Work Text:
Zhang Hao has been lying in bed for 43 minutes and 21 seconds.
His phone screen lights up every now and then with a notification. The most recent one is a dumb ad from a mobile game he doesn’t even play anymore. “Get 15% off skincare now!”
He’s already flipped his pillow. Adjusted the blanket. Changed positions. He even tried lying on his back like a corpse, eyes shut, hands folded neatly over his stomach, trying to trick his body into sleep.
Nothing.
Instead, his brain’s hosting a marathon of every embarrassing thing he’s ever done. The time he walked into the wrong lecture hall and sat through twenty minutes of a class on soil erosion. The time he almost got hit by a bicycle because he was looking at a cute guy across the street. The time he visited America and when a barista asked for his name and he panicked and said “Jack.”
Jack. He doesn’t even look like a Jack.
With a groan, he reaches for his phone and opens the group chat named:
中华圈™
Because Kuanjui refused to let their vibe die when they moved to Korea.
haohao 🐾 [1:43 AM]:
guys i’m actually losing it
i can’t sleep again
it’s happening
rui 💕 [1:44 AM]:
girl we know
u’ve been like this since january
haohao 🐾 [1:44 AM]:
ok but i’m actually sick of it now
i’ve tried everything
except like. jumping off my balcony
shanghai prince 🐈⬛💸 [1:45 AM]:
hao u live on the 2nd floor it won’t do anything except sprain your ankle
rui 💕[1:45 AM]:
maybe it’ll knock him out for 8 hrs 🤷♂️
haohao 🐾 [1:45 AM]:
this is abuse
He sighs and presses the heel of his palm to his eyes. The room is too quiet. The silence is too loud. His fan is making a soft whirring sound, but it’s not enough to drown out the hum of the years of regrets rolling around in his head. Maybe he should have been less biased when answering that 16Personalities test.
“You rarely worry about whether you make a good impression on the people you meet” Strongly Disagree.
He’s starting to think he agrees now.
He rolls onto his stomach, tugs the pillow over his head, and lets out a muffled scream.
It’s not just tonight. It’s every night. Lately it feels like his body has forgotten how to sleep.
He opens the chat again.
haohao 🐾 [1:49 AM]:
be honest do y’all sleep easily or is it just me that suffers every night like a rejected vampire
rui 💕 [1:49 AM]:
i sleep like a baby ngl
head hits pillow? knocked out
shanghai prince 🐈⬛💸 [1:50 AM]:
same lol
unless i drink coffee after 5
insomnia is a you problem babe
haohao 🐾 [1:51 AM]:
why are u all so unsupportive
this is bullying
rui 💕 [1:51 AM]:
ok but seriously why do u sleep so bad
is your bed haunted
haohao 🐾 [1:53 AM]:
ok joke around all u want but if i start getting ghost nightmares i’m blaming u
rui 💕 [1:53 AM]:
if u manage to get a nightmare at all i will clap for you
haohao 🐾 [1:54 AM]:
???? FUCK YOU?
He throws his phone onto the mattress, face-down. The light from the screen fades, plunging him back into reality and the dim blur of street lamp glow filtering through his curtains. He stares at the ceiling. There’s a little dent up there that he swears looks like a shrimp. A shrimp curled into itself.
Mocking him.
Even the fucking dent in his ceiling is ready to sleep.
He tries to count sheep. He gets to twenty-seven before the sheep all start looking like Kuanjui.
He scrolls through his camera roll. Deletes a selfie he thinks he looks ugly in. Considers watching a drama but knows it’ll just keep him up longer. Thinks about reading, then remembers he never bought that book Ricky recommended.
His eyes sting. He’s tired. He knows his body is tired. But his brain?
Absolutely not.
He sighs.
haohao 🐾 [2:06 AM]:
do u think if i like. ran ten laps tomorrow i’d just pass out at night
like physically
shanghai prince 🐈⬛💸 [2:08 AM]:
worth a try
we can record it and post it on douyin if u collapse
rui 💕 [2:08 AM]:
title: handsome chinese bottom overcomes insomnia through sheer cardio
haohao 🐾 [2:10 AM]:
wow. real friends would comfort me not monetize my suffering
rui 💕 [2:10 AM]:
.. u literally made a tiktok about ur puffy eye bags last week
haohao 🐾 [2:11 AM]:
that was different. that was art?
