#ateez san | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

xuchiya · 3 days ago

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accidentally have 8 pets || ateez || chapter 3

| genre: fluff. slice of life. small tinge of angst. kind of supernatural(?) | mentions: doctors. vets. needles. adoption. a bit cruel. magic starts. abuse to animals. laws. douyin saving the day. TAGLIST: CLOSED

back to masterlist || chapter 4

The next morning, I carefully place the final batch of croissants onto a baking tray, ensuring each one is evenly spaced to allow for a perfect rise. The dough, layered with butter and proofed overnight, already carries the promise of a golden, flaky texture. With practiced ease, I brush a thin coat of egg wash over the delicate layers, knowing it will create the crisp, glossy crust that makes each bite irresistible. The scent of warm yeast and butter lingers in the air as I slide the tray into the preheated oven, setting the timer for twenty minutes—just enough for them to reach that perfect balance of crispness and softness.

As I straighten up, I run my hands over my apron, brushing off the fine dusting of flour clinging to my fingertips. The kitchen is quiet except for the steady hum of the oven and the faint sounds of movement from the front of the café. Making my way toward the sink, I let out a soft sigh, feeling the slight ache in my arms from the morning’s work. The cool rush of water soothes my skin as I rinse away the remnants of flour, butter, and dough, watching as the cloudy mixture swirls down the drain. These small moments—cleaning up, resetting before the next task—are just as much a part of baking as the mixing and folding. They give me a chance to pause, to take in the comforting stillness of the kitchen before the day fully begins.

The café has always carried a quiet, almost serene ambiance, with the only consistent sound coming from the gentle hum of the air conditioner. The occasional murmurs of customers blend into the background, their voices never rising above a comfortable lull. Yet, beyond the front counter, the kitchen remains untouched by the world outside—an isolated sanctuary where the rhythmic sounds of baking are the only disruptions to the silence.

It is in this very corner that Hongjoong has found his own place of respite. Whether it’s the warmth of the ovens or the peaceful solitude of the backroom, he often curls up there, lost in thought or drifting off into light naps between breaks. Meanwhile, at the front of the café, Wooyoung upholds his role as manager with an intensity that keeps both the business running and any potential troublemakers at bay.

The thought of the café ever being robbed never truly crosses my mind—not because we are immune to such threats, but because Wooyoung himself serves as an unshakable deterrent. His sharp eyes catch every movement near the counter, and his reflexes are faster than most would expect. Any customer who lingers a little too close to the register is met with a sharp hiss of disapproval, followed by a swift, precise bop to the offending hand. His vigilance has become so notorious that it even caught the attention of the local authorities after a viral clip showcased his aggressive yet oddly effective boundary enforcement. While some argued about his methods, the overwhelming support from customers—and the undeniable proof of his effectiveness—ultimately silenced any critics. If anything, Wooyoung had become something of a legend, his presence alone enough to keep any would-be thieves at bay.

I let out a soft sigh, pressing a gentle kiss to Hongjoong’s head before making my way back to the counter. There, Douyin stood, casually chatting about asynchronous classes as he assisted a customer with their order. His voice was steady, effortlessly switching between casual conversation and professional service.

Wooyoung, meanwhile, had claimed his usual spot at the waiting counter, his presence effortlessly drawing attention. Customers watched him with quiet adoration, their gazes following the slow, rhythmic sway of his tail as it flicked lazily in the air. Completely unfazed by the attention, he remained curled up, indulging in one of his signature midday naps.

As a woman collected her order and turned to leave, I offered her a polite smile. “How’s it going?” I asked, my tone warm as I watched her depart.

Douyin hummed in approval, finishing up a transaction before glancing at me. “It’s going well. Your croissants are still the number one favorite among customers,” he mused, tapping the register lightly. “Not surprising, though. I already knew they were good—I had a taste before you even opened up.” His smirk held no shame, only firm confidence in his judgment. “And trust me, they’re definitely worth the hype.”

I smiled at his words, feeling a sense of pride—until his last remark fully registered. My expression froze before vanishing entirely, my head snapping toward him in disbelief.

“Wh-What?!” I sputtered, my voice rising slightly. Douyin only responded with a sheepish grin before swiftly turning his back to me, pretending to focus on preparing a cup of coffee. My mouth hung open, struggling to process his casual confession.

I distinctly remember warning Wooyoung—repeatedly—not to steal sweets. It wasn’t just about his health; I didn’t want to attract pests that could ruin the integrity of the kitchen. And yet, here I was, about to accuse my cat again for something that wasn’t even his fault.

“Kang Douyin—”

“Hey,” Both of our heads snapped toward the familiar voice. Taehyun stood near the counter, giving us a small wave. At the sound of his voice, Wooyoung’s ears perked up before he bolted toward him, his tail swishing excitedly as he meowed in greeting.

“Hello, Taehyun. The usual?” I asked, already reaching for the ingredients to prepare his drink. He nodded, offering a small smile as Douyin assisted him with the payment. Meanwhile, Taehyun busied himself with Wooyoung, scratching behind his ears as the feline purred in contentment.

A soft, inquisitive meow chimed from below. I glanced down, only to see Hongjoong staring up at me with round, expectant eyes. Chuckling, I bent down and gently picked him up, placing him beside Wooyoung. Taehyun let out a quiet gasp upon noticing the cat’s new look. His eyes widened slightly as he took in Hongjoong’s freshly groomed fur and the tiny bell attached to his pearl collar.

“Hongjoong, hello—how have you been?”

The Persian cat let out a soft meow in response, nudging his nose against Taehyun’s hand. A fond smile graced Taehyun’s lips as he ruffled the fur of both Wooyoung and Hongjoong, his touch gentle and familiar. The moment felt peaceful, a rare kind of serenity in the café’s usual routine.

Of course, peace never lasted long.

“Don’t hold up the line with your sappy little family reunion,” a sharp voice cut through the moment.

The warm atmosphere shattered like glass as our heads turned toward the source of the interruption. The same man from the apartment across our apartment door, stood right behind Taehyun, his impatient scowl evident as he tapped his fingers against the counter. Taehyun instinctively stepped aside, murmuring a quiet apology, but the second he moved, Wooyoung and Hongjoong reacted.

Their relaxed posture stiffened instantly, fur bristling as they arch their backs. A deep, guttural hiss escaped both cats as they fixated their sharp eyes on the man. Their tails flicked aggressively, warning signals flashing through their body language.

The café, which had been filled with soft murmurs and the hum of the air conditioner, grew eerily silent.

Surprisingly, the entire café fell into a tense silence, all eyes subtly shifting toward the man as he clicked his tongue in irritation. A flicker of disgust crossed his face, but I ignored it, choosing instead to prioritize the safety of my cats.

I scooped up Hongjoong while Douyin swiftly grabbed Wooyoung and Hongjoong from my arms, retreating toward the kitchen. The two felines continued to hiss in protest, their ears flattened against their heads. I exhaled through my nose, forcing a tight smile as I turned back to the man, unwillingly preparing myself to take his order—despite every fiber of my being wanting to kick him out.

“Sorry about that, sir. Is there something you’d like?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral.

The man scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief as if personally offended by the minor inconvenience. He was just about to speak when a familiar sound reached my ears—a whining, pitiful cry.

My breath caught in my throat.

It was the same husky from yesterday.

My eyes instinctively darted downward, and sure enough, there it was. But my stomach twisted at the sight. Unlike yesterday, when I had only heard its cries, I could now see the full extent of its suffering.

A thick chain, rusted and heavy, was wrapped tightly around the poor dog's neck instead of a proper collar. The once-beautiful fur was matted, stained with grime, and bearing marks where the chain had rubbed against its skin for too long. To make matters worse, a muzzle was strapped over its snout—too tight, restricting its ability to breathe properly. The dog whimpered again, its dull, exhausted eyes flickering up to meet mine.

I clenched my fists beneath the counter, my nails digging into my palms. A wave of anger and disgust surged through me, stronger than before. A deep frown etched itself onto my face as I looked back at the man, my voice escaping before I could stop myself.

“He’s not aggressive.”

The owner’s expression twisted in irritation, his grip tightening on the chain as he yanked it harshly, causing the husky to whimper. His teeth clenched, his voice low and venomous.

“Shut it, boy!” he snapped at the dog before turning his glare on me. “Listen here, lady, just take the damn order and mind your own fucking business.”

I fought the urge to hurl his drink straight into his face. My fingers twitched, my nails biting into my palm as I forced myself to remain composed.

Douyin returned from the kitchen, his sharp gaze immediately landing on the husky. His brows furrowed, concern flickering in his eyes.

“As much as animals have instincts,” he said coolly, “this looks a lot more like animal abuse.”

The man scoffed, rolling his eyes, before yanking on the chain once more. The husky let out a sharp cry—this time, unmistakably in pain.

Taehyun moved instinctively, stepping forward as if ready to intervene, but the man shot him a warning glare. Taehyun halted, his hands curling into fists at his sides, his jaw tightening as he leveled the man with a burning glare of his own.

“Animal abuse?” The man barked out a harsh, mocking laugh. “What the hell do you know about abuse?! Are you fucking with me, boy?!”

I stepped between him and Douyin, my own glare unwavering as I met his fury head-on.

“Sir, I strongly suggest you drop that chain. You’re hurting the dog. And keep your voice down—this is a café, not a goddamn alleyway.”

The man scoffed again, but after a tense beat, he let go of the chain. For a split second, I thought he might actually listen.

Then, he did something so vile, so beyond comprehension, that the entire café seemed to freeze in place.

With a cruel sneer, he kicked the husky.

Gasps rang through the café as the poor dog yelped, its body skidding across the floor, colliding with the stools by the barista counter. A pained howl escaped from its muzzle as it curled into itself, shaking violently.

My breath caught in my throat. My heart clenched so tightly it hurt— like hurt hurt— something similar when I first found Wooyoung in that alley with a wound on his paw and then Hongjoong all alone and small. It’s not because I am a pet lover like anyone here— no but because I suddenly felt like there’s a string attach between me and the pets I meet.

My entire body burned with fury, my hands trembling at my sides as my gaze snapped back to the man. He had the audacity—the sheer gall—to smirk as if he found amusement in the suffering he had just caused.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” Taehyun shouted, already rushing toward the injured husky. My head snapped towards Taehyun as he held the husky in his arm. My gaze returned to the man, I was about to speak up, my anger bubbling over, when Douyin suddenly stepped in front of me. His posture was rigid, his shoulders squared with quiet authority, and for the first time since I had met him, a severe expression was etched onto his face.

Then, in a firm, unwavering voice, he spoke.

“Republic Act No. 8485, Section 6,” he began, his words sharp as a blade cutting through the tension. “It shall be unlawful for any person to torture any animal, to neglect to provide adequate care, sustenance, or shelter, or to maltreat any animal. It is also illegal to subject any dog or horse to dogfights or horsefights, to kill, cause, or procure to be tortured, deprived of adequate care, sustenance, or shelter, or to maltreat or use the same in research or experiments not expressly authorized by the Committee on Animal Welfare.”

