“MEET ME IN MY OFFICE” (PART I)
summary: you show up late to professor hatake’s philosophy class, unregistered and hungover, hoping to stay enrolled in school and not fall behind despite financial aid issues. after a tense exchange in his office, your attraction to him spirals into a risky, impulsive hookup on his desk—with the blinds wide open.
t/w: professor/student, age gap, kissing, quickie, office sex, sex, dirty talk
a/n: super inspired by shameless US (lip and his professor)! but anyway i think i’m going to have a second part to this!
YOUR HEAD WAS still pounding. Not loud, not splitting—just that dull, rhythmic throb behind your eyes that made every footstep feel like it echoed up your spine. You'd overslept through three alarms, and just barely pulled yourself out of bed. You had gone to a party the night before, and you were already five—no, ten minutes late.
You weren't just ten minutes late, you knew this wasn't the first lecture. The reality was, your scholarship and financial aid was unstable, and you weren't able to enroll in your classes. You were in genuine risk of having to leave school because you couldn't afford to stay in it—this tier one school you choose to go to was a life-time debt.
Perfect, you think to yourself. But I might as well not fall behind. You figured you might as well sit for a lecture in the case you are able to enroll in classes.
The hallway smelled like old wood and floor polish. The kind of academic building that had faculty with tenure longer than your entire lifespan. You ran a shaky hand through your hair, trying to tame it into something presentable, but it was a lost cause. Your under-eyes still rimmed in mascara that didn't quite survive the night. You looked tired, but you did what you could to refresh it with new makeup.
Your feet stop at one of the several mahogany door, taking a deep breath. You read the door number, which corresponded to the interim schedule you had.
This should be it, you think to yourself, Philosophy and Critical Theory 204 with Professor Hatake.
You pushed the door open, and it creaked loudly.
A few heads turned, and you felt a rush of embarrassment come over you as you cut through the professor's words and interrupted the class. You clutch onto the leather straps of your bag.
The professor turned around, his words adjourned. He stood in the centre of the classroom, facing the students sat in front, in a half circle arrangement, backlit by sunlight filtering through those massive old windows. Slate-gray hair tousled, pale skin with a small mole beneath his lip. He was tall, lean, serious. You find yourself observing his physique for one moment, his taut muscles beneath his black button down, and his thighs from his grey dress-pants. As you look up, you find his expression indiscernible—but like he already decided the kind of person you were.
"Nice of you to join us," he said, voice dry, low, unbothered.
You shifted on your feet. "Sorry. I—ran late."
The professor looks down at his silver watch. "This is my fourth lecture. You're actually a week and ten minutes late." He let the silence sit for a second longer than it needed to.
"There might have been a slight hiccup with my scholarship," you say. "I just figured I wouldn't fall behind any more."
The professor bites the inside of his cheek. "Your name?" he asked, reaching for a clipboard on the desk.
His gaze dropped to the list, his fingers flipping through the pages. "You're not on my roster."
You blinked, your throat already tight. "Like I said, there's an issue with financial aid," you said. "I just didn't want to fall behind."
Another pause. You felt the room watching.
"And philosophy is where you decided to crash?" he asked, finally looking at you again.
You nodded, trying to hold your ground. "I'm interested in it."
He raised a brow—not disbelief, exactly. More like he was waiting to be convinced.
Your head throbbed. You shouldn't be here now, smelling faintly like exhaustion and regret, trying to explain yourself to a professor who looked like he saw through excuses for sport.
But even now, under all the embarrassment, you were noticing stupid things: the way his voice dragged just slightly on consonants, the fullness of his lips, the way his hair fell over his face, and his eyes, as dark as they were, which radiated his sheer education.
You couldn't deny he was attractive. You felt if he asked the right question, you might actually tell the truth.
"Have a seat," he said at last, flatly. "You and I will speak after class. Meet me in my office."
You nodded, heart hammering as you moved toward an empty desk near the back. You sat, dropping your bag to your side. You shifted into your seat, your fingers curling onto your jaw as you observed the man return to his lecture. Your eyes drag up and down his stature, the soft contours of the fabric that clung to his body, his refined speak, and his graceful mannerisms.
You'd already dug yourself a hole. You just weren't sure if you wanted to crawl out or stay and see how deep it went.
HIS OFFICE WAS as quiet as you expected.
One soft desk lamp lit the space in amber, pooling over stacks of books and untouched papers. The air smelled like old wood and dark coffee, with the faintest scent of chypre that lingered from his cologne. The light from the window spilled softly, and the clock ticked quietly. Behind him were two framed degrees.
