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"I swear to god, I'm going to lose my mind," Juhoon huffed, kicking one Converse against the table leg hard enough to make the ice in his drink rattle. His scent, sweet, something like pressed peaches gone slightly sharp with irritation, bloomed faintly across the booth. "Like, who the hell does he think he is? Edwards. Professor Edwards. He's the only one. The only one in the entire department who won't even look at me when I bring it up."
Seonghyeon snorted into his coffee, shoulders shaking. "Bring what up, exactly? Be honest."
"You know what I mean." Juhoon waved a hand, the sleeve flopping. "The grade thing. He keeps brushing me off like I'm– like I'm just some random student begging for extra credit."
"You are a student begging for extra credit," Keonho said flatly, eyes still on his phone.
"Shut up, Keonho," Juhoon grabbed the nearest throw pillow and chucked it at him; it bounced off his shoulder and slid to the floor. "It's not the same. Every other professor in this stupid place takes the envelope, smiles, hands me an A. But Edwards," he dragged the name out like it personally offended him, "Edwards just stares at me with that– that face he does, and tells me to come back when I've read the syllabus."
"Maybe read the syllabus," Seonghyeon offered.
"Maybe shut your whole mouth."
Juhoon dropped his forehead against the table with a soft thunk, sweater sleeve smushed under his cheek. His hair, black, freshly trimmed, the ends still feathered against his nape, fell forward over his eyes. He let out a long, theatrical groan, the kind he'd been perfecting since middle school.
"If I fail this one class, my parents won't get me the car. The car, Hyeon. The white one. With the cream interior. I've been showing my mom pictures for three months."
"Tragic," Keonho said.
"It is tragic. And he gave me, like this insane offer instead. Fifty pages. Fifty of a research paper on something that has nothing to do with anything we've ever talked about in class. Some niche linguistics-comparative-whatever bullshit. I'd rather chew glass."
Seonghyeon laughed, head tipped back against the booth. "Bro, Professor Edwards is known for being a brick wall. My sister had him three years ago, she said he failed a senator's kid. He doesn't care. He's, like, immune to charm, money, crying, all of it."
"He's not immune to me," Juhoon muttered into his sleeve. "Nobody's immune to me. He's just being difficult on purpose."
"Okay, fine, brat king," Keonho finally set his phone down. "What do you want from us. Strategies?"
Seonghyeon ticked off his fingers. "Forge a doctor's note. Claim emotional distress. Drop the class and retake in fall. Bribe his TA instead of him. Cry anyway, just for fun."
"None of those," Juhoon groaned, "are going to work. He'd see through it. He sees through everything. It's so annoying."
Juhoon sat up, dragging his hands down his face, sweater paws smearing across his cheeks. His lower lip pushed out, the sulk settling in for the long haul. His scent had gone softer now, more honey than peach, a slow leak of frustration giving way to scheming.
"Whatever. Forget it. You two are useless," He grabbed his americano and stabbed at the ice with the straw, watching the cubes spin. A long, bratty sigh hissed out through his nose. "I'll just go talk to him again later. After his afternoon lecture. He has to crack eventually. Everyone cracks."
He slung his canvas tote over one shoulder, stood, and pushed his way out of the booth, Converse squeaking against the tile as he headed for the door.
The last bell hadn't even finished chiming through the PA system before Juhoon was already shouldering through the lecture hall doors, tote bouncing against his hip, thumbs flying over his screen.
‘can't come tonight, gotta corner edwards before he disappears’
‘don't wait up xx’
He pocketed the phone without checking for replies. The hallway thinned out fast, students streaming the opposite direction toward the stairwell, toward dinner, toward freedom, and by the time Juhoon turned down the east wing where the senior faculty offices sat, the corridor had gone quiet enough that he could hear his own Converse squeak against the waxed floor.
Room 314. Edwards, M. — Linguistics & Comparative Literature.
His stomach did something stupid right as he stopped in front of the frosted-glass door. Nervous. He hated being nervous. He smoothed his sweater down over his hips, exhaled through his nose, lifted his knuckles, and knocked.
Three soft taps and nothing.
He waited. Counted to twenty. The hallway hummed with the distant whir of a floor buffer somewhere on a lower level. He knocked again, louder this time, three sharper raps. Still nothing answered him from the other side.
A third knock, almost petulant now, knuckles cracking against the wood. Silence stretched out long enough that Juhoon almost turned to leave, except he could hear something. Faint. The squeak of a chair. A shift of weight. A breath.
He tilted his head closer, ear nearly against the frosted glass, and his fingers found the brass handle before his brain caught up. The latch gave under his palm with a soft click.
He pushed the door, just a crack, just enough to slip his face into the gap.
The smell hit him first. It poured out of the office like something physical, dense and dark and male, a wall of scent that punched straight past every careful suppressant in his system and lodged itself behind his ribs. Cedar, smoked black pepper, something animal underneath, alpha, rutting alpha.
His knees actually wobbled. A tiny sound caught at the back of his throat, barely strangled before it became a whimper, and Juhoon clamped his mouth shut so hard his teeth clicked.
And then he looked.
Martin was reclined in his black swivel chair behind the desk, head tipped all the way back against the leather rest, throat exposed in a long pale line above his open collar. Sleeves shoved messily to the elbows. Tie hanging loose. The lamp on the desk threw a low gold wash across his lap, and Juhoon's eyes followed it down, helpless, before his brain could intervene.
Martin's hand was wrapped around his cock.
Oh.
Juhoon couldn't even, it was huge. Thick, flushed dark at the tip, the shaft long enough that even Martin's big hand didn't fully cover it as he stroked, a slow heavy pull from base to crown. Veins ridged the underside. A bead of precum gleamed wet at the slit, catching the lamplight, and his fist twisted gently over it on the upstroke with a sound.
