zero.

You liked danger. And yes, maybe you liked chaos just a little too much.

You were exceptional with hexes — quick, creative, controlled. You knew the difference between harmful and humiliating, and you preferred the latter. There was an art to embarrassment. A craft.

Filch and Mrs. Norris simply happened to be easy canvases.

Their patrol routes were predictable. Their reactions were theatrical. Their paranoia made everything better.

And then there was Peeves.

Peeves adored you.

You were one of the few students who could keep up with him — who could invent chaos instead of merely react to it. 

Tonight’s prank had been meticulously planned.

You had enchanted one of the suits of armor near the third-floor corridor — the one Filch always passed during his late-night rounds. A simple trigger charm. Once activated, the armor would screech accusations at him in a booming, dramatic voice while releasing a cloud of bright purple smoke and a cascade of glittering sparks that clung stubbornly to fabric.

Harmless.

Humiliating.

Perfect.

You crouched behind a stone pillar, wand tucked into your sleeve, heart beating with anticipatory delight. Peeves hovered beside you, vibrating with barely contained excitement.

“He’s coming,” Peeves whispered, grinning wide enough to split his face. “Oh, this will be delicious—”

Footsteps echoed.

Measured. Even.

Not the shuffling, irritated stomp of Argus Filch.

But you were too excited to notice.

The suit of armor detonated into sound.

“FIIIIILCH YOU MISERABLE CAT-OBSESSED—”

Purple smoke burst outward in an impressive plume. Sparks rained down like cursed confetti.

And instead of wheezing outrage—

There was a sharp intake of breath. A cough. And a distinctly masculine voice snapping in surprise.

Peeves vanished. Just—gone.

“Coward,” you muttered under your breath, heart plummeting straight into your shoes. You stepped out immediately, because unlike poltergeists, you had dignity.

“I am so sorry — that was not meant for you, I thought you were Filch, I swear I would never—”

The student turned.

Your apology died mid-sentence.

Park Sunghoon.

He stood in the fading smoke like something carved from it — tall, composed, dark hair slightly mussed from the magical blast. Purple glitter clung to the shoulders of his robes and dusted the sleeve near his wrist. The torchlight along the corridor caught in his eyes, sharpening them into something almost metallic.

You had seen him before. Everyone had.

Pure-blooded. Ravenclaw. Top of the year in nearly everything. Brilliant. Ruthless. Quiet in a way that didn’t invite pity but demanded space.

You had seen him across the Great Hall, sitting alone at the Ravenclaw table with a book open. You shared—what? Two classes? Advanced Charms and Ancient Runes. You were almost certain you had never actually heard his voice before.

Not properly. Not directed at you.

And now he was staring at you. Not angry in a loud way. Just… displeased. Assessing.

Your pulse began behaving very unprofessionally. 

“I’m sorry,” you repeated, softer now, suddenly hyperaware of the distance between you — or lack thereof.

He blinked once.

“It’s fine,” he said.

Merlin.

You had not been prepared for that, not prepared for how the sound slid down your spine.

You had not expected that voice.

“It was meant for Filch,” you added quickly, because for some reason you felt compelled to defend yourself.

“I gathered,” he replied dryly.

There it was.

A faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not amusement. Not quite. Something restrained.

Up close, he was unfair.

Sharp jaw. Dark lashes. Eyes that looked like they held thoughts he would never share, like they held too much thought and too little mercy. There was something composed about him, something restrained — like he was constantly holding something back.

And he was tall. 

You had to tilt your head slightly to maintain eye contact, and that realization alone sent your traitorous heart into a frenzy in a way that was deeply inconvenient. 

He didn’t fidget. He didn’t brush the glitter off his robe. He didn’t even look embarrassed.

He simply stood there, taking you in like you were the unexpected variable in an equation he hadn’t planned for.

“You’re in Advanced Defensive Theory,” he said.

Not a question.

You blinked. “Yes.”

“You argue with Professor Whitmore.”

“I contribute,” you corrected immediately.

“You interrupt.”

You scoffed softly, folding your arms over your chest like you were in the middle of a casual debate instead of standing inches away from a boy who made your pulse behave irrationally.

“In my book,” you said breezily, “that’s the same thing.”

His eyebrow lifted slightly.

You pushed on, brushing him off with a careless tilt of your head. “If someone is wrong, I correct them. If someone is vague, I clarify. If Professor Whitmore insists on explaining defensive counter-curses like we’re first years, I improve the lecture.”

A faint curl of satisfaction settled in your chest. You were used to winning arguments. Used to people reacting — either with amusement or exasperation.

Sunghoon did neither. He just stared at you. 

It wasn’t a blank stare. It wasn’t empty. It was sharp and focused, like he was dissecting your words instead of responding to them. His gaze didn’t flicker away when you shifted your weight. It didn’t falter when you met it head-on.

If anything, it deepened.

“You’re not going to argue back?” you asked lightly, attempting to reclaim some of your usual confidence.

He didn’t answer. He just continued staring.

And Merlin help you, but that was worse. Because it felt like he was waiting for something. Watching for something. As if he already knew how you would react and simply wanted to see it unfold.

Your fingers fidgeted slightly at your side before you forced them still. “Anyway,” you said, shifting gears, “I really am sorry. That wasn’t meant for you.”

Still nothing. Just those dark eyes, steady and unrelenting.

For someone so quiet, he had a presence that was almost suffocating. Not loud. Not overbearing. Just… intense.

It made your skin feel too tight.

“I didn’t expect anyone else to be walking through here,” you added, softer this time.

His gaze flickered — just barely — to the enchanted armor, now standing innocently against the wall as though it hadn’t just screamed obscenities.

Then he looked back at you.

“How did you do it?”

You blinked.

“…What?”

“The trigger,” he clarified calmly. “How did you bind it?”

For a second, you simply stared at him.

That was not the question you expected.

“I—” You faltered, thrown off. “I’m sorry?”

His expression didn’t change. “The suit of armor. You hexed it to respond. How?”

Confusion washed over you, followed quickly by something like surprise.

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t offended. He was curious.

“You’re asking about the enchantment?” you said slowly.

“Yes.”

The simplicity of it unsettled you.

You glanced back at the armor instinctively, as if expecting it to answer for you. “It’s not complicated,” you said after a moment, though your tone lost some of its usual teasing edge. “It’s a layered charm.”

He didn’t interrupt.

You found yourself explaining before you consciously decided to. “I used a modified auditory trigger,” you said, gesturing vaguely with your hand. “The armor only activates when it detects ‘Filch’ spoken within a certain radius.”

“And the smoke?” he asked.

“Basic dispersion charm. Non-toxic. Stains fabric for about an hour, though.” You winced slightly. “I may have overdone the glitter.”

His gaze flicked to his shoulder again. Then back to you.

“You stacked the enchantments,” he observed.

“Yes.”

“In sequence?”

“Of course.”

“You’re not supposed to be able to layer that many minor charms without destabilizing the trigger,” he said evenly.

You blinked at him, surprised despite yourself.

“I stabilized the core,” you replied automatically. “Anchored it to the armor’s existing ward structure.”

His eyes sharpened. “How?”

“Why do you care?” you asked quietly.

“Because it worked.”

It shouldn’t have felt like praise. But it did.

Your pulse skipped.

“I adjusted the matrix,” you admitted after a beat. “There’s a binding symbol carved inside the base. It redirects excess magic back into the object instead of letting it disperse.”

Another stretch of silence.

You expected him to challenge it. To critique it. To tell you it was inefficient. Instead, something shifted in his expression.

Interest.

“You modified the runes yourself,” he said.

“Yes.”

“How long did it take you?”

“Like one minute.”

His gaze lingered on you in a way that made your stomach flip.

“It was just for fun,” you added. “I wasn’t exactly writing a thesis.”

“You shouldn’t waste that on pranks.” There was no condescension in his tone. Just a fact.

Your chin lifted instinctively. “I don’t waste anything.”

His lips twitched almost imperceptibly. “I can see that.” He glanced once more at the armor, then back at you. “Next time,” he said calmly, “tell me before you try something like that.”

“Why would I do that?”

“So I can see it up close.” 

You stared at him, thrown off balance in a way you didn’t appreciate. “You want to supervise my rule-breaking?” you asked lightly, trying to regain control of the moment.

“I want to see how your mind works when you’re not being graded.”

That did something to you. Because most people liked you for what you produced. Your scores. Your boldness in class.

But Sunghoon wasn’t impressed by results. He was curious about process.

You tilted your head, studying him the way he’d been studying you.

“You’re strange,” you decided.

A faint flicker of something — almost amusement — passed through his eyes.

“So are you.”

And somehow, that felt like agreement.

After that night, he didn’t disappear back into quiet observation.

He sought you out.

The next time you entered Advanced Defensive Theory, the seat beside you was occupied.

By him.

He didn’t acknowledge it. Didn’t look at you when you sat down.

He never made a spectacle of it. Sunghoon didn’t do spectacle.

He existed beside you like a shadow that chose to stay.

You found yourself looking for him.

In the Great Hall, your eyes would drift to the Ravenclaw table without permission. In the library, you’d pretend not to notice him already seated near the section you favored. In corridors, you’d sense him before you saw him. 

By fifth year, people had started noticing how Sunghoon was always there. Always just slightly behind you. Or beside you. Close enough that the space between you felt claimed.

He didn’t touch you often in public. But when he did, it was obvious.

A hand at the small of your back when a corridor grew too crowded. Fingers brushing yours briefly before class began. Standing half a step in front of you when someone he didn’t like tried to linger in conversation.

He never raised his voice. He never made scenes.

He didn’t need to.

People felt the quiet warning in his stare. The calm certainty in the way he said, “She’s busy,” without asking your permission — but somehow knowing you didn’t mind. 

And you didn’t.

Because it wasn’t suffocating.

It was grounding.

You liked knowing someone that sharp had chosen you.

The Yule Ball was when everything shifted. 

Until then, whatever existed between you and Sunghoon had lived in the spaces between words — in shared glances across classrooms, in late-night study sessions that stretched a little too long, in the way he always seemed to appear at your side without being asked.

But the Yule Ball made things visible, bringing it to the light. 

You had agreed to attend with a boy from your house — charming, well-liked, perfectly acceptable. The kind of boy your parents would approve of. The kind that smiled easily and didn’t carry storms behind his eyes.

He’d asked weeks in advance, red-faced but hopeful. You had said yes because it was simple.

Because Sunghoon hadn’t asked.

In fact, he hadn’t said anything at all when invitations began circulating. No jealousy. No claim. Not even curiosity. Just that same unreadable expression he always wore when he was thinking too much.

You told yourself it didn’t matter.

The night of the Yule Ball, the Great Hall was transformed — floating candles suspended beneath an enchanted winter sky, snow drifting lazily along the ceiling, frost-kissed trees lining the walls. Music swelled from the corner where instruments played themselves in elegant harmony. Students glittered in dress robes and jewel-toned gowns, laughter echoing against marble floors.

You felt beautiful. Confident.

Your date was attentive, polite. His hand rested at your waist as you danced, guiding you through the rhythm.

And yet— You felt it.

Across the room. A weight.

Your eyes found him without trying.

Sunghoon stood near one of the ice sculptures, half-shadowed by flickering candlelight. Dark robes tailored perfectly to his tall frame. Hair pushed back just enough to reveal the sharp lines of his face. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t dancing. He was watching.

Not the room though. No he was watching you.

You looked away first.

The music shifted into something slower. Your date’s hand slid lower on your waist — just slightly. Enough to be noticeable. Enough to feel presumptuous.

“You clean up nicely,” he murmured near your ear, breath warm against your skin. His fingers pressed a fraction too firmly against your hip.

You stiffened.

It wasn’t overtly inappropriate. But it wasn’t respectful either.

Across the ballroom, Sunghoon went very still. The kind of stillness that meant calculation.

You barely saw the movement. Just a subtle shift of his wrist. A controlled flick.

Your date’s foot caught on absolutely nothing. He pitched forward, balance vanishing beneath him as though the floor itself had betrayed him. Robes tangled. Shoes scraped uselessly against polished marble.

He went down hard.

A ripple of gasps. Then laughter.

Your date scrambled upright, face burning crimson, muttering something about slick floors.

You excused yourself with an apologetic smile and crossed the ballroom, ignoring curious stares. The music swelled behind you, but it felt distant now.

You found him near the edge of the Hall, partially obscured by the silver branches of an enchanted tree.

“You hexed him,” you said quietly.

“Yes.” No hesitation. No attempt to deny it. “He was inappropriate.”

Your brows lifted. “I could’ve handled it.”

“I know.”

That answer threw you.

You expected defensiveness. A justification. Instead, his voice remained calm.

He stepped closer. Close enough that you felt the warmth radiating from him despite the winter air drifting through the enchanted doors.

“I didn’t want you to,” he said. “He touched you like he thought you owed him something.” The possessiveness wasn’t loud. It was precise.

“And you think I owe you?” you challenged softly, though your voice lacked bite.

His gaze locked onto yours.

“No.”  A pause. “I think you’re mine.” The words weren’t playful. They weren’t flirtatious. 

Your heart hammered so loudly you were certain he could hear it. 

“You don’t get to decide that,” you whispered.

“I already did.”

You should have stepped back. You should have bristled. Instead, warmth flooded your chest. It wasn't like he wasn’t claiming control over you, but like he was claiming commitment to you. 

The difference mattered.

He leaned down slowly — giving you time to move if you wanted to.

You didn’t.

When his lips met yours, it wasn’t rushed. It was controlled intensity. Like he was memorizing the feeling.

Your fingers curled into the front of his robes, pulling him closer without thinking, while his hand slid to your lower back, anchoring you there.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours.

“You should’ve told me,” he murmured.

“Told you what?”

“That he asked you.”

Your heart skipped.

“You never asked me.”

His jaw tightened slightly. “I don’t compete,” he answered quietly.

You smiled faintly. “That’s arrogant.”

From that night on, there was no ambiguity. You were together. And together, you were formidable. You loved him. Not because he was gentle. But because when he chose something — or someone — he never did it halfway.

You didn’t see the warning signs. You didn’t question the intensity.

You were young and in love.

And completely unaware of how dangerous it would become when the world outside Hogwarts demanded something darker from him.

The change began in the summer before sixth year, subtle and insidious, like ink bleeding slowly across parchment.

You didn’t notice it immediately — how could you, when you were separated by distance and the obligations of separate worlds? Letters had always been your bridge. His used to arrive heavy with detail: sharp observations about Ministry decrees he found illogical, notes on experimental charm variations he’d tested in the quiet of his family estate, even the occasional dry remark about a tedious pure-blood gathering where politics masqueraded as polite conversation. He wrote in that precise, slanted script, filling margins when the page ran out, as if he couldn’t bear to leave anything unsaid.

Then the replies grew shorter.

Not colder, exactly. Still polite. Still him in their careful construction.

I’m well.

Studying.

Family obligations are tedious.

Don’t do anything reckless.

You stared at the sparse lines, turning the parchment over as though more might appear on the reverse. You told yourself it was the pressure of summer — pure-blood families demanded appearances, alliances, endless dinners where every word was weighed like galleons. You knew that life. You lived echoes of it yourself. So you wrote longer letters in response: the Kneazle at your creature assessment internship that nearly took a chunk out of your sleeve, the new hex variation you’d been perfecting (more elegant containment, less backlash), how the days felt longer without him near.

He never acknowledged those parts.

The train ride back to Hogwarts should have felt like returning to solid ground.

The platform at King’s Cross thrummed with familiar chaos — trunks clattering over stone, owls hooting indignantly from cages, students calling greetings across the steam. The scarlet engine huffed impatiently, ready to pull away.

You stepped onto the Hogwarts Express with that old thrill sparking in your chest, scanning the corridor instinctively.

There he was.

Sunghoon stood near the far end, posture rigid, dark robes immaculate. He looked… honed. Leaner, sharper, as though the summer had stripped away anything soft. His features stood out more starkly — high cheekbones, jaw set in quiet tension, dark hair pushed back.

Your heart lurched forward before your feet did.

You wove through the crowd.

“Sunghoon—”

He turned.

For the briefest instant, something flickered in his eyes — relief, perhaps, or recognition so raw it almost hurt to see. Then it disappeared.

“You look well,” he said. The words sounding practiced, like lines from a script he didn’t entirely believe. No smile. No step toward you.

You tried for lightness. “You look like you forgot how to write more than two sentences.”

His gaze flicked down the corridor — scanning faces, checking distance — before returning to you.

“I was busy.”

“With what?”

“Things.”

The train lurched into motion. Compartments filled with chatter. You reached for his hand out of long habit.

He let you take it. But his fingers didn’t curl around yours the way they used to. The grip was there — present, but restrained. Distant. Like he was permitting contact rather than returning it.

You told yourself it was nothing.

The first weeks of sixth year unwinded in small fractures.

He still walked beside you to classes. Still claimed the seat next to yours in shared classes. Still dismantled questions with that same surgical intelligence. But he no longer lingered.

After lessons, he rose quickly. “I have something to handle.”

“With who?” you’d ask, keeping your tone casual.

“It doesn’t concern you.”

The phrase settled between you like a wall, repeated often enough to feel rehearsed.

He stopped the small touches, no idle tracing of your wrist while you read side by side, no hand at the small of your back when corridors grew crowded. He stood near, but the space between felt hollow. Air where warmth used to be.

When another student flirted with you — bold, harmless — he didn’t react. No sharpened stare. No quiet step forward. He simply watched, detached, expression unreadable.

That detachment cut deeper than any flash of jealousy ever had.

One night in the library, the air thick with dust and candle smoke, you couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“You’re distant.”

He didn’t lift his eyes from the page.

“I’m studying.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Silence.

You reached across the table and gently closed the book in his hands.

“Talk to me.”

His jaw flexed, then he looked up at you. His eyes weren’t cold. They were exhausted — shadowed beneath, darker than you remembered, as though sleep had become optional. His shoulders carried perpetual tension, braced for impact.

“You’re overthinking,” he said quietly.

You searched his face for the boy who once told you he didn’t underestimate you.

“Are you pulling away from me?” The question landed heavy. 

For a heartbeat, vulnerability cracked through, then it vanished, sealed behind composure.

“No.”

But he didn’t reach for you. Didn’t soften the line of his mouth. Didn’t offer the reassurance you ached for. The absence of those things hurt more than any denial.

You began noticing the edges of something larger.

Whispers among certain pure-blood circles. Quick glances exchanged in corridors. Conversations that broke off when you approached. Sunghoon spent time now with people he once dismissed — sons of old families, names that lingered in the darker corners of wizarding news.

“You’ve made new friends,” you said once, trying to keep it light.

“They’re useful.”

Useful. The word landed like a curse.

You worried. But pride and trust kept you from chasing. 

Sunghoon had always been intense. Maybe this was simply… evolution. Family pressure. Sixth-year expectations. The weight of futures already mapped out.

You decided to give him space.

You stopped reaching first. Stopped asking where he disappeared to. Stopped pressing when he drew the line with “It doesn’t concern you.”

You smiled in public. Threw yourself into studies, into Auror training, into anything that filled the hours without requiring you to name the growing silence.

At night, though, alone in your dormitory, the questions returned.

You would lie awake, staring at the ceiling as moonlight spilled through the window, replaying every small shift: the way he flinched — just barely — when your fingers brushed his forearm once; the way he scanned corridors before speaking your name; the gradual cooling of his voice.

Love didn’t vanish overnight, you told yourself. People changed under pressure. Brilliant minds bent strangely under strain.

But distance, once offered, sometimes refused to take root.

You tried. Gods, you tried. In the weeks that followed, you became an expert in finding ways to avoid most interactions. You arrived to class three minutes late so the seat beside him was already taken by someone else—usually a wide-eyed third-year who didn’t know better when you smiled apologetically and claimed the far end of the row. You lingered in the library only until the candles burned to half-height, then packed your things with brisk efficiency before he could suggest walking back together. In the corridors you kept your eyes forward, chin high, laughter a little louder when your friends surrounded you, as if volume alone could fill the hollow space he used to occupy.

You told yourself it was kindness. Space. The gift he seemed to want.

He never thanked you for it. Instead, the opposite began to happen.

At first it was small things, easy to dismiss as coincidence. He appeared at the entrance to the Great Hall just as you were leaving breakfast, falling into step beside you without a word, his shoulder brushing yours once, twice, before you could widen the gap. When you chose a different table in the library—tucked and out of sight—he was already there the next evening, book open to the exact page you needed, as though he’d known your research schedule better than you did.

You tried harder.

You stopped going to the Astronomy Tower at midnight, the place that had once been yours without discussion. You joined a study group for NEWT-level Potions that met three evenings a week in the dungeons—loud, crowded, safe. On the fourth night, you slipped out early, expecting an empty corridor.

But it wasn’t.

He was leaning against the stone wall opposite the dungeon stairs, arms folded, silver prefect badge catching the torchlight like a warning. The same unreadable expression, but something sharper beneath it now. Tension in the line of his jaw. A muscle ticking once, twice.

“You’re avoiding me,” he said. 

You paused mid-step, heart lurching against your ribs. “I’m giving you space. You said—”

“I didn’t say disappear.” His answer came faster than usual. 

The corridor felt suddenly narrower. Torch flames flickered as though the air had shifted. You swallowed. “I’m not disappearing. I’m… respecting your boundaries.”

His eyes narrowed fractionally—the only crack in the composure. He pushed off the wall in one fluid motion and closed the distance until only a handspan remained between you. Close enough to see the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his lashes cast spidery lines across his cheeks in the low light.

“My boundaries,” he repeated, tasting the word like it was foreign. “Is that what you think this is?”

You lifted your chin. “You flinch when I touch you. You vanish for hours and come back smelling like rain and smoke. What else am I supposed to think?”

For a moment he said nothing. Just looked at you—really looked, the way he used to when the whole world narrowed to just the two of you. Then his hand moved, slow enough that you could have stepped away. His fingers brushed your wrist, then closed around it.

“I don’t want space,” he said. The words were barely above a whisper, but they landed like a spell. “I never asked for space.”

“Then what do you want, Sunghoon?” Your voice cracked on his name despite every effort to keep it steady. “Because you’re pulling away and holding on at the same time and I can’t—I can’t breathe in the middle.”

His thumb traced once over the pulse point at your wrist, feeling the frantic beat there. Something fractured in his expression—brief, almost invisible, but you caught it. The same flicker you’d seen on the train platform the first day back. Relief edged with pain.

“I want you here,” he said. “Even when I can’t… even when I shouldn’t.” His free hand lifted, hesitated, then tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear with a gentleness that contradicted every sharp line of his posture. “I need you close enough that I can still see you. Still know you’re safe. Still—” He stopped. Swallowed. “Still feel like I’m not completely gone.”

You could feel the tremor in his fingers against your skin, the way his breathing had shallowed. This was the boy who never made spectacles, never raised his voice, never admitted weakness—and yet here he was, confessing in a dungeon corridor that smelled of damp stone and old potions, that the distance you’d offered was carving him open.

You should have pulled away. Should have demanded answers. Instead your free hand rose of its own accord and settled against his chest, right over the place where his heart hammered beneath layers of wool and restraint. 

“You’re scaring me,” you whispered.

“I know.” His forehead dropped to rest against yours. “I’m scaring myself.” His gaze traced every line of your face as though he were memorizing it again: the arch of your brows, the curve of your mouth. He looked at you like you were the last solid thing in a world that had begun to slip through his fingers.

His hand—the one still wrapped around your wrist—lifted slowly, until his fingertips grazed the edge of your jaw. He tilted your face up the barest fraction, the gesture was so careful it almost hurt.

Then he closed the distance.

His lips brushed yours once—soft, testing, almost a question. When you didn’t pull away, didn’t push away, he pressed again, firmer this time. Still slow. But the restraint was fraying; you could feel it in the tremor that ran through his fingers, in the way his breath hitched against your mouth.

You didn’t kiss him back.

You let him have this—let him pour everything he couldn’t say into the careful press of his lips, the way he lingered at the corner of your mouth as though afraid to demand more. His other hand came to your waist, fingers splaying wide, anchoring you against the cold stone wall at your back without caging you. He kissed you like he was apologizing. Like he was asking permission with every slow slide of his mouth over yours.

And then—he pulled you closer.

One decisive tug, erasing the last sliver of space between your bodies. Your chest pressed flush to his, the hard planes of him meeting the softer give of you, and something inside you simply gave way.

You melted.

The resistance you’d been clinging to dissolved in a rush of heat and want and relief so sharp it bordered on pain. Your lips parted on a soft, involuntary sound, and you kissed him back.

Your arms moved without conscious thought. Up. Around his neck. Fingers sliding into the dark silk of his hair at the nape, threading through the strands he kept so ruthlessly neat. You tugged—just enough—and he groaned.

The sound vibrated against your mouth, low and rough and wrecked. It sent a shiver racing down your spine. His control snapped another fraction; the hand at your waist tightened, the other sliding up to cradle the back of your neck. Long fingers curled around the column of your throat, guiding your head exactly where he wanted it so he could angle deeper.

The kiss turned molten.

His tongue slipped past your lips, slow at first, exploratory, tasting you like he was relearning every inch. Your fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him closer still, and he answered with a low sound that made your knees threaten to buckle.

His free hand began to wander, skimming up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through fabric before continuing, mapping the line of your ribs, the dip of your waist, the sharp edge of your shoulder blade. You arched instinctively into the touch, and he took advantage—pressing you harder against the wall, thigh sliding between yours just enough to make you gasp into his mouth.

Your palms slid down from his hair to the broad span of his shoulders, feeling muscle that hadn’t been quite so defined last year. He’d always been lean, elegant, precise. Now he felt lethal. Like a blade that had finally been sharpened to its full edge.

Another groan rumbled through him when your nails dragged lightly down his back. He retaliated by sucking your bottom lip between his teeth—gentle, then firmer—until you moaned, the sound swallowed by his mouth.

Sunghoon’s mouth left yours only long enough to drag hot, open kisses along your jaw, his teeth grazed the sensitive spot just below your ear and you arched.

You retaliated by sliding your hands under his robes, over the crisp white shirt he always kept buttoned to the throat like armor, his abdomen contracted under your touch, a sharp inhale escaping him when your nails scraped lightly just above the waistband of his trousers. He was breathing unevenly now. You felt the evidence of how much he wanted you pressing insistently against your hip, and the realization sent a fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly.

His fingers found the first button of your shirt—popped it open with a deft flick. Then the second. Cool air kissed the newly bared skin of your collarbone, your sternum, and he followed it with his mouth—kissing a slow path downward until your head tipped back against the wall with a soft thud. Your shirt hung half-open now, one side slipping off your shoulder with your robe. His hand slid inside, cupping the soft swell of your breast through the thin fabric of your bra, thumb brushing over the peak until it hardened under his touch and you whimpered his name.

“Quiet,” he murmured against your skin, voice wrecked, but the command lacked its usual steel. It sounded more like a plea. “Someone could—”

You cut him off by tugging his shirt free of his trousers and dragging your nails down his sides, harder this time. He bucked against you once—instinctive, helpless—and then his mouth was back on yours, tongues sliding together in a rhythm that matched the frantic press of hips. His free hand dropped to your thigh, hitching your leg up around his waist so he could settle more firmly between them. The friction was devastating. You rocked against him without thinking, chasing the pressure, and he groaned so deeply it felt like it came from the center of his chest.

His belt buckle clinked softly as he shifted—fingers fumbling for the zipper of his trousers with less grace than usual. You helped, impatient, your hand brushing over the hard length of him through fabric before he managed to free himself. The sound he made when your fingers wrapped around him—low, broken, almost pained—sent a shiver racing through you. He thrust shallowly into your grip once, twice, forehead dropping to your shoulder as though the sensation had short-circuited every thought he’d ever had.

You were both lost in it now—clothes askew, breaths mingling, bodies straining toward the same desperate edge. His hand slipped beneath your skirt, fingertips teasing along the edge of your underwear, pressing just enough to make your hips jerk—

A sharp, indignant meow.

High-pitched. Close. Too close.

You both froze.

Mrs. Norris stood at the end of the corridor, tail lashing, yellow eyes gleaming with accusation in the torchlight. Her thin, mangy frame was silhouetted against the flickering flames, ears flattened, mouth open in another warning yowl that promised Filch wasn’t far behind.

Reality crashed in like ice water.

Sunghoon swore under his breath—vicious—and released you so fast you nearly stumbled. You scrambled back against the wall, hands flying to your shirt. Fingers shook as you fumbled buttons back into place, missing the first one twice before managing to close the top enough to look halfway decent. Your bra strap had slipped down your shoulder; you yanked it up, cheeks burning.

Sunghoon moved with the same frantic efficiency. He tucked himself back into his trousers with a wince, zipped up, fastened his belt in one swift motion. His shirt was still untucked, hair mussed beyond repair, lips swollen and glistening. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand like that could erase what had just happened.

Mrs. Norris hissed again, louder.

“Bloody cat,” Sunghoon muttered, voice hoarse. He grabbed your wrist and tugged you toward the nearest darkest alcove, pressing you both into shadow just as distant footsteps echoed from the stairwell. Filch’s wheezy voice drifted down, calling for his infernal pet.

You held your breath, heart hammering so loudly you were sure it would give you away. Sunghoon’s chest rose and fell rapidly beside you, his hand still locked around your wrist like he couldn’t bear to let go even now. His thumb stroked once—unconscious, soothing—over your racing pulse.

The footsteps paused. Mrs. Norris yowled once more, then trotted off toward the sound of her owner’s voice. The corridor fell silent again.

Neither of you moved for a long moment.

Then Sunghoon exhaled—shaky, almost a laugh.

“We’re going to get expelled one day,” he said quietly, voice still rough around the edges.

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes. They were dark, pupils still blown, but the corner of his mouth twitched in something dangerously close to a smile.

“Worth it?” you whispered.

He looked at your mouth then back to your eyes. “Every damn time.” 

He leaned in, pressed one last, slow kiss to the corner of your lips—soft this time, almost tender—before stepping back and straightening his robes with shaking hands. “Come on,” he murmured. “Before they return.”

You followed him on unsteady legs, shirt still crooked, hair a disaster, skin still burning where he’d touched you.

From that night onward, he kept you close.

It felt, at first, like a gift. Like the calendar had flipped backwards, to when every glance carried promise and every brush of shoulders felt like a secret. In the days that followed, he was there—always there—whenever you came to him.

You slid onto the bench beside him at the Ravenclaw table in the Great Hall one morning, still half-asleep, and before you could even reach for the pumpkin juice, his arm had already draped casually around your shoulders. Just close enough that the warmth of him seeped through your robes, close enough that anyone looking would see the claim without him ever needing to speak it. 

In the library, he had already claimed your usual table, you came and sat beside him, greeting him lovingly. When your quill rolled off the edge, he caught it mid-fall and set it back. When you leaned over to point out a note, his head tilted toward yours until your temples nearly touched, breath warm against your cheek. Perfect. Attentive. Exactly the boyfriend who once memorized the rhythm of your pulse.

It should have felt like coming home.

But the more it happened, the more you noticed the pattern beneath the perfection.

He never came to you first.

Never.

Not once.

You were always the one to seek him out. You were always the one to slide onto the bench beside him, to claim the chair across from him, to walk the extra corridor to where he usually studied. If you didn’t—if you waited, testing—he simply… wasn’t there. He didn’t appear at breakfast looking for you. Didn’t linger outside your common room. Didn’t send an owl asking where you’d gone. He existed in his own orbit, precise and self-contained, and only intersected with yours when you crossed into his path.

And when you did, he became flawless.

Strategic.

The word lodged in your chest like a splinter.

You began to watch him more closely.

His social circle hadn’t changed since the summer. If anything, it had tightened. The same cluster of pure-blood students—tall, pale, impeccably dressed— always murmuring in low voices when professors passed. Names that carried old weight: Malfoy, Zabini, Nott, Greengrass, even a Lestrange boy two years above who’d returned for his NEWTs with a permanent sneer. They spoke of blood status the way other people spoke of Quidditch scores—casual, dismissive. Half-bloods were “adequate, at best.” Muggle-borns were “a temporary inconvenience.” 

Sunghoon sat among them.

Not loudly. Not performing. But he was there—listening, nodding once in a while, offering the occasional dry comment that made them laugh in that sharp, knowing way. When one of them sneered at a Gryffindor first-year who’d tripped over their own robes, Sunghoon didn’t join in. But he didn’t correct them either. He simply looked away, jaw tight, and changed the subject.

You hated it.

Every time you caught him at their table, something cold twisted in your stomach. You hated the way their eyes slid over you when you approached—like you were an interesting specimen rather than a person. You hated the way Sunghoon’s posture shifted fractionally straighter when you were near. You hated most of all that he still let you pull him away from them—let you thread your fingers through his and lead him toward the doors—without ever once apologizing for where he’d been sitting.

Because he was smart. Brilliant, really.

He should know better. He did know better. And yet he stayed in their orbit.

You told yourself it was survival. Pure-blood politics were a chessboard, and Sunghoon had always played three moves ahead. Maybe he was gathering information. Maybe he was protecting himself. Maybe he was protecting you.

But the doubt had taken root now, small and poisonous. Because when you weren’t there—when you didn’t cross into his path—he didn’t reach for you. And when you did, his perfection felt less like love and more like compensation. Like he was trying to keep you tethered with touches and kisses and murmured promises so you wouldn’t look too closely at the company he kept when your back was turned.

One evening in the library, you watched him from across the stacks.

You hadn’t meant to hide. Not really. You’d come looking for a specific volume on advanced counter-curses and the section had offered the perfect vantage. You could see without being seen. Or so you’d thought.

Sunghoon sat at the long oak table near the center of the room, flanked by Nott and Zabini. The three of them formed a closed triangle: heads bent over the same length of parchment, quills moving in lazy unison. From this distance their voices were a low murmur, punctuated by the occasional soft scrape of ink on paper and the rustle of turning pages. They looked like any other group of sixth-years cramming for NEWTs.

Except they weren’t.

You noticed it in pieces.

First, the way their eyes flicked outward—not randomly, but with purpose. A Hufflepuff girl with ink-stained fingers and a second-hand robe walked past, head down, hurrying away. Nott’s lip curled, just enough. He leaned in and muttered something. Zabini’s shoulders shook once in silent laughter. Sunghoon didn’t laugh. But the corner of his mouth twitched—small, almost imperceptible. Then he added something under his breath. Whatever it was made Nott snort outright and Zabini cover his mouth with the back of his hand.

Next came a Ravenclaw boy—lanky, glasses perpetually slipping, the kind of student who always answered questions too eagerly in class. He passed within ten feet of their table, arms full of books. Zabini tilted his head, murmured something about “eager little half-bloods thinking they belong here.” Nott smirked. And then, almost casual Sunghoon spoke.

“Careful,” he said, voice carrying just far enough for you to catch it. “He might hear you and start crying to McGonagall again.”

The words were dry. Detached. But they landed like a spark on dry tinder. Nott barked a short laugh. Zabini leaned back in his chair, eyes gleaming. The Ravenclaw boy faltered mid-step, cheeks flushing, then hurried faster without looking back.

You felt your stomach turn over.

Sunghoon had instigated it.

Not in the theatrical way some Slytherins liked to perform. But he’d fed it. A single sentence—perfectly timed—and the others had latched on like wolves scenting blood. He didn’t join in the laughter. He simply returned to the parchment, expression serene, as though he’d commented on the weather.

You pressed your back harder against the shelf, heart thudding unevenly. The candle closest to you threw long shadows across your hiding place. You told yourself to leave. To walk away before you saw anything else that would make the splinter in your chest dig deeper.

But you stayed.

Another student passed—a Muggle-born Gryffindor fourth-year, red tie askew, laughing too loudly at something her friend had said. Zabini’s gaze tracked her like a hawk. He opened his mouth.

Before he could speak, Sunghoon lifted his head slightly. 

And looked directly toward you.

A tiny, involuntary squeak escaped you, barely audible, swallowed instantly by the library’s hush—but it felt deafening in your own ears.

He couldn’t see you… could he? 

You were hidden. Well hidden. Tucked behind two rows of towering tomes on goblin rebellions, half-obscured by a ladder and the angle of the shelf. Your robes blended with the shadows. There was no way…

And yet his gaze had locked exactly on your position.

For one frozen second his eyes narrowed—searching, assessing—then softened in recognition. The faintest curve touched his lips. Not a smile. Something private. Something that said I know you’re there.

Your pulse roared in your ears. Why would he look here? How could he possibly—

Nott’s voice cut through the silence, casual and amused.

“Oi, Park. You’ve gone soft staring at the shelves again?” He followed Sunghoon’s line of sight, squinting into the gloom. “Or is that your little flower lurking back there?”

Sunghoon didn’t flinch. Didn’t look guilty. He simply leaned back in his chair, arms crossing loosely over his chest, and let one brow lift in mild interest.

“She’s not lurking,” he said evenly. “She’s studying.”

Zabini chuckled low. “Studying us, more like. Must be thrilling, watching the future of wizarding society at work.”

Nott grinned, sharp and lazy. “Lucky bastard, though. Perfect girlfriend, isn’t she? Loyal. Pretty. Doesn’t ask too many questions.” He nudged Sunghoon’s elbow. “Bet she melts every time you look at her. Must make the rest of it easier.”

Sunghoon’s expression didn’t change.

But you saw it—the micro-second tightening at the corner of his eye. The way his fingers flexed once against his sleeve. He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quiet. Almost gentle.

“She’s more than that.”

Nott opened his mouth for another quip, then closed it again when Sunghoon’s gaze slid sideways to him. Something cold and unreadable passed over Sunghoon’s face. 

Zabini cleared his throat, suddenly very interested in the parchment again. Nott shrugged, smirk fading into something more neutral.

Sunghoon’s eyes returned to the shadows where you stood. He didn’t beckon. Didn’t call your name. Just held your gaze across the distance until the weight of it became unbearable.

Your heart hammered against your ribs so hard you were sure the sound would carry.

You sighed.

It slipped out before you could stop it—soft, defeated, the sound of someone who had already lost the argument with themselves. Your shoulders dropped a fraction. The book you’d been clutching like a shield felt suddenly ridiculous in your hands.

And then you stepped out.

One foot, then the other. Candlelight caught on the edges of your robes as you emerged from the alcove’s gloom into the open aisle. You kept your chin up, eyes locked on his, refusing to shrink even as heat crawled up your neck.

Sunghoon’s gaze sharpened the instant you crossed into the light.

It wasn’t the soft, private look he’d worn a moment earlier. This was something else—something honed, possessive, almost predatory. His eyes narrowed fractionally, with the faintest tilt of his head, like a predator acknowledging movement in the grass.

Then he lifted a hand.

Slow. Elegant. Palm up, fingers relaxed—except for the index one.

He crooked it.

Once.

A single curl of his finger.

Come here.

The gesture was small. Insignificant to anyone watching who didn’t know him. But to you it landed like a spell—silent, binding, impossible to ignore. Your feet moved before your mind could catch up. One step. Another. Crossing the open floor toward their table as though pulled by invisible thread.

Nott and Zabini noticed. Nott’s smirk widened into something lazy and approving. Zabini leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, watching the exchange like it was private theater staged just for him.

Regret hit you like cold water the second your body obeyed.

Why did you do that?

Why did you let one crooked finger pull you across a crowded room like a summoned house-elf?

You’d walked to him. In front of them. Because he crooked a finger.

Like you were his. Like you’d always been his.

Nott let out a low whistle, soft enough not to draw Madam Pince’s attention. “Merlin. That was almost poetic.”

Zabini chuckled under his breath. “She comes when called. Convenient.”

Sunghoon didn’t acknowledge either of them.

You however turned your head just enough to side-eye them.

Nott first—lounging with one elbow propped on the table, chin resting on his fist, dark eyes glittering with amusement. The smirk hadn’t faded; if anything, it had deepened into something smug, satisfied, as though your obedience had confirmed some private bet he’d made with himself. Zabini was worse in his stillness—arms crossed over his chest, one brow arched in faint, mocking approval. Neither of them said anything more. They didn’t need to. Their silence was loud enough: Look at her. Look how easily she folds.

Heat crawled up the back of your neck—anger, embarrassment, a sharp twist of something you refused to name. You let your gaze linger on them a second longer than necessary, letting them see the edge in your expression. Not fear. Not submission. Just cold, quiet warning: I see you too.

Nott’s smirk only widened at the challenge, lazy and predatory, like he found your defiance amusing rather than threatening. Zabini tilted his head, dark eyes gleaming with detached interest, as though you were a particularly interesting exhibit in a glass case.

Before either of them could open their mouths again, Sunghoon moved. Without looking away from your face, without so much as shifting his shoulders, he extended one long leg under the table. The motion was casual, almost lazy—until the toe of his polished shoe connected with the side of Nott’s bench. A single, firm push.

The bench scraped back and Nott’s balance vanished.

He pitched sideways with an undignified yelp, arms windmilling for half a second before he hit the floor in a sprawl of robes. A soft thud, followed by the unmistakable clatter of ink bottle rolling under the table. A few nearby heads turned; someone stifled a laugh behind a book.

Nott scrambled up almost immediately, face flushed crimson, mouth already opening on a retort.

“Enough,” Sunghoon said. Voice low. Flat. Final.

Nott recovered quickly, righting himself with exaggerated nonchalance, but the smirk faltered for half a second. Zabini raised both brows, amusement flickering, though he said nothing.

Sunghoon’s attention never wavered from your face.

“Sit,” he said. Low. Quiet. 

You glared at him.

The look you gave him was pure venom—narrowed eyes, lips pressed into a thin line, every line of your body screaming don’t you dare think this fixes anything. You wanted to turn on your heel. Wanted to leave him there with his smug friends and his carefully curated distance. Wanted to prove you weren’t the girl who came when called.

Your jaw tightened. Your hands curled into loose fists at your sides.

He didn’t flinch.

Instead he reached out and hooked two fingers through the belt loop at the side of your skirt. One gentle tug. The impact was soft. Cushioned. Because the second you were close enough, his arm slid around your waist. He drew you in until your side was flush against his, until the length of your thigh pressed along his, until there was no space left for doubt. His hand settled at the dip of your waist—then drifted lower. Dangerous. The heel of his palm rested just above the curve of your ass, fingers splayed wide enough that the tips brushed the upper swell through your skirt. Not groping. Not crude. Just a claim so blatant it made heat flare low in your belly despite everything.

His scent washed over you in the next breath—cedarwood, clean parchment, the faintest trace of winter air that always clung to him after flying. It curled into your lungs like smoke, familiar and devastating. Your shoulders wanted to drop. Your spine wanted to soften. You hated it.

You let yourself halfway melt anyway.

Your head tipped—just a fraction—until your temple brushed his shoulder. Not forgiveness. Just exhaustion. Just the bone-deep relief of being held when everything else felt like it was slipping.

Nott, back on the bench now, robes askew and pride clearly bruised, let out a low, mocking whistle.

“Merlin, Park,” he drawled, leaning back with renewed amusement. “You’ve got her trained better than a Cruciatus curse.”

Zabini leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on laced fingers. His voice was silk over steel.

“She looks good like that, though. All flushed and obedient.” His gaze slid over you—slow, appreciative, lingering a second too long on where Sunghoon’s hand disappeared against your side. “If you ever get tired of the brooding Ravenclaw routine, love, my bench has plenty of room.”

You stiffened.

Sunghoon’s arm tightened around you, then his head turned. When his eyes met Zabini’s, the temperature in the immediate radius dropped ten degrees.

“Shut. Up.”

Nott opened his mouth—probably to push, because that was what Nott did—but Sunghoon’s gaze slid to him next. One look. That was all it took. Nott closed his mouth again. Shrugged. Picked up his quill like nothing had happened.

Zabini exhaled through his nose and leaned back, pulling his own book toward him.

“Fine. Touchy tonight, are we?”

They both bent their heads over parchment.

They weren’t studying. Not really. Quills moved in lazy strokes. Eyes flicked sideways every few seconds—watching, waiting for the next crack in composure. But they kept their mouths shut. Kept their teasing leers to themselves. 

Because the message was clear: 

She’s mine. Back off.

You felt the tension in his frame—the way his fingers flexed once against your side, the way his breathing stayed even despite the storm you could sense coiling beneath his skin.

His thumb stroked once—slow, soothing—along the line of your waist.

A silent promise. Or maybe a silent apology. 

You weren’t sure which.

For weeks you tried—really tried—to give him the benefit of the doubt. You told yourself the library incident was a one-off, a momentary slip under pressure from Nott and Zabini’s goading. You reminded yourself that Sunghoon had always been sharp-tongued when cornered; it was part of what drew you to him in the first place. The way he could dismantle someone with a single sentence and never raise his voice. You loved that about him. You still did, in the private moments when it was just the two of you and the rest of the world felt far away.

But the moments weren’t private anymore.

You watched it happen again and again.

In the corridors between classes, when a nervous Hufflepuff fourth-year dropped their books in front of him—Sunghoon didn’t help pick them up. He stepped over the scattered parchment, glanced down at the trembling kid, and murmured something low enough that only the cluster of pure-bloods around him caught it. Whatever it was made them laugh loudly. The boy flushed scarlet and scrambled to gather his things alone.

You loved your boyfriend.

You did.

You loved the boy who once hexed your date at the Yule Ball because his hand had rested too low. You loved the boy who kissed you like you were oxygen in a room without air. You loved the way he memorized spell structures and shared them with you in late-night whispers, the way his fingers traced protective runes on your skin when he thought you were asleep.

But not when he was like this.

Not when he let those words slip so easily. Not when he chose silence over correction. Not when he fed the cruelty instead of starving it.

You tried to bring it up.

The first time was in the empty Charms classroom after curfew, moonlight spilling through tall windows, turning the desks silver. You’d waited until the castle quieted, until it was just the two of you and the faint hum of sleeping portraits.

“Sunghoon,” you started, voice low. “The things you say—the things you let them say—”

He turned from the window where he’d been staring out at the dark grounds.

His expression was unreadable.

Then he crossed the room in three strides.

Before the next word could leave your mouth, his hands were on your waist—lifting, turning, pressing you back against the nearest wall with controlled force. Your breath caught. His mouth crashed into yours, hard and claiming, swallowing whatever protest you’d been forming.

You tried to push back—palms flat against his chest—but his body caged you, pinning you in place. His hands roamed. Under your shirt. Along your ribs. Cupping your breasts through fabric until your nipples peaked and you gasped into his mouth. Fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. Drowning every coherent thought.

When he finally pulled back—just enough to let you drag in air—your mind was already fogging. Eyes glassy. Lips swollen. Knees trembling.

He looked down at you, smirking—slow, dark, victorious. “Can’t even finish a sentence without melting for me.”

The words should have stung. Should have made you shove him away. Instead heat flooded your core. Your thighs clenched around nothing. A soft, broken whimper escaped before you could stop it.

He chuckled—low, cruel—and kissed you again. Slower this time. Deeper. One hand sliding down to palm your ass, squeezing hard enough to make you arch. The other fisted in your hair, tilting your head so he could devour your throat—teeth grazing, then biting, marking you in places your collar wouldn’t hide.

By the time he let you go, you couldn’t remember the exact shape of your argument. Only the taste of him. The ache between your legs. The way your body betrayed you every single time.

It happened again the next week…

And the week after…

Every time you tried to confront him—about the comments, about the company he kept, about the way he let poison seep in—he turned it into this. Into something so intense it erased everything else. 

Into him winning. Always winning.

You started coming to class late.

Lips bruised and swollen. Shirt buttoned crooked, collar barely covering the fresh hickeys blooming purple along your collarbone, the faint crescent of bite marks peeking above your tie. Your hair mussed in ways no brush could fix. Eyes still glassy, cheeks flushed, walking with that careful, slightly bow-legged gait that made your friends exchange knowing glances and then look away.

One of them caught your wrist once in the corridor, voice low and worried.

“Are you okay?”

You forced a smile. Nodded. Lied.

“I’m fine.”

You weren’t.

You were exhausted.

Torn between the boy you’d fallen in love with and the one who was slowly disappearing into something darker. Torn between the way your body still craved him and the way your heart ached every time he chose silence over standing up.

You stopped trying to bring it up. Not because you agreed. Not because you stopped caring.

You told yourself one day you’d find the strength to surface. One day you’d make him listen without letting him turn your body against your mind.

One day.

But for now…

For now, you just tried not to look too closely. Tried not to hear the quiet cruelty in his voice. Tried not to notice how the boy you loved was slowly being replaced by someone colder.

Tried not to notice how the relationship tilted, into something slow, insidious, and toxic at the edges. Not broken. Just… off-balance. Like a potion left too long over flame—still drinkable, still sweet in places, but with a bitter aftertaste that lingered no matter how much honey you tried to stir in.

And then the showing-off began.

It started small. A hand on the small of your back as he steered you toward the Slytherin table during free study. Sunghoon didn’t ask if you wanted to stay. He simply guided you to the center of the group, sat you beside him on the bench, and rested his arm along you back like a king displaying his favorite trophy.

“Look who I brought,” he said, voice smooth as polished obsidian. His fingers traced idle circles on your shoulder, right where everyone could see. “My girl.”

The title landed like a claim. Not girlfriend. Not even your name. My girl. Possessive. Proud. Delivered with that quiet, effortless arrogance he wore so well now.

You flushed instantly—cheeks burning, gaze dropping to your lap. You wanted to shrink. To disappear behind Sunghoon’s shoulder. But he wouldn’t let you. His hand slid lower, fingers splaying across your ribs, pulling you closer until your thigh pressed flush against his.

Whenever you tried to pull away—whenever the discomfort crested and you’d whisper, “Not here, Sunghoon, please”—he’d turn it around so smoothly you almost believed him.

“You’re ashamed of me?” he’d ask, voice low and wounded, eyes wide with feigned hurt. 

You’d shake your head, throat tight, but the words would tangle. Because part of you did want the dark thrill of being claimed so publicly by the boy everyone else feared a little. And he knew it. That's why he used it.

He started taking you to their private gatherings. He’d walk in with you tucked under his arm like a living accessory, robes slightly askew from the way he’d kissed you breathless in the corridor beforehand. He’d seat you on his lap in front of everyone, one hand resting casually on your thigh under the table, fingers pressing just enough to make you squirm while they discussed bloodlines and loyalty and power.

You wished you could have spoken up.The words had burned on your tongue. This is wrong. They were right there, heavy and sharp: Blood doesn’t decide worth. Everyone at Hogwarts has the right to be here. To learn. To become something greater than the families that birthed them. Muggle-born, half-blood, pure-blood—none of it matters when a spell lights up the same way in every wand.

You wanted to say it out loud. Wanted to cut through the laughter when they sneered about “mudbloods cluttering up the good seats in Potions.” Wanted to look them in the eye and ask how many generations of “superior blood” it took before cruelty became tradition. Wanted to stand up—literally push Sunghoon’s hand off your thigh and stand—and remind them that the castle didn’t check blood status at the gates. How the Sorting Hat never asked for a family tree.

But Sunghoon wouldn’t let you.

It was like he could read the exact moment the rebellion formed behind your eyes. Every single time. His fingers would tighten, a hard press against the inside of your thigh under the heavy oak table, thumb stroking once, twice, right where the hem of your skirt met skin. A silent don’t. His other hand would slide up your spine beneath your robes, fingertips tracing the knobs of your vertebrae until you shivered, until your breath caught and the words dissolved on your tongue.

Or worse—he’d kiss you. Right in the middle of someone else’s sentence. His tongue sliding against yours until your mind blanked and your fingers curled helplessly into the front of his shirt. When he pulled back, your lips would be glossy, your cheeks flushed, and the conversation would have already moved on. The moment was gone. Your courage with it.

He always knew. 

Sometimes he’d rest his chin on your shoulder, eyes half-lidded, and murmur against your neck, “You’re thinking too loudly again.” As if your thoughts were something he could taste in the air between you. As if he’d already mapped every moral line you were trying to draw and had decided, long ago, exactly where to blur them.

You started falling down the rabbit hole.

Late at night, alone in your dormitory, the questions gnawed at you like gnats.

Were you even better than them?

You were pure-blood. Old family. Wealth that meant your vault at Gringotts had its own dragon on retainer. Your parents had rooted connections at the Ministry, kept a summer manor where portraits of ancestors sneered down. On paper, you belonged in their circle. You had the blood, the money, the connections.

But your family had never spoken like that.

Your father valued the house-elves with please and thank you. Your mother hired Muggle-born tutors for advanced Arithmancy because “talent is talent.” You had grown up believing Hogwarts belonged to everyone who could make a feather float on their first try. Blood status was a footnote, not a verdict. You had never looked at a first-year with patched robes and thought lesser. 

Never.

Yet here you were.

Complicit.

Every time you watched a Hufflepuff girl fall when Nott “accidentally” tripped her in the corridor, you said nothing. Every time Zabini drawled about how “certain bloodlines dilute the magic,” you bit your tongue so hard it bled. Every time Sunghoon added his quiet, cutting remark, you felt the guilt coil tighter in your stomach like a serpent.

You told yourself you were protecting the relationship. That if you spoke, he’d pull away harder. That you couldn't make him choose. That love meant standing beside him even when the ground turned to quicksand.

But the truth was uglier.

It was getting harder to meet your own eyes in the mirror.

You started avoiding your friends entirely. Started walking the long way around the Great Hall so you wouldn’t have to see the Muggle-born students laughing together, unaware of how their joy was being dissected at another table. Started excusing yourself from study groups when the conversation turned to “why some families still cling to old prejudices.”

Because every time you opened your mouth to defend someone—anyone—the memory of Sunghoon’s voice in your ear, his mouth swallowing your protests, would rise like a tide. And you would stay quiet.

You hated the person you were becoming. 

You hated how easily your body still arched into his touch even while your mind screamed this is wrong. You hated the way shame and desire had started to braid together so tightly you couldn’t tell them apart anymore.

And still, Sunghoon would turn to you in the empty room, eyes dark and soft all at once, and kiss you like you were the only pure thing left in his world.

“I need you,” he’d whisper against your swollen lips, hands already sliding under your clothes. “Stay with me. Please.”

And you would.

Because loving him had become a kind of drowning where you sank a little deeper into that rabbit hole—questioning your own goodness, your own courage, your own right to judge.

The rest of the year passed like that—slow, suffocating, a quiet erosion.

Exams came. You aced them—both of you did—because brilliance was the one thing neither of you ever lost. But the victories tasted hollow. You celebrated in empty classrooms instead of the common room, his mouth between your legs while your notes lay scattered on the floor, his name the only word you could remember when he finally let you come. Afterward he would hold you against his chest, and whisper how perfect you were. How no one else could ever understand what you had.

You believed him because believing anything else would have broken you.

End-of-year feasts passed in a blur of house banners and golden plates. You sat beside him at the Ravenclaw table, his arm draped over the back of your chair, fingers occasionally slipping beneath the collar of your robes to brush the fading hickeys he’d left the night before. 

Then slowly the castle emptied. Trunks rattled down staircases. Owls screeched farewell from the Owlery. You said goodbye to friends with smiles that didn’t reach your eyes, promising letters you already knew you wouldn’t write. Sunghoon vanished into the crowd the morning of departure—gone before breakfast, no note, no goodbye kiss. You told yourself it was better this way. Cleaner. You told yourself the distance might give you space to breathe, to remember who you were before his hands and his voice rewrote you.

The Hogwarts Express carried you back to King’s Cross in heavy silence. You sat alone in a compartment near the back, forehead pressed to the cool glass, watching the countryside blur past. Your reflection looked older, eyes shadowed in a way that had nothing to do with lack of sleep.

