KANG YEOSANG — MAGE 𓃠
⟶ you’d been tutoring him with his classes. history of magic, herbology, transfigurations, potions. your sweet, shy, caring friend yeosang… how shameless he becomes after you both ingest the most dangerous, illegal lust potion to exist.
𓄃 happy birthday to me, this is my gift for all of you!!! 𓄃 day twelve of @chimivx and i’s kinktober! 𓄃 wizard!yeosang x fem!reader | wc ~7k 𓄃 heed the warnings im not your mother: smut minors dni, this fic is very sex-pollen esque, they’re both intensely horny, virgin!reader, strong beefy ponytailed yeosang, oral f!receiving, multiple rounds, p in v, lotta unprotected creampies :p loosely based on hp universe but if u dont know hp its fine they’re just wizards, fuck you jk rowling
You can hear them before you see them, huddled up together in the lounge, cackling so loud the sound reverberates throughout the stone corridor your penny loafers carried you through. High archways, open air windows, intricate carvings into stone that no human hand could have perfected, you try to ignore the paintings that moved with your steps.
You turn the corner into the lounge, a palm softly caressing the heavy, arched wooden doorframe, double doors that opened up into the vast, candle-lit space. Green velvet chairs that matched the curtains draped over floor to ceiling windows, only one or two stayed open during the day, typically drawn shut so students could study calmly.
Calmly.
“You three are so loud,” you snarl as your penny loafers click to a stop before the three chairs huddled in a triangle, a deep, black table in the center, holding thick books and chalices of god knows what. With a hand on your hip, the other arm holding books pressed to your chest, you keep your voice quiet but sharp, “This room is for studying, you know.”
San makes a show of looking around him, at the lack of people occupying the lounge. Almost ten, maybe fifteen chairs took up space, five tables amongst them, maybe three people occupying them. You let your eyes dance over the almost empty room before landing back on San, his slicked back hair, the black robe hanging over his shoulders, the yellow illuminating the breadth.
You stand your ground, “Just because it’s not busy in here doesn’t mean you need to be obnoxious.”
“We weren’t even loud,” Wooyoung argues, the blue in his robe bringing out the chocolate of his eyes, the red undertone in his black hair that nearly lays over his lashes. His mouth twitches upward in a smirk, “We were just laughing. You should try it sometime.”
You slide your scowl to Yeosang, whose eyes dance between the three of you, but he doesn’t interject. He never interjects, not when Wooyoung makes one of his infamous remarks towards you, nor when he encourages San into teasing you, too. Yeosang, quiet, timid and kind until it killed him, you wondered how you were both in the same House. Sometimes you wondered if you were tutoring him to bring out the bravery buried inside him, too.
“Whatever,” you huff, rolling your eyes. You turn your body to Yeosang, hands clutching your books to your chest a little harder, “Are you ready? It’s past three.”
Yeosang nods, black hair tied tightly behind his head, tendrils framing his face that curved just beneath his jaw. Both hands grip the armrests of the chair to help him stand, then he grabs his books from the table, his goblet, you had the same routine every other day. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, the days you meet Yeosang here at three o’clock sharp to tutor him in everything. History of Magic, Herbology, Transfigurations, Potions, you remember the day your professor assigned Yeosang to you in hopes that you’d get him to at least pass.
“Good luck,” Wooyoung teases, a song in his tone, eyes trapped in crescents with how wide his grin spreads. He reaches into his pockets, “Hold on, don’t forget this.”
“I’m not taking that,” Yeosang huffs, “You shouldn’t even have that.”
“What is it?” You ask, eyeing the iridescent liquid in the small glass vial. It doesn’t look like any potion you’ve seen before.
“Liquid Luck,” Yeosang answers too quickly, waving his hands in front of Wooyoung who tips his head back in loud laughter. Your eyebrows furrow, you know the color of Liquid Luck, a molten gold that looks as lucky as it makes you, but you’ve never seen such a pearly, almost rainbow substance. Your curiosity makes you take a step forward, hand reaching out to touch it.
Yeosang lurches forward to snap the potion from between Wooyoung’s fingers before you get the chance, “You’re beyond help. Beyond saving, Wooyoung.”
Wooyoung just laughs louder, crinkles beside his uneven eyes, “You- You should try it out, man. Just see what happens, I’m curious.”
“You use it,” Yeosang stuffs the glass in his robe pocket, the red interior bustling outward at the movement, a bite in his tone you’ve never heard before. You’re standing frozen, eyes wide, confusion and surprise written all over your face.
“I’m not as lucky as you,” Wooyoung is smirking again, his eyes sliding to you right before he winks, long, dark lashes almost reaching his cheek as he does so. “I like ‘em to have a little attitude.”
