I've had this ask about prof mc and student raf, doing the nasty in a night club or some kind of dance club, secretly dating...mhmm delicious!! of course i had to deliver on this cuuuz if you know me, then you know my obsession with this dynamic *ahem*
the setting for this is this fic - Say it, Professor, although I didn't quite establish when exactly in the timeline of events this happens, but just bear with me ^
🔞 — sex in a club, forbidden relationship, power dynamic, prof!mc x student!raf, fingering, tiny bit of dirty talk
The bass thrums through your veins like a second heartbeat, a relentless pulse that matches the feverish tempo of your stolen glances across the crowded club. Smoke and colored light swim through the air, coating everything in a hazy, dreamlike sheen. You’re here under the guise of a faculty “networking event,” a flimsy cover that Rafayel had snorted at when you’d texted him the details.
Pretend you don’t know me, you’d typed, cool and professional even through the screen.
where’s the fun in that, professor? came the instant, infuriating reply.
And now he’s here. A vision in the chaos. Black silk shirt clinging to the lean lines of his torso, sleeves rolled to his elbows, showcasing the elegant glide of tendons in his wrists—the same wrists that pinned you to your desk. His purple hair is a dark riot under the strobes, and his eyes, those molten violet pools, find you through the gyrating bodies with predator ease.
He’s leaning against the bar, a glass of something clear and untouched in his hand, talking to a group of people who are clearly enraptured. He’s playing his part—the brilliant, disaffected young artist, holding court. But his gaze, when it flicks to you, is anything but disinterested.
It’s a brand.
You sip your drink, the ice long melted, and force yourself to look away. To laugh at a colleague’s joke. To pretend the heat coiling low in your belly isn’t entirely his doing. This is the game. The pretending. The exquisite torture of almost in a room full of people who must never know.
An hour slips by in a blur of meaningless chatter and throbbing music. You feel a presence at your side before you manage to turn, a wash of expensive cologne and underlying graphite.
“Professor,” his voice is a low rumble that cuts through the music, meant only for your ear. “Enjoying the… networking?”
You turn, giving him the same flat, unimpressed look you used on the first day of class. “It’s adequate, Mr. Qi. I see you’ve found your own crowd.”
He smiles, that slow, curling smirk that makes your knees weak. “They’re boring. They don’t know the first thing about obsession.”
His eyes drag down your body, taking in the sleek black dress you’d told yourself wasn’t for him. The high neck, the long sleeves—it’s demure from the front. The back is a plunge of bare skin, a secret he discovered the moment he stepped behind you at the bar, his fingertips whispering down your spine in a touch that looked accidental to anyone else.
“You look…” he leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, “…like a thesis I want to tear apart.”
You stiffen, a thrill shooting straight to your core. “Behave.”
“I’m tired of behaving,” he murmurs, and the playful lilt is gone, replaced by a raw, strained note you’ve only heard in the dark of your office. “Tired of pretending I don’t know how you taste. Tired of watching you laugh with people who don’t deserve your smile.”
He straightens up, his jaw tight. The mask of casual arrogance is slipping, revealing the desperate, hungry boy beneath—the one who sketched you in wrecked ecstasy and whispered filth against your skin. He takes your empty glass from your hand, his fingers lingering, and sets it on a passing tray.
“Dance with me.”
“We shouldn’t,” you say, the professor’s automatic, feeble protest.
A slow, dangerous smirk touches his lips. “I wasn’t asking.”
Before you can refuse, his hand is on the small of your bare back, searing through the thin fabric of your dress. He guides you, not to the dance floor’s edge, but into its heart, where the bodies are packed tight and the lights are strobing, fracturing reality into moments of blinding color and deep shadow.
Here, in the press of strangers, there is a terrifying anonymity. His arms cage you, not quite touching, as you begin to move. The rhythm is primal, undeniable. You try to maintain distance, to move as separate entities, but he closes the gap. His front meets your back, his hips aligning with yours.
“All night,” he growls into your hair, his hands finally settling on your hips, fingers biting in, “I’ve watched you. Playing the perfect, untouchable professor. And all I could think about was the sound you make when you come.”
You gasp, your head falling back against his shoulder. The music swallows the sound. His lips find the junction of your neck and shoulder, not a kiss, but a hot, open-mouthed press.
“Rafayel,” you warn, but it comes out a moan as he grinds against you, the hard ridge of his cock unmistakable even through layers of clothing. The friction is maddening, a pale imitation of what you both crave.
“They all see the mask you wear,” he pants, one hand sliding around to splay possessively over your lower belly, pulling you tighter against him. “Only I know what’s underneath. The tension in your muscles. The wetness between those beautiful legs. The way you sound when you cum.”
His words are a violation in this public space, and it makes you clench around nothing, soaking the lace of your underwear. You’re rocking against him now, shameless, using the cover of the dance to chase the building pressure. His breath hitches.
“Fuck, you’re really doing it,” he groans, lost to the rhythm and his words, a puppet strung between his hands and his hunger. You can feel the damp heat of his mouth through the fabric on your shoulder, a brand in the making. His fingers dig into the softness of your belly, a claim staked low and deep.
“Tell me you want it,” he demands, voice ragged. “Tell me you want my hands on you. My mouth. Tell me you want to cum in the middle of this crowd while they have no idea what’s happening to their perfect professor.”
You shake your head, a weak denial, but your body arches into his touch. His fingers press harder, a delicious, claiming pressure through the soaked fabric. “Liar,” he breathes, and his other hand comes up to curl around your throat, holding. A reminder of his control. Your pulse hammers against his palm.
The song crashes to an end, dissolving into something slower, darker. The lights dip, plunging the dance floor into near darkness. It’s in that sudden cover that he turns you in his arms. Finally, you’re facing him. His eyes are pure wildfire in the shadows, burning through the last of your pretense.
He doesn’t ask. He kisses you.
It’s not the gentle, exploratory kiss of your first time in your office. This is conquest. His mouth is hot and demanding, his tongue sweeping in to claim yours. It tastes of the clear liquor he barely got a taste of and something inherently him. You melt into it, your hands flying up to clutch at the black silk of his shirt, the muscles of his chest rigid beneath. The world narrows to this: the slick slide of his tongue, the possessive grip on your hip, the hard line of his arousal pressed insistently against your stomach.
