hoonprksung

[hoonprksung]

BF TEXTS ; P.SH 박성훈

pairing: bf!sunghoon x female!reader

synopsis: texts between you and boyfie sunghoon

ꜱᴏᴊᴜᴍɪᴍɪ : guys I couldn't help myself and made one for sunghoon- atp its going to become a series ㅠㅠ

likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated !

© all rights reserved sojumimi 2025 do not copy, steal or repost my work without permission.

[hoonprksung]

ONE NIGHT STAND ⟡ psh

professer sunghoon x collage student ୨ৎ

⟡ synopsis: You let a stranger ruin you one night — then he turned out to be your professor. Now every class feels like foreplay. ✉️ wc. 10350 ⚠️ tw smut, explicit sexual content, unprotected sex (wrap ur willies), professor/student relationship, one night stand, fingering, oral (m. receiving), spanking, dirty talk, handjob, overstimulation, spit kink, possessiveness, jealousy, public teasing, rough sex, aftercare, slight angst, emotional manipulation, implied age gap, power imbalance, strong language, alcohol use (basically just porn)

genre. smut, (mdni!) romance, drama, angst, forbidden love, slow burn, erotica, university au, power dynamics, emotional tension, secret relationship, student/professor romance

It’s your last night of summer. Tomorrow, you move into your dorm, trade your parents’ house for a tiny twin bed and a stack of syllabi. So tonight — just for tonight — you want to forget about responsibility. About expectations. About the version of yourself you’re supposed to become.

The club is loud and packed, the bass from the speakers deep enough to rattle in your chest. Lights flash red and purple overhead, casting shadows that move across the crowd like ghosts. Bella clutches your wrist, pulling you deeper into the sea of people with a giggle.

“You’re not allowed to be shy tonight,” she shouts over the music, leaning close so you can hear her. “It’s your last night of freedom. Go flirt with someone. Get drunk. Maybe get laid.”

You roll your eyes, laughing despite yourself. She’s already halfway to drunk, her glossy eyes and flushed cheeks proof of that. But she’s right. You didn’t dress like this to be a wallflower. You came out in a tight black dress that hugs your curves just right, your makeup smoky and bold, your legs aching slightly from the heels you swore you wouldn’t wear and did anyway.

You make your way to the bar to order something — anything — that’ll warm your throat and lower your inhibitions just a little. That’s when you feel it.

Eyes on you.

You turn your head slightly, pretending to scan the crowd, but you already know exactly where it’s coming from.

He’s sitting at the bar alone. A half-finished whiskey glass in front of him, one elbow resting lazily on the counter. His hair is dark and parted just enough to fall over one brow. Clean-cut, but not preppy. Dressed in all black — a simple shirt, watch glinting at his wrist, rings on two fingers. His posture is relaxed, but his gaze?

Intense.

You don’t know how long he’s been looking at you, but he doesn’t look away when your eyes meet. He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t wink. Just watches. Calm. Curious. Like he’s waiting for you to make the first move.

Your heart skips a beat.

You look away first, pretending to fidget with your phone as you wait for the bartender. But your pulse is racing, and you can still feel his gaze burning into the side of your face.

“Vodka soda,” you say when the bartender finally notices you. Your voice is slightly unsteady, and it annoys you.

You don’t look back until the drink’s in your hand — and when you do, he’s still watching. But this time, he’s moving.

Straight toward you.

You freeze. Instinctively fix your hair. Sip your drink too fast. Then he’s there, standing beside you at the bar like he’s been invited.

“First drink of the night?” he asks, voice smooth as silk, low enough that you have to lean in to hear him.

You glance up at him — and now that he’s close, you can really see him. Sharp cheekbones. Full lips. Eyes so dark you’re not sure where iris ends and pupil begins.

You try to play it cool. “Second.”

He nods once. “Good. First would’ve meant I was a little early. Second means I’m right on time.”

You raise a brow, trying not to let your smile show. “For what?”

He leans in slightly, and you catch the faintest whiff of cologne — warm, musky, expensive. “For meeting you.”

The line should be cheesy. It should make you roll your eyes. But it doesn’t. Maybe it’s the way he says it, like he actually means it. Or maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you, gaze flicking from your lips to your eyes like he’s cataloging the way your mouth moves when you smile.

You take another sip of your drink. “Do you always hit on girls at bars?”

“Not always,” he says, not missing a beat. “Only the ones who can’t stop looking back.”

Your cheeks heat instantly. He saw that?

Before you can come up with a response, he extends his hand. “Sunghoon.”

You hesitate — just a second — before slipping your hand into his. His grip is firm, but not too tight. Warm. Steady.

You tell him your name. He repeats it back to you like he’s tasting it.

And then he leans in again. “Let me buy you your third drink.”

You’re not drunk — not really — but there’s a buzz in your blood, a warmth that runs deeper than alcohol. It’s in the way Sunghoon keeps watching you, the way his eyes drop to your lips every time you speak. His voice is steady, smooth, but there’s something beneath it — a restraint. Like he’s holding himself back.

You talk. About nothing, mostly. Music, favorite cities, late-night cravings. You learn he’s a little older, but he doesn’t say exactly how much. You don’t ask. You don’t want to ruin the spell by making it real.

At some point, you end up on the dance floor. You didn’t plan to — you never really dance — but he takes your hand without asking, and suddenly you’re there, surrounded by pulsing lights and bodies and heat.

He doesn’t keep his distance. One hand finds your waist. The other drifts low, fingers brushing just beneath the hem of your dress. He moves slow, but deliberate — his chest against your back, his lips ghosting near your ear.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs, voice low, breath hot against your skin.

You laugh — breathless. “Why’s that?”

“Because I don’t usually do this either.”

You turn your head just enough to meet his gaze. “Do what?”

He leans in. His mouth grazes your jaw, then your cheek, then finally — your lips.

It starts soft. Testing. His hand slides around your hip, pulling you closer, and then he kisses you deeper — fuller — like he’s been waiting all night for it. You don’t even realize your fingers have curled into his shirt until he pulls back just slightly, lips still brushing yours.

“My place is five minutes from here,” he says. “Say the word.”

You hesitate for half a second. Not because you don’t want it — but because you want it too much.

“let’s go,” you whisper.

The ride to his place is a blur — fast, silent, electric. He doesn’t touch you in the car, but his knee brushes yours, and it feels more intimate than anything else so far.

His apartment is clean. Minimalist. Expensive-looking. You barely notice any of it.

Because the moment the door clicks shut behind you, he’s on you.

His hands cup your face as he kisses you again, harder this time. Hungrier. He backs you against the door, lips crashing into yours like he can’t get enough.

Your fingers slide into his hair. His hands drop to your hips, then lower — gripping the backs of your thighs and lifting you effortlessly.

You gasp against his mouth, legs wrapping around his waist. He carries you like you weigh nothing, walking you through the apartment until you’re in his bedroom.

He drops you gently onto the bed, standing over you for a second. His chest rises and falls with every breath. He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room — like he’s starving and you’re the meal.

“Still okay?” he asks, voice rough.

You nod. “Please.”

He smirks — just a little. “Take off your dress for me.”

Your breath catches. But you do it — slowly, fingers slipping beneath the straps and easing it down your body.

Sunghoon watches the whole time, not blinking.

You’re left in nothing but a lacy black bra and matching panties. You start to reach behind to unhook it, but he stops you.

“Let me.”

He steps forward, kneeling onto the bed between your legs. His fingers find the clasp, and the bra falls away. His eyes darken.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, leaning down to kiss between your breasts. His hands trail up your sides, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you arch into him.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whispers, mouth dragging lower, tongue flicking across one nipple before sucking it into his mouth.

Your back arches, a soft moan slipping past your lips.

His hand moves between your thighs, fingers tracing over your panties. You’re soaked.

“You want my fingers?” he asks, voice low, teasing.

You nod — desperate now.

“Say it,” he murmurs, lips brushing your neck. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want your fingers,” you breathe. “Please.”

And that’s all it takes.

He pushes your panties aside and runs two fingers along your slit, groaning at how wet you are. Then he slides one finger in — slow, deep — and your body trembles.

“Shit,” he breathes. “You’re tight.”

He adds another, curling them inside you, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl.

Your hips start to move with his rhythm, grinding against his hand.

“Touch yourself,” he says suddenly. “I want to see you do it.”

You hesitate, flushed, but obey — hand slipping between your legs to rub slow, needy circles over your clit while he pumps his fingers in and out of your pussy.

The sounds — wet, messy, obscene — echo in the quiet room.

You’re close. So close.

“Come for me,” he says, lips against your ear. “Show me how pretty you look when you fall apart.”

And you do.

You’re still catching your breath when Sunghoon pulls his fingers from your dripping cunt, glistening with your orgasm. He brings them to his mouth, lips curling around them without breaking eye contact.

“Taste so fucking good,” he murmurs. “Could eat you for hours. But right now…”

His voice trails off as he sits back on his heels, tugging his shirt over his head in one fluid motion. His chest is toned, lean muscle carved beneath smooth skin. His belt comes next, then his zipper—

And when he pushes his pants down, your mouth goes dry.

Holy. Shit.

He’s big. Thick. His cock hangs heavy between his legs, hard and flushed, a single bead of precum glistening at the tip.

You stare, stunned for a second, and he notices.

His mouth curves into a dark smile. “Too much?”

You shake your head, eyes locked on his length. “No. Just…” Your voice trails off, and you bite your lip. “Big.”

He groans softly, palming the base of his cock. “Come here, baby. Let me feel that pretty mouth.”

You crawl toward him, sinking to your knees at the edge of the bed. He stays standing, hand stroking his cock slowly as you settle in front of him.

“Spit on it,” he says, voice rough. “Then use your tongue.”

You obey. Spitting into your palm first, you rub the wetness over the head of his cock, then down the shaft. He hisses under his breath, hips twitching.

Then you lean forward and press a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the tip.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, hand slipping into your hair. “Such a good slut.”

You wrap your lips around him, tongue swirling over the sensitive head before sinking lower. He’s thick — you can barely fit him in your mouth — but you try, inch by inch, letting your saliva drip down to make it easier.

Sunghoon groans, fingers tightening in your hair. “Fuck, just like that. You look so fucking good on your knees.”

You moan around him, and the vibration makes his hips jerk. You bob your head slowly, using your hand to stroke what you can’t fit, drool running down your chin.

“Look at me,” he commands, voice like gravel. “Eyes on me while you suck my cock.”

You lift your gaze, lashes wet, cheeks hollowing around his length. He growls.

“God, that mouth. I could fuck your throat all night.”

He starts to guide your head, setting a rhythm — slow but deep, letting you feel every inch. Your throat tightens around him, but you don’t pull away.

“You like this?” he mutters, voice ragged. “Like choking on my cock like a desperate little slut?”

You moan again, louder this time, and he groans — head falling back for a second before he looks down at you again.

“Bet your pussy’s still dripping,” he says. “Bet you’d let me bend you over right now and fuck you until you forget your name.”

You whimper, sucking harder, desperate for his praise — for more of that filth spilling from his lips.

Then suddenly, he pulls back. His cock slips from your mouth with a wet pop, and you blink up at him, confused.

“On your hands and knees,” he says. “Now.”

You scramble onto the bed, body aching for more, cunt still pulsing from your earlier orgasm.

Sunghoon climbs behind you, running a hand down your back, then up again — slow, possessive.

Then—smack.

You gasp as his palm lands on your ass, the sting sharp and sudden.

“Too much?” he asks, even as he squeezes where he just spanked.

“No,” you whisper. “Do it again.”

He groans. “Fuck, you really are perfect.”

Smack. Again — harder this time. Then he soothes the spot with his palm, leaning down to murmur against your ear.

“I’m gonna ruin you,” he breathes. “Stretch this tight little pussy open with my cock, fuck you so good you’ll still be shaking in your dorm tomorrow.”

You moan — loud, desperate — pushing your hips back against him.

“Please, Sunghoon,” you whimper. “Need you inside me.”

His voice is a low growl. “Beg prettier than that.”

You shudder. “Please. Want you to fuck me. Want your cock, please—”

He growls again — deep, raw — and grabs your hips, lining himself up.

You feel the head of his cock slide through your folds — slow, teasing — dragging against your already-sensitive clit before he lines up at your entrance. He pauses, both hands gripping your hips.

“Deep breath, baby,” he murmurs. “I’m not small, remember?”

You barely have time to nod before he pushes in.

Your gasp is instant. He’s thick, stretching you open inch by inch, and the burn is sharp in the best way — the kind that makes your back arch, your mouth fall open, your eyes roll back. He goes slow at first, letting you feel every inch, and your body clenches tight around him, trying to adjust.

“Shit,” Sunghoon groans, voice strained. “You’re so fucking tight—trying to suck me in.”

He bottoms out with one final thrust, hips flush to your ass. You cry out, gripping the sheets.

“Too much?” he asks, voice low.

“N-no,” you stammer. “Just—so full.”

He leans over you, chest pressed to your back, mouth right by your ear. “You can take it. And you will.”

Then he pulls back — just the tip — and slams back in, hard enough to make you moan. He starts moving, hips snapping forward, fucking into you with smooth, relentless strokes. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixing with the filthy wet noises coming from between your legs and your own desperate moans.

Sunghoon’s grip on your hips is bruising. He fucks you like he owns you, like you’re his toy and no one else’s. He leans back just enough to admire the way your ass bounces with every thrust.

“Look at you,” he mutters. “Taking all of me like a good little slut. You were made for this cock.”

You whimper, trembling, already close again — the stretch, the pressure, the filthy words all pushing you toward the edge.

“You gonna come again?” he asks, breathless. “Already?”

You nod, too far gone to answer properly.

He slaps your ass again — smack. “Say it. I wanna hear you beg.”

“Please,” you gasp. “I’m gonna come, Sunghoon—fuck, please let me.”