Platform 9¾ was chaos when the train finally hissed to a stop. Families reuniting, house-elves scurrying with trunks, parents calling names over. You stepped onto the platform last, suitcase heavy in your hand, heart heavier still. You scanned the crowd once—half hoping, half dreading—and saw nothing. 

You sighed and adjusted your grip on the handle.

Then arms came around you from behind.

Strong. Familiar. Unmistakable.

You froze for half a heartbeat—then melted.

Your suitcase slipped from your fingers with a dull thud. Your back pressed into his chest, head falling back against his shoulder as though your body had been waiting for this exact moment all year.

He kissed the top of your head, then his right hand lifted in front of your face.

A small velvet box rested on his palm.

He flicked it open with his thumb.

Inside lay a ring.

Sleek black metal—almost obsidian in the dim platform light—shaped like a slender serpent. Its body coiled once around an invisible axis, head raised, tiny navy blue eyes glinting with captured fire. Beautiful in the way only dangerous things can be.

“For you,” he murmured against your hair, voice rough with something you couldn’t quite name. “To show you my love. My devotion. That no matter what happens—no matter who tries to pull us apart—you’re mine. And I’m yours.”

The platform noise faded to a distant hum. The crowd blurred into watercolor. All you could see was the ring. All you could feel was the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back, the warmth of his arms caging you in the gentlest prison.

You turned in his hold.

His eyes were unguarded for once, with zero calculation. Just raw need. Just him.

You surged up and kissed him.

Hard. Desperate. Months of silence and guilt and drowning poured into the press of your mouth against his. He groaned—low, wrecked—and kissed you back with equal force. 

When you finally broke apart, gasping, foreheads pressed together, he lifted the ring between two fingers.

“Do you accept it?” His voice cracked on the last word—barely, but you heard it.

You stared at the serpent. At the blue eyes that seemed to watch you back. Then you looked up at him.

“Yes.”

The moment the word left your lips, the ring moved.

The black snake uncoiled in a fluid ripple of metal, slithering across his palm like liquid shadow. It glided onto your waiting finger—cool at first, then warming rapidly to match your skin temperature. The serpent’s body wrapped once around the base of your finger, before coiling around. The blue eyes flashed once—bright, alive—then stilled. But you felt it: a faint pulse, like a second heartbeat against your skin. Binding. Eternal.

You stared, stunned.

Sunghoon only smiled before he lifted your hand to his lips. Kissed the ring. Kissed the knuckle just above it. Then pressed another kiss to the inside of your wrist, right over the racing pulse.

You didn’t know yet what the ring truly meant. You didn’t know yet how tightly its coils would one day bind you.

The holiday passed in a fever dream of snow and silence.

Your family’s manor was as it always had been—grand, glittering, suffocating in its perfection. Crystal chandeliers refracted firelight across marble floors. Portraits of stern ancestors murmured approval when you passed. Your parents asked polite questions about NEWTs and future prospects, never once mentioning the black serpent coiled around your finger like a living tattoo. They noticed it, of course—they always noticed everything—but they said nothing. Pure-blood etiquette demanded discretion when it came to marks of devotion, especially when the giver came from a family as old and shadowed as Sunghoon’s.

And before you knew it, the calendar had turned.

September 1st arrived cold and sharp. The Hogwarts Express waited at King’s Cross like an old promise, scarlet engine huffing steam into the September sky. You stepped onto Platform 9¾ with your trunk levitating behind you, heart hammering in a rhythm you couldn’t name—anticipation, dread, braided together so tightly you couldn’t separate them.

You found an empty compartment near the middle of the train. Seventh year. Last year. No time to mess around. NEWTs loomed like storm clouds. Auror applications waited in Ministry offices. The war whispers that had once been background noise now felt like thunder rolling closer every day. 

The door slid open.

You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Sunghoon looked… insanely good.

Taller, somehow, though that was impossible. Dark hair pushed back just enough to reveal the clean line of his brow. Charcoal wool hugging shoulders that had broadened another inch, sleeves rolled once to expose the pale skin and the faint shadow of veins. His tie was loose, the knot imperfect, silver-and-blue stripes against crisp white. 

Before you could open your mouth—before you could say hello, or I missed you—he surged forward.

Three strides. Door slamming shut so hard behind him that the curtains followed with a flick of his wand. The locking charm snapped into place so fast the air crackled.

Then he was on you.

Hands framing your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones as though mapping something he’d dreamed about all summer. His mouth crashed into yours—hard, desperate, tasting faintly of peppermint. You gasped against him; he swallowed the sound, tongue sliding in without preamble, claiming every inch like he was reminding you who you belonged to. You clung to the front of his sweater, knuckles white, body already arching toward him like gravity had reversed and he was the only solid thing left in the world.

The kiss turned frantic almost immediately.

Sunghoon’s breathing grew ragged against your lips, little hitches and low groans vibrating between you. His hands slid from your face to your waist, fingers digging in with bruising force, urgent, like he needed to feel solid proof that you were real, here, his. He kissed you harder, deeper, teeth catching your bottom lip and tugging until you whimpered. The sound seemed to snap something inside him.

He broke the kiss just long enough to mutter, hoarse and wrecked, “Fuck—I can’t wait.”

Before you could process the words, his arms banded around your ribs. In one fluid, effortless motion he lifted you. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist for balance; your skirt rode up your thighs as he turned, dropped heavily onto the cushioned bench seat, and pulled you down with him.

You landed straddling his lap, knees sinking into the worn velvet on either side of his hips.

The compartment rocked gently with the motion of the train, but neither of you noticed. Sunghoon’s hands were already everywhere—sliding up your thighs, shoving your skirt higher until the fabric bunched uselessly around your waist. His palms were hot against your bare skin, calluses from Quidditch broom handles dragging deliciously as he gripped the backs of your thighs and yanked you forward until your core pressed flush against the hard ridge straining against his trousers.

You both moaned at the contact—low, broken sounds that tangled in the air between your mouths.

He surged up to kiss you again, but this time it was messier, hungrier. His tongue stroked yours in filthy imitation of what he wanted to do lower. One hand left your thigh to fist in your hair, tugging your head back so he could drag open-mouthed kisses down your throat—sucking hard enough to leave fresh marks over the faded ones from last term. You felt the sharp sting of teeth, then the soothing lap of his tongue, and your hips rolled forward without permission, grinding down on him in helpless little circles.

“Fuck,” he hissed against your collarbone, hips bucking up to meet yours. “You have no idea—how many nights I thought about this. About you like this. On me.”

His hand slid between your bodies, fingers hooking into the waistband of your underwear and tugging the fabric aside. Cool air hit slick skin for half a second before his fingertips found you—sliding through your folds, circling your clit once, twice, then pressing inside with no warning.

You cried out—sharp, needy—and he swallowed it with another bruising kiss.

“Shh,” he breathed against your lips, even as he curled his fingers deeper, stroking that spot that made your thighs shake. “Someone might hear. Though…” He smirked, dark and dangerous. “Maybe I want them to. Maybe I want the whole bloody train to know exactly what I do to you.”

You clenched around his fingers at the words; he groaned like you’d punched the air out of him.

“Still so tight… Still so fucking perfect.” His thumb found your clit, rubbing circles while his fingers pumped slow and deep. “Ride my hand, baby. Show me how much you missed me.”

Shame burned somewhere distant in the back of your mind, but it dissolved under the heat of his touch, under the way his eyes devoured every twitch of your expression. Your hips rocked forward, chasing the pressure, grinding down until the heel of his palm pressed hard against you with every roll. Your hands scrambled for purchase—fingers threading through his dark hair, tugging until he hissed.

He watched you fall apart, eyes blown black, jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. The hand not buried inside you gripped your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints, guiding your movements when your rhythm faltered.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Just like that. Let me feel you come all over my fingers before I fuck you properly.”

The filthy promise tipped you over.

Pleasure snapped through you like a whip, sharp and blinding. You buried your face in the crook of his neck to muffle the cry, body shaking as you clenched around his fingers, hips stuttering, thighs trembling on either side of him. He worked you through it, murmuring praise the whole time.

“Good girl. So good for me. Missed this—missed you clenching around me like you never want to let go.”

When the aftershocks finally eased, he withdrew his fingers slowly, letting you feel every inch. Then he lifted them to his mouth and sucked them clean—eyes locked on yours the entire time—tongue swirling around the digits like he was savoring something rare and precious.

You stared, dazed, lips parted, chest heaving.

He smiled and leaned in to kiss you again. You tasted yourself on his tongue. 

“Welcome back to Hogwarts,” he murmured against your swollen mouth.

The train whistle blew somewhere distant—long and mournful—as though warning the world what was coming.

But neither of you cared.

The year had just begun.

And Sunghoon was already claiming every inch of you like he intended to keep you forever.

You really thought—foolishly, desperately—that this could be a normal year.

Seventh year. Last year. The one where everything was supposed to fall into place: NEWTs, career counseling sessions with McGonagall, late-night study marathons that ended in exhausted laughter then desperate kisses against cold stone. You pictured it like a photograph from someone else’s life: you and Sunghoon walking side by side to breakfast, shoulders brushing, sharing notes, stealing quiet moments in the library without the weight of eyes or expectations pressing in. Normal. Safe. Achievable.

It wasn’t like that at all.

Classes started unforgiving. You threw yourself into them with the kind of single-minded focus that had always carried you through. Charms, Transfiguration, Defense Against the Dark Arts—you aced every practical, every written essay, every drill. Professors nodded in quiet approval. Your classmates whispered that you were “Ministry material,” that the Auror Office would be fighting over your application.

Herbology was the exception. The greenhouse felt like a different world—humid, alive in ways that refused to bend to logic alone. Mandrakes screamed when repotted; Fanged Geraniums nipped at your fingers; Venomous Tentacula wrapped around your wrist once and left a bruise that bloomed purple for a week. You struggled. Badly. So you found a tutor: a quiet Ravenclaw fifth-year who spoke to plants like they were old friends and never once looked at you like you were failing. Twice a week in the empty greenhouse after dinner, you repotted, pruned, fertilized. Progress was slow, but it was progress.

Potions, though…

Potions should have been easy. You’d always been competent. But seventh-year NEWT-level was brutal—complex brews with thirty-seven ingredients, timing measured in heartbeats, cauldrons that could explode if you so much as breathed wrong. Your first Draught of Living Death came out the color of weak tea instead of smooth pearl. Slughorn raised one brow and gave you an Acceptable with visible disappointment.

You needed help.

And the person who could help best was Sunghoon.

He was brilliant at Potions. Always had been. Precise, intuitive, the kind of student who could identify a misstep in someone else’s brew from across the dungeon just by the color of the steam. Last year he’d tutored you through sixth-year theory in between classes, his voice low and patient. You thought—hoped—that seventh year could be the same. But it was impossible.

Because you barely saw him.

Now he wasn't like.. gone, no he simply… just wasn’t there. Wasn't present.

One morning he’d kiss you goodbye outside the Great Hall, lips lingering, promising to meet you after lunch for Potions revision. By dinner he was gone. No owl. No sighting in the common room or corridors. You’d wait—first patiently, then anxiously— asking his housemates if they’d seen him, but nothing.

He’d reappear two, sometimes three days later. Tired. Paler. Shadows under his eyes like bruises. Hair mussed in a way that wasn’t your fault. Robes slightly wrinkled, as though he’d slept in them.

You’d corner him immediately—heart in your throat, voice shaking despite every effort to keep it steady.

“Where were you?”

He’d look at you for one long, aching second. Then the mask would slide back into place.

“Sick,” he’d say. “Nothing to worry about.”

You didn’t believe him.

Not the first time.

Not the fifth.

Not the tenth.

Because the absences grew longer. The excuses stayed the same. And every time he came back, he came back… further away.

He touched you less in public. No more casual arm around your shoulders in the corridors. No more hand at the small of your back when crowds pressed too close. When you sat beside him at meals he’d let you lean against him, but his arm stayed on the table instead of around you. His smiles were smaller. His kisses—when they happened—were quick, almost perfunctory, like checking a box.

Conversations became clipped. Surface-level. He asked about your day, listened to your answers, but never offered his own. When you tried to press—about the absences, about the shadows in his eyes, he’d shut it down.

“Not now.”

“I’m fine.”

“Stop worrying.”

Each refusal landed like a small cut. Shallow at first. Then deeper. Until the worry became something constant, something that lived under your ribs and made it hard to breathe when he wasn’t there.

You started crying in the shower so no one would hear. Started gripping the ring on your finger until your knuckle turned white, as though the serpent could somehow summon him back. Started lying awake at night staring at the canopy, replaying every disappearance, every excuse, every time he’d looked at you like he was memorizing your face before walking away again.

It broke you. Like ice cracking under too much weight.

You still aced Charms. Still smiled in the Great Hall when friends asked how you were.

But inside, the drowning had returned. Colder this time. 

Because the boy who once claimed every inch of you like he intended to keep you forever was slowly slipping through your fingers. And every time you reached for him, he gave you the same soft, tired lie:

“Nothing to worry about.”

You worried anyway. You worried until the worry became the only thing that felt real, it clung to you like damp robes after a storm—persistent, chilling, impossible to shake off no matter how tightly you wrapped yourself in denial.

It followed you through autumn’s golden decay and winter’s brittle frost. Every morning you woke with the same hollow ache in your chest, checking the foot of your bed for an owl that never came, scanning the Ravenclaw table at breakfast for the familiar dark head that was increasingly absent. Sunghoon became a ghost in his own life. He still appeared—enough to keep the rumors from exploding—but never for long. A quick kiss in an empty corridor before vanishing again. A hand brushing yours under the table in the Great Hall, then gone before you could lace your fingers through his. Notes left on your pillow in that precise, slanted handwriting: Library tonight? followed by nothing when you arrived.

When he did speak to you, his voice was flatter, stripped of the warmth that once lived beneath every word. He answered questions with single syllables. He stopped initiating touch. Stopped pulling you onto his lap in the courtyard. Stopped whispering filthy promises against your throat until you were trembling.

You told yourself it was the war whispers growing louder. The disappearances were Order business, or family business, or something he couldn’t share yet. You told yourself that the distance was temporary. Protective.

But the worry didn't go away. It lived in your throat like a stone. It woke you at 3 a.m. staring at the canopy, replaying every half-smile, every excuse, every time he’d looked at you like he was saying goodbye without words. It made your hands shake when you brewed potions, your cauldron bubbling over more than once because your mind was elsewhere. 

By March the castle felt colder than the grounds outside. The snow had melted into gray slush; the sky stayed low and leaden. You were going crazy thread by thread, and Sunghoon was the only one who could have stitched you back together—but he was never there long enough to try.

You finally had enough on a Thursday afternoon when the sun broke through for the first time in weeks, weak and watery, turning the courtyard into a patchwork of pale light and long shadows.

He was there—miraculously—sitting on the low stone wall near the fountain, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. Robes open at the collar, tie loosened, hair falling into his eyes. For one stupid, hopeful second your heart leapt the way it used to.

You crossed the courtyard without thinking. Grabbed his wrist—harder than you meant to—and pulled.

“Come with me.”

He looked up, startled. Opened his mouth—probably to brush you off with another I’m busy—but something in your expression stopped him. He let you drag him away from the curious stares of a few lingering fourth-years, through an archway, down a narrow passage lined with dusty tapestries, into a small, forgotten study room that smelled of old books and forgotten ink.

You slammed the door behind you then you turned to face him.

“What is your problem?”

Your voice cracked. You hated it—hated how small you sounded, how desperate—but the dam had broken.

Sunghoon leaned back against the nearest desk, arms crossed, expression carefully blank.

“There’s no problem.”

“Don’t!” You stepped closer. “Don’t lie to me again. You disappear for days. You come back looking like death. You barely look at me, barely touch me, barely speak to me. You’re pulling away and I can feel it every single second and I’m—” Your voice broke again. “I’m losing my mind, Sunghoon. Tell me what’s wrong. Please.”

He looked away—jaw tight, throat working once. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Stop it!” The shout surprised even you. You closed the distance until you were inches from him, hands fisting in the front of his robes. “Stop treating me like I’m stupid. Like I can’t see it. Like I don’t feel it every time you leave without a word. I’m your girlfriend! I—” Tears burned hot behind your eyes; you blinked them back furiously. “I love you. And you’re letting me drown. Just tell me. Whatever it is. I can handle it. Just don’t keep shutting me out.”

For a long moment he said nothing.

Then something cracked.

His hands came up—fast, almost violent—and gripped your wrists, yanking them off his robes. His eyes—those eyes you’d once thought held entire galaxies—were stormy now. 

“You want the truth?” His voice was low at first, dangerous. “Fine.” He stepped forward, forcing you back until your spine met the wall. He didn’t cage you with desire. This was different. This was anger. This was something breaking.

“I fell out of love with you.”

You froze. Breath stopped. Heart stopped. Everything stopped.

He stared down at you—chest rising and falling too fast, eyes glittering with something that looked dangerously close to tears.

“I tried,” he said, quieter now, voice cracking on the edges. “I tried so fucking hard! Every time I came back I told myself I could still feel it. That I could still want you the way I used to. But it’s gone. It’s just… gone.”

You shook your head—small, helpless jerks.

“No...”

“Yes.” He laughed once—harsh, hollow.

The tears were falling freely now—hot, unstoppable, dripping from your chin. You didn’t bother wiping them away. What was the point? He was already looking at you like you were something he used to care about. Something he’d outgrown.

Sunghoon stepped back. Just one step. Enough to put space between you that felt like miles.

“You think I like this?” His voice dropped lower, colder. The warmth that once lived in it had frozen over completely. “You think I enjoy watching you cry every time I walk away? You think I don’t see how pathetic it’s become? How you cling to me like I’m still the same boy who kissed you in the Great Hall like the world was ending? Newsflash—” He spat the word like venom. “—that boy died the first time I came back and realized I didn’t miss you. Not the way I was supposed to.”

Each sentence landed like a slap. You pressed your back harder against the wall, as though the stone could absorb some of the pain.

“You’re suffocating,” he continued, merciless now. “You hover! You wait! You look at me like I owe you answers I don’t have. Like love is a fucking contract I signed and forgot to renew! I can’t breathe around you anymore. Every time you open your mouth to ask where I’ve been, every time you touch me like you’re scared I’ll vanish again—it just reminds me how much I don’t want this. How much I don’t want you.”

The black serpent on your finger pulsed—sharp, frantic, like it was trying to protest. You looked at it, but your vision was blurring.

Sunghoon followed your gaze. His jaw tightened.

“That ring?” He laughed again—bitter, empty. “I gave it to you because I thought it would keep you. But it didn’t work. Nothing works. You’re still here, still begging, still crying, and I still feel nothing… It’s over, don't bother trying to change my mind.”

He didn’t wait for your response. Didn’t give you time to argue, to plead, to scream. He simply turned away, robes swirling once, and walked out.

The door shut behind him with a loud slam.

Your knees hit stone. Your palms pressed flat against the cold floor. And then the sobs came—ugly, wrenching, tearing out of your chest like something alive. You curled in on yourself, forehead to knees, arms wrapped tight around your middle as though you could hold the pieces together. 

You cried until your throat was raw. Until the tears ran dry and left salt tracks on your cheeks. Until the room felt too small and too big all at once.

You didn’t know—couldn’t know—that Sunghoon hadn’t gone far.

He’d walked blindly through corridors, past startled portraits and flickering torches, until he reached the seventh-floor corridor. The blank stretch of wall opposite a tapestry. He stopped. Pressed his forehead to stone. Closed his eyes.

The door appeared almost instantly.

The Room of Requirement opened for him like it had been waiting.

He stepped inside and the door sealed shut behind him with a soft, final thud.

For one heartbeat there was silence.

Then he shattered.

A loud shout ripped out of him,  furious and broken. He spun and slammed his fist into the nearest surface—a wooden table the room had conjured, already cluttered with potion vials and spellbooks he didn’t want. The table cracked. Vials exploded in sprays of glass and liquid. He didn’t stop.

He grabbed a chair and hurled it against the far wall. Wood splintered. He kicked over a bookshelf—tomes and books tumbling like dominoes. He picked up a heavy crystal orb the room had provided (for what purpose he didn’t care) and smashed it against the floor. Shards flew. He stepped on them, grinding them under his heel.

He then sank to his knees in the wreckage.

The first sob came quietly—almost surprised. Then another. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes like he could force the tears back inside. His shoulders shook. His breathing came in ragged gasps.

“I lied,” he whispered to the empty room. “I lied—I lied—I lied—”

The words dissolved into another broken cry.

He curled forward until his forehead touched the cold stone floor—shards biting into his palms, blood smearing across his skin—and cried like something inside him had finally ruptured beyond repair.

Because he hadn’t fallen out of love with you.

He’d fallen so far into it—so deep, so violently—that the only way he knew how to keep you safe was to make you hate him enough to leave.

The war was coming. The mark under his sleeve had burned hotter every day since summer. The disappearances weren’t sickness. They were initiations. Tasks. Orders.

He couldn’t drag you into that darkness. He couldn’t watch you burn because of him.

So he’d burned the bridge himself.

And now—alone in a room full of broken things like him—he paid the price.

He cried until his voice gave out.

Until the room, sensing his exhaustion, softened the floor beneath him into something almost like a bed.

Until the last sob faded into silence.

The first weeks after the breakup were a suffocating collapse.

You didn’t speak. Not to your dormmates, not to the professors who asked why you were missing from class, not even to the house-elves who timidly left trays of food by your bed because you hadn’t appeared in the Great Hall for days. Words felt like glass in your throat, useless, sharp. So you stayed silent. Curled under your blankets with the curtains drawn tight, staring at the dark canopy until your eyes burned. Sleep came in fits and when you woke, the ache in your chest was still there, heavier each time.

You skipped classes. The ones you’d once aced without effort. You told yourself you’d catch up tomorrow. Tomorrow never came. Food lost all taste; the house-elves’ carefully arranged plates went untouched until they vanished again. Your robes hung looser on your frame. Your reflection in the dormitory mirror looked like a stranger—hollow cheeks, shadowed eyes, lips perpetually chapped from biting them to keep from crying again.

The first bad grade arrived like a slap.

An Outstanding in Charms had become an Acceptable in Transfiguration. Professor McGonagall’s note was polite, concerned, but the howler from home arrived the next morning, your owl dropping it right in front of you with an apologetic hoot before fleeing.

The scarlet envelope exploded open the second your fingers touched it.

Your mother’s voice—cold, furious, magnified tenfold—filled the room.

“—disgraceful! You are wasting your potential! After everything we’ve sacrificed? After the tutors, the connections, the expectations? You will pull yourself together this instant or so help me you will spend the summer scrubbing cauldrons at St. Mungo’s until you remember what ambition looks like! Do not test us further! Me and your father are ashamed—do you know what this looks like to the Ministry?—fix this, or don’t bother coming home for Easter!”

The parchment shredded itself mid-sentence, scraps fluttering to the floor like dead leaves. You sat frozen, face burning, tears stinging fresh behind your eyes. 

But something else ignited too.

Rage—not at your parents, not at the howler, but at yourself. At the version of you who had let Sunghoon hollow you out until there was nothing left to fight with.

That afternoon you dragged yourself to the library.

You sat at the same table you used to share with him. Opened every textbook you’d ignored for weeks. Summoned every scrap of willpower you had left and channeled the pain—the sharp, jagged thing in your chest—into focus.

From that day forward, you rebuilt.

You went to every class. Sat in the front row. Took notes until your hand cramped. Asked questions when you didn’t understand. You met the Ravenclaw girl in the greenhouse twice as often as before; the plants didn’t judge, didn’t leave, didn’t stop loving you just because you were hurting. You brewed potions until your cauldron sang perfect colors again. Your grades climbed steadily. 

You rejected everyone who tried. A Hufflepuff sixth-year left a note in your bag confessing he’d liked you since fourth year. You ripped it at the first word. A Ravenclaw boy from your study group asked you to Hogsmeade the following weekend. You looked him in the eye and said, “I’m not interested.” Polite. No explanations. No room for hope.

You locked everyone out.

Housemates were allowed small mercies—quiet good mornings, shared chocolate frogs during late-night revision—but nothing deeper. The world narrowed to your dorm, the library, the great hall, the classrooms. Anything beyond that felt like risk. Like vulnerability. Like another chance to break.

You tried to erase him.

The scarf he’d once draped over your shoulders after Quidditch—into the fire. The charmed quill he’d given you that never ran out of ink—snapped in half and discarded. The tiny vial of Amortentia-scented perfume he’d gifted you one Valentine’s poured down the drain, vial shattered against the sink.

You tried to take off the ring.

Every night for a week you sat on the edge of your bed, gripping the serpent between thumb and forefinger, pulling.

The first time it hissed—low, warning, almost hurt. The metal tightened like a shackle, coiling so hard your skin turned white and pain shot up your arm. You gasped, released it immediately. The snake loosened again,  almost apologetically.

You tried again the next night. Same result. Hiss. Tighten. Pain.

By the third attempt you were crying—quiet, furious tears—yanking until your skin bruised and the ring refused to budge. You screamed into your pillow. Punched the mattress. Cursed him in every language you knew.

Then you stopped.

You stared at the black serpent curled around your finger, pulsing faintly with something that felt dangerously close to a heartbeat—and whispered, “Fine! Stay!”

You told yourself it was because the snake didn’t want to leave. That it was enchanted loyalty, nothing more. That you were keeping it out of stubbornness, or spite, or practicality.

But deep down—bone-deep—you knew the truth.

You were relieved.

Relieved that something—anything—of him refused to let go. Relieved that one small piece still clung to you the way you still, traitorously, clung to the memory of him. The ring was the last tether. The last proof that he had once looked at you like you were everything.

You left it on.

Sunghoon, meanwhile, became a stranger in every way that mattered.

He walked the corridors like a shadow wearing his face. Head down. Shoulders rigid. Robes immaculate but eyes dull. When you passed in hallways he didn’t glance up. Not once. Not a flicker. Not even the accidental brush of eyes that strangers sometimes share. You might as well have been invisible. A ghost he’d already exorcised.

You told yourself it hurt less this way.

Yeah… you were a liar.

The lie was necessary. It was the only thing that kept your feet moving through the corridors when every instinct screamed to stop, to turn, to force him to look at you even if it was only to see hatred in his eyes instead of nothing. You repeated it like a mantra during the long, hollow weeks that followed: It hurts less if I pretend he never existed. You whispered it while brushing your teeth in the dormitory bathroom mirror, avoiding your own gaze. You muttered it under your breath while walking past the Ravenclaw table and forcing your eyes straight ahead. You clung to it in the middle of the night, when you had to press your palm against your mouth to keep from crying out.

But pain has a way of becoming fuel when there’s nothing else left to burn.

It pushed you forward.

Through the endless revision sessions in the library. Through the practical exams where your wand hand shook for the first five minutes until muscle memory took over. Through the nights when sleep refused to come and you stared at the canopy, tracing the ghost of his touch along your collarbone until the memory turned sour and you rolled over to bury your face in the pillow.

Before you knew it, NEWTs arrived.

And passed.

You walked out of the last exam—Potions, ironically—feeling nothing at first. Just the dull throb of exhaustion behind your eyes and the faint metallic taste of adrenaline fading on your tongue. Results came by owl two weeks later while you were home for a brief break. The envelope was heavy, official, sealed with the Ministry crest. Your parents watched in silence as you broke it open.

Top percentile, the accompanying letter said. Auror recruitment had already flagged your name. An interview was scheduled. A training position awaited—if you accepted.

Your mother’s eyes glistened for the first time in years. Your father actually smiled—small, restrained, but real. They hugged you. Told you how proud they were. How you’d honored the family name. How the Ministry would be lucky to have you.

And you were proud too.

Not the bright, shining pride of someone who’d won without scars. This was quieter. Harder-won. The pride of someone who had been cracked open, hollowed out, and still managed to stand upright long enough to cross the finish line.

a/n: 6AM. I say thank you. I go sleep. Part 2 will be posted soon. <3 REBLOGS AND COMMENTARY IS APPRECIATED!

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You shift your feet on the carpet, your knees brushing against Jake on your left and Heeseung on your right. You're still trying to wrap your head around the rules Calista just laid out, her voice sweet but carrying an edge that suggests she's played this game to destroy people before. Your palms are already sweating against your jeans, as you look around the circle at Heeseung, you, Jake, Calista, Sunghoon, Leah, Jay, and Ume all sat in a circle. It feels like a predatory loop, you’ve always thought you were the observant one, the one who passes all her classes while everyone else is out partying, and being thrust into this dynamic feels like being a lamb at a wolf's dinner table.

"I'll start then," Jay says, his voice cutting through the hum of the air conditioner.

He leans over toward Leah, his silver rings glint in the light, as he whispers something into her ear, his expression stays unreadable. You watch Leah's face, she bites her lip and her eyes flicker around the circle before they land on someone. "Jake," she says clearly.

The room goes silent and Jake, who is sat right next to you lets out a dry chuckle. He doesn't hesitate for a second though, immediately reaching for the bottle of vodka in the center of the circle, pouring himself a heavy measure into the shot glass.

"I'm not staying in the dark for that," Jake says, looking straight Leah before tossing the drink back and slamming the glass down. "What was the question?"

Leah clears her throat, looking sheepish. "The question was...who here is most likely to not graduate?"

A few people let out oohs and light laughter, the tension breaking just enough for the game to feel tame. Jake rolls his eyes, nudging your shoulder playfully. "Harsh, Leah. I'm literally passing three of my labs right now."

But your heart is still beating a frantic rhythm against your ribs. The game is moving clockwise, so now it’s Jake's turn to whisper to you, he leans in so close that his shoulder presses firmly against yours and the scent of the alcohol on his breath mixes with his expensive cologne. His hand brushes your arm as he anchors himself to whisper in your ear. "Who in this room," he murmurs, his voice is so low it sends a vibration down your spine, "would you cheat on your partner with?"

A landmine of a question, and stupidly your eyes instinctively flick toward Jay and then toward Sunghoon, whose posture has gone unnervingly rigid beside you.

Your throat feels tight, your palms are slick with sweat. You know can't hesitate too long or you’ll look suspicious, so you take a breath and try to keep your voice steady. "Jay," you say.

Jay's eyebrows shoot up as a grin spreads across his face. He doesn't even look at the shot glass, going straight for the bottle instead, tilting it back for a throat burning swallow. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his dark eyes locked onto yours.

"I definitely need to know the question for that one," Jay rasps, his voice dripping with mock innocence. "What did you ask our girl, Jake?"

Jake leans back. "The question was…who here would you cheat on your partner with?"

You feel the heavy silence that immediately falls over the circle, it’s suffocating in a way that precedes a storm. You feel Sunghoon's gaze burning into the side of your face, you don’t need to look at him to know his mouth is set in that angry line.

Suddenly the silence is broken by Calista’s sharp laugh, her face lit up maliciously. "Wait," her voice cuts through. "That's a bit redundant, innit? I mean, didn't you already do that?"

Fucking Calista.

You feel like you're shrinking into the floor as Leah and Ume exchange a wide eyed look. Before you can even think of what to say Sunghoon's voice snaps out, "Shut up, Calista," he says with a terrifying authority. He doesn't even look at her, he just stares straight ahead, his knuckles white where they're gripped around his own knees. "It's your turn to whisper to Heeseung." Well it’s not, by the rules of the game it should be Jay’s turn but no one bothers to correct Sunghoon.

You try to swallow the lump in your throat and pretend you can’t sense the tension vibrating between you, Sunghoon and Jay.

Heeesung next to you is sat with a deceptively relaxed look on his face, his eyes betray him though, they remain sharp, tracking the fallout of the last round with interest.

You lean in, placing your hand on his shoulder for balance, "Who in this room," you whisper, "do you think is secretly an alcoholic?"

He stiffens for a split second before a raspy laugh leaves his chest. He pulls back with a smirk dancing on his lips as he scans the faces in the circle, lingering on the glass in Leah's hand. "Leah," he says, his voice clear and resonant. "Obviously."

Her name lands with a dull thud but Heeseung doesn't stop there, he leans back on his elbows and continues. "I mean, the whole party girl aesthetic is a great mask, right? It's easy to hide the shakes when everyone expects you to have a drink in your hand twenty four-seven."

You had expected Heeseung to answer Jay, everyone always talks about how he drinks too much but Heeseung being the shit starter he is just had to pick her.

Leah's face pales immediately and her forced smile from earlier completely vanishes. She looks down at the half full shot glass in front of her and her fingers trembling slightly. Everyone is watching her, waiting for her to reach for the bottle and demand to know what question would make Heeseung make such a pointed comment.

But Leah doesn't move. "I don't want to know," she says, "I'm staying in the dark."

"Oh, come on, Leah," Jake groans from beside you, his voice dripping with agitation. He's already tipsy and his competitive streak getting soured by the heavy atmosphere. "Don't be boring. It's a game. Just drink and get it over with."

"Leave her alone, Jake," you snap, the words come out of your mouth before you can think. You feel the heat of Sunghoon's gaze on you, probably surprised by your sudden sharp tongue. You look over at Leah and offer a small nod. "She said she doesn't want to know. Let's move on."

Leah looks up at you with her eyes glassy with unshed tears, she shoots you a look of gratitude.

The bottle is slid toward Heeseung now, he has to whisper to Ume but you can't help but feel like the vibe in the room has shifted from a party game to a battlefield.

"Can’t I just pick who I want to whisper to instead?" He asks and Calista being as equally aggravating as he is agrees with him. "Sure you can!"

So instead, Heeseung gets up and hands over to Ume, crowding her space, his lips almost brushing her ear. Whatever he whispers is a long string of murmurs that lasts just a few seconds too many. You watch the playful smirk on Ume's face fade, her nose wrinkled in a display of revulsion. "God, Heeseung," Ume spits out, her voice sharp with a mix of shock and genuine disgust. "That's actually disgusting. You're such a weirdo."

Jay shifts forward, clearly intrigued by the sudden spike in hostility, while Sunghoon's jaw remains tight. Ume looks around the circle, her eyes landing right back on the man who whispered to her.

"It's him," she announces, pointing a finger directly at Heeseung. "The answer is Heeseung."

Heeseung lets out a mocking laugh that makes your skin prickle, he tilts his head to the side as he stares Ume down with a terrifyingly calm intensity.

"Funny," Oh God. "Because you didn't seem to think it was disgusting three days ago. In fact, you didn't seem to need any help at all when you were begging me to fuck you in my car."

Ume's face goes from flushed to a sickly white very quickly, she opens her mouth to retort but no sound comes out.

Heeseung on the other hand, just smirks while the question remains unrevealed, it's now a toxic secret sitting between them that has everyone else exchanging uneasy glances.

Someone should really call it now, call it a night but instead someone just murmurs that it's Ume's turn and now you're hyper aware she's about to ask Sunghoon—who's been a ticking time bomb since Calista brought up your lore—a question.

Ume, looking for any way to deflect the humiliation Heeseung just heaped on her, leans into Sunghoon. You can see the tremor in her hand as she tucks her hair back, her eyes narrowed with a vengeful glint.

She whispers the question to Sunghoon and for the first time tonight, you see a flicker of a smile cross his face. He doesn't hesitate his answer, "Heeseung," Sunghoon says and of course Heeseung wants to know, so he reaches for the bottle and takes an aggressive swig from it. "Reveal it," he commands, "What's the question?"

"The question," Sunghoon says, leaning forward so he's eye to eye with Heeseung, "was who here is definitely not as rich as they pretend to be?"

You nearly snort, that's not just a jab or a joke, it's a strike at the core of Heeseung's carefully curated image.

"Rich coming from you, Sunghoon," Heeseung sneers, his gaze flickering toward you before snapping back to his former friend. "At least I'm not the one who's so pathetic he took back a girl who already went through half the guys in this room. You're sitting there acting all protective of her, but we all know you're just the guy who cleans up the mess everyone else left behind."

The insult is so raw, it’s so unearned and cruel, so Heeseung. You hate how quick with it he is but you're quick too. Quick to connect the back of your hand with his face, the sound of your hand connecting with his cheek is like a gunshot in the small living room.

His head snaps sharply to the side and your hand starts to sting with the force of the blow as tears of pure rage blur your vision. Heeseung stays frozen for a long beat before his hand slowly comes up to touch his reddening face.

"Don't you ever," you choke out, your voice trembling with a fury you didn't know you possessed, "speak about me or Sunghoon like that again."

You don't even realize you've started heading for the door until you hear a pair of frantic footsteps following behind you. The stinging in your palm is nothing compared to the acid burning in your throat. You burst out into the cool night air, you're crying so hard you can barely see.

"Wait! Just—stop for a second!" Sunghoon's voice echoes behind you, his hand gently but firmly grasping your wrist to pull you into a quiet corner of the stairwell.

"Get away from me," you sob, trying to yank your arm back, the adrenaline from the slap finally crashing into a wave of pure humiliation. "He's trying to make me look like a whore, Hoon. In front of everyone. He's sitting there acting like I'm some...some conquest for the whole group."

Sunghoon doesn't let go, his face is red too and his eyes are filled with a mix of hurt and protective fury. "He's an asshole who's lashing out because he got called out for being broke. Don't listen to him."

"But he's making it sound like—" You choke on a breath, your voice dropping to a desperate whisper. "Jay was one time. I was drunk, baby. You know that, I told you I didn't even know where I was. It wasn't half the guys, it was one mistake that almost killed me to tell you."

You look up at him with your tear stained face, you’re searching his eyes for any sign of the judgment Heeseung just spewed. "You believe me, right? Hoon, you know me. Or do you secretly think I'm just a whore, too?"

His face softens a little, right as he moves his hands to cup your face and wipe your tears, "I believe you," he says, finally letting your heart stop its frantic racing. "I know who you are. I didn't take you back because I'm pathetic. I took you back because I'd rather have a complicated life with you than a perfect one without you." "Let him talk. He has nothing and I have you."

The moment you and Sunghoon step back into the room, you realize the game didn’t even stop. You sit in Sunghoon’s lap instead of next to Heeseung again. Jay is whispering into Calista's ear now and whatever he says makes her eyes light up with glee that she literally cackles, a sound that grates against your raw nerves.

"Sunghoon. For sure," she says, her voice dripping with mock sympathy.

"I don't want to know. Move on." He says, tightening his hand on your hip.

"Are you sureeeee, Hoonie?" Calista taunts, leaning forward so her cleavage is on display. "It's a really juicy one. Don't you want to know what Jay thinks about your...habits?"

"He said move on, Calista," you say, your irritation showing on your face clear as day.

She rolls her eyes but since it’s her turn now, she leans over to Heeseung. You can’t help but think of how the two of them have always shared a certain level of toxicity and as she whispers to him, the damn near evil smile that spreads on his face makes you want to throw up, even though the read mark from your slap still so visible on his cheek like a badge of dishonor.

Heeseung looks around the circle, first at Leah then at you. "Leah and Y/n," he answers.

"Wait, what the fuck?" Jake interjects, his brow furrowing. "The rules are one person, Hee. Don't be a dick and break the flow."

Heeseung doesn't even look at Jake, he looks like he's out for blood now. "Oh fuck the rules. I'll just tell you the question," Heeseung announces. "So Calista here, asked me who here would I have a threesome with?"

Fucking disgusting.

"I picked Leah because word on campus is she gives the best head when she's blacked out drunk. So efficiency, right?"

He turns his gaze to you, he’s so hellbent on destroying the little peace Sunghoon just gave you.

"And I picked Y/n," he continues, ignoring the way Sunghoon is literally vibrating with rage beside you, "because Jay told me that he's never seen an ass bounce on cock quite like hers. I figured I should see what the hype is about."

The room explodes and Sunghoon is up from under you, pushing you off him before Heeseung can even finish his sentence, his fist flies towards Heeseung's jaw as Jake tries to scramble out of the way.

The living room erupts into a violent blur of motion and anger. Jay and Jake lunged forward, trying to haul Sunghoon off Heeseung but he is a whirlwind of unbridled rage and he’s too strong for both of them, his heels skidding on the hardwood as he punches Heeseung one two three times square in the face.

"Get off me!" Sunghoon roars, his voice cracking with the intensity of his fury.

"Hoon please! You’ll kill him!" Leah cries and in the midst of the chaos, Calista decides now is the perfect time to give her unsolicited opinion. Just as Jake and Jay finally manage to drag Sunghoon off the now bloodied Heeseung, she stands up and smooths her skirt with a sickeningly calm demeanor that irritates you so quickly. "I don't even know why you're getting so defensive, Sunghoon," she starts, "It's not like he lied. You did cheat on him with Jay. It's public knowledge at this point. Why act like she's some untouchable virgin when everyone already knows how passed around your girlfriend is?"

Take it to hell then.

"Public knowledge, huh?" you repeat, "Is that what we're calling it now, Calista?"

You take another step, deliberately trying to invade her personal space until she's forced to lean back against the sofa. "Since we're so happily sharing public knowledge," you continue, "is it public knowledge that you spent seven months last year practically begging Sunghoon to take your virginity? That you sent him dozens of nudes he never asked for, crying and pleading with him to be the one because you were so obsessed with his fucking reputation?"

She tries to interrupt you, maybe to get you to shut up but you don't give her the air. "And when he wouldn't even look at you—when he told you he wasn't interested in a girl who tried that hard—is it public knowledge that you finally settled for Heeseung just so you could feel like you were part of the group?"

It’s almost laughable how the whole room is suddenly silent. Heeseung, who was wiping blood from his lip, freezes before his eyes snapping to Calista with a look of pure realization.

Jay and Jake slowly loosen their grip on Sunghoon, their eyes wide as they look between you and the trembling girl in front of you. She really looks like she’s about to faint. "You...you don't know what you're talking about," she stammers.

"I have the screenshots, Calista," you announce. "Sunghoon showed me everything the day we got back together. So if I were you, I'd stop talking about public knowledge before I make sure everyone on this campus knows exactly how little dignity you actually have."

Despite the blood from his split lip, the black eye and bruises forming all over his face, Heeseung laughs, looking at Calista then at you with some kind of twisted admiration. "Damn," his voice scrapes against the silence. "That's harsh. Even for this room."

Leah, who has been sitting in a crumpled heap of tears and humiliation since Heeseung brought up her blackout reputation, finally snaps. The gratitude she felt when you defended her earlier has fermented into a courage. "Oh, fuck off, Heeseung," "You're really going to act like you're worth more than that? Settlement is the best word for you. Honestly, it's the best you can do seeing as you can't get anyone sober to actually touch you."

Jake and Jay look at each other, realizing the night has moved past a game and into a total social execution. You wince at Leah’s words cause you know Heeseung, he has no problems being dragged through the mud, as long as someone is being dragged with him and that’s exactly what he does.

"Ouch, Leah. You're hurting my feelings," he pouts, looking directly at Ume. "But you're wrong. I get plenty of sober pussy. Right, Ume?"

She shakes her head, almost like she’s begging him to stop but Heeseung is long past mercy.

"Ume fucks me. A lot, actually," he says with a voice so casual, you’d think he was discussing the news. "You'd be surprised how many pregnancy scares we've had just this semester. I think we're on what? Three now, Ume? Or did you forget to tell me about the one last week because you were too busy pretending we don't know each other in the halls?"

Ume lets out a choked sob, covering her mouth with her hands. The revelation is a nuclear bomb, Heeseung is burning every bridge in the room just to stay warm.

Sunghoon's grip on your waist tightens, you hadn’t even realized he was behind you. He looks down at you, his eyes silently communicating that this has gone too far. The game has completely turned into a search and destroy mission and of course Heeseung is leading the charge with a bloody lip and a terrifyingly calm smile. He ignores the sobbing Ume and the trembling Calista, turning his predatory focus toward the one person who has stayed unnervingly silent during the chaos. "Jongie," Heeseung coos, tilting his head. "You've been awfully quiet while everyone else's skeletons are falling out of the closet. Why is that? I know it's not because you're worried about our girl over there—we already established you've been there, done that."

"Shut the fuck up, Heeseung," Jake snaps, "You're clearly just high on the drama. Stop it."

But Calista, sensing a chance to shift the target off her own humiliation, lets out a hysterical laugh. She wipes the tears from her eyes that are already shining with a manic triumph.

"Oh, wait! I know this one!" she chirps, her voice trembling but eager. "It’ll all make sense now but Jay here didn't sleep with Y/n because he wanted her. He used her as a litmus test."

Sunghoon's grip on your waist becomes painfully tight as the room goes dead silent.

"He was trying to figure out if he was actually gay or not," Calista sneers, pointing a manicured finger between Jay and Jake. "Because Jay and Jake haven't just been best friends since freshman year. They've been fucking since the first week of classes. Jay just needed to see if a girl could still do it for him, and you were the easiest target because you were drunk and vulnerable."

This can’t be happening. Why? Why did you agree to even come to Jay’s house tonight?

The two boys don’t even move, it’s like they can’t. Sunghoon’s hands fall from your waist as he looks at Jay—the man he thought was his best friend, the man who had supposedly betrayed him out of a moment of drunken weakness, not a cold blooded experiment.

"Is that true?" Sunghoon asks, his voice dangerously low. "You used my girlfriend to see if you could still get your dick hard for a woman?" But Jay can’t answer, he can’t even look Sunghoon in the eye.

Before you realize you’ve moved, you’re right in Calista’s face again, moving without thinking. Without a word, you bring your hand up and deliberately swipe your index finger right under her nostril. When you pull your hand back, you look at the faint white residue on your finger before looking back at her with pity.

"Aw, Cali,"

"I knew you did coke but I didn't know it was this bad. Is that why your heart is racing so fast? Or is it just the sniffles?"

You want to dismantle her credibility, her sanity. How dare she? You don’t even care about what Jay allegedly did. How dare she attempt to out two people who clearly weren’t ready for that.

"Are you just making up shit now because you're scared?" you ask, tilting your head. "You’re scared that everyone will finally find out you're nothing but a coke whore who trades blowjobs for a gram?"

A strangled sound escapes her throat, she looks around the room, searching for an ally but everyone—even Heeseung—is looking at her with a new level of disgust.

"News fucking flash, Calista," "Everyone knows. We've always known. We just didn't care enough about you to say it out loud until you decided to make yourself everyone's damn problem."

You turn your back on her, grab Leah’s hand and heading for the door, you’re sure Sunghoon is right behind you. "We're done," you say. "We don’t need these toxic people."

──.୨ৎ

The laundry room basement of Jay’s house is a stark contrast to the polished, expensive chaos neither Sunghoon nor Leah are expecting to unfold in about an hour. Down here, the smell of the laundry detergent is strong, paired with the rhythmic thrum of the m washing machine, it’s enough to make anyone overstimulated in this situation.

Sunghoon has Leah propped up against the vibrating metal of the washer, her legs wrapped around his waist, as he drives his cock harder and harder into her.

The machine’s cycle is loud but it’s still not loud enough to drown out the wet sounds of their bodies meeting or Leah’s loud moans.

"Hoon...Sunghoon," Leah whimpers, her fingers digging into the muscle of his shoulders as he thrusts into her with a mechanical intensity.

"Quiet," he shushes, pressing his palm over her mouth for a second, his eyes dark and devoid of the softness he usually keeps reserved for you. "The others are going to be here any minute. You want them to hear you?"

Leah shakes her head no, her eyes glassy with a mix of pleasure and a desperate need for him to look at her with something other than detachment, for him to look at her the way he looks at you. She pulls his head down, pressing her lips against his before whimpering when he brushes her sweet spot.

"Oh fuck! I love you!" she moans, the words suddenly slipping out like a confession she can’t hold back. "I love you so much, Sunghoon."

Sunghoon doesn’t hesitate, kissing her to shut her up, his tongue invading her mouth with a possessive hunger that felt more like a conquest than an embrace. "I love you too," he mutters against her skin, the words sound practiced, they’re even mean in their delivery—a hollow comfort he’s offering only to keep her compliant.

He shifts his grip, hooking his large hands under her thighs to pull her closer, "Are you close?" he demands, his breath hot and erratic against her neck. "Fuck—Your pussy’s so good, babe. You’re gonna make me cum right now."

Leah lets out a frustrated breath, lolling her head back against the cold laundry shelf. "No...no, I'm not. It’s okay, baby." She wraps her legs tighter around his waist, pulling him in as deep as he could go. "You can cum, Hoonie. Just...cum inside me. Please."

Sunghoon lets out a grunt of appreciation, she doesn’t need to tell him twice before he buries his face in the crook of her neck, his thrusts become faster and more desperate until he finally stiffens, his entire body shudders as he fills her. "Mm yes, Sunghoon. Gimme your cum."

He stays there inside her for a long moment, before pulling back to start fixing his clothes with a terrifyingly quick efficiency.

"Clean yourself up," he says, not looking at her as he heads for the stairs. "We need to be upstairs before the rest of them get here."

nene’s note ── is it just me or is heeseung HILARIOUS in this? lmao (cause i’m not on the receiving end) also poor ume (right?👀) did you expect the twist? i loveeee feedback! please enjoy!💋

taglist i ── @fancypeacepersona @usuallyunlikelyfox @starry-eyed-bimbo @strayy-kidz @mheretoreadff @bloomiize @xoenhalover @mamuljji @gabrielinhaa @ieatwon @rialikesbts @lunacrtk @dulcetnostalgia @lovel1z @dearestdreamies @kristynaaah @c1eod1n3 @kiikiisblog @plumdove @pqrkjyx @tojiworshipper @loverseon @yazmike @ravenslocked @enhxlvr @mangoescrazy @hees-h0e @stayalittlelonger143

© nephynes 2025

Your boyfriend's living room is bathed in the low glow of the lamp in the corner, there’s a low fi beat you recognize as something from your shared playlist and Sunoo is on the sofa with his legs tucked under him but he isn't alone...unfortunately. Sunghoon is leaned deep into his space, eyes fixed on a notebook they're both looking at, shoulders pressed firmly together.

"Oh," you say, the syllable feeling heavy and even a little clumsy in the doorway. "He's here."

Sunghoon looks up first, you hate the way his gaze is always so sharp and composed, it makes you feel like you're being cataloged. "Hey you," he says, sending a confusing jolt of memory straight to your gut.

Two weeks ago, that same voice had been whispered filthy things against the shell of your ear while Sunoo fucked his tongue into your pussy. Two weeks ago, the three of you had been a tangled breathless mess of "no regrets" and "just this once". It had been transcendent to say the least, like an explosion of heat that felt like a new experience in your relationship with Sunoo. But tonight, walking in to see the way Sunghoon's hand lingers just a second too long on Sunoo's knee as he points at something in the notebook, the "no regrets" feels like a lie you've been telling yourself.

It was the silence of the last thirteen days that did the most damage in your head, you call it the aftermath, that hazy period after the three of you had shared a bed for the first time. It was supposed to be a one time thing, a mountain you climbed together and then came back down from but while you were trying to find your footing back on solid ground, it seemed like Sunghoon had never actually left the damn mountain.

The observations started small, in these tiny pieces of a puzzle you were dreading finishing. It started with the ‘best friend’ shorthand and you only noticed it because of a stupid cup of coffee. They were sitting at the kitchen island when Sunghoon reached for Sunoo's coffee without asking, taking a sip and handing it back. It's a best friend move, sure but there was something in the way Sunghoon's eyes lingered on the rim of the cup, aiming for the exact spot where Sunoo's mouth had been, with a look of quiet satisfaction. It wasn't exactly bro energy, it almost seemed like a lingering taste of the intimacy they'd shared with you, only now Sunghoon seemed to be intentionally filtering you out of the memory.

Then came what you called the erasure, which was basically whenever three of you were in a room, Sunghoon's body language was a masterclass in subtle exclusion. He would pivot his chair or his body just a few degrees away from you, creating this closed unit with just Sunoo, he spoke in inside jokes from ages ago, weaving a web of history that you couldn't touch, like was reminding you and Sunoo that he was here first.

What came next was the look, this one really did keep you up at night. During the sex, you had been so caught up in the sensory overload from two mouths on you at the same time that you hadn't processed it. But in the quiet of your own apartment days later, you remembered how Sunghoon hadn't looked at you with the same desperation he had for Sunoo. When he touched you, it felt like he was performing for Sunoo, like he wanted Sunoo to see how good he was with you.

But when he looked at Sunoo or touched him? Oh that was different, you remember a brief moment when Sunghoon had his mouth wrapped around Sunoo's cock, working his hole with one long finger. You remember how loud he had your boyfriend moaning and whining, chasing his mouth when Sunghoon would pull back just to be a tease, you didn't have enough time to dwell on it though cause Sunoo had grabbed you and thrown you over his face, pressing you down so harshly on his mouth, his tongue frantic as his moans vibrated through you. You remember making eye contact with Sunghoon in that position before Sunoo sucked so good on your clit your eyes rolled back and that was a man looking at a life raft, there was an obvious hunger there that felt ancient and terrifying and it definitely wasn't for you.

Every time Sunoo laughed at one of Sunghoon's jokes this past week, you felt a little bit of your territory being taken. Every time Sunghoon accidentally left a shirt at the apartment, it felt like a flag being planted.

By the time you walked in tonight and saw them on the couch, the best friend label almost felt like a cruel joke. You weren't crashing out over nothing, you were watching a slow motion heist where the prize was the man you loved.

Sunoo finally beams at you, that bright cat like grin that usually melts you, but right now it feels like he's looking through you. "We're just finishing up this project for the gallery, baby. Sunghoon brought over those prints I needed."

"Right," you say, dropping your overnight bag by the door. "The prints."

You walk over and as you sit on the arm of the sofa, you notice Sunghoon doesn't even bother to pull away from Sunoo. If anything, he shifts closer, a subtle claim of territory that wasn't there before you invited him into your bed. He knows exactly what he's doing, you know he knows. He probably remembers the way your back arched under his touch two weeks ago, he probably remembers the way your face scrunched up when he made you cum all over his huge dick, calling his name in a way that stripped away every layer of your pride.

You hate to think that to him, you aren't just Sunoo's girlfriend anymore—he’s looking at you right now like a boundary he's already crossed. "You look tired, baby girl," Sunghoon says, the nickname rolling off his tongue with a terrifying ease but it hits you like a physical blow. It's a name reserved for intimacy, for the dark four walls of a bedroom, not a casual Friday night in the living room. You freeze, feeling your heart hammering against your ribs as your eyes darting instinctively to Sunoo, who doesn't even look up from the sketches. He just hums in vague agreement, a distracted smile playing on his lips as he flips a page. "He's right, you've been working too hard, baby. Come sit down."

You watch Sunghoon's smirk deepen just a fraction, a silent victory on the corner of his mouth. He definitely saw the flicker of hurt in your eyes, and he saw Sunoo's utter obliviousness—or even worse, what you’re interpreting as his permission cause by not correcting him, Sunoo has effectively handed Sunghoon the keys to the kingdom.

Sunghoon shifts, making a show of patting the small, narrow space on the cushion between him and Sunoo. It's a trap, you think, he’s daring you to squeeze in and reclaim your spot, knowing that if you do, you'll be pressed against his side just as much as Sunoo's.

"Yeah, come here," Sunghoon adds, dragging that memory of his whispered commands back to the surface of your skin. "Wanna see the prints?"

Sunoo looks back at you, his eyes bright and completely unaware of the psychological war being waged on his fucking velvet couch. "They’re really good, babe."

There’s a vibration in the air, like a low frequency hum of competition that Sunoo seems blissfully deaf to. You can feel Sunghoon's eyes on you as you slide off the arm of the sofa and press yourself into Sunoo's side, basically on his lap, your hand slides up his chest to tangle in the soft fabric of his shirt, attempting to erase the memory of last week with the reality of now.

"I missed you," you murmur, your voice shifting into that honeyed tone meant only for him.

