love me tender, love me raw @oureden - Tumblr Blog

CANTO V

pairing james sunderland x reader

wordcount 7.1k (sorry.)

summary james sunderland is a good man. a good, good man.

warnings fem afab reader, college au, age gap (20's-40's), teacher-student relationship, infidelity, dubcon bc of coercion, manipulation, oral (reader receiving), very light feet action, creampie, james' madonna-whore complex sorta, at least 2 billion mentions of mary, james' unreliable narration and rumination deserve a mention, both reader and james are shitty people

a/n tfw you've had writers' block for four entire years and some pathetic sopping wet loser is what brings you out of it. crazy. anyway my thought w this au was kinda along the lines of 'what if silent hill was a person instead of a place' but like. in the context of smut 😭 VERY SPECIFIC I KNOW but it was something i wanted to experiment with. anyway, hope you enjoy! and it goes without saying but minors please don't interact

read it on ao3 !!

The knock at his door breaks James out of the self-inflicted loop of checking emails and grading papers he's created for himself. One quick look at the screen to his left confirms that yes, office hours are still in effect for the next five minutes so he, albeit a bit begrudgingly because he really needs to get these grades in, offers a polite, "come in," and takes a sip of the now too-cold tea he had forgotten about somewhere within the hour.

"Hiya, Doc," you greet with a smile and eagerness in your gait that frankly he doesn't understand where you get the energy for given the hour. But then, you've always had too much spring in your step than perhaps is warranted. So lively, blazing like the sun and impossible for him to look away from.

Which is a detriment to him considering you're somehow in almost every single one of his lectures this semester. And if that wasn't bad enough, you inexplicably decide to attend said lectures wearing outfits that James can only describe as some kind of test of his will. This one is no exception—form fitting jeans that hug your hips and plush thighs with a cropped t-shirt that rides up just enough for him to catch the briefest flashes of invitingly supple flesh.

"Um, hey. Take a—have a seat," he gestures to the chair facing his, hoping you don't notice his sudden lack of a grasp on the English language. He at least has enough sense remaining to remind you that office hours are about to come to a close.

You wave your hand as you sit, an array of silver chains and charms chiming as you do. "Don't worry, I'll be super quick. Pinky promise." There's a disarmingly sweet smile on your face as you reach a pinky out in jest, one that widens when he finds himself reaching out to link with his own without even thinking. "Awww! That was so cute!"

The rational part of his mind knows that he really should shut down these little comments of yours. You've given him more than enough chances, lingering around after his lectures are over and popping into his office with a list of questions you'd written down in endearingly rounded lettering. All he'd have to do is set that boundary, gently remind you both that he is, at the end of the day, your professor and that your playful flirtations aren't appropriate. Say that he has a wife who he's wholly dedicated to and would never want to disrespect, which is true. He loves Mary more than he could ever put into words. She's been the love of his life for 20 or so odd years and that's never going to change, he's certain.

But you're everything he's been craving wrapped up with a pretty little bow.

You're young; a third-year in a major outside of his department and it'd be a lie to say that your youth wasn't at least part of the draw of you, as much as he tries to tell himself it isn't. It wasn't just that you were young, either. You were...full of vitality. You smiled and laughed and spoke so freely and so openly, unafraid to take up space and James couldn't help but feel himself becoming increasingly more drawn to you as the days of afternoons spent together stretched into weeks. It's gotten to a point where he now sees his classes less as lectures and as time he's able to spend in your presence, coveting your warmth and imagining what it would be like to swallow your laugh into his mouth.

At least the guilt drives him insane. That must make up for it in some way. It has to be punishment enough to visit Mary at the hospital and see her withering away during his visits and feel a deep, deep pit in his stomach that he knows he must accept as a companion. He feels it deepening every time he catches himself being short with her on her bad days, hating himself for being angry with her when he knows she's only scared. But knowing that does nothing to alleviate the tension neither of them want to acknowledge. Nor does it doesn't help that there's a different tension, one of his own making, building between the two of you.

