#prof!riki

AN. IT’S FINALLY FUCKING HERE OH MY GOD. firstly i want to say thank you to my gorgeous beautiful @d2iose for being my beta reader + hyping me up all the time n @dolllnini for being the biggest prof!riki fangirl. i would not have bothered to finish this hot mess if not for u guys.. i’ll send ass pics soon as a real thank you gift alright… ;)))) jk. maybe if u guys rlt want it. i genuinely feel indebted bc u had to listen to me crash out over this shit like at least 5 times over.. anyways it’s crazy cus i started this fic in like november and i’ve only now come around to finishing it. incredibly slow of me.. sorry. i hope it touches all ur souls and makes u wetter than anyrhing imaginable bc only the father, the son and Holy Spirit know how down bad professor nishimura got me feeling. i’m so sorry for the long ass word count too cus it was originally meant to be like 10k but i have terrible self control n i didn’t want to make everyone wait for like a Mehhh short fic. might as well lengthen it am i right???!!! okay. enjoy it u freaks!!!

PLAYING. summer by brockhampton, blue eyes by illusion hills, beside you by 5sos, stateside by pinkpantheress, he gets me so high by beabadoobee, love me harder by ariana grande, slut me out by nle choppa, glory box by portishead, master of none by beach house, everybody here wants you by jeff buckley, pyramids by frank ocean.

IT IS 5 IN THE MORNING.

birds are chirping and the sun is barely peeking over the buildings across from your modest apartment, kissing your skin in the most overstimulating way possible — your curtains have shifted slightly open due to the long night’s wind, and you are tired of hearing cars honk this early into dawn.

you’re clicking through the right arrows on your keyboard mindlessly, eyes barely processing the stream of images flashing across your macbook screen. the air in your lungs feels heavy, leaving your lips in slow, tired sighs — each one spelling out ‘why did i choose this major?’ in the shape of fading smoke.

two semesters worth of content to get down before your anatomy final. you’re angry, understandably: it’s less than a month back from your term break and you’re already slammed back to back with tests, projects, and tiny, worthless assignments you couldn’t be bothered to start.

“fucking ridiculous.”

microsoft word is minimized, a blank document laying dormant from 10 hours ago when you said you’d start on that small-scale literature review for your sociology elective.

spoiler: you have not, and you really don’t think you’ll have time to unless it’s a day before submission.

your first actually important hurdle was the anatomy final coming up. you’d done surprisingly decent so far — the warning words of your seniors had served you well up till now — but apparently, someone in the biology faculty decided to up the stakes and test all the majors on every single chapter instead of the usual, “too-easy” and “relaxing” ten.

you’d read the email two tuesdays ago, right leg folded over the left as you sat in a local coffee shop.

one moment you were sipping a rich, smooth caramel latte, enjoying your one blessed day of starting classes at noon — and the next, you were crying into your palms.

for a moment, professor riki nishimura’s face flashes in your mind. with a face like that, you had half a mind to tell him to fuck off and get a job in modelling instead.

he, presumably, was the one making things ten times harder for you. though, you couldn’t exactly point fingers at who decided on the sudden syllabus change, with a lack of proof and all that.

on the bright side, it’s nice to know that he had that much faith in you and your peers. bellcurve and whatever, if you’d just get those 500 cards down, you think you’ll outperform many of them. still, it doesn’t mean that the chronic sleep deprivation feels any more worth it.

You: dude i’m not getting anything done for anatomy 5:12 AM

Sooha: me neither 5:13 AM

Sooha: im telling u it was prof who added those fucking chapters 5:14 AM

You: literallt why does it matter im stillleft eith 250 fuckign cards 5:16 AM

Sooha: i emailed him this morning asking him to reconsider so it woudl be kinda embarrassing if it wasnt him 5:17 AM

You: fuck thats genius 5:17 AM

You: why r u even awake btw 5:17 AM

Sooha: creative writing assignment due at 8am lol 5:19 AM

genius indeed, sooha — perhaps one or two emails would help persuade your kind professor to reevaluate his expectations of class of 2025.

it wasn’t that you were incapable. it was just too little time, too many priorities; being twenty something and in university, in not to mention one of the most competitive education systems in the world, definitely takes it’s toll on you.

walk around campus and you’d see at least five people with sunken eyes and some kind of posture problem from bending over wooden desks for hours.

you wonder how people get through this with stellar gpa’s and a spotless attendance. you’re already down to 90% for some classes, and it feels like sand slipping between your fingers with how desperately you’re clinging onto the last bit of sanity college has left you with.

you lean back into your beanbag, nose tipping towards the ceiling as you exhale heavily. the air is freezing cold this time of year, and your fingers lay still on your keyboard, mind repeating sooha’s words. you’re stumped.

i wrote an email asking him to reconsider.

you sit up, shifting around, the sounds of plastic beads rustling inside of the fabric of the beanbag. your eyes glaze over the bright, fluorescent screen that lights up your entire living room with it’s glow.

the bookmark to outlook practically speaks to you in your sleep-deprived state, and you’re oh-so close to imagining eyes and a mouth growing from the icon.

so you click on it. press the notebook button with knit eyebrows and your teeth clenched, jaw twitching in a slowly brewing mix of anger, stress, and sadness.

To: NISHIMURA RIKI

prof im suffering so bad with these fucking chapters. 10 was already bad enough and u want us to do ALL OF THEM?????? are u crazy????? havent u been thru this before?? u have a phd??? do u not understand how students feel?????.?. this is incredibly inconsiderate actually. its either you help me get this A and maintain my gpa or i am not shwoing up for that damn test

strange. it sounded more formal in your head, still equally vulgar but with a little more tact. you’d written plenty of informal emails before; ever since college started, lecturers seemed more relaxed than the typical high school teacher. some you called by name, some you’d chat with over coffee in the cafeteria. you’d even met a few of their kids during school events, like that one campus-hosted marathon last year when you accidentally bumped into mrs. lee’s ten-year-old son.

still, nothing had ever felt this charged. your literature professor might’ve called it poetic — maybe even commendable — as if that would somehow justify the string of inappropriate words you were typing. but even in your half-awake state, you knew this was going to go sideways, upside down, and sideways again.

nevermind that, your mind whispers. it is tomorrow’s problem.

with that, your index finger slams down on the touchpad, the cursor darting across the screen until it hovers over the large X in the corner of your browser. another click and it’s gone, and it’s another second for your eyes to screw shut.

Email sent to NISHIMURA RIKI.

─────────────────────────

PROFESSOR NISHIMURA WAS A PHENOMENON AROUND CAMPUS.

young, rich, handsome, smart, disgustingly so. a man holding such traits was bound to be under the watchful eye of colleagues, lecturers and students under the same institution — highly revered and wildly desirable to all the girls in your year.

he was only a few years older. an impressive feat, agreed by many: the walls of his office were decorated in certificates, plaques with his name inscribed, all praising his research and contribution to the field of biology. his shelves were taken up mostly by books, or framed photos of him receiving awards, standing alone with a polite smile that barely showed how proud he really was of where he stood.

naturally, he was wanted everywhere he went — by universities, research labs, private companies who would’ve splurged to their last cent to have him under their belt.

but still, nothing compared to teaching something he loved — no amount of awards could ever give him the same satisfaction as seeing a student get a grade they worked so diligently for, under his guidance.

it was a selfless kind of addiction.

professor riki shows up to class in tight button-ups, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms as he leans against the lectern, laptop open to slides he knows no one will really care about. the real lesson begins when he picks up that thick black whiteboard marker, sketching every muscle, vein, and layer of skin from memory — movements so precise it feels like watching art unfold.

even the lowest-scoring student can’t help but stare, chin propped in their hand, caught somewhere between awe and disbelief at how effortlessly professor nishimura draws, how sure he seems of every line, every curve, every minute detail that other lecturers couldn’t replicate.

who the hell wouldn’t want a guy like that? remembers what’s important and loves working with his hands. it’s pure fantasy sitting right in front of you.

in pure, uncensored, and shameless honesty, you’ve thought about it once or twice during his classes. thought about him.

it’s the way he looks at you when he leans over your desk, voice low, explaining something gently and meticulously, all the words clicking in your head as he mumbles on about pulmonary ventilation and respiratory pumps.

“mm. that’s right, smart girl. you don’t need my help after all.”

it doesn’t help that he calls you to his office after a few sloppy mock tests, isolating you from the rest of your class in that sleek, quiet office tucked into a far corner of the administrative building. you’re not there often, but every time you are, it feels unreal — because professor nishimura doesn’t seem entirely human.

“tell me what you want,” he would mutter, flipping through papers at his desk as you shift your weight nervously. “use your words, like a big girl. i can’t read your mind.”

he’s too composed, too annoyingly blunt, acting as if the words that roll off that sharp tongue don’t make you squirm, dizzy in the head while you remind yourself that this is professor talk, not hot-nerdy-tutor talk.

so why the hell is he still so sexy, then, despite the constant self-reminders?

it’s a pain in the ass. it’s not working. at all.

you catch yourself wondering if he has a wife, maybe children, or a secret past he left behind in japan. whether he ever regrets it — trading familiarity for this polished, lonely kind of brilliance in korea.

or maybe he was really just an oddly cold guy, by nature, who also happens to be really hot.

well — you couldn’t ask your professor that. not for as long as he was your professor, of course.

it goes without saying that if he were a classmate of yours, you’d have sunk your claws into that man centuries ago; stared at him like he was the sweetest eye candy you’ve ever had in all your years of schooling as he passed by you in the halls.

you’d ask him for help with homework, run your hand over his bicep when his jokes get a little too funny.

