#dissection lesson

[tauriam]

something i havent seen yet as far as i can tell is the fucking insane implication that the reason that the taurtis clones call out to sam -

- is because taurtis in his last moments most likely thought about him and it carried on to the clones' memories with the same desperation in wanting to be saved and the love taurtis has for his best friend

it's why i think all the clones turn towards sam specifically and not grian because taurtis himself was only thinking about sam. if we take yandere into consideration and the start of yhs — it is sort of implied that they've been friends with each other Longer than they have been with grian + they've lived together for a long time as well since they stay in the Gladiator residence (alone) for the early parts of yhs

isn't it fucking horrifying that this kid, who spent most of his life with one person, gets sent to the hospital and replaced, dealing with all the shit that sam's done because he gets dragged into it as his friend, and then once he gets essentially kidnapped, he thinks about sam for his Last Final Moments only to be immediately replaced and brushed off with a clone. with several clones. with another version.

you're never going to be your own person. you're never going to be remembered for who you are and only as the concept of you. you're never going to be saved and you're never getting a funeral. they mourn for the lack of you, not who you were.

and the big thing is they never really do. they pay respects, sure, (TS E 21 around the end) but when sam and taurtis two see the letter, sam mostly brushes it off because the higher priority is gym class? and poor 2 who had to grasp the fact that he is a clone, and not the original that he thought he was. and im not sure just yet how much they reference original taurtis, but in the finale when they're discussing about having another taurtis;

GRIAN: At what point do we just... take the L?

SAM: Wait, you don't want Taurtis back?

GRIAN: Well- But- I'm just saying like-

GRIAN: How many Taurtises do we have to kill-

SAM, overlapping: As many as- as there is.

SAM: I'm never giving up on Taurtis.

SAM: HE IS OUR FRIEND, DUDE.

SAM: Even if he gets sacrificed to minion zombies and then meets an alternate version of himself named Jerry,

SAM, louder and harsher: I'M NOT GOING TO GIVE UP ON HIM.

^ from this alone you can see how sam feels about taurtis as a person when sam just wants the comfort of having a taurtis around, not so much that it's him

it's why sam didn't feel as bothered that the original died, he had clones that served the concept well. it's why sam dressed grian up and that was enough to comfort him because the idea of taurtis is around. it's why sam dismisses the fact that they should give up on trying to replace the original because he needs a taurtis to even function (it's why he crashes out multiple times so hard without him) and it's why he says "As many as there is." to grian's "How many Taurtises do we have to kill [before we just have to accept the loss]"

sam just can't accept the fact that taurtis is gone moreso that taurtis is a person rather than something him stable. idk. isn't it crazy that your perception warps so hard that your love for your best friend turns into an obsession that leaves him as an idea to you? isnt it crazy that your love for your best friend has you get dragged in to everything he does, consequences and all, to the point that you're grateful for everything anyway and you never get mourned?

something something saurtis whatever idgaf how you interpret this. it's just interesting :-( my kids ...

[generic-whumperz]

Whumpy Art History, Part 3: The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp

Artist: Rembrandt Year: 1632 Medium: Oil on canvas Dimensions: 216.5 cm × 169.5 cm (85.2 in × 66.7 in) Location: Mauritshuis, The Hague Style: Baroque Dutch Golden Age

[theeobject]

Dinner conversation is so weird to me because my mother is a nurse and my father is a retired marine, so obviously I was raised with stories about how my moms coworker’s crocs got pooped on by one of the patients and that’s why one shouldn’t wear shoes with holes in them as a nurse while my dad is over talking about that one time he got dysentery because the place he was stationed in had the bathroom hole too close to the kitchen and flys went back and fourth from the food to the pool hole.

Like- you’re telling me that my parents can talk about old people pooping on people and war BUT WHEN I TRY AND TALK ABOUT THE CADAVER I GOT TO SEE ON A COLLAGE TOUR it’s suddenly “gross” and “not polite dinner conversation for thanksgiving”

[tauriam]

as fucking insane the lore is for [og] yhs/ts, it's like - horrifying to think about in the context of the characters themselves. they're just teenagers, they're just kids.

in yandere, sam, a fucking FIVE YEAR OLD, gets tricked into killing a grown adult, was taught to steal, forced to items without knowledge of what they are (ingredients for wine for jane, fish king freddy's fin for vonheimer, teargas for rowan) gets a bomb threat at his HOUSE, and gets chased off by SWAT MEMBERS. REMINDER. HE'S FIVE.

also with the asylum theory - it's totally plausible to think that sam was at least put into it inbetween the ages of 5-15. so its like even more Crazy ? that theyre just doing this to a CHILD.

HEY ALSO - THINK ABOUT TAURTIS FOR A MOMENT. he's been friends with sam for ~10 years basically growing up so he'd be continuously dragged into whatever sam does right? briefly talked about his ~purpose to sam in my other post but like taurtis alone is like . suffered more than jesus. guys - he's never been his own person really in the entire series even before / after death (clones + alt. dimension) and he's also been disrespected A LOT.

one thing i never see get talked about more is that taurtis gets sexually harrassed? there is an entire episode dedicated to taurtis 2 getting harrassed by two grown adults (dr. nurse + old man kurokuma) for an ENTIRE CLASS - IN FRONT OF THEM.

[TAURTIS is running away from KUROKUMA]

DR. NURSE: Stand still, boy.

SAM: Just stand still for the lesson!

TAURTIS: No! What is the lesson?!

TAURTIS: Is it to stop sexual harrasment?!

SAM: What is this demonstrating? SAM: Is this demonstrating um... to protect yourself from creeps? DR. NURSE: Yup SAM: Oh- oh okay, so- so explain how- this helps- Taurtis protect himself from creepy people. TAURTIS: I don't feel very protected, SAM: Well he's going to explain how to protect yourself from creepy people! DR. NURSE:

also by prof. geode the class after,

[GEODE forces him to sit in the special chair, then proceeds to sniff intensely]

TAURTIS: I've been harassed by three different people today.

and this behavior isn't even new? i'm surprised people look over geode's clear disgusting romantic interest in taurtis when discussing about them

i know he's referred as the clones' dad, because he did create them, but it's a little bit - weird? that people actually see (headcanon) geode as taurtis' actual father? idk lol

my random tangent ? WRONG. TAURTIS POSTING.

[cassierain]

Man we really are just meat

[battlekidx2]

I don't know if it was clear here, but this isn't meant to say he had any intent to sacrifice himself either. I don't think he even considered the fact that he might die until he took that blow from Adam. But I do think part of him helped and defended the hotel because he was growing attached to the people who resided there.

He came into battle with Adam so confident. The thought he could lose didn't even cross his mind. When he helped the hotel he never seriously considered that he would fall, which is why he wasn't raging against the internal change, but once he was slammed back to earth his choices and internal change were shoved back into his face. They are part of what led him to this point and because of that he begins to rage against it.

I want to elaborate even further on why I think Alastor’s breakdown in the finale was (at least in part) motivated by the fact that he has come to care about the people at the hotel. A few people have responded to me saying they don't believe he actually cares or asking me about my opinions on certain counterarguments against the interpretation that he cares and I figured it would be easier to just make one post in response. (this is just meant to expand on my thoughts. You don't have to agree. That's half the fun of media interpretation.)

The consistent throughline I keep being told is that his breakdown was purely motivated by pride and loss of control and I do think these were massive parts of the breakdown.

Alastor is very aware of the fact that the situation around him is spiraling out of his control. That the notoriety he had cultivated as an unchallengeable overlord is crumbling. His time away allowed the fear he sowed to dull. He keeps coming face to face with beings that rival or surpass his strength. People who wouldn’t dare question him before are banging on his door. His foothold in the world isn’t secure like it once was and that has him reeling.

Alastor's pride is a driving factor in his actions, but, like I said in my last analysis, I think this is only part of it. I think this breakdown is motivated by the fact that he feels like he’s losing control of himself on top of the situation around him.

I'm going to start with the points/questions I've been asked first then expand on my thoughts after.

The first one I was asked about is the interpretation that Alastor was mocking the very idea that he would sacrifice himself for someone else when he says "Great Alastor, altruist, died for his friends." and I think that would work if it wasn't for the visuals paired with this line.

He literally looks like THIS when he is speaking the line. This isn’t the face of someone mocking the very idea that he would do this.

It was actually this shot that convinced me there was some truth to the words he was saying because it looks like he’s beginning to have a breakdown over the fact that this is almost exactly what happened.

The second one that I was asked about was the idea that he was forced to fight and protect Charlie by whoever owns his soul. But if he was forced to fight in this battle due to his contract why not describe it this way when alone? How could he even leave if he was forced to fight and protect the hotel? I doubt there was a caveat that he could leave the fight if he was seriously injured if he was ordered to fight and protect Charlie and the hotel.

I do think he's at the hotel because of whoever owns his soul, but I don't think it's why he fought or why he helped Charlie get Cannibal Town to aid them through his connection to Rosie.

And the last one that I was asked about was the idea that the demons had to be fighting for love like Carmilla said to Vaggie to defeat the angels and the reason Alastor didn't win was because he was fighting purely for his own interests. Freedom, power, and control.

And, while I think the base idea of this is really interesting (This is a genuinely cool idea!) and could challenge Alastor's more selfish motivations, the show itself doesn't really back this up.

Charlie is the literal embodiment of fighting to protect those she cares about-- she has the biggest heart out of anyone at the hotel-- and yet she doesn't defeat anyone in this battle.

Before she faces Adam all she uses is a shield to protect herself and the other residents. She apologizes to those she hits, while Vaggie finishes them off. When she does face Adam she doesn't beat him. She gets in a good hit, but she isn't able to finish him off. She would have been killed if Lucifer didn't step in.

Plus, Alastor's shield killed multiple exorcists before Adam destroyed it, so I don't think this means he hasn't grown to care about the residents of the hotel or that there wasn't some part of him that was fighting to protect them.

Now to expand on my own thoughts now that I've answered the questions I've gotten, it's not just the final battle/fallout that brought me to believe he had come to care about the hotel and its residents.

The show itself seems to want us to think he is starting to grow “accustomed” (In Alastor’s words to Niffty) to the group with little moments that are played straight like when he sends Mimzy (possibly his oldest friend) away, telling her she can stay if she truly wants to try for redemption, but if she just wants to put the hotel in danger then she has to leave.

When he says he believes in Charlie and wants to mentor her in cannibal town. He even gives her his microphone which is a literal extension of himself to help her.

When he talks to Niffty (who he is clearly fond of) and admits he finds the group enjoyable to be around. He says he could grow accustomed to them after Niffty says she really likes them almost in agreement with her.

There is no sinister undertone or hint of the usual facade Alastor puts on in these scenes.

Like I said above I don't think that the fact that Alastor has come to care about the residents is the only factor in his breakdown or the only reason he fought in the first place (Alastor's blatant overconfidence in his fight against Adam makes it clear pride was a factor. That overconfidence is why he lost that battle). It's a combination of multiple things (his pride, loss of control, desire for freedom, etc), but I do think it's a valid reading that it was a part of it considering all the information the show has given us.

This isn't to say I think Alastor is going to melt and be a team player for the hotel from now on. In fact, I think he's going to lash out against this internal change.

Alastor has always put himself first and in the finale he almost died trying to protect this hotel and it's rattled him. It's challenged his entire self-perception. He doesn’t like that it’s being challenged. That he’s losing control of himself on top of the situation around him. So, he doubles down on his initial goals.

I think this internal conflict is fascinating. I wouldn't have written so much about it if I didn't. I genuinely can't wait to see what they do with it in season 2.

If you feel differently feel free to send an ask, message, or respond to this post. I'd love to hear what other people think! Differing views and connections to characters is what makes media so impactful and fun to consume.

[idontmindifuforgetme]

Focusing on what’s rooted in reality has reduced so much of my overthinking time. If a friend is already out of my life, there’s no point dissecting our interactions from back when we were friends. If I already broke up w someone, there’s no point thinking about the could-have-beens because they will never happen. If I’m into someone but it wouldn’t work for whatever reason, then it just doesn’t. Something just is or just isn’t. There’s a lesson to take from everything but I also don’t want to use that as a catch-all excuse for getting into the weeds of something when the weeds have already been cut off and it doesn’t even matter anymore

[surielstea]

A Lesson in Lust

Inspired by a request!

Pairing: Azriel x Fem!Reader

Summary: When Reader fakes an orgasm Azriel has no choice but to teach her not to lie to him, but not with words.

Warnings: smut | 18+ | pwp | dom!Az / Brat!Reader | Brat tamer/taming | cunnilingus | slight impact | slight breathplay | creampie | p in v | overstim | controlled orgasm | clit sucking | slut shaming | slight dollification | there’s so many ts freaky

Word count: 6.5k

A.Note: Please read the warnings!!! This is nasty, literally all smut, mdni.

I should have known better.

Should have known that Azriel, with all his centuries of honed observation and razor-sharp instincts—his ability to read people down to the slightest flicker of emotion—would notice.

I thought I had hidden it well, that he had been too lost in his own pleasure to realize I hadn't unraveled beneath him the way I usually did. That the tremor in my voice, the sharp edge of my cries, hadn't quite matched the ones before. I told myself he wouldn't catch the fleeting moment where my body had tensed but never truly shattered, where my release had been nothing more than an illusion painted for his sake.

I don't even know why I did it. Azriel had always been so attuned to me, so devoted to my pleasure. Maybe it was the exhaustion weighing down my limbs, the ache of an endlessly long day pressing against my bones. Maybe it was the way he had looked at me tonight—so desperate to bring me over the edge with him. I hadn't wanted to bruise his pride.

But he knows.

He doesn't say anything. Not as he cleans me up with steady, reverent hands, the warm cloth dragging over my skin with the same care he always gives me. Not as he helps me into my nightgown, his touch lingering a little longer than necessary. But I feel it. Feel it in the way his hazel eyes darken, their golden flecks burning as they study me in that quiet, unreadable way.

Still, he says nothing. Not when he turns off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into a cocoon of darkness. Not when I turn to him, pressing a soft kiss against his lips in an attempt to quell the unspoken weight between us.

He kisses me back, slow and deep, but his shadows betray him. They curl tighter around his frame, restless like they are whispering secrets meant only for him—secrets I cannot decipher.

He doesn't say anything for a long while. Holds onto the knowledge, lets it simmer beneath his quiet exterior, tucked away where I almost believe it will stay.

For a moment, I think I've gotten away with it.

But when morning comes, the silence finally fractures.

"Why did you fake it?"

The question lands like a stone in my chest, sending my heart into a frantic rhythm. His voice is steady—too steady. Like he's been awake all night just waiting to ask.

I blink at him tiredly, feigning confusion. "What?"

Azriel doesn't waver. "You didn't come. Why'd you fake it?"

Blunt. Direct. The weight of his stare alone is enough to pin me in place. He's clearly been sitting with this, turning it over in his mind, dissecting it in that way only he can. And now, he wants answers.

"I—I didn't—"

He tilts his head slowly, and my breath catches. Not a word passes his lips, but the movement alone is enough of a warning.

"Try again, love." His shadows swirl around us despite the morning light filtering through the curtains.

I stay silent.

Azriel exhales, his grip on my waist flexing. "I've been up all night trying to figure out why you'd feel the need to fake something like that. Especially with me." His voice is soft, but it cuts through me all the same. "And I can't. So tell me—why?"

"I didn't want you to feel bad," I murmur, barely above a whisper. "You treat me so well, all the time. I didn't want you getting hung up on this one night."

But here we were—doing exactly that.

His jaw tightens, tension carving sharp lines into his face. The early morning light filters through the curtains, soft and golden, but there is nothing soft about the way he's looking at me. Still, his hands find mine, fingers intertwining. The roughness of his scars against my skin is familiar. Comforting.

"Do you think so little of me?" The words are quiet, but no less devastating.

"No." I snap my gaze to his, panic flickering in my chest. "No, never, Az."

His thumb skims over my knuckles before he brings my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss there. "Then why lie?" he asks, the warmth of his breath lingering. "Do you not trust me to take care of you? Do you not want me to?"

His voice dips lower, and my stomach clenches. He truly had to be thinking about this all night to draw up these conclusions.

"I do," I rush to reassure him. "Of course I do. I was just—I was tired, that's all." I lean closer, brushing my lips against his in a gentle kiss.

He doesn't pull away. Doesn't let go of my waist. But when he tilts his head, the look in his eyes shifts into something sharper. Something hungry.

"You tired now?"

His mouth finds mine again, deeper this time. Slow, deliberate, teasing.

I exhale softly. "No."

Azriel mirrors my smile, but there's something different about his. Something sharper. More feral.

"Good."

And before I can react, he's got me beneath him, arms pinned above my head, a wicked gleam in his hazel eyes.

A gasp catches in my throat as Azriel moves, fast and fluid, flipping me beneath him before I can so much as blink. My wrists are pinned above my head, his scarred fingers wrapped firmly around them, the weight of his body pressing me into the mattress.

His wings flare slightly, blocking out the golden slant of morning light, leaving nothing but the two of us in the shadows. His shadows.

They curl around his frame like living threads of darkness, writhing in time with his slow, deliberate breaths. The way he looks at me now—hazel eyes molten, jaw tight, lips slightly parted—sends a shiver down my spine.

"You really thought I wouldn't notice, didn't you?" His voice is low, rough, but not angry. No, the way he says it—the way he watches me squirm beneath him—is something else entirely.

I swallow hard. "Azriel, I—"

"You were exhausted." He hums as if considering my excuse. "Didn't want to hurt my feelings." A soft scoff leaves him, his nose brushing the shell of my ear. "What a sweet little lie."

I shudder, my fingers flexing uselessly beneath his grip. "It wasn't—I just—"

"Didn't think I could handle the truth?" He trails a hand down my side, fingers whispering over the thin fabric of my nightgown, tracing every dip, every curve. "Or did you think I wouldn't take care of you properly?"

I shake my head quickly, but he catches my chin between his fingers, forcing me to look at him.

"You know I don't like being lied to, love," he murmurs, voice silken and dark. "Especially not about this, you forgot though."

His thumb drags over my bottom lip, and my breath hitches. He watches me, eyes burning, gaze sharp enough to cut.

"Let's fix that, yeah?"

His grip on my wrists tightens just as his free hand moves lower, skimming over my stomach, my thighs—slow, teasing, deliberate.

"You're going to be honest with me from now on." A soft kiss, barely there, pressed to my throat. "You're going to let me take care of you the way I always do." Another kiss, lower this time, lingering over my pulse.

"And you, love," he whispers, teeth grazing against my skin, "are going to learn exactly what happens when you try to keep something like that from me."

His shadows coil around my ankles, holding me in place, and then—

I lose the ability to think.

"Az," I breathe, my body arching instinctively beneath him, trying to chase the warmth of his touch. But he holds me still, his fingers barely skimming where I need him most, his shadows curling tighter around my wrists and ankles like they, too, are in on his cruel game.

Azriel hums, amused. "You sound a little desperate, love."

I glare at him, but it's hard to make it convincing when I'm squirming beneath him, my pulse racing, my breath coming too fast. "You're being cruel."

His lips curl at the accusation. "Am I?" His fingers dance along the edge of my nightgown, slipping just beneath it before retreating just as quickly, his touch featherlight. "Seems to me I'm just teaching a valuable lesson."

"You're insufferable."

Azriel chuckles, the sound low and sinful, sending a ripple of heat through me. "You weren't saying that last night."

Heat floods my face. "Maybe because last night, you weren't tormenting me."

His brows lift, feigning innocence. "And yet you didn't come. Seems to me you like the tormenting." He dips his head, kissing a slow, searing path along my collarbone. "But if you'd prefer, I could stop."

A smirk plays at his lips as he starts to pull away as if testing to see just how desperate I really am.

I scowl, tightening my legs around his waist, locking him in place. "Don't you dare."

His laughter is warm against my skin, and the next thing I know, his fingers are on my thighs, tracing slow, torturous circles. "That's more like it," he murmurs approvingly. "Now, tell me, love—" his lips ghost over the shell of my ear, his voice nothing but a delicious rasp, "—you going to fake it again?"

My brows furrow as I peer up at him through my lashes.

"No," Azriel grins, wicked and knowing. "I'm not going to stop until you're too wrecked to even think about faking it again."

A sharp inhale. A rush of heat.

His hands tighten, and his voice drops to a whisper, his words dripping with sinful promise.

His fingers move with calculated precision, unbuttoning my top one slow pop at a time. I help him shed it, my own hands sliding beneath his shirt, mapping the warm, golden skin stretched over taut muscle. The ink of his tattoos shifts under my touch as he pulls the fabric over his head and tosses it aside.

I lean in, capturing his lips, but he meets me halfway, claiming my mouth with a hunger that steals my breath. His tongue sweeps past my lips, exploring greedily, and I moan softly into him.

Then, suddenly, my wrists are pinned to the mattress, bound by the whisper-soft strength of his shadows. A gasp catches in my throat, my body instinctively tugging, but it's futile. Azriel merely smirks, his fingers skating down my sides, toying with the band of my panties, the heat of his touch sending sparks across my skin.

I lift my hips in a silent plea, urging him on, but he only chuckles, slow and deep. "Patience, love," he chastises, his fingers hooking beneath the fabric.

"Please," I whisper, desperate.

Azriel hums in approval but moves achingly slow, peeling the lace from my body like he has all the time in the world. His knuckles brush against my thighs as he drags them down, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake.

"I want you to feel everything," he murmurs, lips ghosting over my collarbone, where a faint mark from last night still lingers. A reminder. A promise.

