#The Down Under Slide Collection

[carryonlikewedidbefore]

YM’s “50 Hottest Guys Issue” Party - Mondrian Hotel

10th February 1998 Photographer: Miranda Shen

High-Quality Version | The Down Under Slide Collection

[carryonlikewedidbefore]

Hey op. Thanks for reposting my slide without credit. I appreciate it 🙄

Jensen Ackles

[reignpage]

Quick! Go Hide

in which you prank the sleeping jjk men by telling them, 'You need to hide; my boyfriend's home!'...saw it on tiktok heh

Satoru croaks, “Oh, shit. He is?” 

Groggily, he clambers out of bed and hides in the bathroom, bare feet padding. In the dark, he waits. Seconds pass and he shows no sign of realising what games you’re playing. When you go to collect him, you find him asleep, standing with his forehead pressed to the cold tile, drooling. 

“Is he gone?” He asks, voice raspy, shaken awake once again. You nod, biting your lip to keep from laughing. “Good ‘cause I’m too tired to fight anyone…I’d win though.” 

Soon after, in bed, he continues sleeping. And it’s only in the morning that you find him grinning and prodding your puffy cheek. “That was really funny, babe. Ten out of ten. No notes.”

Suguru's brows furrow. Without opening his eyes, he mutters, “Nice try.”

“No, really. You gotta go; he’ll kill you.” A curse emerges, large and foreboding, just watching in the corner of the room. Shivers wrack your body. It doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, nor utter a single sound. Still, the message is clear. You roll your eyes and cuddle into your boyfriend’s side. “You’re no fun.”

He tucks you in close. “Try again in the morning, pretty girl. I’m sure I’ll be more fun when I’m not half asleep.”

Choso startles awake, bloodshot eyes widening. “Oh no. What should we do?”

He lets you shove him into the closet, shirtless and hair a mess. There he stands patiently, shuffling on his feet and holding his breath. Then, when a minute passes, he has a moment of realisation. Creaking open, the closet door widens to reveal him – he looks unimpressed…and pouty. 

“I’m your only boyfriend; why do I need to hide?”

You giggle. “Sorry, Cho. It was just a joke.’

“I don’t really see what’s funny,” he grouches as he gets back into bed with you, wrapping his arms tight around your body and tucking his head in the crook of your neck, quickly forgetting your prank once his senses are overwhelmed with you. 

Toji peeks one eye at your faux panicked face. He shoves it away, grumbling under his breath about how much of a brat you are and shifts into a different position; he’s got his back turned to you now. Undeterred, you shake him one more time. “I’m being serious. You gotta hide, Toji.”

“Leave me alone, woman. I don’t wanna deal with your shit right now.”

You drape your entire body over his. His beefy arm comes around to keep you steady, in case you fall off the bed with your clumsy ass. “Okay, but if he beats you up and takes me away, your loss.”

He grunts. “I’d like to see anyone try.”

Then, to keep your mouth from disturbing his sleep any longer, he suffocates your face in between his pecs, a hand on your ass, groping it for compensation.

Kento jolts, hands grabbing you to push your body behind his. He scans the room, then the door, waits for the intruder, ready to defend. Only when he hears your stifled laughter does he truly process what you told him. He sighs, hand rubbing down his face. “Can’t sleep again, darling?”

“No. The baby keeps kicking me.” You smile when his warm palm caresses your stomach. 

Leaving a kiss on your forehead, he mutters, “I’ll give them a stern talking to; no child of mine hurts my wife. Now, would you like a midnight snack or should we stay up and watch the stars again?”

Lifted out of bed, he carries you in his arms, intent on keeping your bare feet from touching the cold floor. Even as sleep still courses through his veins, he’s determined to meet your every need – Kento couldn’t fall asleep again knowing you’re wide awake anyway. 

Sukuna doesn’t awaken. He’s as still as a corpse. You try again. And again. Nothing. When you pout and smack his chest, one of his four arms snatches your waist and slides you onto his huge body. Your ass is being patted, as is your head, and with another arm, he rubs your back. 

Calmly, his chest rumbles with his words. “All your previous partners are dead. No one will disturb us. Sleep.”

“Okay, Kuna…wait…no, they aren’t.”

He doesn’t reply, leaving you to wonder when he had the time to hunt them down one by one when he spends so much time never leaving your side in the first place. No answer comes to mind, not when his body can be so persuasive in pulling you to the land of slumber with him. Though, you are certain he whispers, ‘They will be,’ when he thinks you won’t hear. Try and follow up the next day though and he’ll shrug off your concerns with a, ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

[carryonlikewedidbefore]

Just imagine the amount of freckles that are covered up by the makeup here. I love that you can just see the line where the powder stops

i live here now btw

[spurbleu]

i really need johnny with a bird who’s never been eaten out before because I know that man is hungry.

johnny and you have been inseparable since the cradle. a friendship older than his siblings children. which means the both of you are entirely transparent with each other- the skin and bones of your stories is consumed without question. that includes, appropriate or not, sexual encounters.

when you tell him, he’s just shy of appalled. given, you hadn’t been with too many men, but enough that it’s strange none of them have even offered to get their mouth between your legs. especially with how good he knows they’d feel, on his-their shoulders. how sweet you probably taste. how hot it would be to watch you- fuck.

“ah will.”

you throw a confused look over your shoulder as you pour the both of you another cup of tea.

“you’ll what?”

“eat ye out.”

you feel the lavender go up your nose and steam your sinus until it short circuits. you miscalculate where the stove is, and set the pot down with a loud clank. wincing, you look back up at him, searching the blue of his eyes for any sign of humor.

when you come up empty handed you realize he’s entirely serious.

“johnny- i don’t think-“

“donae play coy nae, ah wanna show ye whatcha been missin’.”

your lips flatten into a harsh line. you run your tongue on the backs of your teeth, trying to collect any courage you’ve got in you to respond. friends don’t eat each other out…right?

but he’s doing it to help you. to…show you what you’ve been missing. a favor. a kindness between you and the strong, wide shoulders you’ve cried on.

your mouth is sticky when you respond. “okay.”

his grin is wolfish. “aye, tha’s a girl.”

he guides you to the couch, with enough gentleness to make you flush. kneels between your legs as you rest up against the pillows he set behind the arch of your back. slides your pants off with one hand, the other on your waist, thumb swiping in a soothing rhythm below your belly button.

you feel like syrup, leaning your head back and missing the way he licks his lips when he looks at your damp panties.

“relax, hen. yer gonna enjoy tis, promise.”

he does not eat you out with the same softness he prepped you with. slides your panties to the side and immediately shoves his nose between your mounds, and you gasp, spine arching away from the pillows instinctively. he laughs, but it’s muffled by your soaked lips.

explores every fold until you don’t know if you’re soaked by your own arousal, or his spit. but doesn’t matter, because soon he focuses on your clit, and your hands come to crowd his hair. tugging at his mohawk, rolling your hips forward into his face.

“w-wait…hah..”

he doesn’t, tongue ruthless against you. the sensitivity burns- new sensations flaring up from your core to your belly, legs beginning to shake. he feels it, and hooks them around his shoulders.

he’s messy, too. the sounds echoing off your cunt and against his nose are obscene, but he doesn’t quit it until you’re riding his face and to lost in your bliss to still operate under your usual shyness.

you silently wonder what he’s getting out of this. you’ve been friends forever, and although sometimes your banter feels flirtatiously charged, neither have ever acted on it. something you acknowledge but never name. water it and then shove it back in the closet you played dress up in as kids.

and now he’s eating you out. for fun.

you want to ask him, but you only get as far as, “J-Johnny…Johnny fuck- fff…w-why?”

you moan when he separates from your swollen cunt, only to be yanked from your stupor when he pulls you closer to his mouth by your hips.

“because,” again, eyes uncharacteristically serious, “ah’ve been tryin’ fer years.”

dives back in, and adds his two fingers deep into your hole as he sucks on your clit. at that, you cum over his face, limbs crowding his head with the incoherent curses your orgasms rips out of you.

when he pulls back away from you, he gives your cunt a harsh pat, and pulls your mouth apart with his thumb, before placing his fingers on your tongue.

“taste tha’?” his stare is hungry, like he didn’t swallow everything you had, “tha’s what the bastart’s you’ve been wastin’ yerself on have’bin missin’.”

you nod, like you’ve been taught a lesson. he pulls his fingers away, stands and stretches. when he looks back at you again, whatever beast possessed him is gone, and he smiles at you smugly.

“fun, yeah?”

you lean your head back, spent, “fuck off.”

“aw, c’mon nae, no tank yew? shame on ye, using me like tat.”

you throw your hands in the air. “you offered!”

he laughs, and the air is normal. you almost forget you’re naked. almost forget you came over his face.

almost miss how he pockets your panties before grabbing the cups of tea from the kitchen.

[nanamisgirly]

you gotta win if you wanna cum ྀི

“keep playing” gojo murmurs barely audible, almost embarrassed to say it—but his fingers are already slipping under your shorts like he's done this in his head a hundred time. “i-i wanna see if… my good girl can win…like this.” his fingers slid past the hem of your shorts. 

It was supposed to be just another quiet night. you, your switch, and your nerdy boyfriend with messy hair and a half-finished soda on the table. you were in his lap, like always, thighs straddling his left one, back against his chest. His glasses were crocked because of your head resting on the side of his face. his hands had been resting, harmlessly, mid-thigh.

but tonight it seems like they had a mind of their own. his palms slided up, awkward at first, like he was working up the nerve. and once he brushed your inner thigh and felt how warm you were—how you were already grinding a little without realizing, he sucked in a shaky breath.

“y-you’re, um…" he chuckled nervously, “you're kinda…really…wet already. that's-uh- that's cute.” you can feel how red his ears are. can hear the shaky exhale he lets out as he presses two fingers against the damp fabric of your panties.

you tried to focus on the screen, but his fingers pushed beneath your panties, hesitant but hungry, dragging along your slit with a low groan. his voice was uneven when he spoke again—like he was trying to sound teasing but couldn't hide how wrecked he was.

“wh-what kind of gamer gets this needy holding a controller?” he stammered.

you jolted, hips twitching into his touch, and he gasped softly against your neck—his cock straining against his sweats, and he bit down on a shaky moan.

“i—fuck, wait—don’t cum yet,” he breathed out quickly, as if panicked by how close you already felt. “you—you can’t. not unless you beat the level. that’s the rule.”

you whimpered, legs trembling, gripping the controller tighter as his fingers toyed with your clit in little circles. It was almost clumsy but somehow that made it worse. and the nerdy tone he used—the one when explaining game stats or why a manga panel made him cry—being used, now, to deny your orgasm was really hot.

“i just—it's stupid, but i get turned on seeing you so focused,” he admitted, voice breaking with a shy laugh. “you always look so serious when you play, and i just—kinda wanna mess that up…” when you buck forward, your hips grinding down onto the firm flex of his thigh, he gasps like he’s the one being touched.

“you’re—ngh—you’re seriously doing that on my leg?” His voice cracks in disbelief, cock twitching in his pants. “d-didn’t know you l-liked that…”

his hand creeps up under your shirt with all the subtlety of a boy who’s fantasized about this a thousand times. he palms your breast awkwardly at first, afraid he’ll mess it up, but once his fingers find your nipple—he’s not shy anymore.

he groans, deep and sharp, twisting the sensitive bud between two fingers. “f-fuck, that's so soft,” he breathes. “you're not allowed to b-be this soft when i'm trying…when i'm trying to be m-mean.”

your hands are trembling, buttons mashed half-heartedly as he toys with you like you're his favorite collectible. the pleasure clouds everything. your character on screen stumbles, gets hit, and before you can react—

game over. you freeze, the screen flashes in cruel pixelated defeat.

gojo blinks, “you lost?” his voice is unfortunately too high to be cocky, too breathless to be smug.."c-c'mon you're supposed to be my elite little gamer." you squirm in his lap, frustration boiling in your cheeks—not just from the lost, but also from the aching throb between your legs. “you k-kept distracting me!”

he hums, almost pathetic. then he presses two fingers against your clit, “close doesn't count,” he whispers as he pinches, a sharp flick to your swollen bud. the arm around your chest tightens, his thumb rolling your nipple like it's a fidget toy.

you whine, your head drop on his shoulder, “i w-will win.”

“that's ma girl,” he kisses your temple before licking a stripe behind your ear. “b-but until then…” he presses his thigh up, grinding it into your core while teasing your nipple between sharp tugs. “you're m-mine to play with.”

your fingers tighten around the controller, eyes locked on the screen. and every time you press a button, he mirrors it with a flick or a pinch or a firm grind of his thigh into your pulsing heat.

“shit—satoru,” you breathe, trying to keep your avatar alive.

“keep g-going, you're doing just r-right." he mutters, voice shaky. his glasses are fogged, his hands aren't steady, and his cock is rock-hard beneath you, straining uselessly against his sweats as your soaked core grinds down, again and again, onto his tense thigh.

“you wanna cum?” he asks as he licks the shell of your ear—shaky and wrecked. “t-then win… be my good gamer girl. beat the boss f'me, please...” he presses down harder, rubs the letters W-I-N in slow motion on your sensitive bundle. the pressure is maddening—never enough, always just shy of what you need—and it drags you into the haze of overstimulation.

the motion causes your character to stumble, again, and the screen flashes—again. 

gojo groans, high-pitched. “babyyy—c'mon, you can do better,” he pants, cock twitching. “th-that's a little pathetic, don't make me beg f'you to win…”

you try to grind against his hand, desperate and needy to soothe the ach between your legs. “p-please—satoruu, just let me,”

he chokes out a laugh—breathless and delirious—his grip on your nipple tightens, making you whimper. “s-sowwyyy,” he mumbles, but it sounds more like an apology from someone completely gone. “rules are—ah!—rules, i gotta stick to 'em, right?”

but you lose. again and again.

and by the fourth try, you're barely able to see straight. your legs are trembling, pussy drooling over his pants, leaving an enormous wet patch on his thigh.

he buries his face against your neck, glasses slipping sideways, voice a ragged mess of broken need. “we’ll keep playing,” he groans, like it physically pains him, “until my perfect gamer girl learns to beat the boss while g-getting ruined so bad she forgets her own name.” you moan uncontrollably at his words, tears forming at the corner of your eyes.

his nose nudges your temple, “you sound so pretty when you whine like that.” his voice is so soft. “you feel even better.” your grinding gets slower, deeper, and gojo's hands go from gripping your breasts to fumbling—desperately—with the waistband of your shorts. 

“he-he, wait—" his sentence breaks off in a cracked moan as his thumb drives back to your panties, finding your clit, drawing unfocused circles like he's forgotten what rhythm even is. his face is flushed, so desperate it's almost pitiful—fingers slipping and smearing your slick everywhere, breathing out broken pleas between every twitch. “y-you're so wet, i can't—fuck—i can't—t-this is so fucked up, i can't think—”

gojo groans through his teeth, his whole frame trembling. “fuuuuuck, y-you gotta stop, i'm-i’m…gonna…” he's desperately trying to keep it together but failing spectaculary. his cock jerking under you with every buck. “s-shouldn't feel this good—fucking h-hell, i'm gonna cum—gonna cum in m-my pants…OHSHITOHSHITFUCKSHITFUUUCK”

his whole body jerks, sudden and absolutely out of his control. an embarrassed moan bursts his lips as he ruts up against your ass—cumming hard, painting the inside of his sweats in sticky heat. his cock twitches helplessly, completely untouched. he whimpers your name into your shoulder like it's a confession. his glasses slip right off, forgotten, as his head lolls against you.

gojo still tries to move his fingers on your stimulated clit, as his mouth leaves open-mouthed kisses against your shoulder. he draggs his hand up back to your hardened tits—palming your breasts, rubbing, squeezing, thumbing your nipples with pure, overwhelmed need.

“we're not done,” he groans, like it's hurting him that you're not cumming. “you're dripping all o-over m'thigh, i c-came like a loser—please, win already, pretty.” he whines, “i-i'll help, i swear, just—fuck—win!”

his hand never stills. slippery fingers flick your clit in desperate, uneven motions, his other hand clutching your tits like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. you’re drooling against his neck now, wrecked and teetering on the edge, and gojo’s crying out every time you shift your weight.

“win,” he sobs, high and broken. “win, baby, please—i’ll cum again too, I will, I’m so close again, y-you feel sogood—“

And the boss’s health bar drops. One last combo. You slam the button.

Victory!!!!

you’re shaking, grinding down with abandon, the game forgotten for just one second—because it’s too much. he’s still whispering praise like he’s praying, hips jerking like he might cum in any second just from the way you clench around nothing. you scream, messy and guttural, because you need it—need him—and it’s all spilling over.

“'t-toru, i win—please, w-wanna cum—please ‘toru—pleaseee,” tears streak down your cheeks as you sob into his neck, twitching with every stroke, every messy rub of his soaked fingers. “c-can’t—’toru, i can’t—too much, ‘s too much—“

he’s not stopping. he whimpers your name, glassy eyes locked on your face memorizing every broken cry that falls from your lips. “you won, y-you get to cum now—I have to make you cum—” he sounds just as wrecked as you, maybe worse. his fingers finally slip inside—two of them, thick and long—he curls them immediately, searching that spongy spot, desperate to please you.

your walls clamp around him so tight he nearly cums again. bullet of sweats are dropping down his neck as he wines, “y-you're squeezing me reallyy good—shit” his breath stutters against your neck, sobbing out broken, pathetic moans as his fingers drag over that spot again and again.

“Let go for me,” he begs. “Please, please, I need you to—need to feel you cum, please, baby—" you're a mess in his lap, crying and convulsing, thighs slick and shaking—his fingers keep pistoning you as he babbles some uncoherent praise and filth against your hot skin.

“g-gonna make you cum so hard,” he pants, sounding half-feral. “gonna feel you soak m-my fingers, fuck—wan’ it messy, baby, wan’ it loud—”

and when you do, when your body snaps and you wail into his shoulder, soaking his hand in a gush of warmth—he lets out the filthiest, most broken moan you’ve ever heard as he cums a second time.

