Jun 13
Saw this n it reminded me of the professor x reader after class series by @big-poppa23 , love this trend
TikTok - Make Your Day
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Saw this n it reminded me of the professor x reader after class series by @big-poppa23 , love this trend
TikTok - Make Your Day
"Cancel them. Whatever you were going to do, forget it. Because you and I are going back to my apartment. And I am going to fuck your brains out."
JESUS CHRIST
How I felt writing this…you’re welcome…
The Outsiders
after class - part ten: the outsiders
synapse: after an awkward guidance-office chat, y/n storms into creel’s class demanding answers.
pairing: professor!henry creel x reader
contains: professor/student relationship, emotional angst, fluff, jealousy
a/n: it’s been 84 years… wanted to get this out before tomorrow since I’ll be 23 by then 😝 I’ve just been busy and had bad writers block, nothing changed, I still love Mr. Letmesitonit
PART ELEVEN IS LINKED HERE
. . .
Y/N hadn’t planned on it turning into that kind of conversation.
She’d gone to the student services wing for something mundane: paperwork, a schedule change, a form she needed signed. Something that should’ve taken five minutes and zero emotional energy. The guidance office smelled like cheap coffee and pencil shavings and whatever floral air freshener someone had tried to use to make institutional carpet feel comforting.
Patty Newby looked up from her desk with an easy, practiced smile, the kind adults wore when they wanted to seem approachable. Her office was neat in a way that felt intentional: brochures lined up in clean stacks, a framed poster about “YOUR FUTURE” on the wall, and a tiny plant by the window that somehow looked alive despite everything.
“Hi,” Patty said warmly. “Come on in.”
Y/N stepped inside, clutching the folder to her chest. She tried to keep her expression neutral. Patty wasn’t the enemy. Patty wasn’t Daniel Taylor. Patty didn’t know everything. Patty was just—
The woman Henry had been seen with in the hallway.
The name that still made something possessive flare in Y/N’s chest before she could stop it.
Patty gestured to the chair. “You can sit. What can I help you with?”
Y/N explained the reason she was there, brief and practical, the kind of student problem Patty probably solved ten times a day. Patty nodded along, made a note, turned a form over, and slid it back with a pen.
“Sign there,” she said.
Y/N did.
Patty’s eyes flicked up as she capped the pen. “You’re in Professor Creel’s English course, right?”
Y/N’s shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly. “Yes.”
Patty smiled, like she’d just found something interesting. “How is he?”
Y/N blinked. “How is he… as a professor?”
Patty’s expression held for a second, too smooth. Then she laughed lightly, as if she hadn’t meant anything by it.
“Yes. As a professor,” she echoed, a little too quick.
Y/N didn’t laugh back.
Patty cleared her throat, glancing down at Y/N’s file again. “He’s brilliant,” she said, and there was an intimacy in the word that didn’t belong in a guidance office. “Always has been.”
Y/N kept her face calm with effort. “He’s good at what he does.”
Patty’s smile widened, pleased. “That’s what I thought.” She leaned back in her chair, folding her hands like she’d decided they weren’t in a hurry anymore. “You know, it’s funny. He usually doesn’t engage with students the way he does with you.”
Y/N’s pulse ticked up. “Engage?”
Patty lifted a shoulder. “I mean, he notices you. It’s obvious.” She said it casually, like she was commenting on the weather. “You challenge him. That’s rare.”
Y/N’s throat felt tight. “I’m just doing the work.”
Patty’s eyes held hers, the smile still there but sharper around the edges. “Maybe. But I’ve been around faculty for a while. I can tell when a professor has a favorite student.”
Y/N forced a small, polite smile that probably looked like a grimace. “Is there something you needed?”
Patty hesitated, then sighed as if she were about to confess something silly. “This is off topic,” she admitted, lowering her voice slightly like it was a secret, “but I was going to ask you something.”
Y/N’s stomach dipped. “Okay.”
Patty’s fingers tapped once on the desk, nervous for the first time. “Henry and I dated when we were teenagers.”
Y/N’s face stayed composed out of sheer willpower.
Inside, jealousy lit up like a match.
“Oh,” Y/N said, as neutrally as she could manage.
Patty smiled, almost nostalgic. “It was a long time ago. But we stayed friendly. And lately I’ve been seeing him again around campus, in meetings.” She tilted her head, studying Y/N in a way that felt too knowing. “And I thought…”
Y/N’s nails dug into her folder.
Patty continued, voice still light. “I thought maybe I should try to get his attention again.”
Y/N’s blood went cold-hot in the span of a breath. She kept her voice steady. “Why are you telling me this?”
Patty blinked, then gave an awkward laugh. “Because you’re close to him. In class.” She shrugged like it made perfect sense. “You’re his favorite student. I figured you’d know if he’s receptive, or if he’s just…” She made a vague gesture. “Being Henry.”
Y/N wanted to stand up and walk out.
She wanted to say something cruel.
She wanted to ask Patty if she was always this comfortable discussing her romantic life with nineteen-year-old students.
Instead, she swallowed it all and chose control.
Y/N smoothed her expression into something mild. “I don’t really know his personal life.”
Patty’s eyes narrowed slightly, not believing her. “You see him more than most people do.”
Y/N’s jaw flexed.
She kept her voice carefully polite. “He’s my professor.”
Patty held her gaze for a beat too long, then sighed, a little frustrated. “Okay. Fine. I’ll just ask you plainly.”
Y/N didn’t like the shift in Patty’s tone.
Patty leaned forward, elbows on the desk, like they were suddenly co-conspirators. “Do you think he’s available?”
The question hit like a slap.
Y/N felt the answer surge up instinctively, hot, jealous, possessive.
No. He’s mine, bitch.
But she didn’t say that. She couldn’t.
So she chose the safest truth she could offer without exposing herself.
Y/N’s lips curved into a small, controlled smile, pleasant enough to pass, sharp enough to end the conversation.
“I believe he’s unavailable,” she said.
Patty blinked. “Unavailable.”
Y/N nodded once, like it was obvious, like it was a simple fact. “Yes.”
Patty stared at her for a moment, then leaned back, processing. Her face shifted through a few emotions: surprise, disappointment, and a quick flicker of curiosity.
“Did he say that?” Patty asked.
Y/N’s smile didn’t move. “Not to me. But I think there are signs.”
Patty’s eyes narrowed again, but she didn’t push, at least not directly.
“Huh,” Patty murmured, tapping her pen against the desk. “Well. That’s interesting.”
Y/N stood, folder tucked back against her chest. “If that’s all, I should get going.”
Patty looked up, her warm counselor smile trying to return, but it didn’t quite fit the moment anymore. “Of course. And if you ever need anything, you know where to find me.”
Y/N nodded, already halfway to the door.
Her hand was on the knob when Patty added, almost casually, “He’s a difficult man to read.”
Y/N paused.
Then she looked back over her shoulder, calm as ice.
“Maybe,” she said.
And she left before her jealousy could turn into something loud enough for Patty to hear.
. . .
After lunch, the hallways felt louder.
Not because anything had actually changed. Students still moved in clusters, lockers still slammed, and someone still laughed too hard at something unfunny. It felt louder because Y/N’s head was full of Patty Newby’s voice and the way she’d said it like it was normal.
We dated when we were teenagers.
I thought maybe I should try to get his attention again.
The worst part was how easily it fit into every insecurity Y/N had been trying not to feed. How quickly her mind filled in blanks she didn’t even have proof for: Henry and Patty in the hallway, Henry going to lunch with her, Henry calling her a colleague with that too-smooth calm like he was hiding an entire chapter.
