𝒜𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓁 ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈

It's titled "Electrophysiology of Desire".

You'd thought it was clever, a play on words that would show your understanding of cardiac rhythms and sex. Something to post on your blog for fun.

The ML is named Zander—a cardiac surgeon with green eyes and cold hands who knows exactly how to make a patient's heartbeat quicken. The story describes, in excruciating detail, how he examines his patient, his fingers trailing across her skin, his breath cold against her neck as he teaches her about accelerated heart rates and the body's natural responses to stimulation.

You'd written it late one night, frustrated with your lack of sex and projecting your fantasies onto the one person you shouldn't have—a man who could actually diagnose the "tachycardia" you were having right now.

The email you sent an hour ago still haunts you:

"Professor Zayne, attached is my essay on Electrophysiology. Please review and provide feedback."

Then, twenty minutes ago, you sent the correction:

"Please disregard my previous email. The attached file is the correct essay on Electrophysiology. I apologize for the confusion."

Now you wait. The hours crawl by like molasses. You imagine him opening it, his expression shifting from professional curiosity to shock. Maybe disgust. Maybe he's already contacted the Dean. Maybe he's laughing. Maybe he's forwarding it to the entire faculty.

That last thought has you panicking. Sweaty palms. Fast breathing. That sick feeling in your stomach like you're on a rollercoaster that won't stop.

"What the hell was I thinking?"

Your phone buzzes and you nearly jump out of your skin.

It's an email notification from Zayne.

You click it open with trembling fingers.

The email subject reads: "Re: Electrophysiology Essay"

Your stomach drops.

The body is short. Professional. Cold.

Y/N,

I have reviewed your submission. It is... certainly creative. However, it does not meet the academic standards required for this course. You will need to submit a proper essay on the physiological mechanisms of cardiac conduction systems by the end of the week.

I suggest you take some time to reconsider the appropriateness of your work. This class is not a venue for personal fiction, no matter how... imaginative... the subject matter may be.

Professor Zayne

The email ends. There's no attachment. No further comments. Just those few sentences that somehow manage to convey everything without saying a word about how your protagonist's name sounds like his, or how you'd described fingers trailing across skin in excruciating detail.

You sit there, staring at the screen. Your face burns with shame so intense you can barely breathe. He didn't report you. He didn't call you into his office. He just... sent you this.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

"You're such an idiot."

The story is still saved on your laptop. You could delete it. Burn it. Pretend this never happened. But your finger hovers over the delete button and you can't quite bring yourself to do it.

Instead, you press your face into your hands, wondering how you're going to walk into his classroom on Monday.

...walk into his classroom on Monday.

The thought makes you want to laugh—or cry. Probably both.

Outside, you can hear other students laughing, living their normal lives, completely unaware that you've just sent your professor an erotic story disguised as an academic essay.

Your phone buzzes again. Another email notification.

This time it's from Zayne's personal email address, not the university one. Your heart stops.

You open the email, hands shaking so badly you almost drop your phone.

The subject line is simple : "Reviewing 2nd Essay Now"

The body is brief:

I've just seen your correction. I'll review the proper essay when I have time.

However, I did want to address the first submission you sent. I've attached it with some notes. While your writing shows... creativity... there are some anatomical and physiological inaccuracies I think you should be aware of.

Professor Zayne

Below the text, there's an attachment. Your story.

Except now it's covered in comments. Zayne's comments.

You click to open it, and your stomach drops even further.

The notes are clinical. Detached. But they make you burn with shame anyway.

[Note 1: The description of ventricular fibrillation is technically accurate, though the context is inappropriate for an academic essay.]

[Note 2: Your understanding of sympathetic nervous system activation is correct. The physiological response you've described does occur during arousal.]

[Note 3: The term 'tachycardia' is used correctly. However, the scenario in which it occurs is not clinically appropriate for this assignment.]

[Note 4: Your description of afterdeath cardiac changes is remarkably detailed. You appear to have done significant research. Though again, the application is... unconventional.]

[Note 5: The protagonist's skill set—knowledge of anatomy, understanding of physiological responses, ability to calm distressed patients—is actually quite accurate for a cardiac surgeon. Though his bedside manner in your story is not clinically recommended.]

[Note 6: The psychological aspect of parasympathetic activation post-climax is well-researched. Your understanding of heart rate variability is impressive.]

[Note 7: The ice-breath technique described is not a recognized medical procedure. While you've attempted to connect it to Evol abilities, this is fictional and should not be presented as medical advice.]

[Note 8: Your understanding of endorphin release and oxytocin's role in mood elevation is great. However, the romanticized presentation is not appropriate for academic work.]

Overall assessment: Creativity: High.

Academic appropriateness: Questionable.

Research depth: Impressive.

Recommended for: Personal enjoyment only.

Not recommended for: Submitting to this course.

Professor Zayne

The notes end there.

You sit frozen, staring at the screen. Your face feels like it's on fire now. Every single paragraph of your story—every intimate detail, every fantasy you'd written late at night when you thought no one you know would ever see it—has been read and analyzed by him. By Professor Zayne. The man who actually knows about tachycardia and sympathetic nervous systems and heart rate variability.

You scroll through the notes again, each one making you feel more exposed than the last. He didn't just read your story. He corrected it. Pointed out what you got right and wrong, the same way he would grade an actual essay. Except this wasn't an essay. This was you. Your private thoughts. Your secret fantasies.

And he'd dissected them with the same clinical precision he'd use on a difficult case.

Your phone buzzes again. Another email from his personal address.

This one is shorter:

I understand you may not want to attend class on Monday. That's acceptable. I'll email you the lecture notes and any assignments. Focus on the new essay due at the end of next week.

No need to respond unless you have questions about the feedback.

Professor Zayne

He's giving you an out. Letting you skip Monday. Probably because he knows you'd be too mortified to show your face after this.

You should feel relieved.

Instead, you feel... something else. Something you can't quite name.

You look at the attached story again, covered in his clinical annotations. Every note is professional, detached—yet somehow that makes it worse. He didn't get embarrassed reading it. Didn't get angry. He just... analyzed it. Like a specimen under a microscope.

You press your face into your hands again, wondering how you're ever going to recover from this.

☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️

Monday Morning

You are 10 minutes late.

Just don't go in. Just turn around. Send him an email. Tell him you're dropping his class.

You know you won't. This is worth too much. You need this class. You have to go in.

Standing outside his classroom, with your bag clutched against your chest like a shield, you can see students already in their seats through the small window. The lecture hall is on the third floor of the medical building—impossible to avoid running into anyone you know on the way there.

You can do this. You're an adult. You made a mistake. He's a professional. He'll barely acknowledge it.

You take a deep breath and push the door open.

The classroom falls silent for exactly three seconds. You can feel every pair of eyes on you as you make your way to your usual seat in the middle row. Your hands shake slightly as you set your bag down, trying to make it look casual.

Professor Zayne stands at the front, writing something on the whiteboard. He's wearing his usual professional attire—a crisp white coat over dark slacks, silver framed glasses perched on his nose. He hasn't turned around yet.

"Good morning, Y/N," he says without looking, his voice carrying that familiar clinical tone. "Glad you could make it."

A few students snicker quietly and you feel your face burning already.

"As I was saying before the interruption," he continues, still facing the board, "the sinoatrial node generates electrical impulses at approximately 60 to 100 beats per minute in a resting adult. These impulses travel through the atrioventricular node and—"

He pauses. Turns.

Your eyes meet his across the classroom.

For a fraction of a second, his expression is unreadable. Then, just barely perceptible, his lips curve into the smallest hint of a smile. Not mocking. Not cruel.

"Though I suppose we should discuss what happens when heart rates increase significantly," he adds, his eyes holding yours. "Perhaps a volunteer could help?"

The room feels like it's tilting. You can't breathe. You can't move. Every student is staring at you now, and you're certain they all know. You're certain he's going to say something. Call you out. Make an example of you.

He just... keeps looking at you.

Your mouth is dry. Your hands are clenched so tight that your knuckles have gone white. He's still looking at you, and it feels like everyone is holding their breath.

Then, with the same professional demeanor, he says, "Y/N, would you mind coming to the front? I'd like your help for this next section."

Your name sounds like a death sentence.

You can't say no. You were already late for his class. If you refuse everyone will suspect something happened.

Your legs feel like they're made of lead as you stand. You can feel every pair of eyes boring into you as you walk to the front of the room. The fluorescent lights too bright. The air conditioning makes you shiver, or maybe that's just adrenaline.

"Thank you," Zayne says when you stop next to his desk. He gestures to the whiteboard where he's drawn a diagram of the heart's conduction system. "When the sympathetic nervous system is activated—through stress, excitement, or other stimuli—heart rate increases. This is a normal physiological response."

You know he is thinking about your story.

"Y/N, if you could stand here," he says, gesturing to a spot next to him, "and we can walk through the physical manifestations of this response. What do you think happens first when someone experiences increased heart rate?"

Your mind is completely blank. You can't think about physiology. You can't think about anything except how he's standing way too close, how you can smell that faint scent of antiseptic and something else—something clean and masculine—that you've noticed before but never really felt until now.

