hoonprksung

[hoonprksung]

Please Stop, Don’t Stop

Pairing: mob!Jake x mob!fem!reader

TWN | 9k- brother’s best friend | best friend’s sister | posted this in my old account a really long time ago which is now deleted | this was literally my first ever enhypen fic and I still love it | I love the mob trope maybe I should write some more of it | so much fun, so much yearning, sibling hate and sibling love | Jay truly is a good brother no matter how shitty he is | Jake is fine shyt and he proves it to you by sneaking around with you

Summary: living in Jay’s shadow as his younger sister was always the life you had known. Considering that he was the heir to family business, the now leader of a mafia, Jay took all kinds of protective measures to keep you safe. Which meant that you were always by his side- just, a room away from his in hotels with your own body guards. You loathed your brother, you did. He stripped you away of a life. But then he loosened up when his right hand man and best friend, Jake, pulled some strings and somehow had you swooning for him.

For the longest time, all Y/N knew was to hide under the shadows of her brother. Wherever he went, she had no choice but to follow. She’d been to exotic countries but stayed locked in hotel rooms while her brother tended to business. Never did she get the chance to enjoy travelling, never did she find herself smiling while she stared out of a balcony, and never did she feel sociable.

Granted, she had bodyguards with her, Sunoo and Jungwon, suffocatingly accompanying her wherever she went. They were at her feet, tracking everything from a lift of her finger to a dart of her eyes to report back to their boss by the end of the day. For all she knew, she thought they were insufferable.

They were all insufferable, blindly following her brother’s orders in the hopes of getting a minuscule ounce of validation. She wondered how her brother managed to get them wrapped around his fingers, having them- all six of them- live for him and his needs and his desires.

Because at the end of the day, Jay Park was in charge, the strongest of them all, the one that could wipe off their existence with a snap of his fingers. Y/N never believed her brother could possibly hold that much power. Maybe power was just a figure of speech, maybe it was just fear that drove everyone to fall at his feet. Maybe it was because they had all signed their souls to him- a devil’s contract.

Her brother, the same boy that fed her popcorn when they were kids, couldn’t possibly be the cruel man he now showed himself to be.

Her brother, who once thought of her as the apple of his eye, only coldly glanced at her when she cried or complained. With a glass of whiskey in one hand, the other tracing his jawline, he’d tut at her. “Don’t be pathetic,” he’d sneer. “What would mum and dad say if they saw you like this?”

Y/N would ask herself the same question. If her mum and dad saw her locked away in random hotel rooms with two men watching her like hawks, they would be disappointed. If her mum and dad saw her cry to her brother about her loneliness, their hearts would ache.

Well, those were the answers concocted from fantasy.

In reality, her mum and dad would tell Jay to do whatever he could in his power to keep her safe. Her mum and dad would allow her to live the rest of her life miserably, as long as it meant she was still alive, breathing. Her mum and dad would applaud Jay for making the decisions he made.

She hated it, Y/N hated him with every fibre of her being- in the beginning, at least. It got exhausting, after a point. To hate her brother was to hate someone he was forced to become. To hate her brother was to hate the industry she saw herself taking over someday. To hate her brother was to mar the good memories she had with him.

Y/N accepted it just around the time she turned eighteen. She accepted spending half her life around expensive hotels and services. She accepted being an unknown sibling when she attended gatherings with her brother on one of those rare days. She accepted being helpless.

She was pathetic. Or maybe she wasn’t, her life was. She had overheard Heeseung and Niki talk pithily of her to Jay. She had watched Sunghoon give her half-hearted glances as he walked past her. She would let Sunoo and Jungwon- who were ordered to not converse with her- ignore her mundane requests. She would endure the helpless shrugs Jake passed her-

Jake. How she envied him sometimes. How she envied the way Jay treated him, his right-hand man, more like a sibling than he treated her. Y/N didn’t know what it was about Jake that her brother admired so much. What was it that he could do that she couldn’t? What was it that Jake had to offer that she couldn’t?

He was so loyal to him, Y/N noticed. Jake Sim would do anything to protect Jay Park. To be fair, she did hear them argue quite a lot. She wasn’t sure about what, but every time they argued, Jay would become a little angrier, a little more controlling and a little more on edge.

In the world she lived in, loyalty was the only thing keeping them alive. Keeping her alive. Y/N stayed loyal to Jay by not running away. The boys he strung alone stayed loyal to him by obeying him, not selling him out.

In the world she lived in, looking over her shoulder was her priority. Physically and metaphorically, of course. Everything had safety precautions, from the keychains on her purse to her beloved phone- the same phone that Jay controlled with through regulations.

He baned her from using social media. All she did with it was watch movies, listen to music or play games. Nevertheless, it was better than having nothing at all. It was better than enduring an eternity of boredom.

Because, Y/N was currently tucked away in boredom, locked in a room with her two trusted bodyguards. They were somewhere in Italy- her balcony gave her a splendid view of the city and with the moon shining in the corner of her sight, her room sparkled with silver.

While she shamelessly hummed a tune and looked out the balcony, Sunoo and Jungwon sat in the room on separate chairs. The pair stared at their phone, thumbs typing away yet somehow, half their attention was on Y/N.

Their one order was to take care of her, and she was sure they vowed to do a damn well job at it.

“Y/N,” she heard Jungwon step into the balcony, his phone fisted into his hand as he waited for a response. She simply hummed at him, telling him to continue. “Your brother wants to speak with you.”

A groan drawled from her throat, head tilting over her shoulder as she glanced at him. Jungwon, though he wasn’t innocent, he certainly did look like it. With his beady eyes and puffy cheeks- Jay must have gone to hell and back to have him and Sunoo on his side. Both of them didn’t look like they belonged. Perhaps that was their advantage.

“What does he want?” Her eyes tiredly narrowed as she spoke but ultimately received no answer.

She rolled her eyes, following Jungwon back into the room. She was being guided out by him and Sunoo, strolling behind her as she strutted out the door and down the hall until the door to her brother’s hotel room came to view.

Swinging the door open, she was immediately met with the sight of two tramps- one entertaining her brother while the other danced in the middle of the room.

Niki sat on one couch, holding up a phone to record the tramps while Heeseung sat beside him. Jake and Sunghoon sat on another, smirks of amusement plastered on their faces as they watched. Y/N scoffed when Jungwon left her side to sit with Jay and Sunoo left to sit beside Niki.

“Dismiss your prostitutes before asking for your sister next time,” she crossed her arms, heels clicking as she came closer to her brother.

With a tut and a snap of his fingers, the two girls disappeared into the bathroom. Niki groaned out a complaint, something about being bored, and tucked his phone away. He was the youngest, yet he was the strongest out of them all. Y/N had heard rumours about his talents in wielding knives.

Heeseung, who sat beside him, was the oldest and smartest. The one in charge of planning and executing- or so she heard. He had his arm wrapped around Niki’s shoulders, a stoic scowl taking over his face as he looked at Y/N.

“I know you hate me but try being nice to me when my friends are around,” Jay smirked, standing to meet his sister’s gaze.

“It’s exhausting to feel anything towards you, brother,” as Y/N rolled her eyes, Niki involuntarily snickered.

Jay flashed the boy a glare and he quickly covered his mouth. “As I said,” he looked back at his sister. “Play nice.”

Y/N hid her disbelief by sucking in a breath, digging her nails into her arms. “Why’d you want to see me?”

“Mum called,” he said so casually, it made her raise a brow.

“What am I to do with that piece of information?”

“Again with the attitude,” he warned, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “She wants us to attend a gathering tomorrow,” he informed.

“Tomorrow?” She asked.

“Yes, tomorrow,” he echoed. “And not to worry, mum already has a dress sent for you,” he offered her a teasing smile which earned him another roll of her eyes.

“Are you bringing all six of your playthings or is it just gonna be the two of us?” She waved her hand, pointing towards the rest of the boys, eyes still trained on her brother.

“Have some manners,” Jay scowled. “They haven’t done anything to you.”

“Doesn’t matter. They’re all loyal to you, aren’t they?” Y/N cocked her head. “I don’t feel like giving you lot manners,” she seethed.

“I’m not gonna repeat myself,” Jay seethed back, snapping his fingers at her face.

Y/N flinched. She shamelessly flinched, eyes blinking and body leaning back. But then she shook away the shock on her face, standing straight and offering him the same stoic expression she gave her when she was angry.

“Just answer my question.”

Jay rolled his eyes this time, hand retreating to his side. “It’s only going to be me, you and Jake,” he promised.

“Awe, am I not gonna have my lovely bodyguards there?” She pouted, clearly showing off her sarcasm.

“Jake is more than capable of taking care of you for one night,” Jay smiled teasingly, looking over her shoulder to steal a glance from his right-hand man. “The rest of them have business to attend to.”

“Of course,” she smiled right back at him, narrowing her eyes. “Is that all?”

“Yes, that is all,” Jay nodded. “I expect you to be ready by tomorrow evening.”

“The dress better look pretty, then.”

“Oh, don’t worry. It is,” Jay cooed. “Mum even got it in pink.”

Her scoff went unnoticed by everyone when they fell into a stupor of laughter. Y/N was used to it, to be openly made fun of. Maybe she didn’t care, either. Regardless, if something happened to Jay one day, it would be her they listened to. She knew how she could get her way.

“Sunoo and Jungwon can stay here for the night. Have some fun,” Jay announced.

“Yay, I get to spend the night alone,” she leaned her weight on one leg. “Generous of you,” she crooned.

“I know,” Jay crooned back, eyes trailing towards his right-hand man. “Be a gentleman, Jake, and bring my sister back to her room, will you?”

Jake stood up, rubbing his palms against his jeans and giving Jay an assuring nod. Y/N didn’t bother to meet Jake’s eyes or bid her brother a good night. She trailed towards the door, leaving as she felt Jake’s hand hovering over her back.

The halls were empty, ground matted with blue carpets, walls plastered with ivory wallpaper, all the glory made visible by dimly lit golden lights. Yet her senses drowned in the sounds of their feet padding against the carpet, his hand guiding her by her back.

Jay must have trusted him the most. If it were anyone else, he probably would have chopped their fingers off for even dreaming of touching her- his sister. For someone that acted like she deserved no happiness, he sure was overprotective.

“Jay only wants to keep you safe.”

Jake’s voice rang loud and clear, his accent giving away his nerves. Y/N scoffed again, rolling her head to the side to get a better look at his perfectly styled hair and sculptured nose.

“I thought none of you were allowed to talk to me?”

Then came silence, just as she expected. And Jake had let her into her hotel room, locking the door as he left, leaving her in silence. Lonely silence and she liked that she was alone. For once she wouldn’t have two bodyguards shielding her to sleep.

The next morning, she was happy to realise that Jay was wrong. The dress her mum sent was, in fact, black. The satin wrapped around her frame effortlessly and Y/N admired herself in the mirror, her hands brushing over her collarbones and neck that hung a thin chain. Her fingers adorned with rings, ones that Jay bought for her.

She was brave enough to wear stilettos, and her feet tapped against each other while she sat in the back of her car, staring out the window. Jake drove, Jay sat in the passenger’s seat. The rearview mirror angled directly at Y/N, giving Jay a clean picture of his sister.

“When’d you get your nails done?”

Y/N admired her nails, shiny black liquor matching her dress. “I did them myself,” she spoke with a smile.

Jay hummed, amused by the way his sister entertained herself. He didn’t say anything else, just tapped his phone against his cheek and looked out the window. Jake found himself glancing at her through the rearview mirror.

Soon Y/N found herself standing in front of another hotel. The party hall, she presumed, where the gathering would be held. That would be the third time she was attending a party that year, to be able to witness human interaction.

Jay made sure to keep his hand wrapped around her forearm, subtly dragging her around as Jake followed them into a room lit by chandeliers and organised with circular tables- covered by white cloth, of course.

“Alright, listen,” Jay held her at an arm’s length, eyes sternly begging her to listen to his requests. “I need you to stay in one place. Where I can keep an easy eye on you,” he blinked.

“Am I not allowed to have fun?” Y/N crooked a brow, a smile creeping up her cheeks. “Dance with the rest of the guests, maybe?”

“Jake will be with you at all times. I’m sure he can give you all the entertainment you need for the night,” he clenched his jaw. Jake let out a hum, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Then why do you need to keep an eye on me?”

“Because I’m paranoid, Y/N,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Just tell me where you’ll be sitting. At least I’m letting you pick.”

“Yeah, because that’s being charitable,” despite her annoyance, she looked around the room, eyes landing on the open bar with tall stools. She pointed in its direction. “There. You’ll be able to see me from any corner and I’ll at least be able to drink.”

“Fine,” he agreed. “Just don’t get drunk. I expect to see you be able to walk by the end of the night.”

Then he exchanged a promising nod with Jake, leaving the pair alone while he went away to act like a polite guest. Jake, after a moment of silence, offered Y/N his arm and she hesitantly looped in hers. He guided her to the bar and helped her sit on the stool.

She fixed her dress, one leg crossed on the other as she ordered champagne. “What would you like to have?” She turned to Jake, her earrings shining under the light.

“I can order for myself,” he said, weaving his fingers together as he sat beside her.

“Too proud to let a girl speak for you, huh?” Y/N chuckled, wrapping her fingers around the drink that was being handed to her.

“Funny,” Jake passed her an annoyed glance. He called for the bartender with a wave of two fingers, asking for a whiskey that was handed to him within seconds.

“Strong men only enjoy strong drinks, I guess,” she mumbled, smirking as she brought the rim of her glass to her lips.

Jake scoffed. “You’re full of opinions, aren’t you?” He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t know how to be nice to people?”

“What?” Y/N scoffed right back at him. “I’ve been stripped away of living my life and now I can’t have emotions and opinions?”

Jake looked away, clenching his jaw and gripping his glass of whiskey. He wore his own set of rings, ones that strained against his skin and clanked against his glass.

“And please enlighten me as to why I have to be nice,” she continued. “Have any of you been nice to me? Hence, do I owe any of you my kindness?”

“Fair enough,” Jake let the words push past his teeth.

“That’s what I thought,” her lips frowned into a scowl as she sipped her champagne again. Upon looking at his defeated face, though, she recoiled. “But since my brother’s forcing you to keep me company tonight, perhaps I should play nice.”

Jake chuckled, involuntarily letting himself enjoy Y/N’s humour. “Here I thought you didn’t owe me your kindness,” he cocked his head, hiding his smile with his glass of whiskey.

“Don’t make me regret it,” she tipped her glass towards him.

Jake hummed, nodding as he mustered up the courage to look at Y/N- his boss’ sister, the same girl he wasn’t allowed to cross paths with until the previous night. He smiled at her, pondering if striking up a conversation was a good idea.

If he was allowed to, he might as well let himself use his freedom to his advantage. Y/N was doing it, too, after all.

“Your life’s always been this way, huh?” He asked, shamelessly showing his curiosity.

“What way?” She wondered, pushing her newly emptied glass away. Her fingers curled under his chin, propping her elbows on the counter.

“This,” he pointed his finger at her, looking her up and down. “Controlled by your brother, denied of freedom,” he listed.

Y/N pondered over his question while asking for a refill of champagne. She swirled her glass around, watching the bubbles fizz away. She cleared her throat, nostalgia filling her conscience.

“I used to be a wild girl while I was still in high school,” she chuckled. “You know, typical high school parties, cheap beer and making mistakes?”

Jake nodded. “Then what drove Jay to treat you like this?” He cringed. “He pulled you out of school, didn’t he?”

“You know, I thought he would have told you of all people the reason for his actions,” she chuckled but continued explaining. “Yes, he pulled me out of school. He forced me to live in secrecy and whatnot,” she shrugged.

“We’re all just as clueless are you are,” he shrugged back. “All we know is that you and your brother have an… Unconventional relationship.”

“Unconventional doesn’t even begin to explain it,” she sipped her champagne. “He was forced into all of this, you know? The Mob, the violent mentality. With that came paranoia and the constant need to keep up his guard.”

“You seem quite sympathetic towards him,” he noticed.

“Maybe I am,” she agreed. “But whatever he’s been through doesn’t excuse how he treats me,” she insisted, pressing her finger to her chest.

“Right,” Jake pursed his lips.

“His overprotective act just made me despise him a little. He ruined my life, after all,” Y/N rolled her eyes.

“Of course,” he let out a scoff, a slight grin taking over his features as he finished off his whiskey.

Y/N tilted her head, attempting to get a better glance at Jake. “What’s so funny?” She asked, the same grin spreading on her lips.

The more she examined him, the more she realised how little she knew of him. Of any of them, for that matter. They lived under the same roof, travelled everywhere but the only information she gathered of them was by overhearing conversations. To be fair, her brother did ban them from interacting with her, regardless of how much he trusted them.

She came to realise that this was probably the closest she had to a conversation in a long time.

Jake, on the other hand, shook away the glee on his face when he looked over Y/N’s shoulder, only to find Jay approaching them. He looked away, clenching his jaw and weaving his fingers together. Y/N’s brows knitted together, confusion slapping her harder than a wave.

When Jay finally made himself known, her expression contorted into realisation. Brow raising, she watched him smile at her and Jake. “I see you’ve been enjoying yourselves so far,” he said. “I hate to interrupt but I have a certain someone that was begging to meet you.”

Beside him stood a woman that Y/N found much too familiar. Her auburn hair flowed past her shoulders, almond eyes shining with a smile as she looked at her.

“Pearl?” Y/N’s eyes widened, excited as she started the woman up and down. She used to babysit her and her brother when she was still children, oblivious to the bad in the world.

Pearl was a reminder of her past, a sliver of naivety.

“Yeah, It’s me,” the woman fondly opened her arms and Y/N found herself leaping at the hug.

“My God, it’s been years,” Y/N gasped, holding her at an arm’s length.

“I know, a lot has changed,” Pearl enthused. “You look great, Y/N.”

“You too,” she agreed. “How have you been?”

“Good. Great,” Pearl nodded. “I’ve got two kids, a great husband,” she smiled at her, then craned her neck to smile at Jay.

Jake watched the scene unravel from behind with a refill of whiskey held between his fingers. He saw the way Jay licked his top teeth as Pearl smiled feverishly at him and that Y/N wasn’t oblivious to the looks they shared. Unloyal she was, it was obvious.

Jay was quick to cut the reunion, standing between his sister and their once babysitter. “Nostalgia is a joy, isn’t it?” He grinned. “Now, Pearl. I’ll have a few words with my sister and then come find you. Go on now.”

Pearl nodded, waving Y/N goodbye. “I’ll be waiting,” she said to Jay and breezed past them.

Y/N gaped at her brother, wide-eyed as she realised what she just witnessed. Jay raised a brow. “What?” He asked, holding his hands by his side.

“She’s married,” she reminded him. “She has two kids. And you want to sleep with her?”

“Since when did you have a say in my actions?” Jay jeered, completely careless towards her point. Y/N rolled her eyes, Jake scoffed and shook his head.

“Unbelievable,” she cursed. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know,” her brother smirked, then strolled past her, leaving her alone with Jake again.

Y/N scoffed at him, returning to her stool while shaking her head out of disbelief. She didn’t say anything, just thought to herself that this was probably the most eventful night she’s had since her eighteenth birthday.

“He disappoints you, doesn’t he?” Jake swirled around his whiskey, training his eyes on the way her mouth gaped.

“He has no self-respect, does he?” Y/N ran her fingers through her scalp, meddling with her hair as she hollered for more drinks- this time, wine.

“No, I guess not,” he mumbled, too entranced by the anger that seemed to suit her so well. The way her brows furrowed and eyes narrowed, mouth parted and chest rising a little more than usual- Jake looked away.

For the rest of the night, he stripped her and himself of any interaction between them. The pair enjoyed their drinks, lost in their phones. A part of Jake hoped that she’d ask him for a dance or whine about how bored she was.

Maybe she was too proud to ask for anything else, maybe she was just angry towards her intolerable brother.

It was proven to be the latter when Jay came striding back, hair tousled and shirt wrinkled from his controversial expedition. “You’re insufferable,” she said to him

“Don’t ruin my mood,” he dismissed her, and it was back to being ignored by her brother.

She was taken back to the hotel, her diner waiting in her room along with Sunoo and Jungwon. She quietly changed her clothes, freshened up before eating and replayed the events of the night over and over again.