When he breaks the kiss, you’re both breathing like you’ve run a race. Your lipstick is smeared across his mouth, a violent badge of your surrender. He thumbs it away, his gaze locked on yours.
“Your place or mine?” he asks, but it’s a formality. The decision was made the moment he pinned you to your desk. The moment you let him.
You don’t get to answer. He’s already pulling you through the crowd, his grip on your hand unbreakable. You stumble past your colleagues, their faces blurry smears of noise and light. No one stops you. No one sees the truth burning in your linked hands.
In the stark, silent hallway leading to the emergency exit, he pushes you against the cold concrete wall. The door muffles the music to a dull throb. Here, there is only the harsh sound of your breathing and the heat of his body caging yours.
“I’m done pretending,” he rasps, and his hands are on your thighs, hiking up the hem of your black dress. “I want to hear you say it. Say you’ve been aching for me. Say you touch yourself in your big, empty bed and think of my hands. Of my mouth between these legs.”
His language is a scalpel, slicing through every last vestige of your professionalism. And you are laid bare.
“Yes,” you gasp, as his fingers find the soaked lace of your panties, pushing them aside. “I do, yes.”
He makes a sound low in his throat, a growl of pure triumph. “Mine,” he says, and then his fingers are inside you, curling, stroking, claiming the wet, clenching heat he’s been dreaming of. You cry out, the sound echoing off the concrete, and he swallows it with another searing kiss. “Every part of you. The professor belongs to everyone. But this…” he pumps his fingers deep, hitting a spot that makes you see stars. “This is all mine.”
You are unspooling against the wall, your carefully constructed world fracturing into nothing but sensation. The rough wall at your back, the relentless mastery of his hand, the hot promise of his body moving against yours. This is the thesis torn apart. This is the obsession laid bare. As his thumb circles your clit, as the coil in your belly pulls taut to breaking, you know the game is over. He has won. You have lost. As the last pulses fade, he slowly withdraws his hand, bringing it up to rest, possessively, on your hip. You feel exposed, ruined, utterly his.
He turns you in his arms to face him. His violet eyes are nearly black with want, his smirk softer now, triumphant. He brings his glistening fingers to his own lips, never breaking your gaze, and licks them clean.
“The conclusion,” he says, his voice hoarse, “is always the same, Professor. You are mine.”
The cold concrete at your back is a stark contrast to the fever burning under your skin, a reality check you fail entirely. His kiss is a brand, a final searing claim that tastes of your own surrender. When he breaks it, dragging you by the hand toward a plain, unmarked door marked ‘Staff Only’, there is no hesitation, only the terrifying, exhilarating pull of his will.
The door slams shut, plunging you into near darkness, the music now a muffled throb through the walls. Silence, thick and immediate, presses in, broken only by the ragged symphony of your shared breaths.
It’s a storage room. The dim glow of an EXIT sign paints everything in sickly red. You glimpse stacked crates, a mop bucket, the sharp, clean smell of industrial cleaner undercut by the scent of his cologne and your own arousal.
“Rafayel—” you begin, the professor’s voice trying to reassert itself in the sudden quiet.
He crowds you back against a metal shelving unit, the bars digging into your spine. “No,” he says, the word simple, absolute. His hands frame your face, forcing you to look at him. In the bloody light, his violet eyes are nearly black, the wildfire banked to a smoldering intensity. “You said ‘yes’ out there. That word is mine now. It doesn’t get taken back.”
His dominance is a tangible force, a wall you have no desire to scale. But then, as his thumbs stroke your cheekbones, a tremor runs through him. A fine, almost imperceptible shake. You see it in the flicker of his lashes, hear it in the catch of his breath. The predator is holding his prey, but his own hunger is a desperate, whining thing inside him.
“You break me,” he whispers, and the raw confession is more disarming than any command. He presses his forehead to yours, his eyes squeezing shut. “All night. Every fucking night. The way you stand at that podium… the careful way you choose your words… it’s agony. A beautiful, perfect agony, professor.”
He kisses you again, but it’s different now. Less conquest, more communion. His lips are softer, seeking, and a small, broken sound escapes him—a whimper that goes straight to your core. It’s the sound of the boy who sketched you in wrecked ecstasy, the one who whispers filth not to degrade, but because he has no other language for this worship.
“I need to hear it again,” he pleads against your mouth, his hands sliding down to your shoulders, pushing the sleeves of your dress down your arms. The fabric catches at your elbows, pinning them softly, a half-restraint that makes you feel both vulnerable and offered. “Please. Tell me you ache. Tell me it’s for me.”
The pretense is ash. The game is over. You let your head fall back against the shelving with a soft thud. “Yeah, I ache,” you breathe, the truth a relief so profound it weakens your knees. “Everywhere. It’s always for you…”
A shuddering sigh leaves him, a release of tension. He buries his face in the exposed curve of your neck, his lips and tongue tracing the frantic beat of your pulse. “Show me,” he murmurs, his voice muffled against your skin. His hands find yours, guides them down. “Show me how much.”
Your fingers, under his, slip beneath the hem of your ruined underwear. You’re slick, swollen, utterly exposed. A low, pained groan vibrates from his chest into yours as he feels the proof. He guides your touch, his own hand covering yours, showing you the rhythm, the pressure.
His breath comes in hot, ragged pants against your neck, each one a whispered, “Yes… just like that… my perfect professor… see what you do?”
But the sight of your own hand moving, under his command, under the desperate press of his, is too much. He suddenly pulls your hand away, bringing your glistening fingers to his own mouth. He sucks them clean, his eyes rolling back for a moment in pure, wanton bliss. The whimper is back, high in his throat.
“Enough,” he growls, the dominance surging back, fused now with a terrifying vulnerability. He turns you around, your bare front meeting the cold metal shelves. With a quick, ruthless tug, he finishes peeling your dress down to your waist, baring you completely from behind. The cool air kisses your skin, followed instantly by the blistering heat of his body covering yours.