Your top lip curls in disgust, “Ew, Jung Wooyoung. Never speak to me again.” You turn on your heel, penny loafers heading toward the private study room you and Yeosang always used. Turning your head behind you to Yeosang who had leaned towards Wooyoung, no doubt whispering words you didn’t want to hear, you called, “Let’s go, Yeosang.”
He straightens on command, following behind you to the study room. The room smelled faintly of morning mist leftover from the window that had most likely been cracked earlier in the day, paired with the same smell of magic and ancientness that wrapped around the school like a hug. You laid your books down on the wooden table, a long slab of oak that ate up half the space, benches lined on either side, a tall, full bookshelf against the wall. A lonely bar-cart sat in the corner, water and potions glittering the space for focus, listening, learning, golden goblets and tall jars atop a used, golden slate.
“I’m sorry about him,” Yeosang mutters quietly as the heavy door groans closed, the small metal lock latching louder than his voice.
You take your normal spot, and the bench cries as Yeosang sits down beside you. You give him a quick shake of your head, “Nothing I’m not used to.”
“You shouldn’t be used to it,” Yeosang’s voice is quiet, small, almost sheepish.
Your head turns, taking in the shape of his jaw, the slope of his nose. So beautiful he’d appear feminine if it wasn’t for the masculinity he bore in his chest, his shoulders, everywhere from the neck down. You open your Potions book to the page that you left off last on Wednesday, somewhere in the middle, a wit-sharpening draft Yeosang couldn’t memorize for shit. The same draft charmed to keep itself filled kept in the corner of the study rooms.
You huff, “It is what it is.” Spreading your hands on each page, covering the contents of the book, you turned to him again, “You studied?”
Yeosang’s lips curled at the corner, “...Somewhat.”
“The exam is on Monday, Yeo,” you slant your eyebrows, pointing your gaze. “That whole time you were giggling with San and Wooyoung you could have been memorizing.”
“I’m sorry,” he frowns, a crease forming between his brows, “I looked over it last night.”
“You swear?” You ask, pulling the book towards you, not waiting for his answer. “Recite it to me then.”
His cheeks heat a pretty pink color, kissing the high points, spreading wide over his nose. His voice is quiet, uneasy, slightly high-pitched as he counts on his fingers, “Water, ginger…”
“And?” You raise your brows, “There’s only four ingredients, Yeosang.”
“Something with beetles…” He makes a disgruntled face, features morphing together. “...Armadillo.”
Your lips curl into a grin, “So close.”
He meets your eye with nothing but uncertainty swirling in deep brown, “Scab beetles.”
“Scarab beetles.”
“Right, right. Armadillo…”
“Bile.”
“Yes!”
“I’ll actually accept that,” your eyebrows raise, mouth bending to show how impressed you were. Usually Yeosang didn’t remember anything past water. “Now tell me how to brew it.”
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, and the word falling from his lips so shamelessly makes you choke on your spit, a laugh tumbling form your chest.
“I don’t think that’s a step,” you giggle, then attempt to look serious again, “Don’t curse, it’s foul.”
“I’m sorry,” his lips are still bent, humor and amusement in his eyes. “Simmer the water, add the… Scarab beetles, stir three times–”
“Five times,” you correct.
“Five times,” he nods, “Clockwise.”
“Counter-clockwise.”
He furrows his brows, “Clockwise.”
You tilt your head, lips smacking, “Counter-clockwise.”
“Check the book,” his eyes drop to the book you held to your chest and you peel it from your red-colored robes, eyes scanning the page. Right there, in clean cut handwriting, it says Clockwise.
You purse your lips, “I’m sorry, my fault. It’s clockwise.”
His smile is proud like he wants to pat himself on the back– the sight makes you giggle. You don’t get to see that look on him very often. With heat in your cheeks, you shake your head quickly, “Keep going.”
“Five times clockwise,” he nods his head as he speaks as if he’s committing the information to memory, searching for more inside his head, “Simmer five minutes. Add ginger, don’t stir, simmer again.”
“For how long?” You cock a brow.
“...Twenty minutes?” His eyes widened, looking to you for confirmation. When you nod, he smiles all teeth, and continues. “Let it cool, stir seven times every three minutes, clockwise and counter-clockwise. When it’s not hot anymore–”
“How do you check?”
“With a hand over the pot. Add the armadillo bile then, and let it sit for eight minutes.”
“Wow,” you breathe, “That was all, like, perfectly correct. I’m surprised and impressed.”
He claps his hands together ceremoniously, lips stuck together, curled at the edges and pursed in the center. You lean in closer, smelling the woody, black pepper, tea-leaf scent that was purely Yeosang, “Now tell me how to make it taste better.”
