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sylusdarling · 2 months ago

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Say it, professor

Synopsis: Rafayel was a smug, unbothered student with eyes that undressed you every class. You were strict, composed, untouchable. Neither of you ever backed down—until the tension finally broke. Because if Rafayel wanted play games, he would for sure be the one to lose them.

Content warnings: Power imbalance, professor/student, explicit sexual content, semi-public sex, obsession, teasing dominance, light coercive language (consensual), soft power play, exhibitionism (implied), possessiveness, praise kink, dirty talk, office sex, sexual overstimulation, oral fixation, light marking, mutual pining, rafayel is a brat, student rafayel & professor mc, menace student raf, mc had enough of him.

Pairings: Rafayel x reader

Word count: 12.6k

A/n: it wasn't enough to write prof raf, i had to write student raf too bcs this dude would be a menace and i stand by that

There’s a certain rhythm to the start of every semester. New faces, stiff notebooks, students pretending to care while you introduce the syllabus. You’ve done this enough times now to expect the pattern—clear, predictable, and boring.

And then the door creaks open. Half an hour in. No knock. No hesitation. Just… him. He walks in like he owns the floor beneath his boots. No rush. No apology. Loose black shirt, collar casually undone, tousled purple hair that’s either a masterpiece or a mess. One hand wrapped lazily around a coffee cup that definitely didn’t come from the campus café. His eyes scan the room—disinterested, slow—until they find yours.

You don’t blink, you just raise a brow, unimpressed. “You must be Rafayel.”

His mouth curls into a smirk, slow and unbothered. “Word travels fast.”

You shift your weight against the edge of the desk, arms crossed. “Only when someone emails three hours before class to enroll late… and still manages to show up late to that.”

A few chuckles ripple through the rows. He doesn’t flinch—he basks in it, like a smug little child that he is so bent on acting like.

“Time is relative,” he says, as if that explains everything. “Plato would agree.”

You give him your best polite smile, the kind that bites beneath the surface. “And yet even Plato would’ve made it to class on time.”

He strolls down the center aisle like he’s descending from some gilded throne, taking a seat three rows in. Dead center. Close enough to make his presence felt. Far enough to keep the upper hand.

“Carry on,” he murmurs, stretching out like this is his stage. “I’ll catch up.”

You stare for a beat too long, already regretting your life choices. Fine. Two can play.

“As I was saying,” you continue, letting your voice sharpen just enough to slice, “this course explores how we define beauty, truth, meaning—and why artists love to pretend they’re above it all while secretly begging the universe to call them special.”

Your eyes slide to him. “Some more than others.”

He doesn’t flinch, just gives you an infuriating smile.

The rest of the lecture rolls on. You don’t look at him again. He lounges in his seat like the material’s beneath him, one leg lazily crossed over the other, eyes half-lidded as you dissect Kant’s idea of disinterested beauty and Plato’s Forms. You see the way other students glance at him—whispered recognition, the tension of sitting near someone who’s already been in galleries they can only dream of. But you don’t feed it. He’s just another student. Late, cocky, and already trying to act like he’s bored.

You don’t care. You’re not here to entertain, and especially not him.

Finally, you reach the end of the class. Closing your laptop, you straighten up and face the room with calm authority.

“There’s no textbook in the world that can teach you what art means to you,” you say, voice clear. “Which is why your first project is a little… unconventional.”

You let the words hang a beat.

“I want you to pick a piece of art—any piece. Painting, film, song, sculpture, poem. Something that makes you feel something. I want to know what you think it means. What truth it carries. Not what the critics say. Not what the artist claimed. What you see.”

There’s a murmur through the class. Some intrigued, some already anxious. You continue, casually flipping through your notes. “It’s due in two weeks. No minimum length, but if I feel you’re bullshitting, I will know.”

That’s when you catch it, movement from his row. You glance up.

He’s smirking, his voice smooth, lazy. “So, basically… art therapy with a grading system?”

A few people laugh. You don’t. You give him a single, flat look. “If that’s the level of depth you’re bringing to the assignment, you might want to drop the class now.”

His smirk falters, just barely.

You add, evenly, “Even if you’re a published artist with gallery acclaim and far too much time on your hands… it wouldn’t hurt to learn how to feel something about the work instead of just displaying it.”

You don’t say his name. You don’t need to. The way a few students shift awkwardly, trying not to look at him, is enough. But he just leans back, lacing his fingers behind his head like this is all part of the game.

There’s a flash in his eyes now, playful, challenged.

“Touché,” he murmurs.

You don’t smile, just begin to gather your things. “Class dismissed.”

As the students file out, you barely glance his way. Not even a nod. He waits an extra moment, watching you pack up, expecting maybe another jab, another glance.

He gets nothing. And somehow, that is what really gets to him.

————

You don’t call on him. Not once during the next classes. Not even when the question hangs in the air a little too long and his gaze flickers up, amused. You ask someone else. Anyone else.

And still, he’s always there in the third row, center. That damn seat like a throne.

You thought maybe it was a one time thing. That after the first class, with his lazy arrogance and too pretty smirk, he’d vanish and find a studio to haunt instead. But no. He shows up. Every single time.

The next four classes go like this. He walks in right on time, but never early. Takes the same seat, sprawls in it like he’s claiming territory. His notebook stays closed. His pen rarely moves. Sometimes he plays with his rings or adjusts the single earring in his left ear like he’s half-listening to a private soundtrack only he can hear. His eyes? Always half-lidded, distant, like the whole discussion on Plato’s form of the Good or Nietzsche’s abyss is some elaborate joke. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t raise his hand. But he watches. You feel it sometimes when your back is turned to the board—his stare, sharp and curious, like he’s dissecting you as much as the subject.

You don’t give him the satisfaction. Not even a sigh. But it’s getting under your skin. His indifference. His presence. His stupidly perfect jawline. The casual way he dresses like he rolled out of bed and still manages to look like he stepped off a magazine cover. You’ve seen that picture of him in two art magazines. Two.

And now he’s here, in your classroom, wasting time and space and oxygen, pretending like he’s bored out of his mind.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You grade the papers. You lead the discussion. You walk into class like his seat is empty.

But still, you know exactly what kind of artist he is. You’ve heard enough through the grapevine. The raw talent. The acclaim. The ridiculous whisper that he sold his first gallery piece at nineteen. And more than that, you’ve heard the one thing that should have warned you.

“Rafayel only pays attention to people who can keep up with him.”

Which is, you assume, the only reason he took your class in the first place. Not for the syllabus. Not for the credit. Just to see if you’d bite.

So far? You haven’t. But god, if you don’t want to wipe that cocky, bored smirk off his face.

————

You’re halfway through your lecture—something about the subjective framing of meaning in postmodern visual culture—when you notice it again.

Rafayel, third row center, leaned back in his chair like he’s physically allergic to giving a damn. His sketchpad is open—not with notes, of course—but with loose graphite lines bleeding across the page. You catch the flick of his wrist as he draws, head tilted, one leg crossed lazily over the other like this is his personal studio and not a philosophy class.

He doesn’t even pretend to care. Not a glance at the board. Not a twitch when you speak.

What the hell is he even doing here?

You feel it simmering under your skin—his smugness, his presence, the way his pencil dances instead of his mind. And then—goddamn it—when he does look up, it’s not at the board. It’s at you. Always at you.

He watches like you’re a painting in progress. Chin propped in one hand, pencil now between his teeth as he chews on the eraser with infuriating nonchalance. His eyes drag from your face to your hips and back again—not subtle, never subtle—with that same faint smile. Not quite flirtation. Not quite mockery. Something just in between.

You don’t react, you don’t let yourself. You refuse to give him any damned reaction to whatever he thinks he’s doing. Instead, your tone sharpens as you lower your notes and sweep your gaze across the room.

“I’ve received nearly everyone’s assignment already,” you say, voice crisp. “If you haven’t sent it, today is the final day. No exceptions.”

Silence.

