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Before long, the door shuts, and you’re left standing near his desk, awkwardly. Glancing at it, you notice the lack of any speck of dust or mess.

You watch as he silently sits, separating his folders and papers into different piles, and as much as the silence annoys you, you know better than to speak first.

Fortunately, he finishes quickly and glances at you with a small frown.

“Come here,” he says, but you can’t make out the tone in his words. Silently, you walk around his desk and up to him, noticing the furrow in his eyebrow.

“You were staring at the football players outside again, [Name].”

You have to force yourself not to roll your eyes. He’s fucking jealous, that’s what’s happening. If you didn’t know better, you would’ve thought that from that tone, he would be pouting right now.

However long ago, you and Nanami had been in a secret relationship where you two only showed feelings behind closed doors.

Not only is his career and reputation on the line, but so is your education.

Despite being older than you, you’ve come to realise just how much he acts like a child sometimes.

He must’ve seen the annoyance on your face because he quickly tries to correct himself.

“You know I don’t like it when you stare at them during their practice, not when I’m up here teaching. Why stare at a bunch of foolish football players when your dear professor is right in front of you?”

When he still sees the annoyance on your face, his face slowly turns to slight panic.

“[Name], talk to me. Why are you being so quiet?”

“What was that earlier?” You mutter, your jaw slightly tense from replaying the embarrassing scene over and over again in your head. The confusion on his face only spurs the anger in you.

“You embarrassed me back there, in front of all my classmates.” You practically scowl, fists clenching when you realise that now your peers may think of you as some air-headed dreamer who doesn’t care to pay attention during class.

Realisation dawns on his face, but instead of apologising, he only smirks.

“You’re mad about that, [Name]?” He lets out a chuckle, almost as if he couldn’t believe your words. “I did it for your own good; there were rumours going around about us. Would you have wanted that on your reputation?”

There’s a small smirk on his face that makes you want to slap it right off. Does he think it's funny that you just endured public embarrassment?

“I practically helped you. You know, instead of getting mad at me like this, I feel like you should owe me an apology for—”

Suddenly, you grab his tie and tug it sharply towards you and slightly into the air. His breath gets knocked out of his lungs as his hands reach for your waist to steady himself.

The scene is the total opposite of what was happening just seconds earlier. With his tie gripped tightly in your grasp, and anger and annoyance written clearly on your face, he can only stay seated at his desk, face lifted up as he reveals his neck for you.

You swear you hear him let out a small groan and a quiet curse.

“Owe you an apology? Don’t make me fucking laugh, Nanami.” Watching as his Adam’s apple bobs, your grip on his tie only tightens.

“What? You got jealous that I wasn’t paying attention to you, and you decided to embarrass me?” Annoyance laces your tongue, and Nanami only watches you with widened eyes as you continue to practically scold him.

You don’t notice how he’s gone quiet and how you’re now right up in front of him until you hear his breath hitch in his throat, which makes you pause.

Breathing heavily, you can only stare at him and his now flushed face.

“That’s honestly embarrassing for you, Nanami, getting jealous of guys younger than you.” You raise an eyebrow as you spit out more than what you were planning to.

“Now my classmates think I’m fucking stupid because you decided that you wanted to bitch and be a brat. You think that’s amusing?”

You finally register his silence, and your hand wrapped around his tie loosens as you try to slow down your quickened breath. Tensing your jaw, you eye him up and down in annoyance and displeasure before it lands on a particular spot on his pants.

Fucking hell.

“Don’t you dare tell me you’re seriously hard right now, Nanami,” you sneer, nose scrunching up as your eyes stay put staring at the tent in his pants.

Nanami widens his eyes before trying to cover his crotch with his hands, but it's too late, you’ve already seen it, and you’re not about to let it go.

You glance back up at his face as he tries to avoid eye contact, the cogwheels turning in your mind as you try to make sense of this situation.

“You got hard from me yelling at you.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. You know he did, of course, he would.

And you swear you see something twitch inside his pants, and you quickly grab his chin to force him to face you.

“Say it, say you got hard from my yelling, Nanami.”

By this point, Nanami is bright red as a shiver runs down his spine. Is it fear? Pleasure? He doesn’t even know himself, but shit, does it feel good when you use that tone on him.

