insufferable kitten

He backs you against the full length mirror in the bedroom, spins you so you’re facing your own reflection: flushed cheeks, lips swollen from earlier kisses, body glittering like a dragon’s hoard brought to life. Multiple necklaces layer over your throat and chest, diamond choker tight against your pulse, heavy pearl rope slung low across your shoulders, the long gold chain he draped between your breasts earlier now swaying with every shaky breath. Bangles slide down your wrists, rings bite into your fingers where you brace against the glass. The tiara tilts slightly when he fists your hair.

“Look at yourself,” he growls, voice vibrating through your spine. One hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise; the other guides his cock to your entrance, teasing once, twice, then sinking in with a single brutal thrust that punches the air from your lungs.

Everything clinks.

The sound is obscene, metal on metal, gems knocking together, bangles sliding, chains swaying, the tiara shifting against your scalp with every snap of his hips. He bottoms out and the long gold necklace drags across your sternum, cool links sliding over heated skin. The pearl rope slips lower, heavy beads rolling against your breasts. Every time he pulls back and slams home again the jewellery answers: clink-clink-clink, rhythmic, filthy, like coins spilling across stone.

You watch it all in the mirror, his silver hair falling into his eyes, the way his eyes shine like blood, the way his jaw clenches when you clench around him. His thrusts are deep, punishing, possessive; each one drives the breath from you in sharp gasps, makes the necklaces jump and settle, makes the tiara slip until he reaches up to fix it with bruising fingers.

“Mine,” he snarls against your shoulder, teeth grazing the place where neck meets throat. “Every fucking piece of you. Every sound. Every mark.” He punctuates the last word with a grind that has you seeing white, the head of his cock pressing right against that spot that makes your knees buckle.

You try to answer something coherent, something pleading but all that comes out is a broken moan. The jewellery keeps clinking, relentless, underscoring every wet slide, every slap of skin on skin. Pearls drag across your chest, gold chains catch on your nipples, bangles slide up your forearms when you reach back to clutch at his thigh.

He fucks you like he’s trying to imprint himself into your bones.

When you come it’s sudden and shattering, back arching, jewellery rattling like a broken chandelier, a high keening sound tearing from your throat. Sylus follows seconds later with a guttural curse, burying himself to the hilt and spilling hot and deep, hips jerking through the aftershocks while the chains and beads keep chiming softly against cooling skin.

He doesn’t pull out right away.

Instead he wraps both arms around you from behind, chin hooked over your shoulder, red eyes meeting yours in the mirror. His breathing is ragged, right eye glowing. One hand drifts up to adjust the tiara again, gentler this time, then trails down to toy with the pearl rope draped across your collarbone.

“Beautiful” he says, voice hoarse, almost vulnerable beneath the growl.

You reach up, fingers tangling in his hair.

The jewellery clinks once more when you turn your head to kiss him.

Outside, spring keeps turning.

Inside, the ancient thing in his chest finally quiets again.

"EEE! You're never usually up this early, bestie!!!" she shrieks, her arms wrapping around your neck in an ambush hug that nearly sends the entire tray flying.

You stumble, your elbow knocking into a napkin dispenser, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the edge. You manage to steady yourself just in time, shooting her a glare while trying not to spill breakfast all over your shirt.

"Tara! Jesus—warn me next time," you mutter, clutching the tray like a shield.

She bounces back with a grin, eyes wide with the manic energy of someone who’s either had too much coffee or is running purely on adrenaline. Her short brown hair is immaculately styled, every strand in place like she spent half an hour perfecting it in the mirror—despite the fact that she’s bouncing around like she mainlined espresso for breakfast.

"What are you doing awake right before class? You good? Are you sick? Are you dying? Should I alert the RA?"

You smirk, adjusting your tray. "Just...figured I’d try being a functional human for once."

"Uh huh. Sure. Just out of the blue you decide to turn over a new leaf at 8 a.m.?" she says, raising a skeptical brow as she falls into step beside you. "This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain new professor, would it?"

You roll your eyes so hard it actually hurts. That’s all anyone had been obsessing over for days now—whispers in crowded lecture halls, overheard conversations in library study rooms. Every time someone so much as mentioned the history department, mentions of him came up like clockwork.

You couldn’t walk across campus or sit down in the dining hall without catching snippets—"Did you hear he's taking over Alden's class?" or "I heard he's, like, stupid smart and scary hot." Even the TA had mentioned him with a raised eyebrow and a smirk.

"Oh my god. Not you too," you say, groaning into your tray like it might protect you from further humiliation.

Tara gasps like you just confessed a dark secret. "So it is! You’re totally crushing already, I knew it!"

You glare at her, signaling that she’s pushing it, but she just beams wider. "No one’s even seen him yet, much less me," you say sharply, appalled at the very idea that you'd ever crush on a man that you'd never even laid eyes on. "What are you even talking about?"

Tara snorts and whips out her phone like it’s a mic drop. "Oh c'mon... you didn’t see the photo posted to MOMENTS last night? Someone leaked his resume and everything. There’s literally a thread titled ‘Hot History Daddy.’ "

You freeze for a split second, internally cringe and then groan. Who would name a thread something so...awful? "Of course there is."

"I mean...he’s tall, he’s broody in that unreadable, 'probably knows six dead languages' kind of way, and he apparently got his PhD in military and political revolutions by the time he was twenty-four?! And he’s teaching that upper-level history class right?"

You don’t answer to Tara's continuous yapping, mostly because your absolutely starving. Instead, you find an empty table and finally set your tray down, shoulders still tight from the collision. Tara sits across from you like she’s waiting for tea to be spilled.

"I’m just saying," she hums, propping her chin on her hand, "if he’s half as intense in person as he looks on paper, you’re gonna be in trouble."

You snort, shoving a bite of omelet into your mouth before answering, voice thick with sarcasm. "Tara, I’m on track to graduate with one of the highest GPA's on campus. Some 'hot' professor is not going to throw me off course."

She giggles and casually reaches across the table to take a sip from your coffee like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

"You’re better than me. I’m genuinely considering switching majors just to get into his class. That man could lecture me about 18th-century tax codes and I’d still be hooked. He’s twenty-eight, did you know that? Twenty-eight! And apparently, he has one of those low, sexy voices that makes everything sound ten times more important. Like, how can a girl resist?!"

You roll your eyes but can’t help laughing with her. The two of you fall into your usual rhythm, the conversation drifting into safer territory—her awful roommate, who leaves dishes in the sink for days and uses her skincare without asking, and the flood of assignments you’ve both been hit with.

Still, despite the easy back-and-forth, your thoughts keep circling back. You hadn’t given much attention to the change in faculty—Alden’s resignation had seemed abrupt, sure, but professors left all the time. It wasn’t your problem. Or at least, it hadn’t been.

Now, though, a question stuck in your brain like a loose thread: who was this new guy, really?

You shook the thought off with a small, amused exhale. It didn’t matter. You had goals. And no broody, sharp-jawed academic with a mysterious background and a voice like smooth bourbon was going to distract you.

Absolutely not.

Eventually, breakfast winds down, though Tara tries her best to drag it out with one last dramatic rumor about the new professor supposedly having a pet crow. After a warm, slightly-too-tight bear hug—complete with her whispering, "Try not to drool if he speaks directly to you!". You both finally part ways and head off in separate directions to face the day.

Your first class is an advanced writing seminar tucked away on the second floor of the humanities building. You slip into a seat by the window, letting the late morning sun pour in as you unpack your notebook and pens. The professor launches into a lecture about persuasive structure—ethos, pathos, logos—but your mind keeps drifting. You find yourself doodling in the margins, scribbling random phrases like "commanding presence" and underlining them without meaning to. Every five minutes, your gaze flicks to the clock.

You manage to take decent notes—nothing spectacular, but passable. You answer one question without stumbling, which feels like a small miracle. But underneath it all, your mind hums. You keep imagining what his voice might actually sound like. Would it even be sexy? Or just...distracting? Maybe a little ridiculous?

You couldn't decide if you were intrigued or just caught up in the collective hysteria.

Next is psychology—an elective you chose partly for the credits and partly because you hoped it would be more engaging than another dry lecture. Today’s topic is groupthink, which your professor is oddly excited about. She moves around the room gesturing like she’s on a game show, explaining how consensus-seeking can override critical thinking. You catch about half of it. Your notes are scattered—some bullet points, a half-finished diagram, and an accidental sketch of what might be a jawline with glasses.

Tara’s words keep echoing: He’s twenty-eight. Low, sexy voice. Makes everything sound important. You hadn’t realized how thoroughly she’d infected your brain with this nonsense, but there it was—taking up real estate where your attention span should’ve been.

By the time your third class starts—econ, which you only enrolled in because you needed it for your requirements—you’re a mess of frayed nerves and wandering thoughts. The lecture is already underway when you slip into your seat. You open your notebook, but your pen just hovers above the page. The professor’s voice is background noise.

"Miss?" he says. Once. Then again, louder.

Your head snaps up. Everyone’s looking at you.

"Would you like to repeat what I just said?" he asks, not unkindly, but definitely with an edge of impatience.

