#tw: teacher/student

[specialgradefckr]

okay no wait so like. my latest obsession has been. nerd!gojo and teacher!reader.

where he's a senior in high school so it's not like illegal but it's also kinda predatory bc he's your star student with a trust fund and emotionally distant parents so you're only source of praise and validation and he's obsessed with you.

BUT. then. i thought. what about. nerd!gojo and bully!reader?

nerd gojo who's taller than you but stronger than he looks and COULD stop you from shoving him against the lockers and calling him a pathetic gooner... but... why would he?

sure you taunt him when you feel his boner, your face twists and you whisper in his ear and call him a perv and a freak -

but he doesn't miss how your face heats up, how you don't meet his eyes (which you call freaky, more than once - is that why you stare at them?).

and he definitely doesn't miss how -

well. hopefully i do write this kshdjflhdsg cause i think it's actually a pretty fun idea

[ofmythsandfables]

@wrldofmyown asked: ( • )( • )ԅ(‾⌣‾ԅ) from baby Xan to Sel (this fits so well for them 😭😭😭)

Mid afternoon has hit and Selina is done with her classes for the day. She stands with her back toward her office door, honey orbs scanning through some paperwork that needed to be dealt with before she leaves. There's a knock at the door but she doesn't look up, and instead calls for the person to enter.

She doesn't need to turn around to know who it is once the door is shut and lock is set in place. Judging by the thud on the floor from a backpack being tossed down and fast paced footsteps, Selina knew exactly who had visited her.

A gasp seeps passed red tinted lips as large hands grope at her breasts from behind. Already she's melting into their strong frame, but she doesn't look up from the paperwork. Not yet.

"Did my baby boy miss me?" Her voice is like honey, smooth and rich as she coos.

[aurouxa-potion-sin]

❝i want you.❞ (Bowen to Teacher!Aurora)

Aurora blinked at her student, flushing a bit as he was earnest, honest. "Bowen..." She tried to reason with him, swallowing even though she shared the same feelings. "I'm not sure you mean that. I know we... get along," Aurora was careful with her wording, "But do you really mean that?"

[caramelcuppaccino]

life lately has been full of lesson planning, studying german and spending time with beloved ones. i’m so glad for the peace i have. 🌸

🎧 django by ateez

[madammidnightsblog]

Yandere Student x Teacher Darling

WARNING: public setting (classroom), yandere behavior (delusional), exhibition, m! masturbation, self-teasing, student fantasizing about adult (18-19 student, 20-30 adult), sub! male Yandere Student knows it's wrong, he knows it, but he cannot help it. Something about you just drives him insane and he cannot help watching you from the back of the classroom, one hand stuffed into his pants and rubbing himself off while you were busy teaching.

He knows that it's disgusting and deprived but how could he stop when your voice just makes his dick twitch. And those soft and round curves of your body make him want to bury himself against you and hump you like the pathetic boy he is. So, his hand was wrapped around his small dick, pumping it slowly which biting his lip to quiet the whimpers and whine that was threatening to spill from him. His hips twitching up into his hand as the tight restriction of his jeans and boxers making it harder to move his hand without looking obvious.

"Now," You turned around with a pretty smile on your face, your pink lips parting slightly to chuckle at the clueless expressions of your students. The new topic of biology was enough to make them all blink and look at you with pure confusion which made you find your students adorable, "It's time to understand the biology of the cellular structures."

Yandere Student was watching how your body softly jiggles in place when you moved around in front of the white board, writing down the basics of the course. Oh, how he loved the way your turtleneck hugged your soft tummy and those large tits of yours, following the curves with his eyes as his hand moved slower around his base, swiping his thumb along the beads of pre at his purpling tip. A low moan left him when his eyes finally land at those dress pants at your wide hips, and he almost came when he noticed the little tummy pouch that stuck out. Everything was so damn beautiful and sexy on your body, all of those soft curves and fat that was hugging your body. What he would do just to feel on that beautiful body of yours and worship you like the goddess you were.

Your eyes scanned the room to see the yandere student in the back of the classroom, his eyes glossed over and watching intensely. To you, he looked interested in what you were teaching with how he was staring what you believed to be the board as his right arm seemed to be moving but little did you know he finally just pulled his dick out under his desk. His hand moving quickly as he notice you're glancing his way, and he can't help but think you're away what he's doing, and it was making him all flustered. But unlike normal people in this situation who would think that he should stop because you might notice and be uncomfortable- no, he thinks you're enjoying it and think he looks so cute. I mean, why else do you keep looking back at him? You must like him and find him so cute, knowing he's jerking off like a good boy and not making a mess on the floor. His breathing grows heavier the more his eyes wonder your body and imagining what you could possibly be thinking of when you look around the classroom. You must obviously want class to end and take care of him, after all, he's a good boy that has a bad home and need your attention since his mother died mysteriously a few months ago so, he must still be trying so so hard to be back to normal. You care about your student so much so, it wouldn't be such a bad thing to take care of him- right?

[girlneedingherdaddy]

not saying it would automatically happen, but yeah, a hot 50 yo salt and pepper with a devilish smile, chances are these jeans be coming off at some point during the date

[angelyuji]

Please please make Fiddleford and Ford diddle y/n 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏

ok so full disclosure... i was not into fiddleford like that... HOWEVER... let me cook rq

im thinking....

tw // noncon, teacher x student relationship, freeuse, bill's a freak (probs ooc)

18+!!!!!!!!!! minors dni!!!

assistent researcher (y/n) who managed to snag a job out in oregon for two researchers with a nice giant grant. you were soo grateful for the opportunity to gain experience working with two very successful scientists. you heard from your professor that they had chosen you, specifically, so that must mean that they see you for your talent and genius!

WRONG. they pick you cuz you're HOT and you look like a SLUT. jk! they did pick you because you have the right experience and credentials! and for a time, everything was chill and cool. you have a great time working for fiddle and ford, researching gravity falls and transdimensional portals. ford and fiddleford had a slight thing for their young assistant, but they wouldn’t do anything to you cuz they dont want to jeopardize their career.

until a certain yellow triangle comes along.

bill had ford wrapped around his finger and both you and fiddleford were seeing that change in his personality. he was growing paranoid, being rude, and generally acting crazy. so one night, fiddle and ford were up late drinking, bill decides he wants to play a little game with his puppet and his crushes. bill convinces ford to propose a cute little offer to fiddleford. ("you guys deserve it! after all, you helped them, isn't it only fair?")

“you know, fiddleford.... we’ve worked so hard for so long. especially after taking in (y/n).” he looks over, nodding, already drunk. “you know… they haven’t payed us back for giving them this opportunity.”

drunkenly, “i guess, i didn't realize they needed to pay us." fiddleford leans his head back.

"all that we do, i mean fiddleford, isn't it only fair?" bill giggles gleefully inside ford's head, seeing how easily convinced the two men were.

fiddleford looks over at you, watching your chest rise and fall as you breathe. "they really haven't paid us back for our kindness yet, huh."

i like to think that they try to hold off on being too violent or rough with you at first, like it's small touches and grazes at first to see how you'll react. however as time goes on... they get more and more bold and they finally break.

ford breaks first, pushing you up against a wall, pressing a rough kiss against your lips. you try to push him off, but the older man was stronger, pushing your hands away from him. you taste black coffee and his minty toothpaste, you could feel his hand go under your shirrt when fiddleford walks in. ford lets go of you to gesture to fiddleford. you try to run, but fiddleford grabs your arm just before you reach the door. almost as strong as ford, you couldn't fight him off. "(y/n)! (y/n), where do you think you're going?"

"LET GO, FUCKING CREEP." you're sobbing, trying to get his hand off. ford makes a disapproving noise, crossing his arms, he walks over to you. fiddleford pulls you, your back hitting his chest. ford grips your jaw.

"where will you go? are you really going to lose your job, your career, your degree, because you didn't want to lay there for us?" ford's eyes flash yellow and you freeze.

fiddleford's grip on you relaxes as he feels you wilt. he whispers into your ear, "just listen to us, (y/n). that's all you have to do."

fiddleford is more gentle. he likes to use you at night when you sleep because then there isn't any guilt.

ford is very much hot-and-cold. sometimes he's bending you over on the desk and fucking you until you can't stand. sometimes he just likes you to cockwarm him while you're both working. sometimes he likes go down on you when you're chilling on the couch (hes a munch as they say) (if bill's possessing ford, you're getting fucked dumb like you're drooling, can't think, and bill won't stop until both you and ford have passed out.)

as fiddleford gets more and more comfortable, the both of them take turns with you at the same time. THREESOME!!!!! teehee

[merakiui]

promising young man.

yandere!riddle rosehearts x (gender neutral) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, one-sided student/teacher relationship, obsession, dark thoughts, jealousy, delusion, brief descriptions of blood/gore, violence, death, murder, brief nsfw note - riddle's perfect world comes crashing down with the arrival of foreign exchange student azul ashengrotto.

He meets him in Intro to Psych.

Azul Ashengrotto struggles to parse English, but he’s dressed like a businessman with his pressed suit and leather Oxfords. The only thing that reveals his status as a student is the black backpack he carries to class. Riddle’s seen him around campus a handful of times. It’s hard to miss him when he seems to throw himself into social circles with practiced grace.

This is the first time he’s ever had class with him, though, and so now he gets to see him in a classroom setting. There isn’t much about him that immediately strikes Riddle as odd. He’s well-dressed and prompt with a polite tongue. Every time he speaks in his thick accent, the one that just commands admiration and attention, that tiny Italian flag pinned to the strap of his bag becomes even more apparent.

Riddle’s not sure what he’s doing in this class. Perhaps he’s aiming to study law as well. He’d hoped to find more people with similar academic hobbies and interests and, while he’s yet to form any lasting bonds, he’s been wondering what sort of person Azul is.

On the first day of class, he introduced himself with confidence: “Buongiorno, amici. I am Azul. I look forward to the year with all of you.”

Though the structure and pronunciation of English proved awkward in his mouth, that didn’t stop him from opening himself to others. He’s friendly and outgoing, always welcoming conversation when it’s thrown his way. Riddle finds it impressive. If he were in Azul’s shoes, he’s certain he’d feel just a little lost attending school in a new country, far from home, surrounded by people who speak a completely different language. But Azul is resourceful, a dab hand at communication despite the barrier in vernacular. Perhaps that’s where his charm comes from.

Riddle thought the two of them might get along.

But then Azul proved academically formidable, and then you began to pick his brain after class, during time that was specifically reserved for Riddle so that he could discuss psychology with you.

So now Riddle sits in his seat, impatiently awaiting his chance.

“The law over in here is fascinating,” Azul says, leaning closer as you show him something on the desktop computer. 

“What’s it like where you’re from?”

“Mm. How to explain… The law is…”

“It follows a civil law tradition,” Riddle pipes up, casually flipping a page in his textbook. He does it for show. He’s aware it probably makes him look like an arrogant know-it-all.

You peek past the screen at him. “Oh! Riddle, you’re still here. Hello!”

He hums, warming under your gaze. “I always am.”

“What was it you were saying about the Italian legal system?”

Azul stares at him. An unhappy frown tightens on his face.

Uplifted with pride, swimming in the clouds, Riddle elaborates: “I’ve only just started researching it, but it’s very interesting. In the realm of criminal law, trials are often led by judges or a select few to form a panel unlike the juries we have here. Of course you’ll find differences everywhere. All countries have justice systems and law enforcement. Still, it’s fascinating to compare and contrast the fine details.”

From across the room, Azul’s stink eye has never been more obvious.

“Ah, that’s right. I’ve heard a few things regarding the way cases are handled over there. From what you know, Azul, would you say the system is harsher here than it is there, or is it the other way around?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Azul says, and that polite mask of his slips for a second. “I’ve never done crime.”

Riddle snaps his book shut and rises from his seat. “Let’s hope not. You’ve a promising career ahead of you.” He smiles sweetly at Azul like he’s particularly stupid.

Azul tracks him as he packs his belongings away and strides towards the door. His brilliant blue eyes are dark. “Ci fai o ci sei?” he mutters, clicking his tongue discreetly. “Rompipalle…”

Riddle will later learn these are slang phrases. He’ll learn a lot of things later—things he thought he’d never need to learn.

Thinking it a joke, you laugh and wave your hand about dismissively. “Aren’t you going to stay, Riddle? I watched the first episode of that podcast you recommended.”

Riddle perks up at that. “You watched it?”

“This past weekend, yes. It’s a riveting series. They really dig deep into the facets of a criminal.”

“Don’t they just?” He hugs his textbook close to his chest, nearly vibrating out of his skin. Finally, the moment he’s been waiting for—an opportunity to speak with you. “I’m amazed at how much time and research goes into each episode, and they always treat each case with tact. It deserves so much praise.”

Azul glances between the two of you. Riddle is sick with satisfaction. Once more, his blue hues land on him.

“You like criminals?”

“Not in that way, of course not.” Riddle shakes his head. What a preposterous assumption. “I find their minds to be exceedingly, bewilderingly captivating.”

Azul blinks back at him, owlish. He doesn’t seem to grasp most of what Riddle’s just said.

“In short, I think they’re a fine learning experience.”

“An experience? Non capisco.”

“For those wishing to pursue a career in criminal justice or law. Think of it like watching a tape from a criminal investigation. It’s important to study the interview techniques and tactics utilized by detectives to understand what’s most successful in gathering a proper confession.”

Azul nods along. “Ah, capisco.”

“We’ll cover things like that later in the semester. Don’t feel so overwhelmed, Azul.”

“I’m not. I learn as I go. Grazie, Professor. You’re very kind.”