You hear the frantic rustle of his clothes, the clink of a belt, the shaky, impatient intake of his breath. His hands grip your hips, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh with a possessiveness that makes you moan. He leans over you, his chest to your back, his lips at your ear.
“This is where you belong,” he rasps, the words trembling with feeling. “Not in front of a classroom. Here, in front of me. Taking me because you want to.”
The blunt, hot head of his cock is pressing against you. A threat and a prayer. He is shaking. You can feel the fine tremors running through his thighs where they press against yours. The brilliant, disaffected artist is gone. The hungry, desperate boy is laid bare.
“Say it,” he begs, his voice cracking. “Say ‘take me’, Professor.”
You push back against him, a silent, physical answer. It shatters his final thread of control.
“Fuck,” he sobs, and he sheathes himself in one smooth, devastating stroke.
The fullness is a shock, a perfect, stretching completion. You cry out, the sound absorbed by the boxes and cleaning supplies. He stills, buried to the hilt, his body bowed over yours, his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades. A wet heat—a tear?—seeps onto your skin.
“You feel…” he chokes out, unable to finish. He begins to move, and it’s not the frantic, punishing pace you might have expected. It’s deep, reverent, and utterly devastating. Each slow, withdrawing thrust is a loss, each deep, rolling return a homecoming. His hands slide from your hips to splay over your lower belly, holding you to him as if you might dissolve.
“Mine,” he whimpers with every push, the word losing its arrogance, becoming a mantra, a fragile truth he’s clinging to. “All mine. This heat, this tightness. These sounds you’re making...” he nuzzles your back, his voice breaking. “I dream of this. I ruin my sheets dreaming of this.”
You are beyond words, reduced to a series of gasps and choked moans as he finds a rhythm that brushes a spot inside you that unravels your very thoughts. The metal shelves rattle a steady, metallic beat against the wall, a secret rhythm counterpoint to the one your joined bodies make.
His dominant control is still there, in the unyielding grip of his hands, in the angle he dictates, but it’s layered now with a whining, pleading need. He is fucking you with a profound, focused intensity, yet he is the one laid bare, the one being taken apart.
“I can’t… I’m not going to last,” he gasps, his movements becoming less precise, more frantic. “Cum with me. Please. I need to feel you while you do, I need to know I’m not alone in this.”
His plea is your undoing. The coil that has been tightening since his first glance across the club, through the dance, against the concrete wall, snaps. Pleasure erupts, white-hot and absolute, clenching around him in relentless waves. Your cry is muffled by your own arm, and the sound of your shattering is what breaks him.
With a ragged, broken shout that is more sob than triumph, he follows you over. His thrusts stutter, his body locking, pouring into you with a heat that seems to sear you from the inside out. He collapses over you, his full weight a heavy, perfect anchor, his face buried in your hair, his breaths coming in wet, shuddering gasps.
For long minutes, there is only the sound of your slowing hearts, the drip of a distant pipe, and the humid heat of your shared breath in the dark, red-lit room. Slowly, he softens, slips from you. His hands, now gentle, almost shy, pull your dress back up over your shoulders. He turns you to face him. His face is streaked with moisture—sweat, maybe tears. His smirk is gone. In its place is a look of dazed, sated wonder, and a vulnerability that steals the breath you just regained.
He leans in, his kiss impossibly soft, a ghost of the one in the hallway. It tastes of salt and truth.
“The conclusion,” he whispers, his voice wrecked, but his eyes holding yours with a new, terrifying certainty, “is that I am yours, too. Even if you never say it.”
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Synopsis: After weeks of tension following your illicit encounter in your office—and the clandestine studio address he left with you—you finally surrender to desire. Dressed to provoke, you arrive unannounced at his studio, shattering the last pretense between professor and student.
Content warnings: Power imbalance, professor/student, explicit sexual content, teasing, light coercive language (consensual), soft power play, possessiveness, praise kink, dirty talk, cunnilingus, protected sex, rough sex, desk sex, floor sex, anal and vaginal sex, marking, mutual pining, rafayel is a brat, student rafayel & professor mc, menace student raf
Pairings: Student!Rafayel x Professor!Reader
Word count: 6.6k
A/n: *chuckles nervously* hi~ it's been *checks watch* forever since i finished this story BUT i got a burst of inspiration for a sequel sooo~ here it is, cuties<3 enjoy hehe
part 1 here - extra here
The office door had closed on more than just the scent of sex and graphite that afternoon weeks ago. It had closed on a line, irrevocably crossed. In the days and lectures that followed, a new, silent understanding hummed beneath the familiar surface of your professional disdain and his theatrical boredom.
To the naked eye, nothing had changed. You were, if possible, even more precise, more untouchable at the podium. He was the same sprawled deity in the third row, his sketchpad a testament to his apparent indifference. You called on him no more than before, your voice never wavering when you addressed him as “Mr. Qi.” He answered with the same lazy, infuriating accuracy, his eyes holding that glint that was now a shared secret, not just a challenge.
But beneath the facade, everything had changed. His gaze on you was no longer just an artist’s study or a brat’s provocation. It was a memory. A brand. You could feel it tracing the line of your throat where his teeth had bitten, lingering on your wrists he’d pinned, drifting over your hips his hands had gripped. And the most shocking, the most unprofessional truth was that you liked it. The memory of how he’d shattered you, how you’d shattered him, thrummed in your veins like a second heartbeat.
It was wrong. It was a catastrophe waiting to happen. Yet, the thrill of it was a drug, and you were already addicted.
The thought that the semester had an expiration date was both a relief and a peculiar, sharp grief. Soon, he wouldn’t be your student. Soon, the pretense could, theoretically, end. The risk of your office encounter had miraculously yielded no rumors, no suspicious glances. The walls, it seemed, had kept your secrets. But the safety bred not caution, but a deeper, more impatient hunger. Denied a repeat in your domain, the tension had migrated to stolen moments—a brush of fingers when he handed in a paper, the heat of his body standing too close behind you at the library shelves, a loaded glance held a second too long in an empty hallway. A silent, starving game.