You blink, heart thudding, throat dry. "Uh...something about...marginal utility?"

A few quiet chuckles ripple through the classroom. The professor gives you a look—just short of disappointed—then nods and continues.

You sink lower into your chair, wishing you could melt into the linoleum.

God. Tara had gotten in your head. And not just a little.

Now, every passing minute felt like a countdown—one that ticked steadily toward the class you were trying not to think about. Toward the room where you’d finally see him for yourself.

You told yourself again it didn’t matter. You had goals, a plan. You weren’t the type to get distracted by a face, or a voice, or...anything.

But still—your pulse beat a little faster. Your fingers tightened slightly on your pen.

Next up was "Conflict and Transformation in Modern History"—one of those broad, upper-level courses that tried to cover everything from revolutions and world wars to decolonization and ideological shifts. It was supposed to be challenging, heavy on reading and discussion, and definitely not the kind of class where you could just show up and coast through.

You had liked Alden. Sure, he’d been a bit elderly—white hair, soft-spoken, with a habit of misplacing his glasses—but he wasn’t intense. He’d stroll into class five minutes late with a thermos of tea and a thick stack of notes, and somehow still managed to deliver lectures that felt more like storytelling than instruction.

He graded fairly, gave actual, thoughtful feedback instead of those vague comments professors sometimes scribbled in the margins, and his assignments—while definitely not light—had been surprisingly fun. Creative, even. You’d created a detailed, annotated map showing troop movements, resource lines, and political borders during a war and actually enjoyed yourself.

You always knew where you stood in his class. Alden taught because he loved history, and it showed. You respected that.

So yeah, when they announced he was stepping down mid-semester, it had thrown you. And the fact that his replacement was someone younger, fresh-faced, and supposedly "brilliant" only made it worse. The buzz around campus hadn’t helped either. It turned what should have been a simple change in faculty into something laced with nerves and speculation.

You dreaded to think what this new professor would put you through. The syllabus had been updated without warning—longer reading lists, more rigid grading structure, and a participation section that made your stomach twist. You feared the type: overly serious, hyper-competitive, the kind who took some kind of intellectual pride in confusing their students and pretending it was all part of the learning process.

If you were lucky, maybe he’d be the kind who relied on endless PowerPoint slides, assigned textbook readings that no one did, and tossed in the occasional multiple-choice quiz to make it feel like he was keeping everyone on their toes. You could handle that. That was survivable. That was routine.

But something told you luck wasn’t on your side this semester. Not with the way everyone was talking. Not with the way Tara had described him like he was a character straight out of a gothic novel—sharp eyes, sharper voice, and a mind that probably never turned off.

You hadn’t even met him yet, and still, he was already taking up space in your head. And that...was not a good sign.

Your nerves didn’t ease as you sat alone in the corner of the dining hall for lunch, choosing a small table by the window like you always did when you needed to think. The glass was cold to the touch where your elbow brushed it, the view outside a blur of passing students and drifting autumn leaves. Tara was across Linkon on another campus, buried in some group project for her class, which meant there was no one to distract you from your spiraling thoughts—or the restless energy twisting in your stomach.

The soup in front of you sent up gentle curls of steam, smelling faintly of chicken, salt, and something vaguely herbal. You scooped it up in quick, uneven gulps, as if finishing faster might stop the churn in your gut. Instead, each swallow landed like a stone, heavy and uncomfortable, making you wonder if it was anxiety or the soup that had turned your insides into a knot.

The walk across campus felt longer than it ever had before. Your shoes scuffed against the pavement, and you fell into a rhythm of letting out a sigh every dozen steps, hoping it might somehow bleed the tension from your shoulders.

When the history building finally came into view, you slowed, almost without meaning to. The stone façade loomed ahead, cool and imposing in the shade. You rubbed your damp palms against your jeans, willing your heartbeat to calm. At the entrance, you paused, pulled in one long, steadying breath, and stepped inside.

It didn't take long to find your class, passing about six or seven doors before you finally made it.

The classroom was already alive with sound—low conversations weaving together into a steady buzz, chairs scraping against the floor, backpacks hitting the ground with soft thumps. Students were sliding into their usual seats, greeting each other, flipping through notebooks. You caught snippets of laughter, a complaint about last week’s reading, someone unwrapping a granola bar.

Your eyes scanned the room automatically, taking stock. It didn’t take long to notice the changes: Alden’s personal touches were gone. The framed maps that had lined the walls, the slightly dusty shelf stacked with worn hardcovers, even the old, battered globe that had sat near the window—they’d all vanished. Without them, the space felt stripped bare, almost clinical.

But of the new professor? Not a single trace. No bag on the desk. No laptop waiting to be opened. Just an empty chair at the front of the room, and a silence in that corner that made you all the more aware of the seconds ticking by.

Your nerves eased slightly, but not completely. You glanced down at your phone, the screen glowing back at you with the time. Late on his first day? Ugh. Maybe you’d been overthinking this whole thing after all. If he couldn’t even be bothered to show up on time, how intense could he really be? The rumors had painted him as punctual to the point of severity, the kind of man who valued discipline above all else. But now, with the seconds slipping by, that image began to crack.

You let out a slow breath, forcing your shoulders to loosen, and slipped into your seat. The room felt warmer now, filled with the restless hum of idle chatter. A group of boys in the back had taken it upon themselves to entertain the class, cracking loud jokes about the “ten-minute rule” and declaring that if the professor didn’t show up soon, they were morally—no, legally—obligated to leave. One of them even glanced at his watch theatrically, prompting more laughter.

A girl two seats over leaned toward her friend, whispering something that made them both snicker. Pages turned, backpacks shifted, and a faint, impatient drumming of fingers on wood began somewhere behind you. The atmosphere was loose, unbothered—like everyone was already half-expecting a free period.

A few minutes pass…then a few more. The restless shifting in the room grows louder, students exchanging glances as the seconds drag on. The boys in the back keep their running commentary going, each joke a little louder than the last, like they’re performing for an invisible audience. Pens click, chair legs scrape against the floor, and the tension between expectation and impatience hangs heavy in the air.

Finally, one of them pushes back from his desk with a dramatic sigh, stretching his arms high overhead as if this has been the most exhausting wait of his life. He rolls his shoulders, glances at his friends with a grin, and saunters toward the door like he’s about to lead them in a bold, freedom-seeking escape.

“Damn, teach is late on his first day? Sheesh,” he says, pitching his voice so it carries across the entire room. A couple of his buddies chuckle. He reaches for the handle and swings the door open wide—only to stop short as he nearly collides chest-first with what feels like a solid wall of black wool and muscle.

The man standing there is tall—easily over six feet—with the kind of presence that turns heads without trying. His silver hair is styled into a sleek, well-kept mullet, the front and crown swept neatly back to catch the light from the hallway while the longer layers brush the nape of his neck, and his coat hangs perfectly tailored over broad shoulders. Beneath it, a black turtleneck only sharpens the lines of his frame. For a moment, the noise from the hall seems to vanish, replaced by a hush that seeps into the room. The boy at the door loses his grin in an instant, his hand still on the knob. 

The man tilts his head, studying the student with piercing red eyes that seem to miss nothing. When he speaks, his voice is smooth, resonant, and edged with just enough dry humor to sting. “I’d hate to think you were planning to leave before I even had the chance to start.”

The boy laughs awkwardly and steps aside, but the damage is done—the air in the room feels different now, taut and expectant, every eye following the professor as he steps inside.

You suddenly feel like you can’t breathe. This is…your new professor? No fucking way. He looks like he should be modeling for some high end magazine, not teaching an advanced history course at a college. Up close, he’s even taller than you’d imagined, the lines of his tailored coat cutting a sharp silhouette as he steps into the room. He shuts the door behind him with a quiet, deliberate click.

Your eyes track him without meaning to, caught by the way he moves—unhurried, purposeful, not sparing a glance for anyone just yet. It’s the walk of someone who already owns the space he’s in, whether or not anyone has given him permission.

Your classmates are just as spellbound. The room, which moments ago had been a low roar of chatter, falls into fractured silence. Heads swivel, whispered words taper off, and even the boys in the back quiet down. He reaches the desk and sets down a sleek black laptop, the soft thud of it hitting the wood somehow louder than the hum of the heaters. The faint glint of silver at his temple catches the overhead light, drawing your focus again.

Without so much as a word, he turns toward the whiteboard. The shift in his posture is subtle but unmistakable—a slight straightening of his back, a set to his shoulders that makes him seem even taller. Hushed whispers stir again, a rustling of curiosity that moves through the rows like a current.

He picks up a marker, and the motion is quick yet deliberate. His hand moves with the kind of certainty that brooks no hesitation, each stroke sharp and clean. The faint chemical tang of fresh ink drifts in the air. You find yourself leaning forward without thinking, your eyes fixed on the letters forming under his hand.

In bold, uncompromising block letters, he writes:

“Power never dies. It only changes hands.”

The words stand stark against the whiteboard, heavy with implication. He pauses, marker poised, then draws a single underline beneath the sentence—slow, steady. The scraping sound of the tip against the board seems to echo in the stillness.