“I’m happy to help. If you ever need anything, my office hours are on that sheet I gave you. I had a colleague of mine translate the syllabus for you. If you have any questions or need accommodations of any kind, let me know.”

“I will.” He fixes the strap of his backpack and, after bidding you a final farewell, stalks past Riddle out the door. His footsteps echo down the hall until eventually they’re no more.

“Riddle, if you have a moment, I’d like to speak with you.”

“Of course. Anything,” he says hastily, his heart stumbling in his ribs. 

“If you wouldn’t mind, could you help Azul out? I notice he struggles taking notes during lectures. If you’d be willing to share your notes with me so that I can get them translated, that would be great.”

Riddle doesn’t want to share, but this is an opportunity to be praised in spades. “I’d be glad to. I’ll scan and email them after each class.”

“Thanks, Riddle. Your notes have always been so organized. This is a huge help. I’m sure Azul will be just as grateful.”

I’m not doing it for him, he thinks, bitter and envious.

But he just smiles, standing a little taller when you compliment him.

Your notes have always been so organized.

What is he getting so territorial for? He’s had you for four classes in past years. Azul’s only known you for a few measly weeks. That’s nothing compared to the special bond you have with him.

Riddle isn’t worried.

1 September, 20XX.

Dear Diary,

(Name) Rosehearts has quite the lovely ring to it. Far more musical than that of (Name) Ashengrotto. I’m almost certain he sits there in class, silently drooling over Professor. Just last week, he took my seat at the front. The gall to do such a thing! Can you imagine? He must know that seat is the best for getting a perfect view of Professor. It’s childish to bicker over seating arrangements and I refuse to stoop to his level. That said, the seat is mine. Professor’s time is mine.

I’ve deigned to share my notes, but only because Professor put such faith in my abilities by personally asking me. Even though it’s foolish, I’m tempted to sabotage the notes so that Azul will have incorrect study material. But that would be unfair and an infraction upon all that I stand for when it comes to academic fairness. Thus, I’ve refrained from doing anything of that sort. I’m certain Professor would disapprove.

It makes me happy to know Professor listens to the podcast I recommended. I wish we could discuss it at length, but Azul is always there and he takes up so much of what little time there is. It’s infuriating. I wish he would just drop out of the class. That way it will be just Professor and me, as it was intended.

Perhaps he will once the coursework comes knocking.

Sincerely, 

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle slumps forward over his desk and combs his hands through his hair.

“That rotten Azul…” he sneers, his face scrunching into something sour. “He’s always monopolizing your time… Does he not realize how important it is to me—how much I look forward to talking to you? And you smile at him… You look at him with those sweet eyes of yours and he’s completely undeserving of such treatment! It never does anyone any good to be greedy, yet there he is…”

He inhales deeply, holds it for a few seconds, and then exhales.

What am I supposed to do? How can I make this right again?

Azul isn’t breaking any rules. It’s not a crime to seek you out for conversation after each class ends. But therein lies the issue. There is nothing wrong with that. It would be wrong if, say, there was an illicit exchange between the both of you. Like a taboo relationship of sorts…

Riddle startles in his seat, his eyes blown wide.

Azul isn’t having a secret affair with you, is he? Not that it could be considered cheating when you’re not yet married (and Riddle intends to keep it that way). He has a plan. When he graduates, there will be no formal barriers holding him back from starting a relationship with you. He can email you freely without the need to circle back to academics. He can invite you for tea or coffee and the two of you can chat about things that aren’t school, and it won’t be weird or overstepping boundaries. Because he won’t be your student anymore. He’ll be Riddle, your former student. And former students have better odds than current students, do they not?

He’s thought it out carefully. He was raised to be responsible, to do everything right.

And though he’s thought of it in passing—considered what might happen if he were to try to play at being a seductive siren—he’d never truly act on such folly. But Azul… It isn’t too impossible to theorize he might be sleeping with you for a better grade. What if he’s forced you into it? What if he has some sort of wicked blackmail? What if you’re holed up in your office every day, scared for your career, while Azul bends you over the desk and uses that boyish charm of his, that silky-smooth accent, to coax the sweetest of sounds from—

Riddle shakes himself free of that thought. He’s not going to imagine it any further. He doesn’t need to be plagued with graphic imagery, gross as it may be.

Even though he chases the fantasy from his brain, it returns to poke at him. He gazes at his lap, noticing the substantial strain in his pajamas, and groans.

It would be easier if he wasn’t where he is now. Logically, he’s aware he doesn’t have much of a chance. Neither does Azul. Unless he’s sleeping with you in secret. Then he has a chance. But he’s not. He can’t. That’s against the rules.

And even if he was, it wouldn’t be very fair for him to do the very thing Riddle’s abstained from.

His hand closes around his dick. He feels pitiful as he pumps himself to scandalous visions. 

It’s not fair.

He should have a chance. In a perfect world, he’d have you. He’s earned this, hasn’t he? He’s worked so hard. So why isn’t he allowed to have you?

It’s not fair.

Why does Azul get to relish in your attention when Riddle’s left alone in the shadows? Why can’t you look at him like you used to? Why can’t you praise him for knowing all the answers? Why can’t you tell him good work when he does just that? Why must you coddle Azul? Riddle thinks he can speak perfect English. He’s just playing it up to look weak and pathetic—to garner your sympathy!

It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair.

He’s the good one. The one with perfect marks. The one with perfect attendance. The one every professor holds in high regard.

Riddle squeezes himself and sucks in a breath through grit teeth.

He’s not funny like Azul. He doesn’t have that awkward charm Azul has. He can’t speak another language fluently. He’s never traveled out of the country. He thinks he knows everything, but he only knows so much.

He can fascinate you with the intricacies of his mind, each fold primed for education, but Azul can do better because he has social experience.

Riddle can’t believe it. He, of all people, is jealous of someone.

Cum oozes from his dick and coats his fingers in a pearly-white. It isn’t satisfying.

Right then, he thinks his world would be better if Azul stayed in Italy.

Or maybe it would be better if Azul wasn’t in his world at all. 

On his way out of class, Riddle stops Azul in an empty corridor.

“I know what you’re doing,” he says, pointing an accusatory finger at him.

He blinks back, oblivious. And then he smiles, revealing a row of perfect teeth. “What I’m doing?”

Riddle won’t say it. He can’t. Because then he’d be admitting the truth Azul’s trying to pry from his heart, whether that’s his intention or not.

“You know very well what you’re doing.”

A silent head tilt is his reply.

His temper is nearing its boiling point. It’s been on a low simmer ever since Azul first bewitched you, and it’s threatening to spill over.

“I see the way you and Professor look at each other during class. You may think it discreet, but I know.” Riddle folds his arms over his chest, feeling very proud of himself for successfully playing Sherlock. “I can tell there’s nothing formal about it. So how long has this been going on? How long have you been flouting the rules?”

Azul stares at him. His shoulders shake with his chuckle. “You’re funny.”

Riddle startles. His accent—

“I’m here to learn just as you are. What I do outside of the classroom is none of your business, so it would please me greatly if you could stop prying.”

His eyes narrow into vicious slits. “If you lay a hand on—”

“Oh, I’ve done more than that.” Azul smooths the nonexistent wrinkles in his sweater vest. The same brand of sweater vest that Riddle wears. “But you have no proof. The courts here will want that, won’t they? Or is it harsher here? Will you need to peer inside Professor to see for yourself? I wouldn’t know. I’ve never committed a crime.”

Disgust pools in his stomach. He feels like he could vomit, and it isn’t because he’s appalled by the conspiracy Azul’s proposed. It’s because he should’ve been the one to do it if it was that easy. Instead, he musters a mean glare.

“Who are you, Ashengrotto? What do you want?”

“I’m just a student like you. I want to learn lots from Professor.” He brushes past Riddle, his voice a melodious hum. “And some things can’t be taught in the classroom.”

Riddle opens his mouth to let the angry tirade fall, but he chokes on the words. There’s so much he wants to say, but all of it will come out accusatory. And that’s where Azul has him pinned. It’s all baseless accusation.

He doesn’t want to believe it. Surely you wouldn’t… It’s impossible! An academic and social infringement! It’s wrong!

It should’ve been him.

Later that evening, cooped up in his room, Riddle scrawls furious lines in his diary: He’s a liar. A cheat. An embarrassment to this institution. I should be the one who holds Professor. I should be there in Azul’s place. I’ve worked so hard. I deserve it. I’ve earned it!

He can’t let this madness go on any longer. He won’t tolerate it.

Looking at it logically, Riddle has illustrated the negatives and the positives in his notebook.

If Azul’s insinuations are true, then all Riddle needs is valid evidence. Unfortunately, that would mean you might lose your job given the circumstances. If it’s consensual, both of you are equally at fault. If it’s not, Riddle hopes Azul will burn in a terrible blaze.

But if you do happen to lose your job, it would relieve some of the weight burdening his situation. He could start a real relationship with you. It’s plausible! Perhaps not very realistic, but there’s always a shred of hope to be found in misfortune. 

Riddle wonders if he should just ask you and save himself the headache.

He gazes sidelong at Azul, who has since claimed that seat for his own, and chances a glance at his open notes.

That’s Riddle’s handwriting.

He’s sure of it. That’s his handwriting. He writes his notes in cursive. He writes in a perfect, elegant slant. His letters always connect. There’s no denying it; that’s his handwriting on the page.

A disturbing thought crosses his mind: Has Azul been practicing my handwriting?

It sounds impossibly silly. Who would devote so much time to something so witlessly fraudulent? Riddle wracks his brain for a reasonable explanation. Why would he need to practice someone else’s handwriting? Riddle could understand if Azul struggled to write in English. Most of his work is submitted in his native language. You allow this exception even though Riddle finds it unfair. Maybe it’s because you treat Azul’s work like it’s something special, and you jump through all of these hoops just to get it translated. Why can’t you treat his work with that same amount of care?

Riddle drags his pen along the page, scribbling mindlessly. Why is he doing that? He has nothing to gain from writing like me.

But then Riddle realizes the notebook is the same as his. The same color, in fact. He wonders when Azul purchased a new one. Did he purchase a new one, or has he always had this one?

Riddle looks down at his notebook.

That’s Azul’s handwriting.

He blinks twice and rubs frantically at his eyes. When he looks back at Azul’s notebook, it’s to a page filled with Azul’s stylish scrawl.

Have I…been copying him this entire time?

No, surely not! He would never plagiarize. That’s one of the biggest sins of academia. He couldn’t live with himself if he did that!

Besides, he’s not the copycat. It’s Azul in his sweater vest, boasting the same writing implements as Riddle, using the same brand of notebook. Riddle’s not copying him. It’s Azul. It must be.

It can’t be Riddle. He’d never do such a thing.

After class, you call Riddle up to your desk. He hesitates, his heart thrumming wildly, and shuffles over.

“Yes, Professor?”

“Riddle, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something.” You withdraw last week’s assignment from a folder and set it down. “You wrote this, did you not?”

Riddle scans the typed document. “I did, yes.”

“May I ask if the Italian was intentional?”

“The Italian?” he parrots, confused. “I don’t understand what—”

In between brilliantly articulated paragraphs, he’s sprinkled in Italian words and phrases.

He coughs out a rattled laugh. “I must have been studying it for another assignment before I did yours. I…can’t believe this happened. It was fully unintentional. I’m very sorry.”

His face is flushed cherry-red. He’s never felt more humiliated.

“It’s not a big deal. I just wanted to ask. It definitely confused me.” You take the paper from him, smiling that understanding smile he loves so much. But then, rather intrusively, he wonders how many times those soft-looking lips have been on Azul, wrapped around him, sending him to cloud nine… “I actually asked Azul to translate it for me. He said all of it was written correctly. You must be very adept in your Italian.”

“I… I suppose I am,” he answers after a tense minute.

His brain is swirling like sediment stirred up on the ocean floor. When did I pick up Italian? I’m not taking any language courses this semester. I don’t even own an Italian dictionary… Just what in the world is happening?

“Ah, you don’t have to look so pale! It’s not going to affect your grade. I only wanted to fulfill this nagging curiosity of mine. Thank you for all the good work you do.”

Riddle nods mechanically. When you ask if he has time to stick around and discuss more psychology podcasts, he shakes his head and mumbles a feeble excuse.

He tears through his desk and all of the drawers in his room in search of it. If it’s not there, he can relax. If it’s not there, he can chalk it up to stress. If it’s not there—

It’s tucked away in his bookshelf. A little pocket dictionary. English to Italian. And it’s been bookmarked and annotated.

Riddle pulls it from the shelf in a baffled daze. When did he get his hands on this? More importantly, when did he read through it? In a hurry, he empties the contents of his backpack and flips a few pages in his notebook.

His notes from class. Dated for today. Written in Azul’s script. And at the top of the page, an exact copy of his signature, a name that isn’t Riddle’s: Azul Ashengrotto.

Riddle peers at his trembling hands. He flexes his fingers, curls them into a fist and then unfurls them.

He seizes his psychology textbook next and skims the chapter index in search of an answer. He lands on it. Page 371. Dissociation.

Two minutes into a phone call with Trey, he’s asked a simple question: “Are you speaking with an accent?”

Riddle bristles. “Of course I’m not. Of…course I am not,” he says, sounding the words out. His brow furrows. Why does my tongue feel so clumsy in my mouth? “I’ve always spoken this way, have I not?”

“I can’t say. I mean, come on, Riddle. You’ve gotta be pulling my leg.”

“You know very well I don’t pull legs, Trey.”

“You told me buongiorno when I picked up.”

“I did not!” he snaps, scandalized. “I said good morning as I always do.” And then he pauses. “I… I did say good morning, didn’t I?”