Then your gaze cuts cleanly to him. “Mr. Qi, I don’t believe I’ve seen yours.”

The room shifts,m subtle but immediate. A few heads turn. Your voice is even, professional, detached, but everyone hears it—that thin thread of irritation beneath.

Rafayel blinks once, slow and then reaches into his bag like you’ve just asked him the time.

“No rush,” he says, standing up like it’s a goddamn performance. “It’s right here.”

He approaches, each step lazy, predatory—unbothered by the attention, soaking in it. When he reaches your desk, he sets the folded paper down like it’s not a mere assignment, but some sacred offering. Then he leans in slightly, eyes glinting with something too smug to be innocent.

“You asked for meaning,” he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear. “I figured I’d start by choosing a piece that reminds me of you.”

You don’t blink.

“Is that so?” you say flatly, picking up the paper without so much as glancing at him. “Must I remind you it’s a philosophy course, not a performance piece.”

He smiles wider, teeth flashing like challenge. “I’ll try to contain myself.”

You look up at him, gaze ice-cold. “Thank you for your submission. You can take your seat now.”

Something flickers across his face then, just for a second. The smile slips and his eyes narrow, not in anger, but in interest. Like he felt the hit.

He nods once. “Of course, professor.”

Then he turns, saunters back to his seat, and this time… his face is unreadable.

The class ends soon after that. You dismiss them with a nod and barely wait for the last pair of footsteps to disappear down the hall before you head back to your office, folders clutched tight in your arms like armor.

The door clicks shut behind you, locking the world out. You exhale, like the breath has been caged in your chest the whole class and now could finally break free.

You don’t want to think about him. But you do. You force yourself to start with the others. It’s only fair. You read through the first three submissions quickly—solid work, but nothing particularly groundbreaking. A few are too stiff, like they were written to impress a ghost of academia rather than explore truth. One uses too many buzzwords. One completely misinterprets Barthes, but at least tried. You take notes, you type scores, you sip your now-cold coffee.

But your fingers twitch. That folded page at the bottom of the stack—his—sits there like a goddamn challenge, practically vibrating with the audacity of existing in your space.

You last maybe five more minutes before you give in. You slide it out from the pile, carefully unfolding it with a sigh already half-formed on your lips.

And then your stomach drops. It’s a charcoal sketch—subtle, moody, uncomfortably intimate. A woman, clearly, seated on a chair with her back slightly arched, hair spilling across her bare shoulders, shirt falling off one arm, eyes closed. The way her neck is exposed, the soft tension in her fingers… it’s not explicit. But it’s not innocent, either.

And the worst part?

You recognize the pose. Because it’s you. Or at least close enough to make your pulse spike.

One of the first classes. That moment you turned to the board, shoulder to the class, adjusting your collar absentmindedly while quoting Kant. You remember the feeling of his eyes on you then. You knew.

And below the sketch, scrawled in that sharp, deliberate handwriting: “Truth lies in the tension between restraint and desire. You asked for honesty.”

Your eyes narrow. The arrogant bastard. You flip the page, expecting garbage. Something half-assed. But it’s not. The written analysis is solid. He references Schopenhauer and Nietzsche with surprising clarity. He even challenges a few popular interpretations with his own arguments—and annoyingly, they’re good. Not perfect. He’s messy with transitions, and one paragraph veers dangerously close to emotional indulgence.

But it’s real. It’s thoughtful. And as much as you hate to admit it—he did the work.

You lean back in your chair, rubbing your temple. Of course he did. He baited you, and now he’s probably somewhere smug as hell, knowing you’re sitting here with flushed cheeks and that image still burning behind your eyelids.

You let the paper fall onto your desk. You won’t let him get to you.

————

It’s been two weeks. One unplanned absence, some vague “personal matters” that you didn’t explain to the class. They don’t need to know. But you needed the space. Needed a week to breathe. To shake off the lingering image of a sketch that felt too familiar, the scrawl of “tension and desire” echoing every time you tried to sleep.

You hated him for it. And worse, you gave him a damn A.

You walk into class dressed in discipline—tight skirt, fitted vest, cream blouse buttoned high and crisp. Your heels echo against the tile, and heads turn because they always do when you look like this—untouchable, focused.

Except for one. Third row, center. Of course. Rafayel. Leaning back in his chair like he never left it. Shirt undone just enough to be distracting, hair a deliberate mess, pencil dancing between his fingers as he sketches, not even pretending to hide it. No notebook. No textbook. Just lines and shadows and that goddamn infuriating smile.

You don’t look at him when you start.

“Before we begin,” you say, calm and measured, “I want to thank everyone who submitted their assignments. Some of you pushed yourselves. Some of you stayed too safe. And some of you…” Your eyes sweep the room, and you don’t stop when they land on him, but you let the pause sharpen. “...clearly enjoy making statements.”

A few students glance around. He doesn’t even flinch as he feels your eyes on him, hiding a grin.

You move on. The class unfolds as usual. You try to focus—on the lecture, on the material, on anyone except the boy who’s driving you absolutely insane. But it’s impossible. His posture, his bored little sighs. The fucking pencil tapping against his lip as he draws without care.

So you snap. Not visibly. Not emotionally. But tactically. You stop mid-slide and glance his way.

“Mr. Qi,” you say sweetly. “Since you seem so deeply engrossed in your own world, maybe you could tell us—what did Kant mean by the universality of aesthetic judgment?”

He doesn’t even blink and doesn’t sit up. He just looks at you like he’s been waiting for this.

“It means,” he starts, voice lazy but perfectly clear, “that beauty isn’t about opinion. It’s about a kind of shared feeling—a universal response to form and harmony. That something beautiful should feel beautiful to everyone, even if they can’t explain why.”

You stare.

He shrugs. “You said it best, professor. Week two. The way your eyes lit up when you broke it down—it kind of stuck with me.”

A few students laugh under their breath. He smiles, not obnoxiously, but just enough to sting.

You inhale through your nose, keeping your spine straight.

“Correct,” you say tightly. “Try keeping up with the next ten minutes too.”

He tips an invisible hat. “Wouldn’t dream of missing it.”

You move on, but your blood is simmering. He’s not just paying attention, he’s memorizing you. And that might be worse than not listening at all.

You feel his gaze like a burn—low, constant, and maddening. He’s drawing again. Always drawing. His pencil moving while you speak, his eyes flitting between the paper and you, like you’re just another subject to be studied. And you can’t help it, your mind drifts as you keep talking on the current subject in the class.

Is he sketching me again?

God, you hope not. God, you know he is. You don’t let your expression shift. You press through the lecture, push harder into the discussion, but it doesn’t matter. He’s lounging back, watching you from beneath those lashes, smug and beautiful and infuriatingly still here.

So fine. If he wants to play games, then let’s raise the stakes. As the clock winds down and students begin to pack their things, you speak above the shuffle, voice calm but firm.

“Mr. Qi, stay behind a moment.”

That gets attention. A few heads turn, one girl even whistles under her breath. He straightens a little in surprise but recovers quick, dragging out his movements like this is his idea. His smirk twitches, but you don’t look at him. Not until the room clears.

He stands in front of you now, casual, confident, waiting. He is still near his usual seat, still clutching that damn sketchpad like a weapon. You glance at the chair—the one he’s turned into a throne for weeks now—and scoff under your breath.

“Come here,” you say, sharp. “I’m tired of looking at you slouched in that godforsaken seat.”

His brows raise, lips twitching with surprise and delight, but he steps closer. Not hesitantly, no, but curiously. Like a lion sauntering toward a hand it knows won’t pet it.

You don’t meet his eyes. You reach into your bag, fingers brushing the paper you’ve stared at too many times this week. You feel his gaze settle on you again—those molten violet eyes burning through every layer of fabric, flesh, nerve.

You hold out the folded assignment.

“Here. You got an A,” you say, cool and professional. “Much to my dismay.”

He takes it from your hand, slow and deliberate, fingers brushing yours like it’s accidental, but you know better. The smile plastered on his face is pure sin.