A hushed silence fell over the café. Every customer, every worker—everyone had their eyes locked onto Douyin. His words rang familiar in my ears. I had never heard him speak like this before, reciting laws with such precision, such confidence. It was something I had only ever heard from public servants—police officers, lawyers, advocates.

Unless—My gaze trailed to Douyin, suspicion creeping in. “Do…?”

But before I could even finish my sentence, Douyin cut me off, his voice growing even colder, “Section 7,” he continued, his piercing stare never wavering from the man. “It shall be the duty of every person to protect the natural habitat of wildlife. The destruction of said habitat shall be considered a form of cruelty to animals, and its preservation is a means of protecting them.”

The man’s expression darkened, his mouth twitching as if ready to argue, but Douyin didn’t give him the chance. He took a step forward, his voice lowering into something dangerous—something that sent a chill down even my spine.

“And you, sir,” Douyin seethed, “have not only violated Section 6, but you have also shown a blatant disregard for Section 7. No animal—no living creature—deserves to be under your care.”

The café was deathly silent. And for the first time since he had walked in, the man looked uncertain. The man scoffed, jutting his chin at Douyin with a sneer, his arrogance thick in the air. “You must be good at talking nonsense because all I hear is shit. You just made that up. To what? Scare me?”

Douyin remained still, his expression unreadable, but before he could respond, a shaky voice broke the tense silence, “A-Ah, actually… that’s true.”

The café’s attention shifted toward the source of the voice. A young student, barely out of his teens, stood near one of the corner tables. His hands trembled slightly as he clutched his phone, his face pale but determined. His eyes flickered nervously between Douyin and the man, but he swallowed hard and pressed on.

“H-He’s talking about Republic Act No. 8485… I-It was enacted in February of 1998…” The student gulped, his voice gaining a bit more steadiness. “I-I’d advise you, sir, not to speak to a prosecutor like that.”

A cold chill settled in my chest. I snapped my head toward Douyin, my breath catching in my throat. “P-Pr… Prosecutor?” The word echoed through my mind, the realization hitting like a sudden crash of thunder.

The man’s confident demeanor instantly faltered. His smirk wavered, his jaw tightening as his eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape. His foot slid back instinctively, his bravado crumbling under the weight of the revelation.

“Y-You’re—” he stammered, his voice cracking.

Douyin didn’t move. His shoulders remained squared, his expression calm but unyielding. His voice carried a weight that sent shivers down my spine, “You’ve committed a serious act of animal cruelty.” His words were sharp, like a blade cutting through the tension. “You will face the authorities for what you’ve done.”

The man scoffed, attempting to regain his composure. He straightened up, feigning confidence, but his shifting gaze betrayed him.

“That’s if they can catch me.”

He pivoted sharply, ready to make a run for it. Only to slam straight into an immovable wall of people.

The café patrons had moved—subtly but effectively—forming a human barricade between him and the exit. Their expressions ranged from firm determination to outright disgust. Some had their phones out, already recording the scene, capturing every detail. Others stood with their arms crossed, blocking any possible escape route.

And standing at the very center of the blockade was Taehyun. His arms were folded, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. His stance was relaxed, but his eyes gleamed with an edge of amusement, as if he had been waiting for this exact moment.

He tilted his head slightly, voice light but filled with finality, “Welp,” he said, “a little too late for that.”

The flashing blue and red lights painted the street outside, a stark contrast to the warmth of the café. The weight in my chest never lifted, even as the officers pushed the man’s head down, forcing him into the back of the police car. His protests were useless, drowned out by the chatter of witnesses and the hum of justice finally being served.

Wooyoung and Hongjoong sat patiently on either side of me, their tails twitching as they silently observed the scene unfolding before them. I let out a slow breath, reaching down to stroke their fur before calling them to follow me back inside.

The café was empty now. The customers had left, but not before giving their statements—each of them eager to ensure that the man would face the consequences of his actions. If a trial happened, there was no doubt he’d lose.

Near the entrance, Douyin stood talking to one of the officers, his usual calm demeanor intact. A few feet away, Taehyun spoke to another officer, hands in his pockets, but his expression was unreadable.

My gaze was drawn to the cage near Taehyun’s legs. Inside, the husky lay curled up, his small body rising and falling with each breath. Wooyoung and Hongjoong climbed up the bars, their noses pressed against the metal as they peered inside. The husky remained still, shivering slightly even in his sleep.

My heart twisted painfully at the sight.

He’s still scared.

Taehyun noticed my expression and spoke gently. “You can visit him, you know.”

I looked up, meeting his soft gaze.

“Douyin found out that this husky’s been in and out of adoption… every time, the owners treated him the same way.” He sighed, shaking his head. “He had a companion before, but they got separated during his second adoption. After that, it was just one bad home after another.”

The more I heard, the tighter my chest felt. I clenched the fabric of my shirt, trying to steady my breathing, but each word made the weight heavier.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t right.

And I—

A sharp inhale.

My lungs refused to expand properly.

My vision wavered as a rush of dizziness clouded my thoughts. My knees buckled before I could stop them, and the floor rushed toward me.

Somewhere in the haze, I felt strong arms catch me before I hit the ground.

Muffled voices—Taehyun’s? Douyin’s?—echoed in my ears, laced with concern. Their faces blurred in my swaying vision, but the last thing I saw before everything faded was the soft glow of the café ceiling above me.

The soft beeping of a nearby machine and the gentle pawing at my arm stirred me from my sleep. My body felt heavy, as if weighed down by exhaustion, but the cold, sterile brightness of the luminescent lights overhead was enough to coax my eyes open. This wasn’t home.

I blinked sluggishly, taking in the unfamiliar setting before my gaze landed on my right side.

Hongjoong was curled up beside me, his small body pressed close, breathing steadily in deep slumber. Wooyoung, on the other hand, was awake, his round eyes filled with concern as he pressed a paw firmly against my arm. The moment he noticed I was conscious, he let out a sharp meow—louder than usual.

The sudden noise startled Hongjoong, causing him to jolt awake. His head snapped up, disoriented, eyes darting wildly before landing on me. My lips parted, but my throat was dry, and the words scratched painfully as I whispered, “Hey, you two…”

Hongjoong let out a small, relieved sound and nuzzled into my neck, his warmth a stark contrast to the sterile coldness of the hospital bed. Wooyoung, still pressed against my arm, looked like he was trying to comfort me in his own way, his soft fur rubbing against my skin as I stroked his head absentmindedly.

For a brief moment, I let myself revel in their presence. The weight pressing against my chest was lighter now, though the ache still lingered. Then, the sound of the curtain being pulled aside broke the moment.

Douyin stepped inside, his face etched with concern, followed by a nurse. The second our eyes met, his lips parted in surprise, “Noona! You’re awake!”

His voice was filled with so much relief that it made my chest tighten again—this time, with guilt.

A small smile tugged at my lips as I tried to push myself up. The nurse was quick to assist, adjusting my pillows as she began a routine check-up. Her questions were simple, but I barely processed them, answering on autopilot as my attention remained on my younger brother.

Douyin watched me carefully, his usual playfulness absent.

The nurse soon stepped away, mentioning something about preparing my discharge, but I barely heard her. Instead, I turned to Douyin, my voice still hoarse as I asked, “How long was I out?”

He hesitated.

“A few hours…”

I gave him a pointed look, sensing his reluctance.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck before muttering, “Almost twenty-four hours.”

My brows furrowed. “What?” Douyin pulled a chair closer and sat beside my bed, crossing his arms. He looked tired. His usual energetic presence was dampened, replaced with quiet worry.

“They said it was due to stress, overwork, and dehydration. Nothing life-threatening, but… still.” His voice trailed off, his lips pressing into a thin line. I exhaled heavily, running a hand through his hair, “I’m feeling okay, don’t worry Do.” He nodded yet not convinced. I sigh, that made sense. I had been running on fumes for a while now.

But for it to get this bad…

I glanced down at Hongjoong and Wooyoung, who were still curled up against me, refusing to move from my side. It was clear that they had been worried too.

Douyin sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Taehyun-hyung took care of the husky. He’s being transferred to another facility for proper treatment.” I nodded absentmindedly, but at the mention of the husky, the ache in my chest returned, sharp and unforgiving. For a brief moment, my breath hitched—just for a second—but it was enough to send Hongjoong and Wooyoung into alert.

Before I could react, they immediately perked up, their ears twitching. Then, in an instant, they rushed toward me, their movements frantic. I blinked in surprise, instinctively raising a hand. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Wooyoung, who normally had a more playful nature, pressed himself against my side, his purrs unusually loud, snout near my right wrist. Hongjoong was no different, rubbing his head insistently against my neck yet he moved underneath my right hand. They had never reacted this way before.

Douyin, watching the scene unfold, frowned. “That’s… weird.” I glanced at him. “What do you mean?” He nodded toward my right wrist. “They keep going for the same spot when you are asleep.”

I looked down, confused.

Then, I saw it.

A black ink mark near my pulse point. My breath caught in my throat. I raised my arm, staring at the mark with wide eyes. It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t a smudge of ink or something that could be wiped away—it looked like…

“A tattoo?” Douyin’s voice was laced with curiosity. I pressed my thumb against it, rubbing at the skin, but it didn’t fade. It wasn’t ink. It was real.

But… I didn’t have any tattoos.

“I—I don’t get it,” I murmured, my pulse quickening. Douyin observed my reaction, his expression unreadable. Then, after a beat, he smirked—his usual teasing self peeking through.

“If you’re afraid of needles, that’s pretty brave of you.”

I scowled, lightly kicking his shin. “I didn’t get a tattoo.”

His smirk softened, and he leaned forward, resting his arms on the bed. His gaze flickered to my wrist again before meeting my eyes. “Then what is it?”

I swallowed hard, shaking my head. “I don’t know.”Silence stretched between us, only interrupted by the sound of Wooyoung’s purring.

Douyin sighed, then reached out, placing a hand over mine. His grip was firm, steady, “Whatever this is, whatever’s going on…” His voice was quiet but certain. “I’ll listen. Until you figure it out.”

I met his gaze. The worry was still there, but so was something else—an unspoken promise. And despite the whirlwind of confusion swirling inside me, I managed a small, genuine smile, “Thanks,” I whispered, squeezing his hand in reassurance.

The past two weeks had blurred into a haze of forced rest, reluctant healing, and the ever-watchful eyes of my younger brother and two vigilant felines. I had been advised—no, practically commanded—to stay home and recover before stepping foot back into work. Douyin, usually the more easygoing of us, had turned into a strict enforcer, refusing to let me even lift a pan without supervision.

It had been a battle. A losing one.