Bigger than anything he'd taken. Bigger than anything he'd seen. He couldn't move. Couldn't blink. His mouth had gone dry and his thighs had gone hot and something in his belly clenched so suddenly it hurt.
Martin's other hand was loose on the armrest. His jaw was slack. The screen of his laptop glowed faintly off to the side, angled away from the door.
Juhoon yanked the door shut, the latch clicked back into place and he staggered two steps back into the corridor, heart hammering against his sternum, palms slick. His face was on fire. He could feel it, the flush spreading down his throat and under the neckline of his sweater, sweat beading at his hairline.
He pressed a sleeve-covered hand to his mouth and just stood there, staring at the wood grain of the door, trying to make his lungs work again.
Juhoon backed up until his shoulders hit the opposite wall and slid down to a crouch, sweater bunching around his thighs, knees pulled up under his chin. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it. The image kept replaying, that fist, that cock, the wet glint at the tip, and every time it cycled back through his head his stomach did the clenching thing again.
He waited. Twenty minutes. He timed it on his phone, watching the digits tick from 4:53 to 5:13 with his cheek pressed against his knee. Long enough that any sane person would have given up and left. Long enough that the smart move would have been to go home and pretend this never happened.
When he stood up, Juhoon smoothed his sweater. Wiped his palms on his thighs. Walked back to the door. He knocked again until then the low rasp of Martin's voice from inside, perfectly calm.
"Come in."
Juhoon pushed the door open and stepped in like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't just watched his professor fuck his own fist twenty minutes ago. Like the scent in the room, still heavy, still there, banked down but lingering in the upholstery, wasn't making the soft skin behind his knees prickle.
The office was tidy now. Martin sat upright behind the desk in a fresh white button-down, sleeves still pushed to his forearms, dark hair combed back, every line of him composed. The laptop sat at the corner of the desk, lid half-open, screen dimmed. A cup of black coffee steamed at his elbow. He looked like he'd been grading papers for hours.
"Mr. Kim."
"Professor," Juhoon crossed the rug fast, talking before Martin could finish the syllable. "I need to talk about my grade. Again. And before you say anything, I know what you're going to say, I know, the syllabus, the paper, all of it. But hear me out. Please. I'm failing this one class. This one. My GPA is fine in everything else. I have a 3.8 in every other subject. If I fail your class my parents will literally– they'll lose their minds, and I just– there has to be something we can do. We can figure something out. I'll come in for extra meetings, I'll– whatever it is, we can talk about it like adults, right? You don't actually want to fail me. Right?"
He fired the whole speech off without breathing, hands gripping the strap of his tote, eyes pinned on Martin's face.
Martin watched him over the rim of the coffee cup. He took a slow sip. Set it down. His expression hadn't shifted a millimeter since Juhoon walked in, same level gaze, same faintly unimpressed line of his mouth, the same unreadable calm that made Juhoon want to scream and climb the bookshelf at the same time.
"I don't take money, Mr. Kim."
"I didn't say —"
"You didn't have to," Martin folded his hands on the desk blotter. His voice was a low even baritone, the kind that filled a lecture hall without effort. "You've been circling that offer for three weeks. The answer is the same. I don't take cash, I don't take gifts, and I don't barter grades. If you want the mark, you earn it. The paper is still on the table. Fifty pages. You have until the end of the term."
"That paper has nothing to do with —"
"It has everything to do with the course. You'd know that if you'd read past the first page of the syllabus."
Juhoon's jaw set. He opened his mouth, already loading the next round of brat, when a sharp knock cut him off.
"It's open," Martin called.
The door swung inward and an older man leaned in, silver-haired, tweed jacket, reading glasses pushed up on his forehead. Juhoon didn't recognize him. Some senior faculty, probably department head. Martin rose smoothly from his chair, rounding the desk in three long strides, and crossed to the doorway without so much as glancing back at Juhoon.
He just left him standing there. Like furniture.
"Heinrich, sorry, give me one second," Martin's voice dropped into the easy register of colleagues, leaning a shoulder against the doorframe, half-turned away. The two of them sank into some clipped conversation about a committee, a deadline, a missing signature. His broad back blocked the doorway entirely.
Juhoon stood rooted by the desk, fists balled at his sides.
Until his eyes drifted, almost involuntarily, to the laptop. It sat there. Lid half-cracked. Screen black but not asleep. He glanced at Martin. Still talking. Still turned away.
His feet moved before he gave them permission. Three quiet steps around the side of the desk, into the warm leather-and-pepper pocket of air where Martin had been sitting. The chair was still slightly warm against the backs of his thighs when he ghosted past it. He bent forward, sweater paw nudging the laptop lid up the rest of the way.
The screen brightened. A browser window. Multiple tabs across the top. The one currently open was the university grading portal, boring, harmless, but his eye snagged on the row of tabs beside it. He flicked his gaze up. Martin's back, still solid in the doorway. Heinrich's voice droning about budget allocations.
Juhoon clicked the next tab over.
A video player, dark thumbnail frozen mid-frame. Two bodies, one of them clearly smaller, slighter, bent forward over what looked like a desk, a pleated skirt rucked up over a pale narrow waist. A larger man stood behind him, one big hand fisted in the smaller one's hair, the other gripping his hip, cock buried inside him to the root.
The image was paused on the upstroke, a glistening inch of shaft visible, slick and obscene, the smaller body's mouth caught open in a frozen moan.
Juhoon's lungs stopped working. ‘Oh my god.’
Heat crawled up his neck so fast it almost hurt, his ears burning, his fingers going clumsy on the trackpad. He fumbled the tab closed and flicked back to the grading portal, backed up two steps from the desk like the laptop had bitten him.