She thought about Pearl and Jay and Jake- Oh, especially Jake and the conversation she had with him. She found herself craving more conversations, desperate for an escape. But, wishing for leisure was like wishing for a unicorn.

She got over it by tomorrow, accepting her loneliness once again while she ate pancakes in bed while her brother and his friends were enjoying breakfast together. She swore she could hear laughter echoing from the banquet hall, overpowering the melodies she had playing on her phone.

A knock on her door, however, was not what she expected. She didn’t have to get out of bed and open the door, though that was the whole point of knocking. It opened on its own and Jake’s head peaked through the crack, his hand gripping the doorknob.

Y/N immediately sat straight, duvet pooling at her waist as she turned off her music and put away her pancakes. A breath left her lips as he entered her room, followed by her brother and Sunghoon.

“What a surprise,” she mumbled, fisting the duvet as the three boys stood around her bed, one on each side.

“Good morning,” her brother offered her a curt smile and she nodded at him.

“Am I in trouble?” She almost laughed. “Or do you need something?”

“I just need to talk to you,” Jay rolled his eyes. “Andrei has been asking to see you for a while.”

“And who’s Andrei?”

Jay smiled viciously, realising that his sister was curious, giving him the attention he expected. “He’s a work buddy of mine, it’s not important.”

“Seems like it is,” she furrowed her brows. “He wants to see me, after all,” she argued.

“Just listen, will you?” He scoffed. “I’m attending a meeting of his and he wants you there.”

“Then why are these two here?”

“They will be taking care of you. I’d much rather have these two look after you while the rest of the boys attend the meeting with me.”

Jake pursed his lips, nodding as he listened. Sunghoon passed Y/N a stoic glance from the corner of his eyes. She gulped, covering up her second guesses with a furrow of her brows.

“So, what? I’m just gonna sit outside while you have all the fun?” She chuckled half-heartedly, a hesitant smile gracing her face.

“I don’t call this fun, Y/N” Jay seethed. “You’ve been popular around my colleagues and I’d rather not know the reason. The least you can do is not ask questions and follow simple orders.”

“I am not one of your playthings to follow orders, Jay,” she seethed back. “It’s early in the morning, I don’t need you snapping at me.”

Jay, with a smile that screamed anything but good, crouched beside her bed, face inching towards hers. “I can say the same,” he chuckled, two puffs of air escaping his lungs.

Y/N glared at him, jaw clenching as she let go of her duvet and crossed her arms. “You’re insatiable,” she growled.

“I know,” Jay smirked. “Now get out of bed, get ready and change into something presentable,” he stood to his feet, stomping towards her suitcases and flinging them open. Y/N followed him, jumping out of her bed and yelping.

“I’m obviously not going to show up in my pyjamas!” She yelled. “Now, stop going through my stuff and get out!”

She swore she heard Jake and Sunghoon stifle their laughter as Y/N pushed her brother towards her door. Their hands covered their mouths, unsubtly looking away.

“Out!” She continued yelling. “The lot of you!”

“I’m only messing with you,” her brother grinned at her as he stepped out the door, ushering the two other boys with his hand.

“You show brotherly affection at the worse times,” she clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, Jake and Sunghoon strolling past her and out the door.

Jay shook his head, crooning. “Be ready before I get annoyed.”

Y/N slammed the door in his face.

Sighing, she brushed her hands down her face as silence consumed her once again. She strolled around her room, taking ten minutes to waste before ultimately disappearing into the bathroom.

It was rather dramatic of her to saunter out of her door in a little red dress, hands shifting her hair to one side of her shoulder. The carpet muffled the click of her heels and at the end of the hall stood Jake like a knight in tailored clothes.

His presence took her by surprise and her lips parted as she approached him. “Jay told me to get you,” he said and she curtly nodded.

Jake walked her downstairs, an awkward silence following their path as Y/N looked ahead; he fought to steal glances of her. Then they entered the elevator, metal doors sliding behind them.

He cleared his throat, licking his lips. “Had a good breakfast?”

“Of course,” she answered nonchalantly, eyes trained forward. It was a lie, obviously, but neither of them felt the need to acknowledge it.

She was piled into a car with him, Jay and Sunghoon. She didn’t say a word, didn’t seem like she wanted to either. Her earphones stuck to her ear, feet bobbing up and down to an unknown beat.

Jake, despite fighting his urges, had his eyes trained on her arms, legs, exposed neck and collarbones- any exposed skin he could get his gaze on, gaping from the corner of his eyes. He’d surely get in trouble if Jay caught his subtle glances.

An exhausted sigh left her lips when they reached her destination, her shoulders slumping as she stood in front of a rather tall building. “Come on, now,” Jay had clasped his hand around her arm and dragged her inside- Jake and Sunghoon followed.

“I can walk on my own,” she complained, a breathy whine escaping her throat as they entered a meeting room. Empty, it was- a long table surrounded by cushioned chairs for privileged backs to lean on.

“I know, I just don’t want my baby sister to get lost in this mess,” he taunted. “So, listen carefully and just follow the rules, yeah?”

“You make this sound like mission impossible,” she groaned. “Why are you making this such a big deal? I’m just meeting one of your colleagues,” she argued, tilting her head to the side.

“You’re meeting a colleague that’s killed people for fun,” he glared. “As surprising as it may seem, I’d like to keep you alive.”

“You’ve killed people too. What’s the difference?” She almost chuckled, disbelief taking over her features.

Jay had the same reaction. “The difference is that I’m your brother,” he reminded. “Now, can you just listen?”

“Fine. I’m listening.”

“Good,” he started. “When Andrei comes in, he’s gonna want to see you. obviously. All you have to do is behave, smile like the little princess you are and minimally answer all his questions. Simple enough, right?” He shrugged his shoulders, a sarcastic smile appearing on his face.

“Right,” Y/N rolled her eyes.

“Exactly,” he enthused. “When he’s done talking to you, Jake will take you away and you’ll wait in the bar, right across from this room,” he pointed his arm out the door, towards the area he was referring to. “Sunghoon will join you later.”

“Great plan, brother,” it was clearly a sardonic compliment. “Keeping me alive and all… You deserve an award.”

“I’m not in the mood for jokes, Y/N,” he sighed and she furrowed her brows, telling him that she wasn’t joking either.

Her reaction went ignored when the door to the meeting room flung open, revealing a man taller than the three boys Y/N was surrounded by. She presumed it was Andrei and he did fit the mental image she created for him. Tall, as old as her dad and holding pride as he walked in.

All three boys curtly turned their heads towards him, bodies stiffening as they greeted him with their hands meeting in the middle. “It’s good to see you boys,” he smiled.

“It’s good to see you too, boss,” Jay exhaled, letting go of his hand. Y/N lightly gaped at her brother, confused by his choice of… Words.

Andrew crisply turned around, surprised when his gaze was met with the presence of Y/N. He bellowed out a chuckle, brows raising as his arms extending past him. “My, God!” He cheered. “I didn’t actually think you’d bring her,” he directed towards Jay.

“I thought it’d be nice if you took a trip down memory lane,” Jay offered, shrugging.

“It’s been years since I’ve seen you!” Then he wrapped his arms around her, bringing her into a hug.

Y/N was taken by surprise as her cheek pressed into the man’s chest. She didn’t know what he was talking about, she didn’t know what either of them were talking about and Andrei sure as hell didn’t seem like he was the murderous type. Towards her, at least. So the confusion stayed on her face when she was released from the embrace.

“Do you remember me, sweetheart?” Andrei asked.

Y/N shook her head, almost embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” she chuckled.

“Oh, I don’t blame you,” he waved it off. “You were a baby the last time I saw you, clinging to your father’s side,” he smiled warmly, a stark contrast to the description she received of him.

“I’m sure she’ll remember if our dad gives her a little push towards remembering,” Jay smiled sarcastically again. Andrei agreed with a laugh.

“Regardless,” Andrei started. “It’s good to see you, Y/N.”

“Goodie,” Jay clasped his hands together, ushering at Jake with a nod. “I’d rather have my sister out of here before the rest arrive. Wouldn’t want her to die of boredom,” he took two steps towards his sister, a hand pressing on her back as Jake stood on her other side.

Andrei raised a questioning brow, turning to Sunghoon who answered with an inattentive shrug.

“I have so many questions,” Y/N whispered to Jay.

“I’ll answer them later,” Jay added. “If I feel like it.”

Then, Jake was guiding her away to the bar. It was like the previous night all over again as he helped her sit on one of the chairs, keeping the meeting room out of her sight. Y/N dryly laughed, scratching the corner of her brow with her pinky.

“He calls this entertainment,” the span of her palms spread across her thighs.

“He’s just being protective,” Jake debated.

Y/N shook her head again, chuckling out of disbelief. She ordered a glass of wine- a whiskey for Jake with it. The thought of being granted recreation was completely thrown out the window as her eyes met with Jake’s.

She scoffed. “You’d think that the right-hand man has to sit through every meeting,” she commented.

“There’s a lot more to my job than attending meetings and tending to your brother’s requests,” he chuckled. “Besides, my presence isn’t required. We already know what the meeting’s about.”

“Wow,” Y/N leaned her head on her shoulder. “There’s a lot about my brother I’m unaware of,” she stated. With that, it sounded like she affirmed it.

“I’m sure he’ll give you your answers when he thinks your ready.”

“I’m eighteen and he’s been dragging me along for three years. I think I’m ready,” she sipped her wine, eyes narrowed at the sight of Jake sighing. Her shoulders slumped again. “You know,” she trailed. “Jay treats you more like a sibling than me.”

Jake’s eyes widened, almost coughed up his whiskey as he gawked at her. Her statement came out nonchalantly, almost like she’d been waiting to finally say it.

At his reaction, Y/N laughed, waving her hand in front of her as she put away her wine. “No, no,” he coaxed. “Don’t freak out, I’m just saying,” she grinned.

He wiped the corner of his mouth with the side of his hand. “You don’t just say things like that,” he scoffed.

“Eh,” she shrugged a shoulder. “Am I wrong?”

“You are,” he insisted.

“You could be wrong, too,” she reasoned. “But then again, he wouldn’t be treating the lot of you like playthings if he actually cared,” Y/N raised her brows, hiding her expression by drinking her wine.

“Playthings,” he echoed. “You throw that phrase around a lot- what do you even mean by it?” He weaved his fingers together, perfectly styled hair falling over his left eye, curiosity taking over his duty.

“Well,” Y/N pondered, swirling around her wine glass. “You let him boss you around, use you, made sure that your sole purpose was to serve him-”

“Alright, I’m gonna stop you right there,” he silenced her with a wave of her hand and she couldn’t help but realise how similar he was to her brother. She exhaled, giving up. “You sound really stupid.”

“Is that so?” She hummed. “Please enlighten me,” she squinted her eyes, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth.

“He doesn’t use us or boss us around,” he waved around his fingers, body language suddenly animated. “You think he’s some sort of monster and I don’t blame you for it but he cares, Y/N. He just shows it in a messed up way,” he crossed one leg over the other, finishing his whiskey in one gulp.

“I feel very cared for,” she rolled her eyes.

Y/N wasn’t going to admit the pit she felt in her chest, a rock of disgust and jealousy churning her stomach, making her abandon her wine. It stung to know that he treated his friends better than he treated his own sister.

“Protect me, my ass,” she mumbled, rolling her head and looking past Jake’s shoulder.

Heeseung, Niki, Jungwon and Sunoo walked down the hall, leading a small crowd into the meeting room. Her fingers drummed against the counter, lips pursing as she pondered.

“Listen,” she heard Jake sigh. “I know it stings but he cares for you. More than any of us. Hence the overprotective act he puts on,” he coaxed.

“Act?” She huffed. “Was that supposed to make me feel better?”

“I mean, did it work?” He tried, clearly getting a laugh out of her.

“No.”

“Fair,” he pursed his lips. “Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?”

“We don’t even know each other,” she said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, pointing between themselves.

“So?” He asked. “We can get to know each other now?” He offered.

“Is that allowed?”

Jake smirked, tracing his tongue over his teeth. “I’ll let you in on a secret,” he whispered, leaning closer to her for dramatic effect. “Your brother trusts me more than anyone, which means he trusts me around you more than Jungwon or Sunoo.”

Y/N raised a brow, smirking back. “Which means what?”

“He doesn’t mind me interacting with you,” he let out. “I’ve always been looking out for you. Longer than Sunoo and Jungwon.”

She gaped at his confession, a shiver of shock running down her spine. “How am I only finding out about this now?” She inquired.

He shrugged. “I told you. There’s a lot more to being the right-hand man than you think,” he grinned. “Plus, he knows you’re going crazy. That’s why he needs me to tag along with him if he’s bringing you,” he explained.

“And here I thought my day was ruined,” she enthused, finding it in her to finish her abandoned wine. “So Jungwon and Sunoo aren’t my bodyguards anymore?”

“I guess you could say that,” he said. “They’re not gonna be locked in your room with you all day. They have other work to tend to for now is all I know. And I’ll be looking after you when you need to be.”

With the new information that was practically being fed to her, Y/N felt a rush of relief wash over her. “I can be alone in my room now,” she gushed.

“Yeah,” Jake chuckled, nodding.

She was still being babied, she knew. But the little splinter of freedom she was being given gave her a little hope. Maybe this was just the beginning of a better future, maybe Jay was realising how unfair he had always been. Regardless, she still felt happy and confident.

Hopefully, nothing would burst that bubble.

“And, by the way,” he added. “You didn’t hear any of this from me.”

“Of course,” she grinned and Jake found his hand moving towards hers, cupping it right on top of her knuckles. Y/N didn’t oppose it, she let his contact be the big red bow to her good day.

Jake thought her skin was warm. He thought the sight of their hands touching was more than just a pretty picture. He thought he wanted to hold her hand for longer than he’d like. He spent more than a couple of years watching over her like a fairy godmother- or guardian angel, whatever it was they called them these days. This was probably the last thing he expected, but it happened.

He wished for the moment to last a little longer, but Y/N’s face contorted into realisation, her gaze moving past his shoulder. She slipped her hand away from his, clearing her throat and dusting her dress as Sunghoon stood in front of them, the same stoic expression gracing his expression.

“The meeting’s almost over. Jay should be out soon,” he informed and Y/N nodded, pulling her lips to the side.

Before Sunghoon could make himself comfortable on one of the stools and enjoy himself a drink, Jay was striding towards them. With his hands balled into fists, his arms swung as he approached them.

Y/N found it in herself to smile at her brother, head innocently tilting as he looked at her with confusion. “What?” He asked. “What’s so amusing? Why are you smiling?” He wondered, looking between her and Jake.

“Am I not allowed to smile?” She blinked innocently.

“You don’t smile for no reason,” he pointed out, then rolled his eyes. “Where’s the angry remark I usually get?”

Jake and Sunghoon exchanged glances.

“Don’t be a bore, Jay,” Y/N chuckled. “I’m just excited to ask you those questions I was talking about earlier.”

Jay sucked in a breath, face relaxing as realisation washed over him. He glanced at the ceiling, then at the ground, helplessly sighing. He only realised just how much his sister was going to pester him.

“Let’s just go, shall we?” He pursed his lips.

Jay grabbed her forearm, smoothly dragging her out of her stool and past the hallway, all the way down to the ground floor. Y/N let him, yet curious questions tumbled out of her mouth, none stop. By the time they reached the car, Jay was annoyed.

He ushered Jake and Sunghoon to get in the car as he held Y/N by the arm, glaring at her until she shut up and gave him a reaction deemed serious enough. “What do you want from me?” He fumed.

Y/N took a deep breath, throwing away the questions she had on Andrei, or her parents or about the business he leads. Instead, she pursed her lips into a smile. “I just want you to be my brother,” she freely admitted.

“I am your brother.”

“But you don’t act like one!” She argued. “I just want you to let me live my life and be happy when I find happiness. I want you to let me explore the places you drag me to, let me interact with people,” she listed breathlessly, hope filling her voice.

“Y/N, you know how dangerous it is to just let you wander,” he sighed. “I’m not willing to take that risk.”

Her tongue poked her cheek as her brother looked away, eyes frantically blinking as a wind blew past them. “Okay, then Jake can follow me around while I go wandering,” she offered. “You trust him, and he keeps me safe. I’ll be a good girl and won’t talk to strangers.”

Jay immediately let out a chuckle. “What did you and Jake talk about while I was gone?”

Her brows furrowed, lips forced into a frown. “What? We didn’t talk,” she insisted. “it was more of a chat. And he didn’t exactly tell me anything.”

With that, Jay pondered, hands resting on his hips as he looked his sister up and down. He sighed defeatedly. “Fine,” he said. “I’m not going to let you wander all by yourself. You can stay in your room alone and do whatever you want but when you’re outside, you’re either with me or him. Understood?”

Y/N couldn’t help the smile that reached her eyes, stretching her cheeks and showing her teeth. She’d jump up and down if she could. “Understood,” she said to him.

“Good,” he nodded. “I trust him enough to know that he’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe. So, make friends with him or something, I don’t know. I’m only letting you do this because I don’t want you going crazy.”

“I know,” she nodded, lovingly looking at her brother who had his guard down. “Thank you, brother.”

“Don’t make me regret this,” he warned and she was being piled into the car, sitting in the back seat with Jake.

As Sunghoon started driving, Jake managed to catch Y/N’s attention. He curiously nodded at her, silently asking what she was smiling about. She only shrugged at him and looked away, hands resting on the exposed skin of her knee.

She was alone when she reached her, a silence she accompanied on her own. She starting squealing out of joy, skipping towards the bathroom with a smile that refused to leave her face. Music blasted through her phone and she shamelessly sang along.

Dinner was sent to her room later in the night and she happily located herself on the bed, duvet pooling at her waist as the TV played a random movie she’d never watched or understood. Nevertheless, she watched intently, wide eyes scanning across the subtitles as she stuffed her mouth with carbonara pasta.

She didn’t cross paths with her brother since their merry little conversation. And neither did she expect to see him or any of his friends. But her door creaked open, and a familiar set of fingers adorned with a familiar set of rings held the door frame and Y/N was wiping her mouth and placing her plate on a table.

Deja vu washed over her.

“Jake?” She raised a brow as he entered the room without an invitation, slowly and softly clicking the door closed behind him.

Jake gazed at her with doe-eyes, filled with some amount of hope and desperation. His lips crooned into a sheepish smile as his fingers laced together in front of him. “When I said I wanted us to get to know each other, I meant it.”

Y/N smiled involuntarily, blinking twice as Jake took two steps towards her bed. She had to admit, the conversation she had with him was forgotten about, overshadowed by the satisfaction of her new predicament.

For starters, she didn’t know if Jake alone was allowed in there. She didn’t know how her brother would react if he found out he was in her room. Bending and breaking the rules so early into freedom wasn’t the best idea.

But what the hell did she know? She let him walk right up to her.

“I don’t know why but something in me thought it’d be a good idea to sneak into your room,” he chuckled, pulling a chair towards the foot of her bed. He sat comfortably, eyes trained on the sight of Y/N pulling the duvet to her shoulders.

“He knows you won’t hurt me,” she waved it off. “He made it quite clear that he trusts you with his life. Ergo, he trusts you enough to keep my life in the palm of your hands. You chatting with me alone in my room shouldn’t bother him-”

“-But Jay’s ego is so big that if he finds me here, he’ll wig out,” he gladly finished for her, waving around his fingers as he spoke. “He told me about the small changes he allowed.”

“Exactly,” she laughed.

“Were you just saying all that to convince yourself that it’s fine for me to be here?” He inquired, smirking

“Maybe,” she trailed. “I just don’t want to mess up, cross a line, have Jay find out and wig out and treat me like a doll again. You know?” She shrugged, belting out her explanation with a single breath.

“I know,” Jake nodded, giving her a comforting smile.

Y/N had to wonder why she was letting this happening, why she found herself enjoying his company and the conversations he started up. She could have easily chalked it up to the lack of human interaction during all these years. She could have easily chalked it up to the desperation of needing valid attention.

He was sitting in front of her, with the first two buttons of his shirt undone, his fingers trailing up and down his thigh and he listened and spoke. He had a perfectly charming smile and a perfectly carved nose. He had eyes shaped like pointy almonds and his laugh- Y/N loved making him laugh.

If Y/N could box up his laugher and get lost in how ridiculously restricted it sounded, she would. Perhaps it was his laughter that put her to sleep that night, unaware of just how tired the adrenaline rush made her.