It was on a quiet Saturday, wrapped in the peace of your own home, that the denial finally crumbled. Sunlight streamed across your kitchen table, your coffee steamed in its mug, and your mind, unmoored from syllabi and deadlines, drifted relentlessly to him. To the feel of him. To the look on his face in the moment he lost control. He occupied your thoughts especially here, in the space where Professor You didn’t exist. There was only you, a woman, achingly aware of her own desire.
With a slow, deliberate sip, you breathed in the rich aroma and let the truth settle. Interest. Desire. Curiosity. Lust. It was all of those, a tangled, irresistible knot. And you were done pretending otherwise.
A slow, cocky smile touched your lips. You rummaged in your bag, past pens and paperclips, until your fingers closed around the folded slip he’d given you weeks ago. His studio address. You’d kept it, of course. Unfolding it felt like uncocking a gun.
An hour later, you stood before a converted loft building in a semi-industrial part of town, your heart beating a thrilling, rebellious rhythm. You’d dressed for the occasion, for the look you knew it would elicit. A fitted black corset top that hugged your ribs and pushed your breasts up, a sleek, high-waisted pencil skirt, sheer stockings, and heels. Your coat was your only armor, and you intended to shed it. The image of his purple eyes widening, that cool composure fracturing for a split second, fueled you as you took the stairs.
You knocked. The pause that followed was delicious. Then the door swung open and
Rafayel stood there, paint smearing his forearms, a dab of cerulean blue on his cheekbone. He wore old, soft jeans and a white t-shirt that was more paint than fabric. His hair was a glorious, chaotic mess. His eyes, those infamous violet pools, landed on you and flashed with pure, unadulterated shock.
For one beautiful, fleeting moment, the smirk was utterly gone. His gaze ate you whole, traveling from your heels up your stockinged legs, over the severe curve of your skirt and corset, to your deliberately cool expression.
Then, like the master performer he was, he reassembled himself. The smirk returned, though a faint, telling blush stained his cheeks. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms.
“Well,” he drawled, voice a low, teasing ribbon of sound. “To what do I owe the honor? What kind of professor makes unannounced house calls on a random Saturday? Checking up on my… independent study?”
You stepped past him into the spacious, sunlit studio, the air thick with the smells of turpentine, oil paint, and him. “Just a concerned educator,” you said, your tone light, playing innocent as you let your eyes wander over the canvases leaning against walls, the chaotic beauty of his workspace. “Seeing how you apply theory outside the classroom.”
He closed the door, the click final. You could feel his eyes on you like a physical touch, burning through the wool of your coat. “Mmhm. And the theoretical application requires that outfit, does it?”
You turned, slowly unbuttoning your coat. “It’s Saturday. I’m off-duty.” you let the coat slide off your shoulders and drape over a nearby chair, revealing the full effect of the corset.
You saw his throat work as he swallowed. He tried to reclaim the upper hand, gesturing vaguely to a large canvas covered in abstract, violent swirls of color. “That’s the current masterpiece. Or mess. Depends on the light.”
You moved closer, not to the painting, but to him. Feigning interest in his work while closing the distance. “It’s intense. Like you’ve been wrestling with it.” your eyes flicked down his body. “Quite literally, it seems. You’re covered in it.”
He looked down at himself, then back at you, a defiant, cocky glint in his eye. “It’s a passionate process. Unlike grading papers.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” you murmured, taking another half-step. “Grading can be quite… hands-on.”
His breath hitched, just slightly. The air between you crackled. You held his gaze, a silent challenge. He was playing dumb, but the heat in his look was unhinged, devouring. You could practically see the fantasies replaying behind his eyes—the desk, the wall, the sketches come to life.
With a smirk, you turned and walked slowly towards a tall stool by an empty easel. Your hips swayed just a fraction more than necessary. You perched on the stool, crossing your legs, and looked at him expectantly.
“All semester,” you began, your voice a playful chide, “you sketched me. Being bratty, not paying attention, just drawing and drawing and drawing. And now that I’m here, in your territory, you’re just going to stand there and talk about paint, Mr. Qi?”
He let out a low, breathy chuckle. The sound vibrated through you. He pushed off from the doorframe and began to walk towards you, his movements lazy but purposeful. “Hesitation is part of the process, professor. Building the tension. You of all people should appreciate that.”
He stopped in front of you, so close the tips of your shoes almost brushed his paint-splattered boots. His hand came up, and with a touch so faint it was barely there, he traced the line of your collarbone above the corset’s edge. His eyes were locked on yours, blazing. “I just wonder if you’re really ready for how I’d paint you.”
You raised a brow, leaning forward until your lips were a whisper from his. “If you want me naked, Rafayel, you can just say so.”
A deeper blush fanned across his cheekbones. You loved it, the crack in his arrogance. He grinned, but it was tight, strained with desire. “That’s not something a professor should say to her student,” he breathed, the words a taunt and an invitation.
You laughed softly, reaching out to trail a teasing finger down the hard plane of his chest, over the gritty paint. “It’s Saturday. I’m not your professor right now. Am I?”
His hand snapped up, circling the side of your neck, his thumb tipping your chin up. His touch was firm, possessive. He leaned in, his lips hovering over yours. “Then what are you?” he murmured, the scent of him, of art and male hunger, flooding your senses.
You let your eyes go half-lidded, a slow, knowing smirk playing on your mouth. “I’m your fantasy.”
The effect was instantaneous. The blush darkened, his eyes dilated into pools of near-black, his grip on your neck tightened just a fraction. You’d struck the core of it. He’d confessed as much in your office, broken and worshipful.
He swallowed hard, the cocky mask slipping to show the raw want beneath. With a sudden, decisive move, he grabbed the back of the stool and dragged it—with you on it—a few feet back, centering you in a patch of light.
“Fantasies don’t talk back,” he said, his voice husky but regaining a thread of command. “They pose. So pose for me.” he tilted his head, voice dropping lower, “Sit up. Back straight. Look at me like I’m the only thing in this godforsaken city.”
You were amused, but a thick, hot arousal was pooling in your belly, making you clench your thighs together. He saw it. Of course he did, and you counted on it, too.
