Can Someone Please, PLEASE, Write Hyun-ju Fic Where Reader Is So Pretty, Like A Literally Everybody’s

i’m just so obsessed with professor!coryo and tumblr writers really do feed my obsession well

"Office Hours" - Professor!Coriolanus Snow x Reader

a/n: from an anon request 🩷

Summary: Professor Snow makes you work for his approval.

Word Count: 2,000

Rating: 18+, MDNI

TW: DUBCON DUE TO POWER IMBALANCE, afab reader, she/her pronouns, profanity, innuendo, daddy kink, dom!coryo, semi public sex ig?, dry humping, p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, coryo's a bitch here ngl

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Hunger Games/Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are never required but are immensely appreciated 🩷

When you arrive at the capitol’s prestigious institute for higher education, the eponymous University, you are determined to do everything within your power to reach your full potential. Ever since you were a girl, you’ve been an overachiever, everyone you met being certain you were meant for great things. Some of your teachers even joked that someday, you could be the first female president of Panem, with your killer intellect and undeniable charisma. You graduated top of your class at the Academy, receiving a glowing recommendation from Dean Vickers, the successor to Dean Highbottom. You charmed everyone you met, won every argument, and were an all around model student.

Going onto the University was the next natural step. And all is well and good, at least at first. That’s until you take his class on the history of the Hunger Games.

Professor Coriolanus Snow.

You almost mistook him for another student the first time you saw him. Tall, lean, blond hair and piercing blue eyes that seemed to stare right through you. His lips are pressed into a thin line as he looks you over, almost appraisingly. You can feel your stomach tied in knots, your knees shaky as you walk over and introduce yourself to your professor, ever the teacher’s pet. Hell, you’ve even brought an apple with you, your hair tied back in a ponytail, your uniform perfectly pressed.

Professor Snow takes the apple from you, arching a brow at the sight of it, before taking a bite. And if you were any weaker, you might’ve let out a moan. It’s so sensual, the way his lips wrap around it, that it makes that ache between your thighs even more present, the one you’ve had since the moment you saw him. Noticing your flustered state, Professor Snow suggests you take a seat, a little smirk on his face. You immediately do as he asks, sitting front and center, your legs crossed, pen poised to take notes. He has an absolutely enrapturing lecture style, enthralling you with every word on the history of the Games. You wonder to yourself if he has considered entering politics, with how he’s able to command the attention of an entire room of twenty-somethings.

You’re shocked when he cold calls on you, asking why the Games were created.

“To punish the districts and remind us of the threat they pose,” you say confidently.

A sardonic little smile twists on his lips as he replies, “Naive and incorrect.”

That’s the first time you’ve ever been told an answer you’ve given when called on was incorrect. And it makes you angrier than you have reason to be. Tears prick at your eyes as you continue scribbling away in your notes. What a fucking asshole. And yet, you’re filled with a desire to prove yourself. That you’re not some naive little girl. That you’re an intelligent and mature young woman who can and will succeed. One who will graduate at the top of her class yet again.

It’s easier said than done, impressing Coriolanus Snow. And he knows how desperate you are. How your eyes light up at the slightest hint of approval from him. And so, he does more research on you, digging into your backstory. You’re from one of the Capitol’s richest families. Richer than even the Plinths. And you’ve been given everything you’ve ever wanted on a silver platter. That is, except for affection. In all the pictures he sees of you with your family, your mother and father seem proud of you but so very cold. He doesn’t think there’s a single photo of them hugging you or smiling at you.

And so, the pieces fall into place. An overachieving little rich girl, desperate for the affection she never received. Desperate for a firm yet gentle hand to guide her into becoming all it is that she can be. He’s going to be that for you. He’s going to mold you into the perfect young lady. And one day, when he’s achieved all that he wants and has become the President of Panem, you are going to be standing at his side as his First Lady, his sweet and adoring wife. Brilliant and beautiful. The two of you will make a lethal combination, he knows it.

He just needs to get you there.

So, he continues challenging you in class, making you work for his approval. The way you gaze up at him with those sweet eyes almost makes him feel guilty, but then he remembers. All of this is for your good in the end. When you come to his office hours, he listens to you calmly, the dulcet tone of your voice making his cock twitch in his pants as he imagines how pretty you’ll look beneath him, moaning so sweetly. But he holds himself back, challenging every opinion of yours, making you build your arguments in a way you were never challenged to do before. And don’t think he doesn’t notice the way you always make sure your hair is perfectly set when you come to his office, that your makeup is done to perfection and that you unbutton your uniform shirt to show the tiniest hint of cleavage.