“Well, you’re the one who said you wanted honesty,” he murmurs. “I thought giving you something inspired might help the grade curve.”

You give him a hard look. “I graded the work, not the artist.”

Another grin. “Pity.”

You inhale. No. No. You straighten your spine, grounding yourself in that thin veneer of authority you refuse to let crack.

“Your work’s decent,” you say. “But you’re too comfortable. Too cocky. You coast. I want to see what happens when you’re actually pushed.”

His head tilts, intrigued now. “Are you offering to push me, professor?”

“Stop,” you snap, sharper than intended. “I’m assigning you a personal project.”

His smile returns immediately, slow and gleaming like it knows something.

“Oh? A special assignment? Just for me? I didn’t realize we were doing favorites.”

You lean in slightly, eyes narrowed. “You’re not special. You’re annoying. But you’ve got potential, and if I have to scrape it out of you myself, so be it.”

He’s silent, watching you like you're the art now.

You continue. “I want an essay and a visual piece. Separate. Same theme.”

“And what’s the theme?” he asks, voice low, cautious—just the edge of real curiosity under the teasing tone.

You meet his gaze dead-on. “Obsession.”

Something flickers in his eyes, a flash of heat, of tension, of something too dangerous, something that should not be present in his eyes, not for you.

Then, the smile, slower this time, a little more darker.

“Well,” he murmurs, voice silk-slick and cutting. “That won’t be hard.”

————

You’re walking down the hall with a stack of papers pressed against your chest, mind already drifting to the next class, the grading backlog, the sheer volume of things you still need to do.

“Professor.” the voice is smooth and familiar and too close.

You blink and glance sideways just as he falls into step beside you, walking a little too fast to have just coincidentally caught up.

Rafayel. Of course. You tilt your head, arching a brow. “Is there something you need, or are you just bored of sketching in class and decided to stalk me instead?”

He grins, hands tucked in his pockets like this is all so very casual. “Tempting, but no. I figured I’d drop off some rough sketches. For the personal project.”

You pause in front of your office door, narrowing your eyes. “Class ended over two hours ago.”

“I know. But you said you wanted to see progress.” He shrugs. “I’m making progress.”

You don’t have time for games. Not now. With a soft huff, you turn the key and push the door open, nodding your head once in silent invitation.

He follows. Of course he does, like he can barely contain himself not to. The door clicks softly shut behind him, and you place your stack down, sorting it as you speak.

“All right. Let’s see them, then.”

He pulls a slim sketchpad from his bag and walks forward, setting it on your desk with that signature smug confidence. “Keep in mind, these are just concepts,” he says, voice teasing. “But they’re… honest.”

You open the cover and stop in your tracks. Your fingers still on the edge of the page, your pulse flickers as your eyes land on the page. The first sketch is tame at first glance. A pair of hands, fingers tangled, drawn in a way that feels desperate. Clingy. Needy. The texture of skin, the tension in the knuckles. The veins. The intimacy of it—unmistakable.

The second sketch is worse. Or better. You don’t know. It’s the curve of a back, caught mid-motion. Bare skin, a spine arched slightly, head tilted back like in pain or pleasure—it’s abstract, sure, but unmistakably sensual. Not explicit. But... felt.

And the last one—still incomplete—is a silhouette. A woman, perhaps. Staring down at something beneath her, mouth slightly parted. Your eyes linger on it longer than you mean to. And you know he’s watching you for every little flicker in your eyes or expression.

Your voice finally scrapes out, cool and measured. “They’re... raw.”

“Wasn’t that the assignment?” he murmurs. “Obsession?”

You keep your eyes on the paper. “You’ve captured tension well. Though some of these might be... misinterpreted.”

He hums low in his throat. “Only if someone’s looking too closely.”

You glance up at him. His expression is innocent, too innocent. You narrow your gaze. “Are these based on anything in particular?”

He tilts his head slightly, his purple eyes sharp like a match just waiting to strike. “Do they feel familiar?”

You refuse to take that bait. “I asked a question.”

“And I answered. Obsession, professor. It doesn’t always need a face.” he shrugs lightly. “But it helps.”

You cross your arms, the paper still in one hand. “You should be mindful of exactly who you draw inspiration from.”

He smiles. “I’m just doing my assignment.”

You stare at him for a beat too long. “I want the essay draft next. No later than Monday. And keep the sketches grounded in theme. Intimacy doesn’t always mean sexuality.”

He leans forward slightly, just enough for the air between you to shift. “Of course. But sometimes obsession does.”

Your jaw tics. You close the sketchpad and hand it back to him, your expression flat. “That will be all, Mr. Qi.”

He takes it, smile lingering like smoke. “See you Monday, professor.”

And then he’s gone, door clicking shut behind him, leaving the scent of graphite and heat behind. And you are still standing there, heart beating faster than it should, trying not to think about how well he draws the curve of a back that could very well be yours.

————

Monday comes fast. You have no class with him today, and yet he’s still wormed his way into your mind. You’d cursed yourself twice already this morning for catching your thoughts drifting back to those sketches. That curve of spine, the suggestion in the posture. And worse—what he might say in the essay.

You’re at your desk now, tapping through lecture notes, coffee going lukewarm, outfit sleek and deliberate. The mirror had warned you before you left home—this wasn’t a “blend in” kind of look. But you hadn’t dressed for him. Not consciously.

You’re halfway through adjusting a file when there’s a knock. You glance at the clock. You don’t need to say a word. He opens the door, casual as ever before you have time to even call out. Tousled hair, sketchpad under one arm, and a folded sheet of paper between his fingers. That same lazy smirk draped across his face like a second skin.

“Professor,” he says, as if he’s greeting an old friend. He steps in and closes the door behind him, uninvited but unapologetic.

You arch an eyebrow as he approaches your desk, the click of his shoes soft but deliberate.

“I brought the essay,” he says, placing the paper in front of you. “And a few reworked sketches.”

You nod, expression unreadable. “Thank you. I’ll review them.”

You expect him to leave, but he doesn’t.

You look up again, confused. He’s still there, still leaning slightly forward, both hands braced on your desk, gaze dropping to your legs before trailing up slowly.

Your eyebrow twitches.

“Is there something else?” you ask, tone cool.

His eyes lift to meet yours—glinting, dark, far too entertained.

“I redid the sketches,” he says. “Figured I’d show you. See if I’m still straddling that line.”

“You’re straddling something,” you mutter before you can stop yourself.

He grins. “Is that permission?”

You exhale through your nose, tone sharp. “Show me the sketches.”

He opens the sketchpad with deliberate care, flipping past the earlier drawings. He pushes the cketchpad in front of you and your eyes land on the new ones.

And your breath catches. These are rougher. Rawer. Every line is heavier, more defined. The same themes are there—tension, intimacy, obsession—but now it’s less suggestion and more revelation. One sketch is of hands again—only this time, they’re gripping the edge of a table, knuckles pale. Another shows a mouth parted, breathless. The final one is the worst.

A woman’s silhouette again—spine arched, blouse slipping low, neck exposed. You see it instantly. The angle, the posture, the way the hair falls. It’s you. You know it. He knows it.

You straighten your shoulders, throat dry.

“These are… technically better,” you say, voice carefully neutral. “Still intense. Still toeing the edge.”

His smile doesn’t fade. “You like them.”

You lift your gaze, cool and challenging. “They’re not about liking. They’re about execution.”

“And the execution’s turning you pink.”

Your jaw clenches. You cross your legs under the desk deliberately, letting the silence stretch. “I suggest you leave before you start confusing the assignment with fantasy.”

He tilts his head. “And if it’s both?”

You don’t answer, you just pick up your pen and look back down at the essay like he’s already left. But he lingers a second longer. You feel the heat of his stare, the weight of his presence.

“See you next class, professor.” and he’s gone.