He could feel his own pulse in his throat. In his wrists. Lower. He should have been mortified. He was mortified. But there was something else underneath it, something curling slow and bright in his belly, the same heat from earlier in the hallway crackling back to life with a vengeance.
The skirt. The way the smaller one had been folded over the desk. The way Martin's hand had moved on his own cock twenty minutes ago, slow and deliberate and–
Juhoon edged back around the desk to his original spot just as Martin's voice rose behind him, "yes, I'll send it tonight, thank you, Heinrich,” and the door clicked shut.
Martin turned. Adjusted a cuff. Walked back toward the desk with that same measured stride, eyes finding Juhoon's face. He paused. Tilted his head a fraction. "You're flushed, Mr. Kim."
Juhoon clutched the strap of his tote and stared at a spot just past Martin's shoulder, jaw locked.
The ceiling fan turned in slow, useless circles, pushing around air that smelled of the jasmine candle he'd let burn down to a stub and the salt-sharp musk rising off his own skin. Juhoon lay sprawled across rumpled sheets, one leg hitched up, the other splayed wide, and for the seventh night in a row he couldn't get the image out of his head.
Martin's cock. That was the whole problem. That fat, flushed, veiny length wrapped in his professor's fist, the slow drag of his palm, the way his jaw had gone slack and his chest had heaved beneath that crisp button-down he kept rolled to the forearms. Juhoon had only seen it for three seconds before he'd slammed the door and stood frozen in the hallway, but three seconds had carved itself into him like a wood-burn.
"Ngh—" The sound slipped out before he could stop it. Two fingers already buried knuckle-deep in his pussy, slick walls clenching around them, his other hand pinching at a stiff nipple through nothing at all.
He fucked himself in shallow, wet little pulses, the slick sound of it, obscene in the quiet of the room. His thumb found his clit, circled, and his hips bucked up off the mattress. ‘God, I'm pathetic,’ he thought, and kept going anyway.
He pictured it. Martin's hand instead of his own. Martin's voice, that maddening, even baritone that never rose, never cracked, never gave Juhoon the satisfaction of rattling him, dropping low against the shell of his ear. “Earn it, Mr. Kim.” The fantasy twisted the words filthy, and Juhoon whimpered, scissoring his fingers wider, curling them up until he hit that swollen spot that made his thighs shake.
"Fffuck—fuck, fuck—Professor—"
The word tumbled out and lit his whole face on fire even as it dragged him over the edge. His back arched off the bed, toes curling, and he squirted around his own fingers in a hot, messy gush that soaked the sheets beneath him and his wrist and slicked down the inside of his thighs.
He clamped his free hand over his mouth, eyes screwed shut, riding it out in shuddering little jerks until his hips dropped back down and his lungs remembered how to work.
For a long moment he just lay there, chest rising and falling, the candle stub guttering on his nightstand.
Then the shame caught up. He'd just gotten off, again, to the thought of his Linguistics professor. The man who flunked him. The man who looked at him like he was a poorly-written footnote. Juhoon dragged a clean forearm across his eyes and groaned into it.
‘It's only 10 years,’ he told himself, the way he'd told himself every night this week. ‘He's not even that old. Ten years is nothing. People do worse.’ The justification was getting threadbare from overuse, but it held just enough weight to let him sleep.
It came to him on the fourth night, half-dozing, replaying the whole sordid week in his head. Not Martin's cock this time. The other thing. The laptop he'd snooped through while the professor was busy at the door with that old fossil Heinrich.
The paused video. Two men. One of them, the smaller one, the one bent over and getting railed had been wearing a skirt. A short, pleated thing flipped up over the curve of his ass while he took it.
Juhoon sat up in bed so fast his head spun. He thought about Martin's face that day at the desk, the careful blankness of it, the way the man performed indifference like it was an Olympic sport. He thought about the porn that had been paused on that very laptop. He thought about the wardrobe in the corner of his own room, the bottom drawer stuffed with skirts, pleated, denim, that one grey one that barely covered anything.
A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. If a man in a skirt was what made Professor Edwards' iron composure crack, if that was the crowbar that pried open that smug, unbribeable calm, then fine. So be it. It wasn't even a sacrifice. Juhoon loved a good skirt. He had a whole collection of them. He'd just never had a reason quite this delicious to wear one.
He flopped back onto his pillow, already cataloguing which one to wear, and for the first time in two weeks he fell asleep smiling.
The corridor smelled of floor wax and somebody's microwaved kimchi from the lounge two doors down, fluorescent light bouncing off the linoleum in long pale streaks. Juhoon walked between his two friends with his bag slung over one shoulder, humming under his breath, practically bouncing.
It was Seonghyeon who noticed it first. "Okay," Seonghyeon said, stopping mid-stride. "What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing's wrong with me." Juhoon kept walking.
Keonho jogged a step to catch up. He clutched a half-eaten melon bun in one fist. "No, he's right. You're–" he gestured vaguely at all of Juhoon with the bun, "you're humming. Submissions are in three days. You're failing Edwards. Why are you humming?"
"Yeah," Seonghyeon chimed, falling back in beside him. "Last week you were threatening to set his car on fire. Now you look like you won the lottery. Spill."
Juhoon shrugged one shoulder, the picture of breezy mystery. "I've got a plan. Relax."
"What kind of plan?" Seonghyeon pressed.
"My kind."
Keonho swallowed his mouthful. "Juhoon. The grade's failing. If it stays failing nothing happens, you just retake the unit. Whatever you're cooking up better not make it worse."
Seonghyeon snorted and bumped Juhoon with his elbow, grinning. "Just—hey, I hope it's not anything illegal, yeah? I'd hate to visit you in admin getting expelled. Or worse, watch poor Professor Edwards get his teaching license yanked." He laughed at his own joke.
