! handjob, blowjob, gagging, teasing, casual encounter, no proper aftercare, secret relationship. and probably more (-_-;)
! professor hwa × fem reader
park seonghwa is your chemistry professor, and although you don't seem to struggle that much with his subject, one way or another you always end up failing his exams. how are you expected to improve your grades?
"i can't believe i failed park's class again." you groan, smashing your head softly on your desk after being mocked by your grades' update on your phone. "i don't know what to do anymore!"
"just bang him, duh?" your best friend replies, in her usual lazy, obvious tone.
"what." you straighten your back and shoot her a deadly stare. "that's actually disgusting. he's like— what, pushing his forties?" you exaggerate, trying to express pure denial.
"he's actually pretty close to our age, he's on his late twenties." she says calmly. you shake your head. "c'mon. he's hot, single and young. at least give it a shot."
"you're saying it like you've slept with teachers before." you roll your eyes. her idea was stupid, yes. it was a definite no for you. nuh uh. who would do that?
"who says i haven't?" she chuckles. your expression changes amusingly.
"you've slept with mr. park?" your voice gets slightly deeper. almost intimidating to her as you frown and stare, waiting for an immediate answer. she stays silent for a few moments before laughing and telling you that it was a joke. you breathe out, relieved. "anyway. i guess I'll have to talk with him abou—" your notification tone interrupts you, it's a new email from your phone. you stop speaking and look for the new email, quickly finding out it was from your professor, park seonghwa.
"speaking of the devil." your friend giggles. "what does it say?" she curiously asks, leaning in closer to you.
"to meet him after lunch. we need to talk about your grades." you sigh, quoting him.
"go for it, then. it's the perfect opportunity." she wiggles her eyebrows at you.
"stop with that! I won't ever have sex with a teacher." you insist, tone firm and clear. although you were a bit irritated, your cheeks still blushed slightly as you stayed silent for some seconds, thinking about it. you quickly shook it off and decided to go on with your day like usual.
after rushing your meal, you walked to the teacher's office. it was one small room, with four or five dual desks. you knocked on the door twice, and then once separately. as if it was a code.
"come in." his voice was noticeably more hoarse than usual. you knew he was alone in there, nevertheless you opened the door carefully and checked for any other professors. "hey there." seonghwa smiles. he's sitting on his chair. laptop open, papers over the desk, some pens and markers lost in the somewhat tidy mess. "i guess you know what i wanted to.. discuss, miss." he stands up, taller than you by some long inches.
you nod as a response to his serious tone. the tension is palpable, you can feel yourself start to sweat. your mind is going wild round and round with possible scenarios as he strikes closer to you.
"your grades are dropping, once again." he moves closer, and you take steps back until your back bumps the door. he locks it smoothly before turning back to you. "what do you think you should do about it?"
"uhm.. study more?" he doesn't react. "pay attention in class...?" your voice plays weak, insecure, trying to guess what he wants to hear.
"don't play dumb, sweetheart." he chuckles deeply, and you share a crooked smirk, breaking character.
"right." you answer. you seductively reach for his tie and undo it.
"good job remembering the door code." he praises as he lets you do all the work on his clothes. "it'd be great if you used that memory for the topics on my exams." he cups your head with one hand.
"yeah, shut up, seongwha." you roll your eyes.
"respect. don't be a brat." he holds your face a little stronger. you swallow hard. "so," he trails off. "how do you plan on making me rethink your grades?" he asks, genuinely curious. he can't hide the excited grin that slips on his lips.
you look around the room, contemplating. "sit down" you push him backwards with your hand on his chest. he lets you push him until he falls on his chair and sits laid back.
"oh?" he smirks as he sees you sit on the floor, right between his thighs. you're looking up to him with those eyes he adores. "don't look at me like that or.."
"or what?" your hands slide up from his ankles to his hips, until you reach his belt and carefully unbuckle it. "just sit still and let me do my thing." you smile and zip down his pants, before dragging them and his boxers down. you reveal his semi hard cock, eager and ready.
you wrap your fingers around it, not stroking just yet. you draw circles on his tip with your thumb as you glance up at him with a knowing smile.
"quit the teasing." he warns, just in case you were thinking on prolonging your act. "got it?" he asks and you begin to run your fist up and down around him, properly stroking him as he usually asks you to do it. "good."
his right hand goes to your head, petting you softly enough to make you feel like his pet. the other one works on unbuttoning his shirt. he softly breathes out, enjoying your hands on him.
"perfect for me... as always..." he mutters with his eyes closed, lost in the pleasing sensations.
seonghwa's breath hitches and he holds back a whimper at the sensation of your wet lips wrapping around him. his body shivers, even though he tries to hide his physical reactions. he throws his head back in a low groan. "jesus..."
you shift away with a wet pop sound and look up at him. "are they raising?" you smirk, licking your lips. his eyes open.
