the stress of university had finally gotten to you, and you failed your advance financial accounting midterm—terribly. like, really bad. so bad, that your professor had requested a private meeting in his office to discuss possible solutions, as you had little wiggle room to pass the class at this rate.
you fidget at your jean skirt as you walk the empty halls to your professor’s office. you’d only been there a couple times before, but usually in the early afternoon—not during the evening, where you can see the sun setting just below the horizon.
you weren’t exactly nervous for this meeting—yeah, your gpa and bachelor’s degree in finance is on the line—but that wasn’t what was bringing you nerves. instead, it was the fact that it was professor nanami of all people.
it was a complicated relationship you shared with your professor. he was older by probably a decade, but you knew there was something. in the glances you two shared during lectures, the extra care he took to ensure your grades stayed above the class average... so, naturally, you failing the midterm confused him.
you knew why though—you’ve been awfully distracted by him recently. you know how crushes come randomly, and they invade your mind for weeks at a time? unfortunately, nanami had done just that.
it was hard to focus when his broad shoulders would stretch to write on the board, when he’d fidget with his watch as he spoke, or the small nods he would give you when he noticed you staring at the buttons of his thin, long-sleeved, cuffed around his thick forearms, shirts.
you knock on the door to his office, and he responds telling you to come inside.
upon entering, you find nanami at his desk, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled just below his elbows, and he seems deep in thought as he reads papers on his desk.
“hi,” your voice comes out raspy, suddenly feeling nervous at the proximity. you can see each hair on his body, the smoothness of his pores, the veins that line his arms. you slowly lower yourself in the chair across the desk. “i made it.”
nanami finally glances up from his papers, and you realize he was looking over your exam, and you feel a flush of embarrassment. “i can see that. i’m glad you made it, and i apologize for the lateness of our meeting today. now—if we may?”
you nod and he pushes your exam towards you. he continues, “i’ve looked over your exam a couple of times, and to me it seems like you’d given up on most questions.”
the boldness of the assumption startles you, and your hands fidget in your lap. “i—i really tried my best. i guess i just forgot a lot of stuff.”
he leans back in his chair with a short exhale, his hand coming up to stroke his jaw. “i doubt you would forget such basics. you excelled in all of the online assignments and discussions, so this exam seems quite displaced, no?”
his confrontational manner prickles at your skin, and you feel exposed and disgusting sitting in front of him like this. you almost wished his idea of “solutions” included you giving him a blowjob and getting an automatic a, but it seems like nanami is set on the more professional route.
maybe you could change his mind.
“it does seem displaced,” you decide to agree, but your voice still comes out small. you shift in your seat and watch as nanami mimics you, likely subconsciously. “professor, i think i’ve just been distracted.”
nanami sighs, and his head tilts slightly, his composure still not faltering. “how so? you focus well on my lectures, and your participation exceeds most of my students.”
here goes nothing, you think. a sharp exhale. “well—i just—i don’t actually focus well during lecture, i sort of zone out. i’ve just gotten good at looking like i’m listening.” you confess, ending your sentence with a slight chuckle. you find this embarrassing to say to your professor, especially when you’re trying to hint at the fact that he is the distraction. what a way to get kicked out of university.
nanami’s stare holds on you a second too long. his fingers tap against the desk once before he leans back, the chair creaking under his weight. “y/n” he says flatly, “this is a university course. distractions aren’t an excuse for failure, and they don’t change the fact that you performed terribly. if you can’t focus, then maybe this program isn’t the right fit for you.”
his words cut straight through your little attempt at charm, and your stomach twists. but instead of backing down, something in you wants to push, to see if the spark under his calm exterior is real. you lower your gaze just a bit, and let your voice come out softer. “maybe i just need… more personalized guidance. a private lecture might help me learn better.”
nanami exhales slowly, like he’s buying himself time, and when he finally speaks his voice is steady but weighted. “if i’m understanding what you’re trying to suggest…” he pauses, eyes narrowing slightly, and his jaw tightens before he continues. “then yes—a more private lecture could be arranged. but you need to understand something.” his gaze flicks down to the paper between you, then back to your face, sharper now. “my methods wouldn’t be gentle—they never are. you won’t get a guaranteed grade out of this. the only thing i’d promise is that you’ll work for whatever outcome you walk away with.”
your lips part, but you force yourself to swallow back any reply, letting the silence answer for you. nanami studies your face for a long moment before giving a short nod. “then sit here,” he orders, gesturing at the empty space next to him. the tone of his voice makes your body move before your brain catches up.
you drag your chair closer, the legs scraping against the floor, and lower yourself onto it. the space between you collapses. the smell of his clean cologne overwhelms your senses, and you feel yourself pulse inappropriately. he pulls your exam back in front of you, places a fresh sheet of paper down, and sets a pen on top of it.
“rewrite question twelve,” he says like he’s testing how quickly you’ll obey. “do it without skipping steps this time.”
you hesitate for a second before picking up the pen. your wrist feels clumsy under his steady gaze, every character you write larger than necessary. nanami leans forward, one hand braced against the desk, and the other hovering close to your writing hand. his sleeve brushes your forearm, and your heart skips a beat.
“focus,” he murmurs, so low you almost miss it. his index finger taps firmly against the page, forcing your eyes back down. “debit first. credit second. say it aloud as you write.”
your voice comes out softer than you intend. “debit first… credit second.”
“louder.”
you obey, cheeks warming embarrassingly, repeating the words until they’re etched in your mind. he makes you work through every mistake the same way; rewriting, speaking the rules back to him, adjusting the angle of your numbers until they meet his standard. and the entire time, his knee brushes yours beneath the desk. it seems deliberate now, like he knows you’re aware of the closeness and he wants you to squirm under it.
when you finish, he plucks the sheet from your hand and stands. you watch him slip it into an envelope, shove it away, then slam the cabinet shut with a force that makes you flinch. “much better,” he says, though the sharp sound of metal on metal feels more like judgment than praise. his eyes cut to you, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly. “see? you’re capable—when someone forces you to stay on task.”
“was that all?” you ask. that was too simple of a meeting there’s no way he’d let it end there and adjust your grade for that.
your question earns a low, unexpected laugh. nanami steps back toward you, and before you can process, his hand fists in your hair, tilting your head up. “if that were all, every one of my students would be passing. i told you—you’d work for this.”
your heart slams as his grip tightens, pulling your face against the rough linen of his crotch. the pressure makes your lips part in shock, the heat of him pulsing through the fabric.
“do you want to pass my class?” he asks, voice steady as his other hand cups your cheek. your skin feels seared under his touch, your whole face surely burning red.
you nod—too eager, and it makes him laugh again, before he grinds your face harder against him.
“say it,” he demands, teeth gritted. “i need to hear you say it.”
“ah—i want to pass your class,” you gasp, his hold tugging your scalp tight, pain and heat winding together. “please, professor.”
“good fucking girl.” the praise drips with satisfaction. he lets your hair go only to unfasten his belt in one swift movement, the metallic scrape ringing in your ears. the leather slithers free of the loops, then he tosses it under the desk without care. he pauses, watching you through lowered lashes, and his voice comes out controlled and cold. “do the rest for me. if you really want this grade, then prove it—make your professor feel good.”
hesitantly, with shaky hands, you pull his zipper down. it’s loud in this piercing silence of the office, and your breath catches as you free him— his cock is thick and already straining in your hand. the sight makes your mouth water, yet shame burning through you.
nanami angles himself down toward you, his hand finding your jaw again. he guides your lips to part. “open,” he orders simply.
you obey, sitting back in the chair as he presses the head against your tongue. the taste of salt and flesh floods your senses as he pushes deeper. it’s slow at first, but it’s not long until your lips are stretched to accommodate around him.
his hand slips back into your hair with that same rough pull, and he is keeping you exactly where he wants you. “that’s it,” he mutters, voice low. “you’ll take me and keep studying at the same time. show me you can multitask, since distractions seem to be our culprit.”
your heart skips, confusion flashing across your face, but he’s already reaching across the desk, sliding another spare sheet in front of you. a pen clatters down next to it.
“don’t stop sucking,” he instructs, thrusting lazily into your mouth. “now, question twenty-three. lease accounting. write it out again.”
your eyes water as you fumble for the pen, your other hand braced against the desk for balance. your letters come out messy and uneven, each stroke jerking with the push of his hips, but you keep going, desperate to please him and prove yourself.
