#but then he gets too drunk and forgets it

[shy9-29]

ONE NIGHT STAND ⟡ psh

professer sunghoon x collage student ୨ৎ

⟡ synopsis: You let a stranger ruin you one night — then he turned out to be your professor. Now every class feels like foreplay. ✉️ wc. 10350 ⚠️ tw smut, explicit sexual content, unprotected sex (wrap ur willies), professor/student relationship, one night stand, fingering, oral (m. receiving), spanking, dirty talk, handjob, overstimulation, spit kink, possessiveness, jealousy, public teasing, rough sex, aftercare, slight angst, emotional manipulation, implied age gap, power imbalance, strong language, alcohol use (basically just porn)

genre. smut, (mdni!) romance, drama, angst, forbidden love, slow burn, erotica, university au, power dynamics, emotional tension, secret relationship, student/professor romance

It’s your last night of summer. Tomorrow, you move into your dorm, trade your parents’ house for a tiny twin bed and a stack of syllabi. So tonight — just for tonight — you want to forget about responsibility. About expectations. About the version of yourself you’re supposed to become.

The club is loud and packed, the bass from the speakers deep enough to rattle in your chest. Lights flash red and purple overhead, casting shadows that move across the crowd like ghosts. Bella clutches your wrist, pulling you deeper into the sea of people with a giggle.

“You’re not allowed to be shy tonight,” she shouts over the music, leaning close so you can hear her. “It’s your last night of freedom. Go flirt with someone. Get drunk. Maybe get laid.”

You roll your eyes, laughing despite yourself. She’s already halfway to drunk, her glossy eyes and flushed cheeks proof of that. But she’s right. You didn’t dress like this to be a wallflower. You came out in a tight black dress that hugs your curves just right, your makeup smoky and bold, your legs aching slightly from the heels you swore you wouldn’t wear and did anyway.

You make your way to the bar to order something — anything — that’ll warm your throat and lower your inhibitions just a little. That’s when you feel it.

Eyes on you.

You turn your head slightly, pretending to scan the crowd, but you already know exactly where it’s coming from.

He’s sitting at the bar alone. A half-finished whiskey glass in front of him, one elbow resting lazily on the counter. His hair is dark and parted just enough to fall over one brow. Clean-cut, but not preppy. Dressed in all black — a simple shirt, watch glinting at his wrist, rings on two fingers. His posture is relaxed, but his gaze?

Intense.

You don’t know how long he’s been looking at you, but he doesn’t look away when your eyes meet. He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t wink. Just watches. Calm. Curious. Like he’s waiting for you to make the first move.

Your heart skips a beat.

You look away first, pretending to fidget with your phone as you wait for the bartender. But your pulse is racing, and you can still feel his gaze burning into the side of your face.

“Vodka soda,” you say when the bartender finally notices you. Your voice is slightly unsteady, and it annoys you.

You don’t look back until the drink’s in your hand — and when you do, he’s still watching. But this time, he’s moving.

Straight toward you.

You freeze. Instinctively fix your hair. Sip your drink too fast. Then he’s there, standing beside you at the bar like he’s been invited.

“First drink of the night?” he asks, voice smooth as silk, low enough that you have to lean in to hear him.

You glance up at him — and now that he’s close, you can really see him. Sharp cheekbones. Full lips. Eyes so dark you’re not sure where iris ends and pupil begins.

You try to play it cool. “Second.”

He nods once. “Good. First would’ve meant I was a little early. Second means I’m right on time.”

You raise a brow, trying not to let your smile show. “For what?”

He leans in slightly, and you catch the faintest whiff of cologne — warm, musky, expensive. “For meeting you.”

The line should be cheesy. It should make you roll your eyes. But it doesn’t. Maybe it’s the way he says it, like he actually means it. Or maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you, gaze flicking from your lips to your eyes like he’s cataloging the way your mouth moves when you smile.

You take another sip of your drink. “Do you always hit on girls at bars?”

“Not always,” he says, not missing a beat. “Only the ones who can’t stop looking back.”

Your cheeks heat instantly. He saw that?

Before you can come up with a response, he extends his hand. “Sunghoon.”

You hesitate — just a second — before slipping your hand into his. His grip is firm, but not too tight. Warm. Steady.

You tell him your name. He repeats it back to you like he’s tasting it.

And then he leans in again. “Let me buy you your third drink.”

You’re not drunk — not really — but there’s a buzz in your blood, a warmth that runs deeper than alcohol. It’s in the way Sunghoon keeps watching you, the way his eyes drop to your lips every time you speak. His voice is steady, smooth, but there’s something beneath it — a restraint. Like he’s holding himself back.

You talk. About nothing, mostly. Music, favorite cities, late-night cravings. You learn he’s a little older, but he doesn’t say exactly how much. You don’t ask. You don’t want to ruin the spell by making it real.

At some point, you end up on the dance floor. You didn’t plan to — you never really dance — but he takes your hand without asking, and suddenly you’re there, surrounded by pulsing lights and bodies and heat.

He doesn’t keep his distance. One hand finds your waist. The other drifts low, fingers brushing just beneath the hem of your dress. He moves slow, but deliberate — his chest against your back, his lips ghosting near your ear.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs, voice low, breath hot against your skin.

You laugh — breathless. “Why’s that?”

“Because I don’t usually do this either.”

You turn your head just enough to meet his gaze. “Do what?”

He leans in. His mouth grazes your jaw, then your cheek, then finally — your lips.

It starts soft. Testing. His hand slides around your hip, pulling you closer, and then he kisses you deeper — fuller — like he’s been waiting all night for it. You don’t even realize your fingers have curled into his shirt until he pulls back just slightly, lips still brushing yours.

“My place is five minutes from here,” he says. “Say the word.”

You hesitate for half a second. Not because you don’t want it — but because you want it too much.

“let’s go,” you whisper.

The ride to his place is a blur — fast, silent, electric. He doesn’t touch you in the car, but his knee brushes yours, and it feels more intimate than anything else so far.

His apartment is clean. Minimalist. Expensive-looking. You barely notice any of it.

Because the moment the door clicks shut behind you, he’s on you.

His hands cup your face as he kisses you again, harder this time. Hungrier. He backs you against the door, lips crashing into yours like he can’t get enough.

Your fingers slide into his hair. His hands drop to your hips, then lower — gripping the backs of your thighs and lifting you effortlessly.

You gasp against his mouth, legs wrapping around his waist. He carries you like you weigh nothing, walking you through the apartment until you’re in his bedroom.

He drops you gently onto the bed, standing over you for a second. His chest rises and falls with every breath. He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room — like he’s starving and you’re the meal.

“Still okay?” he asks, voice rough.

You nod. “Please.”

He smirks — just a little. “Take off your dress for me.”

Your breath catches. But you do it — slowly, fingers slipping beneath the straps and easing it down your body.

Sunghoon watches the whole time, not blinking.

You’re left in nothing but a lacy black bra and matching panties. You start to reach behind to unhook it, but he stops you.

“Let me.”

He steps forward, kneeling onto the bed between your legs. His fingers find the clasp, and the bra falls away. His eyes darken.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, leaning down to kiss between your breasts. His hands trail up your sides, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you arch into him.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whispers, mouth dragging lower, tongue flicking across one nipple before sucking it into his mouth.

Your back arches, a soft moan slipping past your lips.

His hand moves between your thighs, fingers tracing over your panties. You’re soaked.

“You want my fingers?” he asks, voice low, teasing.

You nod — desperate now.

“Say it,” he murmurs, lips brushing your neck. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want your fingers,” you breathe. “Please.”

And that’s all it takes.

He pushes your panties aside and runs two fingers along your slit, groaning at how wet you are. Then he slides one finger in — slow, deep — and your body trembles.

“Shit,” he breathes. “You’re tight.”

He adds another, curling them inside you, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl.

Your hips start to move with his rhythm, grinding against his hand.

“Touch yourself,” he says suddenly. “I want to see you do it.”

You hesitate, flushed, but obey — hand slipping between your legs to rub slow, needy circles over your clit while he pumps his fingers in and out of your pussy.

The sounds — wet, messy, obscene — echo in the quiet room.

You’re close. So close.

“Come for me,” he says, lips against your ear. “Show me how pretty you look when you fall apart.”

And you do.

You’re still catching your breath when Sunghoon pulls his fingers from your dripping cunt, glistening with your orgasm. He brings them to his mouth, lips curling around them without breaking eye contact.

“Taste so fucking good,” he murmurs. “Could eat you for hours. But right now…”

His voice trails off as he sits back on his heels, tugging his shirt over his head in one fluid motion. His chest is toned, lean muscle carved beneath smooth skin. His belt comes next, then his zipper—

And when he pushes his pants down, your mouth goes dry.

Holy. Shit.

He’s big. Thick. His cock hangs heavy between his legs, hard and flushed, a single bead of precum glistening at the tip.

You stare, stunned for a second, and he notices.

His mouth curves into a dark smile. “Too much?”

You shake your head, eyes locked on his length. “No. Just…” Your voice trails off, and you bite your lip. “Big.”

He groans softly, palming the base of his cock. “Come here, baby. Let me feel that pretty mouth.”

You crawl toward him, sinking to your knees at the edge of the bed. He stays standing, hand stroking his cock slowly as you settle in front of him.

“Spit on it,” he says, voice rough. “Then use your tongue.”

You obey. Spitting into your palm first, you rub the wetness over the head of his cock, then down the shaft. He hisses under his breath, hips twitching.

Then you lean forward and press a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the tip.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, hand slipping into your hair. “Such a good slut.”

You wrap your lips around him, tongue swirling over the sensitive head before sinking lower. He’s thick — you can barely fit him in your mouth — but you try, inch by inch, letting your saliva drip down to make it easier.

Sunghoon groans, fingers tightening in your hair. “Fuck, just like that. You look so fucking good on your knees.”

You moan around him, and the vibration makes his hips jerk. You bob your head slowly, using your hand to stroke what you can’t fit, drool running down your chin.

“Look at me,” he commands, voice like gravel. “Eyes on me while you suck my cock.”

You lift your gaze, lashes wet, cheeks hollowing around his length. He growls.

“God, that mouth. I could fuck your throat all night.”

He starts to guide your head, setting a rhythm — slow but deep, letting you feel every inch. Your throat tightens around him, but you don’t pull away.

“You like this?” he mutters, voice ragged. “Like choking on my cock like a desperate little slut?”

You moan again, louder this time, and he groans — head falling back for a second before he looks down at you again.

“Bet your pussy’s still dripping,” he says. “Bet you’d let me bend you over right now and fuck you until you forget your name.”

You whimper, sucking harder, desperate for his praise — for more of that filth spilling from his lips.

Then suddenly, he pulls back. His cock slips from your mouth with a wet pop, and you blink up at him, confused.

“On your hands and knees,” he says. “Now.”

You scramble onto the bed, body aching for more, cunt still pulsing from your earlier orgasm.

Sunghoon climbs behind you, running a hand down your back, then up again — slow, possessive.

Then—smack.

You gasp as his palm lands on your ass, the sting sharp and sudden.

“Too much?” he asks, even as he squeezes where he just spanked.

“No,” you whisper. “Do it again.”

He groans. “Fuck, you really are perfect.”

Smack. Again — harder this time. Then he soothes the spot with his palm, leaning down to murmur against your ear.

“I’m gonna ruin you,” he breathes. “Stretch this tight little pussy open with my cock, fuck you so good you’ll still be shaking in your dorm tomorrow.”

You moan — loud, desperate — pushing your hips back against him.

“Please, Sunghoon,” you whimper. “Need you inside me.”

His voice is a low growl. “Beg prettier than that.”

You shudder. “Please. Want you to fuck me. Want your cock, please—”

He growls again — deep, raw — and grabs your hips, lining himself up.

You feel the head of his cock slide through your folds — slow, teasing — dragging against your already-sensitive clit before he lines up at your entrance. He pauses, both hands gripping your hips.

“Deep breath, baby,” he murmurs. “I’m not small, remember?”

You barely have time to nod before he pushes in.

Your gasp is instant. He’s thick, stretching you open inch by inch, and the burn is sharp in the best way — the kind that makes your back arch, your mouth fall open, your eyes roll back. He goes slow at first, letting you feel every inch, and your body clenches tight around him, trying to adjust.

“Shit,” Sunghoon groans, voice strained. “You’re so fucking tight—trying to suck me in.”

He bottoms out with one final thrust, hips flush to your ass. You cry out, gripping the sheets.

“Too much?” he asks, voice low.

“N-no,” you stammer. “Just—so full.”

He leans over you, chest pressed to your back, mouth right by your ear. “You can take it. And you will.”

Then he pulls back — just the tip — and slams back in, hard enough to make you moan. He starts moving, hips snapping forward, fucking into you with smooth, relentless strokes. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixing with the filthy wet noises coming from between your legs and your own desperate moans.

Sunghoon’s grip on your hips is bruising. He fucks you like he owns you, like you’re his toy and no one else’s. He leans back just enough to admire the way your ass bounces with every thrust.

“Look at you,” he mutters. “Taking all of me like a good little slut. You were made for this cock.”

You whimper, trembling, already close again — the stretch, the pressure, the filthy words all pushing you toward the edge.

“You gonna come again?” he asks, breathless. “Already?”

You nod, too far gone to answer properly.

He slaps your ass again — smack. “Say it. I wanna hear you beg.”

“Please,” you gasp. “I’m gonna come, Sunghoon—fuck, please let me.”

He growls, pounding into you faster. “Come for me. Now.”

You break.

Your second orgasm crashes over you hard, clenching around him like a vice, and he doesn’t stop. Keeps fucking you through it, unrelenting, merciless. Your arms give out, and you collapse onto the mattress, trembling and whimpering.

But he doesn’t let up.

“Oh, we’re not done,” he pants. “Not even close.”

He pulls out suddenly, and you barely have time to catch your breath before he flips you onto your back. He grabs your legs, spreads them wide, and lines himself up again.

“Want to see your face this time,” he murmurs. “Want to watch you fall apart.”

Then he thrusts back into you, hard and deep, making you cry out. Your body is already too sensitive, your pussy still fluttering from the last orgasm, but he doesn’t care. If anything, he likes how overstimulated you are.

“You feel that?” he grits out. “How your pussy’s still squeezing me like it never wants to let go?”

You nod frantically, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “Too much—fuck—it’s so much.”

“But you’re taking it,” he says. “Taking it so well.”

He fucks you like a man possessed, like he’s trying to carve himself into your memory. Every thrust hits deep, the angle perfect, and your legs start to shake.

“I can’t—” you choke out. “Gonna come again—”

He grabs your throat — not hard, just enough to hold you in place. His other hand finds your clit, fingers rubbing fast, merciless circles over the swollen bundle of nerves.

“Yes, you can,” he growls. “You’re gonna come again. You’re gonna soak my cock. I want to feel you milk me.”

You shatter.

The third orgasm hits you like lightning — hot, electric, impossible. Your vision blurs, body writhing beneath him, voice cracking into a broken moan as your pussy clenches around him like a vice.

But he still doesn’t stop.

Sunghoon fucks you through it, hips slamming into yours, jaw clenched like he’s holding back everything.

“Fuck, I’m close,” he groans. “Wanna come all over this tight fucking pussy. You want that, baby?”

You nod, unable to speak.

“Where?” he grits out. “Tell me.”

“Inside,” you whisper. “Please—come inside me.”

His eyes darken.

He slams into you one more time and groans deep in his chest as he spills inside you — hot, thick, and endless. You can feel it, the way he pulses inside your overstimulated cunt, and it makes you moan all over again.

He stays there for a moment, both of you panting, sweaty, trembling. Then he leans down and kisses you — slow and deep, like he’s trying to remind you that he can be gentle, too.

When he finally pulls out, your thighs are sticky, trembling. You’re completely wrecked — legs spread, sheets soaked, lips swollen, hair a mess. And Sunghoon just looks at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“You okay?” he asks softly, brushing your hair back from your face.

You nod, exhausted. “That was… insane.”

You wake up sore.

Between your legs, mostly. Every shift of your thighs reminds you exactly what happened last night — the ache, the stretch, the way he didn’t stop even after your legs were shaking. You wince a little as you turn over.

The bed beside you is empty.

Sheets crumpled, slightly warm, but no Sunghoon.

You sit up slowly, the duvet slipping down your bare chest, blinking against the morning light that filters in through half-open blinds. The room’s unfamiliar. Sleek. A little too neat to feel lived in.

Strange. Isn’t this his place?

Your clothes are scattered across the floor, but none of his are. No signs of a toothbrush on the bathroom counter. No jackets hanging by the door. No photos. No clutter.

Airbnb, maybe. Just a place he rented for the weekend.

You frown as you rub a hand over your eyes. Your head is foggy, still wrapped in the lingering haze of alcohol and sex. You try to piece together last night — the way he looked at you at the party, the feel of his fingers, his mouth, his cock — and then… it’s all just heat and noise and black.

You don’t even remember falling asleep.

You sigh. Hard.

Your phone’s nearly dead, and the time glares back at you: 11:02 AM.

Classes start tomorrow. Perfect.

No note. No message. Not even a name.

You don’t even know his last name.

You pull your dress on — wrinkled and inside-out — and shove your heels into your bag. You call an Uber before you’ve even finished brushing your hair with your fingers.

The car is quiet. You don’t talk.

You lean your forehead against the window, eyes half-lidded, sore and still a little hungover, the ache between your legs throbbing in time with your heartbeat.

One night stand. That’s what it was. Nothing more.

Still… you can’t help thinking about him. About the way he looked at you. The way he kissed you. The way he—

You shake your head.

It was one night. You’ll never see him again.

Tomorrow, university starts. Time to focus on new things.

You have no idea what’s coming.

You’re late.

Of course you’re late.

Your phone had died overnight, and you’d barely dragged yourself out of bed in time to throw on the cleanest outfit you could find and rush across campus with half-brushed hair and your coffee still in a to-go cup. Your legs are still sore, your thighs brushing uncomfortably with every step, and you haven’t stopped thinking about last night.

Or him.

The guy you let wreck you in a stranger’s bed. The guy who disappeared before morning. The guy you’ll never see again.

Right?

