𐙚 “Discipline” - Oh Sungjun 𐙚
Kinktober Day 8
wc: 3.6k
Genre: Smut MDNI 18+
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, Dom/sub dynamics, Jealousy, Punishment and “lesson” theme, Light bondage (wrist restraint), Rough sex, Degradation, Power imbalance (consensual), Orgasm control, Orgasm denial, Creampie, Aftercare, Emotional tension, Possessive behavior
There’s always been a line with Sungjun.
A soft, teasing edge to your relationship that feels like play—even when it borders on sharp. The way he narrows his eyes when someone stands too close to you. The way he drags you back by the wrist when you wander too far ahead. It’s not possessive, not exactly. It’s just… him.
And maybe it’s cute, the way his jaw tics when you get a little too flirty with the others. Maybe it feels good, sometimes, to know he watches.
But lately, the air around him’s changed. Still quiet, still collected—but tense. Watchful. As if he’s waiting for something to confirm what he already suspects.
He’ll never admit he gets jealous so easily.
You caught it the first time last week—after practice, when he saw you laughing with Hwi by the vending machine. It was nothing. A dumb joke and a sideways nudge. But Sungjun lingered behind the others, his mouth tight, his eyes unreadable.
He didn’t say anything then.
He didn’t have to.
The conversation came days later, and it started as casually as anything with him ever does.
“You flirt without noticing.”
You blinked at him, confused. “What?”
Sungjun didn’t look at you. He was sitting at the edge of your bed, back straight, hands clasped between his knees. Calm. Too calm.
“You do it with everyone,” he added. “The laughing. The touching. You don’t even see it.”
You laughed, not because it was funny, but because it felt ridiculous. “Are you seriously jealous of Hwi?”
His jaw flexed. “I’m not jealous.”
“Then what are you?”
He looked at you then—slowly, like the answer tasted bitter in his mouth.
“Maybe you see it. And you like it.”
The words hit you harder than they should’ve.
You’d expected him to let it go. To roll his eyes and drop it like he always did when things got too close to the bone. But instead, he looked at you like he wasn’t sure he could trust what he saw anymore. And that stung.
That conversation stayed with you.
You replayed it in your head when he wasn’t looking. Turned it over like a coin between your fingers.
And slowly—maybe selfishly—part of you started to wonder what would happen if he was right.
It starts small.
During practice, you laugh a little too long at Hwi’s jokes. You let him tug your wrist when you’re switching formations. When he offers to adjust the mic on your collar, you don’t flinch away.
You know Sungjun’s watching.
He hasn’t said a word since you walked into the room. But you can feel his presence across the space like static—charged, sharp, waiting. Every time Hwi leans close, you feel Sungjun’s stare between your shoulder blades.
It’s subtle at first.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t scold. Doesn’t even look directly at you.
But his movements are stiffer. His rhythm more precise. The way he wipes sweat from his neck with a towel looks like it takes effort not to tear it in half.
You go a little further.
You whisper something to Hwi between takes. Laugh at whatever dumb response he gives. You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore—just letting the heat rise, letting it build.
You’re not sure what you’re trying to prove. That he sees you? That he still wants you, even when he doesn’t say it?
The room thickens with tension.
Even Hwi notices. He doesn’t flirt back—not really. His eyes flick past you more than once, landing on Sungjun like he’s checking for a reaction.
You think maybe he’s about to ask if everything’s okay when the instructor finally calls break.
You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath.
But across the room, Sungjun still hasn’t looked away.
Practice ends in a blur of movement—water bottles being tossed, someone pulling off a shirt, a few of the guys laughing about dinner plans.
You’re wiping sweat from your neck when Hwi bumps your shoulder again.
“Yo,” he grins. “You trying to beat me in karaoke later or what?”
You smile. “Only if you’re ready to lose.”
It’s harmless. It should be harmless.
But then you hear it—cutting through the noise, low and final:
“Car. Now.”