Juhoon only smiled. Because his plan was simple. Beautifully, stupidly simple. Walk into Professor Edwards' office wearing a skirt and let nature, biology, and one paused porn video do the rest. Let the unbribeable Alpha look down once at those long bare legs and forget every principled word he'd ever lectured about fair treatment.
That was all it would take. Juhoon was almost certain of it.
The clock on the back wall had become Juhoon's mortal enemy. He sat slumped in his usual seat near the aisle, chin propped on his fist, watching the second hand crawl through molasses while the professor, not Edwards, some adjunct droning through phonetic transcription, read directly off his slides in a flat, lifeless monotone that could have anesthetized a horse.
When the man finally mumbled "that's all for today," Juhoon was already on his feet, bag zipped, halfway up the aisle before half the room had even closed their laptops. First one out, like always.
He didn't change yet. That was the whole point of patience. He knew this campus the way he knew his own teeth. Empty by night, every night, the buildings hollowing out the second the seven o'clock periods let go. The only stragglers were the athletes, and they trained clear across the quad by half past seven. His last class let out at seven sharp. Everyone else would be scrambling for the bus, the dorms, the late-night chicken place. Within fifteen minutes the Liberal Arts halls would be a tomb.
So he waited. Loitered by a vending machine, watched the corridor empty out student by student, the chatter dying down to footsteps, then to nothing but the buzz of the lights.
When the last door clicked shut somewhere down the wing and the silence settled in thick, Juhoon slipped into the second-floor bathroom.
He changed fast, breath fogging slightly in the cold tile room that smelled of bleach and pink hand soap. The skirt came out of his bag first, grey, pleated, the hem falling barely an inch past the swell of his upper thighs. It cinched snug around his small waist, the pleats fanning out crisp with every shift of his hips. Then the shirt, a loose white tee, oversized, the wide collar sliding off one shoulder to bare a sharp collarbone and a stretch of smooth skin.
He stepped back and looked at himself in the long mirror over the sinks.
‘Oh,’ he thought, tilting his head, a slow smile curving his mouth. ‘Oh, that's good.’
He looked filthy in the best possible way. Long legs gone on for miles under that skirt, the pleats swinging just high enough that if he so much as bent or someone caught the right angle from below, they'd get an unobstructed view of the pink lace panties hugging him underneath. His waist looked tiny in the cinch of it. The off-shoulder tee made him look soft, touchable, like something half-undone already.
He fluffed his dark hair, pinched a little color into his cheeks, and turned side-on to check the way the skirt framed his ass.
Perfect.
Juhoon shouldered his bag, pushed out of the bathroom, and made his way down the empty hall toward Professor Edwards' office, the soft slap of his shoes against the linoleum the only sound in the whole dark building.
The moment Juhoon reached Professor Edward’s room, he stopped in front of it and pulled in one long, slow breath through his nose. His pulse ticked a little quicker against his throat. Then he lifted his knuckles and knocked, three soft raps.
"Come in," the voice came through low and even, that same unbothered baritone, and something in Juhoon's stomach flipped pleasantly at how easy it had been.
He turned the knob and pushed the door open slowly, peeking his head around the edge first.
Martin sat behind his desk under the amber pool of a single banker's lamp, sleeves rolled to the forearms again, a red pen in one hand and a stack of papers fanned in front of him. The office smelled of him, that dense, warm Alpha musk threaded through with old paper, leather, and the cedar of the bookshelves crammed floor to ceiling behind him. He didn't look up.
Juhoon slipped inside. He shut the door behind himself with a quiet click, and reached back, slow and deliberate, to thumb the lock home..
Martin didn't notice. He scratched something in red across a paper, brow faintly furrowed. Juhoon stood there a moment, taking him in, the broad shoulders that strained the seams of his shirt, the strong line of his jaw shadowed with late-day stubble, the size of the hands that dwarfed the pen. He cleared his throat softly.
"Professor."
"Mm. Yes?" Martin said, still bent over the page, pen moving.
"It's about my grade."
The pen stopped. Martin looked up, and his mouth opened, the start of something rote and weary already forming. "Mr. Kim, I've told you–" And then it died in his throat.
His eyes landed on Juhoon and stalled there. They traveled, slow and helpless, from the bare slope of that shoulder, down the loose drape of white cotton, to the cinched grey skirt and the long, smooth length of leg below it. Martin's jaw set. A muscle ticked in his cheek. The pen lowered to the desk with exaggerated care.
He let his bag slide off his shoulder and set it on the small leather couch against the wall, taking his time about it, the skirt riding up a fraction as he bent. Then he turned and walked, slow, unhurried toward the desk.
"Just listen to me, Professor," he said. But the voice that came out wasn't the whiny, bargaining tone from every meeting before. It had dropped into something soft and rounded, a purr that curled at the edges, too sweet, too coaxing for a conversation about midterms.
He stopped at the edge of the desk, and his height worked for him, standing close like this, Martin's eye level fell right at the hem of the skirt, that swaying grey line cutting across his bare thighs.
Juhoon watched the man's throat bob. Watched the deliberate stiffness in his shoulders, the white-knuckled grip he had on the desk's edge, the serious-professor mask he was clamping down over something that was very obviously fighting its way loose.
"You're a hardheaded one, Mr. Kim," Martin said, and to his credit his voice stayed level, mostly. His eyes lifted back to Juhoon's face with visible effort. "I've told you. I'm not a man you can bribe. I don't bend the rules for charm or money or whatever this is. I believe in fair treatment. You want the grade, you do the work."