But it was the same adrenaline rush and the absence of laughter that woke her up hours later. Her head lifted off her pillow with a gasp, hands fisting her duvet when she realised Jake was still in her room, sleeping in the chair with his head thrown back.

The sight of him at peace didn’t stop her from gaping, though. “Oh, my God,” she said, then repeated herself a little louder. That was enough for Jake’s eyes to shoot open and look around in complete confusion.

“What?” He rubbed his eyes with his palms, fingers scaling through his scalp as he fixed his hair. “What is it?” He mumbled.

Y/N squinted her eyes, forgetting for a split second that he wasn’t supposed to be in her room. “How is it that your hair is still perfect?” Her lips parted while she dramatically parted.

Jake’s face fell, a disinterest washing over him as he stared at the messily clothed girl in front of him. “You were freaking out a second ago and now this?” He raised his brows.

“Oh, yeah!” Her fingers buried in her face. “You’re still in my room!” She reminded him like it was no big deal but the clench of her jaw betrayed her.

The warm Italian sun was rising and shone its light through the curtains. Jake found himself flinching at the hasty realisation, jumping out of his chair and straightening his shirt. “Shit,” he cursed. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

“No shit Sherlock!” Y/N scoffed, pushing the duvet off her legs and trudging towards the door. “Go back to your room before Jay wakes up,” she opened the door and Jake gladly followed with fisted hands.

“You think he’ll find out?” He stood at the entrance, hands holding the doorframe.

“He will if you stay any longer,” she closed the door as a scoff left his lips. “I’m sorry you had to sleep on a chair!” Then the door clicked shut and her back leaned on the door, a hand running down her face.

It was then she realised the grim on her face and stench on her skin but she didn’t find it in her to shower. Instead, she mulled over the number of ways the rest of the day could go while sitting on the edge of her bed and fixating on the chair Jake had slept on.

Now that she thought about it, her hotel room wasn’t as spacious as she thought. The ivory carpet was comfortable, and the golden lights seemed to brighten the bathroom more than the actual room. The bed was large and had pillows cosier than the ones back at home- Jay’s house.

All of that didn’t matter because today would be the day she would venture the streets of Naples and eat something other than five-star dishes for every meal. The thought brought a smile on her face, an exhausted smile but a smile nonetheless.

When she moved towards her suitcases, her door opened again and her face fell, lips pursing. “Good morning,” she heard her brother say, his sarcastic smile could be heard from a mile away.

“Morning,” she sang, the same sarcastic smile spreading on her face as she turned to look at him.

“You’re chipper,” he commented. “Why?”

He was oblivious to the fact that his trusted, loyal and honest right-hand man was previously in the room.

“Because I have a request that I know you won’t turn down,” she smiled ignorantly, a sparkle in her eyes and Jay strolled towards her, rolling his eyes.

“Ah, yes,” he mused. “Last day in Italy and the first day of filling your dream of getting the small sliver of freedom you’ve been chasing,” he taunted, holding up his thumb and index as he described what he meant by small.

“Come on, don’t ruin my mood,” she slapped his chest with the back of her hand. “When are we leaving, anyway?”

“Late in the evening,” he informed. “So whatever activities you have planned for today, they better fit the schedule,” he added.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I just want to go shopping and try pastries,” she shrugged. Jay’s face contorted into mild disgust.

“You really are miserable,” he commented, though it was obvious to be passed on as a joke.

“No, I just want to enjoy the little things in life,” she insisted.

“Please, don’t become a romantic,” he whined, his hand raising to hover in front of him.

“I’ve always been a romantic,” she snarled. “You’d know that if you bothered to spend a little time with me.”

“You’d be surprised,” he rolled his eyes. “Just don’t drag Jake into your romantic fantasies,” he waved his hand.

“You’re not funny,” she rolled her eyes. “And for someone who trusts Jake so much, you really have a way of being subtle about your concerns,” she pointed out. “Why?”

“Doesn’t matter how much I trust him,” Jay replied. “I know you and I know you’ll do something stupid and drag him into it with you. Why did you think I ordered Sunoo and Jungwon never to talk to you?”

“Seriously?” She scoffed, mouth gaping. “You thought I’d fall in love with them or something?”

“No,” he trailed. “But that might as well happen with Jake.”

“Wow, you trust him so much,” he taunted, drawling out her sarcasm.

“Seriously, Y/N. Don’t make me regret being lenient,” he scrunched up his face. “And it’s weird enough that I’m having a conversation about love and emotions with you,” he cringed while pulling out his phone. Y/N assumed he was going to call Jake.

She agreed with a tut, hands reaching into her suitcase to find new clothes to wear. Curiosity washed over her and she looked at her brother through her lashes. She licked her lips. “What would you do if something did happen between him and me?”

Her question was unacknowledged because he already had his phone pressed to his ear.

When Jake entered his hotel room, he wasn’t expecting Heeseung and Sunghoon to be sitting on his bed, with looks of what he thought was concern on their faces. He furrowed his brows and tilted his head. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you,” Heeseung replied. “You’re supposed to join us for breakfast in a couple minutes, Jake. Where were you?”

Heeseung and Sunghoon glared at him, though it was unintentional. Jake looked between the pair with hard eyes, contemplating if he could be honest with them. They’d find out, anyway. One way or another.

“I was in Y/N’s room the entire night,” he confessed.

Heeseung’s jaw fell and he stood up, stepping towards Jake. “What, are you her new bodyguard?”

“I guess you could say that,” he shrugged. “But I wasn’t supposed to be in her room.”

That was enough to have Heeseung leering at him, his hands reaching to fist his collar and dared to threaten him. “Listen,” he seethed. “I know Jay won’t literally kill us- his friends- when we mess up but his sister is a different story. He will explode if he finds out-”

“Can you calm down?” Jake pushed Heeseung off of himself, just as annoyed as he was. “I was just in there talking to her,” he defended.

“Without his permission,” Heeseung added.

“He won’t find out unless one of us tells him,” Jake rolled his eyes.

Heeseung looked over his shoulder to connect his eyes with Sunghoon. The pair were worried, for Jake and themselves. They’d keep a secret, no questions asked, but it wouldn’t take long for the situation to unravel and become something more than a mess.

“You’re gonna get caught up with her,” Heeseung warned.

Jake tutted, then scoffed as his hands rested on his hips. “I already am!” He exclaimed. “I’ve been watching over her for years, I know all her schedules and the books she reads like the back of my hand. Can you honestly blame me for wanting to know more?”

Sunghoon sighed, leaving the bed and strolling towards Jake with furrowed brows. “No, I guess we can’t blame you,” he agreed, but the twitch on his mouth told him that he had more to say. “But whatever you do, don’t get yourself in trouble. Don’t throw around Jay’s trust. Don’t fuck yourself over.”

He clapped Jake’s shoulder twice and pursed his lips. Before the conversation could continue further, Jake’s phone rang and he rushed to get it out of his pocket. “It’s Jay,” he mumbled but a part of him knew that he wasn’t in trouble. He ushered the pair in front of him to calm down when he pressed the phone to his ear.

“Are you awake?” Jay’s voice rang loud and clear.

“Wide awake,” Jake answered.

“Good,” Jay said. “Be ready in thirty minutes. My sister wants to go shopping and as much as I dread it, I’ll still have to comply.”

Jake found himself chuckling and the boys in front of him looked at him, confused. “Where am I supposed to take her?”

“I don’t know, a mall? Some shopping street?” The confusion in Jake’s voice was hard to miss. No one could blame him, though. He didn’t know the first thing about letting his sister have fun. “She said something about enjoying the little things in life.”

“Right, got it,” Jake nodded and then hung up the phone.

He ushered Heeseung and Sunghoon out of his room after explaining the schedule for his day. The two boys glanced warningly at him for the last time before Jake shut the door and took a minute to himself. He leaned his back on the door, hands covering his face as he groaned and cursed at himself.

The next half an hour went past like a blur- he wore a shirt similar to the one he wore prior, black pants and leather shoes, a watch to top it all off. When he entered Y/N’s room, he walked into the sight of Jay handing Y/N his credit card. They then turned to him and bid him their greetings.

The rest went downhill from there because he found himself driving to the nearest shopping street. Y/N thought malls were suffocating. He found himself glancing at her while she sat beside him, wanting to reach over and play with the end of her sundress.

Then he found himself carrying at least five shopping bags, filled with cheap dresses and tacky jewellery that looked beautiful regardless- and would certainly look stunning on her. She laughed and giggled and twirled as she skipped down the rocky pavement with a newly bought sun hat on her head. It matched her outfit to a tea.

Jake followed her without complaints. He was annoyed, yes, but that didn’t stop him from smiling at how happy she was. It was like she was on top of the world, exploring for the first time in her life.

“You know, Jay was being nice to me this morning?” She said while walking beside him, a few shopping bags hanging from her forearm too. “Sort of.”

“Oh, yeah?” Jake smirked as she nodded enthusiastically. “What’d he say?”

“Well, he was being his usual overprotective self and all,” she started. “But in like a nice way. A funny, trying to keep it loose kind of way. He was talking about love and all with me,” she glanced at him from the corner of his eyes, waiting for a response.

“I knew he was trying to be open with you but I wasn’t expecting that,” he chuckled. “What’d he say exactly?”

“To not drag you into a mess,” she responded nonchalantly with a shrug.

“Me?” He asked, blinking with surprise as he gripped the shopping bags tighter. “Odd,” he commented.

“I know,” she crooned. “He thinks I’ll fall in love with you or something. I don’t blame him for thinking that but Jay saying it out loud is just weird.”

Jake stared at the ground, swallowing a lump in his throat as he nodded. His hair covered his forehead, rosy red lips threatening to fall into a frown. “Yeah,” he said. “Weird.”

Y/N laughed, apologising for even bringing up the topic and skipping past him and into a cafe. He followed with a groan, padding his way past the door and letting her order whatever it was that she was craving- a cheesecake, blonde brownies and two cups of coffee, one for her and the other for him.

They found a booth somewhere in the corner, against the yellow bricked wall and beside a few potted plants. They rid themselves of the weight of the shopping bags and sat across from each other, sipping their coffees and enjoying the warm blonde brownies and cheesecake.

“Did you enjoy today?” Jake asked while he jabbed his fork into Y/N’s cheesecake.

“Very much,” she grinned, chewing on a mouthful of brownies. “I plan on dragging Jay into my room so I can do a little haul for him. I’m sure he’ll love it.”

“He’ll suffer,” he laughed and as did she, agreeing.

“I’m just trying to bond with him,” she reasoned. “He’ll go back to being cold-hearted soon but I plan on breaking that shell,” she smiled proudly.

“Well, good luck on that,” Jake offered. “I’m sure he’ll come around.”

“Hopefully,” she groaned. “I want to have a good relationship with someone from my family,” she grabbed a fork and dug at her cheesecake too.

“You don’t talk to your parents?”

“Nope,” she shook her head. “Jay acts like a messenger between them and me. They basically just handed me over to Jay and said figure it out. I have no idea why but I’m honestly better off,” she explained.

Jake didn’t understand how none of what she said bothered her. Or maybe it did, the indifference of her demeanour just hid it. He didn’t know. “Why are you better off?”

“Because,” she started, running her tongue across her teeth. “My parents are worse than my brother. Jay at least tries to keep me happy. My parents would just throw me in some room,” she cringed.

“They can’t be that bad,” Jake furrowed his brows.

“Fine, maybe I exaggerated,” she confessed. “But they still don’t care.”

“I didn’t know all that,” he waved his at her.

“Oh, really?” Y/N raised her brows in surprise. “I thought Jay would have told all of you.”

“He never talks about it.”

“Don’t blame him for that either.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, shaking the great of his questions out of his head. He blinked and wet his lips. “What else do you have planned for the day?”

“Nothing else, I had my fair share of fun,” she finished the cheesecake. “Why? Do you have something in mind?”

As a matter of fact, Jake did have something in mind. He was going to take her to Museo Cappella Sansevero which wasn’t far from where they currently were. He was going to take her to an aquarium as well and call it an unofficial date.

He’d tell Sunghoon all about how she enjoyed it and how he made her laugh. He’d brag about how he spent an entire day with a pretty girl in a building surrounded by ancient paintings and sculptures and he’d gloat about how he took pictures of her in front of fish tanks.

Well, the fantasy was thrown out the window as the image of Jay’s livid face fogged his head. It was only then that he realised the idea of an unofficial date was foolish. Selfish, too. Y/N might as well have laughed in his face if he carried it out.

So he just shook his head, a tight-lipped smile answering her question. “We don’t have much time before the evening,” he reminded. “We should get back soon so you can torture your brother with your haul.”

That is exactly what she did. She dragged Jay out of his room and into hers and forced him to sit on a chair. Despite his groans, objections and complaints, he still sat with his fingers weaved on his thigh. Y/N put on a parade, showing him the various tops, skirts and dresses she bought.

Jay thought the necklaces and earrings she got were garish. Y/N silenced him and continued gushing. She talked about how warm the sun was and how she talked to the shop owners with the little Italian she learnt in her free time. She told him about the lovely cafe where she and Jake enjoyed a cheesecake and coffee.

“What, like a date?” Was Jay’s response and Y/N threw a pillow at his disappointed face.

“The thought didn’t cross my mind,” she said. “Even if I do end up falling for your right-hand man, you should allow it because you trust him so much-”

“One, don’t cross the line. It doesn’t matter how much I trust him, my ego will still get hurt,” he cut her off. “Two, Jake shall not find out about this conversation,” he held up two fingers. “Three, I’m never talking about love with you ever again. And four, I’m trying to be a better brother so let me.”

Y/N laughed at him, collapsing on her bed as Jay chuckled with her. They couldn’t remember the last time they laughed together, a moment where anger or arguments didn’t come into the way of siblingly bonding.

That smile stayed on her face as she was being guided around the airport, arm linked with her stoic-faced brother who gently sat her down beside him in the charted flight. They didn’t talk. In fact, the siblings enjoyed the comfortable silence between them as one read a magazine and the other sat with earphones plugged.

When they reached home, Jay told her to sleep in her room while he and the rest of the boys dealt with something he wouldn’t tell her about. “You can worry about unpacking tomorrow,” he said and she fell right to sleep.

She thought her sleep schedule would start messing up if she kept waking up in the middle of the night. A creak made her groan awake and as she opened her eyes, she was met by the sight of Jake and his innocent smile.

Y/N tiredly smiled back at him, mumbling out a question that neither of them could comprehend. He chuckled, allowing his fingers to brush away the hair from her face. She rubbed her eyes, pushing herself to lean against her headboard. “What are you doing here?” She murmured.

“Thought I’d wish you a good night,” he whispered back, crouching down to get a better look at her.

“How sweet of you,” she cracked a smile, leaning into the fingers that rested against her cheek. “But you didn’t have to wake me up.”

“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to,” he coyed. “I’m not supposed to be here,” he said, reminding himself rather than informing her.

“No, no you’re not,” she agreed. “But now you woke me up and I won’t fall back asleep any time soon,” her expression fell somewhere between a pout and frown and Jake found himself swooning.

“I can’t sleep either,” he shrugged a shoulder, tracing his fingers down her jaw.

Y/N doesn’t respond to that, just smiled warmly and moved enough to push away her blanket. Jake looked at her a little confused, then questioningly but complied anyway. He crawled beside her, meekly moving his arm over her shoulders and she gladly got comfortable.

“If only Jay could see this,” she snorted. “He’d be furious if he saw his right-hand man putting his sister to sleep.”

“Which is why you need to speak a little more quietly,” he uttered, but the pair laughed anyway. They struggled to hold it in and ended up in a laughing mess. But they were quiet enough. Nobody woke up.

“Sorry,” she chuckled. “My sense of humour is broken.”

“Pretty obvious.”

Y/N laughed at that again, one hand covering her mouth and the other lightly hitting his chest. “Oh, my God,” she snickered. “Not laughing is harder than I thought.”

“Tell me about it,” Jake took a deep breath. “But it’s better than lying awake all night with nothing to do, right?”

“Exactly.”

The pair turn towards each other, eyes connecting for only a second, smiles stretching to create a memory that would probably be burnt into their heads. Y/N looks away first, mostly because it was an involuntary action but also because she wasn’t ready to break another rule in one night. Jake took a second, eyes easily gliding down the bridge of her nose to the turn of her jaw. Then he looked away too.

It was quiet for exactly twenty seconds where Y/N thought about what conversation to strike up next while Jake’s head was riddled with ifs and possibilities of what would happen if Jay walked into her room. It was probably not the best thing to think about while her head was nestling into his arm.

“Why do you think Jay is trying to be better?”

Turns out, Y/N was thinking about the same person. A different reason but the same person, regardless. Fear was what she felt, a small dent in her stomach bringing her nerves. She knew what she was doing was wrong, to be letting herself feel so comfortable lying next to someone she acquainted with for less than a week.

“Because you asked him,” he said, though he wasn’t so sure of his answer. “He probably realised that he can’t control you for the rest of your life.”

“I hope so,” she sighed. “I’m turning nineteen soon, I’d like to build a life for myself,” she stated.

Jake shifts his head, eyes glancing at her hair. “When?”

“In a week,” she said, fingers reaching to play with the ends of her hair.

“Oh, Yeah,” he breathed. “I remember.”

“You do?” Y/N shifted her head too and Jake’s chin touches her hair. She doesn’t seem to give a response to the contact but a swarm of butterflies rushed to his stomach and a chill ran down his spine- stark emotions colliding within his body.

“Of course,” he swallowed. “Jay always reminds us. He gets excited.”

“Really?” Her heart swelled, a warmth wrapping around her as she realised just how much her brother actually cared. “I didn’t know.”

“He didn’t want you to know,” he said. “He’d be embarrassed if he found out you knew.”

“I can keep a secret,” she grinned.

Jake grinned back, tightly. “What presents does he give you?”

“A ring,” she simply said and Jake’s brows lifted at the mundane response.

“A ring?”

“Yeah,” she nodded enthusiastically. “Every year since I was three, he buys me a ring for every birthday. I’m going to get the sixteenth one next week,” she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. “I’m only realising how much he cares.”

“I don’t blame you,” he cleared his throat, slumping further into her bed. That made her head fall against his shoulder- he had no complaints. “The bad parts overshadow the good parts, most of the time.”

“That’s true,” she nodded.

They were both tired, it was becoming rather obvious. Y/N smacked her lips together, eyes fighting to stay open. But she slipped into slumber, soon enough. Jake didn’t notice until he looked at her again, her breath steady and moonlight highlighting her cheekbone.

He sighed in defeat, slowly sliding his arm away as she fell back on her pillow and Jake slipped out of her bed. He took the liberty to properly drape the blanket over her body, covering her arms and legs equally. She nuzzled into her pillow, humming. He slowly crept out of her room.

The nights leading to her birthday went the same way. She didn’t ask him to, but he’d slip into her room to talk to her every night. He’d blame it on the lack of interaction between them during the day because he was either busy with paperwork or she was given no other choice but to stay in her room.

She usually spent breakfast with Jay, where they would talk about the most random things that came to mind. It was an unspoken rule- for Y/N to never ask about what he did for work every day. She was content enough with laughing and bonding with her brother.

Lunch and dinner, though, she was either sitting alone on the dining table in an empty house or sitting in her room with her face stuffed with food. The tv was usually playing a movie, other times she listened to music.

It wasn’t as depressing as it sounded, the constant loop her life scheduled. Because she had two highlights in her days. One in the morning, where she’d chat with her brother and the other at night, where Jake would lay beside her and keep her company until she fell asleep.

Neither did Jake talk about what he did in his day. He’d usually just tell her the gist- exhausting, boring, typical day for someone who worked in the business he did. With that answer, Y/N had to wonder what it was that she was being protected from, why she was being guarded like a precious gem that could be stolen. She realised she’d rather not know and she’d realised that they’d rather not tell. Living in a plane of oblivion was always better.

He once told her about his life in Australia and how he used to be with his parents and big brother. He talked about his dog, Layla, like he was talking about the love of his life and it made her smile. His accent finally made sense.

Y/N didn’t have much to tell Jake. Her life was boring. She elaborated on Pearl and how Jay had always had a crush on her when they were kids. They collectively made fun of him for sleeping with her even with the knowledge of her marriage.

She also told him how Jay finally told her about Andrei and how he and her dad were childhood friends. Andrei was the reason Jay was part of a mob and he was the reason they got to live in both luxury and misery.