“good girl,” nanami breathes when your tongue swirls around him on instinct. your jaw is aching in pain already around how thick he is. “focus on the question. i want to see if you can still solve under pressure.”
your thighs squeeze tight together as you scribble out calculations with shaking hands, saliva slicking your chin. the scratch of pen on paper mixes with the rough drag of him against your throat, every correction of his grip making your body jolt and ache for more.
he glances down at the paper, then back to your face, strands of your hair clinging to his knuckles. “this is illegible,” he says evenly, hips snapping harder into your mouth. “fix it.”
the words land harshly, and the humiliation and excitement begin burning the back of your neck. you choke back a moan that is muffled around his cock. your vision is blurring as you start rewriting, desperate to keep pace with his demanding pace.
nanami’s grip tightens in your hair, pulling just enough to angle your head so he can force you deeper. his voice is calm like he’s lecturing in class and not using your mouth like a toy. “focus.”
your pen scratches across the page, and the letters come out jagged and crooked one again. what’s even worse is that your calculations are stained with spit as it drips onto the desk. your hand trembles, but you keep moving, pushing the pen harder into the paper as if that will steady you.
“much better,” he mutters, hips rolling slow against your tongue. his free hand taps the edge of the sheet, smearing the corner with precum as he drags it closer to read. “it’s still messy, but your calculations are well done.”’
heat coils in your stomach at his reluctant approval, and you shift in your chair without meaning to, thighs pressing together impossibly harder. nanami notices, of course he does. his eyes don’t lift from the paper in front of him as he speaks, voice cutting low. “squeezing your thighs over something this simple?”
his hips drive forward suddenly, rough and snappy, and you gag around him, the sound loud in the quiet office. he doesn’t pause nor flinch, just holds you there until your nose is buried in the stiff starch of his shirt and your eyes spill over with tears.
“if you want to pass, you’ll learn discipline,” he grits out, pulling you back by the hair until you’re gasping, lips swollen and chin slick with your saliva. “you don’t seem to understand how to listen unless it involves my cock.”
he pulls himself from your mouth with a pop and slaps his thickness across your cheek, smearing spit and precum along your skin and sinking himself back into your mouth for a moment before pulling back out. suddenly, his palm cracks across your face, sharp enough to burn, and after your momentary flinch, you realize your thighs have clamped together, betraying you.
nanami stills, his hand hovering just above your stinging skin, and his eyes narrow. “you liked that,” he mutters, his tone somewhere between accusation and realization.
your face burn and you can feel the tears settling on the tips of your lashes. you can’t answer, and the silence says more than anything could.
a low sound rumbles from his chest, like he has come to a personal conclusion. his fingers twist into your hair again, jerking your head back until you’re staring up at him, mouth still wet and chin shining. “unbelievable,” he says, voice rough. “a student of mine, getting off on being slapped.”
your stomach flips, shame and heat tangling in a way that makes you feel sick. your voice breaks when you try, “professor—”
“quiet.” the word cuts through the air and his hand cracks across your cheek again. when you shiver at the loss of contact, the corner of his mouth twists. “wagging for me already. needy little thing.” his thumb drags over your swollen lip, smearing saliva. “is that what you want? to sit here on command while i train you?”
your thighs squeeze together again, your face burning because you can’t even deny it, and you have never been spoken to this way—like you’re some pet to be trained.
nanami chuckles under his breath. “thought so.” he pulls your head down, his cock nudging against your lips again. “open.”
you do, instantly, and he pushes back into your mouth until your throat tightens around him. his grip in your hair keeps the rhythm, not letting you move at your own pace. “good,” he mutters, voice taut with control. “see how fast you learn when someone takes charge? that’s what you’ve been missing.” his hips roll deeper, pressing until your throat convulses.
the pen still lies abandoned on the desk and your exam squished beneath your arm. nanami notices and he pulls back just enough for you to breathe, glancing down at the page. “pick it up,” he orders. “finish the equation while you suck this cock—show me you’re not as useless as that exam made you look.”
you grab the pen with trembling fingers, tears slipping down your cheeks as you scrawl numbers you can barely see. the ink smudges from your drool dripping onto the page.
nanami huffs a laugh at the sight of how pathetic you are, hands shaking and moaning helplessly around him while you attempt to finish your equation. “so fucking sloppy,” he says, pushing into your mouth harder with each word until your moan vibrates against him. “sloppy writing, sloppy mouth… how fitting.”
the humiliation scorches through you, but it sharpens into something unbearable and sweet. you try harder, pressing the pen down once again with desperation to prove you can do it.
“better,” he concedes after a glance at your scrawl. his thumb strokes along your throat, feeling the bulge as he shoves himself deeper. “this is how you learn, hm? on your knees for your professors?” on that last word his hips snap forward, making you choke, his grip holding you there until your vision blurs.
when he finally lets you breathe, he yanks you back by your hair, spit stringing from your lips to his cock. your head tips back, and you’re forced to meet his gaze. “you’re learning,” he says flatly, though the heat in his eyes betrays him. “but don’t think for a second you’re anywhere close to passing.”
before you can recover or mumble an incoherent response, a knock rattles the door.
you freeze, and you feel yourself begin panicking, shitshitshitshit i’m going to be expelled, or worse. can i go to jail for sucking my professors co—but nanami doesn’t falter. his hand tightens in your hair, pushing you under the desk. “quiet,” he murmurs, his tone is still commanding, but you can hear the slight tremble in his tone. you fall to your knees as he lowers into his chair, straightening his cuffs and shoving himself half-way back into his trousors like nothing has happened.
“come in,” he calls.
the door creaks open. and it sounds like another professor steps in. “nanami, i just—ah. sorry to interrupt. faculty asked me to drop these off.” you hear the sound of shuffling papers, and them being dropped on the desk above you.
“leave them there,” nanami replies evenly, his tone is steady and professional as usual.
as he speaks, his polished shoe nudges your thigh, then pushes higher, prying your knees apart. you bite down on your lip as the leather drags against your dampest spots achingly slow.
the colleague’s voice seems to travel further into the room. “oh, and meeting’s been moved to thursday, the dean asked me to remind you.”
“mm,” nanami hums, and it sounds like he is flipping through a set of papers like he’s already too busy to talk. meanwhile, his shoe grinds against you, the tip of it pressing where you’re throbbing, and your thighs begin to shake. you grip the floor, trying not to move, but it’s pretty fucking hard when nanami is rubbing smooth circles on your clit with his foot, and you can see the cum beading at the tip of his cock while he does so. he enjoys this shit.
“they want you to bring your syllabus draft,” the colleague continues, still lingering. nanami hums once more, obviously attempting to dismiss the other man. his foot angles cruelly, and he pushes against the skin of your inner thighs until clipping your wet panties and you assist him in pulling them askew.
he adjusts and begins to grind the heel of his shoe against your exposed cunt in rougher circles. the heat builds quick, and desperation claws at you. before you can stop yourself, you reach for the length still hanging half free above you.
nanami doesn’t look down, but his knee shifts, nudging your wrist away with a sharp warning, and humiliation twists in your gut, making you ache even more.
“i’ll have it ready,” he says smoothly, voice betraying nothing, even as his shoe presses harder under the desk.
“ah, and these are grading revisions—sorry for the late notice.” the colleague sighs, and it sounds like he’s setting another paper down.
“no trouble,” nanami replies, shifting in his chair like it’s nothing. the move drives his foot harder between your legs, tip of his foot nearly pushing inside, and your whole body jerks forward, and your hips rock against it. you bite into your knuckles, but a whimper still slips out, and your heart drops at the realization.
but—the colleague doesn’t notice. “see you at the meeting, then.” and you hear his footsteps travel out the room.
the door clicks shut.
the room has fallen into his normal silence again. nanami doesn’t move his shoe, still pinning you open, but now he’s cleaning down and staring at you with sharp eyes.
“couldn’t even stay still,” he hisses, the anger in his tone making you flinch. “reaching for me, moaning with another professor three feet away.” his shoe drags back, leaving you empty and aching, but he doesn’t move. his gaze lingers on the way you kneel on the floor—trembling, lips wet, breath all ragged.
“look at yourself,” he says flat, his anger twisting into something of disgust. “on the floor of my office, with drool on my exam and all over your face. you’ve got not a fucking trace of dignity left.” his foot presses against your thigh, keeping you down. “and you think you deserve to cum?”
shame burns in your chest, twisting with lust you have never felt before. you can’t answer, but he doesn’t need you to. without breaking eye contact, he slowly loosens his tie, pulling it free in one smooth draw. the fabric coils once around his hand.
“stand,” he orders.
your knees wobble as you rise, and he’s already behind you, slipping the silk between your lips before you can catch your breath. you can feel the heat radiating off his body, and you ache to just press yourself against his twitching and leaking cock. he knots the tie tight, pulling your mouth open just enough to sting at the edges.
“there,” nanami murmurs, adjusting the tie with a practiced tug, his breath brushing your ear. “now you won’t embarrass yourself with those little noises. no one needs to hear how desperate you sound for your professor.”
his hand slides to your hip, pushing until your stomach meets the edge of the desk. loose papers crumple beneath you as he bends you forward, your cheek pressed to the cool wood.
his other hand drifts lower, skimming the hem of your skirt. one sharp tug and your panties slide down your thighs in a smooth pull, the chill air against your bare skin making you shiver.