"I..." Your voice comes out barely above a whisper. "The heart beats faster?"

Stupid obvious answer

"Correct," he says, and there's something in his tone—not praise exactly, but acknowledgment. "And what about respiratory rate? Breathing?"

You open your mouth. Close it. Your heart rate spikes even higher. You can feel it in your throat, in the pounding of your temples. You stand there, acutely aware of every student watching you and you wonder if he can hear it. If he's noticed that you're breathing faster.

"Y/N?" Zayne's voice cuts through your spiraling thoughts. He's still standing close, close enough that you have to resist the urge to step back.

"Breathing gets faster too," you manage to say, voice steadier now despite the chaos in your chest. "The body needs more oxygen when the heart is beating harder."

"Exactly right." He turns to makes a note on the whiteboard, his handwriting precise and controlled. "And what about peripheral vasoconstriction?"

You blink, trying to focus on the anatomical diagram he's drawn. The SA node, the AV node, the bundle of His—you've studied this a hundred times. But having him stand this close, having his attention entirely on you, makes it all feel like a foreign language.

"The blood vessels tighten," you say, finding your footing. "To redirect blood flow to the muscles and vital organs."

"Excellent." He turns back to the board again, adding another notation. "Notice how the body prioritizes function during stress responses."

He pauses and you catch him glancing at you from the corner of his eye. For just a moment, his professional mask slips, and there's something else in his expression

"Is there anything you'd like to add?" he asks, turning to face you. "You seem like you understand this material quite well."

Heat floods your face again.

"I...No." you say quietly, meeting his eyes. They're fixed on you with that same clinical intensity he uses on all his students.

"Good," he says, nodding slightly. "I'm glad you're following along." He gestures to the diagram again. "This is why it's important to understand the physiological basis for these responses. It helps us anticipate how patients might react in different situations. They're not just abstract concepts—they're what your body does when it's..." he pauses, choosing his words carefully, "...responding to intense stimuli."

Thinking he is done with you you give a step forward to go back to your seat.

"Y/N, what happens when this response is sustained? When the sympathetic activation continues beyond what's necessary?"

Your mind immediately goes to your story—the part where he keeps her body responding, where the stimulation doesn't stop, where everything built and built until...

"When it's sustained," you say carefully, trying to keep your voice level, "the body can't maintain the response indefinitely. Eventually, the parasympathetic nervous system kicks in to restore balance."

"Mm." He makes a sound of acknowledgment, writing on the board. "But during that sustained period, what do you think the body does to compensate? To... manage the increased demand?"

The question hangs in the air between you. You can feel the weight of it, the other meaning that's layered underneath the anatomical lesson. Your story had described exactly this, how her body learned to manage the stimulation, how it adapted, how it...

"You said the body prioritizes function," you respond, keeping your eyes on the board and not on him. "So it would redirect resources. Increase blood flow to where it's needed most. The muscles, the heart itself, the brain."

"Precisely. And what about sensation during this period? Does the body become more...sensitive?"

You can't answer that directly. Instead, you force yourself to keep your focus on the diagram, on the scientific terminology he's using. "Increased neural activity would enhance sensation" you say, the clinical terms helping you maintain some distance from what he's really asking. "The nervous system is already heightened, so every stimulus would register more strongly."

"And what are the physical manifestations of that heightened sensitivity? Temperature changes, for instance?"

"Temperature changes," you repeat, forcing yourself to stay clinical. "Blood rushing to the surface in some areas while being constricted in others creates a flushed appearance. Skin might feel hot to the touch despite core temperature being regulated."

"Exactly." His voice is lower now, and you realize he's not looking at the board or the students. His eyes are fixed on you "The body's response is complex. It's not just about the heart rate or the breathing. It's about the entire system adapting, compensating, finding new equilibriums."

The rest of the class is oblivious, taking notes, listening to what sounds like a perfectly normal lecture on cardiac physiology.

But you're not oblivious. You can feel the tension between you, the way he's using medical terminology to describe exactly what you wrote, what you imagined. Your protagonist's body learning to handle stimulation it had never experienced before, adapting to new sensations, finding pleasure in responses that should have been purely physiological.

"Dr. Zayne," a student in the back calls out, "what happens to the muscles during these responses?"

He blinks, and in that moment, his professional mask snaps back into place.

You swallow hard and answer without thinking "Muscles...become more rigid. Tense up"

"This tension can be useful, it prepares the body for action. For movement." His eyes hold yours for a beat longer than necessary. "Though sometimes, this tension can build and build... until it needs release."

The classroom feels impossibly hot suddenly. You can feel sweat beginning to form at your hairline. Several students shift in their seats, but they seem to think it's just another part of the lecture. You know better. You can hear the faint sound of his pen moving across the whiteboard again, adding more notes.

"Now," he says, "let's discuss the parasympathetic nervous system. What happens when the body needs to return to baseline?"

Your mind is racing, trying to keep up with the lecture while also processing the other layer to everything he's saying. You'd written about this—the release, the aftermath, the way bodies settle back into stillness after that kind of intensity.

"The heart rate slows down," you manage. "Breathing returns to normal. Muscle tension releases."

"And what about hormone levels? What decreases after this parasympathetic response?"

"Stress hormones," you say automatically. "Cortisol, adrenaline. They drop."

He turns back to the board. "And what about oxytocin? What role does it play in this recovery process?"

You blink, momentarily thrown off your game by the question. You'd written about it too, it's when everything softens and becomes gentle. But you'd never thought you'd be discussing it in class. "It... promotes bonding? Helps regulate emotions?"

"Among other things," he says, his tone remains neutral as he writes the word 'oxytocin' on the board in large, deliberate letters. "Interesting, isn't it? How the body uses these chemicals to regulate emotional and physiological states."

He keeps talking about your story and he's doing it in front of the entire class making it look like it's just another lecture on endocrinology.

He turns back to address the room, "Let's move to the final section. I want everyone to think about the long term effects of these responses. If someone experiences these physiological changes repeatedly, what could happen? It's very important to understand them. To know when they're appropriate and when they might need... intervention."

The way he says 'intervention' makes your stomach flip. Other students start murmuring answers, but you're frozen in place.

He steps back to his desk, and you immediately feel the loss of his presence beside you. "Thank you, Y/N"

The lecture continues for another 30 minutes. He moves on to explaining the differences between bradycardia and tachycardia, the role of the baroreceptor reflex, various medications used to regulate heart rhythm. You try to focus, you really do, but his words blur together. You keep thinking about his hands, writing those notes on your story. You keep wondering if he actually read the whole thing, or if he skimmed it, disgusted by it, or—worse—actually read it carefully, analyzing every detail of your fantasy the way he's analyzing every detail of this physiology lecture.

When the class ends, you gather your things as fast as you can, dreading the walk to the door where you'll have to pass his desk.

"Y/N." His voice stops you mid step. You turn, and he's standing there with your essay in his hands, the correct essay. "Do you have a moment?" he asks, his tone perfectly professional. "I wanted to discuss your essay before you leave."

Fuck

☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️

His POV

Zayne had been grading papers in his office when he opened his laptop and saw he had a couple of new emails—the clock marked 7:04PM on a Friday night. He'd clicked it open expecting just another standard essay on cardiac conduction systems.

What he got was not standard.

He'd been teaching Cardiac Physiology 301 for three years now, and he'd seen plenty of rushed essays, poorly researched submissions, and the occasional student who thought medical terminology was just decorative language to sprinkle into their assignments

Y/N's work always stood out. From the moment she enrolled in his Monday-Wednesday-Friday class six weeks ago, he'd noticed her. Not just her grades—though those were exceptional—but the way she approached the material. The questions she asked. The intensity in her eyes when she was trying to understand complex concepts like cardiac conduction disorders or the details of congenital heart defects.

He'd caught himself watching her more than he should have. The way her hair fell across her shoulders when she leaned over her notes. The slight furrow of her brow when she was concentrating. The way she bit her lower lip when she was nervous about answering questions.

He'd told himself it was professional interest. She was a promising student. That's all.

He was about to learn exactly how unprofessional his attention had become.

He clicked on the attachment labeled "Electrophysiology_of Desire_.docx" and he stared at the first paragraph of what was clearly not an academic essay.

He blinked and reread the paragraph. This wasn't... this couldn't be... He glanced at the email subject again.

He should have closed it immediately. Should have deleted it without reading further. But something made him keep scrolling.

The prose was good—actually good. The understanding of physiology was impressive. But the subject matter...

He'd kept reading, assuming it was some kind of creative writing piece that had been sent on accident. Because no student in their right mind would submit this to their cardiovascular physiology Professor.

Then he got to the third page.

[His fingers traced the pulse point on her neck, feeling the fast flutter of her heartbeat. 'Tachycardia,' he whispered, 'Your body is responding to my touch. Shall we continue the examination?']

Zayne's coffee cup froze halfway to his lips. His eyes narrowed as he reread the passage.

The protagonist—named Zander, which was too close to his own name for comfort—was described in detail, broad shoulders, green eyes, dark hair. The way he knew anatomy. His hands "both precise enough for surgery and skilled enough for pleasure."