The moment I even thought of getting up to cook, Wooyoung would arch his back, tail fluffed like a bristling duster, while Hongjoong sat near my feet, unwavering in his silent judgment. If Douyin wasn’t scolding me, my feline companions took turns ensuring I stayed put.

I sighed, shaking my head at the memory as I placed my things inside my locker, finally back in the comforting space of the café. I ran my fingers over the cool metal, a sense of normalcy washing over me. No more bed rest. No more guilt-ridden stares from my brother. No more being treated like fragile glass.

It was good to be back.

Grabbing my apron, I tied it around my waist with a practiced motion, making sure my hair was tucked neatly under a net. The moment I turned around, two familiar figures hopped up onto the counter.

I chuckled, already knowing what they wanted.

Reaching back into my locker, I pulled out Wooyoung’s tiny necktie and ID, fastening them around his collar. He let out a small, satisfied trill, his tail flicking in delight. Then, I retrieved the small apron I had specially made for Hongjoong, draping it over him.

“There. Are we all clocked in?”

Wooyoung meowed in response before hopping off, squeezing through his designated door to reach the cashier’s counter. From there, he settled himself on his usual perch, surveying the café like a miniature manager.

I chuckled, glancing at Hongjoong, who had already curled up on the counter where I had set out today’s pastries. His fur blended seamlessly against the soft linens, his tail flicking lazily as he made himself comfortable.

“Will you be giving me a hand today?” I asked, amusement lacing my tone.

Hongjoong blinked at me slowly before resting his chin against his paws. A nap, it seemed, was more important than assisting me. I let out a mock sigh, shaking my head with a smile. “Well, thanks, Hongjoong.”

Despite his lack of assistance, their presence made the café feel even more like home. After everything that had happened, after the worry, the stress, and the lingering confusion about the strange tattoo on my wrist…

This moment—this small, simple routine—was enough to ground me again.

The rhythmic pressing of my palms into the dough, the soft give of the flour-dusted surface beneath my fingertips—it was supposed to be comforting. The repetition, the familiar motion, the scent of fresh yeast in the air. And yet, my mind betrayed me.

A sudden shift, like a thread pulling too tightly in my chest, made me pause. My breath caught, my hands frozen mid-knead as a memory—no, a vision—flashed through my mind.

The husky. Alone.

Curled inside his kennel, his body trembling—not from the cold but from something far worse. The kind of anxiety that sat heavy in the ribs, that clawed at the heart with an invisible force, making every breath feel shallow, every moment feel uncertain. His blue eyes, usually so piercing, looked dulled by fear, by confusion.

A gasp slipped past my lips. My fingers twitched over the dough, but the warmth of something soft brought me back.

A paw.

I blinked, vision clearing as I looked down. Hongjoong.

He was awake now, his large, doe-like eyes peering at me with quiet understanding. His paw rested gently over my hand, grounding me, tethering me back to reality.

I swallowed, exhaling shakily before looking back down at the dough. It felt lifeless under my touch. The energy I once had, the flow of creation that usually ran through my hands—it had dulled. Even as I finished shaping the first batch, sliding the tray into the oven, there was no satisfaction. No warmth of accomplishment.

Just emptiness.

With a quiet sigh, I sank to the floor, watching the oven’s glow flicker against the steel tray, illuminating the soft rise of the pastries as they baked. The warmth should’ve been comforting, but my mind was still elsewhere—trapped in the unsettling connection I couldn't quite explain.

Hongjoong settled beside me, pressing his body against my arm. Then, a nudge. His nose brushed against my wrist. My right wrist.

Frowning, I raised my arm slightly, tilting it towards the light. My heart stuttered.

The tattoo.

Or what should have been a tattoo.

I had already come to terms with its mysterious appearance—an incomplete mark of black ink, etched onto my skin like a secret I wasn’t meant to uncover yet. But now, I watched, breath hitching, as it moved.

Before my eyes, new strokes appeared, forming intricate patterns like ink seeping into parchment, slow and deliberate. Not a hallucination. Not a trick of the mind. The lines curled and extended, shifting into something more defined yet still unfinished. Like a puzzle slowly revealing its image.

Revealing something like a sign. A symbol. Something I didn’t remember choosing… but was undeniably becoming a part of me.

Minutes passed as I continued to stare at the tattoo that had just… changed. I could still remember the first time I saw it—weeks ago, in the hospital. Back then, it was nothing more than a small, black-inked circle near my wrist. An odd mark I didn't remember getting.

New lines had appeared, forming something almost geometric. A triangle? No, not quite. It had connections, lines that extended beyond its edges. Something about it resembled the shape of an eight, yet it has edge sharp, structured—more like a symbol rather than a mere design. It felt deliberate. Almost… calculated.

A strange chill ran down my spine. Before I could process anything further, hurried footsteps pulled me out of my daze.

“Are you okay?” Taehyun’s voice snapped me back to the present. I barely had time to lift my gaze before he was in front of me, kneeling, his sharp eyes scanning my face. His sudden closeness made my breath hitch—not out of fear, but out of surprise.

His hand was under my chin. I stiffened. My face grew warm under his scrutiny, yet he seemed oblivious to what he had just done. His concern overpowered any other thoughts he might’ve had.

“I—I’m good, Taehyun.” My voice came out uneven, but I managed a small nod. Satisfied, he pulled away, standing up and extending a hand. I hesitated for a second before placing mine in his, allowing him to pull me to my feet with ease. Dusting off my pants, I kept my gaze anywhere but on him, yet he still didn’t move.

He cleared his throat. “Did I come in at the wrong time?” I shook my head quickly, finally meeting his gaze. “No, are you here for your coffee?”

Taehyun nodded, but there was something off. His body language, the way he shifted his weight slightly, the way his fingers flexed at his sides. It was subtle, but it was there. He needed more than just coffee.

Raising an eyebrow, I crossed my arms. “Do you need pastries too?” He tilted his head slightly, an amused glint in his eyes. “Sorta, but… I need you.”

My breath hitched. From the counter, Hongjoong perked up, blinking as he glanced between me and Taehyun. I looked back at him, confusion evident in my expression. “Need me for what?”

Taehyun exhaled, his jaw tightening slightly as if preparing himself, “It’s the husky.”

The room felt colder. I swallowed, feeling my fingers twitch against my sides. The husky. That same strange sense of unease returned, curling into my chest, heavy and suffocating. Something told me I wasn’t prepared for what he was about to say.

MEET THE NEIGHBOOR'S FRIENDLY VET DOCTOR:

TAGLIST: @soso59love-blog . @yoongisgirl69 . @forever-atiny . @ateezswonderland . @fr34k4c1dr41n . @breadedloafs . @k1xiara . @nkryuki . @beabatiny . @berryguks . @miniverse-zen . @fight-me-uwu . @xh01bri . @eclipwze . @blue-angel24 . @nkryuki . @matchahintonagar . @asyamonet22 . @szakias . @sanaegi . @notyaelly . @wolviejex

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k-hotchoisan · 8 months ago

Note

hiiiii <333 I have lovedddd lovvvveeeddd alll of your works I actually spent my day reading each and everyone of them I love it so muchhh!! 😭❤️

I have a request teehee, could you write one where Sannie is like a professor in your college and there’s little teasing here and there and where he ends up having her alas!! DOM - SAN ‼️💋

his favourite

<prof!san x fem!reader>

Prof Choi likes playing favourites.

You’re his favourite.

Genres/Warnings: smut, dom professor Choi San, pwp, face fucking, unprotected sex, oral (m receive) ,mutual pining, age gap, size kink, cream pies, mild jealousy plot, sir kink, light bondage (just tying up reader) teasing, sexual tension, teaching assistantxteacher obv forbidden but we still eat it up anyway!

Word count: 12.3K

a/n: happy birthday to the man of my dreams </3 enjoy this little choi san birthday treat. i put my love into this so please love this as much as i did! and thank you @bro-atz for the tidbits of help as always 🩷

apply for taglist here!

You stare at the laptop screen, scanning through your details on the application form, double, and triple checking that everything was filled in correctly.

“Which professors are you trying as a teaching assistant for?” Your roommate asks, her neck craning over to see you attaching the file to six different emails, to six different professors within the department, pretty much answering her question the moment she reads off each professor’s email.

“Why not try for the department chair?”

You scrunch your eyebrows as if it’s the first time you’re hearing that.

“Who?”

“Professor Choi?”

Your eyes widen, your neck almost getting whiplash from how fast you turned to your roommate at the sound of his name.

“Why the fuck would I try him?”

Your roommate shrugs in an attempt to hide her amused reaction from your reaction at his name.

“Who knows? I’m confident he remembers you even though you spent only one semester with him”, she hums turning away to pour herself another ice drink from the pitcher. “On a serious note, you may as well just get all the help you can get. Besides, what are the chances that Prof Choi sees your email? He’s the department chair. I’m sure his mailbox is just flooded anyway.”

True, you think to yourself, turning your head back to your laptop, and adding the professor’s email address in. But you still hesitate, staring at the application form, your cursor hovering over the send button. Your roommate looks over at you, and she decides that your wishy-washy behaviour is just being the biggest nuisance on earth, so her hand flies over yours and helps you to press send, and she watches you freak out at her while she giggles and escapes after committing her crime, chasing your roommate around the kitchen island for a good seven minutes.

Settling back down in defeat, you sigh in your hands, giving yourself pep talks.

Right.

The chances are close to zero that Prof Choi will see my application anyway.

The chances of him remembering me are close to zero anyway.

You shut your laptop, and the applications are completely erased from your mind.

“Yo, check your emails, babe. The application results are out for me”, your roommate says, her eyes glued to her laptop screen.

You settle yourself down across her, a chilled drink in your hand, pulling up your email inbox. As you expected, you see the subject headline ‘Teaching Assistant Application Results’, and you expand the email.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me”, you mutter, loud enough for your roommate to hear. Her head pops out from behind her screen.

“Who did you get?”

“Choi San.”

Professor Choi San. His classes weren’t the bane of your existence—but he, himself was.

And the fact that it only took one semester to solidify that claim. Almost everyone wanted to get into his class, so fucking many of them just squealing over how he looked almost god-like. You wonder how much of a swoon he would be, how much of the rumours that travelled down the stream were factual, though with thousands of students constantly fighting for a spot in his class, you sure were coloured surprised when you landed a spot in Professor Choi’s class.

The moment he walked in, the whispers within the confines of the lecture hall erupted into gasps and squeals. Unfortunately, the rumours were right—the moment ProfessorChoi walked in, it was as if your eyes naturally followed his movement—confident strides in his steps dictated by his outfit—a simple dress shirt under a dark gray vest that accentuated his wide shoulders and skinny waist.