By the time Y/N reached the campus café, she was already angry.
So she bought coffee.
Not for herself.
For him.
A cheap paper cup with a plastic lid, hot enough to sting her palm through the cardboard sleeve. It wasn’t a sweet gesture. It was ammunition.
She walked to his classroom with the cup in her hand, coat still on, boots hitting the floor with purpose. The closer she got, the more she could feel her pulse in her throat.
The door to Henry’s classroom was open, early as usual. He was inside alone at his desk, papers stacked neatly, chalk already on the tray, preparing to slide back into Professor Creel like nothing in his life was complicated.
He looked up when she entered.
His gaze went first to her face.
Then to the coffee.
Then back to her.
His expression didn’t change much, but his eyes sharpened immediately, alert.
Y/N didn’t greet him. She didn’t smile. She didn’t soften the blow.
She walked straight to his desk and placed the coffee down hard enough to make it thud against the wood.
Henry’s eyes flicked down, then up again, calm but attentive. “Good afternoon,” he said evenly.
Y/N’s mouth tightened. “Save it.”
Henry leaned back slightly, studying her the way he studied a difficult line of text: quiet, careful, already bracing.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. Not a question meant to scold. A question meant to understand.
Y/N let out a sharp breath through her nose. “I just saw Patty Newby.”
Henry’s gaze held hers. He didn’t blink. He didn’t ask who.
He knew.
“And?” he said carefully.
Y/N’s anger flashed hotter. “And she told me you two used to date.” Her eyes narrowed. “Teenagers. History. Nostalgia. All that.”
Henry’s jaw flexed.
Y/N leaned forward, palms flattening on the edge of his desk. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Henry stayed still. “It wasn’t relevant.”
Y/N barked a humorless laugh. “Not relevant?”
Henry’s eyes didn’t waver. “No.”
Y/N’s voice dropped, dangerous. “She asked me if she should go after you again.”
A flicker, brief and sharp, crossed Henry’s face. Not fear. Not guilt.
Annoyance.
Protectiveness.
And something darker, like he didn’t like the idea of Patty putting Y/N in that position for even a second.
Y/N saw it and pressed harder anyway, because her chest was tight with jealousy and she needed the truth to cut through it.
“She called you difficult to read,” Y/N said. “She wanted my advice. Like I’m your damn liaison.” Her eyes burned. “And you keep calling her your colleague like it makes it harmless. Colleagues, my ass.”
Henry inhaled slowly, as if he were forcing himself not to react emotionally in a room where he taught logic and language.
Then he stood.
Not abruptly. Deliberately.
He stepped around the desk and closed the distance to where Y/N stood.
His voice lowered. “She shouldn’t have spoken to you about that.”
Y/N’s chin lifted. “But she did.”
Henry’s gaze sharpened. “And what did you tell her?”
Y/N’s lips curved, tight and bitter. “I told her you were unavailable.”
Something in Henry’s expression shifted. Not soft, but pleased in a way he didn’t want to show.
His eyes flicked over Y/N’s face like he was checking for damage.
“And how,” he asked quietly, “did she respond?”
Y/N’s shoulders rose and fell. “Like she was surprised. Like she didn’t believe me.”
Henry’s jaw tightened.
“Listen to me,” he said, voice low and controlled, threaded with sincerity that had nothing to do with classroom tone. “There is nothing between Patty and me.”
Y/N searched his eyes. “Then why didn’t you tell me you had history?”
Henry held her gaze. “Because it was years ago. It ended years ago. And she isn’t…” He stopped himself, as if choosing the next words mattered more than anything else. “She isn’t part of my life in the way you think.”
Y/N’s throat tightened. “But you go to lunch with her. You talk to her. You act like—”
“I talk to her because she works here,” Henry cut in, still quiet, still controlled, but firmer now. “And because it is easier for people to assume I’m normal when I’m seen doing normal things.”
Y/N stared at him, breathing hard.
Henry’s expression didn’t soften, but his eyes did, just slightly.
“I didn’t tell you about the past because I didn’t want you carrying it,” he said. “I didn’t want you comparing yourself to her, or to anyone else. I didn’t want you dragged into something that doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me,” Y/N snapped.
Henry nodded once, immediate, accepting. “I see that.”
Y/N’s anger trembled at the edges, starting to crack into something more vulnerable. “I hate feeling like I’m always finding things out after the fact,” she admitted, quieter now. “Like you get to decide what I can handle. Like you keep pieces of yourself locked away and I’m supposed to just accept whatever you hand me.”
Henry’s gaze locked onto hers, intense. “You’re right,” he said. “I have done that.”
Y/N blinked, thrown off by the lack of defense.
Henry stepped a fraction closer, close enough that she could feel him, but not so close it felt like pressure.
“I didn’t tell you because it was simpler,” he said. “And I like simplicity. I like control. I like keeping parts of my life separate.” His voice lowered further. “But you don’t do well with separate.”
Y/N swallowed.
Henry’s eyes held hers, steady. “And I don’t want her,” he said plainly. “Not now. Not then. Not the way she’s imagining.”
Y/N’s breath caught.
Henry didn’t flinch from it. He let the silence sit for a beat, then added, quieter, more honest than he probably intended:
“She is not the woman I want.”
Y/N’s pulse jumped.
Henry’s gaze drifted to her mouth for the briefest moment, then returned to her eyes like he was forcing himself to stay grounded.
“If she thinks she has a chance,” he continued, voice calm but edged, “it’s because she doesn’t know what my life looks like now.”
Y/N’s fingers curled against the desk edge. “And what does your life look like now?”
Henry’s expression tightened, the control in him straining against the truth.
Then he answered anyway.
“It looks like you,” he said quietly. “And it has for weeks.”
Y/N stared at him, anger still there, but dulled by the steadiness in his voice.
Henry’s eyes searched her face. “If you want honesty, you will have it,” he said. “But don’t mistake my silence for wanting someone else.”
Y/N’s throat tightened, and she hated that her eyes stung.
“Patty can be whatever she wants to be,” Henry added, voice darker now, “but she is not what I’m reaching for.”
Y/N’s breath hitched, and the jealousy in her chest, hot and mean a minute ago, shifted into something else.
Something softer.
Something dangerous.
Henry glanced toward the door, toward the hallway where students would start arriving soon. His jaw flexed like he hated time.
Then he looked back at her, voice low, certain.
“Tell me what you need from me,” he said. “And I’ll give it to you.”
Y/N swallowed, still gripping the edge of the desk like it was the only thing keeping her steady.
“Don’t hide things,” she said finally, voice rough. “Not that. Not anything that could touch us.”
Henry’s gaze stayed fixed on hers. “All right,” he said. “No more.”
Y/N exhaled.
The bell hadn’t rung yet, but the hallway noise was getting closer: footsteps, voices, the world returning.
Henry’s hand lifted slightly, then stopped himself from touching her in the open. His eyes flicked to the coffee she’d slammed down earlier.
“You brought me this,” he murmured.
Y/N’s mouth tightened, embarrassed at the evidence of her feelings. “Shut up.”
Henry’s mouth twitched, a small smile, and his gaze softened just enough to make her chest ache.
“I’m here,” he said quietly. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
Y/N held his gaze for a beat, still upset, still bruised, but steadied by the way he said it like a vow.
Then she stepped back, drawing a breath, preparing to put her mask on before the first student walked in.
But the look Henry gave her, dark and certain and unmistakably hers, stayed on her skin like heat long after she turned away.
. . .
Henry’s lecture settled into its usual rhythm.