The research was impeccable. The descriptions of how heart rate increases during arousal were accurate. The understanding of sympathetic nervous system activation was correct. Even the details about vasoconstriction and respiratory changes were right. She'd done her homework, studied this material.

['His hand slid beneath her shirt, his touch tracing the curve of her breast, her nipple hardening beneath his palm. 'Sensitive,' he noted, thumb circling the peak. 'It responds to stimulation through nerve endings connected to the sympathetic system.']

But she'd used it to write porn. And not just any porn. Good porn, and that made it somehow worse.

Zayne's own heart rate was climbing. He could feel it pounding in his ears as he read on, his professional detachment crumbling with each paragraph.

[She gasped as his soft lips closed over her nipple, his tongue swirling around the sensitive tip.

'Cold,' she breathed, feeling his breath—that Evol ability he possessed—making her skin break out in goosebumps. 'Za...it's making me... oh god...']

Just like his own Evol.

Zayne's pen slipped from his fingers, clattering against the desk. A familiar awareness of his body's involuntary responses making him a bit uncomfortable.

['He pressed her back against the examination table, his body pinning hers down as his fingers explored lower, sliding between her thighs until he reached her soaked pussy. 'Already wet, lubrication increases during arousal to facilitate penetration.']

Zayne's cock was hard. He was hard, sitting in his office at 7:20PM, reading a student's porn.

When he reached the section describing the role of the parasympathetic nervous system in post orgasmic relaxation, he closed his laptop, walked over to the window and gazed out at the hospital grounds for a few minutes. Then he returned to his desk to write his feedback on her essay.

[Y/N,

I have reviewed your submission. It is... certainly creative. However, it does not meet the academic standards required for this course. You will need to submit a proper essay on the physiological mechanisms of cardiac conduction systems by the end of the week.

I suggest you take some time to reconsider the appropriateness of your work. This class is not a venue for personal fiction, no matter how... imaginative... the subject matter may be.

Professor Zayne]

He tries to forget the whole thing and moves on to read the next email.

Another email from her.

"Please disregard my previous email. The attached file is the correct essay on Electrophysiology. I apologize for the confusion."

His lips quirk into something between a smirk and a grimace as he opens the attachment.

This one is different. Professional. Academic. Properly formatted with references and citations. She's written a legitimate essay on cardiac conduction systems, complete with diagrams and footnotes. It's exactly what a medical student should be submitting and somehow Zayne is oddly disappointed.

He reads through it quickly, then sets it aside. His eyes drift back to the first file—the one sent by mistake. He opens it again, scrolling through the smut story with deliberate slowness. His pen taps against the desk as he rereads certain passages and decides to add notes on it.

He tried to maintain proper professor-student boundaries while writing those notes, but he couldn't stop thinking about the person who'd written it.

He also couldn't stop thinking about how the protagonist's name was very similar to his.

It was probably just a coincidence. Probably.

Probably.

He stood up again and walked to the window, watching the evening shift change. His hands were steady. His breathing was controlled. His heart rate wasn't. It was slightly elevated, and he knew it wasn't from stress or caffeine or any of the normal academic frustrations.

He turned back to his desk and scrolled through the annotated essay one more time. Every note he'd written felt inadequate, like he was trying to contain something inappropriate within the structure of clinical feedback. She had taken every single concept from his lectures and twisted it into this—this thing that made him feel like...like this.

[Overall assessment: Creativity: High. Academic appropriateness: Questionable. Research depth: Impressive. Recommended for: Personal enjoyment only. Not recommended for: Submitting to this course.]

He'd written that last line almost defensively, needing to maintain some kind of professional distance.

Zayne pressed his fingers to his temples. He had two choices: send the feedback and never think about it again, or... not. The problem was that he couldn't stop thinking about it. The clinical precision haunted him, the way every medical term was used correctly even in the most inappropriate scenarios. It was like finding a diamond in a pile of garbage—precious, valuable, but completely out of place.

The cursor blinked at the bottom of his last note, waiting. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, and then, without further ado, he hit 'Send'. Only this time, the email was sent from his personal account.

5 min later

He was a cardiac surgeon, for God's sake. He made life-or-death decisions every day. He should be able to handle one awkward Monday lecture without dissolving into professional incompetence. But the thought of seeing her after what he'd read... it made his chest feel too tight and his breathing too shallow. So he writes another email.

[I understand you may not want to attend class on Monday. That's acceptable. I'll email you the lecture notes and any assignments. Focus on the new essay due at the end of next week.

No need to respond unless you have questions about the feedback.

Professor Zayne]

He pressed send before he could second-guess himself.

☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️

The classroom empties quickly, students filing out with curious glances, their whispers fading as the door clicks shut. You're alone with Professor Zayne now, standing near his desk while he spreads the essay out in front of him.

You already know what's coming, a lecture about academic standards, the discussion of how your writing doesn't belong in a cardiac physiology class. So you prepare to apologize, to explain, to anything that might make this less mortifying.

"Your essay," he says, gesturing to the paper "This is excellent work. The research is thorough, the citations are properly formatted, and your analysis of the sinoatrial node's role in cardiac conduction is particularly insightful."

Heat rises to your cheeks. His praise shouldn't make you feel this way but there's something about the way he's looking at you, the way his voice carries just a hint of warmth beneath the professional tone, that makes your pulse quicken.

"I've marked up a few sections with comments," he continues, the red pen marks are minimal, mostly small notes on minor clarifications. "But overall, this is the kind of work I expect from my students. You clearly understand the material."

You nod, relief flooding through you. Maybe this is it. Maybe he's just going to let it go, pretend the other email never happened, and you can both move on with your lives. "Thank you," you manage to say "I worked really hard on it."

"I can tell." he says "You clearly put more thought into it than your first submission."

Your face burns so hot you think you might actually faint.

"There are a few points here where you've gone beyond the basic material. Like this section on the vagus nerve and its role in the parasympathetic system."

He taps a paragraph, and you lean in slightly pretending to read it, catching a whiff of his cologne.

"I... I thought it was important to include, since it plays such a significant role in the body's stress response and recovery" you explain, trying to keep your voice steady.

"Absolutely," he agrees "Your attention to detail is commendable. And you've cited your sources properly, which demonstrates strong academic integrity."

He looks up at you, and for a moment, his gaze lingers on yours.

"Is there anything you'd like to discuss about this essay? Any questions about the material or the feedback I provided?"

There are so many things you want to ask him—about his notes on your story, about the way he'd looked at you during class—but you can't bring yourself to voice any of them. "No" you say finally, shaking your head.

His gaze intensifies, eyes flickering briefly to your lips before meeting your eyes again. "Alright, if you think of anything, you know where to find me. My door is always open."

"Thank you, I... I appreciate your time and feedback."

He nods, breaking the moment. "You're welcome. Keep up the good work." He hands you the essay, and you take it with trembling fingers, glancing down at the red marks scrawled across the pages again before you tuck it into your bag, needing a few seconds to compose yourself before you can leave.

As you turn to go, he clears his throat.

"Y/N? One more thing."

Oh no

"The other document you sent, a fictional piece, I believe?"

Of course he would bring it up. Of course he would acknowledge the elephant in the room. You take a deep, steadying breath before turning back to face him, cheeks already flaming. "Yes, that was a mistake..."

You can feel the heat spreading from your cheeks, down your neck and across your chest.

"I know," he says simply. "I received your second email. I know it was a mistake."

You wish you could disappear. "I don't know how that happened. I meant to send the right one, it just... I'm sorry."

But he holds up a hand, silencing you "Don't apologize," he says, and there's a note of dry amusement in his voice "It's not every day a student submits a fictional story of a cardiac examination."

You can feel the smirk in his words, the unspoken implication. "I'm sorry," you say again, lamely. "I didn't mean to waste your time. I know it's not appropriate. It's just a hobby of mine. I never meant for it to be submitted as part of the coursework."

"You got a lot of things right. The physical responses, the physiological reactions... you nailed it." he moves closer "But doctors and patients, Y/N... it's not allowed. It's a clear violation of ethics and boundaries."

Your mouth is dry, but you can't stop yourself from saying, "Well, then it's a good thing its just fiction. A fantasy. I'm sure doctors like you wouldn't actually..."

"I wouldn't" he interrupts "especially not with my stu...patients"

Your heart is beating so fast it makes it hard for you to gather your thoughts "I know, Professor. Like I said, it's just a silly story I wrote for fun, not for you to read or grade."

"Fiction or not, it's not appropriate for a medical student to write erotic stories about doctor-patient relationships," he says, without thinking "Especially when that doctor is also her teacher."

Your eyes widen in shock at his words, tongue suddenly glued to the roof of your mouth.

He takes a step back "Now, if there's nothing else, you should get going, you have a paper due on Friday."

Disappointment settles heavy in your chest with the realization that you've crossed a line. That you've let your imagination run away with you in a way that's made him uncomfortable. "Yes," your voice sounds small and distant to your own ears. "Of course."

Your bag feels heavy in your hands as you make your way to the door. But before you can reach for the handle, Zayne clears his throat again. "Just a word of advice? Channel that creativity of yours into something productive. Write about something that matters and can make a difference. You have a gift, and it would be a shame to waste it on... fantasies."

