warnings: themes of grief, parental loss, death, mentions of suicide/mental health issues, alcohol abuse
Why does everything I ever love always get snatched away from me? It's a question that doesn't have an answer, or at least not one I want to hear.
Before Blackwood turned grey, there was colour. It didn't feel heavy. It felt warm, like.. home. I remember the smell of my father's dusty old work jacket when he'd scoop me into his arms after work. The feeling of my mother's soft hands in my hair while she hummed to a song I didn't know embedded into my mind.
I watched her fall apart. Day after day the lights her eye dimmed and dimmed until they were empty. Her voice a low hum as she whispered to herself in quiet corners of our home, so often that she eventually stopped seeing us at all. She tried to tell the truth, but no one understood her. My father tried to help. Dragging her from doctor to doctor, therapist after therapist. The bright fluorescent lights and waxy floors of those offices I can never forget.
She went until she couldn't anymore. Until the voices in her head were louder than any doctors or me and my father. And one day, the anchor just.. snapped. She was gone.
My father stayed but he was never really there. The house now drained of any warmth it once had. Now all that's left is silence and the sharp, sour smell of the beer he drank everyday. Bottles began to pile up. Brown glass filling the trash in the kitchen. I tried to talk to him, but he'd never respond. He just sat there staring into the space my mother used to take up. I'd ask him if he was hungry, or if he'd seen my shoes, but he wouldn't even blink. He was a ghost long before he actually became one.
I heard her before I saw her. Her soft voice humming that same song. I looked up and there she was, across the street standing at the edge of the woods. I didn't think. I just-
"Mom..?"
For the first time in months my father moved. He scrambled out of his chair, knocking over a cluster of empty bottles that shattered against the floor, but he didn't care. He was already out the door. His eyes wide and fixed on the trees. He stumbled into the street, legs heavy and uncoordinated. The world around him had faded. All he could think about was getting to her. Forgetting about cars. Forgetting that the woman he was running toward was already in the ground.
"Dad, stop!" I yelled after him, but he didn't hear me. My blood ran cold.
By the time the brakes screeched, it was already too late. They hadn't seen him. It's too dark. Everything happened too fast. One minute I was with my father and the next he was lying in the middle of the street. Dead. Hand still reaching for the woods. Everything went still after that. No more humming, no more drinking. Just me, standing on the porch of a house I could no longer call home.
Nona and Poppop came for me that night. The drive to their house was long and loud with the sound of Poppop's breathing. He didn't wait until we were inside to start.
"That drunken fool," he muttered, hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles lost their colour. "What was he thinking? He had a child to look after, but he'd rather chase a bottle into the middle of the road."
My throat felt tight. I couldn't sit back and let him say those things. Not when I knew what really happened.
"It wasn't his fault," I said to him. "I saw her. I saw mom. She was standing right there. He-"
The car stopped.
Nona didn't wait for me. Her hand came across my face in a sharp slap that make my head jerk to the side. The heat of it lingering on my cheek, throbbing in time with the beat of my heart.
"Stop spouting nonsense, Kaida," she hissed, eyes bright with fear she tried to cover with anger. "There will be absolutely no talk of ghosts around here. That's how we lost your mother, and I'm not about to lose you too."
I looked out the window at the Blackwood fog, tugging my father's jacket closer to my body. I didn't cry, but from then on, I learned to keep my mouth shut.
synapse: one semester, one professor, and a line they keep getting too close to crossing.
pairing: professor!henry creel x female reader
contains: smut—oral (giving/receiving), age gap (he’s 35, she’s 19), slight slow burn
a/n: grammarly gave me issues on this, so sorry if there’s errors or something i missed. this gif of him makes me feral 🫦 if you guys find anymore of him from vol 2, please send or tag me, i need em. this is also my first time writing smut
gif isn’t mine, @endiness made it
PART TWO is here
. . .
He’s the kind of professor who sounds gentle like every sentence is an invitation to think, not a demand to agree. Soft voice, careful phrasing, that faint almost-smile when someone makes a decent point.