The room stills.
Everyone hears it. Everyone feels it.
Sungjun doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to.
Your head turns slowly. He’s standing near the door, towel slung around his neck, bag already over his shoulder. His eyes are locked on you—sharp, unwavering, not angry, but absolute.
You freeze for a second. Then nod.
No one says a word as you follow him out.
The car ride is silent.
Not quiet—silent. The kind of stillness that crackles under the weight of everything unsaid.
You sit rigid in the passenger seat, hands curled in your lap, while the city flickers past the windows. Streetlights paint Sungjun’s face in gold, then shadow, over and over again.
He doesn’t speak.
His hand grips the wheel tight enough to show the flex in his knuckles, but otherwise, he’s perfectly composed. No yelling. No sighing. Not even a glance in your direction.
You don’t know if that makes it better or worse.
Your heart pounds.
You want him to say something—to break the silence, to do something—but instead, he keeps driving. Calm. Focused.
Until he turns into your complex, pulls into the usual spot, and kills the engine in one smooth motion.
The car stills.
Then, finally—softly—he speaks:
“Inside.”
He doesn’t look at you when he says it.
He just opens the door, steps out, and shuts it behind him. Quiet. Controlled.
You follow.
Every footstep up the stairs feels too loud, too heavy.
And the tension doesn’t stay in the car. It follows you both all the way to the door, pressing against your spine like a hand.
When the lock clicks behind you, the air shifts.
Sungjun doesn’t speak.
He doesn’t even look at you as he toes his shoes off, walks past you toward the hallway, and disappears into the living room. His movements are calm, measured—like he’s not angry. Like he’s thinking.
And somehow, that’s worse.
You follow slowly, tension crawling up your spine. The apartment is dim, quiet. No music. No hum of the TV. Just the distant sound of traffic outside and the low thud of your heartbeat in your ears.
Sungjun doesn’t pace. He doesn’t slam a cabinet or throw his keys on the counter. He sets them down gently. Peels off his jacket. Folds it in half, lays it over the back of the couch like it matters. His sleeves get rolled next—one slow turn, then another—until his forearms are bare, hands braced on either side of the counter as he exhales once, steady.
It’s too calm.
“You wanted my attention,” he says finally, voice quiet. Low.
You flinch.
His eyes are on you now—dark, unreadable. There’s no raised tone, no outward fury. Just the kind of stillness that promises consequences. The kind that makes it clear this conversation won’t be loud, but it will cut deep.
“You got it.”
You don’t answer. You’re not sure you should.
Sungjun steps away from the counter. Walks toward you slowly. Stops just close enough that you have to tilt your chin up to meet his gaze.
“You think I didn’t see the way he touched you?”
He’s not asking. He’s already sure. Every word is delivered with quiet precision, like a verdict being handed down.
“He didn’t even have to try,” Sungjun continues, his tone sharpening just slightly. “You let him get close. You laughed in his face. And you knew I was watching.”
Still, you say nothing.
Because he’s right.
His jaw tightens. “Say something.”
You swallow. “You said I wanted your attention.”
“And you got it,” he repeats. “But I want to know why.”
You open your mouth, then close it. The weight of his stare pins you in place, heat curling low in your belly—not from fear, not exactly, but from the pressure. From knowing he’s standing there, so in control of himself it’s crushing.
“You wanted to see what would happen if you pushed me.”
He leans in, voice dropping an octave.
“Now you will.”
He steps back, nods once, and gives the quietest command you’ve ever heard from him.
“Bedroom.”
It’s not a request.
It’s not even a threat.
It’s a promise.
You obey without thinking, pulse fluttering, footsteps soft as you turn and walk down the hall.
You can hear him behind you. Slow. Unhurried.
When you reach the room, he doesn’t slam the door.
He closes it like a gentleman, not saying a word as he walks past you toward the dresser, opens the second drawer from the top—the one you both know holds nothing but intention—and pulls out the thin, black silk tie he’s used before. Not to hurt. Just to hold. To remind.