“Peppermint leaf on the tongue, not in the potion,” he nods, then meets your eye, pride evident in his features. You clap your hands together, wide smile on your face, cheering for him like he had just won a world record. It was a huge deal to have a study session go so smoothly, so effortlessly– Usually studying was like pulling teeth with Yeosang.
“Temperature is key for this one,” you say after a minute of cheering, “You need to be vigilant with the fire while brewing, to keep it at a simmer. You don’t want it boiling.”
He nods with every word, letting them sink in, and you place the Potions book atop the wooden table again, hands landing just beside it, letting the cold, almost damp-feeling oak settle into your skin. A knock sounds at the door a moment later, and your necks snap to Wooyoung creaking the door open, a sly grin on his cheeks.
“Apologies, study-birds,” he teases, peeking his head around the slab of oak, “Can I get that vial of Desiderium back?”
Your jaw drops to the wood beneath your skull. You repeat, with eyebrows in your hairline, “Desiderium?!”
Yeosang huffs, an irritated breath, digging into his pockets for the glass. You choke on a laugh, “How the hell did you get your hands on Desiderium? You could get expelled for that, Jung Wooyoung.”
Wooyoung rolls his eyes and holds his hands out for Yeosang to toss the vial to him. He catches it swiftly between deft fingers, shooting Yeosang a nod of appreciation before his rebuttal, “Who cares.”
You stand, palms planted on the damp wood as Wooyoung makes his way over to the study bar, carelessness in his steps. You keep your voice quiet but harsh, “Wooyoung, Desiderium is banned, like banned banned. You could get somebody hurt, you could hurt yourself, that isn’t a toy or Viagra.”
He whips his head around, a nasty smirk on his lips, “You know what Viagra is?”
Your cheeks flush, back straightening, fingers curling before your robes. Voice smaller now, not as quiet or confident, you say, “Yes I know what Viagra is, I’m not a child.”
He pours himself a goblet of the wit-sharpening potion, taking a deep drink from the scratched golden chalice, you watch how his bumped nose dips into the cup, how his Adam’s apple expands with each gulp. He lets out a massive, verbal breath when the cup is drained, slamming the goblet back on the slate.
“Go to the bathroom and drain that vial, Woo.”
He raises his brows, “Do you know how much it took to even get this? Hell no.”
You crane your neck to look down at Yeosang who appears utterly thoughtless. With a strain in your voice, you try, “Yeosang, do something.”
“What am I supposed to do?” He asks, his voice genuine. “He did go through a lot to get it.”
You release a sound of disbelief, a sharp breath from your lungs. “Yeosang!” You whisper-yell, then turn back to Wooyoung who leans against the bar cart, “I can’t just let you carry that around with no consequence.”
“Who are you gonna tell?” Wooyoung raises his brows in amusement, “A professor? Head Girl?”
You sputter, “I- I’ll–”
The truth was, you didn’t want to tell anyone. You eyed his pocket, the crinkle of weight in the black robe, curiosity lighting up your mind. Desiderium was a banned potion across the wizard world, a worse love potion than Amortentia, it wasn’t even considered a love potion. It was an… Arousal potion of sorts, you’ve only heard stories of it, but you knew it wasn’t safe. If taken in large quantities it was toxic, resulting in a stomach-pumping spell or in worse cases, death. If taken in small quantities, it makes the consumer unbelievably horny, insatiable for hours, so aroused and consumed by lust they lose themselves completely.
You wondered, despite knowing it was banned. If that really was Desiderium, if it really does what it’s supposed to, what it feels like to be under the spell. You don’t have much experience in the sex area, or really in the arousal area entirely. Your life has always been centered around academics and competition, and your small group of friends that were more like you than someone like Wooyoung. You’d never had a boyfriend, or someone to pull that velvety feeling from your gut, you’ve never felt the feeling of losing yourself that you’ve overheard Wooyoung talk about when debriefing his hook-ups with San and Yeosang.
“You’ll what?” Wooyoung tilts his head in amusement.
“It’s fine,” Yeosang finally interjects, “He won’t do anything with it, he has no problem getting… no problem in that area.”
“Yeosang, that’s–”
He glances up at you, eyes clear, certain. You swallow down your disdain, your clear discomfort, the heated curiosity nipping at your cheeks. You sit down slowly, back in your place next to Yeosang, and Wooyoung giggles like a child.
“Have fun studying,” he winks again, and then he’s out the door in a flash.
You huff a breath when he’s no longer in sight, irritation biting at your skin, heating you beneath your robes. Pushing your hair behind your ears and flattening your skirt, you huff, “I’m just gonna pretend like that didn’t happen.”
“That’s best to do with most things concerning Wooyoung.”