"your grades?" he chuckles. "im considering it." he caresses your hair. you dive down onto his length again. his thighs tremble as your mouth takes him deeply, each bob of your head closer to his base. "heck yeah..." he bucks his hips and presses your head down onto his lap. he lets out moans as he slowly helps you deep throat him. "open wider. i wanna see how much you can take." he demands, and his tone leaves no room for any complaints.
you grip his knees tightly, trying your best not to gag.
but you fail miserably as your throat aggressively closes at the intense feeling of his dick and your body urges to pull away.
but he doesn't let go.
his hand keps you close - prevents you from leaning back.
"you're such a mess... drooling all over me." you feel your tears running down your face. your throat burning. your mouth watering with abundant saliva.
but for a moment you concentrate on his voice. you ignore how much of a torture it feels and focus on him.
he's now subtly moaning, all his body working hard to get more of you, his hands gripping your hair roughly as he controls the way you move on his shaft. you can feel it — how his fingers curl into a firmer grip on your scalp, looking for better control.
you can't take it.
you jerk back abruptly and gasp for air, panting and trying to control your breathing. a long sigh escapes his mouth.
"what's wrong?" he asks, once you both steady your breathing rhythm, with his thumb tenderly brushing your cheek.
"what's wrong? i almost pass out on your dick." you look at him with sharp eyes. he shakes his head and scoffs. he allows you to calm down for a minute or two, staring down at you as he jerks off right on your face, slowly and confidently with eyes locked on yours.
"come on, you're better than that." he forces your head back to his crotch, where you restart your actions. this time he latches your head with his two hands, and leads your movements.
you start to feel dizzy at the intense movements he makes you follow. when you start choking again, he curses under his breath and pushes you even closer to him. you can feel his salty taste on your tongue, his tip getting more and more wet, his cock harder and longer.
he loses it. seonghwa cries out nonsense curse words, weak praises, and pronounces your name in a feeble voice. the world blurrs out for him as he reaches his edge.
with thighs clenching, balls threatening to explode, he whines in a quiet, broken voice.
you feel your mouth get filled up with his fluids. he paints your oral cavities white with his seed. his hands instinctively land on your neck to keep you still as he forgets about your well-being, and just aims for more pleasure.
at this point you can barely process anything. yet you put the hardest effort on being good for him. you swallow hard once he retires his sensitive dick out of your mouth.
you blink and he's thrown back on his chair, panting like he had just ran not one marathon, but like, three of them.
he's overwhelmed, tip boiling hot and irritated, body still receiving waves of pleasure.
you stay on your knees for a second longer, watching his chest rise and fall as he tries to steady his breathing. his hands slip from your throat, resting limply on his thigh. for a moment, neither of you speak — the only sound in the room is his shaky exhale.
"...fuck," he mutters at last, exhausted, eyes half-lidded but still on you.
you smile faintly, wiping your mouth with your thumb "you're welcome," you tease playfully.
when you feel like you're ready, you stand up. and reach to his ankles to slide up his clothes and help him fix his professional image, just as you fix yours afterwards.
the bell rings. lunch time is over.
you smile down at him, who's still quite ruined, coming down from his climax. he takes one long breath and he's back to reality.
"i've got to go." you speak as you put on your sweater you had brought with you and laid on his desk previously.
"god. you're perfect." he whispers, more to himself than to you. "go on, then." he hands you the keys of the office. "same time next wednesday." you nod, wave at him flirtatiously and unlock the door. you leave, not noticing his endearing gaze on you as you close the door behind you.
in the middle of the hallway you meet your friend. it's full of students heading to different classes. conversations, laughter and locker doors sounds fill the place.
"so? how did it go?" she softly hits your arm, implying any sexy act.
"no, i didn't do anything, gosh!" you roll your eyes. "it's disgusting, really." her enthusiastic smile fades to a bored expression as she crosses her arms.
"you're so boring." she drawls. you shrug and respond with a hidden jocular grin;
OKAY ... (it's not like i already did it and prayed the winner would turn out to be the one i wrote) ... it's between seonghwa and hongjoong... who do you think it'll be? 😈
can i please stop posting things without wanting to 😭 it's the third time i post a draft and notice because i get a notification that someone liked it and I'm like "how??????.... OH NO—"
also it's crazy how I've posted only about 5 times in my writing blog and out of those 5 this happened 3 times already
someone teach me how to use this app properly omfg 😪
cw: brother's bsf kuroo, sneaky lînk?, your brother will kill him if he finds out, lots of makeout, semi-public, fingering, p in v, they nearly get caught (all the characters are 18+)
“don’t even think about flirting with my sister.”
your brother’s voice cuts sharp the second kuroo steps through the door, all lean muscle and that infuriating smirk. kuroo laughs, rough and dismissive, like it’s the dumbest thing he’s heard all week.
“why the hell would i flirt with your sister? she’s probably, what—twelve?”
he’s cocky, so sure of himself. until you walk in.
you’re not twelve. you’re a grown ass young woman, all soft curves and glossy lips, wearing a sundress that clings to every inch of you like a second skin. your eyes meet his, and something dangerous sparks. kuroo’s smirk falters.