“look at you,” he hisses under his breath, almost like he’s talking to himself. his palm cups the curve of your ass almost possessively, before landing a quick slap that makes your body jolt. “squirming, drooling...now you’re bent over my desk like you belong here.”
he leans down, and his is breath hot against your ear. “maybe now,” he murmurs, spreading your legs open with one hand, “you’ll finally learn what it means to keep quiet and listen.”
his palm glides across your skin, admiring the softness, before coming down harder this time. the crack echoes through the office, and it stings so bad that your body goes cold. you try to cry out against the tie, but it is muffled by the spit already wetting the silk.
“fucking pathetic,” he mutters, striking again. “you whine like a dog, and you couldn’t even pass our easiest exam.”
his free hand flips your exam open beside your cheek, pages ruffling under his knuckles. “question eight,” he says, his tone steady, almost like he’s back at the lectern. “read it.”
your eyes blur with tears, but you force them across the messy ink. the words come out garbled around the gag, and all that comes out is muffled and broken syllables.
nanami chuckles and smacks your ass again. “listen to yourself—you can’t even form a sentence, and you think you deserve to be here?” another slap lands, harder this time, making your legs shake. “try again.”
you sob through the gag, stumbling over the text on the page, but your voice has reduced to nonsense. nanami laughs again, sharper this time. “you sound ridiculous, sweetheart.”
his hand comes down again, heat blooming under your skin. “spanked raw, choking on your own spit, repeating every mistake until you finally remember...” his palm presses into the sting he left, his thumb rubbing hard circles on the pink skin.
“you’re such a fucking slut,” he leans in, voice brushing your ear. “you’re all wet from this, hm.”
his hand slips lower, dragging between your thighs, finding the slick mess waiting for him. nanami exhales through his nose and begins rubbing slow circles that make your knees buckle.
“all this from being scolded?” his tone is mocking, but his fingers are purposeful as they begin teasing your entrance just enough to make you whimper into the tie.
he slides one finger through your folds, spreading the wetness across your pussy. “look at this,” he brings his finger to your line of sight, and you watch him rub your slickness between his fingers before going back down. before you have any chance to speak, he pushes a finger inside slowly, and your body clenches desperately.
“mm, my student is so tight,” he murmurs, mostly to himself, sliding deeper, curling just enough to make you arch. “too tight for such a good slut like you.” another finger joins, and he is stretching you out, pushing harder until your body rocks forward with every thrust.
he fingers you for a short moment before he pulls them out suddenly, leaving you empty and aching, your cunt flexing at the loss of his thick fingers. you gasp against the gag, wanting to bed for more until you feel the heavy weight of him pressing against your entrance.
nanami leans over you, hand flat on your lower back, pressing your stomach harder into the desk until you’re pinned beneath him. his breath brushes your ear. “c’mon, sweetheart, let’s see if you can earn this grade.”
he pushes in, forcing his thick cock inside you. the stretch burns, and you realize your nails are digging into the wood as you take every inch of him. your muffled cry vibrates against the tie, your body clenching around him as he buries himself deep.
nanami groans low and his forehead has dropped briefly to your shoulder. “fuck,” he mutters, then sharpens again. “no more mistakes—take me properly or fail my class.”
he draws back and thrusts forward, fucking you harder now. the desk rattles beneath you and his papers are scattering across the deep wood. every stroke of his cock reminds you of his repetitive discipline.
your body is betraying you with each thrust. all you can do is whimper against the wet tie and arch your back further in hopes of gaining more inches of your professor’s relentless cock.
at the sight of your arch, his thrusts grow rougher and faster, that careful and professional rhythm gone now. his hips snap forward and fill the room with lewd sounds of your skin slapping his. your gag muffles every sound you want to release, until he yanks the tie free with a sharp tug.
“fuck, i want to hear you,” he mutters, almost a growl. “if i’m going to risk everything, i want to hear exactly how much you need this cock.”
air floods your lungs, and the moans tumble out alongside gasps for oxygen. the sound makes him grunt, his hands digging bruises into your hips as he slams deeper, chasing every gasp.
you turn your head now, cheek pressed to the desk, and he leans down to press his mouth at your ear. “the door’s still unlocked,” he reminds you, voice low and somehow sexier than before. “anyone could walk in and see you like this—bent over my desk, all fucked like the good whore you are.”
your stomach twists and your body clenches around him. “keep your eyes on the door,” he orders, thrusting hard enough to knock papers to the floor. “you asked for this, hm? so show them how fucking—ah, fuck—how desperate you are to pass.”
his pace doesn’t falter. if anything, it gets harsher, and his composure begins unraveling completely as he buries himself deep. he is groaning into your hair as his hips snap ravingly. “fuck—this is—,” he mutters, though his hips never slow. “you feel too good—i can’t stop.”
the pressure below builds fast as each thrust only drives you closer to the edge. your nails claw into the desk as you feel your body tensing up and beginning to shake with its upcoming orgasm. you’re so close it hurts—just one more push and you’ll break—
but nanami knows this. his hand clamps on your hip, pinning you with his cock buried to the hilt and you can feel him hit spots you didn’t even know existed.
“mm, no,” he mutters in your ear, voice jagged with restraint. “you don’t get to cum—ah, not unless you pass. do you understand?”
you whimper, shaking your head weakly against the desk, but he pulls out anyway, leaving you clenching around nothing. humiliation burns through you, but his fist is already around himself, pumping hard, quick strokes.
“look at me,” he snaps, yanking your head up by the hair. your lips part instinctively, your face wet with tears and sweat, and he groans at the sight.
the first hot spill lands across your cheek, then your lips, dripping down your chin. he strokes himself faster, breaths sharp as the next streak paints your mouth and nose.
“fuck—” nanami’s voice cracks as his hips jerk forward, directing the rest of his cum to your chest and the exam on the desk below you. ink bleeds into blurred smudges, drowning the equations under the mess.
he squeezes himself through the last spurts, milking every drop until it dribbles down your collarbone. he exhales and drags the ruined sheet up against your cheek, smearing the wetness across your skin.
“good fuckin’ girl,” he says, his tone cool again, though his chest still heaves. “maybe i’ll grade this as your retake. at least this time it looks like you tried.”
not wasting any time, nanami tucks himself back into his trousers with brisk, practiced motions, not sparing you a glance as he buckles his belt and smooths his shirt. the composure you knocked loose is already back. his expression is already back to calm and professional, like nothing happened at all.
papers shuffle as he stacks them neatly, setting the ruined exam to the side. his voice cuts the silence and it’s so dismissive that you flinch. “clean yourself up.”
you blink at him, still bent over the desk. as if this couldn’t get more embarrassing. you watch his eyes as they briefly glance at the cum racing down your body and the shake in your legs.
“now,” he adds. he doesn’t look at you when he says it, eyes already back on the documents in front of him.
you stumble upright, tugging your skirt down, swiping at your face with the back of your hand. the mess smears worse, streaking across your cheek, and shame burns hot as you reach for tissues at the corner of his desk.
nanami doesn’t offer help nor does he acknowledge you. he is already writing some stupid notes on a paper.
“leave when you’re finished,” he says flatly, eyes still down. “lock the door behind you.”
the finality in his voice lands heavier than any slap. when you finally step out into the dim hall, the last thing you hear is the scratch of his pen, and the quiet is so calm as if you were never there.
☆
reposted from my own tumblr and ao3. this belongs to @ttronj.
nsfw professor! gojo satoru who uses his backscratcher on you for being a naughty student and rails you, hard.
the lecture hall is dim, only the weak golden glow of the desk lamp and the bruised purple of the dying sunset bleeding through the high windows. the air smells faintly of old chalk dust, polished wood, and the sharp citrus of gojo’s cologne that clings to his rolled-up sleeves—same one he wore when he first cornered you after hours three weeks ago, same scent that’s been lingering on your skin ever since.
he’s sprawled sideways in the professor’s chair like it belongs to him, long legs spread wide, the faint creak of leather as he shifts. his tie hangs loose and crooked around the open collar of his shirt; you can see the slow rise and fall of his throat when he swallows. in his right hand, the ridiculous wooden backscratcher he “borrowed” from the lounge—dark cherry-stained, warm from his grip, the clawed end slightly worn from years of lazy use. he caught you staring at it earlier during lecture, eyes flicking between the tool and his face like you were already imagining it somewhere else. he smirked then. he’s smirking now.
you’re standing between his thighs, skirt shoved high around your hips, the cool classroom air kissing the suddenly bare skin of your cunt. your panties are long gone—tucked into his pocket after he peeled them off you in the supply closet last tuesday, same way he’s been peeling you apart piece by piece every time you stay late for “extra help.”
he drags the clawed tips of the backscratcher down the center of your bare stomach—slow, deliberate, the blunt points just sharp enough to prickle without breaking skin. goosebumps erupt in a violent shiver; you feel them chase each other across your ribs, your nipples tightening painfully against the thin cotton of your blouse.