He deserves this guilt. Hell, he deserves far worse for wanting to fuck someone half his age alone, the fact that he's also married with a sick wife warrants some kind of eternal torture somewhere lower and hotter than whenever run-of-the-mill sinners end up.

(A small part of him hopes that before then, he finds out what your skin feels like under his hands.)

"So," he manages to awkwardly choke out after a moment, "what did you want to talk about? If it's the midterm on Monday, you really don't need to be worried. I'm pretty sure you're one of the only ones actually doing the homework."

"Well, you did choose some pretty solid readings," you reply easily, shoulders straightened as if preening from his light praise which James doesn't let himself think too long about, "but no, it's not about the midterm."

James' brows furrow. There's a cryptic tone to your voice, like you're inviting him to guess the purpose of your visit which, upon looking at the time again, really should be ending soon. "Well...what, uh, is this about?"

The slight cock of your head jostles your hair enough that he can smell the mixture of your perfume and shampoo even from where he sits. Apples and sandalwood mixed with something so undeniably you. His mouth waters. "C'mon, Doc. You know."

Does he? You have this look in your eyes that all at once playful and mischievous, almost feline, and it gives absolutely nothing away. All he can do is laugh a bit incredulously. "Ah, I can't say that I do? But hey, it's almost six so maybe we could pick thi—"

"Should I give you a hint, then?"

If this were any of his other students, he wouldn't have entertained this. Honestly, he wouldn't have even let them get this far into his office, just turned them away at the door and told them to come back tomorrow when he's got more time. But it's you. And he has nothing but time for you.

"Sure," he hears himself saying before he's able to think better of it.

You smile like you'd been expecting this, leaning forward on folded arms. There's a moment where he considers asking you what you're doing but he finds himself unable to think of anything at all when he feels you hook your foot under the base of his chair and tug him forward. Whatever confusion he feels is short-lived, however, as you leave him with little ambiguity the second your foot slides along the length of his leg.

Not for the first time, he thinks that he should say something, do something, to stop this before it starts but all he's able to manage is a half-hearted, "don't," that you both know doesn't hold any weight.

"You wanted a hint," you say in that same voice he's heard so many times over the semester, light and full of mirth. "I'm giving it to you."

"I'm married," he splutters out, setting the boundary he should have all those weeks ago.

The toe of your shoe presses into the side of his knee. "Well duh," you say with a conversational flippancy that makes his head spin. "But it's not like you care." It stings like a slap to hear out loud but what can he do? Disagree? Act like he hasn't been wanting to fuck you for almost as long as he's known you? Like he hasn't been hoping for this?

James looks at you desperately, pleadingly, says your name like a prayer. "You're my student, I—Look, I'm flattered but this is extremely inappropriate. We could both get into trouble for this."

"You could."

He blinks. "What?"

A manicured nail points in his direction. "You could get into trouble for this," you correct matter-of-factly. When he doesn't respond, you trace along his inner thigh, stopping just short of where he fears you touching the most. He hopes you miss the sharp exhale you get in return. "All I'd have to do is say you came onto me and that'd be that. It'd be your word against mine and I mean, honestly, what's more believable? A 20-something-year-old college student accosting her professor ooor a however-old-you-are professor trying to fuck his student?"

A wry smile works its way onto your face at the absolutely the look of absolute dread he gives you. "Oh, don't look so scared. I'd never actually tell the department. I just think you need to remember the optics here. 'Specially since you're not exactly subtle."

This all feels like a nightmare he very much would like to wake up from, one that's taken the desires he's kept so close to his heart and given it to him in the most twisted and terrible way. James studies you, searching for answers in the face he's come to be so achingly familiar with. Nothing's changed; your smile is still bright and sunny as ever, eyes still sparkling. It's not as if a mask has come off and he's been duped by this secret version of you that's been in hiding all along. You've never been hiding. You've always been this. This is you. He's just been too caught up in his own feelings, too blind to see that while he was looking at you, you'd been looking back.

And now he's on the precipice of something he's sure he's not going to be able to come back from.

"Why?" he asks, voice strained. "What do you want?"