For a heartbeat, no one moves. No one breathes.

Then silently, he turns, the marker still in his hand, and lets the corners of his mouth curl into a small, knowing smile aimed at the class. Your heart drops straight into your stomach as your eyes take in his entire face for the first time. Strong jaw, high cheekbones, a mouth that looks like it was carved to smirk, and eyes sharp enough to pin you to your seat.

“He’s fucking hot…” the girl next to you whispers to her friend with a half-stifled giggle.

You can’t help it—you agree without hesitation. Yeah, he’s more than hot. He’s unfairly gorgeous, almost otherworldly, like someone took every good feature possible and assembled them in a way that made it hard to breathe. Tara’s going to lose her mind when she hears she was right. The thought makes your face heat, especially when that faint smile of his lingers just a second longer.

Then, in a voice that’s smooth and measured, he says, “We can skip the honorific titles. No ‘Mister’ here—you can all call me Sylus.”

He adjusts his thin, wire-framed glasses with a small push at the bridge of his nose, the motion precise and somehow just as disarming as the smile. Your heart beats faster at the sound of his smooth, sultry voice.

Another win for Tara.

“You’re not here to memorize dates,” he says, his voice quiet but razor-sharp. “If that’s what you’re after, leave now. Google can tell you who won, and when. I’m not interested in that.”

He paces slowly at the front of the room, the low sound of his shoes against the floor filling the silence. There’s no PowerPoint clicker in his hand, no projected bullet points to follow. Just him, his words, and the steady thrum of anticipation in your chest.

“History is not simply a list of dead men and dusty treaties. It is a graveyard of decisions,” he continues, his gaze sweeping the rows like a searchlight. “It’s blood soaked into soil no one remembers walking on. It’s ordinary people destroyed by extraordinary ambitions. And it never stays buried.”

He stops mid-stride, facing the class head-on. For a moment, he doesn’t speak—just lets the weight of his words sink in. His eyes, sharp and unblinking, roam over the faces in front of him, and you get the uneasy feeling he can already tell who will thrive here…and who will flinch.

You feel your blood run cold as his eyes seem to stop directly on your face, the weight of his gaze locking you in place. For a second, the rest of the room blurs—just you, his piercing focus, and the thudding in your chest. Huh? Are you imagining it, or is he actually looking at you? Your skin prickles under the possibility. Heat creeps up your neck, and embarrassed, you force yourself to break the moment, pretending to dig through your bag as if searching for something urgent. The crinkle of paper and shuffle of pens feels absurdly loud in your ears. You let out a quiet sigh of relief only when you sense his attention drifting to the other side of the room.

“In this course, we do not celebrate civilizations,” he says, his tone dropping even lower. “We dissect them. We pull apart the gears to see how they worked, who turned them…and who was crushed in the process. You will read primary sources that lie outright. You will examine revolutions that sputtered out before they could burn. You will question the heroes you were told to admire. And if you do this right—if you’re brave enough—you’ll realize how terrifyingly easy it is to repeat the worst mistakes of all of it.”

Another pause, longer this time. His voice softens, but the intensity doesn’t waver.

“We begin,” he says, taking the same marker and writing the words slowly across the board, “with the fall of the Virelian Republic.” He sets the marker down, turns, and adds, “Not the empire. The republic—because that’s where the real story begins.”

A ripple of unease moves through the room. You feel it too.

But your unease is…different now. It’s not the jittery nervousness you felt when you first walked in—this is sharper, coiled tight in your belly, making your skin buzz with awareness. You can’t take your eyes off him as he moves across the front of the room, the quiet thud of his shoes punctuating his words. His voice flows with an unhurried confidence, carrying easily to every corner of the classroom without him ever raising it.

You’re mesmerized. The way his piercing red eyes scan the rows, never lingering on any one person for too long, as though he’s taking mental notes on each of you. The subtle flex of his jaw when he emphasizes a point. The faint gleam of light against the lenses of his thin, wire-framed glasses before he nudges them higher with a practiced push of two fingers. Even the shift of his shoulders when he changes direction catches your attention, and it makes your face warm in a way you try desperately to ignore.

He stops mid-stride, turning to face the class fully. His hands rest lightly behind his back, posture straight, expression calm. “So,” he says evenly, his gaze sweeping the room, “what do you think was the single most significant factor in the collapse of the Virelian Republic?”

The question hangs in the air, heavier than it should. A few hesitant hands rise. “The assassination of Marcellus Vire,” one student ventures. Without hesitation, he gives a small shake of his head. Another offers, “Economic inequality,” and he tilts his head slightly, acknowledging the thought but clearly unsatisfied. A third, from the back row, says, “Corruption,” earning a raised brow and the faintest hum of interest, but still no sign they’ve hit the mark.

He lets the silence stretch, his gaze moving from face to face, giving each student a moment under its weight before shifting to the next. The soft scratching of a pen somewhere in the room seems unnaturally loud in the stillness.

You sit there, pulse pounding in your ears, realizing with a jolt that you know the answer—really know it. It’s there, fully formed, pressed to the tip of your tongue, your hand twitching faintly against your notebook. You can already imagine the way his eyes might narrow, the way his attention might lock on you if you spoke. The thought sends another rush of heat to your face. Still, the answer burns inside you, insistent, demanding to be said.

Your academic side gets the best of you—and, if you’re being brutally honest, maybe there’s also that ridiculous, sudden craving for his attention—so you raise your hand before you can talk yourself out of it.

He nods in your direction and it sends a strange jolt through your chest. You can feel the shift in the room instantly, the weight of your classmates’ eyes settling on you, their curiosity almost tangible. For a moment, it’s just you under his gaze, your pulse loud in your ears, the answer balanced on the edge of your lips.

“That's a trick question. It wasn’t just one event,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel. “It was the breakdown of the political norms that held the Republic together. Once those were gone, everything else—civil wars, power grabs, Marcellus Vire—was inevitable.”

A beat of silence follows. His eyes stay locked on yours, unreadable, and then—just barely—he nods. Not a perfunctory acknowledgment, but a slow, deliberate motion that makes your chest tighten.

“Correct,” he says, his voice carrying enough weight to make it feel like more than a simple affirmation. “And the fact that you understand that means you already know how dangerous that kind of collapse can be.”

The attention in the room shifts again, but you can still feel the echo of his gaze lingering, as if he’d left a mark you can’t quite shake.

You breathe a sigh of relief, the tension in your shoulders easing for the first time since you walked into the room. Yeah, this was going to be fine—maybe even easy. Even with a new professor, the material wasn’t foreign to you. He clearly knew his subject, his explanations were sharp, but nothing about the lesson itself felt beyond your reach. You could keep up, you could answer questions, and maybe, if you played your cards right, you could even impress him.

So why the hell did you still feel so nervous? The unease wasn’t the same as the pre-class jitters—it had shifted into something heavier, something you felt low in your stomach. Every time his eyes swept over the room and passed your row, you caught yourself holding your breath without realizing it. Your pulse would skip, and a faint heat would creep up the back of your neck before you forced yourself to refocus on your notes.

You told yourself it was because he had a commanding presence, that it was only natural to be on edge around someone like that. But deep down, you knew there was more to it. The timbre of his voice stuck with you longer than it should have. The way he moved, the precision in his gestures, the deliberate pauses between his sentences—they all had a way of pulling your attention back to him, no matter how determined you were to concentrate on the material.

The rest of class passes in a blur of steady pacing, crisp notes scratched into your notebook, and that deep voice threading through every explanation like it’s weaving itself into your brain. He moves effortlessly from one concept to the next, making complex political shifts and centuries-old grievances sound like stories you’d overhear in a shadowy tavern. By the time the clock’s hands creep toward the hour, you’ve almost forgotten how tense you’d been when you walked in.

Then he caps his marker with a deliberate click and turns toward the class, his eyes scanning the rows before landing somewhere in the middle.

“For your first assignment,” he says, “I want you to write a two-page account of the Virelian Republic’s collapse… but from the perspective of someone who didn’t survive it. A soldier, a baker, a servant—anyone whose voice might have been lost in the official records. No research yet. Just imagination.”

A ripple of confusion moves through the room—eyebrows raise, a few pens pause mid-scratch. It’s not the kind of task you expect in a history course. You can feel the class collectively leaning into the idea even as they exchange wary glances.

The room stays hushed for a beat before the rustle of notebooks and backpacks resumes, louder now in the silence he’s left. He gives a single nod of dismissal. “Due next week. That’s all.”

And just like that, it’s over.

Relief rolls through you in a warm wave—not just because there’s only one assignment, but because you’ll finally get to leave. Leave the stifling awareness of the way your heart stutters every time your gaze lingers on him too long. Or the inexplicable urge to press your thighs together when he smirks mid-sentence.

You shove your notebook into your bag with unnecessary force, the corners catching on your sleeve, and stand so quickly your chair legs scrape the floor.

You follow the flow of students toward the door, the din of shuffling feet and low chatter filling the air. You’re only a few steps away from freedom when it happens.

“Miss?”