Leaving you with a stack of papers, flushed skin, and the sharp itch of something you’re not sure you want to name or if you even dare acknoledge.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. It slips past your lips shakily, and you shift in your seat, crossing your legs the other way in a futile attempt to settle the prickling burn beneath your skin.

Your fingers tap the desk once, twice. Then you reach for the essay. You steel yourself for whatever performative mess he’s written, expecting wit, maybe more of that theatrical flirtation dressed up in paragraphs. But it’s not that. Not exactly.

The first lines are composed. Clean. He’s trying to sound academic. You recognize the effort, there’s a structure, a clear thesis, citations tucked into the paragraphs like he’s following the rules for once.

But then the tone shifts. And it’s subtle. Insidious. He never says anything outright. Not once. But the entire essay hums with implication.

“Obsession is not always fire—it can be stillness. The kind of stillness that eats at you, that anchors your focus until there’s nothing else to see. Sometimes, it wears perfume. Sometimes, it taps a pen against a desk.”

Your throat tightens.

“There is a particular power in knowing someone will never reach for you, and wanting them anyway.”

You don’t realize how tightly you’re gripping the page until your knuckles go white.

“This project has made me consider that obsession doesn’t always come from desire. Sometimes, it stems from awe. From restraint. From the deliberate withholding of something the body already recognizes as inevitable.”

You close the essay before finishing the final paragraph. Your mind races, your chest rises and falls too fast, too shallow. He didn’t say your name and didn’t describe you. There’s nothing technically wrong here, nothing you can point to.

And yet you know that every word, every breath of meaning between the lines, every sketch and every answer he’s given in class like he wasn’t paying attention just to sting you with it later…it’s all about you.

You press the back of your hand to your mouth. You shouldn’t allow this, not even under academic pretense. You shouldn’t like that he sees you this clearly, that he draws you this well.

You compose yourself, force it back into the box.

————

On Wednesday, you arrive to class looking immaculate, composed. Maybe a little sharper than usual. You teach as if nothing is different. No tension. No edge. No shift in your pulse when he walks in and takes his throne in the third row, looking like he never even wrote a word of that essay.

You don’t look at him once.

You finish the lecture, you answer questions and then, you dismiss the class. You don’t linger in the room. You’re back in your office before your heels even stop echoing down the hall.

Your office is quiet, your laptop warm beneath your palms as you click through assignments that have nothing to do with him. Nothing sensual, nothing dangerous, just routine work from students who don’t make your blood pressure spike.

And yet, his essay is still sitting off to the side of your desk like it’s watching you. You refuse to look at it again. You cross your legs slowly, adjusting the hem of your skirt, the crisp white vest hugging your frame just right. You breathe through the simmer in your veins, trying to bury it under logic and clean lines and to-do lists.

You’re halfway through marking an essay on postmodern interpretations of spatial aesthetics when there’s a knock. You don’t even glance up. “Come in.”

The door creaks and closes.

You look up absentmindedly and your throat tightens. Rafayel, with his tousled hair, slightly oversized sweater hanging loose off one shoulder like an afterthought, sketchpad in one hand and a coffee holder in the other with two cups.

Your brow twitches. “Is that bribery?”

He grins. “You wound me, professor. It’s a peace offering.”

He strides in with slow confidence, placing one cup on your desk like this is routine. Like he’s allowed to do this. You don’t reach for the coffee. You keep your fingers curled around your trackpad, eyes locked on the screen in front of you as you clear your throat.

“Your timing is predictable.”

“So is yours,” he counters, settling into the chair across from you like it’s his. “Same time every week, same window open, same playlist low in the background. You’re a creature of habit.”

You don’t answer, you don’t rise to it. Not until he sets the sketchpad beside the coffee.

“I refined them again,” he says smoothly. “Thought you might want to see. You know…since you didn’t seem… indifferent last time.”

Your eyes flicker to the sketchpad but only for a second. You force them back to your screen, ignoring the warmth building in your chest.

“I read your essay,” you say instead, voice voming out even, controlled, distant.

He leans forward slightly, gaze fixed on your face like he’s memorizing it again. “And?”

“And,” you echo, finally lifting your eyes, “you’re toying with a very thin line.”

That grin comes back, lazy and sharp. “Lines are meant to be tested, especially when they’re drawn in pencil.”

You sit back in your chair, cross your legs slowly again—not because of him, but because you need to do something with the heat crawling up your spine.

“The essay was good,” you say, voice cool. “More refined. You cleaned up your phrasing. Your argument was… persuasive.”

He tilts his head. “But?”

You look away. “But you know what you’re doing. And you’re enjoying it too much.”

His voice dips, playful and low. “Is that part of the grade?”

You narrow your eyes. “That depends. Do you want feedback or validation?”

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink. Just watches you with a gaze that feels like it touches you without physically reaching. “Can’t I have both?”

You swallow hard.

“This project is about control,” you say, steadier now. “Not indulgence. So I suggest you keep that in mind for the final.”

He hums. “I think I’m starting to understand that, actually. Obsession has rules…but fantasy doesn’t.”

You don’t know if you want to slap him or kiss him. Instead, you reach for the coffee cup slowly, taking a small, deliberate sip. You take another sip of coffee, your eyes locked on him over the rim. Calm. Neutral. Detached. At least, that’s the lie you tell your bloodstream as it rushes under your skin.

Then your gaze flicks to the sketchpad. You place the cup down, your hand reaching out—slow, deliberate—and you see the way his eyes track the motion.

You glance upand find him already smirking.

“There’s a little tab,” he says, voice low and teasing, “toward the middle. Start there.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That specific?”

He shrugs with a boyish tilt of his head, too smug for his own good. “You could flip through anything, really. But if you want the ones I made just for the project…”

His fingers tap the top corner. You don’t say a word, just open the sketchpad. And your breath catches so subtly even you don’t notice at first.

The sketches are more than before. Much more. More shadow. More definition. More body. More… truth. The first is a figure kneeling—shoulders tense, head bowed like in reverence or shame. You don’t know which one unnerves you more. The folds in the shirt that are familiar or the curve of the hips, the way the spine bends…

Your thighs press together under the desk. You say nothing, just flip to the next page. A mouth—biting a fingertip. The kind of detail you don’t sketch unless you’ve seen it. Another—legs crossed, back arched in a chair that looks alarmingly like your own.

You clear your throat, forcing your voice into something composed. “You’ve… refined your linework.”

He leans forward slightly, arms resting casually on the desk. “You think?”

“Mm.”

You flip to another. A pair of hands again. But this time, they’re braced on either side of something—or someone. Tension. Pressure. It’s in the shadows, the tightness in the wrists. The desperation, restrained. Your fingers twitch slightly on the paper.

You can feel his gaze moving—crawling slowly over your thighs, your waist, the dip in the vest that you didn’t think twice about this morning. But now? Now you feel every breath like it’s being watched.

Your brow furrows. “Rafayel.”

He hums, unfazed. “Hm?”

“You can’t look at me like that.”

He grins, shameless. “Like what?”

“Like you’re still sketching.”

His gaze sharpens. That gleam again—molten, dangerous. “Maybe I am. After all…” he pauses, tilting his head. “…an artist never stops creating in his own mind.”

Your chest tightens.

“There are boundaries,” you say softly, almost more to yourself.

“There are,” he agrees, lifting his cup and taking a slow sip. “You draw them. I follow them. I haven’t touched you, haven’t said anything I couldn’t defend as artistic inquiry.”

You swallow hard. “Artistic inquiry doesn’t usually make my skin burn.”

That slips out. You didn’t mean to say it, and you curse yourself mentally for it. That playful expression of his falters just a little, and is now replaced with something quieter and hungrier.

He sets the cup down. Then he speaks up, his voice lower now, just above a whisper. “I drew what obsession feels like. That was the brief. It’s not polite. It’s not clean. It’s not even safe. But it’s real.”

You glance down at the sketch—one you hadn’t commented on yet. A pair of eyes. Yours, unmistakably. Drawn in graphite, with so much pressure behind each line it’s almost violent.