"Az," I whine, shifting against the restraints, needing more, needing him.

He tsks, dark amusement glittering in his hazel eyes. "I know, I know," he coos, dragging his mouth along my skin, teasing me with every slow, lingering kiss. "But you can be patient can't you?"

I nod, breathless, eyes locked onto his as he trails lower.

"Good," he praises, but his voice dips into something more commanding. "And you understand I can't reward your bratty behavior?"

"Yes," I whisper.

His brows arch. "Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir."

Azriel's smirk is wicked, his satisfaction rolling off him in waves. "There's my girl," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my stomach before lowering himself further between my thighs. "Now stay still for me, yeah?"

I nod, back arching as I ready myself.

His breath is warm against my skin, teasing, taunting, and when his lips ghost over where I need him most, a helpless whimper spills from my lips. I tip my head back into the pillows, unable to watch, unable to handle the way he's taking his time, savoring the way I fall apart beneath him before he's even truly touched me.

"Sweet girl," he murmurs, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "So needy. Just couldn't get off, could you?"

I shake my head pitifully. "No," I manage, my voice barely above a breath.

He clicks his tongue, pressing a featherlight kiss to my inner thigh. "It's okay, love," he murmurs, and then his grip tightens on my hips, holding me still as he finally, finally drags his tongue through my slick folds.

A choked moan tumbles from my lips, my back arching further off the bed, but his shadows keep me grounded. He hums in approval against me, the vibration sending a fresh wave of heat coiling low in my stomach.

"Azriel," I moan, writhing, tugging uselessly at the darkness binding my wrists. "Please."

He smirks against me but doesn't answer, just hikes one of my legs over his shoulder, deepening his assault. His tongue flicks over my clit with precision, his mouth sealing around the sensitive bundle of nerves, sucking just hard enough to have me keening.

I can't move. Can't grind against him, can't chase the pleasure building inside me—because he's making sure that my release comes entirely from him.

That realization has me spiraling even faster.

"Az—Azriel, please," I gasp, my thighs trembling as the coil tightens, winding impossibly tight.

His grip on my hips bruises, his scarred fingers pressing into my skin as his tongue circles my clit again and again.

"Go ahead, love," he rasps against me, his voice thick with satisfaction. The vibrations of his words against my swollen, aching cunt are all it takes to send me over the edge.

I shatter, a sharp cry tearing from my throat as my orgasm crashes through me, my body locking up before melting into the mattress. My vision whites out, pleasure consuming me in wave after relentless wave.

Azriel doesn't stop. Doesn't let up. He guides me through it, slow and deliberate, savoring every aftershock.

"There it is," he murmurs, his lips pressing a final, lingering kiss to my sensitive folds before glancing up at me, utterly wrecked beneath him. "My girl looks so pretty when she comes."

The flat of his tongue gathers my arousal on his tongue, cleaning me. A soft, broken whimper is the only response I can manage.

But Azriel isn't done. Not yet. Not until I've learned my lesson.

I panted softly, still trembling as he kissed his way back up my body, his mouth hot and unrelenting against my flushed skin. Every inch of me is still humming from the waves of pleasure he's wrung out of me.

His lips trail over my breasts, pressing a kiss to one before he takes the stiff peak into his mouth, his tongue swirling in slow, torturous circles. The same tongue that had just shattered me now teases and soothes in equal measure, and I bow into his touch, a soft gasp spilling from my lips.

"Azriel," I rasp, tugging against my dark restraints.

His shadows hold firm, but he lifts his gaze to me through his lashes, those hazel eyes molten with desire. My breath catches, and I swear I feel the heat of his stare everywhere. His tongue flicks against my nipple, sharp and purposeful, and my thighs instinctively fall back open for him.

He smirks, releasing my breast with a wet pop before kissing his way up, up, until he finds my lips. He swallows my soft whimper as his tongue slides past my lips, letting me taste myself on him. The intimacy of it makes my head spin, and I kiss him back greedily, nipping at his lower lip when he pulls away.

His breath is warm against my mouth as he murmurs, "Inside?"

"Yes," I breathe, my voice barely more than a whisper. "I need you inside me."

His lips quirk up in a lazy, knowing smile. "Yeah? You need it?"

"Please," I whimper, my desperation laid bare.

Azriel hums, kissing me again, slow and deep, before pulling away. The sound of his belt unbuckling, the rustle of fabric as he shoves his pants down—it sends a thrilling pulse of anticipation through me.

I was so attuned to him, his sounds, the feel of him. The heat of him between my thighs, the way he strokes himself once, twice, teasing me with the promise of what's to come.

Then he's there, pressing the thick head of his cock against my slick entrance, and I nearly sob with need.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice dark with satisfaction as he teases me, sliding just the tip inside before pulling back. "So wet, so ready—"

"Az," I whine, my hips tilting, seeking him.

His hand presses down on my stomach, holding me still. "You take what I give you, love. Nothing more."

I moan at his words, at the sheer dominance in his tone, and then he pushes in, stretching me inch by inch until he's seated fully inside me. He takes his time, driving me wild in the process, each slow thrust pulling a desperate sound from my lips. My walls flutter around him, trying to draw him deeper, but he holds himself back, teasing, torturing.

By the time he finally sinks to the hilt, I'm panting, trembling beneath him, my body molded perfectly to his.

A low groan rumbles through his chest, his head dropping to the crook of my neck as he rolls his hips once, dragging a sharp gasp from me. "Fuck," he breathes, his voice wrecked. "So tight. Always so fucking perfect for me."

I whimper, my body adjusting to the delicious burn of being so completely filled, stretched to the limit around him.

Azriel pulls back slowly, almost entirely, before thrusting forward again, his pace agonizingly slow, like he's savoring the way I squeeze around him.

"You feel that?" he murmurs, his lips brushing against my ear, his voice dark, wicked. "How deep I am?"

"Yes," I pant, my wrists straining against my restraints, desperate to touch him, to claw at his back, to do anything other than lie there and take it.

But that's exactly what he wants.

He rolls his hips again, dragging himself against that spot inside me that has my toes curling, my back arching off the bed.

"You lied to me, love," he reminds me, his tone thick with amusement, with something darker, more possessive. "So now I get to decide how long you last."

A whimper slips from my lips, and he chuckles, low and satisfied.

"You'll take what I give you," he murmurs, his fingers digging into my hips, holding me still even as I writhe beneath him. "And you'll thank me for it."

Then he pulls back and thrusts into me hard, setting a punishing rhythm that steals the breath from my lungs.

He grips my thighs, spreading me wider, fucking into me so deep I swear I can feel him everywhere, in my bones, in my blood.

"So good, you're always so good for me," he groans, his voice rough, barely held together. His restraint is a fragile thing, and gods, knowing I could break him with a single plea makes me throb around him.

"So cruel of me," he muses, his thrusts slowing, dragging out my torture, "to come inside this pretty pussy last night without making sure my girl got her release, hm?"

All I can do is whimper, my head tipping back, body trembling as he fucks me slow, deep, each deliberate roll of his hips making me feel every inch of him.

The rhythmic sound of the bed slamming into the wall and his low, guttural grunts fill the room, the air thick with heat, with the wet, obscene sounds of him driving into me. I bite into my lower lip to stop myself from sounding so damned desperate, but we both know—Azriel knows—just how wrecked I am.

The proof of it is between my thighs, soaking his cock, dripping down onto the sheets.

His hand slides down my stomach, his fingertips ghosting over my clit, not quite touching, just enough to make me sob in frustration.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice full of wicked delight. "Fucking dripping for me." His thumb swipes through my slick folds, pressing teasingly just above where I need him most. "So messy, love. So needy."

I whimper, arching into his touch, desperate for relief.

Azriel tuts, shaking his head. "Oh no, sweetheart. You don't get to come yet."

I whine, a broken, desperate sound, and he just chuckles, pulling his hand away entirely.

"You wanted to lie to me," he reminds me, his lips brushing over my jaw as his cock twitches inside me. "Now you get to feel what it's like to be left aching, desperate, needing."

I sob, my head thrashing against the pillow, but he just keeps fucking me, slow and deep, making me take every inch of him without giving me a single ounce of relief.

I fucking love it.

Azriel smirks against my throat, dragging his lips down the column of my neck, his cock still buried deep inside me, thrusting slow, deep, controlled. My body is writhing beneath him, my nails digging uselessly into my palms as his shadows keep me bound.

"Poor thing," he murmurs, nipping at the spot just below my jaw, his tongue soothing over the sting. "You sound so fucking desperate."

I whimper in response, my thighs trembling, my cunt clenching down around him in a futile attempt to pull him deeper, to coax him into fucking me the way I need.

He chuckles, low and dark, dragging his cock out so slow before sinking back in, every inch stretching me open again, every movement meant to drive me insane.

"You said you'd be good for me," he muses, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Said you understood why I had to punish you."

I nod frantically, my breath hitching as he rolls his hips again, the angle perfectly devastating.

"Then why," he murmurs, his lips brushing over my ear, "are you whining like a slut, love?"

A full-body shudder rolls through me at his words, and he laughs—a wicked, pleased sound—because he knows exactly what that does to me.

"Oh?" His grin is evident in his tone. "You like that?"

"Azriel," I rasp, my voice ruined, my body burning.

"Sir," he corrects smoothly, his hand wrapping around my throat, applying just the lightest pressure.

"Sir," I breathe, and fuck—I shouldn't be this turned on, shouldn't be this gone just from the way he's talking to me.

He hums in approval, dragging his nose along my cheek before whispering, "That's my girl."

And then he stops moving.

I let out a cry, bucking my hips, desperate for anything, but his grip on my throat tightens just slightly as a warning.

"Ah, ah," he tuts, shaking his head. "You'll take what I give you, remember?"

"Yes, sir," I whimper, my head falling back.

His thumb brushes over my lower lip. "Such a good girl." He tilts his head, pretending to consider something. "Maybe I should make you beg for it properly."

"I—" My voice catches as he barely rolls his hips, just enough for me to feel him inside me without giving me any real relief.

"I think I will," he murmurs, his thumb pressing against my lips. "Go on, love. Beg."

"Please, sir," I whisper, my voice barely audible.

He tuts, shaking his head. "Oh, sweetheart, you're not even trying. You know you can do better than that."

He pulls out entirely, making me sob in frustration, in unbearable, aching need.

"Again," he commands, his tone all silk and steel.

"Please," I gasp, my back arching, my legs trembling. "Please, sir, I need you so bad, I—fuck—I can't—"

He groans, his cock twitching against my entrance, and finally—finally—he slams back inside me, knocking the breath from my lungs.

"That's it," he praises, setting a brutal, punishing rhythm that has my nails digging into my palms, my mouth falling open on a soundless moan. "That's my fucking girl."

I'm ruined beneath him, my body alight with pleasure, with torment, with the unbearable need to come. And he knows.

His hand drops between us, his fingers finding my clit, and I wail, my body bowing off the bed as he circles the swollen bud with just the right amount of pressure.

"You wanna come, love?" he murmurs, his breath hot against my skin.

"Yes, sir," I sob. "Please, please, please—"

His pace falters, just for a second.

"Fuck," he rasps, his cock twitching inside me. "You sound so pretty when you beg for me."

"Then please," I cry, the pleasure coiling so tight I can't take it anymore.

He presses his forehead against mine, his thrusts turning erratic, desperate.

"Come for me, love," he breathes. "Now."

And fuck—I shatter.

My orgasm crashes over me like a tidal wave, my body seizing, my back arching, my walls fluttering wildly around him as I scream his name.

But Azriel—he doesn't stop.

Not even for a second.

"That's it," he growls, his fingers still working my clit, dragging my pleasure out, making my body shake, making me wail. "Give me another one, sweetheart. I know you can."

My body jerks, as my breath stutters and my thighs tremble violently from the sheer intensity of my release, he just keeps going.

"Too much," I gasp, my body writhing beneath him, every nerve ending alight with unbearable pleasure. "Sir—"

His hand tightens around my waist, his hips still slamming into me, his cock dragging against that spot inside me that makes my vision white out.

I sob, my body tensing as another wave of pleasure builds, impossibly fast, impossibly sharp.

"What's wrong, love?" he murmurs, his lips brushing over the shell of my ear. "You were so eager for it just a moment ago."

His fingers press against my clit, rubbing tight, devastating circles, making my body twitch beneath him.

"I—fuck, I can't—"

Azriel just grins, leaning down to kiss my temple, so mockingly sweet.

"You can," he purrs, his voice dripping with cruel satisfaction. "You were just begging for it, I know you can."

I whimper, my head tossing to the side, my brain too fogged to even process anything beyond the ruthless way he's using me.

"Look at you," he muses, his tone full of wicked amusement. "Fucked so dumb you can't even think straight."

I moan at his words, my legs trembling around his waist.

He laughs, low and mean, his fingers still ruthlessly working my clit, even as my entire body shakes from the overstimulation.

"What was that, love?" His teeth graze my jaw, sending another shudder down my spine. "You like being used like this?"

I sob, my head tossing back, unable to form words, unable to do anything with my hands and ankles bound. I loved it, he knew I loved it.

"Fuck," he groans, his thrusts growing erratic, his grip on my wrists bruising. "You're so fucking perfect like this—just my little plaything to fuck as I please."

I wail, my body burning, pleasure suffocating me as another climax threatens to rip through me. The pleasure was wringing me out dry.

His fingers press against my clit, merciless, relentless.

"You gonna give me another one, sweetheart?" His voice is taunting, his lips brushing over my ear. "Gonna come on my cock again, even though it's too much?" He mocks.

I nod frantically, tears slipping down my temples, my body convulsing from the unbearable pleasure.

He smirks, so fucking smug.

"That's what I thought," he murmurs. "My perfect little slut."

I gripe, clenching around him tightly.

Azriel moans, his cock twitching inside me, his thrusts growing sloppier, more frantic.

"One more," he growls, his hand wrapping around my throat, squeezing just right. "Give me one more, love. Be good for me."

I don't even have the breath to scream. And then he snaps his hips forward, his fingers moving faster, and I fucking lose it, another orgasm ripping through me, dragging me under, drowning me in white-hot bliss.

I just shatter, my body breaking apart, my vision going dark at the edges as pleasure obliterates me.

And Azriel—he fucking laughs, still thrusting, still pushing me, ruining me.

"That's my girl," he purrs. "Always so good for me."

Azriel pulls out slowly, almost tenderly, and I slump against the mattress, my body wrecked, trembling with the aftershocks of everything he's done to me. My wrists ache from pulling against the shadows, my legs barely responding to me as I try to catch my breath.

I think—finally. He's done.

But then his hands are on me again, flipping me onto my stomach in one fluid, effortless motion, his strength overpowering.

"Didn't think I was done, did you sweet girl?" he murmurs, his voice like a dark promise as he hauls me up onto my knees.

I barely have a second to process before his hand presses against my back, forcing my chest down, stuffing my face into the pillows.

I gasp, my arms pinned uselessly beneath me, my body still twitching from overstimulation as I feel him behind me—feel the hard press of his cock sliding between my soaked folds, teasing, not yet giving me what I know he's about to.

"Azriel," I mumble, my voice muffled against the pillows, wrecked and pleading.

He tuts at me, his grip tight as he spreads my knees wider, forcing me open for him.

"You think you can take another round?" His voice is full of mockery, his hand running slowly over my hip before gripping me there, holding me in place. "You've been so good for me, taking everything I've given you—you wouldn't let me down now would you?"

"No sir," I moan softly, my body already shuddering with anticipation as he lines himself up, the head of his cock nudging against my entrance.

I barely have time to pant out a desperate, "Sir," before he thrusts inside me, deep, the new angle making me see fucking stars.

I scream, my fingers clenching uselessly into the sheets as he fills me completely, pressing so deep it makes my entire body tremble.

"Fuck, that's better," he groans, his hands sliding up to grip my waist as he pulls out almost entirely before slamming back in, his pace instantly ruthless.

My mouth drops open in a silent moan, my mind blanking as he uses my body, fucking me like he owns me, like he's never going to stop.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" he murmurs, his voice dark, smug. "To be bent over like this, my cock so deep inside you, you can't even think?"

I sob against the pillows, my body already climbing toward another release, my overstimulated nerves sparking with unbearable pleasure.

Azriel just laughs, his hands gripping my hips as he forces my legs to stay open, refusing to let me close them, refusing to let me hide from how utterly ruined I am.

"You're so fucking perfect like this," he breathes, leaning down so his chest presses against my back, his teeth grazing my ear. "Taking me so well, love. My perfect slut."

I keen, my walls clamping down around him, my entire body melting under his words, his touch, his fucking torment.

"That's it," he purrs, his fingers sliding down between my legs, finding my clit, rubbing it in cruel little circles. "Come for me again, sweetheart. I want to feel you break on my cock."

He keeps his pace brutal even as I flutter around him, his grip on my hips unrelenting as he fucks me into the mattress, each thrust shoving me deeper into the pillows, like he's trying to mold me to the shape of his cock.

And all I can do is take it. Take the way he ruins me, the way he stretches me open again and again, making me feel so fucking full I can't even think.

"You hear yourself, sweetheart?" he taunts, his voice dark, drenched in amusement as he listens to the wrecked little sobs spilling from my lips. "Crying for me while you drip all over my cock like a good whore."

I sob again, pleasure and overstimulation making my body shake, making my mind fog over with nothing but him.

"F-fuck, Az," I whimper, my fingers clawing uselessly at the sheets.

His hand cracks against my ass, making me jolt forward on a choked-out cry.

"Sir," he corrects again, his tone firm, his free hand sliding up my back, tracing the arch his thrusts are forcing me into.

My walls clench around him so tight it drags a deep, filthy groan from his chest.

"You like that?" he purrs, smug as sin, rolling his hips in slow, torturous circles, making sure I feel every inch of him. "Like knowing I could fill this pretty little cunt up—watch you swell with my seed?"

I whimper, my toes curling at the thought, at the absolute filth pouring from his lips.

And then his hand is sliding down, pressing to my lower stomach—right where he's buried deep inside of me.

A guttural groan rumbles from his chest, his fingers flexing as he feels where he's stretching me open, where he'd fill me up if he let himself go.

"Fuck," he breathes, his grip tightening on my hip as he thrusts again, shoving deeper just to feel the bulge of himself inside me. "So fucking deep, love. You feel that?"

I nod weakly, my eyes rolling back, my body trembling as another broken sob leaves my lips.

He laughs, wicked and cruel.

"Already so fucked out, aren't you?" he taunts, dragging his palm over my stomach, pressing harder just to make me feel how deep he is. "Poor little thing—just a dumb, desperate mess on my cock."

I keen, my legs shaking, my body completely wrecked and at his mercy.

He twitches, my body arching as he presses into a spot that makes my vision go white, my mouth falling open in a pitiful pant. "Sir, feels, so good," I whimpered.

"Yeah? Greedy girl, going to come again?" He taunted, lips brushing against my shoulder, his sweat-slicked chest kissing my bowed back.

"Please—can I?" His pace didn't slow, even if I knew he was getting closer, he grew more and more sloppy but he did not slow.

"Wait f'me, I'm almost there," He whispered into my skin.

I clenched around him, unable to help myself, wanting to help him get there. My arms shook, near to giving out as I panted into the bed sheets, gripping the pristine white cloth in my fist to stop myself from moving up on the bed.

He twitched inside of me again, growing eager. "Inside," I breathe softly. "Fill me," I beg.

"Yeah? Want me to claim this cunt?" He whispered, lips grazing over the shell of my ear.

"Please, sir," I beg, bottom lip wobbling.

"Okay love, come—come f'me," He chokes slightly, consumed by his need for release. I doubted I could hold onto that edge for much longer, and the sound that left me during that final orgasm was louder than the rest, primal in a way. He twitched once more, and as I clenched tightly around him from the cresting of my orgasm, he came too, painting my walls white with his thick release.

He thrust slowly, gently, easing me down from the white-hot high that still had my body trembling. My whimper was soft, and breathless, as he finally pulled from me, his release spilling from me, warm and slick against my thighs. If not for his steady hands cradling me, guiding me down onto the mattress, I might've collapsed completely.

"Not too much?" His voice was hushed, rough around the edges, like he was just as wrecked as I was, despite that Illyrian stamina keeping him upright. A calloused hand brushed through my likely tangled hair, tucking it behind my ear so he could see me clearly.

I tried to form words, but all I could manage was a breathless, "No." A slow inhale, then, "Felt s'good." My voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper, and even that much effort felt like too much.

He hummed softly, pressing a lingering kiss to my temple. "You did so good," he murmured against my skin before slipping his arms beneath me. I barely had time to react before I was in his embrace again, lifted with ease. "Let's get you cleaned up."

I nodded weakly, my limbs boneless, and let him carry me into the bathroom. The cool marble of the counter met the flushed heat of my skin, soothing, grounding. I watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, admiring him in this quiet aftermath. The way his jaw clenched in focus as he wrung out a damp cloth. The tenderness in his touch as he wiped me down, extra careful between my thighs. The contrast of his rough, battle-worn hands moving with such exquisite care.

He combed through my hair next, untangling the knots his fingers had left earlier, his motions steady, unhurried. Every stroke, every pass of his hands over my body, was reverent. Devotional.

He kissed me softly then, tasting of cedar and salt, of something uniquely him. His hands skimmed my sides, his touch a whisper of heat against my skin.

"Six times." His voice was smug, but quiet, like he was half-talking to himself.

I blinked up at him, dazed. "Hm?"