Trey’s silence is answer enough.

Riddle sucks in a sharp breath. Neither of them says anything.

Eventually, Trey speaks. “Do you want me to come up there? I could bring you a tart or…something. You sound…tired.” He chooses his words carefully. “Silly question, I know, but I’ve gotta ask. You’re not overworking yourself?”

“No, not at all.”

“And you’re getting enough sleep? What about food?”

Riddle frowns even though Trey isn’t there to see it. “I’m fine, Trey. Midterms are coming up. I’ve got to focus. I refuse to fail.”

Again, the other end is quiet. A minute later, Trey says, “Do you have time this weekend?”

“This weekend?” Riddle flips his planner open to this week. “I do.”

“All right. Is it cool if I visit?”

Riddle almost declines, so it surprises both him and Trey when he replies with, “Please.”

“I’ll be there,” he promises, and the call ends before Riddle can say grazie.

Trey brings six strawberry tarts. Riddle shares three with him over tea at the campus café.

“So what’s up?” Trey points his fork at Riddle. “You sound like yourself, but you don’t seem…fine.”

Riddle chews thoughtfully. He can’t confide in Trey because Trey wouldn’t understand. Because he’d apply Trey Logic to everything, and Trey Logic is almost always sensible. Riddle doesn’t want to hear it.

“I submitted an assignment in Italian,” he says instead, casually, as if it’s not a big deal.

Trey looks at him like he’s grown a third eye. “Since when do you know Italian?”

“I dabble.”

Trey laughs. Upon seeing Riddle’s serious expression, the humor sticks in his throat. “Oh, you meant that. Well. That’s…good then? If it’s for a foreign language course—”

“It was for psychology.”

“You…wrote in Italian…for a psychology assignment?” he reiterates, attempting to parse it. He drags his fork through his cut of tart, but he doesn’t bring it to his lips. “Why?”

“I couldn’t say. It perplexed me to no end when I realized it. My professor thought it was curious.”

“It is. I mean, you don’t find that just a little…unusual?”

Riddle stares at him over the rim of his teacup. 

Trey tries again. “Was the Italian correct, at least? It wasn’t all nonsense?”

He nods. “It was as if I was translating and switching between words. Like using the Italian word in place of an English word.”

“Huh…”

“It’s not very impressive. I can do much better than that.”

“I’m not doubting your capabilities. I’m just…trying to understand why.”

Riddle smiles. “Why not? I think it’s very good to study another language. It opens more doors for opportunity, and it’s a challenge that proves rewarding in the end.”

“Is that it?”

“Precisely.”

The conversation comes to an abrupt halt there. Trey changes the subject. They chat the afternoon away.

Later, Riddle returns to his diary.

He writes an entire entry in perfect Italian. Workbooks pile up on his desk; he’s not sure when they got there. He’s filling them out so fast his hand gains new calluses. 

Azul visits your office around the same time Riddle used to. Now it’s Riddle who trails after him, hoping to catch him in the middle of a nefarious scheme. He’s not sure he’s ready for whatever he might learn, but he swallows his rage and carries on.

Azul turns just as Riddle ducks around the corner, perfectly out of sight. He waits until he hears the tell-tale click of those pristine Oxfords against linoleum before continuing. Azul walks right past your office and then he’s gone. Looking both ways, Riddle creeps further down the hall.

Where is he?

There’s a tap on his shoulder. He whirls around, startled, and is about to unleash verbal tyranny when he stops short. You stand there, looking positively puzzled. 

“Are you looking for something, Riddle?”

“No… I—” He cuts himself off. “Actually, I was hoping I might discuss something with you. The final project.”

“Oh, of course! Did you come earlier? I stepped out of my office for a second. Sorry if my absence had you looking all over.”

Riddle falls into step with you. “It’s quite all right.”

He’s not sure what he hopes to find by sitting in front of your desk, gazing at the familiar interior of your office. He manages to get through all of the questions you ask him regarding the final project.

“I have too many ideas,” he lies, “and I’d like assistance in narrowing the topics down to one.”

He glances slyly at the floor. Would Azul be bold enough to hide a voice recorder or a camera somewhere? Or is there something of Azul’s left in here? A cheeky means of marking his territory, maybe?

Riddle turns up empty.

He stalls the conversation expertly for ten more minutes. During that time, he can’t locate anything from his semi-thorough observations.

Maybe it’s hidden in your desk. Maybe there’s nothing at all.

No. No, there has to be something.

He thanks you for your help and, shouldering his backpack, leaves.

Just as he turns down the hall, Azul steps into his path.

“Your mind is exceedingly, bewilderingly captivating.” He snickers like a devil. Riddle wants to punch him. “So many ideas. Where do you have the space for all of that?”

“It’s not polite to eavesdrop.”

“Oh, is that so?” Azul taps at his phone and then turns the screen towards Riddle. There’s a picture of him in the hall, looking awfully disoriented. “It’s not very polite to stalk now, is it, amico?”

Riddle narrows his eyes. “How easily that accent comes. Almost like flipping a switch.”

“Non capisco.”

“You should know you’re going to ruin your life and Professor’s.”

“I’m not.” He smiles cryptically. “You’re going to ruin it for me.”

Fed up with his attempt at mind chess, Riddle stalks past him in a huff.

You walk into class five minutes late, disheveled and breathless. You’re babbling about a meeting that ran late, but Riddle can’t trust that.

Meetings don’t end in frazzled hair and crooked ties.

What’s even more damning, perhaps, is when Azul Never-Late-to-Class Ashengrotto walks in fifteen minutes after you. He sits in the seat beside Riddle. There’s not a hair out of place on his person. Except there is. The glass face of his luxury wristwatch is smudged with a fingerprint.

Riddle wonders what forensics would have to say about that.

He phases in and out of focus during the lecture. He can’t stop searching you for fine details. He can’t stop questioning Azul’s presence beside him.

How dare you? he thinks. How dare you defile my professor? What makes you think you have the right to do such a thing when I’ve been working hard all this time? When I’ve been nothing but perfect…

He glances at his notebook. A single phrase has been scrawled over and over, so manically that the lines loop and overlap in angry criss-crosses. Lo voglio morto.

At the end of class, Riddle catches Azul in the hall.

“I would like to review with you for our upcoming midterm.”

“What an honor.”

Riddle hums. “Let’s compare our notes tonight. You can stop by my room after dinner.”

Azul grins like he can read through Riddle. Like he’s in on a joke Riddle’s not privy to.

“I would be happy to study alongside you,” he says, his accent thick.

Riddle imagines a rope around his neck. A rope of thorns and barbed wire, pressing into his jugular until, inevitably, it severs his head clean off.

Azul arrives on time. He really does feel like an echo of Riddle. Same school supplies. Same notebooks. Same fashion style. Same manner of writing.

Riddle shuts and locks the door behind him. He doesn’t waste time waltzing around the subject.

“You’re the reason Professor was late today.”

“You’re mistaken. I simply lost track of the time.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then what is? I had nothing to do with Professor’s tardiness. If it bothers you so much, why not tell Professor to be more conscious of the time?”

Riddle grits his teeth. He’s sick of this. Sick of these mind games. Sick of all this mental chess.

Sick of the fact that he gets to have you when you should have been Riddle’s from the start!

“You’re a liar! Do you know the gravity of your actions—the severe consequences that’ll undoubtedly befall Professor? Do you know you’re jeopardizing a brilliant mind all for your own immature fun?”

Azul holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Those are harsh accusations. They could ruin my life, you know.”

“Oh, like that’s such an issue.” Riddle scowls.

“Your room is quite nice, I must say.” Azul looks around, his hands in his pockets. He spies the many Italian workbooks lining Riddle’s shelf, and a slimy smirk pulls at his lips. “Imitatore,” he marvels, his eyes bright with an eerie sort of joy. As if he’s just discovered a particularly filthy secret and can’t wait to tell someone.

“If it isn’t the pot calling the kettle black.”

“And what makes you think Professor would ever entertain you?” Azul rounds on him, still smiling. “Professor loves me most. There was never any room for you.”

Riddle hears the distant crackle of something fraying. “You’re wrong.”

“Am I? All I did was take your best characteristics and make them even better. Italian lovers are a romanticized ideal abroad. You were never an option, let alone a consideration.”

How dare you. How dare you. How dare you!

Azul steps towards the door. “Addio. Le mie condoglianze.”

That something inside Riddle finally snaps, and with it goes his restraint. He grabs Azul’s wrist and yanks him to the floor. There’s a struggle for survival. During the scuffle, Azul claws at Riddle’s arm and face. Riddle kicks him down. And then his fingers wrap around his psychology textbook—all 800-something pages, a hardcover—and he brings it down, brutal like a guillotine.

“How dare you walk away in the middle of a conversation!” he berates, lips curled in a monstrous sneer. “How dare you touch what isn’t yours—what you didn’t earn!”

He thinks he sees a real smile on Azul’s face, but in the midst of blind rage he can’t tell.

He sees red. He feels red. It splatters his room in a mess of broken bone and pulpy gore. It flecks his face, warm and thick and soupy.

It all ends with Intro to Psych.

Riddle is bathed in blue light, afloat on a chaotic sea.

Distantly, in the back of his mind, he can hear his mother in hysterics: What have you done?! Do you have any idea what you’ve just done—the future you’ve so carelessly thrown away?! All of my hard work?! Do you realize what you’ve done?!

And he does.

If there’s anything Riddle has ever been one-hundred-percent certain of in his life, it’s this. He sits on the steps to his dormitory, battered and bloodied, and bites into the strawberry tart clutched between crimson-stained fingers.

Despite the crisp autumn air, he feels warm.

An officer approaches him just as he’s licking his fingers clean of strawberry and blood.

He holds his arms out before the woman can say anything. He already knows what comes next.

Riddle has always wondered what criminals think and feel in the aftermath of grisly crimes. He can’t feel much of anything other than hollow relief. Maybe that’s just the adrenaline snuffing logical thought and remorse. He thinks everything and nothing all at once. He’s sure he’ll feel it all come crashing down when he’s sat in the station for questioning and then the reality of his actions will seep in, awakening him from a vile, murderous dream.

Right now, he isn’t concerned with that.

You lived filthy and you died just the same, Riddle thinks as he’s led to a police car. And now there’s no part of you Professor will ever want.

[specialgradefckr]

Protection

tw: explicit sexual content. teacher!reader/student!satoru; all characters involved are 18 or over. power imbalance, older woman/younger man, age gap, condom fetish (?), mommy kink. you make gojo call you sensei but the setting is ambiguous.

"First of all," You say, pushing back on Satoru's chest so he backs into the table, "You're missing something very important if you want to do that."

It's funny - and a little frightening - how his face lights up at the mere suggestion that you'd be willing.

"Anything," Satoru promises, eager, "Just tell me, I'll do anything."

You lick your lips. "Don't say those words to anyone else."

He shouldn't say them to you, either, but there's no use crying over spilled milk, as it were.

"Only you," He agrees, blushing. Staring at you with an excited little smile.

A hand on his chest - god, he is toned - and you guide him further back, sitting on the desk in front of you.

With huge eyes, Satoru watches you unzip his jeans, groaning slightly as his bulge is freed. When you tug him out of his underwear he leans forward, moaning, and you have to press down on his chest again to get him back.

"Hands off," You murmur to him, nuzzling against his cheek. "Just watch."

He does. Teacher's pet, your favorite student, your best boy.

And maybe you indulge yourself a little. Maybe it's just his pretty face, pretty moans compelling you, or maybe the way his cheeks tint pink as his cock jumps into your waiting hands.

You shove his shirt up, up, just enough to see his toned abdomen - the kind of lean, smooth muscle you only see on swimmers. To your knowledge, he's not an athlete, just built like that.

Delicious. Good enough to eat, if you had the appetite. Your greedy hands run over him, warm, smooth skin all perfect and supple, all the way up to his equally toned chest.

Satoru even squirms for you, tugging his shirt all the way off. Pretty pink nipples perking up for you. He leans back on his hands, lolling his head to the side, eyeing you through lovely white lashes.

All yours. "There's a good boy," You purr, watching him bite his lip, dick hardening in your hand.

Before he can get any further, you snatch a packet out of your purse, ripping it open with your teeth.

Satoru squints, face twisting as he frowns. "What's that?"

You frown back, pressing the circle of plastic over the head of his cock, watching his hips jerk at the contact.

"You don't know?" Your tone is questioning, warning, like a student who's failed to study for an exam.

His throat bobs as he swallows hard. "I... uhm..."

"Are you a virgin?" You wouldn't normally ask him so plainly, especially when you could tease, but -

"Of course!"

Huh. That was quick. "Really?"

Satoru nods, holding your gaze with determination. "I was saving it for you."

"Please," You roll your eyes, "You didn't even know me until a couple years ago."

"I didn't know it," he says, whole-heartedly, with confidence, "but it was for you."

You look back down at your hands, "It's a condom. You should use one whenever you have sex."

"We're having sex?!"

"Not yet," You catch his gaze, before drawing it back down to your hands over his dick, "Watch. This is how you put it on."

Satoru stares down, wide-eyed, at your hand rolling the condom down his dick. His cheeks burn red, hands spread wide over the counter as he

It's a nice dick, to be fair. Long. Pretty. Flushed up at the tip, fitting the latex sleeve like a glove.

"This protects you from STDs," You say, in your teaching voice; Satoru bites his lip, "And of course, unplanned pregnancy."

With long, slow strokes, you let the condom unfold along his length, smoothing it over, again and again, until he's stiffened completely.

"It can also help with clean-up." You purr, leaning in closer.