You give him a cute pout that's laughably at odds with the energy in the room. "Isn't it obvious? I want you."

There's a number of things James could say to that but they all get lost on his tongue, leaving him to stare at you with an expression on his face that's one part repressed hunger and one part pain. He wishes he could say that he only cares about Mary, that he spends his days thinking of her face, that he eagerly anticipates their meetings and counts down the seconds until he's able to see her again but that's a lie. Thinking about Mary, what she is now, not his Mary; the one he fell in love with all those years ago, it only makes him feel defeated. She hasn't been that person in a long time and he doesn't know who he resents more for it.

Still, this isn't right. Mary is his wife and he made a commitment to her. One that he hopes is made of steady enough stuff to withstand the force of nature sitting before him. "You need to leave." His hand comes to rest at your ankle, awkward and unsure like he doesn't know if he can touch you. "We can just...put this behind us, okay?"

For a moment, he swears it seems like you look confused. Like you'd honestly expected to walk into his office, strongarm him into having an affair and that would be that. Your eyes go from him, to his hand, before going back to him as if you're trying to find the missing piece of the puzzle before you. Then you're nudging your foot free of his grasp, pressing into the forming bulge he'd been trying to avoid acknowledging.

"I don't think I made myself clear. Your voice drowns out his wince of what he tells himself is agonizing pain. "I'm not going anywhere until I get what I want. And you know what I want."

James can't think. If he thought it was hard to get himself to do something—anything—before, this was leaving him forgetting he ever had any thoughts to begin with. There's no way for him to pretend like he's not getting hard from this now, no way to feign nonchalance when the sole of your shoe is rubbing slow and dangerous against him. He could push your foot away. His hand is close enough to do it, gripping the arm of his chair so tightly that bone threatens to tear through skin—but he doesn't make a single move to stop this. You're regrettably aware of this too, cheek resting in the cup of your palm as you watch him. There's no challenge in your eyes, no dare for him to struggle. It's as if you already know that you've won.

"Puh-Please," he begs, voice no more than a punched-out gasp. "Just-just stop and I promise, I won't say anything to anyone, I won't touch your grades—" A firm press has him cutting his own sentence short with a groan he muffles into his hand.

"But you know that's not what I want, silly." You rub along his shaft, soothing, languid strokes that apply just enough pressure for a haze to settle over his mind and tightness to begin forming in his gut. "And I know it's not what you want either so why deny yourself?"

He could move his chair back. He could stand up right now and end this entire thing if he wanted to. "Why...why would I ever want this?"

"Because you've been spending the better half of the semester fantasizing about cheating on your sick wife with one of your students." You straighten your head to face him properly. "How is Mary, by the way? Doing any better?"

His heart drops. "How do you know her name?"

You smile, all sweetness and sunshine. "I know a lot of things about you, silly. Like that you always drop by the hospital to see her on your way home. Or like how bring her flowers every Thursday on your lunch break," you say like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Oh and I know which floor she's on. Still haven't figured out her room number though—"

"I thought you said you wouldn't tell anyone." He's aware of how pathetic he sounds, that the wet spot in his pants only makes it doubly so.

"No, I said I wouldn't tell the department. Which I won't," you correct, half-smiling when his hips unwillingly buck against you. "I don't want to get you fired."

"But you have no problem destroying my marriage?" he asks, breathless and flushed but incredulous all the same.

"Don't be so dramatic," you tut. "You're the one about to blow a load in your pants just from being stepped on. If anyone's destroying your marriage, it's you."

James stills. "I...I'm not—"

You give him a look. "Oh, please. If I wanted to, I bet I could finish you off right now." A soft hum, thoughtful. "But that would be no fun."

It's the disorientation, he tells himself. It's the shock of your words that leaves him paralyzed, helpless as he watches you slide out of your chair and circle around his desk. His heart thumps loudly in his chest, his ears, his bones, as you reach out to cup his face in your hands. Now that you're this close, he can see every particle of glitter at the inner corners of your eyes, smell every single note of your perfume and, oh, feel how soft your hands are. He doesn't even remember the last time he's been touched like this, like he's wanted—desired. The scratch of your nails against the stubble scattered across his jaw has his eyes falling shut, brows furrowed and head heavy with cotton.