Chalk tapped against the board in clean, deliberate strokes. Pages turned in near-unison. His voice carried through the room in that steady, controlled cadence that made even dense literature sound inevitable.
Y/N sat where she always did now, pen moving automatically, eyes forward. She looked composed, attentive, even. But inside, she was still replaying their conversation from earlier.
It looks like you.
And it has for weeks.
Her coffee cup sat on the corner of his desk like incriminating evidence.
Nancy sat beside her, technically paying attention, which meant her notebook was open and her pen was in her hand but Y/N could feel the restless energy rolling off her like static.
It took Nancy exactly fifteen minutes to snap.
A folded note slid onto Y/N’s desk, pushed over with two fingers like contraband in a prison yard.
Y/N didn’t look at it right away. Henry was mid-sentence, pacing the front row, and she wasn’t about to get caught.
Nancy nudged the paper closer with increasing aggression.
Y/N finally unfolded it beneath her notebook.
In Nancy’s sharp, angular handwriting:
Need details. NOW. You came in this morning to shower/change and we haven’t talked.
Y/N’s mouth twitched despite herself. She picked up her pen and wrote a reply in smaller letters, careful to keep her eyes on the board like she was still taking notes.
I just spent my Friday/weekend at Henry’s.
She slid the note back.
Nancy read it and made a face so dramatic it should’ve earned her extra credit in acting. Her eyebrows shot up. Her lips formed a silent, scandalized Oh my God. It wasn’t the fact she was with Henry, she knew this but the fact she was with Henry for days on end after Y/N refused to leave her bed after that nasty breakup.
Then Nancy scribbled furiously and shoved the note back over.
Are you two back together??
Y/N stared at the question longer than she should have.
Because the honest answer wasn’t neat.
Henry had kissed her like a decision. Held her like he meant it. Made love to her nearly every single day she was at his home. Stayed when it would’ve been easier to leave.
And yet—
He still had walls. He still had rules. He still kept parts of himself compartmentalized like they were fragile glass.
Y/N’s pen hovered.
Nancy leaned closer, eyes narrowed, and made an aggressive little shooing motion with her hand like she was her editor on deadline.
Hurry up.
Y/N swallowed, then finally wrote:
I don’t know.
She slid the note back.
Nancy read it and immediately tightened her jaw, not at Y/N, but at the universe for giving her such an unsatisfying answer. She started writing something back anyway, pen moving fast like she physically couldn’t let it go.
Then Henry’s voice cut through the room.
“Ms. Wheeler.”
Nancy froze mid-word.
Henry stood near the front row, chalk still in hand, eyes fixed on Nancy’s desk with that professor stare that could flatten someone without raising his voice.
“You’d like to pay attention?” he said evenly.
The class went quiet in that half-second hush that always followed when he singled someone out.
Nancy rolled her eyes, expression blank but defiant.
“Yes,” she said flatly. “I’ll pay attention.”
Henry held her gaze for one beat longer than necessary, a silent, unmistakable warning before turning back to the board as if nothing had happened.
Nancy waited until his back was fully turned before leaning toward Y/N and whispering through her teeth, “I hate him.”
Y/N kept her eyes forward, pen moving, but her mouth twitched. “I know.”
Nancy tapped her pen against the note like she was physically vibrating with more questions. Then, with visible effort, she forced herself to look at the board with exaggerated obedience.
But the folded paper still sat between them on the desk like a live wire.
I don’t know.
Y/N stared at Henry’s back as he wrote across the board, shoulders straight, voice calm, utterly composed.
It would be so much easier if it were clean.
Yes, we’re together.
No, we’re not.
Instead, it was this strange, in-between place where he looked at her like she was inevitable and still guarded himself like he expected the world to take it away.
Her eyes drifted briefly to the side of his face as he turned.
He didn’t look at her.
Not once.
Not even accidentally.
But she could feel the restraint in it.
The deliberate avoidance.
The choice.
And somehow that said more than if he’d stared.
Nancy’s pen scratched loudly in her notebook beside her, aggressive and judgmental.
Y/N glanced down at the folded note one more time before sliding it fully under her textbook, burying it like it might explode.
I don’t know.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t romantic.
But it was honest.
And right now, honesty felt like the only solid ground she had.
. . .
The last bell sent the room into motion: chairs scraping, notebooks snapping shut, students already halfway out the door in their minds. Henry gathered his papers at the front with his usual neat precision, his voice fading into the background as he dismissed the class.
Y/N and Nancy packed up together, shoulder to shoulder in their familiar routine. Nancy’s movements were brisk, still irritated on principle, still watching Henry like he was a hazard sign she refused to ignore. Y/N tried to keep her face neutral, but her nerves were already tightening because she could feel it: Henry’s attention lingering, waiting for the room to empty.
They were almost at the door when Henry spoke.
“Y/N. Stay a moment.”
Y/N stopped.
Nancy stopped too, slowly and pointedly, turning just enough to look over her shoulder at Henry as if daring him to justify the request.
Y/N swallowed and forced a calm tone. “It’s fine,” she murmured to Nancy, more reassurance than certainty.
Nancy did not move right away. Her eyes flicked to Y/N, then back to Henry, sharp and assessing. She took her time sliding her notebook into her bag as if making a statement about how much she did not care and how much she absolutely did.
Then she stepped closer to the door, pausing at the threshold.
She looked straight at Henry. “Creel.”
Henry turned his attention on her at the mention of his name.
Nancy’s voice was quiet, low enough that a student in the hall would not hear, but it carried the full force of Nancy Wheeler’s promise of consequences.
“I own a gun,” she said plainly.
Y/N’s stomach dipped, because Nancy was not bluffing. She had seen it in Hawkins, the little collection Nancy kept in her cute little closet in her cute little room, and the way Nancy knew exactly how to hold one even if she did not talk about it often.
Henry’s face stayed composed, but something in his eyes tightened.
Nancy continued, still calm, as if she were discussing a syllabus requirement. “If you mess up again…”
She let the sentence hang.
Y/N’s eyes widened. “Nancy—”
Nancy did not look at her. Her gaze stayed pinned to Henry, unwavering. “I’m serious,” she finished, soft and lethal.
Henry’s jaw flexed once. His voice was controlled. “Understood.”
Nancy stared at him a beat longer, as if measuring whether he meant it.
Then she turned and left, shoes clicking down the hallway with the satisfaction of someone who had delivered a warning she fully intended to enforce.
The door swung shut behind her.
The classroom went quiet.
Y/N exhaled slowly, hands tightening around her bag strap. “She’s intense.”
Henry’s gaze flicked toward the door, then back to Y/N. “Yes.”
Y/N tried to hide her grim little smile. “She’s not lying.”
Henry did not ask how she knew. He simply nodded once, as if he had already assumed the worst and accepted it.
He moved closer, not too close and not immediately, but enough that the space between them felt private. His voice lowered into something meant only for her.
“I spoke with Patty,” he said.
Y/N’s shoulders tightened immediately. “You did?”
“Yes.” Henry’s expression stayed calm, but his eyes were steady and serious. “I made it clear to her that I am unavailable.”
Y/N searched his face, waiting for the familiar caveats, the carefulness, the half-truths.
Henry did not offer any.
“I am telling you because you asked me not to hide things,” he continued, “and because I want you to know you do not have to worry.”
Y/N’s throat tightened. “Not this time,” she whispered.
Henry’s gaze held hers. “Not this time.”
The simplicity of it made her chest ache because it was what she had wanted all along. Not perfection. Not grand gestures. Just proof that he could choose her in ways that did not hurt.