He doesn’t get much more sympathy after that. The group chat quiets down. One by one, the tiny “read” indicators vanish.
Even his friends have gone to bed.
Zhang Hao stares at the wall. Then the ceiling. Then the wall again. His head aches from trying to force sleep that doesn’t come. He’s officially become the main character of his own late-night drama, complete with tragic lighting and an OST of silence.
Eventually, sometime after 3 a.m., he drifts off, like his brain finally gave up and just yanked the plug.
The next day, Zhang Hao walks into the lecture hall looking like the ghost of himself.
He's got his hoodie pulled up, one earbud in, and the soulless eyes of a man who slept two hours and then got bullied by the sun for existing. Because he is. His iced Americano is dripping in his hand. His croissant is half-bitten, forgotten. His soul is not present.
“Bro,” Ricky says as he watches Zhang Hao fold himself into the seat next to him, “you look like shit.”
“Thanks,” Hao mumbles, burying his face into his crossed arms on the desk. “I feel like a sentient piece of lint.”
“What time did you sleep?” Kuanjui asks, even though he already knows the answer.
Zhang Hao lifts his head just long enough to glare at him.
“Is that even a question? I barely did. I tried everything. Blankets. Pillow flipping. That breathing exercise where you inhale for like 11 thousand seconds. Nothing works. My brain is a hamster on a wheel powered by anxiety and historical regret.”
Soobin turns around from the row in front of them. “Have you tried… shutting up?” he offers helpfully, sipping his banana milk.
Zhang Hao throws a sugar packet at him.
“Okay but seriously,” Kuanjui says, leaning over with the earnest energy of someone who means well but is so close to snapping. “Have you ever tried ASMR?”
Zhang Hao squints at him. “What, like, those disgusting mukbang chewing noises?”, he gags.
“No, dumbass.” Kuanjui rolls his eyes. “There’s normal stuff. Like rain sounds. Wind through trees. Fireplace crackling. Sometimes when I can’t sleep, I use one that’s like soft thunder and white noise, and I’m out in five minutes.”
Ricky perks up. “Oh I have one too! There’s this YouTube video that’s just a train going through the countryside for like two hours. It’s so peaceful. The engine sounds are really low and warm. Puts me to sleep instantly.”
“I do fan humming,” Soobin adds. “Or like, the inside of a car. Those low rumbles.”
Zhang Hao just blinks at all of them like they’ve started speaking in tongues. “Why do all of you have like… soundtracks for sleeping as if it’s some personality trait?”
“Because,” Kuanjui says, sipping his coffee like it’s a religious relic, “we like rest.”
“I would like it too if I could have it! I’m not even picky,” Zhang Hao whines. “I would sleep to construction noises at this point. I just want to sleep. I want unconsciousness. I want to be free.”
“Then try it,” Ricky says. “Just go on YouTube and search like… ‘8 hours rainstorm sleep aid’ or whatever.”
“Trust,” Soobin adds, already turning back to his notes. “‘tll Change your life.”
Zhang Hao sinks lower in his seat. He is suspicious. Deeply skeptical. But also desperate.
“I swear to god,” he mutters, “if this ends up being one of those things where someone whispers 'hey baby girl’ in my ear halfway through I’m blocking all of you.”
Kuanjui grins. “Hey, if it helps you sleep—”
“Hell no.”
The lecture starts. The professor is talking about something complicated: macroeconomics, maybe, or political structures. Zhang Hao tries to pay attention, but the words all blend together into something soft and shapeless. Like oatmeal. Or a cloud of fog pressing against his brain.
He doodles vaguely in his notes: clouds, little spirals, a dead-eyed stick figure labeled “me.” The tiredness seeps into his bones like water soaking into wood.
Still. The idea stays in the back of his mind like a splinter:
ASMR. Rain sounds. Sleep.
Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to try?
What’s the worst that could happen..?
Zhang Hao gets home, dumps his bag on the floor, and heads straight to his bed. He lies there for a while, staring at the ceiling with his arms spread like he’s waiting to be sacrificed to the gods of sleep.
He’s not even being dramatic anymore. This is desperation.
After about ten minutes of doing nothing but blinking at the crack in his ceiling, he finally sighs, reaches for his phone, and opens YouTube.