"Just say you want this, James. That's all you have to do. You can do that for me, right?"

Distantly, he registers that this is the first time you've said his name. You make it sound sweet, sweeter than perhaps he's gotten used to hearing in these past few years. His name had been soured into something awful and bitter like bile that he forgets that there was once honey in its syllables. That, before his life became what it is now, there was a time where all he knew was nectar and fresh morning dew. What you're offering isn't that, he's not delusional enough to believe otherwise. But you offer something. A salve, a bandaid, a temporary fix, whatever it is; it is real and tangible and he can feel it beneath his fingers.

(When did his hands end up at your thighs? When did his head fall to rest against your stomach? Why do your nails running along his scalp make it so hard to think?)

James is holding you like he's unsure of whether to push you away or pull you in closer, hands shaking with a cocktail of repulsion and want. There's no going back if he lets himself have this. No way that he could ever convince himself that, in spite of it all, he's still the man he promised Mary he'd be. If he gives in, what does that make him? He could tell himself that any other man—any other human—in his position would face the same conundrum, that this was simply a losing battle he was forced into playing. Though, he knows this is all his doing. That this hellish game is of his own making, the rules and limits set by him. You've simply bent them to your advantage. Worst part is, he can't even be mad at you. There would be nothing for you to leverage against him with had he been the husband he tells himself he is, one who doesn't let the first pretty thing that comes his way get under his skin.

He deserves this, he finally concludes. This must be the punishment he deserves: well and truly condemning himself past the point of no return, leaving there no room to pretend anymore.

His breath comes out in a shaky sigh, blood rushing in his ears he turns his face to press his lips against your sternum, just under your breasts. He's already dizzy, drunk despite only having a paltry sip, but he needs more. So he repeats the motion, a touch lower this time, urged on by your hands in his hair and your soft sounds of encouragement. Again, this time landing in the in-between of your shirt and your jeans—on bare skin, he realizes belatedly. On the bare skin that's been teasing him, occupying far too much space in his head. He has to stop himself from moaning from how soft you are, how your flesh gives so eagerly under his touch. There's going to be a wet spot in his pants, if there isn't one already, but he can't seem to find it in himself to care when he's face-to-face with the top button of your jeans.

Wordlessly, he looks up at you through hazy eyes and you get the message immediately, smiling to yourself as you undo the button and zipper. The reality of what exactly he's doing threatens to set in but James finds that he can easily distract himself by pushing forward, closer to you, until you have no choice but to back up into his desk. He thinks he hears the clinking of your bracelets again, this time intermingling with the rustling of his long forgotten papers, but it's all static to him now that he can see the beginnings of deep pink lace. The groan that comes out of him is a pained thing, wrought with everything he's been holding back for all this time.

Your responding laugh is bright, cheery. "I figured you'd like 'em."

You'll be the death of him, he's certain.

His mouth waters when your hands guide his to your hips, cock twitching in its confines when you hook his thumbs into your waistband and tug and—

"Oh."

The lace is sheer, enough that there may as well not be any fabric there to begin with. Making matters worse, you've clearly waxed yourself clean and left him little room for ambiguity. He can feel his heartbeat in his teeth when he notices the wetness glinting in the low light of the room, inviting.

Slow, as if he's wading through water, he slides out of his chair and onto the ground on his knees. You make a noise, something like hungered approval, and let him pull your jeans off the rest of the way down your legs. Neither of you see where it ends up after you kick it along with your shoes into some corner of his office but it matters very little when he's shouldering your legs apart, pressing his face into your cunt and breathing you in like he needs it.

God, you're so fucking warm. Warmer than Mary is, maybe warmer than she ever was. He hates himself for thinking it, hates himself more for lapping at you through the thin barrier of lace and moaning at your taste on his tongue. You taste like stolen bites of apple pie and you leave his lips just as sticky, just as sweet with residue as any syrupy filling could. It makes it hard to think, to regret. The feeling still lingers somewhere in his chest but it's a dull thing that is easy to suffocate with the louder, more urgent voice in his head wondering how long he'll be left smelling like you, if your scent would last throughout the evening. Does he want it to? To take the evidence of the death of his marriage home and let you linger there? His cock twitches in response, so hard now that it hurts. Doesn't really want to think about the implications.