Which is exactly why it’s ruining her… Not to mention, he’s physically attractive…
She sits in the second row with her notebook open, pen poised, trying to act like a normal student who came here for the assigned reading not like someone who’s been privately losing her mind since week one.
Professor Creel turns a page in his notes and the movement is so small it shouldn’t matter. But it does. Because his hands are always steady, deliberate. Because his sleeves are pushed up just enough to show the line of his forearm when he writes on the board. Because he leans forward when he gets interested, like the room becomes intimate without permission.
“Let’s talk about the narrator,” he says, and his voice is low enough that everyone quiets automatically. Not out of fear, out of habit. Out of wanting to hear him.
Her eyes flick down to his mouth before she can stop herself.
It’s not even a choice at this point. It’s like her attention has a gravitational pull and he’s the center of it.
She forces herself to look at the text. Ink. Words. Meaning. She can do this. She’s literally good at this.
He walks between the desks, slow, unhurried and stops near her.
Not in front of her. Not directly beside her. Just… close enough that she catches the clean, faint scent of soap and paper. Close enough that she can hear the quiet click of his shoes and the soft drag of his breath when he pauses to think.
“Most people,” he says, “assume the narrator is trustworthy because he’s articulate.”
Her pen scratches too hard against the page.
It’s stupid. It’s stupid to be affected by the way he says articulate, like the word has weight. Like he’s tasting it. Like he has no idea what that does to her.
He glances down at her notebook.
She tries not to react. She tries to look normal, composed, academic, except she can feel heat blooming under her skin, like her body wants to betray her in the most humiliating way possible.
Then he says her name.
Not sharply. Not like she’s in trouble. Like he’s curious.
“Y/N.”
Her stomach drops with a sick, lovely thud.
“Yes?” she manages, and she hates that it comes out slightly breathless.
His gaze stays on her just long enough to make her aware of her own mouth, her own hands, her own pulse. He doesn’t stare. He doesn’t leer. That’s the worst part: it’s all restraint. All control. All professional.
“Do you agree?” he asks, mild and polite, like he isn’t standing close enough to make her feel like she’s being singled out for something she didn’t consent to.
Her brain tries to reboot.
She drags her focus back to the page, to the lecture, to the safety of analysis, except she can still feel him there, the quiet presence, the attention. Like he’s waiting for her to meet him on his level.
“I don’t,” she says, finally, her voice steadier now, because this part she can do.
His eyebrows lift. Interested.
And she loves that look on him. She shouldn’t. But she does.
“I think we mistake articulation for honesty,” she continues. “Someone can sound convincing and still be—selective.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not a smile. A recognition.
“Selective,” he repeats, and something about hearing her word in his voice makes her spine go tight.
He leans slightly closer, not much, barely anything, just enough that his shadow edges into her space, and she suddenly becomes intensely aware of how she’s sitting. How her knee is angled. How her fingers grip her pen. How she’s breathing.
“Explain,” he says softly.
She swallows.
This isn’t flirting. It’s academic. It’s normal. It’s what she came for.
So why does it feel like he just asked her to confess something?
She keeps her eyes on the book because if she looks at him she’ll get reckless.
“Because omission is a choice,” she says. “And he omits too neatly.”
Silence settles, classroom silence, the kind that means people are listening.
Professor Creel’s gaze doesn’t leave her.
And she can feel it like a touch that isn’t happening.
“Good,” he says, very quietly, and the word hits her in the chest like she’s been rewarded.
He straightens, steps away with that maddening calm of his, and continues as if he didn’t just make her entire nervous system light up.
Her pen hovers above the page.
She tries to write down the next point. She really does.
But all she can think about is the way he said her name. The way he leaned in. The way he looked at her like her mind was something worth examining up close.
And the worst part?
He doesn’t even know she’s holding herself together by sheer willpower.
. . .
A few days later, the numbers start to betray her.
Not in lecture, never in lecture. In lecture she’s sharp, attentive, answering when he asks questions like she was made for this room. She takes notes. She underlines. She argues the right points with the right citations. She looks like she belongs here.
It’s the tests that ruin her.