He's even cuter up close. All innocent and captivated, hanging off your every word.

You give him a pointed look, "I had better not hear about you having unprotected sex. Ever."

It must have been the wrong thing to say, because his eyes brighten, a cheeky smile breaking over his face.

"Don't worry~" He sings your name, "You're the only one for me! Promise~"

You half-scoff, half-laugh, rolling your eyes. Satoru is far too satisfied for a teenage boy leaking precum from having a condom put on him.

"Not what I was getting at," You roll your eyes, "And call me sensei. Don't get too casual. What if you use my name during class?"

"Then we kiss and make up?" So unserious - Satoru is already ignoring your question, leaning in for a kiss.

He bucks his hips, nudging his cock into your hands shamelessly, like a child 'discreetly' stealing a cookie from the jar while a parent watches.

"Satoru," You say in warning, and that warning has his cock throbbing in your hand; you can feel it through the condom, "I'm serious. And I'm serious about the condom, too. I want you to always wear one from now on."

"Always?" He pulls away, grinning, scandalized, "That's some kinky shit, sensei. Can I least take it off in the bathroom?"

That makes you laugh for real, "You idiot."

"Am not," Satoru nuzzles at your neck, looking up at you like a puppy, "I'm your best student. Your teacher's pet."

"And for goodness' sake, stop calling yourself that. I heard the other students using that term for you."

"Don't worry," He licks the underside of your chin, "You're the only teacher who gets me on a collar and leash."

You pull at the side of the condom, tugging the latex away, and then letting it snap back against his dick.

Satoru nearly jumps in place, yelping. His hands clench at his sides, against the table, as he whines at you like a dog.

"From now on..." You think for a moment, a wicked smile coming up your lips, "You put one on before you even come to me."

With long strokes, you finally start pumping his dick - but it's for a reason. Only a couple in, and he's trembling, gasping, ready to burst.

Your other hand snatches his chin, pulling him face to face with you as you close in around him. This is what Satoru should look like - vulnerable, shaken, full of confusion and a desire he doesn't quite know how to fulfill.

Your best student. Malleable, devoted.

"I want you to wear one when you touch yourself, too," You murmur to him, ghosting his lips with every word, "You only cum if you're wearing one from now on, is that clear?"

Satoru's eyes glaze over as he thrusts himself up into your grasp. One of his hands is spread wide over the table to support him, but the other darts forward, grasping at your hip.

"Please," He moans shamelessly, "I promise I will, oh, fuck, I will, I swear, Sensei~"

"Every time you put one on, I want you to remember my hands," You whisper into his ear, "I want you to remember my instructions. Think about it while you touch yourself from now on. You can do that for me, right, Satoru? You've always been such a bright young boy."

You squeeze him while you speak, fingers slipping around the pre-lubricated condom. He's hot, thick, solid in your hands. A twinge of arousal curls in your gut as you lean your body into his.

"Please - please - oh, please, mmm... sensei please just a little - mmm - more-"

Satoru pants, voice getting higher as he gets closer. He lurches forward, hooking his chin over your shoulder, clinging to you as he whimpers.

"Fuck, please, mmm, oh god, please I'm alm- almost there - "

His eyes wince shut, and you know by how his dick twitches in your hand that he's right there, spilling right into the condom with a pleasure-filled cry -

"Mommy!"

What?

[twistedheartsclub]

DARK Professor X reader Part Two

⚠️ CW: Noncon, coercion, professor-student power imbalance, grooming, psychological abuse, forced pregnancy, emotional trauma, stalking, obsessive behavior, isolation, gaslighting, graphic aftermath of assault (bruises, crying), pregnancy from assault.

PART ONE HERE

“Stand up.”

His voice was like a lash, cold and sharp, and she flinched before she even realized her body was moving.

Pain bloomed in her side where she’d hit the floor, her limbs stiff with fear, but she forced herself upright—slow, trembling. Her skirt had ridden up during the fall, exposing the soft curve of her thighs. She tried to tug it down, but the look in his eyes froze her in place.

He was staring. Hungry. His jaw clenched once, the muscle ticking, and though his face remained mostly unreadable, the bulge in his pants said everything. Her humiliation made him hard.

He stepped over her like she was nothing and picked up the glass from the table—the one he’d handed her earlier.

“Come,” he said.

She didn’t move.

His gaze snapped back to her, sharp and furious, and she took a shaky step forward. Her heart pounded as she reached for the glass he held out, his fingers brushing against hers. She hesitated. She didn’t want it.

“Drink it,” he said flatly.

Tears welled again in her eyes, but she obeyed. The liquid was bitter, and the chill of it did nothing to cool the burning in her cheeks. She sipped once, then again, until he nodded and finally pulled it from her hand.

Their eyes locked.

His were gleaming—satisfied, aroused, cruel.

“You look disgusting when you cry,” he muttered, voice low, almost thoughtful. “Like a pathetic little thing who’s just now realizing what she’s gotten herself into.”

She lowered her gaze, her breath catching in her throat.

“No,” he snapped. “Look at me when I speak.”

She forced her eyes upward, the tears slipping silently down her face now. Her lips parted to speak, to say something, but no sound came.

“Better,” he said.

Then he pointed to the floor—where her notes and pens had scattered from earlier. “Pick those up.”

She blinked. “O-okay,” she whispered, moving to bend down.

“No. Not like that.” His voice turned amused. “Use your mouth.”

Her breath caught. She froze.

“I said,” he repeated, stepping closer, towering over her again, “pick. Them. Up. With your mouth. Or I’ll find something far worse for you to choke on.”

Her stomach turned violently, but she knelt. The carpet scraped against her knees. Her lip trembled as she lowered her head to the floor, her hair falling around her face like a curtain.

Paper crinkled between her teeth as she lifted it slowly, one page at a time, her tears dripping silently onto the floor.

He watched her like a wolf. She could feel his gaze crawling across her body, lingering at her exposed thighs, the arch of her back, the way her lips trembled against the paper.

“Pathetic,” he muttered again. “But maybe worth molding into something useful.”

When she finished, she knelt there, waiting, her face flushed with humiliation.

“Stand up,” he said again.

Her legs shook as she obeyed.

She swayed slightly, dizzy, her knees weak—and he caught her.

Not gently.

His hand wrapped around her upper arm, fingers tight. Possessive.

“Clumsy,” he sneered. “I should’ve expected as much.”

Still holding her, he brushed a tear from her cheek—not kindly, not tenderly. It felt more like a smear. His thumb hovered near her lips.

“You’ll get used to this,” he said quietly. “Being beneath me.”

She trembled harder, her breath uneven. His other hand moved slowly, deliberately down the side of her thigh, where her skirt remained hiked up.

She flinched.

“Don’t,” he warned.

Then, in a softer tone, “Sit. On my lap.”

She hesitated.

His grip tightened instantly, his eyes flashing. “I said sit, not think. If I wanted your opinion, I’d tell you what it was.”

Her lips parted with a quiet, broken gasp—but she obeyed.

She perched on his lap, stiff and still. His arm slid around her waist, holding her there. Not gently. Not lovingly.

Just claiming.

His breath brushed against her ear, sending a shiver racing down her spine.

“Now,” he murmured, “tell me how grateful you are. For my help. For my time. For not failing you—yet.”

She swallowed hard. Her voice cracked when she spoke.

“…Thank you, sir…”

His smirk returned. He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear.

“You’re welcome, Miss L/N. But this is only the beginning.”

She sat on his lap, trembling, her body stiff and small beneath his grip. Every muscle in her back screamed to run, but she didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Then came his next command—soft, but sharp as a blade.

“Spread your legs.”

Her breath hitched. Her eyes darted up to meet his, wide and full of fear.

“I—I can’t,” she whispered.

Wrong answer.

His expression darkened.

“Can’t?” he repeated, his voice low and mocking. “Oh sweetheart… I decide what you can and can’t do.”

Before she could react, he grabbed her thighs and forced them apart—harsh, deliberate. She gasped, the movement jolting her across his lap, the heat of his erection now pressing firmly against the curve of her ass.

“You think hesitation makes you innocent?” he murmured beside her ear. “It makes you useless.”

She whimpered.

His fingers dragged to the hem of her panties, the thin fabric now stretched tight. “Move them,” he ordered. “To the side.”

Her hands trembled as they reached down, slipping between her legs. She couldn’t stop the tears now. Her fingers gripped the edge of her underwear, sliding it aside slowly. Humiliated. Exposed.

“Good girl,” he murmured, smug. “See? You can obey.”

His hand moved, tracing up her thigh—slow, burning. Then he raised the other to his mouth, eyes never leaving hers. He sucked two fingers in beside her ear—slow and loud, wet and deliberate—moistening them while she shivered in his lap.

The sound, the heat of his breath, the press of his cock against her—it was all too much.

Then his fingers slid between her folds.

She choked on a sob, her hips jerking instinctively.

“Oh?” he breathed, voice dark with amusement. “Already twitching for me? Didn’t think you’d be such a sensitive little thing.”

His fingers worked her slowly, cruelly—teasing, circling, dipping just enough to make her gasp, then retreating. Each motion was calculated. Controlled.

She turned her face away, but he gripped her jaw, forcing her head back toward him.

“No no, sweetheart. Eyes forward. I want to watch your expression while I teach you how this works.”

Then his other hand slipped under her shirt—hot against her stomach—and pushed up.

She whimpered again, trying to push his hand away, but he was already tugging her bra up roughly. His palm closed over her breast, fingers rolling the soft flesh before pinching her nipple—hard.

She gasped sharply, her body jolting in his lap.

His cock twitched against her, rock hard, straining beneath her.

“God, you feel so small like this,” he whispered against her ear, his voice dripping with arrogance. “Like you were made to sit here, made to fall apart on my lap. Just a scared little mess, shaking while I play with what’s mine.”

She let out a choked breath, but he didn’t stop.

“You thought coming here with your pathetic folder and tear-streaked cheeks would make me help you?” His lips brushed her ear. “No, Miss L/N. You’re here because I own you now.”

His fingers dipped deeper inside her, thrusting suddenly—and she cried out, biting her lip to stifle it.

“That’s it,” he purred. “Cry all you want. The more broken you look, the harder I get.”

His fingers thrust harder now, faster, the wet sounds of her arousal humiliatingly loud in the quiet room. She cried out, her voice breaking as her thighs trembled uncontrollably against the unrelenting pressure of his hand.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he hissed against her neck, his fingers curling just right. “Don’t you dare hold it back.”

She tried to resist, tried to hold herself together, but it was no use. The cruel precision of his touch broke through her defenses—her body betraying her even as her heart screamed in protest. Her hips jerked in his lap, tears slipping freely down her cheeks as her climax hit her like a violent wave.

“That’s it,” he growled, satisfied. “Come all over my fingers like the filthy little girl you are.”

She sobbed, her legs twitching, her body collapsing forward from the intensity of it. But he didn’t let her rest.

Without warning, he shoved her off his lap again. She landed hard on the rug with a whimper, pain flashing in her side as her hands scrambled for balance.

“Face me,” he barked.

She turned, teary-eyed and shaking, the shame burning hotter than ever. Her skirt was bunched up around her hips, her panties still askew, slickness coating her thighs.

He stood above her, breath heavy, chest rising and falling as he stared down with a gaze that felt like fire.

He raised the hand he’d used on her—slick and glistening in the low light.

“Open your mouth.”

Her eyes widened. “P-please…”

His hand snapped forward, gripping her jaw painfully tight. “I said open it.”

Tears spilled as she obeyed, lips parting slowly.

He shoved his soaked fingers between her lips, far enough to make her gag.

“Taste,” he snarled. “That’s the only thing you’ve earned tonight. Your own pathetic release.”

She tried to breathe through her nose as he held her face in place, the sharp scent of herself and his spit coating her tongue. She sobbed around his fingers, shame sinking deep into her bones.

When he finally pulled his hand back, the slick trail of spit and arousal glistened on her chin.

He stepped back slightly, undoing his sleeves as he stared at her with a look that made her skin crawl.

“Strip.”

She blinked. “What…?”

“Fully. Now. Unless you’d rather I rip it all off for you.”

Her chest heaved. Her arms shook. She thought it was over.

But it wasn’t.

Tears streaked her cheeks as she stood on unsteady legs, hands slowly reaching for her blouse. Every motion felt like a betrayal to herself. Her fingers fumbled the buttons, her vision too blurred to see straight.

She removed each piece—her blouse, her bra, her skirt, her panties—until she stood completely bare in front of him, trembling like a leaf.

She wrapped her arms around herself instinctively.

“Don’t,” he said sharply. “Hands at your sides.”

She froze.

Then obeyed.

The shame, the exposure, the way his eyes drank her in—it was unbearable. Her lower lip quivered as she stood still, completely vulnerable under the weight of his stare.

And he?

He ached.

He had fantasized about this since the first time he noticed her—stammering, sweet, desperate to please. He wanted her innocence. Her tears. Her obedience.

And now, seeing her stripped bare, trembling in fear and humiliation, her cheeks red, her thighs still wet—

He could barely breathe.

“You’re exactly how I imagined,” he murmured, his voice low and reverent. “Terrified. Fragile. And mine.”

He stood slowly.

Towering over her now, fully clothed while she stood trembling and bare, he dragged his eyes down her form—slow, consuming, possessive. The hunger in his gaze sent a chill racing through her bones.

“Lay down,” he ordered, nodding toward the couch.

She didn’t move.

“I—I can’t,” she choked out, her voice shaking. “Please, don’t…”

His eyes darkened. “You will. Or I’ll bend you over the table and take you like the desperate little thing you are.”

Her knees nearly buckled.