 Unprompted. Pathetically. Just from feeling your cunt pulse around his fingers.

[ridingthatd]

∞ MAST♡R CUM DUMPSTER ｡.｡

➤ gojo, nanami, geto

gojo & nanami walking into their friend suguru shoving his cursed orbs inside your poor little pussy.

➤ warning : fem! reader, four sum, very dirty, very kinky, very nasty, a loooot of cum, pussy stretching, pussy gaping, squirting, breeding, degrading, anal sex, ass stretching, getting fucked in every hole, humiliation, rough sex, fisting pussy, sex toys, raw dogging.

geto suguru was your master.

after you got hurt losing one of your eyes in the mission you, gojo and geto were assigned to. geto vowed to break the cycle and kill every non-sorcerer to prevent the birth of more cursed spirits so you can never get hurt again.

now geto was collecting curses by "curing" cursed humans. suguru disguised himself as the head of a buddhist temple to attract cursed humans with the promise of "curing" them.

here he was sitting cross-legged inside the temples soft floor while his head was resting on his rough hand, his other hand was holding you tight by the waist as the plumpness of your ass was seated on his folded leg.

his hand start rubbing against your belly earning a low moan from you. he smirks you can already feel the hotness of his fat cock pressing against your soft ass.

"hm? does my little slut want to be stuffed by her master?". his warm breath fan against your neck as he leans in closer, his rough hand already made it's way under your kimono gripping your soft thighs tightly.

that's how you got here, flipped on getos lap your face pressed against the soft mattress on the ground while your wet pussy is wide open for any eyes that enter the temple.

the only sounds that filled the room was your heavy whines, breathless moans. and the wet sound of your pussy sucking in every cursed orb getos shoves inside you.

you sob whining, your thighs were trembling as you feel the orb ripping, stretching your wet little hole before it gets sucked inside your sticky slimy tunnel of a pussy.

suguru tsk at the sight, you can feel his hard on twitching and leaking against your belly. he was huffing like a dog as he gaze at the way your filthy pussy gush hot fluid outside each time he tries to shove an orb in like it's moisting your hole with sticky warm natural lube, getting it ready to slide another orb in.

he groans his mouth gape open staring through his heavy eyelids at how your dirty pussy was gripping tightly on the next orb he place before it sloppily slides in with a pop, like it's so needy so hungry to feed on his cursed orbs.

the veins surrounding his fat cock throbs as he feels the way a bludge start forming in your belly, getting stuffed from how many orbs he shoved inside your poor little pussy.

drool slides down his wet lips admiring how puffy, red and abused your pussy lips looked. so good so stuffed so full.

you were fucked out of your mind, your body was trembling shaking as you sob and hiccup over stimulated and full. not noticing the eyes of your two old friends hungrily staring at your pathetic state.

suguru chuckles, his eyes trail from your pussy to nanami and satoru who's eyes were glued on you.

"I told you my little slut was doing good".

it was getos idea to show your old friends how your sweet little pussy take his cursed orbs one by one so well.

they wanted to see you, check on their dear friend. geto invited them over without letting you know.

there eyes were glued on you. never leaving you while their fat cocks leak painfully. they didn't expect to find you in this position, fucked like a little slut.

so fucked to the point you don't notice their presence. your mouth was open as load of spit drool out of it, the only words you can make out were-

"please-! please-". you hiccup, begging your master to let you cum.

suguru coo at you rubbing your puffy red clit before whispering something in your ear and soon after you freeze, realizing who's in the room with you.

"so what do you say baby? should you help our little friends hm?". he smirks.

every hole in your body was stuffed. your body violently shake, your screams were muffled by nanamis thick cock as he pumps it in and out your abused lips.

you were laying down on sugurus chest, your hard nipples rubbing against his as he lays under you.

while his hand grip hard on your ass slamming his fat cock inside your sore pussy. your body trembles as you feel the curse orbs that were still stuffed inside your pussy twirling around, consistently hitting your g-spot with each hard thrust of getos cock.

your ears were filled with satorus groans as he hold your face close to him by the hair, your earlobe was coated with his warm spit as he wettly suck on your ears while his sensitive cock thrust inside your ass hole.

"look at me you fucking slut". nanami growls as he slams his fat cock down your throat bruising it before you feel robes of his hot cum shooting down your throat.

"m-master! no! no! no more please-" you immediately start sobbing out as soon nanami pulls out his cock, his warm cum was spilling out of your mouth as you struggle to speak.

"you fucking slut, who gave you the permission to spill it from your mouth".

nanami harshly growls out before he slaps your face with his rough hand. just to grab you roughly by your hair and force your face to meet his. but you weren't even lookin at him, eyes crossed focusing on the feeling of the two cocks inside of you.

he tsks before scoping the cum that was on your lips and shoving in back inside your mouth and you immediately start sucking on his fingers.

suguru slide your pussy down his cock one more time before he spurt his cum everywhere, coating your walls white.

you can feel the cum geto that spilled inside you sliding against the orbs making it more sticky and sloppy.

that's what had you squirting, over flowing with juice. that's what had you drooling. mouth over flowing with your own sloppy spit- spit that was mixed with nanamis warm cum that he stuffed inside your mouth. you were choking struggling to keep his boiled seeds that filled your mouth from spilling.

tears running down your face as your whole body thrust against geto who was under you- reminding you of the gojo fat cocks that was gaping your tight ass hole wide open.

you can feel the hardness of his red, sensitive nipples rubbing against your back as he thrusts in.

suguru hiss as he looks at the state of your nasty little pussy that was barely recognizable anymore. it was gaping open as his warm cum that was mixed with your fluid leak out of it, your pussy lips were so stretched so red so puffy so sensitive.

that as soon as he pinch your fat clit, your body freeze before you tense and a scream rips out of your throat as a forceful stream of hot liquid gush out of your abused hole.

the orbs that were placed inside you burst out from the force of your orgasm, each orb was sloppily popping out of your pussy.

the feeling of being gaped open was to much- the feeling of the sloppy orbs bursting out of your puffy pussy with so much force was to much.

it was all to much that it had you sobbing, drooling and spilling the cum out of your mouth as you hiccup, forgetting about the order of keeping it stuffed in your mouth that nanami gave you.

your mind was foggy, eyes blurry with tears, your lips were parted, jaw hanging open as drool of spit and cum drips down.

you couldn't control yourself anymore as your juice spray every where, coating the floor with your hot juice.

you couldn't control the orbs that were popping out of your pussy.

satorus whimpers at the sight his cock pumping as he ruts harder inside your ass hole, he doesn't even realize what's he's doing as his hand trail under your ass and reach your nasty little pussy.

it was gaping so wide open that he easily shoved his whole fist in, he moans loudly once he feels the way your gummy sticky walls grips his fist, massaging it.

and that sends him to the edge, slamming his hips into your ass before painting it with his seeds.

nanami grabs your fucked face, before shoving his tongue inside your mouth, licking and sucking on your tongue.

that's how you turned into their cum dumpster.

[makismei]

in the same universe as this :,) cw: toy usage, hint of brat taming, hints of sadism & machoism, 18+ content, overstim, dubious consent, soft :(

“you’re doing it again,” he deadpans, knocking your thighs open, “keep. them. open.”

pearly slick oozes from your cunt, soiling the newly washed sheets and sticking to your inner thighs. toji sits in front of you, a blank look on his face but you know how he’s truly feeling from his eyes.

lidded and intently focused on your poor, leaky cunt, he mindlessly goes through a small box on the bed, feeling around for what feels interesting.

it’s your box of sex toys. the ones you used before you started dating the man in front of you. it’s been a while since you’ve reached for them, since it feels like toji knows your body wayyy more than you do, and also because he gets you there, he doesn’t let you escape until you’ve gone brainless from all the orgasms he’s blessed you with. why would you ever need to do the work again?

but toji isn’t all too familiar with adult toys. of course, he knows about the basics—dildos and vibrators, but when he accidentally stumbled upon this little treasure box of yours (his own words), curiosity took over him. he’s never seen pieces of silicone and plastic look so lewd, and the look on your face was so precious, he just had to try them.

“hmm,” lowly, he calls your name, “what’s this?”

heavy eyelids blink open, registering what’s in his hand before you shoot up, attempting to scurry away but your bed isn’t that big and his reflexes are out of this world—

“that’s a reaction,” he grins, eyeing the small red toy, shaped like a flower. “you used this one a lot?”

you shake your head, cheeks burning and eyes welling up with tears. crocodile tears, toji raises a brow, beckoning you to continue.

“‘s too much, it..” you trail off, breaking your gaze, but his hand guides you back, gently thumbing your cheek.

“you’re in control baby,” he whispers, “i won’t do anything you don’t want, you know that.”

of course you know, that’s why you let him do whatever the hell he wants with you. and frankly, him using that cursed little rose toy is making you more excited than you thought.

“it… made me squirt for the first time…” you squeak, speeding up with each word spoken, “i only used it a few times because the first setting was already too m—hold on, waitwaitwait—”

“this?” he drags you back, spreading your legs to make room for himself, “m’ gonna have fun with this.”

“toji,” you weep, anticipating, and he knows, a soothing hand caressing your thighs and waist, “m’ nervous.”

and toji knows he’s sick and utterly deplorable, because your reaction is turning him on. he’s excited, out of the few he’s tested already and the others yet to come, he has an inkling of a feeling that this one will be his favourite.

“s’ okay,” he coos, “what’s your word, gorgeous?”

“ginza…” the city you met him in. a little corny, but it works.

he hums, smiling. “you ready?”

you nod, shyly looking up before correcting yourself, “yes.. m’ ready.”

it doesn’t take him long at all to figure out the buttons. there’s only two after all, the power button and the other one that controls the settings.

the buzz makes you tense up, but you relax slightly under your boyfriend’s loving touch.

he spreads your lower lips with a thumb and pointer finger, whistling lowly. he lazily collects your juices, smearing it over your clit.

with bated breaths, you let out a quiet cry when the suction latches onto your swollen clit. back arching almost immediately, toji’s shocked by your reaction. he grins, amused. cute, he thinks, watching you drool and squeal.

you’re surprisingly still, muscles tense and lost hands trying to find purpose.

would it be too much if he started fingering you?

you let out a long wail, head jolting to look down at him. he’s smirking, pleased with your shocked expression.

but he’ll be nice, for now, only sliding in one finger as he eyes your reaction.

it hasn’t even been long, maybe just over two minutes, but by the telltale squeeze of your cunt on his finger he knows you’re cumming.

“already?” he laughs, crooking his finger just right, “no way.”

“i—i told yooouuuu!” you’re absolutely gone when he presses against that little spot inside of you, screeching as your body locks up. toji feels his finger being pushed out, a stream of liquid following, splashing lewdly from your cunt.

and god, just at the sight of you, the sounds you’re making—he’s about to lose it. but he grits his teeth, using a free hand to quickly hold himself off.

he takes the toy away, turning it off, but still stimulating you with his thumb. your body starts quivering from all the pleasure and it’s been a while since he’s seen you cum like that; he worries for a moment that he pushed you too hard.

but he lets you ride it out, quiet sobs of pleasure filling the room. your head is turned to the side, shaking hands covering your face. he praises you softly, leaning down to press a sweet kiss to the inner side of your knee.

when he sees you’ve calmed down, he gently moves your hands away, pressing a kiss to your tear soaked cheeks, both sides, before kissing you deeply. you moan, throwing your arms over his shoulders.

when he pulls away, he cradles your face in his hands. “how was that?”

it feels like a fire ignites beneath your skin, his stare rapt and focused only on you.

your eyes shift away, meek and ashamed, “i liked it…”

“don’t get all shy with me doll,” he grouses, “i gotta know how you feel.”

your hips are still twitchy, eyes glazed over. “toji,” you whine softly, tears pooling in your eyes yet again and this time he’s actually worried. “m’ not lying… it felt so good, but i’m really embarrassed.”

“baby,” he coos, chastely kissing your lips, “s’ okay, s’ nothing you need to be embarrassed about.”

he turns you both over, so you’re laying on his chest. you listen to the sound of his heartbeat, steady and true. the warmth of his body is soothing, his fingers tapping up and down your spine.

“toji,” you call, meek and unsure. he hums.

“i love you,” you mutter, raising your head, “i know we don’t say it a lot, b-but—”

he smiles, all the way from his lips to his eyes. his entire face lights up, “if i knew making you cum real hard makes you a softy—ow! okay! don’t bite me!”

he’s laughing, hand brushing the hair from your face. “i love you. more than you’ll never know, doll.”

it’s resolute, he’s so unashamed that it’s annoying.

you grumble, hiding your face in his chest. your breath stutters when you feel his cock poke your leg.

“sorry,” he chuckles, “he likes you.”

“shut up,” you mumble, hand reaching back. it’s searingly hot and heavy in your hand. you can feel one of his veins pulsing under your touch.

“sweets,” he panics, “s’ okay, jus’ leave it… holy shiitttt..”

you whine, thighs quivering at the feeling of his leaky tip pressing against your slit.

“tojiii,” you drool, looking up at him, “i want it.”

he rubs a hand over his reddening face, unsure. need is taking over him, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to hold back. “baby, can you handle it?”

you nod, “yes, yes please,” you call his name, drawn out and needy and fuck, he’d be a shit boyfriend if he doesn’t give his lady what she wants right?

[gojonanami]

❝ 𝐈 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑 ❞

❝ PROF. GETO'S CLASS IS SO HARD, BUT HE'S SO HOT!! ❞

✧ pairing: professor!geto x f!reader (part one of the prof geto series)

✧ summary: you were a 4.0, straight A student, until professor geto's class, the same far too hot ethics professor fawned over by faculty and students alike. you didn't understand what was so special about him...until you start having dreams about him.

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, a lot of smut (mostly fantasy), depictions of student/teacher relationship (only ok in fiction not irl!!!), reader is a grad student in my mind, but age is vague, masturbation (f + m), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), getting off to his voice in recorded lectures, arousal from reading his writing, amateur's take on moral philsophy and ethics, art by @/jatinsohanvi, google scholar graphic by platonic loml @laneysmusings

✧ wc: 10,149 (i have a problem) | part two

“You’re late,” 

Your first impression of Professor Suguru Geto’s class was that you could never be late again, unless you would like to be chided in front of all your peers for your tardiness. 

Your first impression of Professor Suguru Geto himself was that he was truly the most breathtaking man you’d ever laid your eyes on. His inky black locks tied into a neat bun, his deep royal purple vest buttoned over a crisp white button up with pressed gray slacks, his pretty lips pressed in a small frown, as his dark gaze pierced through you. And you don’t know what stirs in your chest — a fleeting moment that is tucked away under a bite of your bottom lip and burning cheeks. 

And now you knew why when you had walked into class, the amount of unfamiliar faces in this course had far outnumbered the ones in your usual course load — the same reason why this man undoubtedly had three chili peppers next to his professor rating on some website out there. 

And now you were faced with him staring you down as you stumbled down the stairs of the all too full lecture hall. 

As you muttered apologies, and took your seat far too close to the front of the class, smack dab in the very front of the very same professor whose eyes still were concentrated on you, before sliding back to the class at large. 

“Now, where were we?” he says, continuing the lecture. 

Ethics was not your major — you were a philosophy grad student, and although the two went hand in hand — no, they were not the same thing. Ethics are the moral principles — like rules to follow to live a moral life — people can follow, while philosophy is the study of knowledge, reality, and existence. And this class encompassed both — an ethics and moral philosophy class. Your eyes slid around the room — and compared to all the random majors stuffed into this classroom, you had no doubt you’d do well. Your eyes met Professor Geto’s — maybe one slight doubt. 

And when you get your first essay back, you eagerly flip to the last page of the paper, wondering what accolades and compliments you’d receive this time. Your eyes find the grade, and your stomach drops, a gaping maw that consumes you from the inside out. 

You got a B. 

A B+ — an 88 on your paper in this course, and you stared at the grade on the very last page of the paper you had collected from his desk — Professor Geto had insisted everyone submit their papers both physically and electronically — his scrawl in red pen littered each page of what you thought was a thoughtful and even clever paper on the existence free will and the ethical and moral dilemmas that surround it. And he had given it an 88. 

You had a 4.0 point average — you had gotten the highest scores in some of the most difficult courses required by your major, and now you were going to be derailed by a class you took on a whim? That’s not happening. No, you were going to get him to change your grade. You were seeing as red as the ink that tore your paper to shreds. 

“Come in,” your knuckles had rapped against Professor Geto’s door, your heart in your throat, as you heard his reply, entering his office. His office was as pretentious as he was. A much larger office than you had seen before (poor Professor Ijichi had a shoebox of an office), while Professor Geto’s was three times the size, outfitted with large, beautiful windows, distinct bookshelves, and even a lovely deep mahogany colored couch with decorative cushions. And you knew why that was the case — Professor Geto was an expert in his field, revered, even at his relatively young age. And the university had coveted him, and managed to lure him to work behind these ivy covered walls. While other professors who have been here longer are stuck with offices that don’t begin to compare. 

Academia was truly hell. 

And yet, Professor Geto seemed to rule over it with an iron fist. Even now, you found your professor looking as annoyingly perfect as ever — his elbow resting against his desk, pen in his other hand, as he flipped through more papers on his desk, his hair in a messy bun, a few black strands falling across his furrowed brow, his pretty lips pursed in concentration, and his dark gaze flicks up from his work to you, and his lips curl, your name leaving his lips, “good to see you, please sit,” 

You had planned to attend these office hours in victory, to apologize for your misstep in the first class, and let your professor praise your paper to no end — but instead you were going to see why your paper was graded so harshly. 

Your speech was ready, you were going to lay it out, you had the perfect explanation and the excellent reasoning “Professor Geto—” 

“I know why you’re here,” he cuts you off, lips forming in an utterly condescending smile, “you want to discuss your paper, correct?” 