“Well, do you think it’s right?” You’re facing him now, eyebrows back in your hairline, “He could do whatever he wants with Desiderium, he could give it to whoever he wants. That’s sick.”
“He’s not a bad guy,” he’s shaking his head fervently, his hands coming up to his chest in defense, “He’d never use it on someone without their knowledge or anything like that.”
“Then what’s the point of having it?” You argue, jaw tight, eyes focused.
“Well,” Yeosang cranes his neck slowly, a tilt to his head that means he doesn’t want to finish his sentence, “There’s this one girl, and he… They, you know. A lot. And there’s stuff he wants to try, and—”
“Okay,” you turn away, cheeks growing hot at the words leaving his mouth. For a moment you wonder if Yeosang has ever been with anyone like that, if he’s taken a sip of the Desiderium, if he ever thinks of getting that kind of… boost.
You shake your head to hopefully rid yourself of the thought, “I get it. But if he uses it on anyone,” you shoot him a sideways glance, “I can’t let that slide. I won’t be a bystander. You have to tell me.”
Yeosang nods what seems like a thousand times in a millisecond, “I will, I promise.”
You push out a heavy breath, forcing your eyes back on your book, you had three more potions to get through for his exam on Monday. Blinking at the page, brain drifting back to the Desiderium… No.
“What’s next?” His voice is soft, as if he’s gracefully pulling you out of your mind, as if he could read it. You swallow.
“Sleeping draft,” your voice is so low it’s basically a whisper, turning the page, trying to ignore how the energy in the room feels different. Charged. Maybe two curious brains instead of one. You don’t look up, “Ingredients?”
He leans onto the table, two elbows pressed to the wood, his chin buried between them. He tilts his head to the side, giving you a view of his pretty cheekbones, the side of his face that didn’t have the birthmark. You glue your eyes to the book. Yeosang is barely even your friend, just a guy you tutor– But you wonder if his thoughts mirrored yours at all, even if you shouldn’t think of him that way at all.
“Water,” he’s mumbling, his tone half bored, “Um, Lavender.”
“This one’s a breeze,” you try to push some encouragement into your tone, “One more ingredient, and then tell me how it’s brewed.”
A small breath passes through his lips, “Uh,” he closes his eyes for a moment, “Mint.”
His lips are so shiny– wet, like he’d just swiped his tongue over them. The loose pieces of hair hanging out of his ponytail lay over his creamy skin, the rich color a contrast to the pink on his cheeks still present.
“No, chamomile.”
Shit. You didn’t even hear him get it wrong.
“Hey,” he picks his head up, eyeing you from the table, “I thought you said cursing is foul.”
You said that out loud? “It is,” your chuckle is nervous, “I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he smiles, the S in sorry slurred by his slight lisp. The sound brings an unfamiliar warmth to your chest, a smile on your cheeks. In a rush, you turn your head back to the book.
“Okay,” you heave a breath in an attempt to push the weird air away from the two of you, “Water, lavender, chamomile. Tell me how it’s brewed.”
Yeosang groans, sitting up straight, “I can’t focus.”
“Fill your cup,” you jut your chin in the direction of the mind-sharpening potion in the corner of the room, “Actually, can you pour me one, too?”
He nods, untangling himself from the bench to walk over to the bar-cart, and you suck in a deep breath that isn’t full of Yeosang’s air. You don’t know what’s going on in your chest, or why the mention of Desiderium has you both feeling weird, or maybe it was just you that was weird. It was always just you, the untouched one who has no experience that feels weird when anything sex-related is brought up. Yeosang is probably fine.
Your eyes pick up to his fingers wrapped around the handle of the jar, watching how the veins that climb up his forearm like vines strain while he fills two goblets. You’ve always known Yeosang is attractive, anyone with eyes could see it. He’s popular amongst the girls in your year, your house, other houses, even. He’s kind, genuine, soft, but you’ve never really thought about him that way, never had anything to add to the conversation, because you know him as the timid dumbass you tutor in every single subject.
“Do you want any mint?” He asks from the cart, and you nod your head, mumbling your thanks.
Always kind, with his deep voice and the muted rose colored kiss mark on his temple, funny in the way that has you shaking your head because his humor was so silly it was almost childish. He always opens the door for you to the study room, pulls out the heavy bench if the last group to occupy the room pushed it in too far. Chivalrous. Sweet. Gorgeous.
You’re taking it from his hand by the time he walks back to the bench and gulping down the cup in four massive swallows. You need to focus on tutoring him, not how pretty he looks when he’s smiling or how words fall off his lips like each one is a spell.