The tone that makes his knees weak, mind fuzzy, mouth dry, but his dick throb in his pants, knowing that he’ll do whatever you say if you order him around like that.

His tongue darts out of his lips to lick them wet, and he almost groans when he sees your eyes follow the movement.

“I-I got hard from your yelling,” he mumbles, but your grip on his chin tightens, and he winces before repeating it clearly.

A moment of silence passes by, and Nanami wonders if he had truly messed up.

“Take your pants off and get on the desk.” Nanami clenches his jaw before immediately following your order, standing up and getting rid of his tailored pants.

Leaving the rest of his clothes on, he quickly sits on the edge of his desk facing you. Immediately, embarrassment hits him because he knows you can see the wet stain on his boxers, exactly where the tip of his dick is. The thought only makes him spread his legs wider for you, and you notice.

What a whore.

Standing between his legs, your hands land on his upper thighs, rubbing circles on the inside, and he has to bite back a low groan. Suddenly, your hand on his crotch has him moan out loud, and his hand quickly slaps to his mouth in horror.

But you only grin in amusement as your hand continues to squeeze and rub the spot, your thumb rubbing circles on the wet spot as you feel his tip underneath.

“F-Fuckk w-wait shit! [Name]!” Nanami cries out in pleasure when you squeeze firmer, and you feel his thighs start to shake, his hips bucking up to your hand. Eyes glazing over and drool already escaping at the side of his mouth, the sight only drives you to want to ruin him even more.

Having been busy recently due to your other classes, you know Nanami hasn’t been getting as much attention and touch from you, and it’s only gotten him pent up. You also know that because of that, he’ll be quick to cum, and the way his whimpers continue to rise in pitch only proves your point. However, you can’t help but tease him.

“Don’t tell me you’re close already, Nanami.” He opens his mouth to reply, but only lets out a moan when you tug his boxers down and expose the sticky mess of his dick to you.

With his dick already slick with pre cum, you wrap your hand around it, and the most sinful, wet sound you’ve ever heard is made when you start to pump slowly. Along with the sound of his whines and whimpers, the wet sounds of your hand on his dick fill the room.

“O-Oh fuckkk mngh i-im gonna- ima-” But before Nanami can moan out whatever words he was going to say next, your hand already leaves his dick and your free hand reaches up to tug his hair backwards. The pricks of pain on his scalp paired with the pain of his hard dick only make him cry out in both pain and pleasure. His eyes roll back to his skull as he babbles out pleas and other words too slurred for you to understand most of it.

Though what you can make out are whiny “no’s” and curses as you watch more beads of pre-cum leak out from the tip of his dick to slide down to drip on his desk. There’s now a small puddle of his pre-cum on the desk underneath his dick, and you can only bite your lip in satisfaction as you watch it grow larger.

Your finger reaches down to swipe some of the mess on your fingers before lifting it to his lips and shoving two fingers in his mouth, watching as he gags lightly at the sudden intrusion. His eyes water slightly as you feel his tongue slide against your fingers and start to lick the pre-cum off your fingers.

You coo as he almost instinctively sucks on your fingers as he gazes at you with glossy eyes and a flushed face. Slowly, you pull your fingers out, and he whines as he watches his saliva connect them with his lips.

You swear you see his dick twitch hard at that.

“Ah, I-I was so close, [Name],” he whines out, and you almost take pity on him. Almost. But you know you don’t have much time left anyway, not when students may be coming back for other classes.

“How about this, I’ll make you cum as long as you don’t make too much noise. Wouldn’t want someone to pass by and hear how much of a slut you are, do you?”

Your hand returns to his dick and wraps around it, though you don’t start moving it yet.

“What if someone were to walk in here? A student, one of your coworkers?” Raising your eyebrow, a grin slowly makes its way onto your face as you see him remember how his door isn’t even locked.

But he doesn’t even care about that anymore. He’s too focused on the need to cum and the fact that the pain in his dick is too much to bear.

He only nods eagerly, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he eyes your hand when it starts moving again.

This time, the speed you choose is absolute torture. Too fast, too firm, that it knocks the breath out of his lungs and makes him groan in pleasure as his hands fly to your shoulders.

“F-fuck fuck nghh f-feels good,” he pants out, hips bucking into your hand eagerly, clearly too fucked out by the pleasure already.