“oh,” he mutters, voice low. “shit.”
he tries to keep his distance. tries to be good. but kuroo’s never been subtle.
he’s always lingering. watching you laugh, your head tilting in a way that makes his cock twitch. his eyes drag over your shorts riding up, your shirt hugging your tits when you lean. it’s a slow burn, heat pooling in his gut until it’s unbearable.
you notice. you always do.
you catch him staring when you suck juice off your thumb, his jaw ticking. catch his fists clenching when you stretch, your tank top teasing a glimpse of skin. catch the way his voice drops when you say kuroo-san like it’s a fucking spell.
he’s your brother’s best friend. loyal, dependable kuroo tetsurō. but he’s a man, and you’re a temptation he can’t ignore.
it’s late, past midnight. your brother’s passed out upstairs, the house dead quiet except for the fridge’s hum. you’re in the kitchen, barefoot, in a loose t-shirt and tiny sleep shorts, digging for a snack. the fridge light spills across the floor, casting shadows.
kuroo appears in the doorway, shirtless, sweatpants low on his hips, cock already half-hard against the fabric. his hair’s a mess, like he’s been tossing in bed, thinking of you. his eyes rake over you, dark and hungry.
“couldn’t sleep?” you tease, voice soft, knowing exactly what you’re doing.
he steps closer, the doorframe creaking. “something like that.”
you lean against the counter, your shirt riding up, showing the curve of your hip. his gaze locks there, shameless.
“you’re staring,” you murmur, echoing that hallway moment weeks ago.
he smirks, closing the distance, his thigh brushing yours. “can you blame me?”
your breath catches. the air crackles, thick with want. his hand grazes your arm, and you feel the heat of him, the hard line of his cock pressing against you through his pants. you tilt your head up, lips parting, and his eyes fix on your mouth.
“he’ll kill you,” you whisper.
“worth it.”
his mouth crashes into yours, hot and desperate, tasting like sin. you kiss him back, fierce, hands tugging his hair, pulling him closer. his tongue teases yours, and you moan into his mouth, the sound making his cock throb. he groans, gripping your hips, grinding against you.
he lifts you onto the counter, the cold granite biting your thighs. your legs spread, and he steps between them, his cock pressing against your cunt through your shorts. you’re already soaked, and he can probably feel it.
“fuck,” he mutters, kissing you again, sloppy and hungry.
his hands slide under your shirt, rough palms grazing your skin, thumbs brushing your nipples. you arch into him, gasping as he tugs your shirt up, exposing your tits. his mouth moves to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks, and you whimper, tilting your head for more.
his fingers hook into your shorts, yanking them down with your panties. they hit the floor, and you’re bare, your cunt glistening under the dim light. he stares, licking his lips like he’s starving.
“god, your pussy’s fucking perfect,” he groans, voice wrecked.
his hand slides between your thighs, fingers finding your slick heat. you gasp when he teases your clit, circling slowly, watching your face as you bite your lip to keep quiet. the house is silent, the risk of getting caught making your pulse race, but it only makes you wetter.
“quiet, baby,” he murmurs, lips at your ear. “don’t want him hearing you take my fingers, do we?”
you shake your head, but it’s hard to stay silent when he slides two fingers into your cunt, curling them just right. your hips buck, and he pins you with his free hand, keeping you still as he fucks you with his fingers, slow and deep. the wet sound is filthy, and you’re dripping, coating his hand.
“kuroo-san!,” you whimper, barely a sound, and he smirks, loving how you say his name.
“fuck, i love that,” he says, kissing you to swallow your moans.
his fingers move faster, thumb rubbing your clit, and you’re close, so close, nails digging into his shoulders. the thrill of your brother upstairs, the creak of the counter, it’s all too much. when you cum, it’s with a choked gasp, your pussy clenching around his fingers, soaking them.
he doesn’t let you catch your breath. he’s tugging his sweatpants down, freeing his cock—thick, hard, the tip already leaking. your eyes widen, and your mouth waters, but there’s no time. he grips your hips, pulling you to the edge of the counter, your legs wrapping around him.
“you sure?” he asks, voice strained, cock brushing your cunt.
you nod, desperate, and he doesn’t wait. he pushes into you, slow and thick, stretching your cunt in a way that makes you gasp. he’s big, splitting you open, but the burn feels so fucking good. he stills, letting you adjust, his forehead against yours, both of you panting.
“fuck, your pussy’s so tight,” he groans, voice raw.
you shift, urging him to move, and he does, pulling back to thrust deeper. the counter creaks, but you don’t care. his cock fills you, hitting every spot that makes you see stars. he fucks you steady, hard, his hands bruising your hips. you bite his shoulder to muffle your moans, and he hisses, slamming into you harder.
“you feel so fucking good,” he pants, lips grazing your neck. “been dreaming of this cunt for a while.”
you clench around his cock, and he groans, pace faltering. he lifts your leg over his shoulder, the angle letting him sink deeper, his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes you tremble. you’re close again, the pressure building fast, your cunt gripping him.