You shove open the door to the lecture hall, breathless.

“Sorry, sorry,” you mumble as you slip inside, your voice echoing faintly. The place is massive — a hundred seats, maybe more — and every single one of them is already filled with someone more punctual and better-rested than you.

You find a seat near the middle, head ducked, ignoring the stares as you slide your bag off your shoulder and collapse into the chair. You’re still trying to catch your breath, sipping your lukewarm coffee, when a voice carries from the front of the room.

“Glad you could finally join us.”

Your stomach twists.

That voice—

No way.

You blink.

Then slowly — so slowly — you look up.

And your heart stops.

There he is.

At the front of the room, standing beside the projector screen with a laptop open on the podium, is him. Black button-up, sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms. Sharp jaw. Cold eyes.

Sunghoon.

Your one-night stand.

Your mystery man.

Your professor.

You blink again, hoping you’re hallucinating. That you’re still in bed. That you’re still dreaming.

But he just stares back at you — a flicker of recognition in his eyes, so fast and so subtle that if you didn’t know, you’d miss it.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t react.

He just says, cool and calm, “As I was saying — welcome to Modern Media Theory. I’m Professor Park. This semester, I expect you to show up on time, be prepared, and keep your personal lives out of my classroom.”

You go still.

The air in your lungs vanishes. Your cheeks burn.

He didn’t just fuck you.

He’s your professor.

And he’s pretending nothing happened.

You don’t hear a single word of the lecture.

Not a single one.

Your eyes stay locked on him the whole time — on Professor Park — trying to reconcile the man in front of the class with the man who had you bent over a bed less than twenty-four hours ago.

He’s even more handsome when you’re sober. Clean lines. Sharp cheekbones. That same deep voice, now filled with authority instead of filth. It should be illegal to look that good in front of a classroom.

And the worst part? He acts like you’re no one.

Not a glance. Not a flicker of amusement or recognition. Nothing.

You spend the next ninety minutes trying not to squirm in your seat — from nerves, from heat, from the dull ache still between your thighs. His voice carries over the room in calm, measured tones, talking about frameworks and theory and authors you can’t even remember, because all you can think about is his hand gripping your throat, his cock in your mouth, his voice in your ear telling you to beg for it.

By the time class ends, you’re practically vibrating with frustration. The students file out one by one, chatting, oblivious, until finally the room is empty — except for you.

And him.

You wait until he’s closed his laptop before standing.

He doesn’t look up. “Class is dismissed.”

“Yeah,” you say, voice tight. “I got that.”

That makes him pause. Slowly, his eyes lift, meeting yours. The coolness in them is surgical. Detached.

You swallow. “So… you’re a professor.” He doesn’t react. “Looks that way.” Your heart pounds. “You didn’t think that was something worth mentioning last night?” Sunghoon tilts his head, finally closing the distance with his eyes, not his body. “You didn’t ask.”

You laugh — sharp, disbelieving. “Seriously?” He slides his laptop into his bag. Calm. Controlled. Like this is nothing to him. You take a step closer. “You just left. No note. No text. You didn’t even tell me your last name, and now I find out you’re standing at the front of my class like nothing happened?”

He sighs — not guilty, not even annoyed. Just tired.

“Look,” he says. “Last night was a mistake.”

The words hit like a slap.

“A mistake,” you repeat, voice flat.

“Yes.”

He zips up his bag and slings it over his shoulder, then finally — finally — meets your gaze with something resembling emotion. But it’s not warmth. It’s not regret. It’s caution. “You didn’t know who I was. I didn’t know who you were. But now we do. And nothing else happens. Understood?” You blink at him. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Sunghoon—”

“Professor Park,” he corrects, firm. “From now on, in this room, on this campus — you will refer to me as Professor Park. You will not speak of last night. And you will not treat me like anything other than your professor.”

Your throat tightens. “So that’s all I was to you?” His jaw flexes. Just once. “I’m not here to discuss feelings,” he says. “I’m here to teach.” He moves to leave, but you step in his path.

“One night,” you say quietly. “That’s all it meant to you?” He pauses. Doesn’t look at you. Then—

“Yes.”

And then he walks past you, out the door, gone before you can even breathe out the response stuck in your throat.

You’re alone. In your first lecture hall. On your first day. Still sore. Still remembering. Still burning. And now you can’t stop thinking about him. Not because he touched you. But because now, he won’t.

You practically collapse into your dorm room chair.

The walk back from class did nothing to calm you down — not with your thoughts spinning and your thighs still sore. You’re halfway through Googling Is it illegal to hook up with your professor if you didn’t know he was your professor when the door swings open and Lily walks in, dropping her tote bag with a sigh.

“Please tell me you didn’t fall asleep in the middle of class like I almost did,” she groans.

You shake your head. “No. I… had Modern Media Theory.”

Lily perks up instantly, eyes wide. “Wait—wait—don’t tell me you got Professor Park?”

You freeze.

She gasps. “You got Park? Are you serious?”

You just blink at her, unsure how to answer.

Lily throws herself onto your bed dramatically. “Oh my God. Half the campus is obsessed with that man. Like, seriously. Even the guys think he’s hot.”

You say nothing. You can’t. You’re still trying to figure out if this is hilarious or humiliating.

“And people say,” she lowers her voice like she’s sharing top-tier gossip, “he’s huge.”

You sip your water slowly, hiding the way your breath catches. Yeah. You wouldn’t need rumors to confirm that. You still feel it.

You try to play it cool. “Huge how?”

Lily looks scandalized. “Y/N. Please. You know how.”

You choke on your water, coughing as Lily bursts out laughing. “Seriously! That man has big dick energy like—actual BDE. Someone in second-year swore he stretched her friend so bad she couldn’t sit for two days.”

You look down at your lap. Yep. Sounds familiar.

“Didn’t know the media department had this kind of drama,” you mutter.

Before Lily can reply, Kitty walks in with a protein shake and zero chill.

“Wait, are we talking about Professor Park?”

Lily lights up. “Y/N has him!”

Kitty gasps. “No way. The hot one?”

Y/N stays silent. Kitty throws herself into the chair across from you.

“I heard he’s really good in bed,” Kitty says casually, like she’s talking about the weather. “Like, life-changing. My cousin said her roommate slept with him at some faculty party or something—pre-semester—and she still can’t shut up about it.”

Your jaw clenches.

Yeah. He is.

Too good. Too cocky. Too unforgettable.

You cross your legs without thinking — a weak attempt to soothe the ghost of last night’s ache still pulsing between your thighs.

“Anyway,” Kitty says, oblivious, “you’re lucky. Most profs are ancient or weird. If I had Park as my first Monday lecture, I wouldn’t even be mad.”

Lily grins. “I wouldn’t even miss a class. Ever.”

You force a tight smile. “Right.”

They move on to some other topic — campus events, party rumors, who hooked up with who — but you barely hear it.

Your mind’s still stuck on his voice. His hands. The way he called you a good little slutand then looked right through you the next day like none of it mattered.

Your friends think he’s a fantasy. You know he’s a mistake. And yet, you can’t stop thinking about him. Still sore. Still remembering. Still wanting more.

“Y/N… can we talk?”

His voice is low, almost gentle. You turn around and he’s standing there — in the doorway of your dorm, hands in his pockets, eyes unreadable.

You don’t say anything.

Sunghoon steps closer, slow and careful, like he’s afraid you might run.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “For being so cold. Yesterday.”

You cross your arms over your chest. You want to be mad — you should be mad — but all you can do is stare at him. The way his jaw clenches. The way his voice dips when he talks to you, like you’re the only one in the world who can hear him.

He sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t know what to say. I panicked.”

He’s inches away now. You can feel the heat of his body, the scent of his cologne — clean, warm, familiar. He reaches out slowly, fingertips brushing your wrist, trailing up your arm like he’s checking if he’s allowed to touch you again.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” he murmurs. “About that night.”

Your heart pounds. His touch burns.

“I wanted to forget,” he admits, voice rough. “But I can’t.” Your back hits the wall. He cages you in without touching you — one hand braced beside your head, the other hovering just inches from your waist. His breath fans over your skin.

“I still remember how you sound,” he whispers. “How you taste. How your body felt under mine.” You shiver. Your eyes flutter closed, just for a second. “I should stay away,” he breathes. “But I don’t want to.” His lips are so close. His mouth hovers over yours, not touching, not yet — just letting the moment drag out, all heat and tension and want. You reach for him first.

Your fingers curl into his shirt. He groans into your mouth when you kiss him, slow and desperate, hands grabbing at each other like you’ve both been starved. His body presses against yours and you feel it immediately — hard, hot, eager. Just like before.

He lifts you easily, and your legs wrap around his waist like instinct. His mouth moves down your neck, sucking hard enough to make you gasp, and you tug his shirt up, frantic.

“I missed this,” he murmurs. “Missed you.” Your hips grind against his, and he groans again, rutting forward like he can’t help himself.

“I’m gonna take my time with you this time,” he says against your skin. “Gonna fuck you slow… make you cry for it…” He lays you down, starts kissing down your body, eyes dark with hunger. You moan his name.

“Sunghoon…”

But then—You wake up.

Your sheets are twisted around your legs, your body damp with sweat, and your hand is fisted tightly in the fabric of your tank top like you were reaching for something. Your chest rises and falls with shallow breaths. You stare at the ceiling.

He wasn’t here. He didn’t say anything. It was just a dream. And now you’re even worse off than before.

You don’t say anything the next time you walk into class.

But you don’t have to.

Your skirt is shorter than usual — just enough to ride up when you sit down — and your legs are crossed deliberately, slowly, as you ease into your seat near the front. No tights. No leggings. Just skin and confidence.

You feel his eyes on you the second you walk in.

He doesn’t look at you directly — of course not. He’s smarter than that. But you can see the way his jaw tightens. The way his fingers hesitate on the mouse before clicking to the next slide. The way his throat bobs when you shift in your seat and uncross your legs, only to cross them again.

You rest your chin in your hand, eyes locked on him like he’s the only thing worth watching.

Sunghoon keeps talking.

But now, there’s a pause between his sentences. A slight rasp in his voice. A subtle glance in your direction every few slides, never lingering too long — just enough for you to catch it.

You smile.

It’s not like you’re doing anything wrong.

You’re just a student in his class. Listening. Participating. Sitting there in a skirt that barely brushes your thighs, biting your lip every time he says something remotely commanding.

“Pay attention,” he says at one point, when a group in the back is whispering.

You straighten in your seat, lifting your eyes slowly.

“I am, Professor,” you say, soft and sweet.

His eyes flicker.

You don’t miss the way his grip on the podium tightens.

By the end of class, you can feel the tension radiating off him in waves. His sentences get shorter. His lecture speeds up. His eyes don’t meet yours again.

When the students begin to pack up, you move slower than the rest. You lean forward, elbows on the desk, letting your skirt ride up even higher as you adjust your bag. You can feel his stare this time — heavy, hot, lingering.

You don’t look at him. Not until the last of the students file out and the door swings shut behind them.

Then — and only then — you turn your head, lips curled into the faintest smirk.

“I liked today’s lecture,” you say, casual.

He exhales slowly, not moving from behind the desk.

“Did you.”

You stand, swinging your bag over your shoulder, stepping just close enough that the air between you feels like a challenge.

“I liked the way you said my name during attendance,” you murmur. “You sounded… tense.”

His eyes are sharp, unreadable. “You think this is a game?”

You shrug. “Isn’t it?”

He doesn’t move, but the heat in his stare makes your skin prickle. “You’re playing with fire.”

You take a step back toward the door, still smiling.

“Then burn me.”

And just like that — you’re gone.

Leaving him standing there, pulse racing, jaw clenched, hands braced on the desk like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

You can feel his gaze on your back the whole way down the hallway.

You don’t expect him to follow you.

You think he’ll stay behind like always — composed, in control, untouched by the things you do just to watch him flinch.

But the second you turn the corner into the empty hallway, you hear it.

Footsteps. Fast. Heavy. Determined.

Before you can fully register it, a hand wraps around your wrist and yanks you back — hard. You gasp as your back hits the wall, your bag slipping off your shoulder, your heart slamming against your ribs.

Sunghoon towers over you, eyes blazing.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

You blink up at him, playing dumb. “Walking.”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t play games with me.”

You tilt your head, letting your skirt shift just slightly higher as you shift your weight against the wall. “You’re the one who said it was nothing, remember? One night. A mistake.”

His jaw tightens. His hands are still gripping your wrists — not hard, but firm enough to make your pulse stutter. His body is so close you can feel the heat rolling off him in waves, caging you in.

“You wore that on purpose,” he mutters, eyes dropping to your legs.

“Wore what?” you ask sweetly.

He scoffs, low and dangerous. “You think I haven’t noticed? The skirts, the looks, the way you sit front row with your legs wide open like you want me to do something about it.”

You stay silent — because he’s not wrong.

Sunghoon leans in closer, voice like a growl in your ear. “You want to get fucked over a desk, is that it?”

Your breath catches.

“You want your professor to lose control,” he continues, his mouth just shy of touching your neck, “to bend you over the nearest surface and remind you exactly how good it felt to be ruined by me.”

You’re shaking now — but not from fear.

From how badly you want him to do it.

Your voice is barely a whisper. “Then do it.”

He freezes.

You swear you see the moment something in him breaks.

Sunghoon grabs your chin, tilting your face up to his, and crashes his mouth onto yours.

There’s nothing soft about it — no hesitation, no pretending this is still something he can control. It’s heat and teeth and frustration, his tongue sliding over yours with a groan like he’s been holding this in for too long.

You gasp as he lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he mutters against your mouth.

“But you are,” you whisper, tugging his hair, grinding down on him.

And fuck, he’s already hard — painfully hard, pressing against you like he’s seconds from snapping all over again.

“I tried to forget you,” he breathes, dragging your skirt up.

“You didn’t,” you whisper. “Neither did I.”

His mouth crashes onto yours again, more desperate now — hands sliding up your thighs, pushing your panties to the side like he can’t even wait to undress you.

“You think teasing me was a good idea?” he growls. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing when you act like a little slut in my class?”

You moan. “Then teach me a lesson, Professor.”

His eyes burn.

“Oh, I will.”

Sunghoon doesn’t take you to his office.

He doesn’t even bother finding a classroom.

He kicks open the door to the nearest supply closet — small, dark, barely wide enough for the both of you — and presses you against the wall before it even shuts behind you. His mouth is back on yours, rough and hungry, hands everywhere, grabbing and pulling like he needs to feel all of you at once.

“Turn around,” he growls against your lips.

You obey, chest heaving as your hands brace against a metal shelf full of paper and printer ink. He pushes your skirt up roughly, revealing the soaked fabric clinging between your legs.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, dragging his fingers up your inner thigh. “You were dripping through this during class?”

You moan when his fingers brush your slit, teasing the soaked fabric. “I couldn’t help it.”

“You wanted me to see, didn’t you?” he says darkly, yanking your panties to the side. “Wanted me to lose it in front of everyone and fuck you over the desk.”

You whimper, pushing back against him.

“You have no idea what you’ve done to me,” he mutters, pressing two fingers inside you without warning.

You cry out, gripping the shelf tighter as he curls them deep inside you.

“So tight… shit, you’re perfect,” he groans, fucking you slow and deep with his fingers. “Still so wet for me. You missed this cock, didn’t you?”

You nod frantically. “Yes—God, yes.”

He spanks you once — hard — and you gasp, the sting sharp and delicious.

“Say it properly.”

“I missed your cock, Professor.”

He groans low in his throat. You hear the sound of his belt, the zipper, the shuffle of fabric. Then his hand returns to your waist, and the thick head of his cock presses against your entrance.

You barely get a breath in before he thrusts inside.

“Fuck—Sunghoon—!”

“God, you take me so well,” he hisses, slamming into you again, and again, until you’re gasping with every thrust. “This is what you wanted, huh? To be bent over like a bad student and filled up with my cock?”

You can’t even answer. He’s too deep. Too thick. Stretching you open so perfectly your knees almost buckle.

He grabs your hair, pulling your head back just enough to whisper in your ear.

“Not gonna stop this time. You’re gonna take it all.”

And you do.

Every thrust slams into you, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the tiny closet, filthy and raw. Your walls flutter around him with every stroke, clenching tight like your body’s desperate to keep him there.

You don’t even care that you’re in a damn supply closet — not when he’s fucking you like this, like he’s punishing you and worshiping you all at once.

“Can feel you squeezing me,” he groans. “You’re close, aren’t you?”

You nod, crying out when his hand slips between your legs and rubs circles against your clit, fast and unforgiving.

“Cum for me,” he growls. “Let me feel it.”

You break with a scream, your orgasm ripping through you like fire — legs shaking, walls spasming around him, soaking his cock as he pounds you through it.

But he doesn’t stop.

“Too much—!” you whimper.

“You can take it,” he growls. “One more. Be a good girl.”

You’re already too sensitive, your body twitching with every thrust, but the way he fucks you — like he owns you — has you falling apart again.

“Please—Sunghoon—!”

“That’s it,” he pants, thrusting even deeper. “Such a good little slut for me. Letting me fuck you where anyone could walk in…”

You cum again — hard, sudden, your moans cut off by the hand he slaps over your mouth as you scream into his palm.

His hips stutter.

“Fuck—gonna fill you up—fuck, take it—”

You feel him twitch inside you, hot and thick, and then he’s spilling into you with a deep, broken moan, his cock throbbing as he presses deep and stays there, panting against your shoulder.

You both stay like that for a moment.

Breathless. Sweaty. Soaked.

Then he pulls out slowly, and you both groan at the mess — his cum dripping down your thighs, your panties ruined, the air thick with sex.

He zips up without a word. You adjust your skirt with shaking hands.

“You’re a fucking menace,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair.

You smirk over your shoulder. “And you’re weak.”

He glares.cYou wink. And you leave him there — still flushed, still catching his breath, already addicted again.

The next morning, you walk into class like nothing happened.

Your skirt’s a little longer today. You’re not wearing lip gloss. You even show up on time, quiet and composed.

But nothing feels the same. Sunghoon doesn’t look at you once during the lecture.

Not when you raise your hand. Not when you bite your pen. Not even when you catch his eye on purpose and hold the stare. He acts like you don’t exist. But you know better.