Juhoon wasn't even listening. He shifted his weight, set one palm flat on the desk, and slid himself up to perch lightly against the edge of it, not fully sitting, just leaning, his hip cocked, one foot still grazing the floor so the skirt tugged taut across his thigh. He tilted his head, dark hair falling across one eye, and looked down at Martin through his lashes.
"Mm," Juhoon hummed, the corner of his mouth lifting. "I think we could talk about it some other way, Professor."
"There's nothing to discuss anymore," Martin said, squaring against the desk, tap-tap-tap, edges aligned with the precision of a man who hated loose ends. "You refused the research. Fifty pages. I gave you two months, Juhoon. Two months."
"I'm not writing it."
"Then we're done,” He set the stack down. The chair creaked under his weight as he leaned back, sleeves rolled to the elbow, those forearms thick and corded, a vein climbing from wrist to the crook where the muscle bunched. "Grades post in three days. Three. You cannot conjure fifty pages of original research in seventy-two hours, and I would not accept it if you tried. So." A flat exhale through his nose. "There is nothing I can do."
Juhoon said nothing for a moment. He just looked. At the muscle ticking along Martin's jaw, dark stubble shadowing it. At the way that forearm vein swelled when his hand flexed against the armrest. At the breadth of him folded into a chair too small for a frame that ran a full head and shoulders over Juhoon's own.
"There's other ways," Juhoon said softly. He let the sentence sit there, naked. "Not a paper. Not money. You know what I mean, Professor."
Martin's eyes came up slowly. Held his. For one suspended second the air went thin between them, and then he stood, abrupt, shaking his head. "Out. Get out of my office."
"Professor—"
"Out." He was already moving toward the door, one hand sweeping toward the hall. "Now."
Juhoon slid off the desk with a small private smirk curling at his mouth. He could feel the weight of Martin's stare on his back like a palm. So he walked slowly, heel, toe, hips loose, and let the folded handkerchief slip from his fingers to the carpet near the door. "Oops."
He bent. Not a quick dip. He folded down from the waist as far as the skirt would let him, slow as syrup, and behind him he heard it, the sharp little catch of Martin's breath, the inhale snagging in his throat. Juhoon already knew the cotton between his thighs was soaked through pink and clinging. He let it linger there in the light. Then he turned his head, still bent double, lashes low.
"Sorry," he murmured, and rose back up to standing one vertebra at a time.
He started for the door again.
"What do you think you’re doing?”
He stopped. Smiled where Martin couldn't see it. Waited. A long, dragged-out sigh came from behind him, then a voice gone rough at the edges.
"Mr. Kim, what is it you want?"
Juhoon turned and walked back to the center of the room, planting himself there on the worn rug. "I want my grade. A high pass. That's all. Simple as that." Across the office Martin's jaw flexed, a knot of muscle bulging and releasing. Before the man could answer Juhoon got there first, talking quick and low. "I'll do anything. Everything you tell me to. Just give me what I want and whatever happens tonight stays buried. Between us. After this, it never existed."
One blink and the professor was up, fingers hooking his necktie and yanking the knot loose with a hiss of silk as he crossed the floor. He caught Juhoon by the front and pulled, and Juhoon gasped, "Ah–!" stumbling into a wall of chest and heat, Martin's big hands clamping his hips and dragging him flush. Their faces hung an inch apart. Martin's breath broke warm across his mouth.
"Such a fucking brat," the professor whispered.
Juhoon could only whimper, "Nnh–" because he could feel it already, the hard thick line of Martin straining against his slacks, pressed right into the soft of his belly.
No warning, Martin's hand dropped and seized a fistful of his ass, kneading the cheek through thin fabric, then the other, both palms full of him. His mouth went to Juhoon's ear, voice gone to gravel.
"Fucking whore. Ready to give it up. Came here in your little panties to show me, bending over like that, what a slut. What a needy little bitch, presenting your cunt for your professor to see."
"Hhah– Professor–" Juhoon could do nothing but whine, hips already rolling, grinding the wet seam of himself down the ridge of Martin's cock. The friction punched a high sound out of him, "mmh — mmh."
"Did you spread for the others too?" Martin's teeth dragged his jaw. "Hm? Did you let Professor Chao have this pussy? Open up for him like a good little thing? You think I didn't notice the way you stare at him from across the hall? Slut."
"No–!” Juhoon shook his head fast, breath stuttering. "No, only you, just you, I swear–"
That broke him. Martin crushed their mouths together, hungry, teeth and tongue, kissing him like he'd been starving for months and finally let himself eat. Juhoon melted into it, fingers fisting in the loosened tie. Martin's hands slid down to grip the backs of his thighs and Juhoon got the message instantly, jumping, wrapping his legs around that broad waist.
Martin carried him three steps and sank onto the couch, Juhoon settling astride his lap, the kiss never breaking, both of them rocking together, slick smearing, the wet drag of his clothed cunt riding Martin's clothed length, "mmf– nngh."
Martin tore his mouth away first. A thread of spit stretched between their lips before it snapped. His chest heaved. "No," he rasped, thumbs pressing bruises into Juhoon's hips. "Not yet. I'm going to punish you first, bratty, lazy little student. You need a lesson."
He spun Juhoon around by the waist, manhandling him until the boy's back pressed flush to his chest, both of them facing the empty office. Then his big hands hooked under Juhoon's knees and shoved them wide open.
"Ahh—" Juhoon moaned, thighs splayed, and the scent of his slick bloomed out into the room all at once, sharp and sweet, soaking the air thick.
"Spread out like that already," Martin growled against his nape, "dripping. I'm going to teach you how to behave."