He closed the distance again, his heated gaze dropping to your legs. With a firm hand, he pushed your knees apart. “Ah-ah. None of that. You pose exactly how I put you. You’ll be an obedient girl for once.” his eyes flicked back to yours, gleaming with wicked amusement. “If you want to get what you came here for.”
You bit your lip, a deliberate, provocative gesture. He groaned, a raw, unfiltered sound, and the act dissolved. In one fluid motion, he pulled you off the stool and into his arms, his mouth crashing down on yours. The kiss was all heat and hunger and pent-up weeks. His hand cradled the side of your neck, his other gripping your thigh, hiking your skirt up as he pulled you flush against the hard ridge of his erection. A slow, wanton moan escaped you, vibrating into his mouth.
He pulled back, breathing ragged, his forehead resting against yours. His eyes were wild. “Clothes,” he demanded, his voice a soft, hungry rasp. “Take them off. Now.”
Drenched, trembling, you obeyed, but not without one last tease. You ran your hands over his shoulders, feeling the tense muscles. “You look like you enjoy this,” you purred. “Giving orders.”
“And you look like you love following them, professor,” he shot back, his gaze dropping to your hands as they reached behind you. “Prove it.”
With painstaking slowness, you found the first clasp of the corset at your back. Then the next. His breath grew heavier with each tiny click of release. Finally, the garment loosened. You shrugged it forward, letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud. Your breasts spilled free, the cool air pebbling your nipples instantly.
He licked his lips, a feral, appreciative gesture. “Keep going.”
Emboldened, turned on beyond reason, you challenged him, your hands going to the clasp of your skirt. “The skirt too? The panties? Or is that too much for you to handle?”
In answer, he simply knelt before you. His hands went to your hips, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your skirt and the lace beneath. In one smooth, decisive motion, he pulled both down your legs, leaving you in only your heels and stockings, utterly exposed to his burning gaze. He stared up at you, his face level with your core, his violet eyes dark with worship and wicked intent.
“No,” he said, his voice a thick, promising growl as his hands slid back up to grip your bare hips. “It’s just enough.”
Kneeling before you, Rafayel was no longer the cocky student or the disaffected artist. He was a devotee at the altar of a fantasy he’d sketched into existence. His heated gaze held yours, a silent echo of every clandestine look across the lecture hall, every charged brush of fingers. The cool air of the studio kissed your exposed skin, but it was nothing compared to the blaze of his attention.
“Just enough,” he repeated, his voice a low thrum that vibrated through your bones. His hands on your hips were possessive, grounding. “You in my space, and on my terms. Finally.”
You arched a brow, the professor’s defiance a last, delicious vestige. “Your terms? I’m the one who showed up unannounced.”
A slow, knowing smirk tugged at his lips. He leaned forward, his breath hot against the inside of your thigh. “You showed up because you couldn’t stay away. Because you dream about the way I ruin you.” his nose skimmed your skin, and you trembled. “That makes this my game, professor. You just brought yourself to the board.”
His mouth closed over the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, not a kiss, but a suction that you knew would brand you purple. A gasp tore from your lips, your hands flying to tangle in his messy purple hair. He hummed against your flesh, the sound of satisfaction, and then his tongue traced a searing path upwards.
He paused, his lips a whisper away from your core. His violet eyes, darkened to stormy amethyst, locked with yours.
“You taste like anticipation,” he murmured, the words a filthy caress. “Like you’ve been thinking about this since you locked your office door behind us.”
You couldn’t deny it. Your body was doing all the talking for you, dripping for him, clenching around the emptiness he was about to fill. “Maybe I have,” you breathed, surrendering the point.
“I know you have,” he corrected, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I could see it in the tight line of your shoulders every Wednesday. In the way you’d bite your lip when I answered a question too perfectly.”
Then, he closed the final distance, and his tongue speared into you. It was not gentle. It was a claim. A brutal, worshipful reclamation of the territory he’d mapped in graphite and fantasy. His hands gripped the backs of your thighs, holding you open, anchoring you as his tongue worked you with an artist’s precision—long, languid strokes that mapped your seams, then focused, ruthless flicks over your clit that had your knees buckling. You cried out, the sound echoing off the high studio ceilings, and his grip only tightened.
“Louder,” he growled against you, his breath hot and wet. “This isn’t your soundproof office. Let the whole building hear what happens when the professor visits her student.”
The obscenity of it, the sheer risk, coiled the pleasure tighter. You tried to muffle yourself, biting your knuckle, but he pulled his mouth away with a wet, lewd sound.
“No,” he commanded, his chin glistening. “I wanna hear it. I want to know I’m the one pulling these sounds from you. That I’m the only one who gets to.”
He dove back in, his tongue fucking into you in time with the relentless circles of his thumb on your clit. The dual sensation was unbearable, a masterpiece of torment. Your hips jerked against his face, but he held you firm, controlling the rhythm, the pressure, the very pace of your undoing. This was the obsession he’d sketched—not just desire, but possession. The complete dissolution of your control.
“Rafayel, I’m—!” the warning was a shattered plea.
He redoubled his efforts, his free hand coming up to pinch and roll your nipple, the sharp pleasure-pain catapulting you over the edge. You came with a raw, broken shout, your body convulsing in his iron hold, your vision whiting out as wave after wave of brutal pleasure crashed through you. He drank you in, his tongue gentling to lap softly, prolonging the shocks until you were sobbing, limp and boneless against him.
Slowly, he released you, standing up on trembling legs. His face was a mess, your arousal smeared across his mouth and cheeks, his eyes black with hunger. He looked utterly debauched, and more beautiful than any painting in the room.
“That,” he panted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “was just the warm-up.”
Before you could regain your senses, his hands were on your waist, turning you around. Your palms hit the edge of a sturdy worktable, scattered with tubes of paint and brushes. The cold wood against your overheated skin was a shock.
“You posed for me on paper all semester,” his voice was a rough whisper in your ear as he leaned over you, his hard cock pressing against the seam of your ass. His hands smoothed over the curve of your hips, your waist, memorizing you in three dimensions. “Now pose for me in the flesh.”
You heard the tear of a foil packet, the frantic rustle of him pushing his jeans down. Then the blunt, insistent pressure of him, not where you were still throbbing and sensitive, but against your other entrance. A question. A depraved, inevitable escalation.