He types in:
sleep aid sounds
The first few results are harmless. Rain falling on windows. Thunderstorms in forests. Trains humming through towns. One’s titled “Japanese zen garden at night – 8 hours.” It looks peaceful.
He plays one — rain on a tin roof. The sound fills his room softly, and for a moment he thinks, maybe this’ll actually work.
But five minutes in, he already feels his thoughts wandering. The rain’s nice, sure, but it’s impersonal. A little too background noise, not enough presence. Like he’s just waiting for something to actually connect.
He scrolls down a little more.
And that’s when he sees it.
“Boyfriend helps you fall asleep 💤 | Gentle whispers + breathing | Soft spoken”
Thumbnail: An anime boy edited into a dimly lit bedroom, warm-toned. Title font in lowercase.
Zhang Hao squints. “Boyfriend?”
He clicks.
A guy’s voice comes in, low and relaxed. “Hey… come here. Lie down with me, alright?”
Zhang Hao’s eyes widen.
“...What?”
The voice continues, all calm and intimate, like the person’s lying beside him. “You had a long day. I know. But you’re here now. I’ve got you.”
Zhang Hao stares at the ceiling again, this time in disbelief. “Okay…”
It’s not… bad? It’s just unexpected. Weirdly nice, actually. The voice is soothing, the pacing slow. There’s no chewing, no weird sound effects. Just… someone speaking gently, telling him to breathe, telling him he’s safe.
Still, he clicks away.
Just to see what else is out there.
Suddenly his recommended is flooded.
“Sleepy boyfriend rubs your back until you pass out”
“Gentle morning kisses while you fall asleep”
“CLUMSY BOYFRIEND ACCIDENTALLY OPENS EMERGENCY EXIT ON PLANE MID-FLIGHT [Sleep Aid 💕]”
He scrolls faster. It gets worse.
“Yandere boyfriend whispers sweet threats until you fall asleep 😳”
“Mafia boss forces you to nap in his lap”
Zhang Hao physically recoils. “What the fuck is going on.”
And yet…
He keeps scrolling.
He tells himself it’s for research. For entertainment. For anthropology, maybe.
He clicks on a video titled “Sleep aid – clingy bf edition 💕” just to laugh at it, but ends up sitting there in stunned silence as the guy whispers, “Don’t fall asleep yet, I haven’t kissed you goodnight,” like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“…Huh.”
The guy sounds like a 50 year old man who’s been smoking cigarettes his whole life though. He clicks away.
There are even… NSFW ones.
He doesn’t click them. He just sees them in the sidebar. The thumbnails are all dimly lit, the titles bold, intense. One of them being:
“Dominant boyfriend helps you cum before bed 😈💦 [M4M]”
Zhang Hao freezes.
“Wait what.”
He clicks on it before he can stop himself—morbid curiosity, maybe. It’s got a tastefully cropped thumbnail of someone’s jawline, and a voice preview that just says:
“You’re such a good little toy for me, aren’t you?”
He throws his phone.
He physically launches it across the bed like it just grew legs.
“What the actual fuck—”
But then, because he’s a human being with poor self-control and a mild sense of curiosity, he crawls over and picks the phone back up. He’s already halfway into the video when the voice sharply demands:
“COME. COME NOW.”
Zhang Hao slaps pause so hard he almost breaks the screen.
He sits there for a second. Processing. His eyes wide.
He says out loud, to nobody: “What the fuck.”
And then, quieter: “...People sleep to this?”
Like, okay. He’s not a prude. He’s had sex. He’s watched porn. He’s done stuff. But this?
He shakes his head, exits the app, stares at his reflection in the black screen for a long, judgmental beat.
Then, sighing, he opens it again.
He scrolls back up to the one that didn’t have emojis or a baiting thumbnail. Just soft lighting, a cozy-looking bed, and the simple title:
“Loving Boyfriend Helps You Sleep | Soft | Slow breathing | Sweet voice | M4A”
Sung ASMR.
“Please be normal,” he whispers, and clicks.
And this time…
This time, the voice is quiet. Steady. Low and warm like a weighted blanket in audio form. A gentle inhale. A pause. Then:
“Hey… you’re here. I’m glad. Come lie down.”
Zhang Hao’s heartbeat slows.
The speaker isn’t trying to be sexy. He’s not moaning or growling or saying anything that makes Hao want to file a virtual police report. He’s just soft. Calm, and… he feels like he can quite literally feel his presence in the room.