Right now, all he can think of is how soaked your panties are with his saliva, the fabric slick and wet and almost scratchy to an uncomfortable degree. But you look so beautiful above him. An angel, a goddess; eyelids heavy, hair falling over your face, the sounds of hymns on your lips when his tongue swipes along the parting of your centre, coaxing more of your ambrosia out for him to swallow down greedily. How benevolent you are, to take pity on this sinner's heart.

"Need m-more," you decide, brows pinched and voice reedy. "Gimme more?"

It's a miracle that he isn't immediately undone by you right then and there. "Yeah," he rasps, voice ragged, "yeah, c'mere."

From where he's knelt on the floor, he urges you up onto his desk somewhere between his pens and papers and a framed picture of Mary that your elbow knocks into when you situate yourself properly. She's smiling in it. It's genuine too, unguarded. Like she knew she could be her most vulnerable self with him. Like...like she trusted him with her most fragile parts.

You pull him in closer with your heel at his back and he chooses to forget.

This new position opens you up more than before, as unbelievable as that may be for him to comprehend. Your legs are stretched out as far as his desk permits, one of which you've decided to hook over his shoulder to guide him as you please. Not that he needs much of it as all it takes for him to venture back between the absolution-damnation of your thighs is the sight of your hardened clit through your panties.

"I've never—mmph—I've never been with a guy who liked eating pussy as much as you do," you muse. "Your wife's a real lucky lady."

"Don't talk about her." It comes out more as a whimpering plea than anything else but thankfully, having your clit sucked on gets you lax and jelly-boned enough that you drop the topic anyway.

You're so accessible like this—thick folds parted to give way to the inviting twitch of your hole, the perfect pearl of your clit. It's addicting to watch, even more to taste. He can tell by how sensitive you are that you need more, that you need him to tug the lace aside and touch you properly, but a part of him enjoys seeing you writhe like this; chasing after his tongue and squirming when you get it. Maybe it's his own way of getting back at you. Maybe he just thinks it's endearing to see your face screwed up into a little pout, all spoilt princess throwing a tantrum.

He teases you a bit more, flicking the tip of his tongue across your clit just to see you jolt and fastening his mouth over you in your entirety and humming deep and low, wringing a sound out of you that he can only describe as primal. There's a deep satisfaction he finds in that. Both in the righteous sense and in that of his own primality, though at this point he figures there's no point in separating the two with you. It excites him, it scares him. He doesn't know how far you'll go or what lines you'd be willing to cross to get what you want but honestly, he's not sure if he'd put up much of a fight anymore. Not when giving in, letting you have your way, means he gets to feel you arch up off the desk and wail.

"Wait, wait, wait—" you're pushing him back, sole on his shoulder, out of breath, "—I don't—I didn't—" a beat, an inhale to collect yourself, "I wanna cum with you inside me."

"Jesus Christ." He has to take a second; breathes in, then out. "You...you have a condom?"

The curl of your lip is all mischief. "No."

James starts to say your name before you cut him off. "I don't, like, have anything. 'M clean."

He has no idea why he's even considering this. Has even less of an idea of why his body is screaming at him to just fuck you already. "Are you on birth control at least?" Another smile, this time accompanied with a tilt of your head, that he knows to take as a no.

"It'll be fine," you reassure him. "You can just pull out."

"I don't kno—"

"Oh, c'mooon. I'll let you cum on my face if you want to. Just don't get it in my hair, obviously."

He has no idea how you're able to be so casual about all this, like you aren't an accessory in his infidelity asking him to risk knocking you up—knocking one of his students up. He could lose his job—hell, he could never get a job again if he isn't careful. And that's not even considering what it'll do to Mary. They've been in a bad place for a while now but still, this goes beyond retribution for cold shoulders and words you don't mean. This is a betrayal. A backstabbing, unwarranted betrayal to the highest level.