You can feel the tension in the way he paces the front of the room. The way he rushes through the slides. The way he won’t call on you even though your hand’s been raised for five minutes. He’s avoiding you. And it’s almost funny, how obvious it is.

When class ends, you take your time packing up, but he’s already halfway out the door. He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t glance back. Doesn’t say a word.

Coward.

You don’t chase him. You don’t have to. Because two seconds after you step into the hallway, your friend Lily grabs your arm with a smirk.

“You look like you got wrecked,” she whispers, dragging you to the side. “Don’t even lie. You’re glowing.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m just tired.”

“Bullshit,” she grins. “Is this about Professor Park?”

Your heart stutters. “What?”

“You’ve been acting weird since the semester started,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “And don’t pretend you didn’t notice how he was looking at you the other day. I was two seats behind you. The man looked like he was about to explode.”

You say nothing. Your silence is enough. Lily’s eyes go wide. “No fucking way.”

“Keep your voice down.”

“You fucked him?!”

“Lily.”

“Oh my god,” she gasps. “Was it hot?” You hesitate. She laughs. “That good, huh?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” She ignores you. “Okay but like… is what they say true?”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I’m serious,” she whispers. “Is he… huge. Like huge. Like, wreck-your-life huge.”

You don’t respond. You don’t have to. Her eyes go wider.

“Wait. He is, isn’t he?!”

You just shrug, lips twitching.

“And really good in bed?” she adds. “Like, dangerously good. Like… ruin-you-for-everyone-else good.”

You don’t even try to hide the way your thighs press together.

“Jesus Christ,” she mutters. “No wonder you’ve been walking funny.” You slap her arm. She laughs louder. “You lucky bitch.” You groan, covering your face. “It was just a one-time thing.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” You want to believe it.

But then you get to your next class and open your laptop, and the first thing that flashes through your mind isn’t the lecture — it’s the way Sunghoon’s hand had clamped over your mouth while you came around his cock.

And when you pass him in the hallway later — by accident, this time — he barely glances your way.

But his jaw clenches. His hand balls into a fist. And you know he remembers. You bite your lip as you keep walking, not looking back. You don’t need to. You already know he’s watching.

Class is halfway through when Sunghoon finally breaks.

You can feel it before it happens — the way he keeps glancing your way, how his words are sharper than usual, how his hand keeps flexing on the desk like he’s trying to hold himself together.

You’re sitting near the front again. Of course you are.

Legs crossed. Skirt riding just a little too high. Innocent face like you’re not begging to be noticed.

And he does.

“Y/N,” he says, voice casual. “Can you help me with something for a second?”

Heads turn. You blink up at him, playing your part perfectly.

“Sure, Professor.”

You rise slowly, adjusting your skirt with deliberate care, and walk to the front like you’re not already soaking through your panties. You can feel the stares on your back, but all you care about is his.

His jaw is tight. His eyes flick down your body once — fast, hungry, dangerous — and then he steps back, motioning toward his desk.

“Over here,” he murmurs.

You round the desk, heart pounding as he opens a drawer, pretending to rifle through it.

“I need you to grab—” he starts, but you cut him off with a look.

“Don’t lie,” you whisper, stepping closer. “You just wanted me near.”

His breath hitches. “You’re insane.”

“You asked for help,” you say sweetly. “I’m just being a good student.”

Your hand brushes over the front of his pants — and sure enough, he’s already hard.

He grabs your wrist. “We’re in the middle of class.”

You look up at him, eyes wide and innocent. “So stop me.”

He doesn’t.

Instead, he groans — low and harsh — as you sink to your knees behind the desk. The rest of the class is quiet, heads buried in their notes or staring at the projection screen. No one even notices you’re gone.

No one can see.

Your fingers undo his belt with practiced ease, and when you free his cock, you have to stifle a gasp.

You forgot how thick he is.

How heavy he feels in your hand.

How your mouth waters at the sight of it.

“You’re fucking insane,” he mutters again, voice strained now.

You pump him slowly, dragging your hand up the length of him, thumb teasing the slit at the top. He’s hot and pulsing in your grip, already leaking, and it takes everything in you not to take him in your mouth.

But you want him squirming first.

You tighten your grip slightly, stroking him slow — too slow — watching his stomach tense, his breath catch.

“You like when I touch you here, Professor?” you whisper.

“Fuck,” he mutters, gripping the edge of the desk. “Keep your voice down.”

“You like when your student gets on her knees for you in the middle of class?” you tease, twisting your wrist at the top just how he likes.

His hips twitch.

You speed up, stroking him faster now, loving how he’s biting the inside of his cheek to keep quiet. He looks down at you once — just once — and you see it in his eyes.

He’s right there.

You lean in, spit on your hand, and stroke him harder — faster — and he curses under his breath, head falling forward.

“Shit—Y/N—stop—gonna—”

You don’t stop.

You squeeze, twist, stroke him right through it, and he cums hard in your hand, biting his lip so hard you think he might bleed. His cock twitches as you milk every last drop, your hand warm and wet with him.

You look up at him, breathless.

“Still need help with anything?”

He glares down at you, chest heaving, eyes wild.

“You needy girl,” he whispers.

“And you’re obsessed,” you whisper back, standing and licking your palm clean with a slow swipe of your tongue — just because you can.

His eyes darken like he wants to drag you under the desk and fuck you right there.

But he doesn’t.

He swallows, adjusts his pants, and turns back to the class like nothing happened.

You walk back to your seat with your legs trembling — and the biggest fucking smile on your face.

He calls you to his office after class. Not right away — no, he waits a full ten minutes after the room clears, like that’ll somehow make this less obvious. You knock once, and when you step inside, he’s leaning against his desk, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“Close the door.”

You do.

“Lock it.”

You hesitate, then click it shut behind you. He exhales sharply. Doesn’t look at you.

“We can’t do this anymore,” he says, voice low. You blink. “Can’t do what?” He glares. “Don’t play dumb.”

“I’m not,” you shrug. “You’ll have to be more specific. Do you mean the part where I made you cum in the middle of a lecture? Or the part where you let me?”

His jaw clenches. “Y/N.”

You take a step closer. “Or do you mean the one-night stand? The closet? The fact that you begged me not to stop?”

“Stop.” His voice cracks on the word. You smile sweetly. “You dragged me into this. Not the other way around.”

“I’m your professor.” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated, desperate. “This has to end before we get caught. Before I lose my job. Before—” You cut him off by sliding between his legs, standing so close your thighs brush his. His hands are still clenched at his sides, like he’s holding on to the last bit of control.

“Then why did you ask me to come here?” He says nothing.

“You could’ve ignored me. Failed me. Told me to stop. But you didn’t.” His eyes lock onto yours, burning with something darker than anger.

“Because you can’t,” you whisper. “You don’t want to.” His breathing is ragged. “That’s not the point.” You lean in, voice softer now. “So make a rule. Try.” You watch him fold, just a little. He grabs your waist and spins you — suddenly, roughly — pinning you between him and the desk.

“No more games,” he says, voice low, lips inches from yours. “No more teasing. You come to class. You do your work. You don’t speak to me unless it’s about the course. Understood?” You raise your chin, defiant. “And if I break the rules?” His grip tightens. “Then you won’t like the consequences.” You smile, slow and wicked. “I think I will.” He growls under his breath, turning away like he needs the space, like he can’t breathe when you’re that close.

You take one step toward the door. Pause. Glance over your shoulder. “Oh,” you add innocently, “I won’t be wearing panties next lecture.” He doesn’t move. But his fingers twitch. And when you finally leave the office, you know you’ve already won.

You knew he wouldn’t last.

Sunghoon made it exactly three days before he cracked.

You showed up to every lecture like the perfect little student.

Took notes, nodded along, answered questions.

Sat right in the front, of course — legs crossed, skirt a little too high, no panties underneath.

You saw the way his eyes lingered.

The way his voice faltered every time he called on you.

You didn’t even have to touch him. Just existed. And watched him unravel.

So really, you weren’t surprised when class ended and he barked your name in front of everyone.

“Y/N. Stay behind.”

You fought your smile. Nodded. Waited.

The second the last student left, he grabbed your wrist and yanked you toward his office — not saying a word, walking fast, grip tight like he was scared he might change his mind.

The door slammed shut behind you. Locked. And then he shoved you against it.

“I told you to stop,” he growled. You smirked. “But you didn’t want me to.” He kissed you before you could finish the sentence — all tongue and teeth and frustration, like he hated you for what you did to him. His hands were already under your skirt, shoving it up, confirming exactly what he’d been suspecting all week.

“No fucking panties,” he muttered against your lips. “You really are a little slut, huh?”

“Only for you,” you whispered. That’s what did it. He spun you around, bent you over the desk without warning, and shoved your legs apart with his knee. You gasped at the cold wood against your cheek, his hand pushing down between your shoulder blades to keep you there.

“No teasing this time,” he hissed. “You want to play games? Fine. But you’re not leaving this room until I’ve ruined you.” You whined when you felt his fingers glide between your folds — soaking wet, dripping for him already.

“Fucking knew it,” he growled. “You like being used, don’t you?” You nodded desperately. He spanked you, hard. “Use your words.”

“Yes, hoon, yes—!”

He groaned and unzipped his pants so fast it was like he’d been holding back for days. Probably had. You felt the thick head of his cock press against you, tease your entrance, and then— He rammed into you.

No hesitation. No warning.

Just one rough, brutal thrust that had you screaming his name against the desk.

“God—Sunghoon—”

“That’s Professor to you,” he growled, grabbing your hips and slamming into you again.

You were soaked, your body clenching around him like it couldn’t get enough — and you couldn’t. His cock stretched you so deep, so perfectly, it was like your body was made for him. He fucked you hard, fast, filthy — the desk creaking under the weight of it, your nails clawing at the wood, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

“Thought you could tease me?” he hissed in your ear. “Sit in my class like a good girl and pretend you’re not dripping for me?” You moaned — helpless, breathless, aching for more.

“You don’t get to tease me,” he growled. “You don’t get to fucking win.” He fucked you harder, his cock slamming into your soaked cunt with punishing thrusts, the sound of your bodies echoing off the walls like it was the only thing that mattered. You could feel him everywhere — hands, hips, voice — all of him taking and taking and taking. And then his hand snaked around your front. Two fingers on your clit. Fast, rough, no mercy. You sobbed.

“Too much—!”

“Take it,” he snapped. “You wanted this.”

Your body was already on edge — too sensitive, too full, too overstimulated — and you shattered around him with a scream, legs trembling, pleasure ripping through you like lightning. He didn’t stop. He kept fucking you through it, not slowing down, not letting up, chasing his own release with the desperation of a man possessed.

“I’m gonna fill you up,” he growled. “So deep you’ll still feel me in the morning.”

You whimpered, overstimulated and aching and still somehow needing it.

“Beg for it.”

“Please—fuck—fill me up—need it, please—” That was all he needed. He cursed, shoved deep one last time, and came with a low, broken groan, spilling inside you so hard you could feel it flood your insides — hot, thick, endless.

You stayed there — bent over, legs shaking, completely ruined — as he caught his breath behind you. And then, when he pulled out, his cum dripped down your thighs and onto the floor, and you knew this was it. There was no going back now. He was yours. And you were so far from finished. 

It had only been three days. But you missed him like it’d been weeks.

He was sick — a bad fever, rough cough, too weak to teach, let alone sneak off to fuck you breathless behind his desk.

Still, you called. Every night.

At first, it was innocent. How are you feeling? Are you redtng enough? Do you need anything?

But tonight, something was different.

His voice was lower. Rough from congestion, but still laced with that dark, velvety tone that made your stomach flutter.

“I miss you,” he rasped into the phone. Your breath hitched. “I miss you too.” You were curled under your blankets, phone to your ear, nothing but a t-shirt and your own restless thoughts keeping you company.

“What are you wearing?” he asked suddenly, voice a little more awake now. Teasing. Familiar.

You bit your lip. “Just your shirt.” He groaned quietly. “Fuck.” There was silence for a beat — hot, heavy.

“Touch yourself for me.”

Your heart thudded.

“Sunghoon—”

“Please,” he whispered. “I need to hear you.”

Your hand slipped beneath the covers before you could think twice, fingers grazing your thighs, your core already warm and aching. You let out a soft sigh, just for him.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Let me hear you, baby.”

“Are you…?” you breathed.

“Yeah,” he said, voice strained. “Got my hand around my cock right now. Thinking about how wet you probably are.”

You whimpered. He knew what to say. Even sick. Even over the phone. He had you melting with nothing but his voice.

“Are you teasing yourself?” he asked. “Or are you already fucking those fingers in deep like I would?”

“Just rubbing,” you gasped. “It’s so sensitive.”

“Wish it was my mouth,” he growled. “I’d suck your clit nice and slow. Keep you spread open and messy for me.” You moaned louder now, fingers working faster, thighs shaking.

“I miss your tongue,” you whimpered. “And your cock. I miss everything.” He groaned again, breath stuttering. “I’m close. Just thinking about you falling apart for me.”

“I’m gonna come,” you panted. “Sunghoon, I—”

“Do it,” he whispered. “Come for me, baby. Let me hear it.”

And you did — hard, trembling, breath catching as your orgasm crashed over you like a wave.

You heard him gasp, a deep, raw sound on the other end. Then silence. Just heavy breathing. You clutched the phone tighter, flushed and buzzing.

“I can’t wait to fuck you when I’m better,” he said finally, voice thick and low. “Gonna make up for every night I couldn’t touch you.” You smiled, cheeks warm. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Good,” he whispered. “Now go to sleep, baby. I’ll dream about you.”

And you did — still aching, but content. Because even when he wasn’t here, he still was.

It didn’t happen all at once. It was little things. The way his voice softened when he said your name, even when he was pissed. The way he always made sure you got home safe, even if it was just a quiet Text me when you’re in bed.

The way he kissed you when no one was watching — not hurried, not hungry. Just… like he wanted to remember it.

You didn’t mean to fall for him. You knew what this was. A mistake. A fling. A secret that could ruin both your lives. But somehow, between the stolen glances and the late-night fucks in his office, you started to feel it. That pull. That ache. It wasn’t just lust anymore. Not for you. So when he texted you at 11:42 PM — come over. need to blow off steam — your heart stupidly fluttered.

And when you showed up at his apartment, when he pulled you in without a word and kissed you like he missed you, you let yourself believe, for just a second, that maybe… maybe he felt it too. You made love that night. Not rough. Not fast. Not like every other time. His hands were gentle. His kisses slow. His body moved with yours like you were something precious — not just a girl he wasn’t supposed to touch.

And afterward, when you curled into him, bare skin against bare skin, you whispered it before you could stop yourself.

“Sunghoon.”

He hummed, half-asleep, arm draped over your waist.

“I think I’m falling for you.”

Silence. Not a breath. Not a blink. Just… nothing. You turned your head to look at him. He was wide awake now.

“Y/N,” he said carefully. Too carefully. Your chest tightened. “Say something.”

He sat up, rubbed a hand over his face. “You weren’t supposed to—” You pulled the sheet up around your chest like it could protect you from the sharpness of his words.

“Wasn’t supposed to what?” you asked quietly. “Catch feelings? Think this meant more than just… late-night texts and quick fucks between lectures?”

His jaw tightened. “You knew what this was.”

“Did I?” You blinked at him, heart splintering. “Because it didn’t feel like just sex.”

He didn’t look at you. And that told you everything. You swallowed hard, throat burning.

“You don’t feel anything for me?”

He paused. And then he shook his head once. Quick. Cold.

“I can’t.”

It hit like a slap. You nodded slowly, forcing down the sting. “Right. Of course.”

“Y/N—”

“No, I get it,” you said, getting up and grabbing your clothes. “You’re just my professor. And I’m just the dumb girl who thought maybe this was something.”

You didn’t wait for him to say anything else. You didn’t look back. Because if you did — if you saw even an ounce of regret in his eyes — you’d break. And you were already breaking. 

You didn’t go to class the next day. Or the next.

You stopped answering his texts. Left them on read. Blocked the number, even — not because you didn’t want to see them, but because you knew you would.

And you were done giving in.

He didn’t love you. He didn’t even like you, not really. To him, you were just a distraction. A body. A pretty little secret to keep him entertained. You weren’t going to be that anymore.

So you went quiet. Silent.

You didn’t show up to his lectures, didn’t sit in the front row in those too-short skirts, didn’t flirt with your eyes across the room. You handed your assignments in online. You stayed invisible. And for a while, it worked.

You didn’t cry anymore. You didn’t dream about his mouth on your skin. You didn’t ache at night thinking about the way he used to look at you like he needed you.

You even let Lily drag you to a party.

He wasn’t there. Of course he wasn’t. Why would a professor hang out with freshmen? But someone else was. He was tall. Soft brown eyes. Big hands. Good Looking

Nice.

You let him kiss you. Let him press you against the wall. Let him fuck you in some stranger’s bedroom with your skirt bunched around your waist.

It wasn’t like Sunghoon. Not even close. But it was something. And for a few minutes, it helped you forget. Until the next morning — when you checked your phone, and saw his name lit up the screen.

Park Sunghoon [3 messages]

Where are you?

You missed another lecture.

Y/N, please.

You stared at the screen for a long time. And then you deleted them. Sunghoon was losing his goddamn mind.

The first day you skipped, he told himself it was nothing.

Maybe you were sick. Hungover. Avoiding him. Whatever.

By the third, he was pacing in his office, checking the attendance sheet, rereading your last assignment just to see if there was a hint — anything — in your tone.

By the fifth, he was showing up to dorm buildings and walking past study halls just to maybe catch a glimpse of you. He didn’t know what the fuck was happening to him. You’d said you were falling for him.

And he’d brushed it off. Because he was scared. Because it wasn’t supposed to happen. I mean, what was he thinking? Fucking his student relentlessly thinking she wouldn’t fall for him? But now? Now he realized he’d been lying to himself the entire time. He missed you.

More than just your body. More than the games. He missed your laugh. Your attitude. Your soft little sighs when you fell asleep against his chest.

He missed you. And when he saw you again — two weeks later, walking across campus in a low-cut top and short skirt, laughing with some guy he didn’t recognize — it hit him like a fucking truck.