He turns, tie in hand, and crooks two fingers.
“Come here.”
You do.
He doesn’t touch you right away. Just stares, eyes traveling over your body like he’s deciding what kind of lesson you need tonight. His head tilts slightly. A breath, measured and slow.
Then he speaks.
“Hands.”
You lift them.
He steps closer and wraps the tie around your wrists—nothing rough, nothing fast. Just tight enough that you feel the edge of it. Then he holds them there, his thumbs brushing over your pulse like he’s tracking every beat.
“You crossed a line tonight.”
His voice is calm. Unshaken. He’s not mad. Not yelling. And somehow that makes your breath catch more than if he’d raised his voice.
“I let a lot of things slide when it comes to you,” he says. “I know what you’re like. I know how you smile when you want something. I know when you’re just being friendly.”
The tie tightens just slightly.
“But tonight wasn’t that.”
Your mouth opens, but he shakes his head once.
“You don’t get to talk yet.”
He guides you back two steps until your knees bump the bed. You sit without being told, and Sungjun kneels in front of you, eyes level with yours.
“You wanted to know what it looks like when I get jealous.”
His fingers slide under the hem of your shirt, slowly peeling it upward.
“So look.”
He undresses you without rushing, without fumbling. Every movement deliberate. When your top is gone, he presses a kiss just below your collarbone—soft, careful—and then moves lower, undoing the button of your jeans like he has all the time in the world.
By the time you’re bare, wrists bound and chest rising fast, he’s still fully clothed. Perfectly composed.
“Lie back.”
You do.
And then he begins.
“You let him touch you,” Sungjun says, one hand resting firmly on your hip. “You smiled like it was nothing. Like I wasn’t standing ten feet away.”
His fingers trail down your thigh. “So now I’m going to touch you. And you’re going to feel the difference.”
You moan when his hand slides between your legs—but it’s not enough. He brushes lightly over your center, just enough to make you writhe, never enough to satisfy.
“Don’t close your legs,” he murmurs. “You were so eager to spread them for someone else.”
Your hips jerk. “Sungjun—”
The slap of his palm against your thigh shuts you up instantly.
“Did I say you could speak?”
Your breath catches. You shake your head.
“Then don’t.”
He presses two fingers to your clit—not to rub, just to hold. Enough to drive you wild.
“Answer when I ask. Nothing more.”
“Yes,” you breathe.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, Sungjun.”
He leans down, kisses the inside of your knee.
“Good girl.”
The teasing continues—fingers barely dipping, circling, never giving you enough. He watches you squirm, eyes fixed on your face, studying every reaction. When he does slip two fingers in, it’s slow. Precise. His thumb stays still against your clit, refusing to move.
“You think he could’ve made you this wet?”
You don’t answer fast enough. The fingers still.
“No,” you gasp. “No, only you.”
He smiles. “That’s right.”
The thrusts deepen. His pace is still slow, almost punishing in its control.
“You don’t need their attention,” he says. “You need mine.”
Your wrists pull against the silk as your back arches. He’s so composed—so quiet—but it’s killing you in the best way.
“I pay attention to everything. You know that?”
He curls his fingers just right. You sob.
“I see the way you move. The way you look when you’re turned on. When you’re playing dumb. When you want to be punished.”
Your body is trembling now, sweat beading along your chest.
“And I give you everything,” he says. “So don’t pretend like anyone else could ever fucking touch you the way I do.”
His voice breaks—just slightly. The first real crack.
You look up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted. His fingers still moving, still fucking into you slow and deep, but something’s changed. His brows knit faintly. His jaw clenches. And then—
“You wanted to see jealousy?” he says quietly. “Here it is.”
He pulls his fingers out and leans down, mouth replacing them in one fluid motion.
Your cry breaks the silence.