He speaks again. “I wasn’t thinking about rules while I drew. Just… how it felt. The wanting, the restraint in not touching or speaking it aloud.”

You force yourself to close the sketchpad. Your hand trembles just a little, barely enough for him to catch—but he does. You lean back, crossing your legs slowly, regaining your armor.

“You’ll get your feedback next week,” you say quietly.

And for once, he doesn’t push. He just sits back and smiles. “Looking forward to it.”

And then he stands, picks up his coffee, and walks toward the door. Before he reaches for the door handle, he pauses and looks over his shoulder.

“Oh—and professor?” you don’t answer. “I think you wear the tension better than I draw it.”

And he’s gone.

You should’ve told him to take the sketchpad with him. You should’ve locked it away. Filed it under “unprofessional,” labeled it Exhibit A in your own personal trial. But instead? You opened it the moment he left. And you didn’t just look. You lingered.

Now, days later, the pages are smudged at the corners where your fingertips kept tracing over lines—hips, wrists, the curve of a throat you swear is yours. You keep telling yourself it's the art. The talent. The detail.

Not the way it made you clench your thighs at 1:42 a.m. with your duvet shoved between your legs. Not the way your breath stuttered on a gasp when you dared imagine yourself in those poses—gripped, pulled, bared. He’s a student. He’s your student. And you are losing control.

————

Next Wednesday, the class ends sooner than you expected. You’ve taught with military calm, your voice steady even when your body felt like it was coiled wire. You could feel his gaze the whole time. Always on you. And of course—today of all days—you dressed like a woman with something to prove.

Black fitted blazer. Crisp collar. Tie neatly knotted at your throat. Short enough skirt to test restraint, long enough to deny permission. Garters just visible beneath the hem when you walked. You’d called it fashion this morning. Now? You’re not so sure.

Students begin to pack up after you dismiss the class, looking at your wrist watch. You speak above the chatter, voice clean and professional. “Mr. Qi, stay behind.”

You don’t look at him as you gather your materials. He doesn’t say anything, just waits for you to finish. You can feel it, the tension wrapping tighter with every second you pretend not to notice how his gaze slides down your legs and back up.

You turn on your heel. “Follow me.”

Your heels click down the hall, and you know he’s watching you walk. You feel his presence like heat. He’s silent behind you, close enough that the air shifts with every step. And when you reach your office and unlock the door, you don’t look back. You let him enter and close the door behind you.

Just the two of you now. You walk to your desk as he stands there, waiting calmly, too calmly. You set your materials down and straighten your tie like a shield.

Then you speak, tone sharp. “I’ve reviewed your project thoroughly.”

He walks forward, taking a seat and leans against the chair casually, arms crossed. “So I assumed. You didn’t exactly rush to return it.”

You ignore that. “We need to discuss boundaries. Of implication. Of intention.”

He tilts his head, eyes dragging over your frame again like he’s still sketching you in real time. “You don’t like what I drew?”

Your gaze hardens. “You know that’s not the point.”

He shrugs, casual. “You asked for truth. I gave it. You asked for obsession. I delivered. You never said I couldn’t use you as a reference.”

That pulls the breath right from your chest.

“You’re my student,” you snap, but your voice is breathier than it should be.

He sits up and steps forward, not close, but enough to make you feel it. “And you’re the reason I haven’t slept properly in weeks.”

Your stomach flips. He studies you—your lips, the collar of your shirt, the way your legs are still crossed tight under the desk.

“You want to deny it,” he murmurs, “but you kept the sketchpad, did you not?”

Silence.

You don’t deny it, you just press your knees together a little harder and say, “Sit down. We’re going to talk, nothing more.”

He smirks. “As you wish, professor.”

And he does sit, lounging back. But that gaze? It never sits still, tracing your face with deliberate slowness.

You sit across from him, back straight, hands calm on the desk. Every inch of your body screams for stillness, for control—but it’s a losing battle. His eyes are shameless. They move like they’ve already memorized you, like they’re revisiting territory, not exploring it. They linger too long on your legs, on the edge of your blazer where it cuts high, on the subtle press of black garters just barely visible where your thigh crosses over the other.

And you know. You know exactly what he’s thinking. But you don’t acknowledge it. You cross your legs tighter, clenching subtly at the ache blooming slow between them, and speak like none of this matters.

“I’ve reviewed the full assignment,” you say evenly, pulling open your drawer and placing the sketchpad and essay between you on the desk. “The essay was thoughtful. Well-structured. The arguments were more coherent this time, and I appreciated the restraint in your citations. You finally chose substance over style.”

He hums, that little smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Shame.”

You ignore him.

“As for the sketches—your linework has matured. There’s precision in how you use pressure now. Intention. The theme of obsession was expressed clearly, maybe too clearly in some places. But I can’t dock points for honesty.”

His gaze doesn’t move from you. He hears your words, but it’s not what he’s paying attention to. His eyes linger on the way your blouse shifts when you move. The tight clasp of your thighs beneath the desk. The illusion of composure. And it gets to you.

Your fingers pause over the edge of the paper. You glance up sharply. “You’re not listening.”

His eyes flick up. “I am.”

“No, you’re looking,” you snap, a little too fast. “And not at what matters.”

His smile deepens but his eyes soften, just for a moment.

“I am looking,” he says, quieter this time. “It’s all the same, isn’t it? The way you talk. The way you sit. It’s all part of the piece.”

You’re about to respond—another curt reprimand forming on your tongue—when he leans down, pulling a second sketchpad from his bag. Your pulse stumbles.

“I, uh…” he scratches the back of his neck with a flicker of something that surprises you—hesitation. “I couldn’t stop after last week. I’ve been drawing a lot. Not for the assignment. Just… because.”

Your mouth is dry suddenly. He opens the sketchpad, flips past a few pages with quick fingers—hands you know are steady by nature—and turns it around.

“Here,” he murmurs. “This one’s not for credit.”

You look, and your heart stops. It’s you, but not as you were drawn before. No, this one is not posed, not restrained. It’s you, stripped bare—legs parted, shirt open, head tilted back in unguarded abandon, your mouth slightly open and hair a mess. Your garters still on, barely, but the heels are discarded on the floor. One hand is clutching the edge of the desk and the other is between your thighs.

Your lips part, air catching in your lungs. The detail is breathtaking. Too much. The intimacy, the expression, the way it looks like you’ve already come once and are begging for more. The way he’s drawn your eyes, half-lidded, wrecked.

It’s not romantic. It’s not flattering. It’s possession. Your body betrays you again—your thighs clench, your stomach coils, and you feel it. The heat, the wetness that shouldn’t be there, that you can’t stop. And still, your voice comes out quiet, controlled.

“You shouldn’t have drawn this.”

His gaze is different now—nervous under the arrogance, almost embarrassed to have shown it.

“I know,” he says. “But I did.”

Silence stretches thin between you. He leans back a little, fingers twitching beside the sketchpad. “I can take it back if it crosses the line.”

You look at the drawing again, then at him. And you don’t answer, because your body is burning and your brain is screaming and somewhere deep inside, you already know this isn’t just about art anymore. This is about what happens when obsession stops being theory…and becomes something real.

Silence crushes the air between you, thick and stifling. You sit still for a moment, the explicit sketch open before you, his hesitant eyes barely holding onto their confidence. He knows he crossed the line.

But all you can think about, all you can feel is that you’re soaked. You close your eyes just for a second. One long, steady inhale. It doesn’t help. The ache between your thighs pulses hot, your underwear a sticky mess beneath your sharp, formal outfit. You can’t look at the drawing again without feeling it pulse harder.

So you do the first wrong thing. You stand. His gaze follows instantly—like a dog to a signal, like he knows something’s about to snap. You walk to the door slowly, heels clicking over the floor in a rhythm that could be mistaken for control. You reach for the lock and turn it. A soft, final click.

He shifts slightly in his chair. When you turn back, he’s sitting more upright, brows drawn just enough to show he didn’t expect this. His voice doesn't come, but his eyes say it all.

