biteyu - Tumblr blog

biteyu · 3 days ago

Text

WHEN I ★ kissed the teacher.

　　　　　 𝒐𝒇────박성훈 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗍𝗎𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍

꒰𓏼 ◞ ◟ 𓏼， ⠀ 박성훈 × 𝑓!rea ✶ age gap (legal) tension teacher!성훈 student!reader petnames pussy eating unprotected sex─── 2O5O ⠀⠀🗡️

rb 𓂋 𝟰𝗔 𝗞𝗜𝗦𝗦

NEW SCHOOL YEAR, new teacher. your previous teacher had quit due to undisclosed reasons, not like you cared anyway.

but professor park was… different.

not in the sense that he gave off a bad vibe—no, not even remotely close. in fact, it was quite the opposite.

you weren’t sure when it started—

maybe it was the first time he said your name in class. like it tasted good.

maybe it was the time his hand brushed yours when he handed back your essay and lingered a beat too long.

or maybe it was just the way he was. tall, articulate, self-contained. his shirts were always crisp, his words always measured. even when he made jokes—subtle, dry ones—he barely smiled, and yet somehow, it made your stomach turn.

professor park sunghoon was composed to a fault. he never raised his voice. never lost control.

and you wanted so, so badly to be the thing that made him lose it.

you didn’t plan to develop a crush. you really didn’t.

but you found yourself sitting closer to the front.

found yourself rereading all the books he assigned, just to see them the way he did.

found yourself watching the way his fingers tapped the podium when he thought.

how he licked his lower lip mid-sentence.

how he said things like “that’s a good question,” when no one even asked anything.

you laughed too much when he made a dry joke.

you always had a pen ready when he glanced around the room for someone to write on the board.

you caught yourself staring. a lot.

“you’re so obvious,” your friend whispered one day in class.

you kicked her under the desk.

she wasn’t wrong, though.

he knew.

or at least, you were sure he did.

he always met your eyes when he spoke.

he always asked for your thoughts, even when your hand wasn’t raised.

and he always—always—paused when handing your papers back. like he was reading you, not your grade.

one afternoon, when you stayed behind to ask about the final paper, he let the silence stretch too long after answering.

you swore he looked at your mouth.

just for a second.

and when you said, too quickly, “okay, thank you,” and turned to go—

his voice stopped you.

“you don’t have to rush out, you know.”

your breath caught.

but when you turned around, he was already scribbling something into his notebook, as if he hadn’t said anything strange at all.

weeks passed.

your crush only got worse.

you started dreaming about him.

once, you woke up sweating, heart racing, because in the dream he’d pulled you into his office and kissed you so hard you thought you’d pass out.

when he leaned over your desk in real life the next morning, voice soft as he asked, “everything alright?”

you almost cried.

you weren’t alright.

you were far from it.

it was a rainy wednesday when it all slipped out.

class ended early. people were filing out. you were halfway to the door when his voice cut through the low murmur of students:

“miss l/n, could I see you for a moment?”

your heart dropped straight through the floor.

you turned slowly. he gestured toward the front.

he didn’t look angry. or even particularly concerned. just… unreadable.

you stood in front of his desk, hands clasped.

“is something wrong?”

he looked at you for a long moment.

then:

“i’ve noticed you’ve been… distracted.”

your stomach flipped.

“i—i didn’t mean to be,” you stammered.

“i believe you.”

he crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back slightly against the desk.

“but it’s not like you. your essays are strong, but your focus in class…” he trailed off. “i can tell something’s on your mind.”

you tried to smile. it came out shaky.

“just… a lot of things.”

he tilted his head. “personal?”

you hesitated.

and he saw it. the pause. the shift in your breathing.

“you can be honest with me.”

don’t, you thought. don’t say that. don’t be kind.

you felt your eyes burn.

you were so tired of pretending.

so you just said it.

soft, terrified:

“i have a crush on you.”

you heard it echo in the quiet.

he stilled. completely.

you didn’t look at him. couldn’t.

your face burned.

“i’m sorry,” you whispered quickly. “i shouldn’t have said that. i don’t know why i—”

“stop.”

his voice wasn’t cold. it wasn’t anything like what you expected.

you looked up.

his expression was unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes were dark.

not angry. not disgusted.

focused.

“you’re not in trouble,” he said. “but you understand… this puts me in a very difficult position.”

you nodded, swallowing hard.

“i know.”

a pause.

he sighed, glanced away, then back at you.

“you’re… not the first student to get attached. it happens.”

ouch.

but then—

“you are, however, the first one who’s made me think twice.”

your breath caught.

his jaw clenched like he regretted saying it out loud.

he pushed off the desk, walked a slow circle behind it, then sat.

elbows on the arms of his chair. fingers steepled.

studying you.

“i don’t want to hurt you,” he said finally. “or lead you on. but i don’t want to lie to you, either.”

your knees felt weak.

“…so what are you saying?”

he looked at you like he was waging a war with himself.

“i’m saying that after finals, when grades are in and you’re no longer my student…”

a breath.

“…maybe we can talk about what this is. properly.”

the silence that followed was charged. dangerous.

you blinked, heart racing.

and for the first time ever, professor park sunghoon smiled.

just a little.

“but until then,” he added, clearing his throat as he straightened a stack of papers, “i suggest you focus on your essay.”

you left the room with your chest burning and your heart lodged in your throat.

his office door shuts behind you with a soft click,

but everything inside you slams shut—tight, aching, locked in your chest—because this is really happening.

finals are over. your grades are in.

you’re not his student anymore.

sunghoon leans against his desk with a tired sigh, running a hand through his hair. he looks exhausted—crumpled blouse, tie loosened like he’s just come down from hours of restraint. glasses low on his nose, eyes fixed on you like a threat.

