#he used to give us graded assignements during class

[crisiscutie]

HAHAHA I'll accept the responsibility about ec academy au now being 'canon' lol

let's see, here's a classic one: student!sephiroth being extremely serious about his title as his the teacher's pet and he doesn't like sharing.

poor teacher darling, I don't think they'd realize the depth of Sephiroth's obsession until it's too late 📐✏️📝

ofc as a disclaimer, I'm talking about Sephiroth being not a minor and could probably happen in college. reversal power play is always fun. have fun~❤️

Some headcanons for Yandere Student Seph coming right up!

Admittedly, becoming a teacher wasn't something you gunned for when you were in college. But it was the only thing that had decent enough security in the job market.

It's a bit boring. Just mostly grading papers, making sure no one dies in class, trying not to fall asleep during presentations... But some of your students make it worth it.

Sephiroth is one of your best students. He's insanely smart, top of the class, and always acts respectful. He always bows when you walk into class, offers to carry your books, never misses a single assignment.

But he also stares down at any student who so much as makes you laugh during class. You won’t catch it at first, but trust me, there’s tension. The other students know. They feel it.

God forbid you praise someone else’s work. He’ll still give you that typical adoring smile of his, but you can also feel the coldness from across the room. And that student’s suddenly being crushed in the rankings for the rest of the semester.

He’s the type to leave gifts on your desk daily. At first, it’s innocent. Apples, delicious tea he brewed for the morning, pens, stationery...

But then it’s hyper-specific things you never told him about, like your favorite book from childhood or the exact guilty pleasure snack you always buy on your vacation.

If you don’t wear/use what he gives you, then he's always strategizing of how he can do better. And drop some subtle words like “Oh, you’re not wearing the pin I gave you yesterday. Did it not suit your taste?”

He knows your schedule. If you change your office hours even once, he’ll casually mention it:

“You weren’t in your usual spot today. I still waited.”

It's gotten so bad that he even started to sabotage other students who try to get close to you; spreading rumors, deleting files from shared computers, planting evidence of cheating. And he’ll still act the perfect angel to your face.

When you try to gently set boundaries, he hits you with that cold, calm tone.

“You’re the one who shaped me. Who encouraged me. Why should we grow apart?”

You once had to cancel class last-minute. That night, he showed up outside your apartment with your favorite takeout.

“You weren’t at school. I was worried. You didn’t respond to my messages.” You have to admit, it was the best damn takeout you had.

By the time you realize how deep it goes, it’s too late. You’re the sole reason he bothers to stick around in the subject you teach and he has no plans of letting anyone else take “his spot” beside you, even when he graduates.

[streetlizard]

im disgusted with myself but im going to have to learn how to operate linux, my worst nightmare has come true

[enhaflixer]

campus crush!sunghoon x f!reader

stats class. keep ur glasses on when u fuck me. statistical analysis with ur tongue. thats abt it. sunghoon word porn ngl ENHA HARD HOURS (kinda) 18+ MDNI

-

You're late. Again.

The digital clock on your phone reads 3:10 PM as you sprint across campus, your backpack bouncing against your spine with each step. Statistics seminar started ten minutes ago, and Professor Clarke has definitely noticed your absence by now. Not that it's unusual—you've made it a habit to burst through those doors at exactly ten minutes past, a whirlwind of apologies and bright smiles.

"Sorry, sorry!" you announce as you push open the computer lab door, slightly out of breath.

Twenty pairs of eyes swivel toward you, but Professor Clarke doesn't even look up from his laptop at the front of the room.

"How kind of you to join us," he says dryly. "We were just assigning semester project partners."

You flash him your most charming smile as you slide into an empty seat. "Perfect timing then."

A few people laugh. You've mastered the art of diffusing tension with humor, of making your tardiness seem like a quirky character trait rather than a genuine inability to manage time. It's gotten you this far in university.

"As I was saying," Professor Clarke continues, "this statistical analysis project will count for forty percent of your grade. You and your assigned partner will select a dataset, develop a hypothesis, and use STATA to analyze your findings." He gestures to the complex statistical software displayed on the projector screen—the same software that has been giving you nightmares since week one.

You glance around the room, hoping you'll be paired with Olivia or Zara—friends who wouldn't mind carrying the team if necessary. But when Professor Clarke reads off, "Sunghoon Park and..." followed by your name, your heart does something unexpected.

It skips.

You've noticed him before—it's hard not to. He always sits in the same spot three rows from the front, always arrives fifteen minutes early, always has his notebook open at the exact moment class begins.

What you haven't fully appreciated until now, as you turn to locate him in the room, is just how devastatingly handsome he is. His dark eyes find yours immediately behind stylish wire-rimmed glasses that give him an irresistible intellectual appeal. One corner of his perfectly shaped mouth lifts in the smallest acknowledgment, and a strand of black hair falls across his forehead when he nods at you. The combination of his reserved demeanor and model-worthy looks creates an effect that makes your stomach flip. He's the definition of a hot nerd—the kind that makes you temporarily forget about statistical analysis altogether and wonder what he'd look like with those glasses slightly askew, his usually perfect hair disheveled.

After partnering announcements finish, Professor Clarke instructs everyone to move next to their assigned partners to discuss project ideas.

You gather your things and make your way to Sunghoon's station, dropping into the chair beside him with dramatic flair.

"Fair warning," you say brightly, "I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing with this software. Like, none. Zero. Statistical analysis to me is deciding which café has the shortest queue."

You expect a sigh or a look of disappointment—it's what most serious students do when they realize they've been paired with you. Instead, Sunghoon's expression softens.

"It's okay," he says quietly, his voice carrying just a hint of an accent. "I'm... not an expert either."

"But you always look so focused during class," you say, gesturing to his immaculate notes.

He shrugs, the movement slight and controlled. "I write everything down. Doesn't mean I understand it all."

When he opens the STATA program and navigates through a few screens with apparent ease, you lean closer.

"Okay, so you're being modest. You definitely know more than I do."

"Barely," he admits, and you catch the faintest hint of a smile—not the polite one from before, but something genuine that makes you want to see it again. "I just know how to make it look like I know what I'm doing."

"That's an important life skill," you laugh, pulling your chair closer to see his screen better. "So what kind of data are we analyzing? Please say something fun like ice cream consumption versus happiness levels."

Sunghoon doesn't laugh, but his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. "Actually," he says, "we can choose almost anything that interests us."

You bump his shoulder lightly with yours. "See? We're going to be great partners. I bring the wild ideas, you bring the common sense."

"Is that what they call it?" he asks, and there's a hint of playfulness in his voice that catches you off guard.

"What would you call it?" you challenge.

He considers for a moment, adjusting his glasses with a single finger pushed against the bridge. The gesture shouldn't be as attractive as it is. "Survival instinct."

You laugh, genuinely surprised. "So I'm dangerous?"

"No," he says, turning slightly to face you better. "Statistical software is dangerous. You're..." he pauses, seeming to search for the right word, "unpredictable."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It was meant as one." The quiet confidence in his voice sends a small thrill through you.

Professor Clarke clears his throat at the front of the room. "I expect project proposals by the end of next week. Choose your dataset carefully—it will determine the scope of your entire project."

You glance at the clock. Only fifteen minutes of class remain.

"So, partner," you say, lowering your voice as Professor Clarke continues, "when should we meet to figure this out? I promise I'll try not to be ten minutes late."

Sunghoon's mouth quirks up at one corner. "Would you actually show up if I said 8 AM at the library?"

"Now you're just testing me," you whisper back.

"Coffee shop after class on Thursday?" he suggests instead, his voice equally quiet. "The one behind the science building?"

"Beans & Books? You've got good taste." You nod approvingly. "I practically live there between classes."

"I know," he says, then immediately looks as if he wishes he could take it back.

"You know?" You raise an eyebrow, intrigued and slightly pleased.

A faint color appears high on his cheekbones. "I've seen you there. You always order something different and then type furiously on your laptop."

The fact that he's noticed you before, observed your habits even, gives you a little flutter of satisfaction. "And what do you order, Sunghoon Park? Let me guess—plain black coffee, no sugar."

His eyebrows lift slightly. "Close. Earl Grey tea."

"Of course," you nod sagely. "Sophisticated."

When class ends, you gather your things slowly, suddenly reluctant to leave. Sunghoon stands, slinging his messenger bag across his chest in one smooth motion.

"Thursday, then," he says, as if confirming an important business meeting.

"It's a date," you reply with deliberate casualness, watching his reaction.

His expression remains mostly neutral, but you don't miss the quick blink, the slight pause before he nods. "For statistics," he clarifies, but the slight upturn of his lips betrays him.

"For statistics," you agree solemnly, though you're already wondering what other subjects you might explore together.

The coffee shop meeting goes surprisingly well. What you expected to be an hour of awkward dataset discussions turns into three hours of conversation that meanders far beyond statistics. Sunghoon, it turns out, has layers beneath his reserved exterior—he plays piano, reads philosophy for fun, and has a dry sense of humor that catches you off guard and makes you laugh harder than you have in weeks.

By the end of the evening, you've not only selected your dataset (coffee consumption versus academic performance—your suggestion, which he surprisingly agreed to), but you've also learned that his stammer appears when he's either nervous or passionate about a topic. You find both instances equally endearing.

When Friday's class rolls around, something shifts. You arrive only five minutes late (progress), and the space beside Sunghoon, which is usually empty, now seems to be waiting for you. You slide into the seat and he glances up from his notebook, the corner of his mouth lifting in that subtle way that's becoming familiar.

"You're almost on time," he says quietly, amusement in his eyes.

"Don't get used to it," you reply, but there's no bite to your words.

Throughout the class, your awareness of him is heightened—the way his brow furrows when he's concentrating, how his fingers tap thoughtfully against the desk when Professor Clarke asks a difficult question, the scent of his cologne when he leans closer to point something out on your screen.

After class, you find yourself hesitating as you pack up your things, watching as he meticulously organizes his notes.

"So," you begin, aiming for casual, "I was thinking... we should probably meet again this weekend to work on the project." You pause. "My roommate's gone for the weekend. We could use my dorm? Fewer distractions than the coffee shop."

Sunghoon looks up, his expression unreadable for a moment before he nods. "That would be... efficient."

You laugh at his choice of words. "Very statistical of you."

"I meant—" he starts, a hint of that stammer appearing.

"I know what you meant," you interrupt, grinning. "Saturday at four?"

He nods, adjusting his glasses. "I'll bring the data analysis. You bring the coffee."

"Deal."

Saturday arrives, and for the first time in your university career, you spend thirty minutes tidying your room before a study session. You tell yourself it's just basic courtesy, not because you care what Sunghoon thinks of your living space.

At precisely four o'clock, there's a knock at your door. Punctual as always.

You open it to find Sunghoon standing there in jeans and a simple button-down shirt, his laptop bag slung across his body. He's swapped his usual wire-frames for slightly thicker black glasses that somehow make him look even more attractive—scholarly but with an edge.

"You're making me look bad with this punctuality thing," you say by way of greeting, stepping aside to let him in.

"Sorry?" he offers, clearly unsure if he's actually done something wrong.

You laugh. "I'm joking. Come in."

Your dorm room is standard—bed, desk, small seating area with a loveseat and coffee table—but you've made it yours with art on the walls and plants on every available surface. Sunghoon takes it all in with curious eyes.

"I like your space," he says, and it sounds genuine.

"Thanks. Where should we set up? Desk or coffee table?"

"Either is fine," he says, that formal politeness still present even after your hours in the coffee shop.

You end up at the coffee table, sitting side by side on the loveseat, laptops open. For an hour, you actually make progress on the project. Sunghoon explains correlations in a way that finally makes sense, and you discover you have a talent for visualizing data in creative ways that makes his eyes light up with approval.

But as the afternoon wears on, the small space means your shoulders keep brushing, your knees occasionally touch, and each point of contact feels increasingly deliberate. When you reach for your coffee at the same moment he reaches for his tea, your hands collide, and neither of you pulls away immediately.

"Sorry," you both say at once, and then laugh.

"Great minds," you add, but you're distracted by how his eyes look behind those glasses, warm and focused entirely on you.

At some point, you shift positions, both of you turning toward each other to discuss a particularly complicated aspect of your analysis. Your knees are definitely touching now, and the loveseat suddenly seems much smaller than it did an hour ago.

"So if we compare these variables..." he's saying, but you're watching his mouth form the words more than listening to their meaning.

"Hmm?" you say, forcing your attention back to the screen.

He turns to look at you fully, and you realize how close your faces are. "You're not listening," he says, but there's no accusation in his voice.

"I'm distracted," you admit.

"By statistics?"

"By you."

The words hang in the air between you. Sunghoon blinks, his expression shifting from confusion to something more intense. He swallows visibly, and you watch the movement in his throat.

"I'm... distracting?" he asks, his voice lower than before.

"Extremely." Your eyes lock on his glasses, the way they frame his dark eyes, how they complete his devastatingly attractive intellectual look. "Especially with these on."

His eyebrows raise slightly in surprise. "The glasses?"

"God, yes," you breathe, moving closer. "You have no idea how fucking hot you look in them."

A flush spreads across his cheeks, but there's a new confidence in the way he holds your gaze. Without warning, he pulls you forward into a kiss that has nothing of his usual restraint. His laptop slides forgotten to the coffee table as you shift closer, and then somehow you're straddling his lap, your hands on either side of his face as you deepen the kiss.

When you break apart to breathe, his glasses are slightly askew. You straighten them gently, then run your fingers through his usually immaculate hair, deliberately messing it up while keeping the glasses perfectly in place.

"You're so sexy," you murmur against his mouth. "I've been thinking about this since the first day we were paired up."

His hands find your hips, holding you firmly against him. "I find that... statistically improbable," he manages, but his breathing is as uneven as yours.

"I'll show you improbable," you whisper, grinding down deliberately. His glasses fog slightly from the heat between you, and the sight sends a thrill through your body. "So fucking hot," you repeat, unable to stop yourself.

His hands slide beneath your shirt, exploring with a surprising boldness that makes you gasp. "We should—" he starts, breathing heavily.

“Yes,” you agree, already pulling him up from the loveseat, walking backwards toward your bed while keeping his mouth on yours. “The project can definitely wait.”

You fall back onto the mattress, pulling him down with you, careful not to knock his glasses off as he hovers above you. They’ve fogged again from the heat between your bodies, and something about that sight—this controlled, precise man coming undone while still looking every bit the hot intellectual—pushes you past any remaining hesitation.

“Leave them on,” you insist when he reaches to remove his glasses. “Please.”

His lips curve into a smile that’s nothing like his usual restrained expressions—this one is knowing, almost wicked. “If that’s what you want,” he murmurs, lowering his mouth to your neck.

“It’s definitely what I want,” you gasp as his teeth graze your skin. “Along with… everything else.”

There’s a playful air to each touch, a slow building of tension as you both start to peel away layers. You tug at the hem of his shirt first, sliding it up inch by tantalizing inch until he lifts his arms to help you pull it off. He returns the favor by slipping a hand under your blouse, fingertips teasing over your ribs. Every time he tries to hasten the pace, you grin and slow him down, dragging the fabric just a bit more before letting it fall away, leaving him momentarily breathless. The sound he makes—caught somewhere between a groan and a laugh—sends a thrill through you.

Time seems to blur as clothing is discarded piece by piece, inhibitions falling away with each new revelation of skin. The afternoon sunlight filters through your curtains, casting everything in a warm glow.

At some point, you find yourself above him, both of you completely bare except for his glasses, which have somehow remained perfectly in place despite everything. You pause for a moment, taking in the sight of him beneath you—all lean muscle and flushed skin, those wire-rimmed glasses still perched on his nose, slightly fogged from the heat between your bodies.

“You’re staring,” he whispers, a vulnerability in his voice despite the intimate position.

“Can you blame me?” You lean down, placing a gentle kiss on his lips, then another, and another, each one growing more insistent. “God, look at you.”

His hands find your hips, steadying you as you continue to kiss him, his glasses occasionally bumping against your face in a way that only heightens your desire. There's something impossibly erotic about him being completely naked except for those glasses—the contrast between his exposed body and that one remnant of his studious, put-together appearance.

"You're so fucking sexy," you breathe against his mouth. "How does anyone focus in that statistics class with you sitting there looking like this?"

He laughs softly, the sound vibrating against your lips. "I could ask you the same question."

Your kisses become more urgent, your bodies moving together with increasing need. The heat between you builds with each touch, each whispered encouragement. Sunghoon's usually careful movements grow bolder, more instinctive, as your hands explore each other's bodies. His glasses, still perfectly perched on his nose, begin to fog at the edges first—just a light mist that catches the dim light of your room. But as your passion intensifies, as your breathing grows more ragged and synchronized, the lenses cloud completely.

When you pull back to look at him, you can't help but laugh softly at the sight—this brilliantly composed man now completely blinded by the evidence of your shared desire, those glasses that make him look so irresistibly intellectual now rendered useless by the heat radiating between your bodies. To your surprise, he laughs too—not the polite chuckle you've heard in class or the soft amusement from your coffee shop conversations, but a genuine, uninhibited sound that seems to come from somewhere deep inside him. It's rich and warm and completely unguarded.

"I can't see a thing," he admits, his voice husky with desire and amusement. His hands find your face despite his temporary blindness, thumbs tracing your cheekbones with unexpected precision. "But I don't need to see to know exactly where you are."

"Is that so?" you challenge, your breath catching as his fingers trail down your neck, across your collarbone, mapping you with deliberate attention.

"I've been studying you," he murmurs, his touch making you shiver despite the heat between you. "Memorizing. Analyzing patterns." His hands continue their exploration, finding every sensitive spot with remarkable accuracy. "It's very... statistical."

You laugh against his mouth. "Only you could make statistics sound sexy."

Through the fogged lenses, you can just barely make out how his eyes darken at your words. "I have other statistical terms I could demonstrate," he offers, surprising you again with his boldness. His accent becomes slightly more pronounced when he's like this—another detail you've grown to cherish.

"Show me," you whisper, and he does—his hands and mouth conducting a thorough analysis of cause and effect, of stimuli and response, until you're clutching at his shoulders and gasping his name. All while those fogged-up glasses remain perfectly in place, the final vestige of his composed exterior while everything else between you unravels into glorious chaos.

You’re already bare beneath him, skin flushed from teasing and anticipation, but the only thing still clinging to his body—those damn glasses—make it so much worse. Or better. Definitely better.

Sunghoon hovers over you, gaze dark behind the lenses, lips swollen and slightly parted as he takes in the sight of you. You should be embarrassed at how wanton you must look, legs spread for him, body already trembling, but he’s the one who looks wrecked. His composure is gone, shattered somewhere between the desperate kisses and the way you dragged your nails down his back.

His lips quirk. “Still want me to leave them on?”

“Don’t even think about taking them off.”

His smile turns wicked, and then he’s moving—kissing, sucking, trailing his mouth down your body with purpose. His fingers dig into your thighs, spreading you wider, and then he’s right there—close enough that you can feel the ghost of his breath against you, the heat of it making your stomach clench.

He doesn’t start slow. No teasing, no light flicks of his tongue just to test the waters. Sunghoon eats you like he’s been starving for this, like he’s been waiting for the moment he could taste you, drown in you. His tongue is hot and relentless, curling against you just right, pressing where you need him most, sending shockwaves through every nerve in your body.

But what really undoes you is the feeling of his glasses pressing against your inner thighs, the cold metal contrasting with the heat of his mouth. Every time he moves, every time he adjusts his angle, the frames shift against your skin—slightly rough, slightly smooth, a reminder of exactly who is between your legs and how absolutely ruined he’s making you.

You fist the sheets, hips jerking up into his mouth, but he pins you down effortlessly, a strong arm wrapped around your thigh to keep you exactly where he wants you. He groans when you tug at his hair, the vibrations shooting through you, making you gasp his name.

“Fuck, Sunghoon—”

His response is a low hum against your clit, and your whole body shakes. You feel the damp heat of his breath, the slick slide of his tongue, but more than anything, you feel the weight of those goddamn glasses as they drag along your skin, fogging up even more, smudging against your inner thigh every time he moves deeper, harder, sloppier.

The sheer filth of it makes you clench around nothing.

Sunghoon notices, because of course he does—because he’s been studying you this whole time, memorizing what makes you gasp, what makes your thighs tremble around his head. And he’s smug about it, too, because when he pulls back just enough to glance up at you, lips glistening, glasses just barely slipping down his nose, he smirks.

“You like that, don’t you?” His voice is raspy, breathless, wrecked.

You don’t even try to deny it. “Yes—God, yes, don’t stop.”

Sunghoon’s smirk deepens, and he doesn’t make you beg for it. He dives right back in, tongue flicking, sucking, his grip on your thighs tightening as you lose yourself completely. The drag of his glasses, the precise way he adjusts his angle to push you higher, the way he groans into you like he’s getting off on this just as much as you are—it’s too much.

The coil in your stomach snaps hard, pleasure crashing over you so intensely that you barely realize you’re pulling at his hair, moaning his name like a prayer, like you might fall apart completely if he stops.

Sunghoon doesn’t stop. Not right away. He works you through the aftershocks, his tongue slow, methodical, lazy in a way that makes you shudder from overstimulation. Only when your body twitches beneath him does he finally pull away, chin glistening, glasses fucking ruined.

You’re still gasping when he crawls back up your body, hovering over you, his mouth right there, his glasses so close you can see the way they’re fogged-up and smudged with sweat.

When you finally collapse beside each other, spent and satisfied, his glasses are askew once more. You reach over to straighten them, and he catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm.

"So," you say, when you've caught your breath, "should we tell Professor Clarke we've found an interesting correlation to study?"

Sunghoon laughs, the sound free and unrestrained in a way you hadn't heard before today. "I don't think this is what he had in mind for the assignment."

"His loss," you murmur, snuggling closer. "I'd say our statistical analysis was very... thorough."

"We should probably actually work on the project at some point," he says, but makes no move to get up.

"Tomorrow," you promise, running a finger along his jawline. "I think we need to collect more data first."

His eyebrow raises above the rim of his glasses. "For the sake of academic integrity?"

"Absolutely," you agree solemnly, before dissolving into laughter.

The statistics of probability have never been so compelling.

-

Over the next few weeks, your statistics class takes on an entirely new dimension. What was once your least favorite part of the week has become the highlight—not because you've suddenly developed a passion for data analysis, but because of the subtle dance that unfolds between you and Sunghoon twice a week in that computer lab.

The Monday after your "study session," you arrive to class five minutes early—a personal record. Sunghoon is already there, of course, and the moment he sees you, his ears turn slightly pink. When you slide into the seat next to him, now officially your spot, he gives you a small smile that feels like a secret.

"You're early," he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

"I had motivation," you reply, letting your knee brush against his under the desk.

His eyes flicker to your lips for a fraction of a second before returning to his notebook. "I hope it wasn't just for... statistical analysis."

"Depends on how you define statistics," you whisper just as Professor Clarke calls the class to order.

Throughout the lecture, you're acutely aware of every movement Sunghoon makes—how he adjusts his glasses when he's thinking, the precise way he takes notes, the occasional glance he throws your way when he thinks you're not looking. Halfway through class, you deliberately drop your pen between you. When you both reach for it, your fingers touch, and he doesn't pull away. Instead, he hooks his pinky finger over yours for just a moment before handing you the pen. The small gesture sends a flutter through your chest.

After class, you walk together to the coffee shop without needing to discuss it. Somehow, it's already become your routine.

"How's the dataset compilation going?" he asks as you find a small table in the corner.

"That's what you want to talk about right now? Really?" You raise an eyebrow.

A faint smile plays at his lips. "We do have a project due in three weeks."

"Always so responsible," you sigh dramatically, but there's fondness in your voice. "It's going fine. I've got the coffee consumption survey data from about fifty students so far."

He nods approvingly. "That's a decent sample size for our purposes."

When your drinks arrive—his Earl Grey and your excessively complicated latte—you notice something different about him. He's still quiet, still thoughtful, but there's a new ease to his movements, a softness around his eyes when he looks at you.

"What?" he asks, catching you studying him.

"Nothing," you say, then reconsider. "Actually, not nothing. You seem... different."

He takes a sip of his tea, considering. "I feel different," he admits after a moment. "With you."

The simple sincerity of his words catches you off guard. For all your flirtatious confidence, his straightforward honesty disarms you completely.

"Good different?" you ask, suddenly feeling shy.

"Very good different," he confirms, and beneath the table, his foot rests against yours. Not by accident.

By the third week, you've fallen into patterns that blend the academic with the intimate. Your Tuesday and Thursday afternoons are devoted to actual project work—usually in the library where the public setting keeps you reasonably focused. 

Your Saturday “study sessions” in your dorm room are significantly less productive in the statistical sense, though you joke that you’re certainly collecting plenty of data on other variables.

Sunghoon rolls his eyes every time you say it, but you know he loves it—loves how eager, how shameless you are when it comes to him. Because every time you spread your legs for him, every time you drag him into another compromising position, he never tells you no.

Case Study #1: The Textbooks

It starts with an innocent enough setup—Sunghoon sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against your bed, flipping through a statistics textbook while you sit across from him, pretending to study. But it’s boring. He looks too good in his glasses, sleeves rolled up, the slightest furrow in his brow as he concentrates. And before you even realize you’re moving, you’re crawling into his lap, straddling him right there on top of the book.

He barely has time to exhale your name before you sink down onto him, making both of you groan.

The hardcover digs into your knees, the pages creasing beneath you, but you couldn’t care less. Sunghoon is buried inside you, stretching you open, warm and deep and perfect, and the only data you’re analyzing is how his breath stutters when you roll your hips just right.

“Fuck, you’re unreal—” he pants, hands gripping your waist, watching you through the slightly fogged lenses of his glasses as you use him, ride him slow, grind on him like you want to ruin him.

You do. You want to wreck him just as much as he’s wrecking you. The friction, the delicious drag, the way his hands squeeze your hips to urge you to go faster, harder—it all shreds your self-control.

By the time you both come undone, gasping and clinging to each other, the textbook beneath you is thoroughly creased, sticky, ruined. Neither of you even bother looking at it.

Case Study #2: The Desk Chair

Another Saturday, another useless attempt at studying.

Sunghoon’s seated at your desk this time, one leg lazily spread, hand bracing his forehead as he tries to focus. But you’re kneeling between his legs, and the moment you reach for his zipper, his entire body tenses.

“You’re insatiable.”

“And?” You tug his pants down just enough to free him, palming his length, watching him harden in your hand as his breathing turns shallow.

He leans back, exhaling sharply when your lips part and you take him deep. His hand finds the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as you swirl your tongue around him, tease him, make him fall apart.

His glasses slip down his nose as he watches you, half-lidded and dazed, jaw slack as you take him deeper, sucking, hollowing your cheeks, making obscene little noises that drive him insane.

He trembles when he finally spills down your throat, groaning your name, head thrown back against the chair.

And the moment he catches his breath, he drags you into his lap, flips you onto the desk, and fucks you stupid.

Case Study #3: Against the Window

Another week. Another “study session.” Another location.

This time, you find yourself pressed against the glass of your dorm window, palms splayed, breath fogging the pane as Sunghoon pounds into you from behind.

The curtains are open.

You don’t know if anyone can see—if someone walking by on the street below can look up and spot your bare body, the lewd way you’re bent over, Sunghoon’s hands gripping your hips as he drives into you with punishing force.

But you don’t care.

All you care about is the way he grunts into your ear, his glasses slightly askew, one hand slipping down to rub your clit, making you jerk and gasp his name as pleasure crashes over you like a tidal wave.

“Keep your eyes open,” he growls, voice thick with lust, dragging his lips along your shoulder. “Look outside. Look at what a mess you are.”

Case Study #4: The Shower

It’s late, and you should be asleep. But instead, you’re pressed up against the tiled wall of your tiny dorm shower, water scalding hot, steam curling around you as Sunghoon lifts you up, holds you against him, and fucks you slow, deep.

His glasses are gone, finally.

They’d fogged up the moment he stepped into the shower, and the second you’d made a joke about it, he’d taken them off and set them on the sink. But you don’t miss them too much—not when his mouth is on your throat, sucking bruises into your wet skin, not when his fingers dig into your thighs, keeping you in place as he rolls his hips into you with exquisite precision.

You come twice before you finally stumble out of the shower, exhausted, dripping, completely spent.

And the moment you walk back into your dorm room, still naked, Sunghoon picks up his glasses, slides them back on, and gives you a look that tells you he’s nowhere near finished with you.

Case Study #5: The Floor (Again, Because You Can’t Stop)

At this point, you don’t even make it to the bed.

You’re both desperate, panting, **clawing at each other like you can’t stand the idea of being apart for another second.**The moment Sunghoon pushes you onto the floor, you’re already wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him down, gasping when he fills you in one smooth thrust.

It’s fast, dirty, messy.