You gasped, your fingers scrambling against the table. “Rafayel…”
“You came to my studio,” he reminded you, his voice thick with need. He nudged forward, just an inch, the stretch burning and exquisite. “You walked in here dressed like a fantasy and challenged me. This is where that leads.” he leaned down, biting your shoulder. “You can take it. You’re the strongest person I know.”
The compliment, filthy and tender all at once, undid you. You pushed back against him, a silent, final surrender.
He groaned, a sound of pure victory, and sank into you in one slow, devastating stroke. The fullness was different, shocking, a total invasion that stole the breath from your lungs. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, his body shuddering against yours.
“Fuck,” he choked out. “Tighter than I dreamed. Hotter.”
Then he began to move. It was a slower, deeper rhythm than in your office, less about frantic release and more about profound possession. Each thrust was a deliberate claiming, a physical echo of every line he’d ever drawn of you. His hands roamed your back, your ass, pulling you back onto him, merging your bodies with the same intense focus he gave a canvas.
“This is how I wanted you,” he rasped, his lips against your spine. “Not just under me. Mine. In every way. In every place.”
The pleasure built again, a coiling, desperate thing mixed with the beautiful, shameful burn of the act itself. It was wrong, it was perfect. It was everything the sketches had promised and more. You met each of his thrusts, the table scraping across the floor with their force.
“Tell me,” he demanded, his hand fisting in your hair, pulling your head back. “Tell me who you belong to right now.”
The professor was ashes. The woman was flame.
“You,” you sobbed, the truth a liberation. “F-fuck, I’m yours.”
The words shattered his control. His thrusts became erratic, powerful, driving you both toward the cliff. One of his hands slid around your hip, his fingers finding your clit again, slick with your combined wetness. The added stimulation was too much. You fractured, a silent scream tearing through you as your body clamped around him in endless, pulsing waves.
Feeling you convulse around him was his end. He buried his face in your neck with a guttural cry, his own release pumping into you, hot and endless. He held you there, impaled and claimed, as the tremors subsided.
For a long time, the only sounds were your ragged breaths and the distant hum of the city. Slowly, gently, he pulled out and turned you around. You were a mess—makeup smudged, hair wild, body marked by his hands and mouth. He looked no better, paint and sweat and you smeared across his skin.
He looked at you, and the smirk was gone. In its place was a raw, awed vulnerability that made your heart clench. He leaned in, kissing you softly, a benediction.
“The fantasy ends when you leave,” he whispered against your lips, his voice hoarse. “But this doesn’t. This is real. You’re real.”
You looked around the sun-drenched studio, at the paintings, at the man who had dismantled you and put you back together as his. You traced the blue paint on his cheekbone.
“Then paint me,” you said, your voice quiet but sure. “For real. Not a sketch or a fantasy. Paint what’s real.”
He smiled then, a true, breathtaking smile that reached his beautiful eyes. He took your hand, leading you away from the table toward a cleared space by the north-facing window.
“Alright, professor,” he said, the old teasing lilt back in his tone, but softened now, belonging to both of you. “Let’s create a new masterpiece.”
He led you to the cleared space by the window, the afternoon light casting long, golden bars across the dusty floorboards. There was a large, primed canvas on an easel, a low stool, and the intoxicating, chaotic order of his palette table.
“Here,” he murmured, his voice still rough from use. “Just like that.”
You stood there on the chaise, naked but for your stockings and heels, spent and shimmering with the evidence of him. The light was warm on your skin, highlighting the bite marks on your neck, the faint red blooms of his grip on your hips. You felt utterly exposed, more than in your office, more than on the table. This was a different kind of nakedness. It was voluntary. It was for his art.
He stepped back, his violet eyes sweeping over you with a focus that made your skin prickle. It was the same gaze from the lecture hall, but stripped of its mocking laziness. This was pure, unadulterated intensity. He picked up a brush, loaded it with a muted earth tone, and began to mix without looking away from you.
“You’re going to be sore,” he said after a moment, the statement casual, but his eyes tracing the slight tremor in your thigh.
“I’m aware,” you replied, your voice surprisingly steady. You tilted your chin, falling into the familiar, defiant posture. “A hazard of indulging a demanding artist.”
He smirked, dabbing the brush on the canvas, beginning with broad, confident strokes that blocked in the shadow you casted. “You indulge me, professor? I thought you were just conducting independent research. Testing a hypothesis on obsession.”
You watched his hand move, the swift, sure lines that began to suggest a form on the canvas. It was mesmerizing. “The data is certainly compelling,” you said, falling into the banter like a comfortable, dangerous blanket. “If ethically questionable.”
He paused, glancing at you over the top of the easel. The playfulness in his eyes hardened, just a fraction. “Ethics.” he scoffed softly, returning to the canvas. “A construct for people who aren’t brave enough to want what they want.” the smudge of cerulean was still on his cheek, and his voice rather bitter. “It’s infuriating, you know.”
“What is?”
“This.” he gestured with his paintbrush between the two of you. “Having to walk into that lecture hall on Monday and call you ‘professor’. Having to watch you give that polite, icy smile to some department head who doesn’t know how you sound when you’re out of breath and on the brink of ecstasy.” his jaw tightened. “Having to pretend this isn’t the most real thing I’ve ever fucking felt.”
The raw frustration in his voice echoed your own. You shifted on the chaise, the movement making you aware of the slick, tender ache between your legs. “It’s the way it has to be,” you said, but the words sounded hollow, even to you.
“Why?” he put the brush down and took a step toward you, his eyes blazing. “The semester ends in a few weeks. What then, huh? Do we go back to being strangers? You grade my final, I get my credit, and we pretend my cum isn’t still drying on your thighs right now?”
The vulgarity was a weapon, designed to shatter the remaining distance. It worked. Heat flared in your chest, a mix of anger and renewed desire. “Don’t,” you warned, your voice low.
“Don’t what? Speak the truth?” he closed the distance, kneeling by the chaise. He didn’t touch you, but his presence was a physical force. “Tell me what the plan is then. Enlighten me. Do we keep sneaking around? You, looking impeccable in your office, knowing I’m hard under the desk just remembering the taste of you? Me, sketching you until I go insane because it’s the closest I’m allowed to get?”