“arms up again,” he says, voice low and molten, velvet wrapped around steel. “higher. show your professor how badly his naughty little student wants extra credit.”
you obey. the motion pulls your blouse tight; the fabric rasps over your swollen nipples. he makes a quiet, appreciative sound deep in his throat.
the backscratcher traces the heavy underside of one breast, then the other, wood gliding warm and smooth, never quite giving you the pressure you’re dying for. your breath hitches, ribs flaring. when you arch—helpless, needy—he finally hooks the curved claw under the hem of your shirt and drags upward. cotton bunches beneath your chin with a soft rustle; cool air hits your bare tits at the same instant his gaze does. your nipples are already dark and stiff, aching from nothing but the memory of his mouth on them yesterday.
“look at these pretty tits,” he murmurs, almost reverent, breath ghosting over one peak. “been thinking about them all lecture. every time you crossed your legs under the desk… fuck. knew you were soaked for me the whole hour.”
he flips the tool. the smooth, rounded handle—thick as three fingers, still body-hot from his palm—presses flat against your left nipple. slow, deliberate circles. the friction is perfect and maddening; you feel the tug deep in your belly, the wet pulse between your legs answering every lazy rotation. he switches to the other, matching the rhythm until both nipples are flushed dark red, throbbing in time with your heartbeat.
then he trails it lower.
the handle drags down your sternum, leaving a faint warm path. over the quivering dip of your navel. lower still. when the blunt, rounded tip nudges your clit, the contact is electric—hot, slick, obscene. your hips jerk forward; he steadies you with one big hand splayed across your hipbone, thumb pressing into the soft flesh there.
“spread,” he orders, soft but unyielding.
you step wider. thighs tremble. the handle slides through your folds—slow, slippery, coating itself in the thick, slippery heat of you. every pass drags over your clit with wet, sucking friction; the lewd, sticky sound of your arousal fills the quiet room. you’re shaking already, knees soft.
“s-satoru—” your voice cracks, thin and wrecked, his name slipping out like it always does when you’re this close to breaking.
“shhh.” he taps the inside of your thigh sharply with the clawed end—quick sting of pain that blooms into heat. “good girls don’t speak in detention unless they’re begging. but fuck… you know i love when you say my name like that.”
he notches the handle at your entrance. just the thick, rounded tip. you feel yourself flutter around it, greedy, trying to pull him deeper. you’re dripping now—slow, obscene drops pattering onto the wood floor between his shoes. he watches, pupils blown wide, lips parted.
“say it,” he breathes, voice rough. “tell your professor exactly what his naughty little student wants.”
three humiliating heartbeats of silence.
“please fuck me with it, satoru,” you whisper, cheeks burning. “please—need it inside, need you to stretch me, need to be punished for being so fucking wet in your class again—”
he pushes in.
one long, slow, unrelenting glide.
the stretch is filthy—thick, unyielding wood splitting you open, the faint grain of it dragging against your walls. you feel every inch, the way your cunt has to soften and yield around it. when he bottoms out, the heel of his palm presses against your clit; he twists his wrist—tiny, evil figure-eights that grind the subtle ridge along your front wall over and over. your toes curl against the floor.
“ah—satoru!” you cry out—sharp, broken, his name tearing from your throat.
he drags almost all the way out, the wet suction loud in the empty hall, then slams back in. again. again. the lewd, sloppy sounds echo off the tiered seats. your slick coats his fingers where he grips the handle; you can smell yourself—musky, sweet, desperate.
“fuck,” he groans, free hand sliding up to palm your breast, fingers finding your nipple and pinching hard enough to make your vision spark. “listen to how wet you are for your professor. this is why you keep getting kept after class, isn’t it? because you’re a filthy little slut who gets off on risking it all—on school property, in my chair, with my name in your mouth.”
your knees buckle. he catches you, hauls you forward until you’re straddling his lap, thighs spread wide over his, the backscratcher still buried to the hilt. the new angle presses the handle deeper; you feel it nudge your cervix on every tiny shift.
now he can thrust up into you—hard, punishing strokes that make the chair creak dangerously. the handle stays pressed exactly where you need it, grinding relentlessly. his other hand fists your hair, yanking your head back so your throat is bared. his teeth find your pulse; he bites, sucks, leaves wet, stinging bruises that throb in time with your heartbeat—marks you’ll have to hide under scarves tomorrow.
“come on it,” he growls against your skin, voice vibrating through you. “come on this stupid fucking toy while i watch. moan my name like the desperate little student you are.”
your orgasm hits like a slap—sharp, blinding, walls clamping so hard around the unyielding wood that he hisses through clenched teeth. your whole body locks; you gush around it, slick running down the handle, dripping onto his wrist, soaking the front of his slacks.
“satoru—fuck, satoru—!” you sob his name over and over, voice fracturing as the pleasure rips through you.
he doesn’t stop. keeps fucking you through it—slow, deep rolls of his hips—until you’re shaking, crying, oversensitive, every nerve screaming.
he pulls the backscratcher free—slow, deliberate—coated thick and glistening, long strings of your cream clinging to the dark wood. he brings it straight to your face, the musky scent of your own arousal flooding your senses.
“clean your mess,” he says, voice dark velvet. “tongue out. show me how sorry you are for being such a naughty girl.”
you obey instantly, tongue flat and trembling. he drags the filthy handle across it—slow, deliberate, painting every drop of your slick into your mouth—then pushes the rounded tip past your lips until it bumps the back of your throat.
“suck,” he commands. “taste how fucking filthy you are for me.”
you do. hollow cheeks, messy slurps, eyes watering, saliva dripping down your chin while he watches with blown pupils and parted lips.
“good girl,” he breathes. “such a good, dirty little secret.”
he tosses the backscratcher aside—it clatters across the desk, still dripping—and hauls you up by the hair until you’re bent over the podium, ass high, cheek pressed to the cold, scratched wood where he grades papers every week.
he spits on your cunt—once, twice—the warm, wet sound obscene. then he lines himself up. no warning. one brutal thrust and he’s buried balls-deep, the sudden stretch so wide your thighs shake, a broken scream ripping from your throat.
“satoru—oh god, satoru—!” you wail, voice echoing off the high ceiling.
“fuck—there it is,” he hisses, hips already snapping forward in punishing strokes. “that’s what this greedy pussy needed. not some toy. real cock. your professor’s cock.”
he fucks you like he’s trying to carve his shape into you—deep, mean, relentless—reminding you of every stolen moment, every quick fuck in empty classrooms, every time you’ve had to bite your lip to keep quiet while he railed you against his desk.
the podium rocks with every slam; papers flutter to the floor, a pen rolls away with a clatter. his balls slap wetly against your clit, heavy and hot. your slick drips down both thighs in sticky rivulets, pooling on the linoleum beneath you.
he leans over you, chest to your back, sweat-damp shirt sticking to your skin. his teeth sink into the slope of your shoulder—hard enough to bruise, wet tongue soothing the sting immediately after.
“come on it,” he growls against your skin. “come all over your professor’s cock while you’re bent over his fucking podium. scream my name. let the whole building know who owns this cunt.”
you shatter—hard, violent, walls spasming and gushing around him.
“satoru—satoru—fuck, i’m coming—satoru!” you scream his name like a prayer, voice raw and desperate, tears streaking down your cheeks as the orgasm tears you apart.
he keeps pounding through it until you’re crying, oversensitive, every stroke too much and not enough.
only then does he let go.
one last brutal slam, hips flush, and he comes with a guttural groan—hot, thick ropes flooding you so deep you feel the pulse of it, the overflow spilling out around his cock, dripping in sticky white trails down your shaking thighs.
he stays buried, grinding slow, milking every last shudder while he pants hot and ragged against your neck.
“detention’s not over,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and wrecked. “not until every drop is leaking out of you tomorrow during lecture… and you’re sitting in the front row trying not to squirm while you feel me still inside you. my naughty little secret.”
he finally pulls out—slow, deliberate—watching the thick, pearlescent mixture of both of you drip from your abused cunt onto the floor in slow, obscene strings.
then he crouches behind you, spreads you open with both thumbs, and spits one last time right onto the creamy mess he made.
“property of professor gojo,” he whispers, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the small of your back. “don’t forget who you belong to.”
the backscratcher lies abandoned on the desk—still slick, still glistening—while he tucks himself away and leaves you trembling, dripping, thighs slick and shaking, utterly ruined over the podium you’ll never look at the same way again, his name still a wrecked chant on your lips.
an: p in v, half plot/half sex, slight cursing. enjoy!! :3
thinking of professor!aizawa who has you in his lap while he’s inevitably grading papers in his office at home. it’s past midnight. you’re supposed to be in your dorm, but what’s a school night without a visit to your favorite professor’s house? your cheek is squished against his shoulder as one of his hands grades papers while the other rubs the small of your back. when he comes across your paper, he taps your thigh.