Still crying, she turned and staggered to the couch, lowering herself onto the cold fabric. Her body curled in on itself instinctively, trying to shield what little dignity she had left.

“Spread your legs.”

“No…” she whispered, hands covering herself. “Please…”

The next moment happened fast. He was over her in seconds, yanking her arms away, forcing her thighs apart with a strength that left no room for resistance.

“I said spread them,” he growled, his breath hot against her face. “You want to defy me now? After everything? Do you really want to see what I do when I’m not feeling patient?”

She sobbed, her legs trembling as he wrenched them apart. Her muscles resisted, but his grip was too strong. He settled between her thighs, spreading them wider—exposing every inch of her.

Then, slowly, he undressed.

Piece by piece—his shirt first, revealing a lean, muscled chest. Then the belt, the zipper, the sound of fabric sliding down. His cock stood hard, veined, flushed, already leaking from how badly he wanted her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, as if not seeing him would make any of this less real.

He climbed on top of her, caging her with his body, heavy and suffocating. Her legs shook beneath him, and with a grunt, he grabbed them—forcing them up and around his waist.

“Keep them there,” he snarled. “Wrap them around me like you mean it.”

She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. She just obeyed, because fighting did nothing.

He aligned himself, the thick head of his cock pressing against her entrance—wet from his fingers, but still far too tight for him.

And then, with no warning—he pushed in.

She screamed.

He didn’t stop.

“You feel that?” he growled, voice feral. “That stretch? That pain? That’s me, claiming you. Every inch. Every tear. Mine.”

Her hands clawed at the couch, her eyes wide with agony as he drove himself deeper, stretching her around his length. Her body burned. Her breath hitched on sobs.

“You should be grateful,” he hissed, his thrusts slow and brutal. “You were meant for this. Me. You were always meant to be used.”

Her legs twitched around him, trying to pull away, but he grabbed her hips and slammed forward, burying himself to the hilt.

Her scream cracked into a sob.

“You’ll never forget this,” he whispered against her ear. “No matter who you run to, no matter what lies you tell… your body will always remember me.”

He was smiling now—no, grinning—like a man who’d finally gotten everything he ever wanted.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice ragged with pleasure. “You’re perfect. So tight… so wet… it’s like your body was made for this.”

He slammed into her again, rougher, deeper—his hips snapping against hers with punishing rhythm. She screamed again, the pain sharp, raw, her body jolting with each thrust. But he didn’t slow.

If anything, her cries only made him harder.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this,” he growled, breath hot against her cheek. “Watching you stumble through my class like a fucking idiot… trying so hard, like it mattered. All it did was make me want to bend you over my desk and fuck the brains out of you.”

His hands dug into her hips—tight, bruising. She whimpered beneath him, her fingers clawing uselessly at the cushions.

He leaned down suddenly and bit her shoulder—hard—marking her flesh with his teeth. She cried out, but he only growled in satisfaction, licking the red mark like a beast staking his claim.

“Mine,” he hissed. “All this time, all that pretending, and you were meant for this. For me.”

He thrust again, and her back arched involuntarily beneath the force of it.

“Stupid little thing,” he spat. “You thought you had a future? You’re not going anywhere. Not with that brain. You’re only good for this. For being fucked. Used.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks. She wanted it to stop. She wanted to disappear.

“Maybe you should just drop out,” he whispered cruelly against her throat, his cock driving in deep, unrelenting. “Save yourself the embarrassment. What’s the point of pretending to be something you’re not?”

His hand moved again—sliding roughly up her side, under her breast. He cupped it hard, squeezing, then pinched her nipple until she sobbed aloud.

“But if you insist on staying,” he said mockingly, “I can keep tutoring you. Privately. Personally. Maybe a few nights a week. Right here, on this couch. Or bent over my desk. Whatever works.”

He grunted again, hips snapping faster now, harder. Her body jolted under him, her cries muffled by the force of his thrusts and the weight of his body crushing her into the cushions.

“You’re not going to run,” he murmured darkly. “Not anymore. Not after this. You’re mine.”

And as he moved faster, rougher, his grip on her hips tightened like a vice—his nails digging into her skin, leaving bruises that would linger long after the night was over.

Because to him, this wasn’t just sex.

It was ownership.

His pace grew erratic.

The grunts from his throat turned guttural, primal—each thrust harder, deeper, more desperate.

He was close.

And when he came, he buried himself to the hilt, groaning like a man finally tasting heaven. His entire body tensed above her, his grip bruising as he held her still, as if trying to mold her around his cock. Heat flooded into her, his release pulsing deep inside with no care, no protection—just ownership.

He stayed there for a moment, still deep inside her, chest heaving with breathless, euphoric laughter.

“Fuck,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “Finally.”

She whimpered beneath him, her body trembling—used, shaking, too sore to even cry now.

But he wasn’t done.

He slowly pulled back, watching as his cum leaked out of her swollen, red entrance. His fingers slid between her legs, spreading her folds again, deliberately pushing the mess back inside with lazy, wet strokes.

She flinched.

He chuckled, cruel and casual. “Look at you…” he whispered. “So full. So ruined. It’s almost beautiful.”

His voice dropped, almost tender now, though it made her skin crawl.

He climbed back over her, not with the same hunger, but something slower. Softer.

He leaned down and kissed her—deep and uninvited, his lips moving against hers like this was love, not violation. Her face was streaked with tears, her lips barely responsive beneath his.

Then he pressed his forehead to hers, eyes closed, breathing her in.

“You don’t know what you’ve done to me,” he murmured like a lover. “I’ve waited so long. Needed this. Needed you.”

His thumb brushed her cheek, wiping away a tear.

“And now you’re mine.”

Later that night…

She sat in his passenger seat, silent, small, and shaking.

The engine hummed steadily as he drove through the dark city streets, one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally brushing his knuckles against her thigh like some twisted reassurance.

She didn’t look at him. Couldn’t.

Her face was turned to the window, her cheeks raw from crying. She hadn’t said a word since he helped her dress—his hands gentle, disturbingly so, as if trying to comfort her. He buttoned her blouse, pulled up her panties, smoothed her skirt, and gathered her spilled materials with precision.

As though he hadn’t just ripped her apart.

Now, in the quiet hum of the car, she cried softly into her sleeve. He didn’t tell her to stop. He just drove.

When they pulled in front of her dorm, he parked and turned toward her, but she didn’t look at him.

“You did well tonight,” he said, his voice calm. Too calm. “We’ll continue next week. But for now… get some rest.”

She opened the door without responding, clutching her bag to her chest like a lifeline.

The air outside hit her like a slap—cold, real, sharp with night.

She shut the door gently behind her and didn’t look back.

The hallway to her dorm felt impossibly long. Each step echoed with the weight of what had just happened. When she unlocked her door and stepped inside, she was met with silence.

Her roommate wasn’t home. Probably out drinking, dancing, laughing.

She stood in the center of the room for a long moment, bag still slung over her shoulder, clothes still clinging to her like a skin she no longer wanted.

Then she dropped everything and bolted to the bathroom.

The shower came on scalding.

She didn’t wait for it to warm.

Her clothes came off one piece at a time, hands trembling, knees threatening to give way beneath her. When she finally stepped beneath the spray, the water hit her like needles. But she didn’t move.

She just stood there.

Then, slowly, her hands began to scrub.

Her arms. Her chest. Her thighs.

Harder.

Again.

And again.

She scrubbed until her skin turned red, until her fingers ached, until her sobs finally broke free. Her body collapsed to the floor of the shower, curled against the tile, water beating down over her like judgment.

She stayed there a long time—long after the water ran cold.

The next morning…

Y/N didn’t hear her alarm the first three times it buzzed. Her eyes were open, staring at the ceiling, but her body felt miles away—numb, drained, hollow.

When she finally moved, it was slow. Robotic. Each action calculated, rehearsed.

She got dressed.

Blouse. Skirt. Tights. Nothing too flashy. Nothing that would make anyone look.

She did her makeup with shaking hands—concealer first, to hide the darkness beneath her eyes. Then mascara, eyeshadow, blush. Foundation to smooth away the blotchy red from crying. Lip gloss to fake softness.

She did her hair.

She practiced a smile in the mirror.

It didn’t reach her eyes. It cracked as soon as it formed.

Tears welled again.

She blinked them away, furious with herself. You have to hold it together. No one can know.

By the time she left her dorm, she looked almost normal. Polished. Quiet.

Her roommate hadn’t come home.

Good.

She moved through her lectures like a ghost. Nodding. Taking notes. Smiling weakly at familiar faces who didn’t look closely enough to see the truth behind her eyes.

Then—his class.

Her stomach twisted when she entered the room. Every muscle screamed to turn back. To run.

But she walked in.

She found her seat.

She didn’t look at him.

Not once.

She kept her eyes glued to her notebook, scribbling down anything he said without processing a word of it. His voice was just noise now. Static. Tension coiled in her chest every time he stepped too close to her row.

Did he look at her?

She didn’t know.

She wouldn’t check.

When class ended, she was the first one up. Her books were already in her arms before the final sentence left his lips. She bolted from the room, not even hearing if he called her name.

The hallway blurred past her. The walls, the lockers, the chatter of other students—it all melted into background noise as she pushed through the crowd, breath short, chest tight.

She didn’t stop moving until she was outside, where the wind was cold and the sun too bright. Her heart still thudded painfully beneath her ribs, her hands clutching her books like they were armor.

And then she walked.

Away from him.

Away from that room.

Trying—just for a little while—to forget.

It had been over a week.

Y/N hadn’t spoken to him. Not once.

She came to class, quiet and composed, her hair always neat, makeup flawless. She took notes without looking up. She never lingered. And the moment class ended, she vanished.

Mr. Colton noticed.

He noticed everything.

The way she never met his eyes.

The way she no longer flinched when he passed—just went still, distant, untouchable.

She was shutting him out.

And he hated it.

But worse—he missed her.

Not just her body, though the memory of it haunted him every night. It was the way she’d trembled in his lap, the rawness in her voice, the way she’d cried and still obeyed.

She’d looked so perfect like that.

And now? She was acting like it had never happened. Like he hadn’t changed her. Owned her.

It twisted something in him.

Because this wasn’t just about control anymore.

It was something else.

Love?

The word had started floating through his thoughts like a sickness. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t focus. He kept thinking about her laugh in that first week—the soft, shy sound she used to make when she answered his questions wrong. The way she used to linger after class.

He wanted that back.

He wanted her.

And if she thought she could just erase what happened, she was more foolish than he thought.

Thursday.

She sat in the back corner as always.

He lectured, eyes drifting to her every few minutes. She didn’t look up once. Not even when the class chuckled at a joke. Not even when he said her name.

But he was done playing silent.

As the lecture ended, students shuffled out with bags slung over their shoulders, murmuring goodbyes and heading into the hall.

Y/N stood quickly, clutching her notes to her chest.

“Miss L/N,” he called, voice sharp but calm.

She froze in place.

Eyes turned. A few students paused at the door.

“Stay behind. We need to talk.”

Her stomach sank. Her breath caught.

She didn’t move.

“You heard me,” he said, softer this time—but with steel behind the words. “Now.”

The last few students filed out awkwardly, casting glances between them.

When the door finally shut, the silence stretched thick between them.

She stood near the door, frozen like prey.

He leaned against the edge of his desk, arms crossed, eyes fixed on her with a hunger masked in control.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said simply.

She said nothing.

He waited.

“You think you can pretend it didn’t happen?” His voice was still calm—too calm. “That you didn’t beg for me? Cry for me?”

Her breath hitched, eyes dropping to the floor.

“I’ve missed you,” he said suddenly, and the quiet sincerity in his tone chilled her more than anything else. “Do you know what that means? What it does to me—watching you act like a stranger?”

He stepped forward slowly.

“I’ve been patient. But you belong to me, Y/N.”

Her name in his mouth made her flinch.

“And if I have to remind you of that…”

He trailed off, his eyes darker now. Almost desperate.

“You're not going to disappear from me.”

She didn’t speak.

Not a word.

But he could see the way her throat bobbed when she swallowed. The way her grip tightened on her notebook. The way her knees locked, like she was ready to run.

He didn’t raise his voice again.

Instead, he stepped forward slowly, like approaching something fragile. Dangerous.

“I scared you,” he said quietly.

That made her glance up, just once, startled by the gentleness in his voice.

His expression had softened—no smirk, no sneer. His brows were drawn just slightly, like he was in pain.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he murmured. “You… don’t understand what you do to me.”

She took a step back, but the door was behind her. There was nowhere to go.

“Since that night, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.” He was close now, just a few feet away. “Not just how you felt. But how you looked. How you sounded. How… right it was.”

Her breath was shallow.

He took one more step.

“And I know you’re scared. I know it’s all confusing for you. But it doesn’t have to be.”

His voice dropped even lower.

“I want to try again. Not like before. I want to… show you what this could be. What we could be.”

She blinked, stunned by the shift in tone. Was this another trick?

“I want you to spend the weekend with me.”

Her eyes widened.

“I’ll pick you up Friday after classes,” he continued smoothly, like it was already decided. “You’ll bring your things. I’ll cook for you. We’ll talk. Study. Whatever you need. No pressure.”

He reached out and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. She flinched, but he smiled gently, undeterred.

“You’ll see that I’m not a monster,” he whispered. “You just don’t know me yet.”

Her silence was answer enough.

He leaned in slightly, breath brushing her cheek. “So plan your weekend around me, sweetheart. Friday through Sunday.”

Then he pulled back and smiled—soft. Affectionate. Twisted.

“Wear something pretty.”

And with that, he stepped around her, opened the door for her like a gentleman, and gestured her out.

