dni if you're into politics and all that bullshit, transphobia, queerphobia, nazi crap and all that race war nonsense, pedos and that weird age regression abdl shit... like, bruh. why do i even have to write something this obvious???
i'm scrolling through way too many fandoms, like, a ridiculous amount
sometimes I write fics out of boredom but I always delete them later anyway
my kinn is rat from stronghold bc he's so silly
u can text me on telegram https://t.me/k1sswas
and my ao3 https://archiveofourown.org/users/k1swass
ugh i'm so bored, can anyone just give me some fic ideas. my requests are always open btw, i write for all the fandoms in the tags. i know a bunch of fandoms even without tags. just throw me some ideas. i haven't written in a while and I need to stretch my legs but my brain is giving me literally nothing rn
Carlo "The Hammer" Santoro (Capofamiglia/ the Don)
Yandere Short Stories: Den of Wolves (Pt 1)
Yandere Mobsters x Waitress Fem Reader
A group of three mobsters sat in a dimly lit speakeasy as two of them conversed back and forth. Sonny remained bored as he nursed his drink while Tony and Nico went back and forth.
“No wonder you can’t get a girl, Tony. You’re fat as hell.” Nico loudly laughed as him and the boys all poked at Tony. “Probably haven’t seen Lil’ Tony in ages, huh pot-belly?”
“I’m not fat! Nonna says I’m husky.” Tony snapped as he gestured to his muscular yet bulkier frame. “I’m built strongly unlike you and your twig legs, Nico. You’re all skin and bones.”
“Tch. Whatever you say with your alderman.” Nico clicked his tongue as the two mobsters then became engaged in a heated back and forth exchange of insults.
The two stopped their squabble when the door swung open and a beaming Vinnie strolled in. The youngest mobster gave his group a big grin that screamed the cat finally caught the canary.
“Who got you smiling like that, Vinnie? Finally brought a broad back to your place?” Tony laughed at what Nico asked.
“Now you know I’m a picky man, Nico.” Vinnie adjusted his suit and pointed his nose up to the ceiling. “I got standards, unlike you.”
Tony loudly cackled when Nico’s face flushed in shame. Sonny only gave a smirk before he went back to his drink.
“Hey now. No need for friendly fire. It was just a question. You don’t usually smile like that.”
“If you must know, I asked that doll at the diner near the docks out. She’s a real pretty dame.” Vinnie told the boys who snickered.
“The one you’ve been ogling for months? We thought you were just gonna continue being a creep.” Sonny’s thick accent rung throughout the empty speakeasy. He reached into his jacket pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes. “Didn’t think you knew how to talk to girls, Vinnie.”
“I do too know how to talk to girls, Sonny!” Vinnie spat as his face grew red from embarrassment. “She’s just… she’s different. I like her a lot.”
“You must if you’ve been after her this long and still haven’t lost interest. You’ve been stuck on her.” Sonny hummed. “Must be real pretty to keep you interested.”
“She’s my Bella and she’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever laid eyes on.” Vinnie sighed dreamily. “We’re dating now.”
Sonny gave his little brother a look. “Something tells me that you’re lyin.’ I don’t know any dame who’d willingly date a guy with your ugly mug. Did you flash her your gat?”
The other men laughed as Vinnie glared at Sonny. Everyone knew Vinnie’s scar on his cheeks was a sore spot for him.
“Sorry I’m not a pretty boy like you, Sonny.” Vinnie huffed. “But she’s still my girl.”
Sonny waved his hand to dismiss Vinnie’s claims. “Sure she is and pigs can fly too.”
“I’ll show you guys! I’ll take her out on the town.” Vinnie huffed, the tall mobster left the speakeasy in a hurry to go to the diner with (your name) worked.
.
.
.
(Your name) had just finished a shift when she heard the horn of a car honk at her. She turned to see Vinnie in his all black Cadillac town sedan as the monster gave her a goofy grin.
“My girl just got off work, how about I drive you to a restaurant, hm? My treat, sweetheart. I’m starvin’ and I know this spot down in little Italy you’ll love. The food’s to die for, I swear. ” Vinnie got out of the car to offer his arm to her. The scent of his aftershave was subtle along with the scent of tobacco. She smiled at how much effort Vinnie put into a dapper appearance.
“Thank you, Vinnie.” (Your name) smiled at the mobster. Despite the fact she didn’t give him an answer when he asked her to be his, Vinnie truly believed she was. It was almost as if she didn’t have a say in the matter. “You’re as sweet as pie.”
She smiled when he puffed out his chest a bit like a male bird did to impress a mate. Vinnie lead her over to the passenger side of his vehicle and he swatted her hand when she tried to open the door.
“Hey! No. I’ll open all the doors for you, dear. Especially to my can.” He huffed. “You’re my girl, so you’re gonna be cared for. No need to lift a finger.”
(Your name) smiled politely as he helped her into the Cadillac, his dark eyes filled with warmth. Maybe Vinnie Moretti wasn’t as bad of a man as the rest of Manhattan made him seem?
.
.
.
Vinnie took her to a nice restaurant and made sure to be the perfect gentleman. Yet she noticed the way the waiting staff seemed jumpy around him. Vinnie was not the boss by any means, but his rumored ruthlessness earned him the title of capo.
“This place swanky enough?” He gave her a grin. “This is one of the best spots in little Italy. It has the best cuisine. You like Italian food, sweetheart? I’ll give you some recommendations-“
A young waiter greeted the two with a polite smile and a bow. His gloved hands handed them both menus to start.
(Your name) gave a smile to the waiter when she was handed a menu. If she had looked up, she would have seen Vinnie’s face change green with envy. A terrifying expression was momentarily on Vinnie’s rugged face, his dark eyes now locked onto the waiter who went as cold as ice.
“W-would you like to hear the specials-“
“I don’t appreciate you interrupting me when I’m talkin to my girl. Scram.” Vinnie told the waiter who gave a bow and left with his tail between his legs. Vinnie then gave a smile to (your name) as if he hadn’t just expressed a thinly veiled threat to the waiter. “Anyways, doll. I recommend the meatballs.”
Vinnie began to ramble on and on, his hands moved as he spoke yet (your name) began to tune him out. Instead, she lost herself in her thoughts.
If she were to be involved with Vinnie, her life could become dangerous. The life of a mobster, especially one in the bootlegging industry, was not the brightest idea. No matter how charming Vinnie was, he was still a crook. She needed to end it before she got in too deep and drowned.
Vinnie grabbed (your name)‘s hand and kissed her knuckles to draw her attention back on him. His dark eyes studied her face.
“What’s got your attention that’s more important than me?” He had a teasing tone, yet she couldn’t see that little green monster that lurked behind those chocolate eyes. She didn’t want to be the one to find out if his rumored temper was true or not.
“I was just the inning about how lucky I am.” She gave him a warm smile and he instantly peppered her knuckles with more kisses. It seemed his ego was easy to satisfy.
“You know how to make a man’s heart race, sweetheart.” He smiled. “How ‘bout I take us somewhere to dance tonight?”
“Oh, but I’m not in dancing attire-“ Vinnie interrupted her with a wave of his hand.
“Nonsense. I’ll get ya a new dress and all that jazz. I’ll dress you to the nines. I’m sure a department store would bend over backwards to serve ya since you’re my girl.”
(Your name) just gave a smile to him while he ordered an assortment of different foods to try. Perhaps cutting things off would be much harder than she thought. Especially since Vinnie thought she belonged to him.
.
.
.