He grits out your name, one hand bracing beside your head, the other gripping your thigh, holding you open as he slams into you, pace brutal, relentless. The carpet burns on your back will be worth it.

He loses his glasses at some point, but you don’t even notice—you’re too busy coming apart beneath him, clawing at his back, moaning his name like you’ll never get enough of him.

Maybe you won’t.

Because the second you catch your breath, still tangled up in him, you’re already thinking about where you’ll fuck next.

What surprises you most is how much you enjoy both versions of your time together. The project, which should be tedious, becomes engaging through Sunghoon's perspective. He has a way of finding patterns in chaos that makes even the driest data seem fascinating. And through your influence, he's learning to approach problems more creatively, to see beyond the rigid frameworks he's always relied on.

"What if we visualize it this way instead?" you suggest one Tuesday, sketching a completely unorthodox chart on the margin of his meticulously organized notes.

His initial reaction is skepticism—you can see it in the slight furrow of his brow—but he considers it longer than he would have three weeks ago.

"It's unconventional," he says finally.

"But?"

"But it might actually work better for presenting the correlation," he concedes, and the smile you give him is so bright it makes the student at the next table look over.

In class, Professor Clarke notices the change in both of you. Your questions become more insightful, Sunghoon's responses more animated. When you present your initial findings mid-semester, the professor actually seems impressed by your unusual approach to visualization.

"An interesting methodology," he comments, adjusting his own glasses in a way that reminds you of Sunghoon. "Unorthodox, but effective."

You beam at Sunghoon, who ducks his head slightly but can't hide his pleased expression.

After class, he catches your hand as you're packing up—a gesture he would never have initiated before.

"We make a good team," he says quietly.

"The best," you agree, squeezing his fingers before reluctantly letting go. Public displays still make him slightly uncomfortable, and you respect his boundaries.

-

It's during a rainy Friday evening in your dorm room, six weeks into your relationship (though neither of you has officially labeled it as such), that something shifts again.

You're sprawled on your bed with your laptop, Sunghoon sitting at your desk reviewing your latest statistical findings, his glasses reflecting the blue light of the screen. Classical music plays softly from his phone—another new development. He's been gradually introducing you to his favorite composers, and you've found you actually enjoy the background music while working.

"Your scatterplot is missing a data point," he says, turning to look at you.

"Mmm, probably deleted it accidentally," you reply, not looking up from your position. "Is it important?"

"All data points are important," he says, but there's amusement in his voice rather than criticism.

You roll onto your back, laptop balanced on your stomach. "That sounds like something that would be on a statistics department t-shirt. 'All data points matter.'"

He laughs—a sound that's become less rare but no less thrilling to hear. "I'd wear it."

"Of course you would," you tease. "With your glasses and a pocket protector."

He makes a face at you. "I don't own a pocket protector."

"Yet," you add with a grin.

He shakes his head, turning back to the screen, but you catch the smile he tries to hide. After a moment, he speaks again without looking at you.

"My parents want to meet you."

You sit up so quickly your laptop nearly slides off your stomach. "What?"

Now he turns, his expression a mixture of nervousness and something softer. "I mentioned you during our weekly call. Multiple times, apparently. My mother... noticed."

"You talk about me to your parents?" You can't keep the pleased surprise from your voice.

He adjusts his glasses, a gesture you now recognize as his tell when he's feeling vulnerable. "It seems I do."

"What do you tell them?" You set your laptop aside, giving him your full attention.

"That you're brilliant in ways I'm not. That you see solutions I miss." He pauses. "That you make statistics class the best part of my week."

Your heart does that skipping thing it did the first day Professor Clarke paired you together, only stronger now.

"Sunghoon Park," you say softly, "are you saying I'm statistically significant to you?"

His expression turns serious, though his eyes remain gentle. "With a p-value approaching zero," he replies, and though it's phrased as a joke, his tone makes it clear it's anything but.

In statistics, a p-value approaching zero indicates an extremely high likelihood that an observed effect is real and not due to chance. It's the closest thing to certainty that statistics allows.

You cross the room to where he sits, gently taking his face between your hands. His glasses are slightly smudged, and you resist the urge to clean them, focusing instead on the eyes behind them.

"So," you say, "when do I meet these parents who raised such a statistically significant nerd?"

He laughs, pulling you into his lap in a move that would have seemed impossibly bold from him just weeks ago. "They're visiting next weekend. Dinner on Saturday?"

"I'm there," you promise, sealing it with a kiss.

-

The day of your semester project presentation arrives with an unexpected lack of anxiety. You're prepared—more prepared than you've been for any academic presentation in your life. Partly because the subject has actually become interesting to you, but mostly because working on it meant spending hours with Sunghoon.

You stand beside him at the front of the class, watching him explain your methodology with a confidence that wasn't there at the beginning of the semester. His voice is still quiet, still measured, but there's a strength behind it now, an assurance that comes from truly understanding his material. When he gestures to your creative visualization on the screen, there's a hint of pride in his voice that makes your chest warm.

When it's your turn to present, you catch him watching you with undisguised admiration. You explain the correlations you found between different types of coffee consumption and various academic performance metrics, throwing in jokes that make the class laugh and complex statistical terms that make Professor Clarke nod approvingly.

"And in conclusion," you finish, "we found that while caffeine consumption generally correlates with improved academic performance up to a point, the type of environment in which the coffee is consumed may be an equally significant factor."

"Furthermore," Sunghoon adds, stepping forward to stand beside you, shoulder to shoulder, "we discovered that the companionship variable—whether students studied alone or with others—showed the strongest positive correlation with both satisfaction and performance outcomes."

His eyes meet yours for a brief moment, and you know he's not just talking about the data anymore.

When Professor Clarke gives your presentation an A and commends your "complementary analytical approaches," you resist the urge to high-five Sunghoon in front of everyone. Instead, you wait until you're outside the building, then throw your arms around him in celebration.

To your surprise, he lifts you slightly off the ground in his enthusiasm, spinning once before setting you down, his face flushed with excitement and mild embarrassment at his own uncharacteristic display.

"We did it," he says, adjusting his glasses which were knocked askew by your hug.

"Was there ever any doubt?" you reply, reaching up to straighten them properly. "We're statistically significant, remember?"

His smile softens, and right there on the path outside the statistics building, with students streaming past on their way to other classes, he kisses you without hesitation or self-consciousness.

"What was that for?" you ask when he pulls away, delighted but surprised by the public display.

"I've been collecting data," he says, his eyes crinkling behind those glasses you've grown to love, "and I've formed a hypothesis."

"Oh?" You raise an eyebrow. "And what hypothesis is that, Mr. Park?"

He takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours as you begin walking toward the coffee shop that's become your place.

"That I'm in love with you," he says simply. "And unlike most statistical conclusions, I'm one hundred percent certain."

You stop walking, turning to face him fully. "That's a bold statistical claim. Absolute certainty is rare in your field."

"I have compelling evidence," he counters, and the confidence in his voice, so different from the hesitant student you met months ago, makes your heart race.

"I might need to review your data," you tease, though your voice catches slightly.

"Extensive observation over time," he begins, stepping closer. "Consistent results across multiple variables. Reproducible effects." His voice drops lower. "Significant positive impact on all quality-of-life metrics."

"Very scientific," you murmur, your hands finding their way to his chest.

"I thought so," he agrees, his eyes serious despite the playful exchange. "So my conclusion stands."

You rise on your tiptoes, pressing your forehead to his. "Well, as someone who's conducted a parallel study, I can confirm your findings. The evidence suggests I'm in love with you too."

His smile, rare and full, lights up his entire face. "Independently verified results. The best kind."

“Should we celebrate this breakthrough with coffee?” you suggest, already knowing his answer.

“I was thinking maybe we skip the coffee today,” he says, surprising you again. “I have other hypotheses I’d like to test.”

“Professor Clarke would be shocked at your dedication to statistical research,” you laugh, letting him lead you in the direction of your dorm instead of the coffee shop.

“Some variables,” he says with newfound confidence, “are worth studying in depth.”

You lean in close, pressing your lips right against the shell of his ear, and whisper the kind of filth that would make even the most shameless person blush.

“Then why don’t you pin me down the second we walk through that door, shove your face between my legs, and eat me so fucking good I forget my own name? And when I can’t take anymore, you’ll flip me over and fuck me like you’re trying to imprint yourself inside me—deep, rough, until I’m crying and drooling on the sheets, too dumb to do anything but take it.”

Sunghoon stops breathing.

You feel the exact moment your words hit him—his entire body locks up, his grip on your wrist tightens, his jaw clenches so hard you swear you hear his teeth grind.

His glasses fog immediately.

A strangled noise escapes him, something between a curse and a choked groan, and then he’s moving.

Not just moving—dragging you, fast, purposeful, like a man on a mission.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters under his breath, voice wrecked, dangerous, and it sends a thrill straight through you.

By the time you reach your dorm, he’s already reaching for the door handle, barely keeping himself together, and the second it clicks shut behind you—

You know he’s about to make good on every single word you just whispered.

That, by any metric, was statistically significant indeed.

-

TL: @ziiao @beariegyu @seonhoon @somuchdard @naurwayyyyy @bloomiize @zzhengyu @annybah @ijustwannareadstuff20 @ddolleri @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4 @starniras @wonuziex

[nymphomatique]

gold star student

professor!logan howlett x fem!reader

⋆·˚ ༘ * one bad grade is one too many, so you ask one professor logan howlett, phd. for some extra credit after class. inspired by this art.

cw: reader lowkey has undiagnosed adhd, u want that cookie so effing bad, oral (m & f), praise, some degradation, swearing (it’s logan), shaky power dynamics so it can be considered dub-con, non specific age gap, college aged reader, logan puts stickers on your face while you blow him, face slapping, semi-public sex, unprotected sex (wrap it up!!), finger sucking, spitting on the pussy, grey streak logan cause if he ain’t greying im not staying!!!, this is just me being horny idk what else to say i’m sorry yall. 18+ only.

wc: 8k

❤︎ a/n: this was…. a labour of love to say the least. i hate the ending but fuck it we ball. enjoy <3

Ever since you were a child, anything and everything that had to do with academia had been the bane of your existence. Sitting at a desk for eight odd hours in a day wasn’t only grossly unappealing to you, but a mental challenge as well. You had found it hard to grasp onto concepts and new materials as well as the other kids, unable to focus on whatever spiel of the day your teacher went on about and still found yourself struggling in higher education. From kindergarten, to elementary, to middle school, to high school, up until now in your college years, you find that not only has your attention deficit gotten worse, but so has your motivation in academia in general. 

A floater student is what you would consider yourself, showing up to class once in a blue moon, rather busying yourself with doom scrolling in your dormitory or shopping off campus at the mall, only showing up during exam time and barely passing. your prognosis would be one of the many hyperactive disorders, but you never bothered to diagnose yourself officially. In high school, your parents didn’t make a huge deal of your grades, thanking a graceful god out there that you even got your diploma to begin with. At this age however, with tens of thousands of dollars being poured into your tuition, your mother and father have seemed to coil up even tighter in terms of frustration with your nonchalant attitude towards school. 

A report card from your fall semester riddled with C’s and D’s, emboldened and italicized as if to taunt you silently, was the final straw, the cussing you received was enough for a lifetime. At your parents' discretion, before the start of the semester you consulted with your academic advisor in suggestion of a course schedule that wasn’t a twelve hour day, and professors who would accommodate you with in the case of your late assignments and missing homework. 

All classes but one would be easy- you had been told. Your world history class and its professor had been the only one where you had been saddled with a hardball teacher, rate my professor describing one Logan Howlett, teacher of Modern World History in the Context of Classic Literature, as a man with a foul mouth and harsh grading asshole— with an excellent curriculum but horrible grade weighting, as described by your fellow student body, the mandatory attendance and participation accounting for twenty percent of your grade alone pulling a groan from you as your laptop screen stares back at you, the blue light emitting from it seemingly silently taunting you with the course course outline. Get used to looking at my screen. Three hours in an auditorium, every Wednesday and Friday for twelve weeks at nine in the morning with this douchebag.

You mentally prepare yourself for the exhaustion of the upcoming semester, shutting your laptop closed with a huff of annoyance before laying in bed, mentally preparing yourself for this seemingly infamous professor Howlett.

After a rather inadequate night of sleep, a zero sugar monster energy (gotta give in for the sake of your health where you can) and a double shot latte, you feel something that briefly resembles yet still distant from awake, you find yourself struggling to get comfortable in the stiff chairs in your lecture room. You’re glad you tucked yourself away in a seat in the corner, four rows back from the front, embarrassed that your peers are silently mocking your struggle. 

It’s some odd minutes to nine on the dot, and you’re rather proud of yourself for being able to make it minutes early rather than stumbling in twenty minutes late like you’re prone to doing. Face resting on your hand, cheek squishing your right eye closed, your left eye flits around the room to the other people present, and you wonder if anyone else is stuck in your current situation: burnt out student who didn’t have a choice but to take this class at the least convenient time possible, simply for your graduation credits. Unfortunate kismet, you think, if anybody else in this room also had the privilege to have been born with the unlucky gene you possess. 

Your eyes are heavy, the seconds tickering away at the speed of minutes, and you can’t help it when the last open eye you have flutters close. You hum to yourself, relishing at the feeling of finally being able to rest some more. the quiet shuffling of your classmates feet and the soft scrapings of their chairs, clock ticking so quietly that it barely registers in your mind. The ambient noise is like a blanket to you. It’s not more than five minutes, just a micro nap— you tell yourself, counting the seconds of each minute down silently. 45, 44, 43, 42, what minute is this?, 30, 29, 28, so tired, 22, 21, time to sleep…

Your eyes shoot open when you hear the auditorium door slam shut, blinking away softly the sleep in your eyes. your heart sinks for a minute and panic sets in— did you sleep through the whole class? On the first fucking day? You look around, eyes wide, and immediately sigh in relief when you’re greeted with a full hall. Conversely, you see everyone’s attention to the front of the class with materials out, so you trail your eyes to the front of the room and that’s when you see him, finally. Not his face yet, the wide expanse of his back and tail of his coiffed head facing you all instead. Your eyes trail down his body to his feet, clad in a pair of black combat boots, you can’t help but quirk up and eyebrow, bootcut jeans that seem to be worn in well, seemingly like they’re tailored to his long, very legs, then you see his jacket, which now you catch in time to see him taking it off to reveal a black t-shirt underneath and your breath hitches a bit. You can only see his triceps flexing as he maneuvers his jacket off, but you can just tell he’s covered in rippling muscle, his arms straining against the fabric of his shirt. You can’t help but wonder what he looks like, wondering if his face is as captivating as the rest of him. Your eyes flit over to the girl sitting two seats down from you, and you can’t help but smile a little at her expression, teeth chewing her bottom lip and eyes widened slightly and blinking in slow flutters, seemingly thinking the same things about this Professor Logan Howlett as you are; He’s obscenely sexy even though I haven’t even seen his face.

When you focus your attention back to the front, your face warms immediately upon finally seeing his– Professor Howlett’s face and fuck, you feel stupid for even thinking that he wouldn’t be even a fraction of attractive. His hair, oh god his hair, styled as if he just rolled out of bed and ran his hands through it once, maybe twice even, streaked with gray at his temples, peppering down into his sideburns and disappearing in his scruffy beard. His eyes are an enrapturing shade of hazel, almost brown, almost green, you squint a little to see the mix of hues better, cursing yourself for sitting so far away. His nose, button-like yet poses so masculine at the same time. His lips look so soft and kissable, framed perfectly by his facial hair as if it’s screaming at you to kiss there, to taste each other, let your tongues touch and whisper your deepest secrets to one another-

Gravelly and deep, his voice rouses you from your rather indulgent fantasy. “Good morning. Lively bunch this semester,” he quips and a quiet wave of laughter reverberates and echoes around you. Your chest tightens at the sound of his voice and you want to smack yourself silly for it. “Gonna spare you all the pointless introductions n’ ice breaking crap, yeah? We’ll go over the syllabus and get this show on the road.”

He’s curt, forward, doesn’t bite his tongue, you deduce. Not the jackass his reviews seem to pin him as, though it’s only the first class. They didn’t seem to mention how ruggedly handsome he was as well, you think and pull your lips taut as Professor Howlett, continues to read off the syllabus. Two essays, three quizzes, and a final reading comprehension exam. Attendance is mandatory Your eyes quickly flit to the back of your skull as he reads off that point. No makeups. No late work. No excuses. 

You feel your heart hammer in your chest a little, a sense of anxiety bubbling up in you at how much this class demands. It’s nerve wracking, super fucking discouraging to say the least given your track record, but you know you have no other choice but to commit fully and pass this class, so help your parents. You suppose you can find the motivation in a hot professor and at the very least, make an effort to roll out of bed and be presentable on the days you show up to his class. You exhale softly, hearing the shuffling of books and closing laptops to rouse you from your thoughts. 

“And don’t forget, first five chapters of tulip fever for next class,” his voice booms in the auditorium, fighting with the noise of students desperate to leave and head to their next class or back to their rooms. You flit your eyes towards your professor, arms crossed and muscles bulging against his shirt, casually leaned against his desk. His eyes meet yours for a moment and your breath hitches immediately. His brow quirks at you silently and you’re sure you might disintegrate on spot. You feel your face heat up and you break away the eye contact to rush out of the lecture, both exhausted and perpetually embarrassed, not having enough energy to handle feeling both. In your haste, you miss the way Logan's lip quirks up for a split second at you, rushing out the door with Tulip Fever and streaks of grey on your mind. 

You find you can’t keep your modern history professor off the brain since leaving the lecture hall that wednesday, ever so flustered. You thought about his thick arms back at your dorm, and how they might feel wrapped around you in a warm embrace. You thought about those graying temples, and the picture it would paint with his head between your thighs. You thought about him in your humanities class as your professor droned on about morality and its many philosophical perspectives, but you tune her voice out and think of his instead, wondering what it would sound like whispering sweet nothings in your ear. The level of yearning you’ve reached is bound to get you in trouble, hell it’s gotten you in trouble already— completely neglecting to finish the first five chapters of Tulip Fever like Professor Howlett had assigned, losing yourself in the work from your other classes. Friday had snuck up on you and you smacked your forehead for being so forgetful, the beginnings of discourage and a knot forming in your stomach. I’m a failure, I suck at this, I should drop out, I’m such a fucking idiot.

The thought of letting down a man you barely know has you berating yourself even further. You need to get a grip and quickly— he’s your teacher for God's sake. You suck in a breath, finding yourself sat in the same lecture hall your vivid fantasies found themselves being born in, laptop open as you’re frantically reading the Sparknotes summary minutes before class is set to start. Today, you chose a seat in the second row, still far off to the right side. You weren’t sure you could stay coherent with his gaze on you so heavy.  You tell yourself you picked this spot for a better learning experience, closer seats meaning less of a chance you fall prey to your fantasies, but deep down beyond the denial you knew better than to convince yourself of a lie like that. You sat upfront because you wanted to see Professor Howlett better, to pinpoint the hues of his eyes you couldn’t make out yesterday from so far behind. You wanted to trail your eyes up and down his muscular frame, taking snapshots of the hair on his forearms, the freckles on his thick knuckles, the veins trailing his big hands—

“Good morning, everyone,” a gruff voice speaks and you feel a ball of energy sits itself deep in your stomach, it’s him. You've missed the deep baritone of his voice, you realize. “Hope you all read up the chapters, yeah? We’ll be discussing ‘em today, and I am the asshole who picks on students to participate.” There’s a soft wave of grumbles from some, but your panic is quiet and you hope to a God in heaven somewhere that he doesn’t pick you, god knows you barely retained any information from your flash round of Sparknotes earlier.

“Like any book, the first few chapters were mostly exposition, character and scene setting stuff. Tell me, what does Sophia’s marriage and lack of heir signify to us in these times?” Professor Howlett asks, and you immediately avert your gaze to the grooves and scratches in the table in front of you. Please don’t pick me, please don’t pick me, please please please— “Yeah, you,” your head snaps up, heart hammering in your chest when you see him nod his head at some girl, some girl with too much fucking chest out, you spit, her hand raised high and smile plastered across her smug little face. Your brows pull together and you barely contain the urge to roll your eyes at her enthusiasm. 

“Thank you, Professor,” This fucking bi- “I think that- that while Cornelius and Sophia are often representative of the way marriage was a lot of the times something more transactional, her being unable to have a kid being a main problem- shows how a lot of times a marriage with no evidence of, um, consummation, is seen as practically null and void.” Your fist tenses against the desk at her answer.

“Little long winded, but yeah, good job..?” his voice lilts off, and you smile a bit knowing he doesn’t even remember her name. “Oh, um, Amber,” she sputters out. He nods at her response and continues asking questions about the book. You feel a little bad as class progresses, your unprovoked and unwarranted jealousy towards another woman over a man who’s simply an authority figure to you both, no matter how attractive, makes you cringe. What is he doing to you? 

“Good answers, guys. Glad you all did more than skim the book,” Professor Howlett muses, turning his back to face you all as he digs through his briefcase. You take this time to admire how broad his back looks, draped in a black polo shirt today that practically has you drooling. “The rest of you I didn’t pick on today aren’t unscathed unfortunately,” he says, a hint of amusement in his voice. He turns around and presents the stack of papers between his large hands to you all and he smirks, “Pop quiz.” 

A myriad of groans come crashing from all over the lecture hall right down to your ears and you silently join, hands falling down against your desk. You sincerely hope these weren’t going to be graded, praying that Professor Howlett possesses some sense of apologeticness, knowing that the definite zero percent you’d get on this would completely fuck over your overall average for the rest of the semester, subsequently giving your parents ample reason to rip you a fucking brand new one. 

Row by row, he passes a stack of papers for each student to pass down and he stops in front of you, seeing as you so conveniently sat at the end of the second row. “Nervous?” he asks, brow quirked and smug fucking look on his face as you look up at him. You quirk your eyebrow right back at him, “Hardly.” A group of papers fall in front of you and he breathes out a laugh, leaving you to pass papers to the next row. You lied like shit, you were insanely nervous, knowing you hadn’t retained a lick of information from your mini crash course nor the class’ discussion prior.

“No tech, no cheating. You guys know the drill, don’t make me catch you and have to chew you out. Twenty minutes and I’m picking ‘em up.” Logan says, walking down the aisle and back to his desk, his hulking frame leaning against his desk and his arms crossed up against his chest so tight that his biceps practically bulge out of his shirt. Or maybe, he’s just that toned, that any movement, minuscule or major, would have him threatening to rip out of his clothes. You’re practically fighting yourself in your seat, tearing your eyes away from his thick arms and heavy pectorals and down to your paper. 

It’s one page, front and back, ten questions. It wouldn’t be so bad had you actually read the book, considering you can’t even remember the name of the main character in the book. You bite your lip, trying so hard to rack your brain for something that resembles a coherent answer to these questions that will give you at least a 75%, knowing it wouldn’t skew your grade average completely off. What does Maria’s role stand to symbolize in the context of 1600’s Amsterdam?. You clench your  fist so hard around your pen you’re almost amazed that it doesn’t break under the pressure. You didn’t even remember a Maria in the book.

Twenty minutes of writing later, grasping at straws for potential points that would make you feel better than getting a big fat zero on your first quiz in this class, in his class, you’re walking to his desk to place your quiz in a pile with the rest of your peers, just as he’d instructed. You kept your eyes down the entire time, feeling too embarrassed to look at him after that silly excuse for banter you had attempted earlier. Hardly. Yeah fucking right. 

After your quiz, you had been dismissed from class, and you felt the anxiety set in almost immediately. The phone call you had with your parents that weekend over your classes and grades so far only worsened, the stern and subtly implied threat of coming back home to learn at a local college looming silently above you if you didn’t keep your grades up. You had obviously avoided mentioning the pop quiz you had, choosing not to set them ablaze at the mention of the fact that you most definitely failed that pop quiz. The stress of your grades instilled a new found productivity in you, in which you took initiative to read ahead of the assigned chapters and annotate as well as take notes for your modern history class, hoping to be prepared next time he’d ask a question. Your stomach churns at the thought of his praise, Good answer. Very good, kiddo. Like that idea. you imagined he’d say to you. You bite your lip as you study your western civilization notes, maybe he’d even indulge in you, call you his good girl, his good little student, something that Amber would never have above you. 

Monday and Tuesday went by uneventfully, as you completed your labs and started on your assignments when assigned. Tuesday night however, you had been anxious almost, or maybe excited— you weren’t sure, but you did know you wanted to be prepared for this class, to prove to Professor Howlett that you could handle his class, show him that you wouldn’t let him chew you up and spit him out so easily. You took the time before bed on that Tuesday to prepare your books in your bag, organize your notes, and even pick out an outfit, neatly folding it and leaving it on your desk chair. Grades be damned, you were beyond ready to prove everyone wrong, yourself included. 

You sat in the front row again, enraptured in the world of Tulip Fever, but really you would rather focus on Professor Howlett. He was all you thought about these days, especially at night when it was only you and the dark of your dorm to entertain you before bed. You hear a giggle next to you and you snap your head to the direction of the noise. Amber. A deep rumble sounds in front of you, someone clearing their throat. You look forward again and see your professor and your face heats up. “Welcome back to earth, sweetheart,” he muses, humour painted all over his face. Your eyes widen at the pet name he’s given you and you feel like sinking into your seat. “I need you here next time, yeah? Not in that pretty little head of yours,” he says, quiet enough so only you and the front two rows can hear. Your head spins. Pretty. He called you pretty. He continues his lecture like nothing else happened, leaving you dazed at his affection. His eyes flit to you briefly and he smiles, before walking back to the front of the class. 

Little moments like these pepper themselves throughout your lectures with Profess Howlett in between the assignments and lectures and raised hands. You’d catch him looking at the juncture of your breasts sometimes as you wore low cut tops, his lilting voice calling you precious pet names, sweetheart, kiddo, sweets. They all have your face warming. Heated gazes, stolen smiles, one off banter, you were convinced you were being delusional. One particular moment after class where you had asked for details on an assignment had you reeling for days. You went up to him after class to ask your question. His face was insanely close, you could smell the mint off his breath from the gum he was chewing during the lecture, feel his words fan your face, deep rumblings and focused glares as you were only inches away from his face. His lips, oh God his lips… so close, so soft looking, so pink, you had been so caught up in him the entire time. And he had noticed, his fingers coming up to your chip to raise your gaze. He did it wordlessly, eyeing you as you eyed him. His look daring you to say something. Challenge me. I dare you. But you didn’t— you couldn’t, you had tried to focus on something else, his musky woodsy scent, his greying stubble, anything, as he continued to explain your question to you. You walked out of his class that day with jello for legs, replaying the moment in your mind. 

Next class you had seen him he had given the assignments back, adorned with little gold stars on those who had grades higher than a B minus. Your paper had come back to you with an A minu, a little gold star next to your grade. “Boosts morale,” had been Logan’s explanation when a student had asked why the gold star. You smiled. Cute. 

You had felt like you finally found your groove, despite the hiccup you had at the beginning. Your first test of the semester approached, and you weren’t nervous, in fact you showed up to class early, getting a chance to get a good spot and watch Professor Howlett walk in and begin setting up. You had waved, a meek good morning in your own words and he returned a wink back. Your insides tugged at themselves. He had waltzed over to you in your seat, starting up conversation. “Nervous?” he asks, curt and short. You smile, “Hardly,” using your own words once more. “I’m gunning on a gold star. I studied extra hard.” Professor Howlett hums, smile on his face. “I look forward to seeing your work. I enjoy reading it,” he says. He leaves you with those words as he walks back to his desk, more students beginning to pepper in the classroom as the test hour approached. You had been so sure you did excellent on your test, studying for days and days beforehand. So when you got back your test, a C Minus staring back at you with a gut wrenching empty space next to your grade right where a star would be. Tears prick your eyes as you look at the grade, feeling so disappointed in yourself. This couldn’t be. It just couldn’t.

You had promptly stayed behind after class to speak to him, and it seemed like Amber had the same idea, her body close to his as she spoke lowly. She didn’t spare a glance back at you as she spoke to him, hand grazing his bicep as she walked away and past you. Your eyes rolled in your head and you walked up to Professor Howlett next. He’s in the middle of packing up his papers in his bag when you come up to him, and he glances up in acknowledgment before going back to what he’s doing. You breathe out and his brown quirks as he pauses and looks at you. “Yes?” he asks. “I… I would like to see you after class if possible to discuss my grades,” you say, fist curling and uncurling with nerves. ”Tomorrow afternoon come see me at my office,” he says, arms crossing. “Don’t be late. Don’t get your hopes up either,” he quirks. You chew your lip before sighing. “I’ll be there. On time.” 