Sunoo smiles and leans down to press a chaste kiss to your lips. It's soft and familiar but it sure as hell isn't enough, especially with the witness you have tonight. So you tilt your head and seek more, your tongue grazing the seam of his lips to pull him into something deeper but he flinches back just an inch and laughs as his hands come up to your waist.

"Woah, princess," he breathes, his eyes darting momentarily to Sunghoon before landing back on you with a playful reprimand. "We have company, remember?"

The rejection stings worse than the nickname does and you’re immediately flustered, it’s the way he says company as if Sunghoon hasn't seen both of you at your most vulnerable, as if he wasn't an active participant in the very thing Sunoo is suddenly acting shy about.

You feel this desperate clawing need in your chest to prove that the hierarchy hasn't shifted one bit, that Sunghoon is a guest and you are the constant. You let out a frustrated whine, as you tug at his collar, not giving him any space to breathe before swinging a leg over his, and crawling directly into his lap and kissing him again.

Sunoo's resolve breaks with a huff of surprise, his arms instinctively wrapping around your waist tighter to keep you from falling. "Okay, okay," he mutters, his voice muffled against your lips, his grip tightening in a way that feels like a small win, for a minute he’s holding you and he feels like yours.

But then, you hear the sound of a page turning followed by Sunghoon's voice, devoid of any awkwardness as usual. "You're making her needy, Sunoo," Sunghoon says. You can hear the smirk in his tone, like he thinks you’re putting on a show for him. "Maybe we should finish the prints later?"

The way he says we makes your blood run cold, like he’s trying to start something, like he thinks the one time he was in your bed was an automatic invite to every single time you and your boyfriend got intimate. You scramble off Sunoo’s lap and stand to your feet with your chest heaving, "Why are you always here?" you seethe the words, "Every time I come over he’s here, Sunoo. Do you even remember what it's like to just have us? To have a night where he isn't breathing down our necks?"

Sunoo looks startled as his hands go up in a placating gesture and he rises from the sofa a little. "Baby, hey, calm down. It's just Sunghoon. He's my best friend, you know that—"

"Is he?" You whirl on Sunghoon, who hasn't moved a damn inch. He's lounging back, one arm draped over the cushions, watching you with a terrifyingly calm expression, like the look of a scientist watching a lab rat lose its mind. "Is that what we're calling it? Because I saw you, Sunghoon. I was there."

Your voice cracks and you hate the way your eyes are stinging with hot tears of frustration. "You barely even looked at me! Isn't the girl supposed to be the center of a threesome? Isn't that the point? But your eyes never even left my boyfriend! You just wanted an excuse to finally touch him, didn't you? You've been waiting for the opportunity to fuck him and you used me to get there!"

The accusation hangs in the air so heavy and ugly as you pant and wait for a denial, for Sunoo to be shocked and maybe even have an epiphany and take your side so the world can realign.

Instead, Sunghoon lets out a huffed laugh, it’s a dry sound that makes your skin crawl instantly. "Are you saying I didn't give you enough attention?" he asks, his voice is so patronizing that it makes you want to scream. He tilts his head, his eyes glinting with a cruel sort of amusement. "Is that what this is? You're upset because you weren’t the main character?"

"No—that's not—don't twist my words!" you sputter feeling backed up into a corner. You sound desperate and he knows it. "Because if I remember correctly you were screaming my name quite clearly," Sunghoon continues, ignoring Sunoo's uncomfortable "Hoon, maybe don't..." He stands up slowly, closing the distance between you until he's looming over you, forcing you to look up at him. "If you wanted me all to yourself, you should have just asked. But don't blame Sunoo because you're feeling insecure about where you fit in now."

"Sunghoon, stop," Sunoo pleads, finally stepping between you placing his hands on your waist. He's trying to pull you back and shield you but right now his touch feels like a consolation prize. "She's just tired, she didn't mean it like that."

"I did mean it!" you cry out, pushing at Sunoo's chest, your eyes fixed on Sunghoon's smug face. "He wants to steal you from me, Sunoo! He's trying to replace me!"

Sunghoon just raises an eyebrow, all mock concern. "She's hysterical. Maybe she should go lie down? I think the stress is getting to her."

This man is gaslighting you in real time, he’s painting you as the crazy girlfriend while he stands there like the loyal and mistreated friend. The worst part is that you can clearly see the doubt flickering in Sunoo's eyes as he looks at you.

It makes you shake as your vision tunnel until all you can see is the infuriating, porcelain perfect mask of Sunghoon's face. He scoffs a dismissive sound that cuts through your frantic breathing, turning his head toward Sunoo with a look of mock disbelief. "Dude, I can't believe your girlfriend is actually crashing out because I didn't give her enough attention," he says, voice dripping with a cruel and condescending pity. "Is she always this...delicate about sharing?"

The words leaving his mouth is the straw that breaks the camels back, it’s the final insult, the utter dismissal of your feelings as nothing more than a bruised ego.

"You absolute bastard!" You lunge, completely ungraceful in a blind hot burst of animalistic rage. Your fingers are hooked like claws, reaching for the curve of his jaw, ready to leave marks that no amount of gallery lighting could hide.

"Woah—hey! Stop!"

Before you can make contact, Sunoo's arms wrap around your waist, your boyfriend is stronger than he looks and without a grunt of effort he hauls you back, hoisting you up until your feet leave the plush rug. You're kicking and flailing as he hitches you over his shoulder.

"Put me down! Sunoo, let me go! He's doing this on purpose!" you shriek, your fists drumming uselessly against Sunoo's back.

From your upside down point of view, you can see Sunghoon step closer, leaning down so his face is inches from yours while you're draped helplessly over Sunoo's shoulder. He looks at you with a scary hungry glint in his eyes—the exact same look he had right before he ruined your life two weeks ago.

"Oh, poor you," Sunghoon whispers, loud enough for only you to hear the obvious sound of triumph in his voice. He reaches out with his fingers and ghosts them over the hem of your shirt with a flick. "Next time, I'll just have to fuck you harder. Maybe then you'll feel like the main character."

The audacity of this man, the way he says it right in front of Sunoo, knowing Sunoo is too busy trying to keep you from catching a domestic assault charge to hear the venom. You’re seeing red all over again. "There won't be a next time!" you scream as Sunoo starts carrying you toward his bedroom. "There is no next time, you fucking lunatic! Get out of here! Get out!"

Sunoo's grip is firm, his shoulder digging into your stomach as he carries you down the hallway. He's breathing hard, a mix of genuine distress and the sheer physical effort of containing your spiral. "My love, please, just breathe," he pleads. "You're not acting like yourself. You're scaring me a little."

He dumps you unceremoniously onto the center of his bed, but before he can even pull back to look you in the eye, the cause of all this is at the doorway. Leaning against the frame with his hands shoved into his pockets, you hate how looks perfectly unruffled, a stark contrast to your tear streaked face and Sunoo's slightly disheveled hair. He looks like he's watching a particularly entertaining film.

"She's not scary," Sunghoon says, "She's just frustrated because she doesn't know how to label what she's feeling. Right, baby girl?"

"Get out!" you scream, grabbing a decorative pillow and hurling it at him. He doesn't even flinch as it thuds against his chest and drops to the floor. "Sunoo, tell him to leave! Why is he still here?"

Sunoo looks between the two of you, his expression agonizingly torn. Sunoo isn’t as oblivious as you think he is, he's seen the way Sunghoon's eyes follow you when you aren't looking, the way Sunghoon's voice changed when he talked about that night after you'd fallen asleep. Sunoo knows this isn't just about him. It's about the fact that Sunghoon has decided he's moving in on both of you.

"Sunghoon, maybe just...give us a minute?" Sunoo asks but it's just a suggestion that the other boy completely ignores and steps fully into the bedroom, pinning you with a gaze that is suddenly honest.

"You're so fucking loud about me wanting Sunoo," Sunghoon muses, his voice low and dangerous. "And you're right. I do. I want him in every way a person can want someone. But you're too busy playing the damn victim that you can’t see what’s right in front of you."

He leans down, hands resting on his knees so he's level with you. "The real problem is that you liked it. You liked the way I looked at you—and the way I didn't. You're only throwing this tantrum because you realize that if I stay, you're never going to be satisfied with just him again."

"That's a lie," you whisper, your voice trembling. "I love Sunoo. I only want Sunoo."

Sunghoon tilts his head, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. He looks at Sunoo, then back to you. "You’re such a bad liar, baby girl. Tell the truth and admit what you really think about me being in this bed."

You feel suffocated with the thick scent of Sunoo's expensive candles and the sharp tang of Sunghoon's cologne. You look at Sunoo expecting to see horror on his face, expecting him to be disgusted by Sunghoon's arrogance, or at least protective of you.

Instead, you watch in real time as Sunoo's expression softens. He reaches out and takes your shaking hand in his, giving you that look that usually makes you feel like the only person in the world. But this time, it's different, it’s more…knowing.

"Baby," Sunoo whispers, his thumb tracing circles over your knuckles. "Why do you think I let him stay? You really think I don’t see how he gets under your skin? How you let him?"

"Because he's your best friend and you're blind," you snap, though the bite in your voice has began to fade into a shaky uncertainty.

Sunoo shakes his head as a sweet smile spreads across his face. It's the smile of someone who has a secret they've been dying to share. "No. It's because he hasn't stopped talking about you since that night. He's obsessed with you, baby. He's not trying to take me away from you...he's just trying to find a way to stay with both of us."

Your heart stops. "You're lying. He's just saying that to get into your head, Sunoo. He's so fucking manipulative, he's—"

"I'm right here," Sunghoon interrupts, his voice is heavier now, weighted with an intensity that makes goosebumps spread across your skin. "Sunoo doesn't lie for me. He doesn't have to."

You look from Sunoo's encouraging gaze to Sunghoon's dark eyes. You want to keep fighting, you want to maintain the wall of "no, I hate him," but the wall is crumbling quickly. You're so exhausted from the rage and beneath it, there’s a raw pulsing memory of Sunghoon's touch from that night that is screaming to be felt again.

"You hate me," you whisper, but it sounds like a question now, a plea even. "I hate how clueless you are," Sunghoon corrects, stepping into the space between your knees as you sit on the edge of the bed. He reaches out and this time, he seems to hope you won’t lunge at him again. Your hands go limp from the claws they were in a moment ago. His fingers are cool as they graze your jawline, thumb hooking under your chin to tilt your face up. You look at Sunoo, one last desperate search for a reason to stop this, but Sunoo just nods and leans back against the headboard, watching the two of you with a quiet look of something that seems more like patience rather than jealousy.

As you look back at Sunghoon, the broken pieces of the last week start to come back together, forming a picture that makes your stomach drop. You had been so obsessed with the way he looked at Sunoo, so convinced you were being erased that you had become blind to the trail of breadcrumbs he’d been leaving specifically for you.

The flowers you met on Sunoo’s kitchen counter last Wednesday were from him but you thanked Sunoo so sweetly instead and neither of them had the heart to correct you, Sunghoon had watched you kiss him thank you with a little bit of hurt in his eyes. You told Sunoo he was the best when your favorite takeout order was already sitting on the table when you arrived last Friday, but it was Sunghoon who had remembered you hated cilantro.

Then, the most damning memory of all was the heat of that first night. You remember the blur of it, Sunoo’s voice thick and breathless in your ear as Sunghoon fucked into you so deliciously, your feet were kicking and you were damn near screaming as he pushed your knees further to your chest. Sunoo had asked him "Do you love this pussy, Hoon?" And Sunghoon hadn't answered with a "yes" or a grunt. He had looked you dead in your eyes, his gaze boring into yours with a sincerity that bordered of scary and rasped, "Ah—Fuck! Yes! Yes! I love it! I love her so much." You had immediately written it off as the heat of the moment, a slip of the tongue in a state of high lust. But looking at him now, you realize it was a confession. Sunghoon watches the realization dawn on your face, the way your eyes widen and your breath hitches. Finally.

He’s spent the last two weeks losing his mind, he’s a man who prides himself on precision and on getting exactly what he wants through calculated moves, but you were the one variable he couldn't solve. He had been practically screaming his intentions at you, marking your life with his presence and you had looked past him as if he were nothing more than a threat to your security.

It was maddening, every time he tried to take care of you, you praised Sunoo instead, every time he tried to catch your eye, you looked at the floor. He had started the "baby girl" comments and the territorial displays not to push you out but to force you to see him. To acknowledge that he wasn't just Sunoo’s best friend anymore—he literally belonged to you now.

He had expected you to be smart, to understand the weight of his words that night in the dark. Instead, he’d watched you spiral into a mess of insecurity and accusations of him wanting to steal what was already partly his.

His grip on your jaw tightens just a fraction, his frustration leaking through his composed exterior. He’s really tired of the games, tired of being the villain in a story where he’s trying to be the co-author.

"You’re finally catching up," Sunghoon murmurs, his eyes dropping to your mouth. "I was starting to think I’d have to be even more obvious and I don't think Sunoo’s heart could take much more of my bad behavior."

"I didn't use you to get to him. I used both of you to get exactly where I wanted to be. Right here. You are the prize, baby girl."

Sunoo slides off the headboard, moving until he’s kneeling on the mattress right beside you. He looks smaller like this, a little vulnerable too as his eyes search yours with cautious hope. He’s seen you scream, seen you lunge and seen you surrender, now he’s the one holding his breath. "Baby?" Sunoo’s voice is a whisper, his hand carefully reaching out to brush a stray hair from your damp forehead. "Do you...do you want this? Do you want us? Both of us, for real?"

The no you had been rehearsing all week is gone, dissolved by the heat of Sunghoon’s hand on your jaw and the beautiful reality of Sunoo’s devotion. You don't have the words yet, so you just nod with certainty.

Sunoo’s entire face lights up, that striking grin returning with a force that makes your heart ache. "Yeah? You mean it?"

He doesn't wait for a verbal answer before he lunges forward, capturing your lips in a messy kiss that’s all relief and pure joy. When he finally pulls away, breathless and beaming, you both look up at Sunghoon, he looks down at the two of tangled together, at the way you’re both looking at him with an invitation instead of an accusation now.

Sunghoon lets out a long breath, a hand running through his dark hair as a helpless laugh escapes him. "Fuck," he rasps, his gaze roaming over your flushed face and Sunoo’s triumph. "You’re both gonna kill me, uhn?"

Any lingering doubt instantly flies out the window the moment you’re laid back against the pillows, like your body an open book they’ve both been dying to read. You’re naked and spread out, your head lolling back as the intense wave of pleasure rolls over you.

Down below, both of them are a beautiful as they lap their tongues over your pussy. You’re moaning completely lost in the feeling as both your hands tangle in their hair, pulling them closer as they lose themselves in you and each other. Sunghoon’s mouth is a hot and demanding wrapped around your clit and sucking while Sunoo is pushing his tongue deeper into your pussy just the way he knows you like it, they switch positions but not before meeting each other’s lips mid pussy eating to kiss right over your cunt. You almost can’t believe it, you feel so lucky that the three of you have finally found a rhythm that works, and by the way Sunghoon refuses to let go of your hand even as he kisses Sunoo, you know they aren't going anywhere.

It's like a coordinated assault on your senses that’s leaving you pinned to the sheets. You're so lost in the friction that you can't even tell whose locks you're tugging on. When they finally pull back looking all flushed, the air immediately hits your damp skin with a cold shock. Sunoo doesn't move far, he crawls upward and slides his body right next to yours until his chest is pressed up against your side. He leans in, ghosting his lips over the shell of your ear and when he speaks it makes your toes curl.

"Open your eyes, baby." Sunoo whispers, his hand sliding up to cup your chin and tilt your face. "Look at how much he wants you, princess. He's been a nightmare all week because he thought he’d never get you like this again."

You open your eyes and the sight of Sunghoon above you is nothing like the composed man you’ve known so far, the smug mask has been replaced with something so raw and real. He even seems to be shaking as he grabs your ankles, dragging you down the bed until you're flush against him again.

"Sunoo, move," Sunghoon commands, his voice completely stripped of its usual silk and he’s looking at you with a hunger that feels so old you just never noticed it, his eyes blown out and dark. "I can't—I need to be inside her. Now."

If you weren’t shaking so much, you’d be able to notice he’s shaking as well, his movements are lacking their usual grace as he positions his stiff cock right at your hole that won’t stop gushing, his gaze locked onto yours as if Sunoo’s words were true and Sunghoon genuinely thought he’d never get you under him again. "Tell me you're mine," he rasps, his hands sliding up to pin your wrists beside your head. "Tell me I didn't imagine any of this."

As he drives into you, the stretch is so intense you immediately shut your eyes and let out a moan, "Ohh—Fu—Sunghoon!" But Sunoo doesn’t let you keep your eyes closed for long, his lips are still pressed to your ears as he whispers again, "No, baby. You gotta keep your eyes open."

And you really do try to heed your boyfriends words but the feeling of Sunghoon getting deeper and deeper and reaching that spot that makes you lost it is way too intense, you even reach down to place a hand on his stomach to slow him down but that just earns you a grunt, "Move your fucking hand." Sunoo is right then to help him move your hand out of the way as Sunghoon sets a tempo, his hips start to roll into yours with strokes that make it impossible for you not to feel every ridge and vein of his cock against your gummy walls. He's slowly reclaiming his composure, even as his skin glistens with sweat and he watches the way your breath hitches and you let out moans in sync with his thrusts.

Sunoo however, is slowly becoming restless with each moment that passes and he’s the only one still fully clothed, you can feel it in the way his body shifts against your side, his touch becoming more frequent and more demanding, he moves from pinching your nipples to sucking on them but it’s clear he’s no longer content just being spectator. His fingers trail restlessly over your collarbone, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he finally lets out a soft impatient whine against your skin.

Sunghoon catches the movement immediately and a small, dark smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, though his focus remains locked on the way you're unraveling beneath him.

"Look at him," Sunghoon rasps, his voice vibrating deep in his chest as he pushes into you again, slow and deep. "You're both exactly the same." He says before pausing for a heartbeat, staying buried deep within your cunt as he shifts his gaze to Sunoo. Sunghoon murmurs, a trace of fond exasperation through the lust. "Always so hungry for it. Always needing to be touched."

"Oh fuck—Hooooon!" You moan out when he suddenly finds a rhythm that has you egding towards your orgasm so quickly, it’s embarrassing. "I know, baby. I know." He chuckles, slowly returning to his usual smug self, he’s clearly proud he’s gotten you so pilant under his frame. Without breaking his rhythm with you, Sunghoon reaches out and slides his hand down Sunoo's hip, hooking his fingers into the waistband of Sunoo's gray sweats and pulling them down. The sudden exposure makes your boyfriend gasp, his back arching and hips chasing Sunghoon’s hand.

"If you're going to be restless, Sunoo, at least make yourself useful," Sunghoon commands, his thrusts picking up just a fraction of speed, his eyes darting between where you’re taking his thrusts with a plap plap plap and the boy who is now also completely at his mercy. "I'm not the only one she needs to feel tonight."

Sunoo doesn't need to be told twice, with his sweats pooled around his knees, he crawls back over you, and through the blurriness of your vision you watch the last shred of his gentle boyfriend persona vanish, getting replaced by demanding hunger that catches you off guard.

He moves over you with a predatory grace, he positions his leaking red cock right at your lips and his fingers that are usually so soft when they brush hair from your eyes, are now knotted firmly at the base of your skull. He uses that grip to anchor you and pulls your head back to guide your rhythm with a dominance that makes your heart hammer against your ribs. The contrast is staggering, your sweet boyfriend who brought you tea when you had cramps and held you when you cried is now using his strength to dictate exactly how you suck his dick.

As you start sucking him the way you know he likes, he immediately lets out a high whine that somehow vibrates through your jaw. He's vocal in a way that feels unhinged, his hips even start to buck instinctively against your mouth, sending his cock deeper and deeper into the warmth of your mouth while he whimpers your name.

Sunghoon, who’s still pounding into you, watches the display with a darkened gaze. He feels the way your gummy walls squeeze him every time Sunoo's grip tightens just a little in your hair, the dual pleasure is beginning to create a sensory feedback loop that's becoming impossible to manage and it doesn’t help that Sunoo is still pinching and prodding at your over sensitive nipples.

"Fuck," Sunghoon curses, the word rips from his throat as he loses the steady rhythm he'd worked so hard to maintain. His head falls back and his throat works as he tries to keep his composure while being caught between the sight of your mouth wrapped around Sunoo and his own wet friction inside you.

Through his moans and whines, Sunoo manages a breathless chuckle but doesn't let up his grip—if anything, he pulls tighter on your hair and locks eyes with Sunghoon with a look of pure mischief.

The room is practically thick with the sound of desperate breathing and the frantic slap of skin against skin added with the squelch of your throat and lips as Sunoo uses your mouth. You are sitting right in the edge of what you know is about to be am earth shattering orgasm, your body stretched tight like a bowstring ready to snap. Sunghoon's movements have lost their calculated grace and he's now fucking into your cunt with a raw, heavy power, that has him hitting that one specific spot that makes your vision go white every time his hips collide with yours. "I—I’m so close, Hoon! Right there please!" You pull off Sunoo to moan out.

You can feel the tremors starting in his thighs, there’s a way his muscles are corded and vibrating with the effort of holding back and when one particularly deep thrust sends a jolt through you, making clench around him in a desperate vice.

"Oh shit, baby—" Sunghoon gasps, his head falling into the crook of your neck as that clench shatters his remaining restraint. He's falling over the edge very quickly and his body begins to shudder as he spills all his cum into you, pumping you full of his essence that immediately triggers yours. Your vision goes white at the edges and you suddenly go completely incoherent, babbling and screaming nonsense. "Aha! Sss—hoon, Sunoo!"

Sunoo who is still above you with his cock already starting to leak into your mouth, his knuckles have turned white where they're still knotted in your hair and his face twisted in a mask of agonized frustration. "Baby you’re gonna make me cum," he whines, his voice breaking as his hips buck his length into your mouth. "I can't—I'm so close."

Sunghoon doesn't pull away or pulled out of you, even as he's coming down from his own high, he reaches up and wraps his hand around the back of Sunoo's neck and pulls him forward. "Come here," Sunghoon commands, his voice a guttural rasp. "Right here."

Sunoo pulls out of your mouth and collapses forward, he joins Sunghoon and lets out a shattered cry as he finally lets go, the release hits him with a force that leaves him trembling against your skin, spilling his cum right over your pussy. You're caught in the middle of them, caught in the middle of two men who know just how to break you and put you back together. Sunghoon moves so suddenly, pulling back to look at you and he doesn’t look quite satisfied, he looks down at the messy evidence of their shared claim on you, and decides there and then to sweep it all together and push it back into you with two fingers. You let out a soft moan when he begins to finger you into another orgasm, you don’t know whose fingers begin to rub at your clit but from the familiarity you suspect it’s Sunoo. They both have you shaking and damn near crying from the overstimulation.

"There," Sunghoon whispers, bring his hand to your lips and tracing his thump over the line of your lower lip as he leans in to kiss you, making you taste the mix of salt and victory on his tongue.

Sunoo has already curled his body around your side and Sunghoon basically falls over you, the territorial wars and the erasures of the past week feel like a fever dream that has finally broken.

nene’s note ── not so comeback comeback, i can’t stay gone for too long. enjoy!💋

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

The box marked KITCHEN – MISC sat half-open on the counter. Three minutes had passed while you stood there hoping the spatulas and measuring cups might somehow organize themselves into something useful.

“Jake.”

From the living room, he glanced up from where he was kneeling beside a tower of boxes labeled BOOKS in his cramped handwriting. His hair jutted out at odd angles from repeatedly dragging his fingers through it. “Yeah?”

“Did you see where the coffee mugs went?”

“Uh.” He sat back on his heels and squinted at the kitchen like the answer might be written on the cabinets. “Weren’t they in the box with the plates?”

“No. I already unpacked that one.” Your foot connected with the flattened cardboard, sending it sliding across the tile until it thumped against the wall. "I've checked every kitchen box we brought in."

Jake pushed himself up and made his way over. The scent of cardboard dust clung to him, mixed with the cologne he saved for occasions he deemed important. Apparently moving qualified. He bent over the counter, peering into the box you'd been rifling through. "Could they still be out in the car?"

“I brought everything in already.”

“ What about the bedroom?”

“Why would I put mugs in the bedroom?”

Both his hands came up in mock surrender. "Hey, I'm just throwing out ideas. You're the one who did the packing."

That was true. The memory came back sharp and clear. You'd wrapped every single mug in newspaper, arranged them with care in a box you'd marked FRAGILE – MUGS with a red Sharpie. You'd insisted on carrying it in yourself since Jake and the neighbor had been wrestling the couch through the doorway, and you didn’t trust anyone else with your favorite mug from the café in Seoul.

“This is so weird.” You turned in a slow circle like the mugs might materialize if you looked hard enough. The kitchen was small and bright. Sunlight poured through the window above the sink, bathing the compact kitchen in warm light that made everything seem pristine and hopeful. This was meant to be your new beginning. "Things keep disappearing. My phone charger went missing yesterday. The day before that, my toothbrush."

“You found your toothbrush.”

“In the bathroom closet. I never put it there.”

Jake opened the cabinet above the stove, examining the interior despite knowing it held nothing but the shelf liner you'd spent time measuring and cutting the previous day. "Could be you're just exhausted. Three solid days of unpacking will do that."

“I’m not tired.”

“You’re definitely tired.”

Part of you wanted to push back, but your spine throbbed from hunching over countless boxes and your fingertips stung with tiny cuts from wrestling with packing tape. The realtor had sold you on this house by emphasizing how much easier it would be compared to the cramped apartment. Look at all this room, Jake had said during the tour, we could actually entertain guests. The bay window had charmed you, along with the east-facing bedroom that would flood with morning light. Right now though, you just wanted those damn mugs.

“Who’s moving my stuff?” you said. It came out lighter than you meant.

Jake's mouth quirked up as he pressed a kiss to your temple. "Must be the house ghost."

"That's not funny."

"They'll show up eventually." He returned to the living room, dropping back down beside his book collection. His voice drifted through the open floor plan. "Try the bathroom. Maybe you stuck them in there without thinking

You were certain you hadn't, but you went to look anyway since you'd exhausted other options. The small bathroom still reeked of the bleach you'd used to scrub every surface two days prior. A crack spider-webbed across one corner of the mirror, something the landlord had sworn he'd repair. You crouched down and opened the cabinet beneath the sink.

There they sat. All six mugs, stacked with precision, with your Seoul café mug rested on top.

You stared at them for a long time. There was absolutely no way you had placed them here.

“Any luck?” Jake called from the living room.

You closed the cabinet door and straightened up. Your knees cracked. “Yeah. They were under the sink.”

“See? Told you they’d turn up.”

You didn’t mention that you’d never looked under the sink. You wouldn’t have put mugs there even if you were unpacking at three in the morning with your eyes closed. Jake was already back to organizing his books by author, and you didn’t want to stand in the bathroom doorway and argue about something that didn’t matter.

The hours that followed melted into one another. You tackled the bedroom while power tool sounds and muttered curses floated up from where Jake wrestled with bookshelf assembly instructions. Eventually you both converged on the closet, bickering over the distribution of space between his sneaker collection and your dresses. He secured victory by highlighting how you'd already claimed the entire dresser. You had to admit he had a point.

By the time sunset arrived, the house had transformed into something almost livable. Boxes still created obstacles along the hallway and packing paper buried the kitchen table, but at least you could navigate most rooms without tripping. Progress, you supposed.

Jake called in an order from the Thai restaurant a few blocks away. The two of you sat cross-legged on the living room floor since unfolded laundry had claimed the couch. He kept cracking jokes about breaking in the new place properly, and you managed to laugh despite feeling like you were wading through deep, deep water.

The wedding had been five weeks ago. You'd opted for a simple courthouse ceremony to avoid the chaos of event planning. Afterward came two weeks wandering through Japan, walking until blisters formed on your feet, staying awake far past any reasonable hour, and making hollow promises about catching up on sleep during the flight home.

You hadn’t. Jake had fallen asleep with his head on your shoulder and you’d spent seven hours staring at the seatback screen without watching anything.

Upon returning, you'd immediately begun shoving your lives into cardboard boxes since this house's lease kicked in on the first and paying double rent wasn't an option. Two solid weeks of packing and hauling everything into a borrowed truck from some coworker of Jake's whose name you couldn't remember.

The drive here yesterday had eaten up six hours. Jake had offered to take turns behind the wheel but you'd insisted you could handle it. That had been a lie. Your fingers had locked around the steering wheel in a death grip and your eyes had stung from the endless stretch of highway.

Now you sat on unfamiliar floorboards in a house that didn't feel like yours yet, every muscle in your body demanding rest. Jake's voice washed over you as he talked about work or maybe friends or something else entirely. You managed to nod at appropriate intervals, tried to anchor yourself to what he was saying, but his words kept dissolving before you could grasp them.

"You okay?" His question cut through the fog. When you looked up, concern had softened his features.

“Just tired.”

“You should take a break tomorrow. I can finish unpacking.”

“We’re almost done.”

“Baby. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

Collapse seemed dramatic. You were simply running on empty. Perfectly normal after a move. Things would improve once you actually settled in, once you weren't surrounded by half-empty boxes and packing tape.

Jake gathered the dishes and headed to the kitchen. Water started running in the sink. You remained on the floor, gaze fixed on the wall. The realtor had described this soft cream shade as warm and inviting. Right now it just seemed blank and expressionless.

You should get up and be useful, help with the dishes or finish unpacking the bathroom.

Instead you pulled yourself up and told Jake you were going to take a shower. He said something about joining you later and you made a noncommittal sound that could’ve meant anything.

The water pressure here beat the apartment's pathetic dribble. Small victory. You tipped your head back, letting heat seep into your knotted shoulders. Steam had already saturated the bathroom, condensing on every surface and shrinking the space.

You worked your fingers through your hair and felt the tension start to drain out. Three days of hauling boxes and arguing about where the couch should go. Jake had won again. It faced the window now instead of the TV.

The shower curtain moved.

Not much, just a quick pull to the side like someone was peeking in.

“Jake.” You kept your eyes closed. Shampoo suds slid down your neck. “You’re such a pervert.”

No answer.

“I’m literally covered in soap. Can you wait like five minutes?”

Only the steady percussion of water against porcelain answered you. You scrubbed at your stinging eyes with the back of one hand, blinking away the burn. The curtain now hung partially open. Beyond it, the bathroom stood empty.

No Jake leaning against the sink with that stupid grin he got when he was trying to be smooth. No shadow moving past the frosted window. There was only steam and the towel hanging on the rack and the crack in the mirror you kept forgetting about until you saw it.

“Jake?”

The sound of your own voice startled you with its volume. Water drummed against your shoulders and ran down the drain in a steady rush. You reached out and pushed the curtain open further. It scraped along the rod with a metallic sound that made your teeth hurt.

The door was still closed. You would’ve heard it open. The hinges squeaked every time. You’d mentioned it to Jake yesterday and he’d said he’d oil them this weekend.

You twisted the faucet off. Silence rushed in to fill the void. The house exhaled around you with creaks and groans. Ancient wood adjusting. Pipes losing their heat. Somewhere beneath the floor, the heater kicked on with a mechanical click.

Water dripped from your hair onto the bathmat as you stood frozen, staring at that closed door. Each heartbeat thundered in your ears.

“Jake?” you said again.

Nothing.

You secured the towel around yourself and eased the bathroom door open. Darkness swallowed the hallway except for a strip of light bleeding from the bedroom down at the far end. Your feet left damp impressions on the hardwood as you walked.

Jake was in bed with his phone. He looked up when you came in. “Hey. Feel better?”

“Were you just in the bathroom?”

“What?” He set his phone on the nightstand. “No. Why?”

“The shower curtain moved.”

“It’s an old house. Probably just a draft.”

“The door was closed.”

Jake patted the bed beside him. “Come here. You’re shivering.”

You weren’t shivering. Were you? The room felt colder than it should. You climbed into bed and pulled the towel tighter around you. Jake wrapped an arm around you and you pressed your face against his shoulder. He smelled like the laundry detergent his mom always used. It was supposed to be comforting.

“I think someone opened the curtain,” you said into his shirt.

“Like a person?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

His hand moved in slow circles on your back. “Baby. There’s no one here but us.”

You fell silent. Somewhere below, the house groaned like something heavy was being dragged across the floor. Jake's expression didn't change. Perhaps the sound never reached him. You let your eyes drift shut, trying to match the rhythm of his breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Steady and constant.

His hand moved lower on your back, slipping under the edge of the towel. “You’re so tense.”

“I’m fine.”

"You're really not." Something shifted in his voice, dropping into that particular tone he used when he had intentions. "Let me help you relax."

Your eyes opened to find him watching you with that half-smile that typically got him what he wanted. His hand traveled up your spine before tracing back down with deliberate slowness.

“Jake.”

“What? I’m being a good husband.” His mouth found your shoulder, then migrated to your collarbone. His fingers found the knot holding your towel closed. “You’ve been stressed all week. Let Daddy take care of you.”

You didn't protest when he worked the towel free. The fabric slipped away and gathered on the sheets beneath you. Cold air met your exposed skin. Jake's hands offered warmth. His kisses traveled down your sternum, across your stomach, and despite everything gnawing at your mind, you felt yourself beginning to surrender.

He pushed your legs apart and settled between them. Heat from his breath ghosted across your inner thigh. “Just relax.”

You let your head fall back against the pillow, and tried to focus on the feeling of his mouth instead of the sound the house had made and the shower curtain moving on its own. For a moment, it worked. His tongue traced a slow path along your folds and you gasped, your fingers threading into his hair. 

The bedroom door creaked open.

Every muscle in your body locked. Jake's grip on your hips intensified but his mouth didn't stop its work.

“Jake.”

“Mm?”

“The door.”

He lifted his head. Moisture glistened on his lips. “What about it?”

“It just opened.”

Jake threw a glance over his shoulder. The door now stood halfway open, hallway darkness spilling through the gap. When he looked back at you, his features had rearranged themselves into something gentler, laden with concern. "Baby. The door wasn't latched properly. It does that."

“I closed it.”

“You didn’t close it all the way.” He shifted to sit beside you, drawing the blanket over your legs like you required modesty now. "This is exactly what I mean. You're too stressed. You're seeing things that aren't there."

“I’m not seeing things.”

“The curtain moved because of a draft. The door opened because old houses do that. There’s nothing weird happening.” His palm cradled your face while his thumb swept across your cheekbone. “I’m worried about you.”

Your throat felt tight. “I’m fine.”

"You're not sleeping properly. You picked at dinner. And now every little sound makes you jump." He pressed his lips to your forehead in a gesture that felt more appropriate for a child than a wife. "Maybe we should find you a doctor here. Someone you can talk to."

“I don’t need a doctor.”

“There’s nothing wrong with needing help. Especially after everything we’ve been through lately. The wedding and the move and all of it piling up. It’s a lot to process.”

You wanted to argue, to tell him that you weren’t imagining things. Something was wrong with this house and he needed to believe you.

But he was looking at you like you were fragile and might break if he pushed too hard.

You pulled the blanket up higher and turned onto your side away from him. “I’m just tired.”

“I know.” His arm came around your bare waist, pulling you flush against his clothed body. Normally, you might have ground back against time, tried to reignite what he’d started. Tonight you just want to sleep. “Get some sleep. Things will look better in the morning.”

They wouldn’t. You already knew that with absolute certainty. You closed your eyes anyway and listened to Jake’s breathing gradually evened out behind you.

The door remained open. Darkness from the hallway seemed to press into the room like something physical. You could feel eyes on you from that space beyond, watching and waiting. Jake's arm lay heavy across your ribs. Moving would wake him. So you remained motionless, gaze fixed on the wall, counting down the hours until dawn

────୨ৎ────

The whole reason you moved here was to escape the old one, full of unfriendly neighbors and people who filed noise complaints over the smallest things. Someone had once left a passive aggressive note on your door about your footsteps being too loud at seven in the morning. Jake had wanted to frame it.

You’d heard this neighborhood was friendlier, more community-oriented. The realtor had gone on about block parties and how everyone knew each other’s names.

Instead, the people on your street kept staring and whispering.

This morning, the woman two houses down had been collecting her mail when you reversed out of the driveway. Her gaze had followed your car all the way to the stop sign. You'd lifted your hand in a friendly wave. She'd pivoted and disappeared inside without so much as a nod.

Yesterday, the older couple across the street had been deep in conversation on their driveway when you'd emerged to water the housewarming plants from Jake's mother. Their voices had died the moment they spotted you. You'd felt their eyes boring into your spine the entire time.

According to Jake, you were making it up. New neighbors always attracted attention. It was normal curiosity and you were reading too much into it.

Perhaps he had a point. Jake had always been oblivious to social undercurrents. He could enter a room crackling with tension and remain completely unaware until someone spelled it out for him.

You pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine. The new curtains sat in the passenger seat in their plastic bag from the home goods store. You’d spent an hour debating between ivory and cream before settling on something called vanilla linen that looked identical to both.

The old curtains had been too dark. That’s what you’d told Jake this morning when he asked why you needed new ones. They made the living room feel smaller. He’d shrugged and said whatever made you happy.

Bag in hand, you stepped out of the car. Daylight softened the house's edges, made it seem less threatening. The blue-gray paint looked almost charming, and the porch had decent structure despite the wobbly railing Jake kept promising to secure this weekend.

The front door was unlocked. It swung open easily under pressure from your hip, and you sealed it shut with your heel.

“Jake?”

Silence answered. Still at work, probably. You'd gotten lost browsing the store and hadn't tracked the time.

Sunlight poured through the bare living room windows, carving geometric patterns across the hardwood. The boxes had finally disappeared. You'd spent yesterday afternoon breaking them down and hauling them to the garage. The space was starting to resemble an actual home now.

You set the curtain bag on the couch and went to the kitchen for scissors. The drawer stuck like it always did. You had to yank it twice before it opened.

Movement flickered at the corner of your eye.

You spun around. The kitchen was empty. There were dishes drying in the rack by the sink and a coffee maker on the counter. Nothing was out of place.

Scissors acquired, you returned to the living room. Plastic crackled as you ripped the bag open. Vanilla linen fabric tumbled onto the couch in soft folds that were absolutely just overpriced ivory.

The curtain rod remained mounted from the previous set. You'd stripped those down last night, shoving them into a trash bag because the sight of them had started constricting your chest. Jake had checked if you were alright. You'd claimed you simply wanted something lighter and brighter.

What you didn't mention was the persistent image of the shower curtain moving by itself.Heavy fabric didn’t just shift without someone touching it.

You hoisted yourself onto the couch's arm and stretched toward the rod. Your fingers had barely made contact with the cool metal when sound filtered down from above.

Footsteps upstairs, slow and deliberate, moving from the bedroom toward the hallway.

You froze with your arms above your head and the curtain rod pressing into your palms. The footsteps stopped before they started again, closer to the stairs now.

“Jake?” The question emerged barely above a whisper.

The footsteps reached the top of the stairs. You could hear the floorboards creaking under invisible weight. One step. Then another.

You scrambled down from the couch, hands trembling. The scissors still lay on the coffee table. You snatched them up reflexively, brandishing them like some kind of weapon even though you knew how useless they'd be.

The footsteps stopped halfway down the stairs. Your eyes locked on the staircase, on the space where a body should be visible. The house had gone so silent that your own pulse thundered in your ears.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

The scissors had gone slick in your sweating palm, the metal handles warming against your skin. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you strained to hear any other sounds from above, but the house had fallen into an oppressive silence that felt almost deliberate, like it was holding its breath and waiting to see what you'd do next.

The front door swung open behind you with enough force to make you jump.

You whirled around, nearly dropping the scissors in the process. Jake filled the doorway, work bag draped over one shoulder and his tie loosened from a long day at the office. His attention landed on you first, taking in your defensive stance and wide eyes, then traveled down to the scissors clutched in your white-knuckled fist. His eyebrows climbed toward his hairline in a mixture of confusion and concern.

“Uh. What are you doing?“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

"There was someone upstairs." The words tumbled out in a rush, breathless and shaky.

Jake nudged the door shut with his heel, the lock clicking into place with a soft sound that seemed too loud in the quiet house. "What?"

"I heard footsteps. They were coming down the stairs." You stared at the scissors like they'd materialized in your hand through no action of your own, like you couldn't quite remember picking them up or why you'd thought they might protect you from whatever had been walking through your house. You set them carefully on the coffee table, your hands still trembling. "Someone was in the house. I heard them moving around up there."

Jake abandoned his bag by the entrance and crossed the room in quick strides. His hand came up to press against your forehead, palm flat and assessing like he was checking a child for illness. The touch was gentle but clinical, and something about that detached concern made your stomach twist. "You're burning up."

"I'm not sick." You tried to step back but his hand followed, persistent.

"Did you eat lunch? When was the last time you had water?" The questions came rapid-fire, each one dismissing what you'd just told him in favor of finding some mundane explanation.

“Yes. Jake. I’m fine. I know what I heard.”

His hand shifted to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone in what was probably meant to be a soothing gesture. That expression had returned, the one from last night where he looked at you like you were made of porcelain that might crack under too firm a grip, like you were a problem he needed to solve rather than a person he needed to believe. "Baby."

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

"Look at me like I'm losing my mind." The words came out sharper than you intended, edged with frustration and fear and exhaustion all tangled together.

His hand fell away as he dragged it through his hair instead, disheveling the strands that had already been mussed from the wind outside. The breath he released sounded carefully measured, like he was actively working to maintain patience in the face of what he clearly thought was irrational behavior. "I'm not saying you're losing your mind. I'm saying you're running on empty and stressed to your limit and maybe that's affecting your perception. You haven't been sleeping well. You've barely been eating. Your body is exhausted."

"I heard footsteps." You repeated it like if you said it enough times he might actually hear you, might actually consider that you were telling the truth.

"Old houses are noisy. The wood expands and contracts with temperature changes throughout the day. Pipes settle as they cool down. Floorboards creak under their own weight." He was using his reasonable voice now, the one he used when explaining things to clients at work. "It can sound exactly like footsteps when it's not. I've heard it too since we moved in."

Heat crept up your throat and into your face. "You weren't here. You didn't experience what I just experienced. You didn't hear them stop halfway down the stairs like someone was standing there watching me."

"Okay." The word came out gentle and placating in a way that made you want to scream. "Okay. If it makes you feel better I'll go check upstairs. I'll look in every room and make sure no one's here."

“Thank you.”

He pressed his lips to your forehead in a kiss that felt more like reassurance for himself than comfort for you before heading for the staircase. You tracked the sound of him taking the steps two at a time, his footsteps heavy and grounded and completely different from the measured, deliberate tread you'd heard earlier. His presence moved through the house above you, traversing the bedroom first, then migrating to the spare room where you'd been storing boxes, then finally the bathroom. Doors swung open with their familiar squeaks and thumped shut in succession, and each sound felt like another nail in the coffin of your credibility.

You retrieved his abandoned work bag from its spot by the door, the strap still warm from his shoulder, and carried it to the kitchen to give your hands something to do besides shake. Setting it on the counter with more care than necessary, you began extracting its contents one item at a time. An empty tupperware container that had held his lunch, the lid slightly ajar and a few grains of rice stuck to the rim. A water bottle with dried residue crusting around the threading that desperately needed a thorough scrubbing. Some crumpled papers he'd probably need for tomorrow that were already getting bent at the bottom of the bag.

You pulled open the cabinet to store the water bottle, and that pervasive mildew smell hit you immediately, musty and organic and wrong. Mental note: pick up baking soda or whatever product actually eliminated that kind of persistent odor, maybe some of those moisture absorber packets you'd seen at the hardware store.

Someone materialized behind you without warning. Arms encircled your waist in an embrace that felt startlingly intimate, sliding around you with a familiarity that should have been comforting. A head came to rest against your shoulder blade, the weight of it solid and grounding. The full presence of another person pressing into your back, their body heat seeping through the thin fabric of your shirt.

You melted into the contact without thinking, your muscles loosening as you allowed yourself to be supported by what you assumed was your husband. Jake must have finished his inspection upstairs and come down quietly to surprise you, to offer comfort after dismissing your fears. "Long day at work?"

No verbal response came. Just the steady rhythm of breathing against your spine, warm exhales that you could feel through your clothes. The arms surrounding you felt undeniably solid and present, more real than anything else in this moment. You registered the rise and fall of a chest expanding and contracting against your back with each breath, the subtle shift of fabric, the particular pressure of hands resting just below your ribcage.

You glanced down expecting to see Jake's familiar hands, maybe still wearing his watch, maybe with the small scar on his left thumb from that cooking accident last year.

There was nothing there.

No arms around your waist. No hands resting against your stomach. Only empty space and the counter stretching before you and your own solitary body standing alone in the kitchen with nothing touching you at all.

The presence evaporated. Not gradually but instantaneously, like someone had released their hold and retreated in a single motion, leaving behind only the fading impression of where they'd been. The warmth against your back disappeared so quickly you wondered if you'd imagined it, except you could still feel the ghost of those arms, the memory of that weight.

You lurched forward involuntarily, your body trying to catch itself from falling into an embrace that was no longer there. Your hip collided with the counter edge with enough force to send a sharp spike of pain radiating through your pelvis, the kind that would definitely leave a bruise by tomorrow. The water bottle escaped your grip and went clattering into the sink basin with a hollow plastic sound that seemed far too loud.

“Everything’s clear up there.” Jake’s voice came from the stairs, slightly winded from his search. “No one’s home but us.”

You remained frozen where you stood, unable to pivot and face him, unable to explain what had just happened. Your fingers had locked onto the counter edge hard enough to drain all color from your knuckles, the pressure the only thing keeping you upright. Your breath came in short, shallow gasps that you couldn't quite control, and somewhere in the back of your mind you registered that you were probably having a panic attack but that knowledge did nothing to stop it.

Jake walked into the kitchen, his presence announced by the familiar sound of his work shoes against the hardwood. Real footsteps, heavy and grounded and unmistakably human, each one landing with the full weight of a living person moving through space.

"See? Nothing to worry about." His hand touched your shoulder in what was meant to be a comforting gesture and you flinched so violently you nearly sent the dish rack crashing to the floor. The dishes rattled precariously in their slots before settling. "Whoa. Hey. It's just me."

You managed to turn around despite your body's resistance to the movement. Jake stood there with both hands raised in a gesture of surrender, palms out like he was approaching a frightened animal that might bolt at any sudden movement. His expression had shifted from patient understanding to something rawer, genuine worry creasing his forehead and pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“What happened?”

"I felt someone." Your voice emerged trembling and unsteady, each word requiring conscious effort to form. "Right now. Just seconds ago. Someone was standing behind me exactly where you are. They had their arms around me. I felt their weight against my back, felt them breathing."

“I was upstairs. No one else is here.”

“I know. I thought it was you. I felt them, Jake. It wasn't my imagination. Their arms were solid and real and they were holding me.”

Jake closed the distance between you and pulled you firmly against his chest, eliminating any space that might exist between your bodies. His heart beat steady and strong under your ear, that reliable rhythm you'd memorized over the years together. His arms came around you and they felt fundamentally different from whatever had been holding you mere moments ago. Warmer, more substantial, anchored in reality in a way that the other presence hadn't been despite feeling so convincing.

“You’re okay,” he said into your hair. “You’re okay. Nothing’s going to hurt you.”

Your breathing wouldn't cooperate, wouldn't fall into any normal pattern. It kept catching in your throat like you'd forgotten the basic mechanics of drawing air into your lungs, each attempt stuttering and incomplete.

"Hey." His voice underwent a transformation, dropping into that lower register he reserved for specific moments, the tone he used when you needed grounding, when your mind was spiraling and your body needed an anchor. "Look at me."

You tilted your head back with effort, forcing your gaze upward. His eyes had gone serious and focused, all his attention concentrated entirely on you with an intensity that left no room for anything else in his awareness.

"Breathe with me. In." He demonstrated with a slow, deliberate inhale and you attempted to mirror the movement, your lungs expanding with air that felt inadequate. "Out."

Your exhale emerged shaky and uneven but you managed it, the air leaving your body in fits and starts.

"Good girl. Again." In. Out. His hand traveled up and down the length of your spine in time with the breathing, the repetitive motion creating a rhythm your body could follow. The simple physical pattern gave you something concrete to focus on beyond the panic.

"That's it. Just like that." His thumb traced along your jawline with deliberate gentleness. "Let Daddy take care of you. You don't have to think right now. You don't have to figure anything out or make sense of what happened. Just breathe."

Something in your chest began to loosen its grip. Not completely, not enough to make you feel normal again, but enough that air could flow in without the sharp pain that had been accompanying each breath.

"There you go." He kissed your forehead before moving on to pepper gentle kisses across your face, each one a small point of warmth and reassurance. Your temples, your cheekbones, the bridge of your nose, your closed eyelids. "Shhh. I've got you. You're safe here with me."

You allowed yourself to go completely boneless against him, surrendering your weight and trusting him to hold you upright. His hand cupped the back of your head with protective care and kept you pressed securely against his shoulder, creating a small pocket of safety in the space between your bodies.

“We’re okay,” he murmured. “Everything’s okay. You’re safe with me.”

You wanted desperately to tell him that safety wasn't actually the problem, that something was fundamentally wrong with this house and he needed to listen to you instead of trying to rationalize everything away. But your body was finally beginning to release the tension it had been holding, your muscles gradually unclenching one by one, and your thoughts were developing fuzzy edges that made forming coherent arguments feel impossible. You were so profoundly tired of being scared, exhausted from the constant vigilance and the way fear had taken up permanent residence in your chest.

Jake rocked you slightly. “What do you need right now, hm? You want to sit down? Get some water?”

You shook your head against his chest, the fabric of his work shirt soft against your cheek.

"Okay. Then we're just going to stand here for as long as you need." His hand maintained its gentle movement through your hair, the repetitive strokes soothing in their predictability. "Take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere. I'll stand here all night if that's what you need."

You couldn't detect the presence anymore, couldn't sense anything beyond the immediate reality of Jake's arms creating a solid barrier between you and whatever else might exist in this space. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your ear. The warmth radiating from his body and seeping into yours. These tangible, provable things.

Maybe he was right. Maybe you genuinely needed to see a doctor and get something to help you sleep, to quiet your mind enough that it stopped creating experiences that felt real but couldn't possibly be. Maybe the exhaustion and stress had damaged something in your perception of reality.

Or maybe something was very, genuinely wrong with this house and you were the only one whose senses were attuned enough to detect it, the only one it had chosen to reveal itself to for reasons you couldn't begin to understand.

Jake had convinced you to lie down after the episode in the kitchen. He'd guided you upstairs with a hand on your lower back and tucked you into bed with the kind of careful attention usually reserved for someone running a fever, pulling the blankets up to your chin and smoothing them down with excessive care. He'd promised to finish unpacking his work things and dealing with the curtains, assured you that everything would be handled and you just needed to rest. You'd closed your eyes obediently and listened to him moving around downstairs, the familiar sounds of cabinets opening and closing, of objects being set down and picked up, all while trying desperately not to think about the weight of those phantom arms that had felt so impossibly real.

Sleep refused to come despite your body's exhaustion. You'd lain there staring at the ceiling for what felt like hours but was probably only twenty minutes, watching the way shadows moved across the plaster as clouds passed outside, counting the small imperfections in the paint job, anything to occupy your mind. Finally you'd given up on the pretense of rest.

You needed air. Real air, outside air, something that didn't taste like this house.

Now you were walking down the street with your hands buried deep in your jacket pockets and your breath forming small clouds that dissolved in the evening air. The temperature had dropped noticeably since you'd left the house, enough that you wished you'd grabbed a heavier coat. Everything looked softer in the fading light, edges blurred and colors muted as the sun continued its descent toward the horizon. The whole neighborhood seemed wrapped in that particular quiet that came with approaching dusk, when people retreated indoors and the day began its transition into night.

You passed three houses before encountering another person, your footsteps the only sound breaking the stillness. A woman roughly your age was approaching from the opposite direction with a little girl who couldn't have been more than six years old trailing slightly behind her. The child wore light-up sneakers that flashed brilliant pink with every bouncing step she took, the only spot of brightness in the growing dimness.

The woman's eyes landed on you when you were still about twenty feet apart. Something shifted in her expression, transforming from neutral to something you couldn't quite identify but that sent an uncomfortable prickle down your spine. Without breaking stride, she reached out and took her daughter's hand with sudden firmness, then began angling toward the opposite side of the street, her trajectory deliberately taking them away from you.

The little girl immediately pulled against her mother's grip, her small face scrunching with confusion and resistance. "Mommy, I want to say hi."

"Not now." The woman's response was clipped and final.

"But they're new. We're supposed to be nice to new people." The girl's voice carried that particular brand of childish logic that hadn't yet learned about unspoken social rules. She managed to free one hand long enough to offer you an enthusiastic wave. "Hi!"

You lifted your own hand automatically to return the greeting, a reflexive response to the innocent friendliness.

The woman immediately yanked her daughter's arm down with enough force to make the girl stumble slightly. "Stop it. Don't talk to them."

"Why not?" The question emerged with genuine bewilderment, the kind only a child could muster when confronted with arbitrary adult rules.

"Because." The woman's voice dropped lower, probably attempting discretion, but the evening quiet carried her words across the distance with perfect clarity. She wasn't really trying very hard to keep you from hearing. "They're from the bad house."

"What's a bad house?" The girl's confusion deepened, her small voice rising with the question.

"Shh." The woman accelerated her pace, practically dragging her daughter along now. The child had to break into an awkward half-jog to keep up, her light-up shoes flashing pink in rapid succession as they hurried away from you like you were carrying some contagious disease.

You remained frozen on the sidewalk, rooted to the concrete as you watched them disappear around the corner at the end of the block. Your heart had begun hammering against your ribs with unnecessary force, adrenaline flooding your system even though nothing overtly threatening had occurred. The street felt dramatically emptier than it had just moments ago, the absence of their presence somehow more pronounced than the quiet had been before they'd appeared.

The bad house.

Those two words kept circling in your mind, each repetition adding new weight to them. You turned slowly and looked back toward your house, studying it from this new perspective. It sat there among its neighbors looking fundamentally identical to every other structure on the block. Nothing about it screamed warnings or danger. Nothing about it appeared visibly different from the houses on either side or across the street.

But that woman had physically pulled her daughter across the street to avoid you, had forbidden the child from even speaking to you, all because you lived there. Like whatever was wrong with the house was something that could contaminate you just by proximity.

You started walking back, your feet moving faster than the situation warranted, propelled by some instinct you couldn't name. The sun had almost completely disappeared now, leaving behind only that purple-gray twilight that made familiar things look strange. Shadows stretched impossibly long across front lawns and driveways, distorting the shapes of trees and cars into something vaguely menacing. You kept your eyes fixed on your house as you approached, tried not to let your mind spiral into speculation about what "the bad house" might actually mean, what might have happened there before you and Jake had signed the lease.

Jake's car still occupied its spot in the driveway, exactly where he'd left it when he'd come home from work. Warm light glowed through the living room windows, golden and inviting in the gathering darkness. You could make out his silhouette moving around inside, probably still dealing with those curtains or maybe starting to think about dinner.

You climbed the porch steps carefully, muscle memory guiding you even as your mind remained elsewhere. The third step released its familiar creak under your weight, the sound seeming far too loud in the evening quiet, like an announcement of your arrival that anyone within a hundred feet could hear. You pushed open the front door and stepped gratefully into the warmth, the temperature difference immediately making your cold-stung cheeks tingle.

