past the empty locker rooms, and step onto the bleachers with the intention of warming up slowly, maybe skating alone under the low light until the sun peeks over the horizon.

But you stop short. Because he’s already there. Sunghoon. Alone. On the ice. He’s skating, not perfectly, not as fluid as you’ve seen before, but he’s trying. Focused. Determined. His brows are drawn together, the sweat at his temples shining under the low rink lights. He doesn’t see you at first. Doesn’t hear the way your breath catches. You don’t move. You watch him glide forward, stumble slightly, then correct. He exhales, pushes again. Again. And again. He’s practicing. Your chest tightens.

At first, you want to run. The moment you see him standing there beneath the pale glow of the rink lights, alone, waiting, searching the dark for something like hope, your body tells you to turn around. To vanish into the quiet of night and not look back. You’ve been skating circles around your own heart for days now, tightening the laces of your silence so securely that the thought of unraveling them in front of him makes you tremble. But it’s too late. His eyes catch yours, and you freeze like a deer in the frost. The tension between you snaps taut.

“Wait,” he says, voice catching, breathless. “Please—don’t go.” You don’t speak. He steps closer, every movement slow, like he’s approaching something delicate, something sacred. His eyes are wide and shining in the cold, like he’s on the edge of something, begging not to fall.

“Just talk to me,” he says. “Please. I—I need to say something.” You don’t know what compels you to stay. Maybe it’s the quiver in his voice or the way your name falls from his lips like a prayer. Maybe it’s the days of silence, heavy as snowfall, finally breaking. But you nod. You sit. And you listen. “I’m sorry,” he says first, and the words drop between you like stones sinking into a still lake. “I’m so, so sorry.”

You don’t look at him yet. You’re afraid to. Afraid that if you do, your heart will unravel right there on the ice. He keeps going. “When you first asked me if I believed in love, I told you I didn’t. That it wasn’t real. That it was for other people, not me. And you, you just smiled like you knew something I didn’t. You said I just hadn’t found the right person yet.” You lift your eyes to meet his. He’s closer now. Kneeling in front of you, his palms flat against the boards, like he’s anchoring himself to you.

“I found her,” he whispers. “I found you.” The words hit you like a gust of wind, unexpected, sharp, and tender. You blink, and the tears finally come, soft and shimmering, gliding down your cheeks like melting snow. His gaze flickers, worried, but you raise a hand, just one, and rest it over his.

“What you said that night…” you begin, voice cracking like a brittle branch. “It hurt, Sunghoon. God, it hurt. But I don’t think it was the words, not really. It was the moment. The humiliation. Being exposed in front of everyone. Like I was something to be mocked.” He looks like he might cry too.

“I just wanted to feel safe with you,” you continue, softer now. “I wanted to be seen. And Ruka… she hates me for reasons I can’t understand. I don’t want to be in competition with her. I don’t want any of this.” His hand tightens around yours. “I know. And I hate that I let her use me like that. That I gave her the opening. But I swear to you none of what I said was real. You are not a waste of time. You are the only thing in my life that makes sense.” You lean your forehead against his, your breath mingling with his in the cold air between you.

“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” you whisper.

“I mean every word,” he breathes. “I love you.”

Your lips tremble. And before either of you can speak again, you kiss him. It’s not the fiery kiss of confession or the desperate press of need. It’s gentle. Forgiving. It’s two broken pieces finding a way to fit again, not quite perfect, but perfectly trying. His arms circle your waist, pulling you in close, grounding you as your fingers brush his jaw, his neck, his hair. The kiss deepens with every second. Not in heat, but in heart. Like a vow passed between mouths too tired for words.

When you part, your foreheads stay pressed together. His thumb brushes away your tears. “I forgive you,” you murmur, voice trembling. “But please… no more lies. Not even the ones you tell yourself.”

“I promise,” he replies, voice raw. “No more.” And in that quiet, ice-slicked space between apology and absolution, you feel it, that something between you hasn’t shattered. It’s only just begun to bloom.

Epilogue.

The arena hums like a living thing, buzzing nerves and echoing chants, the chill of the ice rising into the rafters like ghosts of old games, old dreams. You sit somewhere in the middle of it all, wrapped in a scarf and a soft coat, heart thudding so loud it’s almost a drumline. Your fingers are clasped tight in your lap, your breath fogs in little puffs before your lips, and your eyes are locked on the rink like the story of your whole life might unfold across its frozen face. It’s his first game back.

Sunghoon. And you can’t remember the last time you were this full of feeling, pride, nerves, joy, a fragile ribbon of fear, but most of all, love. Love so big and bright and burning it feels like a comet carved into your chest. The lights above dim slightly, just a flicker, and then the team is called out one by one. The crowd roars like a wave, cresting and crashing with every name announced, jerseys flashing, skates hissing against the ice as the players appear. And then, there he is. Sunghoon skates out like he’s flying, his form clean and sharp and easy, like every moment he ever doubted himself has been burned away. The crowd cheers louder, not because they know the whole story, but because they can feel it. The comeback. The storm stilled. The boy who refused to give in.

You feel breathless watching him. And then, mid-glide, he turns his head. Finds you in the crowd like a compass always knows where north is. His eyes catch yours and in that moment, the noise fades. The arena, the lights, the cheers — all of it vanishes, melting away like frost under the sun. There’s just him. And you. He points at you — simple, easy, certain. And then his mouth moves, slow and deliberate.

“I love you.” Three words mouthed without a sound, but somehow louder than thunder. Your chest caves in, and a laugh breaks from your throat, trembling and tearful all at once. You nod, hand over your heart, mouthing it back: I love you too. And in that charged quiet between you, across ice and lights and distance, the ache of the past slips into something softer. Something holy. The game begins but you're not really watching the puck.

You're watching him. And he's not just skating. He's flying.

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series taglist. (★) @saejinniestar , @vixialuvs , @slut4hee , @xylatox , @skyearby @m1kkso @jakeswifez @heartheejake @hommyy-tommy @yunverie @lalalalawon

@strayy-kidz @wolfhardbby @kwiwin @immelissaaa @fancypeacepersona @starfallia @mariegalea @adoredbyjay @strxwbloody @lovingvoidgoatee @beeboobeebss @zyvlxqht @weyukinluv @flwwon

@guapgoddees @demigodmahash @cloud-lyy @heesky @ikaw-at-ikaw @shuichi-sama @shawnyle @kwhluv @iarainha @ikeuwoniee @mora134340

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