The single word cuts through the noise like a blade, rich enough to seem almost tangible. It slides along your skin, curling low in your stomach. You freeze mid-step as every nerve in your body sparks awake.

You turn toward him, trying to regulate your breathing, your throat tightening with the effort to look composed. Meeting his eyes is harder than you expect—like staring into something that might see more than you want to reveal. Still, you manage, holding his gaze for a fleeting moment. “Yes, Mr— I mean, Sylus?” you say, the stumble making you cringe inwardly even as you force a small, nervous smile to soften it.

He doesn’t comment on your slip, but his attention doesn’t waver either. Unexpectedly, he gestures toward the desk where you’d been sitting just moments ago, his fingers flicking in that direction. “Your bag,” he says simply, the syllables clipped but not unkind.

A wave of embarrassment surges through you, hot and immediate, making your skin prickle. You almost want to laugh it off, but your voice comes out in a quick, higher-than-usual rush. “Oh! Thank you—silly me,” you manage, the words tumbling over each other.

You turn on your heel and make your way back to your seat, every step feeling strangely amplified, as if the sound of your shoes on the floor is far too loud. The imagined weight of his gaze follows you, a steady pressure between your shoulder blades. You bend to grab the strap of your bag and sling it over your shoulder with more force than necessary. Your cheeks are warm, and you’re painfully aware of the way your hair shifts around your face as you move.

As you straighten and turn toward the door again, you resist the urge to glance back, though you can feel—deep in your gut—that his eyes are still on you. The awareness lingers, prickling at the edges of your thoughts, all the way to the doorway.

Way to make yourself look like a complete dumbass, you think, but the truth is, part of you wonders if he’s still watching long after you’ve gone.

There was no denying it—it was crush at first sight. The moment you’d seen him, something in you had shifted like the click of a lock, and there was no pretending otherwise. It had been instant, irrational, and a little terrifying. And it was immediately obvious to Tara, of course. You could never hide anything from her for long. She had a talent for sniffing out gossip and romantic tension faster than anyone else on campus, like a bloodhound with a nose for drama. She could read you like an open book, whether you wanted her to or not.

She didn’t even wait for you to bring it up. The second she saw your face, she lit up with a grin that spelled trouble. “You like him! I knew it!” she declared, her voice dripping with satisfaction.

You groaned, rolling your eyes, but she only leaned in closer, unwilling to let you wriggle free. “Seeee? I told you you’d be in troubleeeee,” she sing-songed as the two of you strolled down the long campus hallways. The polished tile echoed your footsteps, her teasing voice bouncing off the walls just loud enough to make you want to clamp a hand over her mouth.

You stifled another groan, dragging your hand over your face as if you could physically hide the flush blooming across your cheeks. “Okay, yeah—he’s hot. Like, really hot. How am I ever gonna be able to focus in class?” you muttered, your voice halfway between defeat and disbelief.

Tara laughed, looping her arm through yours in an almost conspiratorial way. “You won’t,” she said cheerfully, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “And it’s gonna be amazing.”

You shot her a look, but she only smirked, clearly already imagining every possible outcome. Tara of course, would be no comfort. “Mark my words, you’re gonna thank me for warning you.” She bumped her shoulder into yours, and you couldn’t tell if she was joking or actually serious.

"What am I gonna do? His voice…his face…his…hands." You let your own hands fall into your lap with a dramatic thud, the sound echoing faintly down the hallway, making the moment feel even more ridiculous.

"Tara. They’re fucking huge. You should see him hold a pen. I could barely breathe…" The words tumble out in a rush, your voice low but urgent, like admitting it too loudly would make it more real. Just thinking about it sends your pulse racing all over again. The image is vivid—his long fingers curled around the pen, the slow precision of his movements, the ease with which he commanded even the smallest gesture. It had been ridiculous, and you’d been painfully aware of every second you spent watching. You sigh, leaning your weight against the wall, as if it might ground you before your legs give out completely.

Tara’s smirk widens knowingly. She crosses her arms and props herself against the opposite wall like she’s the audience to your confession, not your best friend. She tilts her head, eyes glinting with that dangerous mix of curiosity and mischief that always means trouble. "Get his attention! That’s what you do! You’re smart—use it. Answer all his questions, make yourself impossible to ignore. Find excuses to talk to him. Flirt!"

You gape at her, caught somewhere between disbelief and intrigue. "Flirt? With my professor?" you hiss, but she just grins, clearly savoring your reaction. Leave it to Tara to encourage behavior that could land you in academic scandal.

Your cheeks burn hotter at her persistence, and you cover your face with both hands again like maybe she won’t see the flush spreading across your skin. "You’re insane," you mumble through your palms. "He’s my professor, Tara. He’s definitely not gonna pay attention to a student. That’s…like…highly unethical."

"That’s where you’re wrong," she counters, her tone dripping with confidence. "Even the most strict professors drop their boundaries with a little push." The way she says it makes your stomach twist—not entirely from nerves. She pushes off the wall with a casual grace, falling into step beside you as you start walking again. Her voice stays light, almost playful, but her eyes stay sharp, calculating, like she’s already mapping out a plan you’ll have no choice but to follow.

You glance sideways at her, both dreading and curious about whatever scheme is brewing in her head.

Still, you listen as she rambles off advice, her tone breezy but her eyes sharp, like she’s enjoying every second of this. You tell her about how he’d called after you when you forgot your bag, expecting her to laugh it off—but instead, she seizes on it instantly.

"Forget it more often," she suggests with a sly grin, "but not too often. You don’t want to look like you’re doing it on purpose. Make it subtle—give him a reason to call you back."

Before you can respond, she’s already onto the next step. "And dress more…eye-catching. You know—tighter clothes, ones that show off your assets. Make him notice, even if he’s trying not to." She says it so casually, like this is just another piece of friendly advice, the same way she might suggest a good place for coffee.

You can’t believe you’re actually listening. The thought alone makes you want to laugh, but you bite it back. You half-wonder if she’s done this before. Then you realize—that’s a stupid question.

She’s Tara. Of course she has.

And maybe…just maybe…it couldn’t hurt to try. Right?

The next few classes were nerve-wracking, each one a mix of genuine academic focus and the constant, distracting hum of your awareness of him. Still, you took Tara’s advice to heart. You started wearing your tightest shirts, the ones that hugged your figure in all the right places, along with shorts, skirts, and leggings that left little to the imagination—always hovering on the right side of “college appropriate,” but enough to make you feel his eyes might catch on you, even if only for a second. Every morning, choosing an outfit became less about comfort and more about calculated impact.

Sylus’s next big lesson was on the Siege of Caelthorn—a brutal turning point long before Linkon existed as a nation—though it happened on the land that would one day become Linkon, rife with political betrayal, desperate alliances, and the kind of last-stand tragedies that could haunt you for weeks. He paced as he spoke, weaving the dry facts into a gripping narrative, his voice lowering and rising at just the right moments to keep you hooked. He spoke of generals who turned traitor, civilians who fought with spears, and an entire winter where the city’s people lived on scraps of bark and boiled leather. You could picture it in your mind, his words painting the scene vividly…or at least, you could have, if you weren’t so busy noticing other things.

Because today, he was in a short-sleeved shirt—simple, fitted, and criminally distracting. The cut of the fabric framed his broad shoulders perfectly, and every movement pulled it taut across his arms, revealing the kind of muscle definition you didn’t expect from a professor. Your pen hovered uselessly over the page as you watched the fabric stretch and flex with the roll of his shoulders, your brain catching on details that had nothing to do with Caelthorn.

Fuck. He has biceps? The thought popped into your head with the force of a revelation, almost making you miss the next thing he said. And then, because your brain clearly hated you, the thought spiraled. What does his stomach look like? Does he have abs under there?

And the more important thought of what was hiding in his pants. Tara had made the lewd remark of "Well...if his hands and feet are big...you know what that means!"

You tore your gaze away, fixing it firmly on your notebook. You tried to copy down the date of the siege, the names of key figures, but the words swam in front of you, meaningless. All you could think about was the curve of his arm as he gestured toward the map, the faint veins visible along his forearms, and how close you were sitting—close enough that if he walked past your desk, you might actually smell his cologne.

You exhaled slowly, willing yourself to focus on the lesson, but the mental image lingered stubbornly, just out of reach, refusing to fade even as the bell approached.

Deciding to push yourself, you start asking questions in class—questions you already know the answers to. "Did the Siege of Caelthorn shift trade routes permanently or just temporarily?"

"Did the loss at Caelthorn weaken the Republic more through military defeat or through the collapse of public morale?"

You pick your moments carefully, raising your hand when you’re sure he’ll notice, tilting your head in that curious way that says I’m engaged without overdoing it. Each time, he listens, then responds in that precise, almost measured tone.

“The siege permanently altered trade in the southern provinces,” he says, “redirecting goods through coastal routes instead of inland. And the greater blow to the Republic?” He pauses just long enough for a few pens to hover over notebooks. “It came from the public’s loss of faith in its leaders, not from the military defeat itself.” His delivery is steady, free of theatrics, but you swear you catch the faintest flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes before he turns away. It’s subtle, almost nothing…but enough to keep you trying again the next day.