Jake had indeed returned to hanging the new curtains. He'd repositioned the couch so he could use it as a makeshift ladder and was currently balanced on the cushions, arms extended overhead as he worked to slide the vanilla linen fabric onto the rod. He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of the door, offering you a quick smile. "Hey. Feel better?"

“A neighbor just called this the bad house.”

His hands went still on the curtain, the fabric bunching slightly where his fingers had stopped moving. "What?"

"I was walking and this woman with her kid deliberately crossed the street to avoid me. The kid asked why they couldn't say hello, and the mother said because we're from the bad house." You closed the door behind you and engaged the lock with more force than necessary, the metallic click somehow reassuring. Your hands were trembling visibly now. "What does that mean? Why would she say that?"

Jake stepped down from the couch with careful deliberation, his work shoes landing softly on the hardwood. "Maybe she's just weird. Some people are like that. You know how neighborhoods can be."

“She pulled her daughter away from me like I was dangerous.”

"Okay. So she's rude and weird and probably watches too many true crime documentaries." He crossed the space between you and took both your hands in his, his warmth immediately noticeable against your chilled skin. He began rubbing your hands between his palms, trying to restore circulation. "You're freezing. How long were you outside?"

“Jake. This is serious.” You tried to pull your hands back but he held on.

"I know it feels serious. But people say weird stuff all the time, especially in small neighborhoods where everyone thinks they know everyone's business. It doesn't necessarily mean anything." He tugged gently, trying to guide you toward the couch. "Come on. Let's finish these curtains and then we can figure out dinner. You'll feel better once you eat something substantial."

You let him lead you closer to the couch but resisted actually sitting down, your body remaining tense and resistant. "What if something's genuinely wrong with this house? What if there's a reason she called it that?"

“Nothing’s wrong with the house.”

"Then why would she say that? Why would an entire neighborhood apparently know it as 'the bad house'?" Your voice was climbing despite your efforts to keep it level.

“I don’t know. Maybe the last people who lived here were assholes. Maybe they played loud music at three in the morning and everyone hated them.” He released your hands to pick up the curtain again, clearly ready to move past this conversation. “It has nothing to do with us.”

You watched him climb back onto the couch with practiced ease, threading the fabric onto the rod like everything was perfectly normal and you hadn't just been deliberately avoided by a stranger who thought your house was dangerous enough to warn her child about. The living room seemed to shrink as the curtains went up, the fabric blocking out what little remained of the evening light. You couldn't see outside anymore, couldn't monitor the street or know if anyone else was out there looking at your house and whispering about the people foolish enough to move in.

Jake stepped down from the couch and moved back to assess his handiwork, his head tilting as he examined the way the fabric hung. "There. What do you think? Much better than those heavy dark ones, right?"

You thought the room felt like it was actively closing in around you, the walls pressing closer with each breath. You thought about how badly you wanted to pack everything back into boxes and leave this place immediately, drive until you found somewhere that didn't make your skin crawl, somewhere that neighbors didn't warn their children away from.

“It looks good,” you said.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

────୨ৎ────

You were still trying to catch your breath when you saw it.

Jake had collapsed beside you moments ago, one arm flung dramatically over his face in that particular way he always did after sex, like the effort had completely drained him. His chest continued rising and falling in heavy, labored pulls of oxygen. The sheets had become hopelessly twisted around both your bodies during the preceding activity, the fabric now clinging uncomfortably to your sweat-dampened skin.

Your body was still humming with residual pleasure, nerve endings firing in that pleasant way that usually left you feeling boneless and satisfied. You should have felt good right now, relaxed and content in that post-orgasm haze. Instead your heart was racing for an entirely different reason, adrenaline flooding your system and wiping away any trace of the satisfaction you'd felt seconds ago.

There had been someone in the closet.

You'd seen them. The memory was crystalline and undeniable, seared into your brain with the kind of clarity that only came from genuine fear. It had happened right at the end, at that precise moment when your eyes had rolled back and Jake's name had torn from your throat in a cry you couldn't have suppressed if you'd tried. The closet door had been cracked open just enough, and in that sliver of darkness there had been a face. Watching. Present. Real.

You'd made direct eye contact. You were absolutely certain of it. Brown eyes that had locked onto yours with unmistakable awareness, staring directly at you while Jake moved inside you and you came apart underneath him, while you were at your most vulnerable and exposed.

"Jake." Your voice came out rougher than intended, still affected by how you'd been using it moments before.

"Mm." The sound was drowsy and satisfied, already halfway to sleep. His hand found yours somewhere in the tangle of sheets and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“There’s someone in the closet.”

His hand went still. “What?”

“I saw someone in the closet. They were watching us.”

Jake lifted his arm from his face with visible reluctance and turned his head on the pillow to look at you directly. His hair stuck up in complete disarray, standing at odd angles from where you'd run your fingers through it. "Babe."

“I’m serious. There was someone there. I looked right at them. We made eye contact.”

He sat up with a heavy sigh, the sheet pooling around his waist and exposing his bare chest still marked with faint scratches from your nails. "You saw someone. While we were having sex."

"Yes. Please. You need to check right now." You pulled the sheet higher, suddenly feeling exposed in a way that had nothing to do with nudity.

Jake dragged both hands down his face, pulling at his features before releasing a long, controlled breath through his nose that spoke volumes about his patience wearing thin. Then he extracted himself from the bed completely and crossed the room without bothering to cover himself, his naked body moving through the lamplight. He grabbed the closet door handle and yanked it open with more force than strictly necessary, the door swinging wide to reveal the interior.

Your clothes hung in their neat, organized row exactly where you'd left them. His shoes were lined up along the bottom in the careful arrangement he always insisted on. Boxes that you'd been procrastinating about unpacking sat stacked in the corner, still sealed with packing tape.

"There's no one here." He gestured at the empty closet like it was evidence in a trial.

“Check behind the boxes.”

He released another one of those long-suffering sighs before bending to grab the boxes. He moved them aside one by one, shifting them away from the corner they'd been occupying. Nothing lurked behind them except bare wall, the paint slightly darker where it had been protected from light exposure. He straightened and turned back to face you with both hands spread in an "I told you so" gesture. "See? Empty. No one here but us."

Something fluttered down from the top shelf like a falling leaf, a photograph. It descended in a lazy spiral before landing face-up on the floor directly between Jake's bare feet, the timing so perfect it felt orchestrated.

He looked down at it for a moment before bending to retrieve it from the hardwood. You instinctively pulled the sheet up higher over your chest, suddenly feeling the need for more coverage, and leaned forward with anxious curiosity to see what he'd found.

It was a photograph of a man. Young, probably late twenties at most. Dark hair that looked carefully styled, and a smile that revealed too many teeth in a way that should have been charming but somehow wasn't. He stood positioned in front of a house that you recognized immediately with a sinking sensation in your stomach. Your house. Except in this photo, the blue-gray paint looked pristine and freshly applied, and the porch railing stood straight and sturdy instead of loose and requiring Jake's promised repairs.

Jake held it out to you. “Must’ve been left by whoever lived here before.”

You accepted it with hands that had begun shaking again, your fingers trembling as they made contact with the aged paper. The photograph was clearly old, its edges yellowed and gone soft from excessive handling over the years. You found yourself staring at the man's face with growing horror, at those brown eyes that looked directly at the camera lens with unnerving focus.

“That’s him.”

“What?”

"That's who was in the closet. That's the exact face I saw watching us." Your voice began climbing higher with each word, panic making it difficult to control your volume. You could hear yourself getting louder, more frantic, but stopping seemed impossible. "Jake. That's him. I saw him. Those eyes. That face. He was watching us have sex."

"You saw a picture fall out of the closet." Jake's tone had gone flat and carefully neutral, the voice he used when he was trying very hard to remain patient.

"No. I saw him before the picture fell. He was looking at me." The words came out in a rush, desperate and pleading. "His eyes were at a different angle than in this photo but it's the same face. The exact same face. Jake. I'm so scared."

Jake lowered himself onto the edge of the bed with deliberate slowness, the mattress dipping under his weight. He reached over and carefully extracted the photograph from your trembling fingers, then set it face down on the nightstand like even having it visible in his peripheral vision was too much. Like he could make the problem disappear by simply not looking at it. Then he pulled you firmly against his bare chest, his arms wrapping around you with protective intensity. Your entire body was shaking with an internal tremor you had no control over, muscles quivering like you'd been left out in freezing temperatures.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay. That’s it. We’re getting you help.”

“What?”

“I’m calling a doctor tomorrow. We’re getting you on something.”

You pulled back to look at him. “I don’t need medication.”

"Yes you do." He wasn't angry, which somehow made it worse. Anger you could have fought against, could have met with your own defensive rage. But he just sounded exhausted, worn down to nothing, like this conversation was draining the last reserves of energy he possessed. "Baby. You're having hallucinations. You're seeing things that aren't there. You're terrified constantly, jumping at every sound, unable to sleep. That's not normal. That's not healthy."

"I'm not hallucinating." You tried to inject conviction into the words but they came out weak and unconvincing even to your own ears.

"You just told me you saw a dead guy watching us have sex." He stated it plainly, without embellishment, and hearing it repeated back like that made it sound insane.

“I didn’t say he was dead.”

"Well he's clearly not alive and physically standing in our closet, so what else would he be?" Jake's hands came up to frame your face with careful gentleness, his palms warm against your cheeks. His thumbs pressed against your cheekbones with just enough pressure to ground you. "I love you. So much. More than anything. But I can't keep doing this. I can't keep checking every single room and closet and telling you nothing's there while I watch you fall apart piece by piece. You need help. Real, professional help. Not just me reassuring you that everything's fine when clearly it's not."

Your eyes began burning with the familiar pressure of approaching tears. You felt them spill over and track down your cheeks, the moisture collecting against his hands where they still held your face. "You don't believe me."

"I believe that you're genuinely seeing things. I believe that you're absolutely terrified and that your fear is real." He kissed your forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. The gesture felt like an apology, like he was asking forgiveness for what he was about to say. "I don't believe there's actually a ghost in our house. I believe your mind is creating these experiences because you're exhausted and stressed beyond your breaking point."

You wanted desperately to argue, to defend yourself against the implicit accusation that you were losing touch with reality. You wanted to grab that photo and shove it in his face and make him understand that you weren’t crazy. It was real and he needed to listen instead of looking at you like you were broken. You wanted him to look at you like his wife instead of like a patient who needed managing.

But he was holding you like you were made of something fragile that might shatter, and the combination of fear and exhaustion had left you with nothing left to fight with.

"Okay," you whispered, the surrender tasting bitter on your tongue.

Relief washed across his features so visibly it was almost painful to witness. "Yeah? You mean it?"

“Yeah. I’ll see a doctor.”

He pulled you back against his chest immediately and held you with enough force that your ribs protested, his arms creating a cage around you that was probably meant to feel protective but somehow felt more like containment. "Thank you. God, thank you so much. Everything's going to be okay. I promise. We're going to figure this out and get you feeling better."

You closed your eyes and pressed your face hard into his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of his skin mixed with the lingering smell of sex. You could still feel those brown eyes on you, watching from somewhere you couldn't see, their presence as real and tangible as Jake's heartbeat against your cheek.

────୨ৎ────

Three weeks on the pills and things had been better.

Not perfect. The house still released its nightly symphony of creaks and groans, wood settling and pipes contracting in ways that sometimes sounded almost deliberate. You still experienced that persistent phenomenon of misplaced objects, things migrating from where you'd carefully set them down to locations that made no logical sense. But the hallucinations had stopped. You weren't seeing faces materialize in closet shadows anymore, weren't feeling the sensation of phantom hands pressing against your body when you were alone. Most importantly, Jake had stopped treating you like delicate glass that might shatter at any moment, stopped monitoring your every word and expression for signs of deteriorating mental health.

You stood at the kitchen sink in the quiet morning light and tipped two pills from the prescription bottle into your palm. They were small and white and deceptively ordinary looking for something that had apparently rewired your brain chemistry. You placed them on your tongue and chased them down with water, felt them slide down your throat in that particular way pills did, slightly catching before completing their descent.

Jake had departed for work several hours ago, his goodbye kiss still a fading warmth on your forehead along with his cheerful instruction to have a good day. You had a whole list of mundane tasks planned: errands to run, groceries to buy, dry cleaning to pick up. All the tediously normal things that normal people with stable mental health did on ordinary weekdays.

You climbed the stairs to get dressed, your hand trailing along the banister out of habit. In the bedroom you pulled on your favorite jeans and a comfortable sweater, the fabric soft from repeated washing. Your reflection in the bathroom mirror showed someone who looked tired around the eyes but fundamentally stable, grounded in reality. Progress, even if it was hard-won. You collected your keys from their designated spot on the bedroom dresser and made your way back downstairs, your footsteps echoing slightly in the quiet house. Your purse waited by the front door exactly where you'd left it the night before. You performed your usual pre-departure check, fingers locating your wallet and phone in their expected pockets. Everything accounted for and in order.

Your skin felt warm.

You froze with your hand already extended toward the doorknob, fingers hovering just inches from the cool metal. The warmth was spreading with unsettling speed, an internal heat that had nothing to do with the house's temperature. It originated somewhere deep in your chest and was now radiating outward like you'd swallowed something molten, creeping up your neck in a slow crawl, traveling down your arms in tingling waves, settling into your stomach with uncomfortable intensity.

The heat intensified with alarming rapidity. Within seconds your skin was burning, the sensation so overwhelming it felt like you'd stepped directly into a sauna set to maximum temperature or positioned yourself too close to an open flame. You grabbed at the neck of your sweater with clumsy fingers, pulling at the fabric that suddenly felt suffocatingly thick and restrictive, like it was actively trying to strangle you.

Something else was happening simultaneously, a secondary sensation that made your stomach drop with confused alarm. A different kind of heat had begun throbbing low in your belly, an unmistakable arousal pooling between your legs with an intensity that was both shocking and unwelcome. Your thighs pressed together in an automatic, unconscious response and the resulting friction against sensitive flesh made you gasp out loud, the sound startlingly loud in the empty house.

What the hell.

You abandoned your plan to leave and instead leaned heavily against the door, using it to support your suddenly unsteady body. Your heart was hammering violently against your ribs like it was trying to escape your chest. Your breathing had deteriorated into shallow, rapid gasps that weren't pulling in nearly enough oxygen. The dual sensations of burning heat and building arousal kept intensifying with each passing second, feeding off each other in some terrible feedback loop. Your body felt hypersensitive to the point of pain, every nerve ending firing at maximum capacity. The brush of your jeans against your legs, the pressure of your bra against your chest, every sensation registered as too much, overwhelming your ability to process sensory input.

You were simultaneously burning up and desperately turned on and you had absolutely no understanding of why this was happening or how to make it stop.

The pills. Your thoughts felt sluggish and fuzzy, like your brain was operating through layers of cotton, but that single word managed to surface through the haze. Had you somehow taken the wrong medication? Grabbed the wrong bottle in your morning routine? You stumbled back toward the kitchen with uncoordinated steps, your legs feeling weak and unreliable beneath you like they might give out entirely at any moment. The prescription bottle still sat on the counter exactly where you'd left it. You snatched it up with trembling hands that could barely maintain their grip and forced your eyes to focus on the tiny print of the label.

It was the same prescription. Same exact dosage. They were the same pills you’d been taking every morning for three weeks.

This wasn't a documented side effect. The doctor had been thorough when prescribing the medication, walking you through the complete list of potential reactions. Nothing like this had been mentioned. Jake had done his own research and would have definitely said something if this kind of response was even remotely possible.

You set the bottle back down with a clatter and gripped the counter's edge hard enough that your knuckles immediately drained of all color, the skin stretching white and tight over the bones. The heat had become genuinely unbearable now, so intense you genuinely felt like your skin might actually split open from internal pressure, like something was attempting to force its way out from inside your body.

Your sweater had to come off immediately. You grabbed the hem with both hands and yanked it over your head in one desperate motion, not caring when it caught briefly on your hair. The garment hit the floor in a heap of discarded fabric. The removal provided approximately ten seconds of relief, blessed coolness against your overheated skin, before the burning sensation returned with even greater intensity than before.

You lurched toward the refrigerator and wrenched open the freezer door with enough force to make the entire appliance rock slightly. Cold air billowed out in a visible cloud and you immediately pressed your face directly into the frigid stream, desperate for any kind of relief. It felt incredible, almost transcendently good in a way that felt vaguely scandalous, pleasure and relief tangling together in your overloaded nervous system. A sound escaped your throat before you could suppress it, a moan that was entirely too loud and breathy and suggestive for someone standing alone in their kitchen.

This was wrong. Something was very wrong.

Your physical responses had begun mimicking exactly what you'd feel if Jake was actively touching you, as if invisible hands were currently sliding across your bare skin with deliberate intent and  phantom lips were pressed against your neck leaving invisible marks. But you were completely alone in the kitchen wearing nothing but your bra and jeans and there was absolutely nothing and no one physically touching you.

You could feel it anyway, could feel all of it with perfect clarity. Phantom sensations that felt as real as anything you'd ever experienced made your spine arch involuntarily and your breath catch in your throat. Waves of pleasure were building inside you with relentless momentum, completely beyond your control or ability to stop.

"Stop," you said out loud to the empty kitchen, your voice emerging wrecked and desperate and barely recognizable. "Stop it."

It didn't stop. The invisible touch moved lower with deliberate intent, phantom hands sliding down your stomach toward the waistband of your jeans. Your hips rolled forward in an involuntary response against absolutely nothing, your body betraying you with its automatic reaction. Your hand shot out wildly and connected with the pill bottle still sitting on the counter edge. It went flying, hitting the floor with a sharp crack of plastic against tile. Pills exploded everywhere, scattering across the kitchen floor in a spray of white tablets that pinged and rolled in every direction.

You sank down to your knees, your legs finally giving out completely under the dual assault of sensation and fear. The tile was shockingly cold against your overheated skin, the temperature contrast almost painful. You pressed your forehead directly against that cold surface and tried desperately to breathe through what was happening to your body, tried to find some kind of mental anchor that might let you regain even a fraction of control.

The phantom sensations kept building with relentless momentum, pushing you inexorably toward something you absolutely did not want. Not like this. Not alone on the kitchen floor half-dressed while something invisible touched you everywhere at once, while pleasure you hadn't asked for built inside you beyond your ability to stop it.

You squeezed your eyes shut with enough force to see stars behind your eyelids and bit down hard on your lip, the sharp pain grounding you slightly. You tasted copper as skin broke under your teeth.

And then you felt breath against your ear, warm and real and so close you could feel the shape of words even though no sound came out.

Someone was here with you.

You forced your eyes open, terror overriding every other sensation flooding your system.

The man from the photograph was crouched directly in front of you, close enough to touch. His dark hair fell across his forehead in soft waves, partially obscuring brown eyes that watched you with unmistakable amusement. He was near enough that you could catalog every detail of his face with perfect clarity.

He tilted his head slightly, studying you like you were something fascinating he'd discovered. "Hey."

You screamed.

He laughed in response, the sound casual and completely at odds with the situation. One hand pressed over his heart in an exaggerated gesture while a mockingly touched expression crossed his features. "Yeah, I know. I get that a lot. The ladies love me."

"What?" Your voice emerged as barely more than a rasp, your throat already raw from screaming. You scrambled backward desperately, your nearly naked back scraping against the cabinet hardware as you tried to put any amount of distance between yourself and this impossible presence. "What are you? A pervert? What the hell are you doing to me, you freak?"

"Ouch." He settled back on his heels, looking genuinely wounded by your words. The amused smile faded into something closer to an actual pout, his bottom lip pushing out slightly. "That's rude. I have a name, you know. It's Sunghoon. Can you call me that instead of these mean names?"

You sputtered incoherently for a moment, your brain completely unable to process the sheer audacity of this ghost or hallucination or whatever he was acting offended while you were literally sprawled half-naked on your kitchen floor.

"You know," he continued conversationally, like you were having a normal chat over coffee instead of this nightmare scenario, "I wasn't sure exactly how long it would take to kick in. The bottle said thirty minutes for full effect but I figured with your body weight, maybe closer to twenty?" He glanced down at his wrist like he was checking a watch that wasn't actually there, miming the gesture with his empty arm. "Pretty close to my estimate. I'm getting really good at this."

You stared at him, your oxygen-deprived brain struggling to process the words coming out of his mouth or reconcile what you were seeing with any version of reality that made sense. "What?"

"The pills." He reached down and plucked one of the scattered tablets from the floor, holding it up between his thumb and forefinger for your inspection like it was evidence in a trial. "I switched them out. Well, not all of them obviously. That would've been way too obvious and you would've noticed immediately. Just enough that you'd take them at your normal time and," He gestured broadly at you sprawled on the kitchen floor in just your bra and jeans, skin flushed and breathing labored. "Here we are."

"What did you give me?" Your voice cracked.

"Aphrodisiacs. Really strong ones too." He shifted to crouch at your level, bringing his face even closer to yours, that infuriating smile still playing at the corners of his mouth. "Took them from the previous owner's bedroom stash. They left in such a hurry they forgot all sorts of interesting things up there." He paused, his head tilting again in that particular way that made him look predatory despite the casual tone. "I could touch you whenever I want, you know. Make you feel anything. But where's the fun in that? This is so much better. You have no idea what's happening to your own body. You can't fight it or control it or make it stop." His eyes dragged over your half-clothed form with deliberate slowness, taking in every detail of your current state. "You should see your face right now. It's perfect."

Horror crashed through you in a wave so intense it momentarily overrode even the chemical heat flooding your system. "You're insane. You're harassing me!" The burning arousal was still coursing through your body with undiminished intensity but fear was cutting through it now, slicing everything into sharp focus and making your panic spike even higher. "Get away from me right now."

His eyebrows climbed toward his hairline in exaggerated surprise. "I'm harassing you? That's rich. You're the one who moved into my house without permission."

“Your house? This is my house. Jake and I bought it.”

"Bought it." Sunghoon's laugh filled the kitchen, bright and cheerful and completely wrong given the circumstances. "Yeah, okay. Sure. Pretty sure I was here first though. Like, years before you showed up. And I tried so hard to get you to leave, I really did put in the effort. The mugs appearing in weird places. The shower curtain moving. The footsteps on the stairs." He gestured broadly like he was presenting a resume of accomplishments he was particularly proud of. "I even watched you guys having sex. Stood right there in your closet and watched the whole thing. Thought that would definitely do it for sure, thought you'd be out of here within a week."

Your stomach turned violently at the confirmation that all of it had been real, that you hadn't been losing your mind. "You're disgusting."

"Hey, I didn't enjoy it." He paused, a wink accompanying his next words. "I mean, I didn't not enjoy it either. You're cute. Your husband is incredibly boring but you? You're cute."

"Change them back," you gasped out desperately, your hands gripping the cabinet behind you hard enough to hurt. The pharmaceutical heat was still overwhelming every other sensation, still building despite your terror. Your body was still responding to whatever he'd given you, and knowing the cause wasn't doing anything to make it stop. "Give me the real pills. Please."

"Can't. Already flushed them down the toilet." He sat back on his heels, looking entirely too pleased with himself for someone who'd just admitted to drugging another person. "These should wear off in a few hours though. Maybe six? The bottle wasn't super clear on dosage recommendations. But hey, look on the bright side! At least now you know you're not crazy. Well, not about the house stuff anyway."

“Get away from me.” You tried to press further back but there was nowhere to go. The cabinet was solid against your spine.

"Can't do that either. This is my house, remember? I literally can't leave." Sunghoon reached out slowly like he was going to touch your face, his hand moving through the space between you with deliberate intent. His fingers stopped just short of making contact with your skin, hovering there in a way that felt more threatening than an actual touch would have been. "Besides, you can take all the real pills you want now, see all the therapists your insurance will cover. I'm still going to be here. I tried to scare you off, I really did put in genuine effort. But you're still here after all of it."

He leaned forward, eliminating what little distance remained between your bodies. His face was now mere inches from yours, close enough that you could count his eyelashes if you wanted to, close enough to see the unnatural stillness of his chest that never rose or fell with breath. You shouldn't be able to see this much detail on something that was supposed to be dead. "And honestly? I don't mind anymore. You're entertaining. Way better than the last people who lived here. They were so boring, so predictable. Didn't even scream when I moved their stuff around."

The chemically-induced heat pulsed stronger through your system, your traitorous body responding with renewed intensity even though your mind was screaming at it to stop. You let out a choked sound that was half desperate sob and half something else entirely, something you didn't want to acknowledge.

"Yeah. See? You like it." His voice dropped several registers lower, becoming softer and more intimate in a way that made your skin crawl. "I can make you feel so good. Better than your husband does, and I've been watching so I know exactly how he touches you. I know exactly what you need, what makes you fall apart."

“You’re sick.”

"I'm dead actually. Pretty different thing when you think about it." He sat back slightly, creating a few more inches of space between you. The increased distance felt like it should provide some relief but it didn't help at all. You could still feel phantom touches crawling all over your body with increasing boldness. "But sure, yeah. Call me sick if it makes you feel better about the situation. Doesn't change the fact that you're stuck with me now."

You tried to stand, tried to force your legs to cooperate and get you upright and away from this nightmare. Your muscles refused to obey the commands your brain was desperately sending. The drug-induced pleasure was building again with terrifying momentum, cresting toward something you absolutely did not want to reach, not with him watching with those amused eyes.

You squeezed your eyes shut with brutal force, trying to block him out of your awareness, trying to pretend this wasn't happening. The phantom pressure against your overheated body intensified in immediate response to your attempt at escape. The sensation of a mouth traced a deliberate path along your jawline. It wasn't human, lacked all the normal qualities of an actual kiss. There was no wetness or natural warmth, just an impossible suction of penetrating cold that somehow burned against your flushed skin. Your head thrashed violently to the side in denial, a pathetic whimper escaping your lips as the ghost of a tongue dragged down the vulnerable tendon of your neck with agonizing slowness.

The searing phantom heat raging inside your body was fighting a war with the invasive cold attacking from outside, and the conflict between the two extremes was systematically shredding your nerves into ribbons. You were going to scream, or dissolve into hysterical tears, or worse, give in completely to the relentless chemical need he'd deliberately poisoned you with.

"There you go," his voice purred directly in your ear despite the fact that his physical form still sat visible in front of you, just observing your breakdown with clinical interest. "Fighting it makes it so much sweeter to watch."

“Stop,” you begged, the word a broken thing. “Please.”

"That's the wrong word to use." His voice carried the texture of velvet wrapped around a threat. "Try 'more' instead."

He simply shifted forward on his knees, closing the distance you'd been trying to maintain. His mouth, suddenly solid and undeniably real, pressed against the exposed base of your throat. You felt the distinct pressure of teeth against your vulnerable skin before he bit down with deliberate force.

A gasp ripped from your chest involuntarily. It was a deep, marrow-chilling shock that seemed to leech the very warmth from your blood, a branding cold that arced through your entire system. It provided a strange and terrible counterpoint to the drug's artificial fever burning through you. The cold stole your breath completely. For one blessed second, the overwhelming internal heat was eclipsed entirely by this violent, invasive cold.

He released you and leaned back casually, his tongue darting out to lick his lips in a gesture that was deliberately provocative. A smirk played across his face while his eyes gleamed with dark, perverse satisfaction. The spot on your neck where his teeth had been throbbed with a lingering, icy ache that pulsed in time with your racing heartbeat.

"You taste like panic," he said, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. "And lavender laundry detergent. Interesting combination."

You couldn't speak, couldn't force any words past the constriction in your throat. You brought a trembling hand up to your neck, fingers searching for damage. The skin was unbroken, no mark visible or tactile, but you could still feel the exact imprint of his teeth branded into your flesh.

The spell of the drug, momentarily stunned, came roaring back with a vengeance, intensified by the adrenaline crash. A violent shudder wracked your body, and your vision swam. The kitchen tiles tilted. Everything blurred into a nauseating swirl.

The spell of the drug, momentarily stunned into submission by the shock of his bite, came roaring back with absolute vengeance, intensified exponentially by the adrenaline crash flooding your system. A violent shudder wracked your entire body and your vision swam alarmingly. The kitchen tiles seemed to tilt at impossible angles. Everything blurred into a nauseating swirl of color and sensation.

Your muscles clenched, a tight coil of absolute need. You tried to think of anything else, grocery lists, the bland color of the living room walls, Jake’s face smiling at you this morning. The thoughts melted like wax before the flame. A low, wounded sound was trapped in your throat. Your body wasn’t listening to you anymore. It was listening exclusively to the poison coursing through your bloodstream.

The sensation built with terrifying inevitability, a cresting wave that had nothing to do with genuine pleasure and everything to do with biological hijacking. Your back arched violently off the floor, your fingers scraped desperately against the unforgiving tile hard enough to break skin, and a silent, shuddering release tore through you with brutal force. For approximately three seconds, it flooded you with relief.

Then the heat roared back twice as fierce as before. This time it manifested as a raw and scraping hunger that made the previous burning seem like gentle warmth by comparison. A choked cry of despair escaped you. The release hadn't helped at all. It had only made the empty, aching need more desperate and consuming.

"Oh, wow." Sunghoon's voice dripped like liquid honey from somewhere above you. He hadn't moved from his position. He was just sitting there comfortably, legs crossed, chin resting in his hand, watching you completely unravel on his kitchen floor like it was entertainment. "That looked incredibly unsatisfying. All that work and you're still right back where you started. Maybe even worse now, yeah?"

You couldn't look at him, couldn't bear to see whatever expression was on his face. Humiliation coated your mouth like thick paste, mixing with the panting breaths you couldn't control. Your whole body was trembling uncontrollably, oversensitive and raw, screaming for a relief that the orgasm had cruelly teased and then stolen away.

“The body wants what it wants,” he sighed, as if discussing a mildly inconvenient fact. “And yours wants a lot right now. It must be so confusing for it. All dressed up with nowhere to go.”

The phantom touches started again. Not the broad, overwhelming waves from before, but precise, expert taps and strokes along the most overheated, frantic parts of you. It was deliberate. It was torture. You jerked against the cabinet, a fresh sob breaking loose.

“Do you want me to make you feel better?”

The question hung in the air, so simple and so monstrous. It was a taunt.

You shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut, trying to bury your face in your arms. The movement sent another vicious pulse of need through your core.

“I can,” he pressed, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. The cold spot of his presence materialized right beside your ear. You felt the shape of words against your skin. “I know exactly how. I’ve been practicing. I can make it stop hurting. I can make it feel so good you’ll forget your own name. Just say the word.”

Every cell in your body was a lit fuse. The rational part of you, the part that was still you, screamed in negation. But that part was small, and drowning, and so very tired of the burning. The animal part, the part the pills had put in charge, only understood the agony of need and the promise of pleasure.

The silence stretched, broken only by your ragged breathing.

He let out a soft, disappointed hum. “Okay. Suit yourself. I’ve got all day. All week, really. Forever’s a long time to be this uncomfortable.”

Another expert, invisible stroke. A pained whimper was torn from your throat. “Fine! Yes!”

Sunghoon shifted, his form solidifying more as he settled cross-legged on the floor in front of you, blocking your view of the scattered pills. He looked like a boy about to listen to a good story, his head tilted, that pretty mouth pressed into a line of mock-sympathy.

“See, that’s a start,” he said, his voice a silken thread. “But ‘yes’ is… vague. You always beg so nicely for your husband.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Can’t you be more specific?”

The phantom touch, which had paused, returned with a sharp flick right where you were most sensitized. You jolted, a cry strangling in your throat. He was provoking you.

“You want me to make you feel better?” he prompted, his eyes dark and hungry for more than just your body. He wanted the words. “Then ask for it. Properly.”

Tears of frustration and shame burned hotter than the drug. Your body was a traitor, arching slightly toward the source of the touch even as your mind recoiled. “Please,” you whispered, the word torn from you.

“Please what?” he singsonged, relentlessly cheerful. “Please stop? Or please don’t stop? Context is everything.”

Another slow, swirling stroke, this one drawn-out and deliberate. Your hips gave a tiny, involuntary rock against nothing. The breath hitched in your chest, coming in shallow pants.

“I can’t,” you sobbed.

“You can. You’re a big girl.” His smile was chilling in its patience. “Use your words. What do you want me to do? Be explicit. I’m not your husband. I don’t do guesswork.”

The pressure built again, a tantalizing promise of release held just out of reach. The need was a physical pain now, a raw, scraping hollow that demanded to be filled. Your sanity was a distant shore. There was only the fire and the ice-cold boy who controlled the faucet.

You squeezed your eyes shut, hot tears tracking through the dust on your cheeks. The words felt like swallowing ground glass.

“Please… touch me.”

A beat of silence. Then a sigh, disappointed. “Again with the vagueness. Where?” The last word was a sharp whisper, accompanied by a sudden, pinpoint burst of sensation so intense it blurred your vision. “Here?”

You gasped, nodding frantically, your forehead nearly touching the tile.

“Say it.”

Your voice was a broken thing, ragged and small. “There. Please. Touch me there.”

“Better.” The approval in his voice was the worst part. It felt like a stain. “But we’re still being so clinical. So detached.” The phantom touch withdrew completely, leaving you shaking, the emptiness somehow more violent than the teasing. “I want to hear you want it. Really want it. Beg for it.”

The withdrawal was a new kind of torture. The chemical tide, denied its outlet, turned inward, scraping at your nerves. A low moan escaped you. The last fragile thread of resistance snapped.

“Please,” you babbled, the words tumbling out in a desperate, humiliated stream. “Please, I need it. Please, just… do it. Make me come. I can’t-I need to come. Please, Sunghoon, please.”

There it was. His name, followed by the specific, degrading request. 

“See? Was that so hard?” The smile didn’t leave his face. It was a real smile now, reaching his eyes and crinkling the corners. He looked like a boy who’d just been given the best present. He unfolded himself from his cross-legged position and crawled toward you. 

You tried to shrink back, but the cabinet was still there, unyielding. Your body, thrumming with the poison, betrayed you further, tilting toward him as he closed the last of the distance.

“Shhh,” he whispered, though you hadn’t made a sound. His hand came to rest on your bare knee.  “Just relax. I’ll take care of it.”

His other hand came up to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. The touch was intimate, possessive. His eyes scanned your face, reading every flicker of terror and unwilling need. “This is better, right?” he murmured. “Asking for what you need?”

You couldn’t answer. Your throat was sealed shut with shame.

He leaned in. You braced for a cold kiss, but he just rested his forehead against yours. His skin was like marble. You could see the faint, impossible pores in his nose, the individual black lashes. He was so there.

“Now,” he breathed, the word floating into your mouth. He slid your panties off quickly, wasting no time before sinking into you.

The sensation of him thrusting inside you carved a white-hot line of pure pleasure through the drug’s fever. It was fullness where there had been an agonizing need. It was so profoundly wrong that your mind short-circuited. A shattered sound was trapped in your frozen lungs.

Sunghoon’s forehead still pressed to yours, his brown eyes wide open, watching you dissolve. A soft, appreciative sigh escaped his lips. “Oh,” he whispered, as if genuinely moved. “That’s it. See?”

He began to move.

There was no rhythm to it. Each movement was calculated, a cruel parody of intimacy you usually get when it’s Jake inside you. Sunghoon’s targeting places that made your back bow and your fingers claw against the tile. The chemical need, met with this chilling mockery of relief, created a feedback loop of sensation that was intolerable. Pleasure and revulsion twisted together, inseparable.

Tears streamed down your face silently. You were pinned between the solid wood of the cabinet and the solid cold of him.

“You feel that?” he murmured, his voice thick with a dark kind of wonder. “That’s all me. I’m everywhere you are.”

His form began to blur slightly at the edges, not vanishing but spreading. The cold wasn’t just inside you anymore. It was seeping into your muscles, your bones, a frost spreading through your bloodstream. The heat of the drug fought it, creating a war under your skin. You were shaking violently, a puppet with its strings cut and frayed.

The pressure inside you coiled tighter, drawn by his will. The climax, when it was ripped from you, was a devastating earthquake. It was a seizure of icy voltage, a shattering that left you hollowed out and raw. Your vision whited out at the edges, and for a few seconds, there was nothing. No sound, no sight, just the echo of the violation.

Then, when you open your eyes, you make eye contact with Jake.

Jake stood in the kitchen doorway, his work bag dangling from one limp hand. His face was a blank slate of incomprehension. He blinked, his brain visibly scrambling to process the scene: you, on the floor as your body shakes with an invisible weight, surrounded by a chaos of pills. 

“What…?” His voice was soft, almost polite with confusion. He took a step inside, his keys jangling. “Did you fall? Are you hurt?”

He was looking at the pills, at your state of undress, trying to fit it into a logical box. Maybe you’d fainted, had a seizure or something medical.

Sunghoon’s laugh was a humid whisper against your neck, his rhythm relentless and claiming. “He looks so stupid,” he murmured, the words slithering into your ear as your body jerked with his movement. “Just a confused little husband.”

“Talk to me,” Jake pleaded, his confusion sharpening into alarm as he watched your back arch against the cabinet. “Why are you… what’s happening?”

Your mouth moved. No sound came out. How could you form words around what had just happened? A ghost drugged me and then fucked me on the kitchen floor while I begged for it? The sentence was insanity itself.

“He looks pissed,” Sunghoon murmured, his voice a secret just for you. “Bet he’s never seen you like this. All used up. Bet he doesn’t know what to do with it.”

Jake took another step, his shoes crunching on a pill. “Talk to me. Right now.” The command in his voice was new. It was fear, sharpened into anger.

“She can’t,” Sunghoon answered for you, his tone sing-song with mock sympathy as he drove himself harder into your yielding body. “She’s a little busy being full. Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

Jake’s gaze dropped, following the helpless, rhythmic clench of your body in thin air, and the color drained from his face. The logical world he built his life on splintered right there on the kitchen tiles.

“Stop it,” he growled, though he didn’t know who or what he was commanding, his voice thick with a rising terror. He took another step, hand outstretched not to you, but to the empty, charged space between your thighs.

Sunghoon’s pace became punishing, a brutal celebration of his own invisibility. “See how he watches?” he cooed, his breath chilling your skin. “He’s starting to get it. That his wife is coming apart on nothing.”

A sob tore from your throat as the sensations crested, a terrifying wave you couldn’t fight. Your eyes locked with Jake’s, screaming an apology he couldn’t possibly understand.

“Tell him,” Sunghoon insisted, each word a thrust. “Tell your husband why you’re gaping open like a cheap whore while he watches.”

“It’s him,” you choked out, the words raw and scraped from your throat as your body betrayed you with another uncontrollable shudder. You forced your gaze away from Jake’s shattered expression, turning your head as if to address the cold air at your cheek. “Sunghoon. Show yourself.”

Jake moved then, a jerky, mechanical step to the side, his eyes fixed lower. From behind you, he saw everything. The impossible, intimate flutter of your walls around something that was stretching you out despite the empty space. His breath hitched, a sharp, pained sound.

“What?” he whispered, the question hollow.

A rich, amused laugh answered, swirling through the chilled kitchen air, the sound closer to your ear than Jake’s voice had ever been. “Why would I do that?” Sunghoon purred, his movement inside you shifting to a slow, possessive grind that made your knees buckle. “I only like pretty girls seeing me.”

Jake’s confusion finally broke into a frantic, disbelieving motion. His face was a mask of revulsion and desperate denial, his mind scrambling for any explanation other than the one his eyes reported.

“This isn’t happening,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, his voice thin. He took one last, jerky step forward, his hand outstretched with a trembling hesitation.

His thumb brushed your inner thigh, a touch so familiar it made you weep, before his index finger pressed tentatively against the slick heat of you, right at the point of that impossible, rhythmic clenching.

He felt it immediately.

The undeniable, solid presence of something moving inside you, something cold and foreign thrusting hard and deep. His finger was pressed right alongside it, trapped against the invading shape by your own tortured flesh.

He froze.

His eyes, wide and unblinking, locked onto yours. His breath stopped in his chest. All the color and  warmth left his face. The sensation against his finger was a concrete, physical truth his logic could not absorb or explain away.

Sunghoon thrust again. A full, brutal slide that made your entire body jolt and a sick, wet sound escape you. Jake’s finger moved with it, forced aside by the motion. You moan at the fullness, stretched beyond what you could handle. He snatched his hand back as if burned, staring at his own fingers as if they belonged to a stranger.

Sunghoon chuckled, a sound of pure delight that seemed to vibrate through your very bones. He slowed to a torturous, rolling grind, savoring the audience. “Believe it now, Jake?” he whispered, his voice dripping with mock sympathy.

“You felt that,” you managed to say, the words tearing out of you on a ragged exhale. “You felt him.”

“I felt something,” Jake corrected, his voice a hollow rasp. He looked down at his own body, then back at you. His expression crumbled into something worse than fear, shame. His sweatpants tented unmistakably.

Sunghoon’s grinding inside you paused, replaced by a low, delighted hum. “Oh, this is good,” he breathed into your ear, his fingers tracing a cold line up your ribs. “Look at him. Terrified out of his skull and still pitching a tent. You must just give off a vibe, huh?”

“Jake, please,” you begged, fresh tears hot on your cheeks.

“Don’t ‘please’ me,” he snapped, but the anger was thin, covering a bottomless well of panic. He didn’t move from the refrigerator, as if pinned. “What is this? Some kind of… sleepwalking thing? A seizure?”

“It’s not me!” you cried, your body jerking again as Sunghoon began a slow, teasing slide.

“He thinks it’s you,” Sunghoon murmured conversationally, his lips ghosting your temple. “He thinks his sweet wife is having some hysterical episode, rubbing herself on the cabinet like a cat in heat while he watches. And he likes the show.”

“Stop saying that,” you whimpered, closing your eyes.

“What am I saying?” Jake yelled, pushing off the fridge, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He still wouldn’t come closer. “I’m not saying anything! You’re the one talking to the goddamn air!”

Sunghoon laughed, and the vibration traveled through you. “Tell him the truth. That I’m here, inside you. That your husband is so turned on by watching his wife get haunted that he’s about to bust a seam.”

The crude words, spoken in that intimate, boyish voice, finally broke something in you. You focused on Jake’s terrified, aroused, utterly lost face.

“You can’t see or hear him, but you felt him. He’s-” your words break off into a moan when Sunghoon presses down on your clit with his thumb. “He’s inside me.” 

Jake’s mouth fell open. A violent shudder ran through him.

“That’s it,” Sunghoon cooed, his pace increasing, becoming purposeful and deep. “Now we’re all on the same page. You’re both so fucked up. A matched set.”

“Who? Who are you talking to?” Jake demanded, his voice cracking. He took one step forward, then another, driven by a frantic need to fix this.

“Sunghoon,” you sobbed, the name now a permanent stain in your kitchen. “His name is Sunghoon.”

Jake reached for you, not the air this time, his hands aiming for your shoulders to pull you away from the cabinet, to shake you awake. But as his fingers brushed your skin, Sunghoon thrust hard, pinning you in place. You cried out, your back arching.

Jake flinched back, but his hands stayed on your shoulders. In that horrible moment, his hips unconsciously jerked forward an inch, a tiny, reflexive stutter against the roaring adrenaline and paralyzing fear.

Sunghoon saw it. You felt his delight like a static charge.

“You slut,” he whispered, warm and approving against your ear. “You’re so slutty you broke your husband’s brain. He wants to fuck you right now while he watches you get railed by a ghost. That’s a new one, even for me.”

Jake’s hands dropped from your shoulders as if your skin had electrified him. He took two stumbling steps back, his breath coming in short, ragged pulls. The visible evidence of his arousal was now a source of palpable shame, and he crossed his arms tightly over his chest, his posture folding in on itself.

“This isn’t real,” he whispered, but the words held no conviction, only a hollow hope. His eyes, wide and bloodshot, took in your body. He scanned your trembling legs, the sheen of sweat on your collarbone, the frantic rise and fall of your chest. Logic had nothing left to give him.

“Feels pretty real from here,” you gasped, as Sunghoon resumed a slow, excruciating rhythm, each deep stroke a cold mockery of intimacy.

A different kind of tension was coiling tight in your belly, separate from the violation. It was a low, chemical burn, a remembered heat flickering back to life in your veins. Your mouth felt cottony. The edges of the room pulsed softly.

Jake’s eyes narrowed slightly, doctor’s instinct cutting through the panic. He saw the unnatural flush on your neck, the dilated black of your pupils swallowing the iris in the dim light. His gaze darted to the empty water glass on the counter, then back to your face.

“The pills,” he said, his voice shifting from terror to a strained clinical concern. “Your prescription. Did it do something to you?”

Sunghoon’s movement inside you hitched, then stilled, a predator listening. A cold finger traced the shell of your ear.

“Oh, this is juicy,” he murmured, his voice a secret just for you. “The little medicine. It’s still buzzing in there, isn’t it? Must be getting pretty uncomfortable.”

You nodded at Jake, a stiff, jerky motion. “Just two.” The admission was thick on your tongue.

“Just two,” Sunghoon parroted, laughing softly. “But it still aches doesn’t it? Your system’s all lit up with nowhere to put the juice.”

Jake ran a hand over his face, the friction loud in the quiet kitchen. “Okay. Okay, that’s a side effect. A rare one, but it’s in the literature. The heightened… sensitivity. It can cause agitation, a feeling of…”

“Of needing to come so bad it feels like your skin’s on fire?” Sunghoon finished for him, cheerfully crude. “Tell him, sweetheart. Tell your smart husband what his wife’s little medicine is making her feel right now, with me inside her.”

You shook your head, biting your lip until you tasted copper.

“Tell him,” Sunghoon insisted, and he pushed deeper, a sharp, startling penetration that made you cry out. “Or I stop moving entirely. I’ll just sit here, inside you, and you can ride out that chemical burn all by yourself. See how long it takes before you’re screaming.”

The threat was worse than the motion. The burning intensified, a wave of raw, frustrating need that overrode dignity. Your hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk against the empty air, seeking friction, release, anything.

Jake saw it. His clinical analysis collided with the grotesque reality before him.

“It… it hurts,” you choked out, the confession shattering you. “Jake, it’s burning. It won’t stop. The pill and he… and I can’t…”

Sunghoon hummed in approval. “Good girl. Now ask him. Ask your husband to help you feel better.”

“No,” Jake said, the word immediate and final. He backed up until the counter’s edge dug into his spine. “I am not… I am not doing anything with you while that… while he’s…”

“He doesn’t care,” Sunghoon sang, his voice light. “I’m not going anywhere. This is the situation. Your wife is in physical distress, and you’re just going to stand there and watch her cook from the inside out? What kind of a husband are you?”

The burning was a live wire now, sizzling through your nerves, concentrating in a desperate, aching pulse between your legs made a thousand times worse by the occupying cold. Rational thought dissolved. 

“Jake, please,” you begged, your voice breaking into a sob. “Please, just help me. Make it stop. I don’t care, I can’t think, it just hurts.”

“I can’t,” he whispered, agony in his own voice. “Not with him there. Don’t ask me to do that.”

“You don’t have to do anything to me,” Sunghoon keeps talking as if Jake can hear him. “Just her. She’s the one suffering. Think of it as medical aid for the burning.”

You slid down the cabinet another inch, your legs giving way. The tile was icy against your thighs. “Please, Jake. I need you. I just need it to stop. Help me.”

The words hung in the chilled air. Jake stood paralyzed, a man torn between the impossible and the unbearable. He stared at his wife, broken and begging on their kitchen floor, and the last wall of his denial crumbled into dust.

A ragged breath tore from his lungs. He crossed the cold tiles in three stiff strides, his own body still tensed with a revolting mixture of fear and that traitorous, persistent heat.

“Okay,” he said, the word barely audible. “Okay, just… tell me what to do.”

Sunghoon’s laughter was a silent tremor you felt deep inside your marrow. The oppressive, moving cold within you stilled, becoming a static fullness. “Finally,” the voice sighed near your ear. “Just get her ready for us. She’s tight as a fist.”

Jake knelt, the linoleum cracking under his knees. His hands, usually so sure, hovered over your splayed thighs. He looked into your eyes, seeking permission.

You gave a tiny, desperate nod.

His touch was clinical at first, fingers slick with your own moisture, probing tentatively. He touched where the emptiness should have been, and his knuckles brushed against solid, cold resistance.

He flinched, a full-body shudder. “Christ.”

“He’s right there,” you whispered, watching his face. “Can you feel him?”

Jake’s jaw worked. He pressed two fingers in alongside that chilling presence, a slow, careful stretch. The sensation was wrong, all wrong. Your warmth hugged his fingers, but they slid against something unyielding and frigid, a sleek barrier sharing the same space.

“It’s like a wall,” he muttered, his voice thick with disbelief. “A cold, living wall.”

“I’m not a wall,” Sunghoon chided, amusement rippling through the connection. “I’m just comfortable. Hurry up, man. The anticipation is cute and all, but we’re burning daylight.”

Jake added a third finger, his movements becoming more urgent, a mechanic trying to fix a broken machine with the engine still running. He was breathing hard through his nose, eyes glazed, focused on the paradox under his hand.

You gasped, the stretch a raw contrast to the chemical fire. “Please, Jake. Now.”

He fumbled with the waistband of his sweatpants, his movements clumsy. When he positioned himself, the reality of it hit him like a physical blow. He could see nothing. But the space was occupied. He pressed forward, and the head of his cock met not just you, but the shocking, solid coolness of another.

“Oh, God,” he choked.

He pushed, and the impossible happened. He slid in, a tight fit alongside that other presence. They were packed together moving in a perverse unison. He could feel the other’s shape, its motion, a synchronous pressure alongside his own.

“See?” Sunghoon’s voice was a breath of pure delight. “Cozy.”

Jake’s first thrust was a stutter, a spasm of horror and base mechanics. His eyes were wide, unseeing, locked on a point past your shoulder. He was inside his wife, and he was not alone. The trippy, brain-breaking reality of it short-circuited expression.

He just moved.

The rhythm was jangling and off, two separate entities trying to share a single groove. You were utterly full, stretched beyond any sense, the burning panic now fused with an overwhelming, choking pressure. You could feel every inch of Jake, warm and familiar and trembling. And you could feel Sunghoon, cold and exacting and still, just… there.

“There you go,” Sunghoon coaxed, as if coaching a teammate. “Get a rhythm. It’s like a tandem bike. Or a threesome where one guy’s a ghost. Cheaper, I guess.”

Jake made a sound, a guttural mix of a sob and a moan. He found a pace, a deep, driving tempo born of desperation to finish this. Each forward push met that chilling presence, a constant, rubbing reminder.

Your sounds were cries strangled by sheer overwhelm. Your fingers scrambled against the cold tile, finding no purchase. Sunghoon began to move again, subtly at first, then with more definition, carving his own path within the shared space. Jake gasped, faltering.

“Don’t stop,” Sunghoon commanded, his voice losing its playful edge for a slit-second. “You’re doing so good. Just keep going. She’s almost there.”

It was a lie. You were nowhere near anything but insanity. But Jake obeyed despite not being able to hear the command. Jake’s rhythm became frantic, purposeful, a man trying to hammer a nail through his own nightmare.

Sunghoon matched him, thrust for thrust, a cold echo to Jake’s heat.

The pressure crested in a splitting fullness. You screamed, a raw, torn sound that seemed to startle the very air in the room. Your body locked, convulsing around the dual invasion. It ripped through you, locking your muscles and arching your spine off the cold tile.

Jake felt the violent, rhythmic clench around him and cried out, a sound of utter surrender. His own release was torn from him, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he spilled warmth inside you.

Inside you, the cold presence jerked, then pulsed. Another flood of wetness joined the heat, this time a cold wave that whipped a broken gasp from your throat. And as Sunghoon finished, a low, satisfied groan escaping him, something flickered.

A crackle of static, a warp in the air behind Jake’s shoulder. For a second, it was just a distortion. Then it solidified.

Sunghoon’s groan cut off into a sharp, startled hiss. “Shit.”

Jake, still buried in you, his body trembling with spent horror, felt the new presence like a change in pressure. He lifted his head from your shoulder, his bleary, tear-filled eyes following your frozen gaze over your shoulder.

And he saw.

A man, crouched on the floor of their kitchen, one hand braced against the cabinet as if steadying himself, his other hand still hovering near the back of Jake’s thigh. Mid-twenties, dark hair falling into eyes that were wide with momentary surprise before they shuttered into cold amusement. A pretty, boyish face that didn’t match the crude reality of where he’d just been.

Jake froze. All breath, all thought, all sound left him. 

Sunghoon recovered his grin, though it was tighter now. “Oops,” he said, his voice no longer a whisper in your ear but a clear, resonant sound in the room. He didn’t move his hand from beside Jake’s leg. “Got a little carried away. Hi, Jake.”

Jake did not speak. He was a statue etched in pure, paralytic shock. His eyes dragged from Sunghoon’s face, down his arm, to where his own body was still joined to yours. The geometry of it, the three of them connected in this vile chain, finally had a visible link.

The logical mind, so diligently clung to, gave its final, silent scream and went dark.

With a raw, animal noise that started in his gut, Jake wrenched himself back, separating from you with a wet sound. He scrambled away on all fours, like a crab, until his back hit the oven door, his sweatpants tangled around his knees.

He stared, unblinking.

“You’re…,” Jake breathed, the word rusted.

“I’m,” Sunghoon agreed, pushing himself upright with an eerie, weightless grace. He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms, looking between you, still splayed and trembling on the floor, and your husband huddled by the stove. “Yeah. This is awkward.”

Jake’s hand rose, pointing a trembling finger. “You were… inside…”

“Yeah, we covered that part,” Sunghoon said, sighing as if bored. He examined his own nails, which looked perfectly solid. “The seeing part is new. For you, anyway. She,” he nodded toward you, “has been getting the full VIP specter experience for a while now.”

Jake’s head swiveled to you. His eyes were shattered windows. “You see him? Like this?”

You could only nod, pulling your knees to your chest, a futile attempt to shield yourself from both of their gazes. The burning was gone, replaced by a hollow, frozen ache and a shame so profound it felt like your own ghost was leaving your body.

“All this time,” Jake whispered. The words were flat, dead things. “You weren’t stressed.”

“Told you,” you managed to whisper, but it held no victory.

Sunghoon pushed off the counter and took a spectral step toward Jake, who flinched, pressing harder against the oven. “Don’t look so betrayed,” Sunghoon said, his head tilting. “You just had a conjoined orgasm with me. That’s a pretty intimate icebreaker. We’re practically besties.”

“Don’t touch me,” Jake spat, the command automatic and weak.

“I’m not,” Sunghoon said, holding up his translucent hands. He took another step, crouching down to bring himself eye-level with Jake, who recoiled. “But see? Now you believe. Now we can all play together properly. No more misunderstandings.”

Jake’s breathing was a series of sharp, panicked inhalations. He was looking at a ghost, a real ghost, in his kitchen, discussing shared orgasms. 

Sunghoon’s smile turned intimate, conspiratorial. “We should do this again sometime. Maybe without the pills. Now that we’ve broken the ice, you know?” He paused. “Or, you know. Now that I’ve broken you in.”

Sunghoon shouldn't see you. Exam season keeps him chain-locked to the library monitors, a concerning amount of energy drinks stacked up at his desk. He barely has the the energy to fix himself meals, the chicken pasta bake served at the library cafe the only hot meal he ever eats. Point is, he's busy. You are too, group projects mixed in with exams being your personal hell. Time cannot stall for a glimpse of each other, and yet─

You: did you wanna come over and study? 🤓 You: have a group meeting at 5, but we should still have some time

Sunghoon halts the screams of Metallica, alight eyes looking up at the time. 

16:04.

If he accounts for all the inbetweens, his optimistic guess makes him laugh as he types.

Sunghoon: Study? For thirty minutes?