His hand came up between Juhoon's open legs and pressed flat over the soaked cotton, rubbing slow circles into the swollen heat of him, and Juhoon keened, hips bucking up into the friction, riding Martin's palm shamelessly. The professor's fingers caught the waistband. One sharp pull and the fabric ripped clean off Juhoon's hip.
"No–! Those are my favorite—" Juhoon protested, voice cracking, reaching down too late.
"Quiet." Martin's palm cracked down across his bare, dripping cunt and Juhoon's whole body jolted with a wail. "You're going to count for me.”
The calm in his voice was worse than shouting. His one big hand braced flat against the inside of the boy's trembling thigh, the other hovering with a stillness that made the air itself feel heavy. "Ten. Out loud. If you lose the number, we start again from one."
"Wait," Juhoon's breath hitched, his lower lip already wet and shaking. "P-professor, please, I didn't—" The first tear broke loose before a single thing had touched him, sliding hot down his flushed cheek to catch at the corner of his mouth.
Martin's palm came down. Smack. The flat of his hand met the swollen, slick-shined folds of Juhoon's cunt with a sound that was obscenely wet, and the boy jolted up off the cushion like he'd been burned.
"O-one–!" Juhoon gasped, voice cracking high.
Smack. "Tw—aah—two,” his thighs strained against the grip pinning them open, the tendons standing out under pale skin.
The first five he managed. Barely. He sobbed them out one by one between shuddering inhales, counting through the snot and the spit, his hips twitching with every blow even as his hole clenched around nothing. By the fifth his cunt was puffy and swollen, the lips reddened and fat with arousal, slick smeared in a glistening mess down to the curve of his ass where it had pooled on the leather beneath him.
"Five," Juhoon choked, and his head fell back against the sofa arm, throat working.
"Good boy," Martin murmured. "Halfway."
Then the sixth landed, and Juhoon broke. The wide expanse of Martin's palm caught him dead across the clit and it tore a sound out of the boy that wasn't a number at all. "AH– hnng— s-six, six!" His whole body curling inward, knees jerking, only Martin's iron grip keeping his legs from snapping shut.
Another smack. "Seh– seven, ngh– it h-hurts, it hurts–"
"Then count faster."
"EIGHT—" Juhoon wailed, drool wetting his chin, his vision swimming. The burn and the throb had braided together into one molten thing that pulsed straight up through his belly, and he hated it, hated how good the ache felt, hated the way his cunt drooled fresh slick down onto the leather with every cruel strike.
The ninth came without warning. Martin's palm cracked flush against his overworked cunt and Juhoon's spine arched clean off the cushion. "Nh– NINE– ah, ah, AHN–" and then he was coming, hips jerking helplessly into nothing, a high broken cry spilling out of him as his thighs shook violently in Martin's hands.
"Filthy," Martin said, watching the boy ride it out with cold amusement. "You came from getting your cunt slapped. Came like a bitch in heat with your professor's hand between your legs. Pathetic."
Juhoon sobbed, face shining with tears, mouth slack. "One m-more," he hiccupped. "One more, then it's—"
Smack. The tenth.
It was softer than the others, almost gentle, but it landed on a cunt so swollen and oversensitive that Juhoon screamed anyway, a thin wretched sound, tears streaming sideways into his hair. "T-ten– ten, ten, it's ten!"
"There," Martin breathed, and then his hand changed.
The same palm that had punished him began to soothe, fingers cupping the puffy, throbbing folds, massaging slow circles into the swollen flesh. His thumb found Juhoon's clit, fat and stiff and aching, and rolled over it with maddening patience, fiddling, pressing, until the boy was whimpering and writhing all over again, hips rocking up into the touch he'd been begging to escape moments before.
"Watch yourself chasing my hand now," Martin said.
Then he moved. He hauled Juhoon up the sofa by the hips, manhandling the lighter body like it weighed nothing, dragging him down flat and shoving his knees up and apart until the boy was splayed open and exposed under the lamplight. Martin sank to the floor between his spread legs, his broad shoulders forcing Juhoon's thighs wider still, and for a long moment he just looked.
"This is the same mouth that came into my office an hour ago," Martin said, voice low and rough, his hot breath ghosting against the wet mess of him. "Begging me to fix your grade. Promising you'd do anything." His eyes flicked up, dark and unhurried. "Anything, you said."
He turned his head and pressed his lips to the soft inner curve of Juhoon's thigh, dragging his mouth slowly across skin that was salt-slick with sweat and slick both, tasting where the juices had run. He kissed up, and up, lingering, deliberate, the scratch of his stubble lighting nerves on fire.
Juhoon's hand flew to his own mouth, two fingers jammed between his teeth to bottle the noise climbing his throat. He couldn't look away. He should have looked away. But his professor, that man, the one who terrified the whole lecture hall was kneeling on the floor of his own office with his mouth an inch from Juhoon's cunt, and the wrongness of it, the heat of it, pinned the boy's eyes wide open.
Martin licked the first long stripe through his folds and Juhoon's spine bowed off the cushion. Then he stopped pretending to be patient. He buried his face in the boy's cunt and feasted, lips and tongue and the flat hot pressure of his mouth working the swollen flesh, lapping up slick, sucking the puffy lips between his teeth, dragging the broad of his tongue over the throbbing clit again and again.
"Nghh~ p-professor, wait, too much, it's t-too–" Juhoon's hands scrabbled into Martin's hair and shoved, pushing weakly at his skull, hips squirming back against the leather.
Martin didn't move. Didn't slow. One arm slung across Juhoon's hips and pinned him flat, and he kept eating, relentless, the boy's clit caught between his lips while his tongue flicked it without mercy.
"I'm eating your cunt, and you're out here calling me professor. Call me by my name."