The moment the paper lands in front of her, her brain does that awful thing where it wanders. Not to the book, not to the themes, but to him. To his voice reading a line aloud. To the way he watches the class when he thinks no one notices. To the quiet approval in his eyes when she challenges him and he can’t help it, can’t help her.
She sits there staring at a question she absolutely knows, and still her mind turns traitor.
By the time he hands back the second exam, the grade at the top is lower than the first.
She can feel it before she even looks. Like her body knows she’s about to be embarrassed.
He places the stack on the front desk and dismisses the class with a gentle, “That’s all for today.” Chairs scrape, backpacks zip. People file out, talking, laughing, free.
She starts to stand with them, desperate to disappear into the current.
“Y/N.”
Her name is calm. Not loud. Not angry.
It still stops her cold.
Everyone else keeps moving. The door swings. Air from the hallway washes in. A few students glance back with mild curiosity, then leave.
She remains half-standing, half-frozen, her fingers still hooked around her bag strap.
“Yes?” she manages, trying for casual and landing somewhere too tight.
Professor Creel waits until the room is mostly empty. He doesn’t watch the last student go. His attention is already on her, steady as a hand at the small of her back.
When the door clicks shut, the classroom shifts. It’s the same space, but without an audience it feels smaller. Closer. Like she’s been pulled from daylight into something private.
“Stay a moment,” he says.
Not a question. Not unkind. Just certain.
She swallows and steps back down into her chair, like her legs decide for her.
He doesn’t come around her desk. He doesn’t crowd her. He sets the graded papers on the edge of his podium, then takes his glasses off, slow and deliberate, and folds them like he has all the time in the world.
That movement should be meaningless. It isn’t.
He looks at her over the bare bridge of his nose, expression composed. Soft. Professional. The way he always is.
Except his eyes are too focused.
“Your lecture performance hasn’t changed,” he says, voice even. “But your test scores have.”
She forces a small laugh that sounds wrong in the quiet. “I’ve just been… off, I guess.”
“Off,” he repeats, and there’s a faint pause around the word, like he doesn’t accept it on principle.
He lifts her exam, this one, and taps the page once with a finger. Not hard. Not aggressive.
Controlled.
“You know this material,” he says. “These aren’t mistakes from ignorance.”
Heat crawls up her neck. She stares at the wood grain of her desk like it’s fascinating.
“I get nervous during tests.”
“Mm.” A small sound. Thoughtful. Not convinced.
The silence stretches. She can feel him weighing her the way he weighs a text, looking for what’s missing, what’s been omitted too neatly.
She hates that it works. Hates that she wants it to work.
He speaks again, gentler. “What’s going on?”
Her mouth opens.
And she does what she always does when she’s scared of the truth.
She lies.
“Nothing,” she says quickly. “It’s just a lot of classes at once. Maybe I overloaded my schedule.”
His gaze doesn’t move. He doesn’t argue. He just watches her the way he does when she tries to make a weak point in class, patient, calm, waiting for her to realize she can’t sell it to him.
“Y/N,” he says softly, and her name in his voice is a problem all by itself.
She grips her pen. “I’m fine.”
He leans back against the desk near the front, still a respectful distance, still proper, and folds his hands. There’s something quietly authoritative about the way he sits in the silence like it belongs to him.
“You’ve missed questions you’ve answered out loud in this room,” he says. “More than once.”
She looks up before she can stop herself.
His eyes meet hers immediately, like he was waiting for exactly that.
“You’re not fine,” he adds, not harshly. Just fact.
Her pulse stutters. She scrambles for an escape that doesn’t sound like an escape.
“If my grade’s going to keep dropping,” she says, voice carefully steady, “it might be better if I transferred to another section. Another professor. That way I can focus.”
The air changes. Not dramatically. Subtly, like the room just inhaled.
Professor Creel doesn’t blink.
For a second she thinks she’s offended him. Then she realizes it’s something worse.
He’s controlled, yes, but there’s a tension under it now. A quiet edge, like she’s pushed on a boundary she didn’t know was there.
He sets her exam down with careful precision.
“That’s what you want?” he asks.