Henry glanced down at the papers in his hand as if he had forgotten they existed. Then he looked back at her, and something in his expression softened, subtle and controlled, but there.
“I was thinking,” he said.
Y/N lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, dear, we’re in trouble already.”
A faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, almost a smile. “After school,” he continued, “I need to go to the Boston Public Library.”
Y/N blinked. “Need to?”
Henry’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if he did not like being teased. “Yes.”
Y/N’s smile grew. “Do you?”
Henry did not answer the question directly. He simply said, quieter, “Come with me.”
The words landed differently than my apartment.
They did not feel like secrecy.
They felt like intention.
Y/N’s chest warmed, and she could not stop the smile that spread across her face, small at first, then genuine.
“You are asking me on a date,” she said softly.
Henry’s jaw tightened as if he hated the label.
But his eyes did not deny it.
“I am asking you to come,” he said.
Y/N nodded, trying to play it cool and failing. “Okay.”
Henry watched her reaction for a beat, as if storing it somewhere, as if it mattered more than he wanted to admit.
“Good,” he murmured.
Y/N adjusted her bag strap, still smiling, and stepped toward the door with a lighter feeling in her chest than she had carried all week.
Behind her, Henry’s voice stopped her one last time, quiet and careful but steady.
“And Y/N?”
She turned back.
His gaze held hers, serious in a way that cut through everything else.
“I meant it,” he said. “I am not leaving again.”
Y/N’s smile softened into something almost tender.
“I will meet you after my last class,” she replied.
As she walked out into the hallway, the idea of the library waiting after school felt like the first real breath she had taken in days.
. . .
The Boston Public Library felt like a cathedral that had decided to be kind.
Outside, the city moved fast, cars hissing over wet streets, people cutting through the cold with shoulders hunched and coffee held like a lifeline. But the moment Henry pushed open the heavy doors, the air changed. Warmth. Silence. The faint smell of paper and old glue and polished wood. A hush so complete it made Y/N’s footsteps sound too loud until she instinctively slowed.
Henry didn’t say much at first. He never did when he walked into a place that already spoke his language.
His hand stayed near hers—close, not touching at first, as if he hadn’t decided what level of public bravery he could tolerate. He kept his posture straight, his coat buttoned, his gaze measured. Everything about him still carried that “faculty” stiffness, even though they were miles away from campus.
Y/N watched him out of the corner of her eye as they climbed the steps inside.
He looked like he belonged here. Like he could vanish into the stacks and live among the spines and never have to explain himself to anyone again.
Y/N bumped his elbow gently with hers. “You’re doing it.”
Henry glanced at her. “Doing what?”
“Breathing,” she said dryly. “For the first time all day.”
Henry’s mouth tightened like he disapproved of her teasing, but his eyes softened slightly. “It’s quiet.”
“That’s the point,” Y/N said, looking around. People sat at long tables under lamps, heads bent over books. A librarian moved like a ghost between shelves. No one was laughing loud. No one was staring. No one cared who was holding whose hand.
At least… no one should’ve.
They moved into the main reading room first—high ceilings, green desk lamps, rows of tables that looked like they’d been there since the beginning of time. Henry slowed like he couldn’t help it, gaze traveling up the walls, up the columns, the carved details, the quiet grandeur.
Y/N watched his face, waiting for the usual guardedness, but for a moment he looked almost… reverent. Like he’d walked into somewhere holy.
“You like it,” she said softly.
Henry’s gaze flicked to her. “I’m allowed to like libraries.”
Y/N smiled. “You’re allowed to like things.”
Henry’s mouth twitched, almost a smile, almost a sigh. “Don’t start.”
But it was too late. She already had.
They moved deeper into the building, toward the stacks, and that was where the date really started, where Henry stopped performing and started showing.
He gravitated instinctively toward the literature section, fingers brushing spines like they were old acquaintances. He pulled down a couple of books, flipping them open to specific pages like he could find his favorite lines blindfolded.
Y/N trailed behind him, amused. “Do you always read like you’re searching for evidence?”
Henry glanced at her over the top of a book. “Do you always talk like you’re trying to provoke a confession?”
Y/N grinned. “Maybe.”
He set the book back and finally, finally, his hand found hers.
Not dramatic. Not showy.
Just his fingers sliding into hers like it had always been meant to happen in a quiet place like this.
Y/N’s chest tightened. She pretended it didn’t.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
Henry’s tone softened, the way it always did when he talked about books. “Something I can reread without feeling like I’m grading it.”
Y/N laughed quietly. “So… not Hamlet.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed. “Not Hamlet.”
Y/N slipped free of his hand long enough to pull a book from a shelf and hold it up. “Okay. Then I’m going to recommend something.”
Henry arched an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”
Y/N’s eyes gleamed with the familiar spark she’d been missing for weeks. “The Outsiders.”
Henry blinked. “S.E. Hinton?”
“Yes,” Y/N said, proud. “It’s my favorite.”
Henry took the book from her slowly, turning it over in his hands as if he was assessing a thesis. “Your favorite?”
Y/N nodded. “Don’t judge me.”
“I’m not judging,” he said, but the corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I’m surprised.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re—” He stopped himself before he said you’re too smart for that, because he knew better now. Instead, he chose a different truth. “Because it’s not what I would’ve guessed.”
Y/N leaned closer, voice dropping like she was sharing a secret in the stacks. “That’s why it’s a good recommendation.”
Henry opened it, scanning the first page, then another. His gaze shifted, not dismissive, not amused. Interested.
“It’s… honest,” he murmured.
“Exactly,” Y/N said. “It’s not trying to be fancy. It just… hits.”
Henry’s eyes lifted to hers, thoughtful. “And you like it because…?”
Y/N shrugged, but her voice went quieter. “Because it’s about belonging and not belonging. And it’s about feeling like the world decided who you are before you even got to choose.” She swallowed. “And because… the writing is simple, but it still hurts.”
Henry stared at her for a beat, something in his eyes tightening and softening at the same time.
Then he nodded once. “All right.”
Y/N’s brows lifted. “All right?”
Henry held her gaze. “All right. I’ll read it.”
Y/N’s smile warmed, genuine. “Good.”
They wandered after that, pulling books down and trading them back and forth like offerings.
Henry recommended a thin volume of poetry that made Y/N groan until he insisted she “try it anyway.” Y/N recommended something a little messier, a little more emotional, just to watch him pretend he didn’t like it.
For a while, it was easy.
Then Henry started doing it.
The looking around.
At first it was subtle, his gaze flicking up whenever someone walked past the aisle, his shoulders squaring slightly as if bracing. Then again when a group of college-aged students passed too close, laughing quietly. Then when a man in a blazer walked by carrying a briefcase.
Each time, Henry’s hand tightened around the book he was holding.
Each time, his grip on hers loosened.
Y/N watched him do it until her patience started to fray.
She tried to ignore it. Tried to tell herself it was habit, fear, self-preservation.
But it still stung because here they were, finally somewhere that felt safe, and he was still scanning the room like danger could wear an Emerson faculty badge.
“You’re doing it again,” Y/N said finally, voice low.
Henry’s gaze snapped back to her. “Doing what?”
“Looking for ghosts,” she said.
Henry’s jaw tightened. “I’m being careful.”
Y/N stared at him, irritation flashing. “We’re not on campus.”
Henry didn’t relax. “That doesn’t mean—”
“You can’t even hold my hand without checking if someone is watching,” Y/N interrupted, and the hurt crept into her tone before she could stop it. “What is the point of a date if you’re still acting like I’m a scandal waiting to happen?”