After class, you decided to “forget” your bag again. You made a little production of it this time—sliding your notebook into your backpack with exaggerated care, glancing toward the door as if you were already thinking about your next class, then strolling right out without looking back. A giddy rush of excitement curled in your chest as you took a few steps into the hallway, pretending to fish something out of your pocket while waiting for that familiar sound—his voice.

Sure enough, it came. But this time, when you turned, you saw he’d already walked a few steps toward you, your bag in hand. “A few more times,” he said, holding it out, “and this might just become someone else’s bag.”

The corners of your mouth tugged upward in a laugh that felt lighter than you meant it to. “Thanks again, sorry about that,” you replied, reaching for the strap.

His fingers brushed yours as he passed it over, the contact brief but enough to make your pulse skip. He nodded, his gaze steady, lingering just long enough to make you feel like the hallway had gone a little quieter. “Good questions today, by the way. It’s always a pleasure to hear from you.”

Your heart thudded hard against your ribs as you smiled back, trying to ignore the warmth blooming in your cheeks. Holy shit—this was the longest conversation you’d had with him so far. You told yourself to keep it cool, to keep your voice even. “Of course,” you said, adjusting the bag on your shoulder, “history has always been my favorite subject.”

He gave the smallest smirk, just enough to make you second-guess whether you’d imagined it. “Glad to hear it,” he said, before turning back toward the classroom. And as you walked away, your mind replayed every word, every glance, clinging to the moment. He smelled....really nice.

The test came soon after, and naturally, this was no multiple choice hand-holding. Written answers only—the kind of exam that demanded you know the material well enough to explain it in your own words. Everyone else seemed deeply immersed in their own work…everyone except you.

Your eyes kept flicking upward, drawn against your will to Sylus, seated at his desk with a thick, worn book open in front of him. The light caught on the edges of his glasses as he read, his expression calm, almost unreadable. Every so often, his long, veiny hand flexed as he turned a page, the tendons shifting under his skin in a way that made your chest tighten. It was such a mundane movement, yet somehow it had your attention locked. You had no business noticing something like that during a test—but your brain didn’t care. Fuck, you gotta focus.

You dragged your gaze back to the paper in front of you, forcing your mind to zero in on the questions. They were challenging but fair, each one built to test not just memory but actual understanding. You found the answers coming to you without hesitation, your pen moving swiftly across the page. By the time you reached the final prompt, your hand ached faintly from writing, but you powered through, finishing with a flourish before setting your pen down. The relief was immediate, a quiet exhale as the weight of the exam lifted.

The minutes ticked down, and soon the end of the class arrived. Sylus gave a brief nod of dismissal, and the room stirred back to life. Chairs scraped loudly against the floor, backpacks were unzipped and zipped again, and the low hum of post-test chatter filled the space. One by one, students filed out through the door, drifting toward the rest of their day.

But not everyone left.

A small knot of girls lingered behind, their movements slower, their voices low but tinged with laughter. Some pretended to fuss with their notebooks, others hovered near his desk under the pretense of asking questions.

Fuck. You should’ve known you wouldn’t be the only one feigning for his attention.

But it gave you an idea. If they could linger, so could you—except you’d do it better. You could feign ignorance after class, asking questions about assignments you’d already mastered, making it look like you were just a diligent student seeking clarity. So you upped your antics. Not only did you sometimes “forget” your bag, but you also began lingering both before and after class, crafting questions that would buy you precious extra minutes with him. You watched the subtle irritation grow on the faces of the other girls who tried the same, and every small victory made you bolder.

Today, you timed your approach perfectly. The last few students were zipping up backpacks, some shuffling toward the door, when you stepped forward. “Sylus, about the essay on the Siege of Caelthorn,” you began, tilting your head with feigned thoughtfulness, “would it be better to focus on one civilian’s perspective in depth, or weave in multiple viewpoints for contrast?”

He glanced at you, cocking his head to the side. A faint crease formed between his brows, as if he were genuinely puzzled why you—one of his strongest students—were asking something so basic. “I think ones best work comes from making their own decisions,” he said slowly, his tone both curious and mildly amused. He looked like he might say more, but before he could, a shadow fell across the desk.

“Sylus, can you help me? I don’t know—” another girl interrupted, stepping forward with a notebook in hand.

He didn’t even hesitate. Offering her a gentle smile, he raised a hand in a small, dismissive gesture. “In a bit. I’m with another student right now.”

You fought to keep your face neutral, but the corners of your mouth tugged upward despite your best efforts. The warm flicker of triumph settled in your chest, and inside, you were practically glowing with glee. The girl’s forced smile faltered into a glare sharp enough to cut glass, but you didn’t mind—in fact, it only made the moment sweeter.

And when the test came back, of course you’d aced it. Not just a high grade—you’d nailed every single question with enough precision and detail to make your handwriting look smug. In fact, your answers had impressed him so much that he’d even left a little handwritten note at the bottom of the last page. It was simple, but it made you smile.

“Remind me not to underestimate you in debates.”

After weeks of your carefully planned antics, you and Sylus had settled into a rhythm of longer, more frequent conversations, each one leaving you with a little more to think about than the last. Today was no different—class ended, the shuffle of papers and zippers filled the air, and you quickly grabbed your bag before making your way to his desk, determined to reach him before anyone else could.

He glanced up as you approached, that faintly amused smile tugging at his lips again, the kind that made it seem like he already knew exactly why you were there. “Didn’t forget your bag today? I’m almost disappointed,” he said dryly. “It’s become a habit of mine to look for it.” His tone was light, but there was an undertone of familiarity there, like this was now a private joke between you.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help returning the smile. “I wanted to ask, Professor—what made you want to get your degree in such a subject? You always captivate me with how you speak during your lessons. It’s like you’re telling a story you’ve lived through.”

For a moment, he seemed taken aback by the direct compliment. His brow lifted slightly, his eyes narrowing as if weighing how much he wanted to give away. “I’ve always been a man who enjoys reading documents, old accounts, and learning about humanity’s failures and triumphs,” he replied after a beat, his voice low. “There’s a kind of…honesty in the past, even in its ugliness.”

He paused, and you caught it—the subtle shift in his gaze as he seemed to wander over your body. It wandered, just briefly, over you in a way that sent heat crawling up your neck, making your pulse quicken despite your best effort to stay composed. When his red eyes met yours again, there was a flicker of something unreadable, and his tone softened, edged with something far less academic.

“Though,” he added, his lips curling into a faint smirk, “I wouldn’t say I’m the only person who’s captivating when they open their mouth.”

The air between you seemed to tighten, your thoughts scattering as you scrambled for a response that wouldn’t give too much away. Was he...flirting?!

"O-oh?" you say, eyes widening.

He leans back slightly, the smirk lingering. “Mhm,” he says smoothly, “Like Alcibiades. He was truly a captivating figure in his lifetime—brilliant, charming, and entirely too good at convincing people to join in a revolution.” He lets the name hang in the air, eyes locked on yours, his tone perfectly casual as if it were just an academic reference. But you know better.

In your head, you can’t help thinking, what a save…acting like you’re keeping it professional, Sylus.

You could toe the line too. In fact, you could do it better. When he passed out papers after a test, you’d make a point to “accidentally” let your fingers brush against his when grabbing yours, just long enough for the warmth of his skin to register against yours. He’d pause briefly—just a fraction of a second too long—before moving on, and to you, that pause was further proof he wasn’t entirely unaffected. Sometimes you’d let your gaze linger on him as you returned to your seat, just to see if he noticed.

When talking to him after class, especially on days you wore skirts or tight leggings, you began taking it a step further—waiting until everyone else had left, then casually perching yourself directly on the edge of his desk, close enough that your knees were almost brushing his. From there, you’d tilt your head, ask a question, maybe fiddle idly with your pen while he answered, knowing the image you presented.

It was a risky move, one you’d half expected him to shut down immediately. You’d prepared yourself for a polite correction or a subtle shift in tone. But instead, he’d simply smiled, leaning back slightly in his chair, his gaze steady as he answered your questions with the same professional ease you’d come to expect from him—his voice calm, his expression composed, even if you swore you caught the faintest flicker of interest in his eyes, a quiet acknowledgement of the unspoken game you were both playing.

Today was no different. He’d assigned a worksheet after class, and the tension between you two had been coiling tighter with each passing day. You’d decided you were going to cross the line a bit today—Tara’s advice echoing in your head like a dare. The classroom was quiet, the hum of his laptop keys the only sound. He sat at his desk, focused, typing steadily, and thankfully, no students lingered to interrupt. Everyone else had packed up and left.

You took your chance.

Striding forward, you stopped in front of his desk before promptly hopping onto the edge, letting the motion speak for itself. You flashed the paper toward him with a teasing smile. “Since when do you assign worksheets with multiple choice? Is my professor getting lazy?” you joked, letting your tone dance between playful and challenging.

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. With an easy motion, he pushed his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose, his gaze never leaving yours. “Just something easy to end the week while I catch up on grading,” he said, his tone deceptively casual but carrying a subtle thread of amusement.