“riki, are you free tonight? help me with my assignments… please?”

you’d smile, bat your lashes, play innocent until he couldn’t ignore it anymore. he’d drag you into an empty classroom to take care of the problem in his pants, the one that emerges every single time you get too close — close enough to get a whiff of your perfume, or your sweat, or your hair.

or just you.

you’d unbuckle his belt, pull his pants down in one swift motion, wrap your lips around that stupidly thick tip of his. he’d fist your hair, guiding you up and down, drooling all over his cock where he knew you belonged.

then, the late night homework-slash-study sessions would lead to your hands palming his bulge through his sweats, your lips messily crashing against his — he’d moan your name as you sunk down on him, right on your desk chair, the lamp on your table shaking with every wet thwack of skin. he’d shove his fingers in your mouth, trying to shut you up before your roommates come barging in.

“o-oh fuckkk,” you imagine him panting, big hands holding your hips as he helps you bounce on his dick. “pussy s’fucking good—so perfect, [name], made for me.”

in another life, professor nishimura is not your professor, and he’s folding you in half in your dorm every friday night after your last class. his glasses thrown somewhere onto the floor, your shirt riding up your chest, his pants barely down his thighs cause he’s just so needy and impatient.

“this what you wanted?” he’d grunt, your knees folded against your chest, thighs slick with sweat and cum and every other fluid you can’t bother naming. “dumb slut. didn’t even do half of your work right—fuck—rubbing all up on me the entire fucking week. can’t wait for some dick? huh?”

“s-sorry, riki, i’m sorry—mmph—!”

saturday brunch plans with jiwon and sooha would be automatically cancelled. instead of cruel reality, where you’re just too sleep deprived to make it out of the building — in this fantasy, your legs just simply won’t let you get out of bed.

“good for nothing,” riki would tap your cheek with his fingers, your tongue lolling out for him to spit on. “just for me to fuck. waiting all damn week just to be filled—felt so empty without your riki inside of you—huh, baby?”

he’d rut into you, rough hands feeling your tits, your moans starting to amp up. he’d fuck you like he’s known you his entire life — like he knows your body better than you do — because in truth, he does.

“i just m-missed you so much, riki,” you’d whine, grinding your hips against him to meet his thrusts halfway, each hit making your toes curl behind his back. “o-oh fuuuck—right there!”

“yeah? show me how much you fucking missed me, then, dumb bitch.”

it’s that damn degree, those framed certificates, that impossible air of authority — standing between you two, spelling out the line you can’t cross. the one that divides student from mentor, fantasy from a painfully brutal reality.

“that’s all the time we have,” professor nishimura’s voice rolls through the lecture hall, low and smooth, the kind that sinks into your skin and lingers long after the sound fades. even through the mic, it carries that calm, deliberate rhythm that always makes you sit up a little straighter.

you’re half-asleep, six rows back, barely holding yourself upright after another night of terrible decisions and too little rest. still, you catch every word — because somehow, you always do when it comes to professor nishimura.

his back turns to the whiteboard, eyes scanning the room for the same few students who raise their hands to ask ridiculously specific questions. professor nishimura answers each one in turn, unhurried and precise, his tone steady, his explanations effortless. it’s unnerving how smooth it is, no pauses, no haste, just knowledge flowing out of him like it’s second nature. his mind seems like a library built from years of quiet obsession, and he speaks with the calm certainty of someone who’s never once needed to guess.

you wonder if he could memorise all 500 flashcards of yours in less than ten minutes. you’d bet $5 he could. it’s too bad you don’t have as much of an obsession with biology like your beloved professor does.

“i hope i don’t need to remind you all to study for your final. email me if you have any queries.”

his final words dissolve into the usual chaos — backpack zippers, chatter, the quite thudding of chairs against cheap carpet. you exhale, already feeling the weight of the next two hours pressing down. your next class isn’t until later, but the library fills up fast around this time.

you spot sooha near the door, standing on her tiptoes like a soldier ready to sprint, determined to claim one of the few coveted study spots before the lunchtime crowd floods in. for a moment, you just watch her go, too tired to follow, too comfortable basking in the faint echo of your professor’s voice still looping in your head.

“studied?” jiwon’s hand brushes over your slumped shoulders, your forehead kissing the surface of your desk. you look up to meet her gentle, concerned eyes. an angel all in all, before her expression morphs into one of genuine shock. “oh my god. what time did you sleep last night?”

those damn cards. again. you’ve still yet to finish them.

“don’t even ask me that,” you huff, index fingers rubbing your eyes, trying your best to get blood moving inside of your body. “you going for lunch?”

“i have class in twenty,” jiwon frowns. she looks genuinely crushed, and all it does is make you smile up at her. “we’ll eat tomorrow?”

“i can’t—too many things to do. next week?”

she nods at your words before turning back around, hugging her pink laptop to her chest as she walks off — her stride still as light and cheerful as the first day you met her at freshman orientation. it’s comforting, in a way, knowing that even when sooha’s busy spiraling over her chaotic study habits, jiwon’s calm, steady presence always balances it out. around them, the world feels a little softer, and for a fleeting moment, you believe there’s really nothing worth stressing about.

you slump over your desk once more, the quiet hum of air-conditioning lulling you to back to sweet, comforting sleep — until something begins to tap at the turn of your shoulder.

“miss [last name].”

you smack your lips together, hair falling over your face as you tilt your head up, meeting professor nishimura’s heavy, lingering gaze. his glasses sit slightly askew, a little too low to be comfortable, and you can’t help but notice the way his middle finger moves to push them back up the slope of his nose.

“yeah?”

from this distance, he doesn’t seem all that unattainable. realistically, he’s only… what, five, six years older than you? maximum seven, if you’re pushing your luck. not a wrinkle in sight, he must take care of his collagen levels.

still, standing this close, that tiny gap feels even smaller — like the space between student and teacher was never really there at all. he looks like any guy you might’ve shared a homeroom with back in high school, or a friend of a friend you’d spot shooting hoops during a study break. maybe even someone your age working part-time at the local café, trying to chip away at student debt before it piles up.

he looks ordinary. familiar. like someone you could know.

professor nishimura blinks slowly at you, slightly surprised by your casual tone — still, he wasn’t one of those teachers with a stick up his ass about authority, because he himself knew that he was not all that old with grey hairs.

“are you okay?” he asks.

you smile lazily at him. you don’t imagine you look cute right now, but you do it anyway. “i’m great, professor.”

his skin looks flawless. his hair is amazing. his lips look so moisturized, soft, pillowy. he speaks to you with the same gentleness and concern you never got used to, even after attending his classes for weeks.

“are you sure?”

he raises an eyebrow, expectant expression written all over. what the hell does he want you to say? no, i’ve been studying all night for your stupid exam and now i have to show up for your stupid classes 10 in the morning?

yes, professor, i am as jolly as a student can be! albeit i am running on four hours of sleep, two cups of black coffee, and dying airpods, everything’s going great—

“i’m sure, professor.” you grit your teeth in a pleasant smile. he hums in satisfaction at your reply, eyes squinting, as if he was quietly analysing every detail of your very fake grin. you’re worried he might catch the flicker of disdain in your eyes, but even if he does, he doesn’t poke at it.

smart guy.

“by the way, i answered your email.” professor nishimura says finally, clearing his throat as his voice slices cleanly through the heavy air. it feels tense, awkward even, though the feeling seems to exist only on your end. he remains composed, collected as ever, while under the sleek surface of his desk, your leg won’t stop bouncing.

“huh?”

if only for a second, something flickers across professor nishimura’s face — amusement. like he finds you funny, maybe a little entertaining. it’s strange, seeing that expression on him of all people.

no — most of all, it is terrifying.

this is the same professor nishimura who rarely entertains small talk outside his field, who wears no ring on his finger, who still has the default iphone lockscreen. the one whose phone occasionally buzzes mid-lecture with microsoft team messages — notifications he never bothers to mute, because in his world, work has always come before life.

“have you read it?”

there it is. that twitch in his lips, a short breath that comes out as a scoff, before he grins.

he finds you funny, in the way an old friend from high school might, with that same teasing edge in his expression, like he’s just waiting to see how you’ll react. there’s something disarming about it, familiar in a way that doesn’t fit the setting or the title he carries, yet it lingers between you all the same. now, he’s smiling down at you with an expectant grin, watching your brain scramble in real time for an answer.

only then you realise what he’s just said — your email. your half-asleep, drowsy, fuelled email that was keyboard mashed with furious fingers.

your throat goes dry. his hands slip into the pockets of his slacks, fingers fidgeting in the small space that seems too tight to hold anything of importance.

“hm?”

professor nishimura leans forward, just enough to cast a shadow over you — the harsh white lights of the lecture hall still blaze above, but beneath him, the room somehow feels dimmer than when you first walked in.

he reeks of cologne.

you’ve smelled it before: expensive, heady, the kind that lingers for days. you remember considering that same scent for your ex, the one a year above you, the one you met at a frat party back when you were still a freshman. but now, all that memory dissolves into this moment — into the scent that clings to him, to the way professor nishimura looks down at you with that smug, unreadable grin, like he’s studying something rare under the lens of a microscope.