His degree was from the University of Konohagakure, a PhD in Philosphy. The other degree was a Masters in Psychology.
He's been busy, you think to yourself. You were impressed—neither of those degrees must've been easy accomplishments. Though, you knew being a professor at a tier one school probably required a prestigious education.
A shelf was in front of him, behind the two sets of chairs that were placed in front of his desk. The mahogany shelves were adorned with rows of worn philosophy texts.
Professor Hatake didn't look at you when you walked in. He was already seated, glasses on, one elbow on the desk, one hand resting lightly against his chin as he scrolled through something on his screen.
"Ms. (L/N)," he said looking up, "I got in touch with financial aid. They contradicted your assertion you've been trying to fix your issue. In fact, they mentioned they've been calling you for weeks."
The latch clicked, and your heart followed it. You crossed the room slowly, your brown leather bag sliding down your shoulder. The denim skirt rode up slightly as you sat, legs brushing under the desk, cardigan slipping down one side. "There might be some truth to that."
The professor crosses his arms. "It appears like time's up."
Your hand finds the back of your neck. "There might be some truth to that, too." You were aware your spot in the school was at risk—it might be time for you leave.
You were still recovering from the night before—hungover, slightly nauseous, head pounding faintly with every heartbeat—but the quiet in here made it worse.
He clicked his tongue softly as he read. "I looked into your file," his tongue licks at his mouth for a moment, before speaking. You find yourself lost, looking at his full, pale pink lips. "You were first in your graduating class of six hundred students. Almost perfect SAT score, and your major is impressive."
"It seems to me you're caught up in the nightlife of college," he paused. He takes off his glasses, sighing. "Falling into those bad decisions."
"There's some truth to that, too." You give a wavy chuckle.
He leans back. "Back in my day, people would say you're being 'smart.'"
You exhaled softly, half a laugh, half a sigh. "Maybe I'm tired of being good at things."
He leaned forward, closed the tabs on his computer. His obsidian eyes study you, and a soft smile forms on his lips. "You've got this pride and determination in your face," he says, "it's amusing. You're like a Gustav Klimt portrait."
"A Klimt painting? Not sure I know who that is." you admit. You didn't know much about paintings.
He chuckles. "It's a shame you have to leave the school, you're a smart girl."
You get up, unsure if you wanted to leave the office just yet. "I'll figure something out. Don't want to leave just yet."
The professor slips his glasses back on, and retrieves a stack of papers from a drawer behind him, seemingly returning to grading them. You knew it was time for you to go. "Close the door on your way out."
As you shift your steps, reluctantly heading for the door, you become painfully aware of just how attracted you were to the man seated in front of you. You weren't very good with your self-control, and you were very indulgent. Though you were smart, you lacked discipline in that aspect. In other words, you were sexually liberated—when you read Nietzsche in highschool, it made you realize the importance of embracing your own desires to assert your individuality.
The more you looked at his lips, the soft carving of his visage, the more you realized just how much you wanted to kiss him. You were zoning in and out of reality, questioning just how real this moment was. You knew you might do something you shouldn't.
You take a step toward the door, closing it behind you—but you were still in his office.
Professor Hatake takes off his glasses again. "What are you doing?"
"You didn't have to call financial aid," you added, quieter now. "But you did. I mean, why take such a personal interest in me?"
"It's my job to take an interest in all my students." His response is matter-a-fact. You still wanted to push it, draw a weakness from him.
You bite the inside of your lip, chewing on the flesh for a brief moment. You put your bag down on the seat in front of you.
"I'm not sure just what you think you're doing, but there's policies against students fraternizing with their professors." Though his words communicate authority and dismissal, you knew it wasn't dismissive enough. If he wanted you gone, you would've been a while ago.
The temperature in the room shifted. "Yeah, I don't wanna fraternize with you," you say, "I wanna fuck you."
For a moment, the silence was deafening. Not even the clock on the wall dared to tick too loud.
Professor Hatake stared at you like he hadn't heard you correctly—but he had. You watched it ripple through him. The tightening of his jaw. The slow exhale through his nose. His fingers twitched slightly, like he was debating whether to reach for his glasses again or walk around the desk and shut you up with his mouth.
The next moment, his mouth was on yours, his fingers gripping your hips and lifting you, setting you down onto the edge of the desk like it was instinct. Papers crumpled beneath you, a pen rolled off and hit the floor, but neither of you cared.