You caught the faint shift of his lips, the corners tugging upward like he was enjoying this more than he’d admit. His red eyes glinted under the light, catching just enough to make your stomach twist in that maddening way. Then, with the faintest, almost taunting smirk, he added, “Why? Too easy for you? A shame.”

The tease lingered in the air, the words wrapping around you with a challenge that made your pulse pick up.

"No, in fact, it’s far harder than I expected," you say, deliberately putting just a touch too much emphasis on the word harder, letting it hang in the space between you. Your lips curl into a faint smile as you glance down at the paper in your hand, flipping it over like you’re searching for something.

“For example—this one,” you say, pointing at a question halfway down the page. “Which charter established the Great Council of Aramoor? I know we went over it, but…I’m not entirely sure I remember.” You tilt your head in mock uncertainty, even though you could recite the answer in your sleep, watching closely to see how he’ll react.

He hums in acknowledgment, shifting in his chair as he leans a little closer, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re a smart girl. Top of my class. Why don’t you tell me?” he says, his tone dripping with amusement, each word laced with just enough weight to make your pulse skip.

Shit. You weren’t expecting him to call your bluff so soon. Your chest tightens, your heartbeat loud in your ears, and for a moment, you swear you can’t breathe. Don’t stutter, you warn yourself. You pull in a slow, steady breath, forcing your shoulders to relax, willing your voice not to crack. Even sitting, he’s tall enough that you still have to tilt your head to meet his gaze, and that alone makes your stomach twist in a way you don’t want to examine.

You let the silence stretch a little longer than necessary, just to see if he’ll flinch, before finally speaking. “If I get it right…do I get a prize, professor?” Your words are slow, laced with a subtle playfulness that you know could be taken the wrong way—or exactly the right way.

This time, he actually seems taken aback. His brows lift just slightly, surprise flickering in his eyes, before another chuckle escapes him—softer this time, but edged with something unreadable. He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly, like he’s deciding how much rope to give you. “A prize?” he repeats, drawing out the word as if tasting it. “I wasn’t aware I was teaching kindergarten,” he replies at last, the corner of his mouth curving upward in quiet challenge, as if daring you to try again.

"Alright, I’ll humor you. What exactly would you want for this...prize?" he asks, leaning forward slightly in his chair but keeping his gaze locked on you.

You lean in just a fraction, your voice slipping into something coy. Now or never. “A kiss seems fitting. It is a very hard question, after all.”

He pretends to be appalled, pressing a hand dramatically over his chest, though the chuckle that follows gives him away. His eyes glint with mischief as they flicker from yours, lingering there for a heartbeat, then—just for a second—drifting down to your lips. It’s quick, but enough to make your pulse skip.

“That’s highly inappropriate, young lady,” he murmurs, though the warning is undermined by the amusement tugging at his mouth.

You close the gap ever so slightly, your cheeks warm but your gaze unwavering. “Maybe,” you say softly, a small smirk pulling at your lips. “But that’s not a no, sir.”

The sudden shift in his breathing let you know that he definitely enjoyed the nickname you just sprung on him.

He doesn’t answer immediately, his expression shifting just slightly as though the gears are turning in his head, weighing his next words. The pause stretches long enough to make your breath catch, your heart beating faster in the silence, before he finally speaks—his tone tinged with something almost teasing.

“You're not wrong, I didn't say no. Go on then. Tell me the answer, sweetie. It shouldn’t be too hard for a smart girl like you.”

The nickname lands like a jolt of electricity, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine that you can’t hide. Your fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the paper in your hand, and you swear the air between you feels heavier now, warmer. Oh…boundaries are definitely slipping now, and by the way he’s still watching you, it’s clear he knows it too.

You answer quickly—maybe too quickly—blurting out, “The Great Council of Aramoor, established under the Charter of Unity, ratified in the winter of 642, after the War of the Seven Provinces ended,” your words tumbling out in a rush. You even add, “It was signed in the capital’s Great Hall, under the banner of the Phoenix Crest,” without thinking, the details pouring from you so effortlessly that it almost betrays how much you’ve studied. Your eagerness is impossible to hide now, and the moment the words leave your mouth, you wonder if you’ve given yourself away. But there’s no pulling them back.

He nods slowly, his eyes locking onto yours with a piercing intensity that makes you feel like he can see every stray thought flitting through your mind. The moment stretches taut, the air between you heavy, before he finally glances down briefly—almost as if deciding something—then looks back up, a faint, knowing smile curving his lips.

“Exceptional answer. Well, I'm man of my word,” he says simply, before patting his lap.

Your heart lurches into your throat. His lap? Your mind reels instantly with the implications. If someone walked in right now, there’d be no excuse, no cover story—nothing to hide what the two of you were doing. Heat creeps up the back of your neck, but your body moves before your mind can stop it. You slide down from his desk, the motion slow, almost testing him, before you hesitate for a heartbeat and then settle onto him. The shock of how solid he feels beneath you makes your breath catch, his frame fitting against yours in a way that unravels your thoughts. Your pulse hammers so loudly you wonder if he can hear it.

That’s when it hits you—you’re nervous to kiss him. Not because you don’t want to, but because the possibility of being bad at it gnaws at the edges of your confidence. You’ve never wanted someone’s approval like this. The thought loops endlessly, a dizzying hum in your head, until his voice slices through it.

“Whenever you’re ready, sweetie” he murmurs, the words slow, deliberate, as if he can see the hesitation in your eyes and knows exactly why it’s there.

You nod once, pulling in a deep breath to steady the chaos inside you. Then, in a surge of determination, you reach up and slip his glasses from his face. The motion is simple but intimate, your fingertips brushing his temple for the briefest second. His eyes flicker with surprise, the smallest crack in his otherwise unshakable composure. Just do it, you tell yourself, your pulse pounding so hard it echoes in your ears.

So you do. You lean in, closing the last inches between you, and capture his lips with yours. They’re warm—softer than you expected—and up close, he smells absolutely divine, a faint mix of clean soap and something darker, like cedarwood. Your plan had been to make this quick, just a small, testing peck. You didn’t want to take a mile when you’d only been given an inch. But the moment you try to pull back, his hands find your waist, firm and deliberate, holding you in place.

Your breath hitches at the contact, and before you can react, he deepens the kiss. It’s smooth, confident, and far more intoxicating than you’d prepared for, making your head spin. The world outside the two of you disappears, the only sounds the faint hitch in your breathing and the low, subtle hum from him. It’s not long before you’re both slightly panting against each other, foreheads brushing, the air between you thick with lust.

You begin to grind your lower half against his, slow at first, testing the waters. His reaction is immediate—his grip on your hips tightens, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath catch. Encouraged, you slide your hands down his chest and start to trail them under his shirt, fingertips grazing warm skin. But just as the heat between you threatens to tip into something reckless, he pulls back.

His face is slightly flushed, his breathing uneven, but his eyes are steady. “As delightful as this has been,” he says, his tone quieter now but no less firm, “we can’t go any further. A sweet girl such as yourself has no business with a man like me.”

Frustrated, you look him square in the eye, your voice low but firm. “I can handle you. Don’t patronize me,” you say, refusing to back down. His lips curl into a slow, knowing smirk, and there’s something in his eyes that makes your pulse jump despite your defiance.

“You don’t have any idea what you’re asking for, sweetie,” he replies, the endearment rolling off his tongue like both a warning and a temptation. "Shouldn't you head to your next class? An upstanding student such as yourself shouldn't be late."

You pout, your lips pressing into a thin line, but eventually sigh and slide off his lap, your feet touching the floor with a quiet thud. You’d come so far, and for what? Clearly, he’d just been toying with you for weeks—dangling the possibility, only to pull away at the last second. Whatever. You grab your bag with more force than necessary and march toward the door.

But as you reach it, you freeze. Something in you twists, and you turn back to face him, your voice cool but laced with a bite. “This has given me the revelation that I should change classes. We’ve crossed the line after all, professor. It’s been…nice.” You give him one last glance before turning back to leave, determined not to look over your shoulder again.

Suddenly, the air shifts. In a blur of red and black mist, you suddenly feel him behind you—so close that the hair on the back of your neck stands on end. You jolt in surprise, your pulse spiking.

He…has an Evol??

You pant as he rests his hand firmly on the door above your shoulder, blocking your way out. The solid thud of his palm against the wood sends a vibration through the frame, making your chest tighten and your pulse quicken. His presence is overwhelming—close enough that you can feel the subtle heat radiating from him, the faint scent of paper clinging to his clothes. He leans in closer, so close you swear you can hear the faintest hitch in his breathing, his warm breath brushing against the shell of your ear and sending an involuntary shiver down your spine.

“You can recount several treaties by memory but can’t tell when a man is teasing you? How cute,” he murmurs, his voice low and rich, curling around you like smoke and sinking under your skin. His hand slides slowly down the door, the movement unhurried, almost taunting, until his fingers find the lock. The faint scrape of metal turning is deafening in the quiet room, and with a soft, final click, he twists it in place, sealing the two of you inside with no chance of interruption.