“yeah! yeah, i have,” you force a smile, “but could… could you refresh my memory? i was reading it on the way to class, and i was just so incredibly busy—“

his jaw.

the smug bastard’s jaw.

it twitches.

under this lighting, you see it clear as day, the way he shifts his weight and tilts his head: as if he was amazed by this reaction he was managing to pull from you.

professor nishimura leans his frame closer. the air shifts completely: every thud of your ventricular walls squeezing blood echoes in your ears, your skin warming under the sudden proximity, your breath faltering as the sharp, unyielding man in front of you closes an already (inappropriately) small gap between you two.

your gaze drifts to the line of his neck, and — as if the universe insists on being cruel — a fresh wave of his cologne fills your senses. it’s strong enough to sting, to make your eyes prickle with heat. you can’t tell if it’s because of the way he’s looking down at you, heavy and deliberate, or because you’re genuinely fearing disciplinary action. either way, your stare darts to the wall behind him, anywhere but the place where his eyes are anchored on you.

“i’ll be more than willing to help you,” he speaks, clearly and smoothly, as if it was really nothing much that you harassed his inbox last night. “why didn’t you ask sooner, hm? i’m almost offended.”

just another tuesday for the likes of someone so brilliant. it makes you roll your eyes — he notices, tongue poking into his cheek as he does so.

“i thought you’d be busy with other matters, is all,” you smile up at him, pretty irises peeking through your lashes as you bat your eyes. “aren’t you, professor?”

fucking minx, he thinks.

“i’d always make time for you, you know that. you’re a smart girl,” professor nishimura says, the smirk now fully formed, carved into his face like it belongs there. “however…”

his hands brace against your desk as he leans further in, close enough that you can hear the faint rustle of his shirt when he breathes, the sharp inhale of air before he speaks. “if you need a little extra help, of course, i’ll do anything.”

it’s the way the words land and hang in the air. he isn’t talking about academics.

it’s an invitation with sharp teeth, slipped between the lines and delivered in a voice that knows exactly where the boundaries soften — where they blur just enough for you to start decoding.

it’s up to you to decipher him, and you do, your eyes narrowing ever so slightly as you meet his, reading him in a way he definitely meant for you to.

“i’ll take you up on that, then.”

a knowing smile is all you receive.

─────────────────────────

IT’S THE NEXT AFTERNOON and you find yourself sinking into a leather seat situated in front of a dark oak desk. your eyes trail the swirls in the material, glazing over the tiny details in this cold, relatively lifeless office — professor nishimura’s not much of a decorator, it seems.

he was late. completely unlike him, and much to your disfavour, especially since you had another appointment in an hour — his email had outlined what you’d be reviewing today, and a dozen questions started buzzing in your head as you reread it, eyes skimming over chapters you hadn’t even touched yet, blindsiding you entirely.

From: NISHIMURA RIKI

Hope 4pm is okay for you.

do you even have a fucking choice?

From: Y/N L/N

of course, 4pm’s great! thanks

that’s what you get for uploading the entire slide deck into some random ai flashcard generator instead of making them yourself. still, he’s worked his magic before, turning complete disasters into stellar students by their next quiz — and you weren’t that far gone, were you?

just then, the sharp click of dress shoes starts to echo down the desolate fifth-floor hallway, each step bouncing off the sterile walls of the administrative building.

you exhale slowly, index finger tapping a nervous rhythm against your thigh.

seconds later, the metallic rattle of a doorknob turning sounds through the office. your lungs expel a breath that you didn’t even know you were holding — it hitches again when professor nishimura finally pops into view, looking clean and sharp as ever, hair slicked back with what looked like gel.

a few loose strands fall over his forehead, just enough to show he’s been busy today — but the rest of him still looks irritatingly put-together.

his white button-up is tucked neatly into tailored slacks, the sleeves rolled just high enough to expose the veins running along his forearms. his glasses frame his face perfectly, catching the faint reflection of the overhead lights, and there’s a faint crease at the corner of his eyes that tells you he’s been squinting at his laptop for too long.

even his cologne arrives before he does, cold and expensive, settling into the room with the same quiet confidence he carries everywhere. and yet, despite looking like he walked straight out of a modelling gig, he’s here — giving up an hour of his afternoon to tutor you.

“hello, [name].”

you notice his shoulder bumping into the tall bookshelf next to you, just as he walks by to sit himself down on his office chair — you stare at him from across, nose taking in all of him, smiling politely as he begins to pry open his laptop.

“so, uh…” you mutter, fingernails scratching the back of your neck. “this won’t take long, right?”

the sounds of his keyboard echo through the office, your question hanging in the air for a few seconds before he turns his neck slightly to meet your gaze.

“usually, students start with a ‘thank you for seeing me, professor’,” professor nishimura deadpans, before turning back to the bright, white-lit screen in front of him. “but you’re welcome.”

you swallow. “sorry.”

“not an issue at all.”

it takes a while for him to get through everything. he angles his laptop toward you, finger resting over the right arrow key as he moves through each slide from last week’s lecture — nearly ninety of them, all crammed into a single chapter.

by the time he reaches slide forty-five, a dull ache creeps into your spine from sitting too straight for far too long. you start leaning forward, shifting in your chair once, then twice, the subtle scrape of fabric against wood too loud in the quiet room. professor nishimura notices — his eyebrow lifts, just barely — but he says nothing, simply resumes clicking through the material with that same steady composure.

“you see, right there,” he emphasises, other hand reaching from behind the screen to circle around a pair of arteries. “you got it?”

you bite down on your bottom lip, eyebrows pinching together like you’re really, really trying.

the truth is, you have no idea what he’s talking about.

it’s one of those cursed slides with a giant arrow pointing at nothing in particular; the next slide is supposed to reveal the answer, but for now you’re staring at ten different arteries in the upper body and every single one looks exactly the same.

yes, he did point it out… or circle it out. not very specific.

“uhm…” you mumble, eyes flicking up to meet his.

and for some strange, impossible-to-explain reason, your heartbeat spikes.

“[name],” professor nishimura says your name with a patient smile — the kind someone wears when they know they already gave you the answer, but you weren’t paying attention. frustrated, but soft about it. “show me. where are your carotid arteries?”

your stomach twists.

show him.

you lift your hand toward the screen, index finger uncurling from your fist, trembling just slightly as you reach forward.

“you don’t know?”

his voice lands like an accusation. of course you knew — you studied this. it wasn’t new. maybe if he weren’t here, it’d be easier to recall, but now that he’s sitting across from you — with that strict expression, slick hair, with sleeves rolled up so tight that his biceps are stretching the fabric… who the fuck would care about some arteries?

“uh,” you mutter in an annoyed voice, even though you’re the one who asked for this, for his help, for his guidance. “could you show—“

professor nishimura doesn’t wait for you to finish your sentence. his chair glides forward, wheels murmuring against the oak floor as he leans over the desk. his hand reaches for you — fingers brushing warm against your neck, right beneath your earlobe, settling on the soft patch where your jaw tapers.

“here, [name]. external carotid artery.”

he blinks slowly, watching you, like the frantic pulse thudding against his fingertips isn’t already giving you away.

your hair rustles against his hand as his fingers slide back an inch, tracing heat along your skin. “internal’s behind it. deeper.”

your throat bobs once, a small, involuntary motion against the steady press of his fingers. each beat beneath his touch gives you away, loud and frantic, betraying every ounce of composure you’re trying so hard to hold onto. the man looks as calm as ever — not a hint of suspicion, not even a gentle smile.

professor nishimura’s gaze flickers, just briefly, to the spot where his hand meets your skin — then back to your eyes, sharp and unreadable.

“feel it?” he asks quietly, tone softer now, almost coaxing. “that’s the point of reference. you can’t forget it once you know where to look.”

his fingertips linger only a moment longer before he withdraws, hand returning to the edge of his laptop as if nothing had happened at all. still, the ghost of his touch stays with you, warm and impossibly present, pulsing beneath your skin long after he’s pulled away.

“now,” he says, voice steady, “show me again.”

your pulse answers first, tripping over itself — and you’re sure he can feel it, even from where he sits.

you smack your lips awkwardly, searching for something to fill the silence, tension making your thighs press closer together, pulse thrumming in your ears as you continue to stare at him.

“like, on the screen?” you mutter, eyes fixed on the swirls and dots of his lecture material.

a soft snicker escapes professor nishimura, and it somehow eases the moment, making you giggle at the ridiculousness of your question.

“yes, on the screen, [name].”

the day passes on just like that — full of ridiculous questions, popping up in your head as the lesson goes on.

professor nishimura doesn’t scowl. doesn’t tilt his head with judgment. doesn’t squint his eyes as if he can’t quite believe how little you’ve retained — which is true, by the way — instead, he’s gentle. tentative. clear with every word, like he’s not rushing you; a quiet confidence that you’ll get it because that’s just who you are.

you lean over his desk, head resting on your forearm, ear pressed lightly against it as you watch the screen at a 90 degree angle. answers come easily, almost automatically, and you barely notice the hour slipping by or the exhaustion settling in. he remains upright, clicking through slides and offering study tips and mnemonics, a steady presence guiding you without hurry.

yes, the day passes just like this — calm, quiet, with professor nishimura, who seems to grow more handsome as the diffused evening sun bathes his skin.

are you sleep deprived?

“you need to remember your values,” he mumbles, “oxygen and carbon dioxide. partial pressures. they’re important, don’t for—“

the blonde strands in his hair catch the light, glowing golden. the room is warm, dust motes drifting lazily in the sunlight, bouncing off the sheer curtains that do little to soften it. and somehow, you find yourself grateful for that.