The three dots dance, his lips curving as he shifts to his bed's edge, already slipping on shoes.

You: a lot can get done in 30 mins. you don't think? You: or have you lost your touch?

His tongue pokes his cheek as if smacked, elbows balancing to his knees as he types his reply. 

Sunghoon: You say the craziest things when my cock's not in you.  Sunghoon: I'm coming over.

Halfway ready, Sunghoon's phone pings atop his poorly-made bed, fangs shown at the letters across his screen.

You: best thing i've heard all week  You: come make me yours <333

Which is how he finds himself here, in your six bedroom uni house. Even at the doorway kicking off his shoes, he knows the place is nice. While daisy corridors may narrow, it's the nature of houses here, living room and kitchen spacious enough to take him aback. Though his house shares some similarities, in ceiling speakers and a working oven leave much to be desired. They come second place to you though, the curves of your figure magnetic as you lead him to your bedroom past the bathroom, door opened to the corners of your mind.

A lot of pink is the first thing notices. Not the delicate, frilly pink Songyi adores thanks to her Tiktok algorithm, but hot pink. Striking, electric pink reminiscent of the 2000s, your room an ode to the time before as zebra print splashes against bedding accents and your otherwise white walls, Jersey Shore and Megan Fox posters amongst many plastered around. There's lots of pillows, some fluffy and others in the shape of the Playboy Bunny. Hello Kitty makes an appearance too, plushies of various sizes littering the cosy space. 

Sunghoon shouldn't be surprised by the stark amount of Playboy Bunny and Hello Kitty trinkets laying around. After all, 

"The worst kind of girls I know ─ the evil ones ─ study psychology, have gormand perfumes and would die for Hello Kitty," Heeseung says once, aggressively chewing chocolate Cheerios. There's enough milk in that bowl to make them smack while he eats, his roommates' faces unanimously pulled. "Don't know what it is about that fucking creature, but she attracts the worst girls."

"Like you know any fucking girls." Jay laughs.

"I know your sister," Heeseung says with a shit-eating grin, bobbing his knee because he knows how much Jay hates the path he's gone down. "She knows me too. Chants my name every time she touches─"

Before anyone catches on, Heeseung and the couch are drenched in full fat milk with soggy Cheerios, raspberry blown to sputter out more milk. On them, on their vinyl flooring. The chorus of groans, disbelief and laughter ring heavy in the air, Sunghoon's amusement barely contained as he barks a laugh in Heeseung's soaked face, Jay's temper dampened with satisfaction. 

"We're not getting our deposit back." facepalms Jake. 

"We lost it the day Heeseung tried heating up that chocolate bar in the microwave," Sunghoon recalls.

Heeseung's quick to flush, ears bright red. "I was trying to be romantic!" 

"You were trying to burn our house down," Jay enunciates, spreading his legs too wide for what he's packing. "That smoke alarm went off for five whole hours! I still hear it in my dreams,"

Elbow propped up on the armrest, half his face is shielded by his hand, eyes peeking through the web of his fingers. "In any case, those radioactive chocolate strawberries weren't gonna do you any favours. That bird wasn't gonna let you anywhere near her."

"Bird?" Sunghoon hates to ask.

"Guy goes to the UK once," Jake shakes his head beside Sunghoon, head thrown back in pure agony. "Goes once and thinks he knows something."

He nods to Jake's slumped figure. "I know you're wanker," then somehow, involves Sunghoon too. "And I know you're a wet wipe."

His pride is called into question. Maybe that's why he's so vulgar when he says, "I get girls going like a knackered fridge. Can't say the same for your tragedies, mate."

"Wow," Heeseung utters from the adjacent armchair, wiping milk out his eyes. "That almost made me feel better about smelling like a cow's tit." 

"Tits ─ plural." Jake's resigned voice sounds, arms crossed over his chest. 

"Of course you'd know that." Jay rolls his eyes before leaning over, accusatory finger pointed Sunghoon's way. "Don't be surprised when your protein shake tastes like jizz."

"That shit would glow neon green with your nugget and Redbull exclusive diet," Sunghoon falls back into the couch too, shoulders packed together because the measly couch isn't built for three uni guys at one time. "No need for the disclaimer."

"I fuckin hate this house," murmurs Jay.

"You and me both, man." Jake straightens, trading looks amongst his supposed reluctant roommates. "Who's up for some bonyan?" 

"You gonna model your latest architecture piece after my room or?"

Sunghoon blinks back to reality, standing near your room's entrance cluttered with coats and uni bag. Anchor grey study desk to his left, a messy spread of full page notes, highlighted, black inked with Hello Kitty post its. Nowhere else is chaotic, bed made and clothes stowed away, early afternoon light bleeding through the double windows, a swing ball set next to an inflatable kid's pool stacked on beige gravel. 

"It's interesting," he walks in further, printed pictures blu-tacked to your wardrobe walls on the right. You have so many friends, so many memories. Sunghoon wants to hear them all. "Seeing what you're like."

"Not many have the privilege to," you wink his way, meeting him in the middle ─ calves against the lead pole bed frame, idle hands on his chest. "Is it a blessing? A curse?"

"I feel pretty fuckin privileged being here," he can't help admit, laughing alongside you. The second your gaze lifts back on him, he kisses you ─ quick and easy, the way he always imagined with you. "Even if it's to study."

Mirth dances with the twinkle of your eyes, smile downturning. "A lesson in anatomy doesn't sound too bad, does it?"

"Depends," he whispers against you, lips brushing with each syllable. "Is this hands-on or?"

His question mark accents itself with a handful squeeze of your ass, surprised squeak pushing your hips into his. The sweatpants he threw on barely disguise his hard-on, a semi maintained ever since your name lit up his screen. 

You don't dignify him with an answer, head tilt meant to accompany the mull of your words, only for Sunghoon to strike. He could count with frightening accuracy when last he kissed you, felt you ease in his arms as your walls moulding to the shape of him. The sinful images refuse to vacate his mind's premise, hoarding space meant for algebraic equations and the significance of concrete vs steel. He could only recall the slope of your lower back, how he'd mark it if possible and every other obsessive thought plaguing him the past two weeks. So, he has you like he's planned, sighing at the taste of you, licking a stripe to your neck with pleased hum.

"If I m-miss my bus," your voice vibrates through skin, eyes closed as he feels you become putty in his arms. "You're apologizing to all my group mates."

He laughs into you, thick and husky, breeze craning your cheek into his. "It's okay, I'll drive you," he murmurs, nosing along your neck's column. 

And there it is again, the mix of vanilla and you that drives him wild, hallucinating scenes of you alone off the scent alone. His canines protrude, an entirely new species in your presence, sharp teeth grazing your collarbone with enough temptation. "Fuck, you smell good."

A breathy chuckle escapes, hands braced in the fold of his biceps. "Good enough to eat?"

Sunghoon follows suit, prying enough to stare into the dark of your eyes, haloed by curled lashes and moles he'd trace with his tongue. "If I have the privilege to?"

Knowing dawns on you, bringing your face to Sunghoon's, a deep, hungry kiss a hint at his answer. "You do."

Passion blooms between pressed lips, overlapping and consuming every craving since that night. The throttle of his heart never wavers, not since you'd walked into his life. Warm light moves through him, chest weightless and hands roaming, familiarising himself with the shape of you again. Appreciation is moaned into his mouth, his nape tickled by your idle nails, dancing tentatively. His hands slither underneath your shorts, lifting the material to grab your ass again, lace material scratching his palms. 

Cursing to himself, a breath for composure pushes through his nose, bending softly with yours as your heads angle, hands unearthed from your shorts to skim your bare ribcage. You push into his palms, prompting the smile blending into the kiss, one you can't help mirror, t-shirt and shorts abandoned to the floor. Atop the bed, mixed in with your thousand pillows and plushies, you're a culmination of all his dreams, legs spread slowly to make Sunghoon's stomach drop. 

He knew you were wet from the dark spot on your panties, but nothing compares to seeing you bare. No effort made to cover yourself, two fingers dragging up your glossy folds and sucked into your mouth, then used to spread yourself apart, ready for him.

It takes everything in him not to come right then and there.

"You're so pretty," is the only thing he gets out, wind as his eyes dart between your lidded leer and glistening cunt. "So warm too."

He's close enough to gauge the radiation off you, nipples pebbled from the house's arctic temperature. He doesn't know where to go, what next to do except his aimless index finger cascades down between your folds, collecting slick he licks off. The scrunch of your face speaks of pure torture, hips having followed his motion from start to finish. You're starved for affection and it pains him, cock throbbing hard and fast in his trousers.

"Must be so pent-up from all that exam stress. Pussy's just squirming for relief," a faux pout falls upon Sunghoon, condensing tone pushing more slick out your entrance. "It's okay, sweet girl. I'm here."

Hands caging your quivering thighs, his mouth lowers, drool pooling at the mere thought of you.

Finally. 

"Let me make it all better." 

Daze lost in you, his brain doesn't register the lick he does of his lips, molten lust swirling in your stomach at the sight. Your thighs shuffle across your crinkled duvet, throat drying at him studying you, a heaviness to his gaze. A whined plea is halfway out your pouted lips before Sunghoon's restraint nullifies, flat tongue gliding ever so slowly from your entrance to your aching clit, pointed tip swirling around the bud just to make you wither. Hands fly to his hair, fingers carded through his silky strands in stability measures, piled pillows affording you the brain imprint of Sunghoon's head between your thighs. Slippery sounds fill the room, slick glossing his lips as he laps up every drop of you, a deprived man as his arms drag you closer. 

Sunghoon's ego is greedy at best, getting off on the bodily withers and soft whines coaxed out you, implicated by special attention paid to your clit. Fluctuating between languid open mouth kisses to hard suckles, your body reacts all the same: more slick unloading into his mouth, lapped up to his absolute pleasure. 

"God," he whimpers, thoughts fuzzy at their edges. "I've wanted this for so long…"

His throat bobs with the words left unsaid. How he's hooked off one night with you, that he won't do without the taste of you again, a life spent between your thighs a life worth living. Knees weighed against your carpeted floor, his cock twitches in his briefs, precome dampening the cloud grey material. His cock is an afterthought, pleasure derived from the low-level twitch racking through your thighs at all times, moans drawn out with each hard pull of his hair.

"Fuck, more baby." he mumbles, cheek lazily pressed into your inner thigh. "I wanna hear you more. Moan for me." 

Naive of you to think his words are only a command, his tongue tracing the outside of your entrance before easing inside. The sudden intrusion bows your sweat-laced back off the duvet, gasp overtaking the room. Breaths of relief chug out your body, slackened to the mattress as your fingers rattle in his hair once again. Tested waters earn him the unravel of you, holding onto your last shred of sanity as he eats you out with one purpose: making you come. 

"I could come from how you taste," are his last words before his tongue retreats, walls crying out for him. He puts you out of your misery with lazy circles rubbed on your clit, a curious eyebrow raised at you. "I always imagined how'd you react if I put my fingers in. Like this," 

Your cunt basically begs for him, slick lined walls ensuring a smooth glide, your body hunching into itself. The scrunch of your angelic features is pure ecstasy to him, his moan resonating around your clit, moisture lining your eyes. You're beautiful like this, skin kissed by lust, shimmering with sweat he'd lick right off you as you undo by the work of his mouth and hands. 

It's one of his greatest accomplishments so far. 

Buried knuckle deep, his curled fingers call for you to come, bending your orgasm to his will as his words broadcast lowly, smirk against your sensitive bud. "Nothing beats the real thing." 

Having his real mouth on you, not touching yourself to the thought of it, every bodily cell is alight, singing his praises in a never-ending melody. 

"Want another?" he teases, entitled to his cockiness judging by your moans volume. "Sure you can handle it?"

Drunk off him, your enthused nods bring out a featherlight chuckle, endearment glossed over the image you project, pink lips in a surrendering pout. Wanting nothing more but to watch you fall apart, he slides another finger in, as easy as the last, gummy walls welcoming the slight stretch of three fingers. Lewd squelches ring right by his ears, the rampant run of need so dire, he eases its edge by pressing his hips into the mattress' edge, humping its flat surface.

Despite the need barely kept to himself, amusement plays amidst his features, a different kind of pleasure derived from you leaking around his incessant fingers. 

"How's that, pretty girl? Feels good?" he makes sure to distract you, fingertips posed with the sole responsibility of knocking into your sweet spot, ankles crossing down his back. "My perfect girl. Aren't you such a pretty sight?" 

A high keen sounds at the top of your voice, eyebrows knitted, hips meeting his mouth while your own stutters out breathless pants. It only gets Sunghoon harder, tip leaking through his briefs and his sweats too, sensitive tip searching for the smallest friction his grinds gets. Tongue doused with you, his brain short-circuits, every thought leading to you and your body's shakes, gaining strength with the quick clamps of your cunt. 

Sunghoon knows. He's committed himself to learning your body, his following question more a suggestion. "You close?"

Your cunt throbs around him, expression creased in the way Sunghoon won't allow himself to forget. "So close─!" 

"Hoonie," your sweet voice calls out, halting the slow suckles around your clit. His mouth can hover, heart ricocheting in his chest as your eyelashes bat, one falling atop the mole high on your cheekbone. "Am I your g-good girl?"

Sunghoon not blowing his load is a goddamn miracle, a white flash streaking past his eyes. His mouth dumbly forms words, but doesn't expel them. His fingers have shed a bit of their tempo, your hips chasing his nudges, the sight for the sorest of eyes. 

Composure finally catching up with his fried brain, Sunghoon slips back into his beloved role, pride brimming his smile as his tongue's tip teases your aching clit. 

"Of course you are, baby," he kisses your clit for good measure, stomach pulling tight as your clit's ghosted by his bottom lip. "You know what good girls get?"

Lips pressed together, your body subconsciously leans in, hanging off his every word. "They get to come. Go on, sweet girl. Make me proud."

As much as degradation worked last time, praise achieves the same result. Except this time, you don't care for your moan's decibels, sounds of pleasure piercing through the silent house as you hurtle down to Earth. Your fingers take his hair with you, cunt pushed up into his mouth continuing to devour you, fingers scissoring you through the fallout of your orgasm. A grunt unearths from the depths of his chest, the quietest whimper trailing as he shudders against the mattress' edge, eyes falling shut.

Because this? This is bliss. Everything he could've wished for and more, soaking up every drop, jaw drenched in your come. The kind of high he gets from the feast separates itself from anything else, cock flooded with rushing blood, hinging on the brink of orgasm. Had he had the time to edge you into overstimulation ─ really take his time with you ─ he would've been a goner, a loser with come-soiled briefs. 

And somehow, the only response he foresees you give is a light laugh, poking fun but ultimately flattered by the power you have over him. You'll carry the same look you do now, flyaway hairs stuck to your sweat-lined forehead, flush high on your cheeks. There's a look deep in your eyes that's simply hypnotic, stopping everything in the world all at once.

He's on you before you speak, muscled arms holding himself up to hover over you, lips crashed against yours. Yearning whines tangle together as your lips reunite, making up for lost time as tongues glide. Fingers weave into his hair, fiddling with nape-near hair, remnants of Diet Pepsi sneaking into the kiss. Like the lovesick fool he is, Sunghoon smiles, recognizing the taste and rejoicing. His pulse climbs, posing tough competition to the moans volleyed between your lips, something slow but scathing building in your restless bodies. 

"Hm, tastes good?" he whispers to you, smiling. "Sweet, aren't you?" 

He catches a glimpse of your eyes roll, hand splaying on the nape of his neck to bring him closer, noses bent crooked to be that much closer. Sunghoon almost buckles, thrown off guard by the moans filling his mouth, tongue exploring the shared taste of you and him. A frenzy ravages through him, pushing him further into you, burrowed as he wishes to always be. 

Sunghoon isn't sure how it happens: whether words relay between kisses, whether no words are used at all and you move in tandem. Whatever the case, Sunghoon finds himself rid of all clothing, back to your mountainous hoard of pillows with a flushed cock standing tall, slit rimmed with precome. Over his lap, he watches you without so much as a whisper, how you peel the ratty band t-shirt over your head he'll have to ask you about later, breasts dropping into full view. Sandwiched between your bodies, his cock kicks, aching to be where he's thought of ever since the party, resorting to knocking his skull repeatedly into hard surfaces to stop the troubling thoughts. The images of you, so divinely spread for him, taking his cock like it's your honour, falling apart with the cry of his name each and every time.

He'd driven himself mad in the days without you, freak episodes blamed on exam stress rather than their real cause: withdrawals. From you. The girl he'd been obsessed with ever since his eyes met you, the girl now easing herself down his length ─ first having ground his tip through her shimmering folds, only to finally let him enter ─ shared wince sizzling through the room. 

Late afternoon colours half your body, sunset hues of orange and yellow painting you like a Renaissance painting, almost angelic. Unlike the last time, you're equipped with the luxury of lube, stashed away in your bedside drawer and tossed aside when his length lathers with the slippery substance. Triumph puffs out your chest at the controlled shudders Sunghoon does, cock largely ignored until now, the attention of your firm hand wearing him thin. Unspoken words trade between your held gazes, dynamics shown as assertion blazes through the ring of your iris, Sunghoon's pupil shaking, surrendering to you completely. It's maddening, how much intimacy laces the smallest of moments, a gasp and caress all it takes for thoughts to muddle, hazy at best. 

He's the same sack of bones when you've fully taken him, small winces and a lot of pants expelled until your asscheeks met the muscled padding of his thighs. The feeling consumes you, he can tell, your toes curled and your head bowed. Looking for some stability, a hopeless hand reaches out, palm laid flat on his chest ─ where his heart beats, humming to your touch.

Silence wanders in, a quick visitor as you collect yourself, head lifting when you're ready. To no surprise, Sunghoon's eyes are on you. 

Suddenly shy, your eyes divert, halfhearted joke on your tongue. "Never can get used to it,"

You say this tucking a hair strand behind your ear, all watched by Sunghoon. 

"You will," he nods, feeling light and carefree. "You have all the time in the world."

"Are you suggesting spending forever together, Mr. Park?" you volley back, faux incredulous expression displayed. "At least take me on a date first."

"Where do you want to go? I'll take you," he adds, dead serious as his thumbs trace absent patterns on your hip bone. "Any and everywhere."

A scoff with no malicious skirts out, your hips starting to lift. "Don't make promises you can't keep." 

"I'm a man of my word," Sunghoon's hands provide instant support beneath you, his length revealing itself until under his tip. "You'll see."

They're the last words exchanged cushioned with sugar, huffed moans their replacements. A slow tempo starts you off, cautious at his size and what pain threshold it may bring if brazen, somewhere between stretched and pleased.

Your walls fight to conform to his shape, relief shadowed by elation, smiling despite the bead of sweat haloing your hairline. The droplet leads its way down past your ear, then down your jawline, hinged there like low-hanging temptation. With teeth gritted, he holds himself back, lips collapsing open in a frayed moan as you sink as low as possible, cunt milking him all the way down. You're halfway fucked, lips trembled in meek whines, bouncing yourself with a gradual slide, savouring the feel of him.

It drives Sunghoon crazy, heartbreak kicked into full throttle as his flexed arms give you leverage, faces so close together while his cock appears in a faint outline through your stomach. The livewire spark of desire zips through his veins, blood consumed with its need for you as his tip hits your weak spot again and again. All to make you fall apart.

"Feels good, baby?" he sighs out, wordless nod your reply. "You're perfect, princess. Taking me like the good girl you are."

Whatever he says always seems to work on you, washing down your back like warm water as you keen, head tipped back to the exposure of your bobbing throat, still singing his praises. To see you so lost in gratification, he groans deep in his chest, torn to shreds as he iron clamps down your hips, brought down hard enough for a shattered yell to ring in his ears. 

"Don't care if anyone hears us this time, huh sweet girl?" Sunghoon muses, less cocky, more desperate. "Want everyone to know how good I fuck you?"

"You─ah, fuck me too good not to," you manage out, skin flushed and absolutely wrecked. 

You couldn't look more beautiful.

Especially now when those shining eyes pour into Sunghoon's, showing every sliver of emotion your heart harbours for him, your barest in front of the man who counts his blessings of you. 

"Soaking my cock like a good girl, aren't you pretty thing?" his eyes do a lazy trail to the mess collected at his pelvis, mixture of transparent lube but more slick glossing over his trimmed pubes. A hand cups your cheek, touch instantly leaned into as his thumb hinges on your bottom lip, a knock to enter. 

The door opens, your lips parted to suckle on the thumb, tongue swirled around the digit as if something else entirely. 

"You're so tight," Sunghoon groans, at a loss for where to look at, what to do. "Always so fucking tight."

"Can't help it," you whine, all features pinched together with hips that bounce you up and down him. "You're soooo big." 

The word drags, pulled to emphasize your point done with a knowing smirk. Of course you'd know, attuned to his body as his cock twitches in you, kicking at the fact. 

"How you expect me to take you all, I don't know," you tease further, lip corners sharpened. Supported by a far back arm, your hand splays over the bulge in your stomach, fingers spread to give Sunghoon a good view of the faint dent disappearing and reappearing. "You're mean, Hoonie. So me─"

Sunghoon's ringtone slices through your words, left unsaid as your heads instantly swivel to your bedside table, contents of his pockets emptied out at some point of his stay. Across the screen, too bright for any sane person is the contact name that cues a slow sink of his stomach, body rigid with measured panic.

A slow but hard thud, that's the rhythm of his heart as his head creaks over in your direction, no blinks done in that space of time. He couldn't dare do one when your eyes meet, yours low-lidded with a similar emotion to contention. Jaw suddenly sharp, it ticks, tongue poking through from underneath your cheek, eyes floating over to his, displeased.

So displeased.

"I won't," Sunghoon starts, voice quivering. "I won't answer it."

The phone still rings. It's been ringing for ages. 

Will Songyi ever hang up?

His eyes cut back to you, a bit frenzied and unbalanced. He's further thrown off his axis at the sight of you, disdain somehow morphed into…mischief?

"Answer it," you urge, tone clearly playful. Sunghoon doesn't quite have the words. "She's waiting."

"But─"

"Answer," you say again, smirk clear as day. You even drive home your point by inching forwards, hands shadowing along the hard ridges of his torso, stopping at his chain you loop index finger around. "Don't want her wondering, do you?"

A rhetorical question, one Sunghoon still answers in a silly shake of his head. Gestured by your nod, he cuts off what was his favourite song, ruined by repetition before he holds the phone to his ear, eyes on you.

Watching you whisper, "It'll be fun." 

The moment he picks up the call, Songyi's voice blares through. 

"Hi baby!" she cheers, overjoyed. "Are you busy? Hope I didn't disturb you."

It's hard not to laugh at the irony, you unbashed with a snicker out your nose. The action unintentionally makes you clench, pained grin bitten back from Sunghoon, a scramble made to fake normalcy.

"N-nope. All good," he stutters, which he never does. "What'd you need?"

She doesn't notice his high-pitched voice. Or at least has the courtesy to ignore it. "Could you pick me from practice please? I heard it was meant to..."

Her words fade into oblivion, obstructed by the molasses-slow movements. Moving like he won't notice, your body attempts stealthy motions as your arms go back to the headboard's railing, hips lifting.

Sunghoon's hand flies to your hip, bewilderment directed right at you, hair in your face, smile sweet as sugar. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," you whisper back, definitely not doing nothing. 

"What was that?" Songyi interrupts.

Looking at you out the corner of his eyes, Sunghoon replies. "Nothing. J-just watching a horror movie."

"A horror movie?" you mouth, mouth ajar. "I'll show you horror."

"Ugh, I don't know how you watch those things," Songyi sighs.

"They have their charm," he says, not meaning the genre. "They're not for everyone."

Happiness blooms across your face, bunching your cheeks as you lean in, the barely-there flutter of your walls making Sunghoon hiss as you whisper in his ear, "I'm only for you."

Fuck.

That gets to him. Sharp canines teasing the line of puncture as they bare down on his bottom lip, cock leaking more precome in your greedy cunt, eye-contact maintained as you purposely clench around him. His whimper struggles at the base of his throat, his stomach tension-filled as he peers up at you, a bit hopeless, very much obsessed.

"Sunghoon," Songyi calls out, distant with a douse of discouragement. "Is the movie keeping you busy? I can always call later."

A feeling simmers without any place to. A quiet burn of annoyance testing his patience, hardening his jaw as he retorts. "No, you're good. What'd you need again?"

"To be picked up from practice," she repeats. "It's gonna rain and I didn't bring an umbrella."

"Right," Sunghoon trails, earlier annoyance in no way diminishing as your hips grind back and forth, slow and intoxicating. You don't even bother holding back your moans, volume low but still alarming. 

"Control yourself," he heaves in a low whisper, eyebrows drawn. "Before I do it for you."

A triumphant flutter kickstarts in your chest, his words clearly not taken seriously as you go at it again, harder and faster, shaking moans crinkling into earshot. 

"What was─" 

"Hang on a sec." No response is waited on, phone immediately muted as he springs into action.

His large hand cupped around the bottom of your jaw straightens your back, eyes flared as he lures you in, compliance in your body hunched into itself as spit flies onto your tongue. The moan you let out at the action is muffled halfway through, Sunghoon's actions all split second executions as your discarded panties on the bed curl in his palm, material stuffed into your mouth.

It happens so fast, shock splashed across both your faces, no words exchanged. In the background, a shuffle broadcasts from Sunghoon's phone speaker, Songyi moving around, waiting for her boyfriend with a saint's patience. Meanwhile, he's on the other end of the line, cock stuffed in you, having very recently stuffed your own panties in your mouth to stop you from moaning out loud. 

It's a mess, the biggest dumpster fire mess he's involved himself with and yet when he feels your gummy walls come down, vice grip on his length, he can't help his grin. The lazy spread of his lips across his face, absolutely enamoured by how cookie-cutter you're plucked from his deepest, darkest fantasies, no fictional stories he's told himself comparing to this.

The reality of you. 

"If that spit is gone by the time I hang up," he breathes, still holding you close, noses touching. "You can kiss coming goodbye."

And that does it. A pained whine maybe has Sunghoon questioning your actions, but besides that, you're the perfect painting of obedience, supported by hands splayed on the bed behind you with shiny eyes swimming in quiet torture. Sunghoon will say his cock twitched because your walls teased him once, but it'll be nothing but a lie. 

Like most things he tells Songyi.

"Yeah, sorry. There was a spider," Sunghoon explains, back collapsing to your pillows. Too calm for this situation. "You'd think living in Australia would desensitize Jake."

"Bet his head hit the ceiling," Songyi giggles, a brightness about her laugh. Sunghoon's eyes narrow without meaning to. "He might be a bigger scaredy-cat than me."

"Maybe," is his non-committal answer. His eyes flicker to you like clockwork, and he smiles. Almost chuckles into the phone too as he witnesses your laboured chest rise and fall, shaky breaths echoed around your panties. The lace black underwear doesn't fit all the way in your mouth, drool slowly collecting down your lip. You're everything he's wanted and more, in turn complying with your every whim as his thumb rubs lazy circles against your clit. 

"Anything else you needed?"

"Not really, but before Ms. Ong yells at me, I gotta to tell you this…"

At this point, what she says is irrelevant. Tossed aside as your shaky moans muffle against your panties, still audible as Sunghoon willingly pulls you over the edge. You're too weak to think otherwise, reduced to bodily instincts with your hands splayed behind you, stuffed full with his cock and you rock and rock. Grind with the desperate need clawing out of you, euphoria so painfully close you have no choice in chasing it. And you do, eyes creased shut as you grind your hardest, the bed creaking with telling hisses, barely supporting yourself as you come.

Your convulsions are what steal all Sunghoon's attention (if it was elsewhere), erratic rutting on his cock releasing a long run of totalled screams, wrecked wholly. All stability is lost, Sunghoon having the presence of mind to hook an arm around your waist to prevent you falling backwards (also breaking his dick in half too). Naturally, he brings you in, chests pressed against each other, your pebbled nipples squished into his pecs as you cower and twitch, low level cries and pleas mostly absorbed by your panties. 

"─And then she was all like─"

"Do emergency calls entail gossip, Songyi?" A crabby voice commands over the phone, most likely Songyi's hockey coach sounding the least bit amused. 

"Apologies, Ms. Ong," her meek voice fretts, crinkle making friends with the phone's speaker as she whispers. "Gotta go. Bye baby."

She ends the call before he gets the chance to reply. It works out better for him too. After all, he is busy with something else. 

You, his precious, in a daze physically spinning your head round, balance secondary as you detach from his chest, propped up by weak arms as you huff. Huff and huff, blinking away moisture clumping your doll-lashes together, breaths drawn with your entire torso, regarding him. In that time, Sunghoon does the same, under less frazzled circumstances, some pity taken on you.

His compassion extends to him reaching out, retrieving your own saliva and slick drenched panties, discarded without much thought. The only thing on his mind being how he's going to punish you.

"Ah uh. It's all gone," he tsks, voice gravel low with heart-racing husk. "What to do you with you?"

"T-that's unfair! You─!"

"Stop talking."

The silence coming with his words might as well come with a violent howl of polar winds, chill running up your now straight back, eyes wide as saucers. No reluctance is expressed as Sunghoon manhandles you like you're nothing, you on all fours with the man behind you, feeding his cock back into your cunt to your squealed delight. A croak holds your vocal chords hostage, senses overpowered by the velocity of electric current raging through you, body overly sensitive yet still welcoming him in, ass shaking left to right as you push back onto his cock, flush against him.

Then off he goes, pounding into you like punishment.

This never crossed Sunghoon's mind. His one-track brain never could've envisioned what occurs now, last of his braincells conjuring up a quick nut bust and maybe eating you out if he was lucky. But as the hands of the clock tick, the clap of your ass accompany them, hard smacks of skin slapping mingled in with the nasty squelch echoed from your cunt. Wrecked gasps push out your sandpaper throat, cunt drilled mercilessly while Sunghoon holds your hips to a bruising degree, breasts jolting with each ram of his swollen cock. 

"You really can't control yourself, can you?" There's a laugh in Sunghoon's chest, softened by the breathlessness of making you his. "One fuck and you can't get my damn cock out your dirty mind."

"You know what they call girls like you, right?" Sunghoon's tongue runs across the dulled sharpness of his teeth, ego inflamed by the pathetic whines draining out your lips. A wrecked groan muffles against a pillow, body flopped to the bed as Sunghoon watches you collapse, leaned forwards like a hot brand on your back. Greedy hands grope your breasts, gaining back momentum in his thrusts he hears so clearly ruin you, shivered pants backdropped as his lips coming to your ears, smirk resonating. "A cocksleeve, a fuck toy. Is that what you are, baby? My personal fucktoy?"

He might be pushing his luck here, verging over the border of evil. An inclination comes over him to litter your face in kisses, whispering sweet nothings to soothe the bruising words. However, before he can utter the first syllable of sorry, your cunt answers. Squeezing him for what he's worth, little vision catching the hard bite down into your bottom lip, strangled whine escaping despite your best efforts. 

His hand, having had its fill groping your breasts, flirts with your neck, skimming the hot skin. There's force, not a lot but enough for your eyes to fight rolling back. It only adds to the choke of your words, nonsensical babbles clogged at the base of your throat while a desperate claw flies to his forearm, sinking.

The crescent punctures attempt a hiss out of him, only for Sunghoon to laugh on its tail-end, holding you there as your body tethers on the edge of overwhelm. 

"You really haven't been fucked right, have you?" Sunghoon muses, body laid into yours. His weight only makes you moan louder. "That's why you need me to put you in your place, right?"

A whimper with the suspicious ring of yes scampers out your puffy lips, glossy eyes sidelining to catch even a glimpse of Sunghoon, his knitted eyebrows and a smirk that's never quite left his face since making you come on his face. Hellfire rushes your belly, coil doing its familiar wind, brought to demise's brink once again. 

"It's okay, I'll sort you out. I'll fuck you right," he rasps, a minute but very apparent nibble to your ear's shell, broken moan sliced through increasingly humid air. "Because even with the stunt you just pulled, you're still mine. Mine to play with, mine to fuck."

Every building block his words assemble reconstructs what pleasure means to you, completely rewritten by the force of Sunghoon who reduces past lovers to fine dust, your crossed paths with them nothing but a fading memory. But Sunghoon? He's real, flesh and blood as your body wiggles to the weight of him while liking it that way, cycle of your emotions spun beyond recognition, chest on its last breath.

"Wanna come," you struggle, a constant stretch and hum to your words, as if you're crying. Sunghoon checks, and lo and behold. "W-wanna come so bad─!"

You're cute when you cry, Sunghoon thinks. Really fuckin' cute. 

"Again? That's what you want?" he says, still drilling into you like a madman, cock savouring every moment in your tight cunt. "What have you done to earn it? You lost that privilege, remember? Happily too," 

"Actions have consequences, brat," his words are lowered, soft in your ear as his nose tip ghosts over your tear-streaked cheek, tongue running over your tear's tracks, satisfied hum vibrating through your bent spine. "And I think giving you what you want and more is punishment enough."

"W-wait," panic waivers your voice, peaked with the shiver bending your sandwiched bodies. "What do you mean? What do you─"

What you say afterwards, Sunghoon will never know. Because just as quick as the words race to your mouth's edge, Sunghoon picks up the pace. Unrecognisable to himself, his body operates on pure need, teeth bared in a flash of animalistic nature, rutting hard enough into you for your moans to spill over. Even if buried in the fluff of your Hello Kitty plushie, your cries still resonate through the still house, bed crying out a breaking wheeze, Sunghoon's force pushing it to its limits. 

"What was that, princess?" His head ducks, mean streak alive and well. "You know you don't make sense when you're cockdrunk," 

Turned, your mouth gasps for air, hair a messy nest over your beautiful face. "Coming! I'm fucking ah─!"

It doesn't end there. Body shuddering, crumbling to infinite pieces, screaming for the world to hear. You wish it was enough, but even when you're on the last millimetre of your breath, moisture in your eyes rather than throat, you still hope for more. Want this and Sunghoon over and over again, to dive headfirst into your orgasm as it washes over you, your body forever his. 

The sentiment carries over to Sunghoon, a sick work of telepathy communicated in your moments spent together. Sneaky glances, undercover flirtation, lip-locked stares ─ the tension quickly reaches the end of its run, boiling point reached as Sunghoon can only make peace with his demise. 

"Silly brat. Don't know anything except taking cock," he whines, near tears himself. "I'll give it to you, baby. Give you my cock and come too. Tell me you want it."

"Pleaseee!" your nails are in your pillow spread, back arched with every bit of sin reincarnated. "Want your come, want your─ngh!" 

He loses control. Gives your cervix an everlasting kisses before he spills into you, flooding your gummy walls with hot, pent-up come. It's embarrassing how much you enjoy it, toes curled and on the brink of another orgasm, crushed lungs attempting to breath but coming out in a hyperventilation, comprised by Sunghoon's body weight slumped over you. 

Time ticks on again, the only presence known the birds chirping right outside your window, a bird feeder hanging nearby. Sunghoon would have to ask you about that. He has a lot to ask, he's dying to know you. 

All of you.

Eventually, when enough oxygen makes its way to your brains, Sunghoon pries off you, skin peeling with a subdued whine from you. Chuckling, Sunghoon presses a delicate kiss to your shoulder, a verbal apology embedded into your skin. 

"I'm sorry, baby," he says for a lot more, falling back into an upright position on your bed, legs spread with a lazy observation, his thick come slowly draining out your tired hole. "Are you okay? I wasn't…the devil reincarnated?"

Your head cocks to the side, enough so you're heard. "Just a bit,"

As soon as the apology shoots to his lips, you add on. "But I'm into that."

Laughter unwinds in your space, mellow and unhurried like you have all the time in the world. In the midst of your shared snickers, come pushes out you, tucked in by forward fingers of Sunghoon, a whine also split between the two of you. In the sparse footsteps pattering through the carpeted halls, Sunghoon glances at the time on his abandoned phone before getting dressed again, your figure still slouched and recuperating. 

However, when all his clothing articles are back on, only his socks missing, his ears pick up the bed springs sighing and your body moving. Warm vanilla engulfs his back, cheek pressing into the crook of his neck. Being close like this, your arms circle around his shoulders with lullaby-like hums vibrating from your chest to his back, is almost grounding. Like it's right being here with you, all the noise of the world eliminated. 

His hand eclipses your ones crossed right where his heart is, holding onto your wrist with a tenderness that paints the smile he hears you do. Peeling your cheek off his skin, his eyes divert to you, soaking up the subtle glow blooming across your flushed cheeks, smile easy with the kind of pupils he sees his reflection in. Ones telling him the feeling caged in his chest is no more than mutual.

Preoccupying themselves, your hand busy with straightening out his shirt's collar. "If you do anything like this with another girl,"

A hard tug cuts your distance to nothing, a sharper edge of your lips corners as Sunghoon's breath ceases. Frantic, his gaze flies to the places it matters: the hardened line of your jaw, lips that are tight and grim, a pair of eyes that could scorch the Earth. Sunghoon's body stills an impossible amount, frozen in time to hear the words leave your mouth.

"You're dead." Clipped and cold, that's how your words come out. Gaze bouncing between his own features, finally resting on his eyes with a slow spreading grin, something half-masked behind it. "You hear me?"

Sunghoon's throat bobs, a sliver of fear worked out of it when cleared. "Y-yeah."

"Good," the warmth returns back to your face, like Sunghoon had fabricated the whole thing. Perhaps he had because his mind couldn't comprehend a reality where your moral ambiguity breaches into evil territory, your touch tender when your hand cups his cheeks, thumbs grazing against his overgrown stubble. "Let me get dressed so we can head to campus."

You're out his grasp before he can ask any questions, full stumped as he slumps back on his hands. He ends up staring mindlessly at the Dexter TV show poster on your wall, torn. It's the singular thing plastered on your white walls not following the colour palette of black, pink or cheetah print. The actor beams a lifeless closed-mouth smile, blood spatter across his face with the heading, 'The Return of America's Favourite Serial Killer.' over his head. Sunghoon couldn't have cared less for the poster upon his entrance, but now as he hears your feet patter in the outside hallway, his mind can't help but wonder. 

Is this right? Am I making the right choice? 

The twitch in his trousers gives him a prompt answer, a semi hard-on coming out with a curse before it's tucked away in his underwear's waistband, taken care of. 

Later on, after he's had to walk through a lounge-full of your housemates biting back knowing grins, his car rolls to a stop right outside the library. Over the console, the same endearment in his eyes mirrors back at him, a long and languid kiss exchanged for nosey students to see. Anyone walking by could know Songyi, could relay the information he's waiting to break to her without incriminating himself. He could care less at the minute. Kissing you is the gift he thought he'd spend long without, only attained through makeshift fantasy. So, he enjoys it for all it's worth, one last long lip press before you're out the door, taking his heart with you.

Not even twenty minutes later, Sunghoon parks his car, handbrake up and gear in neutral as he spies Songyi. With how kind she is, it's no surprise she's surrounded by girls in singular french braids and neon hockey bags, a flimsy yet enthusiastic wave sent their way as she flocks over to Sunghoon. He holds his hand over the steering wheel, a polite nod at the girls who smile at his niceness, not knowing any better. 

Throwing her bag in the backseat, Songyi piles into the front passenger seat, kissing Sunghoon over the same console he kissed you, half the grin on his face.

"How was practice?" he asks, not mentioning the lack of rain.

It was a blessing in disguise anyways.

She slicks back sweat-plastered flyaway hairs, labouring out. "Good! Almost got my teeth knocked out but─" 

Her nose wiggles, head swivelled suspiciously around the car. "Is that…vanilla?"

Sunghoon doesn't buffer, doesn't even give a good flinch as he switches gears, eyes on the campus road. "I lit a candle. Heeseung said it'd help me chill out."

"Aw," she coos, bait caught. She cups his cheek, thumb caressing over the grain of stubble marked on your thighs. "There's nothing to worry about. You'll smash your exam tomorrow, I know it."

Sunghoon knows it too. How could he not when after he drops Songyi off at her place, he receives a text from you. 

It's somewhere private, most likely the library bathrooms with the familiar back splash. It's a little less than innocent picture of you, v-neck sweater lowered to showcase the heart-shaped hickey Sunghoon left in your cleavage. 

You: good luck tomorrow :) 

Another text comes in.

You: get your exams over with so you can fill me up again <3

thank you for reading! („• ֊ •„)੭

comments, reblogs and likes are much appreciated.ᐟ ᰔ

He shouldn't want you at all, his girlfriend the lone reason. However, in the packed ruckus of the LED-lit bar, his inhibitions get the best of him ─ making him lookout for your looming figure in the haystack of students. One of the last night's out before the holidays calls for celebration, old Christmas lights string around wooden pillars with popular holiday remixes blaring through the speakers. In true festive spirit, employees are trademarked by ugly sweaters and flimsy Santa hats, a noticeable two standing out from the crowd. 

The terrible twos, you and Sieun —your closest friend — laugh despite the heavy foot traffic, a bucket of ice hauled over by your towering figure. Your black leather boots have you stand out amongst the crowd, bright smile haloed by the bar's spotlights, illumination emphasizing your…costume. The sexy Santa stitch of fabric barely covers any skin yet highlights everything about your figure, deep red a compliment to your complexion. 

Whosever idea this was, the shorts included, had a drink on Sunghoon.

"Bro," a hard nudge hits him in the bicep, flinch directing his gaze back to his table where Jake looks less than impressed. "Eyes up here."

"I don't blame him," Heeseung murmurs, not even hiding his eyes dipped into Sieun's cleavage. He'd even raised his eyebrows ─ pervert. Not that Sunghoon's any better. "I hate to see her go, but I love to watch her walk away."

"Didn't think virgins had preferences," Jay laughs into his pint, face souring when Heeseung tips the glass to spill down his chin. "The fuck? This quarter-zip's brand new!"

"And they're meant to be the oldest," Jake's eyes roll, pint glass perched on the Harley Davidson coaster. His attention floats back to Sunghoon, spying his inattention. He doesn't need to bet money where his best friend's eyes are. "How's your girl?"

"What girl?"

Appalled huffs of amusement demand Sunghoon's focus, focus back on their corner table they snagged before the chaos. 

"What the fuck bro," Heeseung laughs, arms folded over his stomach.

"Hang him by his balls," Jay shakes his head, fingers carding through tousled strands. "Holy shit, man."

It dawns on him then, the mirage of his girlfriend materializing upon being prompted. It's alarming how regular of an occurrence it is. 

"Right, Songyi," Sunghoon nods, utilizing repeated blinks to search for called upon information. He remembers her texting him she'd be over later after her housemates leave for the club. "She's good. Can't complain."

The smack of pool balls echoes in their corner of the bar, farm green table dotted with a mixed group of students playing a poor game. Somehow it still manages to catch Jay's attention. 

"It's been, what? Two weeks since you got together?" Jay muses, knocking back the rest of his drink. "How's that working out for you?"

Not as imagined, Sunghoon can admit. Ever since he laid eyes on you, the angelic beauty and well of kindness people preached of you makes you all the more unattainable. Sunghoon sees you around, not often, but enough to memorize the details. The shy tuck of hair behind your ear, the starfish pendant that sits in the dip of your collarbones, the plump pink of your lips he's had one too many dreams of.

On opposite ends of degrees, common ground is hard to find, but Sunghoon makes it work. Sees you leaving the library when he's coming in, watches you laugh with friends in the campus cafe, gets waited on by you at what's conveniently become his favourite bar despite its extortionate prices. The clubcard makes it worth it, Sunghoon reasons with the guys, but they know better. Know why it's his first suggestion in the first place.

An entire year is spent hovering on the edge of your social circle, a customer-service smile the most he gets when Sunghoon lucks out at the bar. He's not the daring type, so his extent of breaching conversation is trying to find you on dating apps, to no avail. 

Unattainable. It must be why he's so bewitched, even when there's no hope. Pushed by the guys and their reality checks, Sunghoon forgoes his pursuit of the campus princess and…settles. Goes for the first girl who puts forward the same energy he wishes you'd give him. 

Of course, in a cruel strike of fate, the day he asks Songyi out is the day you finally notice him. On the the neon light-up dance floor of your town's singular club, you tap his back, hand on his shoulder as you stand on the tips of your toes. You're tipsy, hinted in the slight slur of your words, yet it sends shivers down his spine all the same when your voice drops to a whisper reserved for his ears only.

Has he seen a mutual friend? He's never been more grateful not being shit-faced drunk. All the energy drinks his Vodka is mixed with jump start the thunder of his heart, lips parted in silent surprise as you drop to normal height. You're looking up at him with those eyes — hooded, lash-filled, like you want something from him. Because he'd give you everything in a heartbeat.

Sound struggles out his throat, somehow producing a cohesive answer when he's bent down to whisper back in your ear. You smell like vanilla and sweat, the thought of licking a stripe up the column of your neck making him strain against his baggy jeans. Thank yous fall from your pouty lips, a squeeze against his bicep before you're gone with the wind, ducking out to the smoking area where Sunghoon directs you. 

It doesn't take him long to yell over the cheesy 2000s music if anyone wants to go out for a cig, prayer hands presented by Heeseung. Outside in the chill of early December, a large floodlight is the only source of light in the poor excuse of a smoking area, the literal front entrance of the over-priced club. It's almost alley-like, the size of four parking spaces but Sunghoon could care less. The whirl of cigarette smoke from Beomgyu and Heeseung doesn't even bother him. All that matters is finding you, which he does seconds later, a circle of friends surrounding you. Your tiny tank top provides little protection from the cold, hand running up your exposed arms with a cigarette between your manicured nails.

He wonders what it'd look like around his─

"There he is!" Your eyes flare in a burst of recognition. Of excitement. Sunghoon can't quite believes his eyes or ears. "Get over here, handsome!"

It's one of the rare moments in his life he's at a loss for what to do, deer-in-the headlights look cast amongst his circle of friends who are just as confused. He'll dab up Jay later for shoving him forwards, your hand outstretched to pull him through a sea of people, placing him right beside you as you introduce him.

He's the kind stranger who helped you find your mutual friend, thus finding your group for the night. A soft hand cups him underneath his jaw, squishing his cheeks as your mouth runs about seeing him around often, the cute guy you've seen around in your words. Sunghoon kind of lets things happen, enjoying the receiving end of your drunk affection ─ how you pull him close by his belt loops and jokingly bump into him when he teases you. You're everything he's imagined and more ── sweet, witty and all the more alluring. 

He leaves the club that night friends with you and regretting ever asking Songyi to be his. Because he'd never really be hers, not whilst you're around.

"Like a charm," Heeseung muses, a teasing eyebrow raise sent Sunghoon's way. "Imagine the luck - bagging Songyi the very same day she remembers he exists."

"Fuck off," Sunghoon barks louder than intended. The rolled eyes at their small table call him to clear his throat, gaining back some composure. "It is what it is, I guess."

"Spoken like a true gentleman," Jay's jokes are endless, as are his deserved rebuttals, another spill down his chin. "Okay, you fucking owe me a pint, asshat."

"Gladly." 

The boys don't have time to register his actions nor his true intentions before Sunghoon's stalked off, swerving through the pool-playing crowd and into the crowded open bar space with its never-ending queues. On the TVs mounted around, various ice hockey games play, beer sloshed around each time an almost goal registers with the drunk crowd. Sunghoon catches your eyes hang on on the game, jaw tensed as you pour a drink with a tilt. 

His interest in the game is non-existent, but he could be a fan if it means having one more thing in common with you. Sunghoon spends his time queuing doing this, watching you watch the game, serving people with a smile. It's not the same smile he gets out of you after that night, but it's similar in width. Only does it fill with warmth when he's made his way to the front, the mob dissipating on the far edge of the bar, a noticeable quietness here.

"Sunghoon," his name drips with honey, dazzling eyes peering up at him. "What can I get you?"

He swallows the cotton ball in his throat. "A San Miguel, please," he leans against the sticky wooden bar, leather jacket two shades darker. "How you holding up?"

"Good, all things considered," a breathless smile accents your words, hands working with diminished quickness. He doesn't allow himself to consider it's to spend more time with him. "My feet are shredded though. The joys of four inch heel boots."

He leans forwards as if it'll give him a better view, nothing but your mile-long legs in his sight. Fucks sake. "Did your boss make you wear them?"

"God no! This was all my idea," a hand's over your chest, nails matching your sight-for-sore-eyes top. "You know how the saying goes; beauty is pain."

"That seems unnecessary." 

"Hm?"

Turns out his whisper does meet your ears, curious blinks directed to him as the polished silver tap lets golden San Miguel fill its glass.

"Well, I mean…" if he wasn't making eye contact before, he isn't now. Darting between rainbow-assorted alcoholic drinks behind you, a darts board and the festive season's drink specials. Hand-drawn by yours truly. "You're already really pretty."

Suddenly, the bar shrinks to your own shared bubble, nothing but your awestruck face flooding his senses. The silence would be deafening if not for how hard his heart rabbits in his chest, damn near bruising because even if Songyi's not here to hear this, he shouldn't be saying it anyways.

"Coming from you?" you end up saying, pushing down the type of smile you can't hide. "Sure know how to make a lady feel special, don't you?"

Songyi would sure hope so. Sunghoon can only manage a tight-lipped beam, his drink perched on the bar-top with little to no foam. 

You really are perfect.

Even more so when he goes to pay, the total reflected lower than his last.

"Hey, I think it's a bit sh─" 

"Consider it a friendly discount," you wink, hand overlapping his, sliding from his wrist down to his fingertips. The shudder he experiences shakes him to his very core. "You know where I am for more."

Somehow, Sunghoon stumbles back to his table, hand soiled in beer after being jostled around by the pool crowd. When Jay asks about his drink, his friend has no answer, just the far-off stare that lets them know they're in for a world of trouble.

The original plan for tonight is that Sunghoon and the guys load up on drinks at The Falcon, then make it to the club in time for midnight entry. All of them except for Sunghoon follow through, the latter hanging back outside the Falcon, frost of the December icing the roads as he waits for lights to turn off at the local bar. 

It takes enough time for him to pop down to the nearby fried chicken place, fill his stomach and come back. He pops a breath mint for reasons unknown, wiping imaginary grease on his trousers as the remainder of your colleagues leave the dimmed business, trading curious gazes at his residual figure.

"Sunghoon?"

A conscious decision. Even though you've see him, he can still walk away. He can stil curse himself creating blurred lines and take his dirty secret to the grave. 

Except he doesn't. He only stares at the dip in your cleavage as you strut over in heels that must be killing you, red leather shorts leaving nothing to the imagination. Your sheepskin coat is meant to provide some relief, but with how long it is, it swallows every bit of visible clothing on you.

It's a while before Sunghoon can get out any coherent words. 

"Figured you could use the company," comes out scratchy, airy in some places."Here, take this."

Without thinking, he's slipping off his sneakers, stripping off his socks that will soak up the icy pavement anyways. On one knee he drops, peering up at you.

"Oh, I couldn't─"

“You will."

Unbeknownst to Sunghoon, something awakens in you at his final tone. Quiet compliance allows for him to unzip your boots, your hand braced against his shoulder as he slips off your shoes and puts his on. Silence dominates the low whisper of a half-asleep town, the tick of the pedestrian green light leading Sunghoon to walk alongside you, making sure you get home safe.

Amongst other things.

"The guys aren't with you…" you finally say, eyeing your boots he wouldn't let you carry.

"Yeah, they went out," he explains, walking closest to the road."I wasn't feeling it tonight."

The lone car on the road drives past your ambling figures, in no way diminishing the sound of your next words.

"So, I get you all to myself then," something mischievous curves your lips, a small part of Sunghoon's fantasies. "Wait, what was it you said earlier? I couldn't hear you, the bar was so loud."

When Jay couldn't stand his shit anymore and pushed Sunghoon to get his refill, the bar got busy again, no time for quiet conversation. 

It just had to happen when Sunghoon had something to ask.

"The guys and I are throwing a party when we're all back, before exams," the words come out choppy, like he's frigid from the cold beneath his feet. It's what your assumption should be, rather than him being nervous. "It'd be g-good to see you there."

More silence.

And a sudden stop, your hands weighted in your beige coat's pockets as Sunghoon whirls around, in full view of you haloed by the lights of town centre.

"Did you wait till my shift was over to ask me?"

He shrugs, feigning indifference.

"It's dark out; I'm not the kind of guy who'd willing let you walk home alone," he mirrors you, hands in his back jean pockets instead. "It doesn't hurt I had something to tell you as well."

"Oh, Sunghoon," You say his name like it's sacred, a word shared only between you two. "As much as I appreciate the gesture, a text would do. You have my number, right?"

No, he doesn't. He's been kicking himself ever since that smoking area night for not asking, because maybe it wouldn't be as weird asking then as opposed to how it feels in the daylight of your campus. Prying eyes, creeping guilt, all that jazz.

He shakes his head no. 

"Let's change that."

Under a pale yellow streetlight, Sunghoon gains the only number he's wanted in his phone, ignoring the one that's let him know she's let herself into the guys' house. You don't see it, his phone is on Do Not Disturb. Plus, it's harmless really, just contact information exchanged. He's done the same with people, other girls he's had group projects with. 

You're not other girls though.

"Goodnight, Sunghoon." is the whisper you leave him with when you've reached your house. It's streets down from his. 

When you disappear behind the closure of your front door, your absence is alarming. The walk back home is just as deafening, a gnaw carving at his chest cavity persisting until it's a black hole. He's still cold even after you've given back his shoes, squeezing his bicep again in thanks.

When Sunghoon gets back home, Songyi soundly sleeps in his bed, curling into him when he slips into bed. She looks peaceful, waves of midnight fragrant with citrus. He hasn't had the heart to tell her he hates oranges.

Not long after she dozes again, a light snore her tell, he pries himself away. Treading down the carpeted hall upstairs, he locks himself in the bathroom, fucking his fist to the thought of you and those damn shorts. 

The Christmas break is agonizing. In addition to going back to his family who see no need for privacy, you text him from time to time, sending selfies of your latest adventures at home. Your ginger cat sleeping in your lap, the Christmas market your friends accompany you to, the white-icing Christmas cookies you make. Your nose is scrunched up, icing on the button of your nose. This is his agony, seeing you like this and not being able to do anything about it. 

At some point over the break, you don't text as much, don't text at all and Sunghoon worries. Worries that maybe you've found out about Songyi and he wouldn't say there goes his chance, but it's a feeling vaguely similar to that. Losing your proximity, the press of your touch, the sugary-sweet words you use only with him. He hasn't had you long but he can't stand the thought of losing you, not for anyone. 

Ultimately, he doesn't have time to ponder longer since his degree demands attention, so he begrudgingly gives in. Studying through the days, helping out around the house, seeing old friends through the days leading to him driving up to uni again, a flutter in his chest. The guys are already setting up for the party, stacking up the red cups and getting out foldable tables for beer pong. Jake's even taken the liberty of putting up party decorations, in the middle of hanging up a gold party streamer in one of the walkways.

"Is that straight?" he quizzes from atop the step ladder.

"Just a bit to the right, then you're all good." Songyi instructs in her small, cautious tone. As if sensing his presence, her head whips back, expression alight with fondness. "Hoon, you're here!"

She barrels into his arms, hard pressed into his chest as his arms slowly circle her. He ignores Jake's blatant stare, opting to play his part as Songyi's boyfriend as he caresses the back of her head. He would've kissed her there, but the citrus scent is too strong for him to stay long.

"Tonight's gonna be amazing, I can't wait for everyone to get here." 

He smiles, something wicked behind it. "Me too."

