Sunghoon X Gn Reader - Blog Posts

⋆｡°✩ just a little bite ✦ park sunghoon

you can't just contain it can you? biting onto something so forbidden ... god fucking dammit forbid your lover has meaty guns for arms holy fuck

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ pairing — park sunghoon x male!reader

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ tags — fluff, then suddenly suggestive, implied male!reader down bad for sunghoon, cuddles, intentions to fuck but we'll see, you see i wrote this just looking at sunghoon's arms, and y'all wanted it okay !!

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ warning + notes — erm the urge to hold this man down because his arms are fucking thick what the fuck

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ word count — 1.2k

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ looking for my main masterlist? — here's the legacy one!

The low hum of the television is a distant murmur, barely registering beneath the weight of Sunghoon’s presence beside you.

The documentary plays on—some sweeping shot of Arctic tundra, glaciers groaning under their own weight—but the screen might as well be static for all you care.

Because Sunghoon is warm.

Not just warm—radiant, like the sun itself had curled up next to you on the couch instead. He’d come home later than usual, hair still damp from the shower, smelling faintly of that body wash you always tease him for buying.

It’s ridiculous how good it smells on him. Like something expensive and forbidden, clinging to his skin long after he’s stepped out of the steam.

And now here he is, in that tank top—that specific one, the one you know he wears on purpose because it clings to every dip and curve of his shoulders, the fabric thin from too many washes, nearly translucent where it stretches over his chest. His arms are bare, his skin still flushed from the heat of his shower, and when he’d pulled you against him without a word, you hadn’t even pretended to resist.

How could you? This was your lover we’re talking about. Your warmth itself.

His arm is heavy around your own, slowly tracing down with his fingers tracing absent circles into your hip. You can feel the flex of his forearm every time he shifts, the muscle tightening unconsciously as he adjusts his grip.

Your cheek rests against his bicep, and the warmth of his skin seeps into yours, slow and syrupy.

Your body molds to his effortlessly, your head finding its usual spot against his bicep, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his thigh. Sunghoon hums, content, his arm tightening around your waist as the documentary drones on in the background.

You can hear his breathing, steady and deep, but when you glance up, his eyes are already on you—dark, amused, knowing.

He’s not really paying attention either.

Because you—you were staring.

He can feel it—the weight of your gaze, the way your fingers flex against his leg, the quiet, hitched breaths you think he doesn’t notice. Sunghoon smirks to himself, tilting his head just enough to catch the way your eyes linger on the curve of his arm, the way your teeth worry at your bottom lip.

Cute.

"You’re not even watching," Sunghoon murmurs, his voice low, rough at the edges like he’s been laughing too hard at practice. His thumb strokes over your abdomen, deliberate, and you swear he presses just a little harder when your breath catches.

You hum, pretending to consider the screen. "Polar bears," you say, deadpan. "Very educational."

A quiet laugh rumbles through his chest, and you feel it where you’re tucked against him, the vibration of it sinking into your ribs.

"Liar," he accuses, but there’s no heat in it—just that familiar fondness, the one that makes your stomach flip. "I’ll melt if you keep looking at me like that."

You could deny it. You should deny it.

He expects you to deny it, to swat at him, to roll your eyes and call him cocky—but instead, you press your lips to the inner seams of his arm—just a brush, barely there.

A soft, pliant kiss upon his silken complexion.

Sunghoon goes still, his fingers twitching against your side.

Your mouth is warm, soft, and when your teeth graze over his skin—just the barest hint of pressure—his breath catches, his fingers twitching against your side.

"Ticklish?" you tease, your voice muffled against his skin.

His exhale is shaky. "Y-you know I’m not."

But you do know.

You know the way his breath stutters when you touch him like this, the way his pulse jumps under your lips when you linger just a second too long. You know the way his grip tightens when he’s trying not to pull you closer.

So you do it again—this time, letting your teeth graze lightly, just to hear the sharp inhale he tries to stifle.

Sunghoon jolts, his arm flexing instinctively under your mouth. His grip on your hip tightens, fingers digging in just enough to make your stomach swoop.

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze, and his eyes are dark, his lips parted, his chest rising just a little too fast.

“I felt your teeth right there …”

"Sorry," you say, not sorry at all.

Sunghoon exhales, slow, his free hand coming up to tangle in your hair, fingertips scratching lightly at your scalp. "You’re mean," he mutters, but his voice is thick, rough around the edges.

"First you ignore the documentary, then you come kiss me and bite me—"

You do it again. Harder.

This time, his breath catches, a quiet, punched-out sound escaping him.