"You came six times." His lips quirked into a knowing smirk, his fingers tracing idle patterns along my thigh.

Heat flooded my already flushed cheeks, my stomach twisting with something like mortification and pride all at once. If he knew so easily, then surely he knew immediately last night when it wasn't real.

"You were counting?"

He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Had to make up for last night."

I huffed a small, breathy laugh. "You did."

His smirk softened as he kissed me again. Slow. Deep. A promise.

"How do you know?" I murmured against his lips, pulling back just enough for our noses to brush. "When I come?"

His gaze darkened, and something in his expression made my stomach flip. "You make this pretty face," he said, voice dropping, thumb tracing my bottom lip. "You couldn't fake it if you tried."

I swallowed hard, heat pooling low once more.

"And you always moan my name," he continued, pressing a slow kiss to my throat. "Every single time." His lips dragged over my pulse, felt the way it jumped. "Without fail, it's always my name on your lips."

I could feel my blush creeping lower, my skin burning everywhere he touched.

"You didn't last night," he murmured, voice a lazy drawl like he was enjoying my embarrassment. "Wasn't hard to figure out."

I groaned, dropping my forehead against his shoulder, but I couldn't help but laugh at myself. He chuckled too, the sound a warm rumble against my skin.

I pressed a kiss to his temple, letting my hands roam down his back, enjoying the feel of his muscles beneath my touch.

"So," I mused, still breathless, still utterly spent. "Breakfast?"

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[overflowing-glass]

Shoutout to that one girl in my 6th grade class that just blasted all her family drama to the whole school? Like oh your dad had an affair and now you’re meeting your long lost older sister? Worm

[incognit0slut]

Lesson learned

PART 3 OF KINKTOBER | MAIN MASTERLIST

Unit Chief!Spencer x BAU!Reader Your boss decides to teach you a lesson when you question the motivations behind a certain case.

Content: (18+) 6k, breath play, fingering, a little case description, BDSM discussion, softdom Spence but borderlines to dom because hello this is breath play and reader being judgy judgy but don’t worry he’s here to teach you a lesson or two a/n: The initial plan was to make him a hard dom but breathplay is already overwhelming so I decided to go the educational route. I am, by all means, not as smart as him, so there might be some inaccuracy

You would think that after joining the BAU for two years, you’d start to understand the twisted logic of a criminal’s mind. But you don’t. Not really. You’ve dissected motives, uncovered patterns, and profiled suspects more times than you can count, and yet this case makes no sense. 

Your eyes go over the photographs pinned to the board again. And again. And again. It’s become almost a ritual now, like maybe if you look at it just one more time, the pieces might finally fall into place. But all you find staring back at you are three victims with the same marks on their necks. There was clearly a sign of struggle, but not one of fear. Not one that fits any pattern you know.

“I don’t get it,” you say. “The profile suggests the victims knew their attacker, but this doesn’t look like anything close to rage. Or brutality.”

Spencer shifts beside you, his shoulder brushing lightly against yours as he leans closer to the board. “It might not have been an act of violence,” he observes thoughtfully. “Not in the traditional sense, anyway.”

You furrow your brow. “If it wasn’t violent, then what was it?”

“The bruising pattern is too symmetrical, and there’s no sign of panic or defensive wounds on their hands. I think there’s a chance the victims might have willingly participated.”

“Willingly?” Your eyes snap at him. “What do you mean, ‘willingly participated’? No one willingly gets strangled.”

He meets your eyes for a second before looking back at the board. “I know it sounds unlikely,” he admits, “but not impossible. See how the bruises are evenly spaced? They wrap around in perfect circles. The pressure is distributed just enough to leave a mark but not to crush the windpipe.“

“Spencer, that’s exactly what happened. The windpipe was crushed.”

“Yes, but not immediately. That’s the point.” He turns towards you again. “The intention wasn’t to kill them outright. The unsub wanted to bring them to the point of unconsciousness but not over it. At least, not at first. He was counting on their trust before pushing it too far.”

You let out a huff. “That’s insane.”

“It might seem that way to you, but it’s not unheard of. Sexual asphyxiation is a consensual act for some people. The lack of oxygen when someone’s airflow is restricted can trigger a euphoric sensation which intensifies pleasure."

You stare at him like he’s just spoken a different language. “So, you're saying they get off on... not breathing?”

“More like they find excitement in giving up that control."

You cross your arms and study him, tilting your head with a skeptical frown. “How do you even know this?”

The corner of his mouth twitches in a half-smile. “I read,” he says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“You have a book on sexual asphyxiation?”

“It’s more comprehensive than that. The book covers a wide range of kinks, fetishes, and other forms of sexual exploration which are considered extreme by societal standards.”

"You’re telling me you read up on BDSM practices in your spare time?”

"I think of it as research,” he replies. “It’s part of understanding human behavior. You can’t afford to be ignorant about the complexities of people's desires."

"Huh." Your eyes travel back to the images again. "You know, I still don't understand. I mean, willingly letting someone cut off your breath? That’s not just trust that’s… I don’t know, crazy?”

His eyes narrow towards you as if he's carefully considering how much to say.

“It's not crazy,” he insists carefully. “For people who engage in it, it’s not only about losing control. It’s about reaching a heightened state of awareness, finding excitement in walking that line.”

"But what if that line gets crossed? What then? How could anyone think that sounds… fun?”

“Well, have you ever tried it?”

“Of course not!” you reply quickly, almost laughing at the absurdity. “Why would I?”

“Then you wouldn’t know,” he counters, his tone calm but pointed, like he’s presenting a fact rather than an opinion. “You can’t really understand the mindset until you’ve experienced it. It’s not something you can fully grasp from the outside.”

"I don’t think I could ever trust someone enough to do that to me."

“Maybe you just haven’t found the right person to trust.”

You scoff. “What? Are you offering?”

You laugh at your own joke, and you expected him to do the same. Or perhaps a quick “Of course not”, even some rambling about how he didn’t mean it that way. But when all you’re met with is silence, your laughter dies down, and your eyes dart back to him.

Spencer’s not looking at you, his eyes are fixed on the photographs pinned to the board. He’s studying the bruises, the faces, the details like he always does, but there’s a stillness in his expression, a tension in the set of his jaw that makes you think he’s considering something else entirely. And for a moment, you’re not sure if he’s really thinking about the victims or the case at all.

Maybe you shouldn’t joke about things like that. He is your boss, after all, and even though there isn’t exactly a strict superior-subordinate dynamic between the two of you—he’s always been more of a peer than an authority figure—you wonder if maybe this time you crossed a line.

Spencer’s eyes remain on the photos for a long, agonizing second, and you think maybe he’s not going to respond at all. But then, slowly, he turns his head and looks at you, and the room suddenly feels impossibly small.

“If I were to offer,” he says quietly, “Would you take it?”

His words knock the breath from your lungs, and all you can do is stare back at him. You don’t know what to make of the question. Was it a dare? A test? Or perhaps something more?

There’s a part of you that wants to laugh it off. The conversation was absurd to begin with, so brushing it away like it’s nothing would feel like the safest option. The easy way out. But there’s another part—one you don’t want to acknowledge—that can’t help but wonder what it would mean to say yes.

What if you did? you ponder.

What would it feel like to trust someone like that?

What would it feel like to trust him?

But before you can reply, the door to the meeting room creaks open, the noise echoing through the dimly lit space of the police precinct. A uniformed officer pokes his head inside.

“Dr. Reid, we found a new lead on the vehicle.”

Spencer’s eyes stay locked on yours for just a beat longer as your heart hammers in your chest. Then, without a word, he nods to the officer, and any trace of whatever passed between you dissolves like it never happened at all.

The next few days turn into a blur. The lead on the unsub’s vehicle takes you across town, a chase that ends with the suspect cornered in an abandoned old house. It’s almost anticlimactic how quickly it all happens—sirens blaring, doors kicked in, and in less than an hour, the unsub is in handcuffs. The case is finally closed, and it’s the kind of victory that usually brings a sigh of relief.

But today, you can’t find that peace.

Back at the precinct, the rest of the team has already moved on to debriefing. You’re left cleaning up the mess of photographs and notes scattered across the table. But your movements are slow, distracted, your fingers fumbling over the papers. There’s a prickling awareness that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, and you know exactly why.

It’s because Spencer is watching you. You don’t even need to look to feel the weight of his gaze. He’s leaning casually against the doorframe, hands tucked in his pockets, but there’s nothing casual about the way his eyes track your movements.

You pause, photos in hand, and finally address him. “What?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he pushes off the wall and starts walking toward you. He stops just short of arm’s length.

“Have you thought about what we discussed the other day?”

You feel a rush of embarrassment, and the awkwardness of the moment makes you shift uncomfortably. Clearing your throat, you turn your attention back to the table, hastily grabbing a stack of photographs and shuffling them into a folder.

“We didn’t discuss anything,” you mumble, avoiding his gaze. “It was just a joke.”

“Was it? You don’t joke about things like that unless you’ve thought about them at least a little.”

You let out a dry laugh, keeping your eyes firmly on the table. “I wasn’t being serious. We were in the middle of a case, and we were all exhausted. I just said whatever came to mind.”

Spencer tilts his head, the way he does when he’s analyzing something, his eyes flickering over your face as though he’s cataloging every twitch of your expression.

“Maybe,” he concedes, and takes another step forward. “But the offer wasn’t a joke, and you didn’t say no.”

Your fingers freeze over the photographs, the papers crinkling under your touch.

“I didn’t say yes either.”

You mentally wince at how weak that sounds, almost as if you’re trying to convince yourself. You slowly look up at him, searching his face for any sign of hesitation, but all you find are those intense brown eyes staring back at you.

It unnerves you how calm he is, how easily he’s holding this conversation when your mind is spinning in a million directions.

“You do realize what you’re offering?” you start to press, feeling the need to put it out in the open. “What this means?”

Spencer doesn’t flinch, doesn’t break eye contact for a second. “I do.”

“Do you? Because it seems to me like you might be taking this too lightly."

“I’m not taking it lightly. I’m acknowledging that there’s more to it than what you’re seeing on the surface.”

“And what makes you think I want to see beyond the surface?”

He leans in closer. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, but not enough to cross any boundaries. “I’m offering a perspective, not forcing you to accept it. Understanding doesn’t always come from reading about something. It comes from experience.”

You can’t quite decide if his words make sense or if they’re completely absurd. It’s like he’s challenging your logic, your assumptions, but at the same time, there’s a strange clarity to what he’s saying.

“Why does it matter so much to you?”

Because he’s your boss? Because someone in his position always tries to make sense of everything for everyone else?

“Because shaming people for their interests, for something they might find pleasure in… it isn’t fair, and it isn’t right.”

Now that was something you didn’t expect him to say.

“I wasn’t shaming,” you protest quickly, the words coming out defensive even to your own ears. “I was just…”

“Curious,” he finishes for you. “And curiosity isn’t a flaw. Neither is wanting to understand, and if you’re willing to explore that curiosity, then I’d rather you experience it in a way that’s safe. That you know is controlled.”

“So what?” you snap back. “You want to prove me wrong? Show me I’ve been looking at this the wrong way?”

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, but it’s not playful. It’s gentle, almost thoughtful, as if he’s carefully weighing each word. “No,” he says softly. “I don’t want to prove you wrong. I want to teach you.”

You blink at him. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first, the words tangled somewhere between shock and disbelief. It takes a few seconds until you manage to find your voice.

“You… want to teach me?”

“A lesson, if you will,” he explains, and the way he says it—so calm, so certain—makes your heart stutter. “Not to prove you wrong, but to help you understand. You have your perceptions about… control and trust. I think the only way to really understand is to experience it yourself.”

You don’t know what to say, what to do, and all that comes out is a shaky, barely-there laugh.

“A lesson,” you repeat, trying to make sense of the concept.

He nods, and there’s no pressure in his voice, just an offer. Simple and clear. “But only if it’s what you want.”

You aren’t sure what to feel, much less what to say, and the uncertainty must show on your face. Sensing your hesitation, Spencer takes a step back, giving you space.

“It’s a lot to consider, and I’m not expecting an answer now. But the offer still stands… whenever you’re ready.”

And with that, he gives you one last smile and turns away, leaving you alone with your conflicted thoughts.

You’re pacing in your hotel room, your footsteps muffled by the worn carpet as you make the same path back and forth over and over again. Every time you try to sit down, your leg bounces with restless energy, so you’re back up again, moving without purpose but unable to stop.

You tell yourself it’s just stress. The case, the pressure, the weirdness of being in a small-town motel with creaky walls and awful lighting. But you know better. You know exactly what’s got your mind spinning and your stomach doing flips.

Spencer. And his damn offer.

You scoff to yourself, trying to laugh it off like you always do, but the joke doesn’t land when it’s just you, alone with your thoughts. And, really, what’s the harm in admitting the truth—to yourself, at least? That maybe the whole concept doesn’t seem as insane as it did a few days ago. That maybe you’ve found yourself wondering what it would feel like to trust someone that much.

You stop pacing, staring at your reflection in the mirror across the room. There it is, that nagging curiosity, that flicker of intrigue that Spencer saw before you even knew it was there. You let out a sigh, the weight of the realization hitting you.

God help you, but you’re actually curious.

And that might just be the scariest part of all.

You slip into your shoes and take a deep breath before stepping into the hallway. The motel’s quiet, most of the rooms dark as you walk past, and for a moment you hesitate, wondering if this is a mistake. The team’s staying one more night here, the last bit of downtime before flying back tomorrow. A chance to decompress, to shake off the adrenaline of the case. Yet here you are, anything but relaxed, heading out because you can’t stand one more second of pacing back and forth.

Your footsteps come to a stop outside Spencer’s room, and you stare at the numbers on the plaque for a moment. You could turn around right now. You could pretend you didn’t walk all the way down the corridor with his words echoing in your head. But as much as you try to convince yourself that walking away is the logical choice, your hand moves on its own, and you knock.

Spencer doesn’t look surprised when he opens the door. Without waiting for an invitation, you push past him, barging into the room before you change your mind.

“If we’re going to do this, I have some ground rules,” you blurt out, the words rushing out all at once. “I don’t know what you think this is going to be like, but I need control over some things. Non-negotiable.”

He closes the door with a soft click. “Of course,” he responds calmly. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“First,” you say, spinning around to face him. “I’m in control of when this starts and when it stops. If I say no, then we stop. Immediately. No questions, no convincing, none of that.”

“Absolutely.”

“Second, I need to know exactly what we’re doing. No surprises. You explain everything to me before we do anything.”

He quickly nods.

“And third… this doesn’t leave this room. We don’t talk about it to anyone else. Not tomorrow, not next week, not ever.”

He takes a step forward towards you. “This stays between us.”

You let out a shaky breath, the adrenaline settling into a nervous, thrumming pulse beneath your skin. “Okay,” you mumble, more to yourself than to him, trying to process the reality of what you’ve just laid out. “Those are my rules.”

Spencer takes another step forward, close enough now that you can smell the faintest trace of him. A mix of something clean and warm, like soap and worn cotton, an understated scent that’s distinctly him.

“Then those are the rules we follow,” he reassures you. “Your terms. Your pace.”

“Thank you.”

He nods his head again. “Is there anything else you want to discuss?”

There is, actually. There’s a question that’s been hovering in the back of your mind. It feels awkward to say out loud, but the uncertainty gnaws at you, and finally, you force the words out.

“Are we… are we going to have sex?”

He holds your gaze. “Do you want to have sex?”

You go quiet again, letting the silence settle around you as you think about what you want, what you came here for. You slowly shake your head. “No,” you reply. “No, I don’t.”

“Then we won’t. There’s more to explore in this than just sex.”

“Right, that’s—good.” You clear your throat. “I have… one more question.”

He gestures for you to continue.

“You’re not going to fire me for this, are you?”

His soft chuckle fills your ear, and it’s the first time you’ve seen him genuinely smile tonight. “No,” he confirms, amusement flickering in his eyes. “I’m not going to fire you. Whatever happens between us won’t affect your work, I promise.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, feeling a little of the weight lift off your shoulders.

“Okay, so… now what?”

“Now,” he says gently, “We take it slow.“

He guides you toward the edge of the bed, and you find yourself moving automatically, sitting down on the mattress. The bed creaks slightly as he settles beside you.

“If we’re going to do this,” he starts, turning slightly to face you. “I want you to be comfortable. And that means talking. You can start by telling me what you’re thinking. ”

“That’s… it? We’re just going to talk?”

Spencer’s mouth lifts into a soft smile. “Yes,” he confirms, “If that’s what you want. There’s no pressure to do anything else.”

The idea of just talking feels safe, but there’s also a flicker of curiosity that you can’t quite shake. You shift on the bed.

“What if I want to do something more?”

Spencer’s eyes search yours, and he doesn’t move closer, doesn’t do anything that could make the moment feel rushed. “If you want to, then we can. Something simple to start.”

Your fingers trace the fabric of the bedspread. “Like what?”

“Something small. It could be as simple as letting me guide your breathing. A way to practice trust without anything overwhelming.”

You swallow, the idea feeling both intimidating and oddly… reassuring. There’s comfort in the way he talks about it, the lack of pressure, and the way he makes it feel like there’s nothing to fear.

“Okay,” you agree softly. “Let’s try that.”

He moves a little closer to you. “We’ll take it slow,” he promises. “Try to focus on your breathing and follow my lead.”

You close your eyes, feeling your breath shallow and quick, your heart racing as you try to find a steady rhythm.

“Take a deep breath,” he instructs softly. You inhale deeply, feeling the air fill your lungs, and when you open your eyes for a moment, you find his face inches from yours.

“Good. Now let it out… slowly.”

You follow his lead, exhaling, and you can’t help but notice he’s mirroring your breathing—his chest rising and falling in time with yours. It’s oddly comforting, and a little unnerving, like he's syncing with the rhythm of your pulse.

“Again,” he guides. “Deep breath in… hold for a count of three… then let it go.”

You do as he says, feeling your nerves steady slightly with each breath. In, hold, out.

“You’re doing really well,” he murmurs, leaning just a fraction closer. His lips are so close that you can feel his breath brushing your skin. “I’m going to ask you something, but I need you to know you can say no. At any point.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

“Can I touch you?” he asks gently, his words so soft they almost melt into the air around you. “Just on your shoulder, or your hand. I want to see how you feel about being touched while you focus on your breathing.”

Your heartbeat thuds in your ears, but you manage another nod. His hand moves carefully to rest on your shoulder, but even with the light pressure, you feel your body stiffen. Spencer notices immediately.

“You’re tense,” he observes, his thumb brushing lightly against your shoulder.

You let out a small laugh, one that comes out more like a nervous exhale than anything close to amusement. “It’s kind of hard not to be,” you admit. “I guess I’m a little nervous.”

“That’s okay. It’s completely normal to feel nervous.” He pauses for a second before continuing, his tone thoughtful, like he’s considering what might actually help. "There are a few things that can help when you’re feeling this way. One of them is focusing on your breathing, which we’re already doing. But there’s also physical touch."

"Physical touch?”

"Kissing, for example," he explains, “can actually help regulate your nervous system. It releases oxytocin, lowers cortisol levels. Basically, it signals your body to relax."

Your eyes fall on his lips. "Really?"

A flicker of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “Yes, but it’s only helpful if it’s something you feel comfortable with.” He tilts his head slightly, studying you. “Would you like to try?”

You meet his gaze again and, before you can overthink it, find yourself nodding, swallowing the nervous lump in your throat. “Yeah… okay. We can try.”

Before you even finish the sentence, Spencer leans in, his lips brushing yours with the kind of gentleness that catches you off guard. It's soft at first, like he’s testing the waters, and you can feel the slight hesitation in his movements as if he’s making sure you’re comfortable. It’s sweet, almost too sweet, and for a second, you wonder if this is how he kisses—gentle, thoughtful, deliberate.

But as the kiss deepens, you feel the warmth of him pulling you in. Your heart’s doing this erratic thing where it skips every other beat, and your mind’s racing to catch up with what your body’s already starting to enjoy. And sure, maybe the science behind this kiss makes sense after all, because there’s a part of you that’s actually relaxing, even with the buzz of nerves still humming beneath the surface.

Then he pulls back, just enough for your lips to barely part, his breath warm against your skin. “How are you feeling?”

It takes three heartbeats to find your voice. “Uh... yeah, good,” you manage, a little breathless, a little more flustered than you’d like to admit.

“Do you want to keep going?”

You pause, thinking it over, and despite the swarm of nerves in your chest, curiosity wins out again. You nod, maybe a little too quickly. The moment you do, Spencer leans in again, and this time his kiss is deeper, more intent. The softness is still there, but there’s a quiet intensity in the way his lips move against yours, the way his hand lightly cups the back of your neck.

Then his tongue brushes lightly against your lower lip, and a ripple of goosebumps spreads across your skin. You part your lips for him, and the sensation of his tongue slipping past m has you gripping the fabric of his shirt a little tighter.

Just when you think you’re getting used to it, his hand shifts, sliding up to wrap gently around the front of your neck. Not tight, not restricting—just enough to make you aware of it. The warmth of his palm against your throat sends a jolt of something sharp right through you. He seems to notice instantly, and without pulling his hand away, he breaks the kiss.

“Are you okay?” His thumb gently strokes the side of your neck. “I don’t want to push you, if it’s too much—”

But before he can finish, you shake your head quickly, surprising even yourself with how fast the words leave your mouth. “No, I… trust you.”

His eyes soften at your words, and his grip on your neck stays gentle, almost protective. “Would it be okay if I touched you more?”