After the meal Vinnie dragged guided (your name) to the department store. The mobster was eager to show what colors and styles he’d like to see her in. His dark eyes watched her marvel at a set of gold jewelry in interest. Gold and red went well together in his eyes.
“This is real nice, don’t cha think? I’m thinkin’ ruby red. I think it’d suit you, sweetheart. I think it’ll make you look like a rose. What do ya think?” He beamed. “Sei carina in qualsiasi cosa.”
“What?” She softly asked as Vinnie laughed.
“You’d look pretty in anything.” He smiled warmly. Golly when he smiled like that, he didn’t look nearly as intimidating. “What do you think? Want to match my tie tonight?”
She gently touched the fabric in thought. This color was indeed pretty. Vinnie had good taste. “It’s lovely… how much?”
“Psh. All me.” Vinnie laughed and took out his wallet to flash his cheese. “I could probably buy every dress in this store if you wanted, sweetheart.”
“There’s no need for all that, Vinnie. I like this dress.” (Your name) then heard Vinnie call over the clerk.
“I’d like to pay for this dress her and my girl was eyeballing those jewels over there. I’ll take them too.” Vinnie put on a show for (your name) and the workers in the department store. “I want to spoil ya, sweetheart.”
“Thank you, Vinnie.” She smiled politely at the mobster who practically had hearts in his eyes. The young waitress still had no idea why he liked her so much.
Vinnie had the attendants dress her up to the nines as he searched around for a pair of shoes and a perfume. He wanted his girl to look her best so he could show her off to the boys. He’d show them that he indeed made her his squeeze.
.
.
.
Vinnie paraded her around the speakeasy on his arm to his boys. His chest was puffed out and a smug expression was on his face.
“This is my lady, boys. I told you she was pretty.”
Sonny was the first to greet her. His tall form sauntered over like a cat. His dark eyes filled with mischief when he bent down to press a chaste kiss to the back of her hand that made her whole body shiver.
“It’s nice to know this twerp has good taste.” Vinnie scoffed at his handsome brother’s insult.
“Get the fuck outta here.” Vinnie gave him a little shove, his dark eyes narrowed at his brother. “Don’t listen to this cake-eater, sweetheart. He’s full of empty words that all the broads love.”
“Is he?” She asked in a soft tone, her lashes fluttered up at Vinnie. Vinnie was hooked, line and sinker.
“Think I don’t know my own brother? This guy would charm the pants off anything he can.” Vinnie jabbed his finger into Sonny’s chest. “This wise guy probably thinks he could steal you away but I won’t let him. You’re my girl.”
(Your name) just smiled as Vinnie lead her away from Sonny. But she couldn’t get rid of the way Sonny’s dark gaze made her feel like helpless prey spotted by a wolf. She gulped and tried to play it cool, but this speakeasy made her uncomfortable.
Even as the live jazz music continued on and Vinnie pulled her into an intimate slow dance, (your name) felt like she was trapped in a den of wolves. If only she knew she really was tangled in a mess she should have avoided like the plague.
Tw: medical malpractice, age gap, female reader, choking, medical play, noncon, obsessive behavior, virginity kink,size difference,rape
A/N: I’ve had a hell of a hangover over the weekend, might post a poll later today to see what yall want me to write 1st, I got this gif off Reddit
(Y/A):You’re age
The sterile white walls of Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center seemed to close in around you as you sat in the waiting area, clutching the appointment slip in your trembling hands. At (Y/A), you'd managed to avoid this particular rite of passage, but your mother's concerned calls had finally worn you down. A regular check-up, she'd insisted. A Pap smear.
"Miss (y/n)? Dr. Gideon will see you now."
The nurse's voice startled you, and you nearly jumped out of your seat. Following her down the corridor, your heart hammered against your ribs with each step. The hallway seemed endless, lined with closed doors that hid who knew what medical horrors.
Dr. Victor Gideon's office was at the very end. The nurse knocked once before opening the door. "Doctor, your 2:30 appointment."
You stepped inside, immediately struck by how different this space was from the rest of the facility. Dark wood bookshelves lined one wall, filled with medical texts and strange artifacts. A large mahogany desk dominated the room, but what drew your attention was the man himself.
Dr. Gideon rose from his leather chair, and you had to crane your neck to look up at him. He was enormous at least eight feet tall, with broad shoulders that seemed to stretch the fabric of his white lab coat. His silver-gray hair was pulled back into a neat tail, and a multi-lensed visor covered his eyes, making it impossible to read his expression.
"Miss (y/n)," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the floor. "Please, come in."
You took hesitant steps forward, suddenly feeling very small and vulnerable. The nurse closed the door behind you with a soft click that sounded deafening in the quiet room.
"I understand this is your first... comprehensive examination," Dr. Gideon said, gesturing to a chair opposite his desk. "There's no need to be nervous."
You sank into the chair, which felt oversized and unwelcoming. "I... I've just heard stories from friends. They said it can be... uncomfortable."
Gideon leaned forward, his massive frame casting a shadow over you. "Medicine is often uncomfortable, but necessary. Tell me, are you experiencing any symptoms? Irregular cycles? Pain?"
"No, nothing like that," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. "Just here for a routine check."
"I see." He made a note on his tablet, the stylus looking impossibly small between his long fingers. "And how many partners have you been sexually active with?"
Your cheeks burned. "I... that's... none."
Gideon looked up from his tablet, and though you couldn't see his eyes behind the visor, you felt his gaze intensely. "None at all? So you're still a virgin?"
"Yes," you mumbled, wishing the floor would swallow you whole.
"Fascinating," he murmured, making another note. "And how many men have you dated? Serious relationships?"
"A few, but nothing... serious," you managed. "I'm focused on my studies."
"Of course you are," he said, a strange smile playing on his lips. "A bright young woman like yourself should be focused. Tell me, do you experience any sexual arousal? Masturbation?"
You gasped softly, shocked by the directness of the question. "That's... that's not really appropriate."
"On the contrary," he replied smoothly, "it's entirely appropriate. Your sexual health is part of your overall health. As your physician, I need a complete picture."
You shifted uncomfortably in the chair. "I... occasionally."
"Frequently? Infrequently? What triggers it?"
"I... I don't know," you stammered. "Sometimes at night. Sometimes when I think about... certain things."
"Men?" he pressed. "Do you think about men when this happens?"
"Sometimes," you admitted, feeling trapped.
"Interesting," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Very interesting indeed. You seem to have a healthy sexual response, which is good. It indicates your systems are functioning as they should."
You nodded, unsure of what else to say.
"Let's move to the examination room," Gideon said, rising from his desk. "We'll need you to change into a gown."
He led you through a side door into a clinical space with an examination table in the center, stirrups already positioned at the end. Your stomach twisted at the sight.
"The bathroom is through there," he pointed to a door. "Remove all your clothing, including undergarments, and put on the gown. Open at the back. I'll give you a few minutes."
With that, he stepped out, closing the door behind him. Your hands shook as you undressed, folding your clothes neatly on the small bench. The paper gown felt flimsy and inadequate as you tied it behind your back, leaving you exposed.
When you emerged, Dr. Gideon was waiting, holding a clipboard. "Up on the table, please. Lie back."
You complied, the paper crinkling beneath you. The vinyl was cold against your skin.
"Actually, before we proceed with the Pap smear," Dr. Gideon said, setting aside the clipboard and snapping on latex gloves, "I notice from your records that you're also due for a thorough breast examination. Given your age and family history—or lack thereof in your file—it's important we establish a baseline. We'll do this first."
His hands were surprisingly gentle as they began to palpate your breasts, moving in methodical circles. Despite his clinical touch, you couldn't help but feel a flush of embarrassment as his fingers brushed against your nipples, which hardened involuntarily.