He was so fucking handsome—his hair neatly slicked back, frameless glasses sat on his nose bridge, his sharp and small eyes hiding behind the lens. Undoubtedly, seeds of infatuation began lodging themselves in you. Well, it’s not like you had a chance with him anyway, especially when the gold band reflected from his ring finger being a huge indicator. Maybe keeping him as an eye candy would work out just fine.

Prof Choi’s classes were interesting, and he as a professor, other than being a distraction during the majority of his classes, held his credentials. However, at times, some sarcastic comments would bubble to the surface, and even though he did tend to commend top-scoring students for tests, he still maintained professionalism for the most part—the content taught wasn’t rocket science anyway. You saw yourself being able to breeze through the syllabus for the most part until you received your grade for one of your essays. You stared at his comments, marked in red lines, circles, and words—tone cold and direct—not that you weren’t used to it, but this time? You felt his comments alongside him marking you down were completely unjustified.

It was then that you pushed past the group of girls who would stay back after class to shamelessly flirt with him, under the guise of wanting to discuss more about the content taught that day, and you stood before the group, asking to speak to Prof Choi personally. Prof Choi did have people staying back after class to consult with him about grades, although they would stay shortly with him staying stern to his marking rubrics, but when he realised you weren’t backing down on top of the way you approached him so directly, it intrigued him.

His office was spacious, considering that he was the department chair—and without introductions, he had you dive in immediately in consultation.

You wasted no time, flipping through the spent pages of your essay, pointing out areas where you felt his comments were unjustified. Prof Choi listened, and he refuted your points, some of which you decided to accept but not for one particular part;

“This part had no proper scientific support of your argument for this point-“

“Bullshit”, you cut him off. Prof Choi blinked, shocked at the blunt cut from you. His eyebrows were scrunched in confusion next, wondering if he heard right that a student not only just cut him off, but cussed at him.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s here. A small significance value is still something isn’t it?” You replied, pointing at the paragraph after. He glanced at the paper once more, forcing himself to focus while you fought back that your argument was supported.

So you made Prof Choi sit before you and listen to your elaborations, and needless to say, he was rather impressed, although he had to hold his expression neutral.

You came out of the consultation victorious—the day Prof Choi called you over after his class again, handing you your script, and you saw your total marks shooting up to a gorgeous score. Your head was so into the clouds that you returned a smirk along with a shrug—showing off your victory and satisfaction as your thanks—an I told you so, leaving the professor to stare after you in awe while you practically skipped to your seat.

That sealed your fate.

From then on, Prof Choi would have his attention on you—recognising which seat you picked to sit in in class, wondering why you hadn’t dared sit nearer. And when it came to picking people to answer questions, his gaze would fly to you immediately—either waiting to call you out once you raised your hand or simply calling you when he felt like it. For some sick reason, he finds the way your face scrunches up in stress when he calls your name in his honey-soaked voice amusing, and even adorable at times, though he would never admit it. But oh, did he love the comments and answers you would give him.

Despite that assignment being the only one where you decided to consult Prof Choi, following every grade release of an assignment, he would single you out, especially after class, to fucking ask if you had questions regarding said assignment, which honestly started to freak you out—mostly because he never gave you the attention before, and you weren’t used to it. The whispering gossip in the class about you being the teacher’s pet slowly reached your ears too, and even Prof Choi heard it—and he only exacerbated that rumours by constantly giving you his attention.

Every time you reached your dorm, the words that left your mouth which your roommate could recite verbatim, “I swear to god, Prof Choi has it out for me!”

Not to mention you were fucking relieved when the last day of his class rolled around, but unfortunately, his parting words to you were, “I’m sure I’ll see you around, y/n”. You did everything in your power to avoid getting into his class and even bumping into him, which seemed to work swell.

Until now that is.

Now here you are again, standing before the familiar heavy wooden door, staring up at the wooden plate, embossed with gold lettering “Department Chair Choi San” staring right at you. You had to physically drag yourself off your bed to prepare for the first day partnered with Prof Choi. And when your roommate’s words of “oh come on, he can’t be that bad. He’s hot!”, echoed through your ears, it all the more made you want to just ditch your first day by clawing your eyeballs out.

You had to collect yourself before Prof Choi collected you.

With a raised knuckle, you rap against the door, taking deep inhales in the process. His voice, which sounded deceivingly like honey, remained the same as you remembered.

“Come in.”

You pause for a moment, embracing yourself before holding onto to doorknob and pushing his door open.

There he was, Professor Choi, his eyes focused on the scripts on his desk, which had piled up. His space remained the same as you remembered, for the most part—shelves littered with awards and files, the same desktop taking up one-quarter of his huge ass desk, and the couch with the coffee table left to the side of the room. Prof Choi wore a stern look of concentration on his face, still preoccupied with finishing up marking his scripts.

When his pen pauses and his gaze shifts towards the door, a small smile spreads across his face. He lifts his head and drops his pen, interlocking his fingers on his desk with growing amusement when his eyes meet yours.

Fuck, he’s still so handsome.

“Professor Choi”, you greet, holding your expression neutral as you bow, forcing yourself not to fidget with your tote bag.

“Y/n!” Prof Choi greets almost too enthusiastically. “I would assume you would be more than delighted when I picked you to be my teaching assistant.”

“Honoured, almost”, you reply. It’s taking all of your energy not to break his gaze. He’s staring at you with unreadable eyes, and you’re wondering if the fluttering in your chest is from the anxiety or the way Prof Choi is staring at you.

Prof Choi laughs, and it tickles your ears a little too good.

“Sit. We have a lot to go through today”, he gestures to the seat before him, and you take it.

He switches on his monitor to his course syllabus and turns the monitor slightly towards you.

“Oh, before we begin, it’s a pleasure meeting you again, y/n.”

Oh boy, was being Prof Choi’s teaching assistant a fucking handful. You knew it was gonna be rough, but to be assisting Professor Choi San? He was on another level—his schedule would be filled to the brim with meetings with the faculty on top of conducting classes weekly. You struggled in your first month, learning the ropes, especially from a busy and challenging professor like him. He wasn’t mean or cold at all, on the contrary, more direct and meticulous. Well, he had to be, considering his position. Nonetheless, it felt like he was always too busy to attend to your questions sometimes, and that would leave you to your own devices.

You stand in the aisle, looking down at the assortment of foods lined up in the chiller. Has Prof eaten yet? Does he even eat? What does he even eat? By instinct, you pull out your phone and open his chat.

[you]: Hi Prof. Have you eaten? I’m at the convenience store near the campus. I could grab something quick for you.

A couple of minutes go by, but your phone doesn’t receive a ping, and you had to reach the office soon. So you pick up another tuna rice ball for the professor alongside yours before making a beeline for the cashier.

Prof Choi hears the knock on his door and as usual, he utters his usual “come in”. His gaze lands on you, and he glances at the clock.

“You’re on time today”, he points out.

You furrow your eyebrows, confused. “I’m always on time, Professor.”

“You’re usually in a little earlier.”

“Right, because I got you this”, you reply, rustling through the plastic bag in your hands, fishing out the rice ball.

He looks up at you, confusion hinted in his expression. He doesn’t take the food yet.

“What’s this?”

“Tuna rice ball. Surely only having coffee in the morning is not filling your stomach.”

You put the food in front of him. “Besides, I messaged you but you didn’t reply. So I just chose something safe. Unless you’re telling me you’re allergic to tuna or something.”

Prof Choi blinks. His hands reach out to take the snack from the desk, unwrapping the plastic packaging as he watches you leave his office to grab a mug of coffee. He glances over at his phone, and sure enough, your name is there with your message.

Since then, his reply would pop up in mere minutes whenever you asked him if he wanted anything to eat.

Of course, the more you spent time with him, the more you grew comfortable, and all the thoughts you ever stressed about slowly faded off. Prof Choi grew more relaxed around you, internally grateful that you’re able to tank a significant fraction of his workload for him. Undoubtedly, you also come to realise that Prof Choi is human after all—he obviously would make mistakes, even as someone of his caliber, and deep inside, you found it rather cute, well, until you had to stop yourself from developing deranged thoughts.

Not to mention, another problem seemed to pop up—his flirty banter. He likely picked up that it made you flustered sometimes, and since then, he wouldn’t let it go, relishing at the way pink creeps up your cheeks when he would say something that wasn’t like his ‘professor-self’, and at worst, feeding into your crooked thoughts.

You stare at him as he types away, particularly, the metal band around his ring finger. You wonder who was the lucky lady who had the chance to be with him. You blink.

What the hell were you thinking?

“It’s rude to stare, you know”, Prof Choi’s voice snapping you out of your daydreams.

“I’m just wondering about your ring, that’s all”, you reply, forcing your attention back to your half-marked assignments.

“I’m not actually married”, he suddenly confesses, and for some reason, it makes your heart beat slightly faster.

“Huh?” Is all you manage to reply.

Prof Choi chuckles. He pauses his work on the desktop, turning his attention to you. Even though you have worked so closely with him for a while already, you can never seem to find your composure around him.

Even though you see his face every week, you can’t seem to wrap your head around how insanely good-looking he is, how sometimes you struggle to maintain eye contact with him, because it doesn’t take long before you feel yourself slowly flushing.

“I wear it on my ring finger so the students stop asking about my marital status”, Prof Choi clarifies. You watch him pull the ring from his ring finger and fit it over his index.

“So you’re single”, you echo.

He nods, “I’m single.”

What is this strange feeling of relief?

“What about you?” He suddenly asks. You’re not looking directly at him, and you don’t realise the way he’s looking at you attentively. And if you do, you just might combust.

“I’m…single too”, you answer, trying to meet his gaze, fidgeting with the red pen in between your fingers.

“And why’s that? Too busy fighting with your professors for grades?”

You glare at him.

“I think it was my professor picking fights with me”, you reply quickly, jabbing right back at him.

You watch Prof Choi lower his gaze, a smile spreading across his cheeks—an actual smile—his dimples showing up. Oh fuck. Just when you thought you could depend on your ribcage to contain your heart properly, you found out Prof Choi could actually smile.

When he looks up at you again, you break the eye contact, your gaze flying back to the papers before you.

“You know, I’ve met many students, but you were the first to cuss out at me.”

You did? “I did?”

Your professor nods, cocking his eyebrow at the way you had seemed to have simply forgotten something as eventful as that.

This time, Professor Choi bursts into a chuckle, completely amused by your reaction.

“Is that why you kept-“

“Giving you chances to answer in class for credit? You should really thank me for that. Your grade for my class was one of the highest you know.”

You feel your cheeks flush. But before you can retaliate, Prof Choi cuts you off.

“Jokes aside, no. I think the discussion we had that afternoon had an impression on me. The cherry on top was you cussing at me. I liked that. Refreshing and endearing”, Prof Choi continues, his attention seeping back to the pile of scripts before him.

“I think this side of Professor is pretty refreshing and endearing too”, you let it slip.

His pen pauses in mid-air. You don’t catch his gaze completely softening on you.