Sunghoon flinches, his whole body jerking beneath you—muscles tensing, breath hitching—and before you can even process it, his grip slips. Just barely, just enough to send you both tumbling off the couch in a tangle of limbs, landing in a heap on the floor.

The fall knocks the air from your lungs, but you barely feel it. Not when you’re half on top of him, your chest pressed flush against his, your face burning, your pulse hammering in your throat like it’s trying to escape.

Sunghoon blinks up at you, dazed, his lips slightly parted, his dark hair mussed from the fall.

The dim glow from the TV flickers across his face, catching the curve of his cheekbone, the faint sheen on his lower lip where he’d bitten it earlier.

And then he laughs—soft and breathless, his chest shaking beneath yours, his fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt like he’s afraid you’ll pull away.

“You—” He lifts a hand, rubbing at the faint red mark you’ve left on his bicep, his grin lazy, molten. “You marked me.”

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. “Didn’t mean to.”

“Liar,” he says again, but there’s no bite to it—just that same rough-edged fondness, the kind that makes your stomach tighten. His fingers trail up your spine, slow and deliberate, sending shivers skittering across your skin. “You’ve been eye-fucking my arms since I came out of the bathroom.”

You could argue.

Instead, you press your lips to the mark again—lingering this time, letting your tongue dart out to soothe the sting, just to feel the way his breath stutters.

And in an unprecedented fashion, you travel your lips damply onto his arms—guiding it thoroughly until your reach collarbone, his jaw, and eventually, his parted lips.

Sunghoon shudders, his fingers tightening in your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath catch. “Fuck,” he whispers, his voice rougher now, darker. “Do that again.”

So you do—this time with teeth.

He gasps, his hips jerking beneath you, and suddenly his hand is on your waist, flipping you over with barely any effort, pressing you into the floor.

All he had was a dominating form on top of your waist, his chest heaving, and his pupils blown so wide his irises are nearly swallowed by black.

“You,” he breathes, leaning down until his lips brush against yours—close enough that you can taste the mint on his tongue, the sweetness of the energy drink he’d gulped down earlier.

“—are dangerous.”

You grin up at him, your fingers tracing the lines of his arms, the swell of his biceps, the way his muscles tense under your touch. “You love it.”

Sunghoon exhales, shaky, his nose bumping against yours. “Yeah,” he admits, voice rough.

“I do.”

And then he kisses you—deep and passionate, his tongue sliding against yours, his hands gripping your chest down to your shoulders, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

His body presses you into the floor, solid and unyielding, and you pull him down closer without thinking, chasing the heat of his skin, feeling his tantalizing weight gripping you down tightly.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are red, his breathing uneven.

“More …” he murmurs, his thumb swiping over your bottom lip, smudging the wetness there.

“Please…”

And you don’t even argue.

EN—D

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — ASKFJKAJSFKLAE!!! yes im a freak for his arms bro have you seen?! him !? flexing it?! ever since i saw him being all proud of it since paradox i was like … fuck you have GOT to be kidding me WHAT THE HELL!! so yeah, here it is … me just writing how it owuld feel to just .. have this man like be with you so warm like RAAAAA and it won the poll so don't judge me YOU'RE THE SAME !?!

my masterlist! | made by writhyv 💘

⋆｡°✩ a table for two, and sunflowers too

sometimes, healing isn’t a grand gesture—it’s sunflowers from a soft-spoken boy who believes in second chances.

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ pairing — park sunghoon x reader

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ tags — sad to fluff, generally gn reader, sunghoon x reader, finding love after a breakup, silent boy sunghoon, healing bit by bit, blind date, slighty love at first sight, more to come!

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ warning + notes — kinda wrote this first as implied male reader, but i didn't really put any male pronouns HAHA, was listening to winner takes it all and read several prompts, plus the music felt really gutwrenching and so thanks for that, author's interpretation of the people in this fic might not reflect them irl~

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ word count — 0.8k

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ updated unsorted masterlist coming soon — here's the legacy one!

The world had faded into a monotonous gray since the breakup.

You moved through your days like a ghost, burdened by the stress of work, the fatigue of insomnia, and the empty coffee cups piling up on your bedroom desk—each one a relic of a life you no longer recognized.

The split hadn’t merely ended a relationship; it had erased the version of yourself that once believed in good things.

You couldn't believe that you fell for someone who made you lower your expectations. Was this what love had to be? A constant struggle to compensate for another's flaws? It was a harsh realization, yet you didn’t want to blame the other person. You never wanted to taint their memory in your mind, but the pain lingered like a shadow that wouldn’t leave.

Friends tiptoed around your grief, their pitying glances a constant reminder that you were now the "sad friend," the one who wore melancholy like a second skin.

You felt utterly ... pathetic.