You were moving on. And he was still stuck in the night you left. He waited until the guy walked off. Then followed you.

“Y/N.”

You stopped. Turned. Your expression shifted from surprised to cold in half a second.

“I’m busy.”

“Can we talk?”

“No.”

“Please—”

“You made it clear how you felt,” you said, voice sharp. “Don’t backpedal now.”

“I didn’t mean it like that—” You crossed your arms. “You meant it enough to let me walk out.” He hesitated. “You blocked my number.”

“You said it was just sex,” you snapped. “So why would I stay?” He looked at you — really looked at you — and something in his face cracked.

“I was scared,” he admitted. “That’s not an excuse. But I didn’t know what to do. I’m your professor. I could lose everything.”

You stared at him, trying not to let your heart soften.

“And now?”

He stepped closer. Slower this time. Careful, like you might run.

“Now I don’t care,” he whispered. “I’d risk everything if you’d just look at me the way you used to.”

You looked away.

Because you still wanted to.

But he’d already broken you once.

And you weren’t sure you could let him close enough to do it again.

You lay there in the dark, chest heaving, body limp from everything he’d just taken from you — and everything you’d given him.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he. His hand rested on your thigh, thumb stroking absently over your skin like he wasn’t ready to let go yet. Like if he kept touching you, maybe you wouldn’t disappear again. You should’ve pulled away. Should’ve said this doesn’t change anything. But it did. It changed everything.

And when you finally found your voice, it was quiet. Fragile.

“You can’t keep doing that.”His thumb stilled. “Doing what?”

“Acting like it’s nothing one second, then showing up the next like you’d burn the world down for me.” He turned toward you, arm curling around your waist.

“I would,” he said simply. “Burn it all down.”

Your chest tightened. “Then why did you let me go?”

He exhaled, forehead pressing gently to yours. “Because I thought I had to.”

“But you don’t now?”

“I can’t let you go again,” he whispered. “Not after that. Not after this.”

You searched his eyes.

And this time, you didn’t find silence. Didn’t find cold. You found regret. Longing.

Something that looked too close to love to ignore.

“Say it,” you breathed. “Say it wasn’t just sex.” He didn’t even hesitate.

“It never was.”

The breath you’d been holding spilled out all at once, shaky and full of every broken piece you’d been holding in since the start. You closed your eyes, voice cracking.

“Me either.” He kissed your temple, your jaw, your lips — slow and reverent, like he finally understood what he’d almost lost. And when he pulled you against him, wrapping himself around you like a shield, you knew something had shifted for good.

This wasn’t a game anymore. This wasn’t a secret. This wasn’t a one-night stand stretched into months of denial. This was real. And this time, neither of you was running.

was so horny writing this (send req)

perm taglist 🏷️ @kristynaaah @firstclassjaylee @chvconn3 @wonzzziezzzz @sheseung @blvengene @gvtdoll @a3r4-for3ver @sunghoon-cam @luvksnn @aaaaarmiiiiin @blckorchidd @gyulune @zerere @marimariiisblog @pinknjm @bloomiize @flwwon @ziiao @heelovver @sxie-txt

💌 perm taglist request

[luvbabydoll]

What would the 141 boys be like if their girl was drunk and got very flirty/handsy with them?

john price

he’d chuckle low under his breath the first time you slid your hands up his chest, eyes flicking down to you with that half-smile of his.

“easy, love,” he’d murmur, one hand catching your wrist, the other steadying your waist. “didn’t know a few drinks’d turn you into such a flirt.”

you’re leaning in close, whispering something ridiculous in his ear, and he shakes his head, amused but trying to keep you grounded.

“come on then, let’s get you home before you decide to start undressing me in front of the lads.”

he wouldn’t push you away—he likes the attention, really—but he’d tuck you under his arm and guide you somewhere quieter, protectively. his palm would settle warm on your lower back, his tone gentle and low.

“you’re gonna regret sayin’ that tomorrow, sweetheart.”

simon “ghost” riley

simon would freeze when your fingers slide under the hem of his shirt. his shoulders tense. eyes widen just slightly behind the mask.

“what the hell’re you doin’, love?”

your voice is slurred and teasing, and you’re pouting when he tries to step back, so he sighs and lets you cling to him a bit more.

he’s not annoyed—more like confused and trying really hard not to enjoy the way you’re pressed up against him.

“you’re drunk,” he mutters, jaw clenching. “and too bloody handsy for your own good.”

but then you whisper something dirty against the fabric over his neck and he chokes. literally coughs and backs away, cheeks flushed.

“fuckin’ hell. alright. we’re leavin’. now.”

he’d throw his jacket over your shoulders and pick you up if he has to. no chance he’s lettin’ the others hear the filth coming out of your mouth when you’re this tipsy.

johnny “soap” mactavish

oh, he loves it. the second you start getting handsy, giggling and trailing your fingers over his tattoos, he’s beaming.

“whoa there, bonnie,” he laughs, arms wrapping around you without hesitation. “didn’t know ye turned into such a lil’ menace with a drink in ya.”

he lets you touch him, playfully catching your wrists when you get bold, holding them up between you with a wolfish grin.

“behave,” he says, even though he’s definitely not discouraging you.

but he knows you’re drunk, so he won’t let it go too far. he’s still protective—just the type who lets you get it out of your system while teasing you to hell and back.

“you keep talkin’ like that and i’ll have t’ remind you in the mornin’ exactly what you said—word for word.”

phillip graves

graves is leaned back in his chair, drink in hand, boots up on the edge of the fire pit when you stumble over to him with that tipsy grin and all that sweet mischief in your eyes.

“darlin’, you’ve been starin’ at me like i’m dessert all night,” he drawls, lips quirking as you plop yourself right into his lap like you’ve got no shame left in that pretty little body.

you’re giggling, nails dragging lightly over his chest, your words sticky-sweet and slurred.

“you’re so big, phil… jesus, what do they feed you in texas?”

he damn near chokes on his bourbon.

his hand finds your hip, firm but not rough, grounding you as he leans in close with a smirk, voice low and honeyed.

“sugar, you keep talkin’ like that and i’m gonna forget you’re drunk.”

he lets you run your hands over him, lets you press your mouth just shy of his neck, but he ain’t about to take advantage. not his girl.

he’ll shift you so you’re sitting more sideways on his thigh, wrapping an arm around your waist like a seatbelt, fingers tapping against your leg to distract you from grabbing at his belt again.

“alright now, calm down, sweetheart. you’re handsy as hell and we got an audience.”

if anyone dares make a comment, he gives them a look that shuts them up fast. then he’s tilting your chin up, all fondness and southern charm:

“you wanna act like a lil’ tease, baby, that’s fine. just know payback’s a bitch come mornin’. and i got a good memory.”

[viperify]

AU | ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴠᴀᴍᴘɪʀᴇ!ᴛᴏᴍ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

⁺ ⚕₊ In His Fangs.

Short Summary: Curiosity killed the cat. Yet, you don’t really believe Tom Riddle is dead. Not when rumours spread he has returned as a vampire to claim the immortality he has always sought for…

Warnings: 18+ only! NONCON. blood kink, biting, branding, choking, creampie, clit play, degradation, forced orgasm, hair pulling, impact play, overstimulation, rough sex, slight cum play

A/N: I am scared of myself.

wordcount: 2,9k

Mind the warnings before reading. If you are not comfortable, feel free to scroll. <3

Curiosity killed the cat—or so they say.

Rumours caught your attention. Rumours that Tom Riddle—believed to be dead—had sacrificed everything to gain immortality, returning as a vampire.

People didn’t believe it. Nobody did. They were rumours after all, rumours someone spread deliberately—with the intention to scare the general public.

Tom Riddle, Voldemort—he was dead. Killed by the Ministry right before he could create his third Horcrux. Students, teachers, some of his followers—they all witnessed his death.

He would never return.

Never.

Right?

You tried to believe it.

For so long, you tried to forget the conversation you overheard in the Three Broomsticks. Just a drunk old man blabbering about an attack on his livestock—unusual really. The animal wasn’t killed for its flesh. But its body was completely drained of blood. Various detection spells showed no results, diagnostics failed. Until some old, wise witch found something—a vampire’s bite, hidden under dark, dark magic.

That’s how it all started.

And it fit too—the timeline was perfect. Weeks after Tom’s supposed death. Just a mere month after, more and more animals were killed in the exact same way, the bite always hidden by dark magic so it would be insanely difficult to discover and place. But never humans—no single human died. Which, in the end, calmed the public down. Rumours steadily disappearing from people’s conversations at the bar. Just another vampire, passing by the Scottish Highlands—feeding on animals—after all, feeding on humans, let alone killing them, was strictly forbidden by the Ministry.

But you felt it. There was more behind the story. Something that made you shudder each time you only looked in the direction of the Forbidden Forest.

And yet, you felt a strange pull towards it.

—

You have been restless for days. Total lunar eclipse, they say—better known as blood moon.

You can’t sleep. Can’t rest, can’t nap. The closer to a full moon, the worse it gets. To the point where you decide to go for a walk in the evening, to take your mind off things.

Originally, you didn’t intend to go into the forest, not really. But then, when you see a rare potion ingredient right at the edges of the woods—you rethink. After a brief moment of hesitation, you decide to collect it, putting it in a tote bag you have brought with you. As you look back up, you see it.

There are more, scattered around just a little further away—

Just a little deeper in the forest—

At some point, your bag is full. Potion ingredients that are so rare, if you sold your bag, you could probably afford a home for yourself.

You must have gotten really, really lucky, you think.

It’s getting darker and darker, the sun disappearing behind the horizon. You shudder when a chilly breeze brushes past you and finally decide to leave the forest.

Looking around you, you try to find the exit. This tree, that rock—you don’t exactly remember where you came from. But it couldn’t be that far.

Right?

You decide to turn around and just walk in a straight line, figuring that would be the fastest way to find the exit of the Forbidden Forest.

However, after 15 minutes of walking, you return to the same spot you left off at. There was no way you walked in a circle, but yet here you were—exactly where you started.

You try again.

Same outcome.

Your heartbeat races—you want to leave. It’s dark by now, and mindlessly wandering through the forest at night time, during a full moon, when there are possibly still vampires around—is not something you are keen on doing.

You shriek at a sudden movement, a soft crack of a branch somewhere behind you—but when you turn—there is nothing.

Then, a low growl to your left—

And your legs react faster than your brain. By the time you reach a small bush, somewhere to hide under, you are completely out of breath.

You listen intently for any strange sounds, try to control your breathing—when you see it.

A small hut, not far away.

Looking left and right, you slowly make your way towards the wooden structure, entering in one swift movement, closing the door behind you. For a moment you let yourself rest against the wall, inhaling deeply. It’s quite cold in here, the scent of mossy wood flooding your senses, the rough wood scraping against your arms. But it’s silent. Calm. Dark. And for the first time since you entered the forest—

Safety.

Or so you think.

“You came for me. I knew you would. Stupid, stupid girl.”

Your heart skips a beat, head turning in the direction of an all-too-familiar voice—

It’s too dark to make out more than a faint outline of the person next to you—besides their scarlet eyes directly burning down into yours.

His voice, his eyes, his height.

Tom Riddle. Now, a vampire.

One hand firmly wraps around your throat before you can even think about running, pushing you up against the wooden panelling. Squeezing tightly enough you can barely fucking breathe.

“Let— me go!” You rasp, the last bit of air left in your lungs wasted on words you know will do nothing to help your situation. Oh, no—not until he’s gotten what he’s wanted. What he has been after ever since he turned. Your blood. Only yours. Animals, in the meanwhile, merely acting as a substitution—he wanted you.

“Too late.” He says, fingers pressing down even harder on the side of your throat. “I have always thought you were a smart girl, but clearly I am mistaken. Falling for a trap this obvious.”

The last few words fade into a blur, your brain too deprived of oxygen to function. Just as your vision goes black at the edges, his hand leaves your throat. Without him firmly pressing you against the wall, your knees give in, having you drop to the floor, gasping for air.

He doesn’t wait for you to recover—instantly bending down, grabbing a fistful of your hair just to forcefully yank your head backwards. Forcing you to look into his eyes again.

“So the rumours are true,” you whisper, trying to back up—but his grip is too strong. “It was you all along.”

He merely grants you a nod. “It was the only way. I wanted to avenge myself—wanted to find the someone whose fault this all is.”

His expression is unreadable as he looks down at you—a brief flash behind his eyes—almost predatory.

Your breath catches in your throat. Fuck.

“Quite curious, isn’t it? The very person that found out about my plans, getting me murdered in consequence—is the one’s blood I crave most.”

And then he smirks, subtle but dangerous. The red moon, now at its highest on the pitch-black horizon, casts a shadow on his sharp features through the window.

“Tom, I didn’t—“

His palm comes down on your cheek. Hard.

“If you want to live, you should act accordingly. No more lies. You will obey my every command. And I might just let you leave afterwards.” He says, thumb softly wiping over where he struck you. “If you are a very, very good girl, that is.”

You swallow. He set up a trap, and you walked into it, thanking him even. Served yourself on a silver plate. You curse yourself for it.

Tears well up in your eyes. “I will do anything you ask. Please just don’t— kill me.”

His eyes glow at your response. Just how he’s wanted you. Pliant. Obedient. Helpless.

He’d taken in your unique scent from miles away. He’d felt the racing heartbeat in your chest—pumping your sweet, sweet blood through your body as you panicked while looking for an exit. Tom merely had to wait for sunset to get to you then.

Back at Hogwarts he secretly admired you for your intelligence—though you were never smarter than him, not even now.

“Anything, you say?” He purrs, pulling you to your feet by your hair, so you are mere inches from his face. He still looks the same as he did in school. This beautiful, dark hair, sharp jawline, perfect height. You nod, carefully.

“Strip.”

His voice is rough, demanding—not giving you any space or option to complain. You can’t say no, and you know it. You try to keep your breathing steady—however, when you feel his gaze dropping, hand coming to rest on your neck, thumb deliberately caressing along your most prominent neck vein—you can’t help but inhale sharply, followed by a shaky whimper.

“We are alone in this forest, just you and me.” He drawls, pressing down on your pulse point, brows furrowing as he feels your heightened heartbeat under his finger. You are warm. So deliciously warm, he thinks.

His hot breath ghosts over your cheek as he leans in closer—dangerously close. Uncomfortably close. “I could drain you right here. And nobody would notice.”

That’s it. Any sane thoughts are ripped from your mind, and you start sobbing.

“Shhh.” He soothes, a condescending grin decorating his face, the rough pad of his thumb wiping a freshly spilled tear from your cheek. “I am not going to hurt you. Not more than necessary.”

You nod again, wiping a tear from your face.

“Now do as I said. When you are done, bend over the table.”

With a flick of his fingers a few candles light up, illuminating your body as you undress piece by piece. All while he watches you intently, hungry eyes roaming over your bare skin.

You take a deep breath before you turn around, bending over said table in the middle of the small room, the rough edge digging into your hip bones.

The sound of his clothes dropping to the floor is the only thing that breaks the silence between the both you, and a mere minute later, he’s behind you. Cock pressing against your thigh, hard and heavy—a bead of precum leaking from the tip. But he waits, lingers there—thumb trailing along your spine—hand coming to a rest on your hip before two of his fingers push inside, working you open for him. You gasp at the feeling—hips meeting his thrusts.

Tom instantly halts inside of you, other hand smacking your ass so hard it must tingle on his own skin.

“This is supposed to be a punishment. Yet here you are, bucking your hips like a whore. Stop that.”

His words sting. But he isn’t wrong—not entirely. As messed up as the situation is, you can’t help but whimper at his touch—how he already knows every single spot that makes you whine and moan. You hate him, you really do—but Merlin— there is something about him like this that makes heat pool in your lower stomach—and as much as you want to deny it, you can’t.

And he notices, of course he does. Quickly withdrawing his fingers, turning you around and helping you up on the table, immediately pushing you down on it. His hand wraps around his cock, stroking himself before he swipes through your soaked folds once, twice, maybe three times—groaning as your arousal coats the head of his cock—and then he pushes inside. Not slowly. Not carefully. No time to adjust. No stopping—never stopping. Until he is fully hilted inside you.

Your mouth falls open in a silent scream—the stretch close to unbearable—but he doesn’t grant you much time to think about it. One second later he’s already moving, hips snapping against yours—so hard it has your body moving up the table, and he has to pull you back down.

And then, with one swift movement, his head dips, breath hot against your skin before his tongue laps over your pulse point. Slowly, teasingly, until your breathing slows—and then, without further warning, his fangs sink deep into the flesh of your exposed neck. Blood wells from the wound, dripping down your chest, drying on your skin.

The pain is sharp, blinding—you want to scream, cry—but the sound gets caught in your throat. It’s not until a few seconds later that the sting eases—replaced by something almost pleasurable—something that eases the burning ache between your legs. Suddenly you feel the heat of his bite coursing through you—and what it’s doing to you is on the verge of embarrassing. It makes you want him—want him like you have never wanted anyone else before.

“Already loosening up for me. All it takes is a bite.” He drawls against your skin, crimson staining his lips. His grip on your waist tightens, preventing you from moving up the surface of the table as he thrusts harder, deeper.

You breathe shakily as he continues feeding on you, all while mercilessly pushing into you—hitting all the right spots, too. It’s all too much. His bite, the blood loss, the way he splits you apart so perfectly. Soft whimpers spill over your lips as your mind grows hazy—maybe from his fangs sunken deep in your neck, though more likely from your quickly building orgasm.

You don’t want to give it to him. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

But he knows, he knows what you are capable of—what he makes you feel. What he will make you feel.

Tom continues feeding until he’s satisfied, groaning, sighing against your neck—continues draining you until you are on the verge of passing out.

You are so, so close. So close to shattering around him. You shake your head no, tears welling up as he meets your eyes, feeling your walls flutter around him.

And he—merely grins.

“So close, aren’t you? Trying to keep it from me, I see. But that’s not how we play, sweetheart.”