“Long day, huh? That’s okay. You don’t have to do anything now. Just let me take care of you. Just rest.”
Zhang Hao doesn’t even realize he’s closed his eyes until the screen goes dark. He lies there, still and quiet, phone on the pillow beside him, listening to the soft cadence of someone who sounds like they mean it.
He’s out cold in less than ten minutes.
His body wakes him up at 7a.m. to the sound of birds chirping and light filtering in through the curtains, and for a second he doesn’t remember where he is.
Then he blinks. Realizes his neck doesn’t hurt. His back doesn’t feel like it’s carrying the sins of his whole life. His brain is quiet. Not dead, but just calm.
“Holy shit,” he whispers, still half-asleep.
Because last night?
He slept.
He actually, genuinely, peacefully slept.
No tossing. No turning. Just warmth and soft breathing and Sung ASMR’s voice in his ear telling him he deserved to rest.
And the crazy part?
He actually believed it.
He’s so well-rested it feels illegal. On the subway, he doesn’t look like he’s plotting murder. His skin has color. His eyebags are still there but less hollow. His energy is stable. For once, the idea of making it through the day doesn’t make him want to lie down in traffic.
By the time lunch rolls around, he’s already annoyed three people by being unintentionally cheerful.
“Why the hell are you smiling,” Kuanjui says, stabbing his chopsticks into his rice. “You look suspiciously alive.”
“I’m not smiling,” Zhang Hao says, smiling.
“You are, though,” Ricky says, leaning across the table to squint at him. “Wait. Wait. Your skin is clear. Your eyes aren’t twitching. You slept?”
Zhang Hao freezes with his spoon halfway to his mouth.
There is a beat of silence.
“…No.”
“Bullshit,” Kuanjui says immediately, eyes narrowing. “You look like you got exfoliated in your dreams and woke up with a new soul.”
Kuanjui gasps. “Did you finally take our advice?”
Zhang Hao panics. His brain flashes through a hundred options. Should he lie? Half-lie? Say he just tried rain sounds? But if he says that, Kuanjui will ask which video, and Ricky will demand proof, and then someone will go digging through his history and stumble upon the one where a soft-spoken man tells him “you did so well” in a voice like silk—
“No,” he blurts, too loudly.
The entire table stares at him.
“No?” Kuanjui repeats, suspicious. “So you’re telling me you just magically slept through the night after months of bitching about your insomnia every other day?”
“I don’t bitch.”
“You literally sent us a voice message at 2 a.m. three nights ago whining about how you were going to die alone with a haunted pillow.”
“…That doesn’t sound like me.”
“Zhang Hao,” Soobin says, staring him down like a prosecutor. “What did you listen to.”
“I—look, it wasn’t ASMR, okay? It was just—”
He pauses.
They’re all waiting. Ricky’s even stopped chewing.
“It was just… background sound. You know. White noise. Very boring. I don’t even remember.”
He shovels a spoonful of rice into his mouth for dramatic effect.
Kuanjui narrows his eyes. “Why do I feel like you’re hiding something.”
“I’m not hiding anything.”
“You’re definitely hiding something.”
“Can’t a guy just… glow naturally?”
“No. Not after months of all this.”, he accentuates the word ‘this’ by whipping out a photo where the bags under Hao's eyes that could be sold at Prada, for millions probably, are prominent. He points and waves his finger around the screen.
But they drop it — eventually. Kuanjui gives him a long, squinty stare like he’s trying to mind-read through sheer force of will, but then gets distracted by his phone. Soobin shrugs and goes back to scrolling through some gaming subreddit. Ricky gives Zhang Hao one more once-over, shakes his head, and mutters, “Witchcraft,” before returning to his lunch.
Zhang Hao exhales quietly, grateful.
Because what was he supposed to say?
“Oh yeah, I fell asleep listening to a stranger call me soft and perfect in my ear for twenty minutes. He told me I deserved good things and now I want him to tuck me in every night forever.”
Absolutely not.
He is taking this secret to the grave.
Still, he opens YouTube again on the way home. Just to check. Just to see if Sung ASMR has other uploads.
He does.
And they’re all the same vibe. Soft. Gentle. Occasionally teasing, but never over the top. His voice is so steady. So confident in the way only someone deeply comfortable with affection can be.