He licks into you like he’s starving, like you’re the only thing that could ever satisfy him. Tongue flat, wide, slow at first—then sharper, focused. His hands keep your thighs spread, pushing down hard when you try to close them.
“Sungjun—please—”
His lips drag up to your clit and suck, just once, sharp and wet and perfect.
“You don’t get to cum yet.”
You whine.
“Not until I say so.”
His mouth moves lower again. Your hands are still tied, useless against the blankets as you writhe under him. Your body begs for release, but he keeps it just out of reach.
“I know you,” he murmurs between licks. “I know how you like this. Slow. Messy. Desperate.”
Your orgasm is building—hot and tight, hovering close—but you don’t dare let go.
He looks up at you, lips slick.
“Hold it.”
You nod, panting. Your legs are shaking. Every muscle tight.
He slides two fingers back in and finally—finally—starts moving fast.
“Now,” he says. “Cum for me. Now.”
You fall apart instantly.
It tears through you, your body convulsing, toes curling, hands yanking against the silk restraint as you scream his name.
And through it all—his hand never stops. He fucks you through it, wringing every last tremor from your body until you collapse back into the mattress, chest heaving.
But he doesn’t let go.
You’re still shaking, still catching your breath when his fingers slip free—and then you feel the blunt press of his cock, hot and hard against your soaked entrance.
“Sungjun—”
Your voice breaks, but he doesn’t respond. He grabs your thighs and pulls you closer, shoves them up, folds you open like you belong to him—and he still doesn’t kiss you.
“You think we’re done?” he mutters, voice ragged but cold. “You think one orgasm teaches you anything?”
He drags the head of his cock through your folds, not pushing in—taunting. The slick sound of it makes your core clench again, involuntarily.
“You flirted with him knowing I’d see,” he growls. “So you’re going to feel me now. Every inch.”
And then he thrusts into you in one hard, punishing stroke.
You cry out—more from shock than pain—but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t give you time to adjust. He sets a pace immediately, fast and deep, every snap of his hips sharp and angry.
“Is this what you wanted?” he grits out, voice shaking. “Wanted to push me this far?”
He fucks you like you asked for it. Like you earned it. Like the only way to silence the jealousy in his chest is to ruin you.
Your hands scramble at the sheets. He grabs your wrists—still flushed from the tie—and pins them above your head with one hand. The other grips your hip hard enough to bruise, forcing your body to take every thrust, no matter how deep.
“I told you not to make me jealous,” he pants. “You didn’t listen.”
Your eyes blur with tears. He leans in close, mouth near your ear, and growls:
“Now take it.”
And you do—because you have no choice. He fucks you with the same brutal control he used when he tied your wrists, when he held your orgasm in his hand and refused to give it to you. Now he’s giving it to you all at once—his cock slamming deep, his body pinning yours to the bed, hips unrelenting.
You gasp his name again, but it’s ragged, breathless, almost a sob.
“Sungjun—too much—”
“It’s not,” he snaps, thrusting harder. “You can take it. You wanted this.”
He lets go of your wrists just long enough to grab under your knees and shove them back, folding you open so deep his cock hits your cervix. You cry out, and he fucking smiles.
“Yeah,” he grits. “Right there. Feel that?”
You nod, lips trembling.
“That’s mine. All of it. This pussy. That body. That fuckin’ mouth you used to laugh at him like I wasn’t standing right there.”
He slams in again—deeper.
“Was I invisible to you?”
“No,” you whimper.
“Say it louder.”
“No—fuck, no—only you.”
“Damn right.”
His hand finds your throat—not choking, just holding, just claiming. His thumb brushes your jaw while his hips keep driving into you, sweat dripping from his hairline. You can hear how wet you are, the obscene sounds of your cunt swallowing his cock over and over as he wrecks you.
You’re close again. Somehow. You didn’t even think it was possible. But the way he’s using you—talking to you like this, fucking you like he’s trying to fuck the memory of Hwi out of your body—it’s too much.