“I am, I wanted to—” 

He sits forward in his chair, setting down his pen, “I’m going to save us some time by explaining my comments on your paper, do you have it?” and you close your mouth, pulling the paper out of your folder and handing it to him, “Your paper was one of the best in the class — it was thought provoking, grounded in research, persuasive, even made me consider some points I hadn’t before—” 

You blink, his praise catching you off guard, your thoughts twisting in on themselves, “Then why did you give me B?” 

“You didn’t allow me to finish,” he sighs, as he flips through your paper, looking up to meet your gaze,  “your paper was excellent when it came to philosophical concepts, but your ethical conclusions on the other hand, could use some work,” 

You gaped at him, “What did I possibly—” 

“To put it simply, you were trying to use your knowledge of philosophy to cover up your lack of knowledge in the field of ethics,” 

“I wasn’t—” 

“And that’s okay, because that means I have something to teach you don’t I? That’s why you’re in this course, to learn,” he gives a tight lipped smile, tilting his head. Oh you’d like to learn a lot more from him — like the ethical dilemma of wanting to murder your professor, “and I’m here to teach — and this paper is a teaching moment — and from your expression, I assume you didn’t read the comments I left in detail,” 

And your cheeks burn, as your eyes fall away from him, “Not fully in detail,” you still swallow your shame, and meet his gaze, “I don’t mean to be a bother, Professor, but how can my paper still receive a B — I’ve never received that low of a score on any single paper—” 

“There’s a first time for everything,” and you have to bite back your retort, “yeah first time having an annoying prick for a professor,” and he rises from his desk to hand you back your paper, “the bottom line is, I know you’re capable of better, this class isn’t going to be easy — I’m not going to hand you accolades for no reason. You have to earn them — if you aren’t up for the challenge, you can drop the class.” 

The option was there — you could simply drop the course, rid yourself of Professor Geto and his ridiculous criticism forever. You could take a class with one of the many professors who delighted in your papers (even the ones you’d written at 3 AM and submitted not proofread), and go on with your life and preserve your 4.0 GPA with ease. 

But then you looked at him again. He was unfairly hot, even when he was fucking putting you down, he stood in front of you, offering your paper, his fingers long and thick brushing yours by mistake as you took back your paper, a watch on his wrist gleamed in the low light of his office. You glanced around his office, saw the awards on his walls, pictures of him giving lectures or receiving honors, and the books that lined his shelves weren’t dissimilar to your own academic shelf at home. And your eyes fell back to his, as he stared at you curiously, lips pursed, as your paper slightly crumples in your fist. 

“Next paper is due in two weeks?” and he pauses, before his lips curl in that same grin. 

“Yes it is,” and a smile graces your lips, lightning quick.

Like hell you were going to let him win. You were going to get him to praise your papers (and maybe that wouldn’t be the only thing he praised) — if it was the last thing you do. You’d get an A in his class, hell, you’d get him to beg you to be his teaching assistant (he’d look very nice on his knees for you, wouldn’t he?). 

You rise from your seat, and grab your bag, “I’ll see you at your next office hours then, to discuss my paper topic,” and he watches you leave, his eyes piercing into your back as you do. 

“See you soon.” 

Oh, he would. 

“Right on time,” Professor Geto barely looks up now when you knock on his door, his door now always ajar for office hours. 

Now you had made a habit of showing up for his office hours, you’d bring your paper topic all picked out, along with your handpicked sources you had chosen for your paper, all typed up in a neat bibliography. And he’d kindly rip it apart with that same damn smile on his lips. It had been a few weeks, a few papers later — and you finally had worked your grade up to an A-, not quite an A+, but you’d get there. You had to. 

Because it wasn’t just about your GPA now — you were going to get Professor Geto to praise you — through any means necessary. The man was stubborn, even when you’d come back with an improved draft, he’d only hand it back to you with a smile barely tugging at the corner of his lips, with no compliment to be had — only small check marks scribbled in the margins in your papers, with the occasional “good” written next to it. 

“Well, we all know what happens when I’m late,” he laughs, a noise that makes the ice dagger clutched behind your back ever so slightly melt, “I made you laugh, extra credit?” 

And he rolls his eyes, and you notice that his dark eyes are hidden behind glasses today — and god, why does it only make him even more gorgeous? He’s already brilliant, it’s unfair for him to look as if he was sculpted by the gods as well, “It takes a lot more than a chuckle to earn extra credit,” and you can’t help but bite your lip. 

No, no, he’s the worst. It didn’t matter he was the epitome of every academic’s wet dream, you were above that. You had a goal. 

“So, can we discuss my next paper?” you hand him your bibliography, and he takes it, delicate fingers flipping through, your mind notes the absence of a ring on either hand, before brushing the thought aside. 

“You’re writing on the morality of good or bad actions,” he hums, as he looks over the sources you had chosen, “Scanlon, good — have you read—” 

“‘What We Owe to Each Other?’ Only about a million times — well more like six,” and he nods appreciatively, “of course you’ve read it,” 

“I didn’t just read it, I wrote a paper on it, similar to yours, actually,” and your eyes flick up to meet his, he’s leaning forward in his chair, red pen in hand, as he scribbles notes in the margins, as well as on the back of your bibliography, “of course I don’t have your penchant for rambling,” 

You pout, “I don’t ramble — I like to make my point—” 

“Many times, and the same one,” and your mouth opens, only to find a wry smirk on his lips, “I’m teasing, another one of my very tedious qualities, and how you stand it during class astonishes me,” 

You cross your arms, unable to meet his eyes, as you choose to stare at your bibliography instead, “You’re not completely tedious, more like irritating,” and he huffs a chuckle. 

You had to admit, begrudgingly, Professor Geto was a…good teacher. And you had your fair share of awful teachers — many of them were brilliant, accomplished people in their fields, but didn’t know how to translate and convey that in their lectures to students who simply knew less than them. But Geto…he knew how to break down complex concepts and theories of moral philosophy and ethics to a science, he knows how to make students understand these complicated topics that you had seen other professors fail to, and he does it while being an intellectual dreamboat to most of his students — the ones that swarm his desk after class, still there even as you slowly make your way out of the lecture hall. 

“A rare compliment from you,” he raises an eyebrow, “I’m touched,” 

“You’re one to talk,” you furrow your brow, and a smile pulls at his lips. 

“Didn’t know you wanted my approval,” he tilts his head, leaning forward to lean on his elbow on the desk, “well, you have improved remarkably in the class so far, and if you keep going like this, I may have no choice but to praise you,” 

“You will,”

“Someone is very sure of themselves,” a pause and then he adds with a quirk of his lips, “as you should be,” and he’s sliding your bibliography across the table again, and passes it back, “read the sources I recommended, and see about adding them to your paper — you may have some overlap in the other papers you chose so use your discretion on which ones you use,” 

“So don’t repeat myself?” You raise an eyebrow, and he leans back in his chair, crossing his legs. 

“You learn fast.” 

And you do — returning to your apartment to work on your paper, as you flip through his notes — as much as you hate to admit it, his notes and criticism did help — annoyingly so. He was far more detailed and perceptive than any other professor you had. Most had let you skate by without a second thought, and you wrote papers like you deleted your internet history after a scandalous romp through elicit websites — tools, clear history — and then onto the next paper or exam. But Professor Geto forced you to face your shortcomings, face the things that you didn’t like to give a second glance to, lest your rejection sensitive self feel the agony of having to deal with criticism. 

Each time you did it, you got a little better, and he had a little less to say — time and time again. 

You leaned back on your bed, scrolling through the papers he recommended, but so what? So what if he was a good teacher? Doesn’t mean he has to be as infuriating as he is — he knew exactly what to do to get under your skin, and he didn’t prod at it, he scratched it. 

And you found yourself typing his name (“suguru geto”) and T.M. Scanlon’s name into the search bar of your university’s library collection, and his paper pops up right on top. 

You stare at the paper for a good minute, before you click on it — and you start reading. And reading. And reading — and fuck— 

It was good. It was more than that — it gave you so much insight on this topic, it made you rediscover T.M. Scanlon’s work in a new light — and you bite your lip. And it wasn’t just the research — the way it organized, the way it was presented, the way it was written — it was eloquent, but it wasn’t unreadable or incomprehensible. It was…really good. 

You imagined him, pouring over Scanlon’s work as he wrote notes in the margins of his copy, pages dogeared and passages highlighted, as he sat in his office typing away at this paper. His sleeves rolled up, his hair let out of his usual bun, his glasses perched on his nose as he read, only his desk lamp and computer illuminating his office. The keys of his computer clacking under his touch, lengthy fingers pitter pattering as he wrote his thoughts and analysis of Scanlon’s work — his brow furrowed in thought. 

And you felt yourself flush, swallowing the lump in your throat, as you kicked off your blanket — it was so warm all of a sudden, pressing your thighs together. You shook the thoughts from your mind — what the hell were you doing? You glanced at the time, 2:39 AM it read back at you mockingly. You sigh, shutting your laptop down, and putting it aside — you need to do your skincare and brush your teeth. You glance back at your laptop—the familiar of your flush clung to your skin like a forbidden kiss— 

And you clearly needed sleep. 

“Can you read this passage to me?” Professor Geto’s voice said, as he stood in front of you in the lecture hall — as you stood behind the podium that faced the entire class — hands in his pockets, in an olive henley, his hair tied in the usual neat bun, his black bangs falling in his eyes as always, glasses on, instead of the usual contacts. The class sat all around you — his exercise in getting the class to participate and get comfortable speaking in front of others, just as philosophers had done in the past (his very own “literary salon” he called it). 

You swallow, keeping your eyes fixed on the book in front of you, “‘When I ask myself what reason the fact that an action would be wrong provides me with not to do it, my answer is that such an action would be one that I could not justify to others on ground I could expect them to accept—’” 

“What do you think Scanlon meant by this?” he asks you, but his gaze was different this time, it held the amusement it always did when it came to you, but it was warm — no — it was burning. His lips were pursed, as he crossed his arms, the henley’s fabric seemingly straining under the action. 

“He meant that an action that is wrong in his eyes when he couldn’t expect others to accept the ground on which he could justify it,” and his lips curve into that damned smile, as he takes a few steps closer, rounding the podium, as he brushes past you, the brief touch of temptation incarnate — the dangling apple of Tantalus personified before you. 

“And can you give me some examples of what kinds of actions would be wrong?” and he’s standing behind you now, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him — but you can feel his gaze on you. 

“Senseless murder,” and he hums in approval, his breath felt like it was warming your skin, “wanton violence, reckless assault—” 

“What other everyday wrongdoings could fall under this category?” and suddenly the class before you is gone, and it’s just the two of you in an empty lecture hall, “theft, lying, student-teacher relationships?” 

And your breath catches in your throat, his cologne strangling any sense left in your mind, as his body heat nearly radiates off him, “Professor Geto—” 

“Suguru,” he corrects you, and he’s reaching for you, but he pauses, “can I—” and you only can nod, and his fingers brush your hair aside, ever so gently, “would this be considered a moral wrongness, sweetheart?” his lips press a chaste kiss to your shoulder, and you shiver at the softness of his touch. 

“Well, I am a student in your class, and even though I’m of age, it presents a power dynamic and a favoritism that might be—” and your sentence cuts off as his arms wind their way around your waist, pressing himself to your back, “I—” 

“Go on,” he’s murmuring his words against the nape of your neck now, as he pulls his glasses off to place them on the podium, “might be what?” 

“Might be viewed as morally wrong—” and he’s chuckling, the vibration sending a delicious shiver down your spine, as he presses more butterfly kisses to your neck. 

“How can something be wrong when it feels so right?” he asks, and his hand is sliding down your side, “feels so good, does it even matter what society views as right or wrong? Do their rules pertain to what we’re doing here?” and his fingers toy with the hem of your pants, teasing and pulling, as he pauses, waiting for your answer, “what do you think—” 

“Please,” you swallow, as you turn to look at him, seeing his lips in that same smile that haunted you, “touch me,” 

And his smile only grows wider, “Good girl.” 

BUZZ. BUZZ. BUZZ. 

Your eyes flutter open, your breath caught in your throat, as you stare at your ceiling, your hand reaching for your phone to silence the alarm. And you squeeze your thighs together, a distinct ache between your legs, your skin all too warm. 

What the fuck was that? 

You skip office hours the next week. You couldn’t bear it — you could barely tolerate going to class now, as the dream invades your nights, with filthy variations that leave you perturbed and horny (mostly horny). The common theme only being that each time you get close to anything remotely that’s anything (a kiss, a touch that’s more than a caress, anything at all), you wake up. 

It’s as if your dreams are edging you — you groan into your pillow — and it was working. 

You’re so wound up, you’ve even resorted to using your vibrator before bed, wondering if that would make a difference — it did, but only with you having a dream of Professor Geto using a vibrator on you during class — the vibrations growing even faster when you were speaking as he watched you— 

You needed to stop thinking about this. But how can you? 

God, it’s even worse when you’re in class. You sit in your usual seat, front and center — and why does it feel like his eyes are on you far too often? Even as he lectures Professor Geto attempts to catch your eye during his lecture, trying to make a point, you all but glue your gaze down to the textbook and your laptop, typing away his words, trying to drown out the whispered words and groans from your dream that ring in your ears. You can’t stop seeing him — unless you want to skip class, which you really couldn’t when attendance and participation counted for a good chunk of your grade. 

Class ended and you were packing up your things. You had to weather the storm — avoid being alone with him until the dreams were just a distant memory— 

And then you heard him say your name— 

Your eyes flick up to meet Professor Geto — who had his usual swarm of students waiting by his desk, but he parted the crowd, he approached your own seat, hands in your pockets, “Do you have a class after this?” 

“No, I don’t—” the words slip out before your sleep deprived mind can put the pieces together. 

“Then can you please stay after class? I’d like to talk to you,” he says, and before you can say anything, he turns to speak to the students waiting for him. 

And now you wait — your anxious energy singing at the frayed ends of your nerves, as you tried to hold yourself together — wondering what he could possibly want to speak to you about. His students dissipated one by one, until it was just you and him left in the lecture hall. 

Just. Like. Your. Fucking. Dream. 

You round the row you sat in, before walking down to speak to him, “Is there something wrong? The next paper isn’t due until the end of next week—” 

“It isn’t about the paper,” and your heart squeezes, as you try to keep your breathing even, as he steps closer — and why, why did he have to opt to only wear a button up today —  and a deep royal purple one no less,  “I wanted to check in with you,” and he begins to undo the cuffs of his shirt, rolling them up — exposing his forearms and the pretty veins that ran along them — the same arms that he had used in one of your dreams to bend you over that desk, the whispers of heated kisses along your neck—

You needed to get out of here. 

You blink, “I’m fine,” and he tilts his head. 

“I only ask because you’ve looked tired the last two classes, and you didn’t show up for office hours this week,” he crosses his arms, unhelpfully, as he purses his lips, the lines of his brow furrowed. 

“I’m fine, Professor, I appreciate your concern — I just haven’t been sleeping well,” you admit — it was the truth, “and that’s why I didn’t come to office hours. I was trying to catch up on sleep,” 

He nods, sighing, fingers raking through his hair — those same fingers that would feel so pretty around your neck— “I know I’m hard on you,” oh he would be, “but it’s because I know you’re capable of more — most of these students are taking the class for an elective, but I know it’s more than that for you,” yes, it’s so you can finally earn his praise, “but I’m also here for your benefit, so if you need an extension or anything else, please let me know,” 

God, all you wanted was for him to maybe wrap you in his arms and kiss you, or bend you over, pull your clothes off and fuck you, or just to leave you alone all together. 

You weren’t sure which one you wanted the most at this moment. 

“I will, Professor Geto, I appreciate it,” you murmur, biting your lip, as you try to focus on the task at hand — getting out of here, “I don’t think I need an extension, I’ve made good progress so far. I just need to finish it, so I can revise,”

“Well, let me know if anything changes,” his lips curl, “ok?” And you nod, and if you weren’t so hyperaware, you swore you would have imagined it — but you didn’t, “good girl,” 

And you pause a moment — his lips did move, you pinch yourself discreetly — and you know it isn’t a fucking dream. You only smile in return, giving a curt nod and goodbye, before beelining out of the classroom. 

But you didn’t stick around long enough to see the slight flush on Professor Geto’s cheeks — nor did you know that you two were thinking the same thing about yourselves— 

What the fuck were you doing? 

But to your relief, the dreams do subside, and you’re finally able to rest — but the thing that doesn’t subside is your awareness of your professor. 

You sit in class, watching him teach — and you knew he was attractive, hell, it was one of the things that made you all the more embarrassed to have him ream you out — having your super hot professor rail at you for your mistakes wasn’t on your list of shining achievements (lest it was him actually railing you—). 

You needed to stop doing that. 

But it felt as if you weren’t the only one who was hyper aware. You felt as if his eyes skimmed over you during class this week, his replies to your weekly discussion board were less biting than usual, and his office hours were surprisingly canceled this week. First time all semester, but you weren’t so full of yourself that you thought it had anything to do with you — right? 

Either way, you had submitted your paper and now you were done with this week—and as class finishes, you slowly pack up, looking forward to the week being over with and for a personal rendezvous with your bed. But as the usual gaggle of students make their way to chat with Professor Geto, your eyes flicker up to meet his, as he stares back a moment. 

And you can’t make yourself look away, and for a moment, neither can he. 

But then a student calls for his attention, so his eyes flicker away, a smile on his lips as he spoke — and you turn to leave, grabbing your bag, as you look back— 

But why did his smile look so strained? 

There must be something wrong with him. 

Professor Suguru Geto drummed his fingers against his desk, but he felt more like shoving his things off his desk — if only to distract him for a moment. He pulls his glasses off, and runs a hand down his face—god, he hadn’t been sleeping well. No, his nights were plagued, plagued by you — you had slipped into his dreams ever since that day he stopped you. 

Why had he stopped you? 

It wasn’t the first time he had personally stopped a student who seemed to be struggling, he could count the times he had on both his hands. 

But this, this felt different. 

You were different. 