And true to your word, you showed up promptly and on time. Your heart was hammering in your chest cavity so hard you felt like it would burst through your ribcage. Your lower lip found itself between your teeth, chewing at it tenderly. You had been staring at the mahogany colored door, finished with a shiny golden plaque, L. Howlett, PHD. carved within the surface of the precious metal. His name posed just as intimidating as he did. You’d been standing in front of his door for almost three minutes now, fingers skimming along the hem of your plaid skirt. The accompanying white tanktop and white cardigan hand made your subconscious intentions loud and clear, as some part of you, a delusional part of you, had hoped this school girl-esque get up would grant you some sort of leniency with Professor Howlett as you begged for him to give you a retake, a makeup assignment, something for God’s sake.

Any moment more of hesitancy and you would be late for your two o’clock appointment time, so you bring your knuckles up to the door to knock, twice in succession, when the door swings open in front of you. Your knuckle is almost met with Amber’s face, her shock seeing you just as evident as hers. She doesn’t let it linger however, as she casts a glance over her shoulder and muses a “Bye Professor. Thank you so much, I’ll see you in class Monday,” before looking back forward and right back at you, holding your gaze as she walks right out the door and past you, making sure her shoulder doesn’t miss yours. You scoff. Bitch. 

“Right on time. Come in,” he gestures, refusing to get up from his comfy looking office chair. As you walk around his office you take in the interior briefly. The mahogany furniture, the lingering smell of cigar smoke, evidence of his nasty habit sitting on top of an ashtray on his desk, the glass bar cart, adorned with various bottles of whiskey and gin, and a mini fridge sitting on its bottom shelf— filled with ice and garnish you assume. You eye his book cabinet, shelves stuffed with various literary titles, old and new, classic and contemporary. You find yourself impressed, but you shouldn’t be, his teaching— albeit rough, brutish sometimes even— is a testament to his passion towards books and literature. You smile a little as you sit down in the foam lined chair in front of his desk. You try not to think of who sat in it before you as you feel the residual warmth of it against your thighs. You take in Professor Logan, black t-shirt and dark blue jeans— casual, but damn if he made it look good. You eyed his arms, veiny and bulging out his shirt, before flickering your attention back to his face, framed by those greying temples you oh so loved.

“So?” He trails, redirecting his attention from his desktop to you. You swallow a little and sigh. “Um, I know that you said no… no retakes or anything, and I understand your answer if it’s a hard no,” you say, pausing to look at him to try and assess what he’s thinking, but you’re simply met with a raised brow and crossed arms as he leans back further in his chair. “But I… I was wondering if- Well, my parents, they said that If I have a grade lower than an A on my report card this semester I had to drop out and transfer locally, and I don’t want to make this a pity story but I… It’s only this class where I’m having trouble. And I know what you said but my last test really fucked my average and I-” your nervous ramblings are cut off by him raising his hand. Your lips clamp and you watch him, waiting for his impending words. He makes you sit in the silence and with your words, instead opening his desk drawer, rifling between what sounds like various loose pens and papers before taking a lighter out. Small, sliver, zippo style and engraved with meticulous swirls. He picks up the already cut cigar out the ashtray, placing it between his pink lips, and lights it— two experimental puffs of smoke floating your way and you get dizzy. 

“You don’t mind?” He asks only now, and you try not to roll your eyes and that façade of chivalry. “No,” you shake your head. “Thought so,” he smiles, smug. He puffs from the cigar once more before he places it down on the glass ashtray once again before he speaks up. “As it stands now if you tighten up for the rest of the semester you can pass my class with a B something, which don’t sound too bad to me, sweetheart.” Your gut twists with tension. A B isn’t what you need. You brows furrow and you open your mouth to speak, but he continues. “I would love to help you sweetheart, trust me I would. But that wouldn’t be fair to all the other students who come waltzing in here dressed just like you, begging for an A,” he drawls, picking up his cigar again and slotting it between his lips before he stands up and your breath hitches. “Wh- dressed like me? I didn’t-” you begin, confused at what he’s implying. Your eyes follow his moving figure, his steps taking him around his desk to the side of your chair, conveniently eye level to his groin. 

“But you did, didn’t you?” he asks softly, thumb coming to your chin to direct your gaze up to his eyes. “I don’t understand…” you murmur, skin beginning to warm at the rather inappropriate contact and position. Your chest heaves up and down beneath your cardigan and he surely notices letting out a soft chuckle. “You’re a smart girl. I’m sure you can put two and two together,” he continues, thumb rubbing softly back and forth against your chin before he drops his hand from you completely. Your eyes drop in sync to his limb, your mind racing a million thoughts a second. But… isn’t this what you wanted? What you needed? What you’ve dreamed of for weeks upon weeks? “Look at me,” he says, stern. And you do. “You listen so well,” he hums and you feel the makings of a fire ignite itself inside you somewhere deep. I’m being good. Good for him. “Kills you inside that you couldn’t get that shiny little sticker, doesn’t it?” he muses, looking down at you with mirth swirling in his eyes. You feel tears spring to your eyes at his words. He sees right through you. It did hurt. All you ever wanted to be was good for him. 

“We can fix that today. Tell you what, you be a good student for me, and I’ll be a good teacher to you, yeah?” he says, taking a puff from his cigar. “Nod your head like a good student.” And you do. Up and down, slowly. Your brain is fuzzy. This surely isn’t happening, is it? It couldn’t be. He walks away and back to his desk, propping his cigar down after asking it. He pushes a pile of papers from his desk, until he finds what he’s looking for. A sticker sheet. What is he…

“C’mere,” Professor Howlett gestures with a finger, simultaneously sitting back on his chair. Your legs are trembling under you as you get up and walk towards his side of the desk. Logan pivots his desk chair to the side as you walk over to him and you find yourself standing between his legs, quiet. “Take that off,” he says, flicking his head towards your cardigan. You let it drop off your shoulder promptly, standing only in your white tank top and plaid skirt. “Kneel,” he says, and you drop immediately. Pathetic. Your hands lay in your laps as you’re sat between his legs on your knees. Your breathing is as laboured as ever. You can’t believe this is happening— something that you spent nights dreaming of. Touching him, tasting him, feeling him. He reaches over to his desk and grabs the sticker sheet of gold stars, a fresh sheet of stars neatly arranged row by row. “You know what to do, don’t you sweetheart?” he asks, palm of his hand running against your face. You nod, reaching forward to the zipper of his dark denim jeans before his palm grabs your hand. “When I ask you somethin’, I want a verbal answer. Y’understand?” he says. Your voice feels caught in your throat. He’s so intense your head is spinning. “Y-yes,” you breathe. “Yes what?” he spits back and your heart hammers. “Y-yes, Sir.”

“Good girl,” he hums. He lets go of your hands, taking a sticker off the sheet and placing a small gold star right next to your left eye. Your face heats up at the praise and you almost let out a breath, but you don’t. Your hands go back to undressing Professor Howlett, fingers deft with his button and zipper. He lifts his hips up and helps you shrug his jeans down until they’re sitting on top of his black combat boots, clad only in black briefs. The heavy tent in his pants makes your eyes go wide but you persist, thinking of your grade on the line. With a tug at his boxer band his dick pops up over the elastic, and you pull down until the full sheath of him is bobbing freely. Your eyes widen a little at the sheer size of him, wondering how he could possibly fit inside your mouth let alone your pussy. He was long, eight inches you’d guess just by looking and insanely thick. He was heavy too— the length of him unable to stand up fully, bobbing haphazardly as he twitched from arousal. You looked up at him, and his gaze was steady. Expectant. You sucked in a shallow breath before grabbing his cock, warm to the touch. Your fingers barely touched. You’re hand jerked up once before Professor Howlett was grabbing your wrist, only to spit on his dick, the string of saliva landing on the shaft. “S’better. Go on,” he encourages, and you do— jerking him a little faster now with his spit lubricant, the sound of his slick skin making your pussy feel warm, wet. You jerk him faster, spitting in the palm of your second hand before you join your other, breasts bouncing up and down as you jerk him. Little grunts leave Logan, and it makes your tummy feel warm. You were making him feel— “Good, just like that, yeah. Use your mouth now,” he moans. You felt intimidated by his size, but you persisted still. You wanted to be his good girl.

You look up at him as your mouth opens, coy like a fish, and you wrap your lips around his tip. He inhales a sharp breath and it gives you some encouragement. Be good. Your head drops lower, lower and lower until your mouth his full and his tip is tickling your uvula, and you gag around him, sputtering spit all over him. You pull off his dick to cough and he chuckles at you. “Let’s try again together, yeah?” You nod, “Yes, Sir.” You reposition yourself, back on your knees in front of him. “Open your mouth and stick your tongue out, open real wide,” he says, tapping your cheek. It felt soft slap more than a tap however. But still, you open your mouth wide, tongue hanging out. “Juuust like that, yeah…” Logan groans, slapping the warmth of his cock on your tongue. “Breath through the nose,” he says, before putting the length of him in your mouth and pulling your head down on him, fist clenched in your hair. He pulls you down deep, further than you managed to reach alone and you gag, spit everywhere, but he pays you no mind. His curses under his breath before standing up out of his seat, your head craning up as his fist pulls at your nape. “Good fuckin’ girl,” he breathes, thrusting his cock in an out of your mouth. Your throat feels rubbed raw, tears pooling in your eyes but you hold on, hands gripping his thighs. “Take it, fucking take it,” he grunts. His hand disappears before placing a sticker on your spit-covered cheek and you whimper around his cock. Logan’s brows pull together and he laughs. “That turn you on? You like being my good little student? You like sucking off your professor?” he laughs, fucking your face with a deep pace. You muffle a Yes, Sir around him as his spit soaked balls slap against your chin and he laughs. Sticker after sticker covers the expanse of your face, a juxtaposition to your debauched mascara-streaked-spit-covered face.

Your throat is raw, but you’re relishing in the attention, the praise, the intensity of it. “One more mouthful, c’mon,” he grunts, pushing your head down even further down his cock and you squeal around him. Your eyes snap shut, focusing on holding your breath as he brings his dick deep down your throat until your nose is buried in his greying pubes. “So fucking nasty,” he drawls, deep groan leaving his chest. “Take it, be good and take it,” he says breathless, before he’s spitting his cum down your throat, leaving you no choice but to swallow his bitter semen. Your eyes wretch open lowly, watch Logan’s face contort in pleasure as he finishes in your throat and you whimper, squeezing his thighs tightly. “Good student,” he coos, pulling his cock from your mouth and it’s a relief that’s long overdue. Your first unobstructed breath is a deep one, and you’re slightly dizzy from the oxygen after having it restricted for so long. You don’t think about it for long before a hand is pulling you up off the floor, and before you know it, lips are on yours, tongue finding tongue. Your eyes close by themselves and you melt into the kiss, Professor Howlett’s lips soft against yours, but kissing you so roughly. Your arms grip his biceps, desperate for something to hold onto, anything to steady yourself with. 

The kiss breaks and your mind feels hazy. Your eyes open and you see Professor Howlett staring back at you, hands roaming your body. “Pr-professor…” you moan out after a particularly hard squeeze at your ass. “Logan, baby,” he says, kissing your lips once in a peck, and again as a sloppy embrace, his tongue swirling in your mouth and you keen into him. His hands pull at the back of your thighs and you jump up in his arms, wrapping your arms around his thick neck. He walks you a few paces, still stuck in an embrace, until he puts on you down on his desk. He breaks the kiss between you two before pulling the front of your tank top down, revealing your breasts to him, nipples pert. He wastes no time kissing and licking your chest, and you throw your head back in a silent moan. He sucks on your nipples for a minute, pinching and toying with your breast until your chest is heaving and nipples are raw. “What a sight for me,” Logan hums, and you feel shy under him like this. “Lean back and spread your legs f’me,” he says low, kneeling as you do as he asks. He’s eye level with your pussy, only covered by your skirt and white panties. He lifts the plaid fabric up and groans, the little wet spot of your pussy a delectable sight. 

Logan leans forward and licks the wet gusset of your panties and you let out a shuddering moan. “P-please, Logan…” you breath, too wound up to wait. He smirks and indulges in you, pliant and needy. He hooks a finger in the crotch of your panties and pulls them to the side, hurrying his face into your wet and waiting pussy. It’s an enrapturing feeling, having him suck and lick and taste your clit and folds like this, groaning into you and he praises you for having such a sweet fuckin’ pussy, baby. He sucks your clit roughly, before pulling back to spit on your pussy, rubbing his nose against your clit before flattening his tongue against your gushing slit once again. The streaks of grey between your thighs sends blood rushing downwards to the center of your arousal and you can’t help but run your hands through his salt and pepper hair. He licks and tongues you until your legs go numb, teasing your orgasm from you time and time again until you’re nearly in tears for him, ready to cum.

��“Please Lo- Sir. Please, Sir. Wanna cum, I’ll be good. Just-” your begging is cut short as two thick fingers push themselves in you and you throw your head back at the stretch. “You’re gonna come for me in a little, sweetheart. Be good for now,” Logan coos, kissing your inner thighs. You’re heaving as he curls and scissors his fingers inside you in a way that feels so unfairly good that tears begin to streak down your face, gold stickers peeling and falling off your damp skin; scattering down on the desk and falling on your chest. “G-gonna… Oh my God, Sir,” you squeal, just about ready to… Until his fingers deftly leave you. Before you can whine about this, Logan’s thick fingers covered in your slick push into your mouth and you groan. “Hush, baby. You’re about to feel real good in a little,” Logan hums, rubbing his cock, now hard again, up and down your wet and sensitive pussy, the head of him hitching your clit so good it hurts. His fingers leave your mouth. “Beg for it.” And you do. You’re a babbling mess under him. “Inside, p-put it inside me, Professor,” you moan, and Logan's resolve snaps, thrusting into you in one fluid movement.

You see stars, no pun intended, at the stretch of him. Your stomach feels full and you shudder, laying back down against the desk. “Tightest, sweetest fucking pussy I ever felt,” Logan coos, fingers pushing back into your mouth. His unoccupied hand grabs your leg and throws it over his shoulder and he begins to thrust in and out of you, knocking the wind out of you with every push in and out. Your intermittent moans turn into a symphony of cries as his pace increases and he’s fucking into you at a brutal speed. Your hands are grasped around the wrist of his hand that’s by your mouth, sucking his fingers to soothe the burning part of the pleasure. “That’s it, fucking take it,” he grunts, pushing your leg from around his should back until your knee was touching your shoulder. The new angle made the pleasure unbearable, every movement rubbing against your g-spot. Your eyes begin to close, your body shutting down seemingly as you begin to enter a pleasure comatose, the bubbling pleasure, the fingers in your mouth, it all feels like too much. But Logan doesn’t let you stay in that place for too long, his fingers leaving your mouth to slap your cheek, pulling back down. “I need you right here, know it feels good but I want you with me,” he says breathy, thrusts still never faltering. 

Without his fingers in your mouth your moans are free to be heard, your incoherent babbles of “s’too much,” and “so deep in me, sir,” floating in the air between Logan’s heavy breaths and obscene curses. You’re breasts jump with every thrust in you, your head bouncing up and down from the sheer force of his thrusts. “T-Tell me…” you stutter out, eyes fluttering. “Tell you?” he asks, grinding his hips up and deep, and you’re sure he’s grazing your cervix. You grip his t-shirt and keel. He gets what you mean. “Good girl. My good girl. You’re the best girl. You want another star, don’t you?” he breathes out, a hand moving down to your clit as he thrusts up and out, up and out into you. You whimper, his words and ministration’s overwhelming, “Yes, Sir. M’good. So good. W-want it. Please, can I have it?” you babble. You belly feels warm, and the heat bubbles with every brush at your swollen clit and thrust in your pussy. He lets go of the hand at your knee, spreading you open to grab a sticker from the sticker sheet. “Stick your tongue out f’me,” and you do, overwhelmed with this moment. You’re being good. You’re being good. You’re almost there, keep being good. He spits in your mouth and you moan holding it there and waiting for him to tell you what to do. “Swallow it,” he huffs, thrusts faltering. He’s close, you deduce. I don’t want it to end. Please don’t let it end. You swallow and stick your tongue back out to show him and he groans.

He puts the star sticker on your tongue, and he thrusts in you harder, tweaking at your clit as he does. Your body seizes and you melt into a fit of moans and grunts, and you finally cum, Logan fucking you through it. “Yeah baby, just like that. Kneel for me,” he says, pulling out of you. You lay up off the desk and fall promptly to your knees, watching him jerk himself to orgasm above you with your tongue out, gold star on the middle of your tongue. He grunts with deep Fuck! before warm ropes of cum spray your partially sticker-covered face and tongue. Your eyes close and you hum, relishing in the warmth. Logan wipes the cum from your eyes with his thumb and sticks it in your mouth, and you suck, no questions asked. “Good fucking girl.” 

The moments following are awkward. Logan tucks himself back in his pants, and pulls his jeans up and you’re left laying on the floor, coming down from your ecstasy high. The zip of his jeans breaks the silence and you’re looking up at him, soiled with cum, spit, stickers, tears and mascara. He walks to his bar cart and grabs the cloth hanging off the handle bar, and he hands it to you. You clean yourself up, and when you’re done you find his cardigan in his hands. You fix your tank top back over your breasts and pull the crotch of your panties back into place before grabbing it from him. “Thanks,” you say quietly. “See you in class on Tuesday,” is the last thing he says to you before you leave his office. Stunned.

On Tuesday, he hands you back your test with a new grade, an eighty, and gold sticker placed on it right next to the new grade. He glances at you as you look over your test, and smirks. You read the note he left in red ink on the back of the test, heart beating a little faster once you look back up at him. Good girl. 

send me an ask!

[saetoru]

RATE MY PROFESSOR! — GOJO SATORU & GETO SUGURU.

kinktober day one — threesomes ; find masterlist here

synopsis. you’re professor gojo’s TA—the catch? you both are romantically involved. what do you do when professor geto happens to accidentally walk in on you giving a blowjob? let him fuck you so he keeps his mouth shut and doesn’t tell a soul, of course

length. 5.1k words (deep, big, heavy sigh)

contents. minors do not interact, fem! reader, college au, teacher-student relationships, prof! satoru + suguru, TA! reader, power imbalance, age gaps (reader is early twenties and satoru + suguru are early thirties), semi public sex (at campus in satoru’s office), suguru walking in on you and satoru, threesomes, fingering + blowjobs + hair pulling + throat fucking + cum swallowing (satoru), male masturbation + edging (suguru), unprotected sex + (one) clit slap + creampie (suguru), pet names (baby, sweetheart, angel, princess, pretty girl, good girl), not proof read—i am a raw dog kinda gal

notes. i would highly discourage having intimate relations with a professor—but….if your professor looks like gojo or geto, i’m blind babe. i ain’t see nothing. i won’t tell a soul

“you guys wanna get lunch?” nobara hums, “we’re all here.”

megumi, as always, looks like he’s about to say no—he probably wants to go home as quickly as possible. but that’s not an option because before he can, yuji has already piped up with an enthusiastic, “yeah! i’m down.”

you fiddle your fingers nervously—how are you supposed to get out of this one? you’d just used the excuse of grading assignments for satoru yesterday, and surely you couldn’t possibly have a fresh pile of them to grade again within twenty-four hours, right? it’d be a suspicious excuse, especially one for nobara, who seems to sniff out a lie a little too easily. 

it’s not that you don’t want to hang out with your friends, you love them. really. but you promised you’d be in satoru’s office in fifteen minutes—and you’re not about to keep him waiting, so lunch will have to wait for another time.

you’re still thinking of a usable excuse when she turns to you herself, unimpressed as she dryly says, “i assume you have some midterm review to help him polish or something,” she grumbles, “gojo is so lazy,” she scoffs.

oh—well, that wasn’t very hard. she’s just made it ten times easier for you. nobara has handed you the perfect excuse right in the palm of your hand, and before you can even play it off casually, yuji cuts in and distracts her. bless yuji, you think to yourself.

“hey, professor gojo is a great guy! we all passed with an A! isn’t that great?”

“everyone gets an A in his class, dumbass,” megumi grunts, rolling his eyes, “not getting an A in his class practically means you’re deliberately trying to do poorly.”

on campus, professor gojo is a fan favorite—his rate my professor score is a perfect five stars, and most of the students around campus rave about him. why? because he gives out the letter grade A+ like it’s candy. anyone would love a professor like that. 

he doesn’t ever take attendance or knock your grade down when you skip class, his assignments are always easy to google answers to, and the quizzes have unlimited time and attempts. his tests are straightforward enough that even if you never pay attention, doing the review he uploads is sure to help you cram enough to pass. and what’s better? he always adds a generous curve. not only that, but professor gojo is a friendly guy—he loves talking to his students, loves to ramble away if you stop him in the halls or visit during office hours, loves to listen to your stories and nod along in interest, loves to crack jokes and have a good laugh.

everyone loves professor gojo. and when they leave his class with an A+, they love him even more. 

you had an A+ in physics yourself when you took his class—and you hate physics. you hated it in high school, and you hate it now. but for gojo satoru? you’re almost a physics enthusiast. professor gojo—or rather, satoru, as you call him now, takes a liking to you. a very…strong liking, if you will. 

it all starts on a fateful monday afternoon two semesters ago—it’s one thirty pm, the busiest hour on campus. sometimes, it feels like everyone takes classes at one pm—and as such, getting a table in the university coffee shop is almost impossible. you’re just about to give up and leave with your coffee and sandwich after scanning the place when a wave of a hand catches your attention. 

it’s professor gojo. 

need a seat? he asks you, gesturing at the chair in front of him at his table—it’s a smooth, amused little drawl, the way he talks. it’s almost always a borderline teasing tone, and his voice is low enough that it sounds oddly enticing. you’ve heard enough girls lust over his voice in class to know you’re not the only one who sometimes appreciates the sound. 

you try to insist that you wouldn’t want to intrude, but professor gojo is a nice guy; always looks out for his students and helps them out. so, when he insists that he doesn’t mind you taking the spare seat as he grades a few assignments, well…you decide to sheepishly thank him and sit across from him, finally having somewhere to sit and eat before you’re off to your next class. 

and then it begins.

every now and then, you sit across from your physics professor in the crowded coffee shop on campus as you enjoy a cold brew and a sandwich before your next class. somehow, he always manages to snatch a table, and somehow, you always manage to find him. you like to ramble to him sometimes—how professor nanami is a bit too strict for your liking (he giggles at that), how professor ieri always seems too tired and miserable to be here (he nods and agrees), and how professor geto is nice, but he takes literature pretty seriously (he gives you an amused look at that as he hums.)

somewhere along the line, he asks you to be his TA for the following semester—and somewhere further along that line…well, perhaps the one-on-one talks as you sit together at a table for two felt a little too close to something of a romantic setting because you and professor gojo kiss in his office while he calls you in to explain your TA responsibilities. 

that was never supposed to happen. 

you don’t even remember who leaned in first, or whose arms were the first to wrap around the other, or who tugged who closer, but you both kiss. and then some. and then it happens again, and again, and again—and, well…you’re professor gojo’s, or better yet, satoru’s best kept secret.

you go to his office to grade assignments for him—in between if he steals a few kisses, who’s to know? sometimes, he’s a bit riskier, likes to spread his legs and free his cock and have your hand stroke him as he eyes the door. it’s always a nice view to watch him unbutton a few buttons of his shirt and bite back moans. other days, he likes to slip his hand past your waistband and toy with your clit—the amused glint in his eyes, as he tells you not to get distracted and keep grading when you gasp always, earns him a sharp glare.

it’s like that for the semester, just you and him in his little office where you can break the rules in the safety of secrecy. 

that is, until now. 

admittedly, this isn’t the best time to be doing this—professor geto likes to have lunch with satoru around this time, and you know you’re cutting it close…but he just looks so pretty like this, head fallen back against his chair as his lips part with a soft gasp.

you’re on your knees, looking up as you suck on the tip of his stiff cock before taking him down your throat, bobbing your head up and down. it’s a rewarding position to be in—to have the hot, loved, campus favorite professor that everyone thirsts over falling apart in your mouth, hands gripping the arms of his chair as he pants harshly above you.

he looks pretty—always does, always looks good enough that you can feel the ache between your legs get worse. the messy strands of his hair stick to his damp forehead, and his lips are always so pink and plump when he bites them like that, and who can forget the way his eyes turn just a shade darker of that bright blue?

you hum around him, making him groan as he mumbles, “f-fuck, you’re so good, sweetheart—always know how to make me feel good.”

you press a kiss to his tip, smearing the bead of pre cum leaking from his slit along your lips before licking them clean—he closes his eyes and groans at that. you can’t help but giggle, can’t help but press more kisses along his hardened length until you’re at the base of his cock. 

“pretty little lips,” he hums, reaching to rub his thumb over your bottom lip as you open your mouth, letting him slip into your mouth—he hums approvingly as your tongue swirls around the digit, sucking slowly. “‘s like you were made for taking me, huh?”

“‘course i was,” you grin cheekily—and then you’re back to sucking on his cock, tongue rubbing over that thick vein you love to trace and reaching a hand to play with his balls. he moans—it’s low but still whiny enough that you can’t help but feel so proud at how needy he is, how desperately he always wants you. no matter the risk.

except the risk is probably not the wisest one to test today because just as satoru lets out a particularly loud whine when you swallow around him, the door clicks open and…

oh. 

oh no. 

this…this isn’t good—this is terrible, in fact. this is the worst possible outcome to the worst possible thing you’ve done, and now you’re screwed. entirely destroyed, in fact—the both of you. here goes your admission and your progress on your degree, and here goes satoru’s entire career and everything he’s worked for, and all because you couldn’t help but give him a blowjob in the middle of his office with the door unlocked where his best friend can walk right in and get a full view.

and worse? this best friend of his happens to be another professor on campus who you happen to have had just last semester. you’re sure he knows you; you’re his former student, after all, and he must certainly know his best friend’s TA. 

professor geto blinks—his eyes go back and forth between you and satoru and the still-hard cock between his legs that’s glistening with your spit as you sit on your knees. yeah—there’s no explaining this one.

“well,” he says blankly, “i guess that’s on me for not knocking, huh?”

“suguru,” satoru grumbles, “some of us are busy y’know? can’t you come back later?”

you turn to satoru in shock—how can he be so normal about this? how can he just casually act like this is some random hook-up his friend walked in on instead of a (very illegal and very unprofessional) teacher-student relationship that could get the two of you in more trouble than you can comprehend? 

but professor geto doesn’t seem even the slightest bit concerned. there’s no look of disgust or panic or even anger at you and satoru for your unprofessional habits. there’s no alarm at the distasteful activities you’re doing in the middle of a university office where anyone could potentially walk in on. and then there’s satoru—he doesn’t even bother making himself decent or pulling you from your knees.

no, instead, he looks at professor geto in slight irritation as the latter stands there. 

“so this is what you’re always busy doing in your office, huh?” professor geto hums, chuckling in amusement, “i have to say, you at least have good taste, satoru. she’s excellent in and outside the classroom, it seems.”

“yeah, she’s a keeper,” satoru hums, cupping your cheek as he grins down at you, “now if you don’t mind, suguru, we’re in the middle of something.”

“and what do you plan on doing if this gets around?” professor geto raises a brow, unimpressed.

you look at him in panic at that—surely…surely he can’t mean that he would be the one to spread this around, right? surely he wouldn’t throw his best friend under the bus, correct? if not for you, then for satoru’s sake, he’d never let this information find another soul. otherwise…otherwise you’ll both lose everything. all the hard work and progress you’ve made, all of satoru’s experience and years building his career, and all the future opportunities you had coming up—all of it will be for nothing if professor geto says one word. 

people wouldn’t have a hard time believing it either, you think. sometimes your own friends like to poke fun at you themselves. 

you’re always with him, are you sure you’re not in love with the guy at this point? nobara always likes to snort at you.

why does professor gojo even keep you around? you’re too lazy—you must give good head, megumi tends to tease as he raises a brow with amused eyes.

with how often you’re in professor gojo’s room, you might as well have a crush on him, yuji sometimes giggles.

surely, with how often you’re seen in the coffee shop with him as he grades papers and how often he likes to tease you when you show up to his classroom sometimes to drop off papers, students would certainly take the rumors and spread them like wildfire if professor geto says even the littlest thing. 

you look at him with wobbly lips as you whisper, “please don’t tell anyone,” you sniffle, “i…maybe there’s something we can do…to keep you from…”

the two of them look at you in shock—they stare at you for a moment, stare at the crystalline tears welling up in your eyes, at the soft little tremor in your lips, at the sweet little sniffles you try to hide. then, as if in sync, their eyes meet each other’s before finding you once more.

“oh, that’s precious,” professor geto chuckles, “she really is a keeper, satoru—she even looks pretty when she cries. i’m almost jealous.”

“don’t look for too long, suguru,” satoru grumbles—and then, “listen, sweetheart, you don’t have to worry. suguru’s not gonna—”

“well, if there is something you’d wanna do for me,” professor geto cuts satoru off, his voice a low drawl as he walks closer, hand cupping your jaw as he tilts your face up, “i suppose i can keep my mouth shut.”