When her birthday finally came, Jake didn’t have the chance to wish her. He knew for a fact that Jay would be surprising her at the stroke of twelve. That was exactly what happened.

Y/N, oblivious to her brother’s plans, was still awake, waiting for Jake to come into her like he was doing for the past week. But it was safe to say that she was much happier seeing Jay tip-toe into her room with a small birthday cake in his palms.

He had an excited smile on his face- a smile she rarely saw- as he sang Happy Birthday. A single candle was lit on the birthday cake and she quickly blew it out. The small celebration happened quietly and lasted until the pair managed to finish the cake. Before he let her sleep, despite knowing it’d be hard with the sugar rush, he handed her a birthday gift.

Another ring, like Y/N wished and expected for. A ring that was shaped with flowers, colourful enamel painted on the petals. “That is the opposite of tacky,” he said and she laughed at his humour.

She was glad that he could freely joke around with her, regardless of the situation.

She didn’t see Jake that entire day because her brother took her out for the first time in a long time. She wasn’t complaining, mostly because she was too engrossed in the empty park they walked around and the empty theatre they watched a movie in.

Regardless of how much Jay was willing to let Y/N have fun, he sure as hell wasn’t going to pass up an opportunity to book out entire parks and theatres. He had the money, so why not.

Y/N honestly didn’t care as long as she was with him. She couldn’t remember the last time she enjoyed a day out with her brother.

They got home later in the evening and Y/N agreed to stay in her room for the rest of the day. When she walked past Jungwon and Sunoo, they wished her a happy birthday- she smiled gratefully at them, then shut the door of her room and sunk into the white sheets of her bed.

Suddenly it was like her old life chased her down, following the same loop she was so used to. Today was a rare day, a special day that probably wouldn’t be repeating itself until next year. It was just one day.

She wondered if she could plan something special for Jay’s birthday, too.

That night, when the moonlight filtered through her curtains and crickets chirped, Jake snuck into her room again, a determined look on his face. He held something in his hand, hiding it behind his back as he cautiously made his way towards her bed.

“Hey,” Y/N whispered to him, a beaming smile on her face.

“Hey,” he cooed back. “I didn’t get to see you all day,” he said as he slipped under the sheets beside her.

“I was with Jay the entire day,” she explained. “A special birthday surprise,” she jazzed her hands, earning a low chuckle from Jake.

“Before you tell me about it,” he started. “Happy birthday,” he crooned as a finger reached to tap her nose. They smiled at each other, humming. “And I got you something,” he added and pulled out an averagely sized box.

Y/N gasped softly. “You really didn’t have to,” she insisted but he shook his head, ushering her to move and sit in front of him. She complied, both crossing their legs as they sat in front of each other. Jake opened the box to reveal a bracelet, a simple, silver chain that would wrap around her wrist.

“It’s not much, but it’s something you’d like,” he smiled sheepishly.

“You’re right,” she gushed. “I love it.”

“Can I put it on for you?”

She nodded enthusiastically and Jake softly reached for her hands, fingers nimbly wrapping the bracelet around her wrist, cool metal touching warm skin. He was right, it suited her.

“Thank you,” she lifted her hand to ogle at the bracelet around her wrist. “It’s so pretty.”

“Pretty girl deserves pretty gifts,” the words slipped out involuntarily. He played it off with a shrug and leaned against the headboard. Y/N trained her eyes on him, moving closer so that their knees were touching. “How’d your day go, then?”

“Oh, right,” she chewed the inside of her cheek. “Jay came into my room with cake at exactly twelve in the night and then in the morning we went to a park and ate ice cream. Then we went to watch a movie.”

“Jay really did all that?”

“Granted, he did book out the entire park and theatre but it was still fun,” she added, a sly grin taking over her pursed lips.

“That’s the catch I was waiting for,” he laughed. “What about your parents?”

“They messaged me a birthday wish and sent me some money,” she scoffed, darting her eyes away for a brief second. “They act like they’re some distant relative of mine,” she commented.

“At least, you have Jay and me,” he offered. Y/N nodded, agreeing with a minuscule grin.

Silence followed with that. Neither of them were complaining, though, because they just gazed at each other, pupils fighting the dim moonlight. Y/N found it in herself to move her hands towards his, nimble fingers playing with his. She always thought he had pretty hands and she knew how bizarre it sounded.

Jake watched as her hands played with his fingers and recalled how he wanted her to do the exact thing. Her index scaled the span of his palm, then the crevices between his knuckles and veins. She paid so much attention to the one thing she was doing, he found it adorable.

“Can you believe that less than two weeks ago, Jay and I were at each others’ throats?” She mumbled, a light chuckle following her observation.

Jake hummed. “Can you believe that less than two weeks ago, you and I were strangers to each other?” He nodded between himself and her.

“Yeah,” she giggled. “And all it took was for me to be a whiney brat,” she muffled the cackle that left her mouth.

Jake laughed at her, chest rising and falling as he felt his heart race, banging against his ribs as Y/N absentmindedly wrapped her palm around his two fingers. Her delicate, little hand around his. He would curse if he could.

“I’m pleased with the way things turned out.”

While Y/N nodded, Jake let his free hand wrap around her wrist, tugging her towards him. It was clear that she wasn’t expecting it, almost slipping onto his lap. But Jake caught her, his other hand holding her waist as her palms landed on his chest.

He exhaled, chest heaving as her body pressed against his, lips parted. Y/N darted her eyes across his face, flitting to read what he was feeling. “I’m pleased too,” she gulped, smiling ever so lightly that anyone could have missed it.

“Good,” then his fingers were wrapped around her chin, guiding her face closer to his. Their eyes fluttered shut in unison and Jake caught her lips with his.

Y/N wouldn’t say that she felt sparks fly. No, it was something subtler yet more intense. It was like waves of butterflies crashed down on her, the back of her head tingled and her spine would have given up if it wasn’t for Jake holding her tight. As her hand travelled towards his jaw, she felt fire between her fingers.

A moan parted from her throat, her brows furrowing when Jake’s lips parted from her with a wet smack. Y/N’s eyes fluttered open, breathless just as he was. “Was that supposed to be my second birthday gift?”

Jake chuckled dryly, shaking his head as he leaned towards her again. “Take it as whatever you want,” he pecked her, repeatedly, punctuating each with a smile as his hands buried in her hair.

If it weren’t for the air conditioning, she was sure she’d spontaneously combust out of joy, excitement and ardour. She wouldn’t say she was pining over him. Hell, they only started talking a week ago. But a part of her knew he was pining for her, for a longer time than she knew.

He made it quite obvious. He was so nice to her, so caring and endearing. The bracelet as a birthday gift just gave him away. Maybe she was happy, maybe she was scared. She didn’t know which overpowered what as her brain turned into mush while he held her.

All she knew was that she liked him and he liked her. What more could she possibly ask for?

Right. Her brother’s acceptance.

“Shit,” she cursed as Jake’s palm pressed the small of her back, her chest arching into his. He sighed, darting his eyes up and down her face before kissing her nose, and then her cheek and then her forehead but his lips found their way back to hers nevertheless.

“What is it?” He breathed, giving up and resting his chin in the croon of her neck. She slumped against him, her arms latching around his neck and the smell of lavender filled her nose.

“Jay,” she reminded him.

“I just kissed you,” he pointed out. “And you’re thinking of your brother?”

“Exactly, you just kissed me,” she whined. “And if he finds out-”

“How will he find out?” Jake hummed as Y/N pushed herself off him, sitting inches away from his touch. His fingertips traced her cheek, pushing back any strand of hair that covered her face.

Oh, how long he had waited for this exact moment, to have her freely for him to touch. For her hands to explore his face and chest and for his hands to disappear in her hair. But there would always be something stopping him- them.

“I don’t know,” she hissed. “It’s Jay! He’ll find out somehow!”

“Then let’s just hope he doesn’t find out any time soon,” he tried. “I’m not gonna let him ruin this.”

Then Y/N felt butterflies in her stomach again and she fought the smile that threatened to grace her features. Jake didn’t hesitate to grin, pulling her closer to him and letting his hand roam her waist, fingers sliding under her shirt and trailing lines across the band of her pants.

She giggled, lips tracing his jaw and complaint that she felt ticklish. He told her that it was the whole point- she whined as she kissed his jugular. Jake’s hands refused to leave her hips, he held her in place, praying that he could have a few more minutes to spend just like that.

They didn’t know how long they stayed that way, lips on each other’s necks, hands teasing the little exposed skin they could find. But however long it was, nothing seemed to be enough. Jake left her room when Y/N started feeling sleepy. He left with a kiss to her head and mouth and slipped past her door.

She woke up early regardless and she chalked it up to the adrenaline that still surged through her veins. The previous night’s activities dazed her head as she raced down the stairs and into the kitchen. Jay sat at the dining table just like she expected, a plate of waffles with whipped cream sitting in front of him. His attention stayed on his phone, though, even when she settled beside him.

“Good morning,” she sang but received no answer. Well, if she counted a hum as an answer, then so be it.

The cook hurried to hand her a plate of waffles as well and she smiled at him, reaching for a fork and knife. She wasted no time in eating, oblivious to the way her brother’s jaw clenched and unclenched, eyes narrowed to an empty screen on her phone.

“Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed or something?” She chuckled, chewing a mouthful of waffles.

Jay tutted, shaking his head and shoving his phone into his pocket. “I might as well have,” he grumbled. “How does one react to finding their right-hand man sneaking out of their sister’s room in the middle of the night,” and his hand reached for a tissue, wiping it between his fingers.

Y/N stilled her actions, fork falling out of her hand as her eyes connected with her brother. He was truly livid, fires of anger blazing in his eyes as his fingers intertwined under his chin.

“What?” She blinked, a chill running down her spine. Her hand hovered in the air, hair falling into her eyes, mouth agape.

“Don’t play dumb,” he rolled his eyes. “Do you know how angry I was?”

“What did you do?” She panicked, palms pressing against the slick wood of the table. The cutlery shook, her plate might as well have dropped to the floor.

“Yelled at him for a good fucking hour,” he seethed.

“That’s all you did?”

Jay doesn’t respond but takes his knife and fork to his waffles. Y/N watched patiently but it felt like her head could detonate at any given second. The worse possible scenarios crossed her mind- was Jake still his right-hand man?

“He’s still alive, if that’s what you’re wondering,” he said nonchalantly. “He’s not just my right-hand man. He’s my best friend. I’m not cruel enough to kill him.”

If she could, she would sigh out of relief. But more questions surfaced. But she wasn’t in a place to ask him anything. After all, she did betray him.

“Not two weeks and he’s bought you a gift for your birthday and had the nerve to kiss you,” he let out a breath in disappointment. Y/N bowed her head down, embarrassed by just how much he knew. She couldn’t blame Jake for confessing, though. She would have confessed too. “To be fair, it was inevitable, right? Falling for the brother’s best friend- you’ve always been a clichè, right, Y/N?.”

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, playing with her thumbs. She wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to say but it was the only appropriate response she could muster.

Jay ignored her, continuing to eat calmly. The shiny watch on his wrist slid up and down as he moved his arm while eating. Y/N knew her brother well enough to know that he was seconds away from exploding into fury. This was the calm before the storm, for all she knew.

“You’d think that I wouldn’t mind you having a rendezvous with him. You know, because I trust him and whatnot,” he continued, echoing the words she had said to him before. “But that’s the thing. I remember telling you not to drag him into your romantic fantasies,” he chewed on another piece of his waffle.

Y/N sat in her chair shaking, wondering how on earth she messed up so bad. Not two weeks and she had ruined her chance of freedom and a better relationship with her brother. Not two weeks and she proved that she didn’t deserve anything she asked for.

“Now I’m sitting here with my ego hurt. And we all know how I am when my ego is hurt” he reminded. “But I’m torn between minding my own business and doing something about it. So tell me, what should I do?”

It was a rhetorical question. Y/N knew that. She felt like a little girl being scolded by her parents after committing a small crime. But this wasn’t a small crime. It was a mistake that might as well cost her relationship with her brother. So she just sat there and took it. She was on the verge of tears, the corners of her lips twitching downwards.

“Because I don’t want to do something about it. You’re legally an adult. You can do whatever you want, right?” He coaxed, staring daggers into her head. “Right?” Y/N hesitantly nodded as he persisted. “Which means you can take care of yourself. So why need me at all? Why do I have to bend over backwards to do everything in my power to make sure not a hair on your head gets hurt?”

“Jay-”

“I’m doing everything I can to keep you safe,” he said. “But guess what? You aren’t the only one telling me that I’m being unfair. Heeseung, Sunghoon, Jungwon- all of them. I don’t want to know why they have a sudden interest in you and the way I treat you. But call it peer pressure. I was being convinced. And not two weeks, you find a way to make me regret being nice to you.”

“So you only put effort into being a better brother because of them?”

“No, Y/N. Everything I did was so I could call you a sister. So that you could look at me like I’m your brother. Not some monster that locks you up in your room all day,” he insisted, slamming the cutlery in his hands onto the table. “Can you blame me for being angry that you and Jake have your thing going on?”

“No.”

“What am I going to do when you have a falling out? What am I going to do if Jake, my right-hand man, my best friend, is the reason you get hurt?” He retorted, eyes squinting. “I can’t abandon him. Neither can I abandon you, can I?”

“What if we don’t have a falling out?” With the sudden surge of confidence, Y/N spoke back, head tilting at her proposal.

“Funny thing is, Jake said the same thing,” he scoffed. Like on cue, Jake was walking into the kitchen. The fear in his eyes covered by the clench in his jaw and fisted hands. Jay and Y/N turned their heads to look at him. “You did say that, didn’t you, Jake?”

Jake nodded, training his eyes on Jay as Y/N willed herself not to cry. Everything was going to be fine.

“But that’s the thing. Who are you to predict what might happen in the future?” He pursued. “It’s always best to prepare for the worse, right?”

“But why?” Y/N whispered. “Nothing bad will happen- Jay, I like him,” she reasoned. The girl might as well burst into sobs as she pointed between Jake and herself. “You and him are the only people I have in my life.”

“I know,” Jay growled. “That is what leads me to my conclusion.”

Jake and Y/N shared glances, both scared and confused. “What’s your conclusion?” Jake urged.

Silence was what followed as Jay continued eating. All Y/N and Jake could do was stare and wait patiently. This was their punishment, the silence that followed the verdict. The numerous thoughts and possibilities that conjured in their heads.

What could possibly happen now?

The sound of metal clattering with porcelain seemed to be the only distraction. Y/N fought the urge to coax him, force an answer out of him because she swore if she waited any longer, she’d go crazy.

Jay even stood up and kept his plate in the dishwasher. He cleared his throat, dusted his shirt and ran a hand through his annoyingly bleached blonde hair. He glanced at his sister and his right-hand man and gave them a curt not.

“You can do whatever you want.”

Y/N gaped, her jaw might as well have hit the floor, eyes involuntarily widening as she started her brother up and down. It was safe to say Jake gave the same expression, hands hovering in front of him.

“What?” Y/N asked.

“I’m furious,” Jay reminded the pair, the same stoic expression on his face. “But I’ll allow it. You’re so confident in yourselves, right? So be it, I’ll let you two live it down. Call this a test. I was just trying to see if you’re answers would stay the same.”

“You can’t be serious,” Jake stared, stepping closer to Y/N.

“I am being serious,” Jay said simply. “I accept this relationship,” it took every muscle in his body not to cringe.

Then Jay walked out of the kitchen because he didn’t know what he would do if he continued the conversation. Y/N and Jake were left frozen in their spots. They were still confused, puzzled at what just happened. So there was no storm, Y/N thought to herself, and he raged for so long just because he was mad.

Would it be appropriate to cause after her brother and hug him? Probably not the right timing.

She knew how much Jay had to suppress to let out the words he just said. So all she could do was be grateful. Her mouth only closed when Jake touched her chin with his fingers. She blinked, shaking her head and looking at Jake.

“What just happened?” She asked.

“I think we just got Jay’s blessings,” Jake mused, pulling a chair beside her and collapsing in it. A sigh left his lips, hands resting on the table as he tilted his head towards her.

“How are you so calm?”

“Why would I not be?”

Jake looked back to the prior night when Jay had caught him walking out of her room. He looked back to the way Jay seethed at him and spewed words but the tears that brimmed his eyes were unmistakable. Jay wasn’t just angry, he was giving Jake the protective brother talk.

Maybe a part of him saw this coming. Jay couldn’t do anything to stop it. Well, he could turn to physical force but he wasn’t as cruel as people made him out to be. So he wasn’t worried. He knew Jay would come around to it someday, learn to be happy with the way things turned out.

Because the way things turned out wasn’t so bad, after all.

“What did he say to you?” Y/N’s hand moved to rest on his, thumb touching his knuckles. She moved closer to him; Jake chuckled and placed his hand on her knee.

“Not important,” he assured. “But can we just celebrate? This is the best day of my life!”

[hoonprksung]

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ Loo𝐾 𝑎t m𝓔

p.jjongseong 𝒙 f.reader

𝓦c ::: -1k 𐙚𝓢harinote ::: I've been meaning to write for jay forever because I love him sosososo much, he's so handsome and sweet and amazing :( 𐙚 warnin𝓰.ᐟ ::: missionary · insecurity (? reader won't stop hiding) · overstimulation (?) · pet names · unprotected sex [be safe!!!] · not proofread, perusal.

you feel the weight of his hand on your jaw before you even finish attempting to cover yourself up. jay's fingers dig into your cheeks just enough to make your lips pucker as you gasp.

“stop fucking hiding,” he cups your jaw with his thumb tracing the swell of your bottom lip. his voice is low and unforgiving. “i want to see you.”

you shake your head before you can even think about what you're doing.

his eyes carefully admire your trembling body—how perfect you look beneath him... it’s all too much—the way jay's looking at you or the way he grunts when you clench around him, his bruising grip tightening on your waist. you can't control your body or the embarrassingly pornographic moans that keep ripping from your throat... "jay..." you whine as he releases your jaw, fucking into you even harder.

you can't take it. you're flushed and ashamed—reaching for the pillow behind you in hopes of covering your face and masking the soft little cries you can't help but let out. but before you can even turn to bury your cheeks into the cushion, he pulls back, ramming into you hard.

your back arches off the bed like it’s instinct.

“jay—”

“look at me.” he yanks your wrists from in front of your face, pinning them up over your head with one hand, whilst he leans over you, chest flush against yours. “you think i’m gonna let you act all shy after the way you were begging for it ten minutes ago? huh?”

tears swelled up in your eyes, the pleasure warming up your entire body as he forces you to look at him in the face. you can’t even form words anymore, just pathetic little whimpers that make him groan—make him roll his hips even sharper than before.

the headboard knocks against the wall and your legs shake. jay feels satisfaction bubbling in his stomach as he watches everything.

“there she is,” he breathes. “fuck. there’s my pretty girl.” he gasps, "'hate it when you hide... 'want to hear all those filthy sounds, and see that gorgeous face while I fuck you, baby."

you can’t hide. not your face, not your sounds, not the way you come undone when he tells you you’re his.

he’s relentless. basking in every flutter of your lashes, every cry that slips past your swollen lips as he drives his cock into the tight, dripping heat of your cunt.

“come on… cum, y/n. be a good girl for me,” he pants, voice cracking with want. “let me see you, baby. wanna see your face when you make a mess all over my cock, yeah?”

your mouth drops open, eyes rolling as your whole body tightens, then trembles beneath him. it’s not graceful. it’s messy and wet and overwhelming, and he doesn’t stop.

“fuck, that’s it—there you go, baby,” jay growls, watching you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. “just like that. let me feel you, yeah? fuck, you're so good for me.”

your cunt pulses around him, milking his cock, and he curses low under his breath, jaw tight as he fucks you through every last wave of it. you’re sobbing now—sweet, hiccupy little gasps that sound like his name.

“look at you,” he whispers, voice almost fond now. he finally releases your wrists, and his hand slides down to cradle your cheek. “could watch you fall apart all day…”

you’re dazed, blinking up at him, lips parted like you’ve forgotten how to close them. your skin’s hot and damp, your thighs still twitching from the aftershocks.

he slows down, finally, hips stuttering until he pushes in deep one last time and groans, low and broken. you feel it—the way he fills you, the warmth of it spilling out before he even pulls back.

jay stays over you, still buried inside, brushing sweaty strands of hair from your face with the backs of his fingers.