When his empty goblet hits the oak you plant your hands on the wooden table before you, mind already feeling sharper. “Okay, seriously now, this one’s easy.” You shoot him another sideways glance. “Tell me how it’s brewed.”
“Bring the water to a slow boil,” you’re both nodding with his words, “Add lavender and stir twenty times.”
“Twenty-one,” you correct, and his smile blooms again. You shudder.
“Add chamomile and let it simmer for twenty minutes.”
“Ah, that’s where twenty came from.”
“Add purslane for nightmares,” he hums, a low, ruddy sound, “Add ginger for some kick.”
“I’m proud of you,” you say matter-of-factly, “You even answered questions I didn’t ask yet.”
“I told you I studied!” He’s smiling wide and bright, “I know how you work now, how you ask questions. I know the question before it’s on your tongue.”
You think both of your eyes widen at the same time. An innocent statement, nothing behind it, but the word tongue… Right now… Why is there a heat blooming in the pit of your stomach?
He must feel it too, with the way his eyes dart for his lap, fingers twisting together above his slacks. You swallow again, robes feeling heavy on your skin, the air of the room feeling hotter.
“The next is, um,” you’re blinking rapidly as you flip the page, “Uh, deflating draft. Antidote for the… Swelling solution, it reduces… Um, swelling… And size.”
You can feel the sheen of sweat on your forehead growing rapidly. You’re twisting your neck in discomfort, your clothes too fucking hot, you shimmy off your robe, letting it fall over back of the bench.
There’s an intake of breath on your left, and your head turns to Yeosang who’s already staring at you, his pupils blown. Eyes wider. Nostrils flared in a way that told you he was on alert.
“Ingredients?” You squeak, swallowing down the spit that keeps forming in your mouth. What the fuck is going on right now?
“Water, wood sorrel,” his voice is monotonous, as if he was reading a script, mind somewhere else, but his eyes are still locked on you. His voice deepens, a low hum, “Sagebrush, aloe, powdered galangal.”
Your thighs tighten. Has he always sounded that way? Sultry? Sexy?
You clear your throat as his fingers stop twisting together on his lap, he crosses his leg over his knee and throws his robe over his slacks. Your jaw locks, the movement shoving his smell into your space, and the scent becomes a feeling. A low rumbling in your gut, a blooming heat turned to sparks ignited.
“How- Um, How do you brew it? The potion?” You’re obvious. You’re internally smacking the shit out of yourself because it’s so fucking obvious you’re horny, it might as well be written on your forehead.
Yeosang looses a shaky breath, you can hear how it staggers, you can feel how it reaches your hair, moving it across your blouse. Still in that sultry, alluring tone, he says, “Boil the water, and– fuck, add the woodsorrel and sagebrush.”
You don’t scold him for the curse. He continues, “Don’t stir, make sure they’re submer- ah, under water, under the water completely. Submerged, yeah.”
Your ears are red-hot, body tingling, you can feel the stickiness growing between your legs like it did when you’re ovulating. And his voice, his voice, your shoulders slouch listening to him, getting lost in how clear he sounds in the depth of his words. Breathily, you say, “Keep going.”
He groans. Groans. Your eyes squeeze shut, head dipped down, hair creating a veil so he can’t see you. It feels unbearable– the fire burning so brightly in your gut, your body felt like a livewire, if he so much as brushed his skin against you, you weren’t sure if you’d be able to hold back.
“Lower the temp to a simmer, add the aloe,” your eyes slide to where his fists curl around his robe, knuckles white. In a low grumble, he says, “Fuck Wooyoung.”
Your head perks up, eyes widening as you face him, and as soon as he sees your face his eyes close immediately, lips curling together. “Shit, I can’t even look at you right now.”
“Why?” You ask, barely noticing how heavy your breath has gotten. You were nearly panting now, lips wet and swollen, “Why fuck Wooyoung? What did he do?”
He looked flushed, his cheeks bright pink, his ears tipped red, his birthmark was so dark. You wanted to kiss it, lick it, his eyelashes so beautiful, you wanted to see them closer–
“He used it,” he cracks an eye open, “The Desiderium.”
You blink, eyes sliding to the pair of empty goblets on the table, then back to him. “Like, on us?”
Both of his eyes are open now, but they dance around the room, never landing on you. “Yes, on us, we drank it. I don’t– I don’t know how much, but it was in the potion jar on the cart, we- we drank it.”
“Oh, shit,” you gasp, but somehow the air filling your lungs feels good, “Oh shit.”
Panic doesn’t seem to find you. You’d left yourself entirely, entering a bubble of lust and arousal, feeling the burn inside your body with nothing to fucking smother it. Your eyes drop to his robe, the breadth of his shoulders, the veins dancing on his wrists while his fists still curl around the fabric.