"Good response," he noted clinically. "No abnormalities detected. Very responsive tissue."
He lingered a moment longer than necessary, his thumb deliberately brushing against your hardened nipple once more before withdrawing his hands. "Now, for the Pap smear. I need you to slide down until your bottom is at the edge of the table and place your feet in the stirrups."
You obeyed, the position feeling utterly exposed and vulnerable. Gideon adjusted the stirrups, spreading your legs wider. You closed your eyes, trying to imagine yourself somewhere else.
"Eyes open, please," he commanded softly. "I need you to remain present during the examination."
You forced your eyes open as he sat on a rolling stool between your legs. His visor was inches from your most intimate area.
"Relax your muscles," he instructed. "This will be easier if you don't tense up."
You tried, but your body refused to obey. Gideon's gloved fingers parted your labia, and you jumped.
"I said relax," he repeated, his tone slightly sharper this time. "Deep breaths."
You inhaled shakily as his fingers explored your folds with clinical precision. "Hmm," he murmured. "You're quite lubricated for someone who claims to be nervous."
You felt your face burn with shame. "I... I can't control that."
"No, you can't," he agreed, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "The body has its own wisdom. It knows when it's being examined. When it's being appreciated."
His finger circled your clitoris, and you gasped at the jolt of sensation.
"Sensitive here," he noted clinically, though his touch lingered longer than necessary. "That's good. Very responsive."
He withdrew his hands, and you felt a moment of relief before he returned with a metal speculum. "This will feel cold at first," he warned. "Just breathe."
The metal was indeed shockingly cold as he inserted it, and you couldn't suppress a whimper as it expanded inside you.
"Almost done," he said soothingly, though his voice seemed to have changed somehow. Deeper. More intimate. "You're handling this very well for a first-timer. Most women are hysterical by now."
You bit your lip, torn between discomfort and a strange pride at his words. His fingers brushed against your inner thigh as he adjusted the speculum, sending another jolt through you.
"There," he said finally, removing the instrument. "All done with the internal examination. Now I just need to collect the sample."
You felt the swab inside you, moving in small circles. It was uncomfortable but not painful. When he withdrew it, you let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding.
"You can sit up now," he said, disposing of the sample in a container. "Get dressed and meet me in my office when you're ready."
As you dressed on shaky legs, you couldn't shake the feeling that something about the examination had been... wrong. Too invasive, too personal. But Dr. Gideon was a respected physician. You were probably just overreacting.
When you returned to his office, he was seated behind his desk once more.
"Everything appears normal," he said, not looking up from his tablet. "Both your Pap sample and your breast examination show healthy tissue. However, I would like to schedule a follow-up examination in two weeks. Just to be thorough."
"Two weeks?" you asked, surprised. "I thought these were annual."
"For most patients, yes," he replied, finally looking up at you. "But in your case, I'd prefer to monitor you more closely. Your... responsiveness suggests certain hormonal patterns I'd like to study further. Both your breast tissue and vaginal reactions indicate a particularly sensitive system that warrants closer observation."
You shifted uncomfortably. "Is that really necessary?"
"Medically, yes," he said firmly. "I've already noted it in your chart. The receptionist will schedule you on your way out."
There was no arguing with his tone. You nodded reluctantly.
"Good," he said, a smile spreading across his face. "I look forward to our next session, (y/n). There's so much more I'd like to explore with you."
As you left his office, you couldn't shake the feeling that you'd just agreed to something far more than a simple medical examination.
Two weeks passed in a blur of anxiety and restless nights. You found yourself replaying your examination with Dr. Gideon over and over in your mind, the invasive questions, his lingering touches, the way his voice seemed to vibrate through your entire body. Each time, you convinced yourself you were overreacting, that this was simply what medical examinations were like.
The morning of your follow-up appointment, you considered canceling. Your hands trembled as you picked up the phone, but something stopped you a strange mixture of fear and curiosity that you couldn't quite name.
When you arrived at Rhodes Hill, the waiting room was nearly empty this time. Just one other patient, an elderly man who seemed to be sleeping in his chair. You sat in the same spot as before, though this time you wore a skirt instead of jeans, thinking it would be easier for the examination.
"Miss (y/n)," the same nurse called out, exactly on time. "Dr. Gideon is ready for you."
The walk down the corridor felt longer this time, your footsteps echoing in the sterile hallway. When you reached his office, the door was slightly ajar. The nurse gestured for you to go inside.
Dr. Gideon was standing by his bookshelves, examining some strange specimen in a glass jar. He turned as you entered, and you could have sworn his lips curved into a smile before his professional expression returned.
"(y/n)," he said, his voice that same low rumble that had haunted your dreams. "Right on time. Punctuality is an admirable quality."
"Thank you, Doctor," you replied, your voice barely audible.
"Come in, come in," he gestured to the same chair as before. "I've been looking forward to our session."
You sat, clutching your purse in your lap like a shield. "You said... you wanted to monitor my hormonal patterns?"
"Indeed," he replied, taking his seat behind the massive desk. "But first, how have you been feeling since our last appointment? Any unusual sensations? Dreams? Thoughts?"
You shifted uncomfortably. "No more than usual."
"Interesting," he made a note on his tablet. "And have you been thinking about our examination? About me?"
Your cheeks flushed. "I... that's not really..."
"Answer the question, (y/n)," he said, his tone still professional but with an undercurrent of something else. Something commanding. "As your physician, I need to know how my patients process their medical experiences."
You took a shaky breath. "I've... thought about it, yes. It was... memorable."
"Memorable," he repeated, a slow smile spreading across his face. "I'm glad to hear that. Your last examination revealed some fascinating responses. Your body's reactions were quite... enthusiastic. Have you experienced similar arousal in the past two weeks?"
"I... that's private," you stammered.
"Everything is private between a patient and her doctor," he replied smoothly. "Have you masturbated? And if so, were you thinking about your examination?"
You couldn't meet his gaze behind the multi-lensed visor. "Yes," you whispered. "Once or twice."
"Fascinating," he leaned forward, his massive frame seeming to fill the room. "And did you achieve orgasm?"
"Doctor!" you exclaimed, standing up abruptly. "That's completely inappropriate!"
"On the contrary," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "It's entirely appropriate. Your sexual response is directly related to your hormonal patterns. Did you achieve orgasm? And was it as intense as the sensations you experienced during our examination?"
You sank back into the chair, defeated. "No," you admitted. "It wasn't as... intense."
"I see," he nodded slowly. "That's what I suspected. Your body responds most strongly to clinical stimulation. To being examined. Appreciated."
He rose from his desk and moved around to stand behind you. You flinched as his hands came to rest on your shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the tense muscles there.
"You're carrying so much tension, (y/n)," he murmured, his voice right beside your ear. "That's not healthy. Let me help you relax."
His hands began to massage your shoulders, and despite your unease, you couldn't deny the relief as your muscles began to loosen under his touch. His fingers were impossibly strong, yet surprisingly gentle.
"You have such delicate shoulders," he continued, his voice barely audible now. "Perfectly proportioned. I've been thinking about them since our last appointment. About how they would feel under my hands."
You shivered, though the room was warm. His hands moved lower, kneading the muscles along your spine.
"And your back... so beautifully curved," he continued. "I noticed during your examination. The way your spine arches when you're lying on the table. It's exquisite."
His hands slid around to your sides, his fingers brushing against the sides of your breasts. You gasped softly, torn between pulling away and leaning into his touch.
"Such responsive skin," he murmured. "I could spend hours mapping every inch of you. Documenting your reactions. It would make for a fascinating medical study."