A friend of a friend who Jay knows holds down the aux for the night, his very own deck assembled in the middle of the spacious living room. Strobe lights flash, every colour under the sun dotted on the walls otherwise tainted in darkness, bustling conversation and warm bodes swarming their house not built for so many occupants. Sunghoon usually wouldn't be too pleased queueing for the bathroom in his own house, but the carefree atmosphere is something he's desperately needed after being shackled to his study desk. Not that exams are over, or have even started, but it's good to have the break before he has to clock in for obscenely long shifts at the library.

It doesn't hurt you texted him earlier, asking for his address. You'd also shown him your outfit options, questioning whether either of the three are too 'dressy.'

He has to take a moment outside to collect himself.

The text was sent over an hour ago, so you should be here. On his way back into the house, Jake catches him by his shoulder, eyebrows hardset through his wispy fringe.

"You wouldn't happen to know why she's here, would you?" he asks.

No need for elaboration. They both know who she is.

"Not a clue," he pouts, ignoring the hard pulse in his neck. "The parties' all over everyone's story. Maybe she invited herself."

Jake doesn't buy it.

"Your girlfriend's here," he grits out, white-knuckling his best friend's shoulder. "Remember that."

He deserts him for more light-hearted conversation, blending into the group of people seamlessly, Sunghoon long forgotten.

Don't I know. He'd stew longer in Jake's words but the rush of adrenaline through him propels him elsewhere. To you, finally here. Which explains why he's sifting through the crowd for you, coming through their backyard (makeshift smoking area) into the kitchen, venturing into the living room where he promptly halts. 

Against one of the white walls of the room, adorned with cutout faces of everyone living in the house (Jake and Songyi's idea) is you, beautiful as ever. You're wearing a sequin skirt only you could pull off, a plain off the shoulder top showing enough skin to drive Sunghoon wild with your starfish necklace completing the look. His night should be made; you're here, in his living room, at the house party that will surely to be remembered. 

Except you're talking to none other than Songyi.

A boulder-like weight sinks down in his stomach like an anchor, a greenish feeling invading his weakening body. You're talking, very much engaged in conversation as Songyi uses her hands talking in your ear, your occasional nod a sign of understanding. Maybe the understanding that Sunghoon's a bum, a man with no backbone. A man who's already emotionally cheated, so what's stopping him from doing it physically? The room spins, Equator-hot as light strobes feed into his overstimulation.

Before Sunghoon can scramble for the words, you spot him. The look is brief, no indication for the second that feels like an hour before your hand raises in a wave, politeness curving on your lips. Songyi follows your line of sight, giving one clap before she flags him over, pulling him through dancing bodies since his feet are paralysed with fear.

Fear of the unknown, of the reality he may have ruined being deceitful.

Songyi hangs off his bicep, her hold not as comforting. Sunghoon hates this, being on the other end of a conversation with you, not beside you like he wants. At least it gives him a vantage point to see what you're thinking, not that your expression gives it away. 

"This is the guy I was telling you about," Songyi yells over the music. "My boyfriend, Sunghoon."

A bomb might as well have gone off, its aftermath forcing his eyes shut as all he can do is await his fate. Nothing's up for discussion, Sunghoon has sent clear signs he's interested in you. You'd be something else to think otherwise, you'd be right to chew him out in front of everyone.

"I heard," your lips' curve extends, hand held out for a shake. Sunghoon can only blink. "He's a regular at my bar. Never goes elsewhere."

Under duress is how he shakes your hand, the live-wire spark still the same for those fleeting seconds, your grip on his a second too long. He doesn't meet Songyi's gaze.

"The Falcon, right? God, he might as well rent a room there," his girlfriend rolls her eyes, swatting at his chest. "I've been trying to put him on other bars, but turns out he's pretty stubborn."

"He knows where home is," you say, loud enough to be heard. "I guess."

Through his eyebrows, he looks at you, you already looking at him. He doesn't know what you're up to, not the slightest clue, but he'll find out soon enough.

His night continues like this, on edge. You don't allow him a moment alone, occupied with groups of friends like the social butterfly you are. There's even a point where you're with Jay, Heeseung and Jake. Upon seeing him, his friends save for Jake give him flared eyes, your presence gone as soon as he nears. Sunghoon doesn't know what to think or say. All he knows is he's chasing after you. In his own damn house, with Sonyi on his arm.

Somehow time evades him, the desolation of their trashed house speaking to the late hour. Three in the morning. By then, the cops have come round, snarky neighbours making a noise compliant that after the threat of arrest, people filter out. 

All that's left is half-hung decorations, a red-cupped floor and missing forks in their utensils draw. The strobe lights are still going, their crackled murmur background noise. Jay's friend of a friend, Johnny paid his dues, had the roof nearly cave in from how hard people were jumping around, and is gone too.

It's a mess. The house and his friends who are nowhere to be found. Songyi went upstairs earlier complaining of a migraine, Jake's gone to smoke a joint two doors down, Jay's passed out on the toilet and Heeseung is miraculously losing his virginity. In a surprise turn of events, he manages to charm your friend from the bar, Sieun. And someway, in the dying minutes of the party, she leads him up the stairs to his room. He'd given Sunghoon the biggest thumbs up before he disappeared. Not a soul left behind.

A cup crushes beneath a foot, turning his head. 

His breath catches.

There you are, doused in delicate kitchen light, stepping into the lounge like you're his saviour. Bashfulness pulls at your features, so put together despite the mess surrounding you.

"Figured you could use the help," you offer, a playful spread amongst your features. "Payback for the other night."

The rubbish bag floats out his hand, picked up with a flush. "You don't have to."

"I want to," it's final, your tone. Firm, knowing. "Let me help you."

With a deep swallow, he resumes picking up rubbish in the common areas of their house, lost possessions mixed in with trash people didn't try putting away. As per your suggestion, he finds an empty beer box, used as the lost and found box you'll post about on your socials for everyone to find. You work without many words, only exchanging some when necessary. It's not the same silence you shared back before the holidays, that was tender, almost pure. This…is charged, festering. Pushing under his fingernails, attuning him to every sound you make. 

Eventually, when all rubbish is cleared and stacked outside on the curb for collectors come daybreak, Sunghoon collapses to the couch, springs hissing under him. You hovered behind him outside and now inside, some hesitation riddles your movements. Sunghoon misses it with his head lolled back, arm covering his eyes for a moment's break. 

You're revealed to him when the hesitation is gone, cast in the soft orange wall light of the living room, strobe lights and TV turned off. 

During the party, you'd watched the hockey game playing, just as you'd done at Falcon. The difference is that Sunghoon now knows the roaster, an app downloaded on his phone for the latest gameday news. 

"Want me to order you an uber?" he asks, voice wavering. He's nervous, running shaky hands up and down the grain of his jeans. "I'd drive you home, but I've had a drink. Or many. I could walk you home if you─"

"I'm good here."

Your words hang for a moment, a guillotine of crashing reality Sunghoon's mind is scrambling to comprehend.

"O…kay?"

He's defenceless, watching you fold onto the couch beside him, one leg crossed with your knee touching his. Even through fabric, your touch is searing. Sunghoon would jolt back, as he pretends he doesn't, but he's frozen in place, perplexed. 

Not getting his hopes up.

"So," you start, vanilla scent wafting his way. "Your girlfriend…she's cute."

Sunghoon's lightheaded, dots dominating his feverishly-blinked vision. "Yeah."

"How long you been dating for?"

"A few weeks," Sunghoon answers, unsure. "Give or take."

Your chin lifts, searching. "When's the first time you saw me?"

"Mid October of last year," he replies straightaway. "You'd just started working at Falcon."

A pause, a purposeful one meant to underline how his two responses differ according to who they involve.

"Hm," your elbow props into the storm grey blanket over the ripped leather couch, chin in your palm. His body's not facing you, but he's got his head craned to you. "Interesting."

Sunghoon feels vulnerable, stripped to his barest in what's meant to be the comfort of his home. Only now, it feels like your evil lair. 

"Were you gonna tell me?"

Was he? Sunghoon isn't sure, like many other things in his messed-up brain. This predicament, your knee on him, how much he likes you, why he's still with his girlfriend. The latter haunts him more than he likes, a discomfort he pushes into a door slammed shut. Yet, it fights back, piling out of the door, demanding an answer.

And truthfully, he doesn't have a clear answer. He just didn't want to be the dickhead who breaks up with Songyi the day they got together. 

Rather, he's the dickhead who's cheating on her.

His fingers interlace, a ricochet inside him. "Do you─" he clears his throat, struggling. Not looking at you. "Do you care?"

Another pause. Tonight's been full of them, a lot contemplated with the absence of words. 

"No."

He's live-wire again, shuddering out a breath desperately pushing out his fragile lungs. The house is cold, gusts of wind carrying through cracked open windows in the lounge. He shivers, not from the temperature, because you're quickly undoing every stitch of restraint he has. 

"I wish I could control myself with you." he admits. To himself, to you.

"Don't," is your low answer, shifting out his peripheral. "It's no use." 

At the turn of his head, your knee presses into him further. You're closer now, and he's finally turned his body towards you, a mess of limbs, even messier people owning them. Everything is still, not even the early morning birds crowing, almost as if the rest of the world has left you two behind.

The thought makes everything after this easier.

No one knows who leans in first, but he feels it, the hover of your face and the fan of your breath. It's syrupy sweet, a burst of flavour once your lips press together. His life is never the same again, light and colour so vivid that he can't go back to things before, the imprint of your lips forever remembered. Fingers in his hair, you tether yourself to him to keep yourself from sinking further into desire, the hard pull earning a drawn out moan, muffled by the smacks of moving lips.

Unfathomable greed dictates your actions, not enough closeness between each other, so you straddle him, his large hands skimming your sides, thumb tracing patterns into goosebump-riddled skin. Sunghoon takes, deepening the kiss by gliding a tentative stripe to your bottom lips, welcoming your taste. Finally, he knows what you taste like - an undercurrent of Diet Pepsi and that strawberry gum he sees you smack on.

A hitch in your breath comes when his hands venture further, cold against your warming skin, thumbs running over your hardened nipples. A mewl bleeds into the kiss, hips in prime position for a grind you give into. His grip tightens on your ribcage, shuffling slightly to meet your next grind coming in waves. The scratch of his jeans against your damp underwear creates the friction you've long craved. 

Moments pass like this, drinking each other in, tongues brushing, moans swallowed before you pull back. Not enough to bring frigidness into your fold, but enough to catch your breath, forehead pressed to his. 

His face is in your hands, held like porcelain as your thumb graze. Comb over his eyebrows, down the slope of his neck, over his plump kissed lips, thumb pad catching the fan of his breath against it. Hands move again, cupping his cheeks as your eyes brim with hidden affection.

"You're so handsome." 

A few chaste kisses are all Sunghoon gets before your lips migrate, starting their journey on the sharp edge of his jaw, down the column of his neck. Focused on branding his skin, Sunghoon's hands take control of your aimless hips, grinding you flush against his erection. He groans, teeth in his bottom lip so he can continue getting away with this, you on him and everything it entails. Before he comes to, you're on your knees, pleased as can be as you unbutton his black jeans, lowering them with his underwear to expose his cock.

A desire to pull up his trousers and run off gnaws at his overheating skin, his thoughts muddling as you don't hide how enamoured you are by his cock. He's bigger than you're used to, shaft ribbed with angry veins and a fat tip leaking enough precome to make your stomach twist. The tip of your index finger descends from his happy trail, following stray veins as his skin quivers under your touch, finger running along the veins of his cock to the tip, thumb running over his slit. And because you can't help yourself, you lick the substance off your thumb.

Sunghoon swears his brain malfunctions, conjures images that can only remain true in the realm of his wildest dreams because there's simply no way you're on your knees for him, licking his come like it's the best thing you've tasted. He groans, fingers moving into your hair as you cover his tip in chaste kisses, swirling your tongue flat against the skin, contact eliciting a hiss through his bared teeth. 

He can't remember when last he got a blowjob, Songyi shy and intimidated enough by his size and sex in general to only go as far as a handjob. Her hands barely fit around him, inexperience leaving her stranded for what to do in compensation. But you know, hand seeking out the slick between your legs to lather the rest of his length from harsh friction. It's the single most hottest thing he's ever seen, the grin you do afterwards a close second as you take him into your mouth, jaw unhinging to cover all your bases.

Your head starts to bob, working him further into you, hand close behind your lips forming a tight tunnel to make up for the inches you can't take. The sloppy work of the blowjob eats away at the quiet of the night, Sunghoon's groans and whines thrown in to complete the image as he relishes in the comfort of your mouth. You're so good at it, knowing the right pressure, messy with the level of enthusiasm that slightly worries him he'll come too soon.

It's like you're drunk off him, rhythm never wavering as greed controls how much of his twitching cock you stuff yourself with, getting overzealous as his tip pushes past a gag point. Your throat closes up, a hard gag fluttering around his tip. His fingers go to pull hard at your strands before he remembers better and releases.

Noticing his motions, you pry from him with saliva overlining your lips, hands taking over.

"It's okay," you almost laugh, eyes creased with innocent-like laughter. "You can be a little rough with me. I promise I'll like it."

Sharpness prickles at his spine, surprised. "Y-you sure?"

"Yeah," you nod, tongue swirling around his tip again, only this time you're looking him square in the eyes. "Pull my hair, fuck my throat─it'll make taking you easier."

The groan Sunghoon emits is almost carnal, everything within him used to not flood your mouth with come. You get back to bobbing on his cock, pushing yourself to see how far you can take him even if you gag, water lining your eyes as you cycle through routine gags. The fullness of your throat pulls your nipples taut, your underwear sticking to you in tortured mess.

"Hold on, I'm gonna come," he pants, forehead creased as his hand pull harder on your hair. The smile against his length tells him you don't care for his warning, your pace increases. At this point, you don't care much for what your body can't take, only making him come, your wish quickly coming true. 

Sunghoon's rendered desperate enough, shallow bucks of his hips meeting the back of your throat, pleased hums vibrating around him done to undo him. He hits the back of your throat one last time, his hands on either side of your head as he comes down your throat. Pure filth oozes out his lips, moans seeping deep into your bones, choking on the taste of him.

As Sunghoon returns from the wall of pleasure he's rammed into, his body sinks back while his grip loosens on you. Bringing your head up, you showcase his latest masterpiece as your lips detach with a wet pop.

You're filthy, half your face smeared in slobbered saliva and his come, and yet, you've never looked more perfect. So his, tongue darting out to lick the corners of your mouth, eyes moon crescents as you smile at him, a sheepish giggle following.

He's already hard. 

"I can't wait anymore." 

Surprise splashes onto your face. "You don't need a minute to…?"

"I've waited long enough," his thumb catches one last trace of come, dragging back to the centre of your lips where you lick it clean. His cock kicks, filling in. 

Ever the gentlemen, he helps you to your feet, pulling you onto his lap before you toss your top aside, breasts on full display. The fact you didn't bother wearing a bra kept him semi-hard the entire night. 

You collapse into messy kisses again, noses bending to dull aches, moans muffled to plush lips moving in unison. Everything is frantic and all-consuming, his shirt tossed aside to the roam of your hands, ghosting over his muscled torso while he grabs a handful of your ass, kneading the flesh to the high whine of your throat.

"I didn't want─" he pants, licking over your lips to make you shiver. "─to do this on the couch."

He sounds so sincere, so sweet. You can't help but chuckle a little, indenting gentle teeth marks into his lip. 

"If it were up to me, we'd be doing this on your bed next to her," you murmur, smirking into his quiet gasp. "But this works. As long as I have you."

"You always did."

You're so pressed to stick together, your skirt only bunches up on your hips, making small ridges into your hips. Sunghoon lowers his jeans enough to free himself, his cock standing tall, throbbing with a leaking tip that's red enough to hurt.

"Fuck," he curses, transfixed on you pulling your underwear to the side, material soaked through. "I don't have a condom."

"Don't need it," you hum, hips lifting with your hands guiding his tip along your cunt, a shaken breath shared between you two. "Oh, fuck."

It's the last thing you utter before you're sinking down on his length, sighs of relief heaved in the heated space between your quivering bodies. Sunghoon's holding your hips like a lifeline, head tipped enough to catch your every micro-expression ─ the pleased knit of your brows, the low hang of your jaw, whimpers of pleasure as you ease onto him. Your chest rises and falls in deep breaths, gummy walls burning to the stretch they mould to, devouring every inch Sunghoon has to offer. The lone hand on his shoulder attempts to burrow into his skin, almond-shaped nails gripping for a sliver of stability.

"Holy fuck," he huffs, eyes dropping down to where you're clenching around him. "You're so─shit. You're so damn tight." 

"You're huge, what the─" a groan empties out of you the moment you near the base of his cock, features pulled taut. "So full..give a minute."

Through gritted teeth, you attempt to acclimatize to his size, slippery walls working overtime as they flutter around him. Sunghoon's losing his mind, panting like a dog as he fights off the urge to really fill you, teeth seeking yours as they snag onto your bottom lip, drawing back with anguish and the taste of blood.

His need seeps through to you, fuel to your burning fire as your energy harnesses in your hips, moving to drag his cock from under his tip down near his pelvis. You're not working with much speed, but he's hitting so deep inside to draw out meek mewls, his hands pushing underneath your ass to give you more leverage. 

"Oh God," he whines, halfway apart as your cunt milks him dry. It doesn't help your breasts swing in his face, coming down with the force of your combined thrusts. "You feel so fucking good. So perfect on me."

"I can't take it all," you whine, near tears with moisture dampening your lashes, a hopeless daze in your eyes. "Move me, it's okay. I d-dont have to walk tomorrow."

"You're taking me so well already," one hand leaves from underneath you, on the back of your head as he leans in to kiss your hairline. 

An abandoned thought comes to mind. "Open your mouth."

"Huh?" 

"I said," his hips lift, knocking hard enough to release a low-level screech. "Open your mouth."

Malleable to his will, you comply, helped by the iron-clad grip under your chin before he spits on your tongue. Sunghoon thinks he watches you shatter, features screwed together as a deep moan echoes through you. His back sinks further into the couch, both hands back on your hips to fuck you on him, using you like you said he could.

"This isn't working."

Out your syrupy daze, some leftover sense clings to his words, frowning in confusion. Before you can ask what he means, his large arms wrap around you, standing to his feet. Letting out a yelp, your legs cling to him, wondering endless possibilities before you're put on your back, legs spread. Sunghoon has one knee bent on the couch, his other foot on the ground. His fingers card through his hair, pushing it back before he lines himself up again, slipping right in. 

"Better," he sighs in true relief, the sharpness of his canines resembling an animal. "Now I can fuck you how I want." 

"How you want." he beams before giving you his worst, months of endless pining coming to a head.

Guilt ceases to exist as he pulls out till his tip remains inside, pushing forwards to bury himself to the hilt. A loud squelch accompanying his thrusts, a river's worth of slick dribbling out your cunt and onto the grey blanket.

"You're─hmph, tighter than before," Sunghoon manages a chuckle, thrusts buckling under your vice grip. "How does that work?"

"I'm taking all of you, t-that's why," you smirk, head tilted like you can do no wrong. "Are you proud of me?"

His surprise doesn't stop him this time, a gradual tempo building with the bounce of your breasts. "I will be when you come on my cock."

A flip has switched. Sunghoon's no longer the bashful man who'd tremble at the thought of complimenting you, reservation letting you get away with touches he secretly adores. Now, he's a culmination of every day he couldn't have you.

"Do people know?" he asks, fucking you harder. "Do your friends know how much you love taken dick?"

Knots twist your stomach to never unravel, arms covering your eyes having little to do with silencing your moans, decibels climbing each time Sunghoon knocks into you. 

"Don't stoooop," you slur, cunt pulsating around his length. "My stomach…!"

A mean laugh hits your ears. "You can feel me in your stomach?" One hand abandons the top of your thigh, the heel of his palm pressing down onto the faint outline in your stomach. "Is that where I am?"

"Yes!" you hiccup, brain turning to mush as the dulled stretch of his cock wanes to an rush of ecstasy, heavy balls smacking against the flesh of your ass.

"So loud, baby," his ears flood, the thought of getting caught more enticing than troubling. "Want the whole house knowing how dirty you are? Want her knowing what a good whore you are for me?" 

You clamp down hard on him, boiling down to the singular thought of coming. Sunghoon does you a favour by speeding up the process, fingertips collecting slick splashed back on your thighs to rub over your clit, rush of his fingers pulling out a high-pitched squeal.

"Where's your fucking manners?"

Old couch springs show their age as they hiss under Sunghoon's moving weight, the slap of your bodies dangling in the air like an open secret. You sound like you're heaven-sent, so helpless to the overwhelm of pleasure as Sunghoon's cock bullies into you, blush blooming beneath your sweat-veiled skin.

"Hoonie, I─" you choke on the words, pressed for air. "I'm close."

"Am too, sweet girl," Sunghoon huffs, his thrust becoming more frantic. "Tell me you want this forever, tell me you're mine." 

"I'm yours. I love being yours," you cry, teary eyes staring up at him, pulling him down by his chain. "Give me what I want. Fill me up."

His hips stutter then, oxygen knocked out of him. "Want my come?"

"Want it so bad, Hoonie!"

"Okay, baby," he twitches, your gummy walls his demise. "Take it. Take my come, sweet girl."

"Sung─ah!"

It's too late, the thread's already snapped, orgasms hitting at the same time. Divine timing, as it's always been with you two, bodies suspended in the temporary bliss of your highs. It's unlike anything either of you have experienced, vision a blinding white as a thick stream of come coats your walls in a warm welcome. Sunghoon looks at you the entire time, watching your eyes roll, the map of delight in the details of your face. There's a shine about you, so special in his eyes, the single memory he wishes to die with. 

Eventually, the world starts to come back, timelapse setting back to real world time, exhausted pants occupying the air. Sunghoon doesn't know what to think or how to feel, his body on auto-pilot as he falls on his ass opposite you, head hanging off the couch's arm. Weak arms haul you onto the opposite end, limbs tangled like the web of lies you'll continue to weave, tonight only the beginning.

According to the internet, any sex involving the exchange or contact of blood binds two souls together, their fate forever sealed in time. A hoax to some, but an inkling of truth to Sunghoon as he tries to pick up the pieces of that night.

By the grace of a higher power, you two don't get caught, lost in a trance of kisses until the Uber honks outside his house. Sunghoon sleeps on the couch, at least having the heart not to slip into the bed you spoke of defiling, girlfriend none the wiser. Jake wakes him up not much later, holding a store-bought cake he insists on Sunghoon help icing with the word virgin crossed out. When the man of the hour finally comes downstairs─Sieun already having left─party poppers and horns go off, celebratory claps earning Heeseung's hand over his heart, smile the widest they've seen.

Songyi comes down after Heeseung embellishes his story, draped in articles of Sunghoon's clothing. He wonders what you'd look like in the same outfit. 

A lot of his thoughts trace back to you, in fact. Not made any better by the onslaught of texts you exchange throughout the day, Songyi picking up most of Sunghoon's slack when he's meant to be cleaning. No regret is mentioned, only the desire to see each other again. 

Sunghoon's never felt so alive.

Unfortunately, your arrangement has a bit of a slow start. Rarely do you see each other in the following weeks, handcuffed to study desks and library tables as exams take a toll of the student population. It's always torture, but a special kind this time because in the facade of his life, Sunghoon has little time to see you. The most he gets is is the odd day in the library, sat tables away from where you work with friends, grabbing your ass when you pass by.

However, when Sunghoon walks out the hall of his last exam, he waves to his classmates and beelines to your house where you tangle in sheets stained with deceit. Days later, when all the guys are finished their exams, bar names are thrown around as a means of celebration. 

To no one's surprise, they end up at the Falcon.

Twenty minutes before rush hour, few souls dot about, the guys lucking out with no queues. You're working tonight, the same scene bringing about shared looks amongst their group. Unfazed, Sunghoon approaches the bar in a confident strut, a knee-knocking smoulder presented to your beaming figure.

"What can I get you, gentlemen?" you bite back a grin, drying off the last few pint glasses.

The guys list their orders, not subtle with cast looks over to Sunghoon. He doesn't buckle like he used to, a calm front maintained as he places his order last.

His elbow braces against the wooden bar-top, a playful arch to his eyebrows. "How about a friendly discount?"

You're picking out their glasses, shaking your head with a chuckle.

"No can do. My boss is onto me," your cheeks bunch up in the smile you can't hide. "The best I can do is this,"

In real time, the guys witness Sunghoon and you lean into each other, quick lock of the lips blowing their heads right off. Sunghoon pulls away, nipping at your bottom lip, mischief in your features as you add on. "Grab a seat. I'll come over with those drinks."

Without a hitch, Sunghoon leads the way to their corner table of the bar, the pool table occupied again. The ongoing game is the least of Jay's concerns, his and the rest of the guys bewildered stares boring into Sunghoon's skull.

"What the hell was that?" Heeseung ventures first.

"Aren't you with, what's her face?" Jay says, snapping his fingers with nothing to show for it.

"Songyi." supplies Jake, a dirty knit to his face. "Are you cheating on her?"

Their longtime friend doesn't elaborate, not bothering with words as Sunghoon fishes his phone out from his pocket. After a few careless swipes, his phone is pushed to the centre of the table, his three roommates leaned in to read the tragic texts.

Sunghoon: I'm sorry, I can't do this anymore.

Sunghoon: There's somebody else.

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sunghoon completely distracts intak’s attention away from you, the poor boy unaware of sunghoon’s true intentions as they get to know each other and talk shit about the professor they share. and you’re pissed, lips parting in shock as sunghoon and intak just left you out like that, despite still being in between them. “oh, what the fuck!” you groan out loud, uncaring of making a scene in front of intak. you shove past sunghoon, a scowl on your face as you carry yourself and your red solo cup filled with jungle juice, to the couch where sunghoon was previously sitting at.

heeseung raises a brow at your appearance, pushing through the crowds before plopping down on the empty end of the couch. “damn. cockblocked?” heeseung asks, though rhetorically since he already knew the answer. jake tsks in response, shaking his head as he lets out an audible sigh through the loud bass of the music, he saw it coming from a mile away. 

you only roll your eyes, nose scrunched up as you take a swig of the jungle juice. “intak was totally about to take me home, too!” you grumble, pouting into your drink that’s pressed up against your lips, eyeing sunghoon and intak’s conversation.

after lingering at the party for a while (alone, might you add), sunghoon eventually departs from his long ass conversation with intak. “c’mon, let’s take you home,” he says as he walks up to you, sitting and pouting on the couch beside his friends who tried to cheer you up, but their efforts were in vain. 

you huff, giving him the cold shoulder but you stand up anyway, tilting your head up snobbishly as you make a beeline to the door. he was your ride back home anyway (intak would have been, if sunghoon didn’t cockblock you), so you don’t really have a snarky retort to say back to him.

sunghoon only chuckles at your attitude, giving a goodbye wave to his friends before following after you. he throws an arm over your shoulder when he catches up to you, the cool air of the night welcoming the both of you when you step outside the frat house. “aww, what’s got you all pouty?” he asks, feigning innocence as he pokes at your puffed out cheeks.

you frown, brows knitting together tightly as you give him a pointed look that screams ‘you! you dipshit.’ and yeah, sunghoon knows very well it was him, and he couldn’t be more proud of himself.

he keeps his arm draped over your shoulders, taking his car keys out to unlock the doors. the car beeps in response, opening up the passenger door for you before playfully shoving your shoulder to get you inside. you dramatically fall into the seat, trying to make him feel somewhat bad, but he only grins at you unapologetically. 

the drive back home was silent, save for the muffled radio, as you look out your window solemnly. you act like you’ve lost everything in your life, your job, money, family, when really you’ve only just lost a potential boyfriend, but tomato, tomato!

sunghoon side eyes you, keeping one hand on the steering wheel while his other relaxes on the center console of the car. he chuckles at your still pouty face, rolling his eyes. “seriously? you really thought you would have a chance with him? he says bluntly, a frown ghosting his face but he quickly replaces it with a neutral expression.

you curl into yourself at his mean words. “he was literally offering to take me home, sunghoon. you totally ruined it for me,” you mumble, frowning as you stare at your reflection through the window. this would not mark the first time sunghoon had ruined something potential for you, he’s always quick to shut you or them off, and it pisses you off to no end. he’s always throwing around claims that you’re too good for them, or they are too good for you. which fucking one is it, sunghoon?

sunghoon’s brows furrow at your words, the corner of his lips twitching into a frown. “he was only going to do that to be nice. did you expect something to happen out of it?” he says dryly, his grip on the steering wheel tightening as his eyes zone in even more on the road in front of him as if distracting himself from your point on intak.

“yes, i did! he was being really touchy, which is always a good sign. and he was matching my flirting,” you continue defend yourself, but it won’t make a difference. you’re not in intak’s car. you’re in sunghoon’s car. 

sunghoon doesn’t say anything else, leaving the conversation hanging. he knows he’s right. you know that sunghoon’s right. after all, he’s your best friend. he has the best intentions for you, right?

he pulls up in your apartment that you share with a few other girls, and he thinks about bringing up how you should just move in with him. there’s so many better benefits living with him than being cramped in an apartment with three other girls, but he digresses. you’ll just brush him off again. he turns his head to look at you, head leaned against the headrest. his eyes brush over your figure before he meets your face again. “goodnight,” he says casually.

you squint your eyes at him, wanting to stay mad, but you can’t. you sigh, playfully rolling your eyes while unbuckling your seatbelt. “goodnight, hoon.” 

the question of how you’re even friends with sunghoon hangs in the air as you leave his car. but oh, sunghoon knows it all too well. 

he remembers– sophomore year of high school, when he got partnered up with you for a stupid history project. the two of you fought the entire evening at the library about which era of history you wanted to do. nothing got done that day, the both of you couldn’t even decide on a topic before you got kicked out because you both were yelling talking too loud. 

but then you guys were able to finally get to an agreement (even though sunghoon still would’ve preferred to do the industrial revolution, but whatever), and after that, it was smooth sailing. the project went by so fast, the two of you working like two peas in a pod. when the project came to an end, and the both of you had no longer any reason to talk to each other, he started to get desperate.

“you wanna study for chem together?” he would ask in a soft whisper, leaning his side towards you while keeping an eye on the history teacher that’s lecturing. 

you would then give him that scowl he always expects nowadays whenever he said something stupid that he already knew the answer to. “i don’t have chem. i’m taking physics.”

“oh. right. then how about stats?” he would try again, brows raising a bit in interest to gauge out your reply.

“... i’m taking calculus,” you would answer, but you had forgotten that you were in a class setting, your voice was at its normal speaking level. you got your first detention that day.

but sunghoon didn’t, the teacher only caught you speaking despite you trying to throw sunghoon under the bus. don’t worry though, sunghoon spent the rest of his classes, stirring up trouble to get detention with you. although he did get detention for the week instead of just a day, but he thought it was worth it anyway. 

sunghoon was planning the entire time in his last class before detention, thinking about what topics to talk about with you so that the two of you weren’t just going to sit in complete and awkward silence. but his plans get shattered when he walks in, a triumphant grin on his face (even though he didn’t even win anything??) falling within seconds when he hears you laugh, spotting jake sitting across from you. 

what the fuck. he stares at the two of you, unaware of his entrance until the teacher tells you and jake to be quiet before directing his gaze back at sunghoon, instructing him to sit down. sunghoon plops on the chair beside you, giving jake a scrutinizing gaze that speaks when the fuck did you get detention?!

to which, jake tells sunghoon that he got caught throwing paper airplanes at jay’s head during calculus. but all sunghoon got from that answer was that you and jake shared a common class– calculus. fuck, maybe he should have listened to his counselor when they told him to take calculus instead of statistics. 

and after a long two and a half hours of painful silence after the teacher yelled at the three of you to stop chatting, detention was finally over. jake had to rush to leave, catching the soccer coach to tell him why he had to miss practice, leaving you and sunghoon together. 

“it’s getting dark. do you walk home?” he asked, throwing his backpack over his shoulder as he watched you pack up. 

you nod in response, eyes flickering over to the window. the sun hadn’t even set yet. “i do. it’s not too far, maybe ten minutes,” you shrugged, adjusting the straps of your own backpack.

“i’ll walk you then,” he said simply, walking out of the classroom, not bothering to look behind him to make sure that you were even following him. at the time, you looked over at how he didn’t leave any room for argument. he really hadn’t changed since.

“holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!” you practically squeal, your eyes glued to your phone as you’re walking over to sunghoon’s car. sunghoon merely furrows his brow in confusion, his back leaned against the door of the car from waiting for your class to end. 

“fucking finally. what took you so long? i thought you ended at 1:30. not 1:50,” he grumbled, clearly displeased over waiting twenty minutes for you. 

you finally peel your eyes away from your phone, a way too happy grin on your face that makes sunghoon suspicious. “intak gave me his number! he waited outside of my lecture, found me, and asked me out! isn’t that so cute?” you gush, walking over to the passenger side of his car and getting in. 

sunghoon follows suit, except his expression is now sour. his jaw ticked, sliding into the driver's seat but he doesn’t make a move to buckle his seatbelt. “how does he know where your lecture is?” he asks before scoffing, “stalker much?”

you shrug. “i think jake told him. they share accounting together,” you respond, not noticing your best friend’s mood practically deflating like a popped balloon since you’re so zoned in on your phone, replying to a text to intak. 

without thinking, sunghoon snatched your phone from your hands. his eyes skimmed through the exchanged messages, a smirk on his face. “hey! give it back to me! what’re you doing?!” you exclaim, your hands reaching to grab your phone back but sunghoon is quicker, smushing your face away so that your hands aren’t in reach to grab your phone. 

“this is real cute, y/n. i love the part where you try to be all mysterious. ‘pick me up at eight?’” he mocks you, his voice going up a few pitches higher which only makes you more irritated. 

“shut up! give it back to me now, seriously!” you whine, practically fighting with his hand pressed against the side of your face but he’s relentless, using his strength to his advantage to keep you at an arm’s distance. 

sunghoon only chuckles at your weak efforts to steal your phone back. “ooh, look. he just replied to you. he said he’ll be there and that he’s real excited to see you. it’d be a true shame if i…” he clears his throat, his thumb pressing on the microphone button, “yo, intak. it’s sunghoon, you remember me, right? heard delta gamma’s hosting a killer party tonight. you’re coming, right? someone’s gotta hold the keg for me. see you there!” send.

you furrow your brows at sunghoon, stopping your flailing arms to push his hand away from your face. “what are you doing?! he already agreed to tonight, there’s no way he’ll agree to go,” you scoff, having full confidence in intak. 

sunghoon tilts his head at you curiously, a thick brow cocked up and an infuriating smirk on his face. “yeah? oh, look. he’s typing. what’s he saying… ugh blah blah why do you have y/n’s phone… oh! he said he’ll be at the party tonight. guess your little date is canceled,” he says with a casual shrug, tossing your phone carelessly onto your lap and letting your face go. 

you quickly grab your phone, not believing what sunghoon said. but intak really did agree to go to the party. you clench your jaw, an upset frown on your face. when you don’t say anything, sunghoon rolls his eyes, “oh, come on, y/n. i bet he wasn’t even going to take you anywhere special. probably somewhere where he takes every other girl to, you’re not special.”

your entire face falls. you were already frowning, but now you’re just staring at sunghoon, eyes empty. sunghoon looks back at you after a small chuckle at himself, but he quickly shuts up when he notices your expression. 

“what? don’t give me that face,” sunghoon says, an agitated frown now appearing on his face, his brows furrowing as he has the audacity to look confused. 

you don’t say anything. you just turn your head away, looking out the window. “just take me back home,” you mumble, ignoring your phone buzzing with texts from intak.

sunghoon’s eyes narrow at you, watching you practically throw a pouty fit as you look out his window like you were in a sitcom movie. he sighs, rolling his eyes before extending out his hand and grabbing your face to look at him again. his fingers squish at your cheeks, making your lips pout out. “nah. i’m hungry so we’re going out to eat,” he says simply, letting go of you before clicking on his seatbelt and turning on the engine of his car. 

you blink at him. then you scoff, rolling your eyes as you make a show of being pissed off, turning your entire body towards the door with your arms crossed over your chest. sunghoon merely glances at you at the corner of his eyes, his smirk resting on his lips as he pulls out of the parking lot wordlessly. 

sunghoon parks in front of some dessert shop. you’re still stubbornly looking out the window, not even aware that he’s looking at you now. he smirks again, nudging your shoulder across the center console. “fine. stay in here while i enjoy a good ol’ yogurt bowl myself.”

you almost immediately turn in your seat, looking at him first before you direct your attention to the shop you’re parked in front of. your favorite yogurt shop. you always get this when you don’t feel like eating a whole, heavy meal but still need to eat something. 

before you can say anything, sunghoon’s already getting out of the car. he holds his key up tauntingly through the window, his thumb hovering over the lock button to threaten locking you in his car. you fumble with the car handle, pushing it open just before he can lock you in. 

“i hate you,” you grumble, narrowing your eyes at him but you’re already walking towards the shop’s door. 

“i hate you more,” he drawls with a lazy grin, following you inside. 

after you both order and get your bowls, you slide into a booth seat. sunghoon slides in beside you instead of the opposite side. you stare at him with disgust as you scoop up the yogurt filled with berries and other toppings. 

“what? don’t look at me like that. i paid for your bowl,” he says in a sassy manner, and you crinkle your nose at him. you don’t say anything back, deciding to enjoy your bowl in peace. you both eat in silence for a bit. 

and with his fast appetite, he finishes first while you’re only halfway through. he stares at you from the side, watching you take slow bites. he rolls his eyes. “come on, bro. we don’t got all day for you to eat like a sloth,” he scoffs. 

you ignore him, now purposefully moving your spoon slowly up to your lips like an actual sloth. 

his own eyes squint at you. 

“alright,” is all he says before he’s grabbing your face with one hand, his other taking your spoon out of your hand. he scoops up a big bite, and before you can protest, he shoves the spoon into your mouth. he mockingly makes you chew with his hand on your jaw, a satisfied chuckle escaping his lips. 

“see? not that hard to eat like a normal person.”

sunghoon insists that you stay at his place so he can take you to delta gamma’s party instead of you going back to yours. evidently, as you sit on the edge of his bed with your arms crossed, you lost the battle. 

“i need to go back to get ready,” you insist, deciding to still not give up on the fight. 

sunghoon’s typing on his laptop, doing some work. he doesn’t look at you as he speaks. “get ready? you look the same every time. you’re fine,” he mumbles, leaning in a bit to look closer at his laptop screen. 

your lips part in offense. you scoff. “ugh, rude much!? i’m literally wearing jeans and a top. i need to change. intak will be there,” you say as if that’ll change sunghoon’s mind. 

it only sets him more determined to keep you here. 

“if you think changing into… what? some skirt and a top that shows off your tits will change intak’s mind, then you should just give up already,” he says simply, still not looking at you. 

you frown. “well, maybe it’s because i also want to feel pretty for myself? god, not everything’s about wanting to dress up for intak…” you mutter, even though intak is probably about 70% of why you want to go back to your apartment to change. 

sunghoon glances up at his laptop to look at you. “good. that’s how it should be.”

hours later, you show up to the party with sunghoon. you’re following behind him at first, on your phone, texting intak to ask if he was here yet. sunghoon notices you trailing back a bit, and he scowls. 

he grabs your wrist and tugs you forward to move you in front of him instead of behind. you stumble, your brows furrowing in confusion up at him. “what?? i was literally right behind you,” you grumble. 

you don’t wait for him to respond as you continue to walk forward into the party, sending out one last text to intak to tell him that you were at the party already. sunghoon looks at your phone screen over your shoulder and rolls his eyes. 

heesueng approaches the two of you alongside with jake. they greet sunghoon first with loud shouts. jake throws an arm around your shoulder, glancing at your phone just before you shut it and pocket it away. he grins at you. “oooh, making moves?” jake teases. 

you smile, shoving him playfully. “well, my move was originally better with a planned date,” you say, emphasizing date as you glance over at sunghoon. jake caught the insinuation that sunghoon ruined it for you. 

he unloops his arm around your shoulders, pushing your back forward towards the main party to get away from the doorway. “just means you gotta make it up here instead,” he whispers in your ear so that sunghoon won’t hear. 

sunghoon’s staring at you and jake the whole interaction. 

you don’t know how many hours has passed. maybe minutes? time blurred after a few shots, and by few, more like 6-7 shots. you’re laughing and dancing with your friends and some strangers, surrounded by them before a hand touches your shoulder. 

you glance up, seeing that it was intak. your eyes light up. “oh my gosh! hey, you found me!” you grin happily, turning around fully to face your body towards him. 

intak smiles down at you, dimples peeking out. he has a red solo cup in his hand, hat backwards on his head. “yeah, ‘course i did. it wasn’t hard to find you. it’s like you have a spotlight shining down on you,” he flirts, and it sounds so genuine and cute from him that your drunk smile falters with awe. 

you part the dance circle with your hand in intak’s as he leads you away. you don’t even hesitate, the alcohol making you more courageous yet oblivious to sunghoon stilling in the dance circle, watching your backs disappear in the crowd. 

you spend the majority of the party alongside intak. he introduces you to his friends, but doesn’t linger long. you find it romantic. he wants you to meet his friends, but he also wants to still spend alone time with you. 

sunghoon fucking hates it. 

“he’s hogging her.” sunghoon’s voice comes out as a low growl, sulking in the corner of the couch. his eyes are absentmindedly watching people dance, totally (definitely not) finding it more entertaining than watching you be all touchy with intak in the corner of the house. 

heeseung and jake don’t bother hiding their eyes watching you and intak. 

“sounds a lot like someone i know,” heeseung remarks, sharing a glance with jake. they both snicker.

sunghoon’s brows furrow, sharp eyes darting over to them. “fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

heeseung raises his hands in mock surrender. “man, come on. she looks like she’s having a good time. leave her alone,” jake interjects, shrugging his shoulders indifferently. 

sunghoon scowls. wordlessly, he gets up but he doesn’t move to you. he moves to the kitchen instead, pouring himself another drink. heeseung sits up straighter on the couch, watching sunghoon from a distance. 

“...shit. should we stop him?” heeseung asks, grimacing slightly as he watches sunghoon continue to pour vodka in the red solo cup. 

jake visibly winces as he sees sunghoon down the liquor as if he’s the one who drank it. “...naahhh…he knows his limits…”

moments before absolute disaster. 

“can i kiss you?” intak asks you. he’s slightly leaning down, just enough to tower over you but he’s the one with his back against the wall. totally voluntary, by the way. 

you smile, your head tilting up at him cheekily. “i’d like that,” you hum, going on your tippy toes to meet your lips with his. your hand reaches up, holding his jaw. he reacts instantly, kissing you back. it’s soft, cute, nothing like the other students messily making out around you. 

you both smile against each other. “don’t pull away. c’mere,” he whispers, bringing your face to his again to kiss you again when you pull away slightly. the kiss becomes more deliberate. the bumping frat music blurs in the background, and you focus on the feeling of his lips moving against yours. 

suddenly, you feel a sharp tug on your hair. you moan into his mouth, not yet realizing that intak has both of his hands cupping your face…

then, the tug is sharper, harder. enough to force your lips away from intak. “woah, i–” you’re about to make some joke about how you didn’t know how rough he could be, but intak’s own surprised face confuses you. 

“what’s your deal?” intak says first, his eyes not on you but on sunghoon behind you. “we were kinda doing something.”

“i saw that,” sunghoon responds plainly, his fingers still tangled in your hair. you’re so fucking confused. you try to get your head out of his hold, but his fingers only tighten, making you yelp softly. 

“let go, man. you’re hurting her,” intak frowns, his eyes darting over to where sunghoon’s hand is in your hair. 

sunghoon smirks, a mocking, dry chuckle escaping his lips. “oh, am i? nah, i know what she likes.” he looks down at you with low-lidded eyes. he’s clearly intoxicated, way past his usual threshold of how much he drinks. 

his smirk only widens when you don’t say anything. “see? she knows too. i’m her best friend. i know what she can handle.”

you finally sputter out something when you’re out of your shocked daze. “sunghoon! let me go, what the hell is wrong with you!?” 

sunghoon blinks down at you, unmoving. then, his smirk disappears. “i’m drunk. you have to take care of me,” he says plainly. his words aren’t even slurring, not really. he still has control even under the influence of alcohol. 

it’s scary, honestly. 

when you just scoff at him, he suddenly dips his head into the crook of your neck. “i’m drunk. you have to take care of me,” he repeats, his lips brushing against your skin. “take me home. my keys are in my front pocket,” he mumbles softly. 

you hesitate. he turns his head in your neck, nose brushing against the side of your throat. “please,” he murmurs. 

your hands are moving before you know it. you dig your hand into his front pocket, finding his keys with ease. you turn to intak, a frown on your face. “i’m so sorry…” you apologize with a soft sigh. “i’ll text you…?”

intak glances at sunghoon still resting his head against your neck so intimately. he runs a hand through his hair, lips pursed. “yeahhh… i dunno. i’ll see,” he says vaguely before he leaves. 

your lips part, shoulders deflating with disappointment. you don’t notice it, but sunghoon smiles against your shoulder when he hears intak leave.

struggling, you manage to drag sunghoon to his car. you drive to his place, then try to haul him to his room. “sunghoon… you have to carry your weight. you’re so heavy…” you mutter. 

his head lolls lazily, temple resting on the top of your head. “mm…coulda’ asked jake or heeseung…” he mumbles his eyes heavy and blurry. he barely makes out his room. 

“jake and heeseung already left! why did you suddenly drink so much?” you sigh. before sunghoon can answer, he’s toppling over. you gasp, trying to catch him. he also tries to use you to catch himself. you land clumsily on his bed (thankfully) with sunghoon’s weight on top of you. 

“ugh! oh my god, you smell like cheap vodka. get off of me!” you whine, trying to push him off of you. clearly, his time at the gym has paid off as he doesn’t move an inch off of you. you huff in frustration, laying on his bed flatly, exasperated. 

sunghoon groans into your neck when you fail to move him off of you. “stop…don’t move. this is how it’s supposed to be…” he mumbles. your brows furrow in confusion, lips parting to ask him what the hell that means, but he speaks again before you can. “saw you kissin’ him.”

you blink up at his ceiling. “uh…yeah?”

“was it good?” he asks as he uses his palms on either side of your head to prop himself off of you. he hovers over you now, blinking down at you lazily. 

you raise an eyebrow at him. “yes. it was good. now can you get off of me? you’re making me smell like vodka,” you reply dryly, rolling your eyes. 

“mm…” he hums, seemingly in thought. his eyes don’t leave yours. “better than me?” 

your eyes dart over to his face, brows furrowing in confusion. “what? we have never–”

his head dips before you can react. his lips press against yours, feverishly. he doesn’t wait for you to kiss him back, his lips already moving against yours. but he knows you. he knows your body. and your body reacts instantly to him, like it was instinct. 

he pulls away, his breathing already ragged. yours is too. “better than me?” he asks again, his eyes no longer locked on your eyes. he’s focused on your parted, kiss-bitten lips. 

you swallow thickly. “...i-it… was different.”

sunghoon doesn’t ask how. he kisses you again, and he doesn’t waste time. he doesn’t try to do what intak does with the stupid, soft kissing. he kisses you with purpose, like he’s trying to engrain himself onto your lips. 

“i’m better,” he breathes against your lips before he slides his tongue into your mouth. you whimper in response, feeling his tongue mesh with yours. 

“say it,” he mumbles. 

you swear you mishear his voice.

“come on. say it. say i’m better…” he pants out, pulling back just enough to see your face. his brows are furrowed, the corner of his lips forming a hint of a frown. 

he was whining. 

whining, asking you to say he’s better than intak. 

you break into an incredulous smile. “seriously?”

his frown disappears. it’s replaced by a dead, serious look. his gaze is sharp. “very fucking serious. now, are you going to tell me i’m better than that fucking loser or not?” he asks, and you’re not sure when his hand traveled to wrap around your throat. 

he’s not applying pressure, but his hand is there. it’s claiming, it’s a threat. 

“yes–yes, you’re better. way better,” you whimper out, your chest heaving up and down against his arm. 

he smiles. “i know i am, baby,” he mumbles as he dips his head back into your neck. he mouths at your soft skin, his tongue lapping where his lips were. he kisses down your neck like you’re the only thing he wants to taste. 

“you’re gonna let me take this off right? for me?” he murmurs as he pulls back enough to paw at your top. the top he refused you to change out of earlier. you nod, biting on your bottom lip as you help him with taking it off. 

he drops it carelessly to the floor beside his bed. he mouths your tits, forcefully pulling down your bra like a mere annoying obstacle. he groans around your nipple, practically burying half of his face in your tits. 

“i’m hot. take my shirt off of me,” he instructs you, leaning off of you to sit up between your spread thighs. you catch your breath, practically getting whiplash from his actions and words contradicting constantly. but you move, hands peeling his shirt over his head. 

he takes his shirt out of your hand before you can toss it to join your top. “the ground’s dirty. can’t have my shirt on there,” he smirks lazily. instead, he pulls the shirt over your head, draping it haphazardly over your stomach. he doesn’t smooth it out for you. 

he moves lower, his hands pawing at your jeans. he unbuttons it, watching your reactions. he smiles lazily when you don’t protest or do anything. you let him take off your jeans, let his fingers press into your already damp panties. 

he scoffs, leaning back down over you. “man, i just knew you always had a little crush on me,” he mumbles, more so like he’s talking to himself. “i mean, just look at how wet you’re getting for me. holy shit,” he groans as his fingers dip under the waistband of your panties, collecting the arousal pooling between your thighs. 

he’s getting impatient. he plays with your soaking pussy for a little bit, enough to have you writhing and whining under him. he even decides to be a little nice and give you two of his fingers. “yeahhh, i know, my fingers are already hard to take, hm? just imagine my cock inside you,” he taunts, guiding your hand to palm his bulge over his own pants. 

he feels your gummy walls clench and unclench around his fingers. “aht–” he tsks, pulling his fingers out of you. “were you about to cum, baby?” he chuckles when you whine in protest. “you gotta earn your orgasm, loser.”

he moves off of you, sitting back on his knees now. you’re breathless, back laying on his bed as you watch him stare at you. “what? do the work yourself. god, do i have to do everything for you, dumb girl?”

he rolls his eyes mockingly, his own hands moving to undo his belt and pants. the belt lands with a clatter on the floor, pants and boxers following. his hard, aching cock springs up, and he hisses at the lack of confinement. 

you blink at his cock. he merely raises an eyebrow at you. he clicks his tongue in annoyance. he wraps his hand around your wrist, bringing your hand to his cock. “what? afraid of it?” he teases, his smirk only widening when he sees your fingers don’t even meet when you wrap your hand around his cock. 

you’re also in awe. your hand doesn’t move. you just stare at his twitching cock in the palm of your hand. you don’t notice that he leans down a bit to spit onto his cock, making it wet. “come on, stupid girl. i already made it wet for you. all you gotta do is just move your hand up and down. really, it’s not that hard,” he grumbles, running a hand lazily through his hair. 

you whimper at his words, moving off your back to sit up a bit. your hand starts to move, his spit dripping onto your fist. a loud squelch resounds around his room, and he tips his head back in pleasure but no sound comes from him. 

with a determined frown to get something out of him, you twist your wrist. your thumb swipes at the sensitive underside of his cock, seeing some pre-cum leak out of him. his breath hitches, and even though the reaction is so miniscule, it motivates you. 

you continue, now using your other hand to join in. it elicits a rough groan out of him, his eyes closing in pleasure. you bite on your lower lip, watching him. with more motivation, you lower your head to take him in your mouth. your lips barely wrap around him before his hands fly to your hair, pulling you off of him immediately. 

he holds your face up close to his. “did i say to use your fucking mouth?” he asks. he doesn’t wait for you to answer. “just a cock hungry loser, aren’t you?” he sighs as if he doesn’t know what to do with you. 

but of course, he does. 

he manhandles you with ease, shoving your face down into the mattress, hiking your hips up with your ass presented to him. his palm smoothes over the fat, a low, satisfied hum vibrating in his throat. “but you’re only going to take my cock, okay? only crave my cock…” he murmurs. 

you expect a slap to your ass, your face half-buried in his pillow to muffle your potential scream. 

it never comes. 

instead, you feel the blunt head of his cock nudge against your soaked entrance. you gasp, fingers curling at his sheets, waiting for the push. unfortunately for you, he’s a fucking asshole. 

his tip bullies into your cunt. he watches you stretch around him, but before he even gets past an inch, he takes it out. “oh, oops. pussy so wet, it slipped out,” he hums, smirking as you whine impatiently. 

what you feel next isn’t his tip anymore. he’s rubbing his cock against your ass, squeezing your cheeks together. he hums lowly, a soft groan escaping him. “mm…can’t believe you were about to give yourself out to intak,” he scoffs as he mentions the other man’s name. 

he finally inches himself into you, catching you off guard. you mewl, eyes fluttering shut as your cunt stretches around his girth. he’s silent, admiring your pussy swallow him until he bottoms out. “fuck–” he hisses out, eyes zoned in on your cunt. 

he thrusts once shallowly. your body immediately clenches around him. he choked out a half-chuckle, half-moan. “seriously… i know you’re a loser but using intak to get me jealous…” he murmurs absentmindedly, shaking his head in disappointment. 

“i-i wasn’t–” you pant out, your own moans cutting you off, “u-using him to make you je-jealous…” you whimper as he gives you a deliberate grind to shut you up. 

“no, i know you, baby. you were tryna make me jealous so i can finally fuck you,” he interjects. then he’s pounding into you roughly, not waiting for you to protest him again. his hands grab at your hips roughly, sure to leave indents of his dull nails in your skin tomorrow. 

he leans over you, his chest pressing into your back. you whine at the new angle, his cock hitting you deeper. one of his hands trail up, brushing hair sticking to your cheek. “mm…look at you. finally getting my cock. you enjoying it, loser? you might never get it again,” he threatens, though with the way your pussy is sucking him in? 

yeah. he’s not ever letting you talk to another man again.

the back of his hands delicately brush the skin of your cheek, contradicting his pistoning hips. you pant out, eyes fluttering open to look at him. he smiles at the sight of your fucked-out expression, like he’s in awe. 

“so stupid,” he laughs, shaking his head. he presses a cheek to your temple though. you’re unsure if he’s trying to make you confused while fucking your brains, or if he’s just doing this shit unintentionally. 

“h-hoon–” you stutter out in a whimper, your hand dipping between your thighs to rub your clit. he hums in acknowledgement, so focused on your cunt taking him that he doesn’t yet notice your fingers rubbing circles on the sensitive bud. 

“what is it?” he asks. he’s breathless, his brows furrowing as he slows his thrusts to a maddening, slow grind. his cock throbs in your cunt, and you whine. that’s when he notices your fingers on your clit. 

immediately, he grabs your wrist and pins your hand on the edge of the headboard. “the one time i don’t want you to do anything, you don’t fucking listen,” he grumbles. your cunt flutters around him. he growls lowly, using his free hand that was holding your hip to reach down and rub your clit. 

you moan, thighs clamping around his hand. he’s annoyed now. he completely pulls his cock out of you, and you whip your head around your shoulder to stare at him. “hey–” your protest dies in your throat when his hand lets go of your wrist to shove your face back down into the pillow. 

“let me play with my dumb girl’s body,” he murmurs, effectively shutting you up. he dips down, lowering himself to be face-level with your pussy. he laps at his own two fingers, getting it wet before he spreads your folds apart. 

he admires you with a hiss, biting on his lower lip before he licks a stripe up your cunt. you gasp, hips immediately pushing into his mouth. “stop fucking moving, or i stop,” he grumbles into your cunt, his voice sending vibrations into your dripping pussy. 

his hands hold onto your ass, keeping you still as he licks and sucks on your cunt. his tongue and mouth is making you absolutely delirious. you whine and sob into his pillow, fighting to keep your hips from bucking into his mouth. 