“As your professor, I insist.”

Friday came faster than she would’ve liked.

Too fast.

It had loomed all week, shadowing every lecture, every hallway she walked, every glance toward the clock. The moment always crept closer, like a slow, tightening noose.

And now it was here.

She sat on the edge of her bed, a small duffel open in front of her. Clothes folded inside. A toothbrush. Hairbrush. Lotion. Nothing fancy. Just enough to get through the weekend.

Get through.

Not enjoy. Not survive.

Just… endure.

Her hands trembled as she tried to zip the bag. Her vision blurred again. She sniffed and blinked rapidly, trying to calm herself.

But the tears slipped out anyway.

“Whoa.” A voice came from the doorway.

She looked up, startled.

Her roommate stood there—still in her jacket, keys in hand, clearly having just come back from class. Her expression shifted instantly from curious to concerned.

“Are you… crying?” she asked, stepping inside. “Hey, hey, hey—what’s wrong?”

Y/N shook her head quickly, wiping at her cheeks. “I’m fine. Just—just tired. It’s nothing.”

Her roommate glanced at the bag. Then back at her face. “Where are you going?”

“Just… I have plans,” she said softly. “A weekend thing.”

“A weekend thing?” Her roommate raised a brow. “Like a date?”

Y/N opened her mouth to lie, to say something casual—but her throat closed up. She just nodded once.

“Okay, but… why are you crying if you’re going on a date? Did he say something to you?”

Y/N stood abruptly, zipping the bag and slinging it over her shoulder like that might end the conversation.

“I’m fine,” she repeated, avoiding eye contact. “I need to go. He’s picking me up soon.”

Her roommate stepped in front of the door.

“Whoa, hold on. You’re shaking. Your face is blotchy. You look like you’re walking into a funeral, not a date.” Her voice softened. “Y/N… is something going on?”

“No,” Y/N said quickly. “It’s fine. He’s—he’s just intense. He’s older. But it’s not what you think.”

“Older?” Her roommate’s eyes narrowed.

Y/N’s hands tightened on the bag strap.

Her roommate studied her for a long second, then sighed and reached out, placing a gentle hand on her arm. “You don’t have to tell me everything. But if something feels off—if something’s wrong—you can talk to me.”

Y/N looked at her then. Really looked.

And for a moment, she almost said it.

Almost said his name.

Almost begged not to go.

But the words wouldn’t come. Shame sealed her mouth shut.

Instead, she forced the smallest smile.

“I’ll be okay.”

Her roommate didn’t look convinced. “Text me when you get there. And if you need an excuse to leave—any excuse—you call me.”

Y/N nodded.

Then, outside, a car pulled up.

She turned toward the window. Her blood went cold at the sight of the sleek black vehicle idling by the curb.

He was here.

Right on time.

The house looked just as she remembered it.

Secluded. Quiet. Too quiet.

He parked in the driveway and came around to open her door like a gentleman. She didn’t meet his eyes as she stepped out, bag clutched tightly in her hand.

“Let me take that,” he said softly, fingers brushing hers as he took the bag from her grip. His touch lingered too long, even though he smiled like he was doing her a favor.

She followed him inside.

The door closed behind them with a quiet click, and the air shifted instantly—thick and stifling, like stepping back into a nightmare she wasn’t ready to relive.

“It’s just you and me this weekend,” he said with quiet warmth. “No distractions. I’ve cleared everything else from my schedule.”

He led her down the hallway, past the living room, toward a door at the end. “I thought you might like to stay here this time,” he added. “Somewhere more comfortable.”

He opened it to reveal a softly lit bedroom. The sheets were turned down. A faint floral scent lingered in the air. Too clean. Too carefully arranged.

She stepped inside slowly, hesitantly.

“I can unpack for you if you'd like,” he offered behind her, setting the bag on the edge of the bed. “Make you feel at home.”

She said nothing.

She stood in the center of the room, arms crossed, trying to breathe evenly. Her back was to him now.

That’s when she felt it.

His arms—wrapping around her waist.

She froze.

Her body stiffened, breath catching in her throat.

“I missed this,” he murmured, lips dangerously close to her ear. His tone was soft, reverent, like he was holding something precious. “The way you feel. So small in my arms.”

He brushed her hair aside with one hand, slow and gentle, exposing the curve of her neck.

Her heartbeat pounded.

Then he leaned in—and kissed her there.

Soft. Lingering. Possessive.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t.

His mouth ghosted over her skin, inhaling her scent as if it intoxicated him.

“I think about you more than you know,” he whispered. “Every night. Every hour. Even when you pretend I’m not there.”

She tried to pull away—barely a twitch—but his grip tightened.

“I know you're scared,” he added, quieter now, lips brushing her skin between words. “But you don’t have to be. I’m going to take care of you.”

He pressed another kiss to her neck. Then another—lower this time.

“And by the time this weekend is over, you’ll wonder how you ever lived without me.”

His lips moved lower.

Dragging down her neck, slow and heated. His hands roamed her waist, then her hips, fingers curling possessively into her soft flesh.

“You’re so quiet,” he murmured. “Is it because you’re nervous? Or because you want me to take the lead?”

She said nothing. Didn’t move.

Her body was rigid, arms at her sides, her jaw clenched tight as he kissed across her shoulder. The silence stretched too long.

She didn’t lean into him.

She didn’t gasp.

She didn’t give him what he wanted.

And just like that—something snapped.

The softness in his voice vanished.

His grip tightened sharply around her waist, yanking her back against him so hard she gasped.

“I see,” he snarled. “You’re going to pretend again. Like you didn’t beg last time. Like your body didn’t cling to me.”

Her breath hitched. “P-please—”

“Please?” he hissed. “No. You don’t get to plead with me like some fucking victim.”

He spun her roughly around to face him. Her eyes were wide, terrified.

“You think I’ll play nice just because I said I missed you?” he spat. “I meant it. But don’t mistake that for weakness.”

She tried to step back.

He grabbed her wrist—hard—and dragged her toward the bed. She stumbled as he shoved her down, pinning her with his weight.

“I tried to be kind. I tried to make you feel special. Like this meant something,” he growled, his knee forcing her legs apart. “But you're just as stupid as I thought you were. You don’t learn.”

She struggled under him, panic surging, but he was too strong.

“You want cruel?” he hissed, reaching to unbuckle his belt with one hand, the other keeping her pinned. “Fine. You’ll get cruel. But don't you dare blame me for it.”

His eyes were wild now—no affection, no tenderness. Just hunger and rage.

“You belong to me,” he seethed. “And if I have to break you to make you understand that… then so be it.”

Her heart pounded violently in her chest as he pinned her down, his weight suffocating, his voice no longer soft—cold, cruel, filled with anger sharpened by obsession.

“I gave you a chance,” he hissed, yanking open her blouse with a brutal rip. Buttons scattered to the floor. “I could’ve made this easy for you.”

She cried out, trying to push him away, but he grabbed both her wrists in one hand and pinned them above her head.

“You want to be stubborn?” he growled. “Then I’ll teach you what obedience really looks like.”

He stripped her with no care, tearing fabric and dragging it down her body while she twisted beneath him in panic. Her pleas fell on deaf ears. Her protests were drowned in his fury. He consumed her—every inch of her—the way a man devours something he’s convinced belongs to him.

Her cries became background noise to him.

He didn’t stop.

Not even when she went still.

Not even when her tears soaked the bedding.

It wasn’t passion anymore. It was punishment. It was possession. It was him reminding her that no matter how much she avoided him, ran from him, stayed quiet in his class—she was his.

After.

The silence afterward was deafening.

Y/N lay curled into herself on the bed, her body trembling, her legs pulled in, breath ragged and shallow. Her skin was marked with bruises, red prints, her inner thighs raw from friction and pressure. She stared blankly at the wall—eyes unfocused, lips parted slightly, her tears dried in streaks on her cheeks.

He returned from the bathroom with a damp cloth.

Like nothing had happened.

Like they were just lovers, resting.

He sat beside her on the edge of the bed, and for a moment, he just looked at her. Studied her. The rise and fall of her chest. The way she refused to meet his eyes.

Then he reached out—gently this time—and began to wipe her down.

“You were beautiful,” he murmured, voice low, tender again. Delusional. “Even when you cry… especially when you cry. You don’t know what that does to me.”

She didn’t speak.

He cleaned her thighs carefully, and when she winced, he whispered, “I know, sweetheart. I know it hurts. But it’s done now. It’s over.”

As if that made it better.

As if it made it right.

He pulled the blanket up over her bare shoulders and leaned in, pressing a kiss to her damp forehead.

“You just need to stop fighting it,” he said softly. “Stop pretending. I love you, Y/N. No one else will ever take care of you like I do.”

And then he laid beside her.

One arm curling around her waist.

Holding her close.

Like nothing had shattered.

The kitchen.

She sat at the small table, arms curled around herself as he set the plate down in front of her.

Fluffy scrambled eggs. Buttery toast. Strawberries. Even a glass of orange juice.

An A+ breakfast.

It looked like something a loving boyfriend would prepare.

He sat across from her, sipping his own coffee, his eyes watching her too closely.

“You should eat,” he said softly. “I made it just for you.”

She picked at the eggs with her fork, unable to meet his gaze.

Then he placed something else on the table with a soft tap.

Her phone.

She froze.

“I took the liberty of checking your messages,” he said, voice still calm—but laced with warning. “Your roommate was worried. Texted you a few times last night.”

He smiled.

“I replied for you. Told her you were having a great time. That you’d be home Sunday.”

She stared at him, throat tight.

His smile never faltered.

“You are having a great time… aren’t you?”

When she didn’t answer, he sighed and set his mug down.

“I don’t like being ignored, Y/N. Especially not after everything I’ve done for you. You wanted help. Guidance. And look where you are—eating in my home, safe, taken care of.”

His tone sharpened.

“You act like a child when you should be thanking me.”

She swallowed.

“You’re lucky I’m patient,” he said. “Because if you keep playing dumb, if you keep pretending I’m the bad guy, things will get much harder for you.”

He reached across the table and gently touched her chin, tilting her face up to meet his eyes.

“I won’t let you ruin this. You understand?”

She nodded faintly, eyes wide.

“Good girl.” He kissed her hand.

“Now eat your breakfast.”

Later that morning…

She sat at the kitchen table again, hair still damp from her shower, dressed in one of the oversized shirts he'd left out for her—probably his. She hadn’t spoken much during breakfast, hadn’t resisted the shower. She moved like she was on autopilot.

Now, a stack of books and notes were spread in front of her.

“Let’s go over everything,” Mr. Colton said with a soft smile, setting down a cup of tea beside her. “Not just my class. I want to know how you’re doing in all of them.”

He pulled out the chair beside her and sat down, flipping open her planner.

“History, psychology, stats… and mine.” He smiled, eyes flicking toward her face. “Your favorite, of course.”

She tried to return a polite nod but couldn’t manage it. Her fingers trembled slightly as she turned to the page with her project outline.

They went over her coursework.

For the first ten minutes, he was calm. Almost gentle. He asked questions. Corrected her mistakes. He even praised her once for remembering a difficult term.

But then—

She stumbled over an answer about his class.

Just one tiny misquote from the required reading.

His smile flattened.

“Really?” he said, voice tight. “That’s what you took away from it?”

“I—I just…” Her voice trailed off.

“Stupid girl,” he muttered, flicking the edge of her notebook. “It’s like nothing sticks in that pretty little head of yours. How are you even still in this program?”

Her shoulders hunched. Her throat felt tight.

“You know,” he said, sitting back with mock thoughtfulness, “maybe you should just drop out. Save yourself the embarrassment. I could take care of you. Feed you. Keep you in my house. Let you sit pretty while I work.”

His tone was joking. Light.

But his eyes weren’t.

She forced a weak laugh, unsure if he expected her to laugh with him.

He didn’t.

His hand moved over the back of her chair.

Then over her shoulder.

Then down.

His fingertips slipped under the collar of her shirt, dragging slowly until they dipped beneath the fabric and cupped her breast. She stiffened.

He leaned in behind her, so close his breath brushed the back of her neck.

“Let’s multitask,” he whispered.

His hand squeezed her breast—slow, firm, possessive. His thumb rolled over her nipple, then pinched. She gasped.

His hips pressed against the back of her chair.

She could feel it—hard and heavy. He ground into her gently as he rolled her nipple between two fingers, breath warm against her ear.

“I don’t even think you know what you do to me,” he murmured. “You sit here looking so sweet, pretending to study—pretending you aren’t mine.”

She tried to speak, but only a small whimper escaped.

“Shh,” he cooed. “Focus on your reading. You can manage that, can’t you?”

His hand worked at her breast while the other flipped open her textbook.

“Let’s start again,” he said. “Try not to mess up this time.”

His hand didn’t leave her breast.

If anything, the grip became more possessive. Less exploratory, more like claiming—as though touching her proved a point only he understood. The warmth of his palm seeped through her shirt, but it made her cold all over.

She stared blankly at the open textbook in front of her, eyes no longer seeing the words.

“Are you even paying attention?” he asked softly behind her, voice like velvet over a blade. “I’m trying to help you. But you never learn.”

He pressed forward slightly, his body heavier behind hers, and she could feel it again—his arousal against her spine. That slow, building threat.

She flinched.

He laughed under his breath, low and mean. “You flinch like that again, and I’ll assume you’re asking for it.”

She froze.

His hand finally moved—but only to slide her textbook aside. With a firm shove, he cleared the table in front of her. Papers scattered to the floor.

“Get up,” he ordered.

She hesitated.

“I said get up.”

She stood slowly, stiffly.