“anything,” you nod quickly.

you’re so eager to please, he thinks—so perfect and sweet and pliant, that suguru thinks he might actually really be jealous that somehow, it was satoru who caught your attention. how did this all start? when did it start? how long has it been going on? do you have real feelings for each other? or is it just a pleasurable business kind of deal? do you meet up outside of campus? does he take you to the next town over to freely walk around with you on dates? do you kiss sweetly sometimes instead of with hunger? have you ever spent a night in his bed? do you sleep better beside each other, wrapped in the other’s arms?

there are so many, many questions suguru wants to ask. the potential answers to all of them make him a bit more unhappy than he cares to admit. something in him wonders how things might’ve had to play out in order to land you in his office instead—but…but if you’re offering anything, why not take advantage of the offer?

“anything?” he asks, looking at you amused, “you know, princess, anything is a dangerous offer. what if i asked to join? what if i asked to fuck you here in this office so your secret is safe?”

you blink up at him for a moment at his words—they’re a bit shocking. professor geto…doesn’t think this is wrong? clearly, he doesn’t if he’s willing to take part. but that doesn’t sound half bad. not even in the slightest. 

they’re a popular pair: professor gojo and geto are all people on campus ever talk about. those two professors who happen to be best friends. they’re not much older than you either—can’t be past their early thirties, even if they don’t look a day over twenty. 

did you know they used to go to college together? i heard they’ve known each other since high school. apparently, they applied to work here together and only took the offer up once the other agreed. it’s all people ever gossip about when they mention them both. it’s always about how close they are, how deep their bond is, how there is never one without the other. and then, of course, there are those…the less than appropriate comments you occasionally hear the other girls make. i bet professor gojo gives the best head—he’s always sucking on some lollipop. i’d let professor geto do nasty things to me while i read his literature books out loud to him—he’s too fine. i can take both of them—and i don’t mean their classes. 

it’s…not exactly a bad offer that he gives you, you think to yourself. it’s an enticing one, in fact. you get to have them both—professor geto isn’t any less attractive than satoru and…and well, you’d really like for him to keep this a secret, so it’s a bit of a win-win. plus, you’re sure he wouldn’t risk spilling such delicate information when it would put his career at risk, too—it seems like the perfect leverage.

you look at your old literature professor with a nod as you murmur, “then i’d say you should make sure to lock the door this time—we don’t want to make the same mistake twice, do we?”

his eyes sparkle in amusement at that, a low chuckle falling from his pretty lips as he shakes his head at you—you’re even better than he expected. satoru is so, so lucky he’s got to have you to himself all this time. it’s criminally unfair. 

“hey,” satoru pouts from behind, still sitting in his chair and still painfully hard as his throbbing cock sits between his legs unattended. “you both are forgetting about me,” he whines.

professor geto—or rather, suguru, you suppose, only looks at his best friend in amusement. “now, satoru—what have i always told you about sharing? here—” he walks over and pulls satoru to stand before taking the seat himself and patting his thigh as he looks at you with a sly grin, “why don’t i get to feel your pussy, and satoru can have your mouth like before? then we both get what we want.”

“bossy as ever, suguru,” satoru chuckles, but there’s something in his eyes—something darker and more excited than you’ve ever seen them.

“get her ready for me,” suguru hums, fingers making quick work to unbuckle his belt and free his hardened cock. you can’t help but stare, can’t help but watch as he wraps his fist around his hardened length and runs his thumb through his slit with a low moan. 

he’s not as long, but he’s thicker than satoru—you can easily tell he won’t be any easier to take. you watch attentively as he traces the thick vein along the side of his cock with this thumb as he strokes upward, rolling around his tip before stroking down and squeezing at the base. you watch his lips tug between his teeth, a soft moan ripping from his throat as he touches himself in the way he likes best.

you’ll remember what he likes, you think—you can sense this might not be your first and last opportunity to see suguru like this. and next time? well, next time, it’ll be your hand touching his cock and pulling those pretty little sighs and groans from him instead of his own.

“eyes on me, sweetheart,” satoru hums, pulling you to stand before gently guiding your back to fall against his desk, fingers looping into your waistband and pulling your pants down your legs. you can hear the sharp inhale suguru takes as soon as the wetness of your folds is on display, as soon as your puffy clit and dripping pussy are there for him to see so clearly. “watch carefully, suguru,” satoru grins, “she’s pretty when she cums.”

“i can imagine,” suguru muses, “alright then. show me.”

instantly, satoru’s fingers are intruding into your cunt—it’s familiar, the sensation of his digits bullying past your folds and curling against your sweet spot. he’s already knuckles deep, already pressing the tips of his fingers into the back of your walls as far as they’ll go, spreading you open and scissoring you apart. it feels good—it always does, and when his palm rolls across your clit? you can’t help but let out a whiny moan that earns a groan from suguru as he fists his cock tighter. 

“god, she even sounds so pretty,” he pants, watching as satoru’s fingers slip in and out of your pretty cunt, at the way it all but sucks them in itself as it flutters around him. everything about you is perfect—but your face is by far suguru’s favorite. the way it twists with pleasure as satoru slams his fingers against your spot mercilessly with every thrust of his wrist has him fighting off his orgasm—his fist slowing down to a teasing edge as he grunts at the way he lets his pleasure die down for the sake of really feeling you. 

“that feel good, angel?” satoru asks, grinning down at you. 

you nod quickly, head thrown back against the wooden desk as you stutter, “y-yes…s-so good, toru.”

“toru?” suguru asks, “do i get a nickname too? make sure you come up with one for me, yeah?”

it’s almost like you don’t hear him, too busy on the way satoru drags along your walls with every time his fingers sink into you. “toru, toru—s-slow down, ‘m g-gonna…”

“slow down?” satoru gasps—his pace only quickens at that as he gives you a mocking pout, “you want me to slow down, sweetheart? you never ask me to slow down, it’s always faster, toru. faster, please! from you. you don’t wanna give suguru the wrong idea, do you? he’ll think i haven’t taught you how to take it like a good girl.”

suguru snorts at that, slowly dragging his hand up and down his sensitive cock—it’s red at the tip, flushed, and leaky enough that it’s easy to tell he’s aching for release.

“hurry up, satoru,” he grits, biting his lip as he fights back another orgasm and stills his hand, keeping it tightened around the base of his length, “we haven’t got all day.”

“can’t rush making my pretty girl cum, suguru,” satoru gasps, “she deserves the best. look at this pussy—” he gives pulls his fingers out to give your clit attention, rubbing your slick over the sensitive bud as you gasp, writhing over his desk, “—see how perfect it is? you gotta treat it like that too.”

as if from his words alone, as if you get off on the way satoru praises your cunt to his best friend who watches you get stuffed to the brim with his fingers, you whimper before cumming—your pussy fluttering around nothing, walls spasming and dripping with slick as he toys with your clit. 

“toru—toru, ‘m cumming…cumming—oh,” you babble, thighs quivering as his thumb doesn’t let up from your abused clit, watching as your hand reaches for his wrist weakly to halt his movements. “‘s too much,” you sniffle.

“too much?” suguru gasps, “how will you take me, then, princess? don’t tell me you’re tapping out already?”

“nah,” satoru grins, chuckling, “she’s got plenty left in her. she can take it.” with that, he hooks an arm under your waist and helps you sit up, leaning down to kiss you softly as you let out a muffled whine against his lips. “you’re ready for suguru, aren’t you, baby? prepped you nice and good to take him, didn’t i?”

you nod, mumbling a soft, “uh huh,” in agreement.

“that’s my good girl,” he coos, grinning as he presses a wet kiss to your forehead. 

suguru, patient as ever with a stiff, aching cock standing between his muscled thighs, holds an arm out for you as he murmurs, “c’mere then, princess. can’t back out of our deal yet, can you?” you walk over to him on wobbly legs, letting him pull you to sit on his lap, back flush against his chest as his hands guide your hips. he taps the head of his cock against your clit as he lines your entrance up with his length before pulling you to sit, slowly inching you down on him bit by bit as he gasps at the way you squeeze around him instantly. “h-holy—fuck, such a tight fuckin’ pussy. ‘s like i can barely even move,” he grunts, chin resting on your shoulder as he pants.

satoru walks over, staring down at you as you’re seated on suguru’s lap before cupping your cheek and rubbing over the soft skin with his thumb. “you can take both of us, right sweetheart? you’re just too good not to, aren’t ya?”

you nod eagerly, letting the tip of his cock tap against your lip, tongue moving to lick across his slit and make him groan. he’s painfully hard—cock swollen and neglected for so long, you almost forgot that he’s been waiting for your mouth to take him again after being interrupted. your jaw slacks as you let him thrust his hips and fuck his length into you, tip hitting the back of your throat as you choke around him. 

“fuck,” satoru hisses lowly, biting his lip as his hands grab your hair and keep you in place while he ruts into your mouth, “fuck, baby. never get tired of how good this mouth feels—takes me so fuckin’ well. jus’ love feelin’ me down your throat, huh?”

you can’t do anything but let out a muffled cry, feeling the fat tip of suguru’s cock nudge against your sweet spot—it’s just as effortless: the way he finds your most sensitive part. just as effortless as satoru. maybe that’s why they get along so well, maybe they’re connected in that way. 

“oh, princess,” suguru moans, panting against your ear as he lets out a breathy moan, “fuck, that’s good—so, good. can hardly move with the way you’re squeezing me. greedy little pussy, isn’t it?”

you whine as you feel his arm wrap around you, finger rolling over your puffy clit as his hips snap upwards and fuck into you, cock dragging along your walls and stretching you enough that you can hardly think straight. he’s big—it feels like he’s almost splitting you open with his girth as his hips roll up and sink him deeper into your cunt.

“she’s…she’s perfect,” suguru pants, “keepin’ this all to yourself? how selfish of you, satoru.”

“she’s mine,” satoru whines, cock pushing past your lips as he speaks, the way your tongue glides along his vein making his cheeks flush as his eyes flutter shut and his mouth falls open with a breathless moan. “she’s too good to share with you. you d-don’t deserve her.”

“yeah? and you do?” suguru chuckles—it sounds more like a labored pant, his breath harsh as he groans into your neck when you flutter particularly tightly around him, forehead falling to dig into your shoulder, “she’s suckin’ me in. think she wants me. don’t you, pretty girl? you want me to cum inside you, right? make you mine too?”

“y-yes,” you mewl, popping off satoru’s length as you whimper when suguru chuckles and gives your clit a light slap, back arching against him as he pushes his cock past your folds again, “yes, wan’ it. wan’ it so, so bad—need it.”

“see,” he raises a brow towards satoru, “knew it.”

you can see the way satoru’s cock twitches at that—at the way you fall apart on suguru’s lap as the latter digs his head into your shoulder as he breathes harshly, chasing his release desperately as he ruts into your slick pussy. you can see the way satoru’s tip is flushed a harsh red, leaking with pre cum as he aches to spill cum down your throat, so you let him push past your lips once more—but not before giving his tip a delicate kiss. 

“she’s my girl,” satoru grunts, “mine, mine, mine—knows how to make me cum. kn-knows how to take me so good, right baby?”

and as if to answer him, you suck around his tip, swallowing around his length and making him groan as his hips stutter and cum paints your throat white as it fills your mouth. you try to swallow every drop, try to take what he gives you as he fucks into you desperately and chases the pleasure of his high. thick, hot ropes of cum spill from the corners of your lips as satoru fucks his load into you, panting as his hips sloppily roll and work himself through his orgasm.

“that’s right, sweetheart,” he groans lowly, “take it, yeah? god—fuck, feels so good, baby. ‘m c-cumming.”

you make a sound between a choked whine and sharp gasp as suguru’s thumb rubs harshly against your swollen clit, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as he groans, hips just as sloppy as satoru’s in his pace that it tells you he’s close too—and then he twitches into your pussy, cock burying into you once, twice, three more times before he groans too.

“gonna cum, princess? ‘cause ‘m gonna fuckin’ cum—fill you up and make you mine. you want that right? want me to—f-fuck, fuck ‘m close, so close,” he cuts himself off with a gasp, letting out a needy whine into your skin before spilling into you. you can feel hot, thick ropes of cum paint your walls as his tip nudges back into you and pushes his load as deep as he can.

and you fall apart too, coming undone a second time as your walls hug around him tightly, head falling back as you mewl a high pitched, “s-sugu—c-can’t…’s too much—”

“you can take it, pretty,” he hums, “know you can. you’re too precious not to, right?”

it’s messy—it’s downright filthy, in fact, the way his cum and your slick mix and drip along your inner thighs, making a mess on satoru’s chair. you pant as your pussy pulses around him before coming down from your high, falling slack in his arms against his chest as he chuckles and presses a kiss to your jaw. 

“fuck,” he breathes, “you’re something else. who’d have thought my favorite little student from a previous semester could do all that?”

“isn’t she a dime?” satoru chuckles proudly, reaching for the corner of your mouth with his thumb, collecting a stray drop of cum and pushing it back past your lips and onto your tongue, humming approvingly as you swallow. “precious, isn’t she?”

“of course,” suguru nods, with a grin, leaning to peck your shoulder, “so, tell me. which professor would you take again?”

satoru purses his lips as he glares. “this isn’t rate my professor, suguru. and don’t get used to thi—”

“well,” you hum, interrupting as you bat your lashes sweetly at both of them, “why i can’t just take both of you again?”

guess who’s posting their october first kinktober fic literally 40 mins before it’s october second ?? if it’s not procrastinated, it’s not reached its full potential

[freaktoru]

ONLY GOOD GIRLS GET GOOD GRADES!

✰ pairing: professor!sylus x fem!reader ✰ summary: desperate to raise your failing grade, you meet professor sylus in his office where he gives you feedback that looks a little different from what you expected. wc; 4.9k (im so sorry) ✰ warnings: use of pet names, dirty talk, fingering, oral m!receiving, unprotected sex, degradation, praise, slight dom/sub dynamics, power play, pussy slapping (once), minor cum play, some thigh riding, size kink bcz sylus is huge, tummy bulge, choking, kinda pet play, sylus might be abit ooc (sorry i tired), 18+ MDNI ✰ note: first time writing for sylus, i hope i did him justice. guys those slutty fucking glasses get me everytime. likes and reblogs always appreciated <3

You exhale a shaky breath, looking down at your paper through blurry eyes. Thick, wet tears prick at the corners, threatening to fall onto the big, mocking red ink that displays your grade. A fucking fail. 

Having been a straight A student throughout university—and really, for as long as you could remember—you couldn’t wrap your head around how things had spiraled to this point. Any grade below an A had always been unthinkable for you. But now, for the first time in your life, you were actually failing a class.

You thought that you might actually be losing it— that all the non-stop studying you’ve been doing must be finally getting to you. All those all-nighters and sleep deprived study days, all the long readings and writing until you can’t feel your hand— you might have finally achieved what they call ‘burnout’. 

No, that just couldn’t be right. Every other prof handed you A’s without a fight, but professor Sylus? The bastard had you fighting a war you were never meant to win—just to leave you with failing grades and nothing to show for it.

Though despite his harsh grading style, he was a good professor—there was no doubt about that. Always so clear and concise with his assignment instructions, answering every single question he was asked during lecture, and always providing his students with the most thorough and meticulous feedback. Yes, he sure was a good and generous professor—to everyone but you.

If it weren’t for your disappointing grades, one might say you were actually his best student. Sitting in the very first row of his class, listening so attentively to every word he spoke with that deep, soothing voice of his, and always wearing a cute lil’ skirt, paired with thigh high socks. Perfect student? Your grades might suggest otherwise but at least you managed to look the part.  

Professor Sylus however, didn’t see you that way. Sure, you always had interesting points to add to his lecture and great questions to ask him, but god, he couldn’t lie to himself— your too good, eager to learn attitude fucking pissed him off. Always raising your hand with that stupid excitement every time he asked a question, never forgetting to thank him after class like the good student you were, and looking like a little fucking whore — jesus, it drove him nuts.

And that’s exactly why he failed you— you were just too good. His gaze lingered on you anytime he returned a grade to you, watching your brows furrow and your face twist with confusion through his piercing red eyes. He didn’t mean to look—but fuck, he always did. Your frustration simply amused him. 

This little game of his might be wrong— some might even call it unethical, but he couldn’t help it. Some fucked up part of him wanted to see just how far a perfect student like you would go for a passing grade—what kind of unspeakable lines you’d cross to get what you wanted.  

You clutched the paper in your hand, crumpling it up, as the hours of painstaking writing—to meet his absurd instructions and demands— became absolutely meaningless. Looking up, you found him leaning with his arms crossed on the wooden lectern, looking at you through watchful eyes— lips pulled into an amused, lazy smirk. Fucking bastard. 

The class was finally over and people were slowly pouring out of the room, everyone leaving with graded papers in hand. Throwing your own, now, crumpled paper in your bag, you stood up, walking up to the front of the class. Sylus looked like he’d been waiting ages for this moment. 

“Sir, do you mind if I speak to you about my grade?” you ask, trying to keep your erratic emotions under control. You were fuming. Without a doubt, you deserved an A for that paper. But what really got to you was how effortlessly confident he looked, fully knowing he was failing you. 

“What, not happy with your grade?” he drawled slowly, his tall frame towering over you, studying you intently through his thin, frameless glasses. 

“To be honest sir, not at all. I was just wondering if you could give me some feedback” you replied, eyes fixed on your hands, nervously twiddling your thumbs, too afraid to meet his burning gaze. 

“I'll be at the university charity event until later this evening, you can come by my office afterwards. Room 305” he said flatly, his eyes wandering over your body, scanning over your ridiculously slutty outfit. Looking up at him, you nodded, giving him a quick “thank you” before leaving the room. His self-assured demeanor had a way of making your confidence flawlessly melt away. It disgusted you.

The rest of your day was spent in nervous anticipation, drifting in and out of focus during every class. You spent too much time in your head, thinking and crafting the perfect things to say to your professor—desperately hoping that he would be reasonable enough to raise your grade.

Hours later, with the sun sinking low in the sky and your head weighed down by the stress of your day, you finally found yourself planted in front of the dark brown wood door that was labelled as room 305. Nervous sweat beaded at your forehead as you stood there, arms glued at your sides, fingernails digging into your palms. This was fucking nerve wracking. You lifted a trembling knuckle to the door, lightly knocking before hearing a faint “Come in.”

Walking into the office, you saw your professor sitting behind his desk, wearing just a half buttoned dress shirt, rolled up at the sleeves— holding that same, mocking red pen between his fingers. 

“Sit” was all he said without looking up from his page, pointing to the red leather armchair that stood in front of his desk. Red eyes, red leather chair and ridiculous red ink. Sitting down, you pressed your thighs together, placing your hands nervously in your lap. Your stomach felt like it was running laps—fluttering and twisting from the anxiety.

His office was pristine and expensive, just like him—decorated throughout with rich red, gold, and black accents. Not a speck of dust could be found in sight—the only semblance of a mess being visible on his dark, wooden desk. Books and stacks of papers to grade were scattered across it, with a pack of those awful red pens on top—almost like they were placed there just to mock you.

“You wanted to see me?” he questioned, scribbling comments on the paper he was currently grading—clearly too occupied to meet your eyes. You shifted nervously in your seat, reaching down to retrieve your crumpled paper from your bag. 

“Y-Yes, I was wondering what I could have done differently on my essay” you replied, noting how silly and small his pen looked in contrast to his big, slender hands. Sighing, he put it down, his red eyes finally shifting to meet your own. A warm rush made its way up your cheeks, turning them a light shade of pink. With a long finger, he adjusted his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose, then folded his arms across his broad chest.

Finally, your professor spoke up. “Fix your spelling” was all he said, leaning back in his chair, not sparing your paper a second glance. Your eyes widened. That was it? All he had to say was to fix your spelling?

“But sir, I don’t think I had any spelling mistakes, I read my paper over at least ten times before handing it in,” you countered. You weren’t one to argue about your grades—it wasn’t in your nature, but fuck, was this starting to piss you off. 

“Fix your punctuation then” he said lazily, clearly putting little to no effort into the feedback he was giving you. What could he say to such a perfect student like yourself? There was nothing he could have asked you to improve. 

“I also looked over that before submitting my paper” you protested, growing angry with his lazy attitude. This is not how you expected this to go. 

“Then fix whatever else needs to be fixed” he stated plainly, still leaned back in his chair, watching the growing anger spread across your face with a calm, measured gaze.

“I don't understand” you huffed hopelessly. He was impossible. But fine, if he wanted to play this stupid game, you would play.

He hummed lightly, a playful smile pulling at his lips. Sylus was enjoying this—maybe a little too much. Standing up, he walked from behind his desk to the right side of the room, towards the big wall of bookshelves. Your eyes carefully followed him, watching his slender fingers trail slowly over the books.

“I’m sorry sir, I just don’t understand what I’m doing wrong. I’m frustrated because no matter what I do, my work never seems to please you” you admitted quietly, lowering your eyes back down to your fidgeting hands—a nervous habit of yours—that no matter what you did, you couldn’t seem to break. 

Sylus chuckled a deep laugh. “Please me? Your work is always a pleasure to read.” he replies smoothly, his surprising compliment sending an unusual warm sliver of hope mixed with pleasure down your spine.

Sylus was testing you—playing with you. He’d become too invested in this little game of his and now he finally had you pinned down right where he wanted you—at his mercy.

“Then what can I do to get a better grade in your class?” you ask, muttering the question quietly. For the second time just today, tears were threatening to escape your eyes. 

Gaze still locked on your nervous hands, you didn’t actually notice him walk across the room. Flinching slightly, you felt him place his hands on either side of the leather armchair behind you, bringing his lips close to your ear—his warm breath sending goosebumps racing over your trembling skin. Frozen in place, you anxiously awaited his next move.

“Don’t you get it? Only good girls get good grades.” you felt his soft whisper hit the shell of your ear. This was so wrong, he was too close to you—closer than a professor should ever get to his student. But if this was so wrong, why were your thighs pressed against each other, desperately trying to suppress your warm arousal from settling in your panties? 

Speechless, you were unsure of what to say. His tone hovered just on the edge of seduction, and you felt his gaze on you—sharp and deliberate, as if he were studying you. Sylus was lingering on the brink of sweet and forbidden temptation, waiting to see if you’d step in with him. 

He moved his head to the other side of yours, his warm, steady breath now tickling your other ear. 

“Awww, has the kitten lost her claws?” he said, his taunt a mere whisper, ghosting over your skin. That you had. Your anger had begun to dissipate, slowly being overridden by an unfamiliar feeling of arousal. Every shift in his movements, every word he spoke, blurred the line between right and wrong a little more.

“S-Sir” was all you managed to utter. He was hovering over you, gently running his finger tips up and down the length of the arm chair. Your own hands were clutching onto the hem of your skirt, fidgeting nervously with the fabric. 

“What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” he asked mockingly, raising an amused eyebrow at your stunned, silent state. 

You were heavily debating the ethical implications of your current situation. On one hand, you were a fair student—one who’d never go as far as fuck her professor for a better grade. On the other hand, it couldn’t be a coincidence that you only dressed the way you did for professor Sylus’s class, only answered his questions with that stupid excitement, and only ever went as far as you currently found yourself—just for him. Fuck, this was already bordering on morally wrong, but you couldn’t deny the fluttering feeling you felt low in your core— the slick coating your panties. There was truly no denying the fact that you craved your disgustingly attractive professor's attention and praise. 

Dropping your head down lower, you managed to mutter out the most pathetic question you’d probably ever asked, “Am I not good enough sir?” 

Letting out a quiet laugh, he walked in front of where you were sitting, easily pushing your pressed thighs apart with just his leg. Warm fingers met with your chin, tilting your head up to look at him. Sylus was nearly twice your size and absurdly tall, forcing you to crane your neck just to meet his gaze.

“You’re arguably my best student”

“Sir, I—”

“But what kind of good student dresses like a little whore? What kind of good student comes begging her professor for better grades? Hm?” he cuts you off, lightly tugging on your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. You try to stop your restless trembling, try to stop the arousal from running through your body—but it's no use, those red, hungry eyes can see right through you—can see how worked up he has you. 

“Open up, kitten” he taps your chin and your mouth falls open, lips parting for him without question. Sylus has finally crossed that deliciously dangerous line—and you crossed it right with him. 

He pushes his thumb into your mouth, smiling as you eagerly wrap your wet lips around it, playfully swirling it with your tongue. He chuckles at the drastic switch up in your attitude—going from angry to obedient within minutes. 

Placing his other hand on the chair beside your head, he removes his finger from your mouth with a little ‘pop’. Sylus puts a knee on the chair between your legs, and brushes his fingertips down your skin, letting them travel to your thigh. His eyes are locked on yours, not wanting to miss a single flicker of emotion that crosses them.

You gasp at the feeling of his fingers meeting your inner thigh, gently squeezing and playing with its soft skin.

“Tell me something sweetie. Do you dress like this for every professor?” his voice a low, sultry whisper. Another wave of arousal courses through you, now passing through your soaked panties and settling in the armchair. Oops. 

“N-No sir” you reply breathlessly, too busy relishing in his warm, electric touch. Sylus moves his hand further under your ridiculously short skirt, long fingers meeting with your lacy, drenched panties. 

“Oh? She’s wet.” he purrs his surprise in your ear, and you think you might cum right then and there. His voice is so hot it’s fucking dangerous. You’d already crossed a line you swore you never would—but you hadn’t expected to get addicted so soon.

Your panties are pushed aside and two long fingers find their way into your dripping pussy. “Fuck” you moan at the intrusion, hand grabbing onto his strong arm that rests on the chair beside your head. 

“Such filthy words, kitten” he clicks his tongue mockingly, gently using two fingers to push every smart, coherent thought out of your brain.

“Sorry s-sir” you mutter the apology, ready to do anything to please him—anything to get that A. 

You whimper at a third finger being added into your tight cunt, your whole body already feeling overstimulated from all the attention. Sylus lets out a degrading laugh, enjoying watching you squirm from his fingers. So worked up already, how were you going to take his cock? 

“Too much already?” he lowers his lips to yours, mumbling the mocking taunt against them. You whine, pathetically rutting your hips up against his hand. You’re desperate for it—desperate for his touch. You had spent so many classes dreaming about this moment, fantasizing about what it would be like—now that you finally had it, you didn’t want to let go.

Sylus is thoroughly enjoying this—watching your chest heavily rise and fall with every shallow breath, struggling to keep your eyes open and fighting against the pleasure—it was the only thing he ever wanted to see.

The pleasure pulses through your body as you feel your climax quickly approaching. Throwing your head back on the chair, you let out pleasurable mewls and moans as Sylus’s fingers speed up their pace inside you. You finally meet your blissful end when his thumb lands softly on your clit, rubbing and playing with it. The fucker knew all too well what he was doing— dangling your orgasm on the edge like that. 

“Mmh—ah, fuck” you breathe out the moan, feeling the string of pleasure in your core finally snap. You arch your back off the chair, pulsing as you release your warm cum all over his fingers.

“That’s a good kitty” he pulls his fingers out, and you yelp when he lands a harsh slap on your swollen pussy. Amusement flickers in his eyes—did you really think he’d hand it all over to you without a fight? Stupid kitten.

Lifting his wet fingers to your neck, you feel him wiping them against the stretch of it, spreading your cum all over your bare skin. 

Your head tilts easily to the side with two of his fingers, allowing him better access to the exposed, glistening skin of your neck. He begins licking your cum off of it, dragging his tongue up and down—quickly pushing you right back into a state of arousal. It’s just too much. His mouth reaches the base of your neck, grazing his teeth over it before unexpectedly biting down, making you cry out.  

“Sir ah—”

A hand quickly clasps over your mouth, shutting you up. Sylus releases your pulsing skin from his sharp teeth, lightly nuzzling his face in your neck before moving his lips back to your ear.

“Shhh kitten, wouldn’t want anyone hearing your feedback would you?” he whispers, finishing off with a little nibble on your earlobe. 

That’s right. If someone heard you, you would likely be expelled and Professor Sylus would be fired—never to see a classroom again. But somehow the thrill of getting caught made it all the more exciting for you.

“N-No sir” you answer, keeping your voice quiet and small. 

Without another word, Sylus grabs your waist, scooping you up into his arms. Your breath hitches from the sudden motion as he switches your positions on his chair, sitting himself down in your place, and placing you in his lap. He’s so fucking big, your legs can’t quite straddle both of his—so you adjust, sliding onto one thick thigh instead.

Sylus groans at your shift, feeling his hard erection poking through his tight pants. You look down, devilishly smiling at it, suddenly sensing a flicker of control return to you. Looks like you’re not the only one who’s all worked up.