But why were you different to him? He rubs his temples, from the moment you had stepped into his office he thought he had read you — an overachieving student used to getting their way, As handed out to them, and an inability to take criticism. 

He knew, because he used to be one of them. But he knew you needed to be challenged to grow — but it was a matter if you would accept it. And from the moment you asked him when the next paper was due, he couldn’t help but smile. 

And his time spent in office hours with you grew more enjoyable each time you came. And when you hadn’t last week, he couldn’t sit still, checking the time, checking his email, and even checking if his office hours had been accidentally listed wrong in his weekly email to the class (they weren’t). And the hour and half passed with many students hungry for his time and his charm  — but not the  one he was looking for. 

Then those words had slipped from his tongue when he had stopped you, left his mouth like he was possessed, and now he had found himself here. Found himself thinking about how your lips parted when he said it, thinking about how you were feeling, thinking about you, you, you— 

There’s a knock at the door, “Professor Geto?” 

And it was you. 

“I apologize, I know you canceled office hours, but I just had a few questions I didn’t get to ask you in class,” your fingers toy with the ring you wore, a folder in hand, a soft smile on your lips. 

“Of course, come in,” and you did, your dress was painfully short, the fabric riding up as you sat, the folder in your lap, “is this about your paper?” 

“It is, I was reading a few papers, and after our conversation, I couldn’t help but find your paper,” and he tilts his head, “and I want to include it as a source in my paper, but I had a few points you made that I wanted clarified,” 

He raises an eyebrow, and he can’t help but tease,  “Clarified or criticized? Are you planning on turning the tables on me?” 

“Well I do have a red pen,” you click your pen, lips curved in a smile, and there’s a hint of heat that he wishes to unearth, pluck from the earth and possess himself, “but I promise I’ll be civil,”

 “I have no doubt,” he had a million when it came to you — but that wasn’t one of them. He runs his fingers through his hair, a few strands coming loose, “of course, let’s discuss it,” 

“You discuss Scanlon’s idea of a social contract, everyone within this moral society agrees on what’s right and what’s wrong — the basic principle is that if there is a rule no one can reasonably reject as a basis, but is there such a rule that can exist?” 

He tilts his head, “Scanlon’s theory relies on this premise — are you questioning me or the premise?” 

“Both, actually,” you shrug, crossing your legs, “is there a magic switch that changes every person to be rational? Because I think only rational people can agree on what rules cannot be reasonably rejected — what about people who are cruel, inconsiderate, self-absorbed? Do those traits go away when operating under Scanlon’s social contract? You propose in your paper that moral reasons are not subjective — nothing is uncolored by human opinion,” 

“No, but—” 

“How can we agree on what is truly right or wrong? How can one hundred people agree on that when everyone views these actions in different ways? Right and wrong? Black, white, or gray?” you rise from your chair to hand him his paper printed out, the paper more red than white with the amount of writing you’ve done, “like for example,” you lean forward, your hand braced against the edge of his desk, “can one hundred people agree that student-teacher relationships are wrong? Because one veto,” your hand trails ever closer to his, toeing that dangerous line either of you had even yet to approach to cross. But here you were, seemingly barreling toward it. 

And he didn’t want to pull away. 

He swallows, whispering your name, “This can’t—” and you were so close — too close, your perfume hypnotized him, your fingers brush against his and he can’t help but hold them, his thumb rubbing across your knuckles, “they can agree that it’s wrong — the power imbalance from the authority of the professor and the age difference—” 

“I disagree, so the rule isn’t legitimate, right? Even if one disagrees, the rule cannot be make valid,” and his breath catches as your fingers slide up his arm now, resting on his shoulder, as you lean over his chair now, as your other hand toys with the loose strands of his hair, “if the two of us can’t even agree, then how could a hundred, or a thousand, or a million?” 

“But—” 

“But what?” you pout, your fingers dragging down his chest, toying with the top button of his button down, “I don’t see you pulling away, do you want me to stop, Professor? Because I will,” 

And he swallows thickly, but he can’t stop you — he doesn’t want to, “But, we shouldn’t — it isn’t a reasonable objection—” he tries his hardest to stand firm, but he only crumbles when your fingers brush his cheek, tracing the cut of his jaw. And it feels like flames tickling at his skin, begging him to thrust his hand into the fire. 

“Like I said, people are not reasonable,” your lips draw closer, and he can feel your breath warm his own, and god, why are you so tempting? And your lips stop short, barely an inch between your faces, “and besides, would you rather be reasonable or satisfied?” 

And there’s only one answer — you. 

He leans forward, lips nearly brushing yours— 

RING. RING. RING.

He jerks awake from his desk, papers sliding as he does, his breath caught in his throat, and his eyes wander — and finds no one else there. 

A dream. He runs his fingers through his hair again, crumpling the paper he had oh so lovingly drooled during his nap. He needed to get his shit together. 

But his current predicament wasn’t making that easy — his cock strained against the fabric of his pants — was he a grown adult or a horny teenager? 

Fuck. It wasn’t going away — no matter what he thought, his mind kept circling back to you. 

And his eyes slide to the time: 1:40 AM. 

Far past the time any soul would be here, even cleaning staff would have been long gone. It was just him—

And you. 

“So good for me, baby,” he’s panting, palming his erection, an embarrassing amount of precum drips from his cock for a barely wet dream. He ignores the gnawing guilt in the back of his mind — but he can’t help but imagine the image of you, spread out on his desk, hiking that oh so teasing sundress up, only to find your underwear drenched — just for him. 

His fingers would slide up your plush thighs, squeezing to draw a gasp from your pretty lips, “Professor—“ you’d say, unable to form a sentence, all those brilliant falling away under his touch, until it was just him occupying every crevice of your mind. 

“Where’s that mouth now? So needy f’me,” he’d murmur, “but such a good girl,” and you were, his thumb tracing his slit, smearing his pre-cum, as he imagined you spread on his desk, your puffy folds nearly showing through your far too translucent panties, “my best student’s so pliant for me now,”

And his hand moves faster, and he can imagine your fingers reaching for him too, your smaller fingers wouldn’t be able to even touch as much as he can — but god it would feel so much better. 

But he’d want you to feel even better than he did.  

He’d tug your underwear down, stuffing it in his pocket (his fee for all of additional office hours), and he would prep you right — fuck you open with his fingers, two or three, before he tasted you. Your fingers would dig into his scalp as you moaned his name again and again, before you came all over his face. 

He’d lick his lips clean of your release, before dragging his cock down your sweet cunt, watching his precum mix with your cum, as your walls flutter around nothing, craving to have him sink into you. 

“Professor, please,” you’d beg with pretty, kiss bitten lips between pants, “please,” 

“Where’s all those quips now, sweetheart?” he’d tease, as he would let his tip tease your clit, pulling a moan from your lips, “all those words fall away when you want this cock, don’t they? Been thinking about you like this, wondering what you’d look like spread out under me,” and he would lean down to kiss you, “it’s even better than I expected,”

He’s jerking himself off in earnest now, the lewd noises of his hand around his cock filling most of the silence, his low groans filling the rest. And he’d finally sink into you, inch by inch, until he’d kiss your cervix with his weeping tip. 

And, god, he wishes his fingers fisted around his cock would be as good as your cunt would feel around him. He would fuck you slow at first, “I know those boys can’t fuck you as good as I can, as well as I can,” he’d tell you, as he would pick up the pace when you’d tell him to, making you cum again and again with his cock, thumb rubbing at your clit, until he was finally close. He’d either cum all over your stomach, marking you with his release, or if you’d let him, he’d cum inside you, filling you with his seed—and then he’d watch it drip out when he would pull out. He groans your name lowly, shuddering as he comes all over his hand, hard. 

Fuck. 

That’s the hardest he’d cum in a long time. He’s a mess — panting and flushed, as he leans back, head against the back of his  chair, too spent to even clean up. And then he finally does, cleaning himself up well, and collecting his things to leave the office. 

But he only treated the symptoms, not the problem itself. His hard-on is gone, but his mind is still filled with thoughts of you. How he’d kiss you sweetly after, how he’d clean you up, care for you gently, make you rest because you never seem to do enough of that, and he’d let you relax — finally relax, as you slept the night in his arms. 

As he heads to his car, he knows that he’s utterly fucked (without even being fucked) because he has feelings for you. And he didn’t know if they were going to go away as easily as he hoped. 

But he hoped they would. He owed it to you, your education, and your future career not to act on these feelings. 

And he sighs as he sits in his car, starting it, but why did it hurt not to? 

It was that time again. 

Your next paper had come around again, and you needed to prepare a topic before you went to speak to Professor Geto. You had put it off, something you had never done with his class, but you wanted to limit the amount of time you spent with him, if only for the sake of your heart. 

Watching him in lectures was bad enough, your thighs pressing together as you watched him speak, his impeccable looks and intelligence a deadly combination for your heart (and your body). You could barely focus, your eyes too fixed on the way he wrote on the board —  his fingers too lithe and too thick, his voice all too alluring when discussing Kant and Aristotle and you can’t help but think what he’d sound moaning your name. 

God. Fuck.  

Either way, you needed to listen to the lectures again since you weren’t able to pay attention. Maybe without watching the video would be better, you settle on your bed, notebook and pen in hand, as you place your headphones on. His voice filled your ears, and you’re scrawling notes. 

But your mind begins to wander. He’s lecturing on the deontological ethics, and all you can think about is how he could make you cum with just that voice of his.  

Shit, you shifted your thighs again, feeling that familiar ache again. What would he sound like when he moaned? How would it sound to have him touch you, run those long fingers down your thighs, and whisper filthy things in your ear? 

As you listened to the lecture, his voice became white noise as your fingers slipped past the waistband of your shorts, and you shut your eyes. 

“That’s it, sweetheart, spread your legs for me,” he’d murmur in your ear, his chest pressed to your back and he’s urge your thighs wider, and his fingers would press against the wet patch on your panties, and he’d hum, “so wet f’me and I haven’t touched you yet, Princess,” his lips would kiss your pulse, “you like my voice that much?” 

“Professor,” you gasp, as his fingers would tease you through your underwear, the fabric growing more soaked by the second, “please—“ and his thumb would ghost around your clit, teasing you, as his long fingers would piston in and out — they would reach so much fucking deeper “I need to—“ 

“Already begging? I knew you learned fast, but not this fast,” and his fingers would tug the crotch of your panties aside, his fingertips tracing around your outer lips, before a finger pushes past your sweet cunt, “fuck, my favorite student’s pussy is so fucking tight. These boys are not fucking you right,” and you whimper, his finger would be so much thicker than yours, as you glide another finger inside you, the two dragging against your walls, “listen to your pretty cunt,” he’d grin against your skin, “and the wet squelch of your pussy, “so pliant for me, takes my fingers so well,” he’d murmur with a chuckle, “practically swallowing me up,” 

And you’re bucking your hips against him, wanting, needing him deeper, because your fingers don’t reach as far as his does, moans leaving your lips. 

“I’m so—” you’re moving faster and faster, his lecture still filling your ears, your pre-cum soaking your shorts and onto the bed sheets, “I can’t—” 

“Come on, Princess, use those big words of yours, you have no problem usually,” his hot words would whisper in your ear, and you’d hear him rub his erection against your ass, trying to get himself off, and you’d grind against him, wanting any friction, “tell me,” 

“Let me cum, please,” and he would smile, running his fingers through your hair, before he bore his thumb down on your clit and sunk a third finger into your needy cunt, just as you did now. And it’s too much for you, your toes curl, your messy walls fluttering around your fingers, as you cum all over your shorts and sheets with a groan of his name. Your fingers were soaked, as you pant, trying to gather yourself, as you came down from your high. 

“Fuck,” you murmur, tugging off your headphones, so your cunt doesn’t have to twitch listening to his dulcet words again. And you’re pulling your fingers out, your cum dripped down your fingers, as you shifted, far too wet underneath you, as you tried to slip off your bed to take a shower and clean yourself up. 

And then you realized, you didn’t even hear any of the lecture. 

Double fuck. 

Why was this so difficult? 

You stood near his office, trying to work up the urge to approach his door for office hours? Since it’s almost the end of the semester, there had been an influx of students attending office hours, and with everything, you had found excuses in your head to avoid office hours. But you couldn’t avoid him anymore. 

For your final paper in the class, you had to have a meeting with him during office hours to discuss your topic, complete with bibliography and outline. And it was almost time for your meeting. 

But you didn’t know how to go in. 

The last few weeks in class have made things worse. You couldn’t help but watch the other students fawn over Professor Geto, his lips curled as he spoke to them. And you’d leave class without a word. You had to stick through the semester and your feelings would disappear with time. You wouldn’t have to see him, you wouldn’t have class anymore, and you couldn’t talk to him. 

Or wouldn’t. 

But now you had to. And you didn’t know how— otherwise than just to do it. 

You knock at his door, “Come in,” and you open the door to see an empty desk, blinking, “I’m over here,”

And your head snaps to your right, and Professor Geto is sitting on his couch, his legs crossed with a stack of papers in hand. His jacket is slung over the side of the couch, his deep maroon button up sleeves rolled up, glasses perched on the tip of his nose. 

“I thought you lived at your desk,” you raise an eyebrow, “decided to change it up for the end of the semester?” 

“Everyone needs a change of scenery,” he leans forward, placing the stack of papers on the table in front of him, “do you want to sit here or move to the desk?” 

You shift in place, before moving to the couch beside him, “This is fine,” he stares, “what?” 

“Just surprised, you always have something to say,” he leans on his elbow, “no smart remarks today?” 

“Fresh out, can I offer you my proposal for the final paper instead?” You say dryly, and he cracks a smile, holding out your proposal. He clicks his red pen, readying his sword. 

He takes it, his dark eyes darting back and forth as he reads, his brow furrowed in concentration — and you can’t help but want to reach out and smooth his brow for him, tease him that he’ll get wrinkles. But you can’t. Can’t because that would cross a line that neither of you should cross. 

“You’ve come a long way,” he says, as he flips it back the front, writing only a few notes here and there. 

“But?” You wait for it. 

His gaze flickers up, a tilt of his head, “That was the end of my sentence,” 

You pause a moment, “Really?” 

“Really,” he scribbles a few more notes, “I look forward to reading the paper, it will be excellent I’m sure, maybe you’ll even get higher than a B+,” 

“Oh, ha, ha,” sarcasm dripping from your tongue, but you can’t help but smile, “you’ll miss me and my endless need for academic validation,” but was it really academic validation you were after now — your eyes gazed at him sitting with the tip of his pen pressed to his lips — or was it his? 

And it’s his turn to pause, and his lips curl into a soft smile, “I will,” 

Your breath catches, “Really?” 

He chuckles, “Really,” he licks his lips, his eyes glancing downward at your proposal than at your face, “I’ve enjoyed our chats this semester,” 

“Have you? Even when I argued with you,” a half nervous half serious laugh dies on your lips when his gaze meets yours, far too serious for your heart to take. 

“Especially then,” his fingers run through his hair a moment, before he speaks again, “I can’t say you could say the same,” 

“And why couldn’t you?” his eyes flicker with an emotion you can’t grasp fast enough, before it slips away into the depths of his dark irises. 

“Because you stopped coming,” his voice is soft, his tone barely even, and this gives you a real pause, heat flushing your body, as if his words had set every nerve ending alight, your mouth growing dry along with it, and it gives him a reprieve he needs to brush it aside, “you don’t have to, of course, these office hours are not relevant to your—” 

“I didn’t stop coming because I didn’t enjoy it,” you cut him off, swallowing the lump in your throat, “I stopped coming because I did,” 

He stares, “What do you—” 

“I don’t want academic validation anymore, I don’t care about my GPA,” you consider it a moment, “ok I do,” and he snorts, “but I care more about validation from you,” 

“From me?” he says, and his gaze tries to meet yours and it can’t — but his fingers brush against your skin, making your breath catch, your eyes finding his, “and what kind of validation do you want?” 

And you can’t find the words, and you hesitation makes him shake his head, “I apologize, I shouldn’t have—” 

“Will you have a drink with me?” and he’s speechless for once, “after the semester is over, of course — I know it wouldn’t be ethical before,” 

And his eyes find yours again, “Some would say it would be unethical after too,” 

“I would say it depends,” 

“On what basis?” and you can’t help but smirk. 

“Am I being graded, Professor?” and you delight in a small crack in his smiling veneer as a light flush dusts the tops of his ears, “and if I’m good, will you call me a good girl again?” 

He swallows, “I don’t want to cost you your education or your—” 

“I understand the risks, but we aren’t contemplating shifting a trolley to hit one person or five, or murdering one healthy person to save five sick ones,” and he raises an eyebrow, “it’s a drink to celebrate the end of the semester,” 

“And if it's something more?” he nearly whispers, the softness of his voice reflected in his features, as his fingers that rested on the couch twitched beside yours. 

“Then we’ll cross that bridge then,” and then you add with a small smile, “Or hit the metaphorical person with the trolley,” and it pulls at the corners of his lips. 

“You make a fair point,” and you gasp in mock surprise.

“The first time all semester you agree with me,” and he chuckles, a noise you wished you could hear him make innumerable times more. 

“Not the first,” he replies, before leaning forward, pressing your outline back into your hands, his fingers brushing yours, “we both agree you’re a good girl, don’t we?” 

And your breath catches, his words warm your skin, turning your blood to lava, “Professor,” and he smiles again. 