And yet.

"Fine. Fine, okay, just..." He shuts his eyes, swallows. "We need to be careful, okay?"

You smile, pushing yourself up off your elbows to wiggle your pinky in his face. "Pinky promise."

For the second time today, he finds himself unable to resist giving into this little habit of yours.

"Still so cute," you say, fond and warm. "Now get up here."

He has no idea how long he'd been kneeling but judging by the ache in his joints when he stands, it had been far too long. You don't give him long to dwell on that though, winding your arms around his neck with a pleased little sound. Those hands don't stay for long, sliding down his chest, down his stomach, down further still until you reach his slacks. You don't need to wait for his assent to start unbuttoning them, taking the painfully hard outline of his cock and the accompanying wet spot as enough of a reason to make haste in pulling him out of his pants.

"'S all for me?" you ask softly. James doesn't know what to do about the genuine awe in your voice, mind too focused on not cumming from your hand—soft, smaller than his own—around him.

Foreheads touch, an incidental thing he doesn't rectify. "Yeah." His voice is far away, not his own. "All for you."

You shiver, pumping him slowly. "It's so thick," you sigh airily. Your head tilts up a fraction, nose brushing against his. Any closer and you'd be sharing breath. "Put it in me?"

He grits his teeth with the effort it takes to stave off his orgasm.

He takes himself in a single hand, half-dazed as he watches you roll your panties off your hips and down to the floor where it lays in a pile at his feet. Then, it somehow becomes very different. Real. The lace wasn't doing much for your decency in the first place but still, it was a barrier. A safety precaution. It gave him enough that he could feign enough denial at what he was allowing himself to do. Now, he must confront it; slick (because of him), twitching (for him) and radiating heat like a furnace (inviting him).

(All for him.)

It's almost too much, almost enough to scare him in the ways that matter. This is the moment where he realizes this is the point where a good man could just…stop. That, if he were ever the man he had been convincing himself he was, he could end this now and still have enough lines left uncrossed that he'd be able to be at peace with himself. But you're there, hand on his wrist in what is both a demand and a request, and he can't find it in himself to do much else than comply.

Mary flashes in his head again; cold, alone, angry, waiting for him to visit—

The head of his cock is guided to your entrance, testing. You bite your lower lip between your teeth, brows furrowed as it pushes in only a fraction.

"D-does it hurt?"

You shake your head, grip his wrist tighter; begging.

He makes a sound of acknowledgement, one he hopes is assuring. Then he's pushing in further, lips parted when he's enveloped by the sheer heat of you. All he can think of is wetness and softness and heat like he's never known heat before and—the tightness. You're got a grip on him like you never want to let go, like you want him inside you forever and oh, isn't that a thought? And he's not even all the way in, he realizes with a pang to the gut.

Singleminded in his goals now, he places his free hand on your hip to steady you as he pushes in more, more, more until—

"Oh, fuck—"

Your voice is breathy and pitched, chest heaving with laboured breaths when he bottoms out. He's not faring much better; collapsed against you, face pressed into the side of your neck, one hand pressed to your back to keep you steady and the other braced on the desk near your thigh. It's all he can do to keep himself upright, groaning at just how you fit around his cock. Like you were made for this, made to be exactly what he needs. The thought alone has him twitching inside you, exhaling hotly against your skin.

There are hands against his back, under his shirt. "James," you say, all but into his ear at this angle He shudders when he feels the bite of nails. "James, kiss me, please."

The last time he's kissed a woman was back before Mary got sick. Back before she'd turn her head away from him where she used to dive back in for more, frowns where there were once smiles. He debates it for a moment, considers telling you that this would be too intimate, a step too far.

"I shouldn't..."

He turns his face, inadvertently nosing against your jaw.

"A little late to play shy now, doncha think?" A whisper; your face turns, too. Close. Too close? Not close enough? Your lips brush against his when you speak. "You're already breaking Mary's heart, might as well enjoy yourself."