“Professor, is this the kind of feedback you give all your students?” you ask teasingly, purposely dragging out every word in the sentence.

His eyes darken, and you can almost feel his gaze burning right through you. “Just you” he replies rather possessively, tightening his grip on your waist. You make a mental note of this minor crack in his composure. Interesting.

Bringing your face closer to his, your lips hover over his—realizing you hadn’t even kissed him yet. Sylus had made you cum before even kissing you.

A big hand travels to the nape of your neck, pulling you down closer to him. Your lips crash onto his—the two of you quickly entering a fight for control. Naturally, Sylus wins, kissing you ravenously and passionately, claiming every inch of your mouth as his. 

“You know sweetie, my job is in your hands” he pulls away momentarily, muttering the almost pleading words against your lips. Another fracture in that carefully built composure—he was finally grasping the gravity of the situation.

You press your forehead to his, closing in the space between you. “And my degree is in yours” you whisper before pressing your desperate lips back on his—mind too clouded with lust to discuss what stupid things the pair of you had done.

Desperate for his touch again, you start rubbing yourself on his thigh, urgently grinding—hips begging for more. Letting your hand travel to his bulge, you feel Sylus tense briefly, before melting into your touch, allowing you to paw at him like a kitten as much as you pleased. 

Sylus never expected himself to go down this road—his favorite student grinding desperately on his lap, palming his cock and begging for his attention—it was ridiculous. By no means does Sylus consider himself a saint, but this certainly was a new step in his constant battle with morality. Now he had truly fucked up. 

Long fingers tug at the hem of your shirt, letting him pull it over your head, leaving you in just your cute pink lacy bra. He easily unclasps it with one hand, exposing your bare chest to him. He groans at the sight of your hardening nipples, his eyes displaying quite possibly the hungriest expression you’d ever seen. 

Fingers meet with your nipples, and he pinches, letting a painful whimper escape your lips. His hands begin squishing them softly, soothing the tingling pain. He wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer. With his composure slowly crumbling, and you getting hotter and more worked up by the minute—he just couldn’t do it. 

“Fuck” he grunts, waiting no longer to pick you up and lay you down on the desk. You prop yourself up on your elbows, watching Sylus quickly push off all the papers and pens around you, creating as much room as he needs to do whatever he desires with you. 

You swore you felt the air around you change—suddenly becoming overbearingly hot and thick with lust. Sylus had a raw, animalistic energy about him—an insatiable hunger that he desperately needed to fix. 

He bunches your skirt up around your waist, pushing your panties aside with just his thumb. “Fuck, kitten you’re already fucking wet again” he growls, fisting his thick length through his pants. You moan, letting yourself surrender to the pleasure of his fingers yet again—surprised when it doesn't feel the same. Clearly, your desperate need has grown. Your pussy is soaked and swollen, begging for a much bigger form of attention. 

As if reading your mind, he unbuttons his pants, letting his thick, hard, cock pop out before you. You audibly gasp at the sight, admiring his full length—practically drooling at the thought of all that being inside of you. He’s fucking huge.

“I-Is that going to fit?” you stutter stupidly, eyes glued on the sight of his cock. 

“You’ll be a good girl and take it all won’t you?” he replies in a low, husky voice, looking at you through half-lidded, lust filled eyes. Your wide-eyed expression amuses him more than it should—and he can’t help but admire it.

“I-I’ll try my best” you reply, nervous, yet so desperately eager to please.

He grabs your thighs, pulling you closer to where he stands at the edge of the desk. Sylus lowers his mouth to your panties, biting down on them and slowly pulling them off using just his teeth. You shudder a little, feeling another flush of need ripple through your body. 

He studies you intently, admiring every curve and inch of your exposed skin. Your cheeks flush, trying to close your legs out of embarrassment. 

He doesn’t let you though, instead, he lifts your legs, placing one on each of his shoulders—essentially rendering you helpless under his touch. His cock head prods at your entrance— thick and leaking with precum. 

“Ready, kitten?” he adds in a thick voice, leaning down closer to you, almost folding you in half. You nod quickly— practically reeling with impatience. 

A long whine escapes your lips as he pushes just the tip in, pulse hammering as you struggle to handle the stretch. You bite down hard on your lip, feeling a metallic taste fill your mouth. There was no way it was going all in. No fucking way. But it would. Sylus would make it fit. 

“So tight kitten, I’ve only put the tip in and you’re struggling already?” he asks in between ragged breaths, slowly pushing his cock further in. 

“Sylus—sir p-please wait” you rasp out, overwhelmed by the stretch. He’s not even halfway in and tears are already beading at the corners of your rolled back eyes—and you couldn’t help feeling like you were being split in half. 

“I didn’t know we were on a first name basis now, kitten. I have to say, I enjoy hearing my name on your lips” he drawls, wrapping a hand around your neck, squeezing it lightly. 

“I-I’m sorry” comes out as a pathetic, breathy stutter as you ball your fists, desperately clutching on to the air around you. You’ve never felt so stretched out before, so blissfully full. 

He slowly pushes the rest of his thick cock in, coating it in your slick. Your back arches off the desk and you moan, finally letting those tears escape your blurry eyes. You can’t form a single coherent sentence or thought anymore—he’s pushed that ability out of you entirely with his cock. 

“Crying already?” he mocks, wiping a tear with his thumb. He’s so mean, mocking and teasing your every expression, fully aware of what he’s doing to you. Being at your professors mercy like this—it’s actually humiliating, but also so fucking arousing.

“Please d-don’t move” you inhale sharply, trying your best to adjust to both his length and his width. He removes his other hand from the desk, pushing down on your stomach, admiring the bulge visible through your skin. He has you filled so nicely, the curve of him pushing up beneath your skin, marking you from both inside and out.

Your pathetic please falls on deaf ears, and he starts slowly moving his hips in and out of you, hitting your sweet spot with the head of his cock over and over again. You choke out a sob between moans, barely keeping your eyes open. 

“Eyes on me, kitten” his voice pulls you out of your trance. Your eyelids feel so heavy but you obey, noticing how every thrust makes his glasses slide a little further down the bridge of nose. The sight was erotic. 

His pace was absolutely agonizing. The sheer stretch of him, paired with everything else, left you impossibly overstimulated— moaning and whimpering around his cock. The room was filled with lewd sounds, echoing and bouncing off the walls, every moan and groan reminding you of the forbidden moment the two of you found yourselves in.

“Nngh—Sylus, fuck” you whine, unable to take all the pleasure. It was too much all at once. 

“What is it sweetie? You’re doing so well” he purrs, lifting his hand from your throat to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. How sweet. 

You look so blissfully fucked out. Your forehead is glistening with sweat, eyes drooping low and voice slowly losing itself to the pleasure coursing through you. Of all the things Sylus had seen, this? This was truly unforgettable.

His pace was bordering on frantic—the feeling of his tip hitting your cervix was literally tearing you apart. “P-Please, I’m gonna come” you cry out in between harsh sobs—feeling like you were being held captive by the pleasure—unable to rip away.

“Go on” is all he says before your body releases, convulsing from pleasure, your sweet orgasm finally crashing over you. Toes curl in your shoes, and your hand grabs onto his, gripping him so tight your knuckles begin to turn white. Sylus only chuckles at your quivering body, and continues fucking into you until he reaches his own high.

“N-no more, please, no more” you whine, desperately trying to push him away when he doesn’t stop mercilessly pounding into you. 

“You can take it, kitten” he replies with a grunt, slowing down his pace as he approaches his climax.

“Shit—” you barely hear him mutter under his breath, as his cock begins to throb inside of you, releasing thick strands of his own cum inside you warm walls. His breathing is shallow, glasses barely holding onto his nose, as he drops his head down, keeping himself buried deep inside you. 

You both stay there a while longer, catching your breath and letting the last pulses of pleasure escape your shuddering bodies. Sylus finally pulls out of you, and you prop yourself up on trembling elbows. 

“Aren’t you going to clean up your mess?” he asks—your eyes visibly widening as you instantly understand what he means. 

Sylus takes a step back from the desk, sitting back down in that damn red armchair. You barely manage to slide off the desk, almost stepping on that mocking pack of red pens— which have now made their home on the ground after Sylus had pushed them off the desk. Fuck those red pens. Fuck the colour red. 

He leans back lazily, a playful smirk pulled on his lips. You drop to your knees in front of him, wrapping two hands around his half-hard cock. Your tongue meets the tip and you begin to kitten lick every drop of cum, cleaning every inch of it like the good girl you were. 

When you finish, Sylus zips himself back up, and tilts your head up with two fingers. 

“Good kitty” he purrs, gently rubbing his thumb along your jaw. 

“Sir?” you ask after a brief moment of silence, looking up into those burning red eyes.

“Hm?”

“A-About my grade” you trail off nervously. Kneeling before him like this, the weight of your own desperation burned bright on your cheeks—it was fucking humiliating.

He’d been waiting for you to ask him the burning question—seeing how far you went before you begged for a better grade.

“Didn’t I tell you? Only good girls get good grades” he echoes his earlier words, voice so sweet it was practically dripping with honey. 

“I don’t understand?” 

“Good girls don’t fuck their professors for A’s”

© @blessedmisery 2025

[dollbrbie]

CLASSIC MEAN GIRL ⋆. 𐙚 ˚

꒰ nerd!gojo m.list ꒱

thinking about nerd!gojo who absolutely despises you. you’re a pretty girl, popular with a social life gojo can only roll his eyes at. it’s so obvious you get special treatment, even when you haven’t earned it. what makes everything worse, is how much of a bitch you are, like the typical mean girls in high school he was hoping to get away from when he got to college. and you’re especially mean to him.

he’s always met with your teasing and unique insults, nasty comments about his style or the way his thick framed glasses take up half his face with that annoyingly attractive laugh of yours making everything you said seem not so bad. you’d call him a pathetic virgin, a loser who probably couldn’t bag anyone even if he tried while his ears turn cherry red and your girlfriends laugh along with you at his frowning face. you couldn’t deny the pout on his face was weirdly cute, but you’d never admit that out loud.

he sighs whenever you force him to do your assignments, taking the piece of paper with a defeated expression. he finds it hard to say no to you for some reason, and you’re kinda nice whenever he gets you good grades, leaving him alone for a couple weeks or telling your friends to leave him alone despite the fact you’re laughing along with their typical teasing.

and while gojo acts like he hates you and the negative attention you give him, giving you sassy responses in retaliation that drive you absolutely crazy, he can’t help the obsession he feels for you, the fixation that keeps him up at night thinking about you, thinking about using that mouth of yours for something other than calling him names. his cock throbs at your degrading words, lucky to have hid all the growing boners from you after your sweet voice spits out the venom he’s secretly addicted to.

and when it’s late at night, alone and in the privacy of his dorm room while wearing nothing but his plaid pyjama pants, he’s searching up your instagram with shaky hands, swallowing hard once he gets a look at your posts, definitely revealing way too much skin.

he can only imagine what’s underneath those tiny bikinis on your instagram posts or the crop tops and mini skirts you wear during classes that sometimes give gojo a view he definitely shouldn’t be seeing. he knows you’d call him a pervert if you ever found out, and it only motivates him to palm at his semi hard cock with you plaguing his mind.

he chokes out needy moans as he begins to fuck his fist, looking at your pictures with furrowed brows while biting the bottom of his lip. why do you have to be so attractive? he should hate you. but god, he can’t get the idea of fucking you out of his mind, he’d love to lose his virginity by fucking those mean words out of you. but as he finally reaches his peak, whispering your name along with a deep groan, he realises he just accidentally liked a photo from a year ago. oh shit.

© dollbrbie | don’t plagiarise or translate any of my work

[melanchoire]

hi! can i request a top student karina who helps y/n to get a good grades and became obsessed with her (friendly rivalry plot 🤩). y/n realized she couldn't survive school without her and starts doing what karina wants (to please her 💗), that eventually lead to her bedroom.. can you also add up that the y/n loves boobs like yk she would beg karina to let her suck her and please also add that karina is into face sitting mwehehe.

this seems a lot sorry... THANK YOU ANYWAY!!

i missed writing for rina so much 💔 anyway i still have a couple of aespa stuff in my drafts (aeri stans get ready 🎇🎉🎊)

cw: cunnilingus, face–sitting, thigh riding, titsucking.

karina being a senior at your school who becomes your tutor due to your less than ideal grades 💔 having to meet her every school day at the library starts to make you realize that slacking off in class and taking lazy and messy notes for the sake of joking around and talking with your friends was a very bad idea

you knew something about her, not too much, but you had seen her a couple of times in the school hallways or among the crowds of people at school events. you thought she would be a bit stuck up like some of the other girls in her class given the looks they tend to give younger students, but she wasn’t completely giving off that vibe, and you could tell when she looked up from her phone upon entering the library and dropped the straw of her milkshake from between her lips. “oh hey! you made it. i thought you weren’t coming.” and she approaches you smiling, greeting you with a kiss on the cheek and maintaining a charismatic and friendly attitude

“it’s good to see you here. your teacher told me about your low grades and asked me to help you study and prepare for the upcoming exams so you can pass her subject. i hope you’re okay with that." but you can’t pay much attention to her words because your eyes are on her because she is so much more beautiful up close 😵‍💫 this was definitely the motivation you needed to finally pay attention to your studies

her sharp and pronounced features, the way her silky hair waves gracefully when she walks and a small breeze hits her face, how her uniform accentuates her body, the slight movement of her hips and her confidence when she walks makes you stare at her like an idiot every time you see her. karina even greets you when she sees you in the hallways, no matter if you are with your friends or she is with her group, when she passes by you, she gives you a small nod and a smile, but if she sees you from afar, it’s a wink and a wave of her hand 🫠 you don’t know how she would react if she knew that sometimes you wander around the school on purpose just to find her or memorizing the route she takes to her classroom or during break time

but karina is just as obsessed as you are! of course she notices the look that your eyes have when you see her, but she always maintains a relaxed attitude, holding back a smirk as she sees how you think you’re being subtle with your gaze when it’s traveling all over her body…

and thanks to karina’s help you manage to go from being the lazy student who is always talking in class to the student who participates in class and does all their homework so they can use the extra class time to complete some other assignment in another subject or study for the exams they got

little by little, the study dates begin to become more… intimate. karina always used to sit next to you while she explained the exercises, placing the notebook between the two of you and looking at you every time she explained a new concept to make sure you were following her lead and understood what he was talking about. now, she was more… closer. continuing to sit next to you but much closer to you, her chest practically at your side and always remembering to make sure to press her breasts against your shoulder, enjoying when you turn your face to the side to look at her as she explains, getting nervous about having her face so close to yours and noticing how your gaze falls directly to her lips

a hand resting on your knee as she explains the formulas and different ways to solve an equation, climbing dangerously up your thigh until it reaches under your skirt. “now we will do a little practice. i’ve already written the results of the equations. you just have to do the math, and if you get the same result as me, it means it’s correct.” as if she wasn’t currently caressing your clit through your panties with her fingertips 🥰 “if you do this well, we can stop studying here and do something more… fun.” and you’ve never been so motivated to do a task before!

karina pushing your panties aside so her fingers could caress your folds… you were thankful that there was no one in the library at this hour, because otherwise, you wouldn’t be having this! or that’s what you think, because if it were up to karina, she would fuck you on the table even with the library full of people 😊

and when you finally finish completing the exercises, you think that she will give you what you want so much, but no! she focuses on correcting the exercises you solved, taking all her time and taking extra time to provoke you ☹️

but a promise is a promise, so karina drags you to her bedroom!

although karina won’t give it to you easily 😣 making you kneel in front of her and beg her to touch you, but not before confessing how much you want to fuck her for a long time and tell her all the twisted ideas that are in that silly little head of yours :( karina enjoys being mean because it’s very easy to break you and make you act like a dumb

making you sit on her lap and ride her thigh while she lets you play with her tits 😵‍💫 pushing your face into her chest with a grip on your hair, grinning as you watch as the more you suck on her tits the more desperate your hips move against her thigh

“so that was it... do you always put effort into your studies when it comes to me because you want to fuck me, (y/n)? all you do is think about me playing with this body when you study?”

“riding my thigh like a dog humping a leg… you're pathetic, (y/n).”

letting karina ride your face because it’s your way of thanking her for helping you improve your grades and be a better student 🫶🏻 she loves to see your vulnerable expression and your eyes looking at her from between her thighs, enjoying it more when you whine against her pussy as she pushes her hips harder against your face just to tease you 🥴 and she is so sweet that she also allows you to touch yourself while you devour her, letting you sneak a hand under your skirt and play with your throbbing clit while she uses you for her own pleasure

[notjustjavierpena]

Applied Physics pt. i

Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: Long awaited smutty piece with a planned sequel. I hope you enjoy, ya filthy animal 💅🎀💖

Summary: It’s the 60s, you’re three weeks behind on a deadline, and your professor, Doctor Reed Richards, makes you face the consequences. 

Pairing: Reed Richards x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Tags: College student/teacher relationship, science talk, Reed has powers, dub con, spanking, dom/sub dynamics, implied dacryphilia, dirty talking, sub drop, aftercare, stern Reed 🥵

Word count: 5.7k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62948440/chapters/161199763

Applied Physics

Dr. Reed N. Richards always wears a tweed jacket with elbow patches that show off his broad shoulders and give him an irresistible swagger. He teaches physics at your college part-time - when he is not out saving the world - and he is equally terrifying as he is warm, a combination of traits that you have learned can actually coexist but only after meeting him. 

You have been wanting him since he walked into the classroom that morning many months ago, carrying a black leather binder seemingly filled with little to nothing since everything appears to be stored in his brain. 

He has standards, you find, and traditional ways of doing things that somehow emphasize his love for the delicacy of science. For instance, he only grades papers with a fountain pen and therefore expects every assignment to be handwritten instead of done on a typewriter which is tedious and difficult for those who don’t possess a steady hand. The scary part of him comes out when he says he simply won’t grade the papers that aren’t turned in as he wants them to be. The warm part shows itself when he later makes a self-deprecating joke about knocking over whiskey during his grading. 

The idea of the paper smelling like his cologne or even, if you are lucky, has a stain of his favorite liquor, makes you hand in each assignment whilst the ink is still drying on the paper. Perhaps you will be the first one to receive notes and feedback from him if you turn in your work before its deadline.

You imagine him hunched over a desk, pen barely able to fit in his rough hand. He wears something casual, maybe even has taken off that jacket, scratching his beard and sipping his drink whilst smiling to himself as he reads words that come from your mind. Your mind makes him smile to himself, makes him single you out from the rest of your class because you are special and he knows this. It’s the image you imagine the first time you come whilst thinking about him, shower head between your thighs and legs against the tiled wall in the shared bathroom at the boarding house you reside in. 

When you do finally get your first essay back from him, you read all the comments in the margins during your lunch. You lick a drop of juice from an apple away from your lower lip as your eyes skim over a scribbled good or well done, trying to find an excuse to read more into the way he looks at you when you talk during class. You made him laugh once, that must mean something, right? He clearly has your sense of humor, the same ways of applying theory and reasoning. 

You know that it is hardly rational what you are doing, projecting all these things onto him when, in reality, you only know of him what you have seen during his lectures and office hours. Yet you have found yourself noticing the way he smiles faintly when you correct one of your fellow students during group work, and it has spurred you on to become even more insufferable to your classmates only to get his attention. His approval too, if you are lucky. 

Yet despite all this, here you are with an assignment running three weeks late, your procrastination having reached its limits and your excuses to your professor wearing thin. It’s a challenging state to be in when you’re so used to ranking your popularity with Dr. Richards higher than everyone else on this course. Sure, his attention is nice when it is rooted in praise but you don’t know if the kind that will follow this lecture, the deadline you’d agreed upon for your paper being yesterday, is the kind that will satisfy something in you like the small smiles have. 

You keep bouncing your leg beneath your desk as you wait for Dr. Richards to enter the lecture hall with that cool aura about him and let the fast-paced lecture begin. If anyone sees you, they will recognize it as an itching to suck up to him once more but in reality, it is the first time you’ve been in the room with a nervous tic. 

“Good afternoon, everyone,” he greets as he finally arrives and you find yourself jolting with nerves at the fact that he is finally here and inevitable doom is just around the corner. It doesn’t make it better that his brown eyes sweep over the crowd in a hurry until he spots you, his gaze full of concentration until he gains eye contact with you for less than a second. You sit up straighter at the way he measures you and the subconscious movement of your leg stills completely. Frustratingly, the man keeps talking as if nothing happened. 

After several attempts to regain your composure, you realize that you have completely missed his introduction to today’s lecture and while trying to ignore the thrill that is simmering beneath your anxiety, you scramble to start taking notes. It’s not to show him that you can go back to being his favorite student but rather a necessity to keep yourself from being three weeks further behind.

You power through the lecture even with your fuzzy mind, scribbling things down and making sure to appreciate the privilege it is to be taught by one of the greatest minds to ever live. This is even if he, multiple times, falls into the usual pattern of diving headfirst into multi-layered explanations of different phenomena and concepts, droning on as if none of you and the rest of your classmates exist to him anymore. 

You pretend to keep up when he does this but even you must admit that he loses you. However, you know for a fact that it is not out of disinterest that you stop listening but rather your mind focusing on something else when his words become too difficult to follow. Instead, you end up mapping out the length of his gorgeous neck, the beauty spot where his collar ends. It is enough to leave your mouth dry, but not enough to drag your mind off the scolding you’ll get soon.

When the lecture comes to an end, you have psyched yourself enough to stupidly get up and try to follow the rest of the students out. They trickle out hurriedly though and you find yourself at the back of the school of people heading for the door. 

“Hold it right there,” Reed’s voice travels through the room and hits you right in the back, making you falter in your step. Your last name rolls off his tongue with the same kind of confidence and composure that you’d tried to conjure up just an hour ago. 

“Sir, I was just—“ you rest your hand on the doorknob to signal that you are leaving but you know already that you have lost the fight to exit the room. 

You hear it before you see it; the faint and strange rustling of fabric as something wooshes closer. Suddenly, your teacher’s stretched-out arm moves past you like you have seen it do on television and then his hand attached to said arm splays flat on the door. He closes it with a soft click while you hold your breath. 

Slowly, it retracts back to normal and you follow it with your eyes by glancing over your shoulder. Time stands still for a moment at the sight because while Reed Richards has stretched his body multiple times in the past, without much thought behind it and much to his students' shock, he never puts anyone in the position to experience it firsthand. 

“Sir, I—“

“Come here,” he says quietly. 

You grab the strap of your bag tightly and make your way to the desk where he sits. You decide to beat him to his reprimand, talking even if your voice shakes at his disapproving stare, “I’m sorry I missed this week’s deadline.”

“This week? Try the last three,” he calmly corrects you, “You have done your research on force, impact, and energy transfer in non-elastic collisions, have you not?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And you’ve still not turned anything in? Why?”

“I've been overwhelmed with coursework and–” You trail off when he raises a brow. He is still sitting down but even so, you feel like you are shrinking underneath his authority. You find it hard to believe that anything out your mouth right now will be taken seriously when you have let him down three times already but you try to reassure him anyway, “It won’t happen again, I promise,”

“No, it won’t,” he agrees as he pushes himself to stand. He drags the chair away from the table as if he thinks it is in his way, “You’re brighter than most, so I don’t believe I need to remind you what happens if you keep slacking.”

“No, sir, I’m aware.”

“I mean, we’ve already moved way past force dynamics and energy exchange on this year’s curriculum, so you’re wasting my time,” he goes on with an annoyed sigh that tells you he has better things to do, “What am I supposed to do with you?”

“I don’t know, sir,” you stare at the flooring.

“Come closer,” he orders calmly. He lets his gaze flick down to your hand clutching your bag of books, “Take out your book on core concepts.”

You follow his eyes and pull out the right book before gently letting the strap of your bag slide off your shoulder until the bag hits the floor with a soft thud. Something tells you that you’re not leaving anytime soon.

“Place it on the desk and find the pages on Newton’s Laws,” he continues and your heart slams against your ribs at the thought of an impromptu pop quiz instead of a handed-in paper. Yes, you know these pages but in the presence of him, you’re not so sure. 

Behind you, Reed has shrugged off his jacket while you were flipping through the book. He folds it neatly and hangs it over the back of the chair he was displeased with a moment ago, making sure not to crease the fabric. Then he reaches for the sleeves of the white shirt that he is wearing and rolls them up to his elbows, revealing the slightly visible veins of his forearms. Your head swims and you subtly press your thighs together, images of what you’d like him to do to you flooding your mind.

“Bend over,” he says suddenly, murmuring it almost as if he knows he shouldn’t have said it. 

Your eyes widen and you glance in the door’s direction. There are so many people on the outside of this room right now but the chances of someone walking in are slim since lectures are rarely started at this hour of the afternoon, “I don’t understand?”

“You don’t have to understand anything. I want you to put your palms on either side of the book and bend over,” he elaborates and clearly notices your hesitation, the direction of your eyes. His arm stretches out in front of you again, snaking its way past the rows of chairs until it reaches the door once more. He locks it, the soft click of it mixing with your unsteady breathing, and then he pulls down the curtain in the window at the top. 

When the arm smoothly retracts once more, you naturally think it will stop at his side but instead, you feel his palm on the back of your neck. His other hand joins to lay on the small of your back and then he pushes down gently to maneuver you into the position that he wants. 

You exhale shakily as you place your hands on the desk, feeling the smooth wood underneath your fingertips as a way to ground yourself in a moment so electric. Your body is way ahead of you, reacting to the anticipation of his next move by making a dull ache settle right between your legs. Your clit throbs, your walls flutter. 

“Your paper was supposed to use Newton’s Laws as a foundation, let me make sure you know them properly,” Reed says simply while removing his hand from your lower back. His other hand, the one on the back of your neck, slips down your spine to take the previous one’s spot, leaving fire in its wake, “Recite them.”

You swallow thickly, “Newton’s First Law states that a body at rest—”

Smack. 

A loud gasp leaves you at the surprise of Reed’s free hand coming down on your backside, heat spreading out underneath the fabric of your skirt where it has struck you. Your head whips around to stare at him in disbelief at what he has just done, your mouth hanging open in shock.

“Eyes on the book,” he commands sternly, curling his fingers slightly into the hem of your shirt, “Go on. Newton’s First Law.”

You count three whole breaths before you will yourself to face forward again, looking down at the text in front of you and trying to regain your ability to read. You swallow the lump in your throat, the letters jumbled on the page, “Uhh…”

“Concentrate,” he adds and gives you another blow, one that makes you jolt forward on the desk and send the book almost over the edge. You frantically reach for it, noticing the way your heart leaps into your throat when you consider what would have happened if it had fallen off. 

You drag the book back down and try to act cool but your voice tells on you as you start to read out loud, “A-a body at rest stays at rest, and a body in motion stays in motion—”

He spanks you again and elicits another gasp but you seem to have expected it since you don’t go flying forward. This is even if his palm leaves behind a much more painful sting this time and makes your toes curl in your shoes. 

“Until…” He sounds impatient. 

You act immediately like a dog who is learning about action and consequences, “Until acted upon by an external force.”

“Good girl,” he praises and you don’t know why the softness of his voice makes you tear up. His broad palm traces over the spot that is warming up already and you make a show out of sighing with content. 

However, the soothing touch is short-lived and you start struggling just slightly as Reed’s hand descends until he can grab the hem of your pencil skirt and roughly tug it up. He settles it just above the plumpness of your ass, swatting you to make you focus and stop squirming. 

“I’m not going to fuck you so stop moving around,” he scolds and surprises you with yet another smack. It feels different now that each slap is skin-on-skin contact, sounds different too as the noise echoes through the empty lecture hall. You whine in slight disappointment, even if you have inappropriately imagined his cock in you during circumstances so different so many times. 

“Second Law,” he murmurs, occupied briefly by the bruise forming on your cheek and scraping his nails across it. 

“W-what?” You let out a whimper, your thighs pressing together to soothe your pulsing clit. In theory, you know what he has said but it just isn’t registering since your mind is occupied by you knowing exactly what you will be doing back home if he won’t touch you. In fact, a thrill goes through you at the thought of another blow to recall in your bed with your hand stuffed into your underwear.

“Newton’s Second Law,” he repeats with a smaller swat following. You suck in a breath to calm yourself. 

“Newton’s Second Law states that the net force on an object is equal to its mass times its acceleration,” you say somewhat confidently, a sense of calm settling over you as you finally feel like you are getting a handle on the situation. 

“Apply it to the situation you’re in right now,” he tests you. You feel your face grow hot and hesitation seizes you for a second. It takes a moment too long for him and a much sharper smack lands right on the jiggliest part of your ass, the sharpness of the pain making you moan for the first time and the noise of the blow bouncing off the walls. You almost even swear in your professor’s presence, and you would have if it weren’t for the way tears in your eyes take off the edge.