“professor,” you interrupt, softly. “i know. you’ve been saying that for the past ten minutes.”

he’s been focused on the screen all this time, but your words pull his gaze toward you. you notice the faint tug at the corner of his lips as he turns, his eyes meeting yours while you lounge against the desk.

“hm?”

one thing your professor would never admit: he, too, is thankful for the evening sun.

casting light over your hair, kissing the skin of your arms, making it impossible not to notice. though, all of it’s quite boring compared to the blush spreading over your cheeks, blooming all the way to your ears — you hide your face in your sleeve, a half assed attempt at covering up the flush.

he pretends not to care about that. he can’t care about that. “it must be getting late. i didn’t notice.”

you sigh, somewhat disappointed at the change if topic — as if professor nishimura would ever admit how gorgeous he thinks you are, right to your face. “me neither.”

the few moments of silence that follow feel like eternity. there’s you: smiling like you were seeing an old friend for the first time in forever, and there’s him: attempting to pretend like all the air in his lungs haven’t been lost to the atmosphere.

he must be sleep deprived too. you’ve robbed him of his evening coffee run, he realises.

“same time tomorrow,” he speaks, finally, voice low and hushed — as if it was a secret, something reserved for only you. “i’ll be waiting.”

“yes, professor.”

─────────────────────────

IT STARTED OFF AS A JOKE. sooha was stressing over creative writing, and you over sociology.

except that the joke = “i would fuck professor nishimura if he was the 3rd last guy on earth, because he’s probably better in bed than other two who were spared with him”

“you’re so fucking weird,” sooha’s kicking her feet up, right leg over the other as she swivels in your chair. “you’d actually fuck him?”

“judging me isn’t going to make him any less sexy,” you murmur between sounds of chips snapping between your jaws. it leaves a spicy burn on your tongue, quickly forcing you to reach for your water bottle on the nightstand. “and can you blame me?”

she looks up from her phone, right at you. the dim, blue light illuminates her face in the dark and gloomy atmosphere that is your dorm room, highlighting every disgusted curve on her face.

“you’re crazy.”

you shrug, tying the bag of chips up before throwing it at sooha. she catches it instinctively, eyebrows narrowing at your lack of an answer, hands reaching into the snack anyway.

“i don’t like him, by the way. he’s hot, but nah,” you click your tongue, eyes drifting over the popcorn ceilings of your cramped and poorly lit bedroom. “he’s probably engaged or something. doesn’t bring his ring to work because he thinks it’ll distract people from how stupidly big it is.”

“i’ve seen him drive around in his black porsche,” sooha giggles, licking her fingers clean of chip dust. “it’s something from a movie. this guy doesn’t know when to stop.”

“right?” you laugh a little too hard at the absurdity of it — the hot professor with tightly rolled sleeves, who owns a ridiculously expensive car, who probably lives alone in a three story minimalist house in the corner of an upper class neighbourhood. “i need to know if he’s married.”

she flicks an ant off her knee. “why the hell does it matter to you? are you actually going to—“

“well,” you smack your lips, thinking hard of an answer that wouldn’t sever your friendship, but knowing sooha — nothing you say could ever make her flinch. “not if he’s married.”

sooha snickers at your brutal honesty, chomping down on three chips stacked on one another, and for a moment you almost snort at how completely unfazed she is — how she really doesn’t care that you just admitted something like that.

“so… you’ll fuck, find out he’s married, and by then you’ve ruined a family. next thing you know, you’ll get hit by his wife’s car and have to go to graduation in a brace.”

“he’s literally only… like, twenty eight,” you argue, a playful tilt in your voice that makes sooha crack up, the chair she’s in starting to swirl around. her face is a mix of disbelief and pure entertainment. “he’s not a father. god, i’d hope not. i don’t want my grad pictures to be terrible.”

“nah…” she waves you off. “a husband, though? maybe. look both ways—“

“shut up!”

sooha shrugs, pulling her phone out from the deep pockets of her sweats. “you don’t even know how old he is?”

“i do,” you say quickly, defensive. too quick, because she raises a brow. “okay— not exactly, but i know the range.”

“so… you have no idea.”

you groan. “sooha, he teaches people our age. if he had kids he’d be shoving them into every conversation like those weird dads who think having a baby is a personality, and using his mediocre son as an example for every case study.”

“that’s called being proud, if you didn’t know,” she deadpans, unlocking her phone. “anyway, what’s his full name again?”

your stomach drops. “why?”

she gives you a look. “why do you think? i’m gonna look him up. if instagram’s no luck, i’ll check linkedin.”

it’s too late. her thumbs are already flying across the screen, furiously mashing in every combination of nishimura she can think of.

“pro… fessor… nishi… mura—”

“who the fuck calls themselves professor on instagram…” you groan, hands finding your face to cover the look of humiliation.

“oh. nishimura riki, was it? he’s right here—”

“sooha,” you warn. “if you request him on instagram, so god help me—”

“if he’s married,” she declares, louder than necessary and absolutely ignoring you, “he’ll have a wife pic somewhere. at least one. married men always post their partners—or a baby hand. blurry stroller. maybe a family photo where his hands are a little too tight on her waist.”

you don’t answer. the anxiety in your stomach prickles, rises, climbs up your ribs. sooha’s face is blank in the glow of her screen, eyes narrowed, scrolling with ruthless determination. her thumb leaves tiny streaks of chip-oil every time she flicks.

“stop scrolling like that,” you hiss, leaning forward. “you’re going to summon something.”

she doesn’t even blink. “i’m summoning the truth. hold on.”

you press your palms together in your lap, pulse beating way too fast for something this stupid. the soft, frantic swipes on her phone make the whole room feel tense.

“oh.”

your spine straightens. “oh?”

“dude,” she says, voice flat with shock, “i didn’t even need to request him. his shit’s public.”

your heart drops. “public as in… some posts public? or—“

she turns the screen to you, slow, dramatic, cruel with tension.

“public as in everything,” she says. “and he posts. a lot. this guy is so performative, it’s crazy.”

your breath catches for a second. you hadn’t expected that — not from him. not the man who seemed allergic to small talk and immune to anything remotely personal. professor nishimura seemed like the type to be composed of 60% work instead of 60% water.

“you’re lying.”

you crawl across the bed on all fours anyway, eyes squinting to take a closer look at sooha’s screen.

she swipes.

the first photo is him in a mirror, dress shirt half-tucked, sleeves rolled just enough to show forearms that make your stomach flutter. the caption’s in japanese — a short one — but the date stamp tells you it was posted only two weeks ago, at a café a few streets away from campus.

you blink. “recent?”

“mhmm,” sooha hums, already moving on.

the next photo is painfully cliché: books stacked on a windowsill, sunlight cutting across his living room. the one after that is him at another café, reading, his glasses sitting low on the bridge of his nose.

then, a shot of a fountain pen with notes so neat it makes your head ache, talking about his love for academia in the caption.

you lean in closer. “no way. he uses instagram like a lifestyle blogger.”

“he totally does,” she snorts. “no father of four has time for this.”

she keeps scrolling, and you’re right beside her, holding your breath like your life depended on this — unintentionally, completely against your better judgment. half-dreading and half-hoping that this menace of a man was not unavailable. because if he was, you’d never hear the end of it.

sooha would ruin you. absolutely humiliate you for years to come. mention this in front of your own kids once you’re old and married:

“oh—your mom was such a rebel back in college, you know that? so crazy! we couldn’t take her anywhere, right?”

not to mention, once jiwon’s caught wind of it, she’d shake her head in that same way she always did when you made a questionable life choice — disappointed, amused, and a little too understanding for comfort. too angelic for you to ever get defensive about it. jiwon’s disappointment wasn’t the loud kind; it curled quietly in your gut, heavy and soft, the kind that made you hang your head low.

“could you please scroll slower? how the hell do you expect to see anything?”

sooha snorts. “scared, are you?”

she does as you ask, anyway. her thumb eases down the screen, inch by inch, slowly scanning the array of curated images professor nishimura’s chosen to publicize.

a photo of his desk. coffee. food. trips all over the world, in museums, restaurants, expensive wine that he savours alone, or with the occasional handsome friend that he tags in the caption. his circle seems larger than you expected — full of geniuses, much like him — and still, no wife. no ring. no girlfriend.

“he travels a lot.”

“apparently.” sooha mutters. “he’s kind of—”

“do not.”

sooha continues scrolling as you bite your nails. “i was going to say cool. he’s the complete opposite of your ex. speaking of that guy—don’t know what you were thinking, honestly.”

your face heats immediately. “wasn’t thinking. that was the problem.”

“yeah,” she laughs, tapping another photo to zoom in. “meanwhile, this guy posts his morning latte art like he’s running a lifestyle blog. i mean, look at this. he’s insane.”

“you’re so fucking annoying,” you whine, flopping back into your sheets. they rustle under your weight, and all you can do is tangle your hands in your hair trying to cool the blush that’s burning your face off. “you’re giving him too much credit. his ego’s still huge.”

and just then, sooha gasps loud enough for the sound to echo through the corridor outside.