He growls, pounding into you faster. “Come for me. Now.”

You break.

Your second orgasm crashes over you hard, clenching around him like a vice, and he doesn’t stop. Keeps fucking you through it, unrelenting, merciless. Your arms give out, and you collapse onto the mattress, trembling and whimpering.

But he doesn’t let up.

“Oh, we’re not done,” he pants. “Not even close.”

He pulls out suddenly, and you barely have time to catch your breath before he flips you onto your back. He grabs your legs, spreads them wide, and lines himself up again.

“Want to see your face this time,” he murmurs. “Want to watch you fall apart.”

Then he thrusts back into you, hard and deep, making you cry out. Your body is already too sensitive, your pussy still fluttering from the last orgasm, but he doesn’t care. If anything, he likes how overstimulated you are.

“You feel that?” he grits out. “How your pussy’s still squeezing me like it never wants to let go?”

You nod frantically, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “Too much—fuck—it’s so much.”

“But you’re taking it,” he says. “Taking it so well.”

He fucks you like a man possessed, like he’s trying to carve himself into your memory. Every thrust hits deep, the angle perfect, and your legs start to shake.

“I can’t—” you choke out. “Gonna come again—”

He grabs your throat — not hard, just enough to hold you in place. His other hand finds your clit, fingers rubbing fast, merciless circles over the swollen bundle of nerves.

“Yes, you can,” he growls. “You’re gonna come again. You’re gonna soak my cock. I want to feel you milk me.”

You shatter.

The third orgasm hits you like lightning — hot, electric, impossible. Your vision blurs, body writhing beneath him, voice cracking into a broken moan as your pussy clenches around him like a vice.

But he still doesn’t stop.

Sunghoon fucks you through it, hips slamming into yours, jaw clenched like he’s holding back everything.

“Fuck, I’m close,” he groans. “Wanna come all over this tight fucking pussy. You want that, baby?”

You nod, unable to speak.

“Where?” he grits out. “Tell me.”

“Inside,” you whisper. “Please—come inside me.”

His eyes darken.

He slams into you one more time and groans deep in his chest as he spills inside you — hot, thick, and endless. You can feel it, the way he pulses inside your overstimulated cunt, and it makes you moan all over again.

He stays there for a moment, both of you panting, sweaty, trembling. Then he leans down and kisses you — slow and deep, like he’s trying to remind you that he can be gentle, too.

When he finally pulls out, your thighs are sticky, trembling. You’re completely wrecked — legs spread, sheets soaked, lips swollen, hair a mess. And Sunghoon just looks at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“You okay?” he asks softly, brushing your hair back from your face.

You nod, exhausted. “That was… insane.”

You wake up sore.

Between your legs, mostly. Every shift of your thighs reminds you exactly what happened last night — the ache, the stretch, the way he didn’t stop even after your legs were shaking. You wince a little as you turn over.

The bed beside you is empty.

Sheets crumpled, slightly warm, but no Sunghoon.

You sit up slowly, the duvet slipping down your bare chest, blinking against the morning light that filters in through half-open blinds. The room’s unfamiliar. Sleek. A little too neat to feel lived in.

Strange. Isn’t this his place?

Your clothes are scattered across the floor, but none of his are. No signs of a toothbrush on the bathroom counter. No jackets hanging by the door. No photos. No clutter.

Airbnb, maybe. Just a place he rented for the weekend.

You frown as you rub a hand over your eyes. Your head is foggy, still wrapped in the lingering haze of alcohol and sex. You try to piece together last night — the way he looked at you at the party, the feel of his fingers, his mouth, his cock — and then… it’s all just heat and noise and black.

You don’t even remember falling asleep.

You sigh. Hard.

Your phone’s nearly dead, and the time glares back at you: 11:02 AM.

Classes start tomorrow. Perfect.

No note. No message. Not even a name.

You don’t even know his last name.

You pull your dress on — wrinkled and inside-out — and shove your heels into your bag. You call an Uber before you’ve even finished brushing your hair with your fingers.

The car is quiet. You don’t talk.

You lean your forehead against the window, eyes half-lidded, sore and still a little hungover, the ache between your legs throbbing in time with your heartbeat.

One night stand. That’s what it was. Nothing more.

Still… you can’t help thinking about him. About the way he looked at you. The way he kissed you. The way he—

You shake your head.

It was one night. You’ll never see him again.

Tomorrow, university starts. Time to focus on new things.

You have no idea what’s coming.

You’re late.

Of course you’re late.

Your phone had died overnight, and you’d barely dragged yourself out of bed in time to throw on the cleanest outfit you could find and rush across campus with half-brushed hair and your coffee still in a to-go cup. Your legs are still sore, your thighs brushing uncomfortably with every step, and you haven’t stopped thinking about last night.

Or him.

The guy you let wreck you in a stranger’s bed. The guy who disappeared before morning. The guy you’ll never see again.

Right?

You shove open the door to the lecture hall, breathless.

“Sorry, sorry,” you mumble as you slip inside, your voice echoing faintly. The place is massive — a hundred seats, maybe more — and every single one of them is already filled with someone more punctual and better-rested than you.

You find a seat near the middle, head ducked, ignoring the stares as you slide your bag off your shoulder and collapse into the chair. You’re still trying to catch your breath, sipping your lukewarm coffee, when a voice carries from the front of the room.

“Glad you could finally join us.”

Your stomach twists.

That voice—

No way.

You blink.

Then slowly — so slowly — you look up.

And your heart stops.

There he is.

At the front of the room, standing beside the projector screen with a laptop open on the podium, is him. Black button-up, sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms. Sharp jaw. Cold eyes.

Sunghoon.

Your one-night stand.

Your mystery man.

Your professor.

You blink again, hoping you’re hallucinating. That you’re still in bed. That you’re still dreaming.

But he just stares back at you — a flicker of recognition in his eyes, so fast and so subtle that if you didn’t know, you’d miss it.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t react.

He just says, cool and calm, “As I was saying — welcome to Modern Media Theory. I’m Professor Park. This semester, I expect you to show up on time, be prepared, and keep your personal lives out of my classroom.”

You go still.

The air in your lungs vanishes. Your cheeks burn.

He didn’t just fuck you.

He’s your professor.

And he’s pretending nothing happened.

You don’t hear a single word of the lecture.

Not a single one.

Your eyes stay locked on him the whole time — on Professor Park — trying to reconcile the man in front of the class with the man who had you bent over a bed less than twenty-four hours ago.

He’s even more handsome when you’re sober. Clean lines. Sharp cheekbones. That same deep voice, now filled with authority instead of filth. It should be illegal to look that good in front of a classroom.

And the worst part? He acts like you’re no one.

Not a glance. Not a flicker of amusement or recognition. Nothing.

You spend the next ninety minutes trying not to squirm in your seat — from nerves, from heat, from the dull ache still between your thighs. His voice carries over the room in calm, measured tones, talking about frameworks and theory and authors you can’t even remember, because all you can think about is his hand gripping your throat, his cock in your mouth, his voice in your ear telling you to beg for it.

By the time class ends, you’re practically vibrating with frustration. The students file out one by one, chatting, oblivious, until finally the room is empty — except for you.

And him.

You wait until he’s closed his laptop before standing.

He doesn’t look up. “Class is dismissed.”

“Yeah,” you say, voice tight. “I got that.”

That makes him pause. Slowly, his eyes lift, meeting yours. The coolness in them is surgical. Detached.

You swallow. “So… you’re a professor.” He doesn’t react. “Looks that way.” Your heart pounds. “You didn’t think that was something worth mentioning last night?” Sunghoon tilts his head, finally closing the distance with his eyes, not his body. “You didn’t ask.”

You laugh — sharp, disbelieving. “Seriously?” He slides his laptop into his bag. Calm. Controlled. Like this is nothing to him. You take a step closer. “You just left. No note. No text. You didn’t even tell me your last name, and now I find out you’re standing at the front of my class like nothing happened?”

He sighs — not guilty, not even annoyed. Just tired.

“Look,” he says. “Last night was a mistake.”

The words hit like a slap.

“A mistake,” you repeat, voice flat.

“Yes.”

He zips up his bag and slings it over his shoulder, then finally — finally — meets your gaze with something resembling emotion. But it’s not warmth. It’s not regret. It’s caution. “You didn’t know who I was. I didn’t know who you were. But now we do. And nothing else happens. Understood?” You blink at him. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Sunghoon—”

“Professor Park,” he corrects, firm. “From now on, in this room, on this campus — you will refer to me as Professor Park. You will not speak of last night. And you will not treat me like anything other than your professor.”

Your throat tightens. “So that’s all I was to you?” His jaw flexes. Just once. “I’m not here to discuss feelings,” he says. “I’m here to teach.” He moves to leave, but you step in his path.

“One night,” you say quietly. “That’s all it meant to you?” He pauses. Doesn’t look at you. Then—

“Yes.”

And then he walks past you, out the door, gone before you can even breathe out the response stuck in your throat.

You’re alone. In your first lecture hall. On your first day. Still sore. Still remembering. Still burning. And now you can’t stop thinking about him. Not because he touched you. But because now, he won’t.

You practically collapse into your dorm room chair.

The walk back from class did nothing to calm you down — not with your thoughts spinning and your thighs still sore. You’re halfway through Googling Is it illegal to hook up with your professor if you didn’t know he was your professor when the door swings open and Lily walks in, dropping her tote bag with a sigh.

“Please tell me you didn’t fall asleep in the middle of class like I almost did,” she groans.

You shake your head. “No. I… had Modern Media Theory.”

Lily perks up instantly, eyes wide. “Wait—wait—don’t tell me you got Professor Park?”

You freeze.

She gasps. “You got Park? Are you serious?”

You just blink at her, unsure how to answer.

Lily throws herself onto your bed dramatically. “Oh my God. Half the campus is obsessed with that man. Like, seriously. Even the guys think he’s hot.”

You say nothing. You can’t. You’re still trying to figure out if this is hilarious or humiliating.

“And people say,” she lowers her voice like she’s sharing top-tier gossip, “he’s huge.”

You sip your water slowly, hiding the way your breath catches. Yeah. You wouldn’t need rumors to confirm that. You still feel it.

You try to play it cool. “Huge how?”

Lily looks scandalized. “Y/N. Please. You know how.”

You choke on your water, coughing as Lily bursts out laughing. “Seriously! That man has big dick energy like—actual BDE. Someone in second-year swore he stretched her friend so bad she couldn’t sit for two days.”

You look down at your lap. Yep. Sounds familiar.

“Didn’t know the media department had this kind of drama,” you mutter.

Before Lily can reply, Kitty walks in with a protein shake and zero chill.

“Wait, are we talking about Professor Park?”

Lily lights up. “Y/N has him!”

Kitty gasps. “No way. The hot one?”

Y/N stays silent. Kitty throws herself into the chair across from you.

“I heard he’s really good in bed,” Kitty says casually, like she’s talking about the weather. “Like, life-changing. My cousin said her roommate slept with him at some faculty party or something—pre-semester—and she still can’t shut up about it.”

Your jaw clenches.

Yeah. He is.

Too good. Too cocky. Too unforgettable.

You cross your legs without thinking — a weak attempt to soothe the ghost of last night’s ache still pulsing between your thighs.

“Anyway,” Kitty says, oblivious, “you’re lucky. Most profs are ancient or weird. If I had Park as my first Monday lecture, I wouldn’t even be mad.”

Lily grins. “I wouldn’t even miss a class. Ever.”

You force a tight smile. “Right.”

They move on to some other topic — campus events, party rumors, who hooked up with who — but you barely hear it.

Your mind’s still stuck on his voice. His hands. The way he called you a good little slutand then looked right through you the next day like none of it mattered.

Your friends think he’s a fantasy. You know he’s a mistake. And yet, you can’t stop thinking about him. Still sore. Still remembering. Still wanting more.

“Y/N… can we talk?”

His voice is low, almost gentle. You turn around and he’s standing there — in the doorway of your dorm, hands in his pockets, eyes unreadable.

You don’t say anything.

Sunghoon steps closer, slow and careful, like he’s afraid you might run.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “For being so cold. Yesterday.”

You cross your arms over your chest. You want to be mad — you should be mad — but all you can do is stare at him. The way his jaw clenches. The way his voice dips when he talks to you, like you’re the only one in the world who can hear him.

He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t know what to say. I panicked.”

He’s inches away now. You can feel the heat of his body, the scent of his cologne — clean, warm, familiar. He reaches out slowly, fingertips brushing your wrist, trailing up your arm like he’s checking if he’s allowed to touch you again.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” he murmurs. “About that night.”

Your heart pounds. His touch burns.

“I wanted to forget,” he admits, voice rough. “But I can’t.” Your back hits the wall. He cages you in without touching you — one hand braced beside your head, the other hovering just inches from your waist. His breath fans over your skin.

“I still remember how you sound,” he whispers. “How you taste. How your body felt under mine.” You shiver. Your eyes flutter closed, just for a second. “I should stay away,” he breathes. “But I don’t want to.” His lips are so close. His mouth hovers over yours, not touching, not yet — just letting the moment drag out, all heat and tension and want. You reach for him first.

Your fingers curl into his shirt. He groans into your mouth when you kiss him, slow and desperate, hands grabbing at each other like you’ve both been starved. His body presses against yours and you feel it immediately — hard, hot, eager. Just like before.

He lifts you easily, and your legs wrap around his waist like instinct. His mouth moves down your neck, sucking hard enough to make you gasp, and you tug his shirt up, frantic.

“I missed this,” he murmurs. “Missed you.” Your hips grind against his, and he groans again, rutting forward like he can’t help himself.

“I’m gonna take my time with you this time,” he says against your skin. “Gonna fuck you slow… make you cry for it…” He lays you down, starts kissing down your body, eyes dark with hunger. You moan his name.