As the semester continues on, you began easing into the class schedules. You watch prof get swarmed by a group of students, a usual ritual that happens right when the class ends. At this point, you had grown used to it. Sometimes the students would come and approach you instead, which honestly surprised you, but your heart would feel warm, knowing that these students trusted you.

It was then you became acquainted with another teaching assistant under Prof Choi, who joined shortly after you did—Choi Jongho. Initially, he came off as a rather shy individual, but the both of you warmed up quickly with each other, sharing the workload and bonding over gossip with each other. Gosh, was he fucking amazing with gossip, especially when it came to Professor Choi. Soon enough, the both of you were texting almost on a regular basis, the conversations weighing more towards academic topics sprinkled with a little gossip.

“You’re going off with Choi Jongho?”

“Yeah”, you reply, bunching the papers in your hands. “I’ve got some things to discuss with him about.” Partially true.

For some reason, even though your professor has been completely swamped with papers to grade and meetings to attend, you would always find him loitering around your desk from time to time. He seems to especially enjoy doing that when you’re around.

“You’ve been spending an awfully lot amount of time with him”, Prof Choi points out, looking over your shoulder as he watches you scribble on another student’s paper.

“Yeah, we get along well actually. Isn’t that a good thing, Prof? Both your teaching assistants are besties.”

For some reason, that makes Prof Choi frown, but you’re too absorbed in your work to notice it.

A couple of minutes go by, and you still feel his presence, not that you mind, but you’re starting to find it peculiar that he’s been hanging around your desk a lot recently.

“Do you have something to discuss with me, prof?” You ask, eyes still glued to the paper.

“Yes”, he replies, taking another sip from his mug. “What do you think of Choi Jongho?”

Such a random question to ask, you think. Maybe he’s just making sure you and Jongho get along well?

You pause, giving yourself to think, tapping the back of the red pen against your bottom lip, taken aback by Prof Choi’s sudden question, but the conversations you and Jongho had resurfacing into your brain, and a giggle escapes you, which makes Professor Choi subconsciously narrow his eyes and furrow his brows.

“He’s fun to be around, and despite how he looks, he’s actually got a wicked sense of humor. Oh god, wait. Let me tell you what you he did that day while we were having lunch together-“

You turn your head to continue to run your mouth, only to slowly trail off when realise his face is just inches from yours, and you swear your heart is on a treadmill from the lack of distance between you and Prof Choi. It’s as if time paused, the both of you sinking right into each other’s gazes. You can’t help but notice how intense his gaze is, and you can’t seem to decipher his thoughts, but from the way this situation played out, you swore he’d just lean in and kiss you.

Your heartbeat accelerates at the thought—why would he do that?

And when his fingers are on your chin, your rational thoughts are getting flushed out.

“That’s an awful lot of cute things about Choi Jongho. I’ve never heard you talk about another Choi like that.”

You swallow hard, your body still frozen in spot.

“What do you think about him then?”

“Jongho? I was just-“

“No. Choi San.”

Oh god. You could only stare back at him. Prof Choi tilts his head, his eyebrows raised, waiting for his answer. His cologne floats and almost shuts down your senses—has he always smelled this good?

The corner of his lips curl slightly at the way you’re staring at him like a deer in the headlights.

“I t-think Prof-“

“San. Choi San”, he corrects you.

Another hard swallow the more you try to focus your gaze on him.

“I think Choi San’s a great professor. He’s really competent, a lot softer than he presents himself as-“

Fuck you can’t think. Not when he’s staring down your eyes to your lips like that.

“Mmhm.”

“And he’s really so-“

Then a loud knock echoes across the room, breaking the tension. Prof Choi’s body doesn’t shift, but he looks up at the door, shouting “door’s unlocked”, before he stands back upright, adjusting his glasses and walking back to his desk.

Jongho’s head peeks in, then he bows at Prof Choi before he walks to your desk. You stare up at him with a forced smile.

“Ready to go? I was waiting for your message”, Jongho says, his eyes glancing over the professor, then you, a strange feeling that he probably interrupted something.

You nod, while shoving your belongings into your bag, then slinging it on your shoulder.

Barely being able to look at Professor Choi, you still force yourself to, bowing goodbye to him.

“Thank you Prof Choi. See you tomorrow.”

He looks up from his desk, right into your eyes.

“See you too, y/n.”

You can’t help but wonder how far things would have gone if Jongho didn’t knock the door.

Jongho isn’t an idiot. Initially, he assumes that you and the professor were on much friendlier terms considering that you came in before he did. Granted, the workload he would give the both of you was the same, he would take the initiative to have lunch with the both of you both individually and together whenever he had pockets of free time, but what roused his awareness was the lingering glances Professor Choi would cast at you from time to time, the way he seemed to relish the reactions you would give him whenever he teased you.

He notices the way your ears would grow red even when you roll your eyes at the professor and jab him with another playful snarky remark.

Though he wonders how dangerous things could get, Jongho thinks this could get interesting.

The semester continues smoothly, the only change being that Jongho being absent from the office more often due to his other commitment to soccer. You remember him telling you he had quite a big match coming up, the sparkle in his eyes bright and twinkling whenever he talks about said sport.

If he wasn’t in classes, he’d be off for training, hopping into the office from time to time to pass Professor Choi marked scripts and reports. Prof Choi pretty much didn’t mind—he stated as long as Jongho did his job, he could be free to do what he wanted outside of being a teaching assistant.

Needless to say, the office was mostly Prof Choi and you, now even more time spent with him with Jongho mostly being absent. By then, the both of you had grown so accustomed to being in each other’s presence that banters amongst each other became the norm—the both of you competing with each other with unserious remarks, laced with almost flirtatiousness, just to see who would back down first.

Then came the proximity—since Prof Choi would wander over your desk as if he had all the free time in the world, he would somehow strike up another conversation with you, leaning over to hear you better, his arm bumping into yours to look over at the papers you were grading to check if you were doing them correctly. But what he absolutely adores the most is when you’d roll over to his desk to pester him with your questions—sometimes even testing him on his own content.

He likes the way he gets to be closer to you. He likes the way your shoulders touch his when you lean in to push the paper towards him so he can see the script better.

He likes the way you would finally look up and meet his eyes when you’re done formulating your question, waiting to hear his opinion.

Today is no different—Professor Choi being so used to the notion that he would only be seeing you in the office, the corner of his lips pull upwards at the thought of the types of banter you would have with him, the kinds of shenanigans you would bring into the office.

He hears your knock at the time you would always arrive, watching the way the door opens, and your head popping from the door, as you greet, “Hi Prof!”

“Good morning, y/n”, he would greet back, sipping on his morning coffee.

You walk over to his desk, dropping his tuna rice ball. “Here you go. Enjoy your breakfast, Prof!”

“You can stop calling me Prof”, Prof Choi suddenly says, twirling the pen in his hand. For a second, you wonder what triggered the sudden change. You’ve been calling him Prof since day one, pretty much used to it already, the only time you didn’t was when he—never mind. The thought of it is making your face flush again.

“Is there something else you want me to call you?” You ask, trying to calm your heartbeat down when that memory suddenly resurfaces.

“You can call me San. I’m fine with that. I know you’re still my teaching assistant but we’ve been working closely. I think it’s fine to drop the Prof honorific.”

You try out.

“Sure thing San”, you reply. “Though it’s gonna take a while for me to get used to this.”

“If you’re able to cuss in front of me, calling me by my name should be the least of your worries, y/n”, San teases.

You raise your hand, feigning a stance ready to smack him before you lower your arm, listening to the way San laughs before rolling your eyes and sinking into your desk.

The day marches on as normal—attending a class or two with Jongho before he’s whisked away to his soccer practice, leaving just the two of you for the rest of the day.

San is leaning at your desk again, looking at you typing out your report. He squints slightly before he leans down to your shoulder, his finger pointed at one of the paragraphs, asking you about the content. You answer him, and when you turn your head once you’re done, you find yourself looking at San’s side profile mere inches away—his sun-kissed skin, his pretty lashes, his thick, well-trimmed eyebrows, and the way his lips protrude out a little—he always looked like he’s pouting in the most adorable way.

That’s when you realise a problem seemed to be bubbling up to the surface, try as you might to ignore it, repress it—that you’re falling for your professor. Fast.

You snap back to reality, finally aware of how loud your heart is beating against your rib cage, and your hand flies up in instinct as a divider between you and San. San blinks at the sudden movement, confused.

“Y/n, what are you doing?” He’s not moving.

“I think I’ve got something on my face.”

San cocks an eyebrow. “You do? Let me check-“

His palm covers yours, bringing it down to the table, and you’re kicking yourself for sprouting such a self-sabotaging lie.

Why? Because now San has his hand on yours on top of his face in full view of yours, his eyes meeting yours before his gaze flutters around your face, checking for whatever hell you said was on your face.

His gaze meets yours and for a split second, something else glints in his eyes.

The door swings open, and San straightens himself up, slightly irritated at the interruption, leaving you to spin your chair away from San, your hands cupping your cheeks, the heat warming you up against the cold air conditioner. The heat from his hand on yours lingers for a little longer.

Jongho walks in, his duffel slinging on his shoulder with his shoe bag clipped.

“Hey, Prof. Hey cutie.”

San blinks. What did he just call you?

“Hey jjongie. Aren’t you supposed to be at practice?” You ask, forcing yourself to focus on your colleague instead.

“Supposedly, yeah, but there was a sudden downpour midway so training got cancelled. Might as well get some work done here”, he shrugs, dropping his bag onto the floor.

San is wrapping his head around the fact that you and Jongho seem to have pet names for each other.

“Didn’t miss me too much right?” Jongho teases. “‘Cause I did!”

“That’s a first coming from you jjongie”, you reply, surprising a smile.

“Of course! It’s been a while, how could I not? We should go eat dinner together sometime.”

San only stares on in silence, pretending to sink back into his grading.

Jongho walks over to your desk, taking his turn to look at your report. San watches the way Jongho’s arm is comfortable over your seat, as he asks you about your report, talking to you as if San wasn’t just behind you seconds before.

The fact you’re entertaining him—hitting his arm playfully and laughing at his remarks—all the more rouses some kind of irritation in San. It’s like a boiling pot.

He pretends he doesn’t see the way Jongho leans in to whisper something into your ear although it’s bugging him so fucking much. For once, he wishes Jongho’s training didn’t cancel.

“Oh right before I forget”, Jongho mutters, rushing back to his desk, digging through his bag. He walks back over with a paper in hand and places it before you. You glance down and your face brightens up—it’s a ticket to his game.

“For real?” You exclaim, your eyes bright, taking the ticket in your hands. “I’ll definitely make time for you.”

“I’ll score goals for you, kay?” Jongho teases, his eyes glancing at San, who is progressively looking more irritated.

“Ah, Is San not going?”

“San? Since when were you on first name basis with him?” Jongho wonders aloud, the suspicion only brewing even more.