“o-oh my god, i think i’m gonna–” you breathe out, a punched-out gasp escaping you when he stops. this is the second time he fucking edged you tonight. 

“yeah, yeah,” he drawls lazily, barely acknowledging you as he positions his cock to your entrance again. he slips in with more ease, a groan leaving his lips. he’s thrusting into you hard again, the slap of skin against skin echoing in his room. 

you squeal, your back arching more into him as his cock fills you up. your eyes roll back, hands clawing at his sheets. he doesn’t care. rip them, tear them, those sheets are replaceable. 

you, are not. 

you come without warning. it happens in a blur, so fast and so abrupt. you don’t know when the coil started building up, when it released, when his hand traveled below your stomach to rub at your clit. 

your moans are broken, muffled by the pillow he’s pressing you down into. he grins, canines peaking out with satisfaction. “aww,” he almost coos at you, watching you fall apart. your body trembles, hips threatening to fall onto his bed if it weren’t for his other hand holding your lower half up. 

“fuck, your cunt’s milking me,” he grunts, a punched out gasp escaping him at how tight your walls constrict around his cock from your orgasm. he’s close, and he doesn’t give you a break. “just lay there and get stupid for me, yeah?”

his hips piston into you, pelvis slapping against your ass. your voice is starting to get hoarse, muffled sobs of overstimulating pleasure racking through you. he’s relentless, hands palming at your ass, grabbing at the flesh. 

“ohmygod, ohmygod, i-i can’t–!” you slur out, and shit, he thinks you sound so fucking cute. so stupid. it unravels him. he leans over you again, chest against your back. he buries his face into your neck, mouthing at your skin to quiet himself down because he’s totally not going to let you hear him whimper as he cums.

his teeth dig into your skin. you gasp, loud, feeling his cock throb inside you before he completely stills. you whimper at the sudden stop, turning your face to the side so that your cheek is smushed into the pillow to look at him. “wh-what’s wrong?”

he doesn’t say anything. his breathing is ragged like he just ran a marathon. he swallows thickly, and for a second, you swear he’s wincing to hold himself back when your walls clamp around him again in anticipation. 

“...nothin’,” he answers vaguely. he pulls off of you, his cock slipping out again. you frown, body instinctively moving to turn onto your back so you could look at him properly. his hand shoots out to grab at your thigh, stopping you. 

he smirks lazily at you. “i just decided that i don’t think you deserved my cum in you,” he muses, his hand slowly stroking himself now. “so,” he grunts as he forces you back onto your hands and knees, arching your back for him juuustt right. 

“i’m gonna paint your ass with my cum instead,” he grumbles, already close again from the sight of your ass presented to him. the sound of his hand stroking his cock is lewd, obscenely loud. you bite your bottom lip, looking at him over your shoulder. 

his eyes don’t know where to look. your fucked-out face or your pretty ass? 

Bite, eat, spit is exactly what you’re doing when, with a trembling finger, you finally brave to open your banking app and check your balance. It’s the beginning of summer, and after two semesters of intense studying and too-much-coffee drinking, you think you deserve three long months of doing nothing but hanging out in your childhood bedroom and eating the food your parents buy and make. You’re especially looking forward to the vacation in Mexico you have planned with your friends at the end of August.

One look at your bank account and your dreams of white beaches and seas so blue you couldn’t tell them apart from the sky shatter around you, the sad, low numbers on the screen sneering at you mockingly. You were sure you had saved enough money from part-time jobs and generous relatives, but now you regret all of those night-outs and lazy takeaways. If you had cut down on those, maybe you wouldn’t have to go through the hassle of finding a summer job at the last minute, which you would definitely have to do if you wanted to eat something on that dear beach of yours and not just starve to death under the glaring sun.

That was it - tomorrow, you’d go and get a job. Today, however, you’d enjoy your last day of respite and eat some more cherries, or maybe make some jam and a pie so your parents wouldn’t chide you for eating them all, and then go pick some more from the three trees in your backyard. You’d sit outside, enjoying the warmth of the sun while you read or, if you couldn’t be asked, while you listened to the bustle of the old and worn-down house next door being renovated. You’re surprised someone had the courage to buy it and give it a new life, but you assume that’s the kind of courage that comes with having time and money. 

Yesterday night, you’d heard a little girl playing outside until her mom called her in saying it was time to go, so you made up a story of your neighbors being newlyweds that had decided they’d had enough of the city and wanted to raise their daughter in a calmer town far from busy streets and loud honks. You could bring them some cherries, maybe in jam or pie form, as a housewarming gift.

Unfortunately, the day passed and you were too busy doing nothing to actually get around to baking, so you decided to do nothing some more and then go to bed, needing rest before your big job hunt.

You’d gravely overestimated the amount of job opportunities in your small hometown, only receiving apologetic looks from the store owners as they tell you they don’t need any help, or worse, already have someone. Damn those 16-year-olds who only get summer jobs so they can blow their whole pay in a couple weeks before school starts again. You, on the other hand, need that money for important things, like sipping on a cocktail at a bar with a seaview.

The local hardware store next to the train station is your saving grace. It looks quite small from the outside, but once you step inside, rows of lamps and mirrors in all shapes and sizes along with all kinds of household needs welcome you, followed by a section for gardening and pet caretaking. The basement is where all the paints and brushes were, as well as the more technical (technical to you, at least) products, like bolts and tools or kitchen and bathroom appliances.

A lot of people undertake renovations in their homes during their free time in the summer, so it’s important for the store to have their experts helping out customers in their dedicated aisles rather than working behind the till and restocking the shelves, which is what you will be doing for the next two months. The pay is slightly above minimum wage and with twenty-one hours of work a week, you’ll earn more than enough to enjoy your vacation. You start tomorrow.

Your co-workers are happy to welcome a new face into their team. They’re nice even if they have the tendency to drone on about different types of tools and the importance of choosing the right brush for the surface you’re painting, which you don’t particularly care about, but you think you might as well learn as much as you can during your time here; it might always come in handy later.

As you expected, it isn’t the most stimulating job ever, but you aren’t bored out of your mind either. You make small talk with customers as they explain their purchases, some more defensively than others, even if you didn’t ask. You make sure to restock the shelves correctly and sometimes ask for help when you feel your arms giving out after hours of carrying heavy stuff. When no one’s in, you like to rearrange the cute bathroom decorations so that they make a little rainbow of toothbrush and soap holders.

You were daydreaming about what you would do with your friends in Mexico and all the cherries you could eat there when a man so handsome you thought he was a part of your dream walks in. He doesn’t notice (or maybe he just ignores it, you’re not sure) your gawking and smiles at you, saying “hello” before turning his attention to the map which details where everything is stored at the entrance of the shop. You manage a small “h-hello” back that probably doesn’t even reach his ears, and you curse yourself for doing a poor job of greeting a customer just because said customer looks like he’s been pushed from the heavens above onto this unworthy earth by the other angels who were jealous of his beauty. 

You stay put behind the counter the whole time he’s there to avoid the potential embarrassment of running into him in a random aisle and making a fool of yourself. There isn’t much to do anyway, so you rearrange the organic protein bars and chewing-gum at the counter and count all the money in the cash register to distract yourself. He doesn’t spend a very long time browsing and after twenty minutes, you see him approach with a cart full of the biggest cans of paint the store offers. It’s mostly white paint, but there are some browns and grays, and one of pink as well.

You thank God for those twenty minutes because they allowed you to get a hold of yourself so that you didn’t gape at him like a dead fish instead of scanning his articles, which is what you are very professionally and expertly doing. “That’s a lot of paint,” you comment lightheartedly, partly just to prove to yourself that you can also speak in front of this man.

“I know,” he chuckles, and it seems unfair that his voice should be just as attractive as his face. “The previous owners of the house I just bought had terrible taste in wallpaper and wall colors, so I have to repaint basically the whole house. Everything has to go, really. The floors, the furniture, the lights.”

“Sounds like you’re going to have a busy summer. That’ll be $132.76, please.”

“I’ll pay by card,” he says as he brings his wallet out from his back pocket and inserts his card into the reader, which allows you to look freely at his tanned arms and the veins that protrude here and there. He can’t be older than thirty, so there’s probably not that much of an age difference between the two of you, but damn does he look more mature in the sexiest way possible than all of the male college students you’re used to seeing on a daily basis. If anything, he reminds you of the hot young Linguistics professor your whole department likes to drool over. 

The beep of the payment being accepted snaps you out of your daze. “And yeah, it’ll sure be a busy summer. I’ll need a lot of stuff from here, so you might have to get used to seeing me around,” he says with a smile that makes your heart skip a beat. There’s no way this walking Greek god of a man is actually flirting with you, but the glint in his eyes tells you it wasn’t just an off-hand comment.

“I could get used to that,” you surprise yourself by replying confidently, your smile mirroring his as pretty dimples appear on each side of his face.

You hand him the receipt and notice his eyes flickering down to your name tag before trapping yours in his gaze once again. You don’t think you ever want to look away. “I’ll see you around, Y/N,” he says and walks out with his cart and his tons of paint before you can say anything, lest ask his name, except for “see you.”

You take a deep breath in and another out when he’s out of sight, trying to calm your racing heart. You can’t wait to rave to the girls’ group chat about this, but one of your coworkers calls you for help and you have to put the handsome stranger to the back of your mind for a while.

—

That weekend, your parents ask you to do something about the cherries slowly starting to spoil in the fridge, so you put on your headphones and listen to an audiobook for entertainment, then get to pitting. It feels wrong to listen to The Kiss Quotient and its many smut scenes when your parents are coming and going out of the room, but what they don’t know won’t kill them; you just try to keep your reactions to a minimum during the extra spicy scenes.

Pitting cherries is an arduous task that always takes longer than you think it will, but you never complain about it. You’ve found the perfect technique of cutting them in half around the pit, turning the small fruit without squeezing it, extracting the stone and making sure it doesn’t get confused and end up in the bowl with the pitted cherries, all without tiring your wrists after ten minutes. A surprise pit in a cherry pie can add to the charm of a homemade dessert, but you’d rather not have to spit out five of them while trying to eat one slice.

You prepare a crumbly dough to make two classic American-style pies and fill four jars with cherry jam that you cook while the doughs rest. It’s almost offensive how small the cherries become as they cook, the amount that fills those four jars having filled eight before, but you decide there’s no reason to take it personally since the cherries don’t do it on purpose, and put the jars away to cool down. You roll out the first rested dough and despair for a bit when it keeps on falling apart, but it just makes it more satisfying once you have it perfectly thinly rolled out and covering the tin. The second one is a bit nicer to you and you only have to try rolling it out twice. 

Two hours later, as the sun finally starts to relent and a cooler breeze flows through the air, the pies are all baked, cooled and ready to be eaten. You leave one for you and your parents to enjoy later, then head over to the next house to greet your new neighbors with the other pie. You knock and wait for a good thirty seconds before getting any sort of response, making you think no one’s in.

“Y/N?” a semi-familiar voice calls out, and your head whips in its direction. If this were a cartoon or a 2012 teen show, you’d probably drop the pie tin, but thankfully, your hands aren’t that sweaty, and the shock of the man from the other day at the store being your neighbor isn’t that great, because of course, of course he’s your neighbor. You’re Y/N, after all; the almighty gods above would never let you have a boring, uneventful summer. Of course the hot new man in town is your neighbor.

“Oh! Hi! Guess we’re neighbors. Ha,” you say with a clumsy smile, holding the tin over your forearm as your other hand shields your eyes from the sunlight so you can look at him without squinting your eyes.

“Neighbors?” he repeats as he joins you on the front porch, taking off his gloves dirtied by the mud and using the back of his hand to wipe off some sweat from his forehead. The sweat makes his hair stick to his face and there are small beads of it falling from his hairline down onto his white t-shirt. You detect the slightest of stubbles on his chin and upper lip, probably from not having shaved for just a day or two. He’s even tanner than when you saw him a few days ago, and his thick eyebrows form a straight line as he frowns in what you guess is tiredness and perhaps confusion from seeing you in regular clothes and holding a pie tin on his porch. For a second, you’re scared he might think you’re some kind of stalker, but you nod and tilt your head towards your house. 

“Yep. That one just over there behind you.”

He turns his upper body to take a look at your house and nods slowly as he turns back around, gaze finding yours again like the other day at the store. You have no idea who this man is - hell, you don’t even know his name - but good lord are you attracted to him, especially when he gives you that unreadable smile that shows off his dimples. 

“Huh. What a coincidence,” he says, and that could mean anything in the world, but you hope he means it in a good way. “I’m Sunghoon, by the way.” he adds, extending his hand for you to take, which you do, and the simple action of shaking his hand without eye contact ever breaking is enough to send shivers down your spine. Hopefully, this goes unnoticed by this Sunghoon.

A walking wet dream. That’s what this man is. He’s walked right out of your deepest Wattpad-induced fantasies and into the house next door. Probably doesn’t help that you’d been listening to literary porn just fifteen minutes prior. 

“Is that pie?” he asks as he releases your hand.

“It is, cherry pie I made myself with cherries from our backyard. A housewarming gift, if you will. Here,” you reply, offering him the tin.

He takes it from your hands, the tips of his fingers slightly grazing yours, on purpose or not, you’re not sure. He lifts some of the aluminum covering the pie and peeks underneath, then hums appreciatively. “Thanks, it looks really good. I’ve been living off of ready-meals and casseroles from the neighbors, so this’ll be really nice.”

“Well we’ve got tons of cherries, so feel free to ask whenever you want some,” you offer, and he nods. A small silence settles between the two of you and you’re about to excuse yourself so it doesn’t get awkward when he invites you in, asking if you’d like to have a piece with him.

“If you want to, I mean. I was gonna take a break anyway,” he says somewhat coyly, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. You’re surprised to see him being anything else other than confident and self-assured, but it only makes him look cuter in your eyes.

“Sure,” you accept with a smile, letting him lead you inside the house.

“Sorry, it smells like paint all over the house. That’s why I was outside, doing some gardening while I aired the house out,” he explains. “Let me just get some plates and a knife out. And something for us to drink. Do you want to drink something? I’ve got water, or some iced tea or lemonade. The grandma across the street made some for me,” he says all at once, and you suppress a giggle at his sudden nervous behavior.

“Sunghoon?”

“Yeah?” he responds almost immediately, turning to you just as you both reach the kitchen.

“Just water is fine.”

A shy smile makes his dimples appear once again as he nods. “Okay, sounds good.” You help him carry everything to the back porch and set down the glasses and a jug of water on a table with two chairs around it.

“The porches are the only parts I won’t have to fix up too much, for some reason.”

“You’re going to redo the whole house yourself?” you ask, surprised, as you pour two glasses of water and he serves you a slice of cherry pie (“there might be some stray cherry pits, so be careful,” you warn as he sets a slice on his plate).

“A lot of it, yeah, but I’ve also got some people to help out. My dad’s a carpenter so I know my way around these things, but I also know it’s better and faster to have more than one man on the job, so some guys he works with come a couple times a week.”

“Yeah, with the state this house is in, you’d need more than a summer if you did everything yourself,” you comment, and he chuckles, agreeing. “My friends and I used to make stories about how this place is haunted, you know,” you say jokingly.

“Please don’t jinx my house from the get-go,” he says, making you laugh.

“Sorry, sorry. It’ll be nice seeing it all fixed-up, actually.”

“Have you lived here long?” he asks, looking at you thoughtfully as he takes another bite of the pie. “This is really good, by the way.”

“Thanks. And yeah, my whole life. I go away when semester starts but come back for the holidays and the summer.”

“So you're a student?”

“Yeah, just at the state university a few hours away. Not too far away that it’s a hassle traveling back, but not too close that I go home every weekend. What about you, what do you do?”

You wait for his answer while he swallows his mouthful and take another bite yourself. “I teach,” he starts as he dabs the corners of his lips with a napkin. “Fifth graders, on the other side of town. I used to live in a small apartment near the school I work at but it’s nicer, having more space. I saved enough money to buy this house and fix it up, so here I am now,” he says, gesturing to the house and the garden with his arms. 

You notice his use of the first person pronoun when he talks about where he used to live and his house now, which makes you wonder if it’s just him, even though you were sure you heard a woman and a young girl’s voices the other day. Surely, if he wasn’t single, he wouldn’t have invited you in or given you flirtatious looks, right? Or were you reading totally wrong into this and he was just an exceptionally friendly person?

You put these questions to the side and continue chatting with Sunghoon, letting the subject of his marital status come up on its own during your conversation. And indeed, you get your answer when he tells you about the different parts of the house he plans on having, one of them being a bedroom for his daughter.

“Oh, so you have a daughter? How old is she?” you ask as you take a sip of water, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. Considering his age, you expect that his child will be one, two years old max, so his answer makes you almost choke on your drink.

“She’s turning eight this summer.”

“Eight?” you repeat as you set your glass down, looking at him wide-eyed. So much for nonchalance. “But you’re so-”

“Young? Yeah, I know,” he interrupts with a knowing smile, probably used to this kind of reaction. “I’m 26,” he adds, then watches as you do the simple math in your head. When you turn to him with a surprised look, he answers your question before you’ve even asked it. “Yep, I had her when I was 18.”

“Wow,” is all you can say. “Can I ask what happened?”

“Sure. I mean, it’s nothing extraordinary or anything. I was in my last year of high school, and I got my girlfriend at the time pregnant. We’d only been dating four months but her parents wouldn’t let her get an abortion. They’re really religious. They took care of our baby, with the help of my parents, while I went to community college and she retook senior year since she had to drop out halfway through the year. No, we’re not together anymore, if you’re wondering,” he says, catching you off guard, as if he’d read your thoughts. 

He chuckles before sighing and continues. “If none of this had happened, we’d probably have broken up before going off to college and proceeded to forget about each other. We started out living with her parents, then got that small apartment I told you about when she found a job. We’re not on bad terms by any means, but we’ve just not been in love since Chaeryeong turned 2, probably. We’ve been more roommates than a couple for the past six years. And you know, we kept on living together for Chaer mainly, but she’s found a new boyfriend and I wanted to have my own place. Which has led me here.”

You nod slowly, letting the whole story sink in. “You’re both handling this situation really maturely, it sounds like. I’ve heard of so many teenage parents fighting all the time and not taking care of their kids properly.”

“She’s already got a weird parental situation, it’s the least we can do for her to behave like adults, you know.”

“Right, of course,” you say, nodding again. Your hot new neighbor was actually a DILF, you realized a bit inappropriately, perhaps. Cherry on top.

He tells you a bit more about his daughter and you keep talking until your dad calls you, asking you why you’re not home at dinner time, and you only notice then how long you’ve been sitting there with Sunghoon, just talking. You tell him you feel bad for taking up so much of his time but he shakes your apologies off.

“It was my pleasure, really. And thanks again for the pie, I think Chaer will love it.”

He walks you to the front door and calls out your name after you’ve waved goodbye and started walking. You didn’t know you had been expecting him to do anything until you heard the hopeful tone in your own voice. “Yeah?”

“You any good with kids?” he asks, leaning against the doorway with crossed arms and a smirk that makes your heart flutter.

Although you’ve only got one older brother, you have younger cousins as well as older ones that have babies of their own, so you’re not a complete stranger to kids, but more importantly, you like them. They have the world to learn, but they say surprisingly smart things and have really cute faces.

“I’d say that I am, yeah,” you reply, a smile growing on your face, mirroring his expression.

“Good,” he says, and pauses a second for good measure. “I’ll see you later.”

“See you later, Sunghoon,” you say as you turn back and head to your house, letting him enjoy the view of you walking away. 

On the short way home, you realize that you completely have the hots for your neighbor, although you probably knew that before. Is it twisted that you like him more now that you know he’s got a kid? Probably a little bit, but you’re not going to fight it. He’s single, after all. And not even thirty. A five-year gap isn’t unheard of. 

Your parents ask you where you’ve been as you set the table and get ready for dinner. “Just over at our new neighbor’s house to give him some pie and say hi,” you say as you toss the salad in its bowl, spreading the dressing evenly. 

“Ooh, the neighbor,” your mother echoes knowingly, wiggling her eyebrows, and steals a leaf of lettuce when it falls from the bowl because of your vigorous tossing. “We should have him over at some point, welcome him into the neighborhood. I’ve seen him a bit, you know. Out painting on his front porch or when he was in his garden the same time as me. He’s a very attractive young man,” she says, lowering her voice so your dad doesn’t hear even though he’s outside grilling the meat. “Do you know how old he is? Looks a bit young for a homeowner to me, but who knows what young people are up to these days.

“He’s twenty-six, and he’s saved a lot of money. Plus, I don’t think that house was very expensive. From what he’s told me, the renovations will basically cost as much as the house itself. He’s also got a kid.”

“Aw, must be a cute baby,” she says as your father walks in, carrying a tray of steaming barbecued steaks and potatoes.

“She’s eight,” you say bluntly, causing them both to look at you with wide eyes.

“Oh, right, then. Happens,” your mother says, bringing her glass of water to her lips and taking a sip from it. “Is he still with the mother?”

“They broke up a while ago, but they’re on good terms,” you say, and your mom nods slowly at the information.

“So, he’s single, huh?” she says, trying to hide her smile, earning herself a groan from your dad and a chuckle from you. 

“C’mon, mom!”

“What? You can’t deny that he’s attractive, and he’s single. Plus, you two must get along well if you spent a couple hours talking. Sure, he’s got a kid, but you love those, don’t you?”

“Mom, you of all people would know kids aren’t pets. Dating someone with an eight-year-old isn’t the same as dating someone with a cat.

“No one’s asking you to be that girl’s mom,” she says, dishing out some meat for the three of you. “I’d go get that man, if I were you.”

Your dad shakes his head and you eat your food as you listen to them bickering with a smile. You think about what your mother said - should you go and get Sunghoon? Your heart says yes, but your brain is a bit more reluctant. Another part of your body, lower down there, is screaming ‘yes’ at you.

He does live right by, after all.

That night, you FaceTime your roommate and best friend from college and bring her up to date about ‘the hot man from the store the other day.’ She paints her toenails but listens intently as she always does when you talk about boys, humming and chuckling here and there.

“God, Y/N, I didn’t know you had daddy issues, of all things.”

You gasp fake-dramatically. “Excuse me, I do not! I was attracted to him before I knew he was a dad, I’ll let you know.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Let me know when you guys actually hook up, I’m curious whether older men are actually better,” she says, making you scoff.

“I hope he is. I’m very much tired of those boys that don’t know where the clit is and use too much tongue.”

“You know, when I complain to my mom about guys, she always tells me to wait it out a few years. She says they get more mature and, well, she didn’t say that outright, but she very heavily implied that the sex is much, much better. Kinda gross hearing it from her, but it’s good information.”

You hum. “Well, he’s not that much older… But let’s hope that it still makes a difference,” you say, and then move on to another topic. 

—

One thing that eating cherries has taught you is that if you want to enjoy eating the sweet flesh, you’ll need to deal with the pit as well. Ever the grand philosopher, you realized soon enough that this was applicable to real life and not just your favorite fruit. Wanna get a good grade on your test? Gotta study for it. Wanna go on holiday to Mexico? Gotta find a summer job and earn money.

Wanna make your way to Sunghoon’s bed? Gotta seduce him.

Over the following days, you stand behind the counter at the hardware store, elbow perched on the hard surface, head resting on your palm and vision fuzzy as you daydream about your next encounter with Sunghoon. More often than not, a customer will clear their throat to awkwardly let you know of their presence and you’ll have to exchange your imagined dialogue with Sunghoon for a quick apology and some pleasantries; more often than not, a coworker will call out your name for some help just as you get to the juicy part of your reverie. In those moments, you always feel like you’ve been caught red-handed watching softcore porn, even if no one knows the last thing about what goes on in your head, nor do they care. 

Much like the first time he walked into the store, when he does again on a Thursday morning, you think your daydreams have just gone too far and you’re now hallucinating. But, lo and behold, this is the true Park Sunghoon in the flesh, and he smiles and waves at you as he strides in before disappearing behind one of the many aisles.

You spend the next fifteen minutes going over witty conversation starters that will surely make him fall for you, only for you to stutter out a “h-hi, Sunghoon,” when he finally reaches the counter.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he jokes, and you laugh a bit too hard for a comment that isn’t that funny.

“How are the renovations going?” you ask as you scan his articles - some more paint and brushes, lots of tile glue, a bunch of nails and two different sizes of turnscrews. He frowns in concentration at the snacks next to the counter until he caves in and gets a chocolate protein bar that’s more sugar than protein. 

“Pretty okay,” he starts. “I’m in a bit of a rush, cause Chaer is already coming in two weeks and I need to have finished at least the interior by that time. My dad’s friends helped me get the roof done, so that’s good, but now they’re all busy with other sites so it's just me. Right now I’m redoing the tiles in the bathrooms. You need so much damn glue,” he says with a chuckle.

You think for a second, then timidly offer, “I could help out, you know. If you needed me to.” 

He looks at you with raised eyebrows, halfway through getting his card out of his wallet. “Really?”

“I mean, I don’t have much experience with this kinda stuff, but I’ve picked up a few things here and there from working here. If it saves you time, I could do the easy things. This job isn’t particularly physically demanding so I’ve still got energy at the end of the day. That’s $78.96, please.”

A small smile appears on his face as he inserts his card into the reader. He punches in his code and then returns your gaze. “That could be nice, actually.”

And that’s how you find yourself over at Sunghoon’s house in denim shorts and your dad’s old t-shirts almost everyday for the next two weeks, helping him fix up the old two-storey home. He measures out the perfect length for wood planks or marble tiles that you assist him in fastening to the floors of different rooms and he fixes holes in walls that you paint over afterwards. Sometimes on your breaks, you share a bowl of cherries that you brought from your garden. (One morning, you tried to make cherry juice out of them, but when after almost two hours of pitting the liquid barely filled a glass, you decided that it was too much effort and that you’d keep on just eating them and baking the occasional pie.) You asked him to tell you what each of the rooms upstairs would be and you realized that the window of his room faced yours directly. The blinds were down as they had always been, so you hadn’t known what the room would be.

“I’ve been sleeping on the couch since I haven’t gotten around to fixing up this room yet. Guess I should get to it, though,” he says, giving you a look that blurs the meaning of his words so that you’re not sure what he’s implying, which happens a bit too often with Sunghoon.

And you’d think that spending the better part of two weeks with the current man of your dreams would be amazing, right? 

Wrong. It’s unbearable.

Maybe that’s exaggerating it - it’s mostly fun, and sometimes unbearable. Usually, you’re an avid fan of sexual tension, especially with attractive men like Sunghoon. Lingering gazes, eye contacts when there shouldn’t be any, remarks with a deeper meaning that they let on, barely-there touches on the back of your hand or on your waist that manage to take your breath away. These are all very fine things that keep your heart bouncing and a blush on your cheeks, but they are supposed to amount to something more in the end. Maybe you’re impatient, but after two weeks of sending sex through your eyes to Sunghoon, you get the feeling that he doesn’t reciprocate your desire. One afternoon, you’d made sure to go and sunbathe in your bikini at the exact moment he was doing some work outside, and even then, he merely gave your body a one-over and disappeared a few minutes later inside his house. When he came back about ten minutes later, he could still barely look at you.

At the same time, there’s no way he doesn’t know what he’s doing when he stands close behind you, letting you feel the warmth of his chest against your back, big, rough hands enveloping yours as he demonstrates how to cut a plank of wood with the machine. There’s no way the way he smirks when the action turns you into a stammering mess is innocent, either.

Yet nothing happens. The tension is thick enough to be cut with a knife, but maybe Sunghoon hasn’t bought cutlery yet. The air is already heavy from the heat and the relentlessness of the sun, but this thing between you and him makes it almost suffocating, in somehow the best yet worst way possible. You’re this close to simply throwing your naked body at him, and it doesn’t help that you see his flexing, working muscles and beads of sweat on his hairline everyday. On the days he wears shorts, which is most days, all you can think of is getting off on his thick thighs, of his hands holding you tightly by the waist, of the way he’d look at you, eyes clouded over, of the words he’d whisper in your-

Your phone buzzes, interrupting you in your horny downward spiral. It’s your dear mother telling you to come home for dinner. As you pick up your phone, a second buzz. Ask Sunghoon if he wants to eat with us. 

You find him in his bedroom, adding the last touches to the walls. “I think I’ll be able to sleep here starting tomorrow night. I just need to go buy a bed,” he says when he sees your figure standing in the doorway.

“We can go together if you want,” you blurt before you can stop yourself. Hoping it’ll make you seem less weird, you add, “I’ve got really good taste in furniture.”

“Is that so?” he questions, turning to you with a smile. “I’d appreciate the second pair of eyes, actually. There’s a lot of things I need to get.”

“Yeah, I didn’t wanna comment on it, but I think you’ll end up needing more than a couch, a plastic dining table and two chairs,” you tease, making him roll his eyes lightheartedly. “We can go to that huge second-hand store they have just outside of town. You’ll be surprised how good - and cheap - the furniture is there.”

“Sounds good,” he nods, and checks his watch. “Are you going home?”

“I am. My mom’s invited you over for dinner, if you’d like,” you say, tilting your head at him.

He raises his eyebrows in delighted surprise. “I’d love to. Just need to shower first.”

“That’s fine. I’ll go home, just come over whenever you’re ready.” You exchange quick see you laters and you head home, taking a shower yourself and making sure to use your best-smelling body lotion.

Sunghoon arrives half an hour later with a bouquet of roses in his hands and an award-winning smile on his face. You let him in and he greets your parents, offering your mother the bouquet. “Sorry I took so much time getting here, I wanted to pick these out as a thank you.”

You can tell your mother is pleased to the heavens as she waves him off, leading him inside your house. “That’s awfully nice of you, Mr Park-”

“Call me Sunghoon, please,” he says with a warm smile.

“Right, Sunghoon. And no worries, you’re just on time. Please, sit.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Oh, no, you’re working all day fixing up that house, just sit and relax. We’re very happy to have you over, aren’t we?” your mother says, sending a very obvious smile your way, which makes you furrow your eyebrows and shake your head lightly at her, silently telling her to shut up. Sunghoon chuckles at the exchange but says nothing and you want to bury yourself and your mother ten feet underground.

Sunghoon sits across from you at the dinner table, which allows you to stare unabashedly at him as he works his charm on your parents. He’s the neighbor, so technically, he’s not a boyfriend you brought home to meet them, but still, you can’t help but compare him to those few boys that you did bring home. None of them were a disaster, but none of them went as smoothly as this, either. There were always some awkward silences and dry chuckles with your past boyfriends, but Sunghoon clearly knows how to make parents happy. Maybe because he lived with his ex’s parents for so long, or maybe because he’s a parent himself. Either way, it only adds to your desire to take all of his clothes and let him rail you into next week. Too bad he clearly doesn’t feel the same way, you remind yourself with an audible sigh, which makes him look curiously at you, but you brush it off with a smile.

You watch as he accepts a beer, compliments the food and the house, talks football with your dad, accepts another beer, and shares teaching anecdotes with your mom, who herself is an elementary school teacher. You jump in every now and then when you have something witty to add or someone asks your opinion on something, but most of the time, you sit back and enjoy, happy that everything is going well. 

You bring out your infamous cherry pie that you’d baked the previous day along with some vanilla ice cream for dessert, and smile when Sunghoon tells you how much he’d been waiting to have some of it again, trying not to blush as his gaze stays focused on yours for a second too long. Thankfully, your parents don’t notice, too busy cutting themselves a slice. 

He stays for another hour or so, until the sun has set and the streetlamps and the moonlight are the only things keeping the world visible. Your mom forces him to accept tupperwares full of leftovers from the night and makes him promise to come back with his daughter. Sneakily, she tells you to help him carry the tupperwares home even though he’s more than able to do it himself, then hugs him goodbye, hurrying you out of the door.

Sunghoon hasn’t yet changed the lightbulbs to more efficient ones, so his kitchen bathes in the faint glow of the overhead lighting as you put away the leftovers in his fridge. He stands a bit to your right close behind you, closer than needed to simply hand you the tupperwares he was holding. When everything is stored, you turn around, but you’re trapped between his body and his arm that holds the fridge door open. With his free hand, he takes you by the waist and pulls you gently towards him. “Careful,” he says so quietly, it’s almost a whisper, and closes the fridge door behind you. 

He’s never been this forward with you, and even though you’ve fantasized many times about this exact moment, now that it’s really happening, you don’t know what to do except to search for an explanation in his eyes. His eyes that are looking right into yours and are a bit clouded over, from the alcohol or the proximity between the two of you or both, you don’t know, but that also have the twinkle of a smile in them. 

His lips are close enough to kiss, you think, and as if on cue, his gaze drifts down to your slightly parted lips. “You’re very pretty, Y/N,” he says, before sealing your lips with his own. You respond immediately to his kiss - you’ve thought too much about it to stand there and do nothing - but it’s all so slow and so soft that you’re not sure if it’s actually happening, so dreamlike it all feels.

You’re called back to reality when his other hand finds your waist, your own hands coming up to his shoulders before one of them snakes its way to the nape of his neck, tugging lightly at his hair. This seems to change something in Sunghoon, who all of a sudden tightens his hold on your waist, his arms wrapping around it to bring you closer to him. His kiss gets faster and deeper too, and, to your surprise but not your distaste, a bit desperate. You’re happy if you have on him half of the power he has on you. You taste sweet vanilla ice cream and tangy beer on his tongue, and it’s not at all unpleasant. It makes you want to eat cherries together so you can then taste them in his kiss. 

A lustful sigh escapes your lips and then the warmth disappears all at once. Sunghoon looks at you like you just woke him up from a deep slumber and takes a step back away from you. You call out for him worriedly and the sound of his name seems to make him think he did something terribly wrong.

“I-I’m sorry, Y/N, I don’t know what came over me. We shouldn’t do this, it’s not- I shouldn’t have done that,” he sighs, looking defeatedly at the ground.

“Why?” you ask quietly, almost inaudible.

“You should go home,” he snaps, then closes his eyes as if in pain, cringing at his harsh tone. “I’m sorry. I think you should go home, it’s getting late,” he repeats, softer this time, but the words still sting.

“O-okay,” you say to the floor, already feeling tears well up in your eyes. You feel like you just got rejected by your high school crush, and the humiliation makes you want to crawl into a hole and die. 

Sunghoon sighs again. “I’ll let you know tomorrow about the furniture shopping, yeah? Chaeryeong is coming in the morning so we can go with her.”

“O-okay,” you repeat, surprised he still wants to do that with you. “Good night, Sunghoon,” you say without looking at him and scurry out of his house.

“Good night, Y/N,” Sunghoon answers to the emptiness after you’ve left, touching his lips with the tips of his fingers and feeling the ghost of your kiss there.

—

Truth be told, you haven’t always loved cherries. Because of a heinous lie your older brother had made you believe when you were just six years old, you hadn’t eaten cherries for two summers in a row. It was the summer your parents had finally allowed you to eat cherries as they came from the trees in your backyard - beforehand, they’d been too scared that you’d choke on the pit or swallow it unknowingly, and had always prepared purées or other forms that cherries can take for you to eat, so to be finally handed the small fruit and told “go ahead, try it,” felt like an honor. 

A simple “don’t forget to spit out the pit” from your mother had sufficed for you to be careful, and yet, your brother had thought a fear tactic would be more effective. “If you swallow it, a tree will grow inside your belly and make you puke out cherries,” he’d lied when it was just the two of you at the outdoor table. 

“Really?” you asked him in disbelief, horror written all over your face as you looked at the seemingly harmless yet deadly fruit in your hand. You’d already eaten two and were in the middle of eating a third; your brother nodding ‘yes’ in response was all it took for you to spit out the cherry furiously and immediately start sobbing, afraid you’d swallowed one even though all three pits were right there on the table, a guarantee that no unwanted flora would grow inside of you. 

Your mother rushed outside at the sound of your wailing and quickly put two and two together when she saw your brother laughing uncontrollably while you hid your face in your hands, desolately imagining your future as a walking cherry tree. She held you tight in her arms as she told your brother off and reassured you that he was just playing a stupid prank on you. Still, the simple thought of swallowing a pit had terrified you and you were unable to eat cherries for the remainder of the summer and the one after that.

This is the story you tell Chaeryeong and her dad as the three of you sit outside together, making them laugh - although, a few minutes later, when Sunghoon is gone to the bathroom away, Chaer leans over the table and whispers, “It’s not true, is it?” so you reassure her that you’ve eaten cherries your whole life and have never had one single root take life in your tummy. 

It’s been a bit over a week after you shared that kiss in his kitchen, and the awkward atmosphere is just starting to fade. You’re glad he didn’t ignore you after that night, even if pretending nothing happened when both of you are very aware that something did happen is only the slightly better alternative. It’s a refreshing change from boys that sleep with you and then act like you don’t exist, for sure.

The kiss hasn’t done anything to burst the tension; if anything, it’s made it even more electric. You catch him looking at your lips more than once and you wonder why he still acts the same way as before when he’s made it very clear he didn’t think kissing you was a good idea. Catching him shirtless one night in his bedroom doesn’t help, and neither does him catching you staring at him - you’d quickly shut the curtains, but it was too late, and he’d seen you ogling his toned chest and abs.

At least, the fact that Chaeryeong is here forces a bubbly atmosphere upon you, and you hope you’re not crazy when you notice him fondly looking at the both of you interacting. Chaer is an outgoing little girl and seems to have liked you as soon as you complimented the toy puppy in her hand, saying you used to have the same and it was your favorite.

The day you went food shopping was practically hell to get through. One evening, you were holding onto Sunghoon for dear life, finally kissing him, and the next afternoon, you were browsing through the endless aisles of your local IKEA, holding his daughter’s hand and pretending like you hadn’t kissed her daddy.

When it got to the bedroom part of the store, you and Chaer decided to try all the mattresses and find the most comfortable one. You usually were never one for seating and laying on random beds in stores, but there was a kid with you, so you were sure it’d be fine. When you found the one you liked most, you looked up at Sunghoon from your position and said, “This one’s pretty good, Sunghoon.” His immediately reddening cheeks told you everything you needed to know and you quickly sat up, clearing your throat. He tested the mattress by pushing his palm against it and muttered a “yeah, it’s pretty good” before scribbling down the number of the mattress onto the small sheet of paper customers use to remember which products they wanted.

Of course, now that Chaer is with him and most of the work in the house is done, save for some minor things that Sunghoon can finish up on his own, you spend a lot less time together. You hate that you miss him so much. You miss the way he makes you feel, like your whole body is on fire with just one look or one touch, the way his stupid jokes make you laugh or how endeared he looks when he talks about his daughter. Seeing him with her only adds to your stupid crush - he’s doting, protective and caring, makes sure she has everything to be happy and manages to treat her at once like the kid that she is but also like a human that has opinions and feelings. He’s a really good dad, and that does nothing whatsoever to stop your DILF fantasies, although now, it’s really Sunghoon that you want, and the fact that he’s a dad isn’t a dealbreaker, it just makes him that much better.

You hate that you miss him, and yet being with him is somehow worse, because you can’t do any of the things you want to do. You fall asleep one two many nights dreaming about his lips and how nice it’d be to feel them again - on your lips, on your neck, everywhere. You want to feel him everywhere, and this longing lust is starting to drive you crazy. You’d never wanted anyone this much.

He invites you over for dinner one night, and the look he gives you when he opens the door sends a shiver right down your spine. “Hi, Y/N.” 

“Hi, Sunghoon.”

He leads you into the kitchen with a hand on your waist, even though you’ve been in his house many times before and need no assistance getting there. A small, horny voice at the back of your head tells you that tonight may be the night, but you quickly shut it down, not wanting to get your hopes up all on your own.

Sunghoon serves you a glass of red wine, and you ask him what the occasion is. “Just to celebrate the house being almost done,” he answers with a smile.

Dinner would have gone as usual if Sunghoon wasn’t practically staring you down the whole time, eyes full of something you can’t quite put your finger on and that drives you crazy. His gaze lingers on you every time you speak, and he punctuates the syllables of your name like he’s trying to get a feel for them on his tongue.

Your heart is pounding in your chest when the clock strikes nine p.m. and it’s time for Chaeryeong to go to bed - you don’t know if you’ll be able to handle being alone with Sunghoon, and you might have to make a run for it, Cinderella-style. 

Chaer goes to the bathroom to wash up and change into her pajamas, and when she comes back, she asks - no, demands - that you’re the one who tucks her in, and who are you to say no to the cutest little girl on Earth? She holds you by the pinky as she drags you up the stairs to her room then buries herself in her covers, tapping on the bed next to her body for you to sit there. “Okay, now we can talk without Dad around,” she says all business-like.

She tells you about the boys at her school and the birthday party she went to last week and the latest drama with her friends. The both of you are too busy chatting and giggling to hear footsteps coming up the stairs and stopping at her door, hiding behind the wall. After ten minutes, she yawns loudly and says, “Can you call Dad? I think he’ll be sad if he doesn’t wish me good night.”

“Of course,” you reply and kiss her on the forehead, wishing her a good night yourself. You’re only half-surprised to find Sunghoon at the doorway, waiting for his cue.

“Wait up for me, yeah? I’ll just be a minute,” he says, that smile still on his lips, that smile that keeps you hoping.

“Okay,” you whisper, and head downstairs, nervously taking a sip from your wine glass as you wait for him on the living room couch.

He is indeed back in a very short time, too short a time for your nerves to settle, so when he sits down close to you on the couch, body turned towards yours, you can feel your heart in your throat. He traces the rim of his glass with the tip of his pointer finger and you both watch the slow movement for a bit, a heavy silence hanging over both of your heads. You wait for him to talk because you’re too scared of what you might say if you start the conversation.

“Y/N, I’ve been thinking,” he starts shakily, “about um, our kiss, the other day-”

“Oh, we don’t need to talk about that,” you quickly interrupt, waving your hand in dismissal at him. “You made it clear you didn’t like it-”

“No, that’s the thing-”

“And that you thought it was a bad idea-”

“No, just listen-”

“So let’s just forget about it, and-”

“Y/N,” Sunghoon says in a stern voice, raising his tone just enough to make you stop in your rambling.

“Yeah?” you look up at him, eyes wide open. Expecting, as always.

“I haven’t once stopped thinking about that kiss,” he says, sounding out-of-breath. “I handled it awfully, and I’m so sorry that I made you feel like I didn’t like it, because, God, I liked it. A lot,” he chuckles. “Maybe even too much.”

There they are, the words you’ve been dying to hear. Yet all you can say is a stupid “Oh.”

“I just… I was tipsy, and Chaeryeong was coming the next morning, and I panicked. I didn’t know what to do for the rest of the week, and you didn’t say anything, so I didn’t, either. But I can’t pretend like it isn’t there.”

“Like what isn’t there?” you echo, voice almost low as a whisper.

“You know… this,” he replies, voice as low as yours. Slowly, one of his hands comes up to trace your jawline. You release a shaky breath as you set your wine glass on the coffee table and rest your hand on his knee.

“Are you sure about this? ‘Cause if you tell me that you want me… then I’ll be all yours, Sunghoon,” you murmur, hands slowly sliding up his thigh. He takes you by the wrist and puts your hand right on top of his already growing erection, letting you know exactly how he feels about you.

“God, can’t you see what you do to me? I want you so bad, Y/N,” he almost growls, and with that, his lips are on yours, trapping you into a kiss far hungrier and more ferocious than the previous kiss, your mutual intentions finally laid out in front of you for you both to see.

Sunghoon wastes no time as he grabs you by the waist and brings you to his lap, sitting you on top of his crotch so that you can feel his hardening cock against your core. The kiss turns desperate in mere seconds, and you’re relieved to see that Sunghoon seems to have been waiting for this as long and with as much ardor as you have. Your hands are fisting his hair, tugging almost harshly, while his hands roam the expanse of your back until they settle on your ass, grabbing at it to press you closer to him. You can’t stop yourself from moaning into his mouth when his erection rubs over your core in just the right way, and he takes that opportunity to add tongue to the kiss, deepening it.

You start to grind yourself against him, which he helps you do by slightly rutting his hips into yours and bringing your ass closer at every movement. Quickly, you fall into a rhythm so perfect and that feels so good, you think you might explode right then and there. Forget riding his thigh, this is infinitely better.

Needing to catch your breath, you pull away from the kiss, but your lips find his jaw immediately and you start pressing wet, needy kisses there and down his neck, sucking in some spots so that light bruises appear. “Fuck, Y/N, that feels so nice,” he breathes, eyes shut closed. His scent drives you crazy, and his small praise makes you double down on your actions, almost biting the soft skin of his neck.

As you continue kissing him there, occasionally returning to his lips for more, his hands roam your thighs and then up your back, snaking themselves under your t-shirt and finding the clasp of your bra, quickly doing away with it. He pulls away just so he can help you out of your top and takes your bra off of you, hands caressing your sides as he admires your half-naked body in all its glory. You take his hands and bring them to your chest, resting your hands on top of his as you continue grinding onto him and let him play with your boobs. “You’re so fucking hot,” he practically moans, making you chuckle. You reach for the hem of his t-shirt, because it’s only fair that you get to see him too, and you bite back a moan when he uses the absence of your hands on his to pinch your nipples lightly, then takes one in his mouth, catching you off-guard. You forget all about your plan of undressing him as his tongue flicks at the perked bud, your hands finding his hair again as you moan unabashedly. 

“S-Sunghoon,” you breathe, the combined feelings of his now fully hard cock pressing against your clothed but soaking cunt and of his warm mouth around your nipples really getting to your head and making you see stars, so that all you can say is his name. “Please,” you beg, you’re not sure what for. Mercy, perhaps. Or release.

“Please what, baby?” he asks, and the nickname goes straight to your core.

“I don’t- just, please, Sunghoon, please,” you say incoherently, making him chuckle.

“Okay,” he says as if he can read your mind, and you think he actually does when he lays you down on the couch, fingers finding the zipper of your shorts. He unbuttons them and slides them down your legs along with your soaked panties. He makes sure they’re fully off of your body before running his palms up both of your legs, from your ankles to your hips.

“Don’t tease, please,” you plead, too desperate for him to take his time.

“As you wish, princess,” he smirks, and brings a finger to your folds, sliding it down to gather some slick before pushing it inside your hole. Your back arches as an instant response to his touch and you let out a small whine, already craving for more. “Fuck, so wet, and all for me, yeah?” he questions, his eyes not once leaving your glistening pussy.

“Yes,” you breathe out, mind too fuzzy to produce a longer sentence.

“That’s a good girl,” he coos, and adds another finger, pushing all three of his knuckles in and massaging your sweet spot as soon as he finds it. When he’s found a rhythm for his motions, he finally looks up at you and curses himself for not having watched your face earlier. Head tilted back in pleasure, mouth agape as your breathing gets more and more irregular and eyebrows scrunched together, you look like the definition of sex, and it takes everything in Sunghoon to not start touching himself.

He forces himself to look away from you only to focus back on your pussy and notices your swollen clit that is begging for attention. He licks it tentatively, and when your back arches at the feeling of his tongue on you, he dives in completely, licking a stripe up your folds before wrapping his lips around the bud and sucking at it like he did with your nipples earlier. The pace at which his fingers are pumping out of you quickens and you’re pulling so hard at his hair, you think you might rip some strands off. You feel yourself getting close, and you’re reminded of all those frustrating encounters with college boys where they stopped right before you came, so you can’t stop yourself as you desperately chant “oh my God please don’t stop please don’t stop,” not even noticing the way you’re holding his head down against your clit and bucking your hips into his face.

Your orgasm hits you like a truck - this is probably the first one you’ve received from someone other than your own hand or your vibrator in the past year and a half. It takes your breath away, and you’re left gasping for air for a good thirty seconds, your mind reeling from the intensity of such pleasure. When you calm down, you lift your head to look at Sunghoon who’s already watching you with a grin on his face, your slick coating his chin and mouth.

You plop your head back down with a groan when realization hits you. “I’m sor-”

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” Sunghoon commands, hands rubbing your still-trembling thighs. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” he marvels, and you can’t help but giggle.

“Really?”

“Really.”

After another couple of seconds, you sit up on the couch and send Sunghoon a mischievous look. My turn, you think, and if his smile is any indicator then he seems to have understood. “Let me thank you,” you say, gesturing at him to sit up himself as you lower yourself to your knees on the couch in front of him.

You look up at him from between his thighs then unclasp his belt and undo his jeans. He lets out a shaky breath and says, “You don’t need to do this, you know-”

“Don’t be a gentleman, Sunghoon. I want to do this and I know you want it too. It’s pretty obvious,” you tease as you run your hand over his erection, watching in delight as his eyebrows furrow and his eyes close. “Now help me get these off of you.” He nods and raises his hips so you can take his jeans and underwear off, imitating his actions from before as you take your time to get them over his ankles and caressing his legs until they reach his crotch, watching as he takes his t-shirt off as well so that you can finally see him entirely. You’d caught glimpse of him shirtless before as he worked in his garden, but the sight still manages to take your breath away. Taut muscles and sun-tanned skin, laid bare right before you. This is what they mean by sculpted like a Greek god, you think.

You haven’t done anything, yet his head is already laid back against the top of the couch, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he gulps in expectation and chest rising visibly at every intake of breath. You must’ve saved a thousand souls in your previous life to be deserving of such an image.

You spit in your palm before taking him, starting out by slowly moving your hand up and down his shaft, then rubbing small circles against his tip, the small moan-like sighs that leave his lips letting you know you’re doing a good job. You gather some saliva in your mouth and spit on his length to add some lubricant and smirk when he lets out a low fuck. You bring your head closer and lick his balls, taking one at a time in your mouth and sucking very gently, making the volume of his moans increase. “Just like- fuck, just like that, Y/N.”

You then lick a long stripe up his cock and swirl your tongue around his tip when you reach it, humming at the taste of precum there. Sunghoon gathers your hair in a makeshift ponytail so it doesn’t get in your way, and finally looks down at you, blown away by the beautiful sight of your flushed cheeks and your mouth around his cock. He groans when you take him deeper and unconsciously bucks his hips into your throat, making you gag around him. He loves that feeling but doesn’t want to hurt you so he grabs your face and makes you look up at him, lust and worry written all over his face as he apologizes, but you quickly stop him. “It’s okay, I like it. You can do it again,” you say, and smile before wrapping your lips around him once more.

“Fuck, are you sure?” he asks and you hum, sending vibrations all over his body.

“God, o-okay,” he says, in disbelief that you’re okay with him practically fucking your throat and even liking it. And you do like it - you love letting him use your mouth to get off, just like you had earlier with him. He must have amazing core strength because he’s able to buck his hips into your mouth rapidly as he holds your head tight in his hands. The way you keep coming back for more every time he lets you breathe is enough to drive him crazy, but after a couple minutes, he stops you from taking him in your mouth again.

“I can’t- I don’t wanna cum like this,” he breathes, looking just as fucked-out as you do.

“Where, then?” you ask, kissing him all over his thighs as he trails his fingers through your hair. “Inside?”

He groans at the offer but shakes his head, eyes shut as if trying to calm himself down. “I haven’t got any condoms.”

“I’m on the pill,” you tell him, still pressing kisses on his warm skin. You’re far too desperate to feel him inside you to let a lack of condom stop you, especially when you don’t even need one.

He lets out an umpteenth shaky breath and makes you look up at him. “Are you sure?”

“Sunghoon,” you say, looking him dead in the eyes, “I’ve never been more sure of anything.” You’re relieved when he smiles and nods, bending down to trap your lips in a heated kiss for good measure. Something about being in this position, kneeling in front of his spread thighs and having to look up at him, turns you on even more.

“Okay, then,” he says, still smiling as he pulls away, holding you gently by the chin. “I don’t think I’ll be able to last long, and I want to feel you cum around me. So, tell me, what’s your favorite position, princess?”

The question takes you aback but you answer it anyway, looking at the ground. “Reverse cowgirl…” you admit shyly, a small smile spreading on your lips.

“Reverse cowgirl, huh?” Sunghoon repeats, and you don’t need to look at him to know he’s smirking. “Come here, then,” he says, and helps you up, making you turn around so your back faces him and seats you down on top of him, keeping your hips raised. He takes his cock inside his hands, pumps it a few more times before guiding it to your entrance, pressing kisses to your shoulders and nape to make you relax. 

You moan at the simple feeling of his tip teasing your entrance and Sunghoon whispers “I know, baby” against your skin. “Sit down for me,” he commands gently, and you oblige, lowering your hips slowly to feel all of him stretching you out, the both of you moaning in synchronization when he bottoms out.

Sunghoon wraps an arm around your middle and pulls you onto him so that your back rests against his chest and you can let your head hang back next to his. “Let me do all the work, yeah?” he murmurs into your ear, and you hum in response. He doesn’t move for a bit, roaming his large hands all over your body until he feels your walls relax around him. One of his hands finds your breasts, playing with each nipple in turn, while the other finds your clit. It’s all so much but so good that you’re already a moaning mess before he’s even started moving. “Ready?” he asks, but you’re too far gone to answer.

His pace starts out slow, but you’re impatient and whine as you try to move your hips against his to go faster, which makes him tut. “I told you I’d do the work, didn’t I?” he asks, pinching one of your nipples in reprimand. “So be good for me and stay still, Y/N. I promise I’ll make you feel good.” You whine again but stop moving, heeding his words.

“Perfect,” he whispers and kisses your neck before picking up the pace, shushing you when your moans get too loud.

“I’m sorry, just feels too good,” you manage to let out.

“I know, but you need to stay quiet, baby,” he says, yet gets rougher with his thrusts, which does not help in the slightest. His hand that was on your breasts comes up to cover your mouth, but he quickly decides to make you suck on two of his fingers instead, muffling your moans a bit.

His fingers on your clit haven’t relented this whole time and after just a few minutes, you feel that familiar knot tying itself again in your stomach and you know you’re mere moments away from it coming undone. Judging by his rapid but clumsy thrusts, Sunghoon must be close too. He pounds into you like you’ve been wanting him to ever since you first set eyes on him as he entered the hardware store, hitting your g-spot over and over again. Tears roll down your cheeks and you whimper around his fingers, biting down on them as your second orgasm hits you.

You’re practically sobbing as he helps you ride out your high, his movements sending your body into pleasant overstimulation until he reaches his high too, the feeling of your pussy clenching tightly around him pushing him over the edge. Ropes of his semen paint your walls white, and there’s enough of it for him to become a father of two. You whine as he pulls away, and feel his cum slipping out of you and onto the couch underneath you. Before you can catch your breath, he asks, “Baby, can I do something very dirty?” and you nod without thinking much. This man could do anything he wanted to you, and you’d thank him for it.

He settles you back down onto the couch, kneels on the floor, head level with your core, and sticks his tongue inside your hole, making you yelp in surprise and overstimulation. You don’t understand what he’s doing until he comes back up and makes you open your mouth with his thumb, then spits inside it, telling you to swallow. You do as he says and taste his cum, laughing in disbelief at what he just did - and at how much you liked it. “Fuck,” you giggle.

“Was that too much?” 

“God, no,” you say, and he smiles. You open your arms, gesturing for him to get back on the couch. He rests his head between your breasts, the both of you sighing in contentment as he rubs small circles on your belly and you graze your fingers through his hair. He’s so silent that you think he’s fallen asleep, but he speaks up after a while, voice soft and calm like you’ve never heard before.

“We should go get cleaned up…” he says, and you hum in agreement, “...but it’s so nice here,” he finishes, making you giggle.