You want him. Just as badly as he wants you. That’ll make it all the more easy when the time does come to actually claim you.

Coriolanus knows that you’d look so pretty sitting between his thighs under his desk, his cock nestled between those full pouty lips of yours, tears in your eyes as he fucks your mouth, mascara running down your cheeks as you sit there and take it just because you want to please him so fucking badly. And you’ll be so fucking wet just from sucking him off, just from hearing him moan your name.

“Professor? Professor?”

He blinks rapidly, wrenching himself from his reverie, meeting your gaze as he nods, “Yes, you can do your paper on the Careers. That’s a fine choice.”

You give him a bright smile, preening at this tiny bit of praise, grabbing your bag and bidding him a good day as you walk out of his office, his gaze drawn to the way your ass sways in that little skirt, the tiny bit of your thighs that are being pinched by your knee high socks.

Only a few more days now.

When you come to Professor Snow’s office hours to discuss the grade you got on your paper, you feel a bit foolish. You’ve hiked up your skirt ever so slightly, left a few more buttons of your shirt undone, just enough to show the lacy white bra you have on underneath it, matching panties to go with it of course. Why are you doing this? Why do you want him to desire you so badly? Why are you so desperate for his approval?

An explanation escapes you as you enter his office, taking a seat on the other side of his desk, a demure little smile on your face. He looks handsome as ever, wearing that white dress shirt with the black vest on top, his sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms, your eyes drawn to the prominent veins that run along them. Your mouth goes dry and you cross your legs, the tiny bit of friction assuaging your desire for the time being. Professor Snow eyes you up and down, a smile playing on the corner of his lips as he hands you your paper.

“Well done. This is by far the best paper that I’ve ever graded.”

You beam at him, your fingers brushing against his as you grab the paper, sending an electric shock through you, your breath catching in your throat. And then, he moves to intertwine his fingers with your own, his gaze heavy with lust as he stares at you. You swallow thickly, the essay falling from your hand onto his desk. You watch as he beckons you over to his side, urging you to take a seat on his lap. Your stomach stirs with anticipation as you do what he asks, walking on shaky legs toward him, allowing him to grab you by the thighs to straddle his lap.

“You’ve been such a good girl for me this semester,” he murmurs, gripping your chin between his thumb and forefinger, “Taking all my criticism. Learning from me. I’m proud of you, baby.”

The pet name and praise make you whimper softly, your hips grinding against him, his cock hard in his pants, pressing against the fabric of your underwear. Professor Snow chuckles at your desperation, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, cooing.

“Aw, my little girl likes it when I praise her, doesn’t she?” 

You nod shyly, averting your gaze, “Yes.”

“Yes, who?”

You meet his eyes, biting your lip as you whisper, “Yes, Professor.”

A dark smile crosses his lips as he moves to grope at the flesh of your ass, kneading it between his palms, groaning as you continue grinding yourself against him. He watches the subtle bounce of your tits, the way they strain against your shirt, moving to undo another button of your shirt with his teeth, burying his face between your breasts, nipping at your soft flesh. You whine pathetically, giving him an almost injured look when he pushes you off of him for a moment, though your expression turns almost gleeful when he undoes his pants, pulling his cock out from his pants, and pulls you back to him.

“You’re so wet for me already,” Professor Snow murmurs, “Are you ready for me, little one?”

You nod eagerly, allowing him to lift your hips, guiding you down onto his cock, a throaty groan escaping his lips as he sheathes himself inside you. You’re not a virgin, but fuck, he’s the biggest you’ve ever been with. He fills you so fucking perfectly, the fat head of his cock rubbing against spots inside of you that you didn’t even realize existed. And he hasn’t even moved yet. Your lower lip trembles, eyes watering from the intensity of the moment, mewling his name as he begins to rut up against you.

“So fucking tight,” Professor Snow grunts as he holds your hips in place, using you as if you’re his little toy, eyes transfixed by your breasts bouncing in his face, “Fuck, you feel so good around me. Going to keep you with me forever, you know that? My sweet girl. You want that, don’t you? You want Daddy to take care of you?”

Daddy. The word makes your eyes go wide but you immediately nod, burying your face in his neck as his cock slams into you over and over, making you cry out his name, your thighs trembling as you get closer and closer to your peak. His breath is hot against your ear as he lands a heavy handed smack against your ass, demanding that you answer him, the sting feeling oddly pleasurable to the point that you think you want him to do it again.