“Sunghoon…”

But then—You wake up.

Your sheets are twisted around your legs, your body damp with sweat, and your hand is fisted tightly in the fabric of your tank top like you were reaching for something. Your chest rises and falls with shallow breaths. You stare at the ceiling.

He wasn’t here. He didn’t say anything. It was just a dream. And now you’re even worse off than before.

You don’t say anything the next time you walk into class.

But you don’t have to.

Your skirt is shorter than usual — just enough to ride up when you sit down — and your legs are crossed deliberately, slowly, as you ease into your seat near the front. No tights. No leggings. Just skin and confidence.

You feel his eyes on you the second you walk in.

He doesn’t look at you directly — of course not. He’s smarter than that. But you can see the way his jaw tightens. The way his fingers hesitate on the mouse before clicking to the next slide. The way his throat bobs when you shift in your seat and uncross your legs, only to cross them again.

You rest your chin in your hand, eyes locked on him like he’s the only thing worth watching.

Sunghoon keeps talking.

But now, there’s a pause between his sentences. A slight rasp in his voice. A subtle glance in your direction every few slides, never lingering too long — just enough for you to catch it.

You smile.

It’s not like you’re doing anything wrong.

You’re just a student in his class. Listening. Participating. Sitting there in a skirt that barely brushes your thighs, biting your lip every time he says something remotely commanding.

“Pay attention,” he says at one point, when a group in the back is whispering.

You straighten in your seat, lifting your eyes slowly.

“I am, Professor,” you say, soft and sweet.

His eyes flicker.

You don’t miss the way his grip on the podium tightens.

By the end of class, you can feel the tension radiating off him in waves. His sentences get shorter. His lecture speeds up. His eyes don’t meet yours again.

When the students begin to pack up, you move slower than the rest. You lean forward, elbows on the desk, letting your skirt ride up even higher as you adjust your bag. You can feel his stare this time — heavy, hot, lingering.

You don’t look at him. Not until the last of the students file out and the door swings shut behind them.

Then — and only then — you turn your head, lips curled into the faintest smirk.

“I liked today’s lecture,” you say, casual.

He exhales slowly, not moving from behind the desk.

“Did you.”

You stand, swinging your bag over your shoulder, stepping just close enough that the air between you feels like a challenge.

“I liked the way you said my name during attendance,” you murmur. “You sounded… tense.”

His eyes are sharp, unreadable. “You think this is a game?”

You shrug. “Isn’t it?”

He doesn’t move, but the heat in his stare makes your skin prickle. “You’re playing with fire.”

You take a step back toward the door, still smiling.

“Then burn me.”

And just like that — you’re gone.

Leaving him standing there, pulse racing, jaw clenched, hands braced on the desk like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

You can feel his gaze on your back the whole way down the hallway.

You don’t expect him to follow you.

You think he’ll stay behind like always — composed, in control, untouched by the things you do just to watch him flinch.

But the second you turn the corner into the empty hallway, you hear it.

Footsteps. Fast. Heavy. Determined.

Before you can fully register it, a hand wraps around your wrist and yanks you back — hard. You gasp as your back hits the wall, your bag slipping off your shoulder, your heart slamming against your ribs.

Sunghoon towers over you, eyes blazing.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

You blink up at him, playing dumb. “Walking.”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t play games with me.”

You tilt your head, letting your skirt shift just slightly higher as you shift your weight against the wall. “You’re the one who said it was nothing, remember? One night. A mistake.”

His jaw tightens. His hands are still gripping your wrists — not hard, but firm enough to make your pulse stutter. His body is so close you can feel the heat rolling off him in waves, caging you in.

“You wore that on purpose,” he mutters, eyes dropping to your legs.

“Wore what?” you ask sweetly.

He scoffs, low and dangerous. “You think I haven’t noticed? The skirts, the looks, the way you sit front row with your legs wide open like you want me to do something about it.”

You stay silent — because he’s not wrong.

Sunghoon leans in closer, voice like a growl in your ear. “You want to get fucked over a desk, is that it?”

Your breath catches.

“You want your professor to lose control,” he continues, his mouth just shy of touching your neck, “to bend you over the nearest surface and remind you exactly how good it felt to be ruined by me.”

You’re shaking now — but not from fear.

From how badly you want him to do it.

Your voice is barely a whisper. “Then do it.”

He freezes.

You swear you see the moment something in him breaks.

Sunghoon grabs your chin, tilting your face up to his, and crashes his mouth onto yours.

There’s nothing soft about it — no hesitation, no pretending this is still something he can control. It’s heat and teeth and frustration, his tongue sliding over yours with a groan like he’s been holding this in for too long.

You gasp as he lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he mutters against your mouth.

“But you are,” you whisper, tugging his hair, grinding down on him.

And fuck, he’s already hard — painfully hard, pressing against you like he’s seconds from snapping all over again.

“I tried to forget you,” he breathes, dragging your skirt up.

“You didn’t,” you whisper. “Neither did I.”

His mouth crashes onto yours again, more desperate now — hands sliding up your thighs, pushing your panties to the side like he can’t even wait to undress you.

“You think teasing me was a good idea?” he growls. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing when you act like a little slut in my class?”

You moan. “Then teach me a lesson, Professor.”

His eyes burn.

“Oh, I will.”

Sunghoon doesn’t take you to his office.

He doesn’t even bother finding a classroom.

He kicks open the door to the nearest supply closet — small, dark, barely wide enough for the both of you — and presses you against the wall before it even shuts behind you. His mouth is back on yours, rough and hungry, hands everywhere, grabbing and pulling like he needs to feel all of you at once.

“Turn around,” he growls against your lips.

You obey, chest heaving as your hands brace against a metal shelf full of paper and printer ink. He pushes your skirt up roughly, revealing the soaked fabric clinging between your legs.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, dragging his fingers up your inner thigh. “You were dripping through this during class?”

You moan when his fingers brush your slit, teasing the soaked fabric. “I couldn’t help it.”

“You wanted me to see, didn’t you?” he says darkly, yanking your panties to the side. “Wanted me to lose it in front of everyone and fuck you over the desk.”

You whimper, pushing back against him.

“You have no idea what you’ve done to me,” he mutters, pressing two fingers inside you without warning.

You cry out, gripping the shelf tighter as he curls them deep inside you.

“So tight… shit, you’re perfect,” he groans, fucking you slow and deep with his fingers. “Still so wet for me. You missed this cock, didn’t you?”

You nod frantically. “Yes—God, yes.”

He spanks you once — hard — and you gasp, the sting sharp and delicious.

“Say it properly.”

“I missed your cock, Professor.”

He groans low in his throat. You hear the sound of his belt, the zipper, the shuffle of fabric. Then his hand returns to your waist, and the thick head of his cock presses against your entrance.

You barely get a breath in before he thrusts inside.

“Fuck—Sunghoon—!”

“God, you take me so well,” he hisses, slamming into you again, and again, until you’re gasping with every thrust. “This is what you wanted, huh? To be bent over like a bad student and filled up with my cock?”

You can’t even answer. He’s too deep. Too thick. Stretching you open so perfectly your knees almost buckle.

He grabs your hair, pulling your head back just enough to whisper in your ear.

“Not gonna stop this time. You’re gonna take it all.”

And you do.

Every thrust slams into you, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the tiny closet, filthy and raw. Your walls flutter around him with every stroke, clenching tight like your body’s desperate to keep him there.

You don’t even care that you’re in a damn supply closet — not when he’s fucking you like this, like he’s punishing you and worshiping you all at once.

“Can feel you squeezing me,” he groans. “You’re close, aren’t you?”

You nod, crying out when his hand slips between your legs and rubs circles against your clit, fast and unforgiving.

“Cum for me,” he growls. “Let me feel it.”

You break with a scream, your orgasm ripping through you like fire — legs shaking, walls spasming around him, soaking his cock as he pounds you through it.

But he doesn’t stop.

“Too much—!” you whimper.

“You can take it,” he growls. “One more. Be a good girl.”

You’re already too sensitive, your body twitching with every thrust, but the way he fucks you — like he owns you — has you falling apart again.

“Please—Sunghoon—!”

“That’s it,” he pants, thrusting even deeper. “Such a good little slut for me. Letting me fuck you where anyone could walk in…”

You cum again — hard, sudden, your moans cut off by the hand he slaps over your mouth as you scream into his palm.

His hips stutter.

“Fuck—gonna fill you up—fuck, take it—”

You feel him twitch inside you, hot and thick, and then he’s spilling into you with a deep, broken moan, his cock throbbing as he presses deep and stays there, panting against your shoulder.

You both stay like that for a moment.

Breathless. Sweaty. Soaked.

Then he pulls out slowly, and you both groan at the mess — his cum dripping down your thighs, your panties ruined, the air thick with sex.

He zips up without a word. You adjust your skirt with shaking hands.

“You’re a fucking menace,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair.

You smirk over your shoulder. “And you’re weak.”

He glares.cYou wink. And you leave him there — still flushed, still catching his breath, already addicted again.

The next morning, you walk into class like nothing happened.

Your skirt’s a little longer today. You’re not wearing lip gloss. You even show up on time, quiet and composed.

But nothing feels the same. Sunghoon doesn’t look at you once during the lecture.

Not when you raise your hand. Not when you bite your pen. Not even when you catch his eye on purpose and hold the stare. He acts like you don’t exist. But you know better.

You can feel the tension in the way he paces the front of the room. The way he rushes through the slides. The way he won’t call on you even though your hand’s been raised for five minutes. He’s avoiding you. And it’s almost funny, how obvious it is.

When class ends, you take your time packing up, but he’s already halfway out the door. He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t glance back. Doesn’t say a word.

Coward.

You don’t chase him. You don’t have to. Because two seconds after you step into the hallway, your friend Lily grabs your arm with a smirk.

“You look like you got wrecked,” she whispers, dragging you to the side. “Don’t even lie. You’re glowing.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m just tired.”

“Bullshit,” she grins. “Is this about Professor Park?”

Your heart stutters. “What?”

“You’ve been acting weird since the semester started,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “And don’t pretend you didn’t notice how he was looking at you the other day. I was two seats behind you. The man looked like he was about to explode.”

You say nothing. Your silence is enough. Lily’s eyes go wide. “No fucking way.”

“Keep your voice down.”

“You fucked him?!”

“Lily.”

“Oh my god,” she gasps. “Was it hot?” You hesitate. She laughs. “That good, huh?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” She ignores you. “Okay but like… is what they say true?”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I’m serious,” she whispers. “Is he… huge. Like huge. Like, wreck-your-life huge.”

You don’t respond. You don’t have to. Her eyes go wider.

“Wait. He is, isn’t he?!”

You just shrug, lips twitching.

“And really good in bed?” she adds. “Like, dangerously good. Like… ruin-you-for-everyone-else good.”

You don’t even try to hide the way your thighs press together.

“Jesus Christ,” she mutters. “No wonder you’ve been walking funny.” You slap her arm. She laughs louder. “You lucky bitch.” You groan, covering your face. “It was just a one-time thing.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” You want to believe it.

But then you get to your next class and open your laptop, and the first thing that flashes through your mind isn’t the lecture — it’s the way Sunghoon’s hand had clamped over your mouth while you came around his cock.

And when you pass him in the hallway later — by accident, this time — he barely glances your way.

But his jaw clenches. His hand balls into a fist. And you know he remembers. You bite your lip as you keep walking, not looking back. You don’t need to. You already know he’s watching.

Class is halfway through when Sunghoon finally breaks.

You can feel it before it happens — the way he keeps glancing your way, how his words are sharper than usual, how his hand keeps flexing on the desk like he’s trying to hold himself together.

You’re sitting near the front again. Of course you are.

Legs crossed. Skirt riding just a little too high. Innocent face like you’re not begging to be noticed.

And he does.

“Y/N,” he says, voice casual. “Can you help me with something for a second?”

Heads turn. You blink up at him, playing your part perfectly.

“Sure, Professor.”

You rise slowly, adjusting your skirt with deliberate care, and walk to the front like you’re not already soaking through your panties. You can feel the stares on your back, but all you care about is his.

His jaw is tight. His eyes flick down your body once — fast, hungry, dangerous — and then he steps back, motioning toward his desk.

“Over here,” he murmurs.

You round the desk, heart pounding as he opens a drawer, pretending to rifle through it.

“I need you to grab—” he starts, but you cut him off with a look.

“Don’t lie,” you whisper, stepping closer. “You just wanted me near.”

His breath hitches. “You’re insane.”

“You asked for help,” you say sweetly. “I’m just being a good student.”

Your hand brushes over the front of his pants — and sure enough, he’s already hard.

He grabs your wrist. “We’re in the middle of class.”

You look up at him, eyes wide and innocent. “So stop me.”

He doesn’t.

Instead, he groans — low and harsh — as you sink to your knees behind the desk. The rest of the class is quiet, heads buried in their notes or staring at the projection screen. No one even notices you’re gone.

No one can see.

Your fingers undo his belt with practiced ease, and when you free his cock, you have to stifle a gasp.

You forgot how thick he is.

How heavy he feels in your hand.

How your mouth waters at the sight of it.

“You’re fucking insane,” he mutters again, voice strained now.

You pump him slowly, dragging your hand up the length of him, thumb teasing the slit at the top. He’s hot and pulsing in your grip, already leaking, and it takes everything in you not to take him in your mouth.

But you want him squirming first.

You tighten your grip slightly, stroking him slow — too slow — watching his stomach tense, his breath catch.

“You like when I touch you here, Professor?” you whisper.

“Fuck,” he mutters, gripping the edge of the desk. “Keep your voice down.”

“You like when your student gets on her knees for you in the middle of class?” you tease, twisting your wrist at the top just how he likes.

His hips twitch.