Flopping over your large bed, you heard the light buzz of your phone. Flipping it open amid the dimly lit room, you saw a message from your overly enthusiastic friend.

"Got you a date! Tomorrow. 5 PM. 7th Street Cafe. He’s sweet. Take the chance!”

You lingered, casting a heavy gaze on your screen, your finger hovering above the delete button. Yet a part of you—one that craved to feel anything again—won this time.

Hope, irritation, curiosity—these emotions bubbled to the surface, and you hesitantly decided to accept the invitation.

Maybe this time ... maybe you were ready again.

˚ ⋆ . ˚ . ★ ⋆ .

The noise of the city blurred into the background of your mind as you walked mindlessly through a sea of pedestrians, each person living life as it was intended.

Approaching the cozy café, nestled just beyond the street sign, you paused for a moment. Taking a small breath, your feet unwittingly dragged you toward the entrance of the establishment.

Inside, the café was warm, a comforting contrast to the melancholic grays outside that dripped with the fresh kiss of rainfall. You lingered at your spot, only hearing your heart throbbing in your ears.

What are you even doing here? A last-minute thought crawled into your mind. In this moment of doubt, you realized you’d forgotten how to be someone worth meeting.

And then you saw him.

A tall guy sat near the cafe window, an old sketchbook open in front of him, fingers smudged with charcoal.

He wasn’t striking in the way that demanded attention; he was … soft. Welcoming, with a sense of just the right gentleness in your eyes.

He wore an almost fluffy comfy white sweater, his hair tousled as if he’d run a hand through it to get a quick fix moments ago.

His eyes were downcast as he scribbled, but when he finally glanced up and saw you, his smile unfurled like the break of dawn.

“Hi,” he said, standing too quickly and nearly knocking over his mug. A warm, unguarded laugh escaped him. “H-Hi! I… brought these.”

From beneath the table, he revealed a bouquet of sunflowers, their bold, golden petals contrasting sharply with the muted café and your frayed sweater, somehow defying the storm that brewed in your chest.

"For you ..." He offered with a shy smile.

“F-flowers on the first date, huh?” you croaked, your throat tight.

“Yeah,” he replied, rubbing his neck, suddenly shy. “People say bringing flowers on the first date is overrated and boring, but I disagree."

Unknowingly, a smile crept onto your lips.

He was gentle, yet there was an air of confidence about him — he genuinely wanted to make a connection.

“Sunflowers are stubborn, you know? They grow even in bad soil. Kinda… kinda like people, I guess.”

˚ ⋆ . ˚ . ★ ⋆ .

"And that's how they saw you?" You spoke, coming in as enthusiatic as you could.

"Yeah!" He spoke, his tone as giddy as his story. "Park Sunghoon. My name, written all over the screen!"

"Ugh ... to have such silly friends, am I right?" He nodded, agreeing with you.

You talked. Or rather, he talked — about his close friends, his fascination with charcoal art, his obsession with indie films, and his silly dog who had it out for his houseplants.

You listened, startled by how his voice anchored you, how the flowers in your lap seemed to radiate warmth into your bones. His enthusiasm made you forget that this was your first date together.

He felt like an old song playing softly on the radio, a familiar breeze you were willing to feel on your skin.

When silence fell, it wasn’t heavy. He tilted his head, studying you. “You’re allowed to not be okay, you know? But… I’m glad you came.”

Something cracked then — not a collapse, but a thaw.

You laughed, shaky but real.

He reached for his sketchbook, tearing a page from it — a beautifully drawn bouquet of sunflowers, folded into fourths and placed under your palm.

“Keep this."

"Hmm?"

"It's ... proof I’m not a total stranger anymore.”

You smiled, seeing him talk to you so openly.

In your trance, you never noticed how the sunset tore through the windows, illuminating the room with a golden glow.

The rain had finally stopped, and the sun was setting on the distant horizon, casting a warm light over everything.

˚ ⋆ . ˚ . ★ ⋆ .

The night ended with a stroll under the streetlights, the bouquet cradled in your arms, its vibrant colors a stark contrast to the shadows of your past.

You didn’t kiss, didn’t make promises. But when you got home, you placed the sunflowers in a vase, their faces turned toward the window where the moonlight peeked through.

For the first time in months, you dreamed of something other than what had been lost.

For the first time, you looked forward to what was yet to come.

EN—D

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — like i said, was really inspired by those tiktoks and prompts about breakups, then having some ideas about finding new love after what seems to be a dump of sadness and gloom. personally experienced that too but, life goes on! if you ever feel sad, just know that there are people around you. let them know and they'll help you out. you've got help, even if you feel like you don't. stay strong!

my masterlist! | made by writhyv 💘