#sunghoon hard thoughts | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aewon · 1 month ago

Text

cute, no?

sunghoon x fem reader genre: smut MDNI!! wc: 4157 warnings: kissing, rough sex, mouth fucking, fingering, cunnilingus, pussy slapping, mean sunghoon, inexperienced (but not virgin) reader, mention of chaewon, yunjin, hanni and karina. both sunghoon and reader are kinda weird. name calling (reader calls sunghoon a whore), multiple orgasms, nude sending. if there’s anything i missed lmk.

note: this is a repost from my other account that is now deleted @/wonkizz, also this isn’t proofread so ignore any fuck ups lol

You knew your roommate was somewhat of a whore. It never bothered you, if anything, you were jealous.

He just….snapped his fingers and girls fell at his feet.

You wished you could bag guys that easily.

Albeit you and Sunghoon rarely acknowledged each other. How did you become roommates in the first place, you may be wondering? It’s very simple. You were living with your sister, she moved out to live with her boyfriend, you needed a new roommate, Sunghoon answered your facebook ad. Simple as that.

The only rules you had were keeping the space clean and not being too loud at night.

Sunghoon definitely kept up with the first one, never having a hair out of place.

The second, well… not so much. But, it didn’t bother you. You had really good noise canceling headphones for a reason.

Though at night, you could still hear the sounds of the multitude of girls he would bring home day in and day out.

Their loud moans, whimpers, mewls, borderline screams!

You don’t know if the sex is really good, or if they’re just really sensitive.

It must be Sunghoon though, right?

But is he really that good?

Sometimes you find yourself wishing you were in those girls' places…but you know he’d never go for someone like you.

Something you haven’t mentioned, Sunghoon is like, drop dead gorgeous. You’re surprised he hasn’t been casted as a model or an idol or something.

But he’s just a struggling student like you. Clearly not struggling in the sex department though.

You’re not a virgin, but you’ve only had sex three times in your 22 years of life.

All three times were not that satisfying and personally you don’t blame yourself.

You just haven’t found that person who can really do it for you, and your own hand and toy have started to become…tired.

It’s been quite some time since you’ve felt the touch of another person. You’ve started craving, like you’re touch-starved.

Back to the topic of Sunghoon, he’s mesmerizing and you are a stereotypical nerd.

You’re not ugly, but your everyday appearance is not exactly eye-catching like what Sunghoon typically brings home.

You find yourself thinking about him more often than not. What he’s into sexually. How far he’s willing to go.

One thing about you, you’re very, very sensitive.

You’ve made yourself come 5 times in a span of 20 minutes.

Another thing about you, you’re somewhat of a freak…or maybe a major freak?

Safe to say you think about sex way more than you should, and you are not as vanilla as your friends think you are.

God, if you could just get one crack at Sunghoon, you’d be happy.

But alas, that’s just a dream.

It’s midnight on a Friday, you’ve just gotten out of the shower after doing your whole night routine.

You slip on some comfy pjs (aka an oversized tee and shorts) and make your way to the couch with a late night snack (black raspberry dark chocolate chunk ice cream) ready to indulge in the food network.

Sunghoon isn’t home, you figure he’s out at a party or with friends.

You’re digging into your pint of ice cream when the front door opens.

Sunghoon steps inside and you hear a giggle behind him.

Someone, a woman, steps in behind him.

Their lips are about to meet when her eyes find yours.

“Oh!” She exclaims, pulling away. “This must be your roommate! You didn’t tell me she was so…cute!”

This woman is gorgeous. Sleek, black hair, beautiful body that’s wrapped in a dress that fits her perfectly and her face is something out of a magazine.

She must be looking at you, with your oversized, not to mention stained, tee and shorts, glasses and ice cream in hand like you’re a joke. An utter, complete, joke.

Sunghoon barely spares a glance at you, clearing his throat and gesturing between you and this woman, “Karina, Y/N, Y/N, Karina,” he introduces you to her.

All you can do is wave before realizing the situation you’re in.

Sunghoon has once again brought a woman home and you’re clearly in the way.

You spring up from the couch, “I didn’t mean to be in the way, I'll just go to my room!”

Before either can say anything, you turn off the tv and nearly sprint to your room, ice cream still in hand.

You shut the door behind you, listening to footsteps.

You hear them making their way to Sunghoon’s room, right across from yours.

“She’s cute, no?” You hear Karina ask.

“I guess, not really my type though,” Sunghoon responds.

Ouch. You already knew it, but hearing it said aloud stings more than you thought it would.

The sex Sunghoon and Karina have that night is so loud, even your headphones can block it.

Her moans and squeals of his name infiltrate your mind into the morning, as you barely got any sleep.

You assume Karina is still in the apartment by time you get up for your early morning class.

You’re in the kitchen, preparing a cup of tea when Sunghoon comes in, rubbing his eyes.

He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, “I hope we didn’t disturb you too much.”

This is the first time he’s ever bothered to say this to you, not to mention the first time he’s ever acknowledged you in the morning.

You shake your head, giving him a faint smile as you push up your glasses, “Not at all.”

Once you leave the apartment, the walk to campus isn’t far.

Your best friend, Chaewon, is already waiting for you in front of your first class.

By the time you’re free, you meet up with your other friends, Yunjin and Hanni.

“What’s up with you?” Hanni asks, “You seem down.”

You sigh, “Sunghoon brought a really pretty girl home last night.”

They all raise their brows at you, “Okay,” Yunjin says, “that’s never bothered you before? Why now?”

“Because,” you start, “she called me cute.”

“She called you…cute?” Chaewon questions. “Why is that bad?”

“It’s not, but after I went back into my room, I heard them and she said to Sunghoon ‘She’s cute, no?’ and Sunghoon said ‘I guess, but she’s not really my type’. I already knew I wasn’t but hearing it said out loud stung a lot.”

Hanni rubs your shoulder.

“Well who gives a fuck what Sunghoon thinks!” Yunjin says. “You know you’re beautiful, and he’s just a man at the end of the day!”

“I know!” You groan, burying your head in your arms, “I know I shouldn’t care about his opinion or whether I’m his type or not but it’s like, when someone so attractive doesn’t see you that way it’s like, damn!”

You continue, “It’s not like I’m even into him romantically or anything like that. If anything, I’m just into him sexually, cause if you guys heard what I did you probably would be too!”

“So it’s not about romantic feelings, just sexual feelings?” Hanni asks.

You nod, “More like sexual frustration. I haven’t had sex in so long and it’s kinda killing me at this point.”

“So what if you make him acknowledge you sexually?” Chaewon implies.

“How do I do that? Like he said, I’m not even his type.”

“Well number one, acknowledge that this is just for sex. You’re not changing anything about yourself for him because at the end of the day he’s just a man and we don’t change ourselves for men, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay, then, do something to get his attention. Something sexual. Something that’ll catch his eye without changing how you are or who you are.”

You all pause for a moment, thinking of possible ideas.

Yunjin, after 5 minutes, lights up, “I’ve got it!”

After a long, somewhat agitating day of classes, you find yourself back at home.

You took another long, hot shower, did your night routine and dressed yourself in the cutest pj set you have.

What exactly was Yunjin’s plan? Take some pictures and “accidentally” send them to Sunghoon.

Now, have you ever taken nudes before? No. But you did a little research and you figure it can’t be that hard.

With your top pulled up and your tits fully exposed, you sit on your bed, front camera facing your tits.

The lighting is perfect, dim, but not too dark.

As you snap the pic, flash off, you look at it and…damn. If that’s not a good pic, you don’t know what is!

You spend the next 10 minutes debating if you should really do this. What if you just embarrass yourself completely and Sunghoon doesn’t buy into it at all?

Then you’ll never live it down.

But, you won’t know if you don’t try.

You pull up his contact, saved simply as ‘Sunghoon’

and attach the photo with the invisible ink effect and type ‘what do you think?’ before hitting send.

You nearly throw your phone across the room, but instead just slam it face down as your heart starts to beat more rapidly.

You know Sunghoon isn’t home right now, nor do you even know if he’ll be coming home tonight.

The only thing you can do is hope and pray for the best.

You exit out of the messages, not wanting him to know you’re waiting for a response and scroll through your phone trying not to panic.

After an agonizing few minutes, your phone dings.

You prepare yourself for embarrassment.

Sunghoon responded.

You’re expecting shock. An exclamation of sorts. Heck, even a question mark or two.

Instead, all you see is, ‘They’re nice.’

They’re nice.

Did he just fucking say, they’re nice?

Is that good?

You text the group chat a screenshot asking the same question.

The girls respond immediately, telling you to go forth with the plan, that that’s a good sign.

You take a deep breath. Don’t overdo it.

You: omg

You: sunghoon i’m so sorry

You: i didn’t mean to send that to you

He reads it and responds immediately.

Sunghoon: then who did you mean to send it to?

You: a friend

Sunghoon: what friend?

You: don’t worry about it! just please accept my apology :( i’m so sorry again

The text bubble indicates he’s typing, then it disappears and reappears.

Sunghoon: I’m coming home.

Sunghoon: Don’t move.

That last text makes your pussy throb in your pajama shorts.

You send the screenshot to the group chat which erupts immediately.

Chaewon: oh shitttt hehehe

Hanni: i fear you’re getting fucked into the mattress tonight

Yunjin: you mean you don’t fear lmao good luck girl

You occupy yourself for the time being, knowing Sunghoon will be home shortly.

As soon as you hear that front door open, you act nonchalantly, scrolling through your phone as if you’re not ecstatic.

Sunghoon doesn’t even bother knocking, opening your door and letting himself into your room.

His hair is slightly disheveled, like he’d been running his hand through it, and his face is stoic.

You look up at him innocently.

“Is something wrong?” You ask, knowing damn well you’re playing with fire.

Sunghoon scoffs, not saying a word as he walks to the side of your bed, grabbing your phone and throwing it to the side, not even watching where it lands.

You however do watch where it lands on the floor a few feet away and are about to protest when Sunghoon grabs you by the jaw.

“Do you like playing games you know you’re not gonna win?” He asks, voice low and condescending.

Fuck, if it doesn’t make your pussy more wet than it already is.

His grip on your jaw tightens, making you whimper. But you like the pain, and he knows that immediately.

“Take your clothes off,” he commands, finally letting go of your jaw.

You move to do as he says, albeit slowly.

Starting with your top, you lift it over your head, your tits falling out into view.

His eyes latch onto them immediately, and you take note of how he licks his lower lip.

“Shorts too,” he says.

You lay back against your pillows, lifting your hips to drag your shorts down your legs, sitting back up to then throw them in the same direction as your shirt.

Sunghoon smirks in amusement, “Of course you’re not wearing underwear. You’re a little slut aren’t you?”

Your own tongue pokes out to wet your lips and you watch as his eyes follow it.

Sunghoon begins to undress himself, starting with his shirt.

His pale skin is beautiful and the expanse of his toned torso almost makes you drool.

Your eyes find his arms, taking in his biceps and how much you want them around your neck.

“Hey, eyes here,” he says, snapping you back to his own face, making you keep your focus on him.

He unbuckles his belt, taking his time undoing it, pulling it out of the loop, letting it drop to the floor.

You know for a fact that your pussy is leaking onto your bed right now, and you don’t give a damn.

Sunghoon lets his pants fall, stepping out of them.

Now, he’s just left in his boxers.

“Come here, on your knees,” he gestures to you with his finger to the floor.

You obey immediately, crawling off the bed to the floor.

The carpet of your room scratches against your knees but you don’t care.

“Take them off.”

Your hands reach for the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down gently.

His hard cock springs out, slapping against his stomach before stilling in front of you.

Sunghoon’s left hand finds the back of your head, grasping your hair tightly.

“Open your mouth, stick your tongue out.”

You do as he says, eager as he chuckles in amusement, “You must love cock don’t you?” He asks, using his right hand to slap the tip of his cock against your tongue, then spreading his pre-cum all over it as you hum in appreciation.

He quietly begins to push his cock into your mouth, before pulling back out.

You do your best to breathe through your nose, as saliva piles in your mouth and drips down the sides.

Suddenly he shoves himself into your mouth, until he hits the back of your throat, making you gag erratically.

Saliva spills out of your mouth rapidly, drilling onto the floor.

Your hands find his thighs, palms open, squeezing softly.

“I told you,” Sunghoon says, “don’t play games you’re not gonna win.”

With that, he begins to roughly thrust in and out of your mouth, getting off on how much you’re gagging.

Tears begin to pool in your eyes as spit and pre-cum mix together to coat his cock and spill everywhere.

He uses your hair as leverage, not letting up for even a second.

You keep your eyes on his as he uses you for his pleasure, even as your tears blur your vision.

“Fucking filthy,” he sneers, “I’m gonna cum in this filthy fucking mouth and you’re gonna swallow it, understood?”

You do your best to nod with his cock still in your mouth.

Suddenly he pulls out, and you gasp for air.

Sunghoon continues to pump himself, still holding onto your hair, “Stick your tongue out,” he says.

You do so and soon he’s spilling his load all over your tongue and into your mouth.

Just as he’s finished, he leans down, dropping a glob of spit on top of everything.

“Swallow.”

You do, eagerly, showing him your clean tongue once you’re done.

He pulls you up by your hair, leading you back to the bed.

Sunghoon shoves you down onto your back, pushing you so you’re up by the headboard, head on the pillows.

He’s on his knees in front of you, cock still hard.

He pushes you into a mating press, your thighs pushed against your chest, practically folded in half.

Without warning, he leans down, tongue meeting your wet, sopping pussy.

You gasp, jerking in place as you squeal from the immediate pleasure it gives you.

“Sunghoon!” You cry, eyes wide as his nonchalant ones look into yours.

“What?” He responds, as if it’s nothing.

“I’m..I’m sensitive.”

He smirks, “Then that means I get to make you come more than once.”

He goes back to your pussy, pinning you down to the bed as he eats you like a starved man.

Sunghoon groans at your taste, licking fat stripes up and down your pussy.

He takes your clit into his mouth, sucking it, flicking it with his tongue repeatedly, even having the balls to scrape it with his teeth lightly.

All this while your back arches up from the bed, hips held in place by Sunghoon’s hands.

“Oh my fucking god!” You shout into the open, knowing this would get you a one way ticket to hell.

Sunghoon then takes his tongue, fucking it into your hole.

You squeal loudly, hands gripping the bed sheets on either side of you.

More tears form in your eyes before falling like water from a faucet.

You’re full on crying from pleasure.

When you said you were sensitive, you meant it.

“Sunghoon, I’m gonna cum,” you whine,” one hand threading itself into his long locks.

He, who was occupying himself, makes his way back to your clit, licking circles around it, up and down, figure eights, anything to make you cum in his mouth.

You’re chanting to god, any god at this point.

With one final call of his name, you cum into his mouth, Sunghoon lapping it all up, swallowing it eagerly as you did to him.

Your breathing is heavy as you’re coming down from your high, noticing as Sunghoon pulls away, his lips glistening with your release on them.

He licks his lips, with that the remnants of you.

Just as you’re beginning to calm down, Sunghoon speaks, “We’re nowhere near done, sweetheart.”

Before you can say anything else, he takes his left hand and middle finger and inserts it inside you, making you gasp.

He doesn’t give you the chance to protest or adjust before he’s thrusting it in and out of you.

You throw your head back, getting used to the intrusion regardless.

Soon he’s inserting another finger, and together those fingers fuck you like no one has ever fingered you.

His fingers are long and they hit every spot inside you immediately.

Before you know it, you’re crying again in pleasure, the tears falling down your cheeks, leaving tear stains like the previous ones.

“Oh my fucking god, Sunghoon.”

“You love this, don’t you,” he says, almost like he’s mocking you.

His fingers curl, hitting that one spot inside you that has your toes curling.

Your mouth opens in shock, and stays open, refusing to close as he finger fucks you open.

Your pussy gets wetter as he goes on, more and more arousal leaking out of you onto his hand.

“You’re like a fountain,” he says, smiling almost genuinely. “You gonna cum again?”

You nod, finally closing your mouth, your lips pursing as you feel something different this time around.

“Sunghoon I think I’m gonna—”

And before you can finish, you’re squirting like an actual fountain, the liquid splashing out of you onto your sheets and Sunghoon’s hand.

You gasp, and even Sunghoon is surprised, his own mouth formed into an o.

His fingers finally slow down, pulling out of you as you finish.

Both of you are quiet for a moment before Sunghoon laughs, “That was fucking hot.”

You can’t help but blush, you’ve never squirted before.

It seems he can tell, “You’ve never done that before?”