You speed up, stroking him faster now, loving how he’s biting the inside of his cheek to keep quiet. He looks down at you once — just once — and you see it in his eyes.

He’s right there.

You lean in, spit on your hand, and stroke him harder — faster — and he curses under his breath, head falling forward.

“Shit—Y/N—stop—gonna—”

You don’t stop.

You squeeze, twist, stroke him right through it, and he cums hard in your hand, biting his lip so hard you think he might bleed. His cock twitches as you milk every last drop, your hand warm and wet with him.

You look up at him, breathless.

“Still need help with anything?”

He glares down at you, chest heaving, eyes wild.

“You needy girl,” he whispers.

“And you’re obsessed,” you whisper back, standing and licking your palm clean with a slow swipe of your tongue — just because you can.

His eyes darken like he wants to drag you under the desk and fuck you right there.

But he doesn’t.

He swallows, adjusts his pants, and turns back to the class like nothing happened.

You walk back to your seat with your legs trembling — and the biggest fucking smile on your face.

He calls you to his office after class. Not right away — no, he waits a full ten minutes after the room clears, like that’ll somehow make this less obvious. You knock once, and when you step inside, he’s leaning against his desk, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“Close the door.”

You do.

“Lock it.”

You hesitate, then click it shut behind you. He exhales sharply. Doesn’t look at you.

“We can’t do this anymore,” he says, voice low. You blink. “Can’t do what?” He glares. “Don’t play dumb.”

“I’m not,” you shrug. “You’ll have to be more specific. Do you mean the part where I made you cum in the middle of a lecture? Or the part where you let me?”

His jaw clenches. “Y/N.”

You take a step closer. “Or do you mean the one-night stand? The closet? The fact that you begged me not to stop?”

“Stop.” His voice cracks on the word. You smile sweetly. “You dragged me into this. Not the other way around.”

“I’m your professor.” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated, desperate. “This has to end before we get caught. Before I lose my job. Before—” You cut him off by sliding between his legs, standing so close your thighs brush his. His hands are still clenched at his sides, like he’s holding on to the last bit of control.

“Then why did you ask me to come here?” He says nothing.

“You could’ve ignored me. Failed me. Told me to stop. But you didn’t.” His eyes lock onto yours, burning with something darker than anger.

“Because you can’t,” you whisper. “You don’t want to.” His breathing is ragged. “That’s not the point.” You lean in, voice softer now. “So make a rule. Try.” You watch him fold, just a little. He grabs your waist and spins you — suddenly, roughly — pinning you between him and the desk.

“No more games,” he says, voice low, lips inches from yours. “No more teasing. You come to class. You do your work. You don’t speak to me unless it’s about the course. Understood?” You raise your chin, defiant. “And if I break the rules?” His grip tightens. “Then you won’t like the consequences.” You smile, slow and wicked. “I think I will.” He growls under his breath, turning away like he needs the space, like he can’t breathe when you’re that close.

You take one step toward the door. Pause. Glance over your shoulder. “Oh,” you add innocently, “I won’t be wearing panties next lecture.” He doesn’t move. But his fingers twitch. And when you finally leave the office, you know you’ve already won.

You knew he wouldn’t last.

Sunghoon made it exactly three days before he cracked.

You showed up to every lecture like the perfect little student.

Took notes, nodded along, answered questions.

Sat right in the front, of course — legs crossed, skirt a little too high, no panties underneath.

You saw the way his eyes lingered.

The way his voice faltered every time he called on you.

You didn’t even have to touch him. Just existed. And watched him unravel.

So really, you weren’t surprised when class ended and he barked your name in front of everyone.

“Y/N. Stay behind.”

You fought your smile. Nodded. Waited.

The second the last student left, he grabbed your wrist and yanked you toward his office — not saying a word, walking fast, grip tight like he was scared he might change his mind.

The door slammed shut behind you. Locked. And then he shoved you against it.

“I told you to stop,” he growled. You smirked. “But you didn’t want me to.” He kissed you before you could finish the sentence — all tongue and teeth and frustration, like he hated you for what you did to him. His hands were already under your skirt, shoving it up, confirming exactly what he’d been suspecting all week.

“No fucking panties,” he muttered against your lips. “You really are a little slut, huh?”

“Only for you,” you whispered. That’s what did it. He spun you around, bent you over the desk without warning, and shoved your legs apart with his knee. You gasped at the cold wood against your cheek, his hand pushing down between your shoulder blades to keep you there.

“No teasing this time,” he hissed. “You want to play games? Fine. But you’re not leaving this room until I’ve ruined you.” You whined when you felt his fingers glide between your folds — soaking wet, dripping for him already.

“Fucking knew it,” he growled. “You like being used, don’t you?” You nodded desperately. He spanked you, hard. “Use your words.”

“Yes, hoon, yes—!”

He groaned and unzipped his pants so fast it was like he’d been holding back for days. Probably had. You felt the thick head of his cock press against you, tease your entrance, and then— He rammed into you.

No hesitation. No warning.

Just one rough, brutal thrust that had you screaming his name against the desk.

“God—Sunghoon—”

“That’s Professor to you,” he growled, grabbing your hips and slamming into you again.

You were soaked, your body clenching around him like it couldn’t get enough — and you couldn’t. His cock stretched you so deep, so perfectly, it was like your body was made for him. He fucked you hard, fast, filthy — the desk creaking under the weight of it, your nails clawing at the wood, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

“Thought you could tease me?” he hissed in your ear. “Sit in my class like a good girl and pretend you’re not dripping for me?” You moaned — helpless, breathless, aching for more.

“You don’t get to tease me,” he growled. “You don’t get to fucking win.” He fucked you harder, his cock slamming into your soaked cunt with punishing thrusts, the sound of your bodies echoing off the walls like it was the only thing that mattered. You could feel him everywhere — hands, hips, voice — all of him taking and taking and taking. And then his hand snaked around your front. Two fingers on your clit. Fast, rough, no mercy. You sobbed.

“Too much—!”

“Take it,” he snapped. “You wanted this.”

Your body was already on edge — too sensitive, too full, too overstimulated — and you shattered around him with a scream, legs trembling, pleasure ripping through you like lightning. He didn’t stop. He kept fucking you through it, not slowing down, not letting up, chasing his own release with the desperation of a man possessed.

“I’m gonna fill you up,” he growled. “So deep you’ll still feel me in the morning.”

You whimpered, overstimulated and aching and still somehow needing it.

“Beg for it.”

“Please—fuck—fill me up—need it, please—” That was all he needed. He cursed, shoved deep one last time, and came with a low, broken groan, spilling inside you so hard you could feel it flood your insides — hot, thick, endless.

You stayed there — bent over, legs shaking, completely ruined — as he caught his breath behind you. And then, when he pulled out, his cum dripped down your thighs and onto the floor, and you knew this was it. There was no going back now. He was yours. And you were so far from finished. 

It had only been three days. But you missed him like it’d been weeks.

He was sick — a bad fever, rough cough, too weak to teach, let alone sneak off to fuck you breathless behind his desk.

Still, you called. Every night.

At first, it was innocent. How are you feeling? Are you redtng enough? Do you need anything?

But tonight, something was different.

His voice was lower. Rough from congestion, but still laced with that dark, velvety tone that made your stomach flutter.

“I miss you,” he rasped into the phone. Your breath hitched. “I miss you too.” You were curled under your blankets, phone to your ear, nothing but a t-shirt and your own restless thoughts keeping you company.

“What are you wearing?” he asked suddenly, voice a little more awake now. Teasing. Familiar.

You bit your lip. “Just your shirt.” He groaned quietly. “Fuck.” There was silence for a beat — hot, heavy.

“Touch yourself for me.”

Your heart thudded.

“Sunghoon—”

“Please,” he whispered. “I need to hear you.”

Your hand slipped beneath the covers before you could think twice, fingers grazing your thighs, your core already warm and aching. You let out a soft sigh, just for him.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Let me hear you, baby.”

“Are you…?” you breathed.

“Yeah,” he said, voice strained. “Got my hand around my cock right now. Thinking about how wet you probably are.”

You whimpered. He knew what to say. Even sick. Even over the phone. He had you melting with nothing but his voice.

“Are you teasing yourself?” he asked. “Or are you already fucking those fingers in deep like I would?”

“Just rubbing,” you gasped. “It’s so sensitive.”

“Wish it was my mouth,” he growled. “I’d suck your clit nice and slow. Keep you spread open and messy for me.” You moaned louder now, fingers working faster, thighs shaking.

“I miss your tongue,” you whimpered. “And your cock. I miss everything.” He groaned again, breath stuttering. “I’m close. Just thinking about you falling apart for me.”

“I’m gonna come,” you panted. “Sunghoon, I—”

“Do it,” he whispered. “Come for me, baby. Let me hear it.”

And you did — hard, trembling, breath catching as your orgasm crashed over you like a wave.

You heard him gasp, a deep, raw sound on the other end. Then silence. Just heavy breathing. You clutched the phone tighter, flushed and buzzing.

“I can’t wait to fuck you when I’m better,” he said finally, voice thick and low. “Gonna make up for every night I couldn’t touch you.” You smiled, cheeks warm. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Good,” he whispered. “Now go to sleep, baby. I’ll dream about you.”

And you did — still aching, but content. Because even when he wasn’t here, he still was.

It didn’t happen all at once. It was little things. The way his voice softened when he said your name, even when he was pissed. The way he always made sure you got home safe, even if it was just a quiet Text me when you’re in bed.

The way he kissed you when no one was watching — not hurried, not hungry. Just… like he wanted to remember it.

You didn’t mean to fall for him. You knew what this was. A mistake. A fling. A secret that could ruin both your lives. But somehow, between the stolen glances and the late-night fucks in his office, you started to feel it. That pull. That ache. It wasn’t just lust anymore. Not for you. So when he texted you at 11:42 PM — come over. need to blow off steam — your heart stupidly fluttered.

And when you showed up at his apartment, when he pulled you in without a word and kissed you like he missed you, you let yourself believe, for just a second, that maybe… maybe he felt it too. You made love that night. Not rough. Not fast. Not like every other time. His hands were gentle. His kisses slow. His body moved with yours like you were something precious — not just a girl he wasn’t supposed to touch.

And afterward, when you curled into him, bare skin against bare skin, you whispered it before you could stop yourself.

“Sunghoon.”

He hummed, half-asleep, arm draped over your waist.

“I think I’m falling for you.”

Silence. Not a breath. Not a blink. Just… nothing. You turned your head to look at him. He was wide awake now.

“Y/N,” he said carefully. Too carefully. Your chest tightened. “Say something.”

He sat up, rubbed a hand over his face. “You weren’t supposed to—” You pulled the sheet up around your chest like it could protect you from the sharpness of his words.

“Wasn’t supposed to what?” you asked quietly. “Catch feelings? Think this meant more than just… late-night texts and quick fucks between lectures?”

His jaw tightened. “You knew what this was.”

“Did I?” You blinked at him, heart splintering. “Because it didn’t feel like just sex.”

He didn’t look at you. And that told you everything. You swallowed hard, throat burning.

“You don’t feel anything for me?”

He paused. And then he shook his head once. Quick. Cold.

“I can’t.”

It hit like a slap. You nodded slowly, forcing down the sting. “Right. Of course.”

“Y/N—”

“No, I get it,” you said, getting up and grabbing your clothes. “You’re just my professor. And I’m just the dumb girl who thought maybe this was something.”

You didn’t wait for him to say anything else. You didn’t look back. Because if you did — if you saw even an ounce of regret in his eyes — you’d break. And you were already breaking. 

You didn’t go to class the next day. Or the next.

You stopped answering his texts. Left them on read. Blocked the number, even — not because you didn’t want to see them, but because you knew you would.

And you were done giving in.

He didn’t love you. He didn’t even like you, not really. To him, you were just a distraction. A body. A pretty little secret to keep him entertained. You weren’t going to be that anymore.

So you went quiet. Silent.

You didn’t show up to his lectures, didn’t sit in the front row in those too-short skirts, didn’t flirt with your eyes across the room. You handed your assignments in online. You stayed invisible. And for a while, it worked.

You didn’t cry anymore. You didn’t dream about his mouth on your skin. You didn’t ache at night thinking about the way he used to look at you like he needed you.

You even let Lily drag you to a party.

He wasn’t there. Of course he wasn’t. Why would a professor hang out with freshmen? But someone else was. He was tall. Soft brown eyes. Big hands. Good Looking

Nice.

You let him kiss you. Let him press you against the wall. Let him fuck you in some stranger’s bedroom with your skirt bunched around your waist.

It wasn’t like Sunghoon. Not even close. But it was something. And for a few minutes, it helped you forget. Until the next morning — when you checked your phone, and saw his name lit up the screen.

Park Sunghoon [3 messages]

Where are you?

You missed another lecture.

Y/N, please.

You stared at the screen for a long time. And then you deleted them. Sunghoon was losing his goddamn mind.

The first day you skipped, he told himself it was nothing.

Maybe you were sick. Hungover. Avoiding him. Whatever.

By the third, he was pacing in his office, checking the attendance sheet, rereading your last assignment just to see if there was a hint — anything — in your tone.

By the fifth, he was showing up to dorm buildings and walking past study halls just to maybe catch a glimpse of you. He didn’t know what the fuck was happening to him. You’d said you were falling for him.

And he’d brushed it off. Because he was scared. Because it wasn’t supposed to happen. I mean, what was he thinking? Fucking his student relentlessly thinking she wouldn’t fall for him? But now? Now he realized he’d been lying to himself the entire time. He missed you.

More than just your body. More than the games. He missed your laugh. Your attitude. Your soft little sighs when you fell asleep against his chest.

He missed you. And when he saw you again — two weeks later, walking across campus in a low-cut top and short skirt, laughing with some guy he didn’t recognize — it hit him like a fucking truck.