His hand travels down your body, thumb finding your swollen, aching clit. Rubbing tight, delicious circles until your hips buck and tears stream freely down your cheeks. Until your voice is hoarse from whining and moaning. Until you can’t hold it anymore, and you finally, finally let go around him. His hand wraps around your throat as your walls clamp down tightly around him, as your mind is stripped of the last bits of sanity you had left. Thighs trembling violently around him as your orgasm hits you like a freight train. And you can do nothing but take it.

“Fuck— squeezing me like a vice. Going to ruin you. Ruin you for everyone else.”

And with that, his hips stutter against yours, a low groan falling over his lips as he thrusts all the way in, brushing against your cervix one last time before he spills deep inside of you, coating your walls with his release. But he isn’t done—doesn’t stop thrusting, forcing his cum deeper, not until you are whining in overstimulation.

“Please, no more, Tom— can’t take it.” You whimper, hand closing around his wrist.

“Oh, but you can, and will. You will take it until I am satisfied, and you aren’t leaving a second earlier.”

He keeps going until you are limp beneath him, so full of him you’ll be dripping for days to come. Keeps going until he is satisfied, until he’s wrung out every last drop of pleasure from your body.

Because after all, you agreed to it.

Anything, you said. Anything so he would let you live.

Anything.

Right?

Only when your sobs fade, exhaustion taking over, does he pull out, slowly, making you feel every inch of him.

He helps you up then, hands now carrying a subtle gentleness to them. Tom holds your head in place as he inspects your wounds, kisses your tears away. His eyes too have softened, the once scarlet red irises now a darker shade of red, almost brown.

“You did well. Took me like a good girl until the end. I reckon you have earned your life.”

He’s used you. Fed on you. Nearly broken you. Bitten you in a way you’d stay pliant for him.

You dress yourself. Still sobbing, fresh tears staining your cheeks. You don’t look back as you walk to the door to leave.

But before you get to do so, a hiss slips out instead—a sudden, burning pain radiating from right under your collarbone.

Looking down, you see three bright red letters appearing on your skin, drops of blood spilling from them.

T M R

“What the—“ you gasp, softly wiping the blood away before you look back up, meeting Tom’s expression—closed, with a hint of pride. He takes a step closer, gaze fixated on his work on your skin.

“Means you are mine.” He explains, reaching out to wipe over the letters, earning a sharp hiss from you.

“Means I will find you. Anywhere. In every last secluded part of this world, I will always find you. Because you are now bound to me. Bound by blood. You are mine, until death does us part.”

Horror washes over you at the realization.

“And I am certain a smart girl like you knows— a vampire lives forever.”

thank you for reading! feel free to reblog and leave feedback <3 — masterlist. | AUs.

©2025 viperify. please do not copy, translate or claim my work as your own.

a huge thank you to my sweet girl @juliet-017 for listening to me yap and complain about this fic - just for me to come up with a whole new plot anyway.

[i-get-obsessed-fast]

Party4U

I wish you’d get here, kiss my face

Summary: It’s your birthday, and you throw a party in hopes Spencer Reid shows up because truth is, you only threw this party for him…

A/N: ngl writing this gave me bad flashbacks and now I never want to drink again…(I’m still going to)

BYR(b4 u Reid): Alcohol, mentions of drunk people, drunk kissing (yes lawd), awkward Spencer, season 1 Spencer, reader is over 20, no use of y/n, and sexual content. Lmk if I'm missing anything.

It was getting later into the night, people were stumbling around, dancing, taking shots, and playing beer pong. It had now become a full-blown party, and everyone seemed to be having the time of their lives.

You were a little buzzed, not too much. You were pacing yourself, holding off. You were waiting for someone. He promised he'd come. And Spencer Reid never broke a promise.

Especially not today. Not on your birthday.

“Birthday girl isn’t even drunk yet! This is not good.” Your roomate Sarah shouted, clearly several drinks in. “I’m waiting for someone.” You replied, sipping from your cup.

She rolled her eyes and snorted. “Don’t tell me you’re waiting on that nervous little FBI chihuahua.” Your mouth fell open slightly. “Don’t be rude. He’s sweet. And yes, I am waiting.”

She sighed dramatically. “Well, good luck with that. This is definitely not the kind of place he’d show up to. You’re going to get stood up.”

You shook your head. Spencer wouldn’t do that. If he wasn’t coming, he’d at least call. He’d explain.

Still, as the party kept going and the minutes ticked by, you couldn’t help but feel the little twist in your stomach. Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe he got too nervous. This really wasn’t his scene.

Maybe the party was a bad idea.

You sighed, slipping into your room. Thankfully, it was empty. No couples, no drunken chaos. Just your stuff, your bed, and the hum of bass through the walls.

You sat at your vanity, looking at yourself in the mirror. You’d put effort into tonight. Found the perfect dress, something cute but not over the top, just enough to feel confident.

You knew Spencer didn’t care about appearances like most people. That’s part of why you liked him so much. But still, you wanted him to see you at your best.

You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath in. It was silly to get this upset over a guy. You told yourself you’d take a few more drinks and forget about it in the morning.

Then your door creaked open.

“Sarah, I’ll be out in a bit.” You said without looking. But then-

“Hey.”

You turned quickly, and there he was.

Your whole face lit up. “Spencer!” You squealed, rushing to him and wrapping your arms around his neck. He froze just for a second before placing his hands nervously and gently on your waist.

“You came! I was worried, I thought maybe…” you pulled back just enough to look at him. “I thought maybe you weren’t going to show up.”

“You were worried about me not showing up?” He asked, eyebrows raised.

“Of course I was! You are my main guest.” You beamed at him. He blinked like he couldn’t quite process your words. You were always open about how you felt, always flirting, always dropping not-so-subtle hints. But somehow, Spencer Reid, certified genius, 187 IQ, turned into a socially anxious mess whenever you did.

It wasn’t that he didn’t notice. He just wasn’t sure how to reciprocate it back in a way that wasn’t so awkward. You made flirting seem so effortless, so easy. He on the other hand would just make a total fool of himself.

You tugged his hand. “Come on, we’re taking a shot.”

But he didn’t budge. You looked back and saw the nerves written all over his face. “Everything okay?”

“I,um, I don’t know anyone here. And I’ve never… drank before.” He admitted.

You tilted your head, smiling at him softly. “Aw, I get to pop your cherry?” You teased, then quickly added. “I’m kidding Spence. You don’t have to drink. We can just hang out and laugh at the ones who had too much.”

His eyes softened. “I don't want you to be bored. It's your birthday.”

“Well you're here so I won't be bored.” you said sincerely. “No, it's okay… I want us to have fun. I’ll get over it.”

“Spencer we don't have to, I promise you,” you assured him, looking deep into his eyes so he knew how serious you were. “I want to.” He replied.

You gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll take baby sips first.”

And then, to his surprise, you kissed his cheek. He blushed instantly.

You led him out into the crowd, fingers still laced with his, grabbing two bottles. “We can sip on these until you get a bit more comfortable.” You said into his ear, he nodded.

You then introduced him to a few friends, watching his posture shift slowly, the tension starting to ease once he realized no one was judging him. If anything, your friends seemed impressed with how highly you spoke of him. He noticed the way you held onto his arm, how you made him feel like he belonged.

“How’re you feeling?” You asked as the two of you stepped outside for some air.

“I feel… good. You know a lot of people.”

“Yeah, I tried to keep it small but, well, word got around.”

“I think it’s fascinating. That you’re so comfortable with people.” You looked up at him, smiling. “Some people think I talk too much.”

“I like it. I like listening to you talk.” He said it like it surprised even him. You blushed. “Really?”

He nodded, then straightened up. “Actually… I think I’m ready for something stronger.”

You grinned. “Alright, big guy. Let’s go.”

Inside, you let him pick the drink. You poured two shots and handed him his cup.

“You ready?”

He gave a tiny nod, and you clinked cups. The moment he drank it, he coughed, making the worst face. You handed him a chaser immediately.

“Thanks.” He said hoarsely, lips pink and eyes wide.

Soon, he loosened up even more. You could tell, he held your hand more confidently, his hand occasionally finding your waist. You liked it. He seemed…freer.

“Beer pong?” You suggested. He gave you a look. “I don’t know. I’m not great at throwing things.”

“You’re good at math. I’m sure there’s some equation you can solve to get it right.” He smiled. “I’m pretty sure the game requires physical coordination, too.”

You looked him up and down. “Well, physically, you look good.” You teased giving him a thumbs up. He blushed and you led him to the table.

Shockingly, you two were winning. Granted, your opponents were very, very drunk, but still.

When Spencer made the second-to-last cup, you cheered, high-fiving him. Your fingers interlaced and lingered, until he pulled away.

You turned toward the table, ready to shoot your shot until your felt Spencer’s hand find your waist, then slid down your back to the hem of your dress slightly adjusting it because it had ridden up a bit.

Your breath caught.

So did his.

He couldn’t believe he just did that, neither could you.

You won the game. Of course.

You guys took celebratory shots, Spencer was getting better and better each time.

Spencer sat on the couch and gestured to his lap. “What?” You asked, heart skipping. He didn’t answer, just gently pulled you down to sit on him.

One of his arm wrapped around your waist, resting on your thigh, while the other interlaced with your hand.

“Are you comfortable?” He whispered into your ear. “I always am when I’m with you.”

He looked up at you smiling. Butterflies. Everywhere.

You both sat, just watching people, content in the buzz of the room, the safety of his presence.

His fingers were now smoothing over your skin, rubbing gently, innocently, on your thigh.

You knew he probably didn’t even realize what he was doing, but it made your thoughts spiral. Your heart beat faster.

You both sat together for a little longer, having conversation about everything, your guys cheeks were flush but starting to slowly cool down. You could feel Spencer’s gaze on you, soft but nervous, like he was building up the courage to say something.

“I, um… I have a present for you.” He said quietly, fingers now fidgeting with the hem of your dress. Your heart skipped a beat. “Spence, you didn’t need to-”

“I wanted to.” He cut in, his voice firm but still shy. His eyes searched yours. “Can I give it to you? In your room?”

Your stomach fluttered. You nodded, lips tugging into a smile as you stood and offered your hand. He took it, his fingers trembling slightly against yours as you led the way to your room.

You shut the door behind him, and took a seat at the edge of your bed, and he joined you. Close enough for your thighs to brush. You watched, your chest tightening, as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box. He opened it carefully, revealing a delicate gold necklace with a tiny diamond that shimmered under the soft light.

“Spencer…” your voice came out barely above a whisper. “This is beautiful.”

“You like it?” He asked, eyes hopeful, and nervous. “I love it.” You said genuinely, looking at him. “It’s perfect. I’m wearing this everyday.”

His mouth twitched into a small, relieved smile. “Can I put it on you?”

You turned without hesitation, he brushed your hair out the way, his fingers lightly touching your skin, featherlight and cautions, and that little contact sent a warm ripple down your spine.

He clasped it at the nape of your neck with slow, precise movements. His fingers lightly ran down your spine, and you turned to him, throwing your arms around his neck in a hug. “Thank you. I love it so much, Spence.”

“I’m really glad.” He said, his voice soft, eyes a little stunned by your closeness. His hand smoothed up and down your back, you pull back a little.

Your guys faces only inches apart, eyes low, and dazed. Spencer couldn’t handle it anymore, he was tired of depriving himself of you.

His hand came up, gently cradling your jaw, his touch careful. Then, slowly, he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was soft, hesitant, he was scared you were going to pull away.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you kissed him back like your life depended on it, you had been waiting so long for this moment and you were even willing to wait longer. Your desperation flattered him. He never imagined he could make someone feel this way.

“I’ve wanted this so bad.” You murmured against his lips, brushing your thumb along his cheeks. “Really?” He asked, you just nodded and deepened the kiss more.

His hands found your waist, bolder now, pulling you onto him, your words had given him confidence. You settled there easily, legs on both sides, hands cradling his face as your kisses turned more insistent.

You pushed him down onto your bed, hovering over him, your lips moving from his lips down to his jaw. When his hands dropped from your waist, unsure again, you gently grabbed them and brought them right back to where they belonged.

You continued leaving a trail down his neck, teeth grazing his skin, listening to the tiny breathy sounds he couldn’t hold in. You barely heard it but, it was there. Your name, a whisper that lit something wild inside of you.

You reached for his tie, loosening it, and discarding it somewhere on the floor in your room. Your fingers hovered over the buttons of his shirt, you glanced up at him, silently asking for permission.

He nodded slowly, jaw tight with want, and you undid them, one by one, revealing more of him. He propped himself on his elbows, and pulled you into him for another kiss.

You slowly slid the shirt off of him, moving the fabric off of his arms. His fingers slipped beneath the hem of your dress, dragging it up slowly, cautiously, until the edge of your underwear peeked.

You broke the kiss to take in this sight of him, your fingers exploring the planes of his chest, the softness of his skin. You planted kisses on him, over his heart, and when he tilted your chin up with his finger, his lips found yours again, hungrier.

You felt him, hard beneath you, pressing up against you, and instinctively, your hips rolled down against him, pulling a surprised moan from his mouth.

“Spencer…” you breathed out, your voice barely hanging on. His hands gripped your waist again, then slid lower to your ass, guiding your hips as he moved you over him with more intention. His breath was shaky, his voice low and warm and desperate.

He said your name, like a confession.

You grind your hips down again, his hands gripped you tighter, encouraging you to keep going, to keep moving against him. His eyes fluttered closed for a moment, mouth parted in disbelief at the pleasure that rolled through him.

He looked completely undone, and it was just from you sitting on him, fully clothed.

You leaned down, kissing along the column of his throat, letting your lips linger just beneath his ear. “You okay?” You whispered, breath warm against his skin.

He nodded quickly, then stammered out. “Y-yeah. Definitely. More than okay.”

You smiled, biting back a laugh, because the way he looked, completely wrecked already, was maybe the hottest thing you’d ever seen. You sat up slightly, hands trailing down his chest, appreciating every inch of him.

“You’re really something else.” You said, brushing your thumb across his lower lip. He caught your hand, kissed your palm. So gentle and slow it made your breath hitch.

“You’re the one that’s something else.” He murmured, voice hoarse. “You’re perfect, everything you do.”

That made your chest ache, you leaned down, kissed him again, slow, deep, and meaningful. You needed him to feel what words can't say.

Spencer grabbed your waist, gently guided you onto your back, moving over you cautiously.

His mouth moved to the side of your neck, your dress slipped higher as you spread your legs slightly, letting him fit between them.

Your fingers found the back of his neck, pulling him to your lips. Spencer’s hand slid slowly up your body, tentative but curious, his fingers tracing the edges of your dress as it rose. When he finally pulled back to look at you, really look, his eyes landed on your black lace underwear, and he just admired.

He couldn’t believe this was real, you felt like a dream.

His fingers brushed over the fabric, hesitant. Gentle. You watched the awe on his face, the way he took you in like you were something sacred.

“Do you… want to take them off?” You softly ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes darted up to meet yours, wide and startled. His chest rose and fell faster now, the weight of the moment clearly settling over him.

“We don’t have to.” You said quickly. “We can take things slow, Spencer.”

He swallowed hard, and gave you a nod. “I-I want this. I really do. I just… don’t want this to be…” he paused, searching for the right words. “I don’t want it to feel like a one-time thing. You’re not that for me.”

You nodded, smiling at him, your chest warm. “I know. Me neither.”

With a soft exhale, he gently reached for the hem of your dress, pulling it back down to cover you up.

He moved off of you, grabbed your hand pulling you up on your feet. His hands were careful, reverent, as he adjusted the strap of your dress onto your shoulder.

You reached for his shirt, draping it back over his shoulders and slowly buttoning it up, watching his cheeks flush a soft red under your gaze.

He cleared his throat. “What?”

“Nothing.” You said, smiling.

He hesitated, then asked. “Did you… want to keep going?”

You but your lip, nodding. “Of course I did. But I agree. When we do decide to… take that next step… it should be special. Not with a bunch of drunk people stumbling around downstairs.”

He laughed quietly, relieved. “Yeah..”

You kissed him again, softly.

“Should we go back to the party?” You asked, fingers laced with his. He nodded. “You go for now, I’ll be out there in a bit.” He tells you, you smirked at him knowing why he was going to stay back.

“Alright, if you need any help or anything just give me a call.” You teased, he looked at you shaking his head at your teasing. “Very funny.” He sarcastically said, but you caught the small smile tugging at his lips.

You opened your bedroom door and stepped out, flashing him one more smile before closing it behind you.

“Where have you been?” Sarah asked the second you turned around. “I was with Spencer.” You replied casually.

Her eyes widen. “Did you guys just-”

“No, we didn’t.” You cut her off quickly. “Let’s step away, come on.”

You led her away from your room, and thankfully she had gotten distracted by someone else and wandered off.

You glanced around the house, realizing how tired you were of the party. Your home felt overcrowded, loud, and no longer fun. You were close to calling the cops on your own party, but luckily the neighbors beat you to it.

You stood outside as an officer explained the noise complaint and curfew.

“Alright, sir. I’ll shut it down.” You said with a polite smile. He nodded, and you waved him off.

Back inside, you cut the music and made the announcement. “Alright guys, party’s over.” You watched everyone slowly trickle out. “Sorry.” You said to a few as they passed.

Spencer found you shortly after. He looked concerned. “What happened?”

“Police got called.” You told him with a shrug.

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” You smiled. “Honestly, I was about to call them myself if people didn’t start leaving soon.” He laughed, and you joined him.

Once it was just the two of you, and your very drunk roommates who had knocked out in their rooms, you both started cleaning up a little.

“It’s a mess.” You said, tossing red solo cups into the trash bag. “Yeah. People are gross.” He muttered as he poured out a half-full beer. “Thank you for helping me.” You said sincerely. “No problem.” He replied, flashing you a sweet smile.

After most of the mess was cleaned, you both settled on the couch. You leaned into his side, his arm wrapping comfortably around you.

“Can you spend the night?” You hesitantly asked, titling your head up to look at him. He nodded almost instantly. “Of course.”

You smiled, but he suddenly stood up.

“Where are you going?”

“Left something in the kitchen. I’ll be back.” He assured you. You nodded, watching him walk off. When he returned, your eyes lit up. He was holding a small cake with lit candles. It was your birthday cake, the one you had completely forgotten about.