Henry’s eyes darkened. “Y/N—”
“No,” she said, quietly fierce. “I’m not asking you to scream my name in the middle of the reading room. I’m asking you to be here. With me.”
Henry swallowed, gaze flicking away for a fraction of a second like the words hit him somewhere tender.
“Come here,” Y/N said abruptly.
Henry blinked. “What.”
Y/N reached for his hand and didn’t give him time to argue. She laced her fingers through his with a firm, decisive grip and started walking.
Henry followed automatically, startled but letting her pull him along. “Where are we going?”
“Somewhere you can stop acting like you’re about to be arrested,” she muttered.
She pulled him through a corridor, down a set of steps, past a quiet gallery space, and toward the light spilling in from an open doorway.
The courtyard.
The air changed again as they stepped outside, cooler, fresher, the city hush still present but softened by open space. The courtyard fountain was running, water spilling gently into a basin, the sound steady and calming. Stone and brick surrounded them, the sky visible above like a promise.
Y/N didn’t stop until they reached the fountain.
Then she let go of his hand only to sit down on the stone edge, tugging Henry with her until he sat too.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The water filled the silence.
Henry’s shoulders were still tense, but the open air seemed to ease something. At least here, his eyes couldn’t scan the room the same way. Here, there were no tight aisles and sudden footsteps.
Y/N looked at him, waiting.
Henry stared at the fountain for a beat, then finally spoke, voice quiet. “I’m trying.”
Y/N’s irritation softened, just a fraction.
“I know,” she said. “But trying looks a lot like doubting me sometimes.”
Henry’s gaze turned to her, dark and honest. “I’m not doubting you.”
“Then what?”
Henry exhaled slowly, the sound almost like defeat. “I’m afraid of what happens if someone recognizes me,” he admitted. “If someone recognizes us.”
Y/N leaned closer, voice lower. “Not this time,” she reminded him, echoing what he’d said earlier.
Henry’s jaw flexed. “I want to believe that.”
Y/N’s hand slid back into his, gentler now. “Then do.”
Henry looked down at their hands, then up at her face, and something in his expression shifted, something like surrender.
He tightened his fingers around hers. “All right.”
Y/N’s chest warmed. She smiled, small and victorious. “Good.”
Henry glanced at the book she’d recommended, still tucked under his arm. “So,” he said, voice calmer now, “tell me why The Outsiders is your favorite.”
Y/N’s smile widened. “I already did.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me again. Properly.”
Y/N laughed softly and leaned in, starting to talk, really talk, about characters and loyalty and the ache of being young and underestimated. And Henry listened, eyes steady now, not scanning, not searching.
Just there.
With her.
By the fountain, in the quiet, the date resumed the way it was supposed to, two people trading stories and books and pieces of themselves, finally letting the world stay outside the walls for a while.
The fountain kept its steady rhythm, a soft rush of water that made the courtyard feel insulated from the rest of Boston. Voices from the street beyond the walls came and went like distant weather. The air was cold enough that Y/N’s breath faintly showed when she laughed, but not cold enough to make her stop talking.
She was mid-thought, hands moving as she explained something about The Outsiders, about loyalty and her favorite character, Dally, and the way people decided what you were worth before you even opened your mouth. She leaned forward when she got passionate, brows knitting, eyes bright like the entire book was alive in her head.
Henry sat beside her, the book resting in his lap.
He was supposed to be listening.
He wasn’t.
Not in the way he listened to students in class, not in the way he listened to arguments, hunting for structure and flaw and thesis. Her words washed over him in fragments, Ponyboy, Johnny, Dally, innocence, violence, tenderness because what he heard most clearly was the sound of her voice itself.
The cadence. The certainty. The way it softened when she said something honest.
He watched her mouth as she spoke, how it shaped each word, how it pulled into a quick smile when she was pleased with her own point, how she bit her bottom lip briefly when she was searching for the right phrasing. He watched her hands, fingers tracing invisible lines in the air, a habit that looked like she was writing even when she wasn’t holding a pen.
He watched the way the wind tugged at her hair and she didn’t notice. The way she tucked a strand behind her ear without breaking eye contact, still talking, still entirely herself.
Beautiful, yes but not in a distant, decorative way.
In a way that felt like danger.
Because Henry had always been a man who survived by categorizing his life. By separating the parts that were safe from the parts that weren’t. By telling himself that certain feelings belonged in certain places and nowhere else.
She refused to fit.
She bled into everything.
He’d seen her in his classroom, too bright for the stale air, too alive for the rigid structure he tried to keep. He’d seen her in his apartment, barefoot and fearless, wearing his shirts like she’d rewritten the rules of his space. He’d seen her crying on his couch, trembling with the kind of honesty that made him want to do violence to the past on her behalf. He’d seen her furious, sharp and proud, refusing to let him control the narrative of her pain.
And now here she was, in the open, sitting beside him like it was natural, talking about a book like she trusted him to hold her thoughts gently.
Henry’s chest tightened.
Not with lust this time. Not with panic.
With something slower.
Something that didn’t belong in his world because it wasn’t rational and it wasn’t safe and it didn’t obey rules.
He tried to name it the way he named everything else.
Attachment. Habit. Chemistry. A complication.
None of the words fit.
Y/N laughed softly at something she’d just said, and the sound hit him like warmth in the middle of winter.
Henry’s gaze drifted over her face as if he was memorizing it under the gray sky: her lashes, dampened slightly by the cold, the faint flush in her cheeks, the way her eyes shifted when she looked at him like she could tell when he wasn’t listening.
“Are you even hearing me?” she asked, narrowing her eyes with playful suspicion.
Henry blinked, forced himself back into the present. “Yes.”
Y/N tilted her head. “Then what did I just say.”
He knew he should’ve answered. He knew he should’ve grabbed onto one of the book details and played along.
Instead, he looked at her—really looked, and something in him slipped.
His voice came out lower, quieter, without the professor polish. “You’re extraordinary.”
Y/N froze for half a beat.
Her expression flickered, surprise first, then awe, then a quick attempt to hide how much it affected her.
“That’s not an answer,” she said, but her voice was softer now.
Henry didn’t blink. “I know.”
Y/N’s throat bobbed as she swallowed. “Henry…”
He watched her closely, and suddenly all the careful barriers he’d built felt thin like paper, like something she could tear through with one honest sentence.
He’d tried to let her go. He’d tried to cut her loose, to make her hate him, to save her future by sacrificing his own want.
And she’d come back anyway.
She was sitting here anyway.
She was talking anyway.
Henry’s fingers tightened around the book in his lap as the realization sharpened, clear, undeniable, terrifyingly simple.
It wasn’t just that he wanted her.
It wasn’t just that he liked her.
It wasn’t just that she made him feel alive.
He was in love with her.
The thought settled into him like a weight and a relief at the same time, like something he’d been fighting had finally won.
He hated it immediately because love was dangerous, love was messy, love gave people leverage.
And he loved it anyway because it felt like truth.
Y/N was watching him now, her smile gone, eyes searching his face like she could see the shift.
“You’re staring,” she murmured.
Henry’s throat tightened. He forced a controlled breath, trying to gather himself, to pull the emotion back into a box like he always did.
It didn’t work.
“I’m listening,” he lied.
Y/N’s brows lifted. “No, you’re not.”
Henry’s gaze stayed on hers, heavy and steady. “No,” he admitted quietly. “I’m not.”
Y/N’s fingers slid into his hand, gentle. “Then what are you doing?”
Henry looked down at their joined hands, then back at her.
He didn’t say it.
He couldn’t, not yet.