“What do we do?” He asks you, eyebrows shot up, “What’s the anecdote?!”
“Don’t know,” you mumble dreamily as your eyes catch onto his jaw, his tongue that pokes between his lips as he speaks. He’s so pretty, so big and so muscular but so beautiful, you wonder if he tastes as sweet as he looks.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath and it sounds like a compliment.
You smile, head tilting, hand reaching forward to play with one of the hairs that frame his face. His eyes widen when you take it between your fingers, twirling it, knuckles brushing against his face. The millisecond of contact, of skin on skin, you can feel it like you’d just stuck your hand between your legs.
He moans.
He moans, and your entire world is flipped upside down.
Your eyes lock together, a question neither of you want to ask, have to ask.
Pride was a thing of the past by the time you climbed into Yeosang’s lap, legs splintered by his hips, mouths messily tangling together as if you were trying to swallow each other whole. You could feel him pressed up against you— hard chest, hard abdomen, hard cock— every inch of you was touched by him, consumed by him, burning, steaming, you were sure when you lifted your heads the windows would be fogged over.
Panting into each other’s mouths like dogs, his tongue dragged across yours hastily, harshly, his lips bruising yours with blatant force. Your hands held onto his nape, fingertips tangled in the slick of his ponytail, pulling stray hairs out every time your fingers twitched.
“Shit—” he breathed, somewhere between a moan and a gasp, a nasty, brutal sound. You moaned at the sound of his voice, shameless and completely involuntary, head dropping at how it rumbled from his chest.
“We,” he tilted his head back as your lips moved to his jaw, leaving open-mouthed kisses down his throat, tongue lapping at every inch of skin as if you’d taste his very soul. His hands land on your hips, heavy and rough, “I can’t—”
“I need it,” you sound breathless, murmuring into his skin, “I need you to do something, need you to touch me, Yeosang.”
He moans again at how his name falls off your lips, high-pitched, eyes screwed tight with his hips bucking up at how gone you sound. Your hips grind into him, panties pressed against his slacks, skirt blanketing over where your hips met.
“We’re not in our,” his groan is breathy, strained, as if he was fighting it off, “Right minds. We shouldn’t be doing this here.”
“I don’t care,” your hands slide to his cheeks, feeling the heat beneath them, hips still working their dirty, slow grind, meeting his eye. “You want it, don’t you? You do, right?”
He’s nodding before you finish the question, “I want it, I want you, in this skirt, your face, fuck—”
Your lips curl, parting, leaning forward to attack his again, tongue slipping into his mouth like its made a home there. This heat, this urgency, you didn’t care how you looked, how you sounded, if you were doing this right, it was incredible. Empowering. It was a fleeting thought, how you’ve never done this before, how you’ve gone so long without doing this.
His hands find your top while your lips stay locked, fingers nimble, making haste as they undo the tiny buttons lining your chest and abdomen. He pushes the cotton off your shoulders, throwing it to the floor, face lighting up when he sees the baby pink bra adorning your chest.
“Are you sure?” He mumbles as he pulls back, eyes zeroed in on your chest, as if he couldn’t force himself to meet your eye if he tried. You wonder how he still has so much self control, yours was gone the moment the goblet touched your lips. “I need, need you to say yes, I—”
“Please, yes, do something.”
A hand slides under your ass, lifting you at the same time as the backs of his knees push the bench out from behind him. One hand clears the table while the other keeps you close, and then your ass is pressed to the bare wood, his palms pressing your shoulders back until you feel the steam of the wet slab of wood meet your burning skin.
“Yeosang!” You squeal, the cold a shock, but a comfort. He grunts in response, pulling his wand from his pants, quickly charming the door locked, the room soundproof, two spells you’d taught him to master two weeks ago.
“I’m sorry,” he growls and it doesn’t sound like an apology at all, especially not when he peels his robe from his shoulders, pulling his sweater vest over his head, more stray hairs framing his face. His voice is dazed now, low, here but far as he starts to unbutton his own shirt, “I can’t risk someone hearing or coming in, I need you, I need to do whatever, everything, I need all of you.”
Your body tightens at his words, at how desperate he sounds, the only thing you want right now is for him to take all of you. You want him shameless, you want him impolite, you want him so far from kind he isn’t Yeosang at all anymore.
You spread your knees, bare thighs pressed to the wood, skirt hiked up to your hips. He gasps when he bends while pulling his pants down, eye to eye with your heat atop the table, a low groan rips from his chest again.
“You’re soaked,” still dazed, eyes locked again, he spoke to himself more than to you. “I want— can I taste you?”
“Stop asking,” you mutter, anticipation carbonating your very blood, “Do everything like you promised.”