“mm?” you look up at him.
“your paper has an error.”
“seriously? i thought it was perfect!” you leaned forward and inspected it. “what’s wrong with it?”
“comma splice.”
you whine and lean back. “just give me a 100! it’s a tiny mistake. besides, i’m supposed to be your favorite.”
you run your nose against his stubble and lightly kiss along his neck.
“you are my favorite. favorite student and favorite girl. but your education is still important, and treating you with favor is not right to my other students.”
“but you also don’t bang your other students.”
his hand slides down your back and to your hip. he pulls you flush against him and kisses you hungrily.
“damn right. now, be a doll, would you, and help your ole’ man out?”
“oh no no no! i am not grading any papers! first off i don’t want to and—”
you’re cut off by a loud sigh of his as he leans back in the chair and smacks at your cheek.
“hush. you didn’t even let me finish my sentence. i wasn’t asking for academic help. i’d much rather prefer your help physically.”
“hm, figures.”
“don’t give me attitude. i hold your grade in my hands, and i’ll grade you ten times harder than the others.”
“you wouldn’t.” you huff.
“oh but i would. now, stop nagging and lift yourself up for a moment.”
you rest your elbows on the desk and lift yourself up. he drops the pen in his hands and moves them to his lap. he unbuttons the crotch of his plaid pajama bottoms. soon he pulls his boxers down. while you’re still holding yourself up, he pulls up your nightgown and pushes your panties to the side. he’s holding his member in his hand and lines it up to your entrance. he taps your waist with two fingers.
“i like when you’re wearing pajamas. easy access. now sit.”
as you sit, you sigh expectantly. he groans and then sighs softly.
“mm.. that’s nice.”
“so big sho’.”
you look back at him and wink.
“tell me something i don’t know, huh?”
he brings his hand to the sides of your chest and slides them down to your legs; feeling your shape and flesh.
“now don’t move.”
you lean forward and whine. you expected him to say that but hoped you were wrong.
he then takes the previous paper (yours) from before and puts it on your back for a smooth surface. as he reviews it, he slowly thrusts. little plap’s feeling the room as he continues. as he keeps reading, he gets faster but.. every time he finds a mistake he stops, then gradually picks up the pace when he doesn’t find any errors. this continues throughout the entirety of his grading session. soft edging, he called it.
after what felt like literal hours of this, he still wasn’t done.
“sho’ i’m desperate but im also tired!”
“well patience isn’t a virtue in your eyes, hm?”
“it’s been forever.”
“i’ve only read through 37 papers.”
“out of?..”
“233.”
you groan, “what?”
“you heard me.”
you whine. “no. no. i’m not doing this for any longer. either finish what you started or i’m going home and i’ll handle it myself.”
“who’re you to tell me what to do?”
“shouta i cant. please. my legs and my back hurt.”
he sighs, annoyedly. “fine. get on the table. face me. legs open.”
suddenly you have a lot more energy. you’re foolishly giddy as you pull yourself away from him. you push the rest of the papers away and plop down. your rest your hands behind you to hold yourself up. you spread your legs and smile at him.
“what do we say?”
“thank you professor.”
“atta girl.” he smooths over your hair and places a firm kiss to it.
he slowly leans forward, one hand holding the base of his shaft, the other holding open one of your thighs.
as he resume his slow and steady pace, he leans forward, cradling your head against his chest.
“‘m sorry i kept you waiting so long, sweet girl.”
“you’re making up for it now, so, i forgive you.”
of course he’s never been a high energy person, so his slow thrust are normal, it never takes too long or too soon for either of you to reach your climax.
pairing. professor!pedro pascal x younger fem!reader
summary. to cover some social hours and as a favor to your recently fallen-ill friend, you become your research methodology professor's TA. but here's the catch: you've got history, and what you really mean is beef; good, pure, unadulterated loath. ╱ 6k
warnings/tags. 18+ (minors dni), age gap, pwp, rivals to ??, hate sex, p. in v. (do i even wrap it atp), degradation kink, daddy kink, lwk exhibition kink bc this happens on his office (rip to the furniture), bit dom!pedro + brat taming (again?? stop it mayor we get itttt omg) sprinkled here and there, fingering, squirting, creampie (everyone got invited to the party), reader is a loud-mouth (who's this divaaa), pedro's kind of an asshole and a perv in this one (ooc sorry), don't expect a second part this is literally just self-fulfilling filth without a storyline
notes. hello! this won the poll. am i the only one with this fantasy? pls tell me not; i feel insane looking some of my professors like a fucking starved drooling dog. giggling as we speak, bc the movie's got everybody insane between marvel renaissance, gif dump, new content, husband!pedro material and professor wet dreams out there... this piece of work is the last. hope you enjoy it, citizens! ps. jin of bts makes an appearance bc i love my seven men and i'm currently sick so he is sick too lmao
It's your fault, really, for opening it in the middle of the class. It was a link, and you should've saved it for later, but then your thumb clicked into the blue underlined text your friend sent, and the reel popped up on your screen.
Your laugh erupted before you could cover your mouth, your professors' words hanging mid-air.
"Who did that?"
Everyone looks at you. Those sell-out, ass-kissing, boot-licking dicks.
His eyebrows furrow until they seem to melt into one, a big angry scowl on Mr. Pascal's face.
"Something you'd like to share with the class, Ms. Y/n?"
His voice reverberates on the class' walls, sounding even scarier.
You shake your head, tone quiet as you let out a small, "No"
"No?" he repeats your words, mocking your insecure demeanor, "because with that loud ass laugh, it seemed like something important enough to dissrupt my class. So please, share. You can't leave us wondering in here"
People cough and avoid your gaze while you wish the building would collapse and kill everyone inside, you included. Oh, that would be good. But no, you're stuck on a space that now feels too small and his persistent gaze cuts right through you.
"I-It's not important-" you stumble over your words.
"Can't speak anymore? All that boldness, suddenly gone"
"Mr. Pascal" you plead. God, you had never even begged for anything in your life. But there's always a first.
"I said share" his voice menacing, like he's got not an ounce of sympathy in that sturdy body that could fit plenty. No, wait. Focus!
He grows impatient at your lack of movement, practically growling his next words:
"I won't repeat myself"
"I-I I don't know how to-" you cut yourself off, cringing at how pathetic you sound. "It's a video, so-"
"Then cast your phone and project it" he clicks his tongue, clearly enjoying this. What a sadistic motherfucker.
"I-I can't-"
Can Jesus please hurry up and come fast? Even better, immediately take this one to hell, please.
"Aw, you poor thing" he tuts, mockingly. No one dares to speak, and you'll learn later that he's got his own reputation. For a reason.
"Don't worry, I'll help you myself"
Turns out, the fucker made you and your shaky legs stand up and walk the walk of shame. Then, you had to proyect the silly video, which in handsight, wasn't funny anymore. While some of your classmates laughed, that didn't lessen how humilliated you felt.
It had happened during your first year at university, on a subject you really couldn't care less and when you were still (practically) a baby; freshly eighteen. But now you were twenty, almost finishing your career, and the shaky insecure teenager was long gone, replaced by a secure (albeit a bit of a bitch), confident woman.
That had been your first encounter with professor Pascal.
You have to give him some credit: he is kind of the reason why you did a full 180 on your personality.
But life always comes back to bite you in the ass.
"What do you mean you're sick?" you scoff, "we were supposed to go to Dave's party tonight!"
Your friend lets out a cough that sounds borderline animalistic.
"First of all, don't come closer. I'll pass it to you" Jin speaks up, voice rough from the earlier death-threatening cough. "And second, do you think I care about a stupid party? I'm dying here"
"Don't be so dramatic" you roll your eyes.
"Hello? Didn't you hear that cough?!" he sounds offended, reinforcing the feeling by throwing one of his used tissues at you. You dodge his lame throw with a yuck. "I think you're devoid of empathy"
"Well, thank Mr. Pascal for that"
Jin wasn't your friend when that happened, but when you became buddies, he eventually came to know about your beef with the older man. Yes, beef, because after the Reel Deal (as you both have come to call it), he made your life impossible. If it weren't for your skills and intelligence, you'd probably fail his subject. Mr. Pascal gave you the hardest time ever: be it pairing you with the absolute worst students or making your assigments more difficult, for an "unknown" reason.
Eventually, even after such a traumatic experience and subject being way behind, it became a staple in your duo to bring him up everytime something negative happened or was mentioned.
("You're so funny!")
("Thanks, a professor pushing fifty made my life impossible when I was eighteen")
But here's an even funnier thing: for unknown reasons, Jin became his TA last semester. Probably he didn't know that you were friends, and that has to be the reason he's actually a decent human being towards the younger boy. I'm telling you, Jin would insist, the whole mean asshole shtick is propaganda!