He guided her by the hips, pressing her forward so her front was against the table’s edge. Her breath caught.

“You’ve been disobedient,” he said darkly, voice now colder. “Avoiding me. Withholding.”

Her heart raced, eyes darting to the door—but he was already behind her, one hand pressing between her shoulder blades, keeping her down.

“And when you withhold from me,” he whispered at her ear, “I take what’s mine.”

The table dug into her stomach. Her legs were forced apart.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t cry.

She just stared at the wall in front of her and tried to disappear into it.

Later.

She lay curled up on the bed, back to the door, face pressed into the pillow.

Her limbs were sore. Her throat dry. Her mind blank.

He moved around behind her, humming to himself as he picked up the notes from the floor and set the papers neatly back on the table. He even straightened the chair.

“Dinner soon,” he said casually, as if nothing had happened.

“As long as you’re good,” he added, “I’ll keep being nice.”

She didn’t move.

Didn’t respond.

But the thought in her mind was clear, sharper than ever:

She had to get out.

Sunday Morning

She had lost count of how many times it had happened.

How many times he had touched her. Bent her over furniture. Pulled her into his lap mid-sentence with some sick smile. How many times her tears had made him angrier, not softer.

Every protest was met with punishment.

Every silence, with a demand.

Every breath she took felt like it was owned.

Now it was Sunday morning, and the sun streamed weakly through the bedroom window—too bright for how hollow she felt.

She sat on the edge of the bed in his shirt again, legs tucked up, hair unbrushed, eyes staring blankly at nothing.

Her body hurt.

Everywhere.

Her thighs ached. Her neck was marked with bruises and teeth. Her wrists were tender. She had cried silently into the pillow the night before, praying for morning.

Because morning meant leaving.

She could go home.

This would be over.

That’s what she told herself.

That’s what she’d been holding on to.

But when she stepped into the kitchen, pale and quiet, the illusion crumbled.

He was already up—freshly showered, wearing a clean shirt, and smiling as he stirred something on the stove.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he said, chipper. Like he hadn’t spent the weekend breaking her in pieces. “You slept in. You must’ve been tired.”

She said nothing.

Her eyes scanned the room instinctively for her phone.

It was still missing.

Still his.

He set a plate down at the table—pancakes, syrup, berries. Beautiful. Undeserved.

“You can eat, take a shower if you want, then we’ll relax a bit before I take you back.”

Something in her froze.

“…Later?” she echoed, barely a whisper.

He sipped his coffee, then nodded with an almost apologetic smile. “I’ve enjoyed this weekend too much to cut it short.”

She stood stiff in the doorway, heart beginning to race. “But… I have class prep. Homework—”

“I know,” he said smoothly, cutting her off. “And I’ll help you catch up, don’t worry. My place is quiet. No distractions.”

She took a hesitant step back.

“I said later, Y/N.” His tone sharpened just slightly. “Don’t start that again. You were doing so well.”

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes.

“But I thought…”

He turned to face her fully, the warmth dropping from his eyes in a heartbeat. “What? You thought you could come here, let me take care of you, and then waltz out like nothing happened?”

She didn’t answer.

His voice lowered.

“You belong to me now. You don’t leave until I say you do.”

And just like that, her last hope broke.

Now.

She stood in her dorm’s bathroom, hunched over the sink, scrubbing her mouth out.

Her toothbrush trembled in her hand, the bristles bent and worn from how hard she pressed them against her tongue. Over and over. Again. And again. Like she could erase the taste. The shame. The memory.

Her jaw ached. Her throat burned. But it wasn’t enough.

She spit out foam, rinsed, and scrubbed again.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, falling silently onto the sink.

She stared at herself in the mirror—red eyes, hollow cheeks, bite marks still faintly visible near her collarbone.

You look disgusting.

Her body trembled with silent rage. With helplessness. She gripped the edge of the sink and leaned forward, breathing hard.

Tell someone.

The thought came again.

Sick and hopeful.

But where would she go? Who would believe her? He was a tenured professor. Charming. Powerful. He called her sweetheart in public. Always seemed invested in his students.

And you went to his house willingly.

The voice in her head was cruel.

What would she even say? That he manipulated her? Hurt her? Took her again and again over the weekend like she was nothing?

Would the school believe her?

Or would they ask her if she had proof?

Would they look at her scholarship status and decide it wasn’t worth the scandal?

Academic review board. Dean of Student Affairs. Title IX.

She barely even knew the process. Would they punish her for being involved? Would she be labeled?

What if they revoke your scholarship?

Her stomach twisted.

Everything she’d worked for—years of stress, of sacrifice. She couldn’t afford to lose it. She couldn’t afford to go home a failure.

She sank to the floor of the bathroom, knees curling to her chest, sobs shaking her body in silence.

She didn’t know what to do.

All she knew was this:

She couldn’t take another weekend like that.

Time Skip �� Weeks Later

It had become a pattern.

Some nights, he would text her late.

“Come now.”

Other times, he’d wait for her outside a library or corner her after class with a soft-spoken: “You’ll stay tonight, won’t you?”—as if it were a choice.

And sometimes she didn’t make it back to her dorm until the early morning. Other times, she never came back at all until the next day. The girls on her floor started whispering. Her professors began eyeing her fatigue. But none of that compared to the weight of what her roommate had begun to see.

One Thursday Morning

Y/N was changing quickly, already late for her 8AM class. Her hoodie slipped off her shoulder as she reached for a clean shirt—and in the mirror, her roommate saw it.

A bruise.

Faint, but unmistakably shaped like a grip. High on her upper arm.

Her roommate froze. “Wait… what’s that?”

Y/N jerked her shirt on instantly. “What?”

“That bruise.”

Y/N paused. Then offered a small, forced laugh. “Oh. I—I bumped into a bookshelf. Stupid, right?”

The silence was heavy.

Her roommate stared a beat longer but said nothing. Not then.

That Night

The room was dark.

Y/N lay in bed, facing the wall, curled into herself.

Her body ached. Her phone had buzzed earlier with a single word: “Good girl.”

She hadn’t responded.

She couldn’t.

Tears slipped silently down her cheeks, soaking into her pillow. Her breathing was shallow, trembling. Her hands were balled into fists under the blanket.

She didn’t hear the shift in her roommate’s bed at first.

Didn’t realize the girl across the room was awake—watching her.

Listening.

This wasn’t the first time she’d heard muffled crying.

It wasn’t the first time she’d seen Y/N tiptoe out of the room at midnight.

Or return at dawn looking hollow.

She didn’t say anything.

But she knew something was wrong.

And she was done pretending not to notice.

That Week – Everything Felt Wrong

Y/N had been feeling off.

It started subtly—waves of nausea in the morning. Her body felt heavier. Her mind fogged easier. But the scariest part?

Her period never came.

Days passed. Then a week.

She told herself it was stress. Lack of sleep. Her body protesting everything it was being put through.

But deep down, a part of her knew.

She went to the campus nurse after class.

The nurse didn’t ask too many questions. She didn’t pry, though her gaze lingered with quiet empathy.

Y/N mumbled something about being overwhelmed, irregular cycles, needing to be sure. The nurse simply nodded and handed her a test, directing her to the back.

Ten minutes later, the nurse knocked gently on the stall door.

Y/N opened it slowly, clutching the stick in both hands.

Two lines.

The nurse didn’t speak. Just led her to a quiet seat in the back office, offered her water, and sat across from her.

“You’re pregnant,” she said gently.

Y/N’s fingers clenched around the plastic.

She didn’t cry.

Not yet.

The nurse spoke softly. “Do you have someone to talk to? Someone safe?”

Y/N didn’t answer.

The nurse’s expression softened, her eyes heavy with concern.

“You can come back if you need anything. I’ll be here.”

That Night

Y/N sat in the dark of her dorm, curled on the floor between her bed and the wall, knees pulled tight to her chest.

She clutched her phone—but didn’t open it.

He had texted earlier. Just one word: “Now.”

She didn’t reply.

She couldn’t.

Her other hand was clenched around the positive test, hidden in her sleeve. She hadn’t thrown it away yet. As if holding it grounded her in the moment. In the unbearable truth.

She was pregnant.

And it was his.

A fresh wave of sobs tore from her chest, quieter this time, desperate not to wake her roommate.

But her roommate was already awake.

From across the room

The soft glow from Y/N’s side of the dorm illuminated her outline—small, crumpled, shaking.

Her roommate bit her lip, tears pricking her own eyes now.

She couldn’t take it anymore.

She got up slowly and crossed the room in the dark, crouching beside Y/N.

“Hey…” she whispered. “What’s going on?”

Y/N startled, looking up with swollen eyes, face pale.

“Don’t lie,” her roommate said, voice trembling. “I see you. I hear you. You’re not okay.”

Y/N’s mouth opened—but no words came.

Just a shaking breath.

Her roommate reached out, gently placing a hand over hers.

“You don’t have to tell me everything. But please… you’re scaring me.”

There was silence.

Then Y/N opened her hand.

She showed her the test.

Her roommate stared.

Then she pulled Y/N into a hug—tight, warm, steady. Y/N crumpled into her, crying harder than she had in weeks.

“I’ve got you,” her roommate whispered. “Whatever this is… we’ll figure it out.”

Monday Morning

Her roommate couldn’t keep it to herself anymore.

She waited until Y/N had gone to class—moving slow and quiet like a ghost—then walked straight down the hall to the RA’s room.

Her knuckles trembled as she knocked.

The door opened. Their floor’s RA, Maya, blinked sleepily, hoodie half-zipped.

But when she saw the roommate’s face, the fatigue dropped instantly.

“Hey,” Maya said softly. “Everything okay?”

The roommate stepped inside.

“No. Something’s really wrong.”

Later That Day – After Classes

When Y/N returned to the dorm, her roommate was sitting on her bed—too upright, too still.

“Hey,” she said quietly. “Um… Maya wanted to talk with us for a bit. Just to check in.”

Y/N’s stomach twisted.

“About what?”

“About… you. About how you’ve been feeling.”

Before Y/N could protest, Maya was already at the door with that gentle RA smile that made Y/N’s skin crawl—not because Maya was cruel, but because she was kind.

Too kind.

And Y/N didn’t know how to handle kindness anymore.

In the RA Office

The three of them sat in a small lounge room near the RA's suite—Y/N in a chair, legs curled beneath her; her roommate beside her; Maya across, notebook closed, hands folded.

“We’re not here to force anything,” Maya began. “But… your roommate’s really worried. She’s seen the bruises. The changes. The crying.”

Y/N’s face burned with shame.

Maya’s voice remained soft. “There are options, Y/N. If you’re in danger—if someone is hurting you—we can help. There’s a Title IX coordinator on campus, and I can walk you through what that looks like. We can go completely confidential. You don’t have to report anything you’re not ready to. You can even request academic accommodations, or—”

“I’m fine,” Y/N whispered.

Maya stopped.

The room went still.

Y/N stared at her hands.

“I’m just… overwhelmed. With school. I’m tired.”

Her voice cracked at the last word.

Maya and her roommate exchanged a glance, but neither pushed.

“Okay,” Maya said after a moment. “But if that changes—even a little—you come to me. Day or night. We can help. You’re not alone.”

Y/N gave the smallest nod.

But her mind wasn’t in the room.

It was on her phone.

On the message she had read just an hour earlier:

“You’ve been quiet. If you think you can walk away from me, I’ll remind you why you never should’ve come to me in the first place.”

Her blood had run cold.

Because he knew.

He could feel her slipping.

And now he was watching.

Waiting.

Time Skip – She Was Back in His House Again

She didn’t remember the moment she agreed.

Maybe she never did.

Maybe she just stopped resisting.

The sky outside had gone gray. The air in the house was warm and heavy—scented with garlic and simmering tomatoes as he stood at the stove, humming softly to himself, stirring the pasta sauce like he hadn’t shattered her life.

Y/N sat quietly at the kitchen table, hands folded in her lap. Her shoulders were hunched, and her eyes were already red with tears she hadn’t tried to hide.

He noticed.

He always noticed.

But he said nothing at first.

Just kept cooking.

As if her silence hadn’t been deafening all week.

As if her refusal to respond to his last texts hadn’t pushed him this close to dragging her out of class by the wrist.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he said casually, not turning around. “Ignoring me. Making me wait.”

His voice was light, but laced with warning.

She said nothing.

“I gave you everything,” he continued, a little sharper now. “Food. Safety. Love. And you act like I’m a burden.”

She flinched.

He turned slowly from the stove, wiping his hands on a towel.

His eyes landed on her like a weight.

“What is it now?” he asked, stepping closer. “What else could you possibly need?”

Y/N’s face crumpled.

More tears spilled down her cheeks. Her fingers dug into the chair cushion.

He leaned down and grabbed her chin sharply, forcing her to look up.

Her lips parted on a sob.

And then she said it.

“I’m pregnant.”

The words escaped like a breath she had been holding for days.

He froze.

For a moment, he didn’t move—didn’t blink. Just stared at her, hand still holding her face, breath caught in his chest.

Her heart hammered in the silence.

Then—

He smiled.

It spread slowly across his face, his eyes lighting like flames.

“Are you serious?” he whispered.

She nodded once, terrified.

And then he laughed—a breathless, joyful sound that made her blood run cold.

He dropped to his knees beside her chair and pulled her into a hug so tight she gasped.

“You’re pregnant,” he whispered against her shoulder, arms wrapped around her like iron. “You’re going to have my baby.”

His hands moved to cradle her face, kissing her cheeks, her forehead, her lips.

She didn’t kiss back.

But he didn’t notice.

He was euphoric—delirious.