You shake your head.

“Well, I’m glad I’m the first to do it.”

He then lands a surprisingly slap on your pussy, making you jump.

Your eyes widen, looking at him in shock and all he does is smile.

“I’m still not done with you,” he says.

“More?” You question.

“You didn’t think you’d get out of this without me fucking you, did you?”

Sunghoon pulls you towards him by your ankles, holding your legs apart before aligning himself with your hole.

You prepare yourself for his size as quickly as you can, because within seconds he’s pushing in.

You take deep breaths, “Fuck, you’re big.”

“I know,” he responds accordingly.

You pout at that, smacking his arm as he laughs at you.

He gives you time to adjust this time around, and after a moment you give him the signal to move.

You realize now he’s calmed down a little bit from before, which you don’t mind, seeing as this is a new side of him.

As he starts to piston his hips, his cock hits all the right places.

Your hands find their place on his back, your nails digging into his skin.

He groans at the feeling, liking the pain.

You mewl at the power in his thrusts, the roll of his hips.

“Fuck, yes Sunghoon.”

“You like taking my cock?”

“Love it,” you manage to get out.

“Oh you love it?” He teases you, but you can’t find it in yourself to care.

“Sunghoon,” you say.

He hums, focused on fucking you into the mattress.

You take his hand, bringing it up and wrapping it around your throat.

He looks into your eyes, his own widen for a moment before he bites his lip.

He presses down on the sides of your throat, just enough to wind you slightly.

“Dirty fucking girl.”

He keeps his hand there, steady pressure, making you feel closer and closer to cumming again.

“You gonna cum on my cock this time?” Sunghoon asks.

“Yes, yes, Sunghoon! Want you to cum in me!”

Sunghoon steadies himself, and uses his other hand to press on the bulge in your tummy.

“Cum for me, Y/N.”

You feel the band in your stomach snap for the third time tonight, cumming all around Sunghoon’s cock as you feel him cum inside you, pumping you full.

As his thrusts start to slow down and finally come to a stop, he unwraps his hand from your throat and just looks at you.

Your face, adorned by your glasses. Your red, tear stained cheeks. You look up at him, blinking a few times in succession, “What?”

Sunghoon leans down and for the first time, kisses you.

You kiss him back, albeit somewhat hesitantly.

As you pull away, he looks like there’s something on his mind.

You want to ask what it is, but choose not to.

After using the bathroom, Sunghoon helps you change your sheets and you both redress.

You figure he’s going to go back to his room, but he surprises you as he slides into your bed beside you.

Neither of you says anything for a few minutes, and then, Sunghoon speaks, “So, be honest with me. Who was that picture meant for?”

You take a deep breath, gunning between telling a lie and the truth. The truth eventually wins the battle.

“The truth is, it wasn’t meant for anyone. I sent it to you on purpose,” you say.

Sunghoon’s brows furrow, “But you said it was an accident?”

“Yeah, I lied. The truth is the other night, when you had Karina over I heard you tell her I’m not your type.”

Sunghoon starts to stutter out an excuse, “I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant, Sunghoon,” you say, cutting him off. “I won’t lie and say it didn’t sting but at the end of the day I already knew I wasn’t your type. The reality is I kinda just wanted you in my bed so I devised a plan with my friends to make you see me differently and well… it obviously worked.”

Sunghoon is quiet, until he’s not.

You expect him to be weirded out, curse you out and call you names. But instead, he starts laughing.

“That is the craziest shit I’ve ever heard and yet…I kinda like it.”

You look at him to find him already staring at you.

“You’re not weirded out?”

He shakes his head, “I’m oddly flattered. Maybe that’s weird but I guess that makes us both weird then.”

Suddenly, he’s shifting so he’s on top of you, caging you underneath him.

You don’t know what to do with your hands, so you, albeit somewhat awkwardly, place them on his shoulders.

“Is it safe to say you fascinate me now?” Sunghoon asks, leaning down, placing slow, deliberate kisses on your neck and shoulder.

You naturally turn your head to give him more access, “I guess not. I’ve never had someone tell me I fascinate them.”

Sunghoon’s kisses trail upwards until his lips meet yours in another fiery kiss.

Breaking away after a while, he descends until his mouth is adjacent to your clothed pussy.

“Sunghoon,” you interrupt, “we just changed the sheets.”

He looks up at you, a twinkle in his eye, “We can change them again.”

AEWON 2025

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starryjake · 5 months ago

Note

not a n$fw link! just a vid of sunghoon’s back 🤭 ➡️ https://x.com/byeol_02/status/1864248842499055620?s=46&t=eVzcdn4D6YRa_1LmoI1TZw

try not to think about digging your nails into sunghoon’s back and whining into his neck while he makes you cum for the nth time that night 😣😣

HELP he’s so broad >< and muscular too!

he’d been fucking you for what felt like—and probably actually was—hours. he just couldn’t stop. you looked too pretty underneath him, taking his cock like the perfect little cock slut you were.

your nails were scratching down his broad back, pulling his body closer to yours. he slammed his cock in and out of you, both of your wetnesses from the previous times you’d came making the thrusts all that much easier.

“fuck,” you cried out, your legs flailing helplessly around his hips. “don’t stop, hoonie! please!”

“take it, angel,” he groaned deeply. “take my cock like you’ve been doing all night. being such a good little slut for me.”

you threw your head back at his words, tears brimming in your eyes at the pleasure. you squeezed his shoulders, tugging on him slightly to get him to come down to your height and kiss you.

he attached his lips to yours messily, mostly just stuffing his tongue inside your mouth rather than actually kissing you. but that was how you liked it. it was what finally unraveled the knot in your stomach.

“i’m cumming, hoon!” you exclaimed pathetically, nails digging into his back and scratching again.

“fuuuuck,” he moaned out at the painful sensation. “cum around my cock again, baby. wanna feel you clench for me.”

you did just as he told you, clenching around his dick as you came for the nth time that night. he kissed your neck and continued his sloppy thrusts until he too was spilling his warm load deep inside your spent pussy.

the next morning, his back was absolutely covered in all your pretty pink scratch marks.

#enhypen #enhypen smut #enha smut #enha x reader #enhypen x reader #kpop smut #park sunghoon x reader #sunghoon hard thoughts #sunghoon enhypen #park sunghoon smut #sunghoon x reader #sunghoon smut

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tobiosbbyghorl · 4 hours ago

Note

you’re upset with sunghoon because of a fight you two had earlier but now he’s on his knees begging for forgiveness (while wearing shorts hehehehe…)

you told him you’ll think about it if he lets you ride his thigh 🤍

🤭🤭🤭I LOVE THIS!! so i made two version🫨🫨

down on my knees

Punished by Pleasure

He was on his knees, hands resting on his thighs, head bowed like he was praying at your altar. Which, in a way, he was.

“Baby, please…” Sunghoon’s voice was low, hoarse with frustration and need, the sharp lines of his cheekbones flushed with regret. His shorts had ridden up just enough to tease the skin you wanted—taut, smooth, pale as milk, muscles flexing every time he shifted in discomfort. You swore he knew what he was doing, but right now? You had the power.

“You said you’d forgive me,” he murmured, eyes flicking up, full of guilt. “Let me make it up to you—”

“You wanna be forgiven?” you cut him off, stepping closer. Your bare feet padded against the floor as you slowly dropped onto his lap, straddling just one of his strong thighs. His breath hitched at the contact—your heat against his skin, the friction already there.

“Then shut up and let me use you.”

His eyes widened—just for a second—before he nodded obediently, lips parted in shock and lust. You rolled your hips forward, gasping at the pressure as his thigh tensed beneath you. Perfect. Just what you needed.

“You looked so pretty begging,” you whispered, grinding down harder, catching the hem of his shorts with your fingers to push them higher. The soft brush of fabric against your bare core had your nerves on fire, your own frustration spilling out with every rock of your hips. “Should’ve done this earlier. Maybe I wouldn’t have stayed mad so long.”

His hands twitched at his sides. “Can I touch—”

“No,” you snapped, breathless. “You don’t get to touch. You get to sit there and take it. Because you,” your pace slowed as you leaned in, dragging your nails across his shoulder, “decided to finish my leftovers. The ones I labeled. With my name. In permanent marker.”

He blinked. “Wait, this is still about the—”

You ground down so hard he choked on a groan. “Shut up, Sunghoon.”

The apology died on his lips as your hips picked up speed again, your slick making it easier, messier, hotter. He wasn’t allowed to speak—but the way his thigh flexed just right, helping you along, said everything you needed.

And yeah—maybe it was just about a stupid sandwich. But now? He was the one melting under you.

“Bet you’ll never touch my food again,” you hissed, tilting his chin up with two fingers. “Not if you want this again.”

He nodded. Hard.

Good boy.

Thighs and Apologies

Sunghoon knelt in front of you, hands resting lightly on your thighs as he looked up, eyes glistening with apology and adoration. His black shirt clung to his frame, sleeves rolled, but your eyes were locked on the way his shorts rode up—exposing the soft, pale skin of his thighs. Strong, yes, but still so smooth. So pretty.

“Y/N…” His voice trembled slightly, barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to upset you. I—I hate fighting with you.”

You exhaled slowly, crossing your arms. “You said something really mean, Hoon.”

He nodded quickly, looking devastated. “I know. I know, baby. Please… let me make it up to you.” He pressed a soft kiss just above your knee, looking at you with that wide-eyed, desperate look you could never resist.

You ran your fingers through his dark hair, tugging gently until he looked up at you again. “Let me ride your thigh,” you said softly, watching his lips part in surprise.

His breath caught. “O-Okay,” he whispered, cheeks turning the slightest pink. He shifted to sit down, legs parted, thighs tensing just slightly as he opened himself for you. You straddled his thigh carefully, pressing your bare skin against his as your fingers cupped his jaw.

The heat was immediate—gentle, pulsing—but not frantic. You leaned forward and kissed him. Slow. Tender. His hands hovered by your waist, not daring to hold you until you placed them there yourself.

“You’re so warm,” you breathed against his lips, rocking your hips slowly. He whined quietly, almost shy, but kissed you back with just as much sweetness—thumb rubbing little circles into your sides.

“I missed you,” he mumbled between kisses, lips brushing yours again and again. “Didn’t like sleeping alone last night…”

Your rhythm stayed soft, sensual, bodies pressed close, his thigh flexing just slightly beneath you with every slow grind. Your hands stayed in his hair, tugging gently when his kisses grew more needy, more open.

“Mmh—baby…” he gasped, breath shuddering as you nibbled on his bottom lip. “Feels so good.”

You smiled, resting your forehead against his. “This is your punishment, remember?”

He nodded with a dazed smile. “I like it.”

You both giggled softly, a quiet bubble of warmth and affection growing between your hips and hearts.

“…You really want to know why I was mad?” you whispered.

He looked up, slightly nervous. “…Yeah?”

You kissed the corner of his mouth, then muttered against his cheek, “Because you kept saying Bae Suzy is ‘cuter than me’ as a joke.”

His eyes widened. “Wait—that’s what this is about?”

You rocked forward again—harder this time.

He groaned, head dropping to your shoulder with a muffled, breathy laugh. “Okay, okay—I take it back. You’re the cutest. Cutest in the whole world.”

You smiled smugly. “That’s better.”

And then you kissed him again. Slowly. Sweetly. While you made a mess all over the thigh he so sweetly offered just for you.

#sunghoon scenarios #enhypen scenarios #sunghoon x reader #enhypenwriters #sunghoononeshot #sunghoonxreader #enhypenxreader #sunghoon fic #park sunghoon fluff #sunghoon smut #sunghoon hard thoughts #sunghoon hard hours #luvbytaerungz writes

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sshnzsr · 4 days ago

Text

cigarettes after sex

wordcount: 16k

warnings: stepcest, smut, unprotected sex, getting caught during masturbation, lying about being on birth control, emotional manipulation, mentions of pregnancy, abortion, family issues, reader shows signs of depression, self-hatred, and isolation, poverty, arguments, smoking, lmk if I missed anything

note: This is my first time trying to write a long fic. It can be kinda repetitive at some parts that’s because I tried to make it longer. Take a look at my other works.

You hated Sunghoon. Not just because he was your stepbrother, but because he was perfect in everyone’s eyes. Your dad, your stepmom, even your cousins—they all adored him. Sunghoon, with his sharp jawline, dark eyes, and easy smile, could do no wrong. He got straight A’s, captained the ice skating team, and had a future everyone envied. Meanwhile, you were the screw-up, the rebellious one who skipped classes and talked back. No matter what you did, Sunghoon was always better. Your own dad, your biological dad, picked him every time.

It wasn’t fair. You remembered the day your stepmom moved in, bringing Sunghoon with her. You were sixteen, he was seventeen, and from that moment, it was like you didn’t exist. Family dinners were about Sunghoon’s achievements. Your dad’s praise was for Sunghoon’s discipline, his talent, his everything. You were invisible, and it burned. You wanted to hurt Sunghoon, to make him feel the pain you carried. You didn’t care how. You just wanted him to suffer.

The plan started as a vague idea. Seduce him. Play with his feelings. Make him want you, then crush him. You knew he wasn’t immune to you. You’d caught him staring sometimes—your tight crop tops, your short skirts, the way you flipped your hair. He tried to hide it, but you saw the way his eyes lingered. You were nineteen now, he was twenty, and the tension between you had grown. You weren’t kids anymore, and you could use that.

It wasn’t part of the plan to catch him jerking off. That was an accident. But it was the perfect accident.

You were sneaking into his room to borrow (steal) one of his hoodies, just to piss him off. His door was cracked open, and you froze when you heard it—a low moan, his voice, rough and desperate. “Fuck… Y/N…”

Your name. He was moaning your name.

You pushed the door open, heart pounding. There he was, on his bed, shirt off, sweatpants pulled down, his cock in his hand. His eyes were closed, head tilted back, lost in whatever fantasy he was having about you. His strokes were fast, his breathing heavy, and he didn’t hear you come in.

You should’ve left. You should’ve turned around and pretended it never happened. But you didn’t. This was too good. This was the key to your revenge.

“Sunghoon,” you said, voice sharp.

His eyes snapped open, and he scrambled to cover himself, face red with panic. “Y/N! What the fuck? Get out!”

You didn’t move. You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms, a smirk on your lips. “Moaning my name, huh? That’s fucked up, stepbrother.”

He yanked a blanket over his lap, stammering. “It’s not… I wasn’t… You weren’t supposed to see that!”

“But I did,” you said, stepping closer. His room smelled like him—cologne and clean laundry—and it made your stomach twist in a way you hated. “What were you thinking about? Me naked? Me sucking you off?”

“Stop it,” he snapped, but his voice was shaky, and you could see his cock twitching under the blanket. He was still hard, even with you standing there, calling him out.

You sat on the edge of his bed, closer than you needed to be. “You want me, don’t you?” you asked, voice low. “You’re jerking off to your stepsister. That’s so dirty.”

He swallowed hard, eyes darting to your lips, your chest, then away. “You’re messing with me. Just leave.”

But you didn’t. You reached out, brushing your fingers along his thigh, just enough to make him tense. “What if I don’t want to leave?” you whispered. “What if I want you to finish what you started?”

His breath hitched. “Y/N, don’t fuck with me.”

“I’m not,” you said, and you meant it, at least in that moment. The plan was working better than you’d ever imagined. You leaned in, your lips inches from his. “Fuck me, Sunghoon. Right now.”

He stared at you, torn between guilt and desire. You could see the battle in his eyes, but you knew you’d won when he grabbed your face and kissed you, hard and desperate. His lips were hot, his tongue pushing into your mouth, and you moaned, climbing onto his lap.

The blanket fell away, and his cock pressed against your shorts, hard and thick. You ground against him, feeling the heat pool between your legs. This wasn’t supposed to feel good, but it did. Too good.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” he growled, hands yanking at your shirt. He pulled it off, exposing your bra, and his mouth was on your neck, biting, sucking. You arched into him, hating how much you wanted this.

“Fuck me,” you said again, tugging at his sweatpants. “I want your cock inside me.”

He groaned, flipping you onto your back. Your shorts came off, then your panties, and he was between your legs, his fingers brushing your pussy. You were soaked, and he cursed under his breath. “You’re so wet,” he said, almost to himself.

“Do it,” you begged, spreading your legs wider. “Fuck me raw. Cum inside me.”

His eyes darkened, and he hesitated. “You’re on birth control, right?”

“Yeah,” you lied, the words slipping out easily. You weren’t. You hadn’t been for months. But he didn’t need to know that. Not yet.