“It’s not that simple!” you sat up, unable to sit anymore.“What are you suggesting? We flaunt it? You’re my student. There are rules. My career, Rafayel—”
“I don’t give a damn about rules!” he snapped, his composure cracking to show the frantic hunger beneath. “I care about this. About the way you look at me when you believe no one’s watching you. About the fact that I can’t walk into a goddamn gallery without wondering which painting would remind me of you.” his hand rose, as if to touch your face, but he clenched it into a fist and dropped it. “What are we doing, professor?”
The fight was bleeding out of you, replaced by a weary, desperate ache. You saw the same conflict in his eyes—the arrogance was a shield, and it was failing. “I don’t know,” you admitted, the confession leaving you defenseless.
That was all he needed. The admission of uncertainty was a chink in the armor, and he was through it in an instant. His hand finally came up, but not to strike. His thumb brushed over your lower lip, smudging the remnants of your ruined lipstick.
“Then stop thinking so hard about this,” he murmured, his voice dropping to that velvet-dark register that went straight to your core. “Just feel. For once, just feel what this is between us.”
He leaned in and kissed you. It wasn’t like the hungry, consuming kisses from before. This one was slower, deeper, a question and an answer all at once. A surrender from both of you. Your hands came up to tangle in his paint-streaked hair, pulling him closer. The fight melted, its energy transmuting into a different, more potent friction.
You tumbled together in a graceless, urgent heap onto the wide-planked floor. The smell of turpentine and dust and sex filled your nostrils. He was on top of you, then you were rolling, vying for dominance until you were straddling his hips. His hands gripped your bare waist, his purple eyes blazing up at you.
“Do you see it?” he breathed, his cock already hard and pressing against your stomach. “There's no pretending here. I don't want to pretend any longer.”
You rocked against him, a slow, grinding motion that made him curse softly. Your own need was a liquid fire, rekindled too easily. You reached between you, wrapping your fingers around his length, pumping slowly. He threw his head back, the cords of his neck standing out.
“Frustrated, Rafayel?” you taunted, but your voice was breathy, affected.
“Beyond reason,” he groaned. His own hand slipped between your bodies, his fingers finding you wet and swollen all over again. He pushed two inside, curling them expertly, and you moaned, your hips jerking. “And you? Still trying to grade me, be the professor you cling so hard to be?”
“No,” you gasped as his thumb circled your clit. “Not right now.”
“Then what are you?” he insisted, his fingers working you with devastating precision, his gaze holding yours captive.
“I’m me,” you whimpered, the words torn from you. “And I’m yours.”
“Good.”
With a swift motion, he reversed your positions, pinning you gently to the floor. He reached for his discarded jeans, fumbling for another condom. The sound of it tearing was loud in the quiet studio. He sheathed himself, his eyes never leaving yours.
Then he was pushing into you, and the feeling was different this time—less frantic, more profound. A deep, sliding reunion. You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him deeper. He moved with a steady, relentless rhythm, each thrust a silent argument against the world outside this room.
Your breaths synced, became ragged choruses. His forehead dropped to yours, his paint-smeared face hovering inches away. “This is real,” he chanted between kisses, between thrusts. “This is what matters.”
You couldn’t speak, could only cling to him as the pleasure built, a towering wave drawn from the deep well of your shared frustration and undeniable need. It crested with a force that stole the air from your lungs, a climax that rolled through you in long, shuddering pulses. He followed, his own release wrenched from him with a hoarse cry that was more prayer than profanity, his body collapsing into yours.
For a long time, you lay tangled on the hard floor, surrounded by the ghosts of paintings and the very real scent of sex and oil paint. The unfinished portrait on the easel watched over you—a captured moment of messy, spent beauty.
The complicated world, with its rules and reputations, waited outside the door. But here, in the warm pool of sunlight, with his heart hammering against yours, there was only the terrifying, exhilarating truth of what you’d become to each other. And no amount of pretending, come Monday, could ever erase it.
—
The moment final grades were submitted, the invisible barrier that had thrummed between you for months didn't just vanish, but shattered under the weight of his impatient, singular focus. Your professional email account had barely processed the administrative closure when your personal phone lit up with a single, devastatingly simple text from an unknown number.
the line is gone. your place or mine?
He’d been waiting, counting down the seconds.
You chose yours. He was at your door in under an hour, not with the lazy saunter of a student visiting a professor’s office, but with the focused intent of a man claiming what was finally his. There was no smirk when you opened the door, just a deep, hungry look that stripped you bare before his hands even touched you.
The first kiss, in the quiet hallway of your own home, was a vow. It tasted of endless possibility and pent-up weeks. That night was a slow, thorough exploration, a mapping of territory without a timer ticking in the background. He made love to you with a reverence that left you breathless, whispering all the things he’d wanted to say in your office against your skin, followed by frantic, dawn-breaking sex that felt like a celebration of your new, unchained reality.
With the technicality of the student-teacher relationship relegated to the past, Rafayel launched a campaign not just for your body, but for every part of your life he’d been denied. He was relentless in the most exquisite way.
He took you on dates. Real, public, hold-your-hand-across-the-table dates. He’d show up at your department building at five o’clock sharp, leaning against the wall with a bouquet of flame lilies and walk you to a small, obscure gallery opening or a hidden restaurant he’d discovered.
In public, his touch was possessive but polite, a hand on the small of your back, his fingers laced with yours on the tabletop. But his eyes… his eyes told the true story. They’d darken with a private, heated memory when you took a sip of wine, or crinkle at the corners when you launched into a passionate critique of the artwork before you, just like in class. He’d listen, truly listen, and then dismantle your argument with a clever, teasing point that made you laugh and kick him under the table.
He was both a gentleman and a possessive lover. He’d hold doors, pull out your chair, then catch your wrist and press a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your inner palm when he thought no one was looking, his eyes promising what would come later. He relished the freedom to touch the small of your back, to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, to let his gaze linger on your lips without the specter of a gradebook between you.