He started singing softly, and your cheeks hurt from how hard you were smiling.

“Make a wish.” He said once he finished, and you did. You closed your eyes and blew out the flames.

He held the cake out toward you. “Take a bite.”

You eyes him suspiciously but leaned in anyway, and sure enough, he gently pushed the cake into your face. Just a little frosting dotted your nose and chin.

“Spencer!” You gasped, laughing as you lightly hit his arm. He laughed too, setting the cake down, and then leaned in to wipe the frosting from your skin with his finger. You watched him as he brought it to his lips, sucking it clean.

He moved closer, pressing his lips to yours.

“Happy birthday.” He whispered as he pulled back just slightly. You smiled at him. “Thank you.” And then you kissed him again, slower, softer…

Dividers from @hyuneskkami !!

Writing this was fun!! I love bold Spencer! 🤭 also listen to the song, I just rediscovered it and became obsessed again. Live, Love, Laugh Charli xcx <3

Thank you to all who reblog & comment!! I really appreciate it sm!

~ Tag List ~

@samslovebug @alastorssimp @sleepysongbirdsings @khxna

[mxtxfanatic]

What I find so interesting about Jin Guangyao's explanation about why he finally decided to kill Jin Guangshan is that even though he's lying in his retelling to get the others to lower their guard, the original convo and the impression it left on him gives us such interesting insight into the Meng mother-son duo. This is what he says in Guanyin Temple:

“Why was a sect leader who spent money like water unwilling to do the smallest favor and buy my mother’s freedom? Simple—it was too much trouble. My mother waited for so many years, weaving together so many difficult circumstances when she talked to me, imagining for his sake so many hardships. And the real reason was only a single word: trouble. “This is what he said, ‘It’s especially women who’ve read some books who think they’re a level higher than other women. They’re the most troublesome, with so many demands and unrealistic thoughts. If I bought her freedom and took her back to Lanling, who knows how much fuss she’d make. It was best that I let her stay where she was just like that. With her conditions, she’d probably be popular for a few more years. She wouldn’t have to worry about her spendings for the rest of her life.’ “‘Son? Oh, forget it.’” Jin GuangYao’s memory was extraordinary. With such a word-by-word repetition, one could even imagine that drunk expression of Jin GuangShan’s when he said these words, “Brother, look, these three words are all that I’m worth to my father, ‘Oh, forget it.’ Hahahaha...”

—Chapt. 106: Hatred, exr

This is the actual scene and context of what Jin Guangyao is repeating:

Jin GuangYao had long since gotten used to this. He knew when he should appear and when he should not. He gestured towards Xue Yang and stopped in his tracks. Xue Yang clicked his tongue, his expression quite impatient. Just as he was about to go downstairs and wait, he suddenly heard Jin GuangShan’s gruff voice, “Women—shouldn’t it be enough as long as they water their flowers, powder their faces, and make themselves look as pretty as possible? Calligraphy? What a disappointment.” Those women all wanted to please Jin GuangShan originally. With these words, a flash of awkwardness passed over the pavilion. Jin GuangYao’s figure froze somewhat as well. Soon, someone giggled, “But I heard that back then in Yunmeng, there was a talented woman who charmed the entire world with her poems and songs—zither, chess, calligraphy, as well as painting!” It was clear Jin GuangShan was dead drunk. The wine could even be heard from his stammering voice. He mumbled, “That’s——not how things work. Now I’ve realized. Women shouldn’t play with those useless things. Women who’ve read some books always think they’re a level higher than the other women. They’re the most troublesome, with so many demands and unrealistic fancies.” ... Up on the pavilion, the women agreed with laughter. As though he remembered something from the past, he murmured to himself, “If I bought her freedom and took her back to Lanling, who knows how much fuss she would’ve made. If she stayed where she was, she might be popular for a few more years and she wouldn’t have to worry about her spendings for the rest of her life. Out of everything, just why did she have to bear a son, a son of a prostitute? What could she have hoped to...” A woman asked, “Sect Leader Jin, who are you talking about? What son?” Jin GuangShan’s voice drifted, “Son? Oh, forget it.”

—Chapt. 118: Villainous Friends Extra, exr

Jin Guangyao's scheming seems to be a trait learned from his mother. We've already seen and heard from multiple different characters by this point that Meng Shi bore a son in hopes that it would get her bought out of her brothel contract, but she did more than that. She learned the arts and education. She cultivated herself into appearing like any young woman from a noble family, even though she was a prostitute. The purpose of this crafted image was to attract the attention of a nobleman who would fall for her charms and hopefully free her from the brothel. The final part of that plan was to bear a rich man a son as, like one patron said, leaving a son to be raised in a brothel was both cruel to the son and embarrassing to the nobleman. And she wasn't aiming just to have her contract bought out, but to be bought out and her status elevated to that of a nobleman's wife, a plan that left her peers bitter. Unfortunately for Meng Shi, she picked the one lecher with a face thick enough to do exactly what the other patrons wouldn't. She bore a son, and Jin Guangshan disappeared like smoke. On top of that, her having a son decreased her popularity amongst other patrons. All of that hard work ruined in one fell swoop.

Jin Guangyao takes his mother's scheming and intensifies it. Instead of picking and sticking to one persona, he shapeshifts into soft, gentle, learned, efficient, helpless... whatever he needs to be in front of those he wants to curry favor with. However, he is also able and willing to do what his mother (willing or not) couldn't have: when those above him disrespect his station, he kills them. He forges a friendship with Lan Xichen by helping him escape the QishanWen and revealing curated moments of vulnerability with the other man to feign intimacy. He shows his efficiency and dedication to quality work to Nie Mingjue while subtly manipulating the man into attacking his enemies for him. He reveals his bloodthirstiness and petty, vindictive nature to Wen Ruohan, which earns him a spot as the clan leader's right hand man. And all the while, he is silently killing those who remind him of his low reputation, quelling dissent about his rise to power. But just like his mother, there's one target he cannot catch: his shameless father.

I won't make the argument that Meng Shi was wrong for attempting to use a child to manipulate her way into a marriage. The woman was enslaved to a brothel; there were no good means of escape in that system that didn't rely on manipulating some of the most immoral men in society. However, her lack of consideration (or possibly prioritization, since we do not get her actual thoughts) on how her actions would affect the child she schemed to have did backfire on her son. Meng Shi wanted her son to be what she thought his father would want: the powerful cultivating son of a cultivation clan leader. Jin Guangyao carries this same wish with him, that he be seen as his father's son. Instead, Jin Guangyao would be forever known not by who his father was but who his mother was: a prostitute.

What ultimately gets Jin Guangyao to commit to his father's death is not that Jin Guangshan disrespected his mother, but that he finally heard from the man's own mouth that everything he had been taught by his mother was a lie. It's not that he just hadn't found the correct persona that would make his father acknowledge him. It's that he would never be able to shapeshift his way into his father's acknowledgements. It's that no matter how many images he cultivated with how many different people, no matter how many people he killed in front of his father's face or behind his back, he would never be Jin Guangyao, proud son of the Jin Clan. Even to his own father, he could only be "the son of a prostitute" too uppity to realize that she'd never be a nobleman's wife and her son would never be a cultivator's heir. And that's why his father's death isn't the only product of overhearing this convo: Jin Guangyao's first order of business is actually to raze his mother's brothel to the ground along with all its patrons and prostitutes, already planning for the establishment of a Guanyin Temple with his mother's face in its place:

Jin GuangYao, “No, thanks. Save your energy, Young Master Xue. Will you be free the next few days?” Xue Yang, “Won’t I have to do it no matter what?” Jin GuangYao, “Go to Yunmeng for me and tidy up a place for me. Make it clean.”

If he were to be forever damned as his mother's son no matter how much he changed, then let her change for once. Let him be not the son of a prostitute but of a goddess, instead.

[ferigrievous]

attractive things they do ; karasuno ver . ⋆˚࿔

hinata ; gets excited over the little things. it could be the most mundane thing ever and he’d still get all happy about it. that person who hypes up the ‘weird’ kids in class but genuinely means it.  being around him feels like remembering how to love the world again. he makes even the boring parts feel like a celebration.

tsukishima ; knows when to shut up. doesnt talk to talk. if he says something, he means it, in that weird fucked up way of his. doesnt do small talk, doesnt beat around the bush. talking to him is walking in a straight line. doesnt argue for the sake of arguing, too. if he knows he’s wrong, he wont necessarily apologize, but he wont beat a dead horse.

kageyama ; tries really, really hard. he might not always get it right—social cues, compliments, emotions—but he tries so hard. he’s awkward and quiet and a little off putting, but he’s also earnest in a way that makes your chest ache. he wants to be better. not just as a setter, but as a person. 

yamaguchi ; being quietly brave. he still has anxiety, and it still affects him, but he does what he can. he orders for the both of you and takes the lead in crowded places, even if youre more extroverted than him. he doubts himself constantly, but he still shows up, even if he feels like hes about to throw up.

daichi ; being reliable. he’s the guy you go to with everything. when your trains delayed, or you’re drunk on a night out. never forgets a birthday, an anniversary, and definitely not the homework. he doesn't need to prove anything to anyone, because he already is that guy.

sugawara ; always watching. not in a creepy way, but he wants to know everyone else is doing okay before moving on to something more ‘trivial’ like what he’s going to eat for dinner after school. he notices when you’re tired before you realize it yourself.

asahi ; overtly careful. its somehow very endearing seeing someone like him, who most people consider as intimidating or even scary, handle everything as if it were made of glass. he double-checks expiration dates, gently folds his laundry, and unpacks his bag so it doesn’t wrinkle.

nishinoya ; never hesitates. acts first, thinks later. kind of a pet peeve at first, but it amazes you how he always lands on his feet. it could be the worst idea you’ve ever heard in your life, and he somehow achieves it everytime, at 110%. this includes putting all of his trust into you, even if you think you dont deserve it.

tanaka ; shamelessly himself. hes loud, and boisterous, and you cant go one minute with him without getting secondhand embarrassment, but hes real. he doesn’t hide parts of himself to seem cooler. he doesn’t pretend. and that kind of raw honesty is more attractive than whatever stupid pick up line he’s trying this time.

ennoshita ; knows when to step up. he doesn’t crave leadership, but he steps up when no one else will. he watches, listens, and steps in just before things fall apart. he notices you’re overwhelmed and changes the subject without making a show of it. doesnt talk over people, doenst make a scene out of thing. gets it done, and gets it over with.

kinoshita ; good memory. its a miniscule thing, but he remembers every single order youve ever made at any restaurant. he brings your coat when you two go out because he knows you’ll forget it everytime, even if he knows you purposely forget it so that he can bring it for you.

narita ; finishes what he starts. he doesn’t leave things halfway. doesn’t ghost, doesn’t flake, doesn’t quit unless he absolutely has to. you never have to wonder if he means what he says—if he says he’ll be there, he will.

[kysstar]

CRIMSON HOURS | JUNG WOOYOUNG

pairing : : jung wooyoung x fem!reader

synopsis : : vampire!wooyoung headcanons

genre : : established relationship

warnings : : starting off soft, will get suggestive(almost nsfw?) in the end.

author's note : : might've gone too far lol. had to remind myself i don't write smut and im a fluff/angst writer lol can't blame me 🤷🏻‍♀️it's hard to keep it sfw with vampire aus (+wooyoung's freaky self)

sfw !

vampire wooyoung who pretends he’s not cold so you’ll cuddle closer to him even though he’s literally ice

vampire wooyoung who always smells like cedarwood, old books, and the faintest trace of blood

vampire wooyoung who thinks watching you sleep is romantic and not at all creepy (he’s wrong but you let him have it)

vampire wooyoung who gets insanely pouty when you wear turtlenecks because “what’s the point of having a biteable neck if you keep covering it up”

vampire wooyoung who kisses the scars on your neck like they’re love notes he wrote with his teeth

vampire wooyoung who calls you “mine” in a way that’s soft when you're tangled in bed and deadly when someone flirts with you

vampire wooyoung who insists on carrying you across puddles, thresholds, and anywhere he deems “too dangerous for fragile humans”

vampire wooyoung who hates the sun but will suffer through early mornings just to watch you brush your hair and smile at him half-asleep

vampire wooyoung who reads you poetry from languages you don’t understand, but you still blush because his voice makes it sound obscene

vampire wooyoung who purrs when you run your fingers through his hair, eyes half-lidded like he’s drunk on your touch

vampire wooyoung who loves when you wear red, “for the aesthetic,” he says, but really because it makes his hunger worse

vampire wooyoung who buys you antique jewelry and insists you wear it “to look properly spoiled”

vampire wooyoung who would burn the world for you, no hesitation, all teeth and fury if anyone dared hurt what’s his

vampire wooyoung who’s lived lifetimes but swears nothing has ever felt more like home than your skin against his at midnight

nsfw !

vampire wooyoung who still gets flustered when you say his name all breathy and needy, like he hasn’t lived centuries and heard it a thousand ways

vampire wooyoung who loses his mind every time you let a drop of wine slide down your throat, eyes tracking it like prey

vampire wooyoung who growls low in his throat when your pulse speeds up under his tongue

vampire wooyoung who licks the blood from his lips after feeding like he’s savoring dessert, eyes dark and locked on you like you’re next

vampire wooyoung who bites during sex just enough to make your head spin, his voice rough in your ear saying, “you can take it, can’t you?”

vampire wooyoung who calls feeding “foreplay” and proves it every time by making you shake before he even touches between your thighs

vampire wooyoung who uses his superhuman strength to manhandle you into his lap, onto the wall, over the table—wherever he wants you

vampire wooyoung who whispers filthy things in languages you don’t understand while his hand is between your legs, smirking when you whimper anyway

vampire wooyoung who pins you down with one hand and teases with his fangs just to hear you say “please”

vampire wooyoung who drinks slow during sex, tongue flicking over the puncture like he’s tasting wine, groaning at every drop

vampire wooyoung who gets hard every time he smells your blood and doesn't even try to hide it anymore

vampire wooyoung who marks your thighs with his mouth and your neck with his fangs, proud of every bruise and bite

vampire wooyoung who promises forever, but fucks like he’s trying to make you forget your name

© kysstar

[yaekiss]

nostalgic music night! now to bless you with the following:

call me maybe by carly radio jepsen　as　kaveh, pretty blushing face like a fair maiden as he watches you do the work on his car, the hood of the vintage vermilion beauty popped up and your shirt off (how scandalous!) he's not subtle at all in that white shirt of his that shows off his waist as he walks over after ogling you sweat in the summer heat. he isn't normally so forward, you know, he swears, but here's his number　<3　he'll be waiting at his phone, giddy as a teenage girl and biting his lip the moment you leave his driveway.

west coast by lana del rey　as　aventurine, who swears he isn't that attached or that interested as he suavely seats himself next to you at a beachside bar. he smells like a wonderful blend of everyone else pressed side to side to front to back, the tobacco, the vanilla, the amber, the bergamot, the musk, sandalwood— everything blending wonderfully in a way only he seems to pull off. the hearts in his eyes are hidden by the sunglasses indoors (classy) and the dim lighting hides his blush. he's running so hot that he's sure you can feel it as you both drink together, enamored strangers on a balcony and the salty breeze giving an undeniable addictiveness to his presence when you lean in once more. then you see him the next friday. the weekend. and again the next week. seems like someone's in love.

shut up and dance by walk the moon　as　a drunk mammon, pulling you to the dance floor no matter your protests. he thrives off of being near you, hands always on you as he makes sure you're only looking at him. shut up! you've got THE great mammon dancing with you, what more could you want, human?! he's clumsy and has two left feet with all that demonus in his system, too honest with his whines when you start to complain about the cramped floor— who cares!— but you're sure your mind, no, your very soul won't forget the absolute joy you feel that night.

cake by the ocean by dnce　as　sydney, fallen of course, clad in a bikini that's flattering in every way that matters. he knows you can't keep your eyes off of him, and soon enough, not even your hands. he acts coy, but the moment you're both secluded, he's letting you feast on that sweet cake he has　<3　and who cares if he's caught? the mere thrill of the thought has him trembling from another orgasm you and it rips from him. he's only yours to ravage, after all. anyone else can watch and know that it's only the truth.

I AM SHAKING YOU BY YOUR SHOULDERS PULPIE this is just so good... pulling up a chair and tying a bib around my neck thank you for the feast [drools]

kaveh...!!! sigh. can you imagine him wearing that white shirt along with the tiniest pair of denim shorts he can find in his wardrobe. and to beat the summer heat, he has his lips innocently pursed around a cold popsicle while occasionally licking the sticky juice running down his fingers as it melts. when you finally close the hood of his car, he walks over to you to discuss the subject of payment. maybe he'll add in the bonus of a nice carwash or two ♡

aven convincing you to try out his drink, only for him to take a sip from his glass and press his lips to yours. although he was the one initiating, it doesn't seem like you're rejecting his advances from the way your deepening the kiss. the taste of you muddled with the sweet alcohol is simply too addictive, won't you let him try out your drink next?

AHHHH drunk mammon is too cute I just have to eat him up!! he may be one of the clumsiest demons on the dance floor but the way your eyes crinkle up into a smile when you look at him is definitely worth it. when the rowdy party crowd shoves him up against your chest, noses almost touching, how could you not kiss him? his heart almost beats out of his chest at this btw and he gets so dizzyflustered that he has to go sit down (perfect time to give him a lap dance ;3)

FALLEN SYDNEY. ough him in the microkini is something that has never left my mind even aft months of not playing dol. on the beach he may seem nothing but chaste and coy, but the sly thing takes every chance he can get to rile you up, until your tugging him into a changing cabin on the more quiet part of the beach. if you tell him to shut up, he just moans all the more louder, golden eyes rolling into the back of his head as you eat him out ♡

[leonsliga]

I love that thomas and manu ship themselves. with a lot of other duos, it's just wishful thinking (totally fine) but their friendship? god <3 so real. the pictures, the "we've been married for 15 years", the interviews... why so romantic if not romantic lol in another universe, they are 100% together

Right? Everything’s so easy and natural with them. And while I don’t mind a bit of wishful thinking myself, the bond Manu and Thomas have is so authentic and genuine that it’s hard not to get a least a little sappy about them. And there’s just. so. much. lore. Even setting aside the iconic decade partners Instagram post and Thomas saying they’ve been married for 15 years, we’ve had so many moments that just really only make sense with them. Like when Thomas named one of his colts Manuel because he was born on Manu’s birthday, or how, during Bayern’s dominant 2012/13 season, Thomas would train with Manu during matches to keep his reflexes sharp. Or, well, just about any of what they said about each other here:

And, along those lines, sometimes they say things that just have such old married couple undertones that it’s genuinely hard to interpret them any other way, like the time reporters asked Manu if he would go golfing with Thomas at the DFB training camp and he replied with “I can’t golf. I could carry his luggage or whatever.” Or the time Thomas was asked about Manu’s perfect match against Porto back in his Schalke days and he immediately remembered his platinum blonde hair from back then. And then of course there’s the time Manu said Thomas was more than a teammate for him (aka Neuller heritage).