"Talking about him..."
"Stop" you raise your hand dramatically, "enough bad news today"
"You can still go to the party, you know?" he giggles, earning another cough that practically leaves him voiceless. "Why do you insist on taking me? I don't know this people!"
Jin was two years older your senior.
"But it's not fun without you!" you insisted on dragging him around everywhere after you met because he tutored you. "Who will I bore with all my failed flirting attempts?"
"Thank God, not me" he ignores your pout. "Besides, wasn't like Marcos insisting you went with him? There's your chance!"
"But Marcos is boring..." you draw out, "and I need a man who makes me laugh"
"You can't really ask for that much in this economy"
Okay, here's the deal: there's another reason you can't let go of the Mr. Pascal subject, and it's not because of the beef. Hell, Jin can't know about this or he'll never let you live.
The answer is quite simple: as infuriating as he is, Mr. Pascal is hot. Like, middle-aged hot, with the greying hair and face marked by lines that tell time. If it wasn't for him you'd probably never discover your preference towards more... aged meat. You should be furious, and you were, but during all your petty arguments over topics or slides that didn't deserve to be reviewed for more than five minutes, the fire that ignited in your lower belly? You've never felt it before, and if that managed to get you more hot and bothered than a fresh boy ready to kiss your lips, neck and below? Well, that's a serious issue.
But it was his voice, that treated you with such vitriol, a deep and rich sound reserved just for you, or be it the way his auburn eyes seem to catch fire whenever you opened your mouth, dark forests burning in flames that threathened to reduce it all to ashes; yo were eager, anticipating the burn.
He saw your defiance, and instead of putting you in your place, he matched that wild rageful spirit of yours that refused to be tamed.
And that you liked, despite the history of hate between you.
"What about him?" you appear nonchalant, while retouching your makeup for the party.
"About him who?" Jin quips, "we just talked about two fine men-"
"The much older man"
A weird smirk forms across his lips. "Sure, of course"
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. But it will be fun, nonetheless" he sits up straight from his previous surrendered position on the couch. "So, remember how I'm his TA, right?"
"Yes?" you pause. "Wait, if this is for me to help you check again more homeworks, no. I am not helping you read a hundred papers again for free"
"They weren't a hundred!" he barks. "Besides, it's not that"
"Then?" you press, not admiting how interested you were.
"Do you see my poor state?" you nod, not understaning where he's going. "Then, you're aware I'm not capacitated to do said task as of right now"
"I'm aware" you repeat, "what I'm not, is what does that have to do with me?" you resume your activity, going for your eyeliner. "So much mystery when you could've just said it in a pass"
"I need you to cover up for me"
The liquid eyeliner paints a line across half of your face. "What?!"
He laughs at your reaction, "You heard me"
You leave the mirror, now focusing your attention on him. "It's not April Fools yet, Jin. Heads up, it was a terrible prank"
Even if it made you hot to have such dynamic with your former IM professor, you weren't exactly keen on seeing him again. For you, he had turned into a memory slash fantasy at some point: an asshole that got your panties wet and pussy slick when you touched yourself at night, on behalf of all the dumb uni boys who couldn't reach that sweet spot of yours. What a dirty girl, his velvet voice on your head would say. Why are you touching yourself to your supposed foe, a much older guy? Fucking slut. Yeah, there was no way you'd go back to the real thing for the real him to taint the image you got off almost every night to, so he could say your name in that animosity that leaked with a barely contained rage and poorly disguised distate that left a bitter taste on your mouth, ego and self-steem on the ground. Because the truth is, no matter how much you argued back, he always won. You had just found your voice, but all efforts to bring him down seemed powerless, and he had won every single battle: even if he didn't have the last word, just with a look, he made you feel small, stupid and meaningless.
Nope. Not going back.
"And you have a terrible way of coping" he's quick to counter back. "Listen, it's not so bad. You just have to do meaningless tasks and pretend to be interested. Simple, right? Look, those extra credits could be useful, you know? And you excelled the class, y/n. Easy!"
"You're making it sound trouble-free as if the man doesn't hate me"
"He's definitely forgotten about it!" he waves his hand, dissmisively. "Probably jokes about it, like us!"
"Mr. Pascal doesn't seem the type of guy to have humor"
"Humor me, then" Jin sighs. "Do this for me, yes? When have I ever failed you?"
You wish for some sense to get into his skull. Had he forgotten every single anecdote?
"Think of all those times where I've taken you home, carried you drunk. Or the sad heart breaks I've been through with you, remember? Brought you ice cream and watched your favorite movies. Or when I used to tutor you? Or-"
"Enough of your emotional manipulation, Mr. Kim" you shake your head, dissapointed, all to avoid the quiet rage to settle in. "I thought better of you"
"It's for a week. Days if this pills do a miracle" his big black eyes look at you, pleading.
"Jin, you're not being a very good friend"
"It's just this one favor" he sighs. "Look, I can't loose this thing, okay? I get the credits I need to finally leave this shithole. If I don't show up, they'll hand it to someone else. You may not believe it, but it's very demanded"
People making lines to be emotionally abused by your former IM professor? Sure thing!
"Can't you tell someone, though? I'm sure they'll understand and you can go back once this cold is gone"
"I already did so, and they told me to show up or quit, due to the wait list of people applying for the position" you roll your eyes at your university's antics and their bullshit policies. "I don't trust anyone else to not fuck it up, but you. You'll just have to tell him about this minor inconvenience, and Mr. Pascal will understand. You know, I'm kind of his favorite guy in there..."
Great, just what you needed.
"Sorry to break it to you, but as soon as I walk through that door, all that pretty boy privilege would be gone"
"Please, y/n. Please"
"You'll never ask me any other favor?"
"No" he looks rather desperate; it's funny. "Hell, you can use the lake cabin for your birthday bash if you-"
"Deal"
Were you that easy to buy, huh? What does that say about you? Fucking ass sell-out.
Okay, but a birthday party in that all glass modern cabin with a deck and a jacuzzi does sound tempting. Who could be blamed? Not you, who will have to face her biggest foe in exchange for one wild bash.
You take a deep breath, imagining the lake water splashing and champagne on the deck (ugh, Jin's parents had a waterbike too. They were loaded), before knocking on his office. The door flings open, almost hitting you in the face, and there he is: Mr. Pascal, with his brown hair with white on the sides, loose curl over his face. Your fingers definitely don't itch to touch it, of course.
He's sporting a grumpy look (when doesn't he?), his big hands (you had forgotten how big they were) holding a bunch of papers (great, work!).
"Goddamn it, Jin. I was about to call you for standing me up, you know I hate when people don't tell me-"
He stops on his tracks, and that all too familiar scowl deepens his face.
"You"
Seethed with such venom, it's quite scary. Your legs tremble, yet your pussy clenches.
"Yes, me" you can't help but let out a little laugh at his antics. What did Jin said about him not remembering you? Well, can't be blamed; you weren't easy to forget.
His jaw clenches while looking down at you, but this time, you don't dare to flinch.
"What are you doing here?"
"See, Jin is my friend-"
He interrupts you, body frame resting on the door with a relaxed posture, but his shoulder looks tense.
"Oh, I liked him. Liked, as in past tense" he emphasizes, like a child throwing a tantrum. "How can a kid like him be friends with you?"
"We're best friends, thank you very much. As a matter of fact, I'm here as a favor" you hand him Jin's written apology, that may have one or two sneezes over it. "He's sick, and I'll cover him for a week, just so he doesn't loose the position. Said you would understand"
"I do" he replies on an instant, "you I don't"
"I passed your subject. With honors, even after you made my life impossible" you reply. "I'm the best candidate, face it"
He's rendered speechless for a moment, before he bites back:
"What makes you think I won't do it again?"
Now it's you who doesn't know what to say. It's infuriating how he still keeps winning.
"That's right" a wicked smile adorns his face. "Stay and find out"
Boy, don't you love a challenge?
So you stayed, much to his surprise. The bastard probably thought you were still the same scaredy mouse from first year.
Oh, it was delicious the way his whole face fell at your entrance next morning, how he quickly replaced it and introduced you in a clipped tone.
"Where's Jin?" a girl sitting in the front row had asked, more students joining to ask for his absence. You wonder if your friend's popularity stems from his brain or looks.
"He's sick" you answered. "But don't worry, he'll be back soon"
"Thank God" Mr. Pascal voices out loud.
You shoot him a look. He wasn't joking about not making it easy, was he?
"Oh, I didn't take you as a man of faith, Mr. Pascal, but you're right. It's important to thank our Lord everyday. So, thank Him for this week where I get to offer my suffering. In reward" you turn to face him, all the class silent as they take in your weird exchange, the atmosphere tense, "I'll never see your face again"
This time, you weren't going down without a fight.
"We'll see about that"
There it was: the fire to your gasoline.