Zhang Hao scrolls back all the way to the oldest uploads and smiles without meaning to.
This is fine.
This is healthy.
This is not an emotional attachment forming to a disembodied voice on the internet.
Right?
By the time night rolls around, Zhang Hao’s room feels a little less heavy.
It’s still quiet, but now quiet doesn’t feel like as awkward or punishing. Instead, it feels like a space where he can finally breathe.
He reaches for his phone without hesitation, pulls up Sung ASMR’s channel, and lets the familiar thumbnails wash over him like a warm tide. The dim lighting, the gentle smile on the creator’s blurred-out face, the promise of soft words and slow breathing that never feel rushed.
He presses play.
The voice comes through the speakers: calm, and low, and steady. The kind of voice that feels like a hand resting lightly on your shoulder.
Some nights, it’s just soft words:
“You’re doing amazing, it’s okay to rest.”
“I’m right here.”
Other nights, the voice teases just a little, with a warmth that reaches inside his chest and unknots the tension he didn’t realize he’d been carrying. The way Sung says “that’s my boy” or “you’re so pretty” feels less like a pre-rehearsed script and more like a genuine acknowledgement.
Zhang Hao finds himself lying there with his eyes closed, a small, quiet smile touching his lips for the first time in months.
He starts to explore the older videos too, scrolling through the uploads as if they’re little letters left for him in a bottle, each one an invitation to rest, to feel safe.
Sometimes the videos end too soon, and he wishes he could press “repeat” forever.
He doesn’t tell anyone about the channel. Not because he’s ashamed — though maybe just a tiny bit — but because it feels like something private, a small corner of the world just for him. A place where he doesn’t have to explain his tiredness or defend his exhaustion or pretend he’s fine.
It becomes part of his nightly routine: brush his teeth, get ready for bed, turn on Sung ASMR, and slowly sink into the quiet calm the voice creates.
His insomnia hasn’t disappeared completely, but the sharp edges have softened. The endless racing thoughts quiet down enough to let him rest.
And in the mornings, he wakes feeling lighter, like the weight on his chest has lifted just a little.
For the first time in a long time, sleep doesn’t feel like a battle.
It feels like coming home.
It’s a rare day off for him. No lectures, no deadlines. So Zhang Hao wakes up late, because he finally has the privilege to.
He lets his phone buzz a few times before turning his alarm off, and spends the morning sprawled in his room, half-listening to the soft patter of rain outside his window.
After scrolling through Sung ASMR’s channel again for the hundredth time, Hao’s curiosity pulls him to the description box beneath one of the videos. There, nestled among the usual links, is something he hadn’t noticed, or maybe didn’t care for before — his linktree.
He taps it without hesitation, eyes scanning the list: Twitter, Instagram, another website — and then a small, red 🔞emoji catches his attention.
He knows the emoji means it’s for adults only. He’s well past eighteen, after all, but the warning sends a thrill through him, like he’s standing at the edge of some forbidden world.
With a hesitant finger, he clicks.
The page loads.
He finds himself looking at a Patreon account, where Sung ASMR offers exclusive content for subscribers. The posts are a mix of pictures, audio clips, and behind-the-scenes glimpses — most are labeled “dom,” or “sub.”
Zhang Hao blinks.
He hesitates, then shrugs. Fifteen bucks isn’t a big deal.
He clicks the subscribe button. The payment goes through, he knows because he gets an SMS notification from the bank. The page reloads.
He scrolls through the unlocked posts and listened to a few previews. His voice is soft but firm — the same calm presence, but with something new.
Phrases like; “You’re such a good boy for me.”, “You’re perfect, laid out for me like this.”
His face grows warm. The firmness in Sung’s voice, the way he draws out a sentence. He knows exactly what he’s doing, it gets Hao riled up.
Zhang Hao bites his lip and shifts against the pillows. The air in his room suddenly feels too still. Too close. He swipes again, like he’s trying to calm himself down, but each post pulls him in deeper.
Short clips, full sessions. Others have little captions from Sung: notes like "for those of you who need to let go tonight” or "you deserve to be spoken to softly.”
There’s no camera, no face. Just his voice, steady and present.
And maybe that’s what gets to him most.
There’s no pressure to look. No judgment. Just a sound that makes him feel wanted in a way that’s careful. Not performance, but permission.