We also can’t forget when the two were decorating Bayern’s Christmas tree in 2015 and Thomas asked Manu if he holds onto the ornament baubles as tightly as he would a match ball (translation: Thomas wanted Manu to hold onto his baubles tightly 😏). Or how, when asked about whether or not Thomas would like to be Bayern’s official captain one day, Thomas was quick to reply, “I hope not. I’ve always tried to take responsibility in the team, but Manu is very welcome to remain my captain until the end of my career.” (in case you needed more proof that these two were robbed).

But that married couple-ness isn’t just in their words; it’s in their actions too. Take any of the times they’ve held hands during matches, or all the loving face cradling, head rubs, and head pats. And of course, the hugs. The many, many hugs. Especially from the side, so Thomas can grab onto Manu’s waist.

Also, I refuse to let any of you overlook that time Thomas gave Manu a full-on neck message in the tunnel (which, I might add, Manu was so unfazed by that it’s hard not to wonder if this had happened before).

And while we’re at it, talking about niche Neuller moments and all, there was that time they might very well have kissed behind a poorly-timed German flag back in 2010. And all their other Euro 2012 qualifier shenanigans that same year.

Fast-forwarding a bit to the 2012/13 season, and we were in for a treat; we had Thomas pulling a Luis Suárez and going in for a little nibble on Manu’s arm. Because not even the great Thomas Müller is immune to the cute aggression Manuel Neuer inspires.

Also, what about the time Manu got absolutely piss-drunk during the treble celebrations that same season and decided he needed to hug Thomas IMMEDIATELY? Or how we got the closest thing to an actual kiss we might ever get when Thomas kissed him on the cheek here?

Honestly, 2013 was Bayern’s year in more ways than one, because not only did it bring us the treble, it also brought us this iconic verse in the Neuller gospel:

But let’s get back to the way they talk about one another, because it doesn’t matter what the situation is—they always back each other. Before the 2014 World Cup even started (and Manu all but fingered him during the post-win festivities), he was already convinced Thomas would be the key to their success—a sentiment that carried over to club level, where he insisted Thomas was the linchpin in Bayern’s attack.

With Manu, it’s often the little things that speak volumes, like trusting in Thomas’ fitness, his ability to influence a match, and his importance for Bayern. He’s quick to remind everyone that Thomas always stands up for the team, that he’s dangerous regardless of position, and that his constant communication is a game-changer. As Manu would put it, “we (Bayern) need Thomas”.

Even when Thomas fell out of favor at Bayern for a time, Manu rushed to his defense, reminding everyone that “he’s a mature player who doesn’t buckle so easily”, and, despite dealing with a lot of criticism, Thomas remained important for the squad and was always in demand (in one way or another). Put another way, he had faith that Thomas could handle it.

For Thomas’ part, he has no problem casually reminding everyone that he thinks Manu is the number 1 goalkeeper in the world, that he makes a good striker, and, even though there are many good goalkeepers, Manu is special—just a step above the others and superb on the ball.

When his mans was shafted for FIFA World Player of the Year in 2015, Thomas knew just what to say: even if Manu didn’t win, he was the FIFA World Player in his heart. In fact, his decade partner was pretty much the reason Thomas felt so confident going into Bayern’s 2020 Champions League tie versus PSG; after all, in his words, “we’ll still have Manuel Neuer between the sticks”, a sentiment he echoed after they won.

And let’s not forget about that time a reporter asked Thomas to weigh in on the debate of who should be Germany’s number 1: Neuer or Ter Stegen. Thomas’ answer was immediate: “It’s a difficult decision, of course, but Manu has always been my goalkeeper. That’s why I’m standing by him.” Long story short, they’re always in each other’s corners, and they make no secret of it.

The point is, even when they make mistakes, they’re each other’s most fervent protectors. If the world is against them, then at least they still have each other and always will. Take Manu conceding against Gladbach, a team many would consider to be our goatkeeper’s kryptonite; Thomas was quick to remind the media that he’d saved Bayern’s points plenty of times in the past, and that this time, he just didn’t have as much to do before the goal and was probably a bit cold at the time.

Then you’ve got Manu on the other side of the things, supporting his husband’s rights and his husband’s wrongs, speculating that his red card (yes that one) was because he didn’t see Tagliafico and pretty much already had his foot up, aiming for the ball.

Hell, even when Manu was out of commission for a majority of the 2022/23 season (due to his nearly career-ending injury), Thomas visited him in rehab every day, no doubt for emotional support (and so he could tell his husband his best dad jokes). Although Manu was away from the squad physically, he was there in spirit; Thomas made sure of that, posting Manu’s autograph card from that season above his locker:

But it’s more than sticking around in each other’s darkest moments; they celebrate each other’s achievements too. Whenever Manu wins anything (and I mean anything), guess who’s first in line to congratulate him. It doesn’t matter if it’s World’s Best Goalkeeper, best goalkeeper of the 2019/20 Champions League season, FIFPro World 11, or even his DFB Pokal performance, Thomas will be posting about it (and probably already has). It doesn’t even have to be football-related, like when Manu was awarded the Bavarian State Medal for Social Merit for his charity work. Hell, even when Manu was one of the 3 FIFA World Footballer of the Year finalists, he was overwhelmed with pride (chill babe, the results weren’t even in yet). But by far my favorite instance of these two celebrating each other’s victories actually came from Manu: when he made sure the squad celebrated Thomas’ milestone 500th win with Bayern and refused to let him even try to be modest about it.

Honestly, let’s face it: we could make an entire separate post about all of the Neuller content that came out of Thomas’ 500th win. We had Manu running the length of the pitch to celebrate Thomas’ goal in that milestone match, Manu’s comments in his post-match presser, Thomas’ special thank you to Manu after the fact, the “married for 15 years” comment, and a new Neuller ad where Manu gave Thomas a special anniversary gift…there was so much content that it was almost overwhelming. We were so well fed that week 🥹

Also, speaking of Manu’s comments in his post-match pressers, I’m pretty sure at least a good 1/4 of Manu’s love language is praising Thomas in them, as you can see here, here, here, and here. The rest is him basically reciting his glorified wedding vows to anyone who will listen (and physical touch, duh).

Then you’ve got Thomas turning every Instagram story he can into him gushing over his Schnapper’s skills:

And he has no problem following Manu’s lead either, waxing poetic about his man in post-match interviews.

For as much praise as they heap on one another to the press though, they’re also no strangers to openly flirting with each other as well, if you couldn’t tell from that video from the Audi FCB Tour at the beginning. So, in that spirit, lovely people of the jury, I present to you exhibit A, where Manu told Thomas he’d “given himself a present 😉” after his 400th Bundesliga appearance (whatever tf that means).

Alright, now onto exhibit B: Thomas posting a picture with his two dogs and Manu asking “who’s more handsome”, only for Thomas to answer, “you, dog 😀”. Get a room you two!

Oh, you need more evidence, you say? Well, I’ve got you covered. Have a pic of Thomas brazenly checking out Manu’s ass, because not even he can resist the biggest bakery in Germany.

What’s that? You still need more? Well, aren’t you demanding! But don’t worry, there’s more blatant homoeroticism to come, because here we have exhibit D, where Thomas called doubles tennis with Manu “a dream come true”:

Actually, speaking of doubles tennis with Manu, I’m pretty sure this clip was the inspiration for the movie Challengers. The DFB has yet to confirm this of course, but I have no doubt that that confirmation is coming any day now 😉

Anyways, Neuller is so real and so powerful that at one point Bayern just caved and started funding some club-sanctioned dates. Usually they’re chaperoned (because Bayern might be a little homophobic with it—either that or they don’t trust Thomas not to try and conquer Manu any time they’re left to their own devices—it’s a toss-up really) by the likes of Basti, Mats, or even half the squad (see: 2022 Audi Summer Games). But not always. Sometimes we get Schafkopf dates (because they’re literal senior citizens and their date nights are just them playing cutesy little card games like the old bitties they are).

But anyways, back to our regularly scheduled shipping nonsense, because we still have exhibit E to go through: one day Thomas decided to make Manu’s goalkeeper training a little extra special by showing up shirtless (pretty sure the point of goalkeeper training is to keep him focused, not distract him with your lean, muscular body, Thomas, but I digress):

And lastly, I believe this gem deserves at least an honorable mention:

Let’s take a minute for Manu’s “Schnapper” nickname as well, which, although it may not be one that originated with Thomas, I think we can all agree he’s made it his own. After all, he uses it pretty much every time he talks about him.

As a brief little side note though (I feel like a lawyer giving my closing statements atp 😅), I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the fact that Thomas literally follows a Neuller fan account. Whether it’s intentional on his part or not, it’s still a fun addition to the lore.

So, in conclusion, if not romantic ship, why romantic ship-shaped? 🥺 I’m with you; in another universe, perhaps one not so distant from ours, they got married and grew old together, settling into a house in the mountains, surrounded by horses and doggos. I’m just glad they found each other in this universe at least, because, as it turns out, a Schalker and a Bayern Ultra make one hell of a dream team ❤️

They didn’t know it yet, but they’d go on to coparent the most dominant and successful club in Germany

[bellaxgiornata]

Hands Off

Pairing: Jax Teller x fem!Reader Word Count: 2.2k [Jax Fic Masterlist]

Warnings/tags: 18+; protective!Jax, drunk asshole getting too handsy, pining, best friends that clearly like each other and need to get their heads out of their asses (that's a tag, right?)

Summary: All you'd wanted was to go out for a few drinks with your friends after your breakup, but an asshole at the bar refuses to leave you alone.

a/n: This little fic happens to be in the same world as the one shot I wrote As Small As Possible. You don't necessarily need to read it first, but it gives more backstory between Jax and Reader. Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated!

Jax Teller one shot tag list: @kmc1989 @steviebbboi @bear-ink @secretlysamcro @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @bonnyclydecat @nutellajade @aria725

Leaning over the bar counter, you watched as the bartender grabbed the beer you’d just ordered from the fridge. Your nails drummed impatiently along the bartop as you waited, your mind already focused back on the table your friends were sitting at. After your breakup with Brian the other week, you’d just wanted to get out tonight and forget about him for a little while. To forget about the girl you’d caught in his apartment that evening wearing nothing but his shirt. To forget about whatever the hell had happened before she’d thrown that on–because your mind had certainly supplied more than enough ideas.

Though what you really wanted to do tonight was to forget about how horrible your recent string of failed relationships kept making you feel about yourself. Even though you knew it was just the assholes you’d been dating and that there wasn’t anything actually wrong with you, it still had you feeling like absolute garbage every time one of the guys you’d been seeing either cheated on you, ghosted you, or turned out to be a complete piece of shit. But, admittedly, there wasn’t much more that Charming had to offer you besides the same things over and over in terms of potential boyfriends. It was like searching for the least rotten apple in a pile of trash. 

And of course the one man you wanted–the one that you knew would actually treat you better than all the others–would never in his life commit to just one woman.

But you weren’t going to think about that tonight. You were going to enjoy your evening and relax. You’d even gotten Jax to come out with your friends–a rarity since he always talked you into just drinking at the clubhouse with the guys for free. But you didn’t want to do that tonight. You wanted a change of scenery, and you wanted to let loose without the presence of a bunch of croweaters reminding you of that girl in Brian's apartment. You didn't want to be surrounded by those girls with their little waists and their big tits popping out of their crop tops. You didn’t want the constant visual reminder of just how different you felt from all of them–how different you were from all the girls your exes kept choosing over you.

Nails still drumming along the bar counter, you watched as the bartender made his way back towards you, your beer in his hand. Trying to push away those negative thoughts, you reminded yourself that you wanted to have fun tonight, you weren’t going to mope over your beer and drown in self-pity. But just as the bartender set your drink onto the bar, you saw a man lean over it to the left of you out of your peripheral.

Just what you needed right now, some prick about to throw some dumbass line at you.

“Pretty thing like you shouldn't be drinking alone,” the guy slurred.

Great. He was drunk, too. 

“I'm not,” you replied, turning away from the bar with your beer in hand. “And I'm not interested, either.”

You'd barely taken a step before the asshole thought it was a good idea to grab your wrist, pulling against it with enough force that you stumbled a step back towards him. Hand gripping the cold glass neck of your beer bottle, you wished it was this guy's throat you were gripping instead when you looked back over your shoulder at him. But he had the audacity to just smile at you when your eyes met his. 

“Where you think you're goin’ in a rush, gorgeous?” he asked.

Yanking your wrist from his hold, you turned back around towards him with a sharp glare. His sleazy grin slowly began to disappear as his inebriated mind registered that this interaction wasn't going whatever way he was thinking it would.

“Better question is,” you shot back, gesturing your beer at him as you spoke, “what the hell do you think you're doing grabbing me like that?”

“Just wanna talk, dollface,” he slurred. “Get your name.” He paused, that disgusting little grin sliding over his face once more as he openly eyed you from head to toe. “Maybe do a little more.”

Pulling a face, you physically recoiled back from the man when his hand raised towards you again. You could practically hear the things he was thinking right now and it made your skin crawl.

“Absolutely not,” you told him, disgust rising in you. “And next time you try to hit on a girl, maybe keep your damn hands to yourself. I'm not a goddamn park bench–we’re not public property. You can’t just touch whatever the fuck you want.”

The man’s face began to shift into a look of outrage before he pushed off of the bar. He swayed a bit on his feet as he took a step towards you, not even remotely deterred by your words. If anything, it seemed you’d really pissed him off now.

“Yeah?” he snapped. “You one o’those stuck up cunts, huh? Think you’re too good for the rest of us?”

Before you could take a step back, the guy’s hand had reached forward, yet again grabbing onto you–this time by the forearm. Except his grip was much firmer now as he pulled you towards him, causing you to stumble as beer sloshed out of the full bottle in your hand.

“Should teach you how to talk to a man,” he threatened, fingers tightening against your skin. “Put that mouth o’yours to–”

“Get your filthy fuckin’ hands–” Jax’s enraged snarl cut him off, his own hand flying out of nowhere as he appeared beside you, grabbing the guy by the collar of his shirt and balling it tightly into his fist, “–off my girl before I shove it so far up your own ass that you’ll be choking on it.”

Eyes widening in surprise, you hadn't realized Jax had even noticed this entire encounter from where you'd left him at the table with your friends when you’d gone to grab another drink. But now he was standing with his body between yours and the drunk man as if he was a physical barrier between the two of you, his fist gripping the man's shirt so tight you could see the tension along his forearm as his eyes narrowed dangerously at the guy. 

His words hadn’t gone unnoticed by you, either. He’d called you his girl. And the sound of that had your tongue darting out to wet your lips, even if you knew he’d meant nothing behind it. You were his girl in the sense that you were his best friend. A part of his family. Someone he’d absolutely spill blood over something like this for.

“Hands. Off,” Jax growled low. “Now. I ain’t fuckin’ asking.”

The man’s eyes shifted from you to Jax slowly, the anger on his face quickly morphing into confusion as his brows pinched together, his gaze dropping down to Jax’s kutte and the patches along it. You watched as the realization of who he was dealing with dawned on the man, his eyes widening slightly before he released your forearm. A satisfied smile slowly spread across your mouth as you raised your beer to your lips, finally taking a pull off of it. 

But Jax’s expression didn’t remotely change. His lips were drawn into a tight, thin line along his face, his nostrils flaring with each exhale. His grip on the man’s shirt hadn’t lessened in the slightest. Instead, the moment the man had released your arm, Jax had roughly shoved the guy back into the bar counter, pressing him hard against it as he got in the man’s face with a look on his own that was absolutely murderous. 

“You think it’s alright grabbing girls like that, you little shit?” Jax snapped, his words flying out so harsh you swore you saw spittle hit the guy in the face. “She told you to fuck off, or are you too goddamn dumb to understand?”

Behind the counter, you noticed the bartender growing uncomfortable with the confrontation that had erupted in the middle of the bar. The patrons that had been drinking nearby had also clearly moved farther away, giving Jax a wide berth as he continued telling the drunk asshole off. You figured you’d let Jax get some of it out of his system before you cut in–the dipshit needed to be taught a lesson anyway.

“I asked you a fuckin’ question!” Jax spat. “You just that goddamn stupid?”

“Dude, I–I don’t–” the guy stuttered, his mouth opening and closing as he clearly struggled with how the hell to get out of this situation without a hospital visit. “I wasn’t–she just–”

Jax pulled the guy away from the bar with the hand still gripping the man’s shirt before he shoved him roughly back against it again, effectively shutting him up. As Jax got back in the man’s face again, fury still written clear across it, you watched as a few strands of his slicked back hair fell forward around his face.

“You don’t fuckin’ talk to her like that,” Jax grit out between clenched teeth. “And you sure as shit don’t think about her like that.”

That’s when you saw it–that look in Jax’s eyes that told you he was about to start bloodying his fists. Without a moment’s hesitation, you stepped over towards him and gently placed your hand along his shoulder. The weight of it caught his attention, his head darting behind himself before your eyes met. You could see that fire inside of his blue eyes, and right now it was burning because of you. A pleased shudder ran through you at the sight of it.

“I think he got the message, Jax,” you told him, ignoring what you’d just felt. You gestured your head across the bar back towards the table with your friends; all you wanted was to go sit back down and focus on the night. “Come on. Before my beer gets too warm and the police get called.”