So you pushed back, and argued everytime you disagreed, things that weren't part of your work but you still did because well, if he was still hellbent on making you suffer, you weren't going to make it easy for him this time.
If students argued against him, you took their side; even if just one did, you had their back.
You finished grading, but when returning the papers, you'd let them fall with a heavy thud over his desk, not even daring to look back.
At the time he'd talk to you, you wouldn't answer, instead just doing so, but no words to be uttered his way, as if he wasn't worth the effort. Not even a clipped okay.
And you enjoyed this; savored how he'd take every one of your petty actions with his full chest, eyebrows furrowed and face red in anger, but never answering, just silent, like deep in thought, a cold and calculated look overtaking his brown eyes.
Then the veins on his neck would pop as the ones of his tight white-knuckled grip on his mug. He'd speak up, and his voice had your legs shaking for some friction, wet spots now more often on your lingerie.
That he didn't know.
All he did was you were now more than a pebble on his shoe: a huge fucking stone, going down the hill, ready to squash him.
But boy, didn't he love a challenge?
It's Friday, aka last day of Torture Week.
You drop the quizzes for next Monday on his desk with the same harsh movement you had done all week.
"And it's over" you announce, papers plopping next to him, who is writing something. Mr. Pascal's hand moves, his L much longer than it should be. He looks up at you, annoyed, but his eyes flash with a hint of amusement.
"I see you can talk"
"Well, you already know me, Mr. Pascal. So you should be aware of what I can do"
"Love if you'd enlighten me"
He leans back on his chair, arms resting behind his head. It's hard not to take a brief glance to the flexing muscles, or how he's rolled up his sleeves, arms bulking up with the action, the fabric tense. It's hot in here. Wait, or has it gotten hot? Your face feels red, and when he catches your lingering gaze, he smiles devilishly.
"Like what you see, Ms. Y/n?"
No. You refuse to let him win this again, so close to the end.
"The release from prison?" you regain your posture, "very much"
"You may be a loud-mouthed brat, always knowin' what to say. I'll give that to you" he props himself to the front, elbows now resting on the desk as his eyes scan yours with a shade of dark covering them. "But a good liar you ain't"
You try to remain still, face emotionless, but your professor is a man of experience; an expert on his field. He who investigates, who has majored to be able to notice every small detail that can contribute to a hypothesis, has now formulated his.
You want this as much as he wants to.
You, with your wobbly legs and nervous eyes, glancing up at him with a hungry gaze that matches his own, despite your angry posture and irritated tone. You, that picked up petty arguments just to rile him up, because you liked the command for power on his voice. You like this, didn't you? Feeling small and weak, fangs pointy, just barely gracing the skin; the edge what set your skin on fire.
He isn't one to hold grudges (he's just mean all the time), but Pedro is willing to show you he hasn't forgotten about the years, and he'll be more than willing to fuck that bitchy attitude out of you.
"Hello?" you snap your fingers in front of him, "are you there?"
He snaps back to reality, your face covering his vision. In his position, he gets rewarded with a delicious peak at your breasts and the nude lingerine hiding them. He can imagine the perked nipples and the rosy plush skin he'd love to trace his tongue with, because even when you speak in a harsh voice, your eyes speak another thing. Fuck, he thinks he can even smell your arousal.
"I was talking to you" you don't even give him room to reply; snotty ass. "Said I was already leaving"
He thinks of himself as merciful. So he stands up, your bodies barely brushing against each other for a second, before he's opening the door, towering over you. He's so close, you can see the grey hairs mixed with the brown ones on his beard and mustache. God, you can smell him: coffee, cigarrettes, sandalwood and leather.
"You're free, Ms. Y/n" he follows your line of joke from before. "Just, humor me with one last thing"
You glance over at the clock above his desk. It's barely noon.
"Yes?" as dry as possible.
"Why did you accept?"
It's a simple question, really, but it manages to catch you off guard.
His tone is so different, maybe that's why: it's low, impossibly low. For less attentive people, it could even pass as a growl. But you hear, the amusement and dare laced within the velvety tone.
"Because I'm a good friend" you manage to speak, his body caging your smaller frame against the door.
This is ridiculous. You can leave at any time. Hello? Have your legs not gotten the memo?
"I didn't think you were capable of good things"
You huff, annoyed. "Well, I passed your subject, didn't I?"
He clicks his tongue.
"Many before you, and more after you have. Doesn't make you special, y/n"
Your name alone leaves a savory and toxic sweetness on his tongue.
"But how many of those you remember?" Mr. Pascal shots up an eyebrow, confused. "Tell me, how many can you name? That's right. I changed your life, whether you like it or not"
He's quick to reply. "Bullshit"
"Bullshit" you mock his angry tone, "but you recognized me the moment you opened the door. It didn't even take you seconds, hell, you hadn't even fully seen me and you knew who I was. Doesn't take a great investigator to figure it out, does it? So I take you missed me"
He can't believe your fucking mouth.
But then Pedro's remembering the way his pants tightened when you started to stand up to him, getting even worse when he still managed to shut you up. Fuck, the way you had smirked when you approved his subject during your last project delivery. He let you, because well, you had earned it: for the way your image had been the perfect companion for his hand pistoning his cock will full force, thinking of that loud mouth of yours gagged with it. Or when you walked past him in the hallways, wrapped in your own little bubble, your carefree laugh erupting and bouncing off the walls, tickling every hair of his body.
Part of him had accepted Jin to be his TA if that meant having a piece of you, even if a small connection, to you. Did you think he wouldn't know? That he wouldn't see you walking by in those small skirts that rode over when you bent? He noticed you; after all, you were in the same place most of your day.
You had excelled his subject after all, hadn't you?
So of course you'd notice his stare lingering in your back like a hand over your ass. How his eyes would dart to the skirts you wore on purpose, attentive to the moment you'd drop a pen on accident and your panties would be on sight, a wet spot in the middle you hadn't even noticed that smelled. Fuck, and wasn't it sweet?
You really feel like you have won this, don't you?
"Miss you?" Pedro hisses the words out. "I didn't miss you. What I think is happenin', is that me missing you is what you want"
"And I think you're repeating the same words and fumbling thoughts because you're a big egocentric prideful asshole who can't admit he's got the hots for his younger student"
"God. Don't you have such a filthy mouth, baby?"
Before he can register and you've fully let the nickname sink, your hand slaps his face with a potent movement that reverberates across his office's walls.
"You're a fucking piece of work, Mr. Pascal" but instead of being offended (or you don't know, fight back?), he remains silent. "You dirty old spoiled prick. Think I would never fight you back? That you can get away with whatever this is?"
"Whatever this is?" he chuckles, a sound rumbling deep from his chest. "Well, pretty girl, ain't you started this?"
He looms over you, hot breath carressing your face softly.
"Me? Unbelievable" you scoff. "You're one to talk, humiliating a poor freshman"
"Poor? You were distracted, in my class! Did your parents never teach you manners?!" his words leave droplets of spit that land in your face. "I had to put your stupid ass in place; that'll teach you something"
"Like what?" you taunt, recklessly, chest up and down with uneven breaths.
"I see it didn't work" his body language does an immediate switch. You remember a predator ready to strike their prey. "Maybe I should've tried harder"
His eyes do a wild dance over your body as so do yours.
Lip. Eyes. Skin. Cleavage. His tight pants. Biceps. Legs. Hair.
Before you can register, he's got you pinned against his desk, door closed in a loud move. There's a click sound somewhere in between, but you're too busy feeling his big hands grabbing your face roughly, as if he wants to consume your skin and feel your very bones on his calloused tips.
His lips are impossibly wet and eager, hands needily gropping your body. He pushes all his weight over you as he deepens the kiss, his tongue now inside your mouth, making you falter.
You let out a breathy moan when your back hits the desk, the wood digging your skin, but he swallows it whole, making it impossible for you to talk.
"Mmph-"
"Mmph?" he mocks between kisses, not giving you the chance to take a breath, or maybe he was scared you would get the time to think and would push him away. "Just my mouth got you all worked up, baby? Can't even speak"
Your fingers run through his hair for support, curls between your fingers. They felt soft, like they were meant to be combed through over and over again. He dives his head in your neck, hot mouth wet with its trail of kisses, making you squirm.
"I see" his breath ghosts over your reddened skin, "you wanted this just as much, don't you? This boys aren't enough for you?"
Every hair on your body prickles, his mouth claiming every spot he could, bites and hickeys all over your skin. You whine, pouting your lips, missing his already.
"It's okay, baby" he laughs, "just gotta show them who's enough for you" he grunts, "a man"
Mr. Pascal takes off your shirt, well, basically rips the poor thing, his hands relieved to finally touch your breasts. He roughly grabs one of them, and you bite your lip so hard, you almost feel the bitter metallic taste in your mouth. He lowers himself, despite his aching joints, to play with your hardened nipples, lapping them with his warm tongue, sucking and swirling until they turn swollen.