“Jongho, don’t you have reports to hand in?” San asks curtly.

You feel like you are caught in between crossfire for some reason.

Jongho smiles, then has your head under his arm, which elicits another irritated reaction from your professor.

You have never had Jongho done this before. In fact, you recall him offhandedly mentioning that he’s never a physical touch person, and that anything with physical touch makes him shudder.

“Relax, Prof. You’d rather your subordinates get along than not right?”

Just when San is about to reply, Jongho suddenly exclaims.

“AH, coach is calling me back to the field. Prof, I’ll send you the report by tomorrow okay? See you guys!”, Jongho hums as he runs back to his desktop to turn it off.

“Has he always been like that?” San wonders aloud, his eyebrows furrowed.

“I guess. It’s actually what makes him cute.”

“Cute? You think Jongho is…cute?”

“Is he not? Doesn’t he remind you of a bear? Big and cuddly.”

San clears his throat, and you watch him walk over to your desk, his hand resting on the tabletop. He leans in.

“So… you find it cute when he gives you pet names?”

“Well, I mean-“

“You find it cute when he plays with your hair?” San curls your locks around his fingers.

You can’t seem to get words to leave your throat.

“You find it cute when he has his hands all over you like that?” He’s leaning in even closer this time, arms trapping you at either side.

“Prof-“

“No. It’s sir.”

Your mind is in a whirlwind at the way he’s towering over you, his scent the only thing filling your olfactory senses, the way he’s staring right into you, gaze sharp as a blade.

“You find it cute when his touches run up your body like this?” His fingers are trailing up your arms, every touch he burns into your skin, and when his thumb pauses at your chin, you realise you’re royally fucked.

Once more, his face is mere inches away from yours. You wonder if you’ll be teased like two previous times before.

“Of course you don’t. You’d rather I do that to you, right?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Yes, sir.”

His voice is barely a whisper, his eyes downcast, staring at your lips like it’s his reward to claim.

“Good girl.”

Of course, he claims it.

His kisses are so greedy—his lips prying yours open, and you feel yourself completely give in to him, surrendering whatever resistance, rationale, repression to Choi San.

You want more—you want seconds. Every swipe his tongue passes your lip, it makes your head float. How does someone taste this fucking good?

He pauses mid-way—barely a couple of seconds, to pull off his glasses and strew them across the desk—then goes back to devouring your lips.

San would smile in between kisses when he hears your whimpers. He thinks you’re so fucking adorable when you tremble slightly at his touch. It all goes straight to his cock.

He thinks you’ll be even more adorable when he ruins you.

When San pulls back, he swipes his thumb across your bottom lip, watching your glazed-out expression with amusement.

"I'd love to continue messing you up, but I have a meeting to attend. I’ll deal with you later, sweetheart. See you next week.”

His touch lingers on your chin for a couple of seconds longer before he pulls away and shifts to walk back to his desk, leaving your heartbeat wild and erratic, and your thighs squeezed tighter.

Since then, that was all you ever thought about—the slight smile before his lips collided with yours, the way his words rang in your ears. You could barely meet his eyes.

In more instances than one and with any chance given to him, he’d close up any physical distance he had with you. Worried that your emotions would bubble and overflow when he does that, you developed a habit of avoiding his eye contact.

Even after classes, you swore he was casting you glances even with lines of students waiting to talk to him.

“Did you piss Prof off or something?” Jongho asks as he shuts his laptop.

“Why are you asking?”

He shrugs. “It’s just that he’s been eyeing you down like a hawk recently. Did something happen between the both of you?”

You freeze when the flashbacks of the taste of his lips return to your memory when you remember how hungry he looked just wanting to devour you.

“Y/n?”

You blink, then force yourself to meet Jongho’s eyes.

“No. Nothing happened. At least I hope I didn’t make any mistakes.”

“You’re fine. There’s a reason why the department chair chose his teaching assistants.”

You laugh softly at his words.

But when you hear San’s voice from behind you, you almost jump.

“Y/n, Jongho, the both of you can wrap up here and head back to the office”, he instructs. You feel his warmth radiating from behind, and it only makes your heart jump at the proximity.

You watch Jongho slowly pack up, small conversations sparking between the both of you about his soccer practice.

You glance at the door. San isn’t back yet.

“I think it’ll take him awhile to be back. The students there seem to really like him.”

No doubt, the female students for this class seemed a lot more assertive, almost always demanding all of San’s time. Well, not that it should matter. It’s not as if he should mean anything-

“Y/n? Are you okay? You seem pretty off recently. Even Prof’s pretty worried”, Jongho’s voice grounding you back to the cold office.

You force a smile and shake your head.

“I’m fine. I guess it’s just so much workload to deal with.”

Jongho places his hand on your shoulder in comfort, “You’re doing fine. You know you can approach either of us if you’re struggling right?”

You feel comforted, even though your messy thoughts weren’t even about the workload, so you return an assured smile before waving Jongho off for his soccer practice.

You’re wondering what you’re feeling nervous about, because when the door of San’s room opens, you jolt slightly.

“You’re still here?” You hear San ask.

“Yeah. Need to reply to some emails and double-check some of their assignments.” Not a total lie. It’s the swirling feelings he’s been giving you whenever that day surfaces in your mind, the small bouts of attention he pays you and the touches he lets linger a little too long that’s all a dopamine rush in you. You can’t help but want more. But in the same breath, meeting his gaze will allude doom for you.

San nods as he sits back at his desk, going right back to his computer. The silence continues for awhile and you’re surprised that you’re even able to concentrate.

“Y/n”, you hear San call you.

Your gaze doesn’t break from your screen. “Hmm?”

“Come here. Help me look at this.”

You walk over, ignoring the way your heart is just pounding so damn loudly. It’s painfully obvious that San is staring right at your face, and it’s also painfully obvious that you’re avoiding looking at him.

And it definitely seems to be ticking him off.

Your eyes stay locked to his screen reading off whatever is on the screen, and nothing is processing in your brain.

“It looks good”, you curtly reply, trying to ignore the fact that you’re being stared down by a certain professor. You turn away, your eyes still not acknowledging San, only for your professor to stop you in your tracks.

“Now where do you think you’re going?”

He’s making you face him now.

You’re still not giving him eye contact.

“Back to my desk?” You say, looking off into the distance. But San seems to have other plans.

“You know ‘looks good’ isn’t the feedback I’m looking for, right?”

Shit. You know that clear as day.

Now San has both his arms trapping you on his desk.

You somehow still manage to avoid his sharp gaze even when you’re backing up against him, easily letting him corner you.

His belongings are strewn all over the desk when he pins you down. By some miracle, only papers flutter down his desk.

And you’re finally looking right at him.

“You’re finally looking at me, y/n”, he states the obvious. “Now tell me, did I do something wrong?”

“No, you didn’t, sir”, you reply curtly.

He leans in closer.

“Then why are you avoiding my eye contact?”

You shut your eyes and squeeze them. There’s no pure way out of this—your dirty thoughts are seeping into the smallest crevices of your brain, and the more San is prodding you, the more it makes you throb.

“It’s because that evening when we…” you feel your cheeks burn with every word leaving your lips.

San is waiting for you to continue.

“When we kissed…couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

“And?”

“It made me want…more.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“Has anyone told you how adorable you are when you’re honest?” He chuckles. “I’m gonna finish what we started sweetheart, like I promised.”

It makes your heart flutter.

“Am I getting your consent for this?”, San’s voice rings in your ears. You’re finding it hard to focus, especially when his thumb is pushing past the corner of your lips, and you’re just growing wet as fuck.

This is not right. This is so dangerous.

“Yes sir”, you reply back, trying to ignore the way your cunt is just tingling from the feeling of San’s thick erection pressing against you.

“That’s my good girl”, he praises before he dives in for a hungry kiss, his fingers roaming around your body, squeezing your tits before he unbuttons your shirt at an agonising pace. He smiles on your lips when he hears your soft gasp, and he presses his lips down to your jaw and then to your neck, sucking and biting the soft skin against your neck, his erection growing tighter against his trousers when he hears you moan and squirm.

When he’s satisfied with the light marks he decorated down your neck, his lips are pressed against your ear, and his hands are moving dangerously close to your cunt, and inevitably, your bottoms are off in seconds, leaving you in your pretty panties.

“I would prefer fucking you on my bed instead for the first time, but taking you on my desk? Maybe not too bad.”

Your cunt squeezes at the sound of San cussing. You never thought he’d sound this fucking hot.

He groans when his fingers press against the soaked patch of fabric hiding your pussy. All that wetness for him. He bunches up the fabric and rubs it against your clit, the friction drawing frustrated whimpers from you, much to his satisfaction. It feels so good but it’s not enough, and it’s driving you crazy.

San’s fingers finally hook against the waistband of your panties, sliding them off your legs, and pocketing them, much to your shock.

And he doesn’t give you much time to focus on that because when he pulls his cock out from his unzipped pants, it makes your head spin from how thick Choi San is.

“Sir, I’m not sure-“

“It’ll fit, sweetheart, like it’s made for me”, is all the warning San gives before he lines up to your hole and pushes his cock in.

You can’t tell what’s fucking you up more—the way his cock is stretching you open or the San groaning in relief when he finally gets to stuff you full.

You bat away your tears, his cock so fucking full inside of you, pressing against your walls, being squeezed so perfectly by you.

God, Choi San thinks he’s in heaven.

His fingers brush across your cheeks, collecting your teardrops. His eyes lack any ounce of empathy.

“Aw, are you crying because it feels good? You look so fucking pretty crying when I’m stretching you open.”

You barely find the words to reply to him, all stuck in your throat, your mind only flooded by the way San’s cock is buried in your cunt, your thighs trembling from the pleasure. It’s almost sickening. You know you shouldn’t be doing this—not with your professor, not on his fucking desk, but when he has you wrapped you around his finger and cock fucking the daylights out of you, it’s a temptation you can never resist.

A soft hiccup escapes past your lips when San pulls out almost all the way, his cock covered in a sheen of slick and precum before he pushes himself in once more, groaning when you clench around him for the nth time.

“You feel so fucking good, sweetheart. God, I could just fuck you all day. You’d like that right?”

You’re barely keeping track, eyes rolled to the back of your head while your thighs twitch from the pleasure, but you manage to hold the eye contact, and through blurry tears, you mutter a weak, “Yes sir”.

“Of course you do”, San hums before he pulls out once more and starts fucking you dumb on his desk.

No matter how much you try to cover your mouth, bite your tongue or your lip, your moans only come out louder in defiance, the dopamine shooting up your pussy over and over again whenever San’s cock hits your pretty spots.

Your mind is addicted to the way San’s shirt is buttoned down his chest, his cleavage almost fully out for you to gawk at, the way strands of his hair cling to his forehead because of the sweat, the way his eyes roll back when he feels you squeeze him with every loud fuck, and the way he looks down to you from time to time before he eats up your pathetic moans with hungry kisses.

