Chapter Text
Sunoo's POV:
I like handsome boys. The kind with bone structure sharp enough to cut. The kind you could stare at for hours without getting bored. The ones with faces so perfectly aligned that I forget, for a second, how empty I feel inside.
I mean, why bother with someone’s soul when their jawline could make you forget yours?
People think I’m shallow. Maybe I am. But at least I know what I want. And what I want is beauty I can own.
I know people will call it toxic or whatever, like I’m supposed to pretend that personality is everything. Personality fades. Looks, though? They stick, they haunt.
It always starts the same: I see one. Just one. And everything else dulls. I get hooked. Like their face gets burned into me, and I can’t think straight until I’ve memorized every angle of them. How they smile. How they talk, blink, eat. Everything.
I revolve around them. Rearrange my days to catch glimpses. Learn their routes, their habits, their tells. Not because I care who they are—but because they’ve become the sun, and I’m stuck spinning.
Until someone prettier shows up.
That’s the cycle. Obsession. Consumption. Abandonment. I get fixated. I get possessive. I want to own them, wear them like a favorite scent. But when something shinier comes along, I drop the last one like a used napkin. I don’t even feel bad. They served their purpose. They were my world—until they weren’t.
Still, I hate when they leave before I’m ready. I hate seeing that perfect face turn cold or confused. I hate imagining it pressed against someone else’s pillow. Of those lips smiling at a different name. I want exclusivity.
That’s when the darker thoughts creep in. The what ifs. The what would it take to make them stay? The how far can I go before it counts as a crime?
I haven’t done anything. Yet.
But it’s hard. Because pretty things don’t stay still unless you tie them down.
And I just want one. Just one. To stop moving.
I picture them—still, obedient, decorative. Sitting on my couch like furniture with a pulse. They wouldn’t have to do anything. Just exist. Just be. I’d take care of everything. I’d brush their hair in the mornings, feed them soft fruit, dress them in things that suit their face. They’d breathe, and I’d watch.
That’s enough.
I know how to be soft. Gentle. Controlling doesn’t have to mean violent.
But if they run?
Then I take back what's mine.
Is that so wrong?
I don’t want love.
I don’t even want a person.
I want a beautiful object that breathes for me.
I want beauty I can keep on a leash.
That’s my type.
Definitely my type.