“what? what?” you scramble to sit back up again, meeting your best friend’s eyes.

and there it is — wedged between other stories in his highlights, low exposure but unmistakably him. a mirror photo taken in a gym mirror. sweat dripping down the hollow of his throat. his shirt lifted enough to display a chiseled set of abs, defined enough to count. lighting low but warm, highlighting the curve of his waist, the slope of his shoulders, the insane spread of his back. his forearm flexes where he holds the phone. veins on display. chest (probably) heaving.

absolutely sinful. he looks like he’s been sculpted by someone with a personal vendetta against your sanity.

your jaw literally drops. your breath leaves you in a single, pitiful sound, almost reminiscent of a whimper. sooha scoffs.

that’s your professor.

god, if they used this as a model for your classes, you’d have passed your first test with stellar results. you, a few months ago, would be skipping home with that full credit score.

“he’s fucking ripped!” sooha cackles, and you can’t tell if it’s disbelief or sheer joy at your impending meltdown. it’s probably both, now that you see her lips beginning to curl into a sickeningly wide grin. “oh my god—”

you feel your soul exit your body. “this isn’t real. he’s ai.”

“you think ai could get the sweat bead rolling down those things?” her other finger points to his disgustingly well-developed chest, “dude. he’s gotta teach naked the next time we see him.”

“stop that!” you groan, grabbing a pillow to shove your face into. your hair’s a mess, your cheeks feel like they’re going to fall off and run away, and sooha’s enjoying every single second of it. “i’m going to die. it’s over. i can’t look at him the same after i’ve seen all this.”

“why? shouldn’t this motivate you?” your best friend turns her phone off, satisfied at the amount of info you two have dug up. two things were learnt today — one, your biology professor is sexy as fuck (confirmed) — and two, he is available. “he’s free game now, [name]. do not let this opportunity slip through those greedy fingers.”

“are you forgetting he is literally our teacher?” you speak, muffled by fabric. “i can’t fuck our teacher—and even if he wasn’t our teacher, his ego’s still huge, and i’m not trying to date a narcissist.”

somewhere, professor nishimura is probably drinking tea and highlighting articles, completely unaware that his students have just discovered he has the body of a greek god.

the pillow drops to your lap, exposing your flushed face. “how the fuck do i look at him in the eye now?”

“bet he’d like that, huh?” sooha cackles, and you know it then with the way your stomach does that backflip thing: you are beyond fucked.

─────────────────────────

IT’S FRIDAY.

“next question.”

you’re sitting next to him.

on the expensive leather couch across from his desk, you see papers sprawled over the glass coffee table, textbooks flipped open to colour-coded pages — and still, the only thing you can focus on is the dull warmth in your belly from brushing shoulders with your professor. an empty coffee-stained mug sits at the centre, surrounded by books.

“you don’t have any more questions about this topic?”

your knees brush once against each other. the heat radiating off his thighs and through his black, ironed slacks make you endlessly nervous.

“i’ve been… watching your lectures. they help,” you mutter, eyes trained on the drawings of arteries laid beneath your fingers. “i don’t know why i didn’t do it earlier.”

professor nishimura chuckles momentarily, his elbows resting on his thighs as he leans forward. the smell of his shampoo hits you, a crashing wave against your nostrils, and all it does is make your heart thump.

“no wonder you’ve been struggling,” he sighs, teasing you ever so slightly. “you haven’t been listening to me as often as you need to.”

“well, yeah.” you reply dryly, throat refusing to let anything but a squeak out. for some odd reason, being back here always makes you choke up. “i just… didn’t realise how helpful it’d be.”

“i don’t spend 2 hours recording useless videos, [name],” professor nishimura’s weight leaning back into the sofa causes the leather to creak.

you swallow, shifting your notes just to have something to anchor your hands. the sound of him settling behind you shouldn’t affect you, but it does — a low, warm reminder that he’s close enough for the air to feel different.

“i didn’t say they were useless,” you murmur, hoping your voice doesn’t tremor enough to show how tight your chest is. “i just haven’t had the time.”

“mm..” professor nishimura purrs lowly, deep voice rumbling through his chest. “most students don’t. they still do well.”

your jaw clenches. “well, i’m not like other students, am i?”

“that’s the first thing you’ve managed to answer right today,” professor nishimura murmurs, draping an arm across the leather backrest. “been sleeping at all? you’re slower than usual. you weren’t this lagged yesterday evening.”

“i’m doing fine, thanks,” you provide no excuses, straightforward with your responses — you sense the tension in his voice, and oddly enough, the care hiding behind the nagging. “i’ve had coffee.”

“you know that’s not good for you. coffee doesn’t replace sleep,” professor nishimura continues. “must i tell you that, too?”

you sigh, feeling his eyes burning through the back of your skull. you shift in your seat, conscious of every movement, knowing he’s leaned back to watch.

“i don’t need you nagging.”

the shift is immediate. his jaw tightens, his eyebrow raising as he repeats your words, “i’m just observing.”

“well, i’m old enough,” you mutter, flipping through your notes, ignoring how he’s leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees again. the room is painfully quiet, silence ringing in your ears, tension floating thick in the air like it wanted to taunt you. “i don’t need to be observed.”

“[name], you may talk to your friends this way, but you asked me for help.” his tone remains steady, reminding you that he isn’t getting as worked up as you are. for some reason, it makes you even more irritated. you freeze mid-page flip, feeling him watch you, every twitch of your fingers with the kind of attention that makes your heart bang against your ribcage. “so this is my help.”

“there’s a difference between helping and hovering,” you scoff, “you act like you’re so much older and wiser than me, it’s so fucking annoying—”

seeing professor nishimura every evening had it’s downsides. two days ago, you’d just discovered his influencer persona, and every night since then you’d been scrolling through his posts and watching his highlights silently, trying to uncover a mystery you didn’t know existed.

he’s not that much older than you, clearly. no wife, no kids, no mystery gap in his posts that indicate he’d left to go on a soul-searching experimental trip to gain wisdom. just pure, unfiltered genius that he’s been praised for ever since he was in his teens — no mistaking where his voluptuous ego came from.

“what on earth are you talking about?”

his expression shifts ever so slightly: those eyebrows, once relaxed and calm, now knit together in something similar to calculation, like he’s trying to guess what you’ll say before you even think of it. his lips part, then pressing together in a thin line once again. “you looked me up.”

“everyone does,” you say a llittle too quickly. “you’re literally public—”

silence hangs in the air, thick and impenetrable. his gaze doesn’t avert. it’s unreadable, and when he speaks, it’s low with a new kind of calm that eats away at you, making you feel guilty for ever snapping at him; “could you tell me how my age is relevant to this conversation?”

in this stillness, your throat refuses to open up, a giant ball forming where your voice is supposed to be. it’s painfully clear that you’ve crossed a line, and professor nishimura isn’t having any of it.

“you come in my office every day, unfocused and exhausted, drinking coffee like it solves anything at all. am i supposed to accept that?”

“accept what? i asked you for help, so just give it to me,” you scoff, throwing the paper onto the coffee table. you turn around partially, enough to catch the bewildered look on his face. “stop acting like—”

“like i don’t see how sloppy you’re getting? it’s your final, and you’re not taking care of yourself.”

the retort dies on your tongue, dissolving, and instead you’re left staring at the scattered papers on the table with a tight jaw. your pulse drums in your ears, blood thumping, and all you can think about is how he’s right — and how much you hate that he says it like he’s genuinely worried.

the room feels too small for this. for the both of you.

“i know.”

“then we’re done for tonight,” professor nishimura states, hands on his thighs, beginning to stand up. “go home and rest. it’s late. i have plans, too, so it’s better for the both of us.”

the sudden pull-back startles you. he doesn’t even tell you to get out — just says to go home, rest, like your health was a priority to him.

he begins to walk back to his desk, turning his back to you, taking a mug out from his drawer. you watch him, silent, as he brings the cup to his coffee machine, the same one you drank from earlier into the session. you scoff, beginning to gather your things, annoyed with the way he doesn’t even try to hide it — he doesn’t have plans. he just wants you to listen to him.

“i still have three chapters, you know.”

“you think you’ll retain any of it?” professor nishimura’s back is still turned to you, and your eyes train on the slow drip of espresso that falls into his mug. his shirt is tight on him, rustling as he tucks his hands into his pockets, still not looking back. “you won’t.”

“that’s not your call—”

“you asked for my help. this is it,” he repeats again, and all it does is make you want to lunge at him and punch his stupidly pretty face. one of his hands reach for the mug, fingers looping around the handle, bringing it to his lips. “get home safe. come back when you’re able to stay awake for more than an hour.”

and when you step out of his office, books in hand, you realise the flush on your face is far too unprofessional for whatever that was; the warmth in your cheeks lingers, stubborn, betraying you each time you replay the way he looked at you like he was disappointed, worried.

perhaps what was even more terrifying was that you couldn’t name what you saw. he looked over his shoulder, face only three quarters visible, soft and glassy eyes with his eyebrows knit together. you tried to open your mouth, force yourself to snap back, or to thank him for today, but nothing comes out.

the small pit in your stomach is even worse — too familiar, too much like the quiet ache that follows a lover’s quarrel, that strange mixture of wanting to leave and wanting to turn back.

you walk down the hall anyway, pretending your pulse isn’t still skipping, pretending the air doesn’t still feel different around you, when even he can sense that it is.