But you’re not done. You walk back toward him—calm, poised, burning—and instead of returning to your chair, you stop at the edge of the desk. You pick up the second sketchpad with the drawing that still makes your pulse flutter violently, flipping it to the page you should ignore.

You look at him, eyes neutral, almost cold.

“Tell me,” you ask softly, holding the pad loosely in your hand. “How did you think of this? When did you draw it?”

He blinks just once, and the hesitation dissolves. Something else replaces it, more darker and focused. His gaze dips to your legs—slowly, shamelessly—and climbs back up.

His voice is quiet but firm. “Last Wednesday, after I left the sketchpad with you. I couldn’t sleep.”

You hum, biting your lip just slightly. Not to be seductive, but because you need to do something or you'll combust.

His eyes widen. You lean a little on the desk, one hand braced behind you, the other still holding the sketchbook like a loaded weapon.

Fuck it.

If he wants to play so be it. You shift, moving to sit on the corner of the desk in one slow, fluid movement, legs crossed, your thigh riding high, your garter just barely visible under the hem.

His gaze snaps to it like instinct. You lean on one hand now, half-reclined, looking down at him. Your voice is still calm, measured, a little quiet.

“You want honesty, Mr. Qi?” he doesn't breathe. You tilt your head, your eyes flicking between his and the obscene drawing.

“I graded your assignment...” you run a finger along the page slowly. “Late at night.”

His jaw tenses. “In bed.” you continue. The breath he takes is sharp, slow. His purple eyes gleam hot and starving.

You smile, just barely. “Sketchpad in one hand.” then your voice drops, barely a breath. “My other hand between my legs.”

His mouth parts, but no sound comes. You keep going, because if you stop, you’ll never say it again. “I touched myself to the way you drew me. I came with this image in my mind.”

His breath shudders. You watch it ripple through him like you just punched the air out of his lungs. His eyes are molten, wide, like he just saw something holy and filthy at the same time.

“You shouldn’t tell me that,” he whispers hoarsely.

“But,” you murmur, “you wanted me to see it, did you not?”

He blinks hard and swallows, and you see the restraint clawing at him now, the stillness, his fists tightening on his knees.

“Professor,” he breathes, voice barely a thread, “if you say one more thing like that... I’m not going to be able to sit still anymore.”

You stare, and your legs shift slightly, uncrossing. Now it’s your turn to whisper.

“Then don’t.”

His eyes flick from your lips to your legs, drinking in every inch like he’s still committing you to memory—like he’ll sketch this the moment he gets home, or maybe never again, because he’s about to live it.

He exhales sharply, jaw twitching, the breath catching in his chest like it hurts to hold it back.

Then slowly he reaches forward, his fingers land on your knee, warm and steady, the weight of his hand sending a hot shiver racing up your thigh. He rises from the chair without a word, face level with yours, so close now at the edge of the desk.

“You dressed like this on purpose,” he murmurs, voice low and cocky and knowing. “Didn’t you, professor? Tied up all professional just to pretend you haven’t been thinking about those sketches every time you touched yourself.”

You feel your breath stutter, but your body doesn’t retreat. You part your legs deliberately slow and lean back on your hands, tilting your head, offering him that cool little smirk you know will set him off.

“Oh please,” you purr, tone sharp, eyes heavy, “don’t act like you haven’t been begging for me to pose just like this in front of you with every little sketch you slid across my desk.”

His eyes darken, jaw tight. Both his hands come to rest on your thighs now, gripping gently, reverently. His thumbs stroke just beneath the hem of your skirt, just above the garter straps.

You burn under it. His face inches closer, and still he’s searching your eyes for permission, like even now he won’t cross that final edge without it. You scoff, breathless, amused, soaked so badly it’s uncomfortable.

“Oh now you grow a conscience?” you whisper, low and mocking, voice like smoke as your fingers curl into his collar. “After everything you’ve done to me on paper?”

And then you yank him forward. His lips crash into yours. It’s not sweet and definitely not soft. It’s starving. The kiss is all tongue and teeth, your mouths colliding with all the pressure of everything you’ve held back. His hand slips to your lower back, dragging you off the edge of the desk toward him. Your legs uncross fully now, wrapping slightly around his hips to keep him close, to grind against the ache you’ve had for weeks.

You can barely breathe and you don’t fucking care. Your fingers clutch the fabric of his sweater, pulling him tighter, his chest flush to yours, and his hand drags slowly up the outside of your thigh to toy again with the clip of your garter, like he has to feel it, prove it’s real.

And it is. This isn’t a sketch. It’s happening. And you know you should stop. You should. But his mouth tastes like obsession. And you're so wet you could cry.

Your breath is ragged between kisses, your lipstick smeared on his mouth and your thighs trembling where they press around his hips. You can feel the dampness of your panties sticking to your skin, your pulse pounding at the base of your throat as your nails dig into the fabric of his sweater.

You lean in, your voice a whisper, but still sharp, still commanding, even as your lips brush his ear, “Tell me.”

He groans low, nose buried in the curve of your neck. “Tell you what?”

“What else you imagined,” you breathe, almost panting now. “What else you ached to sketch in that little sketchpad of yours.”

His hands squeeze at your thighs, fingers brushing the edge of your garters again like he’s trying not to lose control too fast. His mouth moves lower, trailing open kisses down your throat, nipping beneath your jaw, his breath hot against your collarbone as he groans into your skin.

“Fuck…” he whispers, “…I thought about this for weeks. Thought about how you would look on this desk, with your knees open and lipstick smudged, your tie half undone…”

You moan, gasping quietly as he sucks into your neck, and he chuckles softly, smug.

“Quiet, professor,” he murmurs, licking over the bite mark. “Don’t want the whole damn building hearing how wrecked you’re getting in your own office.”

You don’t let him win that easy. You grab him by the back of his neck, pull him flush to you, and grind hard once into his hips. He groans loudly, body jerking. You smirk against his cheek.

“Then make me quiet,” you whisper, eyes gleaming. “Unless you want everyone to hear how your little professor begged for it.”

His entire body shudders and then his teeth sink into your clavicle, biting down just hard enough to sting, just enough to make your toes curl. His hands roam under your skirt now, palms dragging up the silk of your thighs, fingers tugging at the straps of your panties like he can’t wait to ruin them.

He groans, voice ragged. “You shouldn’t be wearing something this fucking small under that suit.”

“You shouldn’t be touching it,” you snap, breathless.

Even so, you tilt your head back, offering your throat as his lips trail lower. His fingers finally brush the soaked edge of your panties. You gasp, thighs jolting around him, eyes fluttering shut.

You moan his name, unable to hold back. Not Mr. whatever, not a title, not a game. “Rafayel…”

It spills out raw, too intimate, too fucking real. His hand stills immediately, lifting his head. And the look he gives you? It's not just hunger. It’s devotion. Possessive. Dangerous. Like now that you’ve said his name like that, he’ll never stop chasing the sound.

“Say it again,” he whispers, fingers hooked around your panties now, pulling them to the side.

But you can’t. You’re already moaning. And he’s already slipping his fingers over you—slow, deliberate, soaking in every reaction like he’s sketching it live. The first circle of his slender fingers over your clit makes your body jolt. A loud gasp tears from your lips, far too loud.

He growls, teeth biting into your neck to muffle it, his tongue soothing over the sting just as his fingers pick up a rhythm that makes your thighs tremble. Your head falls back and your hips lift, chasing every flick of his fingers, slick and messy and soaked already.

You manage the words between gasps, half-whining, half-accusing, “Those sketches were—ah—so inappropriate, Rafayel.”

He chuckles into your neck, breath hot, lips bruising along your jaw.

“You drew me like I was already yours,” you gasp. “In class…how dare you imagine me like that…”

His fingers press harde, a rough circle that punches the air right out of your lungs. You choke on your next words, hands clutching the desk behind you, legs tensing around his hips.