He didn’t ask again. He lined his cock up with your pussy and pushed in, slow at first, stretching you. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. He was big, bigger than you’d expected, and the burn felt so fucking good.

“God, you’re tight,” he grunted, thrusting deeper. His hands gripped your hips, and he started moving, fucking you hard, the bed creaking under you. You moaned, loud and shameless, wrapping your legs around him.

“Harder,” you demanded, voice bratty. “Fuck me like you mean it.”

He did. His thrusts were brutal, his cock hitting deep, and you loved it. You hated him, but you loved this—his body, his desperation, the way he looked at you like you were everything. You clenched around him, already close, and he groaned, his fingers digging into your thighs.

“Gonna cum,” he rasped, his pace faltering. “Where do you want it?”

“Inside,” you said, locking eyes with him. “Cum inside my pussy.”

He didn’t hesitate. A few more thrusts, and he buried himself deep, groaning as he came, his cock pulsing inside you. You felt the warmth of his cum, and your own orgasm hit, your pussy squeezing him as you shook, moaning his name.

He collapsed on you, breathing hard, and for a moment, neither of you moved. Then reality hit. You’d done it. You’d fucked your stepbrother, let him cum inside you, knowing you weren’t protected. It was disgusting, but it was exactly what you wanted. You’d hurt him now. You’d make him pay.

Weeks passed, and you kept the secret to yourself. Sunghoon was different around you—quieter, softer, like he was trying to figure out what happened. He’d try to talk, but you brushed him off, keeping your distance. The plan was working. You could feel the power shifting.

Then you missed your period.

The test confirmed it. Pregnant. You stared at the stick, your stomach churning. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It was supposed to be a game, a way to ruin him, not this. You felt sick, not just from the pregnancy but from the weight of what you’d done. You’d fucked your stepbrother. You’d lied. And now you were carrying his kid.

You didn’t tell Sunghoon right away. You let it simmer, let the guilt and regret fester. You hated yourself, but you hated him more. He was still the golden boy, still the one your dad loved. This was your fault, but it was his fault too.

You decided to drop the bomb at dinner. Your dad, your stepmom, Sunghoon—they were all there, eating some fancy meal your stepmom had cooked. You waited until everyone was quiet, then set your fork down, your voice casual but sharp.

“So,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “I’m pregnant. From Sunghoon.”

The room went dead silent. Your dad’s fork clattered onto his plate. Your stepmom’s mouth dropped open. Sunghoon’s face went pale, his eyes wide, like he couldn’t process the words.

“What did you say?” your dad asked, voice low, dangerous.

You shrugged, playing the brat like always. “I’m pregnant. Sunghoon fucked me. No big deal.”

Sunghoon choked, his voice barely audible. “Y/N… what? You said you were on birth control.”

You smirked, even though your heart was pounding. “Oops. Guess I lied.”

Your dad stood, his face red with fury. “You… you disgusting little…” He couldn’t finish, turning to Sunghoon. “Is this true?”

Sunghoon looked like he might throw up. “I… I didn’t know. She said she was protected.”

Your stepmom started crying, her hands shaking. “How could you do this? Both of you?”

But your dad’s anger was all for you. “You’re a disgrace,” he spat. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you? To ruin this family?”

You didn’t answer, just stared at him, defiant. Inside, you were breaking, but you wouldn’t let them see it.

“Get out,” he said, pointing to the door. “You’re not welcome here anymore.”

You expected it, but it still hurt. You stood, grabbing your phone, and looked at Sunghoon. He wouldn’t meet your eyes. Of course he wouldn’t. He was still the favorite, even now.

“Fine,” you said, voice cold. “I don’t need you.”

You moved out that night, crashing at a friend’s place. The next week was a blur—doctor’s visits, arguments with your friend about what to do, and the looming appointment at the clinic. Your dad had called, screaming about abortion, saying you had no choice. You didn’t want the baby, but the idea of ending it made you feel even worse. This was your mess, your fault, and you couldn’t escape it.

The day of the appointment came. You sat in the waiting room, staring at the sterile walls, your stomach in knots. You kept looking at the door, hoping, praying Sunghoon would show up. He was part of this. He should be here. You texted him, called him, left voicemails. Nothing. Radio silence.

Of course he didn’t come. Why would he? He was Sunghoon, the perfect one, the one who got away with everything. You were the fuck-up, the one who’d ruined your own life. Tears stung your eyes as you realized you were alone. Completely alone.

The nurse called your name, and you stood, legs shaking. You regretted it all—every touch, every lie, every moment you thought this would make you feel better. You’d wanted to hurt Sunghoon, but you’d only hurt yourself.

The apartment was a shithole, but it was yours. A tiny one-room box on a dead-end street, where the only sounds at night were creaking pipes and the occasional cough from the old folks next door. The walls were stained yellow from years of smoke, the floorboards creaked under your weight, and the single window barely opened, letting in the damp night air. It smelled like cigarettes and stale ramen, no matter how much you scrubbed. You didn’t have furniture—just a mattress on the floor, a rickety table, and a single chair you’d found on the curb. A string of fairy lights hung above your bed, the only thing you’d bothered to make look nice. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

You’d been lucky to have some money saved up. Not a lot, but enough to cover the deposit and a few months’ rent in this rundown place. Your dad hadn’t called, your stepmom hadn’t texted, and Sunghoon—well, you’d given up hoping he’d show his face after the clinic. You’d sat in that cold waiting room, legs shaking, waiting for him to walk through the door. He didn’t. You went through with it alone, the abortion, and the memory of it clung to you like the tobacco stench in your apartment. It was a sharp, ugly pain, not just in your body but in your head, your heart. You hated yourself for what you’d done, but you hated Sunghoon more for letting you do it alone.

Life wasn’t good, but it was yours. You worked two jobs to keep it that way. Days at a greasy diner, wiping tables and dodging creepy customers, and nights at a corner store, stocking shelves while the radio played staticky pop songs. You came home exhausted, your hands smelling of bleach, your feet aching, but you didn’t cry. You wouldn’t. You’d made your choices—fucking your stepbrother, lying about birth control, dropping the bomb at dinner—and now you were living with them. No one was going to save you.

The nights were the hardest. You’d sit on your mattress, eating instant ramen from a chipped bowl, the fairy lights casting shadows on the cracked ceiling. You’d smoke, even though you hated it, because the guy who lived here before left half a pack of cigarettes, and it was something to do. The smoke curled around you, mixing with the ramen steam, and you’d stare at your phone, willing it to ring. It never did. Your friends had stopped texting, your dad had written you off, and Sunghoon was a ghost. You were alone, and the silence was louder than anything.

Until he showed up.

It was late, past midnight, the street outside dark and empty. You were on your mattress, scrolling through your phone, the cigarette smell heavy in the air. A knock at the door made you freeze. No one came here. No one knew where you lived. You grabbed a kitchen knife from the table, heart pounding, and cracked the door open.

Sunghoon stood there, his dark hair messy, his eyes shadowed. He wore a black hoodie and jeans, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking like he hadn’t slept in days. You stared, too shocked to speak. How the fuck did he find you?

“What do you want?” you asked, voice sharp, but your grip on the knife loosened.

He didn’t answer. He just stepped inside, brushing past you like he belonged there. You shut the door, your stomach twisting. The apartment felt smaller with him in it, his presence filling the space, making the air heavier. He looked around, taking in the bare walls, the mattress, the ramen packets on the table. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t say a word.

“Sunghoon,” you said, crossing your arms. “Talk. Why are you here?”

He ignored you. He set a plastic bag on the table, the kind you get from a convenience store. Inside were containers of actual food—rice, kimchi, some kind of stew. Not the instant crap you’d been living on, but real, cooked food. Your mouth watered just looking at it, but you didn’t move.

“I don’t need your pity,” you snapped, even though your stomach growled. “Get out.”

He didn’t. He sat on the chair, leaning back, eyes fixed on the floor. His silence pissed you off. You wanted to scream, to throw the food at him, to make him feel the hurt you’d been carrying since that night. But you didn’t. You just stood there, glaring, the cigarette smell stinging your nose.

This became the pattern. Sunghoon started coming over every few nights, always late, always unannounced. He’d walk in, drop off food, and sit in silence. Sometimes he’d bring other things—a blanket, a cheap lamp, a pack of bottled water. You didn’t ask how he found your address, and he didn’t offer an explanation. He never stayed long, maybe an hour, and he never talked. You tried, at first, to get him to say something.

“Sunghoon, why are you doing this?” you’d ask, voice rough from exhaustion. “You didn’t care when I needed you. Why now?”

He’d just look at you, his eyes dark, unreadable, then go back to staring at the floor. It drove you crazy. You wanted him to yell, to fight, to explain why he left you alone at the clinic, why he let your dad kick you out, why he was here now, acting like some silent guardian. But he gave you nothing.

One night, you couldn’t take it anymore. He was sitting there, same as always, a bag of food on the table—fried rice and bulgogi this time, the smell making your empty stomach ache. You were tired, your diner shift had been hell, and the sight of him, quiet and untouchable, pushed you over the edge.

“Talk to me, you asshole!” you shouted, slamming your hand on the table. The plastic containers rattled. “You don’t get to just show up and play hero after everything! You fucked me, you got me pregnant, and you didn’t even show up when I had to deal with it! Why are you here? What do you want?”

He flinched, just barely, but his eyes stayed on the floor. You stepped closer, your voice shaking. “Say something, Sunghoon. Or get the fuck out and don’t come back.”

For a moment, you thought he might. His hands twitched, like he wanted to reach for you, but he didn’t move. He just sat there, his jaw tight, his silence louder than your screams. You turned away, tears burning your eyes, and lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around you like a shield.

“Fine,” you muttered, exhaling. “Keep your fucking secrets. I don’t need you.”

But you did. You hated admitting it, but you did. The food he brought kept you from starving. The blanket he left was warmer than the thin one you’d been using. And his presence, as infuriating as it was, made the apartment feel less empty. You hated him, but you waited for him to come back every time he left.

One night, things shifted. It was late, the street outside quiet except for the hum of a distant streetlight. You were on your mattress, smoking, the fairy lights casting a dim glow. Sunghoon knocked, same as always, and you let him in, expecting the usual routine. He set a bag of food on the table—jjajangmyeon, your favorite—and sat down. But this time, he didn’t stare at the floor. He looked at you.

You were in a tank top and shorts, your hair messy, cigarette dangling from your fingers. His eyes lingered, tracing the curve of your neck, the bare skin of your thighs. You felt it—the heat, the tension, the same fucked-up pull you’d felt that night in his room. You hated it, but your body remembered.

“What?” you asked, voice sharp, but your heart was racing.

He didn’t answer, but he stood, stepping closer. You didn’t move, even as he stopped inches away, his shadow falling over you. The air was thick, the cigarette smoke mixing with the ramen smell, and you felt it again—that twisted desire, the need to hurt him, to feel him, to make him pay.

“You want me?” you asked, voice low, taunting. You flicked the cigarette to the floor, crushing it under your foot. “That’s why you keep coming back, isn’t it? You’re still thinking about fucking me.”

His eyes darkened, but he didn’t speak. You stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat of his body. “Go on,” you said, voice dripping with venom. “Fuck me again. See if it fixes anything.”

He grabbed you, sudden and rough, his hands on your waist. You gasped, not expecting it, and he kissed you, hard, his lips crashing into yours. It wasn’t gentle, wasn’t sweet—it was raw, desperate, like he’d been holding it back for weeks. You kissed him back, just as rough, your hands in his hair, pulling hard.

He pushed you onto the mattress, his body heavy on yours. Your tank top came off, then your shorts, and his hands were everywhere—your breasts, your thighs, your pussy. You were wet, embarrassingly wet, and he groaned when he felt it, his fingers sliding inside you.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice low, the first word he’d spoken in weeks. “You’re so fucking wet.”

You arched into him, hating how good it felt. “Just do it,” you said, voice sharp. “Fuck me.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. His clothes came off, and he was inside you, his cock stretching you, filling you. It was fast, rough, no pretense of care. You moaned, nails digging into his back, your body betraying you. He fucked you hard, the mattress creaking, the fairy lights swaying above. You hated him, hated yourself, but you came anyway, your pussy clenching around him, your body shaking.

He didn’t pull out this time either, cumming inside you, his groans muffled against your neck. You lay there, panting, the weight of it all crashing down. He stayed for a moment, then pulled away, sitting on the edge of the mattress, head in his hands.

You stared at the ceiling, the cigarette smell stronger now, mixing with the sweat and sex. “Get out,” you said, voice flat.

He didn’t argue. He grabbed his clothes, dressed, and left without a word. The door clicked shut, and you were alone again, the silence heavier than ever.

The apartment was a haze of cigarette smoke and regret. The fairy lights flickered, casting weak shadows on the stained walls, and the air smelled like tobacco and the leftover jjajangmyeon Sunghoon had brought earlier. You sat on your mattress, knees pulled to your chest, staring at the cracked floorboards. The silence was heavy, broken only by the rustle of Sunghoon cleaning up. He was tossing out the cigarette butts and empty ramen cups you’d left scattered on the table, his movements slow, deliberate, like he was trying to keep himself busy.

You didn’t know why you said it. The words slipped out before you could stop them, soft and shaky, barely audible over the hum of the streetlight outside. “I’m sorry.”

Sunghoon froze, a crumpled ramen cup in his hand. He turned to you, his dark eyes narrowing, shadowed by the dim light. His hoodie was loose, his hair messy, and for a second, he looked like the boy you’d hated for years—your stepbrother, the golden child who stole your dad’s love. But he also looked different, older, weighed down by something you couldn’t name.

He sighed, tossing the trash into a plastic bag. “You should be sorry for yourself,” he said, voice low, cutting. “You ruined your own life while you tried to ruin mine. What is your problem? Do you like living like this?”

His words hit hard, like a punch to the gut. You wanted to snap back, to tell him to fuck off, but he was right. You’d done this to yourself—fucked him to hurt him, lied about birth control, got pregnant, and blew up your family. Now you were here, in this shithole apartment, working yourself to death, alone except for his silent visits. You’d wanted to break him, but you’d broken yourself instead.

You forced a laugh, leaning back on the mattress, a bitter smile on your lips. “Yeah, I do. It’s peaceful.”

He stared at you, his expression unreadable, then let out a short, dry laugh. “You’re crazy.”

For a moment, you both laughed, the sound sharp and hollow, echoing in the tiny room. It was the first time you’d shared anything like this, a crack in the wall between you. But it didn’t last. His laughter faded, and he stood, walking over to you, his steps slow, deliberate. Before you could move, he was there, looming over you, trapping you between his body and the mattress. His hands pressed into the bed on either side of you, his face inches from yours. You could smell him—clean laundry, a hint of cologne, so different from the stale smoke of your apartment.

“I’m sorry too,” he said, voice rough, barely above a whisper. “I never wanted you to be here. I never wanted you to get an abortion.”

The words were a knife, twisting in your chest. You hated him for saying it, for bringing it up, for acting like he cared now, after everything. You shoved him back, hard, your hands against his chest. “Shut up. I hate you,” you murmured, voice shaking, but there was no fire in it. Just exhaustion.

He didn’t move, his eyes locked on yours, dark and searching. Then, quietly, he asked, “Can I stay the night?”

You froze, your breath catching. The question hung in the air, heavy with meaning you weren’t ready to face. Stay the night? Here, in your tiny, disgusting apartment, on your shitty mattress? After everything—the lies, the betrayal, the abortion, the silence? You wanted to scream, to tell him to get out, but your body betrayed you, warmth pooling in your core at the thought of him staying, of his hands on you again.

“Why?” you asked, voice sharp, trying to keep the wall up. “You wanna fuck me again? Is that it?”

He flinched, just slightly, but didn’t look away. “No,” he said, too quickly, then paused. “Maybe. I don’t know. I just… I don’t want to leave you alone tonight.”

You laughed, bitter and cold. “Now you care? Where were you when I was in that clinic, Sunghoon? Where were you when Dad kicked me out? You don’t get to play savior now.”

“I know,” he said, voice low, almost broken. “I fucked up. I should’ve been there. I didn’t know how to handle it. I still don’t.”

You stared at him, your chest tight, torn between rage and something softer, something you hated even more. You wanted to push him away, to keep hating him, but the truth was, you were tired. Tired of being alone, tired of the silence, tired of carrying this weight by yourself. His visits, as infuriating as they were, were the only thing keeping you sane.

“Fine,” you said, voice flat. “Stay. But don’t expect me to forgive you.”