Though clearly still pent up from your lack of attention combined with the earlier edge, he quickly feels the heat rush to his dick as he feels himself getting closer.

Grabbing his tie firmly again, you tug him closer to you as you pump even faster, wanting to hear all his pretty, lewd noises.

“Close, I-I’m close fuck! C-Can I cum, p-please?”

“Go on, make a mess of yourself,” you order, and seconds later, you hear him moan even louder as he throws his head back, eyes rolling back as he cums hard.

Cum shoots out of his dick and onto your hand and drips onto the desk underneath him as you slow down your pace to prolong his pleasure.

Ironically, the very same desk that was so pristine and clean at the beginning of your class beforehand is now stained and covered in his cum.

Soon enough, his breath slows down, and he leans onto you for support, his hands tightening on your shoulder. The sight of your usual stern, stoic, and serious professor, leaning on you after you pumped him dry and turned him into a whining mess, makes you bite back a laugh.

When your hand grazes back against his dick, he whines out pitifully. “Round two, Nanami?”

He only groans at you, his breath shaky. “Oh fuck me,” he mutters under his breath.

“Dont tempt me with a good time, professor.”

ty for reading to the end! ❤ - chaepink

You knew about the money, or lack there of, before Ben ever brought it up. Which, to be fair, he never actually did. You had overheard your father talking about it in the kitchen late one night with a drink in hand and disdain in his voice. Something about Soldier Boy hemorrhaging money on parties, pills, pointless flexes, defaulting on obligations, still thinking he could throw his weight around while sitting on a financial crater.

“The prick acts like he runs the damn place,” your father said, and you remember the way he scoffed. “And he’s too dumb to realize we’re all watching him drown.”

You made a mental note. You didn’t judge him for it—you just filed it away as leverage. Something to keep in your back pocket. A crack in the armor that you could oh-so-easily wiggle your fingers into.

And you see it play out exactly as expected.

He’s not poor—not really. He’s still a legend. Still a name that gets doors opened, drinks comped, rooms silenced. But he can’t keep up anymore. Not with the way he used to live. Not with the lifestyle he built, not with the image he sells. He used to throw money at problems and crawl out of the wreckage with a scar and a story. Now he just throws the stories and hopes no one asks to see the receipts.

You don’t take him out—you let him take you. He picks the places. He makes the reservations for swanky booth where you sit with your back to the dining room so he can sit facing out, broad shoulders sprawled, thumb tracing circles on your thigh.

Big man. Bigger ego.

He “pays” too. Hands the waiter the black card with a grunt and a smirk and a look like he just did something worth praising. He’ll say things like, “don’t skimp on the wine, my girl’s got a taste for the expensive stuff.”

It’s the very same card you refill every week.

You don’t say a word. You never do. You let him order the bottle, sign the check, carry the leftovers out like he’s a provider. Like he earned this. And when he slips that card back into his wallet like a badge of honor, you only smile—sweet, slow, satisfied.

He used to argue. Used to fight you for the check, used to mutter about pride and independence and not being some goddamn chick. That fizzled fast. You didn’t scream or correct or roll your eyes. You just let him throw his little tantrums, let him puff his chest, and then paid it anyway because someone had to. Because he couldn’t. And worse? He knew you knew it.

And that’s what unhinged him the most. Not that you paid. That you never held it over him. Never looked at him like he owed you. Never said what he knew was true. You just let him pretend, let him act like the man, let him sweat and sulk and strut his way through the illusion while you sat across from him with your legs crossed and your power wrapped in velvet.

Now? He thinks this charade is the balance. And of course, you let him. You nod when he says he’s got it. You kiss him when he opens the door for you. You tell him he’s “so good to you” and let him fuck you after.

And in bed, it’s worse.

So much fucking worse. Or better, depending how you look at it.

Some nights, you lean back on the bed, legs spread, lazy and half-dressed, you watch him hesitate just a beat before he drops to his knees. Still cocky, still mouthing off.

“What, you just expect me to crawl to it now?” he smirks, licking his lips like he thinks he’s dangerous.

You tilt your head, reach out, curl your fingers through his hair. His whole body reacts. And when you pull him closer—just a little—his hands are already on your thighs and his mouth is already open.