Your pulse beats rapidly beneath his fingers, a rhythm you’re sure he can feel, as if your heart is answering for you. “…yes.”

“Do you want to lie down? Would that be more comfortable?”

You feel the heat travel along your veins. “I think… that would be good.”

Spencer nods as he helps you shift back onto the pillow. He stays close but doesn’t crowd you, his hand returning to rest lightly on your neck, that same soft pressure that keeps your heartbeat thrumming in your ears.

“Remember, focus on your breathing,” he reminds you. “The way your body responds is tied to how much you let yourself feel. Trust that.”

His other hand begins to move. His hand trails up toward your shoulder, then lightly brushes over your breast. It’s barely a touch at first, like he’s testing the boundaries, waiting for your body to tell him how far to go. Your breath catches for a second, but when you don’t tense up, he takes that as a sign to continue.

“Is this alright?”

“Yeah,” you manage to whisper, your voice a little breathless than you expected. And, God, you mean it. It’s more than okay—it’s… unexpectedly good in a way that feels almost too intimate to think about.

His hand moves lower now, tracing a path down your side, before sliding gently across your leg. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until you feel his fingers brush against the inside of your thigh.

“How about this?”

You nod, biting your lip as you meet his gaze.

Spencer’s lips curls into the faintest smile. His hand inches higher, moving up your thigh with excruciating slowness until his fingers finally reach the heat between your legs.

Oh. Oh.

Your hips instinctively tilt toward him, your body responding before your mind can even catch up. The heat pooling low in your belly intensifies as his fingers press lightly against you.

“Still with me?”

You nod, but internally, your mind is spinning. He begins to move in slow, circular motions, his fingers dragging against the fabric in a way that makes you bite back a moan. The friction sends jolts of pleasure through you, and you can feel your arousal sticking uncomfortably to your panties. It doesn’t shock you—you know understand how being touched like this will make you wet—but what surprises you is how much more intense it feels when his grip around your neck tightens.

Your breath hitches, and before you can stop yourself, a moan escapes your lips.

He pauses for a moment, his grip relaxing just enough for you to catch your breath. “I want you to feel the difference,” he explains. “The pressure changes everything. It makes you more aware of every sensation, more focused on how your body responds. But if it’s too much, you tell me, okay?”

You nod, your breath still coming in uneven gasps. “I’m good.”

His thumb traces the outline of your jaw. “Do you want me to continue?”

“…yeah.”

His hand travels towards your hips, fingers toying with the waistband of your pants. “Should we get rid of these?”

You don’t have to think about it for long. The answer is already there.

“You can take them off.”

Spencer’s fingers slip beneath the waistband of your pants before tugging it down. But as the fabric pools around your ankles, you hesitate for a second before your hand instinctively reaches for your shirt. You fumble with the hem, glancing at him as you pull it halfway up, your breath coming out in a small, awkward laugh.

“I mean, it’d feel weird to be naked from the waist down and still… you know, fully dressed on top.”

His eyes linger on you, and his reaction is subtly amusing. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”

Without thinking too much about it, you tug the shirt over your head, tossing it aside. Your bra follows, quickly joined by your panties, and before you know it, you’re lying naked on your boss’s bed.

Or, technically, the bed he’s been sleeping on these past couple of days.

Spencer’s eyes move over you slowly, lingering on the curve of your perky breasts, your smooth skin, and the unmistakable wetness between your thighs. His gaze is careful, appreciative but never lingering too long in one place, like he’s taking you in while still giving you space to breathe.

“You’re so pretty.”

Pretty? The word feels almost quaint given the situation, but the way he says it makes it feel like it’s more than that. Like he’s seeing all of you, the parts you don’t often reveal, and he still thinks you’re beautiful.

And somehow, that simple compliment leaves you more exposed than the fact that you’re lying naked in front of him.

“I can’t believe we're doing this,” you admit, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

His hand brushes along your arm. “You don’t have to overthink it. You’re in control here. We can stop whenever you want.”

“I know.”

He tilts your head with his hand. “Is this okay so far?”

You offer him a smile. “It’s okay.”

His other hand lands on your knee. “Can you spread your legs for me?”

You feel the nerves buzzing beneath your skin, but there’s also a warmth, a curiosity, a pull toward him. You inhale deeply, letting the breath steady your nerves, and then, without letting your mind spiral any further, you slowly part your legs.

His palm glides along your inner thigh, and then he touches you again, only this time, there’s no barrier between you. You can feel the rough pad of his fingertips as they gently caress your folds that it pulls a sharp breath from your lips.

“Does this feel good?”

You nod. It’s more than just good—it’s everything. The way he’s paying attention to every inch of your body is overwhelming in the best way. His fingers trace a slow path along your skin, finally pausing as they brush against you between your folds. Without hesitation, Spencer slides a finger inside you. The sudden stretch pulls a gasp from your lips.

The slick wetness between your thighs coats his fingers almost instantly, and you feel yourself responding to him, opening up in ways you didn’t even know you could. He studies the way his finger moves in and out of your cunt, and the more he touches you, the more your hips begin to move on their own.

He takes your response as a sign to continue.

"I'm going to wrap my hand around your neck again," he tells you, without waiting for more than a slight nod of your head, his fingers curl around your throat.

"The pressure here," he begins, his thumb lightly pressing at the side of your neck. "Isn't just about cutting off your air, it also means restricting blood flow to your brain.”

He pushes another finger inside you, and the increased fullness draws a sharp intake of breath from you.

“By limiting the blood flow like this,” he continues, applying a bit more pressure around your throat. "It triggers your body to release adrenaline and dopamine. That rush you’re feeling? It’s your body chasing euphoria."

Euphoria. You never really thought about it like this before, how something so controlled could unlock a part of your body that felt so overwhelming. The feeling isn’t just pleasure, it’s a raw intensity that borders on something deeper as your cunt clenches around him. Your breath stutters, caught in a sharp contrast between the slow burn in your throat and the urgent heat flaring between your legs.

He’s unraveling you, pulling you apart thread by thread, yet leaving you desperate for the moment he puts you back together again.

You need more.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs soothingly. The words send a new wave of heat rushing through your body. Your hips move restlessly, and you can hear the soft whine escaping your throat, growing louder with each thrust.

Spencer notices immediately, his fingers slowing just for a moment. “Too much?”

You quickly shake your head, almost frantic, the last thing you want is for him to stop. The moment you do, his grip on your throat tightens slightly and your eyes flutter closed as a wave of euphoria washes over you. Head falling back against the pillows, your vision starts to blur. You feel the air restrict in your throat.

“I need you to breathe for me, sweetheart.” His thumb strokes lightly against your neck. “The more you control your breathing, the better it’ll feel.”

That word alone almost undoes you. It rolls off his tongue like it’s meant to be soft and soothing, but instead, it sends a bolt of pleasure straight through you. Your chest rises and falls as you do exactly what he says, because apparently, being called sweetheart with his fingers wrapped around your neck makes you want to obey him, more than you’d care to admit.

"That’s it, keep focusing on your breathing."

You force your eyes open, but everything feels hazy, unfocused. You’re not sure if it's from the lack of air or the way he’s looking at you, but you can feel yourself losing control. Your eyes flutter half-closed again, lips parting in a breathless moan, and before you realize it, your tongue slips out, barely grazing your lower lip.

Spencer knows you’re close. His thumb presses just a little harder against your throat, not enough to stop you from breathing, but enough for your inner walls to grip his fingers tightly.

“I know, I know, I've got you,” he whispers. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart. Just let go whenever you’re ready."

You can’t decide if the sound of his voice is making it easier or harder to hold on. There’s a brief moment where you think you might hold it together, but then your body betrays you. Your muscles tense, your breath catches in your throat, and all the control you had slips away in an instant. It’s as if your brain is giving in to exactly what he said it would—a surge of chemicals that makes your limbs feel heavy and light all at once.

Your orgasm slams right into you, the most intense thing you’ve ever felt. It floods your senses so completely that your lungs struggle to catch up. The tremors rack your body, and it’s only when your legs give a final, uncontrollable shake that he finally releases your neck, allowing the air to rush back into your lungs in a dizzying, breathless moment of relief.

Before you can fully recover, his lips are on yours in an instant. He moves against your neck, kissing the very spot where his hand had held you. “Shhh, it’s okay, you’re okay.”

When you manage to catch your breath and blink through the lingering haze, he lies down on the bed and pulls you into his arms. It takes a whole minute before your breathing fully steadies, his hand stroking your hair the entire time.

“How are you feeling?”

You don’t know what to make of it all, so you laugh breathlessly instead, the only response you can muster.

“Like I’m about to pass out.”

“What?” He looks at you in alarm. “You are?”

You shake your head quickly, offering him a small smile. “No, no, I’m fine. It’s just… it was really intense.” But the worry doesn’t completely leave his face, so you try again, placing your hand on his chest. “Good intense. I’m okay, I promise.”

He lets out a slow breath and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “So I take it you liked it?”

A flush of embarrassment washes over you, and you can’t quite meet his eyes as you nod. “Yeah… I did,” you admit, your voice soft, almost sheepish. “Go ahead, you can gloat. Tell me I was wrong.”

Instead of taking the bait, he gently traces his fingers along your neck. “It was never about proving you wrong. The judgment you made that day, about not getting why someone would like this… it’s hard to fully grasp until you feel it yourself.”

“I wasn’t judging,�� you murmur, feeling a need to defend yourself.

“Maybe not intentionally,” he says thoughtfully. “When it comes to BDSM, there’s a lot of misunderstanding or assumptions people make from the outside, it’s really more than just control or pain. There’s trust, communication, boundaries. And I think, in a way, that’s what happened tonight. You trusted me enough to let go.”

You’re quiet for a moment, processing what he’s saying. “Are you suggesting I could be into all of this?”

“Not necessarily,” he replies carefully. “But I think it’s possible that there’s more to it than you realize. You trusted me tonight, and that’s the most important part. That’s where it all starts.”

You chew on his words for a second. It’s not something you’d ever considered before, but now that he’s brought it up, you can’t deny that the thought has sparked something.

“So you think I might want to explore this further?”

His lips curl into a soft smile. “It’s not about what I think. It’s about what you want. If you’re curious, then we can explore it together.” He leans in slightly. “Is that you want?”

The spark you felt moments ago? It flickers stronger now. The idea is both thrilling and terrifying, but with him, it feels… possible. Safe, even.

You feel a tightness in your chest.

“I think… maybe, yeah.”

His smile deepens just a fraction. “We’ll take our time,” he reassures you, his thumb brushing lightly over your throat. “We can talk about this when we get back. You need to rest for now.”

You shift closer to him, feeling the rustle of his clothes against your bare skin. “Can I stay here tonight?”

His chin lands on top of your head. “You can stay with me as long as you want.”

What a dangerous offer, you think as you sink further into his arms. But not as dangerous as the way your heart flutters at the thought.

[theinsideofablackhole]

Dissecting the Watcher's story & characters

⚠️ BIG EDIT ⚠️ I want to share a much, MUCH more compelling reading of the DLC's primary ending, courtesy of @characteranalysisthethird. You can find it in this reblog, spoilers of course.

I've seen a number of people claiming that the Watcher DLC has no story and that the slugcat has no characterization, but I definitely think it's there.

(SPOILERS FOR THE WHOLE DLC!) There are no spoilers for the secondary ending until about halfway down, where there is a warning.

Adventurous...

Since this post gets a bit meandering, I will spell out the general framework of the story here:

The Watcher is a shy, lonely individual who desperately struggles to find companionship after their childhood was cut short. They will go to great lengths to achieve this connection.

Timid mouse

"And through the middle of it all, a lonely lost slugcat trying their best to outlast the ravages of a warped world."

Why are they called the Watcher? It's due to their nonconfrontational, withdrawn demeanor. This is immediately apparent in the intro dream:

When Watcher's parent steps up to fight the aggressive slugcat, Watcher's sibling joins in. But Watcher just hides away, afraid to confront the danger. It's unclear if their family survived the tussle, but they never reunite again. Watcher's shy demeanor has severed them from their family.

Time passes and Watcher grows a bit older, wandering around in what seems like a futile search for their family. Here, they meet Spinning Top, the child Echo.

A desire to bond

Within the DLC's story, youthfulness is tied to a fear of isolation & loneliness.

Spinning Top has been lost & drifting for a long time. When they ascended, they feared the loss of connection to their old life and their loved ones. So they remained on world, searching for a sign that their loved ones still miss them.

This desperate pursuit has led them to travel across reality for eons and eons. By the time Watcher meets them, Spinning Top is now combing through places that have no relation to their life. Spinning Top won't find any sign of grief or remembrance in Coral Caves or Rusted Wreck, so why are they drifting along these pointless locations?

Spinning Top's loneliness and persistence arose because, as a child, they lacked the experience of maturing and could not handle the radical acceptance required to ascend. They are scared to accept the truth: their childhood has come and gone. Their loved ones eventually moved on and also left the world behind. Spinning Top is the only one holding onto this long-defunct family.

Shadow reflecting radiance

Watcher and Spinning Top are very similar characters. Both are lonely children that have been severed from their parents and siblings, and wish to revive the childhood that was ripped away from them. They're desperate to rekindle some kind of connection.

Throughout the campaign, Watcher continually searches for Spinning Top because they're the only individual that Watcher has seen who could bring a greater connection than chomping, fleeing, or stabbing. They even give Watcher the gift of infant godhood!

These childlike characters both find companionship in each other. In fact, Watcher's companionship is what gives Spinning Top the strength to return to the location of their actual memory, and confront the truth of their loneliness.

"All my mothers and fathers and crechemates who went along without me… Do they note my absence? I've traveled from the furthest future to the very seed of our past, and I see no evidence. Only echoes and strays. Aloof. Alone. Afraid."

Spinning Top accepts that it is best to grow up and move on, and so they disappear, finally ascending for real. Watcher, however, does not seem to learn the same lesson from this journey.

I NO LONGER AGREE WITH THIS READING! Instead, I believe that the ending shows Watcher having accepted their isolation in the same way that Spinning Top did, which is why they're content... and alone. I discovered this reading courtesy of @characteranalysisthethird, and you can find a reblog of it here.

While they may seem happy playing with toys, it's still a symbol of juvenility. Despite everything that has happened to them, they still embody a desire to recapture their lost childhood.

And now, Watcher is alone once more. Soon, they will seek out a new companion.

Ripplespace as a symbol of isolation

Before I discuss the second ending, I want to talk about Watcher's abilities and the symbols they embody.

The ripple-world that Watcher is (accidentally?) transported to by Spinning Top is a continuation of the aching, drifting nature of these two characters. They are unable to stay in place for long, constantly seraching for a sign of connection.

Watcher's "gift" of invisibility is a clear extension of their characterization. They tackle threats by hiding away, slipping past unnoticed. As their Ripple level rises, the cloak begins pushing Watcher further out of their typical plane of reality, creating tears into a wholly different plane. And when they reach the (as of now) maximum Ripple level, Watcher is fully pulled out of the material plane and into Ripplespace. Here, they are truly alone except for the primitive, gnawing voidspawn.

Every gift seems to give way to a curse of isolation. Watcher has to detach themselves from reality itself to survive, and the gift-giver Spinning Top leaves them behind.

Endless hunger

SPOILERS FOR THE SECOND ENDING.

SPOILERS FOR THE SECOND ENDING.

Here's a cool divider.

While the purple Throne Rot seen across the campaign may not play by the same rules as Five Pebbles' Rot, its behavior is equivalent. The Rot is the ultimate embodiment of primal struggle, a collective consciousness of brain meat that forever hungers to consume as much of the world as it can reach. It is not unintelligent, but it is very one-minded.

From The Throne itself, a giant flower blooms and gives birth to the Prince.

The Prince is a piece of the Throne Rot that has partially separated itself from its collective consciousness. It is an individual connected to the Throne Rot, but it has its own mind. "STARVING, pressing, grinding, SQUEEZING against... us? But now... I? A... SELF. And… an OTHER."

The Prince is an imitation of an Iterator puppet. This part of his identity causes him to believe that he was born to solve the Big Problem, by assimilating the entire world into the Throne Rot. "The imperative that was in THEM [the Iterators] remains in me." "Imagine: a single substrate… Life! (...) Nothing lost. No one lost. From bug to god, all as one. A TRUE end to the pattern."

I personally don't believe this was the original goal of the Throne Rot, but rather the Prince instinctually assigning purpose to his new life as an individual. He rationalizes his intrinsic hunger to consume in the lens of a "higher" ideal.

You can see how the Prince reflects Watcher's desire for connection in a deeply twisted manner. They're both in an endless pursuit to connect—Watcher offers itself to others as a companion, while the Prince takes companions and forces them into himself.

Opposing will

The Prince loves Watcher. He considers them to be a great friend, as they are the primary individual responsible for spreading the Throne Rot and the only one to have witnessed their genesis. "You have done so much for me, I will not burden you with my troubles. Please, rest here as long as you wish. You are always safe here, my dear friend. You, who were there for me."

Watcher has finally found it—a new companion, who showers them with praise and affection. Out of an acute desire to retain this friend, they go on to spread the Throne Rot across all the threads that connect the ripple-world. Every viable world is corrupted.

Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—something goes terribly wrong for the Prince. "I can almost feel... a will... at odds with my own."

Karma is antithetical to corruption. When the Throne Rot sufficiently engulfs the "fringes" of the ripple-world (Outer Rim and the Rotted vanilla regions), these regions become unstable and you cannot create a warp to escape them. However, there are pockets in The Throne where a bed of Karma Flowers allows you to exit. It's unknown if the phenomenon is natural or intelligent, but Karma inherently opposes the Rot.

When Watcher returns after corrupting all the regions, Karma Flower begin sprouting from the ground of The Throne. The Prince attempts to keep them in, but he ultimately fails—he freezes up, and countless Karma Flowers sprout from the corruption. The Throne Rot might not be outright dead, but its power has clearly been drained. The Prince has failed.

Karma Flowers are all over the map now. The "unstable fringes" have also been stabilized by their presence. You can create a warp to leave Outer Rim and the Throne from anywhere, and the same goes for the Rotted vanilla regions.

Going by the tone of the select screen art, Watcher just seems to mourn their loss. Another new friend, unceremoniously ripped from them.

Moving forward

Watcher cannot seem to find connection. Their family left and possibly died. They helped Spinning Top mature, but Spinning Top left—given that they viewed corporeal and primal life as absurd, they were bound to do this.

Watcher may have attained infant godhood, but their powers encourage them to hide away and detach themselves from the world, concealing them in the desolate Ripplespace with nothing but occasionally violent voidspawn.

It's almost scary how this godlet is willing to go such great lengths to secure companionship, falling for the Prince and corrupting the entire accessible ripple-world to make their friend happy. This friendship ends fruitlessly, too.

Watcher will eventually have a full conclusion to their story. So where will they go from here?

Narratively, I don't think Watcher will get what they want. Their next (and final, I believe) venture for companionship will end in ruin once again... but possibly, Watcher will recognize that while other people come and go, the only constant who will always be there for them is Watcher themselves, and they will learn to overcome the trauma and yearning of their lost childhood.

^ (I think this theme is actually what the Spinning Top ending is already trying to say, andWatcher realizes this very principle thanks to Spinning Top.)

That's my slightly blunt prediction for the overarching theme of the Watcher.

Extra thoughts

Scav Prediction

I personally believe the next arc will involve Scavengers. In the old pre-release Watcher concept, Watcher journyed with an enlightened Scavenger. While James Primate has stated before that Downpour kinda stole the old concept's thunder (i.e. with Artificer), I get a strong indication that the next arc will still involve Scavengers because of the new Acolytes.

Acolytes are Scavengers who are BRIMMING with attributes that reflect a knowledge of Karma and Ripples.

Acolytes wear glowing golden masks and clothes

A faint Karma symbol between 6-10 surrounds them, suggesting that they are already enlightened (or their armor is imbued with some kind of karmic concentration)

When they are grabbed by a predator, they initiate a crazy karmic retaliation blast to free themselves (which I failed to get a GIF of)

The blindfolded Disciple Acolytes emit a sort of karmic echolocation ping that detects entities from a distance

The definition of an "acolyte" is "a person assisting the celebrant in a religious service or procession". The celebrant is someone performing a rite; often a priest. This implies the acolytes are carrying something out for a leader who is almost certainly not the Chieftain Scavenger in Downpour.

Overall, these guys know something, and I think we're going to find out why.

[hobi-side]

might just blow it

— pairing: jung hoseok x f!reader

— playlist: danger - txt, smoke sprite - rm, fuxxin' love - OoOo, 24 hours - jimmy brown, steel - 365 feat dana kim

— summary: Revenge is a dish best served hot, and Hoseok might have pushed your buttons, but he’ll soon learn just what happens when the tables turn. Spoiler: You might be the one getting a lesson but it's fun to play with fire.

— word count: 8.1k (like 5k of this is probably filth y’all)

— warnings: pwp, established relationship, unprotected sex, hobi is kinda a possesive man, f! masturbation, degradation, bratty reader, little breath play, hoseok has a filthy mouth and idk what else, they were possesed by a sex demon in this piece

— note: this is entirely inspired by the craze of what the hope on the stage tour has been giving us for the past months and more specifically THIS whatever the hell was going on with this man that night i have been thinking about it for over a month and this piece of extremely self indulgent horny craze was born. this is my first ever post here, hope you enjoy it! english isn't my first language! please let me know what you think

The second he steps on stage, he wrecks you.