You were moving on. And he was still stuck in the night you left. He waited until the guy walked off. Then followed you.

“Y/N.”

You stopped. Turned. Your expression shifted from surprised to cold in half a second.

“I’m busy.”

“Can we talk?”

“No.”

“Please—”

“You made it clear how you felt,” you said, voice sharp. “Don’t backpedal now.”

“I didn’t mean it like that—” You crossed your arms. “You meant it enough to let me walk out.” He hesitated. “You blocked my number.”

“You said it was just sex,” you snapped. “So why would I stay?” He looked at you — really looked at you — and something in his face cracked.

“I was scared,” he admitted. “That’s not an excuse. But I didn’t know what to do. I’m your professor. I could lose everything.”

You stared at him, trying not to let your heart soften.

“And now?”

He stepped closer. Slower this time. Careful, like you might run.

“Now I don’t care,” he whispered. “I’d risk everything if you’d just look at me the way you used to.”

You looked away.

Because you still wanted to.

But he’d already broken you once.

And you weren’t sure you could let him close enough to do it again.

You lay there in the dark, chest heaving, body limp from everything he’d just taken from you — and everything you’d given him.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he. His hand rested on your thigh, thumb stroking absently over your skin like he wasn’t ready to let go yet. Like if he kept touching you, maybe you wouldn’t disappear again. You should’ve pulled away. Should’ve said this doesn’t change anything. But it did. It changed everything.

And when you finally found your voice, it was quiet. Fragile.

“You can’t keep doing that.”His thumb stilled. “Doing what?”

“Acting like it’s nothing one second, then showing up the next like you’d burn the world down for me.” He turned toward you, arm curling around your waist.

“I would,” he said simply. “Burn it all down.”

Your chest tightened. “Then why did you let me go?”

He exhaled, forehead pressing gently to yours. “Because I thought I had to.”

“But you don’t now?”

“I can’t let you go again,” he whispered. “Not after that. Not after this.”

You searched his eyes.

And this time, you didn’t find silence. Didn’t find cold. You found regret. Longing.

Something that looked too close to love to ignore.

“Say it,” you breathed. “Say it wasn’t just sex.” He didn’t even hesitate.

“It never was.”

The breath you’d been holding spilled out all at once, shaky and full of every broken piece you’d been holding in since the start. You closed your eyes, voice cracking.

“Me either.” He kissed your temple, your jaw, your lips — slow and reverent, like he finally understood what he’d almost lost. And when he pulled you against him, wrapping himself around you like a shield, you knew something had shifted for good.

This wasn’t a game anymore. This wasn’t a secret. This wasn’t a one-night stand stretched into months of denial. This was real. And this time, neither of you was running.

was so horny writing this (send req)

perm taglist 🏷️ @kristynaaah @firstclassjaylee @chvconn3 @wonzzziezzzz @sheseung @blvengene @gvtdoll @a3r4-for3ver @sunghoon-cam @luvksnn @aaaaarmiiiiin @blckorchidd @gyulune @zerere @marimariiisblog @pinknjm @bloomiize @flwwon @ziiao @heelovver @sxie-txt

💌 perm taglist request

[hoonprksung]

soft love — pjs

— in which you found purpose in jay's control that love was so soft to be touch and tight enough to never let go.

warnings: dark romance, emotional manipulation, psychological control, jay is older than reader, power imbalance, dependency, themes of submission and ownership. explicit content (smut): unprotected sex, implied breeding kink. MDNI

Dating older guys, they said, would be so good.

"They’re more mature," they told you. "Patient. Experienced. They know how to take care of you. They’ll spoil you, treat you like a queen."

Jay was all of those things and more.

He was sweet in that effortless, older-man way, never fumbling or awkward, always knowing the right thing to say, always knowing exactly what you wanted before you even said it. He'd buy you things without you having to ask. Something you liked, something you needed and the next day, it was waiting in your hands like magic. Clothes, jewelry, rides, trips... everything.

He gave you the kind of love that made it easy—too easy—to fall into him. And you did.

He made you feel safe, special. Protected. Like nothing in the world could hurt you as long as you were his. Like you didn’t need to worry about anything anymore.

And little by little, you stopped.

You stopped checking your own schedule because Jay always had plans for both of you. You stopped talking to certain friends—Jay didn’t like them anyway. You stopped doing a lot of little things because he took care of them for you... until you weren’t sure where you ended and he began.

He became your whole world. And at first, that was intoxicating.

But it started to shift. You didn’t notice it all at once. The control didn’t come like a storm. It came in whispers.

In little comments, like: "You don’t need to go out tonight, stay with me instead." Or: "Why do you even talk to him? You know I don’t like it." Then one day, it was: "Wear this instead, I don’t want other guys looking at you."

And when you pushed back, even gently—just asking questions, wanting to understand—he’d smile that same sweet smile he always had. But it didn’t feel sweet anymore. It felt like warning.

He was still patient. Still spoiled you. Still called you "baby" with that soft voice that once made your stomach flutter.

But, sometimes, it made your skin crawl.

Because when Jay got angry—really angry—it wasn’t loud. It was cold, still and heavy. He didn’t yell. His silence said enough. His glare made your heart skip beats for all the wrong reasons. You forgot how kind he could be in those moments. You only remembered the way your breath caught when you saw the shift in his eyes.

"Love, my friends are planning to visit Indonesia, can I go with them?" 

Your voice is barely above a whisper. You speak without looking up, your fingertips nervously playing with the edge of your sleeve, eyes fixed on Jay as he types away on his laptop across the room. You already know what he's going to say, but you ask anyway—half-hoping for something different this time.

Jay doesn’t stop typing, not at first. The rhythm of the keys continues for a beat too long, the silence between you stretching thin. Then, without looking up, his voice comes out flat. 

"I told you, I’m not comfortable with your friends." Click. Click. "Didn’t one of them have a scandal at some bar? They’re a bad influence."

You flinch, "love, it’s not a scandal," you murmur, careful not to let your tone rise. "She was... she was a victim."

That’s when the keys stop. Just like that, the room feels heavier. His fingers hover above the keyboard.

You dare to glance up and regret it. He’s staring at you now. Not angry. Not yet. But disappointed, which somehow always hurts more. You hate that about yourself, how fast you shrink under his gaze, how quick your heart races when you think you’ve said the wrong thing.

"You always defend them," he says quietly. There’s no yelling, no raised voice, but you feel like you’ve been slapped.

"I’m just saying—" you start, but the words catch. Because what are you saying, really? What are you trying to prove?

He sighs, turns his eyes back to the screen. "I just want what’s best for you. I thought you knew that."

And just like that, the conversation ends. Why did I even ask for permission? That was never your mindset before. You were independent, assertive, unafraid to make your own choices. But somewhere along the way, that changed.

They say it’s normal, even healthy—asking for your partner’s approval. That’s what being in a relationship is, right? Compromise. Communication.

But you feel like you're being held tightly. Not by arms, but by invisible strings that pull every time you try to step too far away. The worst part is you don’t even want to fight it.

You don’t know anymore what’s right, or what’s normal. You just don’t want Jay to look at you like that again. You don’t want to see that shift in his eyes. You don’t want to feel that pit in your stomach, or the shame curling hot in your chest like you’ve done something wrong.

It hurts. Not the kind of hurt that bruises skin but the kind that seeps into your bones, the kind you carry without scars, but never really heal from.

The bed shifts with the familiar creak of weight settling beside you. The mattress dips, and even before he says a word, your body responds on instinct.

You turn toward him immediately, almost reflexively, slipping your arms around his waist and pressing your head against his chest. It’s automatic now, seeking his warmth, his presence. As if holding him tight enough could make everything feel okay again.

Jay’s hand finds your back, slow and soothing, running a few gentle strokes over your spine before settling there. The steady thump of his heart under your ear should feel comforting, but instead it leaves your chest heavy. You breathe in the clean, cool scent of his cologne. Familiar. Inescapable.

“We can go to Indonesia,” he murmurs, his voice soft. “Just the two of us, hm? What do you think?”

He presses a kiss to your forehead like a peace offering. You nod against him, almost automatically, the motion small and quiet.

It’s not what you wanted. But it’s something. And it’s him. That’s enough. Isn’t it? 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, not sure if you’re apologizing for asking, or for pushing, or just for being difficult. You feel him pull you in tighter, his arms wrapping around you.

“It’s okay. I understand,” he says, his voice calm.

Your eyes sting, warmth welling up. You bite your lip, holding the tears back even though you know he can probably feel it—your breathing, just a little uneven now. You blink quickly, hoping he doesn’t notice the dampness gathering at the corners of your eyes.

You’re not sure what hurts more, that he does understand, or that he never really had to.

You nestle closer into his chest, burying yourself in him. You feel the steady rhythm of his heart, the slow rise and fall of his breathing, the weight of his hand pressing gently against your back.

This moment is love. You’re lucky, so lucky, to have someone like Jay. That’s what everyone says.

A man who takes care of you, who thinks ahead, who plans things for you because he knows what’s best. A man who holds you at night, whispers apologies even when you feel like you were the one who did something wrong. A man who spoils you without asking, who says “I understand” even when you don’t deserve it.

He always knows how to bring it back to this. Where guilt fades into gratitude. Where you start to believe that maybe you are overreacting, maybe you are too sensitive, too quick to doubt someone who’s only trying to love you the right way.

Jay never yells. Never hits. He doesn't need to. He just speaks softly, slowly. He makes you feel like the bad decisions you make are your own—even when they were never really yours to begin with.

He listens, and then he corrects, but always gently, always with a calmness that makes you feel childish for pushing back. And every time you hesitate, he meets you with patience… and just enough disappointment to make your stomach twist with shame.

He gives you so much, how could you question him?

You remember the way he brought you your favorite drink after you got upset. The time he booked that surprise weekend trip just because you were stressed. The necklace you wear every day—he noticed you admiring it once and had it delivered within a week. He always comes back with something better. Something to make you forget the argument. Something to remind you that he's still the one holding everything together.

So maybe you were wrong about Indonesia. Maybe it’s selfish to want something he doesn't feel good about. Maybe you’re asking for too much.

Jay is the best boyfriend you could ever ask for.  

That’s what you remind yourself, even when everything feels complicated. He’s perfect. Handsome in that effortless, masculine way, with a sharp jawline and steady eyes that seem to see right through you. Broad shoulders, strong arms, the kind of body that makes you feel small when he wraps around you. Safe.

He knows exactly how to touch you, how to take you apart and put you back together like you were made for his hands. There’s no awkward fumbling, no hesitations. He takes, and you give—because giving to Jay feels like the most natural thing in the world. Like it’s expected. Like it’s right.

"J-Jay!" you gasp, your voice breaking as his pelvis slams into you from behind, every thrust hitting deep. Your breath catches as his grip tightens around your wrists, pulling your arms behind your back.

“You’re mine, baby,” he murmurs between thrusts, filled with that dangerous softness he always uses when he wants you to feel safe while giving in. “Only mine. Say it.”

“I—I’m yours,” you cry out, the words tumbling past your lips before you even think. Your hips instinctively roll back into him, body desperate to meet every stroke. Your own moans betray you, building with the wet slap of skin and the sound of his breath unraveling behind you.

“Wanna keep you to myself—fuck,” Jay growls, his grip flexing around your wrists as your walls tighten around him. “You’re too beautiful. Everybody wants my girl.”

You feel him shudder, throwing his head back, a moan tearing from his throat as he sinks deeper, harder, the pace growing erratic. His words come broken now, laced with raw possession.

“You’re mine… mine… mine… fuck—mine.”

Your whines rise with him, high and trembling, legs shaking beneath the weight of his rhythm. He’s hitting every spot  like he owns them—because in his mind, he does.

Jay always knows what you need before you do. He knows when to be soft, when to be rough. When to pull you close, and when to make you beg. 

He releases one of your wrists, only to slide his hand down your front, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves that makes your legs nearly give out the moment he touches you. His fingers circle it with cruel expertise, pulling out helpless gasps as your body responds.

“See how good I treat you?” he breathes against your neck, lips brushing just beneath your ear. “No one else can fuck you like this. No one else gets to.”

You moan in response, pushing your hips back to meet the punishing rhythm of his thrusts. Your ass collides with him, each impact echoing in the room. He growls low in his chest, gripping your hips, dragging you back onto him with a force that leaves you breathless.

“I’m gonna fill you with my cum,” Jay hisses. “Gonna make you pregnant, baby. Everyone will know who you belong to.”

Your moans break into sharp cries as the pleasure burns through your veins, white-hot and endless. Every stroke of his cock drives deeper, rougher, shaking what little strength you have left. Your body can't hold itself up anymore—your arms collapse beneath you, face pressed into the sheets as he continues his assault from behind.

“I love you,” Jay groans, his voice fraying into a broken moan. “I love you, I love you, I fucking love you—”

Something inside you snaps. Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave breaking loose after too long held back. It’s overwhelming, violent in its depth, unstoppable in its force. Your body tightens around him as pleasure detonates from your core, spreading outward in pulsing waves that steal your breath and leave you crying out his name.

Your hands claw at the sheets beneath you, your back arching as every nerve lights up, every muscle trembling beneath the pressure of his thrusts. It’s like falling and flying at the same time, the intensity of it burning behind your eyes, blinding everything else.

All you can hear is his voice—those words repeating, claiming you. I love you. I love you. I fucking love you.

You’re still trembling as he keeps going, chasing his own end, using your limp, pleasure-drunk body. “Yours,” you whisper, the word broken and breathless into the sheets. “I’m yours, Jay…”

He lets out a sound that’s almost a sob, thrusting harder, deeper, messier now. And you can feel it coming—his climax, the one he’s been holding off for you, the one he’s about to give with everything he has.

Even with your limbs trembling, your body still oversensitized and wrecked from your own release, you shift your hips to meet him, chasing his rhythm. Moaning, shakily, as the pleasure blooms again when you feel him release inside you.