“Yes, Daddy,” you whimper, “Need you to take care of me, please.”

“You’re mine now,” he rasps, increasing his speed, hips slapping against yours over and over, “All. Fucking. Mine.”

Before you can ask him if he’s going to pull out, before you can even think, you reach your peak, your orgasm hitting you harder than it ever has before, stars shooting behind your eyes as he fucks you through it, cumming deep inside you only moments later with a low growl of your name.

After a few moments, you slowly move off of him, allowing him to take the lead and fix your shirt and skirt, though he gives you a cheeky wink and grabs your panties, placing them in the drawer of his desk.

“For when I can’t have you.”

You smile at him bashfully, kissing him back when his lips meet yours, not quite realizing that the trajectory of your life has now been changed forever.

whiny shameful izuku..

Izuku wasn’t supposed to think like this. Not about you. Not when you looked at him so sweetly—like he’d hung the stars, like he was everything good in the world. As if he were the lace that wrapped around you, made you whole. As if he was everything there was to cherish in life.

But shame had always clung to him like a second skin. And yet, there he was—palming his cock through his All Might boxers in the quiet dark of the bathroom, breath shallow, mind racing with thoughts too filthy to ever say out loud.

He didn’t deserve to touch himself to you. Not to your smile, not to your soft, pretty face. You were too fucking beautiful. Too kind. Too good for his selfish, disgusting pitiful desires.

But the ache in his pants was unbearable.

Every kiss—whether lazy and unhurried, all sighs and wandering hands, or a peck so quick his lips barely registered it—left him breathless, because his cock always knew, which made him painfully hard. And every time, he’d excuse himself with a red face and a strained laugh, locking himself away where he could be alone with his guilt and his need.

He would press his palm to the outline of his cock, feeling it pulse and twitch under the thin fabric of his boxers. Just a little pressure, just enough to imagine your hand there instead—your soft, polished fingertips dragging slow strokes along the clothed length, teasing the damp spot at the tip.

It never lasted long.

With a breathy, broken whimper, Izuku would give in, tugging down the waistband to release his cock with a quiet, needy sigh. Thick and flushed, it sprang free—pale skin stretched around swollen veins, the tip glistening with precum. He wrapped his fingers around the base and squeezed, like he could stop the shame from rising along with the heat.

“F-fuck…” he hissed, his voice barely audible over the sound of his own shallow breaths. “I’m sorry… I’m such a bad boyfriend…”

But even as he whispered apologies, his hand moved—slow, shaky strokes up his aching length, thumb swiping over the sensitive tip, gathering the sticky slickness and smearing it in soothing circles.

“Y/n,” he moaned, the sound breaking around the edges. “So pretty… I don’t deserve you…”

The guilt never left. But neither did the desire. Not when he imagined your pink lips wrapping around his cock, your eyes soft and teasing, your warm breath brushing against him as you took him in so slowly, so sweetly.

And when he finally came with a bitten-off cry, that was in every way jagged like, nails on a chalkboard. thighs trembling and hand slick with release, he crumpled forward, pressing his forehead against the cold tile wall, still murmuring breathless apologies into the empty room.

masterlist link here.

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why does tom blyth always kisses women like he's starving i want him to kiss me like that too

i’m in love with this tbh 😻 so freaking good

ME, MYSELF, & Y/N ‘BEAUTY KILLER’

BEAUTY KILLER showcases a more raw and exposed version of Y/N, that otherwise would never be seen. she shows a different version of herself in each photo and how to kills what others say is beauty as she expresses her own idea of what beauty really is. the photos taken are meant to show a more low-quality and artistic viewpoint which contrast the high-quality photoshoots she has done in the past as a part of the group.

PHOTOBOOK CONTENTS . . .

pet cover + photobook (80p) + one mini poster + one folded poster + one postage stamp + random one out of three photocard + y/n’s item (rejected items) [burned mermaid and perfect girl]

CONCEPT PHOTOS . . .

tw : blood, bondage

i love her dearly

but you haven’t seen my man

writers pls I ask that u give me a dark!reader, toxic!reader, mean!reader, jealous!reader, obsessed!reader, possessive!reader just a reader who acts all innocent around everyone else but when its abt her man she’s a crazy bitch who needs therapy

JEREMY ALLEN WHITE for Entertainment Weekly (November 2023)

I can’t fix him but I could fuck him.