It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve seen him perform—he always leaves you breathless. Ruthless. A storm in human form. The second the lights hit him, the crowd erupts, and suddenly, you're nothing but need in a sea of screams.

You’re not backstage tonight. You’re in the VIP section—closer to him, somehow further from him. The Hope on Tour shirt clings to your body, damp with sweat, your ARMY bomb held in a death grip. No one around you knows the truth. No one knows that the man they’re screaming for—aching for—is yours. You think of those TikToks, smug and stupid: They don’t know I’m his girlfriend. But you do. You know it in the way your body thrums just watching him. You know it in the ache pooling low in your belly. You know it in the fact that you’ve kept him a secret, selfishly, fiercely. Because he’s not a fantasy. He’s real. And he’s yours.

And tonight, he’s out for blood.

You can’t take your eyes off him. Every move is designed to destroy. He dances like he’s fucking the beat into the floor. He raps like he wants to bite. And every time he gets near your section, it’s like he’s looking straight through the noise—straight at you.

Then he smiles.

Not just any smile. That one. The one that says he knows exactly what he’s doing. The one that makes your knees buckle.

And then—forty minutes in—it happens.

Hangsang.

Your pulse spikes. You love this song. At least, you did. Right up until he decides to ruin your life with it.

He makes his way to your section. Slow. Measured. A predator in perfect control.

And then?

He fucking does it.

A casual gesture, at first. One he could get away with. Until he doesn’t. Until his gaze locks on yours like a sniper scope, until he bites his lip and drags his fingers across it like he's testing your patience on purpose.

And then—God help you—he slips those fingers into his mouth. Slow. Deep. Tongue flicking against the tips like he’s tasting you instead.

Your stomach drops. Your thighs clench. You swear you see a thread of spit glisten in the lights.

And then—

Oh, no.

His hand lifts. Fingers curl into the air, sin made physical. A motion you know intimately, one he’s used on you in the dark, against the wall, under the sheets. One that never fails to make you unravel.

Two seconds. That’s all it takes.

The crowd loses its mind—screams, gasps, cries of disbelief. You can already see the fancams being clipped, slowed down, dissected frame by frame.

And he’s still watching you.

Smirking.

Like he knows you’re already soaked through your panties. Like he knows exactly how you’ll fall apart the second he gets you alone. And fuck—he does.

Because Hoseok isn’t just a performer. He’s a menace. A devil in glitter and sweat.

And you know—know—what’s coming later. The teasing. The cocky little tilt of his head. The filthy whisper, hot against your skin:

Couldn’t handle that, baby? You looked so pretty about to cry.

You hate him for it.

But not nearly as much as you love him for it.

When the show ends, and he gives his closing speech, the switch flips. Suddenly he’s not the sin-dripping demon who just mimed fucking the air with his fingers.

He’s just Hoseok.

Hair damp with sweat, eyes glassy with emotion. His voice cracks as he thanks the crowd, thanks the fans, thanks you—without saying it. You see it in the way he clutches his chest, the way he breathes like every second is a gift.

You look at him and feel your heart stretch to bursting.

Your boyfriend is a paradox. Pure chaos. Pure light. He destroys and he heals. And somehow, impossibly, he’s yours.

Backstage is a blur of movement and sound, but your senses are locked on him. Jung Hoseok, still glistening with sweat, flushed from the high of performing, is leaning against a table, chugging water like he didn't just ruin lives for two hours straight. The towel draped around his shoulders does little to distract from the sharp cut of his jaw, the soaked-through shirt clinging to his chest, the glint in his eyes when he spots you.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Just watches you approach with that look—the one he saves for private moments. The one that says he knows. Knows exactly what he did out there.

You stop in front of him, arms crossed. “You’re so full of yourself.”

Hoseok raises a brow. “Me? What did I do?”

You scoff. “Don’t play innocent. That thing during ‘Hangsang’? You really went with that move?”

He shrugs, a smug tilt to his mouth. “Felt right in the moment.”

“In the moment?” You glare. “You looked me dead in the eye while doing it.”

“Ah,” he says, tapping his fingers against the bottle, voice lowering, “so you admit you were watching me.”

You roll your eyes. “You were practically fucking the air.”

His smile sharpens. “Was I?”

He pushes off the table, stepping in close. Too close. Heat radiates from him like a furnace, and his voice drops to a murmur just for you. “You didn’t like it?”

“I liked it too much, and you know it.”

He hums. “Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem,” you hiss, pulse spiking, “is that now I can’t think straight and you’re standing here like you didn’t just mouthfuck your own fingers and ruin my entire nervous system.”

He lets out a soft laugh, biting down on his lip like he’s trying not to lose it. His eyes flick down, catching the way your chest rises with each breath. When they return to yours, they’re darker. Hungrier.

“I was just giving a little performance,” he says. “You looked like you needed the reminder.”

You narrow your eyes. “Of what?”

He leans in, lips nearly grazing your ear. “What happens when I actually put my mouth on you.”

Your breath catches—right as a voice cuts through the hallway.

“Hyung! You’ve got five minutes ‘til the send-off!”

You both freeze. Hoseok pulls back with a tight breath, jaw clenching as he throws a nod over his shoulder. “Got it!”

Then his eyes settle back on you. “We’re not done.”

“Oh, I know.”

The energy between you crackles. Neither of you moves as a stylist swoops in to blot the sweat on his forehead, mumbling something about lighting. You barely hear it. Hoseok’s hand brushes your waist as he steps around you, not-so-accidentally dragging fingertips along your side before pulling away completely.

The send-off is a blur, fan signs and waves and cameras flashing. You follow at a distance, trying to keep yourself together, but it’s impossible. Every time he glances back, every time he smiles too wide or bites down on that lip, you feel it unraveling again.

And then you’re in the car.

The doors shut.

Silence.

He’s beside you, legs spread wide, chest still rising and falling too fast. The windows are tinted, the divider up. Just the two of you now.

You glance at him. He’s staring out the window like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just press you to the edge of combustion and walk away.

But his knee bumps yours.

Once.

Twice.

Then stays there.

He turns slowly, lips twitching. “I’m going live in ten.”

You nod, voice tight. “Mm. You better hurry. You look like someone who needs a little help calming down.”

He chuckles, deep and wrecked. “Baby, you’re the reason I’m like this.”

And you sit there, burning, limbs aching, the space between you electric and unbearable.

Neither of you touches.

Not yet.

But god—you both want to.

The hotel room is quiet when you walk in. Clean, modern, luxurious—but it barely registers.

Hoseok heads straight for the desk setup by the window, pulling out his phone and propping it up on a mini tripod. His makeup is barely touched up, hair still messy in that post-show, too-good-to-be-legal way. He mutters something about checking the Wi-Fi, tapping through settings with a frown.

You trail in slower, pretending to be unaffected, but you’re boiling.

And you want payback.

“You starting the live now?” you ask, voice light.

He glances back at you. “In a minute. Why?”

You shrug, toeing off your shoes. “Just wondering how long I have to behave.”

That gets his attention. His head tilts, a knowing smile twitching at his lips. “Don't start something you can't finish, baby.”

“Who says I won’t?”

He shakes his head, amused, and turns back to his phone, hitting the “go live” button before you can say more. The app lights up, comments immediately flooding in as the view count climbs.

“Hey guys,” he says, voice warm, tired but happy. “Just got back from the show. You guys were crazy tonight…”

You sit on the edge of the bed, watching him talk. He’s glowing—soaked in adrenaline and affection, eyes scanning the screen like he’s genuinely soaking up every word. You almost feel bad.

Almost.

You stand, slow and quiet, padding over to where he sits.

He notices. Barely. A flick of his eyes toward you, then back to the camera.

And then you straddle his lap.

He freezes.

It’s subtle—no one on the live can see—but you feel it. The sharp inhale. The tension in his thighs. The way his hands hover, unsure whether to push you off or pull you closer.

You drape your arms loosely around his shoulders, mouth close, almost right beside his ear. “Smile for the fans, Hobi.”

He shifts in the chair, clearly trying to look casual, but you’re sitting right on him—weight pressing into his hips. He clears his throat, waves at the screen.

“Yeah, so I’ll talk about the setlist in a sec,” he says, voice a pitch higher than before. “I just, uh…”

You roll your hips.

Slow. Torturous.

His breath catches audibly.

You suppress a grin.

His eyes dart to the screen, then to you. “Baby,” he warns, lips barely moving.

“Hmm?” You bat your lashes, kissing the shell of his ear.

“Stop.”

“Make me.”

His jaw clenches. The comments keep flying—fans asking why he’s blushing, if the room’s too warm, why he’s suddenly looking down every few seconds.

He tries to power through. Tries to focus. He starts talking about his favorite moment during “Just Dance,” but his voice keeps stuttering. His hands grip the edge of the chair so hard his knuckles go white.

You grind down again. Barely.

He mutters something in Korean under his breath.

Then he’s done.

“I—I’ll talk to you guys later,” he says, too fast. “I need to—rest. Yeah.”

He ends the live with a stiff wave, slamming his phone down the second the stream cuts.

Silence.

You lean in, innocent. “Everything okay, Hobi?”

He looks at you. And he snaps.

In one motion, he lifts you, flips you onto the bed, and crawls on top of you with a growl in his throat and murder in his eyes—sweet, delicious murder.

“You think that was funny?”

You grin, breathless already. “A little.”

He leans in, mouth brushing yours. “You’re gonna regret that.”

“I don't think so.”

He hovers over you, hands planted on either side of your head, breathing hard.

His eyes are wild—half disbelief, half dark amusement—and all of it aimed directly at you.

“You think this is a game?” he murmurs, low and dangerous.

You blink up at him, face the picture of innocence. “Didn’t you start it, Mr. ‘Let Me Finger the Air Like a Pornstar in Front of Thousands’?”

His nostrils flare. “That was performance. This—” he gestures between your bodies, hips brushing yours with almost-zero restraint, “—this is personal.”

“And?” you whisper, one hand sliding up the back of his neck, threading into his hair. “You gonna punish me or talk me to death?”

That does it.

He jerks back like your touch burns. Stands. Paces.

You watch from the bed, smug, legs still slightly spread from where he left you.

He’s trying to get it together. Chest rising and falling, hands tugging at the hem of his shirt, jaw flexing like he’s biting back a thousand curses. He drags both hands down his face, then breathes out a laugh that sounds half-wrecked.

“You’re unbelievable,” he mutters, shaking his head.

You sit up slowly. Swing your legs over the side of the bed, take your sweet time walking up behind him. You press your chest against his back, let your fingers drift just under the waistband of his pants. Just a taste.

“Tell me to stop,” you murmur.

He doesn’t.

“Tell me you didn’t love every second of it.”

Still nothing.

You pull back just enough to tease, but he catches your wrist before you can fully retreat. Spins around, pulling you against him in a hard, unyielding grip.

“You want to play games?” he growls. “Fine. We’ll play.”

His hands drop to your hips, fingers digging in. He leans down, lips brushing yours—so close, but not touching.

“But you don’t get to win.”

Then—again—he lets go.

Backs away. Grabs a water bottle from the table and drinks like it’ll douse the fire in him. It won’t.

“You’re not gonna touch me?” you ask, head tilted just enough to be a challenge. Your pulse is thrumming in your neck, fast and furious, and he can see it—feels it.

Hoseok takes a slow sip from his water bottle, his eyes never leaving yours. Then, licking the last drop from his bottom lip, he smirks. “You’re not ready.”

Your brows lift, mocking. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he murmurs, voice low, cocky. “You’re not ready for what I’d do to you if I actually started touching you.”

You scoff, but the heat that coils in your belly betrays you instantly. Your thighs press together on instinct. God, you hate how right he might be.

But now—it’s about pride. About holding your ground. About not letting him win just because he knows exactly what buttons to press.

You cross your arms, eyes gleaming. “Coward.”

He tilts his head, tongue poking into his cheek as he smiles. Dangerous. Ferocious. “Keep talking, baby,” he warns, rising from the edge of the bed. “You’ll be flat on your back before you can blink.”

You raise a brow. “Big words for someone who rage-quit a livestream because he got hard on camera.”

He lunges.

You shriek, laughing, twisting, but he’s too quick. In a second, he’s got you pinned under him again, his hands bracketing your shoulders, his knee sliding between your legs like he owns the space there.

The smile on his face is feral—unchained. “You think you're funny, huh?” he growls, breath ghosting over your lips. “You think I won’t wreck you right now for that little stunt?”

You grin, wicked and bright. “Mmm, you like it nasty, babe?” you purr, fingers dancing up the line of his jaw. “Should’ve thought better before acting up on stage. That little finger trick?” You click your tongue. “You started it.”

He growls again—deep, from his chest, like you’ve touched something raw.

You lean up, give him a light kiss on the cheek. A tease. Nothing more. Then you start to wriggle out from under him. “I’m gonna go clean up. Make myself comfortable.”

You say it like a threat. And it is.

But the second you try to move, his arms tighten, locking you in place.

“Oh, hell no,” he says, voice rough. “You don’t get to kiss me like that and walk away all smug, acting like you didn’t just hijack my entire f—” he swallows hard, eyes dragging over your body like he’s trying to rein it all back in. “You’re not going anywhere until I say so.”

You laugh again, but it’s breathless this time—your own composure slipping. His body is hot, solid, and there, and every move he makes only pushes you deeper into the mattress.

Still, you raise your chin. “You can’t keep me here forever, Hobi.”

He dips down, lips brushing your jaw, your neck, that spot behind your ear that makes your knees go weak—even when you’re lying down.

“Baby,” he whispers, voice like velvet over a razor’s edge. “You think I’m the one losing control right now?”

Your stomach flips.

“Go on,” he adds, letting up just enough for you to slide out from under him. “Run off. Get comfortable. But when I’m done being nice—” his gaze drops, slow and hot—“you’ll be the one begging to stay in bed.”

And he flops back on the mattress, watching you walk away with hooded eyes and a smirk that promises vengeance.

You shut the bathroom door behind you, but not all the way.

Just enough for him to hear everything. Just enough for him to wonder if you left it ajar on purpose.

You flick on the light and catch your reflection in the mirror—cheeks flushed, lips kiss-bitten, pupils blown wide. You look wrecked already and he hasn’t even touched you properly. It’s power. It’s delicious.

And you’re going to make him feel every second of it.

You peel off your shirt with slow, deliberate movements, knowing he can hear the whisper of fabric, the creak of the floorboards, the soft clink of your necklace hitting the counter. You don’t say a word. Let his mind fill in the gaps.

You hear him shift in the bed. Restless.

Then the tap runs. You rinse your face, run your hands through your hair. Still quiet. Still calculated.

Then, when the silence gets too loud, you hum.

Soft and lazy. Just loud enough for it to carry.

“Hmmm,” you sigh to yourself, like you're very pleased with how things are going. Then: “This lingerie might be too much.”

You hear him curse.

You smile. God, you’re having so much fun.

And you keep going. “Or not enough.”

“Baby,” his voice comes through the door, already strained. “Don’t fuck with me right now.”

“Who’s fucking with you?” you chirp sweetly. “I’m just getting comfortable”

You pause. Let it sit. Let him stew in it.

Then, in a voice soaked in sugar: “You good out there?”

The bed creaks again. Louder this time. You imagine him pacing, or palming himself over those sweatpants he threw on in a rush, maybe thinking about how it felt when you sat in his lap before, shifting just so, how your scent’s probably still on his fingers. Still on his skin.

You press your thighs together and try to stay composed.

This is revenge. Sweet, slow-burning revenge. And you’re winning.

“If you want,” you murmur, voice light and laced with mischief, “I could show you what I picked out…”

Silence.

Then—bang.

A sharp thud against the wall. You can’t tell if it’s his fist or the dresser or his skull, but whatever it is, it sounds violent.

You bite back a smile, high on the power. Teasing him like this is too easy.

“Get out here,” he snarls. “Now.”

You scoff, amused. “You didn’t even say please.”

There’s no pause this time.

“I don’t fucking care. I’m tired.” His voice is raw—loud, dark, and fraying at the edges. You open the door fully and find him in the doorway already, like he couldn’t wait. His pupils are blown, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, one arm extended just far enough to touch the inside of your wrist.

His fingers curl around it.

Not rough, but firm. Insistent.

“You are coming with me,” he says, like it’s law. Like it’s a fact already written.

You stand there in his shirt and the smallest pair of shorts you packed—fabric clinging to your skin, leaving nothing to the imagination. He sees everything. The curve of your ass, the hint of lace at your hips, the smooth slope of your thighs still flushed from the game you started.

He swallows, jaw ticking.

“I was just making myself comfortable,” you say sweetly, and his grip tightens, thumb brushing the pulse at your wrist like it drives him mad.

“You’ve got five seconds,” he says, voice low and shaking. “Before I stop playing nice.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You think this is nice?”

He steps closer.

You don’t move.

Now he’s right there—barely an inch between you. The heat off his skin is blistering. His other hand rises to cup your jaw, not quite touching, just hovering, like even that would be giving in too soon.

His eyes flick to your lips, your legs, the way your shirt rides up when you breathe.

“You look like a fucking dream,” he mutters. “A dream that’s trying to kill me.”

You smile, saccharine and smug. “Then maybe you should’ve thought twice before acting up on stage.”

You lean in—just a whisper of your lips against his cheek—and give him a kiss. Barely there. Just enough to ignite.

Then you turn like you’re about to leave again, heading back toward the bed or the bathroom or anywhere that isn’t him.

But his grip doesn’t let go.

He tugs. Not hard—but with purpose.

You stumble right into him, chest against his, thigh brushing the outline of his cock straining against the sweats he rushed to put on after the livestream.

He breathes hard through his nose, like he’s fighting for control.

You whisper against his neck, “You don’t look that tired to me.”

That’s it.

That’s the spark.

He doesn’t lunge, not yet—but his whole body tightens, like a predator held back by a thread. You can feel his fingers flexing against your waist, twitching like they’re seconds from dragging you down onto the floor.

But he won’t. Not until you beg.

God, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t love this. What you had. What you were.

He was always all over you, and so were you—two magnets locked in a pull too strong to fight, too wild to tame. Every breath, every look, every fucking brush of skin felt like it was dipped in gasoline. And now?

Now it’s fire.

He walks you backward with slow, deliberate steps until the back of your knees hit the bed. You fall onto it with a soft gasp, and he’s right there, standing between your legs, looking down at you like he’s starving and you’re the feast he’s been denied for way too long.

“Still wanna play?” he asks, voice like gravel, hands clenched at his sides like it’s taking every ounce of self-control not to touch you.

You drag your gaze down his body—his flexing forearms, the twitch in his jaw, the tent in his sweats that looks painful. You smirk. “Are you gonna make me beg, Hoseok?”

His name on your lips does something to him. His eyes darken, and this time when he leans in, it’s not careful. It’s reckless.

He grabs your thighs and yanks you to the edge of the bed so fast you yelp, hands catching on his shoulders. Then his mouth is on your neck—hot and open and claiming—and your whole body arches off the mattress.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he growls against your skin. “With that mouth. With that attitude. With those fucking shorts—”

“You like the shorts?” you pant, tugging on his hair until he groans.

“I hate the shorts,” he snarls, licking down to your collarbone, tongue filthy. “I hate that you wore them when you knew I’d see. I hate that you knew exactly what you were doing.”

You gasp as he nips at your chest through the fabric of your shirt, his hands sliding up under it, rough and eager, palms mapping your ribs like he’s trying to remember what you feel like under pressure.

“I always know what I’m doing,” you whisper.

“Then you knew I wouldn’t last.” He pulls back just long enough to strip the shirt off your body, fast and clumsy, like it offended him just by existing. His eyes rake over you—half-naked, flushed, breathing heavy, legs spread for him—and he snaps.

In a heartbeat, he’s crawling over you, hips grinding into yours, his mouth everywhere—your jaw, your throat, your chest—until you’re gasping his name, your hands clawing at his back, your thighs locking around his waist like he’s the only thing tethering you to earth.

“You wanna beg now, baby?” he huffs against your lips, breathless.

You roll your hips against him and watch his whole body jolt.

“You’re gonna beg first,” you whisper. “For making me wait.”

And just like that, you flip him—straddle him. His back hits the mattress with a thud, and he looks up at you like he’s already ruined.

You settle your weight on his lap and smile down at him, wicked and wild.

“Let’s see who really breaks first.”

He doesn’t answer with words.

His hands shoot up to grip your waist, knuckles white, muscles flexing like restraint is no longer an option—and maybe it never was. Not when it comes to you. Not when you’re sitting on top of him like this, all flushed and smug and soaked in sweat and attitude.

You grind down once—slow and hard—and he chokes.

“Oh, fuck—” His hips buck up into yours, involuntary, brutal, and you ride it, gasping as your core drags against the thick length straining beneath those damn sweatpants.

That’s it. That’s the snap.

One second, the air between you is strung tight with tension, and the next, he’s moving—sitting up fast, eyes wild, grabbing you like he’s been holding back for hours and just broke. One arm hooks around your back, the other fists in your hair, yanking you into him, crashing his mouth against yours again like he’s starving for it.

It’s not a kiss. It’s a collision.

Tongues clash, teeth graze, breaths tangle. It's messy and urgent, raw with need. He groans deep in his chest like the taste of you is dragging him under, like he's unraveling at the seams just from this, just from you, and you moan right back, clutching at him like he’s your last tether to the world.

“You feel what you do to me?” he growls, voice thick with hunger, biting down on your bottom lip before dragging it into his mouth and sucking hard enough to leave a mark. “You’ve been fucking dripping all night.”