“you okay?” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours.

you nod, barely. your limbs feel like jelly. your mouth can’t quite form words, but he gets it. he sees it in your eyes.

“so good, baby,” he murmurs again, kissing your temple. “so fucking perfect for me.”

[hoonprksung]

Hey I have a smut fic request. 👅

So Heeseung is your older boyfriend (add age gap pls) and you guys get into an argument because he’s really jealous, and mid argument he kisses you angrily, and then they have like hate-make up sex kinda, also pls make it mean-dom!heeseungxsub!reader, have a cute fluff at the end :3

AHHH this concept is sooo sexy I’m chewing glass over it. he’s def the type to punish you just for making him feel something he doesn’t know how to handle. Hope you like it!! :3

w. angry sex, age gap (hee - 26, reader - 20), degradation, mean dom!hee, no prep :(( ── if ur under 18, dont go past this pls!! ^^

“you’re unbelievable.”

his voice cuts sharp through the tense air of your apartment, eyebrows furrowed, jaw tight.

“i wasn’t even flirting, heeseung,” you snap back, crossing your arms over your chest.

he scoffs, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “he was all over you and you just stood there giggling like some dumb little girl.”

you glare at him, hurt blooming in your chest. “i’m twenty, not fifteen. i can handle myself.”

his eyes flash, anger snapping across his face, and then he’s on you, grabbing your jaw, forcing you to look up at him.

“twenty, huh?” he sneers. “still acting like a fucking baby.”

you open your mouth to argue, but he crashes his mouth against yours before you can even breathe.

it’s angry, desperate, teeth clashing, tongues fighting. he tastes like mint and rage and something dangerous. you moan into it, fists grabbing his shirt without thinking.

“fuck you,” he mutters against your lips.

“then do it,” you snap back.

something snaps in him.

he spins you around, slamming you into the wall hard enough to make the picture frames rattle, grinding his cock against your ass through your jeans.

“brat,” he growls, tugging your pants down rough and fast. “you love making me jealous, don’t you?”

“no—” you gasp, but he cuts you off with a sharp slap to your ass.

“lie again and i’ll fuck your throat instead.”

you shudder, pussy clenching, already soaked.

“so fucking wet,” he snarls. “you like it when i get like this. when i treat you like the dumb little cock-hungry baby you are.”

you whimper, pressing your forehead against the wall.

he kicks your legs apart and shoves two fingers between your folds, groaning when he feels how wet you are.

he doesn’t wait, he pushes inside you in one hard thrust, making you cry out, walls stretching around his thick cock.

“mine,” he mutters into your ear, voice ragged. “you’re mine, you hear me?”

“yes,” you sob. “yes, hee—”

he grabs a handful of your hair and yanks your head back.

“say it properly.”

“i’m yours!” you cry, body jolting with every brutal thrust. “only yours, heeseung—”

he fucks you rough, mean, holding your hips so tight you’ll bruise. you can’t even think, can barely breathe, every sound punched out of you.

he leans down, biting your shoulder hard enough to leave teeth marks.

“no one’s ever touching you again,” he growls. “gonna fill you up so good you’ll be leaking for days. everyone’s gonna see who you belong to.”

you nod desperately, tears leaking down your cheeks, and he fucking moans.

“cry for me, baby,” he groans, thrusts getting sloppy. “love it when you cry.”

it doesn’t take long, you cum hard, shaking, walls spasming around him until he curses and pulls out, stroking himself over your back until he spills, messy and hot across your skin.

you’re both breathing hard, bodies trembling.

heeseung leans his forehead against your shoulder, wrapping his arms tight around your waist.

for a minute, neither of you move.

then heeseung shifts, voice cracking, so small and raw it shatters your heart.

“‘m sorry,” he whispers. “didn’t mean to scare you. i just—fuck. i get scared, baby.”

you turn around slowly, letting him pull you into his chest.

“you didn’t scare me,” you murmur into his shirt. “i know you love me, hee.”

he kisses the top of your head, arms squeezing you impossibly tighter.

“love you more than anything,” he breathes. “more than i should.”

you smile against him, letting him rock you gently, soft kisses pressed to your hair, your cheeks, your forehead.

“i’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.

and you mean it.

because no matter how rough he gets, heeseung’s always the one to hold you after, gentle, trembling, kissing away the bruises he gave you.

your angry, jealous, soft-hearted boy.

your heeseung.

forever.

© seominis 2025. all rights reserved. dont copy, repost, or translate without my permission. my inbox is open!

[hoonprksung]

To Be Devoured

𓂃𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞

| 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢'𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

〻(muse.) park sunghoon

〻(wc.) 15.1k

〻(genre.) vampire au! smut. dark romance.

〻(cont.) fem! reader. description of female anatomy. unprotected sex. making out. soft dom! hoon, but he turns into hard dom! hoon. virginity loss. fingering. cunnilingus. multiple positions. overstimulation. squirting. mentions of cum. mentions of blood. hoonie feeding. basically porn with no plot.

She is already limp under him, but Sunghoon is a man of his world. His beloved begged to be used, claimed, broken—and he's going to deliver.

You lie beneath him, your breath feathering the air between you, shallow and trembling. The room is lit only by the silver wash of moonlight through velvet curtains, painting your skin in soft shadows he traces with his eyes—eyes that have seen centuries pass, but have never lingered like this. Never stayed.

His touch comes slow, deliberate. Fingers that once crushed bone and wielded power like a god now ghost along your waist, reverent. As though he’s afraid to break you. As though you’re made of something more fragile than glass and more precious than anything he’s ever known.

He exhales softly through his nose as his hands travel upward, brushing the dip just beneath your ribs. You flinch slightly, more from the intimacy than surprise, though the coldness of his skin also plays a part. He notices. Of course he does.

“You’re trembling, my love,” he murmurs, voice low and velvet-rich. 

Then his hands shift again, climbing higher, until they find your breasts. He cups them with both hands, gently—thumbs brushing over your sensitive peaks, slowly, like he’s learning you by memory. As though this moment could stretch on forever, and it still wouldn’t be long enough for him.

He leans down, lips hovering just over your collarbone. You can feel the coolness of his breath. Hear the restraint in it.

“I can feel your heartbeat,” he whispers, the words sinking into your skin. “It’s so loud… like it’s calling out to me.”

He doesn’t move to take more—not yet. He just holds you, listens, worships with touch alone. His thumbs stroke you, coaxing soft gasps from your lips. You feel the tension building in the pit of your stomach, slow and warm. It’s not overwhelming, not yet. But he’s not rushing.

He’s savoring.

Because tonight, he’s not just going to take your purity. He’s going to earn it—inch by inch, breath by breath.

He doesn’t move up or down, not right away. He just stays, thumbing your nipples with careful strokes until your back begins to arch beneath him, and your breath trembles again, this time from want. 

“Patience,” he says, soft but firm, a smile in his voice. “Let me love you slowly.”

His hands slide back down, fingers splaying over your stomach. He traces the soft plane there, dipping into the gentle curve of your navel, brushing featherlight over the sensitive skin just below it. Your hips twitch instinctively, but he hushes you with a press of his lips to your shoulder.

Then he begins to move—lower, but not where you ache. Not yet. His mouth follows the path of his hands, scattering kisses along your ribs, your side, the curve of your waist. His fangs don’t touch you—only his lips, plush and cool, searing heat in their wake.

He shifts, nudging your thighs apart with one knee, settling between them without pressing forward. His palms wrap around the outside of your thighs, slowly sliding down until he’s at your knees.

And then he does something simple—he kisses the inside of your knee.

You hadn’t expected it to feel that intimate. But it did. You felt it high in your chest and low in your belly. That place between your thighs pulsed with sudden, aching heat, as though your body understood before your mind could. It wasn’t just a kiss. It was a claim.

He stays there a moment, as though your knees, your thighs, deserve the same worship as your lips or breasts. Then another kiss, a little higher. Then again. And again.

He kisses the hollow of your ankle, the tender dip where shin meets foot, then moves back up—taking his time. You feel his lips on the swell of your calf, soft and lingering. You didn’t know that part of you could be so sensitive. But under his mouth, it’s like your skin has bloomed—become something fragile and new.

Each time he lifts his mouth from you, the air feels cold. Each return is a blessing.

By the time his mouth reaches the softest part of your inner thigh, your fingers are clutching the sheets.

He chuckles softly, eyes flicking up. “Even here, you taste like devotion.”

He doesn’t go further. Instead, he shifts to your other leg, starting over—kissing the outside of your knee, your calf, even your ankle, before trailing back up. You feel every breath, every brush of his lips as if it’s branding you.

Only when he’s kissed both thighs, both hips, and every inch between does he rest his cheek gently on your lower belly, just below your navel. His arms encircle your waist, holding you like something irreplaceable.

“I could stay here forever,” he murmurs. “Do you understand that? Your body… It’s not just beautiful, it means so much more. And by the end of tonight, it will belong to me.”

Then he kisses just above your mound, achingly slow. Not quite where you want him—but close. His lips hover, teasing.

Your skin is aflame, not with fire, but with something slower—thicker. Every kiss Sunghoon lays on your body leaves behind a pulse, like an echo that ripples through your nerves long after his lips have moved on.

He shifts slightly and presses a kiss just below your hipbone. Then another, on the opposite side. His hands stroke your thighs, smoothing down the tension, murmuring something low in a language you don’t recognize. It sounds ancient. Reverent.

Your breathing comes faster now. You feel open. Not just your body, but something deeper. Your chest feels exposed, your heart trembling inside your ribs. You don’t feel afraid. Just… vulnerable. Raw. Like you’re giving yourself away, piece by piece, and every piece matters.

Then he moves higher.

His mouth finds the underside of your breast—a place untouched, unnoticed. And he lingers. He kisses there softly, then drags his lips to the side of your ribcage, and then to the curve of your breast, never quite reaching your nipple. It’s maddening. And exquisite.

Every brush of his lips pulls a new sound from you—a gasp, a whimper, a whispered plea that you don’t even realize you’ve made.

You feel like you’re floating. Like your body is unraveling in slow motion.

He’s doing this. With just his mouth, his hands, and that impossibly calm voice that cuts through your haze like silk.

“I can feel you surrendering,” he says, lifting his head to look at you. “It’s beautiful.”

And it is. You’ve never felt so seen before. So known. Not just your body, but the hidden parts of you. The secret hunger you never voiced. The craving to be touched not just with lust, but with purpose.

And he gives it to you.

His hand slides back up your chest, palm warm now from your skin. He cups your breast again, this time brushing his thumb slowly over your nipple, watching how your lips part.

You feel everything: the rush of heat between your thighs, the fluttering in your stomach, the way your toes curl into the sheets. It’s overwhelming—but not too much. It’s just enough to make you ache.

He leans down again and kisses the top of your breast, then just beneath your throat, and finally, your lips—slow, deep, like he’s drinking from you.

You taste yourself in his mouth. Want. Wonder. Need.

And still… he’s holding back. Worshipping you with lips and hands, teaching you the art of desire—before he even thinks of taking what you’ve offered.

His hand begins its descent.

You feel it, even before he moves—just the intent in his posture makes your thighs tighten, your breath catch. One hand stays on your waist, holding you steady, grounding you as the other travels lower, fingertips tracing that familiar path over your navel, your belly… until it hovers just above the place where your heat has been building for what feels like hours.

You can feel yourself clenching—wanting, waiting.

He watches your face as his fingers finally brush down, between your thighs. His touch is light at first, barely there, but even that sends a jolt through your entire body. And then he finds you.

Two fingers slip between your folds, slow, precise. He parts you gently, stroking down the center until he finds the source of your wetness. He doesn’t push in. He simply lingers there, sliding his fingers through the slick arousal pooling at your core.

His breath catches faintly, and his eyes darken.

“My love…” he murmurs, his voice hushed and reverent, “You’re drenched.”

The words shouldn’t make you blush as hard as they do—but they do. He’s not mocking. He’s marveling. Like your body has given him a secret, and he’s honored just to witness it.

He brings those fingers up, just slightly, and spreads the wetness across your folds with practiced gentleness. Each movement is slow, exploratory, like he’s studying the way your body reacts—how you twitch when he brushes your clit too lightly, how your hips rise when he glides lower again.

“You ache for more,” he says softly, kissing your temple. “I can feel it in the way your body pulses under my hand.”

Then, without asking—because your body has already answered—he slides two fingers down again. This time, he presses inward. Just enough to feel the resistance.

You tense, instinctively. You never imagined it would feel like this. The stretch is foreign, but his voice, his hand on your leg, the warmth in his gaze… they guide you through it.

“Shhh…” he whispers, stroking your thigh with his free hand. “Let me in slowly. Let me prepare you. You’re so tight, sweetheart. So perfect.”

He draws back just a little, circling your entrance, gathering more of your wetness before trying again, pushing his fingers in with agonizing care. 

The moment his fingers breach you—even just a little—your entire body seems to fold inward around the sensation. It’s not pain. It’s not even discomfort. It’s pressure—a firm, stretching fullness that sends a ripple of awareness from your core to the edges of your limbs.

Your breath catches. Your thighs tense. Your walls clench around him instinctively, like your body is trying to hold him there, to make sense of the invasion.

You feel impossibly full, and he’s barely inside you. The realization sends a dizzying heat through your belly—tight and low—and your body pulses around his fingers again, your entrance fluttering.

“You’re doing beautifully,” he breathes, now buried just the first knuckle deep. “You feel like heaven. You don’t even know how badly I want to lose myself in you.”

But he doesn’t.

He’s still patient. Still gentle. His fingers move in slow, shallow thrusts, coaxing your body open inch by inch. Preparing you. Worshipping you with every stroke.

And all the while, your heart beats wildly against your ribs. Your skin burns. Your thoughts dissolve into a haze of need.

Because you know what’s coming.

And the thought of him replacing those fingers with something deeper, something more—it’s enough to make your body tighten around the digits already inside you, your hips rising greedily to meet them.

And he feels it.

You’re soaking.

You didn’t know you could be this wet. But you are. You feel the slick heat coating his fingers, easing their path as he slowly presses deeper—just a little more, pausing again as your walls tighten reflexively.

“Breathe,” he murmurs. “Let your body open for me.”

You try. You let your lungs fill, and as you exhale, your body gives just enough. He sinks in a little farther, and your jaw drops, a soft moan slipping from you before you can stop it.

His fingers curve gently inside you, stroking the tender walls—not rough or fast, just steady, exploratory. You can feel the ridges of your inner muscles reacting to him, gripping him, trying to memorize the shape of him.

And god, the stretch.

It’s not overwhelming—but it feels. You feel everything. Every inch he moves, every subtle shift in angle, sends a cascade of sensation up your spine.

Your thighs tremble. Your stomach tightens. Your lips part around a breathless gasp as he curls his fingers ever so slightly—and that… that makes your entire body jolt.

A spike of pleasure blooms inside you—quick, sharp, then slowly unraveling. Your inner walls clench around him in response, and your wetness gushes, coating his hand.

You hear the soft sound of it—your arousal—and it makes your cheeks burn, but also… something else.

Need.

Raw, consuming need.

Because now that you’ve felt this, now that your body is giving way to him, you want more. Deeper. Harder. You want to be taken. Not carelessly—but like this. Like you matter. Like your pleasure is everything.

And he knows. Of course he knows.

“You’re gripping me so tightly,” he says, voice low and warm against your ear. “Your body wants this. It’s begging.”

His fingers slide out slowly, and you whimper at the loss—but then he pushes back in, deeper this time. Your walls stretch again, fluttering around him, and it’s almost too much.

Almost.

But not quite.

He begins to move in a rhythm now—slow thrusts, each one sending a new wave of sensation through your lower body. It’s not just your core that reacts. Your nipples tighten, your thighs quake, your mouth opens around soft, helpless moans that echo in the quiet room.

And you can feel the tension building.

It coils low in your belly, a warm, tight knot of pressure that grows with each stroke of his fingers, each brush of his knuckle, each shift in angle as he curls just right.

Your hips begin to rock into his hand without thought. You’re chasing it now. The pressure. The high.

And Sunghoon watches, his gaze dark, hungry, but still so unbearably gentle.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he breathes. “Let go. Let me feel you cum around my fingers.”

And you know he will keep going. Keep working your body until it shatters around him. Because this isn’t just sex. It’s worship. And you’re the altar.

Your hips have taken on a rhythm of their own now, rolling against his hand in small, desperate movements. You’re not thinking anymore. You can’t. The pressure coiling deep inside you is too tight, too fierce. It’s all-consuming, every nerve in your body trained on the place where his fingers slide in and out of you with reverent precision.

Sunghoon stays focused—never speeding up, never slowing, just holding you there on the edge, perfectly balanced between madness and release.

And then he curls his fingers again.

There.

You cry out—sharp and breathless—your back arching as that spot inside you explodes with pleasure, the wave hitting so hard it steals the air from your lungs.

“Oh—” The sound tears from your throat, ragged and raw.

Your walls clamp around him, fluttering wildly. You can feel the gush of wetness pouring out of you, soaking his fingers, your thighs, the sheets beneath. But there’s no room for embarrassment. There’s no room for anything.

Because the climax crashes over you in a rush of heat and light, white-hot and unrelenting.

Your hands clutch at the sheets. Your thighs close in around his wrist, trembling violently as the pleasure crests, then crests again, pulsing through you in waves that don’t stop. Your breath comes in sharp, broken gasps. Your heart hammers against your ribs, loud and frantic.

And through it all, he never stops.

His fingers keep moving, slow but firm, dragging every last drop of sensation from your shuddering body. You can feel yourself pulsing around him, squeezing, trying to milk the pleasure for all it’s worth. Your core clenches with each aftershock, your body not ready to let him go.

You’ve lost control. Completely.

Your lips part in a silent moan, your neck arched, your whole body stretched tight around the center of that pleasure like a string pulled to breaking.

And still… he doesn’t stop.

He watches your face, drinking in every twitch, every helpless sound you make. His free hand strokes your hair back from your damp forehead, his voice a low murmur, threading through the haze:

“That’s it, sweetheart… Look at how beautifully you fall apart for me. You were made for this. For me.”

The words only send another shiver through your spine. You didn’t think you could cum harder. But you do. Your body convulses, hips jerking uncontrollably as another wave seizes you. You gasp—sob, almost—your voice cracking from the intensity.

You don’t know how long it lasts.

All you know is the weightlessness. The loss of yourself. The way your mind blanks, drowned under the sheer power of your own pleasure. You can’t speak. Can’t think. You can only feel—and it feels like you’re being remade from the inside out.

When the wave finally begins to ease, you collapse into the mattress, boneless. As he withdraws his fingers, your body clenches around the absence. And from that perfect, trembling space between your thighs, a glistening string of arousal stretches—clinging to his fingertips, to your folds, like your body refuses to let him go.

The sight alone is obscene.

Delicate. Vivid. Sacred.

His gaze darkens. His cock throbs, twitching with need—restrained only by the years he’s mastered his own control. But this… this is different. No kingdom has ever made him feel like this. No blood. No war. No century.

Only you.

Your scent is rich now—intimate, warm, laced with the raw edge of climax. It clings to his fingers, to the air, to him. He lifts his hand, the one slick with your arousal, and parts his lips.

And then he tastes you.

Slowly.

His tongue glides along the length of his index finger, savoring the silken wetness, letting the flavor bloom on his tongue. Salty-sweet. Earthy. Utterly you.

His eyes flutter closed for just a moment.

It’s not just the taste—it’s the meaning of it. The fact that this wetness came from you, from the body he worshipped, from the pleasure he coaxed out of your untouched core. You gave him this. Not through pain or force, but through the softest surrender.

And now you’re lying there, boneless and glowing, your thighs still parted, your chest rising and falling like you’ve run miles through a dream.

He opens his eyes again and stares at you. There’s reverence in his gaze—but also something darker now. Hungrier. Deeper.

“I’ve tasted many things in my life,” he says, his voice low, tight with restraint. “But none have ever stayed with me.”

He slips the second finger into his mouth. Slower this time. Watching you.

“But you,” he murmurs around it, his eyes heavy with desire, “You linger. You ruin me.”

He swallows slowly, and for the first time tonight, his composure falters. He shifts—his body hard and aching, the press of his arousal unmistakable. He’s still holding back. But only barely.

Your pleasure has marked him.