A broken curse falls from his lips, and then he’s spilling into you, his entire body seizing with it.

Every pulse inside you is another claim, another mark, another reminder that you belong to him.

“I love you,” he whispers. His breath is hot against your skin, each word punctuated with a kiss pressed to the curve of your neck.

He stays inside you, his chest rising and falling against your back, skin slick with sweat and warmth. You feel the full weight of him, one of his hands slides up, fingers threading gently through your hair, tilting your head just enough for him to press a kiss to your nape. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.

And when he finally presses his lips to yours, it’s a ghost of a touch. A silent apology.

He whisper, again, I love you, buried in your hair now. Oh, how it feels so good.

To be wanted like this. To be needed this much. To be held so tightly that you forget what it was like to ever stand on your own.

Because in Jay’s arms, even when everything else fades, even when you’re lost in the dark—It always feels like home.

[hoonprksung]

Killer strategies

୭ psychotic and hot, he’s running wild and doing what he wants— sometimes. He’s meeting new people and thinking of fun(fun for him)ways to hangout with them!! :) Will you explore his journey?

୭ TW: This chapter of my story includes suggestions of stalking and holding people hostage. Though it does have blood, gore, and a knife. (Basically a whole killing scene.)

୭ don’t know how many words but I wrote up until I couldn’t anymore

Plain sight:

The hatred towards standing out— I just don’t get it. I don’t get why standing out is so awfully hated, why coming out of your comfort zone to do something is completely unacceptable for some people when it’s the best thing to ever happen to me. Right in the spotlight to be seen, not to mask but to show who I really am in return for uhh— recognition? I wouldn’t know too much, I just feed off of what I see and feel, I see and feel recognition. This includes dying my hair a bright red color, getting both concerned and attracted looks, it never stops. Do I mind? Not at all, it gives me such a boost to do the things I love…

Though, not many know what I love. I’m often seen outside, in random cafes, stores, or at parks just looking around. I’m only ever seen when it’s busy or with just the right amount of people. Some lady down the street from the regular buss stop, pointed it out, not that I didn’t know. It’s just— she called my name out so loudly, I had no choice but to listen.

Flashback

“Hey young man!!”

I turned to look over as people brushed by me, hearing a voice shout, “hey young man with the red hair!!” I knew it was towards me because no one else had been wearing red dye in their hair that’s stained their forehead from the previous night of dying it. I was at the bus stop even though I had a car, I just wanted to stand there. Yeah. With a few shoves past people, I made my way to the constant voice that had turned out to be a short lady with a big bag.

“You wouldn’t mind putting this in my car for me yeah?” The lady smiled, the sweet face made me realize that I couldn’t resist an old lady in need of help. Even if I was so confused as to why she asked me out of all the passing men and women on the sidewalk. I carried the bag while being directed towards her car, opening the trunk as I made sure to shove it down in there just enough to close it.

“Thanks young man, what’s your name?” She slowly moved closer as her hands rummaged through her pouched purse for some money and her eyes adverted to the bag. I didn’t think twice to take the money, soon opening my mouth to speak. “Lee heeseung ma’am.”

She smiled before giving me a light touch on the hands, whispering the words. “When I see you, I’ll asked for you. You’re always out when there’s many people, but I always notice you.” I just nodded as she began to get in her car, adjusting the seat to her height as she drove off. A smile began to creep onto my face, it mirrored her exact smile from earlier. “I wonder what she’d look like screaming in the woods, no, my basement. It’s more convenient when I get to see their faces twist in fear.” The words mumbled from my lips.

Over

No, it’s not that I love waiting for the city to get busy during day so people could have a reason to say they saw me here or there, or that they were with me and saw me leave to go home and only home. Surely I don’t love going out during the night to do what I want, and I mean do what I really want to do. Though I’d first take a walk away from my house, maybe ten minutes away or twenty minutes away. I won’t go to a quiet place but it won’t be busy either, some people should be there to see me and I should see them. I’ll then be approached and get asked for my number, humbly refusing before giving in at last. I’d watch them walk away while telling me to call them, rather a girl or a guy, they always get called. Through processed dates, planned hangouts at my house— or theirs, I don’t care. My plan always goes how I want it, I stay focused and try to keep it professionally done and that may have to mean me putting on a mask to make that person think I’m into them and I’m really not. Even through the mask, I sometimes enjoy their company— not that I needed their company and to be clear, I don’t need anyone. I’m perfectly fine on my own.

I let that out to one person, one specific person would could ever have heard my true words. I told her that living alone wasn’t lonely, having no one to go to wasn’t lonely, not being catered to by parents isn’t lonely. She didn’t believe me when said those words, she pitied me and cried and held my face with tears in her eyes just before giving me one of the tightest hugs I’d ever have. I thought she’d have kissed me or tried to do something stupid like encourage me with words(she did do that after, but my point is that it wasn’t the first thing that she did.), but all she could do was sob and hug me. Deep down I didn’t wanna hug her back but my own body began to betray me and that’s when I knew something was wrong. For the first time in my life, I called out someone’s name without my mask on to hide my true feelings.

Flashback

“Hey… Ji young?

“Hm?” She’s managed to say through sniffles.

“I’m deeply sorry, I really am.” She’s been hugging me for a few minutes with choked sobs, I didn’t know why she cried over such simple words of mine.

She also didn’t know why I was apologizing— until she felt an agonizing pain in her throat, a stab to be exact, right on the side and through her spinal accessory.

She choked out as I removed the knife, blood pouring onto my couch as she fell back, trying to gush it all back in or at least trying to stay alive. Her eyes widened with not a thought in her mind but survival, I loved every bit of her expression, the way she choked, her hurt eyes looking at me before realizing this is who I was all along. The way she fell off of the couch trying to crawl away because the pain was too much to even stand, though it was only in her neck… I couldn’t understand it so I just stabbed her thigh. One quick slice before pushing up and slamming back down into her flesh. More blood poured.

My breathing was heavier than before, a satisfied look is what I’d imagine on my face. Her screams were like complete pleasure to my senses, each vibration of her throat would rumble through me before slowing down. I snapped out of it as soon as she did. Realizing my uncoordinated plan, did I panic?

She wasn’t supposed to die today but I just couldn’t let her live anymore. I couldn’t be around her presence and smell her scent and watch her walk aw-

Over

That’s enough.

People used to tell me that I’m an evil lying bastard and that I should burn in hell for the rest of my life.

But they just didn’t know me enough.

-

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[hoonprksung]

can someone help me find a fic pls

so idrk what was it about but it was like sunghoon recording reader while they were having sex and that’s all I know and it had this was the poster the one below, please help me im really desperate for it 😭😭

[hoonprksung]

250419

[hoonprksung]

i’m yours.

warnings: dark themes (mentions of Sunghoon being in a gang, smoking, drinking, violence, bruises), toxic relationship, suggestive, cursing

smut warnings: unprotected sex, rough sex, pet names (good girl, babe, etc.), fingering, dirty talk, oral (f. receiving), lmk if I missed anything!

wordcount: 1.5k

-

The scent of cigarette smoke clung to him, mixing with the lingering traces of cheap cologne. You stood across the dimly lit apartment, arms crossed, your expensive coat draped over your shoulders. The room was a mess—discarded bills, an ashtray overflowing with stubbed-out cigarettes, and a bottle of whiskey half-empty on the table.

“You promised me, Sunghoon,” your voice was cold, controlled. “You said you wouldn’t do this anymore.”

He leaned against the wall, exhaling slowly, eyes half-lidded as he studied you. He was wearing a thing tank top, revealing the bruises on his collarbone, results of another fight he wouldn’t talk about. His hands, scarred and calloused, rested casually in his pockets, but there was tension in his jaw.

“I never promised that,” he muttered.

You scoffed. “So, what? You just let me believe you were trying? That you’d stop running with them, stop getting yourself into trouble?” Your voice wavered, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “You’re gonna get yourself killed, Sunghoon.”

He pushed off the wall, taking slow steps toward you. “And why do you care so much?” His voice was low, rough, teasing something dangerous.

You hated that tone, the way it made your heart clench and your pulse quicken. “Because I’m not stupid enough to watch you throw your life away.”

A smirk ghosted over his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “That rich girl guilt talking?” he murmured. “Feeling bad for the poor boy who grew up on the wrong side of town?”

Your fingers curled into fists. “Screw you, Sunghoon.”

He was in front of you before you could take another breath, his hand catching your wrist, firm but not painful. His touch was warm, despite the coldness in his words. “You don’t get to act like you’re better than me,” he said quietly. “You’re not as clean as you want to believe.”

You swallowed, your heartbeat loud in your ears. He wasn’t wrong.

Sunghoon had dragged you into his world long ago—the thrill of breaking rules, of sneaking out in the middle of the night just to feel alive. You weren’t innocent, not even close. But you weren’t reckless like him.

“You still shouldn’t have lied to me,” you whispered.

His grip on your wrist tightened, just for a second, before he sighed, releasing you. “I know.”

Silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken things.

Then, in one swift movement, he reached up, tugging you closer by the collar of your coat. Your breath hitched. His lips hovered near yours, close enough that you could taste the nicotine and alcohol in the air between you.

“Still mad at me?” he asked, voice rough.

You wanted to be. You really did.

But then his hands slid down to your waist, fingers pressing just hard enough to make you shiver. His gaze was locked onto yours, dark and unreadable, searching for something—permission, maybe, or a sign that you weren’t about to push him away.

“You always do this,” you whispered, but your hands were already resting against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips.

“Do what?” His lips brushed against your jaw, trailing lower, slow and deliberate.

“Make me forget why I’m angry.”

He chuckled against your skin, the sound deep and smug. “Maybe you don’t want to remember.”

Maybe he was right.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as his lips finally met yours, hot and demanding. His hands roamed over your body like he was trying to memorize you, to claim you all over again. And just like every other time, you let him.

Because no matter how dangerous he was, no matter how much you tried to fight it…

You were his.

And he was yours.

-

After placing you on the bed, he climbed on top of you and gradually undressed you. You leant into his touch without any hesitation.

His eyes darken as he takes in the sight of you, bare and willing beneath him. He slowly unbuttons his own shirt, revealing the tattoos and scars that mar his skin. He doesn't give you a chance to look for long before he leans down, capturing your mouth in another kiss.

His mouth moves down your body slowly, tasting every inch of you. He pushes your legs apart, making a low sound of approval as he sees how wet you already are. He spreads your thighs wider, settling between them. His eyes meet yours briefly before his mouth covers your core.

He uses his mouth and fingers to drive you crazy, curling his fingers inside you and flicking his tongue against that sensitive spot he knows drives you wild. He can feel your nails digging into his back, pulling him closer. He hooks his fingers, searching for that spot that makes you arch your back.

"Hoon- ngh... Slow down," you sobbed, but he didn't even listen, too consumed with his own pleasure.

He adds another finger, stretching you. He knows he's being rough, too fast. He can hear your whimpers, feel your body tensing. Instead of slowing down, he speeds up, his palm covering your cries.

Your whimpers and moans turn to soft cries. He feels your body try to clamp down around his fingers. He knows he should slow down, be gentler. But watching you take his fingers like this... His jaw tightens. He adds another finger, making you yelp. He's not being gentle.

"I'm close," you moaned, throwing your head back.

He feels your inner muscles tighten around his fingers, your body tensing. He leans back and watches you come apart. Your body shakes, and you cry out his name, gripping the sheets instead of his hair. He watches with dark intent in his eyes as you slowly calm down.

He slowly removes his fingers and brings them to his mouth, sucking your taste off of them. He hardens even more at the sight of you, all flushed and sated. He stands up and starts unzipping his jeans, his eyes never leaving yours.

He pulls out his hard length, wrapping a hand around it and pumping slowly. He leans over you, his other hand coming up to wrap around your throat. Not squeezing, just holding. He brings his hips close to yours, the tip of his dick pressing against your entrance.

He pauses as you squirm under his touch, a flicker of hesitation crossing his hardened features. His grip on your throat loosens slightly but doesn't let go completely. With a low, strained chuckle, he presses his forehead against yours. "Too much already? We've barely started, baby,"

He slowly starts to push in, his thick length stretching you open. He watches your face contort with pain, sees the tears gathering in your eyes. He swallows, feeling himself getting harder at the sight. He ignores your whimpers, pushing in deeper.

He pulls back slightly then thrusts hard, seating himself fully inside you. You cry out loudly, your nails scratching down his back. He hisses, capturing your mouth again to swallow your cries. He waits briefly, letting you adjust to his size.

He pulls back slowly before slamming forward again, setting a brutal pace. Your cries fill the room, mixing with the sound of skin slapping against skin. He hooks your leg over his arm, changing the angle and driving in even deeper. Each thrust sends jolts of pleasure mixed with pain through your core.

Your cries get louder, less controlled. He swallows hard, watching your body get spanked with each snap of his hips. He finds himself getting even harder, knowing he's hitting that deep spot inside you with every thrust. He hears you choke on a cry, sees tears streaming down your face.

Between harsh breaths, he growls into your ear, "So tight around my cock... too fucking much. Who does this pussy belong to?" His thrusts becoming more punishing, trying to mark you internally. "You want me to stop?" But he already knows you won't say yes.

“P-please don’t. I’ll be a good girl…” You stuttered.

His eyes flash darkly at your submission, a wicked grin spreading across his face as he leans in close, whispering, "That's my good girl. Gonna ruin this pussy, make it fit only my cock."

One hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise while the other wraps around your throat again, tilting your head up to watch your face as he fucks you into the mattress. His movements become more feral, less controlled. He can feel your body tightening around him again. "Coming already?"

Feeling your climax ripple through you, he doesn't hold back any longer. With one final, brutal thrust, he buries himself deep and comes hard, grinding against you as his cock pulses inside your tight heat. A guttural groan tears from his throat as he empties himself fully into you.