James kisses you like a man starved. Ravenous, wrought with latent energy that threatens to tear you both apart. There is no room for you to make your quips, tongue preoccupied in his mouth after he coaxes it in with his own. It's sloppy, unpracticed; he's certain your teeth have knocked together more times than is probably appropriate and it's glaringly obvious he hasn't done this in a while. But you're more than happy to take the lead. You hold his face in your hands, slow the pace to something more manageable and smile when he moans into your mouth. He lets you run your nails across his back in slow whirling motions that go straight to his cock and remind him he's yet to actually start moving.

Between kisses, he manages, "c-can I—did you want me to-?"

"Please."

He groans, panting when you press your nails into his back. "How? Tell me how you want it."

"Hard, please, need it hard, James. Need you to fuck me ha—fuck, yes, yes, yes, like that, just like that, fuck—"

He pulls out almost completely half of the way and slams back in, spurn on by your begging. Sex with Mary was never like this, always gentle and tender and slow. It really was making love, he thinks. Intimately vulnerable in a way you can't replicate with just anyone. Something reserved for the most devout of lovers.

What he's doing to you now, what he's been wanting to do to you since you walked into his office—since you walked into his life—is anything but. He pulls out almost half of the way before slamming back in and jostling you so hard that your godforsaken bracelets clink together in time with the smack of skin-on-skin. This carnality, this basal need to hear your whimpers and feel your body twitch and shake, insides squeezing around him just as tightly as your arms do around his neck, it's all new to him. It's something he'd long desired, of course. A vice he never would have thought to bring up with Mary. Even back when they first got married and things were new and fresh, the thought of doing this to her, of fucking her like she's something to be fucked rather than someone to hold and pleasure—he could never do it.

But you bring out the worst in him, ask the worst of him which he gives to you freely. The force of his thrusts send you falling back against the desk with him on top of you, face buried into the juncture of your neck and shoulder as he pounds into you at this new angle. It's a good one, he figures, if your gasps and choked-out noises are of any indication. You hold him to you like you need him to keep fucking you, like you need this craving sated just as much as he does. It spurns him on, makes him fuck into you harder, makes him want to embed himself into you. He loves Mary, he does, he loves her more than anything in the world but God, you make him feel like he's alive.

He pulls back, he has to pull back, has to look at you and he's glad he does. Your lipstick is smeared across your face with barely any leftover on your pretty lips, mascara smudged from sweat and what he can only assume are tears beaded at your waterline but what gets him, what makes his stomach twist with vicious desire, is the look you give him. Half-crazed, half-desperate, you look at him like you know. Like you can read his mind, like you can read him like the back of your hand and know which buttons to press, what his deepest wants and are and how to use them to get what you want.

He'd give you the world, he wants to see you cry, he wants to tear you to bits, he never wants you to stop saying his name, he wants you to get out of his fucking class, he wants, he wants, he wants—

"I'm close," you gasp.

Though he doesn't say it, he's not too far behind you, thrusts growing more and more erratic.

You moan openly now, hand sliding between your bodies to rub at your clit with equally erratic swipes of your fingers. God, he can't take his eyes off of you. You're all desperation wound tight and waiting to burst, so close you can almost taste it but motions too frantic to reach that peak. It's something to behold, something James can't tear his eyes away from.

He's still entranced when your eyes go wide, brows pinched together and—there it is.

"Cumming, cumming, 'm cumming—kiss, need to k-kiss, please—"

James swallows down all of your noises, every last stuttered out gasp and moan and whine of his name before you're kissing back with fervour, licking along the seam of his lips and urging him to follow suit with sweet words spoken into his mouth.

"Let go, James. 'S okay, just give in. Don't think too hard about it, yeah? Yeah, oh, fuck yeah, yeah, baby. That's it, cum for me. Give it to me."

The telltale tingle starts at the top of his spine and zips down throughout his fingers, his toes. When he can tell he's right on the edge, he shifts to move away but finds that you've locked your arms and legs around him.

"Want it, want it inside," you say through heavy breaths.

That's what does it, as ashamed as it makes him to admit.