“When we go for drinks, call me Suguru.” 

~~~~ 

The semester wears on and finally draws to an end, but finals induced hibernation begins for you. A mix of papers and exams, you finish everything — including your paper for Professor Geto’s class. As always, he has you submit a paper and electronic copy, the paper copy to be dropped off at his office mailbox. And you do just that, the mailboxes being only around the corner from his office, and your heart squeezes at the thought of him. After this, the class was over, it was done. You weren’t his student anymore. 

And you place the paper into the mailbox and sigh, chewing your lip as you pass by his office, but find the door closed (and locked, as you quickly turned the doorknob to test it). Where was he? This was the time he was usually in his office, but maybe he had left campus for the semester — had he forgotten about your drinks? 

Fuck. You hadn’t even discussed a time or place, you had left it vague — “after finals.” Your cheeks burned at the memory, you were far too flustered to elaborate. And you had spent far too many nights imagining him calling you a ‘good girl’ in many other situations. 

And then you heard a call of your name, your gaze snapping up, your heart leaping, but only to see the department head. 

“Hi Professor, how are you?” and the two of you make polite chit-chat, until he asks you. 

“Have you applied to be a T.A. for the department?” and you blink, “applications just opened and I think from what I’ve heard about you around the department, I think you would be an excellent candidate.” 

“I’d love to be — how does the application process work?” and he explains that it’s a double blind process where applications are viewed without personal information of the candidates, and then matched with a professor based only on resume and writing samples. 

You can barely listen to the department head, still far too distracted with thoughts of Professor Geto — so you agree to apply, if only to placate the department head, and make an excuse to leave. 

It had been a week or so, as you lay in bed in your apartment, staring at your ceiling — you hadn’t even bothered to get Professor Geto’s personal number. You couldn’t even reach out to him if you tried, as the only way you could was through his university email, which was out of the question — the university had rules against a professor and student dating, and if anyone found that email — you sighed — it wouldn’t be good. 

Maybe it was for the best. 

The only communication you had gotten from him was an email from Professor Geto’s mailing list to the class from a few days ago, stating that he was out of state in a conference, and he would return soon, but your grades would be emailed to you. But the paper copies would be available to pick up in his office from 3:00 PM to 6:00 PM on Tuesday. It was almost time to pick up your paper, and your nerves bit at you as you thought about the possibility of seeing him. Who knows if he would even be there to begin with. 

Would it be anything? Would it be nothing? Was there not any point to this at all? 

Oh, great, you were becoming existential. 

You sat up, the only thing you could do was go. So you do, taking your time to get dressed. If you were going to see him, you might as well look your best. 

Fuck. You couldn’t go in. It had taken you longer to get back to campus than you thought, and now there were only a few minutes of his office hours left.

And you’re about to knock when the door opens, and you find yourself face to face with the man who has consumed every thought of yours for the last few months — good and bad alike. 

“Late again?” and you can’t help but smile. 

“I prefer fashionably late,” and his eyes rake over your outfit, making your cheeks burn. 

“You certainly are,” and he steps aside to allow you into his office, and you glance between the couch and the desk, but he makes the choice and sits at his desk, “I have your paper right here,” and he’s rifling through his file of papers, “how did your finals go?” 

“If I have an A on this paper, perfectly,” and a smile tugs at his lips, and you raise an eyebrow, “what? Something funny?” 

“Not at all,” and he pulls your paper out, ha “I just recall you saying you wanted something more than, what was it? ‘My academic validation?’” 

And your cheeks flush, “I did, but I also didn’t hear from you,” and your fingers reach for the paper, and he holds onto it, “Professor,” 

“I couldn’t reach out to you because I was still your professor, but once you get this grade, I’m not anymore,” and his gaze is sharper without his glasses today, his dark blue Henley doing nothing to help the flush on your cheeks — memories of your dreams flooding your mind, “and once you get this grade back, I’m not anymore,” 

“And what does that mean?” you can’t pull your eyes away from his, but his fingers let go of your graded paper, “how about you look at the last page of your paper and see?” 

You pull the paper into your hands, flipping to the last page: 

99 — I was impressed by this paper not only by the content but by its comprehension and use of both ethics and philosophy. But I was also impressed by the person who wrote the paper. You’ve shown determination and growth throughout the semester — and you have reminded me what we owe to each other. And I think we owe each other a drink, and a chance for this. 

You feel his eyes watch you as you read, your eyes finally meeting his — his brow knit together, his lips pursed, concentrated gaze trying to decipher your reaction. 

“Why a 99?” And his eyebrows raise, as if to ask, “that’s your question?” 

“You had some spelling and grammar errors,” 

“Really? You couldn’t let it slide?” And he tilts his head, before he sees your lips curling into a grin. 

“So you think it’s funny to mess with your professor?” And his voice drops, a playful tone that makes you nearly shiver, as he leans forward, resting his chin against his elbow. 

“You’re not my professor anymore, are you, Suguru?” he likes that by the way his teeth bite his bottom lip briefly, his eyes flitting to your lips for a moment and back to your eyes, “so I guess we’re using that trolley after all,” 

“If you want to,” he says softly, “I wouldn’t blame you if you change your mind, it’s a risk,” 

It was. It was a risk to your reputations, your careers, your futures — especially to yours. But, your eyes met his again. 

“Contractualism is about avoiding risk,” and he nods, as his gaze falls away, “but some risk is necessary in life, and I think this is one that’s worth taking,” 

“We will have to be careful,” he murmurs, but already his fingers are twitching, far too eager to touch you, “we can’t make any mistakes. I don’t want to hurt you,” he adds softly. 

“I know, I don’t want to hurt you either,” and you rise before slowly rounding his desk, “but I want to know what it’s like,” 

And he can’t stop himself — he gets to his feet, his fingers finding your cheeks and he kisses you. You can taste the black coffee on his lips, his kiss is gentle at first, so chaste and fleeting that you’d swear he didn’t kiss you at all — and so it’s not a second before your lips find his again, in a deeper kiss that steals every ounce of breath from your lungs, and leaves only heat behind. This was dangerous. The very risk you were both trying to avoid, but as he’s pressing you into the edge of his desk, you can’t find the logic you misplaced when those goddamn fingers you’ve been dreaming about squeeze your hips. 

“Fuck,” he’s panting — god that word sounded more sinful on his lips than it should — as he presses sweet kisses to your neck, “we shouldn’t be doing this here,” 

“Not very ethical,” you chuckle breathlessly, as your fingers rake through his now disheveled bun, “but I can’t find the sense to care,” your noses brush, as you can’t help but smile, “what would Scanlon or Kant say about this?” 

And his arms lift you onto his desk, several papers crumpling underneath, “Who the fuck cares?” he’s hissing, his lips find yours in a searing kiss, as his thighs press yours apart, as he settles himself between your legs, his knee grazing your core, drawing a delightful gasp from your lips, “I know what I want,” and his eyes soften, his fingers tracing the length of your cheek, “do you?” 

Before you can answer, two pings catch your attention — your phone and his computer lighting up with a notification, and you both pause a moment, as your eyes glance at the banner notification on your phone, skimming over the words. The T.A. positions have been assigned. 

“Fuck,” you hear him mutter, and you gaze snaps up to his on his computer, the email now opened on his screen, “this can’t be right—” 

“What is it—” and the question dies on your lips as your eyes find where his rested — 

You — you were his T.A. for next semester — for the very class that you met in. 

Fuck, indeed. 

✧ read part 2 now

✧ a/n: lets all remember that student and teacher relationships are bad in real life. it's ok to live vicariously through reader but unfortunately no professor will be as hot as professor geto or gojo T_T. s/o to @/laneymusings and @bucky-of-the-opera for beta reading this for me and being just absolutely wonderful!!

✧ tag list: @sokkasmoon, @unoriginalideas, @waytootiredforthisss, @sinnerstardoll, @secret-pages-of-my-heart, @drthymby, @hanlay, @catsgomurp, @hatsunemitskislobotomy, @esuz, @difficultdomains, @poopyface222, @iwassentfromhell, @diogodxlot, @totallynotcc, @llovekami, @deadmarygolds, @teatreeoilll, @carcarcraziiv2, @forest-hashira, @aliyalala, @esuz, @that-goth-bisexual, @hehehehesthings, @imjustmememe, @j1jay, @iwassentfromhell,

[carryonlikewedidbefore]

Days of Our Lives Fan Club Weekend Luncheon - Universal Hilton.

31st May 1997. Photographer: Ed Geller

High-Quality Version | The Down Under Slide Collection

[pochaccoups]

things you do that make svt bust quick (nsfw)

seungcheol —; tell him how good he’s doing

he’s a leo male… please stroke his ego.

tell him how you love his cock, how big he is, how it hits so deep inside you. tell him “right there,” and “keep going,” and to do it “just like that.”

stroke his possessive side too. tell him no one else can fuck you like he can, no one else can stretch you out so good, no one else can make you cum like he does. tell him that your pussy is made for him only.

be loud for him. god, he loves hearing you moan. say his name, beg for more, sob, whimper, gasp for him. don’t be shy about it. it’ll only be a matter of time before you butter him up enough to make him cum.

jeonghan —; beg

everyone knows yoon jeonghan likes having people at his mercy. he gets a little unhinged when he has power over someone—so imagine what he gets like when you’re writhing on his cock, gasping his name so sweetly, your eyes glimmering with tears as he fucks you hard.

“what is it, pretty?” he asks, and like the devil he is, he slows the movement of hips, pulling out of you until his tip barely kisses your also weeping hole. it’s torture for him too, to leave the hot, tight haven that is your cunt, but to him it’s worthwhile.

“wanna cum, hannie,” you whimper.

“hm… i don’t know if i should let you yet,” he says, dipping back inside just an inch. years of him being yours means you don’t miss the tiny strain in his voice that betrays his perfectly collected demeanour.

“please, hannie, please, please, please, let me cum. i’ve been so good,” you sob, squeezing your thighs where they rest on his hips.

you watch as a switch flips in his eyes within a millisecond. a grin lights up his face and he shudders, and he’s sliding back inside you, fucking in and out of you harder and faster than before. safe to say it doesn’t take long for either of you to cum after that.

joshua —; make eye contact

his pretty doe eyes make staring into them your favourite thing in the world, and if you asked him his favourite pastime, he’d tell you that it was gazing into your irises.

it’s also his biggest weakness. from the way you’ve got your mouth wrapped around his dick, throat gagging even though you’re only halfway down it, joshua feels his sanity slipping away. his fingers curl into the bedsheets below as he watches you work him, revels in the warmth of your tongue sliding up and down his shaft.

when your eyes flick up to meet his he doesn’t stand a chance. not with how glimmering they are, brimming softly with tears, yet swimming with adoration. with worship.

heat washes over his whole body, he’s gasping, and the salty warmth of his release pools on your tongue.

jun —; put his fingers in your mouth

when junhui gets inside you he has a one-track mind. he becomes rapt with pleasure, drunk from the warm squeeze of your pussy around him, focused on nothing but the sensation of you, the sight of you under him, the sound of you in his ears.

the effect you have on him is dangerous, because you’re equally obsessed with him as he is with you, and you’re not afraid to show him.

and you love his hands, he knows you do—knows how you love his slender fingers and their soft touches all over you, inside you. your brain is cloudy, fogged by lust when you take him by his wrist and bring his fingers to your mouth. your eyes sparkle as your lips wrap around his index finger, your soft tongue swirling around it.

jun’s mouth parts with awe, his eyes growing round. a second later, he stills inside you with a gasp of your name, like he’s praying to you, all the while you’re sucking on his finger like a devil.

hoshi —; scratch him

he’s a little bit of a freak, and a masochist too.

when he’s got you folded in half, hitting all the right spots inside you, you cling to him in every way you can—fingers grabbing at his biceps, his shoulders. one particular stroke of his hips has you squealing.

your nails sink into his skin, crying out his name as you rake them down the toned planes of his back. the second you do, soonyoung is grunting, hips stilling, cock twitching as a sticky warmth suddenly floods your cervix.

the worst part about it is how he always has the stupidest, most shit-eating smug grin on his face when he examines your damage in the bathroom after, and you know that if he could, he would post the selfies he takes in the mirror all over instagram. what’s even worse though? seeing your marks makes him hard again.

wonwoo —; cry

you’re such a sensitive little thing and wonwoo adores you. one orgasm on his fingers and you’re already overstimulated—“but baby, i haven’t even put my cock in you yet,” he’ll coo.

like it’s your fault you have a boyfriend with skilled fingers and a skilled tongue and who knows you inside and out like the back of his hand, who knows where to touch you and how hard and what pace makes you writhe the most.

by the time he does get inside you, you’re gasping and whining and clawing at him, tears springing to your eyes because he’s so big and so deep, but the stretch is so addictive that it’s dizzying. his voice is low and husky as he mutters to you a mixture of teases and praise, calls you his pretty girl and then laughs at sensitive you are, pretends he’s not on the verge of coming from the sound of your choked gasps.

your belly starts to pulse with that familiar heat and by then you’re keening for him, whimpering a mixture of his name and endless pleas as it starts to become too much. your sobs go straight to his cock, and it’s only a matter of time before he reaches his climax, and his gasps of pleasure harmonise with your own cries.

woozi —; pull his hair

he’s been growing his hair out. after all your begging, he finally listened. in a way, though, it’s backfired a little on you, because the longer it gets the more insane you become. and the thing is you never expected him to let it get to his shoulders—and still he doesn’t plan on cutting it. well, good. you would kill him if he did.

when his face is between your legs you’re nothing short of a feral animal—your hips bucking wild against his mouth, your legs trembling on his shoulders, your fingers, of course, grabbing fistfuls of his hair. he makes you whine when he pulls away from your needy, sticky cunt to tsk at you, tells you to cut it out and keep your hands to yourself. (it’s because he’s about to cream his pants).

when he bends you in half beneath him, ruts into you hard and fast and relentless, you need leverage. your hands land on the back of his neck, fingertips grazing at his roots, then one slam of his hips into yours has his cock bumping against the most sensitive spot inside you and your grasping at his hair and crying his name so desperately. no longer can he hold back, strained groans slipping past his lips as he lets go inside you.

dokyeom —; hold his hand

a sentimental sweetheart, seokmin is an utter romantic who thinks that being inside of you, whether in your mouth or your pussy, is intimacy in its purest form. now imagine showing him just how much more intimate things can get.

he’s losing his mind at the feeling of your tongue swirling around the head of his cock, the way you swallow his length down making him see stars. he can’t bare to look at you—he needs to focus on taking deep breaths so that he doesn’t cum straight down your throat. then he feels you grabbing at one of his hands, lacing your fingers together, and no amount of deep breathing can stop him from releasing.

and when he fucks you it’s no different—it’s him in near tears, whimpering your name between incoherent words over and over, and as soon as you take his hand in yours and your fingers wrap around his, there’s nothing else he can do but succumb to his own pleasure.

mingyu —; take control

he’s big and strong; strong enough to put you into whatever position he wants, to make you cum at his command, to do just as he pleases with you.

but that’s exactly why he likes it when you slap him around a little.

you can’t exactly bend him into doggy or use your weight to keep him pinned to the mattress, but you can sit yourself pretty on his cock and ride him teasingly slow. you can tell him he’s not allowed to touch you or you’ll stop moving. you can tell him to kiss you, to go slower, to go harder.

you can sit up and put a hand around his throat, still your hips, and tell him he can fuck you himself if he wants to cum. and he’ll do just that—and as soon as you utter the words, he’s gone, whining out curses as he fills you up in white, warm spurts.

minghao —; whisper in his ear

minghao often tells you how he adores your voice. when you talk to him he’s entranced, and he’s always been more of a listener than a talker, and it’s perfect because you always have so much to say, and minghao will listen to every last word of yours.

your voice—minghao’s kryptonite, his achilles’ heel, his undoing and, oh, the way you moan for him when he’s got you on his cock is enough to make his heart stop beating. the perverted part of him wishes he could record you, hide the file away on his phone and listen to you when he’s overseas and he can’t call you. maybe he’ll ask you about that, if he can find the courage.

the final blow is when you’re getting close. you lean in, right next to his ear, so close that your breath sends shivers along his skin. “please, hao, i’m so close,” you whisper, yet you still sound so desperate and depraved. “you are too, right? cum for me, please. i’ll cum for you too.”

so he does just that—minghao gives in and lets his orgasm wash over him, fingertips drawing circles on your clit until mere moments later he hears the sound of your own cresting pleasure and he feels himself getting hard again.

seungkwan —; wrap your legs around him

it’s a fact that seungkwan loves to be close to you. if he could, he would crawl inside of your skin and live in your heart. but since he can’t, constant physical touch is the next best thing.

he likes to think he has relatively good self-control…most of the time. like when he’s buried to the hilt inside you, he’s incredible at keeping in rhythm, fucking into you at the most perfect pace for both you and him, hitting the spot that makes your back arch off the bed.

somehow he never sees it coming—when your arms are snaked around his neck and you’re holding onto him for dear life as he takes you to heaven, and your legs wrap around his waist so that you can pull him in impossibly deep. then you bring his face to yours, and you have the most irresistible little pout on your face when you make your request. “cum inside me, seungkwannie?”

and it’s not like he has much choice with the way you’ve trapped him inside of you, but that’s the very reason why the next second he’s pumping you full, because when it’s you, how is he supposed to have any self-control?

vernon —; touch yourself

it’s not like vernon can last long in general. he thinks you’re the hottest thing alive and he’s so enamoured with you that it’s too much for him sometimes, but you best believe he’ll put his all into holding out just for you.

there are times, however, where he’s just a man. and what’s a man to do when he has a goddess riding his dick? when your tits look so pretty, bouncing in his face, when you have that fucked out look in your eyes, when you feel like heaven and hell all at once?

and what the fuck is a man to do when your hand drifts down between your legs, to your aching clit, and your fingers start to rub it in circles, or when your other hand grasps one of your tits and tugs at one of your own nipples? and your sweet pussy clenches around him so tight when you do, clamps down on him in an hot, wet embrace, so what else can he do but cum?