He’s on his knees then, fingers hooked into the elastic of your baby pink panties, tugging them down your legs. He pulls your hips to the end of the table and the back of your head meets the wood, sighing in relief when the thick air meets your core, gasping again when you feel cool breath pushed into your glistening folds.
He wastes no time licking a stripe up your center, moaning so loud when his tongue slides between your folds, and the noise, the pleasure makes your back arch. It's barely a thought in your mind that no one’s seen you there, that no one’s had their mouth there— you didn’t care, you needed it. You needed more.
Your hands fly to his hair, fingertips sliding into his tightly bound ponytail, nails clawing at his scalp, sounds of pleasure ripping from your chest one after another. It felt so good, so wet, you’ve never experienced anything like it, this burn in your core, how every nerve ending in your body seemed to ignite.
When the tip of one of his fingers prod at your entrance your body locks, thighs squeezing against his head, it felt foreign and weird but good and confusing. He hums against your clit, lips wrapped around it, lightly sucking as he slips inside slowly, groaning into you when he gets past his first knuckle.
He pulls back, “You’re tight.”
You can’t see him, but you moan in response, words escaping you before you can think about them, “Stretch me out then.”
With more force he curls his finger inside and your back lifts from the wood, an elbow sliding behind you, holding yourself up as a wrecked, ragged, guttural moan escapes you. “Keep doing that,” you breathe, “Oh my god, Yeosang, do that again.”
His eyes flick up to yours and they’re so dark, his pupils so wide, with his hair so messy and his features so deep he almost seemed menacing. He shakes his head, fingers pulling from your core, mouth detaching from your folds, you feel empty.
He doesn’t sound like himself anymore, raw, restless, “Can’t, can’t take it anymore.”
Your back meets the wood again as he tugs his deep red briefs down to his thighs, rock hard and leaking cock slapping up between veiny hips, his chin tucked to his chest. He grips himself, knuckles white around the base of his cock as he stares at your core, still glistening, pulsing for him.
“Inside,” you nearly cry, knees bending upward, spreading yourself wide. His eyes meet yours and there’s no uncertainty, no pause, no patience.
He lines himself up, mushroom tip poking at your entrance that’s never felt more than his finger, your breath hitched in your throat. Your face tightens as he slips himself inside, a cry leaving your lips once the fat tip pushes past your folds, a relieving yet strangled sigh when he sheathes himself fully.
“You have to— I’m not gonna,” his eyes are screwed shut, mouth hanging open, lips glossy and wet, hands planted on either side of the table. He’s moaning now, higher in pitch and you’re trying to calm your breathing, locked in on how he feels like he’s splintering your stomach.
Overwhelming but everything, he’s huge, everything about him. Your eyes flutter, open and closed, watching how his curved shoulders flex, how the veins on his arms swim up to his biceps, the chiseled abs on his torso, stuck in a time-warp of constant enduring how he splits you open.
“I gotta move,” he’s panting all over again, “Open up for me, baby.”
Your breath hitches at the pet name, pulsing around him, clenching around his length. A muddled groan leaves his lips as everything freezes, his fingers on the table, his abdomen, his eyes, you feel warm. Full. He curses through an ear-piercing moan, pulling out halfway, chest heaving, and then he mutters, “Shit, I just came.”
You lean up on your elbows, eyeing him through wet lashes, “What?”
But then he’s grabbing you, a strong, sticky forearm wrapping around your torso, pulling you into him, his mouth sloppy against yours once more. He whines into your lips as he starts thrusting inside you again and you’re speechless, frozen, drool spilling down your unmoving lips as his cock curves upward, hitting that same spot from before.
“Gods, baby, you gotta open up or I’m gonna cum again,” he says through a ragged breath, hips quickening their pace, the slick inside you letting him move so easily.
“I can’t,” you whimper, chin tipping back, hands braced on the table behind you. “It feels so good, Yeo,” you snap your head back down, “I didn’t- I didn’t know it felt so good.”
His eyes flicker to yours, a question on his tongue he didn’t need to ask, he didn’t want to stop. Selfishly he fucks into you faster, harder, hands planted on your hips as he drinks up every moan and cry that leaves your lips.
His head hangs low, sweat dripping past his collarbones, down his abdomen, your legs hook around his waist, knee socks and penny loafers slamming into his too-hot skin.
“I need,” you shake your head, throat dry, the pleasure was too much. Too overwhelming. “Sit down, sit, sit sit sit.”
In one quick motion he’s scooping you up, sitting back on the bench, your knees landing on either side of him with your hands planted on his shoulders.
You bounce as soon as you gain leverage, ignoring the immediate burn in your thighs as your forehead falls to his shoulder, lips pressed to his skin with sounds of pleasure stringing together in a continuous song. He’s somehow deeper, the pleasure more intense, a pit of blazing heat that grows stronger, you can’t keep yourself upright.