There was a brief moment where you weren’t certain that Jax was going to leave the guy alone, your eyes catching the way his teeth ground together. But then he shoved the man sharply back into the bar one last time with a harsh exhale. That dark glare never left his face as he returned his attention to the man.

“Your sorry ass should be grateful to her,” Jax told him, pointing a ringed finger behind himself at you. “Cause if it weren’t for her, I’d be beating the shit outta you right now.”

With much effort, Jax reluctantly turned away from him before he stepped over towards you. He slung an arm around your shoulders, his body still tense against your side. The hand not carrying your beer reached up, grabbing ahold of his where it rested against you as you began to lead the pair of you back to the table. As you both walked, Jax glanced over at you, a frown settling on his face as his eyes curiously studied you.

“You good, darlin’?” he asked. “That bastard didn’t hurt you, did he?”

Shrugging, you shook your head. “Not really,” you answered. “Just pissed me off. But considering how close he was to pissing his pants when you showed up, I think he regretted his decisions this evening.”

“Shouldn’t be fucking touching you like that,” Jax grumbled, his arm around your shoulder pulling you further into his side. “‘Bout damn near ready to rearrange his face.”

As you neared the table with your friends, you couldn’t hold back the soft, breathy laugh that fell out of you. Jax’s attention returned to you at the sound, one of his blonde brows raising onto his forehead. Despite his confusion at your response and the tension from the recent situation, you saw the tiniest hint of a smirk on his face.

“What?” he asked.

“Deirdre said she saw Brian the other day. At the gas station,” you replied, coming to a stop. A grin slipped onto your face as you looked at Jax beside you. “She said he had a split lip and a black eye.”

“Did he now?” Jax asked.

Your own brows rose up onto your forehead at his answer that was obviously laced with faux surprise. You hadn’t forgotten how he’d threatened to beat the shit out of your ex for cheating on you the other week.

“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” you asked.

Jax pulled a face, shrugging his shoulders casually in response. But that smirk was still drawn over his lips, the sight causing your own grin to grow.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, darlin’,” he replied, once more guiding you back towards the table. “Maybe he accidentally ran into a wall. Or someone’s fist.”

With a roll of your eyes, an amused snort slipped out of you. The sound only made Jax chuckle, his arm falling away from your shoulders when you both returned to your previous seats.

“Yeah, maybe that’s what happened,” you replied, meeting his gaze knowingly. “An accident.”

[maidragoste]

1.5

warning: mentions of sex

Part 1

Please don't hesitate to like, leave comments and reblog. These three things always make me happy and motivate me to keep writing 💖💖

My inbox is open so I'm always willing to read your headcanons, opinions and answer your questions!

Disclaimer: English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes.

Adera is running out of excuses to explain why she's been kissing and fucking Larys lately.

The first time Larys and Adera fuck, Alicent is there. Adera was angry and perhaps a little drunk, her ego still bruised from Harwin's infidelity, and she felt appreciated again after hearing Alicent and Larys speak highly of her while they rant at Harwin and Rhaenyra.

The second time it happens, they're alone. Again, Adera was angry and had been drinking because she couldn't believe Viserys would dare to hold a celebration for the birth of Rhaenyra and Harwin's bastard. Adera couldn't stand it and left before the celebration, and Larys didn't take long to come looking for her. Alicent, being the queen, couldn't make such an easy excuse, so she couldn't accompany them. It's a secret between the two of them, but neither of them misses her; they're too busy to think about other people.

The third time, they're also alone. Adera is no longer drunk or angry, they are simply in Larys' chambers talking about the new book of flowers he got when he shows her one of the illustrations she gets distracted by his hands, remembering how good his fingers felt inside her the last time, and ends up kissing him against his desk wanting to feel him again.

They fuck twice more before Alicent joins them again. But it's Larys who brings Adera to orgasm using only his fingers. She doesn't want Alicent to notice that her moans get louder when he touches her, so she distracts her by eating her cunt while Larys continues to make her tremble.

The seventh time, it's just them. Larys and Adera are having their weekly tea meeting when he tells her that she feels tense and offers to give her a massage. Of course, it ends up being more than a massage. But Adera likes it, she likes how he kisses her lips and her body, how he touches her without any kind of fear or nervousness—like Alicent or too soft like Harwin—, how he uses his mouth to leave marks on her body, how he doesn't worry that she also leaves her own marks on his skin—unlike Alicent—, how he seems to know perfectly well when she needs control and to be on top of him and when she needs him to take the reins and make her forget about the rest of the world.

The eighth time, they're also alone. Adera goes to his chambers with the terrible excuse that she can't sleep and needs to burn off energy, but it's too late for her to go out and train with her sword. Larys simply laughs before cupping her face and kissing her as he guides her to the bed as if it were the most natural thing in the world, making her feel warm but at the same time scared by how something that was supposed to be a one-time thing has become a regular occurrence, something she wants.

"If we're going to keep doing this, you can't be with anyone else," she said, breaking off the kiss.

Larys laughed again but it was a different laugh than before, there was no happiness there, it was more of a dry laugh. “You don’t have to worry about that, no one is going to compete with you for a clubfoot,” he said while giving kisses along Adera’s neck.

“You’re more than a clubfoot,” she said, grabbing him by the back of his neck and making him look at her. “You’re very handsome,” she smiled, caressing his face with her other hand. Larys would be lying if he said he didn’t feel anything at her sweetness. “Smart,” she meant it, not just to boost his ego because now they’re both fucking. “You’re a very good listener and also…”

Larys kissed her because he couldn't stand her talking sweetly about him anymore, her shining eyes on him. All his life, he'd endured mockery, and looks of pity or disgust. He'd grown accustomed to being an outcast among people, so he didn't know what to do with all the warmth Adera gave him.

This time it wasn't a long kiss; Adera struggled to separate her lips from his. She wanted to keep kissing him, to lose herself in his kisses, and for the night to end with their bodies intertwined, but first, she needed to clear the air between them. But before she could speak, he surprised her.

“You don’t have to worry about someone else stealing my attention, my lady,” he said, as if he knew exactly what was bothering her. “I have eyes only for you,” he declared.

Adera’s heart raced, not only at Larys’s words but at the way he looked at her. In his blue eyes, she could see lust and desire, but there was also something more. She wouldn’t say it was love; it was too soon to say that, but what she saw in his eyes made her feel secure. Larys wasn’t lying.

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[shadesofhogwarts]

(3) Poly!marauders x reader crashing out in a diner after a night out

You end up at a 24-hour diner that looks like it should’ve been condemned in the 80s. The sign’s flickering, the inside smells like burnt coffee and teenage regret, and the only other customer is a man arguing with a jukebox that isn’t even plugged in.

Naturally, you love it.

You’re crammed in a booth that was definitely meant for two people. Maybe three if they liked each other. Four is pushing it, but no one seems to care.

You’re sandwiched between James and Remus, one of Sirius’ legs wedged dangerously between yours under the table like he forgot how to sit normal. Your back is pressed to James' chest, and Remus has you half wrapped in his cardigan even though you’re still sweating from the party. Sirius is directly across from you, long fingers tapping the rim of a utensil mug like he’s waiting for someone to dare him into chaos.

You’re all a little too warm from dancing, a little too giddy from cheap drinks, a little too fond of each other to notice the grease-stained menus or flickering lights overhead.

It’s the kind of tired that feels good. Safe.

“So,” James says around a wide yawn, “what have we learned tonight?”

“That you’re a menace when you flirt,” you mumble into his shoulder. “And that social experiments don’t involve whispering in someone’s ear for three songs straight.”

James grins, smug. “Worked, didn’t it?”

Sirius groans dramatically, knocking his head back. “I told you it was going to backfire. I said, and I quote, ‘she’s gonna fall in love with you all over again, and then cry about it in the bathroom.’'

You make a face. “I did not cry.”

Remus slides a menu toward you. “Pick something greasy. You’ll thank me later.”

“I already thank you for everything,” you mumble, drunk and soft and stupidly in love.

You don’t mean to say it like that, but no one calls it out. Sirius just steals your menu and says, “We’ll get a little bit of everything. Can’t risk someone getting jealous over hash browns.”

Your milkshake arrives before the food– vanilla, with a swirl of strawberry and two maraschino cherries. There are four straws in it.

You blink. “Really?”

James shrugs. “We share everything.”

You feel that in your spine.

Sirius wipes a streak of whipped cream off your lip with his thumb and pops it into his mouth like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You should’ve seen yourself on my shoulders. Arms up like you were Queen of the Lawn.”

You giggle. “I couldn’t find my shoes.”

“I know,” he says, eyes crinkling. “I’ve got grass stains on my shirt and your sandal in my pocket.”

“You kept it?” you laugh.

He shrugs. “Couldn’t let your glass slipper get away, could I?”

You’re all laughing too hard to breathe when the food comes– plates on plates of stuff you’ll regret in five hours. You eat curled into each other, stealing bites, dropping crumbs on laps, trading pancakes for toast and then back again.

And somewhere in the middle of it– while James is wiping syrup off Remus' sleeve with his thumb, and Sirius is chewing your straw for absolutely no reason, and Remus is offering you his pickles because “you always steal them anyway”– you feel it.

That thing.

The warmth under the laughter. The buzz under your skin. That terrifying, beautiful truth that you don’t want to sleep this off and forget it all in the morning.

You want this. Whatever this is.

Sirius catches your eye and smirks, like he knows what you're thinking. He always does.

"You've got that look again," he says, swirling the ice in his glass. "The one where you're about to overthink everything."

"Do not," you grumble, cheeks hot.

"You do," James agrees, pecking the top of your head. "But it's cute. All the best things start with a little panic."

Remus leans in, nose brushing your jaw. “Just let it happen, sweetheart.”

And so you do.

You finish your fries and steal the last bite of Sirius’ toast and let James feed you whipped cream off his fork just to see him blush about it after. You watch Remus doodle in the corner of a napkin and try not to cry when he writes your name with a tiny heart.

You laugh until your stomach aches and your throat hurts and your voice is hoarse.

And when you stumble out into the night, arms wrapped around each other, stomachs full and hearts lighter– it still doesn’t feel like enough.

But it’s a start.

[nottivagos]

I know we're on the subby, sweet Isack train, ik, but have we ever tried "so eager to please that he accidentally become the more dominant"? Well I'm going there.

Isack lending you his laptop, but forgetting the charger, so it just powers off before you notice. And of course, he takes it off of you as soon as you complain, not noticing how you're a bit shifty about giving the device back. As soon as it powers back on again, he's met with multiple tabs of "adult videos" (ps! Danny cameo, mayhaps) . But they're all rough, with a more dominant guy. Why were you looking at that? Was he doing a bad job? Isack insecure panic takes over, so he sets out to do the logical thing - do exactly what he saw. That's what you wanted, right? He watches the videos over and over again, memorizing the lines, movements, and everything. And him being so nervous to mess up but still going at it, stuttering a little at the dirty talk, ugh - 🦋

first of all, 🦋 you never miss. like oh my god??? actually had me gagged and i couldn't find my jaw. so, let's debrief!

First of all, yes. Isack would definitely do this! He's definitely the type to lose himself in the moment as well, even if it is only a rare occurrence, trying to make sure you're both enjoying the moment to the absolute maximum. However, I believe at first, he's taken a bit aback by the more dominant, aggressive videos, because he always thought you liked the tender love-making?

You mentioned porncciardo and now all I can think about is a JOI/walkthrough of "How To Please A Woman: The Ricciardo Way" being on his page. Isack sees this an instantly clicks on it, hyperanylysing every single detail of what Daniel does. He even sees some toys that Daniel uses and INSTANTLY buys them for you.

Isack definitely over-prepares too. Maybe gets a little over-confident after knowing Daniel's movements to a tee, but it's the thought that counts, right? At first, you're definitely indulging yourself in the moment, Isack being on top, grabbing your jaw so you look at him before spitting in your mouth, sealing it with a searing, bruising kiss leaving your mind blank. However, the words he's saying... they sound a little too familiar and close to home.

The stuttering is then definitely there. I think maybe when Isack gets a little more dominant, fully reciting Daniel's words, you're confused but deeply turned on by it. It's like someone's turned on a switch in Isack's brain, turning him into this person you've never seen before. When you're in your daze, breath ragged and your cheeks are flushed whilst confused that Isack is literally reciting a sex scene by heart word for word, I like to think he's getting overwhelmed, maybe a little upset that you look very taken aback, hence why he starts stuttering.

However, by the end of the night let's just say you've gone through nearly all of porncciardo's catalogue, with you on top, mimicking the female actress but also with Isack on top too taking control!! And overall Isack is happy and you're drunk on what just happened, even when Isack becomes more tender during the aftermath of your intense lovemaking.

Skip to the present, now the both of you are always (eagerly) waiting for Daniel to drop another video so you can finally sit with Isack's back on your chest, stroking his dick whilst he watches Daniel's latest video with you. <3

[81pastrys]

Mini Bwoah

Part 10 / 10

Summary— Maiden win blues and drinks, allowing a certain word to slip from her mouth

Warnings— unintentional bad parenting ; drinking ; dunk words mean sober thoughts

A/N— so about that

Series List

Divider @bernardsbendystraws

We get to my trailer and the rest of the team with us dispersed to other parts of the paddock. Cameras died out once we got into the taxis.

“Are you okay my love?” He asked, moving my hair behind my fireproof shirt. “You seem down.”

“All the interviews got to me.” I laugh nervously.

“I understand that, but you never act this way after.” He said.

“I never realized how my dad always shut me out as a kid.” I say. “I realized today in the podium interviews.”

“Shut you out?”

“He never celebrated wins with me, never really talked about the goods of racing.” I explain. “He only gave me tips on how to cope with losing.”

“I don’t think that was his intention love.”

“No, but it makes me feel like he never thought I’d ever win..”

Lando sighs and pulls me in for a hug. “All will be okay, if he did think that- you’ve proved him wrong.”

“Maybe I’m thinking too far ahead.” I say. “Now are we going to party tonight…?”

“There’s my girl.” He smiled. “Did you bring party clothes?”

“Maybe a little something.” I say suspicious.

“Hmmm let’s see it then.” He winked.

“How much time do we have before the group chat wonders where we are?” I ask.

“As much time as you want love.” He said. “It’s your win, and your celebration.” He kissed my head after his sentence and I go to my room and change.

The party was crazy fun. Drinks after drinks and shots after shots. I end up dancing on a table and Lando rushes over to me. He picks me up off the table and sets me back on the solid ground.

“Love, I can see everything, especially without your panties present.” He whispers in my ear. As drunk as I am, I giggle. “You’re too far gone huh?” He smiles.

“Maybe, not far gone enough to know I want you in my bed tonight.” I bite my lip and he laughs.

“We’ll see about that love, but no more tables or drinks.” He said. I fake pout at him and he leaves me be. At the end of the night he brings me home, drunk and rambling.

“I’m so lucky I have you.” I ramble. “Such an amazing boyfriend.” The giggles were a staple to my drunk state.

“Boyfriend huh?” He asked. “I’m going to forget you said that and ask you out tomorrow.”

“Forget what?” I ask forgetting my god damn self from how drunk I am.

Lando puts me to bed and the next morning is hell. “Good morning Miss asked me out drunk.” He said, his voice groggy from sleep.

“Isn’t that your job?” I ask.

“Well you asked me, but now I’m asking you to be my girlfriend.” He said, landing a kiss on my lips. “Formula 1 winner.” He smiled.

“Next Formula 1 champion at that.” I giggle.

Formula 1 champion I wasn’t, but it’s okay. Lando won instead, along with asking me to marry him on the podium of all places…

How are we feeling?

@il0vereadingstuff @angelluv16 @anayaverse @pandabiiissh @kallanfiona @itznotsophia @justaf1girl

[moongothic]

You know I'll be first to point out if/when Crocodile does a little Luffyism, so let's take a moment to appreciate it when Luffy does a little Crocodile-ism;

Like Luffy may be a silly lil goofball, but as he's said many times himself, he's always serious (in combat). And so Fujitora laughing at Luffy right in his face, when they're in battle and Luffy is completely dead serious... Yeah, the way he takes it like an insult gives Crocodile

[thegreatyin]

monster and pain for the scoundrel?

(original ask game here!)

Monster: Is your OC monstrous in any way? Is there something that makes them monstrous? Are they aware of their own monstrosity? Do they accept it or reject it?

I mean. I suppose there is the obvious elephant in the room.

Most of the Scoundrel's bat HRT symptoms are currently... superficial at best. They have fangs, and they've already grown horns, but it doesn't really mean anything- their internal organs, reasoning, instincts, etc are all pretty much entirely human. This is routinely a problem for them. They hate it so much. They don't know what'll happen when they truly become more bat than person-

Ahem. Coughs. Anyway.

By-and-large, the Scoundrel is embracing her monstrosity with open and almost too eager arms. She is going "YES... HAHA... YES!!!!" through a window while wearing a sickos T-shirt. She is jumping up and down like a happy rabbit. She is vibrating at a rate of approximately five gazillion trillion bazillion happy bats per hour. She is extremely aware of it and she could literally not be more overjoyed about it.

This is what she wished for, after all. This is what's going to fix her.

...and if it doesn't, well. There's always East.

(There's another aspect of her that can arguably be counted as monstrous, but- well. Let's talk about it next question.)

-

Pain: What's the worst pain your OC has ever felt? Do they have a high pain tolerance?

To put it as succinctly as possible; The Scoundrel has violant eyes.

She did not always have violant eyes. In fact, for most of her life, they were just a normal shade of brown.

And then he happened to play through a certain Exceptional Story, and realized he couldn't stand to forget even a single moment of what he saw.

Things... escalated. Quickly. For some time, she had all but vanished from the Neath- and when she returned, she had a new drive, a new persona, and eyes nobody could stand to forget.

She did this to herself. Eagerly. Happily. And it hurt like nothing else in the world. Turned her blood a few shades shy of the funny neathbow color too, just for good measure.

This wasn't the thing that necessarily created her high pain tolerance, but damn if it wasn't close. Nowadays, the Scoundrel can shrug off almost any amount of pain if he really puts his mind to it. Even if she's usually too much of a stuck-up jerk to act like her high constitution score means anything on a daily basis.