He nodded, like he hadn’t expected anything else. He stepped back, giving you space, and you felt the loss of his closeness, your skin prickling. You turned away, lying on the mattress, pulling the thin blanket over you. The fairy lights flickered, the cigarette smell clung to everything, and you heard Sunghoon move, settling on the floor beside the mattress. He didn’t have a blanket, didn’t ask for one, just lay there, his breathing steady in the dark.

You didn’t sleep, not really. The night stretched on, the street outside silent except for the occasional car. You kept replaying his words, his apology, the way he’d looked at you. You hated how it made you feel—vulnerable, exposed, like maybe he wasn’t the monster you’d made him out to be. But he was still Sunghoon, the stepbrother who’d taken everything, the one who’d fucked you and left you to deal with the consequences. You couldn’t let yourself forget that.

Morning came, gray and heavy, light seeping through the cracked window. You sat up, your body aching from the hard mattress, and saw Sunghoon still there, curled on the floor, his hoodie bunched under his head. He looked younger like this, less like the perfect son and more like a boy who didn’t know what he was doing. You hated how it softened you, even a little.

You got up, stepping over him to make coffee with the cheap instant packets you kept on the table. The smell of it mixed with the ever-present tobacco, and you lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around you as you leaned against the wall. Sunghoon stirred, sitting up, his hair messy, eyes bleary.

“Coffee?” you asked, voice flat, holding out a chipped mug.

He took it, his fingers brushing yours, and you pulled back, ignoring the spark it sent through you. He sipped the coffee, wincing at the taste, but didn’t complain. You stood there, smoking, watching him, waiting for him to say something, anything.

“Why do you keep coming back?” you asked finally, voice low. “You don’t owe me anything. You made that clear when you didn’t show up at the clinic.”

He set the mug down, his hands resting on his knees. “I don’t know,” he said, voice honest, raw. “I just… I can’t stay away. I keep thinking about you, about what happened. I fucked up, Y/N. I know I did. But I don’t know how to fix it.”

“You can’t,” you said, exhaling smoke. “It’s done. I’m here now. This is my life.”

He looked around the apartment, at the bare walls, the mattress, the trash bag full of ramen cups. “This isn’t a life,” he said, voice quiet but firm. “You deserve better.”

“Fuck you,” you snapped, tossing the cigarette butt into an empty cup. “Don’t tell me what I deserve. You don’t get to decide that.”

He stood, stepping closer, and you hated how your body reacted, your pulse quickening, your skin tingling. “I’m not trying to decide anything,” he said. “I’m just… I’m trying to be here. For you.”

You laughed, sharp and bitter. “You’re a little late for that, stepbrother.”

He flinched at the word, like it burned, but didn’t back down. “I know,” he said. “But I’m here now.”

The air was thick, charged with everything unsaid—your anger, his guilt, the fucked-up history between you. You wanted to shove him, to kiss him, to scream until your throat gave out. Instead, you turned away, grabbing another cigarette, lighting it with shaking hands.

“Stay or go, I don’t care,” you said, voice cold. “But don’t expect me to need you.”

He didn’t answer, just stood there, watching you. The day dragged on, and he stayed, helping you clean the apartment, fixing the leaky faucet you’d ignored for weeks. It was weird, domestic, like you were playing at being something you weren’t. You didn’t talk much, but the silence was different now, less hostile, more fragile.

That night, he didn’t ask to stay, but you didn’t tell him to leave. He slept on the floor again, and you lay on the mattress, staring at the fairy lights, wondering what the fuck you were doing. You hated him, but you didn’t. You wanted him gone, but you didn’t. The cigarette smell lingered, the ramen cups were gone, and Sunghoon was still here.

The air smelled like cigarettes, stale ramen, and something new—Sunghoon’s cologne, lingering from where he lay beside you. You woke up in the middle of the night, your body warm, too warm, and realized why. His arms were around you, his bare chest pressed against your back. You were shirtless too, stripped down to your bra and panties, your tank top tossed somewhere on the floor. His jeans were still on, but the closeness, the skin-to-skin contact, felt wrong. So fucking wrong.

You weren’t doing anything, not really—just lying there, tangled together on your shitty mattress—but it didn’t matter. He was your stepbrother. The same stepbrother you’d fucked to hurt, the one whose name you’d moaned while he came inside you, the one who’d left you alone to face the consequences. The abortion, the exile, the mess of your life—it all started with him, with you, with that night. And now here you were, in his arms, like nothing had happened, like you weren’t both broken pieces of the same fucked-up puzzle.

Your throat tightened, tears prickling your eyes. You didn’t want to cry, not in front of him, not again. But you couldn’t help it. You hugged him back, your arms wrapping around his, your fingers digging into his skin. The tears came anyway, hot and silent, sliding down your cheeks. You wiped them away quickly, hoping he wouldn’t notice, and pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder, almost instinctual, like your body was acting without your permission. The warmth of his skin under your lips made your stomach twist—part comfort, part disgust.

You pulled away, slipping out of his arms, and stood, your bare feet cold against the floorboards. The apartment was dark, the street outside silent, just the hum of a distant car breaking the stillness. You grabbed a cigarette from the pack on the table and moved to the small window next to your bed, the one that barely opened. You forced it up, the cool night air hitting your face, and lit the cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating your trembling hands. You inhaled deeply, the smoke burning your lungs, curling out into the dark as you stared at nothing, your mind racing.

You’d ruined everything. You’d wanted to hurt Sunghoon, to make him feel the pain of being second best, but all you’d done was destroy yourself. The pregnancy, the abortion, getting kicked out—it was all your fault. You’d lied, manipulated, fucked him raw, and for what? This? A shitty apartment, a life of scraping by, and a heart that wouldn’t stop aching? You hated him, but you hated yourself more. And now he was here, sleeping in your bed, acting like he cared, and it made you feel even worse.

You didn’t hear him get up, but you felt him—his presence, heavy and warm, before his arms slid around your waist from behind. His chest pressed against your back, his breath hot against your neck. You stiffened, the cigarette dangling between your fingers, your heart pounding. He shouldn’t be touching you like this. Not after everything.

“Love you,” he whispered, his voice soft, raw, like he’d been holding it in for too long.

The words hit you like a slap. You froze, your mind reeling, and flicked the cigarette out the window, watching it fall to the street below. You turned your head, just enough to see him out of the corner of your eye. His face was close, his eyes dark, searching, and for a moment, you didn’t know what to say. Love? After all this? After you’d fucked each other up so badly?

You turned fully, breaking his hold, stepping back until you hit the wall. Your bra strap slipped off your shoulder, and you didn’t bother fixing it. “I feel disgusting,” you said, voice shaking, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “You’re right. What was wrong with me? I’m so disgusting. I… I should’ve never done something like that.”

His eyes softened, but he didn’t move closer, didn’t try to touch you again. “Y/N,” he said, voice low, “you’re not disgusting. We fucked up. Both of us. I should’ve stopped it. I should’ve been there.”

“Stop,” you snapped, tears burning your eyes again. “Don’t act like you care now. You didn’t show up. You let me deal with it alone. You let Dad throw me out. And now you’re here, saying you love me? What the fuck, Sunghoon?”

He ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tight. “I know,” he said. “I fucked up. I was scared, okay? I didn’t know how to handle it. You were my stepsister, and we… we did that. I couldn’t face it. But I’m here now. I’m trying.”

“Trying?” you laughed, bitter and sharp, wiping at your tears. “You come here, drop off food, fuck me again, and now you’re trying? You think that fixes anything? You think ‘love you’ makes this okay?”

He stepped closer, and you hated how your body reacted, your skin prickling, your pussy tingling despite the anger. “I don’t know how to fix it,” he said, voice rough. “I don’t know what to do. But I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t stay away. I hate what we did, but I don’t hate you. I never could.”

You stared at him, your chest heaving, torn between shoving him out the door and pulling him closer. The cigarette smell clung to you, the apartment felt smaller, and his words echoed in your head. Love you. It was wrong, disgusting, but it was there, a twisted thread tying you together.

“Get out,” you said again for the one hundredth time, but your voice was weak, barely convincing.

He didn’t move. Instead, he closed the distance, his hands gentle as they cupped your face. You didn’t push him away, even though you should’ve. His thumbs brushed away your tears, and you hated how good it felt, how much you craved his touch after weeks of nothing.

“I’m not leaving,” he said, voice firm. “Not tonight. Not until you tell me what you need.”

You laughed, a broken sound, and shoved at his chest, but your hands lingered, fingers curling into his skin. “I don’t need you,” you lied, but your voice cracked, giving you away. “I don’t need anyone.”

He didn’t argue, just pulled you closer, his lips brushing your forehead. It wasn’t a kiss, not really, but it felt like one, soft and careful. You let him, your body sinking against his, the fight draining out of you. You were so tired—tired of being angry, tired of being alone, tired of hating yourself.

You ended up back on the mattress, not fucking this time, just lying there, his arms around you again. Your bra and panties stayed on, his jeans too, but the closeness was enough to make your skin burn. You didn’t talk, didn’t need to. The silence said enough. His hand rested on your stomach, where the baby would’ve been, and you didn’t push it away. You just lay there, the fairy lights flickering, the cigarette smell heavy, your tears drying on your cheeks.

Morning came too soon, gray light filtering through the window. You woke alone, Sunghoon gone, but there was a note on the table, scrawled in his messy handwriting. “I’ll be back tonight. Eat something.” Next to it was a container of kimchi jjigae, still warm, and a pack of cigarettes—your brand, not his.

You stared at the note, your chest tight. He’d be back. He always came back. And you hated how much you wanted him to, how much you needed it. You lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around you, and sat on the mattress, wondering if you’d ever stop feeling disgusting, if you’d ever stop loving him, if you’d ever be free.

Sunghoon showed up late, past midnight, like always. The knock was soft, hesitant, and you let him in, your heart pounding. He looked tired, his dark hair falling into his eyes, his hoodie loose on his frame. He carried a plastic bag—more food, probably—and set it on the table without a word. But tonight was different. His eyes didn’t avoid yours. He looked at you, really looked, and you saw something raw, something broken.

“Why do you keep doing this?” you asked, voice sharp, tossing the cigarette into an empty ramen cup. “You say you love me, you bring me food, but you don’t talk. You don’t explain. Why didn’t you come to the clinic, Sunghoon? I begged you. I fucking begged.”

He flinched, his jaw tightening, and for a moment, you thought he’d stay silent again. But he didn’t. He sat on the rickety chair, hands clasped between his knees, and looked at the floor. “I wanted to,” he said, voice low, rough. “I tried. But Dad… he stopped me.”

You froze, the cigarette smoke lingering in the air. “What?”

He ran a hand through his hair, his voice shaking. “I need to tell you everything. You deserve to know. But it’s not an excuse. I still fucked up.”

You leaned against the wall, arms crossed, your heart racing. “Then talk. Tell me.”

He took a deep breath, like he was bracing himself, and started.

Sunghoon’s life wasn’t as perfect as you thought. Growing up, he was the kid who had to be perfect—perfect grades, perfect athlete, perfect son. His mom, your stepmom, was strict, always pushing him to be better, to make her proud. His dad left when he was young, and when his mom married your dad, Sunghoon was seventeen, already carrying the weight of her expectations. Your dad was the first man who treated him like a son, who showed up to his skating competitions, who bragged about him to friends. Sunghoon loved him, needed him, in a way you never understood.

But it wasn’t easy. Your dad favored him, sure, but it came with pressure. Sunghoon had to keep up the act—straight A’s, captain of the team, no mistakes. If he slipped, your dad’s disappointment was worse than any punishment. And then there was you. You, with your defiance, your sharp tongue, your freedom to fuck up and not care. Sunghoon envied you, even if he never said it. You didn’t have to be perfect. You could be messy, loud, real. He couldn’t.

When you caught him jerking off that night, moaning your name, it wasn’t just lust. He’d always noticed you—your tight shirts, your short skirts, the way you teased him with a smirk. But it was more than that. You were everything he wasn’t allowed to be, and he wanted you, even though he knew it was wrong. When you walked in, when you didn’t leave, when you begged him to fuck you, he couldn’t say no. He didn’t want to. He fucked you raw, came inside you, and it felt like freedom, like breaking every rule he’d been forced to follow.

But then you dropped the bomb at dinner. Pregnant. His kid. Sunghoon’s world stopped. He was twenty, still living under your dad’s roof, still trying to be the perfect son. Your dad’s rage was terrifying, but it was aimed at you, not him. Sunghoon felt sick, guilty, but also relieved. He was still the golden boy. You were the one who paid.

The day you went to the clinic, Sunghoon was a mess. You’d been texting him, calling, leaving voicemails that broke his heart. “Please, Hoon, I need you. I’m scared. Come to the clinic. Please.” He listened to them over and over, pacing his room, his hands shaking. He wanted to go. He needed to be there. He grabbed his keys, ready to drive to you, but your dad stopped him.

Your dad was waiting in the living room, his face hard, unreadable. “Where are you going?” he asked, voice cold.

Sunghoon froze. “To see Y/N,” he said, trying to sound steady. “She needs me.”

Your dad stood, stepping closer. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said. “She did this to herself. She’s a disgrace, and you’re not getting dragged down with her.”

Sunghoon’s stomach dropped. “She’s my stepsister. She’s pregnant. I can’t just—”

“You can, and you will,” your dad cut him off. “You think I’m letting you throw away your future for her? She lied to you, Sunghoon. She trapped you. You’re not the father type. You’re not ready for this.”

Sunghoon tried to argue, but your dad’s voice was like steel. “If you go to that clinic, you’re out of this house. No more support, no more money, no more family. You’ll be on your own. Is she worth that?”

Sunghoon wanted to say yes. He wanted to be there for you, to hold your hand, to face it together. But he was scared. Scared of losing everything—his home, his mom’s approval, his future. He was twenty, still dependent on your dad for tuition, for his skating career, for everything. He hated himself for it, but he stayed. He put his keys down, sat on the couch, and listened to your voicemails again, each one tearing him apart. He didn’t go.

Your dad made sure of it. He took Sunghoon’s phone, deleted your messages, and blocked your number. He drove Sunghoon to practice that day, watched him like a hawk, made sure he couldn’t slip away. Sunghoon skated, went through the motions, but all he could think about was you, alone in that clinic, facing the worst day of your life without him.

When you got kicked out, Sunghoon begged your dad to reconsider. He fought, yelled, said you didn’t deserve it. But your dad was unmoved. “She’s not my daughter anymore,” he said, and Sunghoon felt like he’d lost you too. He didn’t know where you went, didn’t have your new number, didn’t know how to find you. He was trapped, living in a house that felt like a cage, carrying the guilt of letting you down.

Months later, he found you by accident. He’d been digging through old family records, looking for something else, and saw your name on a lease agreement your dad had co-signed before cutting you off. The address was there, a shitty apartment in a dead-end street. He didn’t tell anyone, just drove there one night, his heart in his throat. When he saw you, smoking, living in that bare, smoky room, he wanted to cry. But he didn’t. He just kept coming back, bringing food, trying to make up for what he couldn’t fix.

Sunghoon’s voice broke as he finished, his hands shaking. “I should’ve fought harder,” he said. “I should’ve gone to you. I was a coward. I’m still a coward. But I love you, Y/N. I always did. That’s why I keep coming back.”

You stared at him, tears streaming down your face, the cigarette forgotten on the table. Your chest ached, a mix of rage, pain, and something softer, something you didn’t want to name. You’d hated him for so long, blamed him for everything, but now you saw it—the pressure, the fear, the way your dad had trapped him too. It didn’t erase what he’d done, didn’t make it okay, but it changed something. He wasn’t the golden boy, not really. He was just as broken as you.

“You should’ve come,” you said, voice raw. “I needed you, Hoon. I was so fucking scared.”

“I know,” he said, stepping closer, his eyes pleading. “I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

You wiped your tears, your hands shaking. “I don’t know if I can forgive you either,” you said, but your voice was softer now, less angry. “But I… I don’t hate you. Not anymore.”

He reached for you, hesitant, and you let him. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, and you buried your face in his chest, the smell of his cologne mixing with the cigarette smoke. You didn’t kiss, didn’t fuck, just stood there, holding each other, the weight of the past heavy between you.

The night stretched on, and you ended up on the mattress, his arms around you again, your bra and panties still on, his jeans unbuttoned but not off. It wasn’t about sex, not tonight. It was about something else, something neither of you could name. The cigarette smell lingered, the street outside hummed, and you fell asleep, tangled together, wondering if you’d ever be whole again.