Not just your arousal on his tongue, but your trust. Your body, so soft and willing beneath his. Your moans. Your trembling thighs. Your first orgasm given entirely to him.

And now—he wants more.

He wants to take you fully. To feel that wet, trembling heat stretch around the full length of him. To bury centuries of restraint between your thighs and lose himself in the warmth of your purity.

But not yet.

He leans over you, brushing his lips along your throat, and whispers:

“Do you feel what you’ve done to me?”

His hips press down—just enough for you to feel the weight of him against your entrance. Still clothed. Still restrained. But solid. Throbbing.

You’re still trembling, your body soft and spent, slick and open. But he doesn’t let you fall into the haze of afterglow. Not yet.

Not when he is trembling, too.

“I haven’t even claimed you yet,” he says, his breath hot against your skin, “and already… I belong to you.”

There’s something in the air. It feels changed. Charged. You feel it before he moves, like a storm building beneath the surface of his skin. He looks at you, and his expression is… ravenous. But not wild. No. This is the kind of hunger born from centuries of control finally cracking.

You’ve woken something inside him.

His hand slides back down between your thighs, gentle but insistent, spreading you once more. And you don’t resist. You can’t. Not when your body is still aching, your core still pulsing faintly, needy even in its sensitivity.

He settles between your legs again, lowering himself slowly, as if in reverence to something sacred.

And then you feel it.

His breath.

Warm and steady, ghosting over your already-wet folds. It makes you shiver. Your thighs twitch, instinctively trying to close, but he places a firm, commanding hand on your hip to keep you open.

You glance down, and his eyes are locked on your center like a starving man denied too long.

“I need to taste you again,” he says, voice like gravel softened by silk. “I haven’t felt this kind of hunger since the night I was turned.”

You open your mouth to speak, to say yes, to tell him to take what he wants—but the words catch in your throat.

Because he doesn’t wait.

His mouth descends, and this time… he doesn’t hold back.

The first stroke of his tongue is broad and slow, dragging from your entrance to your clit in a single, devastating pass. The contact steals your breath. Your hips lift off the bed, and a broken sound escapes you—half-moan, half-shock.

He groans against you. Deep. Like a man drinking ambrosia. Like he’s been dying for this.

And then he dives in again.

His tongue works you open with expert pressure—circling, flicking, then flattening again. He laps at your folds like a man possessed, the soft sounds of his mouth against your soaked heat sending heat racing up your spine.

You can feel the wet slide of his tongue parting you, dipping just inside your entrance, then dragging upward to swirl around your clit. Every motion is deliberate. No hesitation. No mercy.

Your legs start to shake.

You reach for something—anything—hands scrambling until they find his hair, soft and thick between your fingers. You clutch at it, not pulling him away, but closer.

“Sunghoon—” His name spills from your lips, cracked and desperate.

He hums in response, the vibration rippling through your entire pelvis. You cry out, your body jolting.

He doesn’t stop.

He devours you.

He alternates between slow, languid licks and short, fast flicks of his tongue directly over your clit—each one sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through your core. And just when you think you might fall apart again, he flattens his tongue and sucks gently, then harder.

Your whole body locks, and it is on fire.

Your vision goes white at the edges.

The tension that had only just begun to fade is rebuilding with terrifying speed, the coil snapping back into place, tighter and hotter. 

And through it all, he holds you open with one hand on your thigh, the other wrapped around your hip, anchoring you to the bed, to him.

You’re soaked, breathless, legs trembling around his head. His mouth is relentless—each swipe of his tongue building pressure deeper in your core, making your clit ache with hypersensitivity. You can feel it growing again—that hot, maddening tension—but it’s just out of reach. You’re teetering, clutching the edge with fingers made of smoke.

You need something.

And then you feel it.

His fingers.

They return without warning—slick and sure, sliding back into you with the same reverence as before, but now paired with the hunger of a man who wants to feel you cum hard.

He groans against your clit as your walls stretch to take him again, two fingers plunging into your heat with a wet, obscene sound that only makes your stomach clench tighter.

You cry out—sharp and loud—your hands fisting the sheets now. The stretch is deeper this time, the sensation more intense. Your inner muscles flutter around him, soaking his hand as he begins to move in rhythm.

He matches the thrust of his fingers with the rhythm of his tongue—sucking your clit into his mouth, then releasing, licking with rapid flicks before diving deep again.

It’s too much. It’s perfect.

Your body locks up, thighs squeezing around his head, your hips rolling up helplessly into every thrust. You feel your orgasm approaching fast now, sharp and violent, like a wave you can’t outrun.

And he knows.

He feels the way your cunt clenches down on his fingers, how your moans break apart, how your stomach tightens like you’re trying to hold it in.

He pulls his mouth away for just a second—just enough to murmur into your wetness:

“Don’t fight it. Let it take you.”

Then he curls his fingers just right—pressing into that perfect spot inside you with precision that no mortal lover could ever match.

And your world shatters.

Your orgasm slams into you without warning, without mercy. Your body bows off the bed, your mouth falling open in a silent scream before sound finally tears free—raw and high-pitched.

Your cunt pulses wildly around his fingers, sucking them in with every clench, gushing wetness in a flood of release that spills over his hand, your thighs, the bed.

You can’t stop shaking.

Your legs are convulsing, your chest heaving, your vision going dark at the edges. You’re sobbing now—not from pain, but from the intensity. You didn’t know your body could feel this much. Could give this much.

And through it all, Sunghoon stays between your legs, holding you through the storm. His fingers keep stroking you, drawing out every wave, prolonging it until you’re gasping for breath, trying to pull away—but your body won’t let go. It wants more. He gives you more.

Only when you collapse back against the sheets, utterly spent, does he finally withdraw his fingers—slowly, carefully, watching the way your soaked walls twitch at the loss.

Another string of your arousal follows his hand, glistening between his fingers. He looks at it like a man holding something holy.

Then he brings it to his mouth and sucks each digit clean—eyes fixed on you.

Your body is still twitching, trembling, flooded with the aftershocks of your second climax, but Sunghoon isn’t done.

Not even close.

He lifts his head for a moment, mouth wet with you, lips glistening, eyes burning with something wild and unrelenting. And then, slowly—deliberately—he slides his hand back between your thighs and spreads you open with two fingers.

The cool air hits your soaked, swollen folds, and you gasp. You can feel how wet you are—see it in his eyes as he gazes down at your cunt like it’s the most sacred thing he’s ever laid eyes on.

He spreads you further, opening you completely.

And he stares.

There’s awe in his face. Hunger, too. But deeper than that—devotion. Like your slick, twitching little hole is the center of his universe.

“Look at you…” He breathes, voice rough, reverent. “So wet, so perfect… your body still quivering from the pleasure I gave you, and yet you’re begging for more without a word.”

He leans closer. His breath skates over your exposed folds. Your thighs twitch.

And then—he dives back in.

But this time, he doesn’t just lick you. He enters you with his tongue.

You cry out—shocked by the depth, the invasion, the heat. His tongue pushes inside you, wet and thick, writhing as it seeks every inch of your soft, sensitive walls. It’s not a flick. It’s not gentle.

It’s devouring.

Your back arches as he fucks you with his mouth—tongue plunging in and out of your dripping hole, working you open again from the inside. The sounds are obscene—slick and wet, your arousal smeared across his lips, dripping from you onto his chin.

And just when the sensation starts to push you toward madness—he adds his fingers.

His free hand slides up, two fingers finding your clit with terrifying accuracy. He doesn’t start slow. He knows you’re ready. He circles it firmly, rhythmically, matching the thrust of his tongue with the press of his fingers.

The dual stimulation is too much.

You scream—sharp and breathless—your thighs trying to close around his head again, but his shoulders hold you wide open. Helpless. Exposed. Completely at his mercy.

Your cunt clenches around his tongue, your body dripping wet, your clit throbbing under his touch.

You can’t think.

You can’t breathe.

You can’t do anything but feel.

Every flick of his fingers sends electric pleasure shooting through your core. Every thrust of his tongue floods you with a deeper, wetter ache. Your hips move without you, chasing the rhythm, grinding against his face.

And he growls against you—low and deep, the vibration sending a shock straight through your clit.

You nearly cum again right there.

Your voice breaks into whimpers. Your hands clutch his hair, desperate for something to hold onto. Your body is unraveling, piece by piece, soaked and pulsing and begging for release.

And Sunghoon?

He’s in ecstasy.

Buried between your legs, his tongue deep inside your cunt, his fingers sliding slick and fast across your clit—he’s feasting like a man starved for centuries.

The sounds between your legs are soaked and obscene—his tongue plunging deep inside your cunt, his lips suctioned around you like he’s drinking your soul, his fingers working your clit with practiced urgency. He’s relentless. Unstoppable.

And you’re breaking.

The pleasure is no longer a slow build—it’s a current now. An unstoppable wave rising, rising, rising, and this time… it doesn’t crest gently.

It snaps.

It starts right there—right where his tongue is buried inside your dripping core. A sharp, crackling bolt of sensation that ignites your womb and then spreads, fast and wild.

Like electricity.

It surges outward, up your spine, down through your thighs, wrapping around your nerves like fire in your blood. Your toes curl. Your calves lock. Your back arches violently off the bed, your muscles seizing as the orgasm detonates through you.

You scream—raw and breathless—your voice splintering in the air.

Your cunt clamps down on his tongue, convulsing in rhythmic spasms, so tight it nearly traps him there. Your walls pulse with frantic contractions, milking him for something he can’t give—but he stays inside you, fucking you with his mouth as your body floods his lips with your release.

You gush.

Soaked and helpless, your climax pours out of you in waves, wet and hot, coating his mouth, his chin, your inner thighs. And he moans into you—moans, like the taste of your orgasm is a drug, and he needs every drop.

The sensation only intensifies—his fingers don’t stop, circling your clit with wet, rapid precision that sends aftershocks tearing through your already-oversensitive flesh. Your legs shake. Your stomach tightens. Your hands slap at the sheets, grasping for something solid in a world that’s crumbled beneath the weight of your pleasure.

You can’t speak.

You can’t think.

You are nothing but pleasure now. A body undone. A girl trembling at the hands—and tongue—of a creature who was made to worship you.

And he takes everything.

He holds you open as your orgasm ravages you. He lets you ride it, scream through it, sob against the air as your body pulses again and again, your clit aching, your core soaked and twitching, until finally—finally—the wave begins to pull back.

And even then… he doesn’t stop.

He slows. Softens. Gently licks the mess from your folds, savoring every drip, every shiver of your exhausted body. He kisses your inner thighs, your mound, your belly. Worships you in the aftermath of your own destruction.

You’re panting. Trembling. Every nerve still echoing with the ghost of your climax.

He moves up, hovering above you, his lips swollen, his face slick with your arousal, his eyes dark with awe.

“You broke so beautifully for me,” he whispers, voice rough, reverent. “And you’ll do it again.”

Your chest rises and falls with the weight of three climaxes, each more devastating than the last. Your thighs are limp, your skin flushed and damp, your core still twitching with little aftershocks that ripple through you like echoes.

And still… Sunghoon doesn’t move to take what you’ve offered him.

He lifts his head from between your legs, lips glistening with your essence, and just looks at you—gaze heavy with something older than time, something more primal than lust.

And then… he leans in again.

But not to your core. Not yet.

His mouth finds your belly, just beneath your navel. He kisses you there softly, lips slow and deliberate, as though the skin there matters more than anything else in the world.

He presses another kiss—lower, deeper. Right over the space where your womb rests.

His hands stroke your sides as he kisses you there again. Slower. More lingering this time.

“You carry your pleasure here,” he whispers, voice like dark velvet, warm against your skin. “It blooms behind this soft flesh. I can feel it… It calls to me.”

Another kiss. Then another. His mouth moves in lazy, worshipful patterns across your lower abdomen, marking the center of you—the place from which your desire poured, the space that will soon take all of him.

Your breath hitches.

The attention there—over your womb—feels different. Intimate in a way that sex alone never could be. It makes something flutter in your chest. Something deep. Something tender.

But then he shifts again.

His mouth trails down your hips, then slowly, sensually to the insides of your thighs—those trembling, well-used muscles that still bear the proof of how thoroughly he’s taken you apart.

He kisses just above your knee, where the skin is soft and delicate. Then higher.

And higher.

His hands stroke along your thighs as his mouth works its way upward, pausing to press his lips into the sensitive junction where thigh meets hip. He lingers there, lips and tongue working slow circles, as though tasting the memory of your climax from your very skin.

You twitch.

Your legs part a little wider—reflex, invitation, surrender.

He smiles into your skin.

“Even after everything I’ve given you… Your body still calls for more.”

It’s true.

Though you’re weak, breathless, flooded with warmth, there’s still a glow beneath your skin—a need that never truly dulled. The ache is deeper now, quieter, but it’s there. Nestled low in your belly, where he kissed. Where he’ll soon be.

And he knows.

Which is why he kisses the inside of your other thigh, just as slowly. Just as soft. His fangs brush the skin, not biting, just grazing. A reminder. A promise.

Your body shivers in response.

And you realize: this is still foreplay to him.

Not because he wants to draw it out… but because you deserve to be unraveled, adored, prepared like a temple before he dares to step inside.

His breath fans against your soaked folds, warm and intimate, and then you hear it—his voice, low and rough, nearly a growl veiled in silk.

“But you need rest, my love…”

You inhale sharply.

“…because once I start…”

His lips brush your entrance, and your hips jump.

“…I might not be able to stop.”

The words land on your flesh like a touch—hot, possessive, deep.

And your body responds.

A pulse starts low in your belly, tight and hot. Your core clenches—clenches—around nothing, a fluttering, instinctive reaction to the promise in his voice. Your clit throbs, still tender from the climax he stole from you moments ago, but already aching again.

You’re wet. Wetter. Soaking in response to just a handful of whispered words.

Because it’s not just what he says—it’s how he says it.

The reverence.

The restraint.

And beneath it, the quiet, throbbing threat that once he takes you—once he lets go of the centuries of control holding him back—there’ll be no turning back.

You moan. Soft. Breathless.

Your thighs fall open farther on instinct, exposing your spent, glistening cunt to his mouth, as if your body is answering for you: I don’t want you to stop.

But still, he doesn’t move.

He simply hovers there, letting the heat of his breath kiss your folds, letting his words sink into your core like silk-wrapped daggers.

And you feel it—your womb fluttering with anticipation, your slick walls spasming lightly, the ache between your thighs transforming from soreness to craving.

You should be spent.

But you’re not.

You’re awakening again—set aflame by nothing more than the promise of what he’s holding back.

And he knows it.

He smiles softly, eyes hooded with desire.

“You see?” he whispers, his lips grazing your swollen clit. “Even exhausted, your body begs to be claimed.”

When he rises over you, you’re still gasping in the afterglow of that last orgasm—every breath shallow, your chest rising and falling in soft tremors. Your skin is flushed, damp, and hypersensitive. Even the sheets brushing your thighs feel like fire.

And then he kisses you.

Really kisses you.

It’s not a gentle press of lips this time—it’s hot and wet, all tongue and teeth and heat. He takes your mouth like he owns it. Like he’s been starving for the taste of your moans. His tongue parts your lips, sliding deep with confidence, exploring you with a hunger that makes your toes curl.

You let him. You want him to. That’s the truth you’ve been holding inside this whole time.

You don’t just want to be touched.

You don’t just want to be loved.

You want to be used.

And he knows it.

Your mouth opens wider under his, letting him in, letting him take. His tongue tangles with yours, slow but deliberate, tasting you, marking you. His lips are plush and firm, but then you feel something sharper—fangs, grazing your bottom lip, teasing without piercing. A soft whimper escapes you.

The kiss alone sends a jolt straight down your spine, right to your already aching core. It clenches instinctively—empty, fluttering, wanting. Your thighs twitch. Your nipples harden again, oversensitive but alive. Even the softest brush of his fingers along your waist makes your muscles seize and flutter beneath the surface.

You can’t keep still.

Your body writhes beneath him—subtle shifts of your hips, your thighs spreading wider, your hands clutching the sheets and then relaxing, only to tense again. You’re trembling in waves now. His kiss is too much. But it’s also not enough.

Everything feels tripled.

Your mouth feels like it’s burning. Your lips are swollen from the pressure of his. Your tongue aches to follow his own. And when he growls low into your mouth—low and possessive—it vibrates through your whole skull, down your throat, right into your chest like a shockwave.

You moan into his mouth, and your hips roll upward without thought, trying to find friction against the press of him above you. There’s nothing there yet—not his cock, not even his hand—but your body wants it. Your cunt clenches around the emptiness, slick and pulsing with new need.

You feel tears at the corners of your eyes—not from pain, not even from pleasure—but from how much you want. From how deeply the need runs now.

You’re unraveling all over again, just from the pressure of his mouth on yours.

He pulls back slightly, and your lips chase his—needy, shameless. You’re panting now, open and wet and trembling beneath him.

He smirks, lips shiny with your spit. His voice is ragged when he speaks.

“You’re shaking again,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your jaw. “And I haven’t even touched your cunt this time.”

You whimper at the word. The way he says it—low, vulgar, reverent—makes your walls flutter again.

“I think you like being ruined,” he says. “You want to be used, don’t you, little one?”

His voice is low, taunting—but soaked in reverence. Every syllable curls around your skin like smoke, warm and thick and inescapable.

You nod.

It’s the only thing you can do. Your body won’t let you speak. Your lips are parted, swollen from his kiss. Your chest is rising in sharp, shallow gasps. Your heart pounds like it’s trying to escape your ribs.

And then the word spills out of you—yes—fragile, broken, desperate.

You feel it tremble out of your throat.

His expression shifts instantly. The tension he’s held back for what feels like hours—the centuries of restraint braided into his every breath—begins to unravel.

His lips curve into a smile, but it’s not soft this time.

It’s sharp. Dangerous.

A glimpse of his true nature blooms behind that smile—his long, perfect fangs gleaming faintly in the low light. It should make you flinch. It doesn’t. It makes your thighs twitch.

Then he leans in—so close his lips nearly brush your ear—and he promises it:

“Oh, my love…”

A kiss to your jaw, wet and slow.

“I’m going to break you.”

The words don’t just make your breath stutter—they reach inside you and pull. Your core clenches hard, slick and aching. Your back arches. Your nipples tighten painfully, every nerve lit up in response.

You feel everything.

The ache. The hunger. The pulse between your thighs, louder than your heartbeat. You’re still trembling, still soaked, still wrecked from the orgasms he’s already given you… But now, your body craves destruction.

Not violence. Not carelessness.

Ruin.

The kind that’s slow. Deep. Intentional. The kind only he can give.

And he knows it.

He gazes down at you like a god at his offering—his lips parted, his fangs glinting, his body ready. His hips press forward, not fully, but enough that you feel the weight of him now—heavy, hot, restrained no longer.

And you… You don’t flinch.

You open your legs wider. You tilt your hips upward. You offer yourself with a breathless gasp and eyes half-lidded in submission.

Because this is what you’ve wanted all along.

To be undone. To be remade.

To be ruined by him.

You can still feel the echo of your last orgasm humming in your thighs, soft tremors that haven’t quite let go. Your body is stretched open, slick and sensitive, every nerve along your skin tuned to the soft drag of the sheets, to the warm air kissing your swollen core.

And then he descends again.

You gasp.

You’d thought he might press forward—finally, finally fill the emptiness inside you—but instead, his hands return to your thighs, gently parting them again, spreading you wide like you’re something delicate… delicate, but his.

Then his mouth lowers.

And he begins to kiss you there.

Not just a lick. Not a flick. Not teasing.

Wet kisses. Messy. Open-mouthed. Devotional.

He kisses your cunt like it’s your lips—no, deeper than that—like it’s the center of your being. The place he’s been waiting to worship for centuries.

You can hear the sounds—his tongue dragging over your folds, the faint, obscene smack of his lips pressing into your slick entrance. He groans into you as he kisses low, then higher, then right at your clit—just a soft, swollen brush, and your body jerks.

He doesn’t pause.

He kisses you again.

Another open-mouthed press right against your folds, and this time, he lingers. His tongue flattens against your entrance, then slides up slowly—slow, wet, deliberate—before pulling back and pressing another kiss lower, right at the spot where his tongue had been buried moments ago.

Your thighs tremble.

You feel your cunt clench helplessly, empty, aching, fluttering at the lips just from the kiss.