She nods too fast. “It’s practical.”
“Practical,” he repeats, and the word sounds different in his mouth. Sharper. Almost amused. Almost displeased.
He stands. Not suddenly, but decisively.
Her stomach flips anyway.
He walks a few steps, still not into her space, but closer than before, stopping beside her desk at an angle. Close enough that she catches the subtle scent of his cologne again, clean and understated. Close enough that his shadow touches the corner of her notebook.
He looks down at her paper. Then at her.
His voice stays low. “You’re doing well in here. You’re engaged. You’re capable.”
She swallows, throat tight. “It doesn’t matter if my tests—”
“It does,” he cuts in, still quiet, but there’s no softness to the interruption. No room to talk over him. It isn’t anger. It’s authority, used with precision.
Her lips part. Her heart thuds like she’s been reprimanded.
Then he softens, just a fraction.
“Don’t run from a course you’re succeeding in because something else is getting in your way.”
Her breath catches. Because he didn’t say what the something is.
Like he already knows.
She forces her shoulders to loosen. “I’m not running.”
He holds her gaze. It’s infuriating how steady he is.
“Then tell me the truth,” he says, and his voice drops a shade lower, like he’s speaking to only her. “What is distracting you?”
Her face burns. Every answer she could give feels dangerous.
“I told you,” she says, too quickly. “I’m overloaded.”
He watches her for a long moment.
Then, calmly and firmly, he says, “No.”
The word lands like a hand closing around the back of her neck, not to hurt, but to stop her from moving.
She goes still.
He doesn’t touch her. He doesn’t need to.
“I’m not going to sign off on you blaming your intelligence for something that isn’t intelligence,” he continues. “And I’m not going to encourage you to abandon the one environment where you consistently excel.”
She blinks, stunned. “You can’t—”
“I can’t stop you from transferring,” he says, and she hears the clipped honesty in it. “The department handles that. If you want to change sections, you can. You don’t need my permission.”
The relief flickers, brief and fast.
Then he adds, voice even, “But if you’re asking me to validate it as the solution, I won’t.”
Her fingers tighten around her pen. “Why?”
His gaze holds hers. Steady. Intent.
“Because it’s avoidance,” he says simply.
Her pulse spikes. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he replies, and there’s something in the calm certainty that makes her stomach turn over. “I’ve been teaching long enough to recognize when a student is trying to outrun a problem by changing scenery.”
She swallows hard. “So what, what do you want me to do?”
He exhales, slow. Like he’s choosing each word carefully.
“I want you to stop pretending you don’t know what’s happening,” he says.
She stares at him, panicked, embarrassed, electric with it.
Professor Creel’s expression stays composed, but his eyes flick briefly to her mouth, then back up, like a mistake he corrects immediately.
It’s so quick she could pretend she imagined it.
She doesn’t.
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, as if he hates that his attention strays at all.
Then he speaks again, voice controlled. “We can address your performance without you sabotaging yourself. You’ll come to office hours this week. We’ll review how you’re approaching exams. We’ll fix the pattern.”
The phrasing, you’ll come, should feel too bold.
Instead it makes something in her go hot and weak and furious all at once.
She lifts her chin. “And if I don’t?”
He doesn’t smile. Not exactly.
But there’s something dangerously close to satisfaction in the quiet, unwavering way he looks at her, as if he likes that she’s defiant.
“Then you’ll keep slipping,” he says. “And you’ll hate yourself for it.”
His voice softens just enough to sound like concern again. Like he’s the same gentle professor the class knows.
But the control doesn’t leave.
“And I don’t believe,” he adds, watching her closely, “that you’re the kind of person who enjoys losing.”
Her throat tightens. She looks down at her exam because if she keeps looking at him, she’ll say something reckless.
“I’m not,” she whispers.
“Good.” That single word again. Quiet. Heavy.
He steps back, giving her space, returning the air to her lungs, like he’s proving he’s in control of that, too.
“Office hours,” he repeats, calmly inevitable. “Thursday.”
She nods because her voice is unreliable.
He picks up his glasses and puts them on, the final click of the frames settling him back into professionalism. The moment is sealed, filed away, made presentable.