His face was close to yours now, so close you could feel his breath against your cheek. He smelled of antiseptic and something else something musky and undeniably masculine.
"Have you ever been studied so thoroughly before, (y/n)?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. "Has anyone ever paid such close attention to your body's responses? To your needs?"
You shook your head, unable to speak.
"No," he answered for you. "No one has. But I will. I'll dedicate myself to understanding you. To appreciating every part of you. Inside and out."
His hands moved higher, cupping your breasts through your blouse. Your nipples hardened instantly at his touch, and you couldn't suppress a soft moan.
"See?" he murmured, his thumbs brushing against your sensitive peaks. "Your body knows me. Recognizes my touch. Trusts me to take care of it."
One hand slid down your stomach, coming to rest on your thigh. You tensed, expecting him to go further, but he simply held it there, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin.
"Soon," he promised, his lips brushing against your ear. "Soon I'll know every part of you. Every response. Every desire. And you'll learn to trust me completely. To give yourself over to my care."
He straightened up abruptly, withdrawing his hands. You felt suddenly cold, empty.
"Now," he said, his professional demeanor returning as if nothing had happened. "Let's proceed to the examination room. There's still much to document."
As you followed him down the short hallway, your legs felt weak, your mind reeling from what had just happened. You knew you should run, should call someone, should report him. But a dark part of you a part you barely acknowledged was already anticipating what would come next.
The examination room was just as you remembered it clinical, cold, with the metal table centered like an altar. The stirrups at the end gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights, a silent promise of what was to come. Dr. Gideon closed the door behind you, the click of the lock echoing unnaturally in the sterile space.
"Please remove your clothing," he said, his voice that same low rumble that seemed to bypass your ears and vibrate directly into your bones. He didn't move to leave the room, instead busying himself with a tray of instruments on the counter.
You hesitated, your fingers frozen on the buttons of your blouse. "Um... Doctor? Shouldn't I have a patient gown? And... will you be stepping out while I change?"
Gideon turned slowly, the multi-lensed visor hiding any expression, yet you felt his gaze as intensely as a physical touch. "No gown," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And I'll be staying right here."
Your heart hammered against your ribs. "But... why? That's not standard procedure."
"On the contrary, it's essential for what we need to accomplish today," he replied smoothly, taking a step closer. "The follow-up examination requires precise observation of your skin's reactions, your muscle responses, your circulatory patterns. A gown would obstruct my view, interfere with my assessment. As for my presence," he paused, his massive frame towering over you, "I need to observe your physiological state as you undress. Your breathing patterns, your heart rate, any involuntary muscle tension. These baseline measurements are crucial for understanding your body's responses before we even begin the examination."
It sounded plausible. Medical. Logical. And yet, every instinct screamed at you that this was wrong.
"I... I'm not comfortable with that," you whispered, your voice trembling.
"Comfort is often the enemy of proper diagnosis," he said, his voice softening slightly. "I understand your hesitation, (y/n). You've been conditioned by a system that prioritizes patient comfort over comprehensive care. But I'm not interested in what's comfortable. I'm interested in what's medically necessary. What's required to truly understand your body."
He reached out, his fingers gently brushing a strand of hair from your face. "Trust me," he murmured. "I would never ask anything of you that wasn't absolutely essential for your health. For our research."
His touch sent a jolt through you, and you found yourself nodding slowly, your resistance crumbling under the weight of his authority and the strange comfort his presence offered.
"Good," he said, a smile playing on his lips. "Now, please undress. Place your clothing on the chair there."
With shaking hands, you began to unbutton your blouse, your movements feeling clumsy and awkward under his unwavering gaze. Each piece of clothing removed left you feeling more exposed, more vulnerable. When you finally stood before him in just your bra and panties, you crossed your arms over your chest instinctively.
"All of it," he commanded softly.
You hesitated for only a moment before reaching behind your back to unhook your bra. As it fell away, you heard a soft intake of breath from him. Your panties followed, and now you were completely naked, trembling slightly in the cool room.
"Exquisite," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "Absolutely exquisite."
He moved to a small refrigerator and retrieved a bottle of clear liquid. "Specialized medical-grade oil," he explained, pouring some into his hands. "Enhances sensory response. Allows for more precise examination of muscle tissue and skin elasticity."
The oil was warm as he approached you. "Turn around," he instructed.
You complied, gasping softly as his oiled hands made contact with your shoulders. The sensation was electric his strong fingers gliding over your skin, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. He worked his way down your back, his touch methodical yet somehow intimate.
"You have such responsive skin," he murmured, his hands tracing the curve of your spine. "Notice how it flushes under my touch? How your muscles tense and relax in response to pressure? Fascinating."
His hands moved lower, cupping your buttocks, kneading them with clinical precision. You bit your lip to suppress a moan as his thumbs brushed against the sensitive skin where your cheeks met your thighs.
"Such an interesting reaction," he noted, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Your body responds so readily to stimulation. To being touched. Examined."
He turned you to face him, his eyes what you could see of them behind the visor roaming over your oiled body. His hands moved to your stomach, spreading the warm liquid in slow, deliberate circles.
"Your abdomen is particularly sensitive," he observed as you trembled under his touch. "Notice how your muscles contract? How your breathing changes?"
His hands moved higher, cupping your breasts. Your nipples hardened instantly at his touch, and you couldn't suppress a soft gasp.
"Excellent response," he murmured, his thumbs brushing against your sensitive peaks. "The tissue here is remarkably responsive. I'll need to document this reaction in detail."
He continued his methodical examination, his hands exploring every inch of your body your arms, your legs, even the sensitive skin behind your knees. Each touch was clinical, yet undeniably intimate, leaving you trembling and confused.
"Onto the table," he instructed finally, his voice slightly huskier than before. "Lie on your back. I need to examine your responses in a horizontal position."
You complied, the paper crinkling beneath your oiled body. The vinyl was cold against your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth spreading through you from his touch.
Gideon moved to the end of the table, his visor inches from your most intimate area. "Your body's reactions have been most enlightening," he said, his fingers tracing patterns on your inner thighs. "But there's still much to learn. Much to explore."
He leaned closer, his warm breath ghosting over your sensitive flesh. "Don't worry," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "I'll be gentle. At first."
Your mind screamed at you to stop this, to get up, to run, but your body remained frozen, trapped between fear and a dark, shameful anticipation of what might come next.
Your body trembled on the examination table, the paper crinkling beneath your oiled skin with each shallow breath you took. Dr. Gideon stood between your spread legs, his visor glinting in the harsh fluorescent light as he studied your most intimate area with an intensity that made your skin prickle.
"Remarkable," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your entire body. "Even in this state of anticipation, your physiological responses are... exceptional."
His gloved fingers parted your slick folds, and you couldn't suppress a gasp at the direct contact. Your body arched involuntarily, seeking more of his touch despite your mind screaming at you to pull away.
"So responsive," he continued, his thumb circling your clitoris with deliberate slowness. "Notice how your breathing accelerates? How your pulse becomes visible in the veins of your thighs? These reactions tell me more about your hormonal state than any blood test ever could."
You bit your lip, fighting the moan that threatened to escape as he increased the pressure slightly. "Doctor... please," you whispered, though whether you were begging him to stop or continue, you couldn't say.
"Please what, (y/n)?" he asked, his tone still clinical yet with an undercurrent of something darker. "Please continue the examination? Please document your responses? Please help you understand what your body is trying to tell us?"
His free hand moved to your stomach, pressing gently just above your pubic bone. "There's tension here," he observed. "Your abdominal muscles are contracting in rhythm with the stimulation. Fascinating."