But his eyes gave him away, the softness in them too deep to be mistaken for anything else.
Y/N’s breath caught slightly, and her voice went quieter. “Henry…”
He swallowed, jaw flexing like he was fighting himself.
“I’m trying,” he said, the words rough with restraint, “to remember what it feels like when life is simple.”
Y/N studied him, then softened. “And is it?”
Henry’s gaze held hers, unwavering.
“When it’s you,” he said softly, “it is.”
And the way he said it, like a confession he couldn’t take back, made the space between them feel charged, the fountain suddenly too loud, the cold air suddenly irrelevant.
Because even without the words, even without the declaration, the truth was there, sitting between them on the stone edge of the fountain, impossible to ignore.
. . .
taglist, •*o+**.
@dollyvuu , @onmymymyway , @edb954 ,
@nxrdamp , @darleneh , @libellulaladepressa ,
@starrkai , @sageandrosemary , @sillygoober1111 , @arielsplanet , @starryeddie , @saturnschaoticlover , @jeannotjorts , @lilpeelilpoo , @through-the-looking--glass , @knin3 , @talkativecarnation , @sugurusgyall,
@maguibummi , @soapyeaton ,
@sluttysnowangel666 , @fixation-station , @abcdetg1234abc321, @munsonsquinn ,
@aureliaborea, @niahzzz , @trentknd , @unrequitedgalaxies, @mrscreel , @magicalmorg , @carmillastomb , @randomuser0609, @henrycreelsbelt , @missie99 , @sage-babydoll , @piinkpony, @hoeandslut , @cannibalcoyote (this was some of your idea so ty), @nijiroswife , @dallzzxx , @nnutcrackerr , @nocasdatsgay , @auxcordlawd
“Guilty”
“Not Guilty people don’t stutter when present with a threat, dear”
When your law professor notices all your grades have been slipping so he wants to test if you’re lying about your studies..
Law Professor! Hiraguma x Law Student! Reader
Gender Neutral Reader
Slight content warning as it’s a little suggestive as there’s groping and slight dirty talk, but there is no sex…yet
One shot or story?: Oneshot
────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────
how tf do you write a good professor x reader fic
pairing: sunghoon x reader description: shy professor sunghoon with college student (he's only few years older) contains smut 18+
he wasn’t used to attention. he liked keeping his head down, blending in, quietly doing his job.
until you walked into his classroom.
you weren’t even late - you arrived perfectly on time but he still froze mid-sentence when he saw you. it wasn’t dramatic, just a tiny pause, a flicker of surprise behind his glasses. you smiled politely and took your seat, but sunghoon had already lost his train of thought.
for the next few weeks, sunghoon was a mystery.
he wasn’t cold, just shy. when he handed back assignments, he’d slide them onto your desk a little too quickly.
when he answered your questions after class, he’d push up his glasses and avoid eye contact for the first few seconds, his voice quiet but gentle.
one evening, after a long lab session, you noticed he was packing up slowly, stealing glances your way as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the courage.
'sir,' you said softly
he nearly dropped the stack of papers in his hands. 'y-yes?'
'are you okay?'
he nodded too fast, 'yeah- yes. i mean… i was wondering…' his voice got smaller. 'did you… need help with anything?'
you smiled. 'actually, i stayed to ask you about something.'
his eyes flicked up, nervous and curious all at once. 'oh- of course. what did you want to ask?”
you hesitated - not because you didn’t know, but because he looked so anxious that you didn’t want to overwhelm him. you set your bag down and leaned lightly against the desk.
'it’s about the experiment from last week,' you say. ' i think i messed up the calculations. i didn’t want to email it. i kind of wanted to hear it from you.'
sunghoon blinks, then relaxes just a little. talking about physics was familiar territory. safe.
'ah. i can help,' he said, and his voice steadied. 'do you want to sit? we can go through it together.”
you both moved to one of the front lab tables. he sat a respectful distance away, hands folded too neatly in his lap as if he was afraid of taking up space.
when you opened your notebook, he leaned in to look - but stopped halfway, realizing how close he’d be. his cheeks flushed and he adjusted his glasses instead.
'you can look,” you say, smiling. 'i don’t mind.'
he swallowed softly. 'r-right. sorry.'
but he leaned in this time, slowly, like he was testing gravity itself.
as he explained the formula, pointing at your handwriting with a soft, careful gesture, his shoulder brushed yours - just barely. you felt him stiffen instantly.
'sorry-'
'it’s okay,' you whisper.
sunghoon’s breath hitched and he focused intensely on the equation, as if the numbers could save him from the warmth spreading across his face.
'you actually did everything right,' he says after a moment. 'your reasoning is solid. you just… don’t trust yourself. '
he closes your notebook gently, his fingers lingering on the cover for a second before he realizes and pulls his hand back.
he clears his throat, trying to steady himself, though the tips of his ears are already turning pink.
'so… um… what else did you want to ask?' he asks.
you can tell he’s trying to sound casual, but his voice gives him away - nervous. like he knows the question you stayed behind for isn’t really about physics.
you tap your pen against the table, considering your words. his eyes follow the movement, then flick back up to your face before looking away.
‘well…’ you begin, leaning in a bit closer, ‘this one isn’t exactly about class.’
sunghoon visibly tenses - not in fear, just in that shy startled way he always reacts around you. he straightens his posture, fidgets with his glasses, then drops his hands in his lap because he doesn’t know what to do with them.
he swallows, ‘oh, um that’s okay. you can… ask anything.’
you smile, teasing lightly, ‘are you sure? anything?’
‘well- within reason. i mean yes. i’m listening.’
you take a breath, watching him. he seems so nervous, like he’s bracing for something he can’t predict.
“it’s just…’ you say, letting your voice drop a little, ‘i’ve noticed you get flustered around me. more than you do with other students.’
his shoulders go rigid, and his breath halts. for a split second, he forgets to blink.
‘i- what?’ he whispers.
you tilt your head, amused by how adorably transparent he is. ‘you do,’ you say gently. ‘your voice gets quiet, avoid eye contact and sometimes…’ you let your fingers rest lightly on the table, close to his. ‘sometimes you blush.’
‘i- don’t i wasn’t, i mean it’s not on purpose.’ he inhales sharply.
‘i didn’t say it was.’ you murmur.
he finally dares to look up at you, eyes soft and unsure.
‘then.. why are you asking.’ he says.
you lean in the slightest bit close enough for him to feel your warmth.
‘i want to know what it means.’ you say, voice low and steady.
sunghoon isn’t breathing. he isn’t moving. he’s just looking at you, as if the floor has vanished beneath him and he’s floating.
waiting for gravity to return.
you make the first move hoping he doesn’t feel uncomfortable, by touching his hand and when you see him relax a bit, you intertwine your fingers.
his eyes don’t leave your face, him hoping he’s not dreaming.
very slowly, you move closer so your shoulders touch and rest your head on his shoulder, trying to take in his scent. like vanilla and coffee. addicting.
his shoulder tenses for a moment when your head settles there just a tiny hitch of surprise - then he melts. you feel it happen. like every part of him has decided, finally, to stop running from whatever this is.
‘you can’t just… do that to me, ‘he whispers, voice barely audible. ‘i am not used to someone being this close.’
you shift just enough for your cheek to brush the side of his neck. his breath stutters, warm against your hair.
'then let me be the exception,' you murmur.
sunghoon closes his eyes for a moment. when he opens them again, something in them is unguarded - fragile and wanting. his free hand lifts hesitantly, hovering over your thigh as if unsure he’s allowed to touch.
after a long second, he lets his fingers rest there, so gently you can feel the tremble in them.