But his eyes still hold hers.
And when he says, “You can go,” it sounds less like dismissal and more like permission.
She stands on legs that feel unreal, gathering her things too slowly. She moves toward the door, heart pounding, brain screaming at her to breathe.
Behind her, his voice, soft, mild, and absolutely not mild at all, adds:
“And Y/N?”
She pauses with her hand on the handle.
“Yes?”
A beat.
“Don’t lie to me again.”
Not a threat.
A boundary.
A line drawn with velvet and steel.
She leaves the room and the hallway feels too bright, too loud, too normal.
And she realizes, with a sick twist of excitement, that he didn’t let her escape.
He didn’t push her away.
He made her stay.
. . .
Office hours are quieter than class. No audience. No chatter. Just the soft hum of the lights and the occasional scratch of his pen.
Her exam lies open between them like a confession.
Professor Creel sits across the desk, sleeves rolled, glasses low on his nose as he points to the question she missed, calm, patient, infuriatingly composed.
“This one,” he says. “You identified the theme correctly in lecture. Why didn’t you use it here?”
She stares at the page. She knows the answer.
She also knows she’s not looking at the page because she can feel him, his voice, his hands, the steady focus of him, as if attention is a physical thing in the room.
“I… I don’t know,” she lies.
His gaze lifts.
It lands on her the way a hand would, slow and deliberate, and she immediately regrets being human.
“Try again,” he says softly.
Her throat tightens. Heat creeps up her neck. She glances away, pretending to reread the paragraph, but her eyes keep flicking back to him like her body refuses to cooperate.
He watches her for a beat longer than necessary.
Then he leans forward, closer, not enough to be improper, just enough to shift the air. Just enough that she can’t pretend he doesn’t affect her.
“Y/N,” he says, quieter now. “I’m speaking to you.”
“I’m listening.”
“You’re looking at me,” he corrects, still gentle, still controlled, but there’s a darker weight to it, an edge that makes her pulse stutter. “And you’ve been doing it all semester.”
Her stomach drops.
She tries to laugh it off, but it comes out thin. “That’s not—”
His hand lifts, not to touch her, not to stop her physically, just a small, precise motion that ends the sentence anyway.
She goes silent. Her breath goes shallow.
He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to.
“Your lecture performance is strong,” he says, eyes steady on hers. “Your exams are declining. And when I ask you what’s wrong, you lie.”
“I’m not lying—”
Her mind raced, thoughts of him flooding her—the way his voice commanded the lecture hall, the subtle flex of his muscles when he gestured, the heat that pooled low in her belly whenever their eyes met. But she couldn't admit that, not to him, not to anyone. It was hard enough, admitting it to herself.
His gaze sharpens. Not angry. Just final.
“You are,” he says. “And you’re not as good at it as you think.”
The heat in her face is instant and humiliating. She pushes her chair back like distance will save her, snatching her notebook, her bag, anything to give her hands a task.
“I should go,” she manages.
She stands.
He stands too, smoothly, controlled, moving around the desk with quiet purpose.
“Thank you, Professor but I should—“
Her sentence cuts off halfway.
One second she’s talking, hands moving, breath steady, then his fingers snap around her throat like a trap, thumb digging under her jaw, the rest of his grip hard enough to steal the sound right out of her mouth. Shock flashes across her face as her words collapse into a strangled, useless inhale.
The pressure of his fingers against her skin was electric, a shock of dominance that made her gasp, her pulse throbbing wildly under his touch.
“Don’t,” he says quietly, and there’s nothing quiet about the way he moves her.
He doesn’t drag her so much as guide her with pressure—an ugly, controlled shove that turns her steps backward. Her palms fly up to his wrist on instinct but he keeps her upright, keeps her moving.
Her back hits the door with a blunt thud that knocks the air loose from her lungs, pinning her there with his body mere inches away. The frame rattles.