dino —; say ‘i love you’

another sweet, sentimental boy. lee chan is head over heels for you, enamoured, obsessed, smitten, infatuated with you… the list of things he is around you is endless.

it shows in the way he fucks you—always takes his time with you, never rushes taking you apart. every touch of his is intentional, meant to set you both ablaze. when he eats you out to prep you for his cock, he has to try not to cum in his pants from how pretty you are.

where he really doesn’t stand a chance however is when he’s bottomed out inside you, as close as he can possibly be with you—so close you’re practically one. the sweetest sounds fall from your lips, spurring on his expert thrusts.

his forehead is plastered to yours, the pair of you revelling in one another’s sweat and gasps for air. “i love you,” you confess gently, and chan falls over the edge of pleasure not a moment later.

[seungisms]

리노. thinking about dryhumping with minho. he likes to underestimate you, so fucking smug and cocky and saying the meanest shit just to get under your skin. he just thinks you look so cute the angrier you get. but he doesn’t find it too funny when you’re sat all pretty on his lap, working his swollen cock back and forth across his stomach underneath your drenched cunt - and there’s nothing he can do about it but fist the edge of the bed frame where you have him cuffed, muttering something under his breath about how he’s gonna fuck you to tears when he figures a way out of those things. 

but he’s shutting up as soon as you’re slowing the movement of your hips, just whimpering and moaning and heavy breathing with every slide of pussy, heated and wet against the length of his sensitive cock. he likes to act composed and like he has you right under his thumb, and usually he does. normally he has you wrapped around his finger with the simple promise of dick, giving you everything before ripping it away when he feels your pussy quivering around his cock, just to see those pretty tears line your lashes when he leaves your cunt sad and empty. but with the way he was panting and whining and damn near crying, desperate to be inside you, he clearly wasn’t as calm and collected as he likes to claim. “please, c’mon. just let me out of these things and i’ll fuck you so good,” he’s still tugging on the cuffs, arms tense and knuckles white, adams apple bobbing as soon as you press down on him even more, not leaving an inch of dick uncovered as bare flesh suffocates the length of his cock. and he’s so sure, so convinced that you’ll give in and give him what he wants, getting rid of those fucking handcuffs and fucking you until you’re sorry for ever putting him in them. “but where’s the fun in that?” that one question is enough to rip all hope away from him, lips quivering and eyes stinging cause he just wants to cum so bad :( 

it’s just so fun to tease minho sometimes - he always acts untouchable, like he’s doing you a favour by dicking you down, like the twitch of his cock was easy to ignore when he’s busy torturing your poor cunt. but now, with the way his eyes are rolling into the back of his skull with every hot drag of your pussy, how he chokes on his whimpers when your cunt shifts forward, hooking against the tip of his dick, feeling the swell of his cock clearing through a sticky mixture of precum and arousal - it was easy to see he wasn’t as in control as he’d like to be. 

he’s also a little impatient, gets a little nasty with his words when the swell of his cock becomes almost painful with the way it was twitching and crying into your pussy - if he moved his hips up even an inch he’d be nudging himself deep into your dripping core and finally finding the release he’s so pitifully chasing after. “gonna make you pay for this. that pussy is as good as fucked as soon as i’m out of these things ugh-“ he’s cutting himself off with a choked gasp, head thrown back and chest heaving when your fingers reach down to press on the drooling slit of his cockhead, continuing to mash his dick back and forth in shallow thrusts, angling your clit so that his cock was barely bumping into the dip of your pussy, just an inch, but enough to coax more of those pretty begs from his lips.

“fuck, so warm. please baby, just let me fuck you, even just the tip. please, swear i’ll be so good for you.” and he’s loud. loud enough that the rest of his members could probably hear him through the walls. hear how pathetic he becomes when he doesn’t get what he wants. but minho can’t find it in himself to care, not when he’s so close, throat raw and dick twitching and an unquenched need to cum making his pretty eyes gloss over with tears, cock full and red and crying with precum. his eye twitches with every stroke of pussy, each shallow grind pulling more fucked out whimpers out of him - until finally he’s cumming onto your folds in hot, thick ropes of cum. and it’s so unsatisfying that he could cry, cock sore and softening against your clit, cum dribbling onto your nub and painting your cunt in his load until it’s hot and sticky to the touch. his chest is heaving, heartbeat loud in his ears as you continue to grind down onto his limp cock, using his cum to wedge effortlessly between your folds as you use him to get yourself off - the same way he’s done so many times before with your tired pussy. and it’s almost cute the way he chokes and sobs and stutters underneath you, knees trembling and forehead sweaty and toes curling, begging you to finally show him some mercy. 

but why should you? he’s never been nice to you, never paid your pretty whimpers any mind when he’s stretching you out on his dick, laughed straight in your face a few times when you’ve begged him to go easy on you and only fucked you even harder for even suggesting it. and you tell him such, tell him that he’s getting exactly what he deserves. and he hates that you’re right.

© seungisms - all rights reserved. reposting/modification of any kind is not tolerated. 

[daryltwdixon]

Mmwhahaha REQUESTS YES. So jealous joel is my all-time crush, men being jealous is so damn hot. I'm picturing age gap, friends with Tommy, so she's come over for like a BBQ or something, and one of his friends is flirting and being touchy. Incomes jealous joel. I'll leave the creatives to you! Points for a short sundress and tipsy drunk sex later.

|| smut MDNI 18+, no outbreak, size difference (joel is big and hulking obvi, no reader description), pinv quickie, lots of heavy kissing, jealous!joel, maybe a little mean!joel, dirty talk, creampie ||

a/n: heyyyyy I may have gotten a little carried away hehehe tysm for the request!! (left joel pic is from @iamasaddie)

The air was hot and thick with the smell of Frank’s famous ribs on the barbeque that late Saturday afternoon, the sun still beating down despite the hour. Joel’s hand stung from the cold bite of the ice that floated in the cooler as he fished around for a beer, hoping it’d take the edge off the heat, and maybe the company, too.

He was only half listening to the conversation near the tables, the scrape of tongs on the grill, the low hum of voices rising every so often in laughter as the guys hovered around Frank like he was running a damn cooking show. Most of them were well past their drink limit already, and none of them seemed to be slowing down.

It was one of those casual get-togethers Tommy liked to throw now and then. They pulled in the whole damn crew from the job site, a few neighbors, and the usual handful of buddies Tommy had collected through the VA or just from being more sociable than his older brother had ever been.

Joel normally showed up late and dipped out early. But this time, he’d been here since setup. Grunted through the small talk, nodded through the backslaps and the bullshit, even ignored the flirty eyes and lingering hands from some of the wives who’d had one too many.

He was just cracking the tab on his beer when he heard Marcus ask, “Now where’s that cute little thing you always got hangin’ around you these days?”

Joel’s head snapped up before he could stop himself, eyes cutting to his brother like a reflex.

Tommy’s grin widened bashfully, cheeks coloring under the weight of Marcus’s arm slung around his shoulders.

The guys burst into laughter, light punches landing against Tommy’s chest and arms, jabbing at him like boys in a locker room. Joel didn’t laugh, instead, he felt his jaw tighten.

He didn’t really know you. The real estate girl Tommy had gotten friendly with, now that he was helping out more regularly with Miller Contracting. You’d become part of the routine, almost part of the company entirely if Tommy had his way. You were slowly turning into the face of the pitch, the one always talking to buyers with your bright voice and glossy folders and those heels that somehow never sank into the grass.

Truth be told, Joel thought you were actually pretty damn good at your job. You never over-promised. Never made excuses. You just smiled at the impatient homeowners and smoothed things over with that voice of yours, always steady, always sweet.

No worries, Mrs. Smith, the boys are workin’ hard, and your granite countertops should be done real soon. What’s that? You need it finished in two weeks? Don’t worry, I’ll ask ‘em to crank up the Constructo-Meter and work double-time.

Joel had to force himself not to smile the first time you pulled that one out.

Because you were a pain in his ass. Always wedging yourself into their business, always making friendly chatter with the guys—it drove him mad.

But still, that never seemed stop him from thinking about the way those little black skirts and low cut blouses hugged your curves, how your voice went syrupy when you talked on the phone, how your perfume lingered long after you’d left the site.

And it sure didn’t stop the way his blood started to run a little hotter now, just hearing other men talk about you like that.

And speaking of the devil in heels, there you were, the back door sliding open and your bright smile shining across the yard. But you weren’t in your usual business attire. Long gone was the little black pencil skirt, you had sandals instead of kitten heels, and instead of your clipboard tucked under your chest, you held a dish covered in a tea towel.

Instead, you wore a simple little sundress. Light fabric, floral print, the kind that clung just enough to your waist before fluttering out around your thighs. It moved with every step you took, catching the breeze as if made for days just like this.

Your legs were bare, glowing in the bright sunlight, long and smooth and dusted with the faint shimmer of the afternoon heat. You walked slow, easy, like you didn’t feel a dozen sets of eyes turn toward you all at once.

“There she is!” Marcus called, loud and eager, already moving to greet you like a dog off-leash. He bulldozed his way across the lawn, nearly knocking over someone’s lawn chair to get to you first. Joel watched as you smiled politely, extending your hand. You let Marcus take it, let him rest his palm on your shoulder like he’d known you more than a couple weeks. He led you into the yard like you were the goddamn guest of honor. 

But had Joel blinked just then, he would’ve missed the way your eyes flitted to him across the lawn, almost in a silent plea. What was it you were asking of him? To pull you away from Marcus’s grip? To save you from the onslaught of attention? Joel told himself he was overthinking it. You only glanced at him, anyway. It was only a second, quick and barely there, but he felt his ears go red. 

Then you were pulled right into the thick of it. The circle of men and smoke and beer breath and loud talk surrounded you and Joel’s eyes narrowed when you leaned up and kissed Tommy on the cheek in greeting.

What the hell?

Joel’s mind scrambled for any semblance of conversation he had with his brother about you recently. As far as he knew, you weren’t seeing each other, or else he knew Tommy would be bragging from the rooftops about it. So why were you kissing him on the cheek, and why in God’s name was his brother looking so damn pleased with himself?

The guys hooted, elbowing Tommy again, shouting some nonsense about keeping secrets and "oughta let the rest of us have a chance." You laughed. That easy, breezy kind of laugh Joel had only ever heard you use with clients. It was sweet and polished and meant to keep things light.

“You’re bad,” you said to Marcus as he playfully tugged at the edge of your dish towel-covered plate. “I brought peach cobbler. Hands off till it’s on the table.”

“Aw, c’mon, sweetheart,” he grinned, “Don’t tell me you just came here to tease us like that.”

Joel clenched his jaw so hard his molars ached.

They fawned over you for a little longer, offering you a drink, asking about your week, making you promise you’d be at the site tomorrow. You laughed and nodded and let them talk at you while you balanced the covered dish in your hands.

Finally, someone called for plates and food, and the group began to break apart. You used the chance to step away, heading toward the folding table to set the dish down, hands smoothing the towel flat once you uncovered the cobbler.

Joel dropped his gaze down to the cooler as you approached, hyper aware of every footfall he heard of yours, the slapping of your fancy looking sandals. He could feel your approach, his nerves fraying the closer you got.

“You gonna guard that cooler all night, Mr. Miller?”

His jaw flexed again.

He could see your painted toes in his periphery, the slender straps of your sandals peeking through the grass as you stood beside him now, arms crossed loosely as you probably were eyeing the cooler. Joel didn’t answer at first, but he reached back into the ice and grabbed another beer. He knew which kind you liked. He offered it to you all the while barely looking at you. 

“Thanks,” you said, taking it from him and flipping the tab. “Didn’t realize it came with a side of brooding.”

His eyes finally flicked to your face, but you were already turning and walking away. 

Pain in his ass.

The fire pit was burning high, crackling steady in the pit as the night settled in thick and warm. Most of the crowd had cleared out by now, just a small group lingering in mismatched chairs and folding camp seats around the orange glow. Tommy was strumming his guitar across the fire from Joel, and someone had pulled out the s’mores kit, and now half-melted chocolate wrappers and graham cracker crumbs littered the little side table.

You were perched on the edge of a faded Adirondack chair, legs tucked under you, a roasting stick gripped delicately between your fingers. A single marshmallow dangled above the flame, the bottom already blistering black while the top sagged from the heat.

Joel watched you, his umpteenth beer in hand, his skin flushed and brow glowering at you across the fire beside his brother. But you hadn’t paid much mind to him all day. 

The thought of that being the exact reason he was glowering flitted across his mind before he shook it away with another swig.

He told himself he was only watching you because you were reckless with the fire. That someone needed to keep an eye on you before you set yourself or the whole damn yard ablaze. But even as the thought passed through, it felt thin.

“Uh-oh,” someone murmured, pointing at your marshmallow.

You lifted it too slowly, distracted mid-conversation, and by the time you noticed, it was already half-melted, sagging off the stick. But you just laughed, grinning as you brought it straight to your lips anyway.

It hit your mouth in a gooey, half-scalding mess. A smear of white stuck to the corner of your lip, the rest slipping down your chin in a slow drip before you caught it with your finger.

“Shit,” you said, laughing again, swiping at the melted mess before licking your finger clean with a soft, exaggerated pop. “Too hot.”

One of the women next to you snorted, covering her mouth. Another chimed in, “Girl, you’re gonna burn your tongue off.”

But the men… they were all silent, frozen, staring in awe as you finished off the white sugary syrup that dripped down your finger.

Joel’s pulse kicked hard in his neck, the bottle slick in his hand. His eyes narrowed across the flames, locked on you like you were a match yourself. He didn’t know what pissed him off more—how you didn’t seem to notice the reaction around the firepit, or how maybe the fact that you very much knew exactly what you were doing.

You were glowing in the firelight, hair messy and cheeks flushed, lips still sticky with sugar and heat. And you weren’t even looking at him. You were laughing with the others like you hadn’t just made every man in the circle forget what they were saying mid-sentence.

He hated it.

Absolutely fucking hated it.

He stood up suddenly, the legs of his chair scraping loud against the concrete.

Your eyes flicked over to him, a little startled. 

Joel didn’t say much as he stalked off, only muttering something about needing to take a piss as he moved off toward the house, shoulders tight and eyes storm-dark.

Pain in his ass.

The house was quiet in the way that always made Joel feel like he could finally breathe. Music still played low from the guitar in Tommy’s lap, something twangy and slow, and the hum of conversation from outside was muffled by the closed door. He stood in the kitchen with his back to the room, hands braced against the counter, head bowed. His beer sat half-finished beside the sink, piss warm by now.

He hated this.

He hated the way his stomach twisted every time you laughed at someone else’s joke. He hated how the sound of his own brother’s name on your lips made his shoulders tense or how you floated through the yard like you didn’t even notice the way people watched you.

And worse, hated how badly he wanted you to look at him.

He didn’t want to be that kind of man. The kind that glared at his own brother like a dog guarding a bone. The kind that let a little sugar-slick smile get under his skin. But here he was. Stuck in it. Damn near drowning in it. A grown man stewing in the dark over a girl that wasn’t even his.

Joel kept reminding himself that he barely knew you. Just a few months of day in and day out visits to the sites, or meeting him and his brother on new projects. Joel and you mostly only talked business, maybe a few jokes here and there if he was in a good enough mood. Sometimes you brought him coffee when you knew it’d be a long day. You’d learned how he’d liked it. He was kicking himself for never being all that nice to you. But it surely wasn’t enough to justify this ugly thing crawling up his spine every time you touched Tommy’s arm or shared a smile with one of the other guys.

If anyone deserved you, it was probably Tommy. He was good with people, charming and light on his feet and always seemed to know what to say. If you were gonna fall for someone, Joel figured it would be him. Maybe you already had.

But none of that stopped the way Joel’s blood ran hot just at the thought of it.

No. Joel wanted you.

And he wanted you bad.

He closed his eyes and took a breath, trying to settle the mess churning in his chest. He hated the way he got around you, how quick his temper flared, how easily his thoughts tangled. The jealousy slipped in quiet at first, but it had since settled deep, coiling tight in his gut until everything felt too hot. And beneath it, there was the want. Hot and blood boiling, it was impossible to ignore. It clung to him in moments like this, too loud for the quiet kind of life he told himself he wanted now.

And just as he was pulling himself together, the back door creaked open behind him.

He turned halfway, startled.

You stepped inside, lit from behind by the porch light, brows pinched and lip tucked between your teeth. You didn’t see him at first, just cradled your hand in front of you and headed for the cabinets.

“Can’t believe I actually burned myself,” you muttered, yanking one open and rummaging through it.

Joel blinked. “The hell you doin’?”

You jumped slightly, eyes snapping to him. “Jesus—I didn’t know you were in here.”

“Clearly,” he snapped, but then his gaze dropped to the way your fingers curled protectively around your hand. He let out a sigh, quieter this time. “Sit. I’ll get the kit.”

You hesitated, then nodded and moved toward the counter. Joel disappeared down the hall and came back a moment later with the first aid kit, clicking it open as you settled on the edge of the counter. Your bare feet dangled above the floor, knees drawn in slightly like you were trying to take up less space.

“I feel so stupid,” you muttered with a breathy little laugh, trying to break the silence.

“Yeah, well,” Joel grumbled, “shouldn’t’ve been playin’ in fire.”

“I wasn’t playing,” you said, rolling your eyes. “I dropped my marshmallow.”

Joel didn’t respond. He let the quiet settle again as he took your hand in his. He hadn’t noticed before how small it was. How his palm all but swallowed yours. You were so warm, so close. Closer than he’d ever been, really.

After a moment, you tilted your head, frowning at him. “What’s been your deal today?”

He didn’t answer, just dabbed on the burn cream. You winced, and he almost felt bad.

“You’ve been acting… weird,” you said softly.

“Weird?” he echoed, even though he knew exactly what you meant. He had been acting like an asshole, there was no doubt about it. 

“You’ve been…distant. All broody and quiet.”