"M-martin , please, I can't, I already– ah, AH—" The second orgasm tore through Juhoon like the first hadn't even finished, his thighs clamping around Martin's head, heels digging into the man's back, a wail breaking out of him wet and ragged. Tears poured freely now, his fingers slipping from his own mouth as he gave up trying to be quiet.
Martin ate him through it. Didn't lift his head. Didn't grant a second of rest, just kept his tongue moving while Juhoon shook apart and sobbed and gasped his name, overstimulated past speaking, his whole body one raw exposed nerve.
Then two thick fingers pushed inside him.
"Oh my, fuck!” Juhoon's hole fluttered and gripped, clenching down hard around the intrusion, and Martin finally pulled his glistening mouth back just enough to speak, lips and chin shining wet, his eyes dark and hungry on the boy's tear-streaked face.
"God, you're tight," he rasped, crooking his fingers slow, feeling the slick heat clamp and pulse around them. "Squeezing me like you never want me to leave." A cruel little smile. "This greedy cunt's been wasted on you."
And before Juhoon could do anything but sob, Martin dropped his head and dove back in, sealing his mouth over the boy's dripping, swollen pussy, fingers pumping deep, tongue working the clit raw as Juhoon's wail climbed toward the ceiling.
The grey skirt had bunched up against his belly, the loose white tee rucked half over his chest, and he was still wearing both, debauched and half-dressed while Martin knelt fully clothed between his thighs, shirt buttoned, sleeves rolled, only his mouth and his hand buried in the mess of him. The contrast made Juhoon's head spin.
The fingers scissored and curled, dragging over that swollen spot inside, the wet squelch of them obscene in the quiet office. Martin's tongue never let up on his clit.
"Hah– hah– Martin, I'm gonna– gonna cum, 'm gonna–"
Martin stopped. He pulled his mouth off with a wet pop and slid his fingers free in one slow drag, and stood, towering up off the floor, wiping his glistening mouth with the back of his wrist, looking down at the wreck on his couch with maddening calm.
"No," Juhoon whined, hips bucking up into nothing, grinding desperate circles into empty air. "No, no, put it back, I was so close, please, Martin, please, fuck me, just fuck me!"
"Really?" Martin's voice was flat, scornful, his composure clicking back into place even as the thick bulge strained obscene against his slacks. "Begging? Grinding the air like an animal. This is what you came here for, isn't it? Not a grade. You wanted your professor to ruin you. Spoiled, lazy little brat, couldn't write fifty pages but you'll spread your legs in a heartbeat."
He grabbed Juhoon by the arm and hauled him up off the couch. One sweep of his forearm sent the neat stacks of graded papers scattering off the desk, fluttering to the carpet, and then Martin bent Juhoon face-down over the cleared wood. The desk was hard and cold against Juhoon's cheek, his hips at the edge, the skirt flipped up over the small of his back. Martin's broad hand pressed flat between his shoulder blades, then slid up to fist his hair and shove his head down against the surface.
"Stay," Two fingers plunged back into him from behind and Juhoon screamed against the desk. Martin fucked them in hard, fast, brutal, no rhythm to ease into.
"Ah–! Ffuck! I'm– I can't–" Without warning he squirted, a hot messy gush splattering down the front of the desk and Martin's wrist, his cunt clenching and spasming, sobbing wetly into the wood. "Hhah–hah!"
"You're such a fucking mess squirting like that."
Behind him came a sound, rustling. The clink of a belt. The soft slide of a zipper. Juhoon was too fucked-out to lift his head and look, cheek mashed to the desk, drool pooling beneath his open mouth.
Then heat. A whole wall of it, Martin's clothed chest folding down over his back, the man's mouth finding the shell of his ear and biting down on the soft lobe. Something blunt and thick and hot nudged against the slick mess of his entrance, dragging through the wet folds.
"I'm going to fuck the brains right out of your skull," Martin murmured against his ear, voice low and dark and certain. "And next time, Mr. Kim, you're going to remember how to listen in my lecture."
No warning, Martin slammed forward and buried himself to the root.
"FUCK—!" Juhoon shrieked, the desk skidding an inch across the floor. The cock split him open, all that length and girth he'd seen in his nightmares and his sticky 2 a.m. fantasies, punching past every soft inch and ramming into the very deepest part of him, the part nothing had ever reached.
His hands scrabbled forward across the wood, trying to crawl up the desk, trying to escape the sheer size of it, but Martin's hands clamped down on his hips and yanked him right back onto the cock, all the way down to the base.
"Where do you think you're going?" And then he started to move. Hard. Relentless. Martin pulled almost all the way out and slammed back into the hilt, the slap of his hips against Juhoon's ass cracking through the office over and over, the same merciless tempo with no pause, no breath, no mercy.
He didn't let Juhoon adjust. Didn't let him catch up. Didn't let him do anything but take it, cheek dragging against the wood with every thrust, the desk groaning beneath them, the wet sound of his cunt swallowing that thick cock obscene and unending.
Juhoon could only make broken little sounds now, each one punched out of him by the next thrust, his eyes rolling, his fingers clawing uselessly at the far edge of the desk as his professor fucked him stupid.
Then Martin's hand closed over Juhoon's hip and turned him like he weighed nothing, flipping him onto his back across the blotter. Pens rolled. A stapler clattered to the floor. He shoved the boy higher up the cold mahogany, palms hooking behind Juhoon's knees to wrench them wide, the wet sound of thighs parting audible over the rain.
He pulled his cock free of where it had been resting against Juhoon's stomach, thick, the shaft flushed dark and slung heavy with a vein running the underside, the head fat and shining with the slick it had already churned out of the omega.
He took it in his fist and brought it down across Juhoon's cunt with a flat, obscene splat, the puffy folds twitching where they'd been worked open and red. "Fuck yeah," Martin breathed, voice rough as a dragged chair leg. "Still leaking for me."