“cum for me,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “let me feel this pussy squeeze my cock.”
his fingers find your clit, rubbing tight circles, and you shatter, cumming hard, your cunt pulsing around his cock. you bite your lip to keep from screaming, and he fucks you through it, thrusts growing sloppy. when you tighten around him, he groans, low and wrecked, and cums deep inside you, filling your cunt with heat.
you’re both still, panting, his cock still buried in you. then, a creak from upstairs makes you freeze. your eyes widen, and kuroo pulls out fast, your mixed cum dripping down your thighs. you scramble for your clothes, heart pounding, as he yanks his sweatpants up.
“shit, shit, shit,” you whisper, pulling your shorts on, cum still slick between your legs.
he’s grinning, the bastard, handing you your shirt and stealing a quick kiss. footsteps hit the stairs, and you dive for a water bottle, trying to look normal. your brother stumbles in, half-asleep.
“what the hell are you two doing up?” he mumbles.
“just grabbing a snack,” you say, voice shaky.
kuroo leans against the counter, smirking like he didn’t just fuck you raw. “couldn’t sleep.”
your brother grunts, grabbing water and shuffling off. the second he’s gone, kuroo’s eyes lock on yours, dark and promising.
“next time,” he whispers, “we’re locking the fucking door.”
choi san. your sweet, obsessed boyfriend. always calling, always craving. you thought it was just a late-night check-in—until you realized what he was doing on the other end of the line. and when he shows up at your door? he’s not holding back. it gets breathless. possessive. messy. and the next morning? he still can’t keep his hands off you.
wc : 5.4k
tags : explicit content, phone masturbation, softdom!san, fingering,oral , praise kink, light degradation, dirty talk, teasing, overstimulation, established relationship intimacy, aftercare, reader is clingy, san is obsessed with you in the softest filthiest way, fluff.
a/n: this man calls you while he’s jerking off, shows up 20 mins later, wrecks you again, and then has the nerve to wipe your makeup off like you’re his entire world??
Your phone buzzes just as you’re settling into bed.
Incoming Call : San 🏔
You smile immediately, warmth blooming in your chest. You put him on speaker and curl into the covers, voice soft and sleepy.
“Hi” you murmur.
There’s a pause on the other end. A breath.
Then:
“…Hey.” His voice is low. Rough. Just a little hoarse.
You frown softly. “You okay?”
“Mhm.” A sharp inhale, followed by a quiet exhale. “I just… wanted to hear your voice.”
That makes you smile again, soft and unsuspecting.
You rinse your mouth, crawl into bed, and tuck the phone against your cheek.
You laugh softly, cheek pressing to the pillow. “You miss me that bad already?”
“So bad,” he murmurs, almost too quiet.
“I missed you too.” You roll onto your side, voice warm. “How was your night?”
Another pause.
“…Fine.”
There’s something in the way he says it.
It’s not unhappy, just… distracted.
Like he’s somewhere else entirely.
You squint, sensing it now — the air between you feels thick.
Like something is happening, and you haven’t caught up yet.
Your brows knit at how breathless he sounds. “Are you… working out or something?”
“…Sort of.”
“Sort of?” You giggle. “You sound weird,” you tease, voice gentle.
There’s a pause. Long enough to notice.
Then you hear it — the tiniest sound.
A slick sound.
Wet. Rhythmic. Subtle.
Your mouth parts slightly. “San?”
“Keep talking,” he says quickly. Breathlessly. “Don’t stop talking.”
Your heart skips.
Your voice falters. “Wait… are you —”
“I miss you,” he cuts in, voice heavy, strained, and definitely aroused. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”
“You’re—oh my god, are you touching yourself?”
He groans — low and unfiltered. Like your voice alone is enough to drag him under.
“Yes,” he whispers. “Fuck, I couldn’t wait anymore.”
You blink at the ceiling, suddenly burning everywhere. “You called me… to jerk off?”
“I called you because of you,” he murmurs.
“Because I kept thinking about your mouth. Your voice. The way you sound when I—” His breath stutters. “When I’m buried deep inside you.”
Your breath catches.
“Tell me something,” he whispers.
“What?” you breathe.
“Remind me how you taste.”
Your thighs press together instinctively.
“San—”
“I’d be on my knees for you right now,” he murmurs. “You don’t even know. Tongue deep in you, hands keeping you open. I miss the way you shake.”
You press a hand to your chest. Your heart’s racing.
“Your voice, baby. I swear.” His breath catches. “You’re so soft when you’re sleepy. It drives me insane.”
You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
“.. Are you close?” you ask, voice barely a whisper.
“Mhm,” he moans. “Keep talking, please. I’m—shit—I’m right there.”
You bite your lip. Then slowly, softly:
“You’d ruin me if you were here, wouldn’t you?”
He lets out a desperate noise.