“You’ll get one more if you don’t open your mouth soon,” he adds. You’re just about to speak, about to follow orders, when he takes a step closer and presses his cock into your hip. You freeze at the size of him, a sound that can only be described as pathetic leaving you. Reed huffs out a chuckle and smacks you once more albeit slightly less maliciously.

“Y–you’re applying a force to me. Your hand is the mass and the acceleration is essentially the swing of your arm. The shorter the time and the greater the velocity of the impact, the bigger the force I feel,” you try not to hiccup through the whole explanation but the words take a longer time to come to you and your backside is hypersensitive, warm, and sore. Your pulse rings in your ears too, and you swear you can almost taste the adrenaline in your mouth from how it is coursing through your body. It might just be salt from your tears though which you realize will simply give you an excuse as to why you stayed behind after class. If you really try, you might be able to conjure up an act of a student who got some terrible feedback.

“Still with me?” You hear him ask, feel him soothe your burning flesh. You wonder if his palm is imprinted on your cheek.

“Yes, sir,” you mumble with a sniffle, your palms sticking to the desk from how clammy they have become. 

“Speak up,” he corrects you and his palm leaves you long enough for you to start anticipating another strike. No hands on your body makes it harder to abstain from feeling his hard cock resting against your hip, the heaviness of it making you even wetter and oh God, aching to be filled.

“Yes, sir,” you enunciate without coming off as bratty. The next strike doesn’t come and relief washes over you, allowing you to relish in the cool air brushing your tingling and bruised skin.

“Last but not least. Newton’s Third Law?” 

“F-for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction,” you say and rest your forehead on the book that has absorbed a few teardrops, He doesn't give you praise or a soothing touch. It bewilders you, makes you question if your scatterbrained state has accidentally made you say something that is wrong. You go quiet except for your rapid breathing as you go over your answer in your head but nothing comes to mi–

The sudden smack instantly makes you realize where you went wrong, landing across the exact spot that’s already stinging and causing you to hiss and whine through your teeth. Quickly, you scramble to relate Newton to what Reed is doing to you, “If… if you strike me, my body exerts a force back on your hand.”

“Mhm, good,” he hums while your head swims, “And I bet you’re feeling that force right now.”

“It hurts,” you whimper feebly and turn your head to the side. Yes, it’s the truth but your body can’t tell if it’s supposed to register this as pain or pleasure, the sensations overlapping intensely.

“That’s part of the lesson,” Reed’s hand returns in a gentle touch, his large palm settling carefully over the same spot he has just mercilessly spanked, “Why does it hurt?”

You wish he’d move his hand down between your legs and make you come when he realizes how soaked-through your panties are, “B-because when you spank me your hand transfers kinetic energy into my skin. The force and the friction cause heat to build. The tissues and blood vessels react, and it—”

“Gives you that glow. Precisely,” he finishes your sentence and curls his hand around your hip firmly. He sounds enthralled by his work, “And I respond with arousal, meaning it makes me so goddamn hard. Now, hold still. These last three are for the three missed deadlines.”

You know he means business when his finger slips underneath the waistband of your panties. He pulls them down just enough to settle them underneath the globes of your ass without exposing your needy cunt, the elastic of them digging slightly into sore skin. His other hand lifts and you brace yourself even if you know that any human can suffer through even uncontrollable pain if they know there’s an end to it. 

The first of three strikes lands right on the curve of your backside, harder than any of the several ones before it and making your entire body seize up. He isn’t playing around this time, your skin immediately blooming with newfound heat and fiery pain. It makes you moan out loud and squeeze your eyes shut until fireworks go off behind your eyelids.

“Count,” he says calmly. 

“O-one,” you manage to say in a voice that makes it sound like an apology instead. 

The second one makes it feel like there’s a clap of thunder going through your bones. You jolt forward on the desk enough to finally send the damn book flying off the edge to the floor. Reed tightens his grip on your hip to steady you, dragging you back to him again as if to remind you that despite everything he’s got you. 

“Two,” you say shakily, “I’m sorry, Professor Richards.”

He rubs the spot to soothe your burning flesh and by now, a part of you wants to crawl into his lap and be held. He coos softly at you and gently squeezes the roundness of your ass, making you bite down on your bottom lip and exhale a needy whine through your nose. 

“No need to bring me apologies,” he tells you, “We’ll see if you’ve learned your lesson. Last one.”

He lets you wait for the final smack, but when his hand lands on your skin, a sharp cry rips from your throat. Tears start flowing freely from your eyes now - even if you’re still not fully crying as emotions have not caught up with you yet - but it’s not solely from the pain, but also from the swirl of adrenaline and arousal that tightens below your belly button. You wonder if you should reach up to wipe your eyes but you can’t make yourself let go of the desk underneath you, clutching it in an iron grip because of how wobbly your legs are.

“Three,” you hiccup as Reed loosens his grip on you. You feel the ache of your behind with every heartbeat and want to sob now that it is over. You’re hyper-aware of what is happening in your body which is the adrenaline starting to crash, and the emotions, coming in like a wave, are just about to overwhelm you when—

“Sit up on the desk for me,” Reed says gently. 

“But the book,” you glance toward the textbook that you sent flying not long ago. It is a silly thing to cling onto but there’s an emotional wavering in your voice as you say it which Reed seems to catch onto. 

“Leave it,” he murmurs, an order but not like the previous ones, “Sit. I need to make sure you’re alright.”

The task seems impossible. You barely manage to push yourself fully upright, your shaking legs nearly not able to hold you up, and when you turn around to lift yourself onto the desk, you feel the edge dig into your sore behind in a way that forces a hiss out of you. A tear that you have no control over rolls slowly down your cheek.

“Easy,” Reed is beside you, catching onto your motive when you get ready to jump up onto the surface in a hurry due to his earlier lack of patience. He has previously had a hovering hand nearby but now, he grabs a hold of you to still you, “Do it carefully.”

When you’re finally perched on the desk, you’re not sure if the calming cool sensation of the wood beneath your thighs outweighs the pressure against your smarting skin. What you are sure of though is the storm of emotions inside your chest, a raging one made up of an overwhelming mix of new pain, embarrassment, and vulnerability, all of which makes your heart feel too big for your rib cage. 

“I’m okay,” you lie but you hear yourself and know it isn’t very convincing. He gives you a raised eyebrow. 

“Seems like you’re experiencing what is known as a drop. Come on, deep breaths,” he guides you gently when he spots the way your bottom lip wobbles, “If you have to cry, let it out. No one’s going to see you.”

From his words, you realize that your breathing has become unsteady and hitched in very little time. Your shoulders shake and your chest has a ball of unleashed feelings in it that nearly makes you feel sick. It unravels when the tears that you hoped would subside resurface at the permission to let them flow. You feel them brimming at the corners of your eyes. 

“I’m sorry, this is so embarrassing,” you say shakily when they finally spill over even if the tension in your torso slowly ebbs away as you let go. 

“You’re alright. Just breathe for me,” he says softly. He brings his hands to your thighs and rubs them in an attempt to soothe and ground you, “Slow and steady in through the nose and out the mouth. Right now, you don’t have to do anything but calm down, and then I can take a look at you.”

The room around you seems distant as you try to breathe more steadily but you’re lightheaded, feeling almost as if you’re wrapped in a woolen, fuzzy blanket that blocks everything out besides him. You aren’t sure if it is the adrenaline crash anymore or the way that your whole body is so tightly wound for pleasure that won’t come but you crave his touch, crave him taking care of you.

“You’re okay,” he says over and over, drowning out the static in your ears, “No more crying, sweet angel. I’d rather not see you leave here like this.”

The nickname makes you snap out of it. Angel? Did he just call you an angel? Your tears go on hold when you continuously blink up at him from your seat on the desk, pawing at his chest without knowing what to do with all your longing. He makes you feel all the things you have felt since you met him all at once now, a dizzying flurry of thoughts and feelings. 

“That’s better,” he smiles genuinely for the first time and you melt right then and there. He looks so damn handsome when he does it that you go ridiculously doe-eyed at the sight. 

“Thank you,” you mumble while playing with the buttons on his white shirt. The butterflies in your belly have nearly made the pulsing ache of your backside disappear. 

“Stand up,” he says and removes your hands from his chest which you probably make a much bigger deal out of than him, “I need to take a look at you.” 

You stand on wobbly legs. Slowly and carefully, he skims his fingers over the inflamed skin and notes out loud that it is warm. It’s not a soothing caress for the sake of tenderness, but rather a deliberate check-in to take note of how much damage he’s done. He works methodically, like a man who daily works with scientific research and experiments, going over each part of you while humming at his discoveries. 

“Right. Cool compress when you get home for the swelling, ten-fifteen minutes on and off. Frozen peas will do,” he instructs in the exact same tone as when he gives out science homework, “The skin is still intact but you’ll be sore if you don’t treat yourself with a little kindness. Lotion if it is too much to bear and loose clothing. Not a pencil skirt like this one, we clear?” 

You nod with the hint of a pout.

“And,” he adds and grabs lightly at your chin, his tone suddenly playful, “Try not to miss any more deadlines.”

It’s a joke, you realize, something to lighten the atmosphere in the lecture hall and you barely register it from the way his fingers hold your head in place. Despite your watery eyes and racing heartbeat, you huff out a little laugh.

“There we go,” he coos at the sound of your chuckle, “Not so gloomy anymore.”

With gentle hands, he reaches just below your hips to pull your underwear up over the curve of your ass again, careful not to let the waistband tug at the sensitive skin. He does the same with your skirt, tugging the hem down over your thighs until you look decent once more. 

Your lips part slightly as your eyes slide up to look at his face, feeling dumbstruck by his brown intelligent eyes and his aquiline nose straight out of the statues from Ancient Rome. You admire the column of his neck, the mentioned beauty mark just above his collar, and the dip that you want to kiss. 

After a moment, you realize that you have gone quiet and when you look back at his eyes, you are dizzyingly meeting his suddenly intense gaze. It is as if he has calculated that you are back with him, lingering with desire albeit still a little shaken by your tears. His eyes are burning into yours and you can feel the restraint behind them. It is as if you can sense the electricity in the air, the warmth that prickles in your cheeks, and the heat that radiates from him. 

Without a word, he reaches to tuck your shirt into your skirt until it hugs your figure tightly, a fashion choice different from how you had arrived in his classroom earlier. The dominance of styling your clothes as he prefers it makes you press your thighs together, the dull ache returning between your legs. 

“I’ve noticed, seen it all. That’s why I did it,” he says cryptically as he stuffs your shirt down at the back, fingertips brushing the dip of your spine until heat racks up it. 

“Noticed what?” You ask foolishly but had you stopped to think, you would have figured it out already. 

“All the energy you’ve put into getting me to notice you and getting my undivided attention. Congratulations, you’ve finally got it,” he clarifies and lets both his hands rest on the small of your back for the briefest of moments. When he lets go of you, you follow his touch by leaning in to close the distance with a kiss. 

He places a hand on your chest, holding you back just when you are pressing the ghost of a kiss to his lips. He has given you so much by now. Why not this? A ball of frustration settles in your chest and comes out as a little whine of impatience, “Why can’t we?”

He doesn’t pull away, simply speaks less than an inch from your face so you can feel his breath on your mouth, “Because you need to learn restraint, sweet angel. I can’t have you missing your deadlines three weeks in a row - or at all really - due to some little crush.”

You want to defend yourself, say that it has nothing to do with him but deep down, you know it would be a lie straight to his face. So instead, you swallow thickly, “I want you. I’ve wanted you since I saw you.”

“And you will have me,” he kisses you so softly that you want to sink to your knees, “Just not until I say so, and certainly not before you’ve been a good girl and turned in that paper.”

“Sir,” you try one last time.

“I’ll teach you to be patient, to have restraint,” he tells you and makes you realize your attempt was to no avail, “Whether you like it or not.”

You give in, buzzing with the need for more, “I can turn my paper in on Monday. Would that suffice?” 

“I’ll hold you to that, but no late nights and last-minute scrambling. If I find you’ve rushed through it…” he lets the sentence drift off, letting your imagination figure out the consequence, “And it best be your best work yet.”

“Yes, sir,” you reluctantly pull back when nothing seems to work, “Whatever you want.”

“Hand it to me during office hours before class,” he instructs to which you nod.

“But what now?” You ask with a tiny impatient noise, letting him know just how much you’ve got against his reluctance to touch you. 

His hand flexes by his side, “Now you go home. You lock your door and you touch that pretty thing between your thighs just how you like it most. I want you to come for me until you’re hoarse. Three times for three weeks but no more than that, not until we see each other again.”

It is Wednesday and you won’t see him until Monday. How on Earth are you going to survive on only three orgasms after this? Your mind races with protests but you don’t get to voice your concern about the limit he has set because he has already stepped back to pick up his jacket from his desk chair. 

You decide to circle the table to pick up your book and stuff it into your bag. Behind you, Reed’s eyes are definitely on you as you lean forward with a hand on the desk. He is fixing the cuffs of his sleeves and putting on his tweed jacket, trying to come off as if letting you have a private moment to compose yourself.

“Monday,” he reminds you when you stand upright again. His arm stretches out between the rows of chairs and tables once more so he can unlock the door for you. 

“Yes, sir,” you answer obediently. 

You swing your bag over your shoulder and then you leave.

.

.

If you would like to follow my writing then go follow @notjustjavierpena-fics and turn on notifications 💖❤️

[dollishmehrayan]

# “YEAH I’M A BUSY WOMAN I WOULDN’T LET YOU COME INTO MY CALENDAR” ── .✦ ( batboys x uni!reader because why not ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ )

dollish note ౨ৎ: writing this while like two cans of coke zero and I genuinely might pull a crazy all nighter but I sleep at 5 am normally so WHO GIVE A FUCKK, anywayss this goes to my stress ridden babies due to midterms for you guys soon I thinkk (all of us 🥲) tags: (batboys x reader)

© dollishmehrayan — ( all rights reserved to me. These works cannot be reposted, translated, or modified. Thank you for understanding dollies! )

DICK GRAYSON ── .✦

He brings you snacks when you’re studying and by “snacks” we mean full takeout meals because he forgets how to portion ( accidentally gets you like 10 different sauces because he didn’t know which one you’d want. )

Will absolutely FaceTime you during your breaks just to make you laugh and decompress.

“So what are we learning today, professor babe?” , “I’m not even a professor dick.” while spinning in your desk chair.

Offers to help you practice presentations and claps like a proud dad after. (YES HE’S THAT CRINGEY)

Shows up to your classes sometimes just to walk you home hoodie, shades, and all like he’s one of those celebrities who avoid paparazzi.

Brags about you constantly: “They’re in college. That’s hot.”

JASON TODD ── .✦

Brings you coffee strong enough to revive the dead. “You said you had a paper due, I brought the goods.”

Pretends to not care but is 100% the one who stays up with you all night while you write essays.

Sits on the couch reading classic literature while you're buried in textbooks. "Need help understanding The Iliad? I gotchu." ( he’s the besttt explainer )

Might write your prof a strongly worded email if he thinks you got graded unfairly. You have to stop him.

“Study breaks” with him usually turn into making out. And somehow more caffeine. ( i volunteer to contribute i fear )

Secretly keeps one of your academic achievements (like a certificate or paper) in his bookshelf. Doesn’t tell anyone.

TIM DRAKE ── .✦

The ultimate study partner. Organized notes. Color-coded everything. Quizlet decks for days.

“You’re not sleeping enough. Here’s melatonin. And a planner. Also, breathe.”

Will pull all-nighters with you and still somehow get 100% on his own assignments.

If you’re freaking out, he builds a full 7-step action plan with deadlines, breaks, and snacks.

Occasionally goes “I read that journal article actually, it’s flawed,” and you’re like ( insert standing woman emoji fr fr 🧍‍♀️)

Loves helping you with research. You say “I need a source,” and he sends you 12 peer-reviewed papers in 5 mins.

DAMIAN WAYNE ── .✦ ( AGED UP FOR THIS BUT NO NSFW!)

“Tt. University is easy. You're making it harder than it needs to be.”, “EXCUSE ME-“ But deep down, he’s in awe of how hard you work.

Brings you your favorite drink exactly how you like it without asking and knows what flavor of drinks you like too.

He proofreads your essays like he’s a dissertation committee. Will roast you but also fix every single grammar issue.

Draws you little doodles on sticky notes with encouraging messages like, “You are competent. Continue.”

constantly complaining to you to, “You should be getting more sleep.” “You should talk to your professor.” “You should eat breakfast.”

Acts unimpressed until you ace a test, and then he casually slips a gift into your bag like it’s no big deal.

[marauder-misprint]

hi! can you do something with the marauders preferably sirius or james where the reader has constantly been like kind of invisible her whole life and spoken over and in the end has just stopped speaking up much ? thankyou <33 ( no pressure though! )

Hi! Thank you for this request ❤︎ Not sure how I feel about the quality of this. I definitely feel like it's not James enough, but it is what it is. Or maybe it's the lack of interactions with the rest of the Marauders that has me feeling like this? Idk. (It also might be because I'm not a huge James writer? Who knows?)

ANYWAYS! I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!

Potions partner

James Potter x reader

4.6k words

cw: fluff, yapper!James

You’re not sure which is more peculiar: the story you’re telling or the fact that multiple people are listening to you tell it. 

It had happened during Care of Magical Creatures class that morning. Professor Kettleburn was trying to settle an aggravated Thestral and was failing horribly to the point where he dismissed class urgently. You were one of the few students who could actually see the beast so your retelling of the event was more descriptive than the rest of the class’. 

But what wasn’t peculiar was when a boy sat down a few seats away from you with complaints about the latest Transfiguration essay and all the attention that had been on you and your story moved on. Was the Thestral more interesting? Yes. But you were you, a background character in your own life. People didn’t pay attention to you if there was something else going on.  

You sigh and turn your attention to the food on your plate. You’ve barely touched it since you were talking for once. Now that attention has left you like it always does, you’re able to eat. It had been nice to feel heard, even if just for a few minutes. You never did hold people’s attention for long. You were just something to fill the background, nothing special to see. And often you weren’t seen. There were too many times for you to count when someone brushes past you, accidentally knocking you to the ground and they barely give you “Sorry, didn’t see you there.” 

In short, you weren’t seen and you weren’t heard. 

It wasn’t just your classmates either. It seemed like once a week, a professor would scan the classroom as they marked who was in attendance and they’d ask if you were there. You always were. You’d raise your hand and wave it around. Sometimes, even with that, they’d miss you until your friend spoke up and said that, yes, you were, in fact, in class. You weren’t sure how the professors managed to skip over you so much, but they did. Maybe it was because you weren’t an extreme. Your grades weren’t horrible enough to be of concern, nor were they exceptional enough to be used as examples and to earn house points. 

That afternoon in Potions, one of your least favorite things happened. Professor Slughorn announced a partnered-project.

“If everyone could get into pairs please! We will be working on brewing Felix Felicis and there will be various assignments with this. Pick someone you will be able to focus with. Yes, this means that Potter and Black cannot be partners.”

A pair of groans erupt from the back of the room. 

“I got dibs on Moony,” Sirius says.

James groans again, scanning the room. Lily had picked Mary. Marlene and Peter didn’t continue with Potions in N.E.W.T. level. People got into pairs quickly. You had immediately turned toward Emmeline. She was usually kind to you, but she paired with Benjy Fenwick. Your options dwindled fast. 

“Alright, anyone without a partner?” Slughorn asks the class as the room began to settle down. 

You and James both raise your hands. 

“Alright, you two are paired then. Here is the first assignment…”

You glance at James and cringe internally. Loud, boisterous James was your partner for the foreseeable future. Slughorn hadn’t given a timeframe for how long these assignments would be. You try to listen to everything that he’s saying about the first assignment, but it’s difficult when you’re dreading the assignment before it’s even really begun. 

After class ends, you approach James.

“Erm, I’ll do the essay if you want to do the first part of the potion?” you offer, hugging your books tight to your chest. 

“Huh? Oh, for the project. The essay’s long, don’t you want to work together on it?” James replies.

“I don’t-” you start to say.

Sirius interrupts you. “Mate, the girl’s just offered you the easy way out of the project. Take it and run.” 

You press your lips into a thin line, nod and walk away. Sirius got it. You’d split the project into separate pieces as much as you could. Plus, did Mr. Popular really want to be seen with someone as quiet and invisible as you? You didn’t think so. As you made your way to your next class, you assumed that was the end of the conversation. 

It wasn’t.

James finds you in the library after dinner. He’s slightly out of breath as he places his things on the table.

“You’re a hard one to find,” he says, taking a seat across from you.

You don’t say anything. In fact, you barely spare him a glance. 

“I wanted to talk to you about the Potions project,” he continues as he takes out homework for a different class. “It’s a multiple part project. It’s very interconnected, not something we can split down the middle and work on separately.”

He stops talking and waits for you to respond. You still don’t look up. You just work on your Herbology assignment.

“You… you are my partner for Potions, right?” he asks, running a hand through already-messy hair. “That’d be embarrassing if I just sat down across from the wrong girl…”

“We’re partners,” you whisper, more to your parchment than James.

“Great. So I’m at the right table! Like I was saying, you can’t do the entire essay and have me do all the brewing. I mean, we can do that. Like you write and I actually brew, which is fine. But we have to meet up to work on it, you know? Can’t do one part without the other.” 

“I prefer to work alone,” you say. “So take my offer or do it all by yourself.”

James’ eyes narrow. 

“That’s not how partner projects work.”

You raise your eyes to meet his for the first time since he sat down. Pretty. You sigh and look back at your assignment. You have work to get done. You hope that James will get the message, accept your terms and leave you alone. Instead, he starts to work on an essay for Astronomy.

“Do you study at this table often?” he asks nonchalantly. 

“Mhmm,” you hum. 

Part of you wants to ask why he’s asking. What’s it to him that you work at that table practically like clockwork? 

“This a daily thing or weekly? Every other day? Multiple times a day?” 

“Whenever I have assignments,” you answer, although it's a very non-answer. When didn’t you have homework as a sixth year? 

Every teacher assigned endless work to prepare you for the incoming exams. You were to be prepared and the way to prepare you was to assign work. 

“So you’re here every second of every day, got it,” James says cheekily. 

A quick glance at him reveals a smirk playing on his lips. Despite his quill hovering about parchment, he’s watching you, scanning your face for some kind of reaction. Something more than the quiet, short answers you’ve responded with so far. It’s a change of pace for James. Everyone wants to talk to him. He can talk with anyone about anything. It’s a gift that he and Sirius share. You, on the other hand, aren’t talking and it’s strange to James. Even Lily talks more when she’s shooting down his advances. 

“Do you need help with that for Sprout?” James offers, confident that he can get you to talk more. “I finished it over lunch.”

You shake your head. James frowns, having been hoping for a verbal answer. He gives up trying to get you to talk for the evening, although he doesn’t leave your table. The two of you work in tandem for a few hours. James is far more uncomfortable with the silence between you than you are. It’s something you’re used to, and even if James had decided to ramble on about something, you would’ve managed to get the same amount of work done. James was used to noise around him, even in the library. With friends like his, quiet work time didn’t exist. 

The next day James tries to say hi to you during the few classes that you share. You offer a small smile or a quiet ‘hello’ in response. You never stop and talk to him beyond that, which bothers him. You were partners for a project that would inevitably force you to spend some time together. Why didn’t you bother trying to get to know him at all? 

“That’s your Potions partner, right?” Sirius asks as you walk away from them for the fourth time. “The one you got stuck with?”

“Yeah. Clearly doesn’t talk much,” James answers, watching you go and wordlessly sit down next to a Hufflepuff. He runs a hand through his hair absentmindedly.

“Maybe she just doesn’t know you? Or like you,” Peter says.

“What do you mean, Wormtail?” James asks. 

“You’re not friends with everyone and some people don’t talk to people they don’t like.” Peter said it like it should’ve been common sense. 

“But how can she not like me if she doesn’t know me? Won’t even try to know me? I sat with her for hours last night and I got maybe five sentences out of her!”

“You were in the library,” Remus snorts. “Some people respect the library’s quiet.”

“I know how to whisper!” 

The other three boys burst into uncontrollable fits of laughter. James Potter whispering was more akin to a stage whisper. So, not a whisper. He was a loud person. 

Then after dinner, James sits across from you in the library again. 

“Same table. Easier to find,” he says as he takes out his homework. 

Just like yesterday, you don’t respond. You don’t look up. You just continue working. James, however, is more intent on getting you to talk. He tries to think of something that might get your attention. It’s more difficult than he originally imagined. He didn’t know you. “What’s today’s assignment?” 

“Care of Magical Creatures,” you say, voice barely qualifying as a whisper. 

That got James’ attention more than it should have.

“Were you in class with the rampant Thestral? I heard it was crazy. Can’t imagine dealing with a creature you can’t see!” he asks.

“Professor Kettleburn provoked it. He pulled its wing. It looked overstretched,” you say with certainty. 

Looked.

“Looked?” 

You nod, flipping the page of the book you have open in front of you.

“You can see them? I thought you could only see them if-”

“If you’ve seen death,” you interrupt James. 

He’s staring at you with wide eyes.

“You’ve seen death?” James asks. 

He’s certain that he won’t get any work done. Not when you can see Thestrals.

You nod, again. Yesterday you were thrilled to have people’s attention as you recounted the beast mauling Kettleburn with its hooves. Today, you want to get your assignment done so you can return to your dorm. You aren’t sure why James is so curious about it, or why he keeps talking to you. No one ever sits at your table two days in a row.

After you don’t speak, James lets the conversation, if you can call it that, die. He figures that you don’t want to talk about who you’ve seen die. Maybe it was someone close to you. Maybe it was recent and hurt too much to talk about. He tries to focus on his work, but he was right in his assumption that he wouldn’t get work done. Even if you weren’t talking, James found you fascinating. His eyes keep drifting up to watch you work. 

He breaks the silence after a while. “Can we work on that Potions essay tomorrow? I’m fine with brewing the potion, but we’ll work on the essay together.” 

You sigh yet you nod all the same. 

“Great!” 

And with that, James leaves you alone. 

The next day feels the same as the last. James says hi to you whenever he sees you, earning the same responses from you. There’s something nice about him taking the time to say  hi to you when most of your classmates barely acknowledge your existence. Still, he’s only your partner in Potions and he didn’t choose to be your partner. It just happened because Slughorn said he couldn’t be with Sirius. 

When James finds you in the library after dinner at your usual table, he’s lugging his cauldron with him. You stare as he sets it up next to the table, taking out a small collection of ingredients.

“Bit rough getting this past Madam Pince,” he tells you, seeing that he managed to catch your attention for once. “But I figured, if we’re working on the essay right now, might as well work on the potion too, right?” 

You open your mouth as if to speak but nothing comes out. You gape like a fish out of water. 

“You do have your Potions stuff with you, yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah… I do…” 

You move your unfinished Care of Magical Creatures assignment off to the side. You’d work on it more after James left. Or at least, whenever he was done insisting on this ‘working together’ thing. 

“Right, so Slughorn wants the first portion of Felix. And the essay is on the…” James says while looking over his scribbled notes.

“Essay is on the ingredients’ effect on the coloring. Pretty self-explanatory if you ask me,” you finish for him.

“How do you mean?” 

You try not to laugh at James. 

“Please, occamy and ashwinder eggs? Common rue? Shiny, shiny, yellow. It’s basic color theory.” 

“Huh,” is all James says for a moment. Then he follows with, “That’s why you offered to do all the writing, isn’t it!” 

“More like I thought you wouldn’t be bothered to work with me.” 

James gasps, putting his hand over his heart like you brutally offended him. “Ouch, sweetheart!” 

“Just get to brewing, Potter.”

And that’s the last that you spoke that evening. You worked intently on the essay as James brewed the potion. For some time, the sound between you was the crackling of the fire under James’ cauldron. But then he started talking. At first it was about the potion. He told you about everything he did and the immediate effects, every change of color and consistency. You didn’t need the commentary, although you used it to ensure that James was doing everything correctly. His descriptions matched what you had written. 

Then he reached the point where the potion needed to simmer, James started talking about quidditch. You humor him for a while, listening to him ramble about what you easily assume is his favorite topic. He talked about more than just the Gryffindor team. He talked about the different tactics he’d seen the other houses use this year and how well they executed them, how they compared to the professional teams and how each of those teams were doing this year. Then he went on a tangent about the new rules and regulations that were passed recently and how they affected the game. He went on for a while.

“Do you want to read this or not?” you ask with some snap to your voice. 

You slid the finished essay across the table toward James. You had written the entire thing as he brewed, only a testament to why you thought that partner part of the project was pointless. But if he wanted to ‘work together,’ you figure the least you could do was have him look over your work. 

“Oh, yes! Let me see,” he mumbles as he takes the parchment from you. 