When you finally step out into the hallway, you feel like you can breathe again. But the tightness in your chest remains, the weight of regret heavy on your shoulders. You've made a mess of things, and now you're not sure how to fix it.

☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️

After leaving Zayne's class that day, you try to put the incident behind you. You attend his lectures and take diligent notes but now you sit in the back row, as far from Zayne as possible. It's not that you're trying to avoid him—okay, maybe you are—but it feels safer this way.

You realize, too late, that it's not enough. Nothing feels like enough, not changing seats, not burying yourself in study materials, because no matter what you do you can't shake the feeling that Zayne is always watching you.

The following weeks are a test of your concentration and self control. It seems that wherever you go, you keep ending up in Zayne's orbit. Fate, and perhaps the academic program, keeps pushing you both together.

One afternoon, as you bend over a microscope, focused on examining a stained heart tissue sample, you hear Zayne's voice behind you. "See the Purkinje fibers? Notice how they branch and extend from the bundle of His."

You lean in closer, squinting through the lens and notice the distinctive branching pattern of the fibers, pulse quickening at his proximity

"Yes," you breathe, "they form a intricate network throughout the ventricular myocardium."

"They do indeed" his warm breath ghosts across your ear.

His fingertips graze your waist lightly as he adjusts the focus knob and you suck in a quiet gasp. He pauses for a moment and you swear you can feel the subtle rise and fall of his chest inches from your back before he walks away.

☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️

It's 9pm on a Friday night and your dorm room spins slightly. You're not drunk, but you're not sober either. You're just relaxed. Loose. Tired of being so tense all the time. Tired of pretending not to notice the way Zayne looks at you when he thinks no one else can see. Tired of wondering if he notices you watching him, always aware of his presence, his movements, the way his hair falls over his forehead as he writes on the board.

You know you should work on your final essay, the one due tomorrow. But your fingers itch for something else. Something more, so you open your laptop, the screen glowing in the dim light.

And you start to write.

You don't think about the essay. You just let your fingers fly over the keys, letting out the tension, the frustration, the longing that's built up over the past 7 weeks. The story pours out of you, raw and unfiltered.

This time, it's not a story about a doctor and his patient. This time, it's about a teacher and his student. You write of stolen glances in the classroom, of her fingers brushing against his as she hands in an assignment. You write of a kiss, fierce and desperate, and the way his hands grip her hips as he pulls her closer.

You write of a man who is everything you shouldn't want, but everything you crave. A man who sees the desire in your eyes and meets it with his own.

You're so focused on the finishing touches that you don't realize Tara is back until she's standing behind you, her brows raised and a smirk on her face. "Wow," she says, glancing at the screen. "Someone's got it bad."

You quickly slam the laptop shut "It's nothing" you mumble, but Tara's not buying it. She leans in closer, eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Nothing, my ass. That was hot" she laughs, fanning herself dramatically before narrowing her eyes slightly at the cans of beer on your desk "Wait, are you drunk? What did you do? take up drinking alone on a Friday night?"

You laugh, running a hand through your hair. "Maybe a little," you admit "I just needed to clear my head a bit."

She drags you to a club downtown, determined to help you "clear your head" for real. The music is pounding, the lights are flashing, and the alcohol is flowing freely. You dance and laugh with your best friend, the stress of the semester melting away with every sip of your colorful cocktails.

Hours later when the night grows late and your bladder grows full, you stumble into the club's bathroom, giggling to yourself. You wobble into a stall, and as you sit, you pull out your phone to check the time. That's when you see the reminder blinking back at you, your essay for Zayne's class is due in less than 24 hours. You squint at the screen, trying to focus through your drunken haze.

In a moment of poor judgment, a brilliant (stupid) idea strikes you. A slow grin spreads across your face when you open the email app on your phone to find Zayne's email address, his personal email.

Still grinning like the cat that got the cream, you attach the story you wrote earlier, the one about a professor and her student. The one that will let him know you can write whatever the hell you want, even if it is about him.

You type out a subject line—"Just a little something to keep you up all night, Professor Li ;) "—and hit send before you can second guess yourself. You giggle again, feeling brazen and bold and utterly ridiculous all at once.

When you walk out of the bathroom and back onto the dance floor, you shake your head, wondering what the hell you were thinking. But it's too late to take it back now. You've sent it, and there's no turning back. Besides, it's not like anything can go wrong, right? It's just a silly story, and there's only a week left of his class. He can't get too mad... can he?

You push the thought aside and keep dancing, letting the music drown out any lingering doubts. Tomorrow, you'll deal with the consequences of your actions.

☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️

The next morning, you wake up with a pounding headache and a mouth drier than the Sahara. Squinting at the harsh sunlight streaming through your window, you curse Tara for not drawing the curtains before she passed out. You feel like death warmed over, but when the fog in your brain starts to lift, memories of the previous night come rushing back.

The dildo of consequences rarely arrives lubed.

You drag yourself out of bed and stumble to your desk, grabbing your laptop with shaking hands. You need to check if he reported you. Your stomach twists with dread as you open your email, there it is, at the top of the list, sent at 2:37 AM, marked as read.

He's seen it. He probably read every word.

What the fuck were you thinking?

You start to hyperventilate, heart racing as you scroll through your inbox, looking for any sign of a response from him. There's nothing, no angry email, no summons to his office, nothing. But then, you notice something even worse: your essay is due in just a few hours, and you haven't even started revising it yet.

Panic turns to dread, you're going to fail his class, lose half your final grade, and probably get expelled for sexual harassment. This is it, this is how your college career ends. With a drunken lapse in judgment and a poorly timed bout of liquid courage.

You skip breakfast and lunch, skip hydrating, and hunch over your laptop to finish and send your essay before the deadline. It will be a mess, and you know it, but it's better than the alternative.

Hours later, with minutes to spare, you hit send, slumping back in your chair with a groan. The relief is short lived, however, as the queasy feeling in your stomach returns with a vengeance. You barely make it to the bathroom before you're kneeling in front of the toilet, your body heaving and purging the alcohol and stress of the past 24 hours.

☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️

On Monday, you make the decision to skip Zayne's class. Your stomach is in knots, your mind racing with worst case scenarios, and you can't bring yourself to face him. You convince yourself that skipping one day will give you time to breathe, to think, to figure out how to handle this mess.

On tuesday morning, you write an email to Zayne, explaining that you're sick and won't be able to attend his class on Wednesday. Your finger hovers over the 'send' button for a long moment before you finally hit it, feeling a pang of unease but also a flicker of relief.

Wednesday rolls around, and you stick to your plan, staying in your dorm during Zayne's class. You try to focus on your other courses and act like everything is normal, but your mind keeps drifting back to him.

It's late afternoon when you find yourself leaving Professor Liu's office after a meeting about your final project. You're juggling your bag and your notes, mind already racing ahead to the rest of your evening plans, when you hear a voice that makes your blood run cold.

Zayne's voice. He's standing by the window, his back to you as he talks to Professor Liu. They're discussing something about missing materials in the lab. You try to slip away unnoticed, but you've only taken a few steps when you hear Zayne calling your name.

"Y/N, a moment please."

You swallow hard and nod jerkily. He tells Professor Liu something else before walking towards you. Your feet are glued to the floor, body refusing to move as he approaches until he stops in front of you.

"Walk with me," not a request but a command. "I want to review your last essay in my office."

Your stomach drops, and you feel the color draining from your face. You scramble to fall into step beside him, heart racing as you try to come up with any excuse to get out of this "I... I have a doctor's appointment scheduled for later," you stammer, struggling to keep up with his long strides. "I don't think I have time for a review session today."

He shoots you a sharp glance, his brows furrowed. "Reschedule it, you look fine to me"

You try again "Well I'm not and... I also have a big project due for Professor Chen tomorrow. I really should focus on that..." Your words trail off as he pushes open the door to his office, holding it for you to enter.

He leans against the frame, his eyes narrowing. "Professor Chen's last class for this semester was today."

"I have a lot of work to catch up on. I can't afford to fall behind in any more classes."

"After you"

With a deep breath, you step inside, heart pounding in your ears. The room feels smaller than you remember, the air thicker. You take a few steps inside before turning to face him, arms wrapped tightly around yourself.

He walks past you, moving to sit behind his desk. He gestures to the chair in front of it, waiting for you to sit.

You sit on the edge of the chair, back straight, hands clasped tightly in your lap. You're expecting him to bring up the story, to confront you about the contents of the email you sent. But he doesn't. Instead, he leans back in his chair, eyes fixed on you.

"Your essay was poorly written, disorganized, and lacked the depth of analysis I expect from my students. This will have a significant impact on your final grade, and I want you to be aware of that."

He pauses, letting his words sink in. You nod numbly, trying to focus on his words and not on his lips "I know you're capable of better work than . So I want to know what happened here. What caused this drop in quality?"

You squirm in your seat, feeling like a insect under a microscope. "I... I don't know," you struggle to find an excuse. "I guess I just got behind on the reading and didn't have as much time to work on it as I should have."