“I’d take you so slow,” you whisper. “Just to hear you beg.”
He groans again, sharp and broken. His breathing gets faster.
You hear the subtle, unmistakable sound of his release — his moan is raw, whispered, like he’s trying not to be loud. Like he’s completely wrecked.
You lie there, blinking, flushed all over, heat rolling through you.
There’s a silence on the other end. Just the sound of his breathing, finally slowing.
“…I’m coming over,” he mutters eventually, voice low and raspy.
You laugh softly, heart still racing. “San…”
He groans. “I need you.”
And something tells you this night isn’t over yet.
–
You’re still in bed when your doorbell rings.
Your whole body stills.
You climb out of the covers, heart thudding in your chest, and tiptoe barefoot to the door.
When you open it, the hallway light spills over San — his dark hoodie pulled over his head, eyes shadowed, lips parted.
His chest rises and falls like he ran here, not drove.
He doesn’t say a word. He just looks at you.
Then?
He steps in, shuts the door behind him, and grabs you.
You gasp as your back hits the wall.
His mouth crashes against yours, hot and desperate, like he needs to taste you just to breathe.
“You,” he growls between kisses. “You make me lose my mind.”
His hands roam everywhere — under your shirt, across your hips, gripping your ass like it’s his. You’re lifted onto the wall in one smooth motion, legs wrapping around him on instinct.
“San—” you try to catch your breath, but he kisses you again, rough and deep, before pulling back just enough to speak.
“You sounded so fucking sweet on the phone,” he murmurs, dragging his nose along your jaw.
“That little sleepy voice. All shy. You knew what you were doing.”
“I didn’t,” you whisper, flushed and breathless.
He bites down gently on your neck. “Liar.”
You squirm in his grip, heat pooling between your legs.
His hands slide up your thighs and you realize — you’re still not wearing underwear.
He realizes it too.
“Of course you’re not,” he mutters, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“I didn’t know you were actually coming over—”
“You think I care?” His voice is gravel now, thick with need. “You think I can sit at home after hearing you like that on the phone?”
One of his hands slides between your legs, fingers dragging through your slick folds.
You cry out, head falling back against the wall.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Already soaked.”
You nod, breathless. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
That’s it. That breaks him.
He carries you towards your bedroom, mouth on your throat the entire way, and you cling to him like your life depends on it.
When he lays you down, it’s with more reverence than you expect — like even in his desperation, he still wants to worship.
He peels your shirt up, kissing each inch of skin he reveals.
Your ribs. Your chest. He brushes his nose over your nipple and groans low in his throat, like he’s trying to memorize you.
“Look at you,” he whispers. “So fucking perfect.”
You reach for him, and he comes willingly, laying his body over yours, slotting between your legs.
You can feel how hard he is — straining through his sweatpants — and your hips twitch up, chasing friction.
He kisses you again, slower this time, deeper. Like he wants to feel how badly he missed you.
Then he pulls back just slightly. His forehead rests on yours. His breathing's still ragged.
“You want me?” he murmurs.
You nod.
“No. Say it.”
“I want you,” you whisper. “I want you so bad it hurts.”
He groans, like the words physically affect him, and his hand trails between your thighs again.
“I’m not gonna be gentle this time,” he mutters. “I can’t be.”
You whimper. “Then don’t be.”
And then he sinks two fingers into you — slow but firm, curling just right — and your whole body arches off the bed.
He watches your face, eyes dark. “This is what you wanted, right? To drive me crazy? To have me aching for you?”
You nod again, mouth open, gasping.
He leans in close, lips brushing your ear.
“Well, baby,” he murmurs, voice like velvet and smoke, “you got me.”
“Take this off,” San growls, tugging at your sleep shirt, not even waiting for you to comply.
He peels it up and over your head like he owns it — like you’re his — and throws it somewhere behind him without looking.
You’re bare now. Completely.
And he just stares.
Chest heaving, jaw clenched, like he’s trying to hold himself back — but he can’t. Not anymore.
“You drive me so fucking insane,” he mutters, running both hands down your ribs, to your hips, spreading your legs wide with his knee. “You know that?”
You whimper when his fingers return to your center, teasing just barely. Your back arches. His eyes drop to watch every reaction.
“Already soaked for me again,” he whispers. “And I’ve barely even touched you.”
You reach down, grabbing at the waistband of his sweats.
“Please,” you gasp.
“Please what?”
“San—”
“Tell me,” he snaps, voice low and commanding. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want you in me,” you cry, breath shaking. “Please, San. I need you.”
He exhales hard through his nose — then strips.
His hoodie and shirt go first, then his sweats and boxers in one tug, revealing his hard, leaking cock, already red at the tip.
Your mouth waters.
He strokes himself once, twice, eyes still locked on you.
“Turn around.”
You blink. “..Huh?”
“I said turn the fuck around.”
The edge in his voice sends shivers down your spine.
You scramble onto your hands and knees, and he grabs your hips immediately, pulling you back toward him until your ass is pressed to his cock.