─────────────────────────

TWO MORNINGS LATER, ON A SUNDAY, you’re without coffee, eyes puffy from a long night’s rest.

you faintly remember stumbling into your apartment, eyes threatening to shut any moment — you were about to doze off on the short walk to your dorm hall, blinking slowly, feet dragging against the concrete, cold air biting your cheeks. you fell asleep on the couch, woke up at four, and crawled to bed.

right now, you’re back in this god forsaken building. it was part of professor nishimura’s study regimen: only one day of the weekend should be used to study, because then, your brain can do a ‘true reset’ before lessons begin on monday. no baggage from the previous week, kind of tricking your mind into thinking everything’s going to be fine and that the workload wasn’t actually all too bad.

no. it was still bad, because one) you were still pissed off at professor nishimura, and two) you don’t have a sugary caffeinated drink to keep you going.

it’s 10 am, and by now, you’d be on the way to get your usual order — that little trip always made you look forward to something, like a sick reward system for studying nine hours a day. your psych professor would’ve called it conditioning, but you still hate studying, coffee or no coffee.

your hand reaches for the metal door handle, teeth biting the inside of your cheek before you push it open. you wonder momentarily why you couldn’t just suggest a zoom meeting — you’re sure he must have had some stupid plans, cafe hopping and whatnot, with his stupid friends, drinking stupid coffee that he’d nagged at you for—

“[name],” professor nishimura’s voice is calm, like always. you don’t realise you’ve been staring at the floor until you look up, meeting his annoyingly gorgeous face. he isn’t wearing his glasses today. “you’re early.”

“i’m prepared today.” you mumble, but knowing him, he would’ve heard it loud and clear.

nevertheless, he doesn’t give you a response. just a raised eyebrow and slow blinks, like he understands why you’re upset, but not enough to apologise.

the usual routine follows: you put your bag down on the couch, sit yourself down into the leather cushions, unzip your bag and take your study materials out. professor nishimura doesn’t sit down immediately, instead heading for the small kitchenette in a corner of his office, where his coffee is; you wonder if he’ll make you a cup, or drink one just to taunt you.

your eyes follow his movements. you realise he’s dressed much more casually today — if you didn’t know him, you could’ve mistaken him for a student — wearing a hoodie and jeans that you know he planned for his instagram feed. it almost makes you giggle. he rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, reaching for an electric kettle in the cupboard below.

of course the man drinks tea.

you try your best to shake the irritation off, instead redirecting your focus to the array of papers underneath you. the sounds of water filling the kettle almost make you doze off, and all you manage to think about is how you wish you had a big cup of warm coffee next to you, up until the point professor nishimura sets a mug down on the table, nudging it towards you.

you blink once. twice. look up, and he’s holding one too.

“don’t fight it,” he takes a slow sip, one hand in his hoodie’s pocket, another clasped around the mug handle. “it’s herbal. it’ll help your nerves.”

and just like that, he’s got you doing that stupid stomach-flipping thing.

“thank you,” you mutter quietly, delicate fingers wrapping around the mug like it was the finest china, careful not to let the tea tip over the rim. “professor.”

“it’s the weekend, and i’m off the clock,” he says, “riki is fine. i’m barely older than you, remember?”

you feel your face heat just at that. it’s lighthearted, not meant to judge you, but it still induces that feeling of wanting to crawl under a rock and die. you can practically hear the smugness in his voice, his smirk hiding behind that mug. “right. sorry about ye—”

“no,” he interrupts gently, lowering the mug from his lips. “you were stressed. i get it.”

it’s odd how easy your heart calms and how fast that pit in your stomach closes up, almost as fast as it opened two days ago. “still. i shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

professor nishimura — or riki — shrugs, eyes lingering on you a milisecond too long. “i’m not going to give you a detention slip for being angry. you’re in not high school anymore, [name]. we’re both adults, and i’m telling you — i get it.”

you take another careful sip. it warms you up, letting the ice cold air from outside dissipate in your body, heat spreading all over. it tastes earthy, soothing in the way warm coffee never manages to be, and when your muscles start to loosen and your breathing gets slower, you know you’ll have to quit caffeine.

“you do this for all your students?” you ask, half-teasing, half-curious. “tea service included?”

riki chuckles, smiling at you from where he stands. “don’t get used to it.”

“i might,” you lean back into the leather cushions, one knee folding over the other. you watch as he leans onto his desk, working to finish his cup. “on a weekend, too. i must be important.”

“no one’s home to enjoy it anyway,” he shrugs. “keep all my tea here. helps me stay awake while grading.”

you hum softly, letting that settle. something about the way he says it — casual, unguarded — makes you glance around the office again. you’re reminded of the neatness. the lack of personal clutter. no framed photos turned face-down, no childish drawings taped to the walls. just books, papers, him. you wonder if his house is just as empty as this, or if he even cares that it is.

“not lonely?”

he raises an eyebrow at you before shaking his head. “no. too busy to feel it. did i give that impression?”

you put your mug down, eyebrows knitting and gears turning, really considering your words now. “i don’t know. you’ve got that tired look on your face, and you’re responsible. and you nag like crazy.”

“i told you i was observing—”

“it’s the same,” you smile lazily at him from across the room, and you watch how your professor’s lips twitch, almost breaking into a soft smile. “you give off married man.”

he chuckles, shaking his head again, and something about the moment feels softer now. a misconception quietly corrected without either of you making a big deal of it, and it makes you appreciate how calm of a man he is, all over again.

“well then, now that that’s been cleared up,” riki pushes himself off his desk and gestures toward your notes. “finish your tea. then we’ll start with the chapters you keep avoiding. page 232.”

“how—”

“i observe.”

it’s striking, the smile you see. unguarded, nothing like the polite curve he wears in lectures. it softens him, makes him look younger, less composed, less like a man built entirely out of credentials, and for once: you see someone you could know.

─────────────────────────

NISHIMURA RIKI REMEMBERS HIS FIRST LESSON, at the age of somewhere between ten to thirteen: how to be alone, and how to pretend like you’re good at doing so.

it wasn’t difficult. it’d been confusing, yes, especially when he’d seen his peers from middle school posting instagram stories of them at internet cafe’s — or on late night convenience store runs, or playing a game of basketball at three in the morning. in the beginning, there was an influx of questions in his mind: how, and why is my life so different?

he’d pick up his phone, tapping away at his screen, scanning the once familiar faces of friends he’d long let go of: after middle school, it just seemed like a good idea to be homeschooled, after numerous ‘complaints’ that he was far too advanced for his current grade.

at some point, a few weeks after he turned sixteen, he’d thrown every toy and video game away.

it was clear he was never like other children. it wasn’t like his parents moulded him into the studious genius he was: perhaps that was the most painful part, the fact that this was just him, and that he had no one else to pin this curse on. exceptionality became an excuse — from classrooms, friendships, normalcy.

don’t get him wrong, though. he wasn’t unhappy — there was, in his mind, nothing to complain about. riki had never known a life outside of this: outside of tightly packed schedules engineered for maximum efficiency, outside of a fixed circadian rhythm he followed with near-religious devotion. this structure was not a constraint to him; it was proof that things were working, that nothing was slipping through the cracks.

he guesses this is why he hasn’t shut you out yet. you show up every damn day, at the same time, asking the same questions to the same chapters he’d been studying for years: you are familiar, predictable, consistent in every sense of the word.

riki will tell himself it’s convenience. you fit nicely into his schedule, slotted between office hours, grading, meetings, between the balanced meals he eats at the same time, every day, every night. you don’t disrupt him, don’t demand change — except you do.

you do disrupt him.

you’re lingering by the door, fingers fidgeting with your bag strap as you ask one last question. riki answers without hesitation, even though there’s a meeting across campus he absolutely needs to get to. his explanation stretches longer than it should, his voice gentler than necessary, and he only realises the time once you finally nod, satisfied.

he tells himself it’s nothing — that this is what he’s meant to do. that answering questions thoroughly is part of the job, it’s what he was hired for, and it’s what all his students love about him.

still, he keeps two mugs out instead of one: not because it’s efficient, but because he knows you’ll be back. when the cashier at the cafeteria charges him double for a sandwich, he doesn’t correct them. he doesn’t think about it at all, actually, not until later; when the receipt is crumpled in his pocket and your laugh replays in his head, your teeth flashing in a way that makes him sick.

“yeah. keep going,” riki reassures you, laid back in his own chair as you sit further away, on his (or yours, because you refuse to sit on the tiny chair across his desk again) beloved leather couch — sunlight seeps in through the curtains, bathing the room in a familiarly golden warmth — he’s not sure if the tightening in his chest is because of the way the light lands on your hair, or the way your eyes get sparkly in the sun when you turn your head just right.

it’s tuesday again, and he’s exhausted. you’re ruining him.

“circle of willis…” you mumble, tucking your knees into your chest. your arms hug them close, socks slipping off the smooth leather material. “base of the brain, ring of blood vessels. if one’s blocked—”

“rest is relatively unaffected, preventing ischemia,” riki interjects, calmly, eyes still trained on the pen he’s been spinning in between his fingers.

you blink once, twice. “i was going to say that.”

he doesn’t even realise he’s uttered your notes word for word, not until the silence stretches a second too long — his pen stops spinning, before his eyes drift towards your wide-eyed ones.

“sorry,” riki apologises, only after he’s scanned your face and realised that he was indeed not meant to do that. “go on.”

and you do — you finish the chapter, and he answers every remaining question lingering in your mind, being careful not to do whatever the fuck he just did again. you stretch your arms above your head, a quiet sigh leaving your lips and all nishimura riki can think about is how tired you look, or how your lips curve into that soft, gentle smile after you yawn, and how it makes him sick to the stomach that he can’t put his hand on your jaw and feel it first-hand on his lips.