He gently pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you tightly as he lays down on his back, keeping you on his chest. His heart is still racing, and his breath comes in ragged gasps. He presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, his fingers gently running through your hair.

Traces small circles on your back with his fingertips, making sure you're comfortable as he gently kisses the crown of your head, smelling your hair. Through ragged breaths, he murmurs softly near your ear, "Told you I'd ruin that pretty pussy... now it's mine forever."

He had just proven you are his for the millionth time.

masterlist

[hoonprksung]

All I feel is free now

warnings: suicide, mental health struggles, unrequited love and obsession, mentions of cigarettes and alcohol, sex work

masterlist

The café was a haze of cigarette smoke and burnt coffee, its air thick with the hum of a jukebox spinning a nostalgic melody. The neon sign outside flickered, casting a red glow through the fogged-up windows. Sunghoon sat at a corner table, his leather bound notebook splayed open, a pen dangling between his fingers. His shirt was untucked, sleeves rolled to his elbows and his hair fell in messy curls, too long for the tidy poet the world was starting to know him as. At twenty four, Sunghoon was a name whispered in underground literary circles, his books traded like secrets in smoky bookstores. But lately, his words felt like strangers, slipping through his fingers no matter how tightly he gripped his pen.

He was chasing something. Maybe a line, maybe a feeling. When the bell above the door chimed, she walked in.

Y/N. He didn’t know her name yet, but she was a spark in the darkness, a disruption to the café’s tired rhythm. Her denim jacket was patched at the elbows, a red scarf knotted loosely around her neck, and her boots left faint scuffs on the linoleum floor. She moved with a quiet defiance, her eyes scanning the room before settling on the counter. Sunghoon’s breath hitched. She wasn’t beautiful in the airbrushed way of movie posters—she was raw, her face a canvas of untold stories, her presence heavy with something he couldn’t name. She ordered a black coffee, her voice low and unhurried and slid onto a stool, her fingers tapping a rhythm only she could hear.

Sunghoon had never believed in love at first sight. He’d scoffed at the idea, called it a crutch for poets too lazy to dig deeper. But now, watching her trace the rim of her cup, he felt his world shift, like a record skipping on his old turntable. His pen moved before he could stop it, scratching out the first lines of a new poem.

The words came fast, feverish, as if she’d unlocked a dam inside him. He imagined her life—maybe she was a painter, splashing canvases with colors as bold as her spirit. Maybe she wrote songs. He imagined her voice as a quiet ache, like the cassette tapes he played until they warped. He saw her laughing in a field, her hair catching the wind. He imagined her reading (his) poetry under a streetlamp, her lips shaping the words like a prayer. He didn’t know her, but he wanted to. God, he wanted to.

He didn’t approach her. He was too shy, too caught in the spell of her presence. Instead, he wrote, filling page after page with her imagined laughter, her touch, her dreams. She became his muse, though he hadn’t earned the right to call her that. He came back to the café every day that week, hoping to see her. She appeared twice more, always alone, always with that same black coffee and distant gaze. Each time, his notebook grew heavier with her.

By winter, Sunghoon’s poetry was everywhere. His first collection, Glass Hymns, was mimeographed in a friend’s basement, the pages stapled crookedly, but it spread like wildfire. Bookstores, narrow shops with creaking floors and incense haze, sold out of copies. Strangers quoted him at open mic nights, their voices trembling over lines like:

I loved her before I knew her name,

A ghost in my veins, a flame without shame.

He was invited to read at a dive bar downtown, where candles flickered on tables and the crowd snapped instead of clapped. He stood at the microphone, his voice low and steady and read about her. The room held its breath. A woman in the back wiped her eyes. Sunghoon felt alive, but hollow too, because the Y/N in his poems wasn’t the one who sat at the café counter. She was a myth he’d built from stolen glances, a dream he’d dressed in her skin.

He started carrying a Polaroid camera, its weight a comfort in his bag. He wanted to capture her if she appeared again, to anchor the woman in his head to something real. But the café was empty of her for weeks, and the photos he took of the frost on the windows, of his coffee cup ringed with stains felt like poor substitutes. He taped them into his notebook, next to lines like:

You are the shadow that moves before light

The ache I chase through the endless night

He spent nights in his apartment, a cramped walk up with peeling wallpaper and a leaky faucet. He’d light a candle, its flame dancing on his desk and try to summon her. But the more he wrote, the more he felt the gap between the Y/N in his poems and the woman he’d seen. He didn’t know her favorite color, her laugh, her fears. He’d never even heard her speak more than a sentence. Yet he’d claimed her in every line, as if she belonged to him.

One night, he saw her outside the café, under a streetlamp’s yellow glow. She was leaning against a brick wall, lighting a cigarette, her breath visible in the cold. A man approached, older, in a tailored coat, his shoes polished to a shine. He said something Sunghoon couldn’t hear and Y/N nodded, flicking her cigarette to the ground. They walked to a sleek black car parked across the street, his hand grazing her back. Sunghoon’s stomach twisted. He told himself it was nothing. That man could be a friend, a relative. But the way she moved, guarded yet practiced, planted a seed of doubt.

He started noticing things he’d ignored before: the way she never stayed long at the café, the way her eyes scanned the room like she was waiting for someone. He saw her slip a business card to a man at the counter once, her smile tight and professional. The doubt grew, gnawing at him. He couldn’t write for days, his notebook abandoned on his desk, the Polaroids curling at the edges.

Finally, he couldn’t stand it. He found a payphone outside a gas station, the receiver cold against his ear, and called a friend who knew the city’s darker corners. “Y/N,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “She’s at that café sometimes. You know her?” His friend hesitated, then told him. Y/N was a sex worker, high end, discreet. She worked for an agency that catered to men with money and secrets. Sunghoon hung up without saying goodbye, the dial tone ringing in his ears.

He didn’t go to the café for two weeks. He stayed in his apartment, the curtains drawn. He reread his poems, every line about her and felt sick. They weren’t about Y/N. They were about a woman he’d invented, a perfect, untouchable muse who laughed at his jokes and kissed him under starlight. The real Y/N had a life he didn’t understand, a world he’d never touched. He’d taken her image and made it his own, like a thief who didn’t know he was stealing.

He tried to write about it, to untangle the mess in his chest. The words came out jagged:

I built you from air, from light, from lies

A goddess in ink with unseeing eyes

But the poems felt wrong, like he was still claiming her. He stopped writing for weeks, then months. His friends noticed the silence, asked why he wasn’t at readings anymore. He didn’t tell them about her. He couldn’t. The shame was too heavy—not of her, but of himself. He’d fallen in love with a fantasy and called it truth.

Spring came, slow and gray, the city still damp from winter’s grip. Sunghoon went back to the café, not for her but for closure. He didn’t expect to see her, but there she was, sitting at the counter, her scarf draped over the stool. She looked tired, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. He wanted to talk to her, to ask her name, her real name, not the one he’d whispered in his poems. But he stayed in his seat, silent, his notebook unopened.

He watched her from across the room, trying to see her as she was, not as he’d imagined her. She wasn’t a muse, or a dream, or a poem. She was a woman, with a life he’d never know. He felt a pang of guilt, but also a strange relief. Letting go of the fantasy was painful, but it was honest.

That night, he started writing again. Not about her, but about himself. About the emptiness he’d tried to fill with her image. About the way love could be a mirror, reflecting what you wanted to see instead of what was there. The poems were quieter now, less feverish, but they felt truer. He filled a new notebook, the pages rough under his fingers, and let the words carry his guilt, his regret, his release.

He began performing again, reading at small venues where the air smelled of beer and patchouli. The crowds were smaller now, but they listened harder. His new poems were raw, confessional, less about love and more about the ache of being human. People still snapped, still quoted him, but he didn’t feel like a fraud anymore. He was writing for himself, not for her.

Y/N’s life was a careful dance, each step measured to keep her safe, to keep her moving. She’d been working for the agency for three years, since she was nineteen, when the city had chewed up her dreams and spit her out. It wasn’t the life she’d planned. She’d wanted to be a photographer, had saved for a camera she never bought. But it was the life she had. She was good at it, or good enough. She knew how to smile, how to listen, how to disappear when the job was done.

The café was her refuge, a place where she could sit alone, where no one expected anything from her. She’d go there between appointments, order a black coffee and let the world fade. She didn’t notice the young man in the corner, the one with the notebook and the haunted eyes. She didn’t notice the way he watched her, or the way his pen moved when she was there. She was too busy surviving.

Her clients were predictable. Businessmen, mostly, with wedding rings they slipped into their pockets. They wanted her to be whoever they needed: a lover, a confidante, a fantasy. She played the parts well, but they made her feel sick. At night, in her tiny apartment with its thrift store furniture and cracked walls, she’d put on her Walkman and listen to mixtapes she’d made. The music was her anchor, the one thing that felt like hers.

She kept a shoebox under her bed, filled with Polaroids she’d taken with a camera she’d found at a flea market. They weren’t art, just snapshots of a stray cat on a fire escape, of a neon sign buzzing in the rain, of her own reflection in a diner window. She didn’t show them to anyone. They were proof she was still here, still seeing the world, even if it didn’t see her.

On her birthday, Sunghoon wrote his final poem for her. He’d learned the date from that same friend, a detail that felt like a betrayal to hold. He sat at his desk, a single candle burning, his typewriter clacking under his fingers. The poem came slowly, each word a step toward letting go. He called it “Free Now,” after a line that had haunted him for weeks:

Every page that I wrote, you were on it

Feel you deep in my bones, you’re the current

And I showed no restraint, it was something

I was scared of ‘til you made me love it

If you find yourself out, if there is right time

Chances are I’ll be here, we could share a lifeline

If you feel like fallin’, catch me on the way down

Never been less empty, all I feel is free now

It was a confession, a reckoning, a farewell. He wasn’t writing to her anymore, but to the part of himself that had needed her. The poem was his truth laid bare: he’d been empty, filling himself with a fantasy, but in letting her go, he felt lighter. Freer. He typed the final draft, the ribbon on his typewriter fading and mailed it to a small literary magazine he’d always admired. He didn’t care if they published it. He just needed it to exist somewhere outside his head.

He spent the next day walking the city, his boots heavy on the pavement. He passed record stores blasting music, kids in baggy jeans smoking outside arcades. The world felt loud, alive, and he was part of it, but only for a moment. He bought a pack of cigarettes, though he rarely smoked and lit one as he leaned against a brick wall, watching the smoke curl into the dusk.

That night, he drove to the cliff, an hour from the city, where the land dropped into the sea. His Volkswagen coughed as he parked at the overlook, the engine ticking as it cooled. He wore his old shirt, the one he’d worn that first day in the café and carried a Polaroid of the sea he’d taken months ago. The wind was sharp, tugging at his hair, and the waves below roared like they were calling him.

He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t running from anything. He’d said what he needed to say and the weight of it was gone. He thought of Y/N. Not the muse, but the woman. He hoped she was okay, hoped she found moments of lightness in her life. He didn’t know her, but he wished her well, the way you wish for a stranger who crosses your path.

He stepped to the edge, the Polaroid fluttering in his hand. The last line of his poem echoed in his mind: Never been less empty, all I feel is free now. He let the photo fall, watched it spin toward the water. Then he followed.

Y/N found the poem three weeks later, in a newspaper someone had left on a bus seat. She was on her way to a client when she unfolded the paper to kill time. The magazine section had reprinted “Free Now” with a grainy photo of Park Sunghoon, his eyes serious but soft. The editor’s note was brief: Park Sunghoon, poet, submitted this piece days before his death. He was 24.

She read the poem slowly, her headphones slipping to her neck. The words hit her like a stranger’s touch—gentle, but heavy. Every page that I wrote, you were on it. She didn’t know him, had never heard his name, but the poem felt personal, like it was meant for her. She read it again, then a third time, her fingers tightening on the paper.

She didn’t know why it mattered, but she couldn’t let it go. At her apartment, she looked him up in the phone book, then at the library, flipping through old literary journals on microfiche. She found Glass Hymns on a dusty shelf, its cover worn from too many hands. She read it cover to cover, sitting on the library floor, her knees pulled to her chest. His poems were beautiful, aching, but they weren’t about her. They were about someone he’d wanted her to be, someone she could never be.

She went to the café, the one he’d mentioned in an interview she found in a zine. She sat at the counter, ordered a black coffee, and imagined him watching her from a corner table. She didn’t feel angry, or flattered, or sad. She felt seen, but not in the way she was used to. Men saw her body, her smile, the role she played. Sunghoon had seen something else, even if it was a lie he’d told himself.

She started asking around, discreetly, about him. A barista at the café remembered him, said he was quiet, always writing, always alone. A poet at an open mic night recognized his name, told her Sunghoon had been brilliant but distant, like he was carrying something heavy. Y/N listened, piecing together a man she’d never met but felt tied to.

She kept the newspaper, folded in her jacket pocket. Sometimes, when the nights were long and the city felt too heavy, she’d take it out and read Free Now again. She didn’t know why his words stayed with her, why they made her feel lighter, like she could breathe a little deeper. Maybe it was the way he’d let her go, not with anger but with something softer. Maybe it was the way he’d found freedom in his own unraveling.

Y/N’s life didn’t change, not really. She still worked for the agency, still played the parts her clients needed. But something shifted inside her. She started taking more Polaroids, not just of the city but of herself, of her hands holding a coffee cup, of her shadow on a brick wall, of her eyes reflected in a mirror. She bought a cheap notebook and started writing, not poetry but fragments: thoughts, memories, things she’d never said out loud. It wasn’t for anyone else, just for her.

One night, she went back to the café and sat at the counter, the jukebox playing a slow jazz song. She took out her notebook and wrote:

He saw me, but he didn’t. I’m not his muse, but I’m something. I’m here.