He shifted his position slightly, his fingers exploring your entrance with maddening precision. "And here," he continued, "you're producing an exceptional amount of lubrication. Far more than would be expected from mere nervousness. Your body recognizes this as a pleasurable, necessary procedure. It's preparing itself for deeper examination."
Your hips moved of their own accord, rising slightly to meet his touch. A soft whimper escaped your lips as he inserted one finger just inside you, curling it slightly to press against your front wall.
"Ah," he murmured. "There. Did you feel that? The way your internal muscles contracted around my finger? That's your G-spot responding to direct stimulation. Most women require considerable pressure to elicit such a pronounced response, but you... you're exceptionally sensitive."
He began to move his finger in slow, deliberate circles, his thumb continuing its work on your clitoris. The dual stimulation was overwhelming, and you felt yourself spiraling toward something inevitable, something your body craved despite your mind's resistance.
"Your heart rate has increased significantly," he noted, his voice somehow both clinical and intimate. "Your pupils are dilated, your skin flushed. These are all indicators of approaching orgasm. A natural physiological response to appropriate stimulation."
His other hand moved to your breast, his oiled fingers finding your nipple and rolling it between thumb and forefinger. The added sensation sent a jolt through you, and you cried out softly, your back arching off the table.
"Beautiful," he whispered, his voice huskier now. "Absolutely beautiful. Your body is a masterpiece of responsive tissue, (y/n). A perfect subject for study."
His movements became more deliberate, more targeted, as if he knew exactly how to bring you to the edge. And indeed, you felt it building a tension coiling deep within you, drawing tighter and tighter until you thought you might break from the intensity of it.
"That's it," he murmured, his voice encouraging now. "Don't fight it. Let your body respond naturally. Let me see what you're capable of."
The tension finally snapped, and wave after wave of pleasure washed over you, more intense than anything you'd ever experienced before. Your body convulsed, your muscles contracting rhythmically as you cried out his name his title again and again.
As the tremors subsided, you lay panting on the table, your skin glistening with oil and perspiration. Dr. Gideon slowly withdrew his fingers, removing his gloves with methodical precision.
"Exceptional response," he noted, making an entry on his tablet. "One of the most pronounced orgasmic reactions I've documented. Your hormonal patterns are indeed worthy of further study."
He moved to stand beside you, his massive frame blocking out the harsh lights. "How do you feel, (y/n)?" he asked, his voice soft now.
You struggled to form words, your mind still reeling from what had just happened. "I... I don't know."
"That's understandable," he said, his hand coming to rest on your forehead, his touch surprisingly gentle. "What you experienced was intense. Overwhelming. But it was also medically necessary. I needed to observe your full range of responses to establish a baseline for future examinations."
He moved his hand to stroke your hair, his fingers tangling in the damp strands. "You did very well, (y/n). Very well indeed. Your body is remarkably healthy, remarkably responsive. A credit to your youth and vitality."
You looked up at him, at the impassive visor that hid his expression, and felt a confusing mix of emotions shame, satisfaction, fear, and a strange, shameful pride at having pleased him.
"Rest now," he said, his voice softening further. "We'll need to repeat this procedure several times to fully document your responses. To understand your unique patterns. But not today. Today, you've given me more than enough data to work with."
He covered you with a thin blanket, his touch clinical yet somehow comforting. "Close your eyes," he instructed. "Rest. I'll be back to check on you in a few minutes."
As you drifted into an exhausted sleep, you couldn't shake the feeling that you'd crossed some line that you'd surrendered something essential to this man, this doctor, who saw your body not as part of you, but as a fascinating specimen to be studied, to be documented, to be possessed.
You drifted in and out of consciousness, the thin blanket doing little to ward off the chill of the examination room. The sound of the door opening jolted you awake, and you blinked up at the imposing figure of Dr. Gideon as he approached the table.
"Your vitals have returned to normal," he noted, glancing at a monitor you hadn't noticed before. "Your heart rate is steady, your breathing regular. Your body recovered quickly from the induced orgasm, which indicates excellent cardiovascular health."
You pulled the blanket tighter around yourself, suddenly acutely aware of your nakedness beneath it. "Doctor... what exactly are we doing here? This doesn't feel like a normal examination."
Gideon moved to the end of the table, his multi-lensed visor reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights. "Normal is subjective, (y/n). What we're doing here is revolutionary. We're documenting your body's responses in ways that traditional medicine never bothers to explore."
He paused, then continued in a more clinical tone. "However, there is one aspect of your health we haven't fully addressed. As you confirmed during our initial consultation, you're still a virgin. This presents a unique opportunity for observation."
You sat up, clutching the blanket to your chest. "What do you mean?"
"For medical purposes, I will be your first," he stated, as if announcing a routine procedure. "Your first sexual experience is medically significant. It sets the foundation for your future responses, establishes your baseline for pleasure, and can reveal much about your psychological and physiological makeup."
Your eyes widened in shock. "You can't be serious! That's... that's not medical! That's..."
"It's essential," he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. "As your physician, I need to ensure your first experience is properly documented and conducted under controlled conditions. Would you rather lose your virginity in the back of a car to some inexperienced boy who knows nothing about female anatomy? Who might hurt you or transmit diseases?"
He began adjusting the stirrups at the end of the table, positioning them precisely. "I will also be educating you about safe sex practices. Contraception, disease prevention, communication these are vital aspects of your sexual health that must be addressed."
As he spoke, he began unbuttoning his pants, his movements calm and deliberate. "A woman's first time is the most important," he continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "It sets her standards for sex, her expectations, her understanding of pleasure. It's my medical duty to ensure this foundation is properly laid."
You watched in horrified fascination as he freed himself from his clothing, his member already beginning to swell in his large hand. He began stroking himself slowly, methodically, his eyes fixed on you behind the visor.
"You see," he explained, his voice slightly huskier now, "I'm preparing myself for the procedure. Just as I would with any medical instrument. Proper preparation ensures optimal performance and minimal discomfort for the patient."
He continued stroking himself until he was fully erect, the size of him making your breath catch in your throat. He was enormous both in length and girth and you felt a surge of genuine fear.
"Now," he said, moving closer to the table. "I need you to lie back and place your feet in the stirrups. We'll begin with external stimulation to ensure you're properly prepared for penetration."
You hesitated, your mind racing with conflicting thoughts fear, shame, and a disturbing flicker of curiosity.
"(y/n)," he said, his voice softening slightly. "Trust me. I'm your physician. I would never do anything to harm you. This is for your health. For your future sexual wellbeing."
His words were so reasonable, so logical, so... medical. And yet, everything about this felt wrong, felt dangerous. But as you looked up at his imposing figure, at the clinical certainty in his stance, you found yourself slowly complying, lying back and placing your feet in the cold metal stirrups.
"Good," he murmured, his oiled fingers finding your folds. "Very good. Now just relax. Let me take care of everything."
As his fingers began their methodical exploration, you closed your eyes, trying to detach yourself from what was happening telling yourself this was just another examination, another procedure. But deep down, you knew this was different. This was the moment everything would change.
Your gaze drifted downward, past the clinical precision of his movements, past the authoritative demeanor that had commanded your compliance. What you saw made the breath catch in your throat, made your heart hammer against your ribs with primal fear.
Dr. Gideon's erection was nothing short of monstrous. It jutted from his body with an impossible thickness, the veins beneath the pale skin standing out like ropes on a mast. The sheer length of it seemed to defy anatomy, a weapon of flesh that promised both pleasure and pain in equal measure. At its tip, it was already weeping a clear fluid that caught the sterile light of the examination room, glistening like poison.