Zayne's jaw tightens, and he leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk "Try again, I know there's more to it than that."

You try to focus, you really do, but your mind keeps drifting. You can't stop imagining the way his hands would feel on your body, the sounds he would make as he...

It's like you are drowning in a sea of inappropriate thoughts, and you can't seem to find your way back to the surface.

"Is there something on your mind? Something distracting you from your studies?" His tone is casual, but there's a tension that makes the air between you feel charged.

"No" you say, but it comes out sounding more like a question. Your eyes keep drifting back to his mouth, to the way his lips move as he speaks.

"Then why do you keep looking at me like that?"

"Like what...?"

"I'm your teacher, Y/N"

"I know," you say, your voice sounding breathless. "I know you are."

He stands abruptly, the sudden movement startling you. You follow him with your eyes, heart leaping into your throat. He takes a step towards you, then another, until he's standing right in front of you "Then stop looking at me like that."

You move your head back to meet his eyes "Then stop looking back," your voice sounds braver than you feel. "Zayne."

He just blinks, taken aback by your boldness. For a moment, he's at a loss for words. You watch as a faint flush creeps up the back of his neck, spreading to his ears. It's a small thing, but it's enough to know that you've flustered him, that you're not the only one feeling this tension between you.

He clears his throat, looking for a moment like he might say something more, but then seems to think better of it. "I'm giving you a chance to do better," he says, his voice sounding a bit rougher than before. "Your essay was... lacking, but it's not too late. I want you to rewrite it and bring it to me on Friday."

You stand up slowly, facing him "That's so nice of you, Professor Li, are all teachers as caring as you are?" you bite your lip, watching as his eyes flick down to your mouth for a fleeting moment before he catches himself.

He takes a small step back, putting some distance between you "Not all teachers are as understanding as I am"

You tilt your head, studying him with a curiosity you've never shown before. "Really?" you ask, taking a step closer to him, closing the distance he just opened.

"This needs to stop, Y/N, you can't keep messing around like this."

"You're right," you whisper "It has to stop."

His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing against your lower lip, tracing it, teasing it.

Your teeth catch the pad of his finger, tugging gently. His eyes flare with heat, his grip on your face tightening "You don't know what you're getting into."

"Don't I?"

And then, without warning, his mouth is on yours.

The kiss feels electric and you melt into him, your hands fisting in the soft fabric of his shirt, anchoring yourself to him as the world spins around you.

But it's not enough. It's not nearly enough.

Zayne breaks the kiss, his glasses askew on his face. He reaches up, yanking them off, and tosses them carelessly onto his desk. They skitter across the surface, falling to the floor with a sound that echoes in the silence of the room.

Before the echoes have even faded, he's kissing you again, hotter and harder than before. He kisses you like he's been waiting his whole life for the taste of you, his hands moving over your body, making you arch into him, breasts pressing against his chest.

The sound of a knock on the door jolts you both out of the heated moment. Zayne's body goes rigid, his hands falling away from your hips as if burned. He steps back, putting a sudden and necessary distance between your bodies.

You stumble slightly at the loss of his support, your knees weak from the intensity of the kiss. You catch yourself and take a deep, shuddering breath, your skin feels flushed and your lips throb from the pressure of his mouth on yours.

The sight of him, flustered and hot, makes you want to close the distance between you again, to feel his hands on your skin and his lips on yours.

"Come in"

The door opens, and a student assistant pokes her head in, startling at the sight of you both.

"Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt..."

"It's fine, what do you need?"

She hesitates, glancing at you uncertainly before speaking. "I just wanted to check if you needed anything else before I head out for the day, Professor"

He takes a deep breath before answering."No, that's all, Sarah. Thank you."

Sensing an opportunity to escape you quickly grab your bag, slinging it over your shoulder. "Thank you for your time, Professor"

"I'll see you in class on Friday."

Your pulse flutters in your throat and you nod "Yes, Sir" you murmur, before slipping out of his office, leaving him standing there, his eyes following you until you disappear through the door.

☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️

His POV

3:40 am

Zayne sits at his desk, the eerie blue light of his computer screen casting strange shadows on his face as he reads the email that has been sitting in his inbox for an hour. From the moment he saw the subject line, he knew precisely what was inside, and he has been dreading the moment he would finally click on it.

[Subject: Just a little something to keep you up all night, Professor Li;)]

He knows he should delete it without looking, but he is far too curious and, he can admit it to himself now, a bit disloyal to his own sense of decency and autonomy.

It's another story, this time a student and her professor getting lost in their lust, obviously forbidden in their circumstances. He knows immediately he is reading about you and him.

The opening page goes into graphic detail about how the Professor pulls up the student's skirt and pushes her down onto his desk.

"[Spread your legs for me, I want to taste you."]

It describes how she spreads her legs apart for him and how he buries his face between her thighs to lick and suck on her clit softly before sinking two of his fingers deep into her hot cunt, thumb replacing his tongue to rub tight circles around her clit. It also details how her hips move against his mouth, how her fingers tangle in his hair to hold him in place.

It makes Zayne wonder how it would feel to have your clit swell over his tongue, to have your arousal coating his lips and chin.

["Fuck, Zayne, yes! Don't stop!"]

This time you didn't even bother changing his name.

He grips the arms of his chair until his knuckles turn white, trying to resist the impulse to palm his cock through his pants. He can feel it throbbing, demanding attention.

Taking deep breaths in an attempt for his half hard cock to behave wasn't working, the words from the story were seared into his brain, playing out like a porno reel that he couldn't turn off.

The story continued with the student now straddling her professor in the back row of his classroom, his hands palming her tits, filling his hands like they were made just for him.

["Beg for it, Beg for your Professor's cock."]

"Fuck, Y/N" Zayne mutters under his breath, his hand coming down to palm his dick through his pants. He's rock hard, aching, the need to touch himself growing impossible to ignore.

With another curse, he surrenders, unbuckling his belt and freeing his cock. It springs up, hard and heavy, the head already slick with pre-cum. He wraps his fingers around it, squeezing hard, thumb swiping over the sensitive crown, smearing the sticky fluid around.

He forces himself to keep reading every single word, pumping himself in time with the rhythm of the story, his breath coming faster and harsher as he imagines it's you riding him, your tits bouncing in front of his face, your pussy gripping and clenching around him. He pictures your face, flushed and panting, lips parted on a moan as you fuck yourself stupid on his dick.

His balls tighten, cock pulsing in his grip. He thinks of all the filthy things he wants to do to you, all the ways he wants to fuck you. He thinks of you in his classroom, on his desk, in his office, in his bed...

HIS BED

With a low groan Zayne throws his head back, his teeth clenched, and he finally lets go. His cock jerking and twitching in his grip, spurting thick ropes of warm cum all over his hand, some of it landing on his laptop screen.

But he keeps stroking, keeps imagining, keeps fucking you in his mind until he has nothing left to give. Panting and spent, he slumps back in his chair, the evidence of his lust cooling on his skin. The story still glows on the screen, the words blurring before his eyes as he tries to catch his breath. He knows he should feel guilty, ashamed for jerking off to the thought of his student, but all he can feel is the satisfaction of finally giving in to the desire he's been fighting for so long.

☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️☃️

Friday morning dawns with a sense of finality. It's the last day of class, the last time you'll see Zayne. The thought should bring relief, it's a chance to put this whole messy situation behind you, but all you feel is a hollow ache in your chest.

You can't stop thinking about the kiss. About the way his soft lips moved against yours or the way he tasted. You've replayed it a thousand times in your head, and each time, you feel that same heat pooling low in your belly.

But it's over now. It has to be. You're his student, and he's your teacher. What happened between you was a mistake, a moment of weakness that can never happen again. You tell yourself this over and over as you get dressed and make your way to his class.

The door to his classroom looms before you, and you hesitate, hand hovering over the handle. You take a deep breath to steady your nerves, to prepare yourself before you step inside, keeping your head down, your eyes fixed on the floor as you walk in.

The classroom is quiet and the blinds are closed, you expect to hear the usual murmurs of your classmates, the sound of Zayne writing on the board, the rustle of papers. But there's nothing. The room is empty.

Confused, you turn around to leave the way you came. But before you can reach the handle of the door you hear it, his voice, calling out from the back of the classroom.

"Where are you going, Miss L/N?"

Your heart leaps into your throat, and you freeze, breath catching in your chest. Slowly, you turn around, your eyes lifting to find him sitting in the back row with his arms crossed over his chest.

You just stare and his eyes hold yours, unblinking, waiting.

"I asked you a question, Miss L/N"

"I... I thought we had class today..."

A slow, almost imperceptible smile touches the corner of his mouth, but it doesn't reach his eyes. Those remain dark, focused, predatory. He uncrosses his arms and stands, the movement fluid and deliberate. He begins to walk towards you, his footsteps echoing in the silent room.

"There is," he says, his eyes never leaving yours as he closes the distance. "But only for you. The rest of the class was emailed last night that there wouldn't be a session today."

He stops just an arm's length away but it's still too close. He’s deliberately isolated you. This wasn't an accident. This was a plan.

"What are you doi...?" you start, but he cuts you off with a raised hand.