You opened your legs without hesitation, skirt riding high as he stepped between them. His hands were on your thighs, dragging up, firm and greedy, thumbs pressing into your skin as he kissed you deeper—you knew he held back, finally giving in.
You feel the cool sensation of his rings on your thighs, digging into your skin possessively. You moaned against his mouth, your fingers pulling at the bottom of his shirt, tugging it out, slipping your hands underneath to feel the heat of his chest, the taut muscle that had been taunting you from behind his clothes from the moment you walked into the lecture. He groaned when you touched his skin, low in his throat. His mouth broke from yours and found your neck, teeth grazing skin just below your jaw.
"You wanna fuck me, huh?" he murmured, voice rough, breath hot against your throat. "You dirty girl."
"Yes," you gasped, back arching into him.
His hand slid up, fingers dragging the fabric of your underwear to the side, two fingers dipping to feel just how wet you already were. He smirked against your skin.
You grabbed his wrist, hips rolling into his touch.
He kissed you again—lips skillful, biting, his other hand undoing his belt with one swift motion. The sound of it sliding loose, the clink of the buckle—it made your stomach flip.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, dragging him closer, and then he was pushing inside you in one rough, fluid stroke.
Your mouth fell open. A gasp—sharp, needy—left your lips as you clenched around him. He filled you so deep and so suddenly it was dizzying. He grunted, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged.
"Fuck," he hissed quietly, you almost didn't hear it.
You cut him off with a kiss, dragging your hands up his back, your hips already moving, your heels digging into the backs of his thighs to keep him there.
He set a rhythm, rough and rhythmic, his grip bruising at your hips as he fucked you right there on his desk—papers scattering, the desk creaking with every thrust. Every time he slammed into you, it pushed a soft whimper from your lips. You didn't care. You wanted him to hear it.
He cursed again and kissed you hard—hungry, unforgiving. You pulled his shirt down his shoulders, desperate to feel more of him, needing all of it. He reached between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit, circling it with just enough pressure to send you spiraling.
Your whole body tensed. Pleasure coiled tight in your core, heat spreading fast.
"I'm—fuck—I'm close," you gasped.
It ripped through you—sharp and blinding. You clenched hard around him, crying out into his shoulder but muffling the noise as your body shook. He groaned low, burying himself inside you with one last deep thrust as he came too, holding you tight against him, breath ragged, muscles taut.
Silence settled in afterward. Heavy. Electric.
You stayed tangled together, his hand stroking slowly up your thigh, his breath soft against your neck. His shirt hung open, your skirt bunched around your hips, your legs still loosely wrapped around him.
You could still feel him inside you, the aftershocks of your orgasm humming through your limbs, your fingers resting at the nape of his neck. His hand flexed at your hip, almost like he didn't want to let go just yet.
Then you shifted slightly, your eyes flicking toward the tall window to your right—the one that faced the quad.
Your breath caught, your eyes widening. "The blinds were open," you said softly. When your eyes meet his, you smile a teethy smile, the chance of being caught seemingly amusing to you.
He went still, then slowly turned his head toward the light streaming in.
"Well," he murmured, deadpan, "that's one way to make the dean's list."
You both share a laugh, tired and amused and still dazed from everything.
You pulled your skirt down slowly, legs still shaky. Your thighs trembled as you eased off the desk, and your fingers hesitated at the hem, suddenly painfully aware of what you had just done.
Professor Hatake had already stepped away, redoing his belt with a practiced flick, silent again. His shirt still hung open, pale skin marked faintly where your nails had dug in.
"Don't get used to this," he said, though not cruelly, more like a man who knew better but touched fire anyway.
You tilted your head. "Hmm . . . it's okay, it wasn't that good, anyway." You tease, lying straight through your teeth.
"Is that so?" He looked down at the stack of papers you'd crumpled with your ass. He chuckles, raising his gaze toward you.
You smooth your skirt, and shoulder your bag. Your legs were still shaky, your pulse still loud in your ears. "Mhm," you tease, "I'll see you around."
You hesitate at the door, hand on the knob.
"Lock it behind you," he says, putting on his glasses and sitting back down on his seat. "Don't get into trouble."
You glance over your shoulder, eyes catching his for a beat longer than they should.
“I won't," you lie, lips curling into a faint smirk.
The click of the door sounds final behind you, but the echo of what just happened doesn't leave with you. Not yet.
Out in the hall, the silence feels sharper, the old wood floors colder. You breathe in, still tasting the amber warmth of his office, still feeling his hands ghosting your skin.
You steady yourself, like nothing had just changed, though you already knew that everything had.