“So touch me,” you pant, grinding against him without shame, chasing friction, chasing anything. “Make me feel it.”

And he does. God, does he.

You’re flipped without warning again, like you weigh nothing in his hands. The room blurs for a heartbeat and then your back hits the bed, his weight caging you in, devouring every inch of you with his eyes. He rips your shorts down like they personally offended him, tossing them aside without a glance.

Then he sees the soaked spot on your panties and something snaps behind his eyes.

A low, guttural growl vibrates through his chest. “Fuck.”

He runs a finger right over it—barely there, just a tease—and you gasp, hips bucking up into the touch. He smirks, dark and dangerous, before shoving the fabric aside and diving in like a man possessed.

No hesitation. No mercy.

Two fingers slam into you, deep and fast, and your back arches off the bed as a cry tears from your throat.

“Already so fucking tight,” he mutters, forehead dropping to your shoulder, his eyes fixed on the way your body clenches around him. He curls his fingers just right and thrusts again, harder this time, deeper, and your legs start to shake.

“You were waiting for this, weren’t you?”

You can’t speak. You can barely breathe. All you can do is nod helplessly, whimpering, your nails digging into his arm as your other hand twists in the sheets like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

He doesn’t stop. He won’t stop.

Each thrust is punishing, each curl devastating, each drag of his fingers designed to destroy you. Your whole body is shaking, every muscle drawn tight, the edge so close it feels like you could fall over it with a single breath.

“Hoseok—fuck, I—”

“Not yet.”

He rips his fingers away, and you scream in frustration, hips bucking into nothing, walls fluttering around the absence like you’ve been ripped open and left begging.

“I said—”

But the words vanish from your mouth because suddenly—God—his mouth is right there.

No warning. No buildup. Just heat and tongue and wicked, wicked lips wrapping around your clit like a death sentence.

He moans into you, arms locking around your thighs to hold you in place while he ruins you with his mouth.

“You—fuck, I—”

He glances up, lips glistening, eyes gleaming with sin. He smirks like he knows. Like he planned this.

And then he says, low and lethal, “Don’t come until I say so.”

Like it’s a challenge. Like he wants to see you fall apart trying not to.

And oh, you will.

Oh, you unleash.

It’s not graceful. It’s not sweet. It’s carnal.

You shatter—loud, writhing, wrecked. A cry bursts from your throat, raw and ragged, echoing off the walls like a confession. Your voice breaks into a hoarse moan, half his name, half a curse, and entirely surrender.

And he watches—fuck, he watches like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

That wicked smile curves across his lips, dark and triumphant. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let up. His mouth is right there, relentless, greedy, like he’s trying to consume every last tremor from your body. His tongue flicks, circles, presses, and it’s too much—too much heat, too much pleasure, too much him.

Then his hand slides up—slow, smooth, terrifying in how in control he still is—and wraps lightly around your throat.

Not tight. Just enough.

Just enough to make your breath hitch. Just enough to make you feel it—that loss of air, that vulnerability, that heady spike of something deeper.

His lips drag down, kissing the inside of your thigh with reverence, then right back up, mouth sealing over your clit like he’s praying with his tongue.

“Look at you,” he murmurs against your skin, voice rough, reverent. “So fucking perfect when you come.”

Your body jerks beneath him, aftershocks ripping through you, legs trembling like you’ve run miles. You can barely keep your eyes open, but you see the way he’s looking at you—like you’re something holy and ruined all at once.

“Could watch you fall apart like that forever,” he growls, licking a long, slow stripe through your slick. “Could live between your thighs and never need another damn thing.”

You whimper, mind fogged and limbs useless, but he’s not done.

He shifts up, kissing your stomach, your ribs, your collarbone, while his hand keeps its gentle pressure at your throat. Not to hurt. Just to hold. Just to remind you: he’s the one doing this.

“You think that was it?” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours as he grinds his hips down, the hard line of him pressing against you. “I haven’t even started.”

Even in the haze—numb, trembling, boneless from the high—you move.

You fight for it.

Still shaking, still gasping, you claw your way onto him like instinct, like something primal and desperate has taken hold. There's no grace, no finesse—just raw need, coursing through you like lightning. You straddle him, hips grinding down, rutting shamelessly against the thick heat straining beneath his clothes.

You’re a mess. A beautiful, wrecked mess.

Mouth parted, chest heaving, hair clinging to your sweat-slicked skin. You can barely breathe, barely think, but all your body knows is him.

“Please…” you gasp, voice breaking on a moan as you roll your hips again. “Please, baby… fuck… want ya—want ya so bad.”

The words come out slurred with lust, almost incomprehensible, like you're drunk on him. And maybe you are.

He watches you like he’s in a trance, hands gripping your waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. His jaw is tight, his eyes dark—burning. Like he’s holding on to every last shred of control and losing.

“Look at you,” he breathes, voice wrecked with arousal. “You don’t even know what you’re asking for.”

“I do,” you whimper, grinding down harder, chasing friction, chasing everything. “Want your cock, baby—need it. Need you in me.”

That’s what shatters him.

He flips you again—ruthless, fast. Your back hits the bed and he’s already there, caging you in with his body, pulling his pants down just enough to free himself.

You both moan when he ruts against your core, right there, the heat of him dragging over the slick fabric.

“God, you’re filthy,” he groans “You’re gonna take every inch. Gonna feel me for days.”

You spread your legs wider, shameless and soaked, begging with your body.

“So take me,” you cry, voice breaking as your nails drag down his back, leaving red lines in their wake. “Fuck me.”

God, you love this man.

Love how filthy you both are—how raw, how real. How there’s nothing between you but heat and skin and the kind of need that burns straight through the bones.

He groans at your words, at the way your body arches into his, shameless and pleading. His cock is right there, so close, the head dragging through your slick, teasing your entrance with maddening slowness.

You whine, desperate, hips lifting to chase him, to take him, but he holds steady—just to watch you fall apart a little more. Just to feel your hunger for him.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, voice low, reverent, dangerous. “Can’t even wait a second, can you?”

You shake your head, lips parted, breath catching. “I need you,” you gasp. “Please, just—just fuck me already.”

And then—blissful mercy—he gives in.

He pushes in slow, the thick head of his cock breaching you, stretching you open inch by inch. Your mouth falls open, a broken moan spilling out as your eyes flutter shut.

Then he bottoms out in one smooth, deep thrust, burying himself inside you to the hilt.

Your world ends.

Your eyes roll back, your entire body going limp beneath him, mouth slack, breath stolen. You feel everything—the stretch, the pressure, the way he fits like he was made for you.

“Fuuuck,” he groans, forehead pressing against yours, barely holding himself back. “You feel unreal. So tight, so fucking wet for me.”

You can’t even respond. Just whimper, legs wrapping around his waist like instinct, like you never want him to leave.

He pulls out slow, just enough to feel the drag, then thrusts back in with a snap of his hips that knocks the air from your lungs.

You gasp, moan, claw at his back again. “Yes, yes—just like that—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t.

He pounds into you with a rhythm that’s all hunger and devotion, head buried in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

And all you can think—through the pleasure, the gasps, the sting of nails and the slap of skin—is how much you fucking love this.

How much you fucking love him.

The thing about Hoseok is… he’s an artist, yeah. But first? He’s a dancer.

And those goddamn hips know exactly what they’re doing.

You know better than anyone.

You’ve felt it—in the way he moves against you, inside you, like his body was choreographed to yours. Every roll of his hips is a masterstroke, every thrust precise, powerful, devastating. He hits that spot again and again, like he mapped it out, like he studied it, like he's spent hours—years—perfecting the rhythm that makes you scream his name.

And you do.

You chant it, breathless and wrecked, nails digging into his back like he’s the only thing tethering you to this earth.

“Hoseok—fuck, right there, baby, right there—”

He groans into your neck, hips grinding deeper, slower for a second, just to make you feel the drag of him inside you. Just to show you who’s in control.

“You feel me?” he growls, teeth dragging over the curve of your throat, his voice a rasp in your ear. “That’s it, baby. Take it. Take all of me.”

And you do.

You take everything. Every inch, every thrust, every filthy word he feeds into your skin like sin-soaked poetry. Your body matches his like instinct, like choreography written in lust and obsession. This is more than sex—it’s a rhythm, a performance, a fucking ritual.

“You’re my filthy princess,” he pants, hips snapping against yours, the sound obscene, slick, perfect. “You know why I did that shit on stage, babe?”

You blink through the haze, barely able to speak, to breathe.

He leans closer, lips brushing your ear, thrusts never faltering, never softening. “I did it ‘cause I was thinking of you.”

Your heart stutters. Your pussy clenches around him.

His voice darkens, sweet with venom. “Thought about you the night before that concert… pressed up against the wall, legs shaking, those pretty little moans spilling out while I had my fingers inside you. Remember that?”

You nod frantically, mind flashing with the memory—his hand, your helplessness, the way you came with your mouth against his shoulder to muffle the scream.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about the way you begged,” he grins, feral, breath hitching as your walls flutter around him. “‘Oh baby,’” he mocks you in a breathy whimper, falsetto, sinful. “‘I’m your filthy fucking bitch…’”

Your whole body seizes. Shame and heat twist together like a fuse sparking to life.

He laughs—low and wicked, full of pride. “And all I could think was: that’s mine. That girl up front, lookin’ all sweet, all put-together?”

His hips drive harder, deeper—he’s pounding into you now, chasing the sound of your cries, the clench of your cunt.

“She’s the same one who gets on her knees like a whore for me.”

You whimper, head thrown back, nails clawing at his shoulders.

“That’s you, baby,” he says, voice all gravel and affection, eyes blazing. “My pretty girl, my nasty little thing. The one who smiles for the cameras, then bends over the second I lock the door.”

Your entire body is trembling. You don’t know if it’s the pace or the filth or the way he’s looking at you like he’s obsessed—but you're close, again, helpless to stop it.

“You gonna come for me again?” he asks, cocky and tender all at once. “Let me feel that tight little pussy squeeze the fuck out of me?”

“Y-Yeah—fuck, Hoseok—”

“Come,” he growls, voice raw, deep, commanding. “Come for me, my beautiful princess—my filthy fucking whore.”

That’s it. That’s the snap.

You shatter.

Your entire body goes taut, every muscle pulling tight before releasing in one violent, uncontrollable wave. Your legs shake around him, trembling so hard it’s like your bones have melted. Your mouth opens on a scream, but it barely makes it out—just a broken, choked moan that dies in your throat as your vision whites out.

You cling to him, hands clawing at his back like you need something—anything—to anchor you. But he’s not slowing down. If anything, he’s driving it deeper, dragging your orgasm out until it borders on unbearable.

And then—your body gives.

A gush of wetness spills between you, soaking his cock, the sheets, your thighs. You gasp, humiliated and feral all at once, trying to pull away—but he growls low, hands gripping your hips, holding you there.

“Oh fuck,” he hisses, staring down where your bodies are joined. “That’s it, baby. Look at that. Look at the mess you just made for me.”

You’re still twitching, body jerking with aftershocks, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity. But Hoseok—he looks like a man possessed.

“Goddamn, you’re perfect,” he breathes, dragging his cock out just enough to watch more of your release drip out, then sliding right back in with a groan. “So wet, so ruined, so fucking mine.”

You whimper beneath him, wrecked and pliant, your voice barely a whisper. “I can’t… I—I already…”

“You can,” he growls, eyes blazing as he locks gazes with you. “And you will. I’m not done with you yet.”

He kisses you then—deep and claiming, like he’s sealing something between you with tongue and teeth and breath.

And all you can do is moan into it, broken and breathless, because despite everything— You want it. You want him.

You’re still trembling, your body a live wire of oversensitivity and bliss, when he starts moving again—slow at first, but no less intense. Like he’s savoring the afterglow, dragging it out, making you feel every inch of him, every pulse and push and stretch.

“You’re unreal,” Hoseok mutters against your mouth, voice thick with awe and hunger. “You came so hard for me. Fuck, baby… you squirted for me.”

Your cheeks burn, your lips part to apologize, but he cuts you off with another deep thrust that makes your back arch, a whimper catching in your throat.

“Don’t even try,” he growls, pinning your hips down. “That was the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

He’s drunk on you now—high on the mess, the heat, the way your body is still fluttering around him. He dips his head to kiss down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, dragging his tongue along your skin as if trying to taste the orgasm still clinging to you.

And you… you’re floating.

You can’t even form words. Just sounds. Moans and gasps and breathy little pleas as he rocks into you, deeper now, slower, rolling his hips with maddening precision.

“Still so tight,” he whispers, voice ragged. “You feel that? The way your pussy’s still trying to milk me?”

You nod weakly, eyes glassy, mouth open on a silent gasp when he hits that spot again, perfectly, like he knows.

“Fuck, I love you like this,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “All soft. Fucked-out. Shaking. You’re so fucking pretty when you come.”

His hand slips down between you, fingers rubbing lazy circles on your clit, and your whole body jolts.

“N-No—too much—”

“I know, baby,” he coos, still fucking you through it. “I know. Just one more. One more for me, yeah?”

You sob his name, overwhelmed, but you don’t tell him no. Because you don’t want it to stop. Not yet. Not when it feels like this. Not when his body is still moving against yours like a symphony only you get to hear.

You lock your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, holding him there. And he groans—low, guttural, broken.

“Oh fuck—fuck, baby—”

He’s close. You can feel it.

The rhythm starts to slip, his thrusts getting rougher, faster. The weight of him, the sound of your soaked skin meeting his, the filthy praise falling from his lips—it’s all building again, dizzying, consuming.

And right before the fall, right when everything goes blinding and hot—he looks at you. Really looks at you.

And he says it.

“Come with me.”

And you do.

Together.

Hard, loud, beautiful.

The high fades like smoke—slow, warm, lingering—but the after? The after is where it all settles. Where the heat gives way to something softer, deeper, realer.

You’re both breathless, tangled together in a mess of limbs and sweat and slick, bodies still twitching from the aftershocks. Hoseok collapses gently onto you, careful not to crush you, just enough to feel your heartbeat slam against his.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Just the sound of your breathing, still uneven and shaky. The way his hand finds yours, fingers lacing like it’s instinct.

Then, a laugh. Small, hoarse. Yours.

He lifts his head slightly, his forehead still resting on yours, brows furrowed in amused concern. “What?”

You grin, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen. “I can’t feel my legs.”

He laughs too, deep and wrecked, kissing your forehead like he’s proud of that. “You weren’t supposed to. That was kinda the point.”

You try to nudge him with your knee, but it twitches uselessly and flops against the mattress. That just makes him laugh harder.

“I broke you,” he teases, clearly delighted with himself. “My poor baby.”

He kisses you again, this time slower, sweeter. Like a thank-you. Like a promise. Like he means it.

Then he starts pulling away to grab something—a towel, maybe—but you clutch at him with a tiny, panicked sound. “No—don’t go.”

He freezes. Looks down at you. And something in his face melts.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says gently, crawling right back over you, arms wrapping around your waist to roll you both onto your sides. “Not now. Not ever.”

You bury your face in his neck, letting your body relax completely into him. His scent, his warmth, the thrum of his pulse under your fingertips—it’s all enough to lull you into the sweetest kind of daze.

His thumb strokes your hip lazily. “You really are my filthy little princess, huh?”

You mumble something incoherent against his throat.

He chuckles. “What was that?”

“I said,” you sigh, half-asleep already, “your filthy queen, actually.”

He grins like you’ve just given him the world. “Damn right.”

Then he kisses your shoulder, one hand trailing up your spine, the other pulling the sheets around both of you.

"I love you, babe"

And just like that—you’re safe. Wrecked. Loved. Held.

The morning comes slow, gentle, a hazy stretch of sunlight spilling through half-closed blinds, casting soft lines across tangled sheets and bare limbs.

You wake first—barely. Just enough to feel the stiffness in your muscles, the warm ache between your thighs, and the delicious weight of an arm slung over your waist. Hoseok’s chest is pressed to your back, his breath soft and warm against your shoulder, one leg tucked between yours like he couldn’t bear to be any farther away, even in sleep.

You hum quietly, nuzzling into the pillow with a sleepy smile. Everything smells like him—sweat, skin, sex, and that faint hint of his cologne that somehow survived the chaos of last night.

You don't want to move. Ever.

But a groggy groan rumbles behind you.

“Fuck.”

You shift slightly. “What time is it?”

There’s a pause. Then another groan, this one full of regret. “Eight-thirty.”

You blink. “…AM?”

He flops onto his back dramatically, arm flung over his eyes like he’s auditioning for a tragedy. “I have to be at soundcheck in three hours. My body feels like it got run over by a truck.”

You snort, rolling onto your side to face him. His hair’s a mess, lips puffy, eyes still half-closed and pouting like a grumpy cat.

“Wonder why that is,” you tease, trailing your fingers over the fresh nail marks on his chest.

He squints at you from under his arm. “You did this. You and your pretty little ‘Please, baby, fuck me so good’ voice.”

You fake a gasp. “I never—”

He mimics you, pitch high and breathy, “‘Oh Hobi, I’m your filthy fuckin’ bitch—’”

You throw a pillow at his face. He catches it with one hand and groans again, flopping back down.

“…I deserve that,” he mumbles. Then, with sudden, dramatic anguish: “God, I’m so tired. My legs are jello. I have choreo in nine hours.”

You try not to laugh, but it bubbles out anyway. “You broke me last night. This is just karma.”

“I’m never going that hard the night before a show again,” he mutters, rubbing his eyes.

You kiss his cheek gently. “Liar.”

He sighs, lips curling into a crooked little smile. “Yeah. I’m totally gonna do it again.”

You both lie there for another few moments, the calm creeping back in, the kind that only comes with mornings like this. The silence is soft. Easy. Safe.

Then he cracks one eye open again, already plotting. “Okay. Hear me out. If I nap in the car and stretch in the dressing room, I might survive tonight.”

You grin. “I’ll be in the front row. Screaming my head off. Still limping.”

He smirks, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Bet.”

note: girl, i wrote this in like 3 hours instead of my actual thesis hshshs hope you guys liked it <3

[cinnasite]

do you think they've explored each other's theses?

...and bodies?

꩜ pairing: professor!vi x professor!female reader

꩜ warnings: mentions of explicit content, language

꩜ word count: 2.9k

꩜ synopsis: you've built your entire career on control. vi made a game of unraveling it. but, behind every jab lurks something far less professional—and far more irresistible. just how long can you go on pretending you're not affected?

The mahogany-paneled walls of Piltover University's faculty lounge had witnessed countless academic debates, but none quite as charged as the ongoing rivalry between its two esteemed professors. You adjusted your impeccably neat blazer as you reviewed your lecture notes, your reputation for cool professionalism preceding you into every room you entered. At twenty-eight, you had already earned your place among the institution’s most respected staff, your groundbreaking work in economics earning you both accolades and the somewhat intimidating nickname (one that you despised but, oh well, what can you do) "The Ice Queen" among students.

Across the lounge, Professor Violet—or “Vi”, as she had insisted on her first day with an insufferably charming smile—appeared abruptly, her unceremonious button-down shirt contrasting sharply with the formal atmosphere. Also twenty-eight, Vi had taken an unconventional path to academia—former athlete turned kinesiologist, her hands-on approach to learning and teaching had revolutionised the physical sciences department. Where you commanded respect through quiet authority, Vi earned it through enthusiastic engagement and an infectious energy that had students lining up to attend her lessons.

The conflict had started innocuously enough three years ago when you were both hired the same semester, breaking records as the youngest professors in the university's prestigious history. The dean had made the mistake of introducing you both at the same meeting, underscoring your shared distinction with obvious pride. You remembered the way Vi's eyes had found yours across the room, the slight raise of her eyebrow that seemed to say "challenge accepted" before either of you had uttered a sentence.

What followed was the most intellectually stimulating and frustrating professional relationship of your career. Every discussion became a subtle battlefield where your measured contributions were countered by Vi's zealous arguments. Every conference saw the two of you presenting competing frameworks, your methodical notions challenged by her innovative contributions. Your colleagues had started placing bets on which of you would speak first during casual get-togethers, knowing that whatever one of you proposed, the other would find elegant ways to dissect and rebuild.

The students had caught on too. How could they not? They whispered about the apparent "Cold War" with hushed voices and ecstatic snickers, how Professor Violet could make the Ice Queen's jaw clench with a single well-placed comment. Some had even started taking both of your classes specifically to witness your heads butt.

Nevertheless, there had always been something else simmering beneath your endless sparring. Something in the way Vi's gaze lingered on you just a moment too long when she was making a point. Something in the way your pulse quickened when she leaned across the table to question your methodology. Something that made your carefully maintained composure feel like armour against an opponent who was far more dangerous than she appeared.

The breaking point had come two months ago during the annual research symposium. You had been presenting your latest findings when Vi, sitting in the front row with her arms crossed and that infuriatingly self-assured simper, had raised her hand during the Q&A session.

"Fascinating work as always, Professor," she had deceptively commended, her voice carrying clearly through the large hall. "However, I have to wonder if your focus on abstract models isn't missing the practical applications that could actually benefit the masses."

The question had been harmless enough on the surface, but you had caught the provocation in her tone, the way her eyes had sparkled with something that went beyond an appropriate amount of curiosity. Your response had been equally measured and equally loaded.

"I appreciate your concern, Professor Violet. Though I've always believed that strong conceptual foundations prevent the kind of… hasty implementations that can lead to flawed results."

The hall had gone eerily still, sensing the undercurrent of tension that had nothing to do with hypotheses. Vi's smile had sharpened, and for a moment, you had felt like prey being circled by a predator who was taking her time choosing the perfect moment to strike.