The thrill was no longer in the secret, but in the open secret—in the way the world could now see the magnetic pull between you and still have no idea of its depth.
The romantic gestures were tailored, artistic, and unbearably sweet. A playlist of classical pieces that, he explained one drowsy morning, each reminded him of a different facet of you. A fierce, complex movement for your intellect, a soft, aching adagio for the vulnerability you showed only him.
The first time he kissed you in public was beneath the awning of a small italian restaurant. A sudden summer downpour had trapped you both on the sidewalk. Before, he would have held back, his smirk a private promise for later. Now, he simply turned you towards him, his hands framing your face, and kissed you breathless as rain misted around you. It was possessive, declarative. A man claiming what was finally, indisputably his.
You gasped into his mouth, and when he pulled away, his violet eyes were gleaming with triumph. “Finally,” he murmured, his thumb swiping a raindrop from your lip.
No title, no pretense. Just you and him, and the wet city spinning around your little island of us.
The dynamic shifted, its axis tilting from forbidden tension to something equally potent. Aboundless, unleashed intensity. He made up for lost time with lavish dates at underground galleries where he’d explain the technique with a critic’s eye and then whisper what it reminded him of on your skin. Picnics in his sun-drenched studio, fruit and cheese eaten off shared plates, your bodies tangled on the paint-splattered floor between courses. He held your hand on busy streets, his fingers laced tightly with yours, a silent rebuke to the world that had forced them apart.
And the nights. God, the nights. They were a study in contrasts, a testament to every facet of the obsession he’d once sketched. Some were frantic, a collision of pent-up need. He’d push you through the door of your apartment or his, his mouth on yours before it closed, clothes torn at in the hallway, bodies meeting with the same desperate hunger as that first time on your desk.
He’d take you against the wall, on the kitchen counter, in the shower—anywhere, everywhere—as if to overwrite every professional memory with one of heat and ownership. “Mine,” he’d growl, a mantra made flesh, as you came apart around him, screaming into his shoulder.
Other nights were slow, excruciatingly tender. He’d draw a bath, lighting candles that made the steam glow, and wash you with a reverence that made your throat ache. He’d trace every curve he’d once only drawn, learning you by touch and taste, committing the reality to a memory more permanent than any sketchpad. Nights of agonizing slowness, where he’d paint your body with his tongue and his words, making you beg and shatter over hours, only to gather you up and do it again. He’d make love to you in his big, messy bed for hours, a deep, rolling rhythm that felt less like taking and more like becoming.
Afterwards, he’d pull you into his chest, his lips brushing your hair, his hands—those talented, arrogant hands—stroking your back with a gentleness that could unravel you more completely than any orgasm.
It was the aftercare that truly undid you. The Rafayel who lounged like a prince in class, who smirked through critiques, would fetch you a glass of water, tuck the blanket around your shoulders, or simply watch you sleep with an expression of such raw, unguarded wonder it stole your breath. He’d bring a warm cloth to clean you, his touch infinitely gentle. He’d massage the tension from your shoulders where you carried the weight of your day, or simply pull you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you so tightly you felt absorbed into his very being, his heartbeat a steady drum against your back.
He’d kiss the faint, fading marks on your hips from his grip and murmur, “Sorry,” though he didn’t sound sorry at all. He’d feed you strawberries in the morning light, painting your lips with the juice just to kiss it away.
He’d kiss the furrow between your brows when you were thinking too hard, and it would soften. He’d call you by a private, ridiculously saccharine nickname when you were half-asleep, and you’d feel a helpless, gooey warmth spread through your chest. He’d watch you lecture from the back of a public hall where you were a guest speaker, and his proud, smitten gaze would make you stumble over your words, your composure turning to heated, flustered jelly.
You, who had built a fortress of composure, found your walls persistently, joyfully under siege. He’d buy you a first edition of a philosophy text you’d mentioned once, offhand, months ago. He’d show up with coffee exactly as you liked it, remembering the obscure order you thought no one paid attention to. He’d sketch you while you read, not with the provocative, challenging gaze of before, but with a soft focus that felt like being cherished. Each gesture was a bullet aimed at your defenses, and they all found their mark.
You tried, sometimes, to resurrect the sharpness, to play at being unimpressed. But when he’d catch your eye across a crowded room and give you that slow, private smile—the one that was just for you, warm and knowing—your stomach would flip. When he’d whisper, “I love the way you think,” after a passionate debate, it felt more intimate than any touch. The power balance had irrevocably shifted. He was no longer a student trying to get a rise out of you, but a man who knew exactly how to make you weak, and adored you for it.
You, who had spent a semester building walls against his artful provocations, found them melting under a sustained siege of pure, unadulterated affection. The man who had sketched you in obsidian shades of desire now painted your life in gold and warmth. He got under your skin not with challenges, but with a relentless, unwavering commitment to seeing you, loving you, and claiming you in the full light of day.
The risk remained, of course. A shadow of scandal could still follow you—the former professor and her brilliant, young artist. But the weight of it felt different now. It was an external threat, not an internal barrier. Facing it felt like a choice you could make together, not a rule you were breaking alone.
The teasing banter remained, but its edge was now blunted by shared joy and layered with new intimacy. “Still think Kant would disapprove, professor?” he’d murmur into your hair after a particularly hedonistic morning, and you’d elbow him, laughing. “He’d be appalled at your interpretation,” you’d retort, but you’d be smiling.
He did all the things he wasn’t allowed to before. He shouted your name without restraint. He left love bites where your collars couldn’t hide them. He argued with you about movies and art and life, not to win, but simply for the pleasure of the fight and the inevitable, passionate reconciliation.
He was, in every sense, yours. And you, to your own awed surprise, were utterly, devastatingly his. The line was gone, and in its place was a vast, brilliant landscape built not on obsession alone, but on its beautiful, terrifying, and utterly real successor.
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"All of his wounds are self inflicted, but he cannot come to terms with that. That is why having a false self image of yourself is so dangerous. You can't change if you can't see what you are."
“People conform to ideologies and quixotic fantasies about who they are and how they should live. But the wilderness cleanses you from all that; you get away from society with all its constraints and falsehoods. There is something untainted about nature on its own.”