“you’re nervous,” he says, watching the way you hover by the door.

you shake your head. “a little.”

he nods. “me too.”

and then he pushes off the desk.

crosses the room in three slow steps.

his hand reaches up, brushes your cheek. thumb drags the corner of your mouth, like he’s remembering every time he almost did it before.

“you still want this?”

“i do,” you breathe.

and that’s all it takes.

the way he kisses you isn’t soft or careful—it’s months of held-back want, suddenly torn open.

his lips crash into yours, hands cupping your face with a kind of reverence that breaks the second you moan into his mouth.

then he’s grabbing your waist, dragging you forward, pressing you against the door so hard it rattles in the frame.

your fingers knot in his blouse, tugging, untucking—he’s so warm, so solid, and when he groans low against your mouth, it lights a fuse down your spine.

his glasses tilt crooked on his face, and when you reach to pull them off, he catches your wrist midair and kisses your palm, slow and devastating.

“been thinking about this since midterms,” he whispers into your skin. “you ruined me, coming to class in those tight skirts, answering questions like you didn’t know what you were doing.”

“i didn’t,” you gasp, letting him back you toward the desk. “i just wanted you to look at me.”

he growls—actually growls—and you’re suddenly lifted, set right on the edge of his desk as he steps between your knees.

his mouth crashes back to yours, more bruising now.

you’re gasping, tilting your chin to keep up with him, tugging at his undone tie until he’s so close it’s dizzying.

his hands are everywhere—hips, thighs, up your back—and you swear you’ll lose your mind if he doesn’t touch you where you need.

but he slows, breath ragged, forehead pressing to yours.

“you don’t know what you do to me,” he says, voice wrecked.

you bite your lip.

“then show me.”

he doesn’t hesitate.

hands gripping the back of your thighs, he yanks you to the edge of his desk until you’re nearly falling off into his arms.

his mouth crashes to your neck, kissing hard—teeth grazing, tongue dragging, hands spreading you open with no patience left.

“fucking—wanted this,” he mutters into your skin, lips trailing to your collarbone, blouse already half unbuttoned. “wanted you—since the first time you argued with me in class.”

you whimper, fingers in his hair, tugging when he sinks lower.

his hands push your skirt up, eyes going dark when he sees the thin strip of lace underneath.

“you wore this for me?”

you nod, dazed. “knew i was coming here.”

he swears under his breath, drops to his knees without another word.

his hands spread your thighs over the desk, and then his mouth is on you—licking through the damp fabric like he’s been starving for this exact taste.

your hips jerk and he groans against you, peeling your panties aside and diving back in, tongue flat and hot, dragging through your folds until you’re crying out.

“you’re dripping,” he mutters, voice ruined. “fuck, baby… you’re perfect.”

you can’t breathe.

you can’t think.

his mouth is everywhere—tongue flicking your clit, lips sucking around it, fingers slipping into you deep, curling like he’s memorized your body already.

your hands fly to his hair, clutching, grinding into his face.

“sunghoon—please, please, don’t stop—”

his eyes flick up, and the sight of you—shirt open, flushed, spread out on his desk, wrecked because of him—makes his control snap.

he stands suddenly, pulling you down from the desk and spinning you around, chest to wood.

you gasp, still shaking from the edge he left you on, and then you hear the click of his belt.

“tell me you want this,” he growls, cock pressed between your thighs now, bare and thick and leaking.

you nod, frantic.

“yes—want it so bad—been thinking about it for months—”

he groans, one hand fisting in your hair, the other gripping your hip as he slides into you in one hard stroke.

you cry out, eyes rolling back—he’s big, and you’re soaked, and the stretch makes you delirious.

he gives you no time to adjust, hips snapping into yours, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing off the bookshelves and walls.

“this what you wanted?” he grits out, pounding into you, desk creaking beneath your body.

you nod, whimpering.

“yes, yes—wanted you, wanted this—”

he fucks you harder, faster, groaning low as he slams into you.

“you think i didn’t notice?”

his voice is rough in your ear.

“those short little skirts. sitting in the front row. smiling at me like you didn’t know what you were doing.”

you sob out a laugh, back arching under him.

“i knew.”

“of course you did.”

his hand slips between your legs, fingers rubbing your clit while he fucks you through it—so deep, so good, your whole body tightens.

you’re so close—vision swimming, mouth falling open.

“sunghoon—gonna cum—please—”

“then cum for me.”

he kisses your neck, breath hot and wrecked.

“cum all over my cock, sweetheart. let me feel you lose it.”

and you do—clenching around him so hard he curses, body spasming with your orgasm, stars bursting behind your eyes.

he doesn’t last long after that.

just a few more brutal thrusts before he buries himself deep, groaning your name as he spills inside you, hips stuttering against your ass.

you both stay like that—panting, slick with sweat, hearts thudding.

he finally pulls back, gently, then lifts you into his arms like he’s afraid you’ll fall.

sets you on the edge of the desk again, presses his forehead to yours.

“was that worth the wait?” he asks, breathless.

you nod, still high.

“better than i imagined.”

he smirks, brushing your hair back.

“good.”

then he kisses you again, soft this time.

“because i’m not done with you yet.”

✿ : first post ◜ ᴗ ◝

173 notes · View notes

biteyu · 4 days ago