“Thought about you in every lecture,” he rasps into your neck, voice hoarse, broken. “Skirt tight, collar stiff, those legs crossed like they didn’t want to be fucked open.”

You whimper, head lolling back. His mouth moves up to your ear, hips pressing forward just enough for you to feel how hard he is against your thigh.

“I imagined you bent over the desk in the lecture hall…hands flat, skirt bunched around your hips as I thrusted into you from behind.” he rasps in yout ear, wrecked, “Imagined making you come quietly while a hundred students sat on the other side of the door.”

Your eyes roll back, breath catching hard in your throat, your body clenching so tight it hurts. “R-Rafayel…fuck…”

He groans, fingers moving faster, wet slick sounds obscene in the quiet room, his forehead resting against yours, like he needs to stay tethered to keep from losing control.

“You…on your knees,” he growls, his breath stuttering, “in this office, your pretty mouth wrapped around my cock. Or slammed against the wall, legs around my neck—fuck—I wanted to eat you out until you cried.”

You cry out—choked, high, your hands scrambling for something—his shoulders, the desk, sanity. Your hips twitch. Your walls clench around nothing, and he feels it, feels how close you are just from his words and his fingers and you hate it—how fast you’re unraveling, how quickly he’s reduced you to this. Soaked. Grinding. Moaning his name.

“Fuck—fuck—I’m—”

He sucks at your neck, voice a raw whisper against your skin, “Come for me, professor.”

Your thighs are shaking around his hips, your body already twitching, mind barely clinging to the edges of coherent thought. The feel of his fingers—pressing, circling, relentless—has every muscle in your body screaming. The orgasm crashes into you too hard, too fast, your eyes rolling back as your mouth falls open in a gasping moan. You barely manage to slap a hand over your lips just in time.

You come hard, your pussy pulsing around nothing, slick soaking your panties, your skirt bunched up around your hips like a forgotten piece of fabric. His hand doesn't stop. He holds you, face buried in your neck, whispering filth against your skin as you shake in his arms.

“Fuck, you feel so good like this…trembling on my fingers. God, I knew you’d fall apart for me.”

And he keeps moving. Even after your orgasm fades, even after your thighs spasm with aftershocks—he doesn’t stop. His fingers drag through your slick, teasing your clit again, slow at first—then faster. The oversensitivity crashes into you.

Your whole body jerks. A half-moan, half-whimper rips out of your throat as you try to twist away from him. “Rafayel—”

He growls, biting your neck harder.

“No,” he pants, voice filthy. “You don’t get to run now. I want you insane. I want you fucking ruined…shaking and crying, begging me to stop.”

Your head falls back with a cry, and the pressure is unbearable, pleasure and pain blurring so beautifully it hurts. You try to twist away again, but his arm around your waist holds you steady.

“Rafayel, please—fuck, stop…”

“Say it like that again,” he hisses in your ear, his voice ragged and drenched in obsession. “Say my name like it’s the only thing left in your head.”

You can’t think. Your hands scramble behind you, bracing the desk. Your breath is coming in broken moans, your thighs trembling so hard. You need to breathe. You need to come again. You need to do something. And so, you act. Your hands snap to the buttons of your shirt, ripping them open one by one with sharp, trembling fingers. His hand stills just for a second as he watches.

Your voice is rough, commanding, breathless.

“You want my head filled with your name only?” you whisper. “Then yours shall be filled with this very picture of me, wearing nothing underneath my shirt.”

His eyes darken. And when your shirt falls open—bare, your nipples hard, your chest rising and falling like you’re starving—he groans, loud and feral.

“Fuck…”

He doesn’t ask and doesn’t hesitate. He lunges, mouth wrapping around one nipple, sucking hard, tongue circling it as if his mouth needs the taste of you to survive. You cry out too loud, too much.

He pulls off just long enough to growl, “Stay quiet, professor.”

You shake your head, eyes wild, voice trembling with heat.

“I can’t,” you gasp, shoving his hair back, tugging him closer again. “Not when all I can think about is how your cock would feel inside me right now.”

That stuns him. His whole body jerks, breath stuttering as his hips buck without thinking. He growls, adeep, guttural, wrecked sound what wraps around you like a spell.

“You shouldn’t say that,” he snarls, his mouth dragging back up your chest to your throat. “Not here…not in your office—fuck, I’ll take you right now, bend you over this desk just like I dreamed, make you scream for it.”

Your lips part in a shattered moan. He grabs your waist hard, grinding into you, voice cracking, “I’ll make this whole goddamn building hear how I ruin their little professor.”

His hips grind into you again—slow, deep, filthy—as he groans against your neck, every word he rasps pressed between open-mouth kisses and moans that scorch your skin.

“I’ll take you right here,” he growls, voice shaking. “On your desk, against the wall—fuck, I’ll ruin your reputation with how loud you’ll scream my name.”

His clothed cock drags right over your oversensitive clit and you shudder, gasping sharply as your nails dig into his back. You’re soaked. You know you are. His pants are going to be drenched and he knows it too.

His mouth sucks at your throat, hands roaming—one squeezing your breast hard, the other in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat like he owns it. Then he kisses you, hard and desperate. Tongue, teeth, his breath punched into your lungs, and you bite his lower lip until he curses into your mouth, groaning as his hips roll harder, like he can’t help it anymore.

You break the kiss, panting, dazed from the pleasure and power and lust, and you mock him with a breathless smirk.

“Oh? Should I beg for it?” you murmur, eyes glassy with heat. “Or should I make you beg? Hm?”

His eyes widen, jaw tight.

“Should I make my pretty little student promise he’ll be good?” you lean in, lips brushing his ear. “That he’ll fuck me just right if I let him put that cock inside me?”

He growls, an animalistic, desperate sound as both his hands snap down—one squeezing your ass hard enough to bruise, the other palming your breast, fingers pinching your nipple until you moan.

“You don’t get to play like that,” he pants into your skin, his voice trembling. “You don’t get to talk like that—fuck, you’ll kill me.”

But you’re not done. You slide your hand between your bodies, fumbling with his belt, his zipper, fingers moving fast, and he gasps, body twitching as you slip your hand into his pants and wrap your fingers around his cock without warning.

He moans broken and wrecked, eyes slamming shut as your soaked palm curls around his hard, aching cock.

“Fuck—professor—”

“You’ve been so good,” you whisper, slow and devastating. “So obedient. All semester, sketching me like a filthy little obsession.”

You pump once, twice, and feel him as he shudders against you, knees nearly buckling.

“And now,” you whisper, dragging your lips along his jaw, “you’re gonna fuck me just like you dreamed—deep, slow, until I scream for it, yeah?”

His hands tremble, jaw slack. You twist your hand slightly, just enough pressure to make his hips jerk into your palm—and then you finish him with one final blow, “My soaked little pussy’s begging for you, Rafayel. Don’t you want to feel how tight I’ll wrap around your cock?”

His hand slams on the desk behind you, the other on your thigh, pushing your skirt up fully, and his mouth crashes into yours again, like a man starving. He breathes your name like a curse. And he’s ready to bury himself inside.

You feel it the moment he snaps, his restraint unraveling like a frayed wire pulled too tight for too long. He growls into your mouth, rough, desperate, his hand still clenched in your hair. You chuckle against his lips—taunting, breathless—then slide your soaked hand out of his pants, letting his cock twitch in the open air for just a second longer.

“Oh, fuck…” he pants.

Before he can even blink, he grabs your waist, manhandling you around and bending you forward against your desk, your palms bracing the wood with a sharp thud. He’s on you instantly—grinding his cock, still trapped in his pants, against your ass, his mouth dragging over your neck in open, messy kisses, teeth biting and groaning like he’s starving.

You moan—low and wild—arching into the friction, grinding back until he curses.

“Oh god—fuck, professor…”

You chuckle again, eyes fluttering as you roll your hips deliberately against the length of him, teasing. Taunting. His voice, low and filthy, spills against your ear.