And it feels like a kiss—not licking, not oral technique—but intimacy. Pressure and mouth and breath. He’s making out with your pussy, and it’s not just pleasure—it’s too deep for that. It’s possession.

You moan, broken and quiet, your hips rocking into his face, but he doesn’t speed up.

He’s patient.

Each kiss is a statement.

Each press of his lips says mine.

He groans softly against you, and the vibration sparks a fresh jolt through your core. You can feel your arousal thickening again—smeared across your thighs, dripping down your folds, warm and endless.

And still, he keeps kissing you.

His tongue pushes between your lips, dipping just inside your fluttering entrance before pulling out to swirl around your clit, then lower again. You’re not sure how long he stays there, mouth locked to your cunt, lips wet and moving, tongue sliding and tasting and worshipping—but it’s long enough that you lose the ability to think.

You melt.

You float.

Your body is trembling again, that same raw, desperate sensitivity tightening back into something dangerous. Another orgasm? No—something else. Deeper. Slower. A fullness that hasn’t even happened yet, and still your body prepares for it.

He moans softly into you.

You hear him whisper something, but it’s muffled by the slick sounds of his tongue against your cunt. You feel the hot puff of his breath against your swollen lips, and it sends another twitch through your thighs.

And all the while, your mind whispers: He’s making love to me with his mouth. Not for show. Not for dominance. Because he wants to. Because he needs to.

Because this is part of the ruin—breaking me not just with force, but with unbearable devotion.

His mouth is still locked to your cunt, lips slick with your arousal, his tongue moving in slow, reverent circles like it’s his only language. He licks and kisses and breathes into you like your body alone is keeping him alive.

You’re whimpering again, legs trembling, your back arching off the bed in small, uncontrolled pulses. Every time he presses his lips to your entrance—slow, wet, aching kisses—you feel the tension building again, the need winding tighter in your belly.

And then he pauses—just barely, lips still ghosting your folds—and speaks.

His voice is low and shaking now, rough with want, thick with centuries of hunger he’s barely kept chained.

“Will you let me take everything from you, my love?”

He kisses your clit, tender and slow.

“Will you let me satiate my hunger with your body?”

The words hit like lightning.

You cry out—your voice sharp, a moan twisted with desperation. Your thighs clamp around his head, hips rolling upward into his mouth, your hands fisting the sheets as your answer tears from your throat:

“Yes!”

It’s not polite. Not soft. Not whispered.

It’s screamed, breathless, raw and aching, your entire body echoing the word. Every pulse of your core, every twitch of your oversensitive clit, every wet contraction of your cunt—all of it screams yes.

Yes, take me. Yes, ruin me. Yes, I’m yours.

He moans—moans into your cunt—and the vibration sends another shudder rolling through you. His tongue dives back between your folds, kissing you deeper, hungrier, like your answer finally unshackled him.

He devours you now, tongue pushing deep into your entrance, his nose brushing your clit with every movement. His kisses become wetter, messier, more desperate. You can feel his mouth sealing over your core, as if he’s trying to drink the sounds from your throat, the tremors from your thighs, the heat from your womb.

And you give it to him.

Your body rolls, rocks, offers. You sob his name like a prayer. You beg without words, every breath a plea for more.

And he gives you everything.

Because that yes wasn’t just permission—it was submission.

And he’s waited centuries to be given someone like you.

You’re gasping, soaked, trembling, your legs still parted wantonly as he finally pulls back from the mess he’s made between your thighs. His mouth, chin, and cheeks are slick with you—glossed in the raw, intimate proof of your pleasure. Your arousal shines on him like a mark of devotion.

He rises slowly, crawling up your body with the grace of a predator… and the gaze of a lover.

Your skin burns beneath him—everywhere he kissed, everywhere he touched. You feel open, split wide by sensation, and yet not taken. Not fully. Not in the way your body now aches for.

And then he leans down—not between your legs, but higher.

To your face.

You expect heat again. Fire. Teeth. Tongue.

But instead…

He kisses your lips.

Soft. Slow. Chaste.

His mouth brushes yours with the barest pressure, a whisper of contact. No urgency. No devouring.

Just him.

His lips are warm and slightly sticky from where he tasted you, but the kiss is gentle, reverent. Like he’s sealing something sacred.

And it wrecks you.

Your heart stutters in your chest. Your face flushes hot. After all he’s done to your body—spreading you, tasting you, worshipping and wrecking you—this is what makes you blush.

This innocent kiss.

Because it’s not about possession.

It’s about love.

His fingers cradle your jaw as his lips hover for a heartbeat longer, and you feel tears sting the corners of your eyes—not from pain, or even overwhelming pleasure—but from how deeply you are seen.

Owned. Yes. Used. Yes. But also… cherished.

You gasp quietly into his mouth, and he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze.

His eyes are soft now. Still dark. Still dangerous. But softened around the edges, like velvet stretched over steel.

“You are everything,” he whispers. “And soon you’ll also belong to me.”

And you nod again, this time without shame. Without fear.

Blushing. Trembling. Ready.

You watch him rise over you, the heat of his body sinking into yours even before he touches you. His eyes roam slowly down your form—your parted legs, your glistening thighs, your flushed chest—and then they lift again, meeting your gaze.

Silent.

Heavy.

And then he begins to undress.

He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t tease. He simply removes—button by button, layer by layer—and with every inch of pale skin revealed, the warmth in your face spreads like wildfire.

You’ve felt his mouth between your legs. You’ve screamed for him. You’ve begged him to take everything from you.

And yet, watching him bare himself—watching centuries of composed elegance stripped away before your eyes—it undoes you in an entirely new way.

His shirt falls from his shoulders, revealing sculpted muscle beneath porcelain skin, lean and powerful, lined with strength earned across lifetimes. His pants come next, slow and fluid, and then—he stands before you, naked.

And beautiful.

God, he’s beautiful.

The lines of his body are impossibly perfect—his chest broad, his waist narrow, his thighs strong and commanding. And his cock…

Your breath catches.

He’s thick. Long. Heavy. Already hard, flushed at the tip, arousal pulsing down the length. And all you can think is—that’s going inside me.

Your face erupts in heat.

You cover it with both hands, a helpless squeak catching in your throat, your thighs pressing together on instinct. Your body still aches to be filled, still throbs between your legs—but your embarrassment blooms too fast, too real to hide.

And for a moment… It’s quiet.

You hear nothing but your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Then you hear him chuckle.

Soft. Warm. Disbelieving.

You peek between your fingers, and he’s staring down at you with his head tilted slightly, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

And his voice—his voice is full of something deep:

“How,” he murmurs, stepping closer, “can you be so adorable?”

There’s wonder in his tone. Not mockery. Not pride. Awe.

As if, after everything he’s done to your body—after hearing you moan and beg and scream his name—he’s still stunned by the softness in you. The blush. The shyness. The contrast of your purity, even now, when you’ve given him everything.

He kneels back between your legs, his hands finding your wrists.

Slowly, gently, he pulls your hands from your face and leans in close, brushing his lips against your temple.

“You don’t have to hide from me,” he whispers. “You’ve never been more beautiful than you are right now.”

And you believe him.

Even as the blush lingers, even as your chest flutters wildly, you believe him. Because the way he looks at you isn’t just hungry anymore, it’s devoted.

He doesn’t move right away.

He takes you in with one last look—your flushed skin, your parted lips, the way your legs fall open for him like a flower blooming under moonlight. Your cunt is glistening, folds swollen, the evidence of your pleasure coating your thighs, your heat radiating up into his hands.

He exhales softly, then shifts—settling between your legs with the same care one would show a sacred relic. And then you feel it.

The press of his cock.

Heavy. Hot. Smooth against your slick folds.

Your breath stutters.

He doesn’t push in yet—no. He slides it up first. Slowly. His shaft drags through your wetness, collecting it, slicking himself in the mess of your arousal.

And your body responds.

The thick ridge of him glides along your entrance, up through your folds, and then—there. His tip bumps against your clit.

You gasp.

Your legs twitch.

The contact is light, but after everything he’s done to you, it sends a jolt straight through your belly. Your clit pulses, oversensitive and needy, and you shivers beneath him.

He does it again.

Another long, slow stroke of his cock through your folds, bumping your clit at the top, then sliding back down to your soaked entrance.

You moan this time—a soft, broken sound—and he groans above you, the sound low and guttural.

“You’re so wet,” he murmurs, eyes locked on your cunt as his length glides through you again. “Your body wants me so badly.”

You can’t speak. Your breath is caught, hands gripping the sheets, hips lifting slightly to meet the next stroke.

And then he stops.

The head of his cock nestles at your entrance.

Right there. Poised. Waiting.

He leans over you, bracing himself with one hand beside your head, the other guiding his cock to your core.

His forehead brushes against yours.

“This is it,” he whispers. “I’m going to feel you for the first time. Every inch.”

You nods. Your eyes shimmer. Your legs open wider.

You're ready.

And then—he pushes.

The tip breaches you.

And your world changes.

It’s not fast. It’s not brutal. It’s deep. Stretching. You can feel every ridge, every vein, every impossible inch of him pressing into you, and your body, tight and untouched, yields around him.

Your breath catches in your throat.

It’s not pain. It’s fullness.

Unbearable fullness.

He groans again—sharp this time, as your slick heat wraps around his cock like a vice, tight and hot and pulsing with life.

“God,” he breathes. “You feel… incredible.”

You clutch at his shoulders, your eyes fluttering closed, your mouth open in a soft, helpless moan.

It feels like he’s opening you from the inside.

Stretching you in ways you didn’t know were possible.

Your walls flutter around him, trying to adjust, your body trembling as he sinks deeper—inch by inch—holding your eyes, holding your hips, murmuring soft, steady praise as your virgin cunt welcomes him inside.

Emotion swells behind the pleasure.

He’s inside you.

Truly inside.

Your first and only.

And he’s not just taking your body—he’s claiming the hidden, aching part of you that always longed to be known. To be seen. To be used and loved in the same breath.

Tears prick your eyes—not from pain, but from the depth of it all.

You feel filled. Not just physically, but emotionally. Spiritually. Like something inside you has finally been answered.

And then… he bottoms out.

Fully sheathed.

Pressed to the hilt.

His hips nestle against your ass, his chest against yours, his cock deep in the clutch of your heat.

They both freeze for a moment.

Breathless. Wide-eyed.

“I’m inside you,” he whispers, voice thick with awe, his breath shaking against your lips. “Finally.”

You feel it—all of him, every inch of him stretching your virgin walls, pressing into places that make your toes curl, your stomach flip, your chest ache with the weight of something too big to name. He’s deep. So deep. You feel the throb of him inside you like a heartbeat not your own.

And yet—

It’s not enough.

Your body is on fire. Every inch of your skin is vibrating with overstimulation, your cunt fluttering around his cock, struggling to adjust to the girth, the length, the impossible fullness—but beneath the stretch, beneath the overwhelming tightness…

There’s hunger.

The kind that makes your mouth open on instinct. The kind that comes from the marrow of your bones. The kind that demands.

“Hoonie…”

Your voice is breathless, trembling.

He looks down at you instantly, his eyes wide, his mouth parted, sweat clinging to his temples. He thinks you’re overwhelmed. He thinks you need gentleness.

He doesn’t know that what you need is more.

You reach up, grab his face in both hands. Your fingers shake, but your grip is firm. You hold his jaw—force his gaze to see you.

And then you speak.

Not meek. Not blushing.

“I want you to fuck me.”

His breath catches.

“I want you to use me.”

His pupils dilate.

“I want you to ruin me, Hoonie. Break me. Breed me. Fuck me like you’re in heat—like your life depends on it.”

He goes still.

Frozen.

Your nails dig into his cheeks, your legs wrapping around his waist, locking him inside you. You arch your hips up, grinding your soaked cunt around his cock, still stretched, still adjusting—but your mind doesn’t care. Your body doesn’t care.

You’re already wet. You’re already split wide. You’re already his.

Now you want to be wrecked.

“Please,” you whisper. “Take me. Don’t hold back. I want to be fucked like you’re losing your mind.”

And that’s when you see it.

The snap.

The worship flickers. The restraint uncoils. And something else fills his eyes now.

Possession.

Raw. Unfiltered. Ferocious.

He growls—growls, low and deep in his chest—and then his hands are gripping your thighs, spreading you wider, locking your hips to the bed.

“Oh, fuck, my love…”

He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing hard through his nose, trying to hold the last thread of control.

But you feel it trembling.

“You want to be fucked like you’re mine?” he breathes, his voice a rasp of barely-contained need. “You want to be bred like a filthy little thing in heat?”

You moan—yes, yes, that’s exactly what you want—and your hips try to rise again, but he slams them back down.

“Then don’t take it back,” he warns, his voice low, feral. “Because once I start… I will not stop until I’ve emptied every last drop inside you.”

And then he pulls back.

His cock slides out slowly, dragging against your soaked, stretched walls, and you feel every inch leaving you. You gasp, your core clenching, already aching from the loss.

Then—he slams back in.

The first thrust knocks the air from your lungs.

Not because it hurts—but because it’s too much.

Too deep.

Too fast.

Sunghoon doesn’t ease into it. Doesn’t hold back. The second you gave him permission—begged for it—he became something else entirely. Something darker. Something real.

And your scream echoes through the room, your nails raking down his back as he begins to fuck you exactly how you asked—like an animal, like a beast in heat, like a man finally giving into the hunger you unleashed in him.

He’s still Sunghoon. Still your lover. But now he’s a creature of need, and you are the only thing that can satisfy it.

His hips slam into yours again, and your entire body bounces beneath the force of it. The impact sends another pulse of heat through your core, your cunt clenching desperately around him, still trying to adjust to the girth of his cock, still fluttering from the stretch of your virgin walls.

But he doesn’t slow.

He thrusts again.

And again.

The rhythm builds, brutal and fast, and your body is struggling to keep up. You feel it—your slick squelching around his length, dripping from where he’s pounding into you, your clit catching friction with every push of his hips, overstimulated and screaming in silence.

Your mouth falls open.

But nothing comes out.

You want to cry his name, but it’s like your brain can’t form the shape of it. All you can feel is the stretch. The impact. The hot ache of his cock splitting you open and owning you.

Your walls try to grip him with every thrust, but he’s too big, too fast, and the fullness becomes unbearable. Your core is clenching—a desperate, fluttering attempt to take him deeper, to hold him in place, but he just keeps fucking into you, your cunt squeezing and sucking and dripping as your body tries to survive the assault it begged for.

You’re burning.

Sweating.

Tears prick the corners of your eyes—not from pain, but from the sheer overwhelm.

Your legs twitch around his hips, your hands scrabbling at his back, your head tilting to the side as you gasp brokenly—

“Sunghoon—ah—too much—”

He growls, fucking into you even harder, his hands pinning your wrists to the bed as he leans in and whispers:

“You said you wanted to be used. You said you wanted to be broken.”

And gods help you—your cunt tightens at those words.

Because it’s true.

You wanted this. You need this. And now your body is being reformed around him. Every thrust reshapes you. Every wet slap of skin against skin writes a new truth into your womb: you are his now.

Your nipples are painfully hard, your clit swollen and throbbing, your voice reduced to mewling little moans that barely make it past your throat.

You’re losing control.

Losing yourself.

And deep down, beneath the shock and overstimulation and unbearable fullness…

You love it.

Because this is what you asked for. Not to be loved sweetly. Not to be kissed like a flower. But to be fucked—like prey caught beneath something ancient and starved.

And Sunghoon?

He’s just getting started.

You don’t even realize what he’s doing at first. One moment you’re pinned to the bed, your body jolting with every brutal thrust, your vision swimming, mouth open around moans that don’t even sound human anymore—

And then his grip tightens.

Rough hands grip your hips—no longer soft, no longer careful—and he pulls. Your lower back lifts off the bed, and your ass rises with it, dragging your slick body higher into his lap.

You cry out—loud, raw, uncontrolled—as your legs fall wider, your spine arching as he holds you there, suspended in the air.

And then he thrusts.

Deeper.

The change is instant.

His cock drives into you at a new angle, hitting a place so deep, so unforgiving, that your whole body seizes. Your head jerks back into the pillow. Your thighs shake violently around his waist. Your cunt clamps down around him like it’s trying to keep him in that spot.

You scream.

You can’t help it.

It’s not pain—it’s too full, too much, the angle making every thrust feel like he’s punching the air out of your lungs. His cock grinds against your womb now, thick and unrelenting, and your body reacts like it’s been bred for this.

Your hips are no longer yours. They’re his, suspended in the air, pulled into every brutal, rutting thrust.

He’s fucking up into you now, hard and fast, his cock slamming into your cunt with wet, obscene sounds that echo louder than your moans. Your slick is smeared across his thighs, dripping down his balls, everywhere.

Your body is twitching uncontrollably—your stomach tightening, your nipples stiff, your cunt gushing.

And your mind?

It’s shattering.

You’re not thinking anymore.

Your thoughts have been reduced to three desperate truths:

He’s inside me. He won’t stop. I need this.

You can’t form words. You can barely see. Your hands claw at the sheets, at his arms, at nothing. Your mouth opens around a choked cry—his name, maybe, or just a noise that lives where language fails.

The stretch is unbearable. The depth is devastating.

And still he fucks you—grunting, panting, growling into the air like a beast finally allowed to rut. His hands grip your hips so tightly you’ll have bruises. You want them. You want the proof.

He leans over you, your legs still high, still folded open, his cock buried deep in your cunt as he thrusts again, again, again, and it feels like he’s not just inside you.

It feels like he’s inside your soul.

You feel broken.

Beautifully, brutally broken.

And there’s only one thought left in your mind now, floating through the haze:

‘He’s going to break me open and fill me.’

And gods… You want him to.

He’s still fucking you like he’s in heat. Like there’s no one else in the world but your soaked, trembling body clinging around his cock. His grip on your hips is bruising, your thighs suspended in the air, your back arched off the bed—his thrusts punching into you with brutal precision, again and again, deeper than your body should be able to take.

Your cunt is soaked, stretched, pulsing, overflowing—but somehow it still wants more.

And then he throws his head back.

It’s sudden. A snap of the spine. His chest expands, his cock buried to the hilt inside your womb, and for a moment, everything freezes—except him.

His mouth opens.

His fangs drop.

And he moans.

Not a groan. Not a growl.

A moan—thick, hoarse, pornographic. It’s so raw, so deeply broken, it sounds like his soul is being pulled from his body through your cunt.

It fills the room like thunder.

And that’s it.

That sound—that is what takes you under.

Your orgasm detonates with no warning. It doesn’t build. It erupts.

Your entire body locks—arms stiff, legs trembling, back arched like a bow. Your mouth opens around a silent scream, and your cunt clamps down on his cock so violently it’s like your body’s trying to milk the pleasure straight out of him.

Your vision goes white.

Your ears ring.

Your stomach clenches. Your thighs shake. Your hands claw at the sheets as wave after wave of brutal, blinding pleasure floods you—sharp, hot pulses radiating from your core, all the way to your fingertips.

It’s your fourth. Or maybe your fifth. You don’t even know anymore.

You just know that this one breaks you.

You sob.

A ragged, breathless, desperate sob—half pleasure, half surrender—as your cunt gushes around him, slick pouring out of you, soaking everything. You can hear it—wet, obscene, like a flood of need pouring down his cock and onto the sheets.

And he feels it.

His head snaps forward. His fangs glint. His eyes are wild.

He growls—deep and low, like your orgasm is a trigger inside him, too—and he thrusts harder, chasing his own edge now, fucking you through your orgasm, into the madness beyond it.

And your body?

It’s done.

You’re twitching. Gasping. A tear slips from the corner of your eye as your cunt continues to pulse helplessly around him, every nerve lit up, every breath a struggle.

But inside all that—inside the shattered pieces of you—there’s one glowing truth:

You wanted to be broken.

And he is. Beautifully and completely.

You’re still coming. Still twitching, still clenching, your cunt fluttering in frantic, helpless pulses around his cock. Your back is arched, your throat raw from your cries, your mind barely holding on—

And then he strikes.

His head snaps down, and his mouth crashes against your chest—your right breast, lips closing around the soft swell of flesh just above your nipple.

And then—the bite.

Fangs pierce your skin with a sharp, sudden pressure that steals your breath.

You gasp—a choked, high-pitched sob that turns into a moan as your nerves catch fire. The pain is brief, bright, but it melts into something hotter, something deeper.