She didn’t know if it was a response to Sunghoon or to herself, but it felt like enough. She tore the page out, folded it with the newspaper, and tucked both into her pocket.

She started going to open mic nights, not to perform but to listen. She’d sit in the back, her coffee cooling and let the poets’ words wash over her. Sometimes she’d hear echoes of Sunghoon in their lines, in the way they chased something they couldn’t hold. She wondered if he’d sat in these rooms, if he’d felt the same ache she did now.

One evening, she brought her Polaroid camera to the café and took a photo of the counter, the stool where she always sat. She taped it into her notebook, next to a line she’d written: I’m not free yet, but I’m closer. She didn’t know what freedom looked like, not really, but she thought of Sunghoon’s poem, of the way he’d found it at the edge of the world. She wasn’t ready to follow him there, but she wanted to find her own way.

Months later, Y/N was walking through the city, her Walkman playing a new mixtape made out of songs that felt like her own heartbeat. She passed a bookstore, its window cluttered with flyers for poetry readings and zine releases. A copy of Glass Hymns was displayed, a handwritten note taped to it: Rest in peace, Park Sunghoon. She stopped, her breath catching. She didn’t go inside, but she stood there for a long time, watching people pass by, their lives untouched by the man she’d never known.

She took out her Polaroid camera and snapped a photo of the window, the book’s cover blurry in the fading light. She didn’t know why, but it felt like a goodbye. Not to Sunghoon, but to the part of her that had been afraid to exist outside the roles she played. She wasn’t free, not yet, but she was starting to see the shape of it.

That night, she went to the cliff. She’d found the location in a newspaper article about Sunghoon’s death, a brief mention buried in the local section. She drove her beat up Honda, the radio off, the silence heavy. The overlook was quiet, the sea below a dark expanse, its waves whispering secrets. She didn’t step to the edge. She didn’t need to. She sat on the hood of her car, her jacket pulled tight against the wind, and took out the newspaper with Free Now.

She read it one last time, her voice soft against the roar of the waves. When she finished, she tore the page into pieces and let them scatter, the wind carrying them toward the water. She didn’t cry. She didn’t need to. She felt lighter, like she’d let go of something she’d been carrying too long.

She took a Polaroid of the cliff, the horizon smudged with dusk and tucked it into her notebook. Then she drove back to the city, the road stretching out like a promise. She didn’t know what came next, but for the first time, she wasn’t afraid to find out.

And in that moment, with the sea behind her and the city ahead, she felt a little less empty. A little freer, too.

[hoonprksung]

angely’s masterlist

all of my works include smut - mdni

park sunghoon

i’m yours

on your knees

adidas boy

keep each other company

sorry, love

gym freak

34+35

panty destroyer

biceps and bites

under the table

five days

mine forever

all I feel is free now

lee heeseung

ruined for him

make you forget

park jongseong

teach me

sim jaeyun

night shift

cybersex

streamer mommy

nishimura riki

lower back tattoo

ponytail sitting just right

[hoonprksung]

📽️ ⨾ OOPS, IT SLIPPED ⇀ @byshens

SCENE ──── when you and your boyfriend, heeseung, wanted to take things slow in bed but he ‘accidentally’ slips inside.

 𝝑𓏲 lee heeseung ⸝⸝⠀ f. reader genre smut—mdni. 1,438 ────── unprotected sex (wrap it up), creampie, petnames—princess, baby—overstimulation. ◜ᯅ◝ lmk if i missed any! ──── catalogue! ✶ requests are open!

you and heeseung had been dating for just over four months and it was about time that you both had started to want to experience in bed with each other. wanting to see how well your bed life would go together, even though you already knew it would do wonders.

and you were right.

heeseung obeyed your wish to start slow, to not actually fuck you yet, but just getting off with one another’s bodies. but you didnt know how desperate just that would make you.

you were laid down on the bed, legs spread open while heeseung was between them, his hard and leaking cock just resting on your pussy. not pushing in, just resting on it. you whined and heeseung only smirked, his hips slowly rolling forward, making his cock rub against your clit, the folds of your cunt desperately trying to wrap around his length.

“fuck..” he groaned, his hands gently resting on your thighs as he continued to slowly roll his hips. not rushing, not overwhelmingly, but calmly. his dick though—was throbbing.

he needed to get inside you as soon as possible, but he knew you wanted to go slow. you havent had much sex experience before him and this being your first time with him, heeseung didnt want to scare you off.

but every fucking second was pushing his buttons, testing his will power. he desperately wanted to ruin you, make you scream his name, fill you up with his seed so much where you feel like you could explode. but he waited.

“mmh, oh god,” you breathed out softly, head fallen back onto the pillows. your lips slightly parted open and every so often ,, small whimpers would leave your mouth—only driving heeseung more insane.

“yeah? how’s it feeling, baby?” heeseung asked, his voice already breathless. his tone wasnt anything but genuine, wondering how good he’s making you feel from just this. begging for you to praise him, need him, crave him.

you blushed softly as heeseung’s right hand went to caress your stomach, watching it suck in from the warm touch before relaxing again. “it’s good, so good,” you moaned quietly, his eyes lighting up as if you just gave him his favorite candy.

“can i go faster?” he asked. the second you nodded your head, his pace quickened. not too fast to be overwhelming, no, he knew better. it picked up slowly but surely. the redden head of his cock brushing so gently over your clit, your legs twitching everytime.

“mm, hee..” you moaned. heeseungs hips jolted forward, earning a gasp from you and a groan from him. his mind was drowning in thoughts of just you and with the sound of you calling out his name in such a sinful manner, oh he was gone.

“yeah, princess?” he replied back, eyes watching your face make all sorts of expressions, showing him how good he is doing. you didnt even say a word when you moved your hand to grab his and brought it up to your chest, allowing his hand to grasp a hold of your breast.

heeseung cupped your tit and gave it a gentle squeeze, his heart pounding when you let out a needy whimper, hips jutting up into his own thrusts. he wasnt sure how much longer he could take in just this, with how good you sound, look, feel.

heeseung must of pulled back a bit too much to you because in just mere moments his tip would be pushing slightly through your entrance, his mouth open as he leaned forward to take your lips into a kiss, his hips fully pushing forward into yours to push his cock all the way inside your cunt. you moaned loud but muffledly against his lips, your back arching off the bed and chest pushing against his own.

you placed your hands onto his chest and pushed him back gently, not rough to make it seem as if you were uncomfortable, but back enough in pleasure and shock that you just had to see what he did. and when you gave it a look, you felt yourself start to leak more.

“fuck, fuck, heeseung—“ you whined, not used to the feeling of being filled up. especially not by someone as big as heeseung. he could only fake a gasp and mumble out apologies.

“fuck—baby—i’m sorry, it slipped in—“ he tried to say, but you saw right through him. though, you didnt even mind anymore, you weren’t angry because how could you be angry at him when he’s now fucking into your pussy softly? making it feel like he’s tearing you apart from doing nothing but soft thrusts.

“oh my god—just—just fuck me,” you whimpered, pushing your hips back against his own, trying to get more from him. and how could heeseung ever resist a request like that? he grabbed onto your hips from both sides and pulled almost all the way out before he pushed back in, doing that over and over again while he slowly picked up the speed with each thrust.

the sounds of your wet pussy being fucked in by his cock echoed through the room, followed by loud moans from him and yourself. heeseung was now pounding into you—fast and rough—you were on fire, your mind was blank and all you could feel was heeseung.

“shit, princess, taking me so well,” he praised. his cock twitching between your walls as he desperately fucked into your heat. your stomach started to twist, your breathing started to stager, chest heaving. you knew you were getting close.

“‘m gunna cum, hee—“ you cry out, thighs trembling from either side of his waist, he didnt slow down. he only went faster, his long thrusts making your body jolt forward with each fuck into you. he needed to see your face when you came, he needed to see how fucking gorgeous you looked.

“cum for me, cmon, make a mess on my cock.” he groaned, nails now starting to dig into your skin as he got rougher, pure desire to make you cum. your back arched off the bed again and your hands flew to his arms, desperately trying to hold onto something as you came onto him. “fuck! fuck! heeseung,,” you moan out.

he didnt stop like you thought he would, he only started to chase his own high, pushing your legs close to your chest so he could fall deeper into your heat, hitting all new places to you. your whines and moans never ending, which only made him harder.

“feels so good, baby, your pussy swallowing my cock up so well,” he moaned lowly. sweat slowly starting to form on his skin, his hair covering his eyes as he only focused on using your cunt. the overwhelming feeling of being used after you came was catching up to you. your body twitching and trying to pull away from his thrusts, but he only fucked into you harder.

“please, hee—can’t take anymore,” you cried, but he only shook his head. watching how your eyes started to form tears but your face didnt show any signs of discomfort, just overwhelming pleasure.

“you can take it, your pussy was made for me, baby.” he praised, his thrusts getting sloppier as he felt his high coming. he watched as you practically screamed out his name when you came for a second time, your body worn out but heeseung needed to fill you up. he needed to claim the insides of your cunt, mark them with his own seed.

“fuck, princess, im gonna cum. gonna fill you up,” he moaned. you nodded quickly, toes curling up as he fucked into you once, twice and three more times before he pushed his cock deep inside and stilled, hips slightly twitching as he released inside your walls.

heeseung let go of your legs and let them fall to the sides of him again as he leaned down to kiss your lips, chest up against your own. you moaned into the kiss and let him fuck out his high into you.

“guess that wasnt starting out so slow,” heeseung laughed, only making you roll your eyes at him lovingly. “says the one who tried to use ‘it slipped’, like really?” you fought back at him, watching his face turn red in blush.

he pulled out slowly and went to grab some clean up clothes, helping you to the bathroom so you both could shower. you got in and he got in after you, allowing the warm water to hit your bodies.

“okay, but it really did just slip in—“

“heeseung.”

“okay, my bad.”

💌 ( wish to be in the permanent taglist? apply here ! )

@mimiimiku @liumoonlight @soona-huh @unbel1ve4ble

© byshens. all rights reserved. do not copy, steal, plagiarize, or post onto another platforms without my consent.

[hoonprksung]

i’d let him manhandle me like this (begging PLS)

[hoonprksung]

i really want to suck on Jake's fingers.

[hoonprksung]

can someone help me find a fic pls

so idrk what was it about but it was like sunghoon recording reader while they were having sex and that’s all I know and it had this was the poster the one below, please help me im really desperate for it 😭😭

[hoonprksung]

BEING ROOMMATES WITH 3 GUYS? 02z edition

pairing! enhypen's 02z x female!reader

genre! fluff, crack, roommate au

warnings! cursing, mentions of sex, jake having a dirty ass room, talks of football, kys joke, mention of influenza, 02z being weirdly obsessed with protein shakes, mention of sharing saliva, mention of rituals, mention of 🌽 (they don't do anything I swear), just 02z being men 🤢

notes! THE WARNINGS MAKE THIS LOOK SO BAD LMAOOOO 💀💀 02z are such crackheads here it's so?? inspired by my fear of rooming with more than 1 guy

© boigyu 2025 . do not copy, translate or plagiarize

[hoonprksung]

flirt hoon

🐧 psh ・ fem reader — fluff — pet names mlist

hi guys dioll comeback hahah anyway here’s some texts!! i was so excited to do this :PP anyway don’t we all love flirty hoon!! best thing ever

[hoonprksung]

can someone help me find a fic pls

so idrk what was it about but it was like sunghoon recording reader while they were having sex and that’s all I know and it had this was the poster the one below, please help me im really desperate for it 😭😭

[hoonprksung]

꒰ 𑄽୧ ꒱ 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 jake as your cutest chalant nerd bf

0.4k── fmr x sim jake, est. relationship, fluff

Jake’s sprawled on your bed, his long limbs taking up way too much space, glasses sliding down his nose as he waves his hands in the air dramatically.

“I’m just saying,” he starts for the third time, “if you think about how gravitational time dilation actually works, technically, time is moving slower for astronauts in orbit. like by microseconds sure but it adds up.”

You blink slowly, curled up next to him with your cheek pressed into your pillow. “Jake.”

He pushes his glasses up with one finger, totally ignoring your flat tone. “And then, if you apply that to the twin paradox don’t even get me started. One twin ages slower in space? Insane. Wild.”

“Jake,” you try again, softer this time.

“Also! Did you know the equations behind this stuff? Like, literal Einstein math. I feel sick. Look—” He rolls over, reaching for his phone, probably to pull up a diagram or something cursed.

You sit up slowly, leaning over him, your hand reaching for his glasses.

“Hm?” he hums distractedly as you gently pull them off his face and place them on the nightstand.

“Are you even breathing between facts?” you tease.

Jake finally looks up at you, eyes wide and sparkling behind where his glasses used to be, a slightly dazed look on his face like he just realized he’s been talking non-stop for 30 minutes.

“Was I being annoying?”

You smile, brushing a thumb over the soft skin under his eye. “No,” you murmur. “You’re just really cute when you nerd out.”

His ears go red instantly. “I am not cute—”

But you’re already leaning in, pressing a light kiss to the corner of his mouth. He stutters into silence.

“W-what was that for?” he mumbles, blinking up at you.

“For being the smartest most cutest dork I know.”

He exhales, lips twitching into a shy smile. “You’re just saying that cause I talk too much.”

You kiss him again—this time, right on his mouth. It’s soft, warm, and leaves him breathless. His hand finds your waist, holding you gently, his other hand still clutching his phone like he forgot it was even there.

“…Can I tell you about black holes next?” he whispers against your lips.

You laugh, forehead resting against his. “Only if you keep kissing me between the facts.”

Jake’s smile grows, nerdy and smug and totally lovesick. “Deal.”

© jiwuu, all rights reserved.

letters from author ୨୧ i love chalant nerds the epitome of my type