‘is… is this okay?’ he asks, eyes flicking up to yours like he’s afraid of the answer.
you curl your fingers around his to reassure him. 'it’s more than okay.'
he swallows, throat bobbing, and leans the slightest bit closer. his nose brushes your hair - accidental at first, then deliberate as he breathes in softly, like you’re something he’s been trying not to want.
'you’re really going to be the end of me,' he murmurs. 'you look at me like that and my brain just… stops.'
you smile faintly, lifting your chin until your lips hover near the edge of his jaw. the butterfly-light graze of your breath makes him inhale sharply, almost a gasp he tries (and fails) to hide.
'maybe thinking isn’t what you need right now,' you whisper.
his hand on your thigh tightens - not bold or rough just desperate need to keep you close. his other hand slides up, hesitating along your waist before resting there like he’s afraid you might disappear if he touches too firmly.
then his forehead lowers to yours, slow and careful, your breaths mingling.
'if you don’t want this…' he whispers, voice trembling, 'tell me to stop. because if i move any closer, i don’t know if I’ll trust myself to pull back.'
you don’t tell him to stop.
your lips are mere breaths apart, his eyelashes fluttering with nerves, his hands unsure but aching to hold you.
and when you stay exactly where you are, his resolve crumbles in the gentlest way.
he cups your waist a little firmer, guiding you closer, his breath shaky against your lips. when he finally leans in, his kiss is cautious at first, testing, like he’s learning you by touch alone.
but the moment you kiss him back, his breath hitches, and his hand rises to cradle the back of your neck, thumb brushing your skin with a kind of shaky devotion.
when he pulls away just a fraction, he’s breathless.
'i am… trying to be careful,' he murmurs, voice rough with emotion he can’t hide. 'don’t want to rush you.'
you slide your hand up his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palm.
'sunghoon,' you whisper, 'i don’t want you to rush. i just want you close.'
his eyes darken - not with lust alone, but with a deeper fire, a tension that has been quietly hiding beneath his shyness for week.
he rises slowly, like any sudden movement might break the fragile quiet between you. he doesn’t let go of your hand. his thumb glides over your knuckles in a slow, almost absentminded stroke, as if the simple contact steadies him.
'come with me,' he says, voice quiet but certain in a way you’ve never heard from him.
you let him lead you, out of the lab, down the dim hallway where the night has already settled in. his hand stays on yours the whole walk, warm and trembling slightly, like he still can’t believe you’re actually following him.
when he reaches his office, he hesitates with the key in the lock, glancing back at you as if checking - just to be sure, that you want to be here. you step a little closer in answer.
the door swings open.
you step inside first. the small room is soft in the low light, smelling faintly of paper and the coffee he always forgets to finish. sunghoon lingers just behind you, unsure if he should close the door or if that’s your choice.
so you make it for him.
you wrap your fingers around the handle and gently click the door shut.
the sound is quiet, but the air shifts instantly. its warm, close and charged in the way that happens only when two people who have been circling each other for far too long finally find themselves alone.
sunghoon’s breath catches. he looks at you like he’s not sure if he should speak first or reach for you or simply stand there and try to steady the pounding of his own heart.
'y- you… locked it,' he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.
you step closer, soft enough not to startle him, close enough that his breath mingles with yours.
'i wanted privacy,' you say.
his ears turn pink. his fingers flex at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to reach out again.
'only if you’re sure,' he says, timid but hopeful.
your smile lingers, drawing him in like a gentle pull. he steps forward hesitantly, his hand finally lifting to brush against your arm, fingers trembling just a little as they trace the curve of your elbow.
'i am sure,' you whisper back, your voice a soft caress in the quiet room. the air between you thickens, charged with unspoken wants.
sunghoon's eyes flicker down to your lips, then back up, searching your gaze for any sign of doubt. finding none, he closes the distance, his free hand cupping your cheek with a tenderness that makes your heart stutter. his thumb strokes your skin, light and reverent, as if you're something precious he fears breaking.
'i have wanted this,' he admits, his breath warm against your mouth. 'for so long.'
you tilt your head, closing the gap, and press your lips to his in a kiss that's slow and exploratory. he responds instantly, a soft sigh escaping him as his mouth moves against yours, tentative at first, then deepening with a quiet hunger.
his fingers slide into your hair, holding you close without pulling, just anchoring himself to the moment.
the kiss breaks only when you both need air, and he rests his forehead against yours, eyes half-lidded and shining with emotion.
'tell me what you want,' he murmurs, voice husky now, laced with vulnerability. 'i don't want to rush... but i want to make you feel everything.'
your breath hitches against his lips, the tenderness of the moment shifting as desire surges through you. you pull back just enough to meet his wide eyes, your hand sliding down his chest to grip his shirt, tugging him closer.
'i want you to fuck me hard,' you say, the words tumbling out raw and direct, your voice laced with need. 'right now. don't hold back.'
sunghoon's breath stutters, his pupils dilating as shock and heat flood his face. his hands tighten on you - one in your hair, the other dropping to your waist, fingers digging in with sudden urgency. he searches your eyes for a beat, a low groan escaping his throat.
'god, yes,' he rasps, his shyness cracking under the weight of his own want.
you land against the sofa, and sunghoon doesn't hesitate - he leans into you, pushing you down into the cushions with a controlled urgency.
his lips break from yours only to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, teeth grazing your skin as his hands roam your sides, bunching up your shirt to expose your stomach.
he pauses there, breathing heavily against you, his fingers trembling slightly as they hook into the waistband of your pants.
but then, something shifts in him. instead of climbing over you, sunghoon sinks to his knees on the floor beside the bed, his wide eyes locking onto yours with raw hunger.
his hands slide up your thighs, parting them gently at first, then with more insistence as he tugs your pants down, exposing your panties. he leans in, nuzzling his face against the damp fabric, inhaling deeply like he's savoring a forbidden scent.
'you're so beautiful,' he murmurs, voice husky and broken, his shyness melting into devotion. his fingers hook into the sides of your panties, pulling them aside slowly, deliberately, before he presses his mouth to your inner thigh, kissing and licking a path upward.
when his tongue finally flattens against your pussy, lapping at your folds with long, worshipful strokes, a shiver runs through you.
he groans into you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. sunghoon's hands grip your hips, holding you steady as he devours you sucking on your clit with gentle pulls at first, then harder, his tongue delving inside you, tasting every inch.
he's on his knees like he's praying, his body arched forward, cock straining against his pants as he focuses entirely on your pleasure.
he worships you with his mouth, alternating between broad licks that cover your entire slit and pointed flicks against your swollen nub, his breaths coming in ragged pants between each assault.
the intensity builds fast, your body arching off the bed as heat coils tight in your core. you thread your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer, grinding against his face.
'sunghoon,' you gasp, he responds by sucking harder, one hand sliding up to pinch and roll your nipple through your shirt, the dual assault pushing you closer to the edge.
your moans grow louder, raw and desperate, his name spilling from your lips again and again as waves of pleasure crash over you.
he doesn't stop, his tongue thrusting inside you while his thumb circles your clit, drawing out every tremor until you're shaking, coming undone on his mouth with a cry that echoes in the room.
only then does he pull back slightly, lips glistening, eyes dark with need as he looks up at you from his knees. 'tell me what else you want baby,' he whispers, voice thick with desire.
your chest heaves as you catch your breath, body still tingling from the aftershocks of your release.
sunghoon's gaze burns into you from below, his lips shiny with your arousal, a faint flush creeping up his neck despite the boldness in his eyes.
he's still kneeling, hands resting on your thighs, thumbs tracing slow circles that make your skin prickle.