Afterwards, she had cornered you in the hallway outside, her presence making you acutely aware of how the other attendees were giving you both a wide berth.

"Hasty implementations?" she had repeated, amused, stepping close enough that you could smell her perfume. Something warm that made your stomach knot. "Is that really what you think of my work?"

You had forced yourself to not fold, though your heart had been racing in a way that had nothing to do with scholarly disagreement. "I think your work is passionate. Sometimes passion can cloud judgment."

"And sometimes," Vi had rebutted easily, her words low enough that only you could hear, "overthinking can prevent you from taking the risks that lead to real breakthroughs."

The moment had stretched between you, charged with implications that had you up at night for weeks. You had been saved from responding by a colleague's interruption, but the encounter had left you shaken in ways you hadn't been prepared to examine.

Since then, every interaction had carried that same foreign undercurrent. Curriculum debriefs where Vi's frequent comments about "loosening up" and "taking risks" seemed directed specifically at you. Hallway run-ins where her smooth confidence made your unfazed facade feel transparent. Late evenings in the library where you would find traces of her—a book left open to a page that contradicted your latest paper, notes scrawled in margins that seemed to taunt you even in her absence.

Everyone had started to notice the shift in your dynamic. Department Chair Heimerdinger had made suggestions about "productive collaboration" and recommended that you might benefit from working together on a joint project. The idea had sent a spike of panic through your chest.

"Burning the midnight oil again, Professor?" Vi's voice cut through your memories, dragging you back to the present.

You didn't look up from your papers immediately, taking a slow sip of your coffee before raising your eyes to meet hers. The sight of her leaning against the doorframe, all suave magnetism and knowing grin, made your blood surge in that familiar, intoxicating way.

"Some of us believe in detailed preparation, Professor Violet. Then again, I suppose your methods have their own uniqueness, hm?"

It was the same dance you had been performing for months, but tonight something felt different. You didn’t know how to explain it. Maybe it was the way the warm lamplight cast shadows that made the boring space feel intimate and tense with possibility.

Vi laughed, pushing herself away from the doorframe with that grace that always made you feel like you were being hunted. "Is that your way of saying you think I'm sloppy?"

"I wouldn't presume to comment on your methods," you shut her retort down, though your tone suggested you had plenty of thoughts on the matter. "I simply prefer structure."

"Structure," Vi echoed, settling into the chair across from you without invitation. The movement brought her into your personal bubble. An offensive strategy that felt deliberate. "Right. Is that why your students call you the Ice Queen?"

The nickname had a different impact when spoken in her alluring drawl, the muted golden glow sculpting her features in severity. For the first time, your composure flickered—just slightly; more than enough for Vi to catch the brief tightening around your eyes.

"I’m shocked that you pay such close attention to student gossip."

"Hard not to when they're constantly comparing us," Vi leaned back in her chair, studying you with an intensity that made your skin burn. "They seem to think we're total opposites."

"Aren't we?" your tone remained level, but the air between you had grown dense. Instances of constantly tiptoeing around each other seemed to crystallise in the gaps between your conversation.

The upward twitch of Vi’s lip was intentional, the expression of someone who had been waiting for exactly this opening. "Maybe. You're all cautious and guarded. I'm more..." she gestured vaguely at herself, "Straightforward.”

You chew the inside of your cheek. “So, you’re calling me a pussy?”

That earns a perplexed bark of laughter from Vi, who now regards you with renewed interest. “I always believe I have the upper hand until you make an unexpected move like that. You keep surprising me, Professor.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘direct’.”

"Direct," you scoffed, finally closing your folder and giving Vi your full attention. This back-and-forth felt like crossing a line, like acknowledging that this had moved beyond regular courtesy. "Is that what we're calling it?"

She tilts her head, pleased, exposing the elegant line of her neck. 

God, you so badly wanted to run your teeth across her neck. 

"What would you call it?"

You found yourself scrutinising Vi's face in turn—the slight curl of her mouth that suggested she was always on the verge of saying something that would shatter your resolve.

"I'd call it reckless," you ultimately declare. You had lost some of your trademark steadiness.

Vi leaned forward, elbows on the table (you try not to drool over the bulging veins in her forearms, the sleeves of her shirt rolled up deliciously), closing the distance between you to make your breath catch. "And what's wrong with a little recklessness?"

You bristled at how Vi's proximity was doing things that you weren't entirely prepared for. The rational part of your mind catalogued all the reasons not to act on impulse—your career and your reputation, for starters. Both undoubtedly significant.

"Everything," you whispered, but it came out breathier than you wished.

"Really?" Vi's voice dropped lower and you realised she had orchestrated this entire setup. The late hour, the empty building, and the way she had positioned herself to make escape impossible without highlighting what was happening between you. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like all that structure and control that you speak so highly of might be... exhausting."

The observation hit too close to home, threatening the foundations of the persona you had spent years crafting. 

You had been attracted to Vi the second she entered your world. For a workaholic like you, however, you couldn’t dare imagine kindling anything with someone you worked with. Especially in your field.

You stiffened, your mask slipping. "I don't know what you're hinting at—"

"I'm not hinting at anything," Vi's hand moved across the table, her fingers just barely brushing against yours where they rested. This was the first time she had properly touched you since you had met each other. "I'm being direct, remember? I think behind all that collectedness, there's someone who wants to let go."

Her statement was a direct hit on every wall you had constructed to maintain your distance from the woman in front of you. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you comprehended that Vi had been observing you. 

She had been reading the signs of strain that you thought you had hidden so thoroughly.

"You don't know anything about me," you managed.

"Don't I?" Vi's thumb traced across your knuckles. "Three years of watching you, competing with you, and trying to get under that perfect, gorgeous exterior of yours. I think I know more than you'd like to admit."

The admission sent heat racing through your veins. You were dizzy, head practically spinning under the weight of her confession.

"This is wrong," you muttered.

"Is it?" Vi's smirk made your core flip with anticipation and terror. "We're coworkers. Equals. Two adults having a talk."

"This isn't just talk," you hissed, mustering a feeble glare.

"No," Vi agreed, bringing your hand up to her lips and letting her tongue dart out to sinfully lick at your forefinger. "It's not."

The action made you shiver with the revelation that this moment could destroy everything you had worked for. But, as Vi sucked on your thumb languidly and her stare darkened, your superficial concerns seem suddenly unimportant.

"What do you want from me?" the question slipped out before you could stop it, vulnerable and raw.

Vi's smile shifted, releasing your thumb with a loud POP!, becoming something softer but no less eager. "I want to see what happens when the Ice Queen melts."

Despite yourself, you snort uncharacteristically. “That's so corny.”

She beams at the sound, resting her chin in her palm innocently. “Would you rather I tell you that I desperately want to fuck you?”

You were losing your grip on yourself, and for the first time in your meticulously engineered life, you didn’t want to stop it.

"Vi..." you started, unsure of how to continue.

She stood, her existence more overwhelming as she moved around the table. You tracked her movement, your chair swiveling to follow her path until she was directly in front of you and you had to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact.

"The thing about being direct," Vi said, referring to your earlier remark, "is that it’s convenient. Efficient. It cuts through all the pretense."

Your hands gripped the arms of your chair, knuckles white with the effort of staying still when every instinct was screaming at you to flee. "I'm not toying with you," you mumbled.

"No?" Vi leaned down, effectively caging you in. She sounded almost… hurt, "All the time I’ve known you, you’ve pretended you don't feel this too."

She was only a few centimetres away from where you could see flecks of gold in her beautiful, blue eyes. "Feel what?" 

Her shaky exhale was answer enough, but she inched forward anyway, her lips almost brushing your own as she spoke. "The same thing I feel every time we're in the same room. The same thing that's been driving this showdown between us from the very beginning."

Your eyelashes fluttered at the sensation of her breath against your skin, your entire being thrumming with an energy you'd been trying to suppress for far too long. She had noticed. Of course she had noticed. Vi never missed anything.

"This can't happen," you choked out. You sounded unconvincing even to your own ears.

"Give me one good reason why not."

You opened your mouth to respond, to list why this would be career suicide for both of you. But looking at Vi, you found yourself speechless.

Your brows furrowed as you discerned you were at a crossroads. Every rational part of your mind was screaming warnings, yet your body was curving into her despite your best efforts to do the opposite.

"I—" 

Vi's hand moved to cup your cheek, her fingers tracing patterns with devastating gentleness.

"Tell me to stop," she murmured, her voice rough with barely contained desire. "Tell me to walk away and we'll pretend this never happened. We'll go back to our professional rivalry and I'll never bring this up again."

The offer should have been a relief. It should have been what you needed to hear to restore your sanity. 

Be that as it may…

You didn't want to pretend. You didn't want to go back to how things used to be. 

You craved her. 

"Vi." This time, her name was akin to a prayer. Her pupils dilated as she registered the complete capitulation in your voice. "That's not telling me to stop," she inquired.

You were past the point of no return now. "I know," you whispered back, your reply dripping with want.

Vi's other hand came up to frame your face, her grip firm and possessive in a way that made your thighs squeeze together. "Do you have any idea," she spoke, brushing your lower lip, "how many times I've imagined this? How many meetings I've sat through, watching your mouth form those brilliant responses, wondering what sounds you'd make if I could just drag you to my private office and bend you over my desk. Make you feel so, so good."

She let the sentence hang between you like a live wire, but her thumb pressed slightly against your lip. You found yourself parting them instinctively to mimic her from before, the tease drawing a sharp intake of breath from Vi that sent heat pooling low in your stomach.

"So long," she continued, "I’ve spent so long watching you be untouchable. Unreachable." Her hold tightened slightly, and you felt completely at her mercy. "Do you know what it does to someone like me?"

"Someone like you?" you ask, though speaking felt impossible.

"Someone who wants to make you come over and over again."

Good lord.

You were trembling, your calm shattered by nothing more than Vi’s mere honesty.

Her chuckle was husky, "Haven't even gotten started, baby. Haven't even seen what happens when I really try to make you lose control."

"Fuck, this is dangerous," you nearly whined, your last attempt to hold onto some semblance of dignity.

"I know," Vi agreed, but she didn't pull away. If anything, she pressed herself closer until you could feel the exhilarating pressure of her chest against yours. "The question is, how many fingers it’ll take before you’re begging me to ruin you?"

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

Simply closed your eyes and nudged your nose against hers, a surrender so complete it left you breathless.

Vi's response was instant and devastating. "Good girl," she groaned against your lips, the words a reward and a promise that made your entire world narrow to this precipice you were about to fall from together.

[tauriam]

narrative timeline wise the asylum theory looks promisable as fuck...

if yandere's abrupt ending (ep 17), where sam gets chased away by rowan and threats of SWAT (around the end, rowan yells out to SWAT members to get him) and yhs' beginning where sam is somehow softer/weaker/a crybaby compared to how he is in yandere (similar to current him*) where he's erratic/violent/more eager to crimes, get taken into consideration ... there's an interesting confusing take of What Happened? for sam's personality to switch that easily

*NOTE: IM AWARE THAT YAN. WAS MADE DURING/AROUND THE END OF TS, SO IT IS EASIER TO JUST KEEP PLAYING THE SAME CHARACTERIZATION BUT LIKE? YOU ARE AWARE THIS IS A PREQUEL. SO WHY —

i just think that its like ... interesting. literally what the fuck happened to the anger issued violent kid when presented with a scared crybaby ten years later? dude what Happened to sam? scary.

[deadpoetsandlivinglegends]

Y’all respectfully don’t mind what this person is saying, please keep posting all your interpretations even if this one person isn’t having fun cause I for one quite enjoy them. I like reading them even if people might see them as ‘mundane’ or ‘basic’ takes because they encourage us to use critical thinking and look deeper at the characters within the media we consume. Seeing tons of interpretations can help me personally think deeper about the media and forces me to determine what my own opinions are, whether from agreeing or disagreeing. Also people trying to say their interpretations is them trying to demonstrate in their own lives the whole point of this movie, like even if people do happen to wrongly label it ‘unpopular opinion’, like literally who cares, people may be running in different sides of the fandom which may have differing opinions on things so to this person they may be under the impression that this is unpopular, which is exactly why we should encourage them to speak up when they have a different opinion because speaking your mind when people hate on you for doing so or for having thoughts on things that may differ from the people around you is an important thing, so like everyone, especially the young adults, please keep giving your interpretations and don’t feel discouraged bout it 🫶

And just so homie can maybe have a little more fun in this fandom and stop *checks notes* ‘gatekeeping interpreting media one consumes from teenagers’ because they *checks notes again* ‘haven’t had enough experience interpreting media so they therefore “don’t understand” how to properly interpret media they consume and therefore should stop trying instead of practicing to get better at it’, I’ll give them one of the ‘character x is misunderstood’ posts based on what they in the tags outlined and determined to be ‘unpopular’ enough for an interpretation.

Despite what the fandom things, Neil’s father was a relatively good father, the best parent out of all the poet’s parents, but he had flaws that caused his downfall. Neil’s father actually cared about his son, but he had faulty ideas because he was failed by the same systems that oppress Neil so he didn’t realize in trying to protect Neil from those systems, he was suppressing and in a way killing his son. Mr. Perry’s own traumas affect his relationship with his son and his decisions he makes in the movie, even if Neil never could see it in that light because he was being taught different than his father.

His father grew up in an environment where he was made to believe that the only way to protect his son and make sure he lived life to the fullest was by trying to help him succeed in the world they were in rather than try to change the world to fit Neil’s needs. His way of showing he loved his son, although we know it was misguided, was by trying to help his son succeed so he doesn’t have to face difficult hardships in life. Mr. Perry likely would have had to live during the Great Depression, watching people struggle to get by, knowing firsthand what it was like and not wanting that life for Neil. He tells Neil that he had opportunities his father didn’t, as we know his father likely lived through this difficult economic time in America followed by likely being affected by World War 2, whether through enlisting or through the draft. Mr. Perry, through pushing Neil into medicine, was trying to open up opportunities for Neil so he wouldn’t feel stuck like those people Mr. Perry had to watch live through these difficult times in history, and the dramatic irony is that through trying to make Neil not feel stuck in the future, he only made Neil feel more stuck now because Neil constantly felt micromanaged and that his desires were plowed over in favor of what his father thinks is best for a future Neil that we know will never exist. Everyone thinks Mr. Perry is too strict for the sake of being strict or is trying to live through Neil, but it’s clear he is a man driven by fear and beliefs stemming from his own trauma of growing up in these flawed systems, trying to make sure his son has a good life. The tragedy comes in when in trying to make sure his son has a good life, he is unknowingly killing his own son.

That is also why he tells keating in that deleted scene that he blames him, because he truly believed he was giving his son the best life his son could get in the world they were in, but then his son had this teacher who encouraged him to pursue a risky career that would cause him to live a tricky life barely getting by if getting by at all, which his son threw away the whole ‘safe’ future Mr. Perry had laid out for him in order to follow this risky barely thought out plan, and when Mr. Perry tries to push his son away from this unsafe and unsuccessful life, his son is so overdriven by emotions that he kills himself.

He didn’t believe the world could be changed and he believed his son trying would only result in him being crushed so he was trying to protect him, but unknowingly was only shutting his son out and causing his son to feel unloved and unheard. This doesn’t make him a bad person or a bad father, but merely a caring father who was a victim of the world he lived in misguidedly trying to force his son to adhere to the system against what his son needed, forcing his son to feel the only way out to be death as his father couldn’t listen due to his own fears. He was a loving father with a fatal flaw that caused not only his downfall but the downfall of those around him too. This does not make Mr. Perry inherently bad as we know he is just as much a victim as those who were hurt by his actions, but that does not mean he was right in his actions.

This story shows us despite our initial beliefs, perhaps adults don’t always know better than children, and it is through listening and open dialogue between the two that these systems work best. Maybe we should sit and think deeply about this before we tell children online to shut up because them having opinions on a topic only results in ‘mundane takes’, just some food for thought, ya know

sometimes i have fun, sometimes i see a post of someone claiming to have an unpopular opinion and then saying the most mundane shit about people "not understanding x character" and i remember this fandom is full of Literal Children

[ericscroptop]

Teacher’s Pet

✧ pairing: student teacher! eric x fem student! reader

✦ genre: smut

✧ warnings: 18+ (minors DNI), smut, male receiving, filthy oral sex, hand job, so much spit, dirty talk, praising, pet names, cursing, kissing, filthy, obsessive reader, power imbalance? public sex? like one comment of degradation (reader is called a slut once), perverted, nasty, messy reader and eric

✦ word count: 5.7k words

✧ synopsis: you’re in your own world, not really a social butterfly and just going about your business in focusing on your education. that is, until your professor’s student teacher catches on to how you’re not so innocent and proper after all.

✦ note: if this type of pairing bothers you, then do not engage! always remember that all my work is purely fiction.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ ˚

Thursday. The day of the week you looked forward to the most.

Every Tuesday and Thursday, you had a Geology lecture to attend.

The course was held during the evening, meaning class would end while it was dark out now because of the recent time change. You kinda hated that.

This course also had no real relation to your major. It wasn’t of any interest to you. You needed a generic science credit, so you had to take it as one of your requirements to graduate.

While picking classes and scheduling for the semester, you happened to have no other choice than to pick this Geology class.

In all honesty though, the content and course in itself wasn’t too bad. Sometimes, lessons of the different types of rocks or volcanoes did activate your brain. Only sometimes.

And, the reason you looked forward to coming to class every Thursday was because your professor was accompanied by a special guest: Eric Sohn.

Your professor had a teaching assistant to work alongside him. You’ll never forget the first day you were introduced to him. You’ve genuinely never seen anyone more handsome than him in your entire life.

Eric Sohn served as one hunk of a man. It’s so shallow and shameful of you to reduce him to sole eye candy, but how could you help it?

There was a juxtaposition between him and other teachers you’ve had in the past.

First things first, he’s a graduate student. He has to be only a few years older than you. Right off the bat, he was obviously more intriguing than the other old geezers (no offense) and middle-aged professors that worked here.

His looks also will immediately hit you like a truck with just one tiny peek at him. The features he was blessed with were hypnotic. His face was crafted beautifully, having honey skin that highlighted those sharp features of his.

On most occasions, thick black frames perched over his prominent nose. He also never slacked off with his outfits, coming to class every week in business casual attire that seemed more elevated with that pretty face of his and unique details.

What made him stand out apart from his handsome and youthful face were the unique coverings that painted and pierced through his skin and body.

The curved barbell on his left eyebrow, silver hoops dangling from his earlobes, and classic black ink that covers one of his forearms makes him look far from ordinary.

It fits him perfectly, bringing the Gen Z out of him that makes him easily stand out in the crowd.

You’re lucky that college exposes you to many cool-looking people. Even so, you never thought one of those people you find ever so alluring, would be one of your teachers.

Your observant-ass only further ate up anything you could pick up on or read based off his mannerisms and speech. He’d sometimes take over the lectures, leading the class instead of your main professor. You dissected the way his hands would relax into his pockets, him push his glasses up now and again, and him suck in a small breath in between talking.

Today was no different than any other time he’s present in class. You attended this course twice a week, but Eric only made an appearance on Thursdays. So you made sure to cherish that hour and thirty minutes in the same room as him extra well.

When you walked into your class and took your spot in your unassigned-assigned seat in the second to first row, you quickly noticed your main professor wasn’t present. So unlike him.

As soon as everyone settled and class begun, Eric announced that your other professor had private matters to take care of that prevented him from coming to campus today, so he’d be in full-force charge of lesson for the day.

Every other time, Eric sat on the sidelines and if he did take over class, it would be under the guidance of your other professor— or for mere assistance.

All the attention would be drawn to him, and for some reason, that made you all giddy inside.

And not to kiss his ass just because of your colossal crush on him, but he gave smooth-tongued lectures. He was an expert on the lessons he gave, very informative and not just reading straight off a powerpoint or textbook.

Maybe his looks played a major role in why you pay attention during lectures, but he really had a way of speaking.

His delivery of the material was satisfying. He’s just as well qualified to teach at the level your older professor does. Furthermore, he’s quite the entertainer, mindlessly throwing witty commentary and fun analogies with his lectures.

He knew how to keep students engaged. Without trouble he brought smiles and laughter to your faces, even getting students to willingly participate.

You on the other hand, stayed on the down low. Funny, ‘cause there isn’t much to hide when your class was on the smaller side— not auditorium-level, the amount of girls in the room could be counted with one hand as this is a male-dominated class, and you chose to sit close to the front.

Still, you remained to stay as a background character, allowing room for the regular extroverts to ask and answer questions and engage in conversations. You weren’t really the type to speak up, and kept to yourself.

Nonetheless, you still paid attention like the rest.

You stayed busy anyways with how your mind ran laps with the various daydreams you envisioned. Eric Sohn served as the main love interest of your created scenarios, constantly sweeping you off your feet and doing things to you that were anything but holy.

Poor you, always in your head, day-dreaming like it’s a disease. Eating away at your brain with fantasies about someone you definitely cannot have, and definitely does not see you in the way you view him. He must already have a lover at home, or he knows he’s hot shit and has everyone wrapped around his finger.

Your thoughts were like that of a young teenager, filled with thirsty fantasies of someone you shouldn’t even dare to see in that way. It’s so hard though; He’s too easy on the eyes.

However, you wouldn’t act on those fantasies, certainly. That’d be ridiculous. But a girl could dream.

During lecture, you diligently took notes while retaining every word and detail that leaves his mouth.