“Everybody’s gonna know,” he growls, his voice shaking, hands gripping your hips. “…how fucking filthy their little professor really is.”

You gasp as he presses harder, not even inside yet, just rubbing against your soaked panties and ruined mind.

“They’ll know how well you take it,” he snarls. “My cock, my fingers. My fucking mouth…over and over until you can’t even breathe from how good it feels.”

You laugh, breathless, devilish, looking over your shoulder at him. Your eyes are wide, wet, sinful. You grind again slowly and your voice is sweet poison.

“If you’re a good boy…” you whisper, “and you keep your word… I’ll let you tie me up in that little studio of yours.”

He chokes on air.

“Paint me,” you go on, breath catching as you writhe against him, “bare, dripping… covered in your cum. More sketches for your collection.”

“Fuck…” he groans, trembling as he fumbles with his pants, shoving them down with shaking hands, his cock slapping hard against your ass as his other hand plants between your shoulder blades, holding you down.

You barely have time to moan before his other hand palms your ass then slaps it, loud, sharp, and perfect.

“Take it, then,” he growls, teeth bared, voice wrecked. And then he thrusts hard, all at once.

You scream as he buries himself inside you to the hilt, stretching you open in one brutal, perfect stroke, his hips snapping forward, balls slapping against you as your desk shudders beneath the weight of it.

You clench around him, mouth falling open, eyes rolling back, tears prickling at the corners as he grinds deep and growls in your ear. “My little professor, yeah?”

And then his hips start rolling, deep and slow.

“Yes…” you cry out, helpless and wrecked, cheek pressed to the desk, your body jerking with every brutal thrust. “Just like that—fuck, just like that—”

You clench hard around him and he moans, deep and guttural, hips stuttering before he slams forward again, faster now, desperate. His voice is a snarl behind you, taunting even through the raggedness, “Like this, professor?”

You cry out again, thighs shaking so violently you nearly collapse, but he doesn't let you. His hand grips your hip hard, dragging you back onto every thrust until you swear he’s leaving bruises.

Then he shifts, both hands on your hips, and arches your back, forcing you to lift your ass higher—and fuck—he hits even deeper. Your breath shatters, words caught in your throat as you moan loud and raw.

“Oh—fuck, right there…”

He grins behind you, breath ragged.

“Here?” he growls, pounding into you now, the sound of your soaked pussy obscene in the quiet room, every slap of his hips against your ass loud enough to carry down the hall. “Like this, cutie? Fuck…you’re so tight I’m gonna lose it.”

You sob, your legs trembling so violently you barely stay upright. Your hands claw at the desk, mascara streaking down your cheeks as you bite your lip, crying out his name like it’s the only thing your mouth remembers. You’re a mess—hair tangled, mouth open, nails digging into the wood.

You feel his hand leave your shoulder blades where he was pinnin you down and he grabs your wrists in one swift motion, pinning them to the small of your back. You gasp as he holds them there, his weight heavy behind you, his breath hot against your spine.

You can’t move—you’re trapped, trembling, split open and shaking while he rails into you like he’s losing his mind. And you can practically hear the smirk in his voice when he leans in, voice low and wicked, right by your ear:

“Gonna take my cum inside too, professor?”

You whimper, gasping as your walls flutter around him again.

“Gonna let me fuck you full?” he pants. “Just like you take my cock? So fucking good…fuck…I will fill you up so good, yeah?”

You clench down so hard it chokes him. “Jesus—fuck…say yes—say yes…”

You know you shouldn’t agree. You know. But fuck—your body’s burning, clenching, soaked and wrecked, and every brutal thrust sends you crashing harder into that edge. So you choke on a moan, voice ragged and sweet and devastated.

“Yes—fuck, yes—I want it, please,” your voice breaks on a moan, panting hard, “I'll take it like a good girl, whatever you want, just please…make me come again…”

He growls, his whole body snapping forward, pinning your wrists harder against your back as his hips slam into yours fast, deep, merciless. The desk creaks violently beneath you, the wood rattling with each punishing thrust.

You can feel his body losing control—his pace erratic, his breath breaking, and he tilts his head back with a shuddering moan, trying so hard to hold on. He wants you to come first. His fingers tangle in your hair, yanking your head back just enough for him to bite down on your neck as you clench again.

“You’re gonna make me lose it—fuck, cutie…I’m so close…”

And you’re there, too. So very close to the maddening edge. You cry out, voice shattered and gasping. “It’s so good—you’re so good,” you choke on another moan, words tumbling fast, “please, I want it…I want you, please—”

Your legs give out completely, your whole body trembling violently, thighs spasming as your pussy clamps down on him hard, soaking his cock in wave after wave of orgasm that crashes through you like a goddamn tidal wave. Your mouth opens but no sound comes out, just a choked breath. Your eyes roll back, tears spilling down your cheeks, black mascara streaking as you sob through it, ruined and shaking.

And it snaps him.

“Fuck, you’re coming—Jesus fuck, you’re clenching s-so tight…”

His grip on your wrists tightens as he slams into you one last time—deep, brutal, to the hilt—and groans like he’s being torn apart. You feel him throb inside you, and then he spills. His cum is hot, spilling in deep inside, and so fucking much.

You feel all of it, filling you, claiming you, his cock twitching inside your pulsing pussy as his body collapses over yours, breath ragged, voice wrecked. “Fuck fuck fuck—mine…”

You breathe raggedly against the desk, your body trembling, skin flushed and soaked in release. His lips trace slowly over your neck, tender now, like he’s trying to soothe every wrecked part of you with a kiss. Then gently, he pulls out, and your whole body shudders at the oversensitivity.

You laugh, breathless, exhausted, as he steadies you with hands still trembling. When he turns you around, your knees almost give, but he catches you again, arms strong around your waist. His face is flushed—cheeks pink, lips red, hair tousled in every direction. Unfairly pretty, honestly.

He looks at you for a long moment—searching, soft. Then he lifts his hand, thumb brushing beneath your eyes, carefully wiping the streaks of mascara and the last of your tears.

You exhale softly, rolling your eyes in amusement. “Now you decide to be gentle?”

He smirks but says nothing, reaching over your shoulder to grab a few napkins from the desk. And without a word, he kneels—actually kneels—and starts to clean you up. First your thighs, slow and deliberate, the way he handles you making your chest ache a little. Then he stands, fingertips warm as they dab gently at your cheeks, your jaw.

You don’t stop watching him. You can’t. There’s something ridiculous about how careful he is now, after the way he just destroyed you across this desk. And still… it’s sweet. Too sweet. Your heart pounds harder. He looks up at you with that flushed face, lips parted, eyes sparkling—and you think, goddamn, it’s really not fair how beautiful he is.

After he finishes cleaning the both of you up—slow and careful, like you’re something fragile despite the absolute ruin he just left you in—he tucks himself back into his pants and exhales hard, flushed, dazed, barely holding it together.

Then he steps in close again. Button by button, he closes your shirt with slow, deliberate fingers, knuckles brushing your skin like he’s trying to memorize every inch. When he fastens the last one, he smirks, that familiar cocky glint back in his eyes even as the pink still lingers high on his cheeks.

“Guess your cold, no-nonsense professor rep is officially over,” he murmurs, voice still rough from breathlessness. “Pretty sure the entire building knows just how filthy you really are now.”

You snort softly, rolling your eyes, your voice still raspy from all the moaning, the crying, the begging. You reach up and trace a slow finger along the back of his head, through the mess of purple strands sticking from sweat.

“Mm,” you hum, biting back a smirk, “not my fault my clingy little student fucked me that good.”

He groans, low in his throat, mouth parting like you just knocked the air out of him all over again. You lean in and kiss him, slow and deep, just long enough to steal the breath he had left.

Then, your lips hover over his and you whisper, voice like silk, “Don’t forget to write down your studio address before you leave…” then your lips graze the shell of his ear, and your voice drops even lower, “…you’ve got a canvas waiting.”

His breath shudders, and you already know he’s not walking out of here without giving it to you.

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