He drags the head through your folds, just once — and groans like it physically hurts to hold back.
Then he thrusts in.
Hard.
You cry out, head dropping to the mattress as he bottoms out in one deep, punishing stroke.
His hand grips your hip, the other tangling in your hair, pulling your head back so he can lean down and growl into your ear.
“This is what you wanted, huh?” His hips slam forward again. “Wanted me so desperate I couldn’t wait another second?”
You moan, hands fisting the sheets. “Yes—”
“Wanted me to ruin you?”
He sets a pace that’s relentless — deep and unrelenting, every thrust dragging across the most sensitive part of you.
Your body jerks forward with each one, and you swear he’s somehow deeper than ever before.
“San—fuck, yes—”
His grip crushes you tighter. “Say my fucking name.”
You sob it again and again, lost in the rhythm, and he keeps pushing.
Keeps driving into you like he’s chasing something buried inside your core.
Your legs start to shake. You're so close.
“Not yet,” he growls, he growls, yanking you upright so your back presses hard against his chest “I said—not yet.”
He keeps fucking into you while his hand slides between your legs, rubbing your clit in fast, devastating circles.
“Hold it,” he growls. “Hold it until I say.”
You’re gasping now, practically sobbing from how full you feel — how stretched and raw and desperate you are.
“I—I can’t—”
“Yes you can.” He licks the shell of your ear. “You’ll come when I tell you to. Be good for me.”
And somehow… you obey.
He fucks you through it — deeper, harder, his hand still working you mercilessly — and just when you feel like you can’t take it anymore, he growls:
“Now. Let go. Fucking come for me.”
Your orgasm hits like a wave breaking, loud and wet and devastating. Your entire body arches, thighs trembling violently as you convulse around him.
You don’t even hear yourself scream his name — too lost in the pleasure — but he does.
And it snaps something in him.
He pulls out and flips you over, not even giving you time to recover before he thrusts back in — face-to-face now, eyes burning.
“I’m not done,” he whispers
You can barely breathe, so overstimulated, so full. But you take it — you want it — because the way he’s looking at you? Like he needs to own every piece of you?
It’s worth everything.
He chases his own release now, hips slamming into yours at a punishing pace, his mouth all over your throat, jaw, chest.
“I love this fucking pussy,” he grunts. “You’re made for me. You know that?”
You nod, crying out again as he fucks into your oversensitive cunt. “Yes—yes, I’m yours, I’m—”
“That’s right.”
He buries himself deep one last time — so deep you swear he’s in your soul — and groans your name as he spills inside you, his body trembling against yours.
For a long moment, he doesn’t move.
Just breathes. Heavy, ragged, still inside you. One hand on your jaw. The other clutching your waist.
Then?
He kisses you. Deep, slow, reverent.
And when he finally pulls back, eyes soft, he strokes your cheek gently.
“You okay?” he whispers.
You nod, dazed. “I think you rearranged my spine.”
He laughs softly, presses a kiss to your forehead, and pulls out slowly, careful with your sore body.
Then he disappears into the bathroom — and comes back with a warm towel.
He wipes between your legs so gently it makes you tear up a little.
Then he crawls back into your bed with a whispered, “C’mere, baby.”
And you fall asleep wrapped in him — ruined, wrecked, and held like something precious.
—
That morning you wake to the smell of butter and maple.
The early morning light is filtering in soft and slow, and the sheets are tangled at your waist, your body sore in all the best ways.
Your thighs ache. Your neck has faint bite marks. You feel like you were worshipped… and maybe a little destroyed.
You blink sleepily.
And then you hear it — a gentle clatter from the kitchen. Something sizzling. Then a muttered curse.
You smile. San.
When he appears in the doorway — shirtless, sweats low on his hips, hair pushed back from his face — he’s holding a tray.
Plates stacked, two mugs, something golden and syrupy filling the air behind him.
He’s grinning like he knows he’s being hot about it.
“I made you breakfast,” he says, voice raspy with sleep, setting the tray on your lap. “Don’t freak out.”
You blink at it. Pancakes. Eggs. Fruit. Even whipped cream??
Your brows knit. “…San.”
He’s climbing into bed beside you, already grabbing a strawberry off your plate and popping it into his mouth like he didn’t just cook a five-star brunch.
You narrow your eyes. “How do you even know where my whipped cream is? You’ve literally been here like .. twice.”
He smirks around the bite. “What, you think I don’t pay attention?”
You stare him down.
He leans closer, hands slipping under the blanket over your lap. “I paid attention to a lot last night.”
You swat at him. “San! I’m eating!”
“You’re trying to eat,” he murmurs, kissing your shoulder. “But I made the mistake of seeing you like this — hair all messy, no bra, all cute and sore — and now I’m distracted.”
You flush, tugging the blanket up to hide the fact that you are, in fact, still completely naked beneath it.
He feeds you a piece of pancake — literally feeds you — and you groan at the taste.
“This is so good.”
He hums. “Yeah?”