The apartment didn’t smell like cigarettes anymore. The stale ramen scent was gone too, replaced by the warm, sugary aroma of vanilla candles and fresh laundry. The walls, once stained yellow, were now a soft cream, painted over during a weekend when Sunghoon showed up with cans of paint and a goofy grin. The cracked window had been fixed, letting in clean air instead of damp drafts, and the fairy lights were new, strung across the ceiling, glowing golden every night. Your mattress was still on the floor, but it was covered with a thick comforter and fluffy pillows, a cozy nest you and Sunghoon had built together. The rickety table had been replaced with a small wooden one, a thrift store find you’d sanded and painted blue. Your tiny apartment wasn’t perfect, but it was home, and for the first time in years, it felt like one.

You weren’t alone anymore either. Sunghoon was here, not just as a visitor dropping off food, but as your boyfriend. The word still made your heart flutter, even months after you’d made it official. It happened one night, after he’d told you about your dad’s sabotage, after you’d cried in his arms and admitted you didn’t hate him. You’d been sitting on the mattress, sharing a bowl of popcorn, the fairy lights casting a soft glow. He’d looked at you, his eyes nervous but warm, and said, “Can I be yours? Like, for real?” You’d laughed, tears in your eyes, and said yes, kissing him until you were both breathless. That was three months ago, and now, life was different. Better. Happier.

You stood in the kitchenette, stirring a pot of ramyeon—proper ramyeon, with veggies and eggs, not the instant kind. The radio played a cheesy pop song, and you hummed along, your oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder. It was Sunghoon’s hoodie, soft and worn, smelling like his cologne. You wore it every chance you got, loving how it made you feel wrapped in him, even when he wasn’t there.

The door clicked open, and you turned, a smile already spreading across your face. Sunghoon walked in, kicking off his sneakers, his dark hair messy from the autumn wind. He carried a paper bag, the kind from the bakery down the street, and his grin was brighter than the fairy lights. “Guess what I got,” he said, holding the bag up like a trophy.

“Cupcakes?” you asked, eyes lighting up. You set the spoon down and wiped your hands on a dish towel, bouncing over to him.

“Better,” he teased, pulling out a box of your favorite cream-filled donuts, the ones with powdered sugar that always got everywhere. “And coffee. Real coffee, not that instant crap you used to drink.”

You laughed, grabbing the box and peeking inside. “You’re spoiling me, Hoon.”

“Good,” he said, stepping closer, his hands finding your waist. “You deserve it.” He leaned down, kissing your forehead, then your nose, then your lips, soft and slow. You melted into him, the donut box squished between you, and giggled when he pulled back, powdered sugar already on his hoodie.

“You’re a mess,” you said, brushing it off, but your hands lingered on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

“Says the girl with flour on her face,” he shot back, smirking. He swiped his thumb across your cheek, wiping away a smudge you hadn’t noticed. “Cooking without me? Rude.”

“I was gonna surprise you,” you said, pouting playfully. “Ramyeon and donuts. Romantic, right?”

He laughed, the sound warm and bright, filling the apartment. “The most romantic. Move over, let me help.”

You both ended up in the tiny kitchenette, bumping into each other as you tried to cook. Sunghoon insisted on chopping the green onions, even though he was terrible at it, and you teased him mercilessly when he got onion juice in his eyes. “Big baby,” you said, handing him a wet cloth, but you kissed his cheek anyway, loving how he leaned into it. The ramyeon bubbled on the stove, the donuts sat on the table, and the radio switched to a slow ballad, perfect for the cozy vibe.

Dinner was messy, delicious, and perfect. You sat cross-legged on the mattress, the blue table pushed close, sharing the ramyeon straight from the pot. Sunghoon fed you a bite, laughing when broth dripped down your chin. “You’re hopeless,” he said, but he wiped it away with his thumb, his eyes soft, like you were the most precious thing he’d ever seen.

“Shut up,” you mumbled, cheeks warm, and leaned over to kiss him, tasting salt and sugar on his lips. The kiss deepened, slow and sweet, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you onto his lap. You straddled him, your fingers in his hair, and he groaned softly, his grip tightening.

“Love you,” he whispered against your lips, his voice low, earnest. “So fucking much.”

Your heart skipped, and you pulled back, just enough to look at him. His eyes were dark, warm, and you saw it—the love, the promise, the boy who’d fought to be here, who’d chosen you despite everything. “Love you too,” you said, voice soft, and kissed him again, your hands roaming his chest, slipping under his shirt to feel his warm skin.

It didn’t go further, not tonight. You didn’t need it to. The closeness, the way his hands held you, the way he looked at you like you were his whole world—it was enough. You ended up curled on the mattress, the comforter wrapped around you both, the fairy lights glowing above. Sunghoon’s arm was around you, your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. The apartment was warm, the candles flickering, and for the first time in years, you felt safe.

“Remember when we painted the walls?” he asked, his voice rumbling in his chest. “You got paint in your hair, and I had to cut it out.”

You laughed, poking his side. “You were so bad at it. There’s still a streak of cream paint on the ceiling.”

He grinned, kissing the top of your head. “Worth it. This place looks like ours now.”

“Ours,” you repeated, the word sweet on your tongue. You hadn’t talked about moving in together, not yet, but it felt like it. His toothbrush was in your bathroom, his hoodies in your closet, his presence in every corner of your life. You liked it. You loved it.

You shifted, propping yourself up to look at him. “What’s the cheesiest thing you’ve ever wanted to do with me?” you asked, grinning.

He raised an eyebrow, pretending to think. “Hmm. Probably take you to one of those drive-in movies, like in old rom-coms. Popcorn, blankets, making out in the back seat.”

You laughed, swatting his chest. “Perv.”

“Only for you,” he said, winking, but his smile was so soft, so genuine, it made your heart ache. “What about you? Cheesiest date idea, go.”

You bit your lip, thinking. “Picnic in a park. Like, with a basket and a checkered blanket and those little sandwiches with the crusts cut off. And you’d push me on a swing after.”

He chuckled, pulling you closer. “Deal. Next weekend, picnic and drive-in. But I’m cutting the crusts off the sandwiches. You’d probably burn them.”

“Rude!” you gasped, but you were laughing, and he was too, and soon you were kissing again, slow and lazy, the kind of kisses that didn’t lead anywhere, just felt good. You fell asleep like that, tangled together, the radio still playing softly, the candles burning low.

The past wasn’t gone. The memories of that night, the pregnancy, the abortion, your dad’s betrayal—they lingered, like shadows in the corners. But they didn’t define you anymore. You’d both fought for this, for each other, and every day was a step away from the pain. Your apartment was a home, your life was yours, and Sunghoon was by your side, loving you through it all. It was sweet, it was messy, it was real, and you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

The apartment glowed under the fairy lights, the vanilla candle on the table casting a warm flicker across the room. The air smelled like fresh laundry and the faint sweetness of the donuts Sunghoon had brought earlier. You were curled on the mattress, wearing his hoodie, your legs tangled with his as you watched a cheesy rom-com on your phone. His arm was around you, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your shoulder, and every so often, he’d lean down to kiss your temple, making you smile. Life had been good—better than good. You and Sunghoon were in love, your tiny apartment was a home, and the shadows of your past felt far away. But shadows have a way of creeping back.

It started with a text. You didn’t see it at first, too caught up in giggling at Sunghoon’s terrible impression of the movie’s lead actor. His phone buzzed on the table, and he glanced at it, his smile fading. You noticed, nudging him. “What’s up?”

He hesitated, then handed you the phone. It was a message from his mom—your stepmom. “Come home tomorrow. Your dad and I need to talk to you. It’s important.” No emojis, no warmth, just cold words that made your stomach twist.

“About what?” you asked, sitting up, the hoodie slipping off your shoulder.

Sunghoon ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tight. “I don’t know. But… I think they know about us.”

Your heart sank. You’d been careful, or so you thought. Sunghoon still lived with your parents, commuting to your apartment most nights, but you hadn’t told anyone about your relationship. Not your friends, not your coworkers, and definitely not your family. The idea of your dad—your cold, unforgiving dad—finding out made your skin crawl. He’d kicked you out for the pregnancy, disowned you for less. What would he do to Sunghoon?

“How would they know?” you asked, voice small.

Sunghoon sighed, pulling you closer. “I don’t know. Maybe someone saw us. Maybe I slipped up. I’ve been… distracted lately. Forgot to clear my phone’s location history a few times.”

You swallowed, the warmth of the apartment suddenly feeling stifling. “What do we do?”

He kissed your forehead, his lips soft but firm. “We face it. Together. I’m not hiding you. Not anymore.”

You nodded, but fear gnawed at you. You loved him, more than you’d ever thought possible, but your family’s history was a minefield. You didn’t sleep much that night, even with Sunghoon’s arms around you, his steady breathing a reminder that you weren’t alone. Not yet.

The next day, Sunghoon went home. You stayed at the apartment, pacing, checking your phone every five minutes. He promised to call after the talk, to tell you everything, but hours passed with no word. By evening, you were a wreck, the vanilla candle burned down to nothing, the apartment too quiet without him. Finally, your phone rang, and you grabbed it, heart pounding.

“Hoon?” you said, voice shaky.

“It’s bad,” he said, his voice low, strained. “They know. Everything.”

You sat on the mattress, your knees weak. “How?”

“Dad saw us,” he said. “That day we went to the park, had that picnic. He was there, picking up some client. Saw us kissing, holding hands. He didn’t say anything then, but he told Mom, and they’ve been watching me. Checking my phone, my schedule. They know I’ve been coming to your place.”

Your stomach churned. “What did they say?”

He laughed, bitter and sharp. “Dad called you a slut. Said you seduced me to ruin me, just like before. Mom just cried, kept saying we’re sick, that we’re not right in the head. They told me to end it, to never see you again, or I’m out of the house.”

You felt sick, the memories of your dad’s rage flooding back. “And you? What did you say?”

“I told them I love you,” he said, voice softening. “I said you’re my girlfriend, my future, and I’m not giving you up. Not for them, not for anyone.”

Tears stung your eyes, a mix of pride and fear. “Hoon…”

“I’m coming over,” he said. “I need to see you.”

He was at your door in an hour, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his face pale but determined. You let him in, and he dropped the bag, pulling you into his arms. His kiss was desperate, hungry, his hands gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d vanish. You kissed him back, just as needy, your fingers in his hair, your body pressed against his.

“I’m done with them,” he said against your lips, his voice rough. “I’m out. I’m not going back.”

You pulled back, searching his face. “You’re moving out? Just like that?”

He nodded, his eyes fierce. “I can’t stay there. Not after what they said about you. About us. I’m staying here, with you, if you’ll have me.”

Your heart swelled, but fear lingered. “Of course I want you here,” you said, cupping his face. “But Hoon, what about skating? Your tuition? They pay for everything.”

“I’ll figure it out,” he said, kissing you again, softer this time. “I’ve got savings, some sponsorships. I’ll get a job. I don’t care. I just need you.”

You believed him, wanted to believe him, and for a moment, the apartment felt like a sanctuary again. You helped him unpack, making space for his clothes in your tiny closet, laughing when his socks got mixed with yours. That night, you made love—slow, sweet, nothing like the desperate fucks of the past. He whispered “I love you” as he moved inside you, his hands gentle, his eyes locked on yours. Your pussy clenched around him, your body trembling with pleasure, and when you came, it felt like a promise. You fell asleep in his arms, the fairy lights glowing, the future uncertain but bright.

But promises don’t erase reality. A week later, things cracked. Sunghoon was living with you now, his duffel bag a permanent fixture in the corner, his toothbrush next to yours. The apartment was still cozy, still yours, but money was tight. You were both working—your diner and corner store shifts, his new part-time gig at a skate shop—but it wasn’t enough. Bills piled up, and Sunghoon’s skating practice was suffering. He couldn’t afford the rink fees without his parents’ support, and you could see the stress eating at him, even if he tried to hide it.

It came to a head one evening. You were cooking dinner, a simple stir-fry, the kitchenette warm with the smell of soy sauce and garlic. Sunghoon was on the mattress, scrolling through his phone, his face tense. You’d noticed he’d been quiet all day, but you didn’t push, hoping he’d open up. But when you set the plates on the blue table and sat next to him, he didn’t look at you.

“Hoon, what’s wrong?” you asked, touching his arm.

He pulled away, just slightly, but it stung. “Nothing,” he said, voice flat. “Just tired.”

“Bullshit,” you said, keeping your tone light but firm. “You’ve been off all day. Talk to me.”

He set his phone down, too hard, and looked at you, his eyes sharp. “You want me to talk? Fine. I’m fucking drowning, Y/N. I can’t skate like I used to, I’m barely making rent, and I’m living in your apartment like some freeloader. I left everything for you, and now I’m stuck.”

You froze, hurt cutting deep. “Stuck? You said you wanted this. You said you wanted me.”

“I do,” he snapped, standing, pacing the small space. “But it’s not that simple. I’m trying, but it’s hard. I see you working your ass off, and I’m barely keeping up. I feel like I’m failing you, failing us.”

You stood too, anger flaring, but it was different from your old fights. This wasn’t about betrayal or the past—it was about now, about the life you were trying to build. “You’re not failing me,” you said, voice rising. “We’re in this together. But you don’t talk to me. You just shut down, like I’m the problem.”

“You’re not the problem,” he said, but his tone was sharp, frustrated. “It’s me. It’s this.” He gestured at the apartment, the cluttered table, the tiny space. “I thought I could handle it, but I’m losing everything—my skating, my future. And you’re just… fine. Like this is enough for you.”

His words hit like a slap. “You think I’m fine?” you said, voice shaking. “I’m working two jobs, Hoon. I’m trying to keep us afloat. I gave up everything too—my family, my old life. Don’t act like I’m not struggling.”

He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes wild. “Then why does it feel like you’re okay with this? Like you don’t care if we’re scraping by, as long as we’re together?”

“Because I love you!” you shouted, tears spilling over. “I don’t care about the money, the apartment, any of it. I just want you. But you’re pushing me away, acting like I’m holding you back.”

He stared at you, his chest heaving, and for a moment, you thought he’d pull you close, kiss you, make it right. But he didn’t. “I need space,” he said, voice cold. “I can’t think here. I can’t breathe.”

“Space?” you repeated, hurt turning to anger. “You live here now. Where the fuck are you gonna go?”

“I don’t know,” he said, grabbing his jacket. “The rink. Anywhere. I just… I need to figure this out.”

You stepped closer, your voice low, sharp. “If you walk out, don’t expect me to wait forever. I’m not your fucking safety net.”

He looked at you, pain flashing in his eyes, but he didn’t stay. He grabbed his duffel bag and left, the door slamming behind him. You stood there, tears streaming down your face, the stir-fry cold on the table, the apartment too quiet. You wanted to run after him, to beg him to stay, but you didn’t. You’d fought too hard to rebuild yourself, and you wouldn’t let him break you again.

Sunghoon didn’t come back that night, or the next. You heard through a mutual friend that he was crashing at the ice rink, sleeping in the locker room, showering in the communal bathrooms. He’d quit his job at the skate shop, pouring every hour into practice, trying to claw his way back to the top. You missed him, ached for him, but you were angry too. He’d chosen to run, to shut you out, and it hurt more than you’d expected.

The apartment felt empty without him. The fairy lights seemed dimmer, the blue table too big for one. You kept working, kept living, but every night, you checked your phone, hoping for a text, a call, anything. Nothing came. You wondered if he was okay, if he was eating, if he was thinking of you. But you didn’t reach out. You’d meant what you said—you weren’t his safety net.

A week later, you got a call from one of Sunghoon’s teammates, Jay. “You need to come to the rink,” he said, voice urgent. “It’s Hoon. He’s… he’s not okay.”

You didn’t hesitate. You grabbed your jacket and ran, the night air cold against your skin. The rink was a short bus ride away, and when you got there, it was dark, the parking lot empty except for a few cars. Jay met you at the entrance, his face grim.

“What happened?” you asked, your heart pounding.

“He fell,” Jay said, leading you inside. “During practice. He’s been pushing himself too hard, not sleeping, not eating. He hit the ice, and… he just broke down. He’s still out there.”

You followed Jay into the rink, the cold air hitting you like a wall. The ice gleamed under the dim lights, and in the center, you saw him—Sunghoon, sitting on the ice, his head in his hands, shoulders shaking. He was alone, his skates still on, his practice gear soaked with sweat. You’d never seen him like this, so small, so broken.

You stepped onto the ice, your sneakers slipping, and called his name. “Hoon?”