He fucked you up so good, you didn’t even realise it until now.

“S-San”, you manage out a whimper, “please…”

“Please what, sweetheart?”

You don’t even know what you’re begging for.

“Please… you feel so fucking good. I’m gonna cum. It’s so fucking good”, you babble, trying to force your eyes open.

San can’t help but smirk when his ego is being stroked so nicely like that, especially by you. He’s a good person, of course, he’ll give what his good girl wants.

His thumb slides south on your body until you feel the ticklish sensation of him on your clit. Cream and precum pooling at the base of his cock makes it even worse for you—with every graze, his finger pressed onto your clit, the knot tightened in your stomach.

Your nonsensical strings of words only push San to tease you more as he endearingly watches you break slowly when your orgasm builds up.

Your body twitches, your back arches, your eyes roll back, white splashes beneath your eyelids. Your orgasm burning through you while you cry out San’s name and you twitch pathetically on his cock, letting your cream leak all over his wet cock.

“Fuck. You’re such a good fucking girl for me, aren’t you?”, you hear San curse. He fucks you through your orgasm, the overstimulation building up. The sensitivity feels so fucking good.

His hand catches your jaw, and he forces you to meet his eyes.

“Wanna pump you full of my cum, keep you so fuckin’ full for days on end,” he huffs, “but not now, sweetheart.”

Not that you minded, but there’s a strange tinge of disappointment ringing at the back of your head.

San thrusts into you a couple more times before he pulls out, his thick and wet cock resting on your pelvis, twitching as his hand takes over.

Nothing can beat Choi San’s fucking face when he cums. He looks like he’s in fucking heaven, and he’s tearing up the sky because of you. His fingers leave light marks on your thighs, you hear him groan at such a low tone that your cunt flutters uselessly against the air. Translucent spurts land on your skin, but it barely registers in you—you’re too busy swooning over the way your Professor just cummed over your body.

San’s high dies down, and he catches his breath, casting you a glance, red dusting his cheeks, before he reaches out for the tissue box to clean you up.

A quick kiss on the lips before he goes on to collect all the papers all over the floor.

That night he drives you home, filling the space with light conversations as if he didn’t just railed you on his desk.

It’s only when you reach home that you realise one important thing—San still has your panties.

You know you shouldn’t be telling secrets to your colleague, especially when it’s about your fucking boss. But here you are, facing Jongho, who has his arms crossed in front of you.

“What’s up with you and Prof?” You predict the words that leave his lips.

You hesitate to tell him, unsure how you should even say it, where to even start.

The worst part you knew clear as day was that nothing changed since that day. You chalked it off as San being swamped with assignments to deal with, that’s why the topic was never brought up again, but something still irked you. The only comfort you had was that the semester was ending, and so was your term as San’s teaching assistant.

Maybe it was how it was meant to be. Just nothing more than that.

But when you realise the dreaded feeling prickling at the back of your eyes, you knew you were fucked.

“I don’t know how to even start jjong”, you sigh. Jongho scrunches his eyebrows.

You watch his expression switch from one to the other. You expected him to freak out at you, yell at you for unprofessionalism or something, but he doesn’t.

“It’s so fucked up. But I just can’t help but wonder if he feels anything”, you mutter. The thought of you not being the only one he’s doing this with makes your stomach churn. But somehow, in the most twisted ways, confiding Jongho made you feel slightly better.

“Well, looks like we’ll have to play that card I guess”, Jongho shrugs. “But you should mentally prepare yourself for the results, that’s all I gotta warn you. I just need your consent to play along.”

It’s a risky bet you’re playing, but drastic times called for drastic measures, right?

As the semester closes to its end, so does the workload. San feels a lot lighter on his shoulders, and while he’s grateful for his teaching assistants for lifting a significant amount of workload off him, the end of a semester meant the end of the working relationship between him and his teaching assistants. He usually doesn’t feel that much, considering he has had many teaching assistants in the past, but for some reason, he feels a sense of discomfort lodged in his stomach when he thinks about having to let them go.

Especially one of them.

He sighs, removing his glasses from his nose and shutting his eyes while reviewing the exams. San feels like a fucking idiot when his eyes land on your empty desk, his frustration bubbling when you cross his mind again.

Even though he pretends to keep himself busy by flooding his mind with work, somehow, you would bubble to the surface once more, pushing him into the pits of frustration when he’s reminded of the way you get a kick arguing and refuting him just to get a reaction out of him, the way you taste like sweetest thing on earth he’s ever tried and the way you completely unravel when San fucks every single thought out of you—

He bites his cheek.

No. He has to keep it professional. At least, until the term is over.

He just doesn’t know how to tell you.

He knows he’s entered deep waters when he crossed the line that evening, the sight of you undone right before him snapping all his rationale. More than anything, he’s suffering the withdrawals, maybe that’s the punishment he has to bear.

He glances at the colourful ticket at the corner of his desk. It’s Jongho’s big game. Even though he usually doesn’t let himself intertwine with his subordinate’s personal interests, it’s hard not to.

In addition, you’ll be there. Maybe he’d snag you after the game and talk to you properly.

The meeting ran overtime, San glances down at his silver watch, realising he’d missed almost thirty minutes of Jongho’s game. Despite the exhaustion, he pushes it aside and heads to the stadium.

He watches the brightly lit scoreboard as he takes a seat on the bench, Jongho’s team is in the lead by one point.

Somehow he gets wrapped up in the game, cheering when Jongho’s team takes championship as the benches all burst into loud cheers too.

He gets up to leave, already thinking of drafting a text to congratulate Jongho in his head, maybe get him a small congratulatory gift on the side.

Then he spots you, just rows below. Now, he’s walking down as if on instinct, to get to where you are.

San pushes past the crowd to approach you. He’ll offer to drive you back—he knows it’s all an excuse but anything to get you into his space once more.

His arm outstretched, reaching out to tap your shoulder, then suddenly stopping when he sees Jongho appear right in front of you. That’s fine. San could just congratulate him at the same time—

Which all of those thoughts immediately disintegrate when he watches Jongho cup your cheeks with his hand, his eyes widening in complete silent horror as Jongho leans into you for a kiss.

You seriously doubt that Jongho’s plan would work. Didn’t San decide not to come anyway? You heard it with your own ears too.

Nonetheless, you pushed it to the back of your mind, focusing on cheering for your friend, watching the leading scorer jump from one team to the next. You couldn’t help but erupt into cheers when Jongho’s team won, screams echoing through the open stadium.

You watch Jongho walk up to the benches where you are, and his arms wrap around you, his smile big and bright, competing with the stadium lights.

“Congratulations, baby bear”, you tease, pushing against his shoulders lightly. Jongho inches close to you.

“He’s behind you by the way”, Jongho mutters, loud enough for you to hear, but not long enough for you to process, because his hands are cupping your jaw, his thumb pressed against your lips.

He hears you muffle some kind of question but your lips stay sealed.

“You owe me one for this,” is the last thing you hear before he leans in. Your eyes widen in shock, and you freeze in your spot, even though his lips don’t meet yours, evidently separated by Jongho’s thumb, his action had caught you off guard.

You barely have the capacity to process what had just happened, and you feel someone’s warmth tightening against your wrist.

Jongho lets go of you immediately, but you’re staring right at your professor, who is staring right at Jongho with an unreadable expression, with his fingers curled tightly against your wrist. It feels like an eternity since you saw him. He’s not wearing glasses today and his hair is down instead of his usual slicked-back look, donned with a simple dress shirt and tie which framed his wide shoulders so perfectly.

“Congratulations on your win, Choi Jongho. I believe you should be with your team to celebrate right?”

Jongho only smirks back. “Right. See you babe. Thank you, Prof. See you next week.”

Jongho casts you a glance, the mischief twinkling in his eyes before he turns his heel down the stairs and back to the field.

What the fuck just happened?

And you find yourself staring up at the male before you, his gaze piercing into yours.

“Prof—San?” You blink. “I thought you weren’t-“

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, sweetheart. Why would I not want to see the cute relationship my teaching assistants have right?” His voice is laced with venom.

San doesn’t really elaborate further, leading you to his car, sealing your fate once more when the passenger doors close shut.

He’s all over you. His body is burning up, maybe just as fast as yours is, and it’s making you feel dizzy. His moves are aggressive, impatient and you swear you feel something else too—desperation.

“S-San—“ you gasp, in an attempt to take control of something.

“It’s sir to you, sweetheart”, his voice low and gentle, but commanding. Goosebumps scatter across your skin, making you shiver in response when his palms slide up your waist.

You never saw it coming—from the second his hand grabbed yours, pulling you away from Jongho, his eyes locked into yours for a moment before he turns to Jongho, then to the car ride back, where you noticed the way his knuckles turned pale from gripping the steering wheel. On the walk to his car, you asked him where you were going, and all he did was turn to you and reply, “We’ve got things to talk about, don’t we, sweetheart?”

Now you’re becoming undone once more under San’s touches, trapped beneath him like the first time, now at his place, on his fucking couch instead.

“It was just foolish of me to just let it be, wasn’t it?” He asks. “Fucking you dumb on my desk wasn’t a good enough indicator, was it?”

“S-sir…!”

“And you think it’s cute getting all cuddly with Jongho? Letting him kiss you all over, touch you all over?” San mutters, his fingers wrapped around your throat, his grip tightening slightly and you’re sure he’s about to leave light imprints.

But oh, was it so fucking exhilarating—the thought of Choi San riled up like that, a sight you’ve never seen before, and you’re not sure if fear or excitement running through your veins right now, but what you do know, is that if he finds out that your panties are completely soaked through, you’re fucking done for.

His lips collide with yours again, branding himself as some kind of oxygen thief when he’s turning your mind into complete mush.

“I’m not sure if it’s a little game to you sweetheart, but if it is, I think you need a reminder.”

You breathlessly look up at him, and he looks ethereal even when he’s panting and looking pissed as hell.

“What reminder, sir?” You dare ask back.

The side of San’s lips tugs upwards. His hand leaves your throat and trails down your blouse, effortlessly unbuttoning the apparel until he tugs it off you, panting at the sight of your tits hugged by your lace bra. Your bottoms are off again on the floor of his bedroom, alongside any ounce of rationale. Your soaked panties are agonisingly pulled off your legs, and before you know it, his hands spread them open too. It takes all of San’s self-control to not stuff you full. At least, not yet.

“It’s my cock you’re gonna cum all over. Even when you have another guy’s lips on yours, it’s my name you’re gonna fucking scream.”

Oh. Oh god.

The pieces of what Jongho was trying to do suddenly come together, unfortunately, the realisation doesn’t last long because San has his lips greedily on yours again on top of the way his full-blown erection is pressing onto your pussy.