“Look at me, sweetie” he says, the command soft yet carrying a weight that leaves no room for disobedience. His tone isn’t loud, but it thrums through you, making it impossible not to obey, even as your breath comes faster.

You turn and look up at him, your knees feeling weak under the oppressive weight of the tension hanging in the air. Every inch of the room feels charged, the atmosphere so thick it’s almost dizzying. Your pulse pounds so loudly in your ears that you nearly miss the words that follow, his voice low but cutting through everything else.

“I’m going to make you cum three times,” he says, each syllable slow and certain, as if he’s stating an unshakable fact. He holds up three fingers in front of you, commanding your full attention. “Once with my fingers. Another with my mouth. And then…”

Your breath catches, your chest rising and falling faster as your eyes, without your permission, drift lower. They trace the lines of his torso until they land on the hardened outline of his cock in his pants. The sight makes your skin feel hot, your imagination filling in the rest before he even finishes speaking, painting vivid possibilities you can’t push away. You swallow hard, unable to stop the way your heart stutters at the unspoken promise hanging between you.

"You’ll have to be quiet if you don’t want to get caught. We would certainly be the talk of the campus," he chuckled, the sound dark and warm. His eyes gleamed with mischief as he tilted his head slightly. “So, I have your consent then?”

Yes. God, yes. Every part of you wanted to blurt it out, but your throat felt tight, your voice trapped behind the pounding in your chest. Instead, you simply nod, breath quick and uneven.

“I need to hear a yes, kitten” he murmured, his tone dropping lower, each word deliberate and coaxing. “Use your big girl words.”

“Yes. I consent, Sylus…” you sigh, the words spilling out with a mix of anticipation and heat as you lean up, wrapping your arms around his neck. He doesn’t waste a second—his hands slide to your waist, pulling you flush against him as his mouth captures yours in a deep, claiming kiss. The intensity makes your head spin, and before you can even register the shift, he teleports you both in a swirl of dark mist to his desk.

You’re both panting, breaths mingling in the charged air as he lowers you back onto the polished surface. The wood is cool against your skin, contrasting sharply with the heat radiating from him. Your shirt rides up just enough to expose the soft curve of your stomach, the edge of the fabric brushing lightly against your ribs. His gaze drops to the newly exposed skin, making your pulse race even faster.

He leans down, his lips brushing softly against the sensitive skin of your stomach, making you jolt and stifle a giggle. The sensation is electric, sending shivers down your spine. But your laughter quickly turns to a sharp intake of breath as his hands move to your skirt, slowly sliding it down your thighs. The cool air hits your skin as your skirt pools around your ankles, eventually dropping to the floor, leaving you exposed in your lace underwear.

"Cute choice," he murmurs, his voice low and husky. "These are my particular favorite." His words send a rush of heat through you, a mix of embarrassment and desire. You realize with a jolt that he must have seen your underwear before, perhaps at a time when you bent over, and the thought sends a thrill through you.

Without hesitation, he slides your underwear to the side, revealing your already wet cunt. You squeal in embarrassment, the sound mingling with a moan as his fingers find your aching clit. The touch is electric, sending waves of pleasure through your body. You arch your back, pressing into his touch, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

"Mgnh! Ah...!"

His fingers move with expert precision, circling and teasing, drawing out moans and gasps from deep within you. The room seems to fade away, leaving only the sensation of his touch and the sound of your own ragged breathing. Each stroke building intensity with every touch. You're lost in the moment, your body responding to his every move, completely at his mercy.

"S-sylus!" you shriek, the sound a mix of surprise and pleasure as his long, dextrous fingers suddenly slide inside you. The sensation is intense, filling you completely, and you feel yourself stretching to accommodate him. Your body clenches around his fingers, a primal response to the sudden intrusion.

He leans down, his breath hot against your ear as he whispers soft shushes, trying to calm you. "Be a good girl and stay quiet kitten," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends vibrations through your body. You moan again, softer this time, as he extends his knuckle, touching that spongy, sensitive spot inside you. The sensation is overwhelming, and your body jerks. "You feel quite tight. A few orgasms should definitely fix that."

You feel like you can't breathe, your lungs constricting as your body tenses, teetering on the edge of release. Each movement of his fingers sends you spiraling closer, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable intensity. Your grip tightens on him, your nails digging into his skin as you try to anchor yourself to something solid in the storm of sensation.

"Oh, going to cum already? Adorable."

His fingers continue their relentless assault, curling and stroking, drawing out moans and gasps from deep within you. You're so close, your body trembling with the effort of holding back. Each touch, each whisper, each breath pushes you further, until you're balanced on the knife's edge, ready to fall into the abyss of pleasure.

"Ahh...mghn....ahh!"

You feel the coil snap tighter and tighter, the tension in your body building to an almost unbearable point. And then, suddenly, it shatters. You release with a force that leaves you trembling, your body twisting and grinding against his fingers. You stifle your sounds with one of your hands, biting down on your knuckles to keep from crying out, your body shaking with the intensity of your release.

By the time the waves subside, you feel like a boneless, limp mass of jelly, your limbs heavy and unresponsive. You're panting, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps, and you're already slick with sweat, your skin glistening in the dim light. Your eyes, heavy-lidded and glazed with lust, roam to Sylus, whose cock is harder than it was previously, strains against his pants. He watches you come undone, his gaze intense and hungry.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. "Just as I imagined. Now I wonder if you taste as good too?"

"W-wait...I need a brea-ah..."

Before you can catch your breath, he lowers his face between your soaking wet folds, his tongue lapping up your essence with eager, hungry strokes. You throw your head back, a cry of surprise and pleasure escaping your lips as his hot tongue finds your sensitive, swollen clit.

He laps at you like a starving dog, his tongue exploring every inch of your cunt. Each stroke sends jolts of ecstasy through you, reigniting the fire in your body. You're already on the edge of another release, your body responding to his touch with a fervor that leaves you breathless. You're lost in the sensation, your body and mind completely consumed by the pleasure he's drawing from you.

You've never felt such intense sensations before, not even with your previous boyfriends. Each touch, each lick, sends you spiraling into a realm of pleasure you never knew existed. He leaves you no time to think, his mouth and tongue working in a relentless rhythm that leaves you gasping and moaning.

He sucks on your clit, the sensation so intense that it rips another desperate moan from your throat. You cling to his mullet, your fingers tangling in the strands as you try to anchor yourself to something solid in the storm of sensation. Not that he seems to mind; if anything, it spurs him on, his tongue pushing into your walls with a fervor that leaves you breathless.

The feeling of his tongue is overwhelming, drawing out yet another embarrassingly quick orgasm. You feel your body tense and then shatter, unable to stop yourself from pushing against his face as you finish again. When he's sure you're done cumming against his tongue, he licks his lips and shifts, towering over you.

Your body is shaking, completely unable to move a muscle, as you pant and gasp for breath. "I-felt so…oh my god," you manage to stammer, your eyes fluttering closed as you try to process the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body. You're not sure you can survive another orgasm, your body already pushed to its limits.

You hear a low chuckle, followed by the distinct sound of a belt coming undone. "I did warn you" he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. "Don't pass out on me now." Your eyes shoot open as he lifts your shirt, exposing your breasts to the cool air. The sudden change in temperature makes your nipples harden, and you feel a fresh wave of goosebumps spread across your skin.

His pupils dilate, and he lets out an excited breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He shifts his pants and boxers off his body, his movements quick and efficient. His hardened cock springs free, and you almost drool at the size, your eyes widening as you take in the sight. It's pale, thick and long, the head glistening with pre-cum, and you can't help but imagine how it would feel inside you.

You're caught in a mix of anticipation and fear, your body already aching for more despite the overwhelming pleasure you've already experienced. You watch as he moves between your legs, his eyes locked on yours, a predatory gleam in his gaze.

He begins to rub his tip between your folds, a low groan escaping his lips as he feels how easily he slides against your slick, sensitive pussy. The sensation is intense, sending jolts of ecstasy through both of you. You whine impatiently, using the last of your strength to try and push him inside you when he slides back again, your body aching for more.

He raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. "Eager, I know. My fault for teasing you, sweetie," he murmurs, his voice husky with desire. "We should hurry before my next class. Tell me if it hurts." You nod breathlessly, your body tensing in anticipation as he begins to push himself slowly inside you.

You twitch and clench as he starts to disappear inside your wet walls, the sensation of being filled so completely sending a hint of discomfort through your body. He moves slowly, giving you time to adjust, his eyes locked on yours, watching your reactions closely.

The feeling is overwhelming, a blend of pleasure and pressure that leaves you nearly sobbing. You can feel every inch of him, stretching and filling you, and you're acutely aware that you might tear from the sheer size of him.

"F-feels so good…" you pant, your voice a breathless whisper as you attempt to tug him closer, your body aching to be close to him. He obliges, leaning in to capture your lips in a fierce, passionate kiss as he pushes himself all the way into you. You nearly scream against his mouth, but quickly forget the pain as you lose yourself in his searing kiss.