Juhoon's face had come apart. Tears tracked down into his hairline, snot and drool slicked one cheek where it pressed the desk, his eyes glassy and rolling, his mouth bitten raw. "Nnh — n-no more, p-please—"
Martin slammed back in.
The thrust punched the air out of him as the head of that cock dragging across every swollen inner ridge, the slick frothing at the seam where they joined, lewd squelching with each brutal stab. Martin fucked into him without rhythm, just force, then dragged the hem of Juhoon's sweat-soaked shirt up past his ribs and bent to catch one stiff brown nipple between his teeth, sucking, tonguing the peak as his hips hammered animal and unbroken.
"So fucking tight," Martin lifted his head, eyes fever-bright and pinned to the boy beneath him. "Greedy little omega cunt. You came in here begging for a grade and now you're getting bred over my paperwork." He grabbed both of Juhoon's legs and folded them up against his chest, doubling him in half, the new angle letting him sink to the root.
"There, there– fuck!" Juhoon felt the blunt head batter the soft muscle deep at the back of him, the clenched mouth of his womb, and it broke a fresh sob out of his chest. "H-haah — it's too deep, too deep—!"
"Yeah?" Martin glanced down between them, his thumb pressing the small swell that rose under Juhoon's navel each time he drove home. "I can see myself. Right here. Every time I push in." He ground the heel of his hand against that bulge. "Feel it?"
Juhoon's head thrashed side to side, hair plastered to his forehead, the word dissolving into a wail. “Ngh — st-stop, gonna — gonna cum again, please, I c-can't—"
Martin didn't slow. He never slowed. The omega arched off the desk as it tore through him, his fourth, his cunt clamping down in fluttering waves so hard the squelch turned to a wet vise-grip, thighs shaking in Martin's grip, fresh slick gushing to wet them both, the small spurt from his neglected cock pulsing weak across his own heaving belly.
And still Martin wasn't done. He kept going through the spasms, riding the clench, the chair behind him groaning when he finally pulled out, Juhoon whining at the drag, the empty stretch gaping pink. Martin hauled him up off the desk by the waist, the boy boneless and gasping against his chest, and dropped into the worn leather swivel chair. It rolled an inch, casters chirping on the floor protector.
"Ride it," He guided Juhoon's hips down, lining the slick head up against that puffy, abused entrance.
"I– I can't, I can't, my legs–" Juhoon's knees buckled, trembling.
"You can,” Martin pulled, relentless, until the fat head breached and the omega sank a hot, screaming inch down the shaft. "Move."
Juhoon began to ride. Sobbing the whole way, palms braced flat on Martin's shoulders, he dragged himself up the slick length and dropped up and down, his thighs quaking, every fall seating the cock deeper than the desk ever had.
The bulge reappeared in his lower belly with each descent, the outline of the head pressing visible against the skin, and Martin watched it with his teeth bared. "Good. Good. Look how deep you take me."
"H-haa– haah– I can't anymore," Juhoon's strength gave out, his rhythm stuttering, collapsing forward.
So Martin took over. He clamped both hands on the boy's ass and fucked up into him from below, jackhammering, the chair shrieking under the assault. Juhoon's whole body was bouncing limp on his cock. The omega buried his ruined face in the crook of Martin's neck, mouth open and panting wet against the salt-damp skin, no fight left, just taking every brutal upward stab.
"I'm gonna come," Martin grit out, hips losing their cadence, slamming faster.
Juhoon felt it then, the base of the cock inside him beginning to swell, thickening, the knot starting to inflate against the rim of his stretched entrance. He went rigid. "N-no– no! The knot, I can't, it's too big, I'll g-get broken — please—!"
"You won't," Martin's voice was a low growl against his ear, arms locking him down. "You'll take my knot. I'll fill you up till you're stuffed with my seed, maybe it catches. Maybe you walk out of here knocked up, carrying my pups." He bit the shell of Juhoon's ear. "You filthy little slut, getting your professor to breed you over a failing grade."
Juhoon whimpered, high and broken, the words coiling shameful heat through his fluttering core, and for the last few savage thrusts Martin drove up hard, forcing the swollen knot past the resisting ring until it popped inside and locked, Juhoon's body seizing around it as he cried out raw into the professor's throat, the chair rocking once on its casters before going still.
The air had gone thick and humid with the both of them, alpha musk heavy and dark like cedar smoke, the sweeter omega slick threaded all through it, and under that the flat animal reek of spent come and sweat soaked into the leather and the desk blotter.
Martin shifted Juhoon higher on his lap, careful where they were still locked, the knot keeping them sealed. He reached back for the wool coat draped over the chair and shook it loose one-handed, then settled it over the boy's trembling, sweat-cooled back, tucking it at the shoulder.
For a few minutes neither spoke. Just breathing. The squeak of the janitor's cart somewhere far off, a door swinging shut down the hall.
"The grade," Juhoon rasped finally, voice wrecked and muffled against Martin's collarbone. "You're going to pass me. You said."
Martin barked out a laugh, the sound shaking through both their chests. "I just fucked the brains clean out of you and you're still on about the grade." He huffed, amused, brushing damp hair off Juhoon's forehead.
"That's the whole reason this happened," Juhoon muttered, sullen and hoarse.
Martin only giggled at that, soft, pleased, and gathered the boy closer, cradling him against the heat of his chest, one hand drawing slow circles over the coat-covered spine.
And tucked deep behind Juhoon's heavy lids, half-drifting in the warm dark of Martin's arms, a small thought curled and settled, ‘next time I'll just piss him off on purpose to get fucked like this.’ He pressed his cheek flatter to the professor's throat and let his eyes fall shut.