"Your essay, Miss L/N" his voice sounds calm, professional "You were supposed to turn it in today."

You blink, your mind struggling to catch up with the conversation. Right. The essay. With shaking hands, you reach into your bag and pull out the neatly stapled papers, holding them out to him.

His eyes move down to where your hands are trembling slightly, and you see something flicker in his expression. Satisfaction? Desire? It's gone too quickly to tell.

He takes the essay from you, his thumb brushing over the top of your hand in a gesture that could be mistaken for accidental. But you know better. He's touching you on purpose, testing your reaction. His eyes meet yours again and you feel your knees go weak.

"Thank you," he throws the papers on his desk "I'll... review it carefully."

He steps forward and you take a step back, your heel catching slightly on the floor. The movement is instinctive, a physical reaction to the proximity, to the way his presence seems to fill the entire room.

His brow furrows, and he makes a soft tsking sound, almost like he's scolding a child. But there's nothing childish about the way he's looking at you now, the way his eyes move over your body with open hunger.

"What happened to all that bravery from Wednesday, Miss L/N? Are you backing away from me now?"

His words hit you like a slap, and you feel your cheeks flush with shame and arousal. He's right. You're being a coward. You're letting your nerves and your insecurities win. But how can you be brave when he's looking at you like that, when you know that one more step, one more touch, could break the last thread of your self control?

He takes another step closer, and now you're pressed against the wall, with nowhere else to go. He's so close now that you can feel the heat of his breath on your face.

"We can't do this" you whisper, voice barely audible over the sound of your own racing heartbeat. "Someone could hear or walk in, you could lose your..."

His actions cut you off before you can finish, his hand shooting out to the side to lock the door with a click. Then he turns back to you, his hand moving to rest on the wall next to your head, caging you in.

"Then you should keep quiet, Y/N"

Finally, he closes the distance. His lips crash against yours in a kiss that's hungry, desperate and filthy.

The moment his lips meet yours, something inside him shatters. It’s not a gentle breaking, but a violent, glorious fracture. The part of him that’s always been reasonable, the part that calculates risks and adheres to ethics and decorum, that part dissolves like sugar in hot water.

This other part is new. Deeper. It’s been watching you since the first story landed in his inbox, a constant hum in his blood that he’d mistaken for frustration or stress. But now, with your mouth under his, your body pinned against the wall of his classroom, it roars to the surface. It’s not reasonable. It doesn’t care about contracts or careers or the decades he spent building this life. It only knows one thing:

You

This kiss is so much better than anything he'd imagined over the past couple of nights as he jerked off to the memory of your first kiss. The way his tongue explores your mouth, the way his hand grips your hair just tight enough to make you gasp, it's overwhelming, intoxicating, perfect.

His hands, which had been so carefully caging you, now roam. One slides from your hair, down the line of your throat, over the frantic pulse there, and palms the front of your shirt, fisting in the fabric. The other finds your hip, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, anchoring you to him as he backs you further into the wall.

He tastes you, coffee from this morning, the faint sweetness of your lip balm, and underneath it all, you. The flavor is like a drug, and he’s like an addict finally getting his fix after weeks of cold turkey. He devours your sighs, your little gasps, the way your tongue shyly meets his before he claims it, sucks it, shows it who’s in control.

Every instinct he’s ever had is sharpened to a razor’s edge. The way your breath hitches when his thumb brushes over your peaked nipple through your bra, he files it away. The tiny, involuntary clench of your muscles when his knee pushes between your thighs, he memorizes it. The way you’re melting against the wall, your own hands now clutching at his arms, nails biting through his shirt sleeve, it’s not surrender. It’s an answer.

His next thought isn’t a whisper. It’s a seismic event in his mind, a single possessive word that echoes in the hollow of his skull: Mine.

And that thought doesn’t frighten him. It fuels him. It’s the engine of this raw, ugly, beautiful need. He’s not Zayne, the cardiac surgeon, the award winning researcher. He’s not even the stern professor. Right now, he’s just a man, a creature of base instinct, and his prey is tasting so fucking sweet.

He breaks the kiss only to drag his open mouth down the line of your jaw, his teeth grazing your skin, leaving a trail of fire.

"Zayne, we shou...we shouldn't be doing this here..."

His mouth finds the sensitive curve of your neck, and he sucks hard. The world narrows to the salt of your skin, the sound of your whimper, the relentless, unreasonable chant in his head: MINE MINE MINE.

"You're right," he breathes against your ear "We shouldn't be doing this here."

And then, without warning, he's lifting you. Your feet leave the floor, your skirt rides up your thighs, and he's carrying you toward his desk with an ease that makes you gasp. He sets you down on the edge, and you feel the cool wood against your heated skin.

He stands between your spread legs, his hands on your thighs, fingers digging in just enough to make you shiver. The classroom suddenly feels smaller, more intimate, the air thick with unspoken words and pent up need.

"But I'm not going to stop" his hands slide higher, and you feel his fingers brush against the wet fabric between your legs. He pauses there, eyes meeting yours, and you see the challenge in them. The dare.

You open your mouth to tease him, to tell him this is wrong, that he shouldn't lust after his student, but the words die in your throat when his fingers slip beneath the fabric, finding slick, hot flesh.

"I should" his thumb brushes over your clit, and you gasp, hips jerking up into his touch. His lips curl into a dark smile, and he leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "But I won't"

Two fingers slide inside, and your head falls back, hands gripping the edge of the desk for balance.

"Not when my student gets this wet just from kissing her professor" his thumb circles your clit slowly, savoring every whimper, every shudder that escapes your lips.

"How many times have you done this?" he asks "How do you know so much in such... specific detail?"

The question hangs in the air between you, loaded with implications. You open your mouth to answer, but the words catch in your throat. How do you tell him that every filthy scenario you've written was just a fantasy? That you've never actually experienced any of it? That you're a virgin not just to sex, but to this too.

His fingers, those skilled surgeon’s fingers that can suture a heart, still and he pulls them out. The delicious circles against your clit cease. The abrupt stop feels like a physical shock, a cold splash of reality on your overheated skin. You lift your head to meet his eyes. He’s watching you, his expression unreadable, his jaw tight.

“I… I haven’t…” the words tumble out in a mortified, breathless confession. “I’ve never… done anything like this before. I just… read a lot.” your face burns, a wildfire of humiliation and undeniable want.

His answer is a dark chuckle that rolls through the quiet room. It’s not kind. It’s possessive, triumphant. “Read a lot?”

The pad of his thumb, slick with your arousal, moves slowly from your cheek down to the corner of your mouth.

“Let’s see this pretty blush extend elsewhere” his eyes shine with a promise that makes your stomach clench.

Before you can even process the meaning of his words, he’s moving. His hands grip your thighs, firm and unyielding, and he’s sinking to his knees between your legs. You instinctively try to close them, a last vestige of modesty, but his grip is iron. He pulls the fabric of your skirt up and over your hips and then his palms are on the insides of your thighs, spreading you wider. The cool air of the classroom hits your soaked underwear, and a wave of goosebumps ripples across your skin.

He doesn’t touch. He just looks. His gaze feels like a physical thing, a slow, hungry perusal of the glistening cotton plastered against your slit. Then he looks up, his eyes locking with yours from his position on the floor. The power dynamic shifts completely. He’s below you, yet he’s in complete command.

“Do you think I can make you cum faster than the Zayne in your story?” the question is a direct hit, a brutal, exciting acknowledgment of the fantasy you wrote. Before you can even form a thought, his thumb hooks into the side of your underwear and pulls it aside.

He groans. A deep, visceral sound from his chest. His eyes are fixed on the sight, your slick, soft flesh, swollen and eager, with a clear, sticky strand of moisture connecting your skin to the damp fabric he just moved. The visual is so raw, so utterly debauched, that he stares for a heartbeat longer, his chest heaving.

“Look at that,” he breathes, his voice thick with awe and hunger. “So fucking ready. For me.”

His breath ghosts over you first, a cold whisper against your heat that makes you cry out. You feel the first wet, hot stroke of his tongue, long, slow, and deliberate, from your entrance all the way up to your clit. And it’s infinitely better than any fantasy. His hands hold your thighs open, his thumbs pressing into the sensitive inner crease, anchoring you as he licks you with a focus that is terrifying and exquisite.

“Best pussy I’ve ever tasted,” he whispers against your skin, the words a filthy praise that makes your cunt clench. All you can manage is a breathless and stunned “Oh my god” as his tongue swirls around your clit in a tight circle. One hand flies to his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands, holding him in place.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

The sound is sharp, sudden, and wrong in this moment. Your hand slips on the desk, fingers scrabbling for purchase. Zayne's tongue stops and you feel him pull back just slightly, his breath still ghosting over your cunt.

"Professor Zayne? Are you there?"

It's Sarah's voice. Of course it's Sarah again.

Deep down, in some dark, feral part of your brain, you want to fucking murder her. You want to storm to that door and—

Fuck

You feel it. His teeth. Sinking into the soft, sensitive flesh of your inner thigh. Not hard. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to make you hiss out a sharp, involuntary sound.