He didn’t look up at first, but his sobbing slowed, his hands dropping to his lap. His face was red, tear-streaked, his eyes hollow. “Y/N,” he said, voice cracking. “You came.”

You knelt in front of him, the ice cold through your jeans. “Of course I came,” you said, voice soft but firm. “Jay called. Said you fell. Are you hurt?”

He shook his head, but his hands trembled. “Not hurt. Just… fucked up. I can’t do this. I can’t skate, I can’t live like this. I miss you. I miss us.”

Your heart ached, but you didn’t touch him, not yet. “Why didn’t you call? Why did you run?”

He laughed, a broken sound, wiping his tears with his sleeve. “Because I’m an idiot. Because I thought I could fix everything by myself. I thought if I skated harder, if I won, I’d be enough. For you, for me, for them.” He gestured vaguely, meaning your parents. “But I’m not. I’m falling apart.”

You reached out, touching his cheek, your fingers cold against his warm skin. “You don’t have to be enough for them,” you said. “Just be you. That’s all I want.”

He looked at you, his eyes searching, and fresh tears fell. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice raw. “I didn’t mean what I said. I’m not stuck. I love you. I love our life. I just… I got scared. I don’t know how to do this without their support.”

You pulled him into your arms, not caring about the ice, the cold, the rink. He clung to you, his face buried in your shoulder, his sobs shaking both of you. “We’ll figure it out,” you whispered, stroking his hair. “Together. But you can’t run again, Hoon. You have to stay.”

He nodded against you, his grip tightening. “I will. I promise.”

You stayed like that, kneeling on the ice, until his tears stopped, until his breathing steadied. Jay brought you a blanket, and you wrapped it around Sunghoon, helping him off the rink. He was shaky, exhausted, but he held your hand, not letting go. You took him home, to your apartment, and for the first time in a week, the fairy lights felt bright again.

The apartment was a warm glow of morning light, the kind that made everything feel soft and safe. The window, no longer cracked, let in a golden stream of sun, catching on the cream-colored walls you and Sunghoon had painted two summers ago. The fairy lights were coiled in a box now, saved for winter nights, but the room didn’t need them to feel alive. A small shelf held your growing collection of thrifted books and Polaroids—snapshots of you and Sunghoon laughing at a street festival, kissing under an umbrella, sprawled on a picnic blanket with powdered sugar on your faces from those donuts he loved. The blue table, still a little wobbly, was cluttered with coffee mugs, a plate of half-eaten toast, and a tiny cactus you’d named Spike. The air smelled like brewed coffee, butter, and the faint musk of Sunghoon’s hoodie, which you were wearing, the sleeves too long over your hands.

Your mattress days were long gone. A proper bed sat against the wall, a secondhand frame you’d sanded and stained together, piled with a thick comforter and mismatched pillows. The apartment wasn’t big, wasn’t fancy, but it was home. Your home. Yours and Sunghoon’s. It had been two years since he left your parents’ house, two years since you both cut them off for good. No calls, no texts, no tearful letters begging for reconciliation. Your dad had tried, at first, leaving voicemails that went from angry to desperate before they stopped altogether. Your stepmom sent one letter, formal and cold, asking Sunghoon to “reconsider his choices.” You’d burned it in the sink, watching the edges curl and blacken, and Sunghoon had held your hand, silent but steady. That was the end of it. You didn’t need them anymore. You had each other.

You were twenty-one now, Sunghoon twenty-two, and life was quiet, steady, beautiful in its simplicity. You worked as a barista at a cozy café downtown, the kind with mismatched chairs and live music on Fridays. Sunghoon coached kids at the ice rink, teaching them spins and jumps with a patience you hadn’t known he had, and picked up shifts at a local gym, cleaning equipment and spotting for lifters. Money was still tight sometimes, but you managed—bills paid, groceries bought, a little left for small joys like movie tickets or a new plant. The past, with its pain and betrayal, was a distant ache, not gone but softened, like a bruise you barely noticed anymore.

You sat on the bed, cross-legged, sipping coffee from a chipped mug. Sunghoon was sprawled next to you, his head propped on one hand, his t-shirt rumpled from sleep. His hair was a mess, dark strands falling into his eyes, and he had that lazy, morning smile that made your heart skip. The radio played softly, some indie song about love and rain, and outside, the street was waking up—cars humming, neighbors chatting, the world moving on.

“Remember when we thought instant ramen was a personality trait?” you said, grinning over your mug.

He laughed, the sound warm, filling the room. “God, yeah. We’d eat it every day, like we were gourmet chefs. You’d put, like, a single slice of cheese on it and call it ‘fancy.’”

You shoved his shoulder, laughing. “Excuse you, that was high cuisine. You were the one who thought ketchup was a spice.”

He grabbed your hand, pulling you closer, his fingers warm against yours. “I stand by it. Ketchup makes everything better.” He kissed your knuckles, his lips soft, and you felt that familiar flutter, the one that hadn’t faded even after years together.

You leaned against him, your head on his shoulder, the coffee mug cradled in your lap. “We’ve come a long way, huh?” you said, voice softer now, thoughtful. “From that shitty apartment to… this.”

He nodded, his cheek resting against your hair. “Yeah. Feels like a lifetime ago. You were so mad at me all the time. Thought you’d kick me out for good after that rink thing.”

You smiled, but it was tinged with the memory. “I wanted to. But I couldn’t. Even when I hated you, I didn’t.”

He turned, shifting so he could look at you, his eyes serious but warm. “I’m glad you didn’t. I was a mess back then. Still am, sometimes. But you… you make me better.”

Your chest tightened, a mix of love and gratitude. You set the mug on the table and climbed into his lap, straddling him, your hands on his shoulders. “You make me better too,” you said, voice quiet. “I was so angry, so hurt. I thought I’d never trust anyone again. But you showed up, kept showing up, even when I pushed you away.”

He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you closer, his hands slipping under the hoodie to rest on your bare skin. “I couldn’t stay away,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper. “Even when I fucked up, even when I didn’t know how to fix it. I loved you too much.”

You kissed him, slow and deep, your fingers in his hair, your body pressed against his. It wasn’t desperate or hungry, not like the early days when every touch was a fight against the past. This was soft, certain, a promise in every brush of his lips. His hands roamed your back, warm and gentle, and you felt safe, loved, whole. You pulled back, resting your forehead against his, your breaths mingling.

“Tell me something,” you said, smiling. “What’s the biggest thing you’ve learned since we started this?”

He thought for a moment, his hands still on your waist, his thumbs tracing circles on your skin. “That I don’t have to be perfect,” he said. “Growing up, Mom and Dad… they made me feel like I had to be the best, always. No mistakes, no weaknesses. But with you, I can just be me. I can fuck up, and you’ll still love me.”

You smiled, your heart swelling. “I do. Always.” You kissed his nose, then leaned back, your hands on his chest. “Your turn. Ask me.”

He grinned, his eyes bright. “Okay. What’s the biggest thing you’ve learned?”

You bit your lip, thinking. “That I’m enough,” you said, voice soft but sure. “I spent so long feeling like I was less than you, less than everyone. Dad made me feel like I was nothing, like I’d never be good enough. But you… you showed me I’m enough, just as I am. I don’t have to prove anything.”

His smile softened, and he pulled you into a hug, his chin resting on your shoulder. “You’ve always been enough,” he whispered. “More than enough.”

You stayed like that, wrapped in each other, the radio humming, the coffee going cold. The conversation drifted, turning to memories, to how you’d grown. You talked about the early days, when the apartment was bare, when you lived on instant noodles and stubborn hope. You laughed about the time Sunghoon tried to “fix” the leaky faucet and flooded the bathroom, or when you burned a cake for his birthday and ended up eating the charred remains anyway, giggling like kids.

“We were so young,” you said, lying back on the bed, Sunghoon next to you, his hand laced with yours. “Not in age, but… in how we saw things. I thought hurting you would make me feel better. I thought I’d never get over it.”

He turned on his side, propping his head on his hand, his eyes tracing your face. “I thought I’d never be free,” he said. “From Mom, from Dad, from all their expectations. I thought I had to carry it forever. But you showed me I could let go.”

You smiled, reaching up to brush his hair from his eyes. “We saved each other, didn’t we?”

He nodded, leaning down to kiss you, soft and slow. “Yeah,” he said against your lips. “We did.”

The day passed in a haze of quiet joy. You cooked lunch together—spaghetti with homemade sauce, a recipe you’d perfected over months of trial and error. Sunghoon insisted on chopping the garlic, even though he always made a mess, and you teased him when he got sauce on his shirt. “You’re hopeless,” you said, but you kissed the spot on his cheek where a speck of tomato had landed, and he laughed, pulling you into a dance in the tiny kitchenette, spinning you until you were dizzy.

That evening, you sat on the bed, a blanket draped over your legs, sharing a bowl of popcorn as you talked about the future. Not big plans—neither of you were ready for that—but small ones. A weekend trip to the coast, maybe. A new shelf for your books. Trying a new recipe. Sunghoon wanted to teach you to skate, though he admitted he’d probably spend more time catching you than coaching.

“I’d be terrible,” you said, tossing a popcorn kernel at him. “I’d fall every two seconds.”

He caught the kernel, popping it into his mouth with a grin. “Good. More excuses to hold you.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart fluttered. “Cheesy,” you said, but you leaned into him, your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. The apartment was quiet, the street outside calm, and you felt something you hadn’t in years: peace.

Growing up together hadn’t been easy. There were fights, tears, moments when you thought you’d lose each other. The past—your parents, the pregnancy, the betrayal—had left scars, but they’d faded, softened by time and love. You’d learned to forgive, not just Sunghoon but yourself. You’d learned to live, not for anyone else, but for you, for the life you’d built together.

“I love you,” you said, voice soft, almost lost in the hum of the radio.

Sunghoon’s arm tightened around you, his lips brushing your hair. “Love you too,” he said, and you knew he meant it, not just for now but for always.

The night stretched on, and you fell asleep tangled together, the coffee mugs forgotten, the popcorn bowl tipped over, the world outside irrelevant. You’d grown up, not just in years but in heart, and you’d done it together, step by step, love by love.

The apartment was a cozy haven, bathed in the soft glow of morning light. The cream-colored walls were adorned with more Polaroids now—snapshots of you and Sunghoon at a carnival, sharing ice cream, laughing in a rainstorm. The blue table, still a little wobbly, held a vase of daisies, a new addition from your weekend market trips, and a stack of takeout menus for lazy nights. The air smelled like fresh coffee and the cinnamon rolls Sunghoon had tried (and mostly succeeded) to bake, their golden tops peeking out from a plate on the counter. The bed, no longer a mattress on the floor, was a proper frame with a plush comforter, piled with pillows that always ended up scattered after your late-night cuddles. The apartment was small, but it was yours—yours and Sunghoon’s, a home built from love and stubborn hope.

Three years had passed since Sunghoon left your parents’ house, three years since you’d both cut them off and chosen each other. You were twenty-two now, Sunghoon twenty-three, and life was good—really good. You’d upgraded from your barista job to managing the café, a role that came with better pay and creative control over the menu. Sunghoon was thriving at the ice rink, coaching kids full-time and even competing in local tournaments, his passion for skating reignited. Money wasn’t a constant worry anymore; you could afford small luxuries like weekend getaways or new furniture. The scars of your past—the pregnancy, the abortion, your parents’ betrayal—were still there, faint and faded, but they no longer defined you. You’d grown up together, learned to love without fear, and built a life that was yours, free from the weight of your family.

You were curled on the bed, wearing Sunghoon’s t-shirt and a pair of his boxers, your hair still messy from sleep. Sunghoon was in the kitchenette, flipping through his phone, his sweatpants low on his hips, his bare back lean and strong from years of skating. The radio played a soft pop song, and you hummed along, scrolling through your own phone, when an email notification popped up. It was from an old family friend, someone you hadn’t spoken to in years. The subject line was simple: “Checking In.”

You opened it, curious, and skimmed the message. It was mostly small talk—updates on their life, questions about yours—but one line stopped you cold. “I was sorry to hear about your dad and Sunghoon’s mom splitting up. Divorce is tough, but they seem to be moving on.”

You sat up, heart pounding. “Hoon,” you said, voice sharp. “Come here.”

He turned, eyebrows raised, setting his phone down. “What’s up?”

You handed him your phone, the email open. “Read this.”

He scanned it, his expression shifting from confusion to surprise, then to something like amusement. “They got divorced?” he said, looking up at you. “When?”

“I don’t know,” you said, taking the phone back. “This is the first I’ve heard. I mean… we blocked them. Nobody told us.”

He sat on the bed, a grin spreading across his face. “So, technically, we’re not step-siblings anymore.”

You stared at him, then burst out laughing, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably. “Oh my God,” you said, clutching your stomach. “That’s… that’s so stupid. We’re not related anymore?”

He laughed too, the sound bright and free, his eyes crinkling. “Guess not. We’re just… us now. No weird family baggage.”

You fell back on the bed, still giggling, tears of laughter in your eyes. “All that drama, all that guilt, and now it’s just… poof. Gone. They’re not even together.”

Sunghoon lay next to you, propping himself on one elbow, his grin wide. “Kinda funny, right? We went through hell because of them, and they couldn’t even make it work.”

You turned to him, your laughter fading into a smile. “It’s like… we’re free. Really free.”

He nodded, his hand finding yours, his fingers lacing through. “We always were,” he said, voice softer. “But this? It’s like the universe saying we’re okay. That we’re right.”

You leaned in, kissing him, slow and sweet, your lips lingering against his. His hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer, and you felt the familiar warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart. The kiss deepened, but it wasn’t urgent, wasn’t desperate. It was love, pure and simple, the kind that didn’t need to prove anything. When you pulled back, you were both smiling, your foreheads pressed together.

“Love you,” you whispered, your fingers tracing his jaw.

“Love you too,” he said, his voice low, warm. “Always.”

The discovery could’ve been heavy, could’ve stirred up old wounds, but it didn’t. It was a relief, a punchline to a bad joke, and it made you both lighter. You spent the morning talking about it, laughing over the irony, wondering what your parents were doing now but not caring enough to find out. They were gone from your lives, and their divorce was just a footnote, a reason to chuckle and move on.

That evening, Sunghoon was acting strange. He’d been fidgety all day, checking his phone, pacing the apartment, muttering to himself. You noticed but didn’t push, assuming he was just wired from the divorce news. You were in the kitchenette, washing dishes, humming to the radio, when he came up behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist.

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft, a little nervous. “Can we talk?”

You turned, drying your hands on a towel, raising an eyebrow. “You okay? You’ve been weird all day.”

He laughed, but it was shaky, and he ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… come sit with me.”

You followed him to the bed, your heart picking up speed. He sat, pulling you down next to him, his hand tight around yours. The fairy lights were plugged in now, glowing golden, and the room felt warm, intimate, like it was holding its breath.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice low, serious. “I’ve been thinking about us. About everything we’ve been through. The good, the bad, all of it.”

You nodded, your stomach fluttering, not sure where this was going. “Okay…”

He took a deep breath, his eyes locked on yours. “I love you. More than I ever thought I could love anyone. You’re my best friend, my home, my everything. And today, finding out we’re not tied to them anymore… it made me realize I don’t want to wait. I want you forever.”

Your breath caught, and he reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, velvet box. Your heart stopped as he opened it, revealing a simple silver ring, a tiny star etched on the band. It wasn’t flashy, wasn’t expensive, but it was perfect.

“Marry me,” he said, his voice steady despite the nerves in his eyes. “Not because we have to, not because of anyone else. Just because I want you, always.”

Tears welled up, and you laughed, a soft, shaky sound, your hands flying to your face. “Hoon,” you whispered, voice thick. “Yes. Yes, I’ll marry you.”

He grinned, wide and bright, and slid the ring onto your finger, his hands trembling. You kissed him, hard and desperate, your arms around his neck, his hands in your hair. The kiss was messy, full of tears and laughter, and when you pulled back, you were both beaming, the ring catching the light.

“I love you,” you said, your voice breaking, and he kissed you again, softer this time, his lips lingering.

“Love you too,” he murmured, his forehead against yours. “Forever.”

You didn’t want a wedding. Neither of you did. The idea of a big ceremony, with dresses and flowers and people you barely knew, felt wrong. You’d spent years tied to expectations, to your parents’ rules, and you didn’t want your love to be a performance. Instead, you went to the courthouse a week later, just the two of you, in jeans and t-shirts, the ring on your finger and a matching one on his. You signed the papers, said your vows in a quiet room with a bored officiant, and laughed when you tripped over the words, Sunghoon catching you with a grin.