The air in the classroom today was rare. He was in control and in focus, sparking your senses even more than usual.

As much as you tried to tame your dreamy, indecorous thoughts, they couldn’t be kept quiet. You watched the man you crushed on stride while lecturing, hands clasped together and using them to gesture while speaking, making the bracelets adorning his wrists jingle slightly.

His eyes would roam around in front of him as he spoke, not focusing on anything in particular unless he was looking at the projector screen, or person who answered or asked a question.

If his eyes happened to land on you even for a split second, holding contact until he fleeted them away, a hot sensation shot up your body, palms quickly sweaty.

That further provoked you, mindlessly chewing on the end of your pen in attempt to stabilize your heart rate and mind.

You had to be an embarrassment to society, geeking out over your hot student teacher as if you were an immature teenager. Here you were, squealing internally inbetween note-taking, striving to keep your hormones under control.

He’s just too damn attractive for your own good. How can you not yearn for him and ogle, even letting your eyes zero in and lower down towards his cro—

“See you guys next week! Have a good and safe weekend. Don’t forget to stay warm, it’s getting chillier.” Eric’s voice snaps you out of your perverted trance.

Quickly, the sounds of students rising from their seats and items being packed echoed the room. Some were eager to flee out, not hesitating in heading towards the door.

A quiet sigh lets out your mouth. Whether it be from exhaustion, relief, or getting the ick from your feelings— who knows?

You’re just ready to get back to your place, have some dinner, and fall deep into sleep. When you start to get a couple steps out from your row though, a voice catches your attention.

“Miss, Y/L/N?”

You stopped in your tracks.

“Can you stay for a bit? There’s something I want to discuss with you.”

Your heart dropped to your ass.

“Sure!” you voiced, calmly walking towards the front of the room where he stood. On the inside, you were anything but that.

You cannot recall a time that you were asked to stay after for something you’re unaware of. You’ve barely had any real interactions with your professor, let alone the student teacher. So what could this possibly be about?

Everyone else exited aside from yourself and three students who were talking to Eric. You’d figure people would wanna bolt out of class as soon as possible, but there was always those students that had burning questions post-lecture. Or in this case, simply wanted to linger longer to chat it up with the coolest guy ever.

You timidly stood on the sidelines, patiently waiting for them to wrap up their conversation.

With each second that passed, it made you even more anxious. Not only did you have to chat with your professor about God knows what, but it’s with the guy that unknowingly lives in your mind rent free.

In the time it takes to wrap it up with your classmates, you’re starting to prepare yourself for the worst-case scenario. Recently, you had written and submitted a two-page report, paired with a powerpoint on a particular landmark. Honestly, the requirements for it weren’t too strict, and it was certainly nothing compared to the ten-page paper you had to write for a different course.

But, you did write it last minute, and you had a habit of taking things from the internet and just rearranging the sentence structure.

There’s a chance that he wants to chat with you to reprimand you for your work. Oh, God. If you find yourself in a case of plagiarism, you don’t know what you’ll do with yourself. You’re getting queasy just picturing it. He needs to hurry up and get this over with since you’re shitting bricks while—

“Hey, so, I wanted to talk about your recent report.”

Fuck. Here we go.

“Your report was phenomenal. I read yours already— I have yet to put in the grades, but yours was probably the best in the class.”

Huh?

He’s commending you? In-person over an amateur, half-assed assignment that was nothing in comparison to actual, well-written research reports.

I mean, it is worth a decent percentage of your grade, but still…

“Oh— wow, uh, thanks. I didn’t think it was that impressive.” there’s a mix of surprise, confusion, and relief within your tone. You give him a shy smile, loosely playing with your fingers. Your eyes don’t dart away from his, though. It’d be disrespectful to do so, and as much as the shared gaze made your body roar in flames, you needed to remain nonchalant.

“Please, you’d be surprised how many college students can’t write for the life of them.” he scoffs, smiling at the thought. It prompts you to laugh softly. You swear you see sparkles in his eyes, and that gorgeous smile of his has your heart skipping beats.

“It’s refreshing to read some good stuff. Especially from a student like yourself.”

Your eyes widen just a tad at that, not going unnoticed by Eric.

“You’re not as outspoken or talkative as the others— at least, not in class. Which, I totally get. But, it’d be nice to hear more from you.”

You still give him a polite smile, sorta sheepish at his words. It is true that you remain on the quieter side. There was a severe lack of participation from you. Curse your timidness.

“It’s always the quiet ones that always work the hardest.”

That has you blushing hard. Your unattainable crush acknowledging you and going as far as to personally applaud you for efforts you thought went unnoticed.

To be experiencing this is like a dream; You don’t want to wake up.

Even if you outwardly denied it or just shyly smiled and brushed it off on the exterior, on the inside, it boosted your confidence and made you feel like you were worth something via the eyes of someone else.

Any compliment given to you had you eating it up, craving more even after you digested it. Constantly seeking validation in any form.

“I’ve heard that it’s also the quiet ones with a colorful imagination… and are the freakiest.”

Now that gets the smile on your face to slowly falter, looking at him all paralyzed, while he just casually dips his hands in his pockets, all relaxed as if he didn’t just insinuate something outlandish.

“Wouldn’t you agree?” he nods, you still confused.

“I’m sorry, what?” you nervously laughed. If you weren’t mistaken, you’d believe he was being suggestive. Provocative, perhaps? But this couldn’t be.

He has to laugh back, amusement etched in his features at your expression. Unfortunately you seem oblivious, but luckily for you, he’s not.

“Don’t act so coy, now.” he takes a small step forward, but it’s still enough to close distance between you two. Your heart’s palpitating.

“Or are you really clueless?” he cocks his head, allowing his eyes to freely rake over your form.

The height difference isn’t striking, but his glaring makes you feel rather small. You’ve indulged in the fantasy you’ve created of him having you as he wished and vice versa in your head. But the possibility of it unveiling behold you is… hard to swallow.

“You’re not so subtle with that little act you’ve got going on. I see the way you look at me.”

Fuck.

Now is when you panic. Your face is turning red hot, and there’s this dizzy feeling that’s bestowing upon you in hearing that he’s aware of your gawking. The desire to run away and bury yourself into a hole is vastly strong right now. But there’s no escaping from this.

“Mr. Sohn, I’m really sorry… I— I’m so sorry if I made you uncomfortable… This is really inappropriate of me.” by this point, your eyes were growing heavy, flickering with tears threatening to break out. This was so shameful, and there’s really nothing you can do to save yourself from your disgusting behavior.

However, it surprises you when he doesn’t start spitting out rightfully-deserved berates.

Instead, his hands fly up to hold your shoulders.

“Hey, hey…. Who said it made me uncomfortable.” he utters softly while holding you, making you bite your lip to keep yourself stable. His touch and what he says has you looking at him all misty-eyed, perplexed to say the least.

He wets his lips with his tongue and snickers, looking off to the side before locking his vision back to you.

“The way you look at me and my bulge is really fucking hot.”

It feels like your ears are playing tricks on you. This has to be some sort of test, or maybe you’re too caught up in your head that this feels real.

He gestures his hand out for you to grab it, and while hesitant at first, you do. He directs your hand over his crotch, pressing it over the area.

You gasp silently in shock that you’re actually feeling his clothed dick. Eric lowly breathes, eyes still on you with a visible appetite. Your gaze wobbles from his eyes to where your hand rested underneath his.

His manhood’s seemingly begging to be let free from his slacks, cock kissing your hand through the layers with a gnawing throb.

“Is this what you want?”

This sounded like a straight-up Wattpad fantasy. Shit like this actually happened in real life? Eric Sohn was making a move on you, being so risqué. And what makes it worse is that you’re falling for it, as this is all you’ve ever hoped for.

“You really want me like this?” that’s really the best response you could come up with. There’s a possibility he’s playing tricks on you. He could be teasing you and then turn this into some sick joke.

But he continues to leer over the length of your body, particularly lingering over your chest. Mentally you hi-fived yourself for deciding on a low-cut top today. Though, having this sudden ravenous attention on you made you want to disintegrate. How can you handle this heat?

His eyes soften for a moment, grinning while moving a hand to grab hold of your chin gently. Your breathing practically stills at the contact with starry eyes.

“‘Course, baby. You’re gorgeous.” he breathes out, making you purse your lips to prevent yourself from smiling like an idiot. Your cheeks on the other hand, are definitely blushing like a bitch.

His thumb slides faintly over your cheek until it’s dangerously close to your lips, hanging just on the corner of your mouth.

“Will you show me how good of a girl you are and blow me?” his breath fans out in front of you, pussy pulsing from his plead.

Your lips part in surprise. His utterance makes you go blank, and you only stare at him with a gaze that asks if this is crossing the line.

But with the way you haven’t protested against his behavior thus far, and having knowledge of your feelings towards him, that’s enough to tell him that you’re intrigued and willing to get dirty.

He should make sure to have your verbal consent, though.

The tip of his thumb fully lands on your bottom lip, beginning to strum slowly at the appendage. His eyes are overcast with carnal desire, while yours are too entranced on him, battling with yourself to not close them, for you fear you’ll miss out on what’s in front of you.

“Words, hon.” he says sweetly. This overwhelming feeling to give yourself to him and let him have it crashes over you. The idea of this gorgeous man blessing your mouth and throat with his cock sounds heavenly.

Now that you’re living your wildest dream, put into this position, looking into his eyes up close, you’re blind to any morality. Having his attention like this makes you want to submit to anything he has to say.

You’re not thinking about how wrong this is, or how it may make you seem whorish to willingly give yourself up to him like a naive girl.

You just need to have a taste of him.

“Wanna suck you off. More than anything.” deep inside your soul and in the back of your mind, indignity resides there. But, you have this chance to be sexually frisky with this man. There was no way in hell you could pass this up.

He gives you a satisfied smirk at your answer, dropping his hand from your face and giving you a nod.

“On your knees.” he instructs.

Despite your confident words, your heart’s pounding. You find his attractiveness intimidating, so as weak and desperate as you are for him, you hope he be the same for you.

You kneel down in front of him, ignoring the cold, dusty floor that you fall upon. Your hands rest over your thighs, orbs overlayed with vulnerability and form ready to offer yourself.

Eric wastes no time, the unbuckling and loosening of his belt ringing in your ears. You swear you start to feel arousal pool in your panties just from that.

His pants drop to his ankles shortly after, eye-level with his dick that pushes up against his briefs, looking tight and bulky.

You shift slightly and blink anxiously. Although your core is whirling in excitement, you turn to the door of the classroom, praying nobody walks in or will be aware of what’s about to happen in this very room.

Eric understands, but he needs your mouth now before any more anxieties get to you. And he’s already falling for the temptation of you sat like a good girl for him, all pretty-faced with your breasts perked out, proving his neediness for you even more.

“This is all between me and you, baby girl. Don’t act so innocent now. Put those thoughts into action.” he says softly while palming himself, groaning softly while he gives himself a few caresses.

That beautiful sound of his gets you to whimper weakly, making him raise a brow and chuckle at the ounce of sound.

“Want me to make your dreams come true, hon?” Hm?”

You wet your lips and plead with your eyes before reminding yourself to use that mouth of yours as well. “Let me help you.” you murmured.

That cues him to free his cock, briefs joining his pants at the bottom while his entire length springs up, meeting it in all its glory.

Eric grabs it, tauntingly waving it in front of you, your pupils following and processing his hefty size, especially fixating on his pink tip.

“It’s all yours. Have at it.” with that, he lets go of his shaft and you reach to let it grace your dominant hand, starting off with a light hold.

The feeling of your hand over his length has his breath hitching, more so when your finger tips start outlining a vein and caressing his cock skin, getting comfortable with him.

His bottom is leaning against the teacher’s desk, hands holding onto the edge of it as you finally touch him with your lips. You drag and pucker your lips to greet his cock calmly at first, giving his tip nice kisses and tasting it by tonguing at his slit.

That causes him to hiss and provide you with a lazy smile.

“Cute, hmm… Sweet girl.” he coos, mesmerized when you give his blushed tip one last smooch before letting your tongue hang out to smooth it over the underside of his length, dragging it all the way to the top and flashing him with a seductive gaze.

You left behind your saliva and savored the taste of his skin, treating his shaft like the yummiest popsicle you’ve been dying to try.

Eric’s lips part, hissing out a curse word at that dangerous, sultry look of yours as you lick up on him. That dirty side of you that you kept veiled is coming out for him to see.

The chance to comment on your teasing is ripped away from him when you suddenly envelop your lips around his head, one hand on his base gripping him with just enough effort while your mouth got to sucking some of his cock to start off.

It makes him immediately throw his head back, throat rumbling from the sensation, cock fluttering.

Your movements are not rushed at all to begin with, stroking his cock with your mouth at a calm rhythm and stopping for a second when you reached his tip again. Repeating this process a couple times.

You stayed with this pace until you felt the need to take a minor break, removing yourself entirely from his length to take a breather.

You licked your lips and still gave him stimulation with your hand while you were off, lubricating him with the saliva you’ve left behind and ensuring to spread the precum that’s shining from his tip.

“I knew you’d treat me good…. Little vixen.” he compliments you, bringing a hand to one side of your head, holding some hair that threatened to cover that gorgeous face of yours.

You stretched your body up, squeezing your thighs together and breasts to express how turned-on this got you.

Bubbles of spit emerged from your lips as you looked up at him with pouty-eyes, honeyed look such a contrast from the dirty work your mouth’s doing.

With a hand still resting on the side of your face, he guides your mouth back to his shaft.

Readily, you open up and take him into your moist entrance, grabbing hold of his thighs for security while you allow him to take control of your movements.

Eric’s incapable of holding out against the urge to push his hips towards the source that’s granting him divine pleasure. So, he thrusts into your mouth and you allow it, accommodating to being driven deeper by relaxing your jaw and sticking out your tongue.

He bobs you over his cock repeatedly, every other couple shoves closer to his end than the last.

Your lips sucked and squeeze his girthy length, saliva building up as you sucked him off, creating wet sounds. The farther he pushed you, it felt like you were swallowing him. His fat cock buried inside your mouth, making you whimper at the fullness that consumed you.

“Shhhhh… Be good for me, sweetie. You can take it, yeah?” he coaxes, pushing you further and stopping once your mouth was fully stuffed and nose touched his pubic bone.

Choking on his entire cock dazed you, trying your best to remain calm and let him hold you for a bit in this position before you needed fresh air.

The groans of his were gratifying, altering your brain chemistry from his sounds and having him shove your throat full of his fatty meat. You wanted to prove to him that you deserved this. That you’re a girl he’ll never forget.

He pulls you off after some seconds pass, hand falling to his side and you immediately gasped for air, brows knitted together as you coughed. You were slobbering, spit raining down your chin.

You hate wasting time though so once you collect yourself, you dive down towards his ballsack, navigating your tongue along his sack and lower shaft, licking up on him with a teasing smile and breathy laugh.

You then starts to kiss his balls affectionately, sucking them with eager in between. Nose-deep into his sack, his wet shaft taps your head, your insides swirling from indulging in his package.

“Cock drunk, aren’t ya, eh?” he sneers, amused by your head game and breathing heavily from such.

You simply continue smiling, and stick your tongue out. Eric grabs hold of his cock, slapping his tip over it lightly three or four times, you humming at this heavy feeling.

Your core shivers from his dark, dilated eyes blaring down into you. In front of you, Eric’s enjoying the view and service you provide to him. Being on your knees, face growing messier by the second, seeing the sneak peek of your tits in that top, and that cheeky smile of yours is driving him mad.

He knows for a fact that you’re gonna make him bust soon.

Ardently, your mouth finds itself closing over his length again. A hand of yours holds his wet base while you go to town on him, blowing only halfway and flicking your tongue back and forth.

Eric’s so greedy, and decides to challenge you once more by grabbing a fistful of some of your hair to have a hold on you. He doesn’t aggressively pull on you, though. He just wants to keep you in just the right spot while he starts boning into your mouth again.

He bites down on his bottom lip before letting go to part his lips in bliss, moaning from your increased sounds of slurping and squelching. It’s insanely hot and wet, fucking up his senses in the best way possible.

“You may act like a sweetheart, but you suck cock like a fucking slut.” he grunts out, getting your pussy to clench from him referring to you as such. You’d suck his dick like a slut for him any time, any where.

His free hand maneuvers to your chin, holding you even more fastened. He doesn’t let up dragging you over his length, having hold on you to keep you just where he wants you.

Tears brim your eyes, vision blurry as you swallow and are stuffed full of girthy cock. He face fucks you into oblivion, incessantly bullying your throat. There’s a chance he’d bruise your soft palate, but getting him off meant more than temporary pain.

The amount of spit that soaked his manhood had you gurgling, splash-like sounds on repeat like a song. Those smutty noises push his drive even more, chasing after the high that’s calling to him. Almost there.

You moaned and hummed around him. Partly because you were also aroused at the sounds being produced, but also because your jaw was sorta starting to burn. There was no intent on stopping, though.

“Fuck, you feel so good, baby girl.” his throat rumbles, largely from the vibrations of your moans stimulating his shaft further.

Air was getting knocked our of your lungs, and he further pushed your limits by bringing your face against his pubic bone again. Your lips stretched out as far as you could get them to, nose squished against his skin, with your bottom lip and chin touching his sack.

His cock fully down and inside the canal of your mouth/throat has him spacing out, consumed in the feeling of you taking care of his beloved manhood incredibly well.

Tears burn your eyes and one or two even manage to slip down to your cheek. His girthy cock is jammed-packed in your mouth, feeling clogged up and overloaded. It has you pressing your nails sharply into the skin of his thighs. Eric releases guttural groans, motivating you to stay strong.

After a moment, he kindly pulls you off. You’re tugged off with a large heave paired with choked mewls. Bubbles and foam of your drool slip down his length, tears staining your cheeks from the intensity.

Your face is definitely fucked up thanks to his cock, but Eric looks down at you with heavy lidded eyes, mesmerized by the ironically holy sight that looks so attractive from his perspective.

“Pretty girl.”

You whimpered at his remark, inching over to his balls to hide yourself and finish your job. You’re growing tired, but you sensually kiss and suckle some more at his hefty sack, ensuring to provide them with equal attention.

You could swear this gets him to let free a whimper, and so you persist with playing with them. You burrow and brush your nose and mouth against his balls, dreamy smile radiating your features.

Eric in concert grabs a hold of his cock, stroking and gripping himself in the right spots. He pumps his slippery shaft, head spinning from the touches, cock growing more stiff and breathing as heavy as ever.

“Shit, almost there.” he rasps, all tensed.

“Lemme cum down your throat.” he requests, knowing that it will be rapturous.

Plus, it would be easier to empty out down your throat instead of on your face, or anywhere else.

Eager to drain him dry, you swiftly swing up and over his shaft one last time.

Hard, but lazily, he jerks and twitches in your mouth, dominant hand holding onto your hair strands. He grunts and growls while exploding spurts of his seed inside your mouth.

Your eyes are shut, soaking in the sensation of him impregnating your mouth.

His hard cock pulsates, cum blazing as it releases. When he finally stops twitching, you swipe your tongue over his tip to make sure every last drop ends up in the right place.

He pulls out, his labored breathing serving as background noise while you swirl the thick consistency of his nut around, savoring him before letting it all slide down your throat.

You covered your mouth politely while swallowing, (even though there’s no point in being well mannered after giving him an untamed blow job) ensuring none of it spills out and all travels down you esophagus.

His body and psyche feels weak after orgasming, and his spine shivers while he catches his breath, but he still attempts to look at you: blinking in a daze, sniffling and licking at your lips.

Paired with messy, out-of-place hair, there’s a big ring around your mouth and nose area that no longer matches the rest of your face. He throat-fucked most of your makeup off, making him chuckle at your appearance and appreciating your devoted labor.

“You’re so fuckin’ sexy. Wish you could see yourself right now.” he says in awe.

“Lemme see, open wide for me.” he then refers to showing him that you drank him up all the way.

Obeying, you open and stick out your tongue, giving him that proud look of a girl who swallowed every last bit of cum given to her.

“That’s a good girl. A really good girl.” he smirks, letting a hand down to the top of your head, patting your head delicately.

That has your cheeks swelling in fulfillment, cunt just as happy to hear that praise from the way it tingles.

His hand slithers lower towards your mouth, swiping affectionately at your corner. Although you already showed how strongly you felt about him with your head game, you impulsively grabbed that same hand. You direct it to your lips, kissing the skin of his knuckles, eyes remaining on him as you dropped those soft pecks.

Through his glasses, you can see lust and fascination present in his eyes. More strings start pulling him towards you, past the literal strings of saliva that attached you to his cock earlier.

To your surprise, he falls to the ground, now leveled with you.

“You okay, hon?” he coos suddenly, realizing he hasn’t respectfully checked in on if you were alright from what just went down.

Your eyes soften when his do, and you twinkle at him. “Yeah.” you murmured.

He observes your blotchy, smudged, and streaked face again, biting his lower lip with a broad smile.

“Such a messy baby.” That was so hot. So good for me.”

In the blink of an eye, his lips are on yours. While a bit shocked, you fall smoothly into the kiss gladly. He kissed you tenderly, passion burning through the movement of one another’s appendages. You were kissing Eric Sohn. Your student teacher.

“Whatcha say we go back to my place and get you cleaned up and taken care of, hm? Sound good?”

This is all unethical, but how could you pass this up? Nothing mattered except for the man you just gave the sloppiest top to. This is pathetic of you, but you needed more of him. And you reckon he wants to get to know more of you, too.

“Okay.” you grinned.

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