His grip on your hips is steady, grounding in the swirl of sweat and spit and lust, bouncing you effortlessly, keeping you moving in rhythm. His voice is low and strained again, “Want you to cum around my cock, baby.”
You cry, hips twitching against him, the pit in your stomach growing hotter, stronger. His lips press against your burning skin and you moan, his tongue is heavy and sopping wet as he licks up the sweat along your jaw, whispering, “Rub your clit for me, baby, please.”
Your nails claw into his shoulders harder, stomach clenching, a cry leaving your lips after the words leave his mouth, your orgasm was right there, right on the brink. You clench around him, hips stuttering when a low groan leaves Yeosang’s lips, so low and rumbled it makes the rubber band snap.
Your moans slur together you cum around his length, his firm hands on your hips fucking you through it as if you were weightless, nothing but a fucktoy for him to use. His huff of a laugh is in amusement and disbelief, “You came? Just like that?”
Winded, cheeks hot and body stinging, you nod, head tipping back, needing the air of the room on your skin.
“Fuck,” he hisses, “I need to cum again, need to fill this pussy one more time.”
His arm wraps around your waist one more time and you’ve submitted to the fact that you could be just a toy for him to use forever. You’re on the floor in a flash, knees pressed to hardwood, your palms braced before you, on all fours.
He slips back in and you fold, chest pressed to the hardwood, cheek hot against the floor, elbows bent with your palms still braced on either side of you. He fucks into you ruthlessly, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room, his hands heavy and hot against you.
You’re jelly, body moving with his, muscles barely holding you up anymore. You’re sure drool is puddled beside your mouth, sounds leaving you that you couldn’t hear, a mess of overwhelming, blinding pleasure.
“Want you to cum again,” he says from behind you and all you can do is cry. Tears fill your waterline and spill down your cheeks, into your mouth, mixing with the drool on the floor.
He’s so fucking deep you swear he’s in your throat, his rhythm sloppy but merciless, cockhead kissing your cervix. He slips a hand around your front, two fingers pressed against your clit, rubbing quick circles as he leans down, panting against your back.
“T-Too much,” you cry, nails clawing into the hardwood, shoulders shaking with each sob.
“You can,” he’s straining like he’s on the brink of his own orgasm, “Come on, baby. Cum with me, c’mon.”
You focus on his hand between your legs, his cock drilling into you, the pit in your stomach filling with pressure again. You choke, on your breath or your tears or your spit you weren’t sure, breath getting caught in your lungs as he pushes you closer, your orgasm so close to could taste it.
“I’m gonna cum,” you choke out, voice utterly raw, words slurred and muffled.
“Yes,” he moans, “Mm, fuck, yes, so good for me, cum around my cock.”
Your body locks, joints tightening at his words, orgasm rushing over you like a tidal wave. His grip on your hip is blinding, he’s focusing on fucking you through it, keeping his rhythm precise, his angle perfect, “Yes, that’s it, baby. So tight— fuck, you’re so— fuck.”
He’s spilling into you again, filling you with that sticky warmth, that fullness you felt before. You moan together, shameless and debauched as his thrusts slow down, then he’s pausing, fully sheathed, the only sounds in the room being your heaving breaths.
“Oh my gods,” he takes a deep, shuddering breath, heavy hands running over your shaking, hot skin. Down your back, landing on your hips, he pulls you backward as he sits on his heels.
You land over his chest, cock still buried inside you, head flopping back over his shoulder. He moves your hair from your face, thumb swiping below your lips, cleaning off the drool.
“Are you okay?” He asks, panic in his tone.
You nod, still pulling breath into your lungs, eyes softly closed. “I didn’t know, I didn’t know,” you repeat with a shake of your head, “That sex felt so good, Yeosang.”
You crack an eye and he’s beet red, half his hair pulled out of his ponytail, framing his face like a mural. He’s so fucking beautiful.
“I didn’t know that you haven’t had sex before,” his voice is quiet, tone raw, you both needed water. “I’m going to kill Wooyoung.”
“No,” you shake your head, dry swallowing, “No, thank him.”
“Thank him?” Yeosang repeats, eyebrows raised.
Your smile is lazy, tired, a slow chuckle tumbling off your tongue, “I don’t think the Desiderium wore off yet.”
His cock twitches inside you, still rock fucking hard, he blushes even deeper, “You wanna go again?”
“It’s a form of studying,” you shrug, breaths finally slowing, “You can tell Wooyoung exactly how it works.”
© minkimivx 2025 ≫ masterlist ≫ plum's kinktober masterlist