You can feel him poking the very edge of your cervix, making you whine and grind against him, willing him to move. He seems breathless himself, pulling away from the kiss slightly, his chest heaving with each ragged breath. "So wet and yet, still tight as ever," he murmurs, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down your spine.

He pulls out slightly before slowly pushing back in, the movement deliberate and controlled. You both moan in harmony, the sound a raw, uninhibited symphony of the pleasure you're both experiencing. You stare into each other's eyes, the connection between you intense and electric, as his cock reaches the end of your walls again.

This certainly feels more intimate than a hookup.

He begins to thrust a bit faster, spurred on by the way your cunt tightens and loosens around him, sucking him deeper with each movement. "Shit…" he growls, his hands displayed on either side of the desk as he plunges into you, his body tensing with each thrust. You're shocked that a man as composed as him is cussing, and it nearly distracts you from the fact that your professor is quite literally balls deep inside you right now.

Your moans fill the air, mingling with the sound of flesh meeting flesh, as he picks up the pace, his movements becoming more urgent and desperate. The wetness between your legs begins to coat the desk, the sounds of it rocking back and forth filling the room.

You moan into each other's mouths, your lips locked in a fierce, passionate kiss as he drives into you. You can feel the tension building, the pressure in your body coiling tighter again with each movement.

The room seems to spin around you, the only steady point being the sensation of him inside you, the sound of your moans, and the taste of his lips.

You're both acutely aware of the dwindling time, the reality of his next class looming over you like a dark cloud. While it would be nice to do this forever, you start to feel nervous and glance at the clock, your eyes widening at the realization of how little time you have left.

"S-sylus…your next class will be here soon….mghm.." you moan, pulling away from his kiss, your voice a breathless whisper. He nods, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps, as he tugs you back closer to him. "I'm aware. Hah-as...ah- shameful as it is to admit, I'm already close. You feel fucking amazing," he pants, his voice a low growl.

You whine as his thrusts begin to get more desperate, your body clinging to his and feeling like you're on the brink of dissolving into a puddle of jello. You can feel yourself on the edge of another orgasm, already on the brink of snapping.

“Gonna cum-ah-Sylus…please...”

Suddenly, the sharp sound of the door being tugged and a knock interrupts your impending orgasm. You gasp, your eyes widening in fear as you realize that students are forming on the other side of the door. You look at Sylus, your expression a mixture of panic and desperation, but he simply smirks, a predatory gleam in his eyes.

He puts a finger to his lips, a silent command for you to be quiet, before covering your mouth with his hand, muffling your moans. The sound of his next thrust is louder, the wetness between your legs making a lewd, obscene sound as he pushes into you, the desk rocking back and forth with the force of his movements.

You moan at the intense, increased pace, the sounds muffled by his hand covering your mouth. "Mghm! Mghn! Mhhn!" you whimper, feeling yourself drool beneath the skin of his hand, your belly feeling tighter and tighter with each passing second. Another knock, another sound of a student mumbling on the other side of the door, the reality of your situation only heightening the intensity of the moment.

Sylus is clearly at his end now, his legs shaking with the effort of thrusting as hard as he can, his body tensing. He looks down at you, giving you an apologetic smile, his eyes filled with contemplation. Your eyes widen in realization, the question clear in your gaze: He's not really going to cum inside you, is he?!

Sure enough, he pushes far as he can go, releasing hot ropes of cum inside your walls with a low, guttural groan. You feel it leaking out of you instantly, your body shivering beneath him as your forced to take every single ounce he gives you. The sound of his release is quiet, the wetness between your legs coating the desk, the evidence of sex on full display.

You both pant, faces flushed, the weight of what just happened settling heavily between you. Your thoughts spin, but his voice cuts through, calm and practical. “Apologies. Easier to hide the evidence if it’s inside you,” he says, his gaze dipping lower to watch as said "evidence" slides down your leg. "Well, most of it anyways." Heat floods your face at his words, and you instinctively glance down too, eyeing his cum with a sheepish smile.

“Here, we need to hurry.” He reaches into his desk drawer, pulling out a neatly folded handkerchief. Without hesitation, he begins helping you clean up—quick but gentle, his touch careful, almost reverent despite the urgency. You tremble slightly as he helps you fix your underwear and smooths your skirt back into place.

Looking around the room, your pulse spikes again. “Sylus… they’re gonna be suspicious if they see me leave…”

He meets your eyes briefly, then nods toward the far door on the opposite end of the room. “That leads outside. Go quickly,” he instructs, his voice firm but low, like he’s already thinking two steps ahead.

O-okay…” you breathe, your voice shaky as you turn to leave, grabbing your bag with quick, nervous movements. But before you can take a full step toward the far door, his hand wraps firmly around your wrist, halting you in place. In one swift motion, he spins you back toward him, and you barely have time to gasp out, “Syl—mghn…” before your words are swallowed by a searing kiss.

His lips are warm and commanding against yours, stealing the air from your lungs as heat floods your face. Your fingers tighten instinctively around the strap of your bag, your knees nearly buckling from the intensity. Just as quickly, he pulls away, but not without leaving a small, knowing smile on his face—one that sends your thoughts scattering.

Then, with a tenderness that makes your chest ache, he leans down and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. His hand lingers briefly at your waist before he steps back, giving you a subtle motion toward the door. The silent order is clear: hurry.

You waste no time, rushing out of the door, the cool air outside hitting you as his cum continues to soak your underwear with every hurried step. Your heartbeat is still wild, each thud a reminder of the heat and chaos you’ve just left behind. Despite the soreness between your thighs and the damp cling of your clothes, a small, wicked smile curves your lips. You’re wet, sore, and absolutely thrilled by what you’ve just accomplished.

Tara is going to lose her mind when she hears about this…

Monday's class drones on, your pen scratching steadily across the page as you scribble notes into your notebook. Sylus’s voice fills the room, smooth and measured, as he delves into another lecture—this time on the rise of a long-forgotten civilization. You force yourself to focus, but the words blur a little, your mind drifting back to the last time you were alone with him.

You had spent all weekend thinking about it in fact. Dreaming of it even. You couldn't get it out of your head. Still, he had greeted you normally and started class like nothing had changed. That was it then? Well, at least you got it out of your system.

A soft buzz from your phone jolts you from your thoughts. Glancing down, you slide your hand under the desk and sneak a peek at the screen. The corner of your mouth tugs upward when you see Tara’s name and the message beneath it: Tell me if you hook up again!! I need DETAILS this time!! :D

You stifle a laugh, quickly locking the screen and slipping the phone back away before Sylus notices. Still, the smile lingers as you keep writing, your mind already forming the reply you’ll send her later.

The sound of Sylus's voice snaps you back to attention.

“I’m sure some of you are anxious to see your scores on the previous essay I assigned,” Sylus says, his tone calm but carrying that subtle edge of authority that makes the room fall silent. He lifts a neat stack of papers in his hands. “You’ll soon find out.”

A collective groan ripples through the class, a few students slumping in their seats. You can’t help but giggle nervously, tapping your pen against your notebook. Your eyes follow him as he starts down the first row, passing the essays out one by one. Some students light up with barely contained pride, others groan in dismay at their grades.

Your stomach tightens as he gets closer, your breath caught halfway in your chest. Then, suddenly, he’s there—pausing at your desk. You glance up, and for the briefest moment, your eyes meet his. The air between you feels heavier, charged, though he masks it with ease. He slides your essay onto your desk, the corner brushing your fingertips.

You give him a confident smile, as if you already know you did well. He returns it with the faintest curve of his lips before moving on to the next row, leaving you to stare down at the paper in anticipation.

Of course, a perfect score. As usual. You can’t help the small swell of pride in your chest as you scan the neat red ink at the top of the page. But then—what’s this? Your eyes land on a small arrow and a short, handwritten note in the corner: Flip to the back.

Your curiosity piqued, you turn the paper over. The moment your eyes fall on the words he’s written, your grin begins to grow, stretching wider with every sentence. Wasn’t very gentlemanly of me to shove you out the door…perhaps I can make it up to you over dinner? Your choice, my treat of course.

Another note catches your eye, scrawled in the margin near a passage you’d underlined. Call me, sometime? I’d be more than interested to hear that cute voice outside of class. Beneath it, in neat digits, is his number.

Your fingers tighten slightly on the edges of the paper, the quiet hum of the classroom fading into the background. You glance up, catching the faintest flicker of his gaze in your direction, and your heart gives a sharp, giddy kick.

He wants it to be more than a fling? The thought is unexpected—strangely so—but you can’t help the way your lips curve into a slow, pleased smile. The idea of keeping this going sends a ripple of excitement through you. Of course you’ll be texting and calling him later; that’s not even a question.

But your smile falters as your eyes catch on yet another note, this one written beside the final passage you’d worked so hard on. By the way, the Treaty of Westmarch wasn’t signed in the spring—it was in late winter. His neat handwriting continues: Should technically knock you down some points, but I’ll pretend I didn’t see it. See me after class for a refresher, sweetie.

You roll your eyes at the gentle jab, biting back a grin as you lift your gaze to find him. Sure enough, he’s already looking at you, a slow, knowing smirk playing on his lips.