You resume work on your Magical Creatures assignment. It takes James a few minutes to look over the whole thing. You had put a little extra effort into writing it since it was going to be James’ grade as well. It was one thing if your own work was subpar but when someone else got brought into the equation, you tried a little harder.

“This is great. You really did the whole thing while I brewed?”

You nod.

“You’re fantastic!” You feel a heat creep up your neck at the compliment. It was just an essay.

“Okay, so we have the potion and the essay for the first deadline! Great! I’ll clean up and get out of your hair. But I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” he asks, a wide smile on his face.

You nod again.

Over the next week, James continues to meet up with you in the library. He’s grateful that you never change tables. That at least means you don’t mind too much that he’s joining you. With each day, he tries to get you to talk. He tries topic after topic, hoping to come across one that you wouldn’t mind opening up a bit for. What James doesn’t know is that you’ve trained yourself to limit your responses. Even if someone asked about your deepest interest, you’d barely let on that you knew everything about it. 

Then, just as you’re getting used to James constantly being at your table, he says something that throws you off.

“I won’t be here tomorrow.”

You want to respond with “Okay?” He wasn’t required to do homework for you after dinner every day. He wasn’t obligated to sit at your table. You still didn’t even really consider him your friend.

“We got the quidditch pitch reserved for a last minute practice before Saturday’s match,” he says, pausing to watch your face with curiosity. If there was a change in your expression, he’d see it. There was no change. “You’re coming to the match on Saturday, right?”

There was hope in his voice. Like he really wanted to make sure that you’d be in the stands for the game. Almost like he wanted to know if you’d be watching him, and just maybe, cheering for him. 

You blink your eyes slowly.

“I… I’m not sure.”

“Oh?”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “Depends on how much work I get done, I guess.”

“Stay hard at work then, will you? I’d like you to be there. Heard it’s going to be a good match,” he says, his grin audible in his voice. 

It makes you look up at him rather than at the parchment in front of you. 

“Heard it’s going to be good?” you repeat back to him. “Wouldn’t you say that about every match you’re in?”

“I mean, yeah, but Saturday’s especially.” 

“We’ll see, Potter.”

“You’ll only see if you go.”

You flex your eyebrows and turn back to your assignment. James smiles to himself as he begins to work again too. Something about your demeanor made him think that you would show up. He wasn’t really sure why he cared if you did, but there was something about you. He had grown to like the quiet air that you maintained. He didn’t mind that you didn’t talk much, despite his desperate attempts to get you to talk. You kind of reminded him of Remus during first year, if he was being honest. And that means that you had the promise of becoming a very dear friend. 

You would be lying if you didn’t work extra hard the next evening while James was at practice. You didn’t promise anything but you felt that you owed it to James to at least try to be at a point where you could justify going to the match. You went to a handful of them. You could follow along enough with the game, not that it mattered. Balls were tossed around, some were hit and there was a super small one that only two players tried to catch. That’s about all you needed to know. 

Still, you don’t know why you felt the need to show up for James. It wasn’t like he would be able to see you in the sea of students. It was one thing to find you in the library. It was another to spot you from a broom while you were surrounded by hundreds of others pressed together and bundled up against the biting wind. You even figured that you could just tell James that you went, without actually going, and he wouldn’t know the difference. 

However, when morning came, you were bundling up. You join the masses heading to the pitch. You listen to the excited chatter about how epic the match is going to be. It was Gryffindor against Slytherin after all, which always made for a good match being the natural rivals that they were. You stood pressed between your friend and one of her closer friends. They cheer louder than you did. You were more focused on trying to keep up with the game as your mind continuously drifts to James. As your mind drifts, so do your eyes. You’re confident that you watched James for at least 90% of the match. Which shouldn’t be too shocking given the amount of times he was in the midst of the action. You swore he had his hands on the quaffle during every play. 

And then something happened that made your heart stop.

You swore James’ eyes found yours and then he flashed you a smile. All before proceeding to score again. Almost as if he was doing it just for you. 

Which was ridiculous. He was just your Potions partner who happened to be studying a lot with you as of recently. 

But still. He found you, in the middle of the crowd, where you should have been as invisible as you always were. 

How? How did he see you? It’s all you could think of for the last few minutes of the game. You were so in your own head that you missed the Gryffindor seeker catching the snitch, ending the game and sealing the win for them. You let your friend drag you out of the stands as students filled the pitch. Except you didn’t follow her into the pitch. You started down the path back towards the castle, but you didn’t make it far. 

The sun was shining brightly and the air wasn’t too frigid once you were hundreds of feet into the air. You veer from the path and find a nice patch of grass to sit down on. Some sunshine wouldn’t hurt. An occasional shadow passed over your face as clouds drifted across the sky. Each shadow was only momentary, a brief chill until it moved on.

Until one shadow didn’t move on. You waited a minute before opening your eyes to see how big this cloud was.

The cloud in question? James Potter. James Potter still in his quidditch uniform and sporting a smile so bright it could rival the sun itself. And he was standing in front of you.

“Potter,” you say shortly. 

“Didn’t see you on the pitch after the match,” he replies, sitting down across from you.

You don’t say anything. What was there to say?

“I was hoping to see you on the pitch. Maybe get a congratulations on the win?” he says with a tilt of his head. 

“You played well.” That was as close to a congratulations as he was going to get from you. 

“Did you see the goal I scored for you?” 

You cough. “For me?” 

“Well, yes. I swore I made eye contact with you before I did it.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Or did I look at a different pretty girl?” 

You swallow thickly. “No, you, erm, that was me.”

“Ah, then yes. For you. My pretty Potions partner.”

If your heart had stopped in the stands, it must’ve turned into stone now. There was no way that James just called you his pretty Potions partner. 

“That’s… ah… that’s alliteration,” you manage to say despite your mouth suddenly becoming drier than the desert. 

James tilts his head curiously. 

“I did want to thank you,” he says. “For coming to the match. I wasn’t sure if you were going to come. Because of homework, like you said. But I hoped you’d come.” He pauses for a moment. “Did you like it?”

“The-the match or you scoring… for me?” you ask, the end of your question feeling foreign in your mouth. 

People didn’t score goals for you. That didn’t happen. You were barely noticed. You were spoken over. You were forgotten about because you offered so little to conversation and friendships. 

“Erm, both, I suppose.” 

“The match was entertaining. Definitely a step from Binn’s lectures.” 

James laughs. It was a delightfully warm sound that draws the attention of students headed to the castle. 

“You scoring… for… me…” you continue, the words still feeling odd to you, “was… nice, I guess. Unexpected though.” 

James nods, accepting your commentary. He understands why it came across as unexpected. It wasn’t like he had flirted with you in the library. He hadn’t asked you to Hogsmeade or a picnic or even for a measly walk through the corridors together. 

“I suppose I did this a bit backwards, haven’t I?” he chuckles.

“Did what?” you ask.

“The fact that you have to ask…” He shakes his head and runs a hand through his windswept hair. “I think I want to ask you out.”

Your eyes go wide and a blush tints your cheeks pink. Your heart has been shocked back to life and is working overtime.

“You think?” you ask once you’re able to say words. 

“Okay, well, I do. I want to ask you out. I’m just not sure… if I should? Would you say yes if I did?”

You’re frozen in shock. He wants to ask you out. He grows increasingly nervous when you don’t respond.

“You don’t talk much and you seem to take your studies seriously. You remind me of Remus. You know Remus Lupin, right? Good, good friend of mine. And I think you’re rather pretty. So the combination of both, I want to see if we, you know, work together,” he says all too quickly. “And now I’ve gone and scored a goal for you, which I know most people usually save for after they’ve gone steady with someone or if they’re heavily chatting them up, but you don’t seem like the kind of person to appreciate a proper chatting up so…” He took a sharp breath. “Whatdoyousay?”

You continue to stare at James. It’s a lot. You’re not really sure when he started feeling all of this and you don’t know how to express that. You also don’t know how you managed to catch his eye. 

“Can I, ahem, get a nod or something? You, me, butterbeers next weekend?”

You nod slowly and that brings a brilliant grin to James’ face. 

“And I’ll see you in the library all week, yeah? Can’t be falling behind in our assignments, can we?” 

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Same table.”

“And there’s a party in the Gryffindor Common Room later, if you want to go. I don’t know if that’s your scene or not, but I’ll be there. Wouldn’t mind seeing you there. But only if you’re up to it.”

You nod, but then realize that he might take that as you agreeing that you’ll go to the party. 

“Maybe. I… I need to work on Astronomy but… I’ll consider it.”

His grin gets impossibly wider and he pushes his glasses further up his nose. Then he stands up and holds out a hand to help you up.

“Then let’s get you back to the castle. Can’t work on your Astronomy if you’re out here.” 

You take his hand and let him lead you inside. Something about James inviting you places makes you actually want to show up, even if a Gryffindor quidditch party is completely out of your comfort zone. 

[vantetaes]

PARENT TEACHER CONFRENCES🫧🥂

TEACHER!NANAMI X MILF BLACK FEM READER

SUMMARY!!! hardworking single mom yn is called to meet with nanami, her sons fourth grade teacher to discuss his performance.

WARNINGS!!! aggressive tones, cursing, penetration, oral {f}, mirror sex, affirmations, sensual, praises, 6.2k

the school hallways are eerily quiet, the usual chaos of children’s laughter, teachers and coaches directing the younger kids to class, and hurried squeaky footsteps replaced by the hum of fluorescent lights overhead. you stride through the marble floored corridor, the sharp click of your black heels slicing through the silence.

your grip tightens around the structured leather of your designer handbag as you reach the door labeled with big black lettering MR. KENTO NANAMI.

you knock twice, before using your entire body weight pushing the wooden door open without waiting for an invitation.

nanami looks up from his desk, his expression unreadable behind his gold square-framed glasses. he’s put together, wearing a clean tan suit. the matching jacket lay carelessly over the back of his chair while his white button up pressed shirt sleeves rolled up just enough to hint at forearm muscle, tie loosened just a fraction. the gold chain he wore underneath barely peeking through to catch the beams of sunlight coming through the large windows.

his whole aura screams methodical, disciplined, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes when he meets your gaze. something unreadable.

“ms. l/n, i’m surprised. thank you for making the time.” he greets, standing as a courtesy. his voice is deep, smooth, but there’s an undercurrent of exhaustion beneath the professionalism.

you set your bag down on one of the two brown leather chairs before seating yourself across from him, back straight, chin tilted slightly upward. nanami watched as your blazer tightened around your frame as you fixed your posture. your sheer stockings with lace cuffing your thigh give the man a tease, revealing with the way your mini pencil skirt rose up to crease at your hips. the simple gold jewelry necklace that hung around your neck, being fixed by freshly manicured french tips.

and the one thing he could never forget about you, you smelled like homegrown vanilla and looked like you were moisturized by gods.

“i always make time when it comes to my son, mr. kento. let’s get to the point.” your tone is crisp, practiced, the same one you use when working around the most elite of clients and workers the same. although it never mattered to nanami. outside of those aura you present, he knew you’d crumble.

“it’s about yuji. he’s a bright kid. engaging , compassionate. but i’ve noticed a pattern of distraction in class. his assignments are often rushed, and while he excels in physical activities, he struggles to focus during lessons. i’m concerned he’s not reaching his full potential.” he exhales slowly, measuring his words. his hazel eyes lock onto yours for a moment, trying to gather an expression.

“so what are you saying? that my son is a problem all of a sudden?” your brows knit together, irritation beginning to bubble beneath your skin.

“not at all, in fact i love having him in my class. i’m saying he needs more structure. more consistency.” nanami doesn’t flinch, his gaze steady. he goes to grab a manila folder, with your sons name right on the front.

“you think i don’t provide that? do you know how hard i work to make sure yuji has everything he needs?” you fold your arms, nails tapping against your sleeve, leg beginning to jump. the small sound of your heel connecting with the flooring filling the uncomfortable space.

there’s a flicker of something in his expression—understanding, maybe, but not pity.

“i’m not questioning your dedication as a parent, ms. l/n. i see how much yuji adores you. but children, especially ones as energetic as him, need more than just material stability. they need presence.”

your jaw tightens. presence. as if you haven’t sacrificed enough. as if you haven’t built an empire just so yuji never has to want for anything.

“i’m present-” you say, voice quieter now, but still firm. “i show up. the amount of money i spend on this crappy little private elementary school, i should be the one signing checks.”

nanami slightly adjusts his glasses, tapping his finger along the opening of the folder. instead, his body shifts backwards in his chair, placing the cream folder in front of you. clasping his hands together, a small, tight line smile crosses his face.

“the amount of money you donate to helping your child’s future doesn’t impress me. do with that what you will. i didn’t mean for you to feel as though i was attacking you, ms. l/n. just bringing light to the situation.”

sitting forward in your seat, you lean over. your nails drum against the polished wood of his desk, slow, deliberate. his eyes can’t help but to draw down to your exposed cleavage. watching your necklace sway with your movements.

“you assume a lot, mr. kento.” your voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it now, a sharpness honed from years of speaking over men who thought they could talk over you.

“you see a distracted child and immediately think it’s a lack of structure. you see a working mother and assume it’s a lack of presence. tell me, do you make the same assumptions about fathers?”

“i don’t assume, ms. l/n. i observe. and what i’ve observed is a boy who looks over his shoulder every time he accomplishes something. searching for approval that isn’t always there.” nanami doesn’t blink, doesn’t waver. instead, he leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the desk, his expression unwaveringly calm. you could smell the mint wafting off his breath.

“that’s not fair.” heat flares in your chest, something dangerously close to guilt threading through the frustration.

“it’s not about fair.” he says evenly.

“it’s about what’s real. yuji is brilliant, but he’s restless. he’s eager, but inconsistent. i don’t doubt for a second that you love him. but love and attention aren’t the same thing. help him or you’ll run him right into the ground.”

your lips part, ready to retort, but the words catch. because a part of you knows he isn’t wrong. knows that between early-morning meetings and late-night conference calls, between international flights and back-to-back negotiations, there are missed dinners, forgotten bedtime stories, moments you can’t get back. you work so he doesn’t have to struggle. but in doing so, maybe, just maybe, you’ve made him fight for a different kind of survival.

but admitting that feels too much like surrender.

“you’re out of line. i don’t think the dean would enjoy hear about how you spoke to their cash cow.” so you straighten, tilting your chin up just enough to remind him who you are.

“maybe-” nanami exhales slowly, pushing a hand through his blond hair. his voice remains maddeningly level.

“-but if i don’t say it, who will?”

silence stretches between you, thick with something unspoken. outside, the distant sound of a basketball bouncing against pavement echoes through the hallway.

“enough of this. i have to make it home for yuji. i appreciate your concern for my son but from now on, please mind your own business.”

collecting your purse and the folder, you stand up, straightening out your outfit. nanami stands also, watching as you flip your bouncy curls behind one ear, the skirt still high and teasing. nanami watches as your tiny frame shuffles over to the door, a smile sigh leaving his lips.

you grip the door handle, pausing just long enough to steady yourself. the conversation lingers, the weight of it pressing against your spine, taking in a deep breath.

infuriating.

“ms. l/n.” his voice stops you, low and deliberate.

“what now, nanami?” you inhale slowly before turning, arching a brow.

he watches you for a moment, arms crossed, expression unreadable. then, with the same frustrating composure he’s had all evening, “-i was too hostile.”

you blink, caught off guard. “excuse me?”

“i should have approached the conversation differently. more patience, less provocation.” he exhales, adjusting his tie, more out of habit than necessity. then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, “let-let me make it up to you. dinner.”

there’s a pause. sharp, charged.

then you laugh, a short, disbelieving sound.

“is this your way of apologizing?”

“it’s my way of offering a reset.” his lips twitch slightly at the corner, just slightly.

“would your wife be okay with you taking out a parent?”

“no wife. just me and you.”

you study him, searching for any sign of insincerity. but nanami is firm. there’s no arrogance in his offer, no expectation, just a quiet confidence that irritates you almost as much as it intrigues you.

“interesting, well. bold of you to assume i have the time. yknow, with me being an absent mother an all.” you say smoothly, tilting your chin up.

“bold of you to assume i’m not willing to wait, just like today.” he counters with a laugh without missing a beat.

the air between you shifts, charged with something neither of you acknowledge outright.

“send me the details, mr. kento. i’ll think about it.” finally, you smirk, pushing the door open.

you don’t wait for his response as you walk out, heels clicking against the tile, but you don’t need to. because for the first time tonight, you let him have the last word.

-

nanami: dinner. friday. 8pm. send me your preference, or i’ll choose.

you: you assume i’m free.

nanami: i assume you’ll make time.

you: bold of you.

nanami: so i’ve been told.

you: fine. pick the place.

nanami: i already have. i’ll send the details.

you: don’t disappoint me.

nanami: i wouldn’t dare.

read 6:25pm

-

soft jazz hums through your bedroom, blending with the quiet rustle of fabric as you smooth your dress down in the mirror. the dark red silk pulling just right at every curve of your legs and waist. here, in the warm glow of the vanity lights, with yuji bouncing on his heels beside you, you allow yourself a moment of softness.

“mom, you look so cool!” he beams up at you, eyes bright, his excitement buzzing through the air like electricity.

“you really think so, baby?” you turn to him with a warm smile, cupping his cheek gently, watching as the boys eyes lit up like a christmas tree from the affection.

“yeah! like a superhero!” he nods enthusiastically.

“you’re too sweet.” you laugh, pressing a kiss to his forehead, immediately wiping off the faint outline of your lip combo.

behind you, mrs. okoye, yujis nanny, watches with a fond smile but says little, just straightening a few things around the room as if to give you this moment.

“but why are you dressed up? where are you going again?” yuji tugs at your hand, using his other to grab his stuffed bear.

“remember the meeting i had with mr. nanami?” you crouch to his level, smoothing a hand over his messy curly hair.

“when you got mad at him?” he scrunches his nose, pulling the stuffed animal closer.

“we had a discussion. and now, we’re having dinner.” you chuckle.

“so you like him now or are you guys just gonna talk about me, mommy?”

you smirk. “we’ll see.”

the doorbell rings. yuji gasps dramatically. “he’s here!”

before you can stop him, he dashes ahead, excitement bubbling over. he bolts around the corner, dropping his toy along the way. you shake your head fondly, grabbing your clutch and the brown bear and making your way to the door. when you open it, you blink, momentarily caught off guard.

nanami stands there, looking effortlessly composed. navy blue slacks, black button up sleeves pushed up just enough to hint at the veins decorating his forearm. the gold necklace fully visible unlike earlier. but what surprises you isn’t how good he looks. it’s the massive bouquet of red roses and baby’s breath in his hand. the red and white flowers somehow glistening in the moons light.

he stares at you in awe. the way the red dress compliments the rich brown of your skin. he admired how well you layered the gold and diamond jewelry, your warm house lighting catching the gleams perfectly. he loved the way the dress held you, how he could see the outline of your already hard nipples against the silk fabric.

“good evening, ms. l/n.” his voice is smooth, steady, but there’s something almost hesitant in the way he holds out the bouquet. “these are for you.”

“you bring flowers to all your parent-teacher meetings, mr. kento?” your eyes flicker from the flowers to him.

“only when i come on too strong.” his lips twitch, just barely, scratching the back of his neck.

before you can respond, yuji tugs at your dress. “mom! look, flowers!”

“i see that, baby.” you smile, accepting them with one hand while ruffling yuji’s hair with the other. then, turning back to nanami, you arch a brow.

“you’re trying very hard to be charming.”

“is it working?”

you tilt your head, considering, before turning toward the nanny.

“mrs. okoye, put these in water for me? and uh- make sure he’s in bed by 9 at the latest. he has a test monday, his brain needs the rest.”

“but mommy!”

“no buts, that’s how i ended up in this dress in the first place.”

mrs. okoye nods, taking them with a small, knowing smile. “of course, dear.”

“mom says you’re not gonna annoy her tonight.” yuji grins up at nanami.

nanami crouches down to hear the boy more, then glances at you, amused. “is that so?”

you smirk, stepping past the threshold. “we’ll see.”

-

the restaurant is warm and intimate. a few candles provide low lighting casting a golden glow over dark wood and crisp linens. it’s elegant, but not in the way that feels forced or ostentatious. it’s intentional, curated. something made to make you feel something.

nanami is composed, though somehow his tie discarded somewhere between the car ride and now. he looks, relaxed. or at least, as relaxed as a man like him allows himself to be.

“you chose well, i expected something more- predictable, if im being honest.” you say bluntly, running a finger along the rim of your wine glass, the red liquid swishing.

“ah, so you expected a steakhouse.” he lifts a brow, swirling the amber liquid in his own glass.

“no but i expected something safe.” you smirk.

he exhales, the closest thing to a chuckle slipping through his lips. “i don’t play safe.”

you study him for a moment, letting the words settle between you. nanami is measured, meticulous, but never passive.

“oh? you ordered for me?” the waiter arrives, setting down your plates with quiet efficiency. you glance down, amused.

“i made an educated guess.” nanami sets his napkin in his lap.

“i assume you don’t waste time on things like scanning menus when you already know what you want.”

“you assume a lot about me, nanami.” you lean back in your chair, regarding him with interest.

he meets your gaze without hesitation. “i’ve observed things about you since i’ve started teaching yuji.”

the corner of your lips lifts slightly.

“oh yeah? and what else have you observed?” you take another sip.

he cuts into his meal with precision, not breaking eye contact with you.

“that you’re sharp. decisive. used to being in control-” a pause. he places his glass between his lips, taking a quick sip. then, casually “-and that you rarely let yourself slow down ever.”

your grip tightens just slightly around your fork, tongue picking at the inside of your cheek.

“what else?”

“you’re stubborn. too scared to let anyone in. you think too much about what matters right now and not how it’ll affect your son or his growing up-“

“oh! so now you’re a therapist?”

“ha- ms. l/n, i’m not saying this to be rude. i’m just a teacher.” he takes another sip of his drink. “but one who pays attention.” he starts eating, eyes staying on your frame.

you exhale through your nose, shaking your head. “yuji talks too much.”

“he adores you.” nanami actually smiles at that, small, barely there, but real.

“he’s a good kid.” the warmth in your chest is immediate, but you mask it with a slow sip of wine.

“he is.” nanami leans forward slightly, forearms resting on the table. “-and he wants more of you.”

your jaw tenses, and he catches it, because of course he does.

“did you ask me out to berate me? you think i don’t know that?” your voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it now. you pinch the bridge of your nose, eyebrows furrowing.

“i think you know. i think you hate that you can’t fix it as easily as everything else in your life.” nanami doesn’t waver.

the honesty of it stings. not because it’s cruel, but because it’s true.

you inhale slowly, setting your glass down. “do you always talk like this over dinner?”

he tilts his head slightly. “would you prefer small talk?”

you hold his gaze, weighing the challenge in it.

then, slowly, a smirk curves your lips. “no.”

he nods once, as if he already knew.

the conversation shifts, flows. work, travel, books that neither of you have had time to finish.

the tension doesn’t leave, but it changes, settling into something less combative, more intimate.

at some point, the plates are cleared. at some point, your wine glasses are refilled for the fifth time. at some point, you realize you’re enjoying this.

and at some point, nanami sets his glass down, watching you with that same measured gaze, and says,

“would you let yourself slow down? just for a little while?”

the question hangs between you, heavier than the air, lighter than the wine.

and for the first time in a long time, you don’t have an immediate answer. in all your tipsy, deep talk with the man, you’d actually started to enjoy the way he was looking at you. how protective and smart he was. how much he cared about a child that wasn’t even his own.

-

the drive to nanami’s place is smooth, the city lights blurring past as the car hums through the quiet night.

nanami’s apartment is quiet, warm in a way that surprises you. large windows take up a vast majority of his walls. pure marble countertops, redwood flooring. ambient lighting coming from his carved baseboards.

“jesus, how much does teaching actually pay?” upon entering, the much taller man wastes no time bending down, hands tracing the outline of your body as he carefully removes your expensive heels, placing them to the side and grabbing a pair of slippers from the adjacent shoe rack. carefully sliding them on you, letting you adjust, he walks you over to the bar stools.

“i’ve been teaching a long time, ms. l/n-“

“shit, maybe i should quit my empire and start. and please. call me yn.”

a record hums low in the background, something slow and rich, filling the silence between you.

he moves with his usual precision, reaching into a fully see through cabinet. pouring two glasses of whiskey without asking, handing you one with a steady hand. his fingers brush yours, just for a second, and it’s enough to make something flicker beneath your skin. you take a sip letting the heat settle in your chest.

“let’s move to the couch.” he walks from behind the island, helping you off the high bar hair and leading you by the small of your back to his sleek black couch.

“such a gentleman, who would’ve thought.” you joke, leaning back against the couch.

“you expected something else?” nanami sits beside you, not too close, but close enough.

“i expected something colder.” you tilt your head slightly, studying him. his lips pressed to the glass yet his eyes are focused on the way your dress creased at your waist.

“i’m not as rigid as you think, im sorry about earlier.” his lips quirk, just barely. finally taking a drawn out sip, he places his glass down on one of the sleek black coasters.

“no?” your gaze lingers on him over the rim of your glass.

he exhales, slow, watching you the way he always does, like he’s considering his next words carefully.

“no.”

-

you’re curled into the couch now, one leg tucked beneath you, nanami sitting close beside you, his hand resting on your knee, thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles against your skin. the city lights below flicker and shine through the darker space. it felt really natural in a sense.

“so, yuji? are you still in contact with his father or-“

your eyes widen as you place the rim of the glass to your lips, drinking in as much of the liquid as you could. already feeling the affects of the wine from dinner and the two glasses of aged whiskey tenfold. your head drops, your bouncy hair covering the sides of your face.

“woah, im sorry if it’s early-“ shaking your hand, you finish off the drink. placing the glass back down.

“i mean, what really is there to say? he got me pregnant, decided he didn’t want to have a wife or a son. left. pretty simple.”

nanamis eyes crease at the side a little, watching as your expression began to falter.

“i won’t bring it up again, im sorry.”

“it’s not your fault. i knew you’d get curious eventually.”

the rest of the conversation flows easily, the whiskey loosening the edges just enough. you talk about work, about travel, and nanami listens intently, his attention never wavering. at some point, the distance between you shrinks, you can feel the warmth radiating off him.

“that’s in a week?” he asks, the coldness of his ring sliding across your now exposed thigh.

“a week? i wish! that’s a day to day schedule.”

“holy shit! i’d rather double the size of my classes.”

your glass is fully empty when he reaches out, his fingers brushing a stray curl from your cheek, tucking it behind your ear.

you pause, breath catching just slightly. “what are you doing, nanami?”

his touch lingers, his thumb ghosting along your jaw. “just checking on you.”

his voice is quiet, deep, pulling you in like a slow tide. you should say something sharp, something to deflect, but you don’t. instead, you hold his gaze, letting the moment stretch, letting the tension coil tighter between you. the pad of his thumb rubs across your face gently.

“you always this bold?” you murmur, tilting your chin up just slightly.

“not usually.”

you find yourself leaning forward, falling into the man’s smell. his blonde hair beginning to loose its shape from the day, falling in front of his face. jokingly, you remove one of the fallen strands, pushing it back up into the style before. he leans forward fully, finally connecting your lips.

it’s slow at first, testing, like he’s waiting for you to pull away. when you don’t, he deepens it, his hand slipping to the nape of your neck, fingers threading around your skin as he pulls you closer. he tastes like whiskey, warm and smooth, and something unmistakably him.

your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, gripping him as he presses against you, his other hand sliding to your waist, guiding you into him. the way he moves is controlled, deliberate, like he’s savoring every second. with your back pressed to the arm of the couch, you could feel the hunger radiating off the man.

when you break apart, you’re breathless, your pulse thrumming beneath your skin.

“tell me if this is too much.” he murmurs, his lips grazing your jaw.

you shake your head, a small smirk playing at your lips. “you think i don’t know what i’m doing?”

nanami exhales a quiet chuckle, his lips brushing yours again, softer this time, slower. “you’re a headache.”

“you like that, though.” you hum, trailing your fingers up his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips.

his grip on your waist tightens. “i do.”

then he kisses you again, deeper, hungrier, like he’s done pretending this isn’t exactly where the night was always meant to end.

his other hand finds your waist, pulling you fully against him, his grip firm, unyielding. he kisses like he does everything else. controlled, intentional, like he’s taking his time memorizing the way you taste, the way you move against him.

you sigh against his lips, your hands moving to his shirt, fingers slipping beneath the fabric to find the warmth of his skin. his breath hitches slightly at the cold touch, and the sound sends heat pooling low in your underwear.

“you always this damn patient?” you murmur impatiently against his lips, teasing.

nanami exhales a quiet chuckle, though there’s an edge to it now, something unraveling at the seams.

“not always.”

you smirk, your nails dragging lightly down his chest, feeling the way his muscles tense beneath your touch.