A strangled sound escaped your throat as you stared, unable to look away from the appendage that would soon be inside you. Your mind raced, calculating, comparing, and coming to one terrifying conclusion.
"Doctor," you whispered, your voice trembling. "That... that's not going to fit."
Gideon paused in his ministrations, his fingers still resting at your entrance. "Of course it will fit, (y/n). The female body is remarkably adaptable."
"No," you insisted, trying to sit up, to escape. "You don't understand. I've never... I'm small. It's too big. It will tear me apart."
A strange smile played on his lips as he looked down at you. "Tear you apart? My dear (y/n), your body was designed for this. The vaginal canal is elastic, capable of accommodating remarkable sizes. Especially when properly prepared."
He gestured to the oil still glistening on your skin. "I've already taken precautions to ensure your comfort. The specialized medical-grade oil will reduce friction significantly. And your natural lubrication..." He paused, his fingers sliding inside you briefly, emerging coated in your wetness. "...is quite abundant. Your body knows what's coming. It's preparing itself."
Tears welled in your eyes as you shook your head. "Please, Doctor. I'm scared. It's too much."
"Fear is a natural response to the unknown," he said, his voice taking on a soothing quality despite the horrifying reality of the situation. "But I'm here to guide you through this experience. To ensure it's as painless as possible. As pleasurable as possible."
He positioned himself between your legs, the monstrous head of his erection pressing against your entrance. Even this slight contact made you gasp, your muscles tensing in anticipation.
"Relax," he commanded softly. "Tension will only make it more difficult. Breathe with me. In... and out."
You tried to follow his instructions, but each breath came out as a shaky sob. The pressure against your entrance increased, and you felt yourself stretching in ways you'd never imagined possible.
"There now," he murmured, his voice husky with exertion. "The initial entry is always the most challenging. But your body is adapting beautifully. See? You're opening for me. Accepting me."
The pain was sharp, intense, as he pushed further inside. You cried out, your hands gripping the sides of the examination table, knuckles white.
"Shhh," he soothed, though he didn't stop his advance. "The pain will pass. It's just your body adjusting to something new. Something larger than it's experienced before."
He was halfway inside you now, and you felt impossibly full, stretched to your absolute limit. The pressure was immense, building with each incremental advance.
"You're taking me so well," he praised, his voice thick with what sounded like genuine admiration. "Most women would be hysterical by now. But you... you're exceptional. Your body knows this is necessary. That this is right."
Tears streamed down your temples as you lay there, trapped between pain and a strange, horrifying sense of accomplishment at being able to accommodate him. Your body, despite your mind's terror, seemed to be responding to his presence, to his dominance.
"Almost there," he promised, his movements becoming more deliberate. "Just a little more. Your body is adapting beautifully. Expanding to welcome me. To accept what I have to give you."
With one final push, he was fully inside you, buried to the hilt. The sensation was overwhelming a mixture of pain, pressure, and something else you couldn't identify, couldn't name.
"Perfect," he breathed, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Absolutely perfect. You see, (y/n)? Your body knew exactly what to do. It welcomed me. Accepted me. Now... let's begin the real examination."
For a long moment, Dr. Gideon remained perfectly still, buried to the hilt inside you. The only sounds in the sterile room were your ragged breaths and the soft hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Then, he began to move slowly, deliberately, as if testing your limits, exploring every inch of your newly claimed territory.
"Remarkable," he murmured, his voice thick with something that sounded suspiciously like reverence. "The tightness... it's exquisite. It's been years since I've experienced anything quite like this."
His hips began a slow, methodical rhythm, each thrust measured and precise. Despite the lingering discomfort, you couldn't deny the strange sensations building within you a mixture of pain and something else, something darker and more unsettling.
"Not since my medical school days," he continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper as he leaned over you. "During my residency, there were certain... research opportunities. Unsanctioned, of course. But necessary for my education. For understanding the full potential of the human body."
You shivered at his words, at the casual way he spoke of what sounded like past violations. But your body continued to respond to his movements, your hips rising to meet his thrusts despite your mind's revulsion.
"You're tighter than any of them," he breathed, his movements becoming more urgent now. "Even the youngest, the most inexperienced. Your body is clinging to me, resisting yet welcoming. It's a fascinating paradox."
His visor was inches from your face now, and you could see a strange light in the multi-lensed glass a fire, an intensity that both terrified and compelled you. A thin line of saliva escaped his lips, dribbling down his chin and landing on your chest with a soft splatter.
The sight should have disgusted you, but instead, it sent an inexplicable jolt through your body a primal response to being marked, claimed.
"I apologize," he murmured, though he made no move to wipe away the evidence of his excitement. "I seem to have lost a measure of professional composure. You bring out something... primal in me, (y/n). Something I haven't allowed myself to feel in years."
His thrusts became deeper, more forceful, and you cried out as he hit something deep inside you a place that sent sparks of pleasure-pain through your entire body.
"There," he breathed, his voice triumphant. "Your cervix. Most women find direct contact uncomfortable, but you... you're responding to it. Your body is exceptional in every way."
He shifted his position slightly, changing the angle of his penetration, and suddenly the pain began to transform into something else something warmer, more intense. Your hips moved of their own accord, rising to meet his thrusts with increasing urgency.
"That's it," he encouraged, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Let your body respond. Let it guide you. Trust your instincts."
One of his hands moved between your bodies, his fingers finding your clitoris with unerring precision. The dual stimulation was overwhelming, and you felt yourself spiraling toward another orgasm more intense, more profound than the first.
"I can feel you approaching climax," he murmured, his fingers working in tandem with his thrusts. "Your internal muscles are contracting, preparing for release. It's beautiful to observe, to feel."
His movements became more erratic now, his control slipping as his own pleasure mounted. The saliva continued to dribble from his mouth, marking your skin with his excitement.
"I haven't felt this alive in years," he confessed, his voice ragged with exertion. "This connected to another being. This... bliss."
The word hung in the air between you bliss. A strange, inappropriate word for what was happening, yet somehow it resonated with something deep within you, something that craved this intensity, this violation, this complete surrender to his dominance.
As the tension within you built to an unbearable peak, you closed your eyes, giving yourself over to the sensations, to the man who was claiming you, possessing you, remaking you in his image. And when the orgasm finally crashed over you, it was with a force that shattered something essential within you, leaving you breathless, broken, and irrevocably changed.
Something in Dr. Gideon snapped. The methodical, clinical precision that had characterized his movements dissolved into raw, primal urgency. His control, so carefully maintained throughout the examination, frayed completely. A guttural sound escaped his lips, something between a growl and a moan, as his thrusts became erratic, almost violent.
"Perfect," he breathed, his voice ragged with exertion. "You're the perfect specimen. So responsive, so tight, so..." He lost his train of thought, his hips driving into you with a force that made the examination table scrape against the floor. "I can't... I can't let you go."
His words sent a chill through you that had nothing to do with pleasure. This was no longer about medical research or your sexual health. This was about possession. About ownership.
"All the others," he panted, his movements becoming more frantic. "They were just practice. Preliminary studies. But you... you're the culmination. The masterpiece."
One of his hands moved to your throat, his long fingers wrapping around your neck with terrifying ease. You gasped, both from the sudden constriction and the shock of his action.
"Don't fight it," he commanded, his visor inches from your face. "Trust me. I know what your body needs. What it craves."
His grip tightened, completely cutting off your airflow. Panic surged through you as oxygen became scarce, creating a dizzying, euphoric haze that mingled with the overwhelming sensations between your legs. You struggled weakly, your hands clawing at his wrist, but his strength was immense, his grip unbreakable.