'i want you inside me,' you breathe, voice rough from moaning his name. 'now, sunghoon. fuck me like you mean it.'
his eyes widen for a split second, that shy flicker returning, but it's quickly drowned out by the heat surging through him.
he rises slowly, almost reverently, his fingers fumbling with his belt as he stands between your legs. the clink of metal echoes in the quiet room, followed by the zipper's rasp.
he shoves his pants and boxers down just enough to free his cock - hard, thick and already leaking at the tip, veins pulsing with need.
sunghoon pauses, hand wrapping around his length, stroking once as he watches you with that mix of awe and hunger.
‘are you sure baby?’ he asks, voice low and tentative, even now, like he's afraid this is all a dream he'll wake from.
you nod, reaching for him, your hand joining his on his shaft, guiding him closer. 'yes. don't make me wait.'
he groans at your touch, hips jerking forward involuntarily. he positions himself at your entrance, pushing in slowly at first, inch by inch, his breath hitching as your walls clench around him.
he stretches you perfectly, and you both let out shaky exhales as he shifts closer to you.
for a moment, his forehead rests against yours. his hands brace on either side of you, arms trembling slightly - that shyness peeking through in the way he bites his lip, holding back.
but you don't want gentle. you wrap your legs around his waist, nails digging into his back to pull him deeper. 'harder,' you demand.
that breaks him. he groans, pulling back almost all the way out before he slams back in hard. he sets a punishing rhythm immediately, hips snapping against yours, cock driving deep with every thrust.
the sofa creaks under the assault, your bodies slapping together wetly as he pounds into you.
his shyness dissolves into pure instinct as his mouth finds your neck, sucking marks into your skin while one hand grips your hip, angling you to take him even deeper.
'so good,' he pants against your throat, voice wrecked. 'you feel... fuck, so tight around me.' it was hot to see him like this, just for you.
the pleasure builds again as your pussy flutters around his length. you arch into him, meeting every thrust, your hands clutching his shoulders.
his name becomes a chant, spilling out louder with each brutal drive of his cock, your control shattering once more under the intensity.
he responds to your cries by fucking you harder, his free hand sliding between your bodies to rub your clit in tight circles, the added friction making stars burst behind your eyelids.
sweat slicks your skin where you connect, his breaths coming in harsh grunts as he chases his own release, but he holds on, determined to drag you under first.
your orgasm hits, walls clamping his thick cock as your arms lock around his neck, body shuddering hard.
his orgasm comes seconds later and he collapses onto you, both of you panting, his weight a comforting press as he nuzzles into your shoulder.
after a beat, he lifts his head, eyes soft now, that shy smile tugging at his lips. 'was that... okay?' he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your face, still half-hard inside you.
you pull him down for a lazy kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue. 'more than okay. but we're not done yet.'
The Lesson
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WARNINGS: Public sex..kind of?, ( R ) Receiving, Controlled vibrator.
pairing: ProfessorAgatha Harkness x FemStudent!reader
Summary: Agatha teases Reader all class, and finally rewards her after.
—
It was a regular fall day, except Agatha wanted me in class a little early, we’ve been secretly dating for 3 months and as I walked the halls finding my lecture room, i could smell her perfume
I walked in and she was on her laptop at her desk. She looked up and smiled when she saw me.
Agatha-”hey baby, come in”
I walked in and shut the door behind me. I walked over to her desk, and she walked over to me, playing her hands on my waist, and squeezed my waist once.
She opened the drawer to her desk and got out, a- a vibrator? Surely she wasn’t gonna use it on me during class right? My breath hitched as she started to pull down my sweat pants inch by inch.
Agatha-”this is gonna stay in during the lecture, but you can’t come without my permission.”
She slid it in, and pulled my pants back on, and got her phone out.
Y/n-”Aggs, what are you doing?”
Agatha-”just testing it love”
She dragged her thumb against the screen, and smirked as I gasped feeling the vibrations. She cupped my cheek with one hand, and rubbed her thumb back and forth, soothing me. She leaned in and kissed me gently, when she pulled back, she sat back down, adjusting her black blazer.
Agatha-”Go sit at your desk, sweets, The class will start in 2 minutes. Behave”
Y/n-”Yes Professor”
She smirked as I went to my desk and pulled my laptop out to take notes.
—
The vibrations finally stopped, and I waited for the class to leave, to sink into my seat. Breathing heavy.
Agatha-”you okay love?”
I shook my head
Y/n-”please let me come..”
She turned the vibrations up, and crossed my legs. Trying not to come. She walked over and cupped my cheek, leaning in to kiss me. And turned it up more. I gasped into her mouth, and gripped her blazer.
Agatha-”shhh, darling it’s okay”
She rubbed my back and I sobbed into her chest.
Agatha-“you can come now darling.”
I cried out arching my back into her touch. I didn’t know I could feel this much from one person.
She helped me come down from my high. And kissed my forehead. She took the vibrator out, went to her desk, and cleaned it with a towel, setting it back in the drawer and locking it.
–
I woke up in a bed, and saw Agatha sitting on the edge.
Agatha-”hey sleepyhead”
I blinked awake, confusion spread on my face.
Agatha-“shh, I just brought you to my home love”
Y/n-“wh- why?”
Agatha reached her hand over and brushed loose strands of hair that fell on my face out of the way.
Agatha-“after care baby”
She stood up and walked in the bathroom, and came back out with wipes.
Agatha-“spread your legs for me darling”
I did. I didn’t realize she took my pants off already. I must’ve been really out of it.
She gently wiped my thighs and then rubbed her hands on both of them gently.
Agatha-“how are you feeling?”
Y/n-“sore, but in the best way”.
She leaned down and kissed me on the lips softly, and pulled back, she got out sweatpants from her closet then walked back over, and put them
On me. They were so soft.
She laid down next to me and big spooned me.
Agatha-“just rest love. I’ll be here when you wake up again”
I fell asleep. Completely ruined and I Loved it.
A/n-so sorry for not putting these out in order. I’ve been busy.
Back to NAV
RISHIMA SINGHANIA.ㅤ{ㅤㅤthe head scientistㅤㅤ}ㅤmy mama who is the most intelligent and scary woman I've ever met。
꒰ VERSE ⨾ 781 ⢷
꒰ SPECIES ⨾ human ⢷
꒰ ETHNICITY ⨾ indian ⢷
꒰ GENDER ⨾ female ⢷
꒰ AGE ⨾ 68 ⢷
꒰ MBTI ⨾ istj ⢷
꒰ ALIAS ⨾ dr. singhania ⋆ professor singhania ⋆ litharia’s greatest mind ⋆ professor singhania ⋆ litharia’s greatest mind ⋆ co-founder of the order of aetheers ⢷
⧼ . ⁺ 🍒៹ who is she ? ✭ ⧽
litharia’s greatest mind. a genius who could recite formulas from before she was even in the two digits. using her intelligence as a weapon. monotone in every way, shape and form.
despite obstacles, she worked her way up. from a drug manufacturer to a world renowned scientist with a number of achievements in multiple fields.
the sharp mastermind looks fresh out of a polaroid. they say she's as cool as the pale complexion complimenting magenta eyes. she's blunt, sarcastic but with a surprising motherly side.
a lady in the chair to the aetheer known as the dragon. her husband with whom she formed the order of aetheers. protecting the multiverse from the terrifying creatures, fighting for enigma rights across her world —
and mothering two children. what a life.
☆ she's also technically my boss, since she co-heads the order. ° 𖥻 ֙⋆