His breath was warm on her face, carrying a faint hint of coffee and something undeniably masculine, as his eyes bored into hers, dark and unyielding. "Don't lie to me again, Y/N," he growled, his voice laced with a seductive authority that made her knees weaken. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, the subtle scent of his cologne—sandalwood and leather—invading her senses, making her head spin. Her hands instinctively rose to his wrist, not to push him away but to steady herself, her fingers brushing the hairs on his arm. "Tell me the truth. What's really distracting you?"
The words tumbled out before she could stop them, a confession born of the raw intensity in his gaze. "It's…you," she admitted softly due to his grip, her voice breaking, a flush spreading down her neck as her body betrayed her with a sudden surge of wetness between her thighs. "I can't stop looking at you, thinking about you. It's wrong…but I want you."
He didn't release her throat, but his grip loosened just enough for her to draw a shaky breath, his thumb tracing a slow circle over her pulse point that sent shivers racing down her spine.
"Tsk, tsk," he murmured, his eyes roaming over her face and down to the swell of her breasts beneath her blouse, devouring her with a look that was pure, unfiltered hunger.
“Naughty girl. Careful for what you wish for…” The way he eyed her made her feel exposed, desired in a way that ignited every nerve ending, her nipples hardening against the lace of her bra as if responding to his gaze alone.
Without warning, he pushed her harder against the door, his free hand sliding up her thigh, bunching the fabric of her skirt until it rode high on her hips as he spoke, “You finally have my full attention.”
Then, with a swift, commanding motion, he spun her around and shoved her onto the desk, papers scattering to the floor in a chaotic whisper. She landed on her back, the cool wood pressing into her skin through her clothes, her legs dangling over the edge as he wedged himself between them. His hands were everywhere—rough, insistent—hiking her skirt up further to reveal the damp fabric of her panties, the scent of her arousal already filling the air like a forbidden perfume.
He dropped to his knees with a deliberateness that made her breath catch, his eyes locked on hers as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her underwear and yanked them down, exposing her fully to the dim light. The cool air kissed her slick folds, making her shudder, and she could see the raw hunger in his expression, his lips parting slightly as he took in the sight of her—her pussy glistening, swollen with need.
"You're soaked for me already," he said, his voice a husky whisper that sent a jolt through her core, before he leaned in.
His breath hot against her most intimate flesh. The first touch of his tongue was agonizingly slow, a flat, broad stroke from her entrance to her clit that made her arch off the desk, a low moan escaping her lips.
He gripped her thighs, holding her open as he delved deeper, his tongue delving into her folds with expert precision, lapping at the wetness that coated her. Every flick, every swirl sent waves of pleasure crashing through her body—the wet, sucking sounds of his mouth on her filling the room, mingling with her ragged gasps.
She could feel the roughness of his tongue against her sensitive nub, circling it relentlessly, building a tension that coiled tighter and tighter in her belly, her hips bucking involuntarily against his face.
As he worked her with unyielding focus, his hands roamed upward, one sliding under her blouse to cup her breast, thumbing her hardened nipple through the fabric until she cried out, the dual sensations overwhelming.
The taste of her seemed to drive him wild; she could hear his breaths growing heavier, feel the occasional brush of his stubble against her inner thighs, adding a delicious friction to the mix.
Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as the pleasure mounted, her body trembling on the edge. "Professor, please," she whimpered, her voice thick with desperation, the words barely coherent amid the symphony of her moans.
He didn't stop, his tongue plunging into her entrance now, fucking her with it in slow, deep thrusts that mimicked what she craved elsewhere, his nose pressing against her clit with each movement.
The buildup was exquisite torture, every nerve alight with sensation—the slick warmth of his mouth, the firm pressure of his lips, the way her inner walls clenched around nothing, aching for more.
When she finally shattered, her orgasm ripping through her like a storm, her body convulsed, thighs clamping around his head as waves of ecstasy pulsed from her core, leaving her breathless and spent, a trail of her essence glistening on his chin.
He pulled back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes gleaming with a predatory satisfaction that made her heart race anew.
The room felt charged, the air heavy with the mingled scents of their desire—her musky arousal and his own faint, masculine sweat. Before she could catch her breath, his hand shot out again, wrapping around her throat with that same commanding grip, pulling her up to face him, sliding off the desk. "I'm not done with you yet," he whispered, his voice a dark promise that sent a fresh shiver down her spine, his other hand already guiding her to her knees in front of him.