"That's it," he growled, his thrusts becoming more erratic. "Take it. Take all of me."
Your vision narrowed to a pinpoint, the edges darkening as consciousness began to slip away. The combination of oxygen deprivation and intense stimulation pushed your body into a final, convulsive response. Your muscles contracted around him, your body arching in one last, desperate attempt to survive.
Gideon's roar of completion echoed in the sterile room as he drove into you one final time, his body shuddering as he released himself deep inside you. The warmth of his seed filled you, marking you from within as his fingers tightened around your throat, pushing you into darkness where pleasure and pain merged into nothingness.
As you drifted into unconsciousness, the last thing you felt was his weight upon you, his possession complete, your body no longer your own.
When you finally began to stir, it was to the sensation of being carried. Your head lolled against something hard and unyielding his chest. Your body was limp, unresponsive, completely at his mercy. Through heavy-lidded eyes, you caught glimpses of a corridor you hadn't seen before, of doors that led to who knew what other horrors.
He carried you to a heavy door that required both a keycard and a retinal scan to open. The room beyond was surprisingly opulent dark wood, leather furniture, a massive bed with silk sheets.
This was his private sanctuary. His lair.
He laid you gently on the bed, his touch surprisingly tender after the violence of what had just occurred. As he covered you with a silk sheet, his visor caught the dim light of the room, hiding whatever emotions might lie behind it.
"You'll stay here now," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "With me. Where I can continue my research. Where I can take care of you."
As you drifted back into unconsciousness, the last thing you saw was his massive frame moving around the room, preparing for whatever came next, secure in the knowledge that you were his, his specimen, his research, his possession. And as terrifying as that realization was, there was nothing you could do to change it.
(AN: Part Two has been reuploaded after a takedown, godspeed @yanderereblogs for saving it! Mmmmmm, old men. Everyone pictured as a student is OF LEGAL AGE TUMBLR MODS HOP OFF MY DICK.
Background: Thinking about a Headmasters Son or Daughter!Reader at a private boarding school. For a Fem!Reader, perhaps you're just visiting daddy for the season while he's running the school, or maybe you've been bad, and need more supervision. For a Masc!Reader, it could be the same case, however, with Ridgemoore Academy being an all male school, this makes it easier to imagine a world where reader is allowed in the school. Now, let's focus on the faculty...
◇ Mr. Joel Murphy, who teaches the majority of the 'life skills' classes at the school. The school being all-boys is very traditional, and teaches things like game hunting and orienteering, which is why they hired a manly-man like Joel. If only they knew what a bitter grump he is. An ex-sheriff of the nearby town, he decided to leave the force after realizing there was no real crime in the small, privileged town, and decided to take up an easy job at the school. Unfortunately, he realized his love for camping and hunting is warped into what he considers 'frilly shit for rich little boys'. He's gruff, barking out orders and easily been exasperated at the sheer incompetence of the boys.
"Shoot one quail, and these boys act like they killed a bear..."
He thought about retiring from yet another job, as living on the ritzy campus just doesn't feel like home to him, and lord knows he's not fond of his job. However, things change when you arrive. Whether you're a delinquent or a little more sweet and obedient, he likes you. If you're a delinquent, he likes seeing a little hell-raiser kick up some shit at the fancy school. If you're sweet or shy, he gets protective. Nice youngins' like you shouldn't be thrown in amongst these spoiled weasels.
He's sure to help you if you need it, a gentle hand on your back as his burly chest presses against your shoulder blades, adjusting your position against the butt of a rifle. Standing by while you're on hands and knees trying to light a fire, making sure none of the boys are trying to get a look at your assessts. Not that he isn't going to, but he justifies it to himself as just making sure your school shorts/skirt is regulation. He's protecting your modesty. After class hours, come to him with any issues, or shit, even his room. He'll put on some coffee and ask you to help him create a curriculum that 'reaches the kids', as your father instructed him to. It's cozy, the fancy school adnorments thrown away for medals and plaques, national parks posters and a few old family photos. He'll keep you tucked in on his warm couch while he strays from curriculum talk to stories of his time in the scouts and on the force. Tells you about how much he loves just... laying out under the stars with somebody special, to sit around a campfire with friends, then slyly ask is you've ever had somebody to do that with. He knows you're younger than him, and he struggles with the idea that you won't want him cause of it, so for now, he'll bask in the feeling of seeing you curled up in his room, keeping the idea of picking you up and having you accept his cock to himself. If you can get pregnant, his fists his cock to the thought of that too. He's not some horned up boy, he wants you in the long term.
He looooooves the yearly orienteering final, in which the students in the class are made to go on an actual camping trip. It's possible a tent will 'accidentally' go missing, leaving you to bunk with him. Don't worry, nothing bads gonna happen while you've got this burly bear of a man practically spooning you, warm gut from his dad-bod pressed against you as he tries his best to make sure he doesn't scare you.
"Sorry those damn boys left your tent back at the school, kiddo. I... wouldn't be suprised of one of them did it on purpose, little bastards." He grumbles, hoping you'll take the hint to separate yourself from those immature preps and stick to being with a man who can treat you right. "Remember that lesson from a couple weeks ago, on body heat? I know it's awkward, but we've only got one sleeping bag. You feel like you can trust this old man to keep you warm?" Unfortunately for his ego and trying to keep down his urges, the trees aren't going to be the only wood in the morning.
◇ Mr. Paul Burton, head of the arts department. He's so over this, a once decent artist who dabbled in pop art and theatre only to stop getting gigs and be black-listed after offending several more famous artists, calling their work 'sell-out chic', he's now a burn-out who smokes and ignores his students all class. He's passionate about art, but frankly he doesn't want tow aste his time teaching when he knows these rats are taking his class for easy credit. He's only teaching here to utilize the facilities and studios so he's not living in a van in the Walmart parking lot. A mix of hippie culture, live and let live and cynical burnout, he's so. Fucking. Done. But... maybe you change that for him.
You're interesting, a headmasters child who doesn't fit in to your fathers perfect mold? Maybe a rebellious student who goes against the grain of this perfect school. Or a blooming ray of sunshine in this dark den of privilege and conformist curriculum for the future lawyers of the world. Either way, he's found a new muse. See him after class.
He'll be thrilled if you're into art, let him guide you. Tell him your favorite artists and he'll tell you when he threw up on there shoes by accident in his hey-day. Gossip about a student you don't like, he'll listen while he smokes and tell you about how that guys mom hit on him. He loves to gossip, but he loves to watch you create more. The way your hands shape a vase or brush across a canvas light a fire in him he hasn't felt in a while. He's more willing to forgo the age gap between you, while it's never something he considered before, he knows he's not gonna let go of the one thing that makes him feel like he lives again. Besides, he's always been unconventional.
He'll have you stay after class, maybe he'll have you pose nude for a painting, assuring you it's fins, it's platonic, it's just for the love of art. He chooses and extra large canvas, it lets him paint while he relieves himself as you explain you're getting cold. He'll put on some artsy, silent, black and white film from the 30s, and while you watch and slowly realize it's pornographic, He'll grin to himself while he watches you flush. He'll ask you all sorts of questions about your thoughts on the film, the actors, what they're doing. He really wants to figure out how experienced you are. "What do you think of the composition? It's really carnal, you know?" He puts out his cigarette. "I'm glad I can show this to you, you'll actually appreciate it. You're not giggling like an idiot when some guys penis is out on the screen." He groans, thinking of his other students.