“I knew you were meant for me,” he whispered. “I knew it. This… this just proves it. We’re a family now.”

She stared straight ahead, numb with dread.

He pressed a kiss to her stomach through her sweater.

“We’ll be happy,” he murmured. “You’ll see. I’ll take care of everything.”

And for the first time, Y/N understood—

She wasn’t just his anymore. Now, he’d made sure she could never leave.

[missbunnybunny]

-`💌 『 𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙥𝙚𝙩』🖊️´-

『-` 𝙴𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚝: 𝚈𝚞𝚙! 𝙼𝙳𝙸. +𝟷𝟾´-

✙Not proofread, no spell check, I just wrote. 𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜! 𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚒 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜? ✙』

----------------------------------------------------

You walked down the long hallways of the school. It was after-school hours, and you had to meet with your homeroom teacher. Walking up to the door of your classroom, you opened it. He was still not there. You decided to await by the chair next to his table until he arrived. You don't remember how long you waited until your eyes became too heavy to keep open.

The room was warm, typical of summer weather. He looked down at his watch and noticed the time he stood up from his spot in the office and began making his way to his homeroom. His head is lowered as he opens the door, closing it behind him. He looks around for you. He finally spots you sitting at a corner next to his desk.

He walks over to you, noticing the way your chest rose and fell. Your white uniform shirt is sticking your chest, from sweat build up. Your lips are parted, and he can't help but think you look cute. You were always his favorite student, the way your cute face would scrunch up and you bit your pencil when you get stuck on a question. He always purposely gives you the easy quizzes and look at your cute bra.

You shifted slightly in your chair, a groan leaving your parted lips, and he felt the twitch in his pants. He untied his tie, feeling his body heat up. God, you were tempting him. He knew you needed help with an upcoming exam, so why not give you some extra lessons...

Your eyes groggly blinked open as you felt hands roaming over your body. You raised a hand to rub your eye, groaning a little. You looked around before looking to your side. His sitting at his table writing something down. "Ah, am sorry, profesor. I must have fallen asleep." He puts his pen down. "Mm, it's nothing. Really." He spoke, looking at you. Your legs unconsciously rub against each other, and you can't tell if it's the weather or his stare that makes you feel hot and bothered all over.

"Here are the papers for you to study." He motions to the papers on his table. You stand up from your seat-your skirt is scrunched up a little - his eyes follow your movement as you walk over to him. You bend over to take a look at the papers. He can see your bra through the opening of your shirt, you really are a slut flashing your teacher like that. Your skirt is showing your underwear such a pretty color, the bulge in his pants twitches. You're still distracted, looking at the papers as his hand slowly begins to rise under your skirt.

You begin to stand up straight, holding the papers just to feel a hand squeeze your ass. You squil in surprise, dropping the papers, and you turn to look at your teacher. His body is turned to you. There could be no way his hand couldn't touch you. Your mind was swirling. Where you such a pervert to be daydreaming that your teacher was touching you.

You kneel as you began to pick up the papers, your really a whore for his attention aren't you. Letting your skirt show your panties, with an obvious wet spot. You're looking around, seemingly looking for the last paper. It's under his foot, but he slides it to under the table. A small piece of it sticking from under it, you will have no choice but to bend and grab it.

You stand up and walk over to your teacher, " Sorry, I lost the last one..." Your words become quieter as you spot the last paper. Your body bends down when you feel a hand squeeze your chest. You let out a whimper at the feeling. His big hand begins pawing at your moun. His other hand squeezes your ass as he pulls you to sit on his lap. You're squirming at the feeling of his hands pulling your shirt and bra down in one swift motion.

He begins pinching and pulling your nipples making you arch your back, head falling on his should. " Good girl." You hear him praise over your moans. You can feel the warmth of his erection on your ass. His right hand goes under your skirt where he begins rubbing his fingers over your clothed cunt. Your moaning loudly, like the slut you are enjoying your teacher assaulting you.

The stimulation of his finger rubbing your core and him pinching your nipples soon has you Cumming, squirting over his finger with a porngrafic moan. He kisses you, silencing your moans as your body twitches and tembles. Pussy clenching on nothing, eyes rolled into your skull. He lifts his finger, watching as your slick drips and connects his digest together.

His hand holds your body in place as he frees his aching dick. It smacks against your ass. He gives himself a few pumps, your slick and his pre cum mixing into one. He slides your panties to the side as he alines himself over your soaking wet pussy. His tip rubs over your slit before he thrusts into your tight little hole, stretching you deliciously and hiting every sweet spot and curve inside you. You moan at the feeling, and you hear him grunt in your ear, " Sucking my dick like the whore you are, good girl." His words makes your walls tighten and pulse around him.

As your moans become harder to control as he begins to move, he bends your body over the table. Your upper half resting on the table for support as it squicks, he holds your waist with a tight grip. As he slams your hips onto his dick over and over, the sound of skin slapping against skin can be heard echoing over the empty room. You feel the coil in your stomach tightened as he abuses your g-spot. His tip hit your womb, making you thrust forward. Open mouth moan, that made your eyes roll and your tongue stick out. White sparks crossing your vision, " You like that, don't you- slap- you slut." He commented, your walls twitched and tightened at his words.

He gave you another slap, and you're ass stung, along with a hard thrust that broke you completely. Your walls spasm around his dick as your body twitches and tembles. "C-cummin-" you moaned out, Your walls were tight around him as he continued to thrust into your over sensitive cunt. With a few more hard thrusts his tip pushed against your womb, releasing ropes after ropes of his hot thigh cum.

He pulled out of your cunt, with a sign. He watched as your body twitched and tembled, babbling to yourself. His cum begain to trickle down your cunt to your inner thight and finally to the floor, as your wobbling legs failed to keep you upand you began to slip to the floor. His muscular arm held you, the tsked at you. " Don't spill my seed, my cute little slut." He spoke while scooping the cum falling from your cunt and pushing it back with is thight finger into you. You moaned at the feeling. You were so full. He pulled and fixed your underwear.

The bell rang, signaling the end of office hours, your face was flushed, and your clothes were a mess. With tembling fingers, you fixed yourself up, taking the papers he had on the table. He put his hand on your lower back as he walked you to the door. He lowered himself to your ear. " Come early tomorrow, and I might give you the answers for the exam." He spoke. He watched with glee as you nodded.

He opened the door for you, and as you walked out the door, he gave you a firm smack in the ass " I enjoyed our little study session." You didn't have to turn around to see the smile on his face. You weren't his student anymore, but his slut. His own personal fleshlight, his cute personal fuck toy that he could mold as he so please.

Gojo, Toji, Choso, Sukuna, Geto, Nanami, Naoya.

----------------------------------------------------

©𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝙱𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢! 𝙽𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚘𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝙸𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚝. 𝙴𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢, 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚎. - 𝙱𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢🩻!

----------------------------------------------------

[not-avril]

Classic of problematic AUs

[lemurianeggs]

Stalker Caleb Headcanon - DDDNE

TW: Stalking - Grooming - Teacher x Student - Implied Noncon

MC can't help the feeling of being watched as soon as she leaves her house. It often has her run the last few meters home / to school cause she is so scared by it.

Sometimes Caleb makes a game out of it. He is standing in the shadows watching her. Using his evol to make her jump by throwing a can or other trash, enjoying the thrill of seeing her panic and run. On rare occasions he will even indulge into running after her. He is wearing all black with a black mask and hat, so no one will be able to identify him anyways.

Maybe on one of those days he will use his evol to make it impossible for her to shut the door after she ran inside, to follow her. Though he probably has been inside her house a lot already, rummaging through her underwear and rubbing himself off on her bed, but at one point that is just not enough for him anymore.

He needs to fully own her. He is so glad that her guardian seems to be away for work a lot. Makes it easier to get close to her.

Cause little does she know that he is her teacher, the school counsellor at her school, watching her even there.

Maybe he will scare her deliberately at school too, letting something fall in the bathroom, when she is alone just to see her jump again.

He loves playing with her fear.

She tells him readily about her nightmares and fears too with him being a trusty teacher to her - He's so aroused from her shaking and quivering while she retells her biggest fears.

Also whenever she gets attention from boys her age, her life somehow gets worse. The scary incidents increase and he has her sobbing in her office. - Getting off on seeing her cry like that.

"You know, Pips. This might be those boys... I know that is hard to accept but sometimes they like to play pranks like that. It's probably best if you don't talk to them anymore.", he will tell her and she fully believes him cause he had always been so so kind to her.

He will probably also give her the cold shoulder eventually, to drive her mad, while scary things keep happening to her, maybe even rumors going around about her, getting her ostracized from her fellow students. Acting as if he was too busy to talk and support her only to make her more pliable in the end - her being already codependent on him emotionally.

There will mostlikely be assault at some point too, just because he is a greedy man and can't hold back for much longer. It makes it easier for him to continue being that strong pillar for her as the "one person" that seemingly cares for her too.

He will play mindgames with her trauma, breaking her until she is malleable enough to be formed into his perfect little plaything. Telling her he can make her feel good and that she doesn't need to be scared of sex, if she just allows him to show her.

(This is most likely going on for years until it becomes her "normal". He might even convince her to marry him along the lines.)

[madammidnightsblog]

Trying Something New.

yandere! student x teacher y/n

Yandere! Student thinks it just a cute puppy love kind of crush because what else could you really call it?

Yandere! Student never seems can keep his eyes to himself, letting them wander across your body as you stand in front of the classroom and wonders just how soft your skin must be under that pretty outfit

Yandere! Student gets jealous of the other students whenever he sees them talking to you and just wishes you'd just talk to him and explain everything on the homework even though he knew the answers

Yandere! Student catches himself falling for you deeper after you asked him to stay after class to help clean up, believing this was your way of confessing your love for him

Yandere! Student who finds himself having to take bathroom breaks halfway through your class to take care of himself because your voice and presence turns him on

Yandere! Student wanders how long it would take you to notice your favorite pen is missing as he uses it during class, scribbling down notes along with cute little love notes all over his notebook

Yandere! Student waits after school to walk with you in the parking lot, making the excuse that he just had some questions about your class when in reality he's just trying to remember your license plate number

Yandere! Student spends every lunch with you with the excuse of having no friends and just hates eating alone and how could you say no to him?

Yandere! Student just so happens to have the same favorite bake goods as you and buys enough for two to share with you during lunch

Yandere! Student spreads rumors about any of the male teachers that flirt, making them as horrible and mean as he can so you'd avoid them

Yandere! Student that goes out of his way to talk to you in anyway he can, even going as far as contacting you on your social media with lies of being mistreated by family after finding out you have a soft spot for children from broken homes

[littlegaalaxy]

Teacher's Pet

♡⃕ Relationship} Divus Crewel x Student! Fem! Reader

♡⃕ Summary} "You are Divus' pet"

♡⃕ TW.} Student and teacher relationship; Age gap (Reader is 18 and Divus is 32); Sub/Dom Dynamics; Light pet play and suggestions for oral sex

♡⃕ Notes} English is not my first language, there may be mistakes. This is my first fic, so it's simpler

It was an afternoon like any other at Night Raven College. The hallways were silent, except for the sound of hurried footsteps as some students ran to their classes. [Name] walked slowly towards the Potions room, the place where she spent most of her time. She was shy, almost invisible to her classmates, and even with her small and harmless appearance, there was something about her that no one suspected.

While other students struggled to understand the complicated art of potions, [Name] always stood out. Even though she was terrible in class, she always got top marks on her tests. It was something that many murmured suspiciously, but no one ever had the courage to question it directly. After all, how could such a dull girl excel at something so difficult?

The answer lay in the secret that she and Divus Crewel, the strict and elegant Potions professor, kept with extreme care. The truth was, [Name] was more than just a student. When the doors to the room closed and the lights went out, she transformed into what Crewel affectionately called his "puppy." The bond between them went far beyond the teacher-student relationship. She obeyed Divus's every command, whether inside or outside the classroom, like a faithful pet.

Once, after an exhausting class, as the other students left with frustrated murmurs about the complex potions they needed to memorize, [Name] fell behind, as always. Divus gave her a sharp look, adjusting the fur coat over his shoulders elegantly. He knew she would stay. It always was.

"Close the door, [Name]" his voice was calm, but with an implicit order.

She obeyed without question, locking the room. The sound of the key turning in the lock seemed to seal the secret they both shared. When she turned around, Divus was watching her with those piercing eyes that both intimidated and fascinated her.

"You know why you get such good grades, don't you?" he asked, walking towards her. [Name] nodded, her heart racing.

"Yes, master" she whispered, her eyes lowered, avoiding eye contact.

He smiled, that smile of someone who is in complete control of the situation. Divus was impeccable in everything he did, whether in the classroom or how he handled his "animals". And [Name] was his most precious “puppy”.

“Then kneel,” he ordered softly.

Without hesitation, [Name] obeyed, kneeling before him. To the outside world, she was just an ordinary student, but inside that room, she was from Divus. Totally, unconditionally.

<3

[girlneedingherdaddy]

Hi

i'm a very cute, girly girl, feminine, but with an independent streak (some say bratty but whatever) i'm smart but really don't wanna be (which is why i'm here)

looking for much older men to chat with. nobody under 40 preferably. you can be mean, humiliate me, degrade me, make me say things, but just don't be an asshole ok? if you don't know the difference between being a much older man who can handle a 20 yo and being an asshole, we don't have anything to talk about

won't send nudes. i MIGHT show you a pic of me in messages IF we get to chatting and we are having fun. please don't ask otherwise.

i def have daddy issues, love older men, love older teachers, love being in inappropriately large age-gap relationships. not looking to meet anyone here in real life. i love men who are incredibly bad for me and will guide me down the wrong path in life.