“i’ll see you tomorrow,” you wave, and he hears the keychains on your bag jingle obnoxiously loud as you rush back to your dorm. riki wonders why you insist on staying so late when you know you have classes early the next morning, but he could ask himself the same thing, so he shoves the thought to the back of his mind and calls it a night.

he’ll do the same thing tomorrow. the day after. the week that follows. as long as he can predict you, there’s nothing to panic about.

─────────────────────────

“YOU LIKE HER?”

once those sacred words leave park sunghoon’s lips, nishimura riki knows he’s done for — because once someone else sees it, he knows he’s messed up, for real.

sunghoon holds a glass of red wine in his hand as he sits casually on the L-shaped sofa. a furry pillow lays on his lap, and his phone is somewhere in the kitchen; they’ve been drinking for a while, and things were getting a little more honest as the evening sun sank further into the ground.

“that’s inappropriate,” riki mutters, taking a slow sip of his own glass. he’s sitting on the other end of the couch, half-lidded eyes watching the screen of his phone, waiting for it to light up — an email from you. an impromptu text to meet at the cafeteria to share a decaf. or you’d tell him you aced the mini quiz he assigned you last week. “i don’t mix with students.”

“you don’t mix with anyone.” sunghoon snickers, head tilting, as if he was observing the way riki’s expression shifts just slightly at the mention of his feelings. “and i don’t see what’s so wrong with it. she’s not a high schooler.”

“her age isn’t the issue. we could’ve gone to school together — but still. i’m her mentor.”

sunghoon’s lips press into a thin line. “you know what jake would think of this?”

riki rolls his eyes, a grin still creeping on his face nonetheless. jake was an entirely different story. “i don’t want to know what that guy has to say about my love life.”

“love life?” sunghoon cackles, eyes narrowing in his triumph, almost spilling the expensive wine all over riki’s expensive furniture. he tenses up just watching. “so we’re talking love, now?”

“that’s obviously not what i meant.”

you see, the truth was that nishimura riki was discovering things about himself that he didn’t know how to… organise. it was difficult to name that stupid warmth blooming in his chest, or how lightheaded he felt when your soft hands would brush his whenever he sat next to you.

he never had time for those things. he’ll never be able to scribble your name next to his in blue ink, in a big lopsided heart, or to gift you a jelly ring because he thought your hair was cute that day. it feels juvenile, almost embarrassing — like the crushes his classmates once described, the ones he never had the time or patience for — something he’s late to experience.

and still, now, of all times, his mind keeps reaching for you: uninvited, persistent, and entirely out of order.

sunghoon watches him in silence, like he knows better than to rush a man who’s spent his whole life keeping his emotions in neat, labeled compartments. the wine sits untouched in riki’s hand, now forgotten, his thumb tracing slow circles against the glass stem as if familiar repetition might organize the thoughts crowding his head.

“you’re thinking too hard,” sunghoon says finally, voice softer than before. serious sunghoon usually meant a big deal.

riki lets out a quiet breath through his nose. “i don’t know how else to think.”

the confession earns a soft smile. “i know.”

the problem now wasn’t temptation. it was recognition, acknowledgement. accepting that the way riki’s body reacts to you is not something normal, or something passing. the way his focus fractures at the tiniest things — the crinkles in your face as you concentrate, the creases between your brows, or the way you hold his expensive mugs like it meant everything to you, when he couldn’t care less if you dropped them in pieces.

he’s kept his desires locked in a box for a while. ever since that first email, he should’ve deleted it and thrown the key into the nearest bin. now, he’s left to deal with them trying to pry their way out.

“i’ve felt this way for a bit,” riki admits. “hasn’t gone away.”

sunghoon hums. “holding yourself back? what a gentleman.”

riki scoffs, but there’s no real humor in it. he stares ahead, eyes unfocused, seeing not the apartment but the ghost of your presence — the way you lean forward when you’re engaged, the way your voice drops when you’re unsure. small, human details that shouldn’t matter this much to him, yet finds himself remembering.

“i don’t want to be careless,” he says. “i can’t be careless.”

sunghoon nods slowly. “just don’t beat yourself up for nothing, riki.”

that lands somewhere deep, loosening something tight and knotted in his chest. riki has always been good at restraint. discipline, or just plain denial dressed up as professionalism — but he’s begun to crack, ever since that first evening together, when his fingertips laid against your pulse.

he felt you. the very thing that gave you life, he touched.

“i’m not reckless.”

sunghoon looks across the couch, despite knowing the statement wasn’t meant for him. that’s precisely the reason he doesn’t respond just yet, instead, reaching for the wine bottle on the marbled coffee table — pouring himself more wine.

riki watches the dark red settle, thinking about how carefully he’s always moved through the world — measured steps, clean lines, no wasted motion. recklessness implies impulse. chaos. things he’s trained himself out of, much faster than his peers.

and yet: he hasn’t trained himself not to care about you.

“i know you’re not, riki.”

this isn’t right. he knows he shouldn’t, and yet all he thinks of is how much he wants to. it’s been weeks of painful restraint, sitting by your side, taking in your scent, unintentionally registering every cute habit of yours, tucking them away in a quiet drawer of his mind that keeps all the important stuff — like deadlines. conferences. flights. dinners with people he can’t afford to displease.

you weren’t supposed to belong there.

“fuck… when did it get this bad?” sunghoon scoffs through his nose, the sound sharp, amused, and just a little exasperated. his eyes narrow at riki, who has picked up his phone only to lower it moments later, the blank screen a disappointment at the absence of your name. “last i checked, you were content staying single.”

two evenings ago.

you were holed up in his office, the night stretching around the harsh glow of his desk lamp. it was nearing midnight. he had dinner plans with jake and heeseung, a rare night off from meetings and other callings, but instead, he found himself lingering in the quiet space between his books and your scattered notes. he remembered stepping out around seven, phone in hand, muttering about ‘taking a call,’ though his thoughts had never really left the room.

heeseung said it was alright, but jake wouldn’t let it go. riki supposes he had a reason not to.

he noticed how your shoulders tensed when he returned. the way you shivered from december’s harsh, freezing nights — it seemed like your skin was much thinner than his, because he felt fine. perhaps it was the way you begged him to go harder on the revision; he warned you that you’d be overworked, but he promised he’d be there, nonetheless.

you tucked your arms around yourself, avoiding his worried gaze from across the room. his shoes tap against the floor as he makes his way towards you — quicker than he could admit himself.

“you’re cold,” he murmured, reaching for his jacket hanging on his office chair. he pulls it off in one swift motion, holding it to you.

“it’s okay,” but you didn’t fight him when he draped the fabric over your shoulders, anyway. riki watched you loosen up — almost melting into the warmth of his clothes, and it all seemed so mundane to him then — until he realised his heart wouldn’t stop doing that thudding thing, and his cheeks wouldn’t stop burning.

by the time the clock struck one in the morning, your eyelids had begun to droop, the tea hastening your descent into drowsiness. before long, your legs curled up against your chest, his jacket wrapped loosely around you, and your head found its way to a place it shouldn’t — resting gently on his shoulder.

he stayed frozen, most of the night. barely allowed himself to breathe. riki felt it all: the warmth, your weight, the prick of your hair at his neck that almost made him twitch. he fought hard not to wake you.

the night was outlined by the faint scent of winter and tea and uncapped highlighters lingering in your hair. gentle breaths that he swore sounded like his name. he felt like he was hallucinating. he was spiralling like a teenage boy all over again, even if he didn’t even really know what that meant himself.

your breath hitched a few times, and you stirred quite a bit in your sleep. riki found himself tripping over the tiniest things, about how you smack your lips even in your sleep, or how your fist balled into his shirt when he thought he could try to pull away.

the next morning, your head rested against his chest, and his heart thudded relentlessly in his ribcage. his back ached from the hard armrest and lack of pillows, but time seemed suspended, the soft rhythm of your breathing brushing his collarbone as if you were exactly where you were meant to be.

everything collapsed then — every wall, every boundary he had meticulously built over the years. he knew it was over when his hand traced your hair once, twice, then resting lightly on the small of your back. you woke a few hours later, around nine, still too drowsy to remember how you ended up there, or just how nicely nishimura riki fit beneath you.

“oh, i must’ve dozed off—shit, i’m so sorry,” you yawned, knuckles rubbing against your eyelids as riki simply watches you sit upright. “did you have plans today, professor? oh my god—”

the title made him twitch. you didn’t notice it, thankfully. he called off every study session after that. two days of what was meant to be productive revision — all because he can’t keep himself in check. you thought he was just sick.

nishimura riki’s fate was sealed. he was falling, and park sunghoon could see it: from the way he loosens at the mention of you, to how that genius persona of his starts to slip. for once, he doesn’t know any of the answers, and all of them at the same time.

“you got this handled, don’t you?” sunghoon mutters, voice low and hushed, as if he knew how heavily this was weighing on riki’s shoulders.

riki doesn’t respond immediately, instead reaching for another sip, now a practiced motion, a way to quiet his mind. his dark eyes lock on the floor, tracing the wood patterns with a tight jaw, and silence only stretches the distance between the two men.

sunghoon almost shivers.

“sure,” the blonde mutters in response, head slightly turning to ignore the way sunghoon’s line of sight. he hates how piercing it is — sunghoon always had that effect, like he knew riki’s thoughts before he could word them — but right now, he’s looking away, as if that’d hide anything important, or anything that sunghoon couldn’t already see.