He finally looked up at you under his brows. “I don’t brood.”

Your lips curved, amused in spite of yourself. “Joel Miller, you are the definition of brooding. What’s going on with you?”

He paused, focusing on wrapping the bandage like it was the most important thing in the world. He didn’t know if he was going to answer. Didn’t know if he should.

“You don’t even realize it, do you?” he said finally.

You blinked. “Realize what?”

He glanced at you, frowning. “The way you act out there with them. Letting ‘em fawn all over you. Laughin’, lickin’ marshmallow off your damn fingers like you don’t know what that looks like.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

“Maybe you don’t realize it. Or maybe you do. Maybe that’s the whole thing. Part of your little game.”

“I don’t play games, Mr. Miller,” you said sharply, jerking your hand from his. You stood abruptly, the scrape of your feet on the tile loud in the silence. Joel was already kicking himself for being such an asshole.

“And if you’re so mad about them lookin’ at me, you sure as hell don’t seem to care enough to do anything about it.”

His blood ran hot under your glare. You tipped your chin up at him, eyes sparking now, fire in them even here, far away from the pit.

“And what the hell do you want me to do about it, huh?” he seethed.

And that’s when he saw your eyes flitting to his mouth.

The air between you burned, thick and charged, like static right before a storm. You didn’t back down. You stood there, chest rising fast, glaring up at him like you dared him to move. Joel towered over you, the low kitchen light behind him casting his shadow across your whole body.

You were breathing hard, and he swore he could see your pulse pounding in your neck, right at the base of your throat. He wanted to touch it. Press his fingers there just to feel it.

“What the hell is goin’ on with you and my brother?” he asked, the words coming sharp, cut straight from the mess in his chest. It had been stuck in his head all night—that kiss on the cheek, the way you trailed after Tommy, how you sat beside him through dinner, through the firepit, stuck to him like glue.

Your head jerked slightly like you couldn’t believe the question. “Seriously?”

“You’ve been followin’ him around like a little puppy all damn day. Kissed him on the cheek when you got here,” Joel said, like that explained everything.

“It was a greeting, Joel,” you shot back. “You do realize people are allowed to be nice to each other, right? There’s nothing going on with me and Tommy.”

He didn’t say anything.

“You’d know that if you actually talked to me instead of just staring all day like you’re allergic to conversation.”

Joel’s jaw tensed. His hands curled into fists at his sides. But you weren’t done.

“He’s my friend. That’s it. Tommy’s easy to be around. He laughs at my dumb jokes. He introduces me to people like he’s proud I’m there.”

Joel looked away, the weight of that last sentence heavy in his chest.

You watched him, breath tight in your chest. Then you shook your head and took a step back.

“Besides,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him, “he’s not the Miller I’m interested in.”

He stood suddenly frozen in place. He stared at you like the words didn’t compute. Like maybe he hadn’t heard you right. Like his brain refused to accept it.

You turned, trying to slip past him, trying to put this whole thing behind you, but his arm came out fast. His hand landed flat on the counter beside you, cutting off your escape. The movement wasn’t violent, but it was firm.

You jumped back, breath catching as you looked back up at him.

“Say that again,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

You swallowed hard. “You heard me.”

“I wanna hear you say it again.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and unrelenting.

And then, quieter, but no less certain, you said it again.

“I want you, Joel.” you said, and then breathing in deep as if gathering the courage, you added: “You’re just too dumb to see it.”

The words hit him like a slap to the face, and something in him broke loose.

He didn’t let himself think about it too long, didn’t give himself any time to talk himself out of it. He pushed forward, hands sliding to your ribcage, and lifting you effortlessly to the counter. You gasped at the cool tile under your legs, your dress hiking further up as he set you down. 

Then his mouth was on yours. And he wasn’t soft or gentle or even slow.

It was all heat and teeth and months of want compressed into a single kiss. His lips crashed against yours, greedy and rough, his stubble scraping your skin as his hands held you tight, thumbs digging into your waist like he was afraid you might take it back if he let go.

You gasped into his mouth and he swallowed it whole, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours, hot and slick and searching. He kissed you like he was trying to devour you, like he could bury all the confusion and jealousy and ache in your mouth and come out clean on the other side.

Your hands clawed at his shirt, fisting the fabric and he could feel the way your knees hiked up around him, legs tightening to keep him close as your ankles crossed behind his back. His hips slotted between your legs, fitting there like he belonged, like this was where he’d been meant to be all damn day.

He groaned low in his throat when your teeth scraped his bottom lip. His hand slid up your back, fingers splayed wide, dragging you closer as his other hand moved to your jaw, tilting your face so he could kiss you harder. Deeper. Dirtier.

There was nothing careful about it.

You kissed him back like you’d been waiting for this too, like you were just as pissed off, just as tired of pretending there was nothing between you. Your lips were swollen, slick with spit and sugar, and when you broke away to breathe for half a second, Joel followed you right back in, mouths colliding again, sloppy and hot and wild.

Joel didn’t think he could get enough of you.

Every time you kissed him back, every breathy sound that slipped past your lips, it lit him up from the inside. His hands moved without thinking, one sliding down your thigh, fingers curling under the hem of that soft little dress.

You didn’t stop him, if anything–you leaned into it.

He dragged you closer, hands gripping the back of your thighs as he pulled you toward the edge of the counter. The slide of you against the cool counter top made you gasp but then he was there, pressing himself even harder between your legs, solid and heavy and wanting. 

His hands slid up, dragging the fabric with them until he had you bunched up around your hips, until he could feel the heat of you radiating right through the thin scrap of fabric between your legs. It made him groan, low and guttural, forehead pressed to yours.

"Christ," he muttered, his voice rough, nearly shaking. "You're fuckin' burnin' up."

Your hands were in his hair now, tugging gently at the strands as your hips rolled forward, slow and seeking. His grip tightened, and he pulled you flush against him, grinding the hard line of his cock up into your center. He could feel everything—the softness of your inner thighs, the damp heat of you through your panties, the way your body arched into him like you couldn’t stand being separate another second.

You whimpered against his mouth, fingers threading deeper into his hair. He kissed you again, this time slower but no less intense, tongues sliding together, teeth clashing a little when neither of you could stop chasing the other.

Joel broke away, just long enough to press his mouth to the curve of your jaw, then your neck, dragging his lips down to the spot just under your ear where your pulse jumped against his tongue.

“Want you, Joel,” you sighed, tilting your head back to give him more access to your throat which he gladly took, teeth and lips and tongue all dragging across your warm skin, “Want you right here.”

"I know, baby," he rasped, grinding up into you again, slow and deliberate this time, letting you feel every inch of him. "This what you wanted all night, huh? Wanted me to take you in my brother’s kitchen like this?”

Your breath hitched. Your nails scraped against his scalp.

"Yes," you whispered.

He could feel how soaked you were, how hot and needy. The ache in his gut tightened, like he was right on the edge of losing whatever restraint he had left. His hand slid up your side, curved around your ribcage, thumb brushing just beneath the swell of your breast.

You were trembling now. Chest rising in sharp little bursts. Your legs wrapped tighter around his hips, like you were trying to fuse the two of you together.

“Then let me in, pretty girl,” he groaned, his voice shredded with restraint.

Hands reached between your bodies, his fingers dragged up the length of your clothed heat, barely brushing where you needed him most. Then he hooked his fingers around your panties and tugged them down, rough and quick, letting them fall to the floor.

He didn’t waste time.

His hand went to his jeans, undoing them with one hand, hissing low through his teeth as he freed himself, hard and already slick at the tip. He lined up with no finesse, not bothering to say more. Just pressed forward and buried himself in you with one deep, desperate thrust.

You cried out, head falling back against the cabinet, legs tightening around him even more.

“Fuck,” he gritted, voice strained and guttural. “This what you needed, baby? All those fuckers flirtin’ with you and touchin’ you, but this is who you wanted, huh? This cock right here?”

You whimpered something that might’ve been his name.

He snapped his hips forward again, harder, driving into you like he needed to stake a claim.

“That’s right, take it. So—Jesus, so goddamn tight. And all them think they might’ve had a chance but now look at you—stuffed full of cock like you’re made for it.”

Your fingers clawed into his back as he rutted into you, the edge of the counter digging into your ass, his body flush against yours. His mouth found your neck again, biting at the skin there, hands gripping your hips so hard you’d have bruises in the morning.

“You feel that?” he growled, thrusting up harder, rougher. “That’s mine. This pussy’s mine now. You gonna walk back out there drippin’ with me?”

You moaned, hips rolling helplessly against him, eyes glazed and lips parted.

“God, I fuckin’ knew it,” he muttered against your throat. “Knew you’d be a perfect little slut for me. Knew you’d let me ruin you the second I got you alone.”

He was so deep inside you, every stroke sharp and punishing, dragging the sounds out of you, making you clamp down tighter around him like your body didn’t know what to do with all of him.

“Come on then,” he rasped. “You gonna come on my cock like a good girl, or you want me to talk you through it?”

Your hands shot up, fingers tangling in his hair, yanking him down into a kiss that was all teeth and need. You moaned into his mouth, and he swallowed every bit of it, lips dragging across yours before he nipped at your bottom lip.

Joel groaned desperately into your mouth, the sound escaping from deep in his chest. He could feel the way you fluttered around him, could tell you were getting close. 

He pulled back just far enough to look at you, one hand still gripping your hip, the other sliding down between your bodies. His fingers found your clit in seconds, slick and swollen and begging for attention.

“Ohhh, there she is,” he breathed with a dark little grin, rubbing slow, lazy circles that made you twitch. “That’s what you needed, huh?”

“Joel,” you gasped, eyes rolling, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Yeah, that’s it. Say my name again,” he muttered, thrusting up into you, rough and steady, fingers never stopping. “You gettin’ close, sweetheart?”

You nodded, panting, body arching into him.

“Tell me,” he said, voice wrecked but firm. “Tell me how good I make you feel.”

You choked out a laugh between moans, half-drunk on it. “You’re such an asshole.”

He grinned. “Really shouldn’t be sayin that while I’m rearranging your guts, baby girl.”

“You smug bastard,” you gasped, rocking down on him, chasing every stroke.

“Aw, I know,” he cooed with an evil, teasing lilt, and then he was kissing you again, deep and filthy, fingers moving faster now, hips snapping hard against you. “Now come on. Let go for me. Wanna feel ‘er squeeze the fuck outta my cock.”

Your head dropped back, eyes rolling up, thighs trembling around his hips.

“That’s it,” he growled. “There she is. Come for me, baby. Make a mess. I fuckin’ dare you.”

And just like that, you broke. Your body seized around him, jaw slackened with a cry as you came hard, clenching tight around him.

“Jesus fuck,” he groaned, hips stuttering. “You’re perfect. Fuckin’ perfect.” he kept saying over and over again as he was spilling into you with a deep, broken moan, hips pressed flush to yours as he pulsed inside, thick and hot and perfect.

He stayed like that for a moment, both of you tangled together, panting against each other’s mouths. The only sound was your breathing, the faint music still playing from outside, the thud of Joel’s heart trying to calm down.

Slowly, he pulled back. His cock slipped from you, still thick and wet with both of you. You squirmed slightly at the loss, but Joel didn’t let you go far.

“Easy, baby,” he murmured, leaning down to reach between your thighs once he tucked himself away.

You gasped when his fingers slid back inside you, two thick digits pushing his cum back in with slow, easy strokes.

“Just cleanin’ you up,” he said, voice too soft to match the filth of what he was doing. “Can’t have it all drip out too fast. Not yet.”

You huffed a disbelieving laugh, but you still pulled one leg up to sit your bare foot on the counter, giving him more access.

“Want you walkin’ out there feelin’ it,” he whispered. “Want you sittin’ there all sweet while Tommy plays his little guitar and you’re sittin’ full of me. Warm and messy. Gonna keep my come inside you all night, pretty girl.”

You moaned under your breath, shivering again as he eased his fingers out.

Joel reached down and grabbed your panties from the floor. He slid them back up your legs, slow and careful, tugging them snug over your soaked center with a quiet, satisfied hum.

Then he leaned in again, kissed you on the lips, slower this time, no fire, just something warm and heavy and full of something more than the lust that was slowly dissipating from his blood.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

And when you smiled up at him, all wicked with flushed cheeks and kiss-bitten lips, he knew this wasn’t going to be the last time.

I saw this the other day and am in love lolol hope you enjoyed!!!

[hoonstqr]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ۫ 𓈒 DESIRE────UNLEASHED ♩

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗁𝗈𝗍 𝗐𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗂𝗍 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗌𝖾

警告 : smut, virginity loss, whiny hoon, blowjob, p in v, unprotected sex, fwb(?), he's such a loser i love him 1904 for my sub enha truthers @byshens and @kikidoul. a hoonstqr fic without any degradation?! *gasps dramatically* lowk dont like this but fuck it we ball

ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ( ៸៸ ´ `) 𝑜 ──── REBLOG FOR A KiSS !

“you’re still a virgin?!” you exclaimed, your voice bouncing off the walls of sunghoon’s cluttered room.

his cheeks flushed a deep shade of red, eyes darting around like a trapped animal looking for an escape. “yes,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the sound of his own racing heart.

you leaned back against the pillows, a smirk playing on your lips as you studied him. his hands were fidgeting in his lap, and you couldn't help but wonder what it was about you that made him so nervous. “why are you so jumpy?” you asked teasingly.

sunghoon took a deep breath, trying to compose himself. “i just... i don’t know how to do this,” he stuttered.

“do what?”

sunghoon’s eyes widened as he stared at you, his voice quivering. “this...this kind of thing,” he said, gesturing awkwardly between the two of you.

“you mean sex?” you said, as your smirk grew wider. you had a feeling that sunghoon was more than just a little inexperienced, but you didn’t realize he was a virgin. this was going to be interesting.

his eyes grew even wider, if that was possible. “y-yes,” he whispered, his voice so faint it was almost lost in the quiet hum of the air conditioner.

you leaned forward as you placed a gentle hand on his knee. he jolted at the contact, and you couldn’t help but chuckle at his reaction. “don’t worry,” you assured him, your voice smooth and comforting. “i’ll take it slow. we’re just friends, right?”

sunghoon nodded, his knee felt like it was made of jello under your touch, and you could feel the tension radiating from his body.

you slid your hand up his thigh, watching his face closely for any signs of discomfort or objection. his breath hitched, but he remained still, his eyes locked onto yours. the fabric of his sweatpants grew tight as your hand reached the apex of his thighs, and you felt his erection growing beneath your fingertips. “see?” you whispered. “there’s nothing to be nervous about.”

sunghoon’s cheeks burned as he nodded, his eyes glazed over with a mix of excitement and fear. you gave his thigh a reassuring squeeze before sliding your hand away, giving him a moment to collect himself. “how about we start with something simple?” you suggested, standing up and moving closer to him. “like kissing?”

his pupils dilated, and he swallowed hard. “k-kissing?” he stuttered, his voice hoarse.

you nodded, a mischievous smile playing on your lips. “yeah,” you whispered, closing the distance between you. “just a kiss. to get us started.”

sunghoon’s breathing grew shallower as you leaned in, his eyes closing instinctively. when your lips met, it was like a spark had ignited between you. his body jerked, but you held firm, your arms sliding around his neck as your mouths melded together. your tongue slipped past his trembling lips, and you felt his whole body shiver in response.

his hands hovered in the air for a moment before finally settling on your hips, pulling you closer as he tentatively kissed you back. the kiss grew messier, more desperate, as your tongues danced together, exploring every inch of each other's mouths. your teeth clicked against his, and you felt his hard cock pressing against your stomach. he moaned softly, and the sound was like music to your ears.

you grabbed a fistful of his hair, tugging gently as you deepened the kiss, your other hand sliding up to cup his cheek. his whimpers grew louder, and you felt a smug satisfaction knowing you were the one making him feel this way. your mouth left a trail of wet kisses down his jaw and neck, and his breath hitched as your teeth grazed his skin. sunghoon’s hands tightened around your hips, his nails digging in slightly as he tried to control his urges.

eventually, you pulled away, both of you panting and flushed. you looked into his eyes, dark with lust, and smirked. “now, i want you to show me how you jerk off,” you murmured, your voice low and seductive. sunghoon’s eyes widened, and he blinked rapidly, as if trying to process your words. “w-what?” he stuttered, his voice a high-pitched squeak.

“i want to know what you do when you think about me.” 

his hands trembling slightly. slowly, he reached for the waistband of his sweatpants, his eyes never leaving yours as he revealed his hard, throbbing erection.

fuck. he was big, no, huge. his dick was standing at full attention, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. you couldn’t help but lick your lips at the sight of it. “go ahead,” you said, your voice thick with lust. “touch it.”

sunghoon’s hand shook as he wrapped his fingers around the base of his cock. his thumb brushed over the slit, spreading the precum around the head. you watched, mesmerized, as he began to stroke himself, his movements jerky and uncertain. his breathing grew ragged, and he bit his lip to stifle his moans.

the precum was slick on your fingers as you reached out and touched him, feeling the warm, velvety skin of his cock. sunghoon’s eyes shot open, and he gasped at the sensation of your hand on him. you took over, matching the rhythm of his own touch. you felt his dick throb in your hand, and knew he was close.

“fuck,” he whispered, his hips bucking slightly. you could feel the heat of his cum spurt into your hand as you stroked him. sunghoon’s body went limp. his cheeks were a deep scarlet, and his eyes were squeezed shut tight. “i-i’m sorry,” he stuttered, his voice shaking. “i didn’t mean to...i couldn’t…”

“shh, it's okay,” you cooed, leaning in to kiss his cupid's bow. “that was pretty hot.” 

his eyes flew open, meeting yours. “really?”

“really, you’re so sensitive, it’s adorable.”

“i-i guess,” he mumbled, his voice still shaky.

you smirked, taking his hand in yours and leading him to the bed. “let’s see how quickly you can cum again.”

sunghoon’s eyes widened in surprise as you straddled his thighs. you reached down and began to unbutton his shirt, revealing his toned abs and a well defined v-cut.

you leaned in and kissed his neck, feeling his pulse quicken beneath your lips. your chest brushed against his bare chest, and he gulped, his hands hovering around your waist. “touch me,” you whispered. 