It was enough. More than enough. You celebrated with takeout pizza and cheap wine, eating on the bed, the fairy lights glowing, the radio playing your favorite songs. You made love that night, slow and tender, his hands gentle on your skin, your pussy clenching around him as you whispered his name, your bodies moving together like they were made for it. It wasn’t about passion or need—it was about love, about being one, about promising forever in every touch, every kiss.

After, you lay tangled in the sheets, his arm around you, your head on his chest. The ring felt new, a little heavy, but right. You traced his collarbone with your finger, smiling when he shivered.

“Mrs. Park,” he said, testing the words, his voice teasing but soft. “Sounds good, huh?”

You laughed, poking his side. “Don’t get cocky, Mr. Park. I’m still me.”

He grinned, kissing your hair. “Good. I wouldn’t want anyone else.”

You talked until the candles burned out, reminiscing about your journey, laughing about the divorce news again. “We were so stressed about being step-siblings,” you said, shaking your head. “And now it’s like… who cares? They’re not even a thing anymore.”

“Right?” he said, chuckling. “All that guilt, all those fights, and they just… imploded. Guess we won.”

You smiled, snuggling closer. “We did. We really did.”

You talked about growing up, about how you’d changed. You weren’t the angry girl who’d wanted to hurt him, the one who’d lied and schemed. You were stronger now, kinder to yourself, proud of the life you’d built. Sunghoon wasn’t the perfect son, trapped by pressure. He was free, passionate, a man who loved deeply and fought for what mattered. You’d both learned to forgive, to heal, to love without conditions. The past was a lesson, not a chain, and you carried it lightly now, a story you’d survived together.

“I’m happy,” you said, voice soft, almost afraid to say it out loud. “Like, really happy.”

He looked at you, his eyes warm, his smile soft. “Me too,” he said. “Happier than I’ve ever been.”

The night faded into morning, and you fell asleep in his arms, the apartment quiet, the world outside irrelevant. You were married, not by a big wedding but by choice, by love, by a promise no one could break. You’d grown up together, from pain to peace, and now, you’d grow old together, just the two of you, forever enough.

The house was alive with the chaos of a Saturday morning. It wasn’t the tiny apartment anymore—that was a distant memory, a place you and Sunghoon still talked about with nostalgic smiles. Now, you lived in a modest two-bedroom home on the edge of the city, with a small backyard and a swing set the kids adored. The walls were painted a soft blue, covered in crayon scribbles and framed family photos—you and Sunghoon at the courthouse, your twins as newborns, all four of you at the beach last summer. The kitchen smelled like pancakes and maple syrup, the radio playing an old love song, and the living room was a mess of toys, books, and a half-built pillow fort.

You were thirty, Sunghoon thirty-one, and life was everything you’d dreamed it could be. You owned the café now, a thriving little spot with your artwork on the walls and Sunghoon’s skating trophies on a shelf. He ran a skating school at the rink, coaching kids and adults with the same passion he’d always had, his smile brighter than ever. Your parents were a faint memory, their divorce a footnote you’d laughed about years ago. You hadn’t spoken to them in over a decade, and you didn’t need to. Your family was here, in this house, with the two people who made every day a gift.

The twins, Hana and Minjun, were five, a whirlwind of energy and giggles. Hana had Sunghoon’s dark hair and your stubborn streak, always bossing her brother around. Minjun had your eyes and Sunghoon’s quiet charm, content to follow his sister’s lead but quick with a cheeky grin. They were sprawled on the living room rug, coloring a giant piece of paper, their crayons rolling everywhere.

“Mommy, Daddy’s burning the pancakes again!” Hana called, not looking up from her drawing, a lopsided rainbow.

You laughed, standing at the stove, flipping a pancake that was, in fact, slightly too dark. “He’s not burning them, baby. He’s just… making them extra crispy.”

Sunghoon, beside you in a faded t-shirt and sweatpants, nudged your hip with his. “Liar,” he teased, his voice low, warm. He leaned in, kissing your cheek, his hand brushing your waist under the hem of your shirt. “You’re the one who distracted me.”

You swatted him with the spatula, grinning. “Keep it PG, Park. Kids are watching.”

He chuckled, stealing another kiss, quick and soft, before turning to the twins. “Who wants pancakes?” he called, holding up a plate stacked high.

“Me!” Hana and Minjun shouted, scrambling to the table, their coloring forgotten. You set the plates down, cutting their pancakes into small pieces, while Sunghoon poured orange juice, dodging Hana’s attempt to grab the jug.

Breakfast was loud, messy, perfect. Minjun got syrup on his nose, Hana told a long, dramatic story about a butterfly she’d seen, and Sunghoon kept sneaking bites from your plate, his hand resting on your thigh under the table. You caught his eye, and he smiled, the kind of smile that still made your heart skip, even after all these years.

“Eww, Daddy, stop looking at Mommy like that,” Hana said, wrinkling her nose. “You’re all mushy.”

Minjun giggled, covering his mouth. “Yeah, mushy-gushy! You’re always kissing!”

You burst out laughing, and Sunghoon leaned back, pretending to be offended. “What? I can’t kiss my wife? Who made that rule?”

“Me!” Hana declared, crossing her arms. “It’s gross.”

“Gross?” Sunghoon gasped, scooping her up and tickling her until she squealed. “You’re gonna be mushy-gushy one day, kiddo.”

“Never!” she shrieked, giggling, while Minjun joined in, climbing onto Sunghoon’s lap, demanding tickles too.

You watched them, your heart so full it hurt. This was your life now—pancakes and laughter, crayon stains and tickle fights. You and Sunghoon were still so in love, the kind that made you steal kisses in the kitchen, hold hands under the table, make love late at night when the kids were asleep, your bodies tangled, your whispers soft. Your rings, simple silver bands, caught the light, a quiet reminder of the vow you’d made—not with a wedding, but with each other, every day.

Later, after the dishes were done and the twins were napping, you and Sunghoon curled up on the couch, a blanket over your legs. The house was quiet, the radio off, just the hum of the fridge and the distant chirp of birds outside. He pulled you close, your back against his chest, his arms around you.

“Happy?” he asked, his lips brushing your ear, his voice low.

You smiled, tilting your head to look at him. “Happier than I’ve ever been.”

He kissed you, slow and sweet, his hand resting on your stomach, where the twins had grown years ago. “Me too,” he said. “You, the kids… it’s more than I ever dreamed.”

You turned in his arms, straddling his lap, your hands on his face. “Love you,” you whispered, kissing him again, deeper this time, your fingers in his hair.

“Love you more,” he murmured, his hands sliding under your shirt, warm against your skin. The kiss heated, but the sound of small footsteps made you pull back, laughing softly.

“Mommy?” Minjun’s voice came from the hallway, sleepy and curious.

Sunghoon grinned, resting his forehead against yours. “Busted,” he whispered.

You climbed off him, smoothing your shirt, and went to scoop up Minjun, who was rubbing his eyes. Hana followed, dragging her blanket, and soon you were all piled on the couch, the twins nestled between you. Sunghoon draped an arm around you, his hand resting on Hana’s head, and you leaned into him, your heart full.

“Still mushy,” Hana mumbled, but she was smiling, snuggling closer.

“Always,” you said, kissing her forehead, then Sunghoon’s cheek.

The afternoon faded into evening, and you stayed there, a happy, messy family, built from pain and love, stronger than anything that had tried to break you. You’d grown up together, you and Sunghoon, from anger to trust, from chaos to peace. Now, with your twins, your home, your love, you were whole—a family, forever.

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yvnaura · 3 days ago

Text

i’m gonna bite him

#ੈ✩‧₊˚junie speaks #enhypen #enhypen hard hours #enhypen hard thoughts #sunghoon hard thoughts #sunghoon hard hours #enhypen sunghoon

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shy9-29 · 7 days ago

Text

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

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solefi · 19 hours ago

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heesimp’s stepdad! hoon has me on a chokehold so bad lately 🫠

Thinking about being in stepdad! Sunghoon’s beach house...

The clock ticks past midnight.

The beach house is cloaked in soft silence, broken only by the distant hush of the waves outside.

You lie on your side in the guest bed; tiny sleep shorts riding up your hips, a loose tank top brushing against your bare chest—your skin still sticky and warm from the humid night air.

The creak of the door is almost imperceptible.

But you hear it.

You feel him.

Sunghoon’s silhouette looms in the doorway, his body lit only by the faint moonlight slicing through the blinds.

He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t have to.

Your breath catches in your throat as he closes the door softly behind him, clicking the lock into place with a tenderness that betrays just how badly he wants to devour you.

He pads over to the bed—bare-chested, grey sweats hanging low on his hips, the outline of his cock already swelling visibly beneath the fabric.

And then he’s there, sitting on the edge of the mattress, his hand grazing the soft skin of your exposed calf.

“Couldn’t sleep without my baby,” he whispers, voice thick, dark with need.

He bends down and presses a kiss above your knee, trailing upward, slowly, until his lips brush your inner thigh.

You shift, thighs parting instinctively with a sigh escaping your lips.

An invitation.

Sunghoon exhales a soft, shaky breath, fingers sliding under the hem of your sleep shorts, dragging them down your hips with agonizing patience.

“Such a sweet girl,” he murmurs, voice almost worshipful. His nose nuzzles the crease where your thigh meets your pelvis, inhaling you like you’re the air he needs to breathe.

“My love… My pretty baby.”

The words make you whimper—a sound so small the dark swallows it.

But Sunghoon hears it.

And he thrives on it.

You lift your hips, helping him peel the shorts down completely, leaving you in only your thin panties and the loose cotton tank.

He kisses along your hips, your pelvis, teasing closer, until he’s spreading your thighs wider with his broad palms, settling himself between them like he belongs there.

And he does.

He presses his hot, wet tongue against the fabric, tracing over the outline of your pussy lips and leaving a kiss to the visible wet spot over your entrance. He then shifts his focus back to exploring your clothed cunt. You moan softly when his tongue grazes your sensitive bud. He smiles.

He puts all of his attention into stimulating your clit. He gives adoring kisses at first and then kitten licks that quickly transform into full-on sucking.

He gives it one more kiss before pulling away to look at you—lips parted, chest rising irregularly, nipples hardened from you playing with them just a minute ago.

God, he loves seeing you like this.

Sunghoon reaches the hem of your panties and pulls down slowly. You raise your hips slightly and watches as a string of slick connects your pussy to the ruined pice of fabric previously hiding it from him.

He positions himself, spreading your legs again. His eyes never leave your pussy, the hunger in his stare resembling a starved man about to eat for the first time in weeks.

The first press of his tongue to your bare slit is slow and devastating.

Sunghoon moans low against you, the vibration shooting straight into your core.

He licks you in long, deliberate strokes—savoring, tasting, owning.

One of your hands finds his hair—silky and soft between your fingers—and tugs gently, but Sunghoon just growls, low and warning.

“No, sweet girl. Let Daddy take care of you.”

He wraps his arms under your thighs, locking you in place, and devours you properly.

His tongue dips into your entrance, teasing, before lapping up your slick and circling your clit in lazy, torturous patterns.

Every slow lick, every wet suck against your aching bundle of nerves pulls a broken moan from your throat.

You arch, panting, grinding your hips against his mouth helplessly.

Sunghoon pulls back just enough to mutter against your dripping cunt, “Look at you… already so wet for me. My baby’s pussy always knows when I need her.”

You whine, thighs trembling.

The need spirals, sharp and unbearable, but Sunghoon keeps it slow. He keeps you right on the edge, wanting, needing, desperate.

Only when you’re sobbing, softly whispering ‘Please, Daddy, please!’ does he relent.

He sucks your clit between his lips hard enough to make you cry out, the orgasm ripping through you without warning, blinding and hot.

He doesn’t stop.

Not even when you start squirming from the overstimulation, not even when your fingers scrabble at his shoulders.

Sunghoon growls against your cunt and holds you down, tongue and mouth working you through every wave, until you’re left limp and gasping.

When he finally pulls back, your juices slicking his chin, he kisses his way up your trembling body, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses along your stomach, your ribs, the soft underside of your breast.

You blink up at him, dazed, and he smiles—soft, almost sweet—as he brushes your damp hair from your forehead.

“My sweet girl,” he murmurs, thumb stroking your flushed cheek. “So good for me… always so fucking good.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s pushing his sweats down, his thick cock springing free—flushed, leaking, and hard for you.

Sunghoon leans down, pressing a kiss to your parted lips.

You taste yourself on his mouth.

“Think you can give Daddy just a little more, baby?” he whispers, nudging the head of his cock against your sore, needy entrance.

The way you whimper and nod—desperate, greedy—makes him chuckle softly.

“That’s my good girl.”

He pushes in devastatingly slow, stretching you all over again—claiming you once more in the dead of night, with only the moon to witness it.

He’s not gentle this time.

Because you’re his.

And tonight, just like every night, he needs to remind you of it.

Sunghoon sinks into you inch by inch, and your walls flutter helplessly around him, still soaked, still twitching from the orgasm he wrung out of you minutes ago.

He curses low under his breath—the sound raw, almost pained—and braces his hands on either side of your head, caging you beneath him.

“Fuck, baby…” he rasps, pressing his forehead against yours for a breathless moment. “You’re so warm… my sweet, sweet girl, so fucking tight for me…”

He doesn’t wait—doesn’t even give your pussy time to adjust.

He pulls almost all the way out—the head of his cock catching at your entrance—before slamming back in with a deep, heavy thrust that knocks the air from your lungs.

You sob his name brokenly, your nails clawing at his broad back, but Sunghoon just growls—a dark, possessive sound vibrating in his chest.

“That’s it, baby,” he pants. “Take it—Take all of Daddy’s cock.”

He sets a brutal pace—hips snapping against yours, his balls slapping wetly against your ass with every thrust.

The bed creaks under the force of it, the frame rattling against the wall, but neither of you care.

Not when he’s fucking you like he’s trying to carve you open—to brand you from the inside out.

Sunghoon dips his mouth to your neck—biting, sucking, marking—leaving angry red blooms along your skin.

You feel them blooming across your collarbone, your breasts, your shoulder—a constellation of bruises only he will ever touch.

“My baby,” he grits out, sinking his teeth into your shoulder just hard enough to make you cry out. “My fucking baby. Mine.”

You can’t speak—too overwhelmed by the relentless stretch and thrust of him—but he sees it in your eyes, the way you nod frantically, whimpering as tears prick the corners of your lashes.

Sunghoon lifts one of your legs, hooking it over his arm to fuck you deeper, harder, until every thrust punches a wet gasp out of you.

The angle lets him hit that perfect spot—over and over—until you’re babbling, begging without words.

“Never gonna let you go,” he hisses, his voice rough against your temple. “You’re mine, my love. You hear me?”

You nod again, tears slipping free now, overwhelmed by how full you feel, how good it is, how right it is.

“You’re never going back to that fucking campus without me,” he growls. “Never gonna let some little college boy even look at you. Gonna keep you right here—in my bed—dripping with my cum every fucking day.”

The filthy, possessive words send you hurtling toward another orgasm—tighter, hotter than the first.

You feel yourself clenching around him, milking his cock greedily, and Sunghoon snarls when he feels it.

“Fuck—that’s it, baby. Cum on my cock. Show me who you belong to.”

You shatter around him with a hoarse, broken gasp—body seizing, back arching off the bed—and Sunghoon loses it.

He drives into you with reckless, punishing thrusts, chasing his own release, desperate to empty himself inside you.

And when it hits him—when his cock throbs deep inside your spasming cunt—he presses his mouth against your throat and roars into your skin, thick, hot cum flooding you in endless, jerking spurts.

He doesn’t pull out; he stays buried deep. His hips grinding in tight, messy circles, making sure every drop stays inside you.

The lewd wet sounds echo in the silence, your bodies slick, trembling, bound together by sweat and want and obsession.

You’re both gasping—wrecked, ruined—but he still doesn’t move far.

Instead, Sunghoon leans down—his body heavy over yours—and captures your mouth in a kiss.

It’s filthy; your spit mixing, his teeth tugging at your bottom lip, his tongue fucking into your mouth just like he fucked your cunt.

A kiss that tastes like desperation, need, and ownership.

He kisses you until you’re whimpering into him, clinging weakly to his shoulders.

Only then does he pull back slightly—just enough to press his forehead against yours again.

“My baby,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “My sweet girl. You’re not going anywhere. Ever.”

This time you kiss him—slower, but just as dirty—while his heavy, softening cock remains buried inside you, your combined cum leaking slowly out your pussy.