“Don’t pretend you don’t love it down there,” you murmur, barely above a whisper, and he groans. Burying himself between your legs like it’s instinct. Just like you’ve trained him to.

You guide his pace with your hands. Little tugs. A quiet word. A sharp sigh when he gets it right. And he responds to every signal like he’s tuned to you, like he needs you to tell him he’s doing good. You don’t say good boy. Not yet. You keep it just out of reach—because you know what it’ll do to him when you finally give it.

Tonight, he talks a big game like it’s his second language. Growls in your ear about how wet you are, how tight you are, how no one fucks you like he does. He brags like he’s got something to prove and the stamina to back it up. He keeps one hand locked around your hip and the other braced on the headboard and you’re fairly certain it’s all for show. Buy you let him have his fun. You moan for him. You take it like you’re desperate until you aren’t.

You grab him—really grab him—fingers locking tight at the base of his skull, nails digging just enough to sting. You tug his head back and he chokes on the sound he was about to make, thrust faltering, hips jerking like his body forgot the plan.

“Don’t stop,” you murmur, breath hot in his ear. “You were doing so good.”

It ruins him.

He groans, long and broken, cock twitching inside you, rhythm going sloppy as hell. He keeps fucking you, but it’s not confident anymore—it’s needy. Like he’s chasing something he just lost. Like every thrust is him asking please without saying the word.

You tighten your grip, control his pace, make him feel every inch of it. You whisper his name like it belongs in your mouth, like you picked it out special. And fuck—he folds. His breath goes uneven, his grip on the sheets desperate, mouth falling open like he forgot how to talk.

You press your mouth to his jaw, whisper something filthy about how good he feels, how pretty he sounds when he pants for you, and his whole body shakes. He thrusts deeper, slower, and for a moment, he forgets to talk. Just breathes. Just feels.

You roll him without warning, shove him onto his back and climb on top of him like you’ve done this a thousand times. He blinks up at you, stunned for half a second—then grins, cocky even now.

You sink down on him slowly, deliberately, watching his face fall apart.

He swears. Loud. Tries to buck up into you, tries to grab your hips and take over—but you plant a hand flat on his chest and grind down hard, sharp enough to steal the breath right out of him.

“No,” you say, low and firm. “Stay.”

And he fucking does.

Like it’s instinct. Like his body heard it before his brain could argue.

You ride him messy and relentless, chasing your own pleasure, not caring how wrecked he looks under you. He’s sweating, flushed, hands flexing uselessly at his sides because every time he tries to touch you, you pin his wrists or move just enough to remind him he doesn’t get to rush this.

He starts begging without realizing it. Broken phrases.

“Fuck—please—don’t stop—”

“You’re killing me—”

“I’m so close—”

You lean down, bite his jaw, suck marks into his skin like you’re branding him. “Don’t you dare,” you whisper. “You don’t get to finish until I say so.”

He whines. Actually whines. It punches something ugly and hot straight through your chest.

You stop moving entirely.

He gasps, hips jerking up in reflex, eyes wild. “Jesus Christ—don’t be mean—don’t do that—”

You squeeze around him, slow and cruel, smiling when he nearly comes undone right there. You keep him right on the edge until he’s shaking, until his pride is gone and there’s nothing left but want.

When you finally start moving again, it’s merciless. Fast. Deep. All control and hunger. You grab his throat—not tightly, just enough to feel his pulse—and when he looks at you like that, wrecked and open and desperate for your approval, you know you’ve got him.

“Come for me,” you say.

He breaks.

He comes hard and loud, body jerking under you, voice tearing out of his chest like he couldn’t stop it if he tried. He’s ruined—utterly wrecked—hands clutching at you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

You stay on top of him while he comes down, breath shaky, eyes glassy, mouth still open like he’s stunned it happened at all.

You brush your thumb over his cheek, slow and possessive, then lean down and murmur, “Good job, baby.”

That does more damage than anything else.

He groans, wrecked, boneless, pulling you against him like he needs you close or he might fall apart. He doesn’t joke. Doesn’t posture. Doesn’t say a damn word.

Next time, you’ll do it all again.

And again

And again

Because he thinks he’s the one taking what he wants.

And you’ll let him believe it for now, it’s so much easier to keep him happy that way.

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