You nod through your bite. “You’re annoyingly good at this. I was prepared to lie to protect your pride.”
San chuckles and presses a kiss to your cheek. “I’ll take that as a win.”
You’re halfway through eating when his hand starts creeping again — under the blanket this time, fingertips grazing the top of your thigh like it’s casual.
You shoot him a look. “Don’t.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You are literally touching my thigh right now.”
“I’m admiring it.”
“San.”
“Mhm?”
You squint at him. “You’re obsessed with me.”
“I literally am,” he says, no hesitation, dipping down to kiss your bare shoulder again. “Is it that obvious?”
“Yes,” you say. “And it’s so distracting.”
He bites back a smile and leans in close, lips brushing your ear.
“You wanna know what’s distracting?” he whispers, hand slowly sliding higher. “The fact that I spent all night in you — and I’m still hard just thinking about it.”
Your stomach flips.
You grab your fork again with shaky fingers and murmur, “Eat your pancakes.”
But you already know this breakfast-in-bed is about to become a part two of last night — once again… you won’t be finishing your meal.
—
After the breakfast-that-you-did-not-finish (because San decided you were the real meal), he finally lets you rest — for like, ten minutes.
You’re still under the covers, half-limp with sleep and soreness when you feel him climbing out of bed again. You hear the water start in the bathroom.
Then he comes back to the doorway, shirtless, damp towel in one hand.
“Come shower,” he says gently.
You crack one eye open. “You go. I’m dead.”
He smirks. “If you’re dead, then you won’t mind if I carry you.”
You narrow your eyes. “You wouldn’t.”
And then he does. Pulls the blanket off of you and lifts you like it’s nothing, making you yelp as you cling to him.
“SAN!!”
“You left me no choice,” he teases, voice smug in your ear as he carries you into the steam-filled bathroom.
The water’s already perfect — warm, a little hot — and when he steps in with you, he moves so carefully, hands steady at your waist.
You let the water hit your back, sighing at the heat, and close your eyes for just a second — until you feel his fingers in your hair.
Your eyes blink open. “…What are you doing?”
“Washing your hair.”
You eye him skeptically. “Are you washing my hair or do you just want to touch me again?”
San blinks, expression a little too innocent. “Can’t it be both?”
You groan, laughing despite yourself. “I knew it.”
He smiles as he lathers shampoo in his hands and starts working it into your scalp with surprisingly gentle, practiced fingers.
The way he massages your head, runs his fingers through every strand, careful not to tug — it feels so soothing you actually sway into his chest.
“Mhm… I take it back,” you murmur. “You can do this forever.”
“I plan to,” he says softly, voice near your temple. His hands slow a little, sliding down, rinsing out the shampoo as you lean back.
He keeps going — conditioner, a few more forehead kisses, and now his thumbs are brushing under your eyes, wiping away the faint smudges of leftover makeup.
He does it like it matters. Like he’s memorizing you.
“Why are you looking at me like that,” you ask softly, heart hiccuping.
“Because I’m lucky as hell,” he says without even blinking.
And just like that, you’re melting all over again — but not because of the hot water.
You wrap your arms around his neck, pull him in slow, press your lips to his under the falling spray.
It's slow, slow — the kind of kiss you sink into with your whole body.
He hums against your mouth.
The kiss deepens, steam curling around you both, and you feel him grip your hips like he might forget what he was doing.
You pull back just enough to whisper, teasingly:
“You're getting distracted again.”
San smirks. “You literally taste like vanilla and warm water. How am I supposed to focus?”
You laugh into his shoulder. “Finish rinsing me, San.”
And he does.
But the way his hands keep slipping a little lower? You’re pretty sure you’re not leaving this shower untouched.
—
The shower ends with your back pressed lazily to his chest, both of you reluctant to step out into the cooler air.
You’re the one who finally reaches for the knob, sighing. “We should get out before we start round 2 just from steam.”
San grins behind you, shameless. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
You swat his thigh without looking.
He helps you out first, careful with his hands as always — but the moment your feet hit the mat, he’s already reaching for a towel.
“Sit,” he murmurs, patting the bathroom counter like he owns the place.
You arch a brow. “I can dry myself off.”
“Please?,” he says with a glint in his eyes, already kneeling a little to start at your legs.
You give in — because you're sore, and he’s impossibly warm like this.
Gentle and full of affection. His hands work slowly, drying every inch like he’s mapping you all over again.
He glances up at you, curls damp and stuck to his forehead. “Still mad I carried you in here?”
You give him a small smirk. “No. But only because your massage game is elite.”
“Elite, huh?” He drags the towel up your thigh, fingers lingering too long before he slides it higher. “Do I get a trophy?”
“You’re already trying to earn one,” you mutter.
His only response is to kiss the inside of your knee.
You twitch slightly. “San…”
“Just drying,” he says — entirely unconvincing, because his hand stays exactly where it doesn’t need to be.
“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur, blushing.
But still — you don’t stop him.