The wooden floor pressed hard against her kneecaps as he pushed the chair under the door handle, the metallic scrape echoing like a seal on their privacy, leaving her trapped in this intimate world with him, her body still humming from the aftershocks of pleasure.
She looked up at him, her lips parted in anticipation, the bulge in his pants mere inches from her face, and she knew this was only the beginning of the storm they had unleashed.
She knelt there on the hard wooden floor, her knees aching from the unyielding surface, the cool air of the classroom brushing against her flushed skin as she gazed up at him. Professor Creel's eyes locked onto hers, dark and commanding, a silent order that made her fingers tremble slightly as they reached for the waistband of his pants.
With deliberate slowness, she unbuttoned them, the metal clasp giving way under her touch, the sound of the zipper's descent a soft, intimate whisper in the quiet room. All the while, his hand rested firmly in her hair, fingers threading through the strands to tilt her head back, ensuring she didn't break that intense eye contact. It was as if he were teaching her another lesson, one far removed from the lectures on Shakespeare and Austen that had filled this very space just hours before—just on the other side of the chair barricaded door, lectures where she'd sat in the second row, her mind wandering, distracted by the way his voice commanded the room, his words painting vivid worlds that mirrored the turmoil in her own heart.
She knelt there on the hard wooden floor, her knees aching from the unyielding surface, the cool air of the classroom brushing against her flushed skin as she gazed up at him. Professor Creel's eyes locked onto hers, dark and commanding, a silent order that made her fingers tremble slightly as they reached for the waistband of his pants. With deliberate slowness, she unbuttoned them, the metal clasp giving way under her touch, the sound of the zipper's descent a soft, intimate whisper in the quiet room. All the while, his hand rested firmly in her hair, fingers threading through the strands to tilt her head back, ensuring she didn't break that intense eye contact. It was as if he were teaching her another lesson, one far removed from the lectures on Shakespeare and Austen that had filled this very space just hours before—lectures where she'd sat in the back row, her mind wandering, distracted by the way his voice commanded the room, his words painting vivid worlds that mirrored the turmoil in her own heart.
As his pants slid down his thighs, revealing the dark fabric of his underwear straining against his arousal, Her breath caught in her throat.
She paused for a heartbeat, her eyes widening at the sight of his cock as he freed it with a deft pull, the thick shaft springing forward, already hard and pulsing with need.
It was larger than she'd imagined in her secret, stolen fantasies, the kind that had crept into her thoughts during his classes, when he'd pace the front of the room, his authoritative presence making her pulse quicken.
The head was flushed a deep crimson, glistening with a bead of precum that caught the dim light filtering through the blinds, and she couldn't help but stare, mesmerized by its girth, the veins tracing along the sides like rivers on a map she was desperate to explore. A mix of awe and a thrill of apprehension washed over her, her own body still thrumming from the orgasm he'd just given her, as she leaned in closer, the musky scent of him filling her nostrils—a heady blend of soap, sweat, and raw desire that made her mouth water.
His grip in her hair tightened, guiding her forward with a gentle but insistent pressure, and she parted her lips obediently, her tongue darting out to taste him first.
The initial contact was electric, the saltiness of his skin exploding on her taste buds as she swirled her tongue around the tip, savoring the slick warmth.
He let out a low groan, his free hand coming to rest on her shoulder, steadying himself as his eyes rolled back while they closed at the feeling.
She took him deeper, her lips stretching around his considerable size.
"That's it, Y/N," he whispered, his voice a velvety rumble that sent shivers down her spine, words laced with praise and possession. "Look at me while you take me in—show me how much you want this, how you've been thinking about it in my class, your mind drifting from sonnets to something far more sinful."
His words ignited a fire within her, each syllable stoking the embers of her desire, making her core clench with renewed need. She hollowed her cheeks, sucking gently at first, then with increasing fervor, the wet sounds of her mouth working him filling the air, a rhythmic counterpoint to her own muffled moans.