Your hand finds its way to his formal pants, fingers gracing over the fabric, feeling his cock straining against it. Just like you imagined it: big, like his presence. If it could, your pussy would jump in excitement, realistically just throbbing and leaking.
You untie his belt and buttons so you can begin to rub over his boxers. You can feel him trying to meet your touches, grinding onto your palm. He groans, deeply, enjoying your hungry stare, steady beat, parted lips and wet cunt.
He bucks his hips against you, propping himself on the wall behind his desk, which had moved from its original position thanks to the mayhem.
"You clearly don't know what you got yourself into, baby. But don't worry, I ain't letting you go just yet"
He pulls the skirt up, revealing the damp panties and mess between your legs. He licks his lips before rough digits find your wet folds. His fingers carress your impossibly tight walls, coating them with your slick.
"So fucking tight" he groans against your collarbones, "thought of yourself as uptight but I can fucking smell you dripping, you dirty slut. Could tell you loved provoking me becayse that's the only way your snotty ass can get off"
"F-fuck you, Mr. Pascal" you manage to choke out.
"Where are your manners? After how I've rewarded your big mouth, you bitch" he takes off your panties with skilled practice, the piece falling to the floor with a weak sound. Your bare cunt makes you shiver. "You think you're smart, baby? You think you can play these games and face no consequences at all?" he tuts. "No, Ms. Y/n, you know I hate wastin' my time, so be a good girl and don't make this harder for you, get that?"
You whine at his words, but refuse to shut your mouth.
"Oh, I'm smart" you laugh, "smart enough to have you on your knees for me"
An ugly grin spreads across his features.
"I will never bend for a bratty pretentious slut like you" he grips your hair with force, leaving your neck exposed, "You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into, stupid cock hungry whore. You wanted my attention? It's all yours"
Then, with a low, almost feral growl, he grabs your hips and hoists you up, wrapping your legs around his waist. He sweeps the papers and books onto the floor with a clatter, setting you down on the edge.
"You better behave, baby" Mr. Pascal bites your lower lip, "don't want people to know what we're doing in here, do you? Or would you want them to know just how much of a slut you are, spread on my desk as your cunt drips for me?"
He steps between your legs, pushing them further apart, his hands gripping your thighs hard enough to leave bruises. He leans in, his face inches from yours, voice low in a threatening rasp.
"I'll behave, I promise" mind in blank.
"No loud mouth bitchy stuck up attitude?"
You free his cock, hands scouting his shaft, his base, and balls. You fondled them while his fingers lingered closer to your pussy.
"No"
"This is what you wanted, isn't it? To be fucked stupid and used for my pleasure? Well, get ready, because I'm not going to stop until I've had my fill of this sweet little cunt"
He savors at the sight of your glistening folds.
"Let me-"
He laughs, seeing how you desire to guide his cock towards your entrance.
"Eager, little one?" he teases.
"Yes" you whimper, "I need you so badly, papi"
Your plea mixed with Spanish sends him on edge. His eyes darken with a primal, almost feral hunger at your desperate plea.
His voice is strained, rough with barely restrained lust.
"Fuck, you needy little thing. You want to take my dick until this desk breaks?"
He rubs the swollen head of his dick against your dripping slit, coating it in your arousal. Then, with one powerful thrust, he slams into you, burying himself to the hilt in your tight, hot cunt.
"So tight" he groans, starting to move and setting a brutal pace from the very beginning. The desk shakes and creaks beneath you with each forceful thrust, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the empty office. He punctuates his words with a particularly hard thrust, grinding his pelvis against your clit. He sets a relentless, punishing rhythm, determined to fuck you into oblivion.
It's a goddamn view in here: him above you, droplets of sweat falling to your face, pristine hair now disheveled.
At this point, you were clenching so hard it hurt, walls fluttering around his massive girth. But he's greedy, and he's pushing himself deeper and deeper.
"Runnin' your mouth but now all quiet as you take all of me, hungry greedy whore" he digs his fingers into your cheeks harshly, but you find pleasure in the sting the pain causes. "Bet this is all you been thinking since you started talking back, huh? Don't worry, daddy's got you"
Surprisingly, he leans down, capturing your mouth in a dominating kiss, tongue invading your mouth. His hand comes up to wrap around your throat, squeezing lightly, a silent reminder of who you belong to.
"God. You're wet everywhere, baby"
His sweaty chest presses itself onto your tits as he forced his cock deeper within you, the plaid shirt sticking with sweat to his ablazed body, temperature high.
"T-the desk" you protest numbly; mind-fucked.
And oh, boy, doesn't he enjoy this view? Your fluttering eyelids, hazy eyes and trembling body.
So he keeps fucking you: pounding into you, rolling his hips skillfully, taking up all the space within you.
"I don't give a damn fuck about the desk, Ms. Y/n. I'm gonna fuck that attitude of yours until all you know is my name" he leans down, sinking his teeth into the soft flesh of your neck, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. His hands grip your hips with bruising force, pulling you harder against him with each violent thrust. "Gonna break the desk, hell, fuck you on the floor if necessary, but you ain't leaving this office until my cum drips from your legs and everyone knows your tight little cunt is mine"
The desk groans and wobbles beneath you, the legs scraping against the floor as Pedro fucks you with wild abandon. The sound of your moans and the crude, wet slap of skin on skin echoes obscenely in the room.
His pubic bone grinds against your clit with each thrust, the rough friction sending jolts of electric pleasure shooting up your spine. His cock hits that perfect spot inside you, the one that makes your toes curl and your back arch off the desk.
He feels your walls starting to flutter around him, your body tensing as your orgasm approaches. Mr. Pascal leans in, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a dark, intimate rasp.
"Why don't you be a good girl and tell daddy how good he's making you feel? Show me and everyone else what a desperate little slut you are, waiting for me to fill you up nicely with my seed"
He makes out of you a loud mess, a series of sweet sounds falling from your lips. You clench and he twitches, his digits holding your waist, keeping you in place for him.
"Good girl" he praises, "now you're gonna take it all, milk me dry, you greedy cocksleeve"
His thrusts become erratic and sloppier. The older man can feel your walls starting to flutter around him, body tensing as your orgasm approaches. He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a dark, intimate rasp.
"Will you be a good girl?"
"Yes!" you cry out, "don't stop!"
You hated this humilliation, how easy it is for him to fuck you with his big cock. You fucking hated him. But didn't he make you feel so good.
"Then come on my cock, bitch"
You didn't think it was capable, no, but you did. A first, another first when it came to Mr. Pascal.
You squirt. You fucking squirted.
Pedro lets out a feral roar of triumph when your pussy spasms around his pistoning cock, your release gushing out and soaking his dick and the desk, papers and shit beneath you (no, not the quizzes! You had printed them this morning). He savors the way you throw your head back, eyes rolling until they turn white on your fucked-out face.
"Such a sweet cunt, baby" he praises. "Milk me dry, come on"
Your slick walls milking him dry pushes him over the edge, clenching around him, and he knew it was over. He snaps, arching his back as he roughly moans. With one final, brutal thrust, he buries himself balls-deep inside you, his cock throbbing and pulsing as he starts to come. Thick, scorching ropes of cum paint your insides, flooding your womb with his potent seed, still pushing the remnants inside when he grinds against you, his pelvis pressed tight to yours as he rides out the waves of his intense orgasm. His grip on your hips tightens, fingermarks surely to be left in the soft flesh as he holds you in place, ensuring you take every last drop of his release.
"That's it, pretty baby. Can't even speak, can you?" he captures your mouth in a deep, dominating kiss. Like he owns you. "As you can see, I'm a man of my word"
He breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against yours as he pants softly. His eyes, when they meet yours, are dark and intense, filled with a primal, almost feral satisfaction.
It's humilliating, really, how your lips search for more. You need him, badly, despite how shit he treats you and how wrong all of this is. Is this a win or a loose?
"Good girl" he repeats, his sweaty forehead clashing against yours. The desk creaks yet again. You love when he praises you, and you whine on instintic, making him laugh. "Learned your place just yet? Listen carefully, Ms. Y/n: no matter what you do or say, I'll always win, get it? And you'll be nothing but a needy uptight slut who begs for my attention and cock"
He pulls out of you slowly, his softening dick slipping from your well-used hole with a gush of their combined releases. He tucks himself away, doing up his pants with quick, efficient movements. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, smearing a streak of his cum across it.
"Go on. Taste it, and tell me how it feels"
Your tongue does a lazy movement, making your lips moist thanks to the saliva and his cum, like a fucking gloss. You shouldn't enjoy this, really, but your body shivers when you feel the taste of him going down your throat as you swallow.
"Good" you manage to speak, salt on the tip of your tongue.
"Good" he repeats, voice low and menacing, "because we're just getting started"