“If we get cleaned up quickly now, we can cuddle in bed right afterwards,” you argue.

“You’re right. Infallible logic. You’re so smart, you know that, Y/N?” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

“Of course I know that,” you joke. “Let’s go,” you say, kissing the top of his head.

You take a shower together, cleaning each other and leaving kisses here and there, or touching in places you shouldn’t touch and that maybe lead to more, right there in the shower. Now that you’ve had a taste, you’re insatiable, and you warn Sunghoon that the both of you are in for a very long night, to which he answers that he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Once you do fall asleep, (which isn’t until two rounds later, and you’re surprised either of you have this much energy), however, you’re holding each other tightly, the fan on high so that you don’t feel all sticky, being so close to each other. Even if you wake up here and there because he shuffled or he snored too loudly, it’s one of the best sleeps you’ve ever had.

—

You wake up the next morning by small giggles and snorts that come from none other than Park Chaeryeong herself, who’s buried herself between you and her dad, shaking her body to wake the two of you. You’re glad that you listened to Sunghoon when he told you to put on a t-shirt of his as well as some underwear so neither you or Chaer would have a fright when she came and woke you up as she liked to do every morning. “You had a sleepover!” she exclaims excitedly when she sees you’ve finally opened your eyes, looking at her with a sleepy expression and a smile.

“We did!” you reply, trying to keep the same level of excitement.

“We did,” Sunghoon repeats, taking his daughter in her arms to hug her tightly and blows a raspberry in her neck to make her laugh.

“You didn’t invite me!” she shrieks when her dad’s left her alone.

“Sorry, sweetheart. It was just me and Y/N.”

“No fun,” she pouts, laying on her back and crossing over arms before turning back to her dad. “So, is Y/N my new mom?” she whispers even though you’re right there. You gasp at her question, making wide eyes at Sunghoon who just snorts, and you can’t tell if she’s genuinely asking or if she’s an eight-year-old with an advanced sense of irony.

“Of course not. Is Heeseung your new dad?” he asks, mentioning his ex’s new boyfriend. Chaer shakes her head.

“No. He’s Mommy’s boyfriend.”

“Exactly, and Y/N is Daddy’s girlfriend. Isn’t she?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at you, smirking.

“She is,” you reply, and Chaer turns back to you, giggling. She snuggles close to you, wrapping an arm around your middle, and you’re taken aback by the sheer cuteness of it all. You look at Sunghoon with a fake pained expression, and he smiles endearingly at the two of you before sighing and joining you in your hug. He rests his arms around you and his daughter, kissing the top of your heads in turn. 

“My girls,” he mutters in your hair, and you smile peacefully.

There’s a lot of things you have to talk about with Sunghoon. You know your parents - especially your mom - will be okay with the two of you together, but will his parents be? And once semester starts again, what will happen? You’ll have to go back to campus and he’ll have to stay here - will a three-hour drive be a dealbreaker, or will you make it work?

The thing is, there’s no point in thinking about all of this at this moment. You’ve got the whole summer to figure things out. For now, you’ll eat cherries and spit out the pits, and everything will be perfect.

this is a one shot, there will not be a part two!

permanent taglist: @k-ingzo @bbujiikseu @sunghoonmybeloved @lalalalawon @sd211 @w3bqrl @raikea10 @wntrnghts (ask to be removed/added!)

You sat in the sterile waiting room of the gynecologist's wing in the hospital, your stomach twisting with a mix of anxiety and discomfort.

The dull ache between your legs had been nagging you for days, a persistent throb that made every step feel off-balance.

When the nurse called your name, you followed her down the hallway, your heart pounding as she lead you into the examination room.

The space was clinical and cold, with white walls, a sink in the corner, and that infamous chair with its stirrups waiting like an unwelcome invitation.

Dr. Park Sunghoon entered shortly after, his presence immediately commanding.

He was tall, with sharp features softened by a professional smile and thick black glasses, his white coat draped over broad shoulders.

His dark hair was neatly styled, and his eyes met yours as he reviewed your chart. “Y/N, tell me about the discomfort,” he said, his voice smooth and reassuring, pulling up a stool beside the exam table.

You explain it awkwardly, the soreness, the unusual wetness, the way it flares up without warning and the missed periods.

He nodded thoughtfully, jotting down notes. “It could be an infection or hormonal imbalance. We'll need to run some tests to check your vaginal fluids and cervical mucus for abnormalities. That includes collecting a sample of your arousal response, essentially, your natural lubrication and any ejaculation if it occurs during stimulation.” His tone remained matter-of-fact, but heat crept up your neck at the clinical phrasing.

“For accuracy and to avoid contamination,” he continued, “I'll need to stimulate you manually. It's the safest way to gather everything without waste.” you swallowed hard, nodding despite the flutter of nerves in your chest.

He gestured toward the attached bathroom. “You can remove your pants and underwear there, take your time to get comfortable mentally. I'll prepare the equipment.”

You followed his instruction and closed the door behind you.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you unbuttoned your jeans, sliding them down your hips along with your simple cotton panties.

The cool air kissed your bare skin, making your exposed pussy clench involuntarily.

You folded your clothes neatly on the sink counter, staring at your reflection in the mirror.

Your cheeks are already flushed, nipples hardening against the fabric of your shirt from the chill and the anticipation.

Your mind swirled with a mix of embarrassment and something darker, hotter, a curiosity about how his touch will feel.

Taking a deep breath, you wrapped yourself in the thin paper gown provided earlier, though it did little to cover your lower half once you were back in the exam room.

You pushed the bathroom door open and padded across the cold linoleum floor.

Dr. Sunghoon stood there, his white coat pristine, dark hair neatly styled, those sharp eyes behind his glasses watching you approach.

"Everything alright?" he asked, his voice smooth and professional, though there's a subtle warmth in it that makes your pulse quicken.

You noddd, avoiding his gaze as you climbed onto the table.

The paper crinkled beneath you, the surface hard and unforgiving against your bare ars.

He helped position your feet into the stirrups, your legs spreading wide, knees bent, exposing your most intimate parts to the cool air and his scrutiny.

Your pussy lips parted slightly with the movement, already feeling vulnerable, a faint slickness gathering from nerves alone.

He adjusted the light between your thighs, the beam warming your skin as it highlighted every fold, every inch of you.

"I'll start slowly," he said, snapping on a fresh pair of latex gloves.

The sound echoed like a promise. "Just relax and let me know if anything feels off. We're collecting your natural lubrication first, then stimulating to full arousal for the other sample. The tube here will suction any fluids directly."

Beside your spread thighs, a thin transparent tube hovered near your entrance, connected to a small collection container marked with measurement lines.

It was all so scientific, yet the setup made your clit throb faintly. Maybe you shouldn’t have been watching role play porn.

He settled on the stool between your legs, his breath ghosting over your inner thighs as he leaned in close. You could smell his cologne, clean, and masculine and it made your mind spin.

His gloved fingers brushed your outer lips first, parting them gently to expose your core.

The touch was light, exploratory, sending a shiver up your spine. "You're a bit tense," he murmured, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. "Breathe for me."

You inhaled deeply, trying to steady yourself as he traced the edges of your folds, spreading the emerging wetness around.

His movements were deliberate, skilled, like he'd done this a thousand times, which he probably had, but never quite like this for you.

One finger circled your entrance, dipping just the tip inside, coating it in your juices before withdrawing. The tube hummed to life softly, the end positioned to catch the droplets that trickled from you.

He watched your face the whole time, noting every hitch in your breath, every subtle shift of your hips. "Good," he said, voice low. "You’re responding well. Now, I'll go deeper to stimulate more production."

Slowly, he pressed one finger fully inside you, the intrusion slick and warm despite the glove.

Your walls clenched around the digit, pulling it in deeper as he crooked it just right, brushing that sensitive spot along your front wall.

A gasp escaped your lips, your hands gripping the edges of the table.

He was good… fuck, he was incredible. His thumb found your clit, rubbing in slow, firm circles that made e stars burst behind your eyelids.

Heat built rapidly, your pussy flooding with arousal, the tube sucking greedily at the excess that flooded out.

You tried to focus on the ceiling tiles, counting them to distract from the way his finger pumped in and out, adding a second one now, stretching you deliciously.

your thighs trembled in the stirrups, toes curling as pressure mounts low in your belly.

He could feel it, the way your inner muscles flutter, tightening around his fingers.

"Not yet," he warned, his tone firm but gentle, eyes locked on the container where your juices are slowly filling it. "Hold it in, Y/N. We need more before you climax, the sample won't be accurate if it's too little."

But Lord, it was impossible. His fingers twisted inside you, hitting that spot again and again, his thumb pressing harder on your swollen clit.

You bit your lip, trying to obey, but the pleasure crashed over you like a wave.

Your pussy spasmed wildly around his fingers, gushing more fluid as you shattered with a sharp cry that echoed off the walls “Ah— fuck!" The orgasm ripped through you, hips bucking against his hand, the tube capturing the surge of your release.

He didn’t pull away immediately, letting you ride it out, his fingers still buried deep as your walls pulsed and milked them.

When the tremors subsided, he withdrew slowly, the glove glistening with your cum. You slumped back, chest heaving, mortified heat flooding your cheeks.

Dr. Sunghoon sighed, glancing at the container. It was only halfway to the line. "We almost had enough," he said, not angry, just matter-of-fact. "But you'll need to hold back next time. We'll start over and build it up gradually… can you manage that?"

You nodded weakly, still buzzing from the aftershocks. He discarded the used glove, snapping on a new one, and repositioned the tube.

His fingers returned, though your pussy is still drenched from before.

He slid in easier now, two fingers from the start, scissoring gently to open you up. "Focus on your breathing," he instructed, his free hand resting on your thigh, thumb stroking soothingly. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. Let the arousal build without chasing the peak, alright?”

It was torture and bliss combined. He worked you methodically, fingers curling and thrusting in a rhythm that was slower now and more controlled.

He avoided your clit for a while, letting the pressure simmer, your juices flowing steadily into the tube.

You clenched around him, trying to obey, whispering to yourself not to cum, not yet.

Sweat beaded on your forehead, your nipples aching against your shirt, begging for attention you can't give.

He watched the container fill, inch by inch, his expression focused, almost clinical, yet there was a subtle darkening in his eyes, a hitch in his breath when your pussy squeezed him particularly tight.

"Almost there," he murmured after what felt like an eternity of edging pleasure. "Just a little more. You're doing so well, Y/N.”

His praise sent a fresh wave of heat through you, your clit throbbing untouched.

When the fluid finally reached the marked line, he nodded in satisfaction. "Enough, good girl." His fingers started to withdraw, the sudden emptiness making you whine.

But you couldn’t take it, the ache is too intense, your body screaming for release after being teased so expertly.

On instinct, your hand shot down, grabbing his wrist, holding his fingers inside you. "Please," you beg, voice husky and desperate. "Don't stop. At least... don't leave me like this. I need to cum."

He froze, eyes widening slightly behind his glasses, clearly taken aback.

For a moment, the room was silent save for your ragged breathing.

Then, something shifted in his gaze, surprise melting into something heated, unspoken. He hesitated, glancing at the door as if checking for interruptions, before nodding slowly. "Alright," he murmured, voice rougher now. "Just this once, to ensure your comfort."

His fingers plunged back in fully, no holding back this time. Sunghoon removed the suction tube and focused fully on you.

He added a third one, stretching your pussy wide, the burn mixing with ecstasy as he fucked you with them, hard and deep.

His thumb returned to your clit, rubbing furious circles that made your vision blur.

The wet squelch of your arousal echoed louder, your hips grinding up to meet his thrusts. "Fuck, yes," you moaned,, no longer caring about professionalism. Your walls clamped down, the orgasm building fast and fierce.

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your thigh, "Let go for me," he whispered, the words slipping out, fueling your fire.

You shattered again, harder than before, crying out “Mh… yes!" as your body convulsed squirting a fresh gush of fluid that the tube barely caught. Waves of pleasure crashed over you, leaving you limp and trembling, his fingers pumping through every pulse until you're spent.

Your hand was still gripping his waist, but as soon as you realised you removed it.

Finally, he eased them out, the glove soaked through. You caught your breath, eyes drifting down to his lap. There, beneath the white coat draped strategically, a prominent bulge strained against his pants, the outline of his hard cock clear, thick and insistent.

he shifted, adjusting the gown to hide it better, but the evidence was there, a testament to how much it had affected him too.

He cleared his throat, peeling off the gloves with deliberate slowness, disposing of them in the bin. "You can get dressed now," he said, turning away to give you a semblance of privacy, “Take your time."

You slid off the table on shaky legs, retrieving your clothes from the bathroom and dressing quickly, the fabric uncomfortable gainst your sensitive skin.

When you emerged, he was seated at his desk, the container sealed and labeled, his composure regained, but that bulge still lingered in your mind.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, pen poised over his clipboard. "Any pain or unusual sensations during the procedure?"

You shook your head, sinking into the chair opposite him "No, just... intense… I guess."

He nodded, jotting notes. "We'll analyze the samples and have results in a few days. In the meantime, avoid strenuous activity down there, and if the discomfort returns, call me directly."

His eyes met yours, lingering a beat too long, a subtle promise in the way he says your name. "You're free to go, Y/N. Take care."

The championship was looming, and your schedule filled up like a dam about to burst: early-morning off-ice conditioning, endless run-throughs of your programs, choreography tweaks, costume fittings, media training, jump drills until your legs shook. Your coach hovered constantly, stopwatch in hand; your mother appeared at every practice with a notebook full of notes.

There was never any privacy.

You’d glide onto the rink for your session and spot him across the ice finishing his—or vice versa. He’d be stretching against the boards, or running his short program, or talking to his own coach, but the second your blades hit the surface his eyes found you.

Every. Single. Time.

At first it was just stares—long and heated. You’d feel his gaze like a physical touch and pretend you didn’t, lifting your chin higher, spinning faster, landing jumps cleaner just to prove you weren’t distracted.

Then you started teasing him.

It was small things at first.

A brush of shoulders as you passed each other at the gate. Holding a spiral a little longer when you knew he was watching, arching your back just enough. “Accidentally” dropping a glove near his bag so you had to bend over right in his line of sight.

He noticed. 

His jaw would tighten. His eyes would darken. Once, when you skated past him doing backward crossovers and let your fingers trail along the boards inches from his hip, he actually grabbed the railing hard enough to make the metal creak.

But you were never alone long enough for him to do anything about it.

Your coach would bark your name for the next run-through. Your mother would appear with a pointed “Focus.” Other skaters would flood the ice for group warm-up. Every time he took a step toward you, someone or something got in the way.

You’d catch his eye across the rink, bite your lip just enough to make it obvious, then turn away like nothing happened. You’d land a triple-triple combination perfectly and throw him a tiny, mocking salute before gliding off. Once, during a shared cool-down, you stretched your hamstring against the boards right next to him—leg extended high, hips open—and pretended not to notice when his gaze dropped and stayed there.

The rivalry reignited hotter than before, but now it had teeth.

Stares turned into glares. Glares turned into silent challenges. Every practice became a game of who could push the other further without breaking first.

He started retaliating, of course.

And Sunghoon didn’t play fair.

It started small—subtle enough that no one else would notice, but designed to drive you insane.

He’d time his water breaks to overlap with yours, leaning against the boards right next to you while you drank, close enough that his arm brushed yours every time he lifted his bottle. He’d take long sips, throat working, a single droplet sliding down his jaw that he’d wipe away with his thumb—then lick it off while holding your stare.

You’d glare and turn away. He’d smirk like he’d already won.

During group warm-ups, he’d claim the harness spot right behind you. The coach would call for spread eagles down the line, and Sunghoon would hold his low and long, body stretched out, hips tilted just enough that you could see the outline of him through his pants when you glanced back. He knew exactly where your eyes went. He’d flex slightly, making it worse, then act innocent when the coach yelled at you for losing focus.

The worst came during a shared off-ice stretching session.

The team was in the workout room, everyone on mats doing splits or hip openers. You were in a deep straddle, when Sunghoon dropped down right in front of you—facing you, legs spread wide in his own stretch, close enough that your knees almost touched.

He leaned forward like he was just stretching his back, but his voice was low, meant only for you.

“Been thinking about how flexible you are,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours. “Wondering how wide I could open you up before you start begging.”

Your stretch faltered. 

“Bet I could fold you in half against the boards. Legs over my shoulders. Watch you try to stay quiet while I fuck you so deep you feel me for days.”

No one else could hear—the music was on, people chatting—but you felt every word like a touch. Your breath hitched, thighs trembling in the stretch.

He leaned closer, pretending to adjust his position, lips barely moving. “I imagine pulling out right when you’re about to come, just to hear you whine.”

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from making a sound.

He sat back with a satisfied smirk, loud enough for the room to hear: “Good stretch, huh?”

You wanted to kill him.

That night, you couldn’t sleep.

Every time you closed your eyes, you felt his voice in your ear, like he hadn’t just threatened to edge you in front of an entire room of people. Your body was still wound tight, skin hot, mind replaying the way he’d looked at you while saying it. Calm. Smug. Knowing exactly what he was doing to you.

You rolled over, grabbed your phone, and opened the thread before you could talk yourself out of it.

No text. Not this time.

You turned on the bedside lamp, pushed the covers down, and angled the phone.

The photo was simple but lethal: you on your bed, wearing nothing but the thinnest tank top you owned—no bra—and a pair of black lace shorts. One knee bent, the other leg stretched out. Tank ridden up just enough to show the underside of your breast, nipple barely hidden by the fabric. Your free hand rested low on your stomach, fingers dipping under the waistband of the lace, teasing but not showing anything more.

Your hair was loose and messy, lips parted, eyes staring straight into the camera like a challenge.

You looked like you’d been waiting for him.

You hit send at 12:47 AM.

The message showed delivered. Then read. Then the typing indicator appeared immediately—frantic, starting and stopping like he couldn’t decide what to say first.

sunghoon 12:47 AM

fuck

im dead

actually fucking dead

sunghoon 12:48 AM

[photo] — (he’s sprawled on his bed, sheets kicked low around his hips, wearing only tight black boxer briefs that do absolutely nothing to hide how hard he is. One arm is crooked behind his head, showing the sharp line of his oblique disappearing under the waistband. The other hand rests low on his stomach, fingers just brushing the obvious bulge straining against the fabric. His hair is messy, lips parted, eyes staring straight into the camera like he’s daring you to look away.)

sunghoon 12:48 AM

this is what i’m doing because of you

look how fucking hard i am

can’t even think straight

touch yourself for me

tell me what you’re doing

You bit your lip so hard it stung, thighs squeezing together as heat rushed through you. Your fingers flew over the keyboard before you could second-guess yourself.

you 12:50 AM

just slid my hand into my panties

i’m so wet it’s embarrassing

all because of that picture

sunghoon 12:50 AM

fuck

show me

spread your legs and take one for me

want to see how pretty that pussy looks thinking about me

you 12:51 AM

not yet

you first

pull those boxers down and stroke it for me

sunghoon 12:51 AM

brat

fine

[photo] — (boxers shoved down just enough to free him—hand wrapped tight around his cock, thumb swiping over the tip where precum is already beading.)

sunghoon 12:52 AM

happy?

this is what you do to me

every. single. night. 

now your turn

Your breath hitched, sharp and audible in the dark room. The threat alone sent a fresh rush of heat between your legs.

You set the phone on the pillow beside your head, propped it up so the camera could see everything, and hit record.

The red dot blinked.

You pushed the tank top higher, exposing both breasts fully, nipples tight and aching from the cool air and the thought of him watching. Your other hand slid down your stomach, past the lace waistband, fingers slipping easily through how wet you already were.

You started slow—one finger tracing up and down, spreading the slickness, circling your clit just enough to make your hips twitch. A soft, breathy moan escaped before you could stop it. Then you pushed two fingers inside yourself, deep and sudden, the stretch making you arch off the bed with a quiet gasp. You curled them, stroking that spot he’d found so easily at the rink, pumping in and out with a rhythm you wished was his cock.

The video caught everything: the wet sounds of your fingers moving, the way your thighs trembled, the soft, needy noises you couldn’t hold back, your breasts rising and falling with every breath.

You kept it short—fifteen seconds—but it felt like forever.

You sent it without a caption.

The message showed delivered. Then read.

You stared at the screen, chest rising and falling fast, fingers still slick and trembling between your thighs. The room felt too quiet, too hot.

It took exactly eight seconds.

sunghoon 12:55 AM

can i call you

No punctuation. No please. Just raw need.

You bit your lip, heart slamming against your ribs. Every rational thought screamed no—your mom was down the hall, it was almost 1 AM, the championship was a week away, this was crossing a line you couldn’t uncross. 

But your body was still throbbing from the video, from the way he’d looked stroking himself, from the memory of his hands on you.

You typed before you could stop yourself.

you 12:56 AM

yes

The voice call came through instantly, like he’d been waiting with his finger already on the button.

You let it ring twice, three times, just to make him suffer a little.

Then you swiped accept.

The screen filled with his face.

He was still in bed, phone propped against something so you had a full view: hair even messier now, cheeks flushed dark, eyes heavy-lidded and wild. The lamp behind him cast sharp shadows over his collarbones, his bare chest rising and falling fast. One arm was out of frame—moving, you realized with a jolt, the subtle flex of his shoulder giving him away.

“Fuck,” he breathed the second your face appeared, voice low and wrecked. “You look…”

He trailed off, swallowing hard, gaze raking over you like he could see everything even though you’d angled the camera at your face and shoulders only.

You smirked, though your voice came out breathier than you wanted. “Miss me already?”

“Don’t,” he warned, but there was no heat in it—just desperation. His eyes squeezed shut for a second, a quiet, cut-off groan escaping him. “Don’t start with that shit right now. I’m—fuck—I’m barely holding on.”

You shifted, propping your phone against a pillow so your hands were free, letting the camera catch the way your tank strap had slipped off one shoulder.

“Then don’t hold on,” you whispered.

His eyes snapped open, dark and blazing.

“Show me,” he said, voice rough. “Show me what you were doing in that video. Let me watch.”

You tilted the phone down—slowly—letting the camera slide over your chest, your stomach, until it framed your hand disappearing beneath the lace.

His sharp inhale was loud through the speaker, deep and unrestrained.

You didn’t say anything. You just let the camera linger on your hand as you started moving again—slow circles over your clit at first, then sliding lower, two fingers pushing inside yourself with a slick sound that made your cheeks burn.

“Fuck, look at you,” he rasped, voice low and gravel-rough. 

You bit your lip hard to swallow the whine that wanted to escape, hips rolling into your own touch as you watched his arm pick up speed—shoulder flexing, bicep tensing in quick, urgent strokes just off-frame.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Fuck yourself deeper. Pretend it’s my fingers—remember how I curled them inside you at the rink? How you clenched around me like you never wanted me to stop?”

Your fingers thrust harder at his words, a soft, involuntary moan slipping out before you could stop it.

He let out a dark laugh. “Yeah, just like that. I can hear how wet you are. Keep going—don’t slow down.”

His arm moved faster now, the rhythm obvious even without seeing it, his chest rising and falling in sharp pants. 

“Pull your shorts down,” he ordered suddenly, voice thick with command. “All the way. I want to see everything.”

You didn’t hesitate.

Your free hand hooked into the lace waistband and tugged the shorts down your thighs, letting them bunch at your knees. You spread your legs wider for the camera, fingers sliding back inside you without pause, thumb circling your clit in tight, needy strokes.

“You have no idea how fucking hot you look right now.”

He tilted his phone down slowly, just like you had.

The camera slid over his heaving chest, until it framed his hand wrapped tight around his cock—stroking fast now, slick with precum, the head flushed dark and swollen. His fist pumped from base to tip in long, rough pulls, hips bucking slightly into every stroke.

Your fingers sped up to match his rhythm, the wet sounds louder now, breath coming in soft, desperate gasps. 

“Close,” he moaned, voice breaking. His strokes turned erratic, fist twisting over the head on every upstroke, precum dripping down his length in shiny trails. “Fuck—come with me. Want to watch you fall apart while I—”

He couldn't even finish.

The orgasm hit you like a wave, sudden and overwhelming. Your back arched high, thighs clamping around your hand as you clenched hard around your fingers, pulsing in tight waves. A broken moan tore from your throat, your whole body shaking in ecstasy, vision blurring at the edges.

Sunghoon cursed, low and filthy, hips bucking hard into his fist.

“Shit—yes—”

His release hit at the exact same second.

You forced your eyes open through the haze, watching as thick ropes of cum shot over his abs, spilling across his fingers, dripping down his shaft. There was so much—more than you expected—painting his stomach in messy, white streaks that kept coming with every rough stroke until he was spent, hand slowing, chest heaving, cock still twitching in his grip.

The sheer amount left you speechless, a fresh clench fluttering through your oversensitive body at the sight.

Sunghoon’s eyes fluttered open, catching yours through the screen and let out a breathless, wrecked laugh, dragging one finger through the mess on his stomach and holding it up to the camera like a taunt. “Never come that hard in my life. You happy now?”

“I—” you started, voice shaky, “—didn’t think it was possible to… that much.”

“Get used to it,” he said, voice still gravel-rough from his orgasm. “Next time it’s gonna be inside you. Want to feel you squeezing every last drop out of me.”

You pressed your thighs together, biting back the whine that wanted to escape. “You’re insane.”

“About you? Yeah.” He tilted the phone a little lower again, giving you another lazy pan of the mess across his abdomen, like he knew exactly how much it was wrecking you. “Look at what you did. I’m gonna need a new sheet.”

You let out a breathless laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. “You’re cleaning that up yourself.”

“Only if you promise to make a bigger one tomorrow night,” he shot back instantly, eyes glinting with that familiar cocky spark. 

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. “We have six a.m. ice tomorrow, Sunghoon. Some of us need sleep to land triples.”

He groaned dramatically, flopping back against his pillow, still gloriously on display. “Don’t remind me. I’m gonna be thinking about that pretty pussy every time I spin.”

“Pervert.”

“Your pervert,” he corrected, soft in a way that made your chest do something dangerous. Then his tone shifted back to teasing. “Send me one more before you hang up. Just your face. Want to see how fucked-out you look right now.”

You hesitated, then angled the camera up. Your cheeks were flushed deep red, lips swollen from biting them, hair a wild mess around your shoulders, eyes still glassy. You looked exactly like someone who’d just come watching Park Sunghoon fall apart on the other end of a video call.

He exhaled slowly, something reverent flickering across his expression.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

The softness caught you off guard. For a second, neither of you spoke—just looked at each other through the screen, breathing syncing without meaning to.

Then he smirked again, breaking the moment. “Now go to sleep before I say something stupid and ruin my reputation.”

You snorted. “Too late for that.”

“Night, brat,” he said, voice low.

“Night, asshole,” you answered.

You both lingered a second longer—fingers hovering over the end button—before finally tapping it at the same time.

The screen went dark.

You dropped the phone onto your chest, stared at the ceiling, and let out a long, shaky breath.

Tomorrow at 6 a.m., you’d be on the same ice again.

Trying to act like nothing had changed. 

The week leading up to the championship turned into a fever dream of stolen moments and endless frustration.

Every day at the rink was torture disguised as routine.

A quick detour into the equipment room between run-throughs: Sunghoon crowding you against the shelves, mouth hot and desperate on yours, one hand sliding under your top to palm your breast while the other gripped your hip hard enough to leave faint marks. You’d kiss him back just as fiercely, fingers twisted in his hair, pulling him closer until you had to break apart gasping when you heard footsteps in the hall.

In the narrow corridor behind the judges’ booth during a five-minute break: he’d pin you to the wall, thigh shoved between yours, while he sucked bruises along your collarbone—marks you’d have to hide under higher necklines and extra concealer. Your hands would roam under his shirt, nails dragging down his back, swallowing each other’s quiet moans until a coach’s voice echoed nearby and you’d separate, flushed and breathless, pretending nothing happened.

Once, late after everyone else had left, you found yourselves alone in the empty warm-up room. He locked the door, pushed you onto the padded mat, and you spent ten frantic minutes grinding against each other—clothes still on, just hips rolling, mouths fused, hands everywhere. He had you straddling his lap, fingers digging into your ass as he rocked up into you, whispering filthy promises against your lips until you were both shaking and had to stop before you crossed the point of no return.

Another day, you dragged him into the narrow hallway by the showers. You dropped to your knees for exactly thirty seconds—just long enough to pull him out and lick a thick stripe up his cock before footsteps echoed and you both bolted, laughing breathlessly, him cursing under his breath as he tucked himself back in.

Never enough time. Never enough privacy. Never anything more than quick, frantic touches.

The nights were your only real escape.

As soon as you got home—shower, dinner, pretending to study footage—you’d lock your door and open the chat.

Some nights it was texting: filthy threads that went on for hours, trading fantasies about what you’d do once you finally had a locked door and no interruptions.

sunghoon 2:14 AM

thinking about bending you over 

fucking you good

watch your face while you come around me

you 2:16 AM

keep talking like that and i’m sneaking out

want you to pull my hair and make me take it until i can’t stand

Other nights it was video.

You’d answer his call already stripped down, phone propped on your nightstand. He’d be shirtless in bed, hand already moving, voice low and commanding as he told you exactly how to touch yourself.

You’d come together more times than you could count, whispering each other’s names like prayers, screens fogging with breath, bodies miles apart but somehow still tangled.

Afterward, there was always a quiet moment—just breathing, eyes locked through the camera, soft laughter when one of you said something stupid. He’d trace the screen with his finger like he could touch your face. You’d fall asleep with the call still connected sometimes, waking up to his sleepy “morning.”

You were both running on caffeine, adrenaline, and the constant ache of wanting more.

The championship was six days away… five… four…

Before you knew it, the calendar flipped to the day of it.

You should have felt ready.

Your short program was polished to a razor’s edge; you could skate it blindfolded. Your free skate had landed clean in every run-through for the past ten days. Your costume—a deep midnight blue with crystal embellishments that caught every light—was stunning, cut close to the body in a way that made you feel powerful and a little dangerous. (Yes, it hugged every curve. Yes, you knew exactly whose eyes would be glued to you. And yes, that was part of the plan.)

Hair pinned in an elegant low twist, makeup sharp and dramatic—smoky eyes, bold red lip. Skates fresh and white as fresh snow.

Objectively, you looked like a champion. But backstage, pacing the warm-up area, you were a live wire of stress. 

Because he was already out there.

You’d watched his entire performance on the monitor in the athlete lounge, arms crossed tight, trying to look casual while your stomach twisted itself into knots.

He’d been flawless.

Every jump textbook—quad toe-triple toe combination landed with inches to spare, triple axel floated like he had all the time in the world. His spins were centered and blindingly fast, his footwork sharp enough to cut glass. The program component scores were going to be through the roof; he skated with that effortless, infuriating charisma that made the entire arena hold its breath.

And god, he looked unfairly good doing it.

Black costume with silver accents that made his shoulders look broader, waist narrower. Hair styled back just enough to fall forward when he spun. The lights catching the sharp line of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes when he hit his final pose—arm extended, gaze straight into the judges like he already knew the gold was his.

The crowd had erupted. The announcers were already calling it the performance of the night.

You hated how easily he made it look. Hated how your heart raced watching him. Hated that even now, furious and stressed, part of you wanted to drag him into the nearest empty room and wipe that perfect, smug expression off his face with your mouth.

Your coach found you, fidgeting with your wrist guards.

“Stop watching him,” he said bluntly, steering you away from the monitor. “Focus on you. You’re ready. You’ve got this.”

You nodded, forcing a smile. “I know. I’m good.”

But were you that good?

Because he’d looked straight into the camera on his ending pose—straight at you, you swore—and the tiniest smirk had tugged at his lips. Like he knew you were watching. Like he knew exactly what it was doing to you.

Your phone buzzed in your bag.

You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

sunghoon 2:14 PM

nervous, baby?

don’t be

you’re gonna kill it

then i’m stealing you right after

You shoved the phone deeper into your bag, jaw clenched.

You weren’t nervous about skating.

You were nervous about surviving the next few hours without marching over to him in front of everyone and doing something that would get you both disqualified. Because if he won—and he probably would—and if you won (you had to), the second those medals were around your necks, the wait would finally be over.

You rolled your shoulders one last time, took a deep, steadying breath, and glided toward the gate.

The arena lights were already lowered for introductions, the crowd’s low hum rising in anticipation. Your name echoed through the speakers, followed by the familiar voice of the lead commentator.

“…representing Korea, the reigning national silver medalist, two-time Junior Grand Prix Final gold medalist, and this season’s breakout senior competitor… known for her technical precision, artistic depth, and unrelenting drive… please welcome—”

You stepped onto the ice just as the spotlight hit you.

The midnight-blue costume caught the light immediately—crystals flashing like scattered stars across the fitted bodice, the skirt flaring slightly as you moved. The cut was bold: high neck in front, plunging illusion mesh in back, sleeves sheer and long, every line designed to elongate and accentuate.

The commentators didn’t miss it.

“—and look at this costume choice tonight,” the second voice chimed in, warm with approval. “Absolutely stunning. Elegant, powerful, and just a touch daring.”

You didn’t look at the camera pointed at your face. You didn’t need to see your own expression. 

You glided to center ice in smooth, confident strokes, the crowd’s applause swelling as you circled once, letting the skirt flare, letting the crystals catch every flash from the audience phones. You came to a clean stop in the middle, dropped into your opening pose—head tilted back, one arm extended high, the other curved across your body, back arched just enough to show the line of the costume to its best advantage.

The arena lights dimmed further.

A hush fell.

The first notes of your music—haunting strings building into a powerful, lyrical piano—filled the space.

You launched.

First stroke strong and sure, arms flowing into the opening choreography. Every movement, every edge full of emotion. The triple lutz combination came early—you attacked it with fire, landing clean and flowing immediately into the step sequence. The crowd reacted instantly, a ripple of appreciation as your blades carved intricate patterns, hips and shoulders moving with the music like you were telling a story only you and one other person in the arena truly understood.

You felt his gaze the entire time. Not the judges. Not the audience. 

Him.

Somewhere in the stands or backstage, watching the monitor, you knew he was locked on every line of your body, every extension, every spin that made the crystals blur into streaks of light.

You gave him everything: the layback spin with your head dropped back, hair nearly brushing the ice; the final spiral sequence where you held the edge forever, leg high and steady, free hand trailing like an invitation.

The music built to its crescendo.

You hit your final pose—chest heaving, arms flung wide, chin lifted in defiance—and the arena exploded.

Applause crashed over you like a wave.

You held the pose a second longer than necessary, eyes finally flicking toward the camera that fed the backstage monitors.

A tiny, knowing smile curved your lips.

Your turn to suffer, Sunghoon.

You glided off the ice on a high, chest heaving, adrenaline singing in your veins. The crowd was still roaring as your coach squeezed your shoulder, mother already tearing up beside you. The scores flashed—personal best, segment leader—and you allowed yourself one small, fierce grin before they ushered you backstage.

Then came the wait.

You watched the final contestants from the sidelines, arms crossed tight, jacket zipped up again to hide the way your costume clung to sweat-damp skin. Every skater who went after you was good—some phenomenal—and with every clean program your stomach knotted tighter. You kept your face neutral, but inside you were calculating, recalculating, picking apart every landing, every component mark.

When the last skater finished and the arena lights came up for the medal ceremony, the air felt too thick to breathe.

The announcer’s voice boomed.

“In third place… with the bronze medal…”

A name you recognized—one of the younger skaters who’d had a strong free skate. Applause. She stepped onto the lowest podium, beaming, tears already shining in her eyes.

Then came the pause that felt like it lasted forever.

“In second place, with the silver medal…”

Your stomach dropped.

“…Park Sunghoon!”

The crowd roared. You watched him glide out from the tunnel again—this time slower, more measured. His expression was tight: polite smile only for the cameras. He stepped onto the second podium, silver medal draped around his neck, bouquet in hand. 

Then the pause. The heavy, breathless silence that always falls right before gold.

“And your national champion… with the gold medal…”

Your name.

The arena exploded louder than it had for anyone else all night.

You glided to the top step of the podium, flowers pressed into your arms, the heavy gold medal slipped over your head and the trophy resting in your arms. The anthem played. You stood tall, chin high, letting the moment sink in.

Silver beside you. Gold on you.

When the music faded and the official photos began, you turned just enough to face him fully—close on the shared podium, close enough that the cameras wouldn’t catch everything.

You leaned in slightly, voice low and sweet, meant only for him. “Aw, silver looks good on you,” you murmured, lips barely moving, eyes wide with mock sympathy. “Almost like gold… but not quite.”

His jaw tightened. The hand holding his bouquet flexed.

You tilted your head, letting your smile turn sharp. 

“Better luck next year, Hoonie. Maybe if you’d practiced a little harder instead of sending me all those desperate little videos…” You let the words trail off, biting your lip like you were holding back a laugh.

His eyes narrowed—dangerous, heated. The silver medal rose and fell with his quickening breath.

The photographers called for one more group shot. You both turned to face them, perfect smiles plastered on.

After quite some time the photographers finally stepped back, and the medalists were herded toward the mixed-zone for interviews. Reporters swarmed, microphones and cameras thrusting forward like spears. Bronze took the first wave of questions, then Sunghoon—polite, charming, the perfect silver-medalist answers about “honored to be on the podium,” “grateful for the support,” “room for improvement next season.”

You stood half a step behind him, gold heavy and cool against your chest, arms loosely folded, waiting your turn with the sweetest smile you could plaster on. Trophy already “confiscated” by your mother, no doubt to her collection.

When the reporters turned to you, the questions came fast. “How does it feel to take the national title in your senior debut?”

You tilted your head, letting the smile sharpen just enough. “It feels exactly like what I’ve been working for since the day I watched the last podium and promised myself I’d be the one standing highest this time.” Your eyes flicked sideways to Sunghoon for the briefest second. “I studied every performance from last season—every jump, every component score—and I made sure I fixed everything that kept me off the top step.”

A ripple of laughter from the reporters; they loved a good redemption arc.

One of them followed up: “Many are calling this one of the most inspiring turnarounds we’ve seen. Silver last time to gold now—what drove you?”

“Simple. I didn’t like losing.” You shrugged, light and playful, but your gaze slid to Sunghoon again. “Especially not to someone I knew I could beat if I just put in the work. So I did. Extra hours, extra reps, extra everything. Turns out it paid off.”

Sunghoon’s jaw flexed. He kept his perfect media smile in place, but his fingers tightened around his bouquet hard enough to crinkle the stems.

Another reporter jumped in: “Sunghoon, you’ve held the title for two years—how does it feel to hand it over?”

He answered smoothly, voice calm. “She earned it tonight. Clean programs, great artistry.”

The reporters ate it up—classy, sportsmanlike.

You leaned forward just enough to catch a side microphone. “He’s being generous,” your tone was sugary sweet. “I think we all know my technical score was the difference tonight. Those extra tenths on the triples really add up when you’re chasing gold.”

A couple of reporters chuckled; one scribbled furiously.

The last question came from a sports-network anchor: “Any words for each other as the new and former national champions?”

Sunghoon spoke first, voice low and even. “She skated brilliantly.”

You flashed your brightest, most innocent smile straight into the nearest camera. “I just want to say thank you to Sunghoon for the motivation. Knowing I had to outwork the defending champion every single day really kept me focused. Couldn’t have done it without him.”

The reporters laughed again, loving the “healthy rivalry” angle.

To everyone else, you sounded gracious, inspirational, the perfect new champion.

To Sunghoon, you were being an absolute brat—gloating in front of the entire country, twisting the knife with every word.

And you could see it written all over his face: the way his eyes darkened, his lips pressed into a thin line behind his polite smile, the subtle flex of his hand at his side like he was already imagining wrapping it around your throat later.

The interview wrapped. Handshakes, photos, congratulations.

The rest of the post-ceremony chaos passed in a blur of handshakes, photos, and endless congratulations. You kept moving—always one step ahead—smiling for the cameras, signing a few signatures for young fans, answering the same three questions with practiced grace.

Every time Sunghoon drifted into your peripheral vision, you angled away.

A quick hug with another skater. A sip from your water bottle that lasted just long enough for him to pass behind you without being able to stop. A casual stretch that arched your back and pushed your chest forward, gold medal glinting between your breasts. A slow tuck of hair behind your ear while you laughed at something a journalist said—loud enough for him to hear. A tiny, mocking pout when someone mentioned “what a tight race for the top two spots” and your eyes flicked to his silver medal for half a second.

Each time, you felt his stare like a brand.

By the time officials finally started ushering athletes toward the locker rooms, the arena was emptying and the adrenaline was starting to crash. Your skin felt sticky under the costume, makeup smudged at the edges, hair coming loose from its pins.

Most of the women headed straight for the wardrobe area together, chattering and laughing, still riding the high. You joined them, accepting hugs and compliments—“You were unreal out there,” “That step sequence gave me chills,” “Gold looks perfect on you.”

You smiled, thanked them, helped unzip a few costumes, but your mind was already elsewhere.

When the group started filing out—phones in hand, bags slung over shoulders—you lingered. “Going to shower quick,” you said lightly. “I’m disgusting.”

They waved it off, told you to take your time, and left you alone in the changing room.

The door clicked shut behind the last one.

Silence.

You pulled your phone out, thumbs flying as you texted your mom.

you 8:42 PM

need a shower before dinner

will be a little late, don’t wait up for me ❤️

You pulled out your spare clothes—loose sweats, a soft hoodie, fresh underwear—and a towel, then slipped into one of the private athlete showers at the far end of the changing room. The rest of the facility was quiet now, distant voices echoing faintly down the halls, doors closing as staff locked up.

You reached behind your back, found the hidden zipper, and pulled it down in one slow motion. The fabric loosened, sliding off your shoulders and down your hips until it pooled at your feet. You stepped out of it carefully, folding it once before setting it on the bench.

Naked now except for the gold medal resting between your breasts.

You hung the towel on the hook, turned the shower knob all the way to hot, and waited for the steam to rise.

The first blast of water hit your skin like a sigh of relief—scalding, perfect. You stepped under it fully, tilting your head back, letting it soak your hair and run in rivers down your body. The medal grew warm against your sternum. You closed your eyes, rolled your neck, and finally let out the breath you’d been holding since the scores went up.

Gold.

You’d done it.

And somewhere in this building, Sunghoon was seething in silver—probably looking for you right now. The thought made you smile, slow and wicked, under the spray.

You tipped your head back under the steaming spray, eyes closed, humming a soft melody, quiet, satisfied, almost smug. The hot water pounded against your shoulders, easing the last knots of tension from your muscles. You squeezed a generous dollop of body wash into your palm, working it into a lather across your arms, your stomach, down your legs. The scent of something clean and citrusy filled the stall.

You reached for the shampoo next, massaging it into your scalp with slow circles, letting the suds build before tilting your head back again to rinse. Water streamed down your face, your back, carrying away the last traces of competition makeup and rink sweat.

You were so lost in the simplicity of it that you didn’t hear the soft click of the wardrobe door opening. Didn’t hear the faint shuffle of footsteps over the rush of water. Didn’t notice anything at all until the shower door slid open with a sharp scrape of metal on metal.

You screamed—a short, startled yelp—and spun around, arms flying up to cover yourself, water splashing everywhere.

Sunghoon stood there.

Just… staring.

He’d changed out of his costume into loose gray sweatpants and a plain black t-shirt that clung slightly to his still-damp skin. Hair messy, silver medal nowhere in sight. His eyes were wide at first—caught off guard by your scream—but then they darkened, raking slowly down your body, taking in every inch.

“Sunghoon—what the actual fuck?!” you snapped, voice pitching high over the rush of water. “Are you insane? This is the women’s wardrobe—there are cameras in the hallway, coaches still wandering around—you can’t just—”

The words died in your throat.

He slid the shower door shut behind him with a decisive click, sealing you both inside the steam-filled stall. Then he stepped forward—fully clothed—into the spray without hesitation. Water soaked his t-shirt instantly, turning the black fabric clingy and dark, plastering it to his chest and shoulders. Droplets ran down his face, caught in his lashes, and traced the sharp line of his jaw.

He didn’t stop until he was crowding you against the tiled wall, one hand shooting up to grip your jaw hard, fingers pressing into your cheeks, forcing your head back so you had to look straight up at him.

“Shut up,” he said, voice low and dangerous, water streaming between you. “You’ve been running your mouth all night, gold medalist. Acting like you’re untouchable. Gloating in front of every camera like a spoiled little brat.” His thumb dragged roughly across your lower lip, smearing water and the remnants of your red lipstick. “You think you can parade around in that costume, tease me for weeks, beat me on the podium, and then hide in here like I wouldn’t come find you?” His other hand slammed against the tile beside your head, caging you in completely. Water pounded down on both of you, hot and relentless. 

“Look at you now,” he murmured, eyes dragging down your naked body again. “All that big talk, and you’re shaking the second I get my hands on you. Pathetic.” He leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice dropping to something cruel and velvet-rough. “Gold looks pretty around your neck, baby. But it’s not gonna save you from what you’ve been begging for.” 

His grip on your jaw tightened just enough to make you gasp, and he smiled—sharp, mean, hungry.

“So be a good girl for once and take what you earned.”

Before you could fire back, before you could even draw breath to call him an asshole, his hand moved from your jaw to the back of your head—fingers tangling roughly in your wet hair—and he shoved you down.

Hard.

Your knees hit the tiled floor with a sharp slap of bone on ceramic. Pain flared bright and immediate up your legs, a gasp ripping from your throat—just a split second of shock and sting. In that exact moment of vulnerability, mouth open on the inhale, Sunghoon yanked his soaked sweatpants down in one swift motion.

Commando, of course. That bastard.

He was already hard—thick, flushed, and heavy—and he didn’t hesitate. His grip tightened in your hair, guiding (no, forcing) your head forward as he pushed himself past your lips in one smooth, ruthless thrust.

Your mouth was suddenly full of him, the taste of him flooding your tongue as he slid deep. The head bumped the back of your throat, making your eyes water instantly. You gagged on reflex, hands flying up to brace against his thighs, but he didn’t pull back.

He held you there, buried to the hilt, hips flush against your face. “Fuck—” he hissed, water streaming down his chest and over where you were joined. “That’s it. Take it like the cocky little champion you are.”

Your knees throbbed against the hard tile, pain mixing sharply with the overwhelming fullness in your mouth. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes from the sudden intrusion, but the heat pooling low in your belly betrayed how much your body didn’t mind.

He gave you one shallow thrust—testing, savoring—then pulled back just enough for you to drag in a desperate breath through your nose before pushing back in, deeper this time.

“On your knees for silver. All that gloating, and now you’re choking on my cock like you were made for it.”

You moaned around him—the vibration making him curse under his breath, your nails digging in as you steadied yourself.

He liked that.

The gentle rhythm he’d started with vanished—he snapped his hips forward hard, burying himself deep in one brutal thrust that made your throat spasm around him.

You choked immediately, a wet sound that echoed off the tiles, tears spilling over as your body tried to adjust. Saliva flooded your mouth, drooling down your chin in messy strings, mixing with the shower water cascading over both of you.

“That’s it. Choke for me. You sound so much better like this than all that bullshit earlier.” He pulled back only to slam in again, deeper, faster—rough, punishing strokes that had your knees scraping the tile with every jolt. Your sobs turned wet and broken, but the pain in your knees and the burn in your throat only made the heat between your legs throb harder.

He suddenly yanked your head fowards by your hair, holding you still with his cock buried to the hilt—your nose pressed to his pelvis, throat convulsing around him. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t swallow, could only choke and cry as your body fought for air, tears streaming freely.

Only when your hands started slapping weakly at his thighs did he pull out—slowly, letting you gasp and cough, strings of saliva connecting your swollen lips to his glistening cock.

He didn’t give you a time out at all as he smeared the slick tip across your face—over your lips, your cheeks, your chin—painting you with your own mess, marking you. You whimpered, tongue darting out instinctively to taste him, and he laughed, low and cruel.

“Open,” he ordered.

You did—mouth falling open obediently, eyes glassy and unfocused.

He pushed back in, slower this time, savoring the way you took him. You were drunk on it now—lost in the overwhelming fullness, the taste of him, the way he used you. You just accepted it, hollowing your cheeks as best you could, sucking weakly when he gave you half a second to breathe, letting him fuck your mouth however he wanted.

“That’s it,” he praised, voice rough and filthy as he alternated again—deep, choking holds where he ground against your face, then rough, rapid thrusts that made obscene wet sounds mix with your sobs. “Fuck, you sound perfect.”

Every time he pulled back, you chased him instinctively, lips swollen and slick, tongue flicking out to taste what you could. Every time he sank deep, you took it—throat fluttering, tears streaming, moans vibrating around his cock like you were trying to pull him even deeper.

“That’s it, my perfect little cockslut,” he growled, voice raw and viciously affectionate. “ Fuck—look how greedy your mouth is. Sucking me like you’re scared I’ll take it away.”

The words hit you like sparks, each one sending a throb straight between your legs, heat coiling low and tight even though your hands stayed braced on his thighs, not daring to move lower. You moaned around him, loud and shameless, the vibration making his thighs tense under your nails.

“Shit—those noises,” he rasped, voice cracking as he held you flush against him again, grinding slow and deep. “You’re gonna make me lose it. Moaning like you love this more than that fucking gold. Like you were born to have my cock down your throat.”

You whimpered around him—loud, broken—and he cursed viciously, pulling back just to slam in again. “That’s right. You do love it. My pretty champion—mine. Not the judges’, not the crowd’s. Mine. This mouth, this throat, every tear on your face—fucking mine.”

The tone in his voice poured over you like gasoline on a fire. “Gonna keep you like this after every competition—on your knees, reminding you who you really belong to. Gonna come down your throat every time you beat me just so you remember who owns this pretty face.”

You were soaked—dripping down your thighs, the shower doing nothing to hide it. But you didn’t touch yourself. You hadn’t even thought about it. Your hands stayed braced on his thighs, nails digging crescents into wet skin, holding on as he used you.

His pleasure was yours.

Every groan he let out, every curse, every time his voice cracked when you sucked harder—it lit you up hotter than your own hand ever could. You were drunk on giving it to him, on being the reason he was falling apart.

His thrusts turned erratic, hips stuttering as his grip in your hair turned almost painful. The mean edge in his voice cracked, giving way to something raw and desperate.

“Fuck—fuck, I need to come,” he panted, head falling forward so he could watch you take him. “Gonna fill this mouth—gonna give you every fucking drop. You want that, don’t you? Want me to come down your throat like the greedy little thing you are—”

You whined—high, needy, desperate—the sound vibrating straight through his cock.

Yes. Want it. Give it to me.

Your body said it for you: hands pulling him closer by the thighs, mouth sucking harder. You leaned into him, taking him deeper, showing him with every eager bob of your head and every moan that you were begging for it.

Sunghoon’s eyes fluttered shut, head throwing back as a low, broken groan tore from his chest. 

“Fuck—take it—take it all—”

He buried himself to the hilt and came.

The first hot pulse hit the back of your throat hard and fast, so much that you gagged immediately. More followed—thick, endless ropes flooding your mouth faster than you could swallow. It spilled past your lips, dripping down your chin in messy rivulets, mixing with drool and water as you struggled to keep up, your eyes rolling back, throat convulsing around him as he held you there, hips twitching through every spurt. Some of it forced its way up, burning at the back of your nose—you swore a little escaped there too, the overwhelming amount making everything blur.

“Good—fuck—so good for me,” he stammered, voice wrecked and shaking, praise spilling out between ragged breaths. “Taking it all—my perfect girl—swallowing everything I give you—fuck, you’re perfect—”

Your vision sparked at the edges, body trembling from lack of air and pure overload, but you didn’t pull away. You took it—every pulse, every drop—until he finally softened and eased back with a wet slide.

You gasped when he slipped free, coughing once, cum and saliva stringing from your swollen lips to his softening cock. More dripped down your chin, over your chest, catching on the gold medal in obscene streaks.

“Fucking hell,” he breathed, thumb swiping across your bottom lip, gathering the mess there just to push it back into your mouth. “You’re gonna kill me one day.”

You sucked his thumb clean without thinking, eyes still glassy, body humming with the aftershocks.

And you smiled—small, satisfied, utterly ruined.

Worth it.

Sunghoon’s gaze softened for a split second, something almost tender flickering through the hunger. Then his hands slid under your arms and he pulled you up in one smooth motion.

Your legs were jelly—knees buckling the instant your weight shifted—and you stumbled forward with a soft, breathless laugh, hands flying to his chest for balance. He caught you easily, arms wrapping around your waist, holding you upright against him like you weighed nothing.

Water still poured over both of you, soaking his clothes completely now, the thin t-shirt plastered to every line of muscle underneath. You gripped the wet fabric in fistfuls, feeling the hard planes of his chest as he pulled you flush against him.

He didn’t speak.

He just tilted your chin up with two fingers and kissed you.

Slow at first, tasting himself on your tongue and groaning quietly at it. His lips moved against yours like he was savoring the moment, like he’d been starving for this exact kiss for weeks.

You melted into it, kissing him back just as greedily, nails scraping lightly over his shirt as you tried to pull him closer. 

At that moment his hands dropped to your ass—both palms slapping down hard on bare, wet skin. The crack echoed in the shower stall, making you gasp into his mouth. He gripped tight, fingers digging into the flesh as he pulled you up onto your toes, walking you backwards until your spine hit the tiled wall. The cold shock against your back made you arch into him , pressing your chest harder into him. Sunghoon broke the kiss with a wet, obscene sound, a thin string of saliva stretching between your mouths for a second before snapping.

His lips then dragged down the column of your throat, hot and open-mouthed, teeth scraping over your racing pulse. You tilted your head back against the wall, gasping, water still pouring over both of you in steaming sheets.

“Sunghoon—” you breathed, voice shaky and pleading. “Please—”

He only hummed, low and teasing, the vibration rumbling against your skin as he continued lower. His hands stayed clamped on your ass, holding you up, while his mouth reached the swell of your breast.

He hovered there for a moment, breath ghosting over your nipple, making it tighten. You squirmed, hips rolling forward, trying to chase any friction.

“Hoon—”

Another hum, this one darker, amused. Then he bent forward and took your nipple into his mouth.

You cried out, the sound echoing off the tiles as his tongue flicked over the sensitive peak. He sucked hard, teeth grazing just enough to sting, then soothed it with a long, flat lick that made your knees buckle. 

One hand left your ass to cup the breast he wasn’t devouring, thumb rolling the neglected nipple in tight, rough circles.

You pushed your chest forward instinctively, arching harder into his mouth, chasing every flick of his tongue and scrape of his teeth. Your hands flew to his soaked hair, fingers threading through the dark strands, gripping tight for support as your legs threatened to give out completely. 

“Sunghoon—” you gasped, his name breaking on a desperate whine. “Hoon—fuck—please—” Your hips rolled forward against nothing, searching for friction, as the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your belly.

His hand on your breast turned rougher, squeezing the soft flesh hard, fingers digging in possessively. But it was his mouth that really undid you.

He’d been nursing your other nipple gently, lips sealed around it in warm, soothing pulls, tongue laving slow and tender. The sudden shift came without warning.

His teeth closed around the sensitive peak and he bit down. Hard enough to sting, hard enough to make your entire body jolt. You cried out sharply, the sound high and raw, echoing off the shower tiles as pain bloomed hot and bright, instantly melting into throbbing pleasure.

He didn’t let go.

He pulled.

Tugging the nipple away from your body with his teeth, stretching it until it slipped free with a wet pop. Your body jerked forward instinctively as his mouth sealed back around the sensitive, throbbing peak, tongue pressing flat and firm against the tip as he drew it deeper into the wet heat of his mouth.