Outside, the night stretches on, the ocean murmuring against the shore.

Inside, you’re wrapped up in Sunghoon’s arms—claimed, filled, and hopelessly his.

Exactly how he always intended it.

#ᝰ — writes #ᝰ — wondering #ᝰ — enhypen #park sunghoon smut #sunghoon smut #sunghoon scenarios #sunghoon hard thoughts #sunghoon au #stepdad!sunghoon #park sunghoon x reader #sunghoon x reader #sunghoon x y/n #enhypen sunghoon x reader #sunghoon x you #park sunghoon x you #park sunghoon hard thoughts #park sunghoon scenarios

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ghstzzn · 6 months ago

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so needy — enhypen hyung line

pairing(s): enhypen hyung line x fem!reader (separate!)

genre(s): pure smut. with some plot from overexplaining.

tags/warnings: SMUT! MDNI! needy but not quite subby, rough & sloppy unprotexted sex, face fucking, jake munch agenda, masturbating (m. rec), male whimpering yupp, lots and lots of descriptions of boners, seriously they are all hard. no prep for reader, exhibition heh.. (parking lot & bathroom at a party), tried my hardest to go needy im a hard!dom writer im sorry, creampie, one pullout method, cum eating, cum... feeding?, biting, uhh lmk if i missed any srsly. wc: 3.2k. 400-700 for each

💭: WE LIKE OUR MEN IN HEAT GROWLS🦅🦅🦅 @jjunieworld and i. we went insane. i went insane. i seriously tried to make them needy and jakes is probably the closest ill ever get to writing a subby idol. its hard. sorry. ill try harder because i like this i think. <3 i need to get them pregnant asap.

heeseung had been in the recording studio since he had woken up, and yet he still had a long night ahead of him due to editing and touch ups. he was going insane.

you had sent him a selfie of you when you woke up, complaining about him being gone. it was innocent. but heeseung has been rock hard since.

his thoughts were full of you— every lyric had just reminded him of you and fuck he’s never needed you this badly before. the pillow that he’s kept on his lap all day felt like a fucking brick and he’s been subconsciously bucking his hips into it.

heeseung lets out a groan, throwing his head back as he cups his hardened cock through his flimsy sweats. he cannot take it anymore. pulling out his phone, he shoots you a text, complaining that he was hungry and didn’t feel good— a little lie because he knows if he told you he was painfully hard, you’d just tell him to wait. he can’t do that.

you’re so sweet to him, truly, you ask him if he’s okay and tell him you’ll be there in ten.

the door automatically locks when it's shut and you walk up to him, resting your hand on his forehead. he is feeling warm. heeseung leans into your touch and groans softly before grabbing your wrist, throwing the pillow and sitting you on his lap.

not even three minutes later, he’s thrusting up into you relentlessly. you’re desperately trying to grip onto anything, his shoulders, the chair and even the equipment table behind you. heeseungs grip on your hips is tight, bruising even.

you’re both already cumming, the pace he set was too much for you and he’s simply been hard way too long to last more than seven minutes. though, as soon as he emptied himself inside you, he’s lifting you out of his lap, shoving aside an expensive keyboard and shoving your face down onto the table.

“fuck- fucking take it,” he spits as he continues pounding you from behind. “b-been so fucking hard all day, all because of you.”

his cock is hitting the most sensitive spots with his brutal speed, you almost feel as if you really did something wrong. you reach up to grip onto something, knocking into a few buttons in the process, turning on some music— which honestly helped cover the sounds of your moans but probably not necessary due to the soundproof room.

“hah- heeseung it’s t-too much!” you manage to squeak out, hiccuping and whimpering.

you’re spasming around his cock once more, he sloppily thrusts into you a few more times before pulling out and emptying himself on your lower back. you weakly lift yourself to peek behind you, glancing back and forth between his still hard cock and his eyes that were full of nothing but lust.

heeseung will be here all night— and so will you.

─────────────────

jay thought it’d be a good idea, a great one! he brought you with him to tour some fancy guitar museum he was invited to. you both were so excited to attend, throwing on your best outfits— which included that one dress that jay absolutely went feral for.

he could barely focus on the guitar he was testing out when you were sitting so pretty and patient in front of him, smiling and cheering him on. he didn’t even realize he was fucking up the chords, face red when he realized it wasn’t just you and him in the room.

you sat in the acoustics room with him, dress riding up your legs, leather jacket hanging off your shoulder as you watched him pick at each string with so much adoration in your eyes.

jay was going to go fucking insane. he can feel himself hardening at the mere sight of you— truly he’s usually better at keeping himself kept in public.

when you asked so sweetly to try out at guitar yourself, he thought he would combust right there.

he helps you choose a guitar, slipping the strap around your neck and even setting up the amp for you. jay sits back and watches as you play around with different chords you’ve picked up from him, but his eyes refuse to leave your fingers.

the way they delicately pluck each string or how they grip the guitar pick, how your other hand grips the neck of the guitar to hold down strings. he almost groans when he watches you almost struggle to fit them around it.

if only that were his cock.

jay has to keep yanking and pulling at his jeans. he almost grabs the guitar from you just to cover his inevitable boner. his jaw is clenched, he wants to leave so fucking bad. he’s seconds away from pulling you into the closest room and tarnishing his image just to fuck you.

finally, your time at the guitar center was over. jay’s practically dragging you to the car and you aren’t even sure why. maybe you did something to upset him?

as soon as you reach the car, he’s sandwiching you between him and the cold surface. your boyfriend doesnt waste a second before grabbing your hand and forcing you to grab his throbbing cock through his jeans.

“for the past four fucking hours,” he grits out, nuzzling his face against your cheek, “four fucking hours that i’ve been so fucking hard. because of you.”

your face is red and you’re whipping your head around the parking lots, it’s almost empty thankfully— and dark outside. “i-i did this?”

he groans in the crook of your neck, “please, baby, fucking need you now.”

those are the only words you need to get you to drop to your knees. your hands shake slightly as they fumble with his belt, pulling it apart and yanking his jeans down just enough to free his cock.

it’s practically red and leaking, you almost pout when you think about your poor boyfriend being that hard for so long because of you.

jay seems to not like how long you're taking because he’s immediately taking your hair into his fist and smacking his tip against your lips. you eagerly invite his length into your mouth, using your hands to work whatever you can’t fit.

he has to hold back from cumming right there. the way your lips wrap around him so well, your throat struggling to take him. this is exactly what got him hard in the first place. jay rocks his hips back and forth, pushing his cock further and further into your mouth.

“yeah- fuck. taking me so well, huh?” jay mutters, biting his lip to contain his grunts. “thought about this exact fucking thing in there. so pretty around my cock.”

his words make you hum in arousal, sending vibrations down his length. jay groans and throws his head back, pushing you further down his cock. the gag that rips from your throat is almost enough to make him empty himself all over your face.

jay continues to practically fuck your mouth. your hands drop to grip his thighs as you let him use your mouth however he pleases. both of his big hands in your hair, forming a messy ponytail tail as he continues to thrust into you roughly.

“fuckfuckfuck! almost there, baby.” he’s almost whimpering, it’s so good. after a few more thrusts, he’s pulling out and cumming, emptying himself onto your cheeks and lips.

there’s so much cum you have to take him back into your mouth to save yourself from a messy shirt.

jay pants as you ride him through his intense orgasm. needless to say, he’s fucking you again in the car this time.

──────────────────

jake was restless. he was quite literally rolling around on your bed as you ignored him for some stupid fucking book.

“jake, i seriously need to cram this by tonight. then we can hang out!” you promised him.

six fucking hours ago. he groans loudly, loud enough to make you scoff and shake your head.

“why don’t you go play on my pc?” you suggest sweetly, “you love the games i have on there!”

“i dont want to do that.”

you sigh and shrug your shoulders in response, you already told him countless times that you were busy and he’s the one who chose to stay.

“baby, please just take a break.” he pleads. “there’s no way you’re finishing this by tonight.”

he rolls over on his stomach and grips onto your leg, sporting a dramatic expression. jake was right, there was no way you were finishing any of your work tonight, but that almost gives you more reasons to not take a break.

“the sooner i finish, the sooner i'll be all yours baby.” you tell him, patting his fluffed up hair down, messy from rolling around.

he groans again, “noo, baby i want you- no i need you now!”

“why are you so antsy right now, jake?”

jake drops his head into your lap, muffling his voice. “ ‘m so horny.”

“hm?” you hum, not quite hearing him. he only responds by softly kissing your inner thighs, unable to hold back any longer.

he pushes his jean clad cock against your soft mattress as he travels down your thighs, leaving a trail of kisses behind.

“jake.”

“i said im horny. im so fucking horny and you smell so good.” he repeats, lifting his head to look you in your eyes.

your brain freezes at his words. “i… i’ll be done soon, i promise- just-“

he cuts off your words by pressing a desperate kiss over your clothes cunt, sending shivers down your spine. you can feel yourself getting wet by his needy and desperate actions.

“jake!” you whimper out when he licks a stripe over your pajama shorts. he doesn’t even care that you’re still fully clothed, a piece of flimsy fabric won't stop him.

your boyfriend continues to make out with your cunt through your shorts, shifting to bite and suck at your thighs. “pleaasee.” he lets out a muffled whine.

you’ve already dropped your books and papers beside you, soft whimpers leaving your mouth as your hands find their spot in his long hair. “fuck— jake slow down!”

jake shakes his head, his own hands moving to yank down your sleep shorts. he knew you weren’t wearing panties, and he’s pretty sure that’s what got him so horny in the first place. the amount of times he looked down at your thighs to catch small glimpses of your ass and cute cunt because they were barely covered.

it took so much restraint to not shove his aching cock between your thighs— make you forget all about your boring paperwork.

jake attaches his lips to your clit, sucking and practically making out with it. every now and then he shoves his tongue as deep as he can inside your oozing hole, gathering all your juices on his tongue and slurping.

you can’t tell who's moaning louder, you or him. he’s attacking your cunt with everything he has all while rutting his hips into your mattress, attempting to pleasure himself but he could honestly cum untouched as long as he had your sweet pussy in his mouth.

he’s groaning against your cunt and letting out incoherent curses, “f-fuck.. hmph so- so good.”

your eyes roll to the back of your neck and you can feel the heat pool in your lower stomach.

“jake- gonna cum, please dont fucking stop!”

jake listens well, continues to suck and lap at your wetness as if its his last fucking meal. you don't even notice his hand leaving your thigh to jerk himself off but when you do— it pushes you immediately over the edge.

you tremble as you cum all over his mouth, and he only eagerly slurps it up. he doesn’t pull away and until you yank him up by his hair, you stare at his soaked lips, your arousal dripping down his face.

he lifts himself up to kiss you, feeding you your own cum, his hand comes up to grip your neck as you engage in a desperate kiss.

when he lets go of you to rid himself of his pants, your hand comes up to touch the wetness left on your cheek— it hits you that jake came all over his own hand while eating you out.

there was no way you were letting him out of your sight tonight.

───────────────────

sunghoon was giddy when he found out he could bring a plus one to the prada after party. he literally couldn’t wipe the grin off his face when he told you that you could accompany him.

but now he almost regrets it.

since you were his plus one, you had gotten a free outfit from the brand. and god was it the best thing he’s ever seen you wear. but also the worst.

this wasn’t his only issue. you were his plus one. so why the fuck were you pretty much attached to jungwon at the hip? why were you ignoring him when he’s the reason you were there?

it’s not like he was angry either, instead he just really really wanted you right there next to him. he was so fucking horny.

even before you both left the house to head over. he had no idea what the outfit looked like until you put it on and his eyes almost popped out of his head.

sunghoons also not really the type to voice his every thought to you, otherwise you both would’ve skipped the party entirely just to fuck.

well, he wasn't angry. but he can’t help it when the horniness eventually turns into pure sexual frustration. he leans further into the couch as he watches you bounce back and forth from jungwon and heeseung.

your lonely boyfriend couldn’t even tell if he was jealous, angry or hurt. above all, he just wanted you to sit on his cock for the rest of the night. he understood that you were having fun, some of your other friends in the industry were also invited to this party but he couldn’t help but to feel so left out.

he almost groans as he watches you make your way to yet another one of his members. what about him? he’s here too! his cock twitches beneath his dress pants and he sets his hand with his drink on top of it, hoping it’s not obvious that he’s suffering at this very moment.

“you okay, man?” a voice calls from behind the couch, sunghoon looks up to see jake hovering. “you haven’t moved from that spot in about 40 minutes.”

sunghoon nods and shrugs, “can you tell my girlfriend to meet me over here? i haven’t seen her all night.” he lies through his teeth, he’s literally been watching you all night.

jake tilts his head in confusion, “uh, yeah. i’ll go get her, be right back.”

he taps his finger on his cup as he watches jake whisper in your ear, pointing behind him in his direction. you glance behind jake and sunghoon quickly averts his gaze.

you nod and respond to jake before making your way over to your boyfriend.

sunghoon quickly downs his drink as he sees you walk towards him, a soft smile on your lips. so now you’re finally paying attention to him?

“what’s wrong, hoonie? jake said you needed me.”

he nods, setting his drink down and grabbing your wrist instead, “yeah. i do need you, right fucking now.”

you don’t get a chance to question his words before he’s yanking you towards the furthest bathroom in the building. you’re heels almost make it too hard to keep up with him and you’re calling out his name but he’s too occupied on finding any empty bathroom to fuck you in.

sunghoon finally finds one, tugging you into it and slamming the door behind you and clicking the lock.

“what’s wrong, baby?” you ask him again.

“why are you talking to every single one of my members but not me?”

you blink at him, surely you’ve interacted with him throughout the night. a smile grows on your face when it clicks. “awwe, hoonie! are you jealous?”

sunghoon grips your chin with his hand, “i’m not jealous. you ignored me, there’s a difference.”

“i wasn’t! and i’m here now, right?”

he rolls his eyes, smushing his body against yours and the door. “baby seriously. need you so bad right now, i had to watch you talk to everyone while i was sitting there so fucking hard.”

your eyes widen slightly, “why didn’t you tell me?”

“god this fucking dress— i’m going insane.” he ignores your question completely, pulling the bottom of your dress up your thighs.

“sunghoon! we can’t- not here!”

“mm, i don’t care.” sunghoon mutters as he pulls your dress above your hips. “told you i needed you, huh?”

he grips your hips and moves you against the fancy bathroom vanity, turning you around and laying you flat against the counter.

sunghoon ruts his clothed hardon over your own panty clad cunt. “feel it? feel how hard you make me all because a stupid dress?”

“y-yeah, hoonie.”

he sucks in a breath of air and yanks down your flimsy thong before practically ripping the button off his overpriced pants to free his angry cock.

you glance at him in the mirror when he aligns his leaking tip with your wet entrance. no amount of slick and arousal could make taking his size any easier.

“wait- baby i can’t take you like that..!” you pleaded with him.

sunghoon doesn't listen, stuffing you with his length, ripping a gasp from you, forcing you to throw a hand over your mouth to contain any more noises from you.

he wastes no time before beginning to pound into you, your hips slamming against the edge of the vanity with each thrust. you feel every vein against your walls and soon the initial pain turns into pleasure.

your boyfriend’s sloppy and brutal pace tells you just how fucking needy he’s been for the past few hours. sunghoons letting out a string of curses as he continues to abuse your cunt to chase the orgasm he’s been craving for so long.

“god. fuck- so fucking tight.” he groans out. “n-need it so bad.”

you’re biting your own hand to contain the noises that are desperately escaping your mouth, his pace making it impossible for you to stay silent. sunghoons bending over as he continues to fuck into you, gripping your throat as he leaves harsh bites on your shoulder— marks that’d be impossible to cover due to the thin and flimsy straps on your dress.

“shit—“ his movements stutter before hitting his peak, his warm cum filling up your insides but he doesn’t dare stop.

he continues to desperately thrust into you, overstimulating himself because he’s still so stupidly hard. grunts and whimpers are leaving his mouth, muffled by your neck and hair— but his noises only bring you closer to your own peak.

“hoon..! c-cumming, please.”

even after you cream around his cock, his movements don’t stop. his thrusts are sloppy and his cock is knocking against your cervix, fucking you hard and deep all because he needs to cum again.

sunghoon lets out a loud groan as he finds himself emptying himself once more inside of you. rocking his hips slowly to ride himself through his second intense orgasm, it was almost painful.

he slips out of you with a grunt, his cock still half hard but he decided right there that the both of you would be leaving the party early.

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