Because the moment his fangs sink in—he feeds.

You feel it. The suction. The pull.

Not just blood—you.

He’s taking something from you with every pulse of his mouth. Not just your body, not just your cunt, but your essence. Your life.

And you give it.

Your hand flies to the back of his head, fingers sinking into his hair, holding him there, pulling him tighter against your chest as he drinks. You need it. You need him to feed from you like this—desperate and starved and yours.

And gods, your body responds.

You clench again around his cock—harder this time, tighter, impossibly so. Your walls grip him like a fist, like your body is trying to milk him in rhythm with his feeding.

And he moans.

Mouth full of you, blood slicking his lips, his cock buried inside your gushing cunt—he moans into your chest, and the vibration rolls straight through your ribcage like a second heartbeat.

It’s too much.

It’s everything.

Your thoughts stutter, scatter, and dissolve into primal, burning instinct.

All you can feel is:

He’s drinking me. He’s inside me. He’s mine. I’m his.

There’s something dizzying in it—the pull of blood, the rush of endorphins, the painful pleasure blooming behind your nipple. Your skin is buzzing, hypersensitive, your clit still throbbing, your cunt still soaked and stretched wide around his cock.

Your body starts to float.

A high beyond orgasms. Beyond touch.

You’re not even sure if you’re crying or laughing or moaning anymore.

It’s all too much.

And still, you hold him to your breast, cradling him like a lover, like a monster, like a god, your legs wrapped around his waist, your body arched to give him everything.

Because you want it.

You want to be emptied.

Ruined.

Fed from.

And in this moment, you don’t care if it kills you. Because you’ve never felt more alive.

His mouth is sealed to your breast, his fangs sunk deep into your tender flesh, the pull of his feeding strong, rhythmic, relentless. Each draw from your veins is slow, greedy, intimate. You feel it—your blood flowing into him, your warmth feeding his cold hunger.

And it turns you on.

More than it should.

Your head tips back, lips parted in a soundless cry. Your hand stays tangled in his hair, clutching him to you as if you’re afraid he’ll stop. As if your body needs to be emptied by him, drop by drop.

And then—

His other hand moves.

It slides between your bodies, down your trembling stomach, over your slick mound.

You barely register the movement—until his fingers find your clit.

And press.

You scream.

There’s no other word for it.

His touch is firm, deliberate, circling your swollen clit with practiced ease, and your body jerks, helpless and oversensitive, the shock of pleasure blending with the strange, blissful drain of his feeding.

You don’t know where the sensations begin or end anymore.

Your nipple is hard against his cheek. Your cunt is still stretched wide around his cock. Your clit is throbbing under his fingers. Your blood is flowing into his mouth.

And you’re losing yourself.

Your thighs try to close. Your hips jerk up. Your cunt clenches around him, milking his cock with desperate, fluttering pulses, your slick soaking the sheets beneath you.

And he moans into your chest.

The sound is low and vibrating, and it echoes through your breast, down your spine, into your womb.

His mouth sucks harder.

His fingers move faster.

And your body gives in.

Your back arches.

Your toes curl.

Your entire body tightens like a wire about to snap—

And you shatter.

Your orgasm hits like a storm.

You cry out—raw and wrecked, tears spilling down your cheeks as your body convulses under him. Your cunt pulses violently around his cock, tighter than ever, soaking him in another flood of release. Your clit throbs against his fingers, your breast aches beneath his mouth, and your chest heaves with every broken sob of pleasure.

You’re gushing. Trembling. Clawing at him like you’ll fall apart if he ever stops.

And he doesn’t.

He feeds.

He rubs.

He fucks you through it—still buried inside you, still drinking from you, still pulling every last drop of pleasure from your ruined, sensitive, offered body.

It feels endless.

It is endless.

And when it finally begins to fade—when your limbs go slack, your eyes heavy, your lips parted in soft, stunned whimpers—he finally slows.

His mouth lifts from your chest.

His tongue licks the wound—soft, reverent—closing it with a kiss, sealing the mark that will never fade.

And he looks down at you.

Blood on his lips.

Eyes blown wide with something beyond hunger.

And he says, voice rough, hoarse, ruined:

“Now you’re mine.”

You’re so gone, you only notice him slipping out of you when your cunt twitches at the loss, empty and aching, still fluttering in the aftermath of your orgasm. Your limbs are heavy, useless, your chest rising and falling with ragged, open-mouthed breaths. You feel like liquid—spread across the bed, broken in the most beautiful way.

But he’s not finished.

You hear the shift of the mattress. Feel his hands curl around your waist—tight, intentional.

And then—he moves you.

In one smooth, effortless pull, he flips you onto your stomach, your cheek pressed against the sweat-dampened pillow, your mouth parting with a soft, surprised gasp. You try to lift yourself, but your arms buckle, too weak.

And he doesn’t let you recover.

He grabs your hips and raises you.

Your ass lifts high, your knees pressed into the sheets, your thighs spread open by the positioning of his hands. You’re bent perfectly—spine arched, ass exposed, your soaked, swollen pussy on full display, still dripping with the mess of your last climax.

You can feel how open you are. How wrecked. How used.

And yet—your body reacts.

Your cunt clenches at the exposure, the cool air hitting your wet skin, the knowledge that he’s behind you now, staring. Silent. Waiting.

He hasn’t touched you.

Not yet.

But you feel his eyes—burning into you.

Sunghoon kneels behind you, his cock thick and slick, heavy in his hand, still glistening with your juices and desperate for release. But he doesn’t thrust back inside. Not yet.

He watches.

His eyes trace the curve of your spine, the lift of your ass, the wet gleam of your slit as it twitches with overstimulated need.

You’re breathing hard. Twitching. But you don’t move.

You can’t.

And he still doesn’t touch you.

Not because he doesn’t want to.

Because he does.

Too much.

You feel the tension in the air—coiled like a beast between you. His hunger. His need. His possession.

And then you hear it—his voice, low and reverent, almost in awe:

“Look at you…”

His hand slides over your ass—slow, reverent—just one palm smoothing over the soft flesh, watching how your body twitches at the touch.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers. “And still offering yourself.”

He grips your ass, spreading you slightly, and groans when your folds part for him—wet, raw, open.

“You asked me to fuck you like an animal,” he breathes. “And now you’re here… trembling… leaking… mine.”

He leans forward, one hand pressing down between your shoulder blades, making your back arch more, your cheek sinking deeper into the pillow, your ass lifting higher in response.

You barely register the shift behind you—his weight adjusting on the mattress, his thighs sliding between yours—until you feel it:

The blunt, hot press of his cock at your entrance.

You whimper, your fingers tightening into the sheets, your cheek mashed into the pillow, ass lifted high as your swollen, twitching cunt flutters around nothing. You’re already so wet, so open, so used, but that thick head stretching your folds again pulls a sharp, broken gasp from your lips.

He slides the tip up and down your slit once—coating himself in your slick, collecting it like the precious thing it is—and then—

He slams into you.

In one brutal, wet thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, forcing your body to take him, stretch again for his impossible girth, your walls clamping down like they’re trying to refuse—but they don’t. They yield. Barely. Desperately.

You scream.

Your vision flashes white. Your knees nearly buckle beneath you.

The stretch is excruciatingly perfect—a mix of pain and pleasure so intense it steals your breath. Your cunt flutters violently around him, juices flooding down your thighs, soaking the bed beneath.

And he doesn’t give you a second.

He fucks into you.

Hard. Brutal. Deep.

His hips slap against your ass with wet, punishing sounds, cock driving into you over and over again, spearing through the tight grip of your cunt like it’s nothing. His hands hold your hips so tight your skin burns, pulling you back into every thrust, using your body like he owns it.

Because he does.

Your back stays arched, your ass bouncing with every impact, your moans turning to cries, to sobs, to broken little pleads that mean nothing—because you don’t want him to stop.

You want this.

You need this.

Your cunt is gushing, soaked beyond logic, pulsing around him in chaotic spasms that only drive him faster.

He groans behind you, filthy and low, his breath ragged, sweat dripping onto your back as he fucks you like you were meant to be taken from behind.

“Fucking—perfect—” he growls, each word punctuated by another violent thrust. “So tight—so wet—so ready to be bred.”

Your orgasm builds again—somehow. You don’t even know how your body has anything left, but it does. You feel it like a rising scream, coiling in your belly, dragging you toward another edge you swore you’d already fallen from.

And he knows.

He feels it in your cunt—how it tightens, how it pulses.

And he chases it.

He fucks you harder, the sound of skin slapping skin wet and lewd and endless, your moans turning into screams again, your vision gone to stars as he ruins you from behind.

His hands find your shoulders now—gripping them, slamming you back onto his cock with every thrust, using your body like a toy, like a vessel, like a whore who asked to be ruined.

You did.

And now, he’s delivering.

The world doesn’t feel real anymore. Everything is rhythm, motion, heat. His cock driving into you over and over—deep and brutal, dragging across every hypersensitive inch of your walls. Your body is already ruined, already wrung out, but he doesn’t stop. His pace is punishing, merciless, and your mind can’t keep up.

You’re drooling into the pillow. Eyes glassy, lips parted, breath sobbing from your lungs in short, frantic gasps. Your cunt is a mess—gushing slick with every thrust, stretched to its limit, used.

And your voice?

It’s gone.

Replaced by incoherent babble.

“Mmm—ah! Hoonie—fuck—so deep—please—too much, I—ah!, I can’t—I—”

He doesn’t slow. Doesn’t even falter. His grip on your hips is brutal, fingertips digging into your flesh, slamming you back onto his cock with a force that makes your ass bounce and your body jolt. He’s growling behind you now, panting like an animal in rut, his cock so hard inside you it feels like he’s splitting you in half.

And your brain breaks.

The pleasure is too much. The fullness is too much. The sound of him, the feel of him, the need building in your chest—it all breaks open into one singular thought:

“Fuck—feed from me!” you scream.

It rips from your throat—sudden, raw, desperate.

“Hoonie—please—bite me—feed from me again, drink from me—fuck!, I need it, please, please, please, please—!”

Your hands claw at the sheets. Your body arches, thighs trembling, cunt clenching around his cock like you’re trying to pull the bite from him.

And behind you—you feel him freeze.

Just for a breath.

Then his voice, low and wrecked:

“You want me to feed again?”

You nod wildly, tears in your eyes, your body twitching and shivering under him. Your voice cracks into sobs:

“Yes! I need you to—I-I need to feel it, Hoonie please, I can’t—I need it—drink from me while you fuck me, I-I want to give you everything—please take everything, please—!”

His hand slides from your hip to your throat, tilting your head back and exposing your neck. He growls against your throat. Not the cold, controlled sound of a predator.

It’s giddy.

Almost playful.

“God,” he pants. “Listen to you… begging for my bite like a good little toy.”

You whimper, breath catching. Your hands scrabble against the mattress, nails clawing for something to ground you, anything to hold on to as he keeps you right on the edge of unraveling.

He’s still inside you.

So deep.

His cock is throbbing, thick, soaked in your slick, buried to the hilt inside your wrecked, overstimulated cunt. Without slipping out, he moves.

One of his hands grips your waist. The other slides beneath your stomach, pulling you up slightly. And then—

He shifts position.

Still behind you, still connected, but now he plants one foot on the mattress, rising into a half-kneel, half-squat.

And the angle—gods—

Your mouth drops open.

His cock grinds deeper now, dragging against your front wall with every thrust, hitting something dangerous, something brutal. His new position gives him total leverage—power and angle and reach—and he uses it.

He thrusts.

Hard.

Sharp.

Deep.

And you shriek.

Your vision swims. Your mouth trembles. Your legs go limp beneath you, your back forced into an even deeper arch. Every nerve in your cunt fires at once—blazing—as his cock spears into you with obscene precision.

He moans now—high and shameless, the sound of a man with a woman wrapped perfectly around him, wet and ruined and his.

“Fuck, you feel that?” he gasps, his voice cracking with laughter, feral delight in every word. “This little cunt’s never letting me go again.”

You babble something—words melted into moans—but he doesn’t slow. Doesn’t care.

His foot plants harder, thrusts sharper, slamming into you from beneath. Your body jolts with every impact. Your breasts sway. Your back arches perfectly, your neck still exposed to his mouth, waiting.

And he revels in it.

He hovers there for a moment, mouth open just over your skin, his fangs dragging along your throat, not biting yet—teasing. The tension of his breath, the heat of his cock, the stretch—it all blends into something unbearable.

“You begged for it,” he says. “So tell me again, love…”

His hips grind forward, cock grinding into your soaked walls.

“Tell me whose girl you are.”

His thrusts grow crueler.

Deeper. Sharper.

Each one lands with a wet slap, your ass slamming back into his hips as he drives himself into you from below, one foot planted firm on the bed, the other knee grounded for leverage. Your body jolts with every impact, breasts swaying, skin slick with sweat, your moans turning into broken sobs of overstimulation.

And still—he doesn’t bite.

Not yet.

He’s waiting.

Hovering over your throat, fangs dragging along your pulse like he’s tasting your fear, your surrender, your worship.

“You begged me to feed,” he growls into your skin, his cock grinding in deeper with the next thrust. “So say it. Say who you belong to.”

You’re sobbing now, cunt clenching, your legs trembling.

But you speak.

“Yours—I’m yours—Hoonie, I’m yours, I’ve always been—”

He grunts, fucking you harder.

“Say it again.”

You scream.

“I’m your girl!” you cry. “I’m your—fuck—I’m your toy, your meal, your whore—please! Please bite me—feed from me again, I’m yours, I’m yours—!”

That’s all it takes.

He snaps.

With a growl that’s half lust, half unholy hunger, his fangs pierce your throat in a single, savage motion. No warning. No gentleness. Just teeth sinking in right where your pulse pounds the loudest.

You wail.

Your back arches impossibly tight. Your cunt explodes around him—clenching, pulsing, gushing as your orgasm detonates in the same instant his fangs break your skin. The pleasure is blinding—a burst of white-hot light behind your eyes, your walls fluttering wildly around his cock, milking him, soaking him, screaming for him.

And he drinks.

Gods, he drinks—deep and steady, groaning against your throat as your blood pours into his mouth, as your body twitches and clenches and gives.

You feel the pull. You feel the bond—the ache in your womb, the twist in your soul, the devotion that burns like fire beneath your skin.

He’s not fucking you anymore.

He’s using you.

Feeding and fucking and owning you all at once, your body trembling, overstimulated, your breath stuttering through parted lips as you try to survive the dual invasion.

Your body is in chaos—shaking, clenching, gushing. Your cunt contracts around his cock in wild, erratic pulses, and then—like a dam breaking—you squirt. A sudden, hot release rushes from deep inside you, soaking his thighs, splashing against his stomach, dripping down the insides of your legs.

And that’s when he loses it.

You feel it before he even moves—his entire body tensing, his cock twitching violently inside you, so deep, so thick, so full—

Then he groans.

A deep, guttural, wrecked sound that vibrates against your throat as his hips slam into you one last time.

He buries himself to the hilt.

And he cums.

You feel it—hot and thick, a flood of heat spilling into your womb, wave after wave as his cock throbs and empties inside you. It’s not a release. It’s a claim.

You gasp—sharp and high—as his seed fills you, stretching the already ruined ache inside you wider, deeper, hotter. Your cunt is still spasming, milked dry and still milking him for more. Every pulse from him matches a pulse in your clit, every twitch of his cock pressing more heat inside you.

And gods—there’s so much.

You feel it flooding you. Dripping back out around the base of his cock, running down your thighs, mixing with your slick and sweat and scent. You’re overflowing with him.

And through it all—he’s still drinking.

His fangs are still deep in your throat, his lips sealed tight, your blood sliding down his tongue, into his chest, into the very core of him.

It feeds him.

It connects you.

And in that moment—flesh locked to flesh, blood flowing, his cum flooding your cunt—you don’t just feel taken.

You feel chosen.

He growls again—quieter now, weaker, spent—and finally, finally, his mouth releases your neck.

He licks the wound slowly, reverently, sealing it with a kiss, then rests his forehead against your back, both of you panting, trembling, wrecked.

He’s still inside you.

Still leaking into you.

And all you can feel is this:

You are full. You are claimed. You are his.

You can’t move.

You’re limp beneath him, your body trembling with aftershocks, every muscle twitching from the inside out. Your skin is wet—sweat, slick, blood, his release. Your thighs ache from how wide he forced you open. Your cunt is throbbing—raw and filled and fluttering around his cock, still buried so deep it feels like he’s part of your body now.

And he’s still inside you.

You feel him—hard still, thick, even softened just slightly, he’s overwhelming. He’s not pulling out. He’s not letting anything go. His hands still grip your hips, now gentler, but firm. Holding you there. Holding you in place.

And then—

He shifts his weight, leans over your back.

You whimper, a fragile noise, and his body presses against yours, skin on skin, cock lodged deep inside your twitching cunt. He drapes over you like a blanket of heat, fangs brushing your shoulder now, his voice low, thick, dripping with the afterglow of pleasure and pride.

“Perfect,” he murmurs.

You shiver beneath him.

“Look at you,” he whispers against your ear. “Still clenching. Still dripping. So full of me.”

You moan, weak and broken, your body twitching with the reminder—his cum leaking out around his cock, sliding down your thighs, your pussy fluttering in soft aftershocks that just won’t stop.

He rolls his hips once—just a slow grind, not even a thrust—and you sob into the pillow.

“Sensitive?” he teases gently. “You wanted to be fucked like an animal in heat, didn’t you?”

You nod, breath caught in your throat, tears slipping down your cheeks—not from pain, but from sheer overwhelm.

His hand slides to your stomach, palm resting over the low curve just above your womb. He presses there, firm, possessive.

“You’re holding so much of me,” he whispers, almost in awe. “My girl.”

Another slow roll of his hips.

Another broken cry from your lips.

And he moans softly, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he feels your cunt squeeze around him again.

“Keep me inside,” he breathes. “Let me stay here. Let me watch what I’ve made you.”

And you do.

You stay just like that—cunt stuffed full, body limp, back arched, cheek to the pillow—his. His cock still pulsing inside you, his hands resting on your trembling skin, his voice low and reverent.

“You’re mine now,” he murmurs. “Inside and out.”

He doesn’t move for a long time.

He stays there—cock still buried inside your ruined, pulsing cunt—his weight pressed over your back, his hands gentle now, resting on your hips, stroking lazy, reverent circles into your damp skin.

You’re still trembling.

Your body is sore. Sensitive. Soaked in sweat and slick, and him. His cum leaks from your stretched hole in thick, slow drips, pooling between your thighs, seeping into the sheets—but he doesn’t pull out.

He won’t.

Not yet.

He groans low in his chest, head dipped between your shoulder blades, voice breathless and awed.

“Still so warm,” he murmurs, hips giving a subtle, instinctive roll that makes your breath catch. “Still milking me like you want every last drop.”

You whimper, weak, your fingers twitching against the sheets.

And he smiles.

Not cruel. Not mocking.

Proud.

His hand moves up, over your back, then down again—slow, soft, possessive.

“Mine,” he breathes again. “Every inch of you.”

He finally shifts—gently this time—pressing a kiss to your shoulder as he slowly lowers you both down, careful not to slip out. You whimper as he brings your bodies down together, side by side now, his cock still buried deep as he wraps himself around you.

You feel caged. Kept. Held.

And you’ve never felt safer.

He nuzzles into your neck, brushing a kiss to the healing bite mark on your throat, then another to your jaw, your temple, your sweat-damp hair.

You’re still trembling in his arms, cunt fluttering faintly around him, overstimulation fading into a full-body hum.

And he adores it.

“Shh,” he whispers, one hand sliding to your stomach, resting possessively over your womb. “You did so well for me, little one.”

You sigh—tired, bliss-heavy, floating.

“You let me break you,” he murmurs against your ear, “and you’re still here. Letting me stay inside you. Letting me hold you.”

His voice cracks slightly, fangs gone, his hunger sated.

“You’re everything.”

His hand strokes your thigh, sticky and wet and trembling beneath his touch. You feel the mess between your legs—the slick of your orgasms, his seed still leaking out in hot pulses around his cock—and you don’t flinch.

You love it.

You love him.

And in the soft silence that follows, he whispers one last thing—low and reverent, meant only for you:

“I’ll never take from anyone else again.”

[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.

-

-

-

-

[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.”

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[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 😭😭