his trembling hands slid up your shirt, his fingertips grazing the sensitive skin just above your waistband. you arched your back, pushing your tits into his chest, and felt his erection twitch in response. “like this?” he asked, his voice shaking with anticipation.

you nodded, biting your lip as you felt his hands move up to cup your breasts. “uh-huh,” your eyes clamped shut as he squeezed gently. his thumbs brushed over your nipples, and you couldn’t help but let out a soft moan. his touch was clumsy, but earnest, and it was turning you on more than you cared to admit.

you pulled your shirt off over your head, tossing it aside. your bra followed, and sunghoon’s eyes went wide at the sight and his breathing grew heavier. you could feel his cock throb against your thigh.

“you like that?”

you whispered against his ear, your breath hot and tickling the sensitive skin there. sunghoon’s nod was jerky, his eyes squeezed shut as if he was trying to hold onto the last threads of his sanity.

he was still hard and glistening from his previous orgasm. you couldn’t resist taking it in your hand again, feeling the rough skin and the way it filled your palm so perfectly.

you straddled his hips, his erection poking against your thigh. “do you want me to ride you?” sunghoon's eyes snapped open, his pupils dilating even further. “r-ride me?” he stammered.

you smirked, your hands sliding down to grip his cock once again. “yeah,” you murmured, your voice dripping with desire. “wanna feel you inside me.”

sunghoon���s eyes rolled back in his head as you lined him up with your entrance, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “p-please,” he whimpered, his hips bucking slightly.

you smirked as you slid down onto his length. he was so thick that it took some effort to take him all in, but the way he filled you up was exquisite. you threw your head back, a moan tearing from your throat as your body adjusted to the new sensation. “fuck,” you breathed out, the word echoing in the quiet room.

sunghoon’s eyes were squeezed shut, his teeth clenched as he tried to hold back his own moans. he knew it hurt women when they lost their virginity, but the way his cock felt being squeezed so tightly was a pain unlike any other. it was a mix of pleasure and pain, like a delicious agony that had him panting and writhing beneath you.

his eyes rolled back in his head and his teeth clenched as he felt you stretch around him. his hands dug into your hips, urging you to move faster, deeper. you began to rock back and forth, feeling his cock hit all the right spots inside of you. each movement sent waves of pleasure through your body.

the pain was intense for sunghoon, but the way you were gripping him so tightly, he’d never felt anything so incredible, so all-consuming. he could feel the head of his cock rubbing against your cervix, and it was driving him wild.

his hips bucked up to meet your movements, his body begging for more. you leaned down, capturing his mouth in a searing kiss, your tongue delving into his mouth as if you were claiming him. your teeth nipped at his bottom lip, and he couldn’t help but whimper into your mouth.

he’d heard about it from his friends, and saw it on twitter, but nothing had prepared him for the reality of it. the way your tight cunt gripped him like a vise was both agonizing and incredible. every inch of his cock was enveloped in your warm, wet heat, and it was a sensation that was driving him to the brink of madness.

his hips jerked upward, meeting your movements with a desperate need to be deeper. the pressure was building, and he could feel his balls tightening.

“y-you’re so...tight,” he stuttered, his eyes squeezed shut. you could see the veins in his neck bulging with the effort of holding back. his body tensed and his grip on your hips tightening as he felt his orgasm approaching. he threw his head back, as he came inside of you. the feeling was so intense, so overwhelming, that his vision swam with white heat.

you watched him, your own arousal spiking at the sight of his pleasure. his cock pulsed and throbbed, sending spurt after spurt of hot cum deep into your cunt. your walls clenched around him, eager to milk every drop from him.

your moans grew louder, your body trembling as the waves of pleasure crashed over you. sunghoon’s eyes widened in surprise as he felt your pussy clench around him, your orgasm ripping through you like a storm.

you collapsed onto his chest, both of you panting and trying to catch your breath. sunghoon’s heart hammered against your chest, and you could feel his cum trickling out of you. “you really are a quick shot.”

regulars── : @rikkesttz @nics-fxy @woniesbae @jk1601 @starrias @rikiiimeow @drmsrina @rosepetals09 | @k-films @sweetvenomnet

[iris-qt]

Okay okay I keep thinking about oblivious reader who doesn’t think Theo is flirting with her because ~clearly~ he doesn’t even know her name. Meanwhile, Theo is confused because usually girls swoon when he calls them “Bella/Cara/Amore”

careful, cara

the way i immediately started writing when I saw this request...ily.

You’re rounding the corner outside the library with three books, an inky quill stuck behind your ear, and a half-eaten biscuit in your mouth when you slam directly into a wall.

Except it’s not a wall.

It’s a very tall, very warm, very alive boy who smells faintly of old parchment and something expensive and intoxicating, like stormy weather. Your biscuit goes flying. Your books scatter. You just about lose your dignity.

“Oh my—sorry!” you gasp, already dropping to the floor to collect your books and the crumbly remains of your breakfast.

A hand reaches out to help you. Long fingers. Calloused knuckles. You follow the trail of his arm up to a loosened tie, an open collar, and the annoyingly perfect smirk of Theodore Nott.

“Easy there, Amore,” he says, voice like velvet and mock concern. “You alright?”

You blink up at him. He’s doing that thing. That leaning thing. The one girls whisper about in Potions.

“Oh, uh, thanks. I didn’t see you.”

You give him a polite smile and reach for your last book, brushing his hand in the process. You barely notice.

He does.

“Careful,” he murmurs, helping you up. “Wouldn’t want Hogwarts losing its brightest star.”

You snort before you can stop yourself. “Pretty sure Hogwarts would survive.”

He laughs soft and surprised, then, with a practiced sort of charm, he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. You freeze. He smiles. Like a boy who knows exactly what he’s doing.

You… do not.

Because, obviously, he’s just being polite. Or flirty. Or… whatever he usually is. He calls everyone Amore, doesn’t he? Or Bella. Or Cara. It’s practically punctuation with him. It’s probably because he doesn’t know anyone’s actual name. Especially not yours.

You smile back, half apologetic, half amused. “Thanks again. See you.”

And just like that, you walk off. With jam on your sleeve. And crumbs in your hair. And not a single thought in your head that Theodore Nott was very much genuinely flirting with you.

Behind you, Theo watches you go, something almost betrayed flickering across his face.

He mutters under his breath, half to himself, "Merlin, what do I have to do, serenade her under her window?"

Then he smirks, slow and dangerous.

Maybe he will.

.ೃ࿐

You slip into your usual seat for Charms, dropping your bag with a soft thud. You’re mid-rummage for a quill when you realize: There’s someone sliding into the seat beside you. Someone tall. Smirking. Smelling again unfairly good. You glance up.

Theodore Nott.

Again.

He drapes himself lazily across the chair, like he owns both it and the air you’re currently breathing.

"Morning, Amore," he says, low and easy.

You blink as he offers you a polite, confused smile. He must think you’re someone else. Maybe Isabella Hampton, she’s much prettier and sits somewhere nearby, right?

"Hi," you say awkwardly. "Did you need something?"

Theo leans in just slightly, a casual tilt of his shoulder, a lazy curve of his mouth. You could swear the entire room tilts with him.

"Only your company," he says, sounding devastatingly sincere.

You laugh, a little panicked. "Ha — that's funny."

You busy yourself yanking out your textbook and drop a quill in the process. It rolls dramatically across the floor. Before you can even react, Theo is already crouching down, retrieving it with a little flourish like a knight presenting a sword.

"Your weapon, mia cara," he says, handing it back.

You snort, which is not the sound you meant to make. Merlin, this poor boy is so theatrical. He must flirt like this with everyone.

"Thanks," you say, cheeks warm again.

Theo watches you for a second longer than necessary, something fond, almost wonderstruck, lighting up behind his eyes. Then he slouches back in his chair, spinning his wand between his fingers as if nothing unusual just happened.

You face forward, heart thudding, willing yourself to focus on Professor Flitwick's lecture.

You do not notice the way Theo leans slightly closer whenever you scribble a note. You do not notice the way he half-smiles every time you chew the end of your quill. You definitely do not notice the faint, hopeful look he sends you when Flitwick assigns paired spell practice for homework.

But you do notice, vaguely, that Theodore Nott is oddly...friendly. You chalk it up to him just being charming. Behind you, Pansy Parkinson drops her quill in shock, nudges Daphne Greengrass, and hisses, "Did Theo Nott just choose a partner?? Voluntarily???"

The Slytherin girls watch the scene unfold like it’s the third act of a very dramatic opera. Theo doesn't even notice.

He’s too busy smiling, a real, soft, slightly crooked smile, as you mumble, "Alright, I guess we’re partners, then?"

Like you’ve just handed him the bloody moon.

.ೃ࿐

You and Theo spend the next hour practicing Arresto Momentum for Flitwick's assignment.

Well... you practiced.

Theo mostly watches you with a look of soft, patient amusement, correcting your wand angles only when absolutely necessary.

(And each time he does, his fingers brush yours a little longer than they need to.)

You try not to think about it. You try very hard.

Finally, when you manage a perfect, object-slowing Arresto Momentum, you grin triumphantly. Theo grins too, wide and gorgeous, like you’ve just invented magic itself.

"You're brilliant," he says, voice low, warm.

You tilt your head, embarrassed. "I'm sure you say that to all your partners."

"I don't," he says simply.

You laugh it off again, assuming he's just being polite. Sweet, sure. But probably just friendly. Right?

(You are so stupidly, gloriously wrong.)

Class ends, and you're packing your things when it happens. You're struggling to jam your stupidly fat Charms book into your bag when Theo leans in, close enough that you catch that parchment-and-coffee smell again, and says:

"See you tomorrow, Y/N."

You freeze.

The book slips from your hands and thuds to the floor.

Theo straightens up, amused but obviously trying very hard to hide it, like he knows exactly what he just did.

You stare at him, heart thumping.

He knows your name. He knew your name. The whole time.

"You—" you start, stupidly.

He arches a brow, smirking, all lazy confidence. "What, Amore?"

You flush so hard you’re surprised you don’t combust on the spot.

"I—I thought you didn’t—"

"Didn’t what?" he says, looking genuinely entertained now.

You open your mouth, realize you have absolutely no idea what you’re trying to say, and shut it again.

Theo’s smile softens.

"I've always known your name, you know," he says quietly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Before you can even begin to untangle that emotional catastrophe, he reaches down, picks up your fallen book and tucks it carefully into your bag for you.

Then, with another soft, almost secret smile, he brushes a hand against yours and strolls out of the classroom leaving you standing there, red-faced and stunned, clutching your bag like a lifeline.

You still haven't moved.

[strangererotica]

EXPLICIT CONTENT | MINORS DNI

James Logan Howlett (Wolverine) x Reader

* Includes primal, breeding, and scent kink • Logan’s dick is so big Reader struggles to take it 🫦 • oral sex (f receiving) • fingering • vaginal sex • Logan’s in beast mode but the fluff is definitely fluffing 💗 *

Tears bubbled in the corners of your eyes, your lips pressed into a frustrated pout. “It won’t fit,” you whimpered, your voice trembling in defeat. Logan’s broad shoulders curved over you like a shield, every muscle in his body tensed as he demanded restraint of himself.

In spite of how tightly your cunt was sucking at his tip, Logan knew he had to be gentle with you. If he forced himself any deeper, he’d absolutely cause you pain. And that was the last thing he wanted, especially since this was your first time with him…

It was something Logan had anticipated already. He knew he was big, with a thick girth that matched his length. Despite playing with your pussy through your clothes for the last ten minutes and getting you sopping wet, he was still met with resistance the moment he pushed his tip inside you.

“Shh, it’s okay honey,” Logan soothed you. “S’not your fault, alright?” He eased his hips back slowly, carefully removing his tip from your entrance. Logan swiped the pad of his thumb across your cheek, drying a frustrated tear before it could fall. “A tight little pussy’s nothing to cry about, angel,” he grinned reassuringly down at you, pulling you into his arms. “Just means we need to help her relax a little.”

Logan gently guided your back against the couch, sliding down to his knees beside you. One of his hands slid under your ass and down your left thigh, lifting your leg till it was draped over his broad shoulder. The smell of your cunt was intoxicating, stirring every animal instinct inside Logan that he knew he must keep in check. If he lost control, even for a moment, he might hurt you, or worse.

Logan’s self control was immaculate, a skill he’d been forced to acquire through generations of fucking women who didn’t share his strength, and certainly not his ability to heal from whatever consequences a rough fuck could cause.

“You smell like honey,” Logan murmured, nuzzling his nose into the soft warmth of your inner thigh. He used his fingers to delicately spread your lips apart, watching the slick collected there spread between them. Your scent grew stronger as Logan opened you up for himself, his primal need to claim you testing his sense of control. His eyes honed in on the wet cunt just inches from his mouth, dripping with copious, slippery cum. Logan could smell your fertility, the pheromones emitting from your body sending his animal instinct to breed into overdrive.

Logan nestled his head deeper between your thighs, his nose pressed against your bush. He breathed deeply the delicious cocktail of your sweat and cum gathered inside the coarse hair framing your pussy. Logan’s hands were now at his sides in fists, clenching so hard that his fingernails punctured the skin of his palms. He nuzzled into your bush, drawing another breath of your scent inside his nose. Parting his lips, Logan let his tongue dip between your labia, spreading them apart just as his fingers had before. Your thighs trembled around his head, breathy moans leaving your lips as Logan’s mouth explored you. Your fingers went to his hair, lacing in the thick brown strands and holding him in place.

Logan was in absolute bliss, delving his tongue between your folds, slurping loudly as he ate your cum. The animal inside him was finally being sated, fed well at the meal between your thighs, his teeth sinking ever-so-lightly into the plump pout of your lips, wide tongue padding soft against your clit.

Logan’s fingers joined his tongue, entering you easily as he continued to lap at your clit. Watching him work between your thighs, you felt your climax building. Logan pumped his fingers inside you at a brutal pace, the force of his hand meeting your cunt each time his fingers disappeared inside you making you wince. It hurt so good, too good, a feeling of absolute overwhelm that had fresh tears springing to your eyes. As the pressure inside you gave way to climax, tears cascaded down your burning cheeks, your features contorted in ecstasy. A carnal groan of relief poured from your lips as hot slick gushed over Logan’s tongue. He lapped and sucked your juices like a thirsty animal as they dripped down your thighs, chasing every drop as your cum soaked into the cushion beneath you.

His cock was leaking precum onto the floor, his tip red and aching, every instinct in Logan’s body silently screaming at him to fuck a baby into the nearest fertile womb. He slid your thigh off his shoulder but remained between your legs, rising to kneel on one knee as he tugged your hips forward to meet his. Logan’s face and chest were glistening with cum and sweat. He reached for the back of your neck, holding your head in place so your eyes would be on his when he entered you. You felt Logan’s tip press just inside your entrance, his forehead creasing as he willed himself not to selfishly take you as roughly as he wanted. “Alright, baby?” he asked, his voice a choked groan. You nodded, biting down on your bottom lip as Logan sank three inches inside you.

Your cunt accepted him with minimal resistance, till a slight sting caused you to wince and brought Logan to a pause. “Too much?” he panted down at you, and you quickly replied with a forceful “NO. Keep going Logan, please…”

He was trembling all over, the fight between his care for you and his animal need raging. With extreme effort to be gentle, Logan sank another three inches deeper inside you. The breath in your lungs burst out of you as Logan filled you, his hips stilling as he felt the smooth mound of your cervix against his tip. “Look at you, baby,” he murmured proudly. “Takin’ me so deep…I knew you could.”

Your heart skipped at his praise. Knowing Logan was pleased with you was addictive; you needed more. “I want to make you happy,” you uttered softly, your voice timid and small, needy tears gathering on your lashes. Logan grinned down at you, his voice a heady drug as he assured you “sweetheart, you already have…”

He drew his hips backward slowly, then carefully thrust just once inside you. Your whole body jerked at the impact, your eyes squeezed shut, a breathy gasp punched out of you. Logan pulled back and thrust forward again, growling through his teeth. Your pillowy walls were milking him, his heavy balls aching to be drained, eager to breed the fertile womb his tip was wedged against.

Logan exhaled deeply, the scent of your cunt washing over you on his breath. “Can I get you pregnant?” he asked, his eyes boring deep into yours as his cock rested thick and throbbing inside you. Maybe his question would have been too much from anyone else. It was a request that held massive implications…the consequences unavoidable. But coming from Logan, a request to claim your womb as his was…deliciously tempting.

You nodded, watching the tension in Logan’s face soften as he confirmed your consent. It was all so much, so beautiful, his body over yours and inside you, the security you felt wrapped up in his warmth. Your lips quivered into a confident smile, fresh tears of submission and love trickling down your cheeks. “Fill me up,” you gently begged. “Make me yours, Logan. I already am…”

He closed his eyes a moment, the gnawing hunger inside him ready to tear both of you in half if he gave himself over to it. With his hands firmly clutching your shoulders, Logan leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. A low growl left his lips as he surrendered to his need to breed you. Logan buried his nose in your hair, inhaling your scent as his hips propelled forward. He took you as gently as he could, big hands pressing your shoulders back as you arched against the couch. Your legs wrapped around Logan’s waist, ankles crossing behind his back. He rut his hips into yours, smearing the sweat along his happy trail against your belly. Logan’s cock disappeared inside you, his bush matted with your juices, squelching as your crotches met with each punch of his hips. He stroked you as deeply as you could take him, dragging his heavy cock back and forth within the snug grip of your cunt.

Logan growled your name against your ear as his hips stilled against you, the words on his lips fading into a breathy moan as he emptied his sperm between your walls. A metallic sound issued beside your shoulders where Logan held you. Tilting your head, you saw Logan’s claws extended, burrowed into the couch cushions beneath you. His breath punched from his lungs in bursts, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your tits.

Logan collapsed forward, taking care not to crush you beneath him. He held you close, swallowing you up in the curve of his chest, refusing to let go till he was certain the last of his seed had drained from his tip. Logan carefully removed his softening cock from inside you, a thick stream of semen leaking creamy and white from between your lips. He lifted you into his arms, letting you rest and recover, your ear pressed to his heartbeat. As your breathing slowed, Logan looked down to see you peacefully asleep. He placed a soft kiss in your hair, smiling contentedly, grateful to hold you as long as you rested, allowing Nature to take its course as his sperm made its way to your womb…