Zayne doesn’t answer. Instead, his hands slide from your thighs to grab your hips. With a firm grip, he pulls your body to meet his waiting mouth again. He doesn’t break eye contact with you because he knows exactly what he’s doing. There is no way in hell he is stopping. Not for Sarah. Not for anything. The knock is just noise. The risk is just fuel.

His lips seal around your clit and he sucks gently, you moan but quickly slap a hand over your mouth, biting down on your palm to stifle the sound. Your eyes move to the locked door, watching it like a rabbit watches a predator. You can see the outline of Sarah's feet under the door, waiting.

"Professor Zayne? I have those reports you asked for" she calls out again, trying the door handle.

His tongue slows, torturously so, dragging lazy circles around your sensitive nub. He's toying with you now, with the situation, with Sarah. He's a man who's never been a risk taker, but here he is, risking everything for a taste of your pussy. And he's going to make you cum. Right here. Right now. With Sarah knocking on the fucking door.

The thought should horrify you. It should make you push him away, make you pull your skirt down and compose yourself. But the forbidden nature of it all, the danger of it, only makes you hotter. Makes your clit throb harder against his tongue. Makes your walls clench around nothing, desperate for more.

He moans against you, the vibration sending you spiraling closer to the edge. Your hand slips from your mouth, fingers tangling in his hair again, pulling him even closer. He chuckles and then—he sucks your clit between his lips. Hard.

He feels the second you break, the way your whole body shakes, a silent, shuddering scream trapped in your throat. Your fingers, which had been clawing at the edge of the desk, fly to your mouth, smothering the cry that wants to tear free. He doesn’t slow down. He doesn’t give you a moment to breathe. He rides the crest of it, drinking every spasm, every drop that spills for him.

And in that vortex of sensation—the sharp, clean smell of your arousal mixing with the chalk dust in the air, the muffled sound of Sarah’s voice from the hall—something fundamental shifts. The fear, the “this is wrong” that had been a cold knot in your stomach, doesn’t vanish. It transforms. It melts and re forms into a hotter, sharper thing, a hunger that has a name, a direction, a single target.

Him.

For Zayne, it’s a revelation that hits with the force of a defibrillator. This isn’t just a student. This isn’t just a fantasy. This is a convergence. The woman from the stories, the brilliant mind in the front row, the body now trembling under his mouth—they are one. And she is answering. Not just to his skill, but to the raw, unvarnished need he’s stopped hiding.

He slows, gentling his ministrations, but his eyes never leave yours. He laps at you softly, soothingly, as the aftershocks roll through you. He pulls back just enough to look at the ruin he’s made of you—flushed, slick, your underwear pushed aside, your skirt a mess. Then he stands and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His own breath is ragged. His eyes black pools.

He leans over you, bracing his hands on the desk on either side of you. The scent of you is on his lips, on his breath. His voice, when it comes, is a rough, shredded whisper, thick with a certainty that terrifies and thrills you both.

"That," he breathes, his forehead almost touching yours, "is what it means to be touched by someone who burns for you."

He doesn’t say ‘I burn for you.’ He doesn’t need to. The statement is a fact, as immutable as a heartbeat. The fire is the point. And you, in your spent, shuddering, gloriously ruined state, have just proven you’re made to stand in its heat.

He doesn't let you recover. While your body is still trembling, still coming down from that overwhelming high, he's already moving. His hands slide under your arms, lifting you effortlessly from the desk, and before you can even process it, he's sitting in his chair, pulling you onto his lap. You land straddling his thighs, your skirt a tangled mess around your hips, legs weak and shaky.

He doesn't rush. Instead, he lets the tension build like a slow burn, each second stretching taut until it hums in the air between you. His thumb moves in slow, hypnotic circles over your hip, as if he’s calming a spooked animal. Which, in a way, he is.

"Show me."

Your fingers are unsteady, betraying you as you fumble with the button of his slacks. He doesn’t help. He lets you do it. Lets you take the lead, even when his gaze pins you to the spot, steady and unwavering. The zipper is a struggle, the teeth catching, and you feel a hot flush of embarrassment. But his hand only moves, sliding from your hip to the small of your back, a steadying, grounding pressure.

Then it’s open.

You push the fabric aside, and there he is, already straining against his underwear. You look up and see the control he’s exerting. His jaw is clenched, a muscle feathering in his cheek. His breathing is even, but you see the storm in his eyes, the glittering, hungry chaos he’s containing. He feels it, you realize. He feels it more than you know. The tension isn’t just yours, it’s a live wire strung taut between the two of you.

You reach for the waistband of his underwear, hooking your fingers inside, and he lifts his hips just enough to let you pull them down. Enough for his cock to spring free, and fuck....

He's big. Thick. The kind of cock that makes your mouth water and your pussy clench.

You line yourself up after pulling your panties to the side, the fat head of his cock pressing against your entrance. For a second, you just hover there, making the anticipation feel like a physical ache.

Then you sink down.

The sound that leaves him is a broken gasp. It’s too much. He’s too much. The stretch is a delicious, overwhelming burn that immediately gives way to a profound, soul deep fullness. You’re so full you can’t move for a heartbeat, your body adjusting. Your eyes fly to his, and you see it, the moment his control slips. Just for a second. His head tilts back, a groan vibrating in his throat, his hands finding your hips and gripping hard enough to bruise.

After a few seconds you start to move and he breathes your name like a prayer. Up, and then down. The rhythm is clumsy at first, your body still learning the shape of him, but then it finds its cadence. A slow, rolling lift and fall that makes the world narrow to the slide of him inside you, the way he fills you completely on the downstroke.

He’s barely holding on. You feel it in the tremor of his hands on your hips, in the way his teeth sink into his lower lip to stifle a sound, still aware that Sarah could be waiting outside. His eyes are closed now, head thrown back against the chair.. You’re the one in control of the movement, but he’s the one holding the reins of your pleasure, his every reaction a silent command.

When his hands finally move they slide up your sides, under your shirt, and he pulls it over your head. The cool air hits your skin, making your nipples tighten into hard peaks. He doesn’t look at them. Not yet. He just watches your face, drinking in every flinch, every whimper, every flicker of ecstasy in your eyes.

Only when you’re completely bare from the waist up does his focus shift. His hands cup your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples, and then he’s leaning forward. His mouth finds one, hot and wet. He sucks the taut peak deep into his mouth, his tongue lapping, teeth grazing like a perfect, painful echo of the bite he gave your thigh. The feeling is electric, shooting straight down to where you’re joined, making your muscles clench around him.

You cry out and your movements become erratic, desperate. He matches your pace, his hips lifting to meet you, his mouth never leaving your breast. He’s not just fucking you, he’s consuming you. And you are letting him. You are giving him everything, the rhythm of your hips, the sounds of your pleasure, the surrender of your body—all of it a language he understands better than any words ever could.

The girl in your stories, the one who rode her professor with such desperate, shameless need, you are her now. The evidence of it is the wet, obscene sound of your body moving on his, the way your thighs tremble with exertion and pleasure, the way your breath comes in ragged, broken gasps. You're not just fucking him. You're claiming him. And he's letting you. Encouraging you. His hands move from your breasts to your hips, guiding you, urging you faster, harder, deeper.

"That's it," he groans against your skin,"Show me. Show me how she rides him."

The command is a trigger. You rise until he's almost completely out, and then you sink down with a sharp roll of your hips. The sensation is a revelation—feeling every thick inch of him slide inside you, the pretty head of his cock pressing against a spot so deep inside that makes your vision blur.

And you do it again. And again. And again.

His mouth leaves your breast with a wet pop, and you see the mark he's left—dark, bruising, beautiful. His eyes are half-lidded, his jaw slack with the force of his need. He's so close you can feel it.

"Wait, wait—fuck, Y/N, I'm—"

His hands tighten on your hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh and with a sharp, guttural groan, he's coming. His dick pulses inside you, hot and thick and endless, each spasm making you clench in response. His head falls back and his mouth opens in a silent moan of pleasure. The sight is devastatingly beautiful —your stern, controlled professor completely undone, his body shaking with the force of his release, his face flushed and twisted in ecstasy.

But he's not the only one who's close. The friction, the heat, the sight of him losing himself inside you, it all combines into a overwhelming, irresistible pressure. Your hands find his shoulders and you're moving again, faster. His cock is still hard inside you, still pulsing, and it sends shockwaves through your already overstimulated nerves. You can feel another orgasm building, a tight, burning coil in the pit of your stomach, and you chase it desperately, your hips stuttering, breath coming in short, broken gasps.

When your orgasm hits it's not like the first one. This one crashes through you in a wave of sensation that makes your back arch, your head tilt back, your mouth fall open in a silent scream. Your whole body lock as you clench around him, your muscles pulling him deeper, milking him for every last drop. The sensation is so intense it's almost painful, a sharp, clean burn that makes your vision go white at the edges. Your hands are still on his shoulders, but you can't feel them anymore. You can't feel anything but the overwhelming, all consuming pleasure radiating out from your core.