“Sir”, you manage out a weak mutter when he finally pulls away, trying to press and grind against his clothed dick for some friction or anything to rid the burn that’s going through your body. But San remains still.

“Use your words since you love using your mouth so much.” Like kissing Choi Jongho.

Your mind is a complete puddle.

“I really…fuck. I really need you to fuck me right now, sir”, you beg, red flushing your cheeks, but it’s not from the shame. There’s a feral glint in San’s eyes that you don’t miss.

“No”, is all he answers, and you feel your heart drop to your stomach.

“Not until I’ve fucked your mouth full, sweetheart.”

All you can do is watch him speechlessly as he hooks his index finger on the knot of his tie and loosens it, unraveling it back to its original form.

“Hands together”, he commands you, and you do so immediately, basking in the scent of his cologne while he leans into you, his hands tying knots around your wrists with his tie. “Don’t let it loosen, got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good girl. Now on your knees.”

You’ve never dropped to your knees so fast.

San forces you to watch him unbutton and lower the fly of his trousers, and you’re just doing your best not to get drool on his expensive carpet.

When his cock springs out, you’re also forced to watch him fuck his palm at a slow pace, drinking in his groans, slick staining your inner thighs, and the fucking floor next if you don’t do anything.

His cock is heavy against your cheek when he taps it there, and your tongue slips out of your mouth by instinct, given experimental kitten licks on his slit, before his fingers catch your chin, and he forces you to look up at him.

“Look at me”, he instructs.

You do. You do your best not to break the eye contact, trying not to be sidetracked by his big fucking cock, but your eyes can’t help but dart to his appendage.

“No, keep your eyes on me”, he redirects once more, his fingers fixing your head in place.

Then he slides his cock into your mouth and pulls out a choked moan from you.

“That’s it. Good girl”, he grunts when you start bobbing your head, fucking his cock with your mouth.

His fingers trail to the back of your head, but he’s using all of his strength not to force your head down.

But as you pick up the momentum, it’s an automatic reaction to push your head down so his cock hits the back of your throat. Your eyes are watering but fuck you feel like you’re in fucking heaven. Your head spins whenever his wet cock is forced down your tight throat, and you break eye contact a few times, which San has to tap your jaw to make you keep eye contact while he fucks your face.

“I’m cumming, sweetheart. Fuck. Keep that pretty little mouth open for me yeah?” He groans, bucking his hips, letting streaks of warm white paint your throat and mouth, watching the way you’re looking up at him with doe eyes, taking his cum in your mouth like a good girl. His good girl.

He smudges his thumb against the corner of your lips before his arms carry you up, only to dump you on the couch.

Your back is on the couch again, hands still tied behind your back and legs up with San pressing his body weight on you.

He props your leg on his shoulder, and he stretches you open inch by inch. You gasp when he fills you up, your walls immediately clenching around him.

“So fuckin tight for me, sweetheart. You take me so well.”

His thrusts are growing more aggressive mixed in with the possession that’s bleeding in and it’s setting your whole body on fire. Your words are caught in your throat when he’s buried into you to the hilt. He groans at the way your pussy is fluttering pathetically against him.

It feels so fucking good that nothing but stars engulf your vision when his cock stuffs you full to the hilt again. His name leaves your lips like a mantra on top of broken moans and whimpers, and it only makes San fill up the space in your pussy all the more better.

His shoulders are so wide that he’s towering over you, his fingers forcing you to face him whenever you’re drifting because of the pleasure, his eyes feral when you look so fucked out for him. And when he combines his heavy thrusts with a squeeze around your throat, it makes your mind shut off and your cunt cream all over his dick.

“Good girl, looking all so fucked out for me.”

His cock is hitting all the perfect spots, and it’s driving you insane with the knot tightening in your stomach at such a fast pace. You think you’re sliding off the couch but San isn’t letting you—especially not when his thrusts are keeping you on the couch. His name continues to leave your lips in broken moans every time he fucks you.

San snakes his fingers to your scalp and he tugs sharply, enough to force you to look up at him. You’re tearing up again, and it feels so fucking good with the way he’s keeping your hair tugged while he fucks the ever-loving shit out of you.

“My name does sound much better when you’re crying it doesn’t it, sweetheart?”

You choke back a moan when he hits your g-spot once more.

“Y-yes sir.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Full. So full sir. Want more. Please. Need you to ruin me”, you beg once more, your mind floating in an endless euphoria.

“Oh, I definitely will”, San hums, watching in sheer pleasure as your eyes roll back when his cockhead presses perfectly against your g-spot over and over.

Before you realise it, your orgasm hits you like fucking train, spreading through your body like a fucking wildfire, engulfing every crevice of your body.

He’s gonna break you, and you’re fucking loving it.

“San-“, you cry out, not registering the way he’s wiping the tears off your eyes. “So good. You feel so good. Cumming so much-“

“I know, sweetheart. It feels so fucking good doesn’t it?” He asks with a smile, satisfied when you nod frantically while he rubs your thighs.

Your thighs are shaking from how good this all feels, cream staining your inner thighs and his cock when he pulls out.

“I’m not done with you yet, sweetheart”, San reminds you.

He turns you over, keeping one hand on your tied hands, while the other pressing your head against the back of the couch. He lines his cock back to your cunt, pushing into your hole once more. You choke on your moans again, tears gathering at the corner of your eyes until he’s fully seated in you once more.

The sounds are even wetter now, especially when you’re overstimulated, pussy just being so perfectly abused by Choi San. You fucking love the way his hands are around your neck, forcing you against the cushions when he fucks you dumb from the back.

Your stomach is in knots once more, the feeling building up faster than the previous time, and all you can mutter is that it feels so good. San thinks you’re so fucking adorable when you’re not having banters with him and being this cock drunk for him.

Then he pulls you off the couch, letting you catch a breath before he sits you on his lap, his cock still buried in your cunt, and starts bouncing you off his cock from below.

He alternates between melting your brain with his pornographic moans right at your ear and planting more love bites down your jaw.

“Gonna cum again. You feel so fucking good in me. Oh god”, you hiccup through your tears, the sensitivity pushing your limit.

“Cum as hard as you want, sweetheart. I’ll let you milk me dry, fill you up so fucking good that you’ll be leaking with my cum for the next two days.”

That was enough to set you off. Your pussy convulses when your second orgasm hits, fireworks bursting in your eyelids, long drawn-out cries while San fills your tight cunt with his warm and thick cum, while his groans fill up in your ears. You feel his fingers massaging your thighs, coaxing you from your high.

You’re dizzy, and light-headed as your head slumps against his shoulders, too spent to acknowledge the male behind you leaving more marks down your neck.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, sweetheart,” San breaks the momentary silence, well aware that his softening cock is still in you.

Your hand flies up to his chest to stop him, even though you’re still recovering from seeing stars.

“We need to talk-“

“After we clean up”, he cuts you off, lifting you off his cock and carrying you bridal style to his bathroom.

But you’re stubborn.

“N-no. It wasn’t what you thought it was”, you say, feeling your tears well up in your eyes on top of the weight.

The prickles are starting to form at the bottom of San’s heart, but he’s more focused on trying to hose you down with warm water. But he’s listening you run your mouth, not that he minded.

“We didn’t kiss”, you reiterate.

Now he’s just confused. He stares at you.

“We just had sex, y/n”, San reminds you, trying not to let the red reach his cheeks.

“No—I mean Jongho and I. We didn’t kiss”, you clarify.

San doesn’t really know if he should believe your words or his eyes, but now he’s focused on lathering your hair and body.

“That wasn’t what I saw”, he replies, avoiding eye contact.

“That’s cause we did this-“ you huff, turning his head to face you, imitating the way Jongho had slid his thumb between your lips and his, demonstrating San the fake kiss.

San only stares at you wordlessly when you pull back, only more questions than answers.

“But why would he do that for?”

“He was trying to rile you up.”

“For what?”

“To see if you felt anything for me?”

“By kissing you?”

Oh god. It felt like the more you explained, the more San was getting the wrong ideas. You let your head sit in your hands, unsure if it’s from the embarrassment or the fact that you don’t even know where to start.

“It wasn’t a kiss, Choi San”, you groaned, your hands leaving your face, suddenly self-conscious that San is staring intently at you. “After we, um, fucked the first time, you acted like nothing happened, and I felt like shit about it, and I told Jongho and then…” you trail off, feeling your cheeks heat up again. It’s probably the hot water, at least that’s what you try to convince yourself with.

“I don’t kiss people I’m not in love with, San”, you sigh in defeat. Your eyes are downcast, but you feel his fingers cup your cheeks, and his lips press onto yours. You swear you could go another round again.

The silence hangs in the air for a while, only the sounds of the shower filling the emptiness when he pulls back.

“I didn’t do anything since after that evening because I wanted to properly tell you after the term ended.”

“Tell me what?”

“That I’m in love with you, too.”

You blink. Somehow that shocked you more than the both times he fucked your brains out.

You don’t answer him because your head is just swarming with so many thoughts, and San lets you do so, satisfied that he’s finally have you quieten down so he can finish washing you up.

Even when he’s dressed you in his oversized hoodie, San peppers you with kisses, basking in the way you sometimes cover his face with your hands to stop him, which only rouses him to continue to attack you with his lips.

San’s arms are tight around you when the both of you are finally on his bed. You smell like his favourite body soap and he can’t seem to get enough of it—nuzzling against the crook of your neck, muttering sweet nothings. You think this is probably your favourite version of Professor Choi.

Your fingers twirl around his splayed-out locks, and you speak.

“Prof Choi”, you tease, and San looks up, and it’s the first time you actually see him pout—it almost makes you combust.

“I told you to stop calling me that”, he frowns, burying his face, feigning trying to cut off physical contact from you, which only makes you laugh in response.

“I just wanted to disturb you”, you respond, trying to yank him back into your arms. “I do have a question though.”

His head pops up from his pillows and he stares at you, waiting for you to speak.

“When did you realise you had feelings for me?”

He pauses, giving himself a couple of minutes to think.

“The moment I received your teaching assistant application.”

📚 Bonus Epilogue 📚

“Prof Choi!” One of his teaching assistants calls out to him.

He turns his head and attention to her, pushing up his glasses.

“Yes?”

“I need help with this part of the assignment. Could you help me check that I’ve marked it correctly?”

San nods, taking the papers from her.

As he scans through her work, the teaching assistant’s eyes glance down at the band hugging his ring finger.

“Prof, you’re married?”

San pauses his writing to glance at the glistening gold on his finger, and a small smile spreads across his cheeks.

“You know, I used to wear a ring on my ring finger so students would stop asking me if I was married or not.”

She raises her eyebrows, her curiosity piqued. “So you’re not?”

“I am.”

Her eyes brighten, invested in her handsome professor’s love story.

“Tell me more then”, she asks.

San scoffs playfully, turning his gaze to her.

“All I can tell you is that she’s always been my favourite.”

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