Sunghoon's Arms - 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 !?!

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