“then don’t be.”

his restraint cracks.

nanami moves without hesitation, his hands gripping your thighs as he pulls you into his lap, settling you against him. the shift has you gasping softly, and he takes advantage of it, his mouth trailing along your jaw, down the column of your throat, lips and teeth and tongue leaving a slow-burning path in their wake.

you tilt your head, giving him more access, helping him out by hiking the skirt of your dress up to your hips, showing off your matching red lace panties. your fingers threading into his hair, tugging slightly. he groans against your skin, low and deep, his hands sliding beneath the fabric of your dress, fingertips teasing against bare skin.

“yn-” he breathes, voice rough with restraint, forehead resting against your collarbone. “-tell me you want this.”

you guide his face back up, meeting his gaze, dark and heavy with desire. your fingers brush along his jaw before pulling him back in, your lips barely grazing his as you whisper.

“i do.”

whatever tension was left shatters.

nanami stands effortlessly, lifting you with him as he moves through the apartment, his mouth still on yours, his hands gripping you like he has no intention of letting go.

when he reaches the bedroom, he presses you against the doorframe for just a second, just long enough to look at you—really look at you.

“last chance.” he murmurs, though his hold on you says he already knows the answer.

you smile, slow and knowing, fingers tracing down the buttons of his shirt before slipping one free.

“shut the hell up and fuck me, nanami.”

nanami doesn’t hesitate. the second the words leave your lips, his mouth crashes into yours, all slow-burning control unraveling into something deeper, something more desperate. he carries you effortlessly across the threshold of his bedroom, his grip firm but careful, like he’s savoring the way you feel against him.

the room is dimly lit, the city lights outside casting a soft glow through the windows, but you barely register anything beyond the warmth of his body, the way he moves, the way he kisses you like he’s been waiting for this—like he’s been holding himself back for too long.

he sets you down gently on the edge of the bed, the fluffy black duvet puffy up as you sit. but before he can pull away, you tighten your grip on his shirt, keeping him close.

“uh- don’t act shy now.” you murmur against his lips, fingers making quick work of the remaining buttons.

nanami exhales sharply, his hands settling on your thighs, thumbs pressing slow, deliberate circles into your skin.

“trust me, shy is the last thing i am.” he says, voice low, rough with restraint,

you smile, trailing your hands down his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath your fingertips. then, in one smooth motion, you push the shirt from his shoulders, letting it slide to the floor. disappear into the floor from the nights darkness.

your gaze sweeps over him, taking in the broad planes of muscle, tattoos littered across his skin. the faint lighting contouring his abs. your fingers trace over, your touch featherlight.

“you stare a lot.” he murmurs, amused.

you hum, tilting your head as you drag your nails lightly down his torso. “i like what i see.”

his breath stutters just slightly, and before you can tease him about it, he leans down, capturing your lips in another deep, lingering kiss. this one is different. slower, heavier, like he’s savoring every second, every sigh, every way your body reacts to him.

you let him, melting into the warmth of his touch, into the way his hands slide up your sides, tracing over fabric as if debating whether to remove it.

“nanami.” you murmur against his lips, impatient now.

he exhales a quiet chuckle, lips trailing along your jaw, down the column of your throat, pressing slow, deliberate kisses against your skin.

“hmm?”

“stop teasing.”

he pulls back slightly, just enough to meet your gaze, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. then, his hands move. slow, steady, as he starts to undo the zipper of your dress.

“uh uh uh, say please.” he murmurs, lips curving just slightly.

you arch a brow, amused despite the heat pooling low in your core.

“you’re pushing your luck.”

nanami smirks, fingers trailing over newly exposed skin, making you shiver.

“and yet, you haven’t stopped me.” he muses, voice dipping lower. with ease, he slips the dress from around your waist, gently pushing your body back to lay down in the warmth of the comforter.

his lips trace soft kisses down your collarbone, nipping slowly at the skin. you gasp, head falling back into the mattress, enjoying the feeling of warmth coming from the man’s breath. he proceeds down, planting kisses down to your exposed chest, tongue faintly sliding over your swollen buds.

“oh! fuck nanami, i’m gonna hurt you.” propping your body up on your elbows, he pushes you right back.

“fine, since you wanna be so impatient.”

dipping down, he picks you up, tossing carefully you so that your head rest on his massive pillows. crawling up to you, his lips pepper kisses. down your sternum, under your breast, kissing slowly down your torso, planting one first one to your belly button.

“how pretty they are, hm? just for me?” his voice raspy and hiding hunger, you let out a small sigh, fingers grasping onto the man’s blonde locs.

his head dips between your thighs, mouth pressing against your clothed cunt. a slight hum comes from his chest, letting his head fall to one side as his eyes look up at you, drunkenly.

without further hesitation, he pulls your panties to the side, tongue immediately collecting your slick that pooled. this was the most intimate you’ve been in a man since yuji was conceived. and god did it feel good.

his hands hook around your legs, holding you open in a middle split while one hand held the lingerie to the side while the other rubbed slow, agonizing circles into the swollen nub. he uses his tongue to slowly pump in and out of your throbbing hole. in the darkness of the room, all you can see is stars and made up shapes floating around in the void. tears pooling at the corners of your eyes as you feel nanami begin to slowly suck at your clit, plump lips wrapped gently around while the tip of his tongue spells out his name. his middle and ring finger pushing and pulling out of you, the sounds of wetness filling the room.

your mouth open, head thrown back into the pillows, and fingers grasping onto the man’s head for dear life, he ate you like he was starving. like a wild beast. everytime he removed his lips from sucking, using his fingers to curl up inside you, fucking your gummy walls.

“nami- oh! i’m gonna cum!” he knew it. he felt how tight you were getting around his fingers. how you were pulling him in now.

“you’re so beautiful, do it. make a mess on my fingers.”

that was enough to have you throwing your arms around the man’s neck, pulling him into a hug as the coil in your belly burned.

“shit! oh fuck.” he let you hold onto him for a few seconds before he slowly pulled his fingers out of you, watching as you frown from the lack of touch.

instead, climbs off the bed, uses his abs to wipe his hands off. he swiftly undoes his leather belt, unbuckling his slacks and tossing them somewhere else in the room. almost hopping right back onto the bed, he climbs back to your limp frame.

“you okay?” he asks, removing a few strands of hair sticking to your forehead.

“mhm.” you give him a weak thumbs up, letting your hand fall against his chest. he leans over, placing a swift kiss to your lips.

“i know you can give me another one though.”

and maybe that’s how you ended up here. bent over his sink, watching as he fucks you passionately. one hand gently around your throat, holding you up, and the other dug securely into your waist. his strokes are slow, sensual. but the way he was looking at you. his eyes got darker, body seemed to get bigger, and he was fucking you in front of his mirror.

“i knew you could take it, hm? say ‘i’m all yours’.” he watched you in the mirror as your makeup smudged and began to run down your face.

“i’m all yours, nami!” you cry out, feeling full from his length.

“mhm, good job baby. now say ‘im a great mother’.” you shake your head before he stops you, halting his movements and staring at you in the mirror. lips pressed against your ear, eye contact never stopping.

“was i asking you? say it.” you whine, trying to fuck yourself into his length, only to get met with a slap on the ass.

“say. it.”

“i’m a great mother!” he rams back into you, causing you to hunch over the counter. eyes still on the mirror as your breast press against the cold marble. he’s relentless, needy. his hand presses into your back as he fucks into you.

“yes you fucking are baby. let me give you another one.” he didn’t know what he was saying. all he knew was that seeing you, bent over his counter, eyes rolling to the back of your head, drooling. he never wanted to stop. he never was going to. he could feel the climax building, watching and feeling as you came undone under him.

“i’m gonna cum baby, oh fuck!”

-

it’s a short drive to his school, and before long, you’re stepping out, holding his hand as you walk him to class. yuji doesn’t mind- not yet, at least. he swings your arm between you both, talking about his favorite cartoons and how he’s going to beat his friend at some game they play during recess.

but as you reach the door to his classroom, his chatter slows, his fingers curling around yours a little tighter.

you glance down at him. “what’s up, baby?”

“you’re gonna be okay today, right?” he hesitates, then looks up at you with those big, earnest eyes.

you blink, caught off guard.

“of course. why wouldn’t i be?”

“sometimes you look tired after you drop me off.” he shifts on his feet, playing with his fingers.

your chest tightens.

you crouch down so you’re at his level, cupping his little face in both hands.

“baby, i’m always okay. especially when i get to come home to you, you hear me? you’re my favorite person in this whole world. i’m always okay when im with you.”

he nods, his tiny hands resting over yours.

“promise?” his voice small.

you lean in, kissing his forehead.

“i super promise.”

a throat clears behind you.

you already know who it is before you turn, feeling the weight of his gaze before you even meet his eyes.

nanami stands in the doorway, his usual crisp attire perfectly in place, though there’s a softness in his face when he looks at yuji and a different kind of softness when his eyes flicker to you.

“good morning, yuji.” he greets first, as always.

“morning, mr. nanami!” yuji chirps, then glances back at you.

“mommy’s happy today.”

your lips part slightly, surprised at his boldness, but nanami only nods, as if he already knew.

“good,” he says simply, then meets your gaze, something unreadable flickering behind his glasses. “i like seeing that.”

your breath catches for just a second, but before you can respond, yuji tugs on your hand.

“okay, mama, you can go now. love you!”

you exhale a quiet laugh, leaning down to kiss his cheek.

“love you more, baby.”

he runs inside without another glance, leaving you standing in the doorway with nanami, his presence steady beside you.

you glance up at him, tilting your head. “you always this charming first thing in the morning?”

“only with you.” he exhales softly, almost a laugh.

“dangerous habit, mr. kento.” your heart stumbles, but you cover it with a smirk.

nanami hums, hands in his pockets. “so i’ve been told.”

you roll your eyes, shaking your head as you take a step back.

“see you later, nami.”

“looking forward to it.” his lips twitch into a smile.

you turn, heading back down the hall, but you can still feel his gaze on you.

and for once, you don’t mind being watched.

part {2} {3}

© vantetaes. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. ageless/blank blogs dni.

[etherealrin]

✧₊⁺ thinking about nerd!karasu...

nerd!karasu who wears heavy rimmed glasses whenever he's in class or studying. though he wears contacts most of the time and whilst playing football, he houses a firm belief that wearing his glasses make him a better student.

nerd!karasu who accidentally becomes your academic rival after placing above you one too many times in the test rankings. it pisses you off how he's so good at analyzing your facials, knowing exactly how to press your buttons. and he wasn't even a psychology major!

nerd!karasu who's in love with anthropology and can occasionally be found on weekends sitting in random cafes near campus. according to him, he's "people watching."

nerd!karasu who needs a matcha latte every morning or else he cannot function at the 9 AM lectures he foolishly thought he could wake up for when he was doing course registration.

nerd!karasu who despite being known as "studious" somehow has time to be the star player of your university's football team, and a full time gym rat. does this man even sleep?

nerd!karasu who is often caught at the convenience store at stupidly late hours. one time you witnessed him microwaving a buldak carbonara inside of 7-11 at 3 am. why were you there? to get a red bull (so you could continue your all nighter.)

nerd!karasu who's keenly perceptive; he knows when you're feeling down. if he's feeling generous that day, he'll ask if you want to grab pastries together (when you're in a bad mood he almost always pays.)

nerd!karasu who during midterm and finals season is too tired and locked in to gel up his hair so you're blessed with the rare sighting of his raven colored locks falling naturally down his face. his bangs get into his eyes and he has to shake his head to clear them.

nerd!karasu who has this infuriating (hot) habit of lifting his shirt up to wipe his sweat in the too-warm lecture halls, giving everyone a glimpse of impeccable washboard abs. he winks when he catches girls staring.

nerd!karasu who's favorite subject is chemistry, which you happen to share with him. your professor had just assigned a month-long lab report that would total 20% of your semester grade, so you were really praying that your partner wouldn't be a complete bum. when karasu’s name and yours are called together, you're not sure whether to be relieved or distressed. on one hand, karasu was insanely smart. on the other, he was annoying, your number one competitor, and kind of beautiful. scratch that, he was majestic.

karasu wastes no time tracking you down after the professor is done, his smirk making you self-conscious.

"would ya look at that, sweetie. it's us two, again."

"yeah well, don't drag us down," you shoot back, rolling your eyes. you pretend he has no effect on you, that his deep eyes don't draw you in with a magnetic pull.

and maybe nerd!karasu had pure, academic intentions when he invited you to his room to work on the report. maybe he didn't mean to lean in too close, to flirtingly tease with you.

you're trying to type and he's making it impossible because he insists on "making sure you didn't mess up his pc settings." what that really entails is his hot breath on your neck as you attempt to finish up the document. karasu is staring shamelessly; you're trying not to think about any of it. you're in his room, sitting in his chair, with his things surrounding you—worst of all, he's way too close. every little spike of his purplish hair, you feel against your skin.

"you're turning red," he notes, peering at you through his black rimmed frames.

"maybe if you got off m- huh?"

karasu's pulling you in by the waist, expression unreadable and eyes shining with anything but the intent to do schoolwork.

"we're practically done now. i think that we should stop studying the reactivity of elements and start looking at attractivity instead."

a/n: karasu and his cheesy chem pickup lines…we've seen nerd!gojo but wb karasu!! even better bc imo this is so canon.

masterlist!!

[asterafroditis]

hey so how do you think Riddle and Azul would deal with a crush who’s a helpful hard worker, if they in project together, crush works well with them and they get good grades, but they have no long term goals and ambitions and zones out a lot. Azul and Riddle, the most ambitious ones ever, are just like “She has no ambitious aura at all?! Wtf?!” And crush is just like

𐔌 . ⋮ no ambitions?! .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☓┆ Riddle & Azul x gn! reader (separate)

𓏵 722 words

ᝰ.ᐟ headcanons, no pronouns used, fluff

Had lots of fun writing this out! can definitely relate to reader on some levels _(:3 」∠)_ feel free to like, reblog, or comment!

ᝰ.ᐟ masterlist

Riddle had initially been thrilled to be paired with you for the history project.

You were competent, diligent, and respected deadlines — a rare combination at NRC. Working alongside you was... pleasant, even calming, a sharp contrast to the usual chaos of Heartslabyul.

You would share notes, summarize chapters neatly, and double-check the requirements without him even needing to prompt you. Riddle found himself looking forward to study sessions, mind buzzing not just with textbooks, but the warm thought of how well you worked together.

“They’re so dependable. Such good habits... maybe—maybe I should invite them for tea next time.”

But it wasn’t long before he noticed something... odd.

During a break, while sipping tea he had insisted on brewing properly (“Sloppily made tea reflects a sloppy mind,” he said sternly), he asked in casual conversation, "So. What field do you intend to specialize in after graduation?"

You blinked at him, head tilting in that innocent, peaceful way you did.

"Hm? I dunno. Haven't really thought about it," you said, chewing on a cookie thoughtfully. "I'll figure it out later, maybe."

Riddle stared at you like you had sprouted horns.

"Y-you haven't thought about it?!"

You smiled serenely, resting your chin on your palm.

"Nope. As long as I'm doing okay right now, it's fine."

Riddle nearly dropped his teacup.

“No long-term plan? No ambitions? No charted career path?!”

He tried to cover his shock with a polite cough.

"Ahem. W-well, it is critical to set objectives and milestones to ensure steady personal growth," he said, words tumbling over each other. "I would be happy to assist you in making a detailed five-year plan—"

You just gave him that sweet, blissfully vacant smile. "Maybe someday! Thanks though, Riddle!"

Riddle sat stiffly in his chair, clutching his teacup as a vein throbbed in his temple.

“They're so efficient now, but they're... they're drifting like an unmoored boat! A brilliant, hardworking boat with no rudder! How is this happening?!”

He spent the rest of the project trying very, very hard not to think about how he found your aimless serenity oddly... endearing. Infuriating. But endearing.

─────────────────────────

Azul knew right away he was lucky when you were assigned as his partner for the class project.

You were attentive, methodical, and didn’t slack off — the dream partner. He thought to himself, “If only more students had such discipline, Mostro Lounge’s financial reports wouldn’t give me migraines...”

You even handled the trickier parts of the research without complaint. Azul was impressed.

“Efficient. Cooperative. Excellent work ethic. Perfect for building an empire together... Wait. No. Focus, Azul.”

He started to entertain the notion that you might be someone he could genuinely trust—a terrifying but strangely exciting thought.

So during a quieter moment at the Lounge after polishing up your project proposal, he asked, casual but calculating:

"And... what are your future plans? You strike me as someone who could achieve quite a lot if you applied yourself."

You twirled a straw idly in your drink, legs swinging lightly under the table.

"Future plans? Hm... Nah. I’m just kinda going along. I’ll figure something out when I have to."

Azul's smile froze for a fraction of a second.

"You... don't have a strategy? Or even a preliminary outline of your goals?"

You smiled brightly.

"Nope!"

Inside, Azul shrieked.

On the outside, he adjusted his glasses, masking the horror behind a tight, businesslike smile.

"I... see. How... refreshingly spontaneous."

But in his mind, it was chaos.

“No ambition?! No hustle?! No grand designs for success and power?! How can someone so competent lack the drive to leverage it?!”

Every fiber of his being itched to offer you a job at Mostro Lounge, start you on a 12-year plan, sign you up for five internships, and drag you bodily toward greatness.

But you just smiled and went back to doodling something random on the margins of your paper like you hadn’t just shattered his worldview.

Still... as much as it made his head spin, Azul couldn't deny it was... weirdly comforting to be around you.

Maybe it was nice, once in a while, to sit across from someone who didn’t constantly scheme and scramble. Someone content with now.

It drove him insane.

But he kept finding excuses to study with you anyway.

[bonbonly]

bon thoughts (18+) a/n: i got carried away im so sorry

sweet boy CollegeAU!Charles Leclerc, affectionate with everyone. he may not be the smartest in class, but he's always respectful, always helpful, always just so damn sweet!

except for when it comes to you. little miss smarty pants who thinks she's better than him, she's above him. he tries to be nice, tries to move to the side when you're passing by in the hallway, tries to ignore your snarky remarks about his grades but he wasn't failing nor was he barely passing! he has good grades, just not perfect like yours.

and so a rivalry begins, where every day the sweet boy charles was becoming more and more angry, more and more frustrated by whatever you did. you'd purposely partner up with him during lab assignments, using the opportunity to criticize him further. he'd bite his tongue, and finally come to the conclusion that you needed something to shut your mouth.

in the library, in the bathroom, in his dorm, you'd be on your knees, on your back, on your stomach, taking his cock in any hole he could find at the moment. he'd fuck you rough, hands gripping on you to form bruises, biting into your shoulder while muttering, "shut the fuck up, shut your fucking mouth, slut," and you couldn't help but moan out loud through a giggle, surprised that the sweet boy in class had been pushed to his limit because of you.

"all you ever fucking do is complain and snitch, what if i snitch on you right now to your parents, hm? see you spread out like this for me as i fuck you?" he taunts, watching the way miss perfect grades shakes her head, trying to squirm away but he grips your waists and slams back into you. you choke out a strangled scream, trying to grab his shoulders but he grabs both your wrists in one hand and pins them above your head, "no you don't get to do anything, not after all the shit you do to me."

he has you bent over a table in an empty study room in the library, fucking your cunt. he glances down at the thick, milky ring on his cock and laughs out loud, "you like this don't you? you never cared about grades and scholarships, no, you wanted me to fuck you, you get off on seeing me mad, such a slut for me aren't you? my little whore." his words are awful but you couldn't stop the way your hips buck against him, wanting to take him deeper. and so during class discussions and group corrections for papers and tests, you would think twice before writing a harsh comment on whatever he contributes to the class. he's always staring at you when his paper ends up on your desk, a small warning to see if you'll write that nasty paragraph about how much of a failure he was like you used to do. some days when you were tired from studying and sucking his cock you'd write something nice, and give positive feedback but on other days when you were free for the day, or were very bored... the ink in your red pen would be gone by the end of the class, followed by the nastiest scowl on charles's face. he's in your dorm late at night, forcing you to re-read all the horrible things you wrote on his paper which even has the teacher wondering why you were so harsh on the poor boy. "you f-forgot... to capita- oh, charles!" you moan, and you feel him grab a good portion of your hair, yanking your head as your back arches further, eyes rolling to the top as his pace is brutal,

"read the damn thing, read what you fucking wrote, whore," he'd hiss, his hand coming to wrap around your throat, squeezing slightly. you'd let out another wanton moan, trying to hold the paper up with shaking hands as you continue your critique on his paper, but the more he pounds into you, the more you couldn't focus which earns a harsh slap on your ass, "fucked your brain too dumb? hm? miss smarty pants not so smart now huh? she's all fucking dumb for my cock, can't even think properly because my cocks all in her dripping cunt, yeah?" his accent was always stronger when he was mad, and his sweaty chest pins you deeper into your bed, his head poking around your neck to get a good look at that paper.

the next day, the teacher with a very confused expression walks over to Charles and hands him a paper, "Mr. Leclerc, Ms. (Y/N) submitted a new critique for your paper, she said she was in a bad mood that day and seemed to be very harsh on her grading. I hope you can forgive her and accept this paper." Charles, being the sweet boy that he was, flashes a big smile, "of course, Mr. Bell."

[mspinkyponky]

୭˚. ᵎᵎ LADs Thread: What College would be like with them!

just a soft fluffy thread i’m doing for fun!

₊˚⊹ ᰔ featuring: Zayne, Xavier, Rafayel, Sylus, Caleb

₊˚⊹ ᰔ content: the boy’s college life based one their personality, major, school clubs, and relationships with MC!

₊˚⊹ ᰔ SFR! for my ramadan mcs ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂)⸝♡

₊˚⊹ ᰔ i’m using she/her pronouns for mc!

₊˚⊹ ᰔ all pictures are found on pinterest! also this is my first ever post on here so feel free to let me know what i should improve on ദ്ദി(ᵔᗜᵔ)

──── ୨୧ ────

❆ Zayne

Personality: He is the kind of student that is the best without even trying. he is frankly quite popular and tries to avoid the attention, even though it is inevitable, like have you seen this man? he is charming who wouldn’t have a crush on him? definitely a campus good boy crush.

Major: i do not see MC and Zayne being in the same school as he definitely would enrol in med school, but if there is an AU where he is in the same college as MC, he would be in biomedical sciences or biotechnology.

School Club: for his school club, he would definitely be in student council and a sports club like archery. if INFOLD ever has a sports quint banner to celebrate, i don’t know, Linkon Sports Day, i would definitely want to see Zayne in archery. just me? i don’t know, i want to hear from my zayne lovers, what do yall think?

Relationship: for his relationship with MC, it would definitely be a childhood best friend kind of trope. he is definitely the type of guy to do anything for MC. he would pull all nighters for MC if she needs his help in studying to give her motivation. then he has to carry her to her bed when she inevitably falls asleep during their studying session. because he is popular, and MC is always seen together with him, naturally, everyone ships both of them together. both of them are the cutest pair and the whole cohort supports it. he would definitely have to confess when the shipping gets out of hand, his ears would always show his emotions even when his face is super straight. his ears would be redder than tomatoes.

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✦ Xavier

Personality: for Xavier, i would definitely see him as the laid back, quiet guy. he would be at the back of the lecture with his hood up and asleep. he would do borderline for regular assignments. but when its graded and counted in the credit, he would ace it. its diabolical. he is the type to pass without even needing to pull all nighters, its like he is still listening to the lesson in his sleep. he definitely loves to explore the foods in campus and would tell new students what foods he’d recommend. would definitely have a food blog as like a hobby.

Major: for his major, he would definitely be in something that relates to astronomy, like cosmology and astrophysics. MC would not be in the same course but her classes would be near his.

School Club: after school clubs for Xavier would also be a sport but not the vigorous kind. similar to Zayne but instead of archery, i’d see him in fencing. what do my Xavier lovers think? [i try my best not to relate the school clubs to their majors because it adds more character.]

Relationship: his relationship with MC would be like hallway crush or same club mates type of thing. where they would occasionally see each other in the hallways or during fencing practice, and it becomes so often that MC decides to speak to him. a simple hi or something like that. then slowly they bond over food and start to get close to each other. both of them aren’t popular so its isn’t really known, but because of Xavier’s huge crush on MC, he would definitely glare at any guy who tries to talk to her. she doesn’t see his feelings for her at first, but when one of her friends point out certain things he does, MC gets a grasp of it and would confront him over hotpot! he would nonchalantly tell her that he likes her while chewing on hotpot meat. manz would NOT blush or show a sign of fluttery.

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༄.° Rafayel

Personality: Rafayel is 100% the most popular kid and would bask in the attention, as he should, pop off king. he’s popular because of his charm, his personality, and his talent. he is sassy and is extremely bold. he would definitely have a sense of fashion that makes him stand out. he may not be nice, but he’s funny so he doesn’t get slander for being mean. he’s not a valedictorian but is good at what he is interested in.

Major: he is definitely in an artistic type of major like Fine Arts. i know it would be a stretch, but being in Interior Architecture would kinda eat… i mean do you see how his studio looks in the game? 100% might eat.

School Club: picking a school club… i definitely KNOW he is a drama kid. he is in a drama club and he is the president. he plays in musicals and would rock the theatre, hence gaining popularity. like the amount of times i’ve seen a theatre relating to him in game is insane. he is a theatre kid and drama queen at heart.

Relationship: it might be an even bigger stretch… BUT! i see him in an opposite attract with a hint of enemies to lovers kind of vibe with MC. OKAY HEAR ME OUT! he is the popular guy, everyone wants him, everyone likes him. and MC is that one quiet kid that pretends he doesn’t exist. doesn’t acknowledge him one bit and that annoyed him. so he made himself known to her. i definitely see a Glinda and Elphaba type of relationship. he saw Wicked, pointed to Glinda and definitely said ‘thats me what are you talking about?’ Naturally MC hates his cocky and sassy attitude. but she eventually falls for his sweetness and charm. its not an intense enemies to lovers but more towards opposite attract type of thing. his confession would come about during an award ceremony for a musical competition. he would thank everyone and ‘someone special’. once he was off stage and he’d run to MC and confess to her.

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♛ Sylus

Personality: oh lord, this one was difficult. i can’t see Sylus in a college AU… like bro has an empire why would he need a degree? but if there was one, i imagine he is the big intimidating guy who is a softie at heart. he has this tough personality of being that sporty guy that people respect. his aura is intimidating and no one dared to speak up to him. until a certain someone. he is pretty much a delinquent and does what he wants, the consequences be damned. he also is the hottest guy in school, having a damn sports bike that makes him stand out from the other popular guys.

Major: he would be in a business or accounting major, just something that is useful to start his own business. for some reason, i imagine he is amazing at maths, and sucks ass at science. just me?

School Club: yes… i know people would think he would be in a boxing club… but i don’t think any school would have a boxing club (¬_¬") , so i think Sylus would definitely be in rugby/football. like a vigorous sport that matches his physique and stamina. he is definitely the captain of the the team.

Relationship: MC’s relationship with him is definitely a forced proximity trope. how they are forced to work together for a graded pair presentation. they barley know each other, but right off the bat, they dislike each other because they are basically polar opposites. MC wants to ace the project, while she has a partner who basically doesn’t give a damn about the project. he would propose a deal, that if she wants him to work on the project, she has to attend and watch his game as his fake lover (he wanted to shoo away attention from the other annoying cheerleaders). eventually he would fall for her first because of her braveness and boldness to step up to him and her determination to get under his skin. MC would accidentally slip out a confession during a fit she’d throw because he got under her skin first.

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❦ Caleb

Personality: honestly, Caleb is the heartthrob of the school. every girl and guy wants him. he’s the guy with that charming smile that could knock anyone out. but sadly he only had his eyes on one person. he would show off his popularity to MC and would brag about the flowers, letters and free food he’d be getting from secret admirers. MC would be annoyed and unfazed. secretly, he is obsessed with you and would do anything to protect you from harm. he is the type to host those college parties and everyone would go because it is 100% the biggest party of the year.

Major: if Caleb had a major, it would definitely be an Aviation type of major, before graduating to Flight school. (i have no idea how pilot in training works cus im a dumb goof)

School Club: for his after school club, he’d 100% be in a sports club like basketball, and he is the captain. MC would attend his games and cheer him on.

Relationship: MC and him are obviously childhood best friends, but with much more banter than Zayne. he is the type to tease and poke fun at MC for past habits or funny moments together. you both have a strong bond and is a 100% the biggest idiots together. Dumb and Dumber. without MC knowing, he had always liked her since the first time he saw her from across the street. a boy next door type of love. he had always been there to protect her even when she wasn’t aware of it. why did those other guys stopped bullying her? you don’t want to know what Caleb did to them. he would confess during graduation before he goes off to another state to start his pilot training. it is more fun that way cus MC would 100% think about it all the time and start to miss him. he is a good tease ;)