He stares at you in dumbfounded horror as he feels himself flood hot, thick liquid into your insides, a sound somewhere between euphoric and afraid wrenched out of him when you clench around him to drain out every last drop.

"Oopsie," you say into the silence, brushing his bangs out of his eyes.

You still cling to him, even as the stickiness of your bodies and the heat become too much. Neither of you move. He's still staring at you. "What?" you finally ask.

"You promised we'd be careful," he says slowly, like he's talking to a child.

And like a child, you roll your eyes. "Look, if it bothers you that much then I'll pop a Plan B in the morning, okay?"

"That's not the—"

"—not the point, yeah I know. It's the principle or whatever." You finally detach yourself, scoffing as you recline back onto your elbows. "You're so sensitive, Doc. Most guys would be over the moon about this, you know."

You both hiss when his cock slips free, trail of cum following along behind it. James has to look away, tucking himself back into his pants quickly. "Most guys aren't married," he counters bitterly, watching as you trot around in search of your jeans and your shoes. "Most guys aren't your goddamn professor. You just...you can't just..." he trails off, unsure of what it is he's trying to get across but still frustrated that you aren't understanding it.

He watches you slip your jeans on with nothing underneath, panties stuffed into the back pocket. The mental image of you holding his cum in as you make your commute home makes his fingers twitch. "Oh, I'm sorry—I guess I missed this week's reading on how to properly have extramarital affairs."

Princess throwing a tantrum.

He sighs, deep and long and patient. Doesn't bother replying, just focuses on redressing instead of letting you goad him into whatever back and forth he doesn't want to engage in.

But then you surprise him. "You're...mad at me."

He feels an inexplicable need to comfort you, like you're the one who's been violated. "I'm not mad," he says, voice softer than perhaps you deserve, "just...a little...I don't know."

"But you still like me, right?"

That catches him off-guard. "Um," he starts, brows furrowed. The longer he takes to finish his sentence, the more pained your expression becomes. "Well, yeah. I guess so."

You pin him in place with a bright smile. "Okay. Good." Then you're turning around to tie your laces.

James opens his mouth to say something but nothing comes out, doesn't really know what he could say. He's always at a disadvantage with you. Where you're able to get under his skin and take up root there, he's still barely scratched your surface. Nothing you do makes sense to him, has no rhyme or reason that he's aware of. You seem to do whatever takes your fancy at that given moment and that...that makes him very afraid of you. He's not sure what you'll want next, what more you'll ask of him, who you'll involve next. What's worse is he's not sure if he'd be able to deny you. If he'd want to deny you.

You bound over to him once you're finished straightening your clothes, head tilted in question. "Kiss for the road?"

His heart warms against his will, stomach churning with unease as he lets you tug him down to your lips.

"Mm...still tastes like me," you say, pleased.

It takes him a touch longer than he'd like to realize you're talking about him. "Oh." He licks his lips and sure enough—"Guess you're, ah, right."

You trace a finger along the curve of his lower lip. "Mm...should probably grab a breath mint before heading over to the hospital, huh?"

The hospital?

A beat.

Realization dawns; it's Thursday.

It's Thursday. Mary's expecting him. Mary's expecting him and he reeks of sex and tastes of your cunt.

"Kinda inconvenient, huh?" Your arms twine around his neck, faux sympathy clear as day in your voice. "Guess you're gonna have to reschedule."

A second realization, creeping up the back of his neck like a phantom hand.

"You..." he swallows, feels like he's going to be sick, "you knew. You did this on purpose."

You shrug. "Maybe."

He should push you away. He wants to push you away. He wants to wrap his hands around your throat and squeeze—

But he doesn't. Instead, he just watches as you leave. Lets you go without so much as a protest or complaint. Lets you blow him a kiss before shutting the door behind you.

Then he's left alone, nothing but ungraded papers and cold tea to keep him company. Back where he'd started, back where he fears he will never leave.

thank you so much for reading! plssss send your feedback n thoughts here bc i have!! so many feelings and opinions abt this au i need let them out!!

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love me tender, love me raw