He stands slowly, now using the edge of the towel to press soft, careful dabs to your chest, your arms, your neck.
He trails it up to your face, and your breath hitches at how gentle he gets — like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
His thumbs brush beneath your eyes again, drying what little water clings to your lashes.
Then he leans in and kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.
You're smiling now. You can’t help it. “I thought you were drying me off.”
“I am,” he murmurs against your skin. “But you’re very… distracting.”
You roll your eyes. “You’re the one making this impossible.”
He hums and wraps the towel around your body fully now, pressing it snug at your back like he’s hugging you and drying you at the same time.
You lean into him. “You really can’t keep your hands off me, can you?”
He pulls back just enough to look at you — eyes soft, adoring, almost like you’re something rare and glowing.
His voice is quiet but honest:
“Nope. And I don’t plan to learn how.”
Your chest squeezes, heat curling all the way down your spine.
He presses a kiss to your nose now.
Then your lips.
Then murmurs: “C’mon. Let me get you into something cozy.”
You smile, letting him lead you — wrapped in his towel, in his arms, in his attention.
And the truth is:
You don’t want him to stop touching you, either.
—
That evening, your living room is dim, the only light flickering from the soft glow of your TV — low volume playing some show neither of you are watching.
You’re straddled on San’s lap, facing him, your thighs resting on either side of his hips, one of his old hoodies swallowing you whole.
The fabric smells like him — faint cologne, detergent, that warm scent you know better than your own by now.
He’s shirtless beneath you, just lounging in some gray sweats, all tanned skin and quiet muscle, his arms looped loosely around your waist.
Your fingers are tangled in his hair, gently twirling one around your finger as you talk — about nothing, really.
Something dumb. Something comforting. You don’t even remember how the topic started.
And you’re not really paying attention to your words anyway — not when he looks like this.
His bare face is unfairly beautiful. His jaw is sharp and clean from shaving.
The light catches the slope of his nose, the tiny beauty mark just beside his left eye, the sleepy droop of his lashes as he listens to you — and God, his lips. Full, soft, kiss-bitten from earlier.
You feel like you could cry just from looking at him.
You run your thumb gently across his cheek. He closes his eyes briefly under your touch.
And then — too soon, too cruel — he shifts slightly beneath you and murmurs,
“I have to leave soon.”
Your smile fades. “What? Why?”
He exhales slowly, rubbing his hand down your back like he’s trying to soften the blow.
“I have work in the morning. Early.”
Your heart drops a little.
You blink at him, lips parting. “But… can’t you stay tonight?”
“I want to. I really do.” His voice is soft. Regretful. But firm.
You feel your chest tightening already, throat beginning to ache with the heat of unshed frustration.
“I barely get to see you anymore,” you whisper.
“I know.” He brushes his knuckles against your thigh. “I hate it too.”
Your arms slowly wind around his neck, pulling yourself into him, burying your face into the crook between his shoulder and jaw.
You don’t say anything at first — just hold him there like if you’re quiet enough, he’ll change his mind.
He strokes your back gently.
“I’m not leaving yet,” he says, voice quieter now. “I’ve got a little time.”
You cling tighter. “Can you sleep over again? Just for tonight?”
A pause. It lasts too long.
“I can’t,” he says, and this time it sounds like it hurts him more than you. “If I don’t go home, I’ll be late.”
You nod, but you’re not ready to let go. Your arms stay locked around his neck. You hate how warm he is. How safe. How rare.
“I’m gonna miss you,” you murmur brokenly.
His hand slips under the hoodie, spreading wide across your back. He cradles you there, holds you tighter.
“Aw, baby…” he whispers, leaning his head into yours. “I’m gonna make time for us. I promise. This isn't always going to be like this.”
You sniff, but you don’t cry. Not yet.
“Don’t promise if you can’t keep it.”
His voice cracks. “I will. Even if it means losing sleep. I’ll be here. I want to be here.”
There’s a long silence between you two.
Just the sound of his breathing against your neck and the quiet, creaking shift of the couch when he leans back again.
Then you whisper something, voice soft and a little bitter:
“…And stop calling me when you’re jerking off, okay? It makes me want you even more.”
That surprises a low chuckle out of him — hoarse and heartbroken.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, a soft, rueful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“But I love calling you,” he admits. “It’s the only way I feel close to you when I can’t be here.”
You sigh, cupping his jaw, thumb brushing over the faint stubble.
“You don’t need to call me to feel close to me, San. You are close to me. Always.”
He nods once, eyes shimmering just slightly.
Then you both fall into a long, warm silence. He holds you.
You stay in his lap, hoodie swallowing your bare legs, his fingers tracing soft circles on your thigh like he doesn’t want to let go.
You know he’ll leave soon.
But not yet.
So you press your lips to his cheek. Then his nose. Then his mouth.
You whisper, “I’ll wait for you.”
And he says, “You don’t have to wait long.”
But still — the ache stays.
Because even when love is strong… it still hurts to say goodbye.
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