“Sungjun—gonna cum—please—”
“Don’t ask. Just do it.”
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t change pace. Doesn’t soften.
You come again with a strangled cry, thighs shaking violently, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes as you lock around him and shudder hard. It rips through you raw—too soon, too intense—and he fucks you through it without mercy.
“You hear how wet you are?” he groans. “So fuckin’ messy for me. Like you wanted to be punished.”
You can’t speak anymore. Can’t think.
He’s panting now, finally losing rhythm, losing the last bit of composure he’s held onto all night. His hips start to stutter, thrusts deeper but sloppier, his hands braced by your head.
“You wanted to see what happens when you make me jealous?”
You nod, sobbing.
“This is what happens,” he growls.
And then he buries himself deep—so deep it knocks the breath out of your lungs—and stills.
His body shudders hard as he comes, cock pulsing inside you, heat spilling into your cunt in thick, hot waves. He curses low into your neck, jaw clenched, hands gripping the sheets like he’s trying not to lose his mind.
You feel all of it. Every drop. The way he jerks through it, the way he holds himself inside like he’s afraid you’ll slip away the second he pulls out.
He stays there—deep, trembling, breath slowing down one exhale at a time—until the room is quiet again.
He doesn’t move right away.
His body is still pressed to yours, breathing hard into your shoulder, cock softening slowly inside you. His skin is damp with sweat, his hands loose against the mattress now. And for the first time all night, his voice is quiet—not calm, not cold. Just quiet.
“Hey.”
You blink, eyes still glassy, throat raw.
He lifts his head.
“Look at me.”
You do.
And the second your gaze meets his, something inside him shifts. His expression—so stern before, so unflinching—cracks wide open. His brows pull together, and his voice comes out low, hoarse.
“Was that too much?”
You shake your head before the words can even form. “No. I’m okay. I promise.”
His exhale is shaky. Relieved.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay.”
He slips out of you gently and you both flinch, your bodies hypersensitive and sticky, but he doesn’t waste a second. He leans over the side of the bed, grabs his shirt from the floor, and wipes between your legs carefully—like you’re something fragile. You wince at the overstimulation and he kisses your inner thigh in apology.
“I’ll get you water,” he says, already moving. “Stay here.”
You don’t argue.
When he returns, he hands you the bottle first, then slides under the blankets beside you, pulling you straight into his chest. His hand cups the back of your head as you drink, fingers sifting gently through your hair like he’s still trying to come back to himself.
You let the silence settle.
He holds you. You breathe.
Eventually, you speak. “I shouldn’t have pushed you like that.”
He doesn’t respond right away. Then, softly: “You wanted to know if I’d fight for you.”
You nod.
“I always will,” he says. “But you can ask me next time. You don’t have to test me to see it.”
You bite your lip. “It wasn’t fair.”
His hand finds yours beneath the blanket. “No. But I get it.”
You both fall quiet again, and this time it’s not heavy. It’s not tension. Just peace.
Outside, the city hums quietly—traffic, the faint patter of rain against the windows, the distant vibration of life moving on. But in here, you’re still. Your body aches in that good, broken-in way. The kind that only comes after something real.
Sungjun presses a kiss to your forehead. Then your cheek. Then your jaw.
“I’m not mad anymore,” he whispers.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
You shift to face him and tuck yourself under his chin. “You forgive me?”
He nods. “But I’m not forgetting it.”
You smile, eyes fluttering shut.
“Good.”
He wraps both arms around you like he’s sealing the moment in place. The last of the jealousy has melted away. There’s nothing left between you but sweat and love and the warmth of bodies pressed close.
You fall asleep like that, tangled and clean, with his heartbeat steady under your cheek.
And just before you drift off, you hear him say it—so quiet it feels like a secret.
“Just yours.”
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Taglist: @17ha @moonstruckbae @galaxy4489 @notinthemoodbeach @voucearse @lze325 @sungjunhh