He began to guide her movements more assertively, his hand in her hair setting the pace, pulling her back just enough to let her breathe before urging her forward again.
The friction of his cock sliding against her tongue was intoxicating, the velvety smoothness giving way to the rigid heat beneath, every inch filling her mouth until he hit the back of her throat, making her gag softly—a sound that seemed to spur him on.
Her hands found his thighs, fingers digging into the firm muscle for support as she bobbed her head, the taste of him growing stronger, more potent with each stroke.
"You're doing so well, my eager student," he murmured, his breath coming in ragged bursts, "just like how you should be devouring those texts I assign, but now it's my turn to see that hunger in your eyes."
The reference to her slipping grades flashed through her mind unbidden, a fleeting memory of earlier that day even, when he'd handed back her latest test, his gaze lingering on her as she stared at the red-inked failure, a wave of embarrassment crashing over her that had only deepened her intrigue.
It was that same mix of shame and unspoken attraction that fueled her now, pushing her to take him deeper, her tongue tracing patterns along the underside of his shaft, feeling every twitch and pulse as he grew even harder.
As the intensity built, his whispers grew more explicit, each one a caress that amplified the heat pooling in her belly.
"Swallow me down, Y/N, every last drop, like you're proving your dedication," he rasped, his hips thrusting slightly to meet her mouth, the controlled rhythm turning urgent.
She could feel him swelling against her palate, the first hints of his release building, and she redoubled her efforts, her lips sealed tightly around him, sucking with a fervor born of desperation and desire.
The room seemed to spin around her, the scent of their shared arousal thick in the air, mingling with the faint chalk dust from the blackboard behind them, a reminder of the classroom's dual purpose.
Her own body responded in kind, nipples hardening against the fabric of her blouse, thighs pressing together to quell the ache between them, as she lost herself in the act, the emotional weight of her crush on him, his intellectual dominance, the way he'd singled her out after class, his eyes stripping away her defenses, making every sensation more profound.
When he finally tensed, his grip in her hair turning almost painful, she felt the hot rush of his cum flooding her mouth, the salty bitterness coating her tongue in thick waves.
She swallowed instinctively, her throat working to take it all as he had commanded, the act intimate and overwhelming, a final surrender to the storm they'd unleashed. He held her there for a moment longer, his cock pulsing with aftershocks, before gently pulling her away, his chest heaving as he looked down at her with a mix of satisfaction and something deeper, perhaps a glimmer of the forbidden connection that bound them.
As she wiped her lips, still tasting him, her mind drifted back to the lecture earlier that day, how she'd sat there, distracted by thoughts of him, his passionate words on classic literature echoing in her ears even now, intertwining with the raw physicality of what they'd just shared, leaving her breathless and yearning for whatever came next.
His chest still heaved with the aftershocks of his release, Henry finally released her hair, his fingers lingering for a moment in the soft strands as if reluctant to let go.
With a deep, steadying breath, he tucked himself back into his pants, adjusting the fabric with precise, almost clinical movements that belied the intensity of what they'd just shared, his gaze never leaving her face.
Her, still kneeling, smoothed her skirt down over her trembling thighs, the damp fabric clinging to her skin and reminding her of the slick mess between her legs, her body buzzing with unquenched desire.
The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the sudden silence, pulling him from his haze; he glanced at it, his brow furrowing with a mix of urgency and regret. "Get dressed properly," he murmured, his voice low and commanding yet laced with a tenderness that made her heart ache.
“Yes, sir,” she said softly.
“We can't risk being caught. You're dismissed for now, Y/N, but be back here tomorrow after class. I expect you to make up for those failed tests in ways that go far beyond mere words." His eyes darkened with promise, the intellectual spark in them reigniting.
She rose unsteadily to her feet, the taste of him on her tongue fueling her yearning for the forbidden lessons yet to come.
. . .
taglist₊‧.°.⋆˚₊‧⋆.
@sillygoober1111 , @idontknowwhoiamorwhatiamdoing , @edb954 , @henrycreelsbelt (ty for the idea), @ihartsailormoon