He does actually like one student, though they make an odd pair. Joseph's easily spooked and shy personality clashes with the brash older man's, but he's glad to have someone he can think of as a protege. Someone who loves art as much as him, but get isolated for it. He was doing a portfolio look over when Joseph accidentally turned in the wrong folder. Joseph feels like he might die as Mr. Burton, a man he admires, flips through nude pictures of the object of his affection, and at a distance no less. A part of him wants to rip it away, but he needs this scholarship.
"Please, please, sir! I-I'll never do it again, it was just a phase, I didn't mean for you to see-"
"They're good." Mr. Burton flips through the folder. "Real good. You could really get somewhere with these, maybe not in the fine art scene, but... tell you what." He adjusts his glasses and leans forward on his desk. "We'll do a special session, you and me, yeah? I'll get your friend here, and I'll vouch for your integrity so you can take some less-" he purses his lips. "Stalker-ish pics- Jesus, kid, is that taken from a tree?"
☆ Anatoli Sidorov, probably the best paid staff given how they got him here. He's a Russian coach for a former Olympic Russian swim team, and he joined the prestigious American school to escape shame after he 'resigned' post a doping scandal which he swears he wasn't involved in. (Whether he was or not is your choice.) Still, he's led the boys swim team and track team to nationals several times, and he's a legend among the wealthy benefactors of the school. He's outwardly very serious, hard on his team but respectful of them. He doesn't put up with any unruly or unsportsmanlike behavior from his boys, at least not what he can see. He's very nice deep down, intellectual and funny, though he still struggles with American humor and English.
He adores you when he meets you, milking about with the other students before class. You seem genuinely social, and wanting to fit in. The idea someone could be so welcoming warms his heart. Deep down, he misses his home, and he misses the friends he once had. You're warm, and he likes that. Not to mention, you're a looker. He's embarrassed, especially if you're male, seeing as he never considered swinging the other way, and much less with someone younger. But he can't help but stare when your pretty tits bounce as you run, or the way those jogging shorts hardly conceal your bulge. He even pulled you to the side one to scold you for not wearing regulation gym clothes, before realizing they were and awkwardly sending you back into class. That was a moment of self-reflection for him.
He's not necessarily outwardly softer to you, you might even think he doesn't like you, given that he has you stay late to run or jump rope, or constantly pulls you into time out mid-game. It's all for your own good, trust him. He doesn't like the way some of the boys were looking at you, and he could tell Evan was a only a play away from trying to practically hump you while trying to 'get the ball'. He's made Harrison, who he loves as a player, run laps for talking to you for only a few minutes. He hates feeling like a jealous boy, but he can't help it. You make him feel young.
He establishes a private locker room area for you, since you're the headmasters kid and not an official student. Besides, you're clearly being harassed by the others! So, he's got a nice little closet for you, with a not suspicious air freshener that's not a hidden camera, and a private key only you have access to. (Technically that's true, he just has a bypass key for himself.) He'll snatch a pair of boxers or some panties, slipping them into his track coat for later. Eventually, he'll tell you he's worried you aren't able to catch up to the others, given that you arrived later and started the gym curriculum later than the others. He'll start having extra 'make-up' workouts with you, starting with stretching. One leg uo on the bar, you'll have to excuses his cold hand running along your thigh, or stroking over your chest as him just admiring how your strength and flexibility is evolving. He relishes the feeling of your body on his, groping you under the guise of training and resisting the urge to just slip aside your gym shorts and veg you to take him.
"Little star, part 'dem a little, there ve go." He keeps your legs parted as he works you into a position on your back, against the rubber mats the tumbling team had laid out. He lays just over you, pushing your legs back a little further with his arms, just far away enough to keep you from noticing his hard on, but enough to lightly press it against the plush swell of your ass. Good, let's just- fuck- hold. Let's hold."
☆ Kory Koffman, English teacher and part time librarian! The school outs so much effort into sports, both admin and students seem to forget about him. Hell, the library is used so little they fired the librarian, and he took it upon himself to try and care for the building himself. He's a sweet, shy man, who just wants to share his passion for literature with others. However, unlike Mr. Burton, he was never popular or famous, so he's content to keep to himself, but the loneliness does get to him.
When you wandered into his library one day, maybe looking for a book or seeking refuge from a hoarde ofadmirers, he was happy to welcome you into his little safe haven. He'll give you some warm tea from the little coffee machine he has set up, and sit you down. Let him help you find a book, or tell you about his creative writing class? He'd let you join, even late in the semester! It's not a very full class.
For the first time in his life, he finds himself craving the attention of another, of someone else's company, other than his books. He hasn't felt that need for connection since he was a boy, after his momma passed. He'll do anything to keep you there, and if reading isn't your thing, much to his chagrin, he'll add a DVD section to the library, but only good films and classic for you! No Adam Sandler, those movies are to overstimulating for poor Mr. Koffman.
As his feelings turn romantic, he's ashamed. You're a student, and he's a lonely old man, you deserve someone better, someone your age. However, the thought of you being with any of the many students who mock him in the halls or disrupt his class, the thought of hand you over to those-those imbeciles, hurts him. He wants you, and he's ashamed at the way his trousers go tight when you bend over to get a fallen book, or when you hand him his glasses after he misplaced them (again), the fact he just stares at your finger prints for awhile and refuses to clean the lens. He's not had sex in a long, long time, but he finds himself masturbating more than he ever did when he was younger. He'll watch library security footage openly, moaning and whimpering at his desk with no fear anybody will stop in, no one ever does but you. He wants you as his spouse, you already make his library, his home away from home seem brighter, imagine what you could do for his actual apartment.
"Oh, hello! It's good to see you, it's been a bit." He's a little bitter at that last statement, but adjusts his glasses and continues. "Just remember to stop by often, okay? I'd really, really hate to impose the late policy on you..."
☆ Atticus Critch, the schools latin instructor and head sponsor of student body, (not to mention the man in charge of detention), is a strict disciplinarian. He takes no nonsense from anyone, and despises the behavioral pardons given to boys like Evan or Harrison simply because they are athletes. Peter is obviously his favorite, and when he catches wind of the ways the boys around campus are speaking about you, he decides to take it upon himself to remove the distraction, by having Carter trail you and give you detention for minor inconveniences. Carter isn't particularly thrilled at always having to send you to detention instead of extorting you to get his rocks off, but he's hoping maybe he'll get to 'monitor' detention one of these days.
Initially, Mr. Critch has you doing small tasks, writing lines or organizing things, but soon he starts to see the appeal. If you're a good student for the most part, he's determined to keep you good, and away from all the vermin in this school. If you're bad, he's had plenty of experience in taming brats. He's open with his sexual desires, it his growing affection for you that makes him struggle.
If you've stayed out too late and broke curfew, you can spend detention on your knees, suckling his cock into the late hours. Maybe you've been running around with Tyler. He'll make you lay down on his desk and deny you your climax over and over again, asking 'if not making you cum' is what that boy does to you, never fully satisfying you. He'll make you beg to finish, and to promise you'll be good from now on.
"Come on, repeat it. Tell me you'll be good now, that you won't bother with BOYS-" He annuciates with a thrust, "When you have a man right here, whose willing to take time out of his day to discipline you!" One the amorous session is over though, he definitely softens, trying to prove he's more than a boy in many ways, including good aftercare. He'll dress your limp form back up in your uniform and walk you get you a cup of water from the fountain. "Only ten minutes till your detention is over, dear. Just sit there, take some time to reflect on how you got here." His tone is demeaning, but as he pets your scalp, his touch is so feather-light. Don't expect is to last into the next day though.