He doesn’t press play. Not yet. Not right away.
Instead, he sits back and closes his eyes for a second, heart thudding a little too fast.
He thinks: I’m not even sure what I’m looking for.
Then; I think this might be it anyway.
After a moment, he taps on one titled “Slow praise and soft touches (M4A).” The thumbnail is just a pillow and some vague lighting, but the caption reads:
“I don’t care how long it takes — I want you to feel good. I want you to feel safe.”
Zhang Hao exhales.
The audio begins.
And the moment Sung’s voice comes through — just the right kind of commanding — it’s like something shifts inside him. He doesn’t move, he just listens. His whole body is alert, but still. Every breath in the recording feels personal, as if it were meant for him.
He lies there in the quiet, listening, heart tight in his chest and something soft blooming in his stomach.
It’s not just arousal.
It’s being seen. Spoken to. Held, somehow, without being touched at all.
He listens through the end of the recording, not moving once, not even daring to close the app.
When it’s over, he stays still.
Then presses play again.
Zhang Hao doesn’t move while it replays.
The audio ends again, but the warmth of it lingers — like the press of hands that were never really there, the echo of a voice that somehow feels close. His phone lies face-up on the pillow beside him, screen glowing faintly in the low light of his room.
He breathes in. Out. In again, slower this time.
His fingers twitch against his thigh.
He’s not usually like this. He doesn’t get attached. He’s had sex, sure, jerked off more times than he can count — but this is different. It’s not just want; it’s need, the kind that slips under your skin before you can name it. Like longing built into your bones.
The air in his room is warm. Heavy.
His eyes flick to the title again.
He swipes the blanket down a little, lets his legs shift apart, and then hesitates.
Am I really doing this?
But his body already knows the answer.
He presses play for the third time.
His voice returns, soft and low in his ear, like it never left. Confident, calm. Gentle in the way someone can only be when they know how to take their time.
“Lie back for me,” he says. “Relax. You don’t have to do anything. Just let me talk you through it."
Zhang Hao’s hand drifts down, slow. His touch is tentative, like he’s afraid of ruining the moment by moving too fast. He trails his fingers over his lower stomach, then lightly between his legs, over the fabric of his sweats.
The voice keeps going, timed perfectly with his breath.
“You’ve had such a long day. You deserve to feel good. Let me take care of that for you.”
He exhales sharply, hips shifting slightly into the contact. His hand moves with a little more confidence, cupping himself through the fabric. The soft friction sends a warm jolt down his spine.
It feels different — gentler, more focused. Like he’s not just chasing release, but chasing comfort. Chasing someone’s voice.
He pulls his sweats down halfway, enough to wrap his hand around himself properly. His thumb brushes over the head, and he shudders at how sensitive he already feels.
Sung’s voice lowers just slightly.
“You’re doing so well. So responsive. I love how easily you react to me.” Zhang Hao bites his lip.
He’s barely touched himself, and yet he already feels on edge, like Sung’s voice alone is what’s winding him up.
Because it is.
His hand moves slowly, carefully, matching the rhythm of the words. Not too fast. He doesn’t want to rush. He wants to stay here: warm and breathless and half-ashamed but entirely here.
“Let me hear you,” the voice says. “Don’t hide how good it feels.”
Zhang Hao lets out a shaky breath, barely more than a whisper, but it slips from his lips before he can stop it. His cheeks are flushed. His chest tight.
He shifts a little, spreading his legs further.
The lube is an afterthought — quick and cold, then warm again as his hand slides more easily over his skin. Everything feels heightened: the slick glide of his palm, the weight of his own breath, the low hum of Sung’s voice coaxing him deeper into it.
“You’re beautiful like this,” he says. “Every sound you make. Every twitch of your hips. You don’t even know how pretty you are, do you?”
Zhang Hao moans softly, head tilting back into the pillow.
He squeezes a little tighter.
His thighs are tense now. He’s starting to tremble slightly, already on the edge.
But he doesn’t want it to end yet.
His other hand grips the sheets beside him. He listens harder, desperate for more, for another word, another soft instruction.
Sung doesn’t disappoint.
“You don’t have to think. Don’t hold anything back. Just let yourself feel everything.”
Zhang Hao lets out a breathy curse. His pace falters. His chest rises and falls in quick, shallow waves.
He’s so close it hurts.