You are nothing but a burning, trembling mass of nerves, skin and feeling. The aftershocks roll through you in waves, each one a sharp little jolt that makes you shudder, that makes your pussy clench around him. You're slumped against his chest now, your face buried in his neck. He's still inside you, still hard, still pulsing. The reality of it sends another shiver through you—he came. He came inside you. And you loved it.

You're not just turned on by him. You're not just attracted to him. You're addicted to him. To the way he looks at you, to the way he touches you, to the way he takes you. You've crossed a line, and you don't want to go back.

He's still breathing heavily, his hands now stroking your back in slow, soothing circles. You can feel his heartbeat under your cheek, steady and strong, and you realize with a start that it's not the only heartbeat you can hear. Your own is still racing, a fast, fluttering rhythm in your ears.

You lift your head, blinking up at him, and say "I think Sarah is still outside."

His laugh is a sound you want to hear again and again. It's a sound he doesn't usually make in the classroom, a sound that's just for you. It starts as a chuckle, a low rumble in his chest, and then it grows, a deep, delighted laugh that makes his whole body shake. The sound is so genuine, so unguarded, that it makes something warm and possessive bloom in your chest. It's the sound of a man who's just found something he didn't know he was looking for. It's the sound of a man who's having the time of his life.

it started when caleb accidentally kicked your leg under the table during dinner.

he just wanted to stand up, and as he pushed his seat back, his foot hit your shin.

you gasped, his eyes went wide, and in no time, you had him apologizing profusely, with a tender kiss on your forehead and a brief massage on your leg.

but that wouldn't do; absolutely not.

you waited for him to finish the dishes to attack, jumping on his back and pulling on his hair.

he grunted and called out your name, desperately trying to hold you so you wouldn't fall, but it was clear that wouldn't be the case. after all, your legs were wrapped around his waist and your hands were seriously gripping this poor man's scalp, although he knew you were just playing.

what the hell was he supposed to do?

with quickened steps, he managed to sit on the sofa, shimmying his body until you fell over the soft cushions.

before he could stand up, though, you pushed him and jumped on top of him again, straddling his lap.

you looked feral, playful and determined; a dangerous mix.

“think you're so tough? think you can attack me and leave without a scratch? no way!” you shook your head, your hands ready to find his scalp again.

his hands gripped yours with unmatched strength, keeping them at a safe distance.

you squeaked and struggled, but his hold wouldn't budge.

“i said i was sorry, angel…” he tried to reason, although it was difficult considering you were more focused on getting your hands away from his grip.

“bla, bla, bla! you are the biggest meanie ever!” you blew a raspberry and thrashed around, until the best idea crossed your mind.

you leaned in and bit down on his neck, making him hiss.

“baby!”

yet you kept going, biting his cheek, his shoulder, his strong arms, shaking your head with his skin between your teeth like a wild puppy playing with a ball.

you pulled his shirt up and bit down on his chest, his abdomen, and then went up to his pecs once again, moving frantically like a rabid chihuahua attacking a huge german shepherd.

the tip of your tongue “accidentally” traced the veins you found along the way, and that's when he knew you were just taking this as an opportunity to be a little, dirty-minded menace and leave marks all over him.

and that was enough.

“ah, so this is how it's goin' to be, hm?” he whispered, eyes darkening.

you weren't going to stop, and he needed to teach you some manners.

his hands let go of yours, only to hold your waist with an iron grip.

in a quick motion, he switched your positions, pressing your back against the couch while his torso hovered over you.

you squeaked, and his thighs held yours still, while one hand pinned your wrists above your head.

“no, wait… lebbie, mercy!”

but your plea fell on deaf ears, because he started biting your neck back. his sharp teeth and wet tongue sent chills down your spine, and you gasped before letting out an uncontrollable laugh.

“caleb!” you giggled, trying to push him away with your legs.

“what, baby?” he asked innocently, now biting your jawline, then your shoulder, then your collarbone.

“stop!”

“stop?” he leaned back, smirking. “didn't seem like you wanted me to stop when you were bitin' and lickin' me.”

you squirmed and withered under him, eyes glossy from laughing too much.

you forgot how easily he could overpower you, and how all of your playful fights ended up like this…

“you started it, lebbie! i was defending myself!”

and he shook his head, letting go of your wrists only to tickle your sides, making you squeak and tremble under him with giggles and snorts.

“no, you condemned me unfairly. such an aggressive response for someone so cute…” he teased, pulling your shirt up and diving underneath to return what you just did to him a couple seconds ago.

“mercy!” you cried out, trying to push him away, but your hands were too weak from laughing so much. “i surrender, i sweaaaaar!”

“yeah? too bad i don't believe you,” he whispered, voice muffled when he marked your chest.

you gasped, trying to roll away, but his weight held you down.

now you were trapped, completely at his mercy, and he was determined to make you regret biting him.

…and you didn't, though. not even a little bit. the taste of his salty skin was still on your tongue, and his pecs were just so supple and yummy.~

nothing he did now would take that away from you, not even the spankings his right hand was about to give you as soon as he finished marking your pretty body up.

When you arrived at Zayne's house and he opened the door, it was exactly how you'd imagined it: minimalistic, organized... nothing like your bright apartment. The furniture was stylish but impersonal, the kind of thing bought from a catalogue. It smelled faintly of his cologne, and a bit like the hospital.

He handed you a warm towel, placing it on your shoulders. "Please, make yourself at home," he said, and you nodded, not entirely sure it was possible.

It started small.

The first addition was accidental. You were reading a book while it rained, but you got interrupted when he came to offer you tea, so you left your book on his coffee table.

You didn't think to pick it up again. The next morning, it was still there, a small splash of color against the monochrome of his decor. He didn't move it either.

Then came the mug. You bought it at a local market; it was yellow with pink flowers drawn all over it. You kept using it every morning for your coffee, preferring it to Zayne's matching set. One day, you noticed it sitting in the dish rack next to his own simple white cup. It looked out of place, cheerful and a bit silly. It made you giggle.

Your toothbrush appeared next to his in the sleek, modern holder in his bathroom. You hesitated at first, but the alternative was leaving it on the counter to drip. So you nestled it beside his, silently claiming a corner of the house.

Weeks turned into a month. The storm was long gone, but the invitation to stay had quietly become permanent; he never asked you to leave. You were there when he came home from long shifts at the hospital, and slowly, you had begun to leave your mark without noticing.

One morning, Zayne woke to the light of dawn filtering through the blinds. He blinked, his mind still hazy with sleep, and turned his head on the pillow. The first thing he saw wasn't the empty space on his bed, it was you.

And then he saw the other things you'd left on the nightstand.

A ceramic dish you had made at a paint-your-own-pottery studio now lived on his nightstand, holding the watch you always forgot to put back on. Your lipstick lay next to it. On the dresser across the room, something caught his eye. The hoodie you'd stolen from him weeks ago was draped over the back of the chair, but next to it was a pink cardigan that was yours. On the floor beside your side of the bed, your slippers were fluffy and ridiculous with little animal faces.

He shifted slightly, and his hand brushed against something soft. He looked down. Wedged between his pillow and yours was a small, a round chubby seal plushie you had won from a claw machine and declared your "emotional support animal."

For a long moment, he just lay there, taking it in. His house, his carefully neat and quiet space, was gone. In its place was something warmer, something… alive.

For him, a house had always been just a place to stay. But now, he realized, it takes two people to make a house feel like home, and that was wonderful.

He got up quietly, not wanting to wake you, and padded barefoot across the room. In the bathroom, he reached for his toothbrush, but his hand paused. There they were. His toothbrush... and right next to it, leaning slightly as if for support, was yours. Two toothbrushes in one holder. It was such a simple thing, yet it hit him with the force of a revelation. That was the most intimate thing he had ever felt with you. It made him feel… seen. It made him feel like part of a pair.

He smiled, feeling butterflies in his stomach, and brushed his teeth.

Dressed for work, he made his way downstairs, the scent of coffee growing stronger with each step. But it wasn’t just coffee. It was the smell of butter and pancakes. He walked into the kitchen and stopped in the doorway.

You were there at the stove, humming a tune, wearing one of his t-shirts. A spatula was in your hand, and you were flipping a perfect golden-brown pancake. On the counter, a small tower of them sat on a plate, steam rising into the air. Next to the stove, a small vase held a single, cheerful daisy you must have picked from the garden.

Sensing his presence, you turned. Your face broke into a warm smile. “Morning,” you said, your voice still raspy with sleep. “Thought I’d make you breakfast for once. You’re always the one taking care of me. Here's your coffee.”

You gestured with the spatula toward the cup, and then your eyes met his. You were standing in his kitchen, in his shirt, cooking him breakfast, surrounded by the evidence of your life woven into his.

He reached out, but not for the coffee. He wrapped his arms around you from behind, pressing his lips to the top of your head. "What's this for?" A blush crept onto your cheeks.

He just held you tighter, his gaze moving over the kitchen. He saw the yellow mug on the counter, waiting to be filled. He saw a pair of your shoes kicked off by the back door. He saw a novel you'd left on the kitchen table, a bookmark sticking out halfway through. He saw the daisy in the vase.

He saw his whole world, right there in that room.

“Nothing,” he murmured into your hair. “Just… thank you.”