But more than that — he feels safe. Like the space he’s in isn’t just his bedroom anymore, but something quieter, softer, more held.
All because of a voice he doesn’t even know.
He jerks his hips once, twice, and finally, everything spills over.
His breath catches. His body arches slightly, then relaxes all at once, trembling in the aftermath.
His voice doesn’t stop.
“Good. You did so well. Just breathe. Stay with me.”
He listens to every word as he comes down from his high, his eyes wet, and chest full.
He doesn’t know why his eyes sting.
He’s not crying — not really. Just overwhelmed.
Maybe it’s his voice, still murmuring quiet praise through the speakers, or the way his body finally feels loose for once, like he isn’t holding himself together with tension and caffeine. Maybe it’s just been a long day. A long week. A long stretch of months.
He wipes a hand across his face.
The audio plays on gently. No rush. No sharp cuts. Just soft, steady breathing, like someone staying with him even after it’s over.
Zhang Hao stares up at the ceiling, heart slowing.
He’s never felt this way before. Not after touching himself to porn, not after anyone. It wasn’t just the orgasm. It was the presence. The feeling of being wanted, held, spoken to like he mattered.
It was the voice. His voice.
Sung.
He swallows and closes his eyes again, letting the last few seconds of the recording wash over him.
“That's it. I’m proud of you.”
He exhales, shaky and full.
Then reaches over and presses play again.
Just to hear it.
He doesn’t mean to get attached.
Hao tells himself over and over again that it’s just a voice. Just background noise that happens to soothe him. He’s just tired, that’s all. A little touch-starved. A little lonely. Everyone gets like this sometimes.
But nights start to blur into a routine. Brushing his teeth with one hand and scrolling through Sung ASMR’s patreon with the other. Picking which audio to fall asleep to like he’s choosing which sweater to wear to bed. Sometimes it’s one of the SFW ones, reassurance, Sung telling him it’s ok to stop thinking.
Other nights… it’s not.
And it always helps. It always gets him to sleep.
He wakes up with less tension in his jaw. He smiles more. His friends start noticing again.
"No, Kuanjui’s right. You’ve been glowing lately," Ricky says one afternoon, mouth full of chicken. "Like. Annoyingly so."
"Yeah," Kuanjui adds. "What’s with you? Finally got laid or something?"
“Ah that’s it! The pregnancy glow!” Ricky exclaims.
Zhang Hao chokes on his drink. “What? No.”
Soobin raises an eyebrow, skeptical. “Then what?”
Zhang Hao just shrugs, stuffing fries in his mouth to avoid answering. Again, he isn’t going to say: I’ve been falling asleep every night to a stranger calling me ‘good boy’ and whispering praise in my ear until I pass out.
It’s private. Intimate. Kind of embarrassing, okay, really embarrassing.
He doesn’t even realize how much he’s come to rely on it, until he hears that voice in real life.
It’s a Wednesday. Rainy again, perfect weather for sleeping. But Hao, unfortunately, has to sit through an afternoon lecture in the smallest of their elective classrooms. One of those awkward basement lecture halls with too many folding chairs and flickering fluorescent lights.
Music theory. He’s only taking it as a filler module, but the professor is chill and lets people trickle in late.
Zhang Hao’s sitting in the second row, chin propped in his hand, half-asleep already when the door swings open halfway through the lesson.
“Shit— sorry,” a voice says, rushed and breathless.
Zhang Hao stills.
His head snaps up so fast he almost gives himself whiplash.
Because that voice. That voice-
The exact cadence. That slight rasp. The softness under the breathiness, like velvet.
He turns.
The guy in the doorway is wiping rain from his hoodie sleeve, hair damp and sticking to his forehead. Tall, lean. Cute. Cute Cute. Not in an obvious, styled way. Just naturally soft-faced, a little awkward, voice still echoing faintly in the room as he says, “I didn’t know this room was so far down, my bad.”
Zhang Hao stares.
The guy looks up, and their eyes meet.
Zhang Hao’s heart slams into his throat. He swears the My Love from The Star OST starts playing.
Because he knows that voice. Not just from sleep, not just from moaning in his ear in the dark, but from dozens of hours of whispers that made him feel safe, made him come undone.
That voice belongs to Sung ASMR.
And apparently…
…to the guy now walking toward the empty seat beside him.