─────────────────────────

THE WEEK THAT FOLLOWS IS PAINFULLY MEDIOCRE.

when you step into his office for the first time in 3 days, it’s already warm, and there’s no tea waiting for you on the coffee table — he’s sitting at his desk, glasses resting low on the bridge of his nose, fingers flipping through papers you haven’t seen before.

he doesn’t bother to look up, “[name].”

nothing’s wrong. this is how it was supposed to be. class, lunch, class, study — you leave before dinner, almost always at his discretion, and under the pretense of ‘meetings’ and ‘papers for other classes’ when you know he only teaches two. it feels like a lie that you can’t confront, because it’s not like you know the truth.

you didn’t know much at all, actually.

perhaps that’s why you settle into this — accepting it when he doesn’t comment on your posture, your tired eyes, or the can of coffee you throw into his office bin.

you do your work, and he does his. that’s how it’s been, and how it should’ve continued.

your knees still brush under the table. the warmth doesn’t make professor nishimura pull away — almost as if the desk hides his own hypocrisy from his eyes. sometimes, he’ll lean over your shoulder, the mixed scent of cologne and tea leaves making you ease into him, but he’d pull away before you ever brushed the fabric of his shirt.

you’d look up from your notes and catch him staring at you. pretty, brown irises that barely leave your tired figure — his arms are folded, voice flat and monotone instead of soft, curious, and everything you’d known him to be in the past few weeks.

you raise an eyebrow, because that’s all you can do.

“you’re getting better,” he mutters, leaning back in his chair as you ramble on about action potential initiation, sodium and potassium pumps, practically reciting word for word. “we’ll meet less often.”

he doesn’t even leave you room to negotiate.

it’s almost ridiculous how much you don’t care about this. you’re talking just to talk — just to feel like his eyes are on you, like before — it’s oddly humiliating, and the feeling claws at your chest uncomfortably; you tell yourself it’s just the weather getting chillier, or a bad start to the day that led to an even worse week, and that’s why you’re tripping over something as ridiculous as this: your professor, acting like your fucking professor.

“thank you,” your fingers twitch slightly. even if professor nishimura notices it, he doesn’t say a thing.

─────────────────────────

YOU BROUGHT COFFEE ALONG in hopes of waking yourself up, but the lecture hall is still too quiet for your mind not to doze off.

professor nishimura is speaking into the microphone, his voice resonating through the large, brightly lit room. the lights above buzz, and there’s chatter all around: you can’t remember what he asked everyone to do, and at the same time, can’t be bothered enough to ask.

your head leans into your hand, chin propped up, the words of everyone around you starting to sound like a foreign language. everything’s priming you for a nap — slightly warm, sunlight slicing through the windows, catching dust in tiny specks. you’re seated in the sixth row, far enough for professor nishimura not to notice (you can only hope).

“so, uh,” you hear in your left ear, “[name], right?”

you blink slowly. you hadn’t bothered to learn the names of anyone in this class other than jiwon and sooha — for a minute, you wonder if it’s one of them trying to do one of their stupid frat guy impressions. so you turn, your neck muscles sore from a long night of staying up the night prior, grimacing when you feel the tension deep in your posture.

so much for taking care of yourself.

“yeah,” you say, but it almost comes out as a grumble. you don’t bother to apologise. you try not to tilt your head too far, eyes flicking towards the boy leaning in beside you — he’s grinning, a little too confident for a guy of his nature, hair messy from running his weirdly large hands through them. “were we supposed to do something?”

“i didn’t come yesterday, and i was just wondering if you could send me your lab notes,” he continues. “i had practice. super important.”

the words come out like a script, rehearsed in it’s tone, but he doesn’t seem embarrassed. not one bit.

“uhuh,” you nod, slowly and deliberately. “i’ll send them. your number?”

he freezes for a heartbeat, then gasps — a little too loud, a little too dramatic. you blink, genuinely caught off guard. then his smirk settles in, that ridiculous half-serious, half-playful expression you’ve seen on one too many guys before: “i thought you’d never ask.”

you laugh quietly at the absurdity, more out of habit than anything. he takes it as an invitation, of course, and before the end of class, right after you’ve sent him your notes, he slides a link to some random tiktok across your screen.

you glance at it, stare at the preview image for a moment, and promptly roll your eyes. you’re too tired, too uninterested, to bother reading the subtle flirtatious undertones in his posture, the way he leans in just a little too eagerly, or the smug satisfaction on his face when you glance back in his direction — like he was waiting for your approval, another laugh, another anything.

anything that you can’t give. not to him.

it’s not long before professor nishimura finishes his lecture, the chatter of closing notebooks and rustling papers filling the room. you shift in your seat, feeling your shoes press against the floor as you stretch your legs beneath the desk. sooha isn’t here today, you notice, and jiwon’s already packing up, hands moving faster than yours — she’s ready to leave long before the lecture actually ends.

you look around, and for a moment everything and everyone feels like a timelapse, and you’re the only one in slow motion. notebooks slam shut, pens click, laptops shoved into backpacks. you remain seated, letting everyone pass you, and it feels like reliving a memory. muffled voices of your classmates fill the room, underscoring the strange lag you feel.

your head rests against the table, ear to the wood. you see professor nishimura in your field of view, and somehow, even with his glasses low on his face and his fringe covering most of his expression, you can feel his eyes burning holes through you.

“so,” he mutters, walking up the carpeted stairs to your row. it’s just you two now. “you don’t need my help anymore, hm?”

his words make you sit up. “what?”

“exchanged numbers. studying together?” his voice is low but firm, not accusatory, as if he was begging you to prove him wrong, despite his neutral face. “with him?”

“it’s just notes,” you scoff, a tad bit more defensive than you intended it to be. “he missed the previous lab.”

“he was here.” he corrects. you can’t help but sigh. “you should watch who you’re studying with. he’s barely paid attention in class as it is—“

“still, was or wasn’t. i can manage myself. i don’t need your permission.”

professor nishimura straightens slightly, hands resting on the edge of the desk, gaze steady. “i’m not talking about permission,” he says evenly. “i’m pointing out that your focus matters. you want to keep progressing — i’ve guided you this far. that hasn’t changed.”

you frown, arms tightening across your chest, eyes tearing away from him to look at the chalkboard in front of the room. it’s half erased, perfect diagrams smeared in white. “so now…i have to justify every interaction to you?”

“no,” he replies. “i’m not policing you. but i will call out distractions when they matter. that’s part of my role. your attention isn’t something to waste — you know that.”

you turn to stare at him for a moment, searching for some trace of softness, some hint that he’s overstepping, only to find there isn’t one. just the steady weight of someone who expects attention, precision, and respect — nothing like the man you got to know, everything like the professor you’ve always seen.

“so you push me away, and now you want me to stay focused on you?”

professor nishimura doesn’t flinch. he meets your gaze evenly, calmly, unshaken despite his absurd words. “if i’m the only non-distraction, yes.”

you feel heat clawing up your neck, reaching all the way up to your ears. you can’t bring yourself to look at him, turning away once more. “what the hell is wrong with you? why do you think you can just act like this?”

“act like what?”

ironically enough, that’s the line that gets you. your head snaps back in his direction, and you’re quick to rise to your feet; you sling your bag over your shoulder, ready to leave, but he takes one step to the side to block your exit.

“i’m asking you a question.”

you scoff, sharp and breathless, the sound cutting through the quiet lecture hall. it comes out through your nose before you can stop it, bitter and disbelieving, and it hurts him more than he can show — his eyebrows knit together, glassy eyes staring into yours, searching for something.

“you don’t get to do this,” you say. your voice shakes despite your best effort, and it makes you want to crawl into a hole and never come out — but the reaction it gets from him is raw, his shoulders stiffening, fists clenched by his sides. “you don’t get to decide who i talk to, or what’s a distraction, or—”

you gesture vaguely between the two of you, anger clawing its way up your throat. you don’t manage to say anything more. he looks at you, still expecting.

you shove him out of the way, and riki doesn’t stumble backwards — before you’ve gone too far, he’s got his hands clasped around your wrist. his jaw tightens, muscles tensing underneath his skin, eyes low and zeroed on your fingers.

you brace yourself for anger, for reprimand, for the cold snap of authority sliding back into place. anything to prove that who you were talking to was someone you didn’t know.

it doesn’t happen.

his grip loosens almost immediately, like he’s realised what he’s doing a half-second too late. his thumb slips away first, then the rest of his fingers, hands dropping back to his sides as if they’ve burned him.

“don’t,” riki says, low. not a command. a warning — to himself, more than to you. “i don’t want you to get the idea that i want to control you.”

you shake his hands off. “then don’t fucking give me it.”

silence stretches between you, sharp and unforgiving. his jaw works, once, like he’s biting back something that would only make it worse. when he finally speaks again, his voice is steadier than it has any right to be, and all it does is make you want to scream.

you look up at him, glass-eyed, lashes wet — and something twists in nishimura riki’s chest. he assumes it’s his heart, even though the teacher in him knows better; it’s just anxiety, he tells himself, a physical response he’s long since learned to name and adapt to.

it’s definitely not his heart breaking at the thought of hurting you. definitely not. hearts don’t break.

no. he’d be dead, on the floor, if his heart really broke.

he’ll repeat this in his head for as long as it takes.

“you’re right,” riki mumbles. it unsettles you more than if he’d argued.

he steps back, deliberately, putting space between you like it costs him something (it does). his hands curl into fists at his sides, then relax again. “you can go,” he finally adds.

you hesitate — just for a second — and you hate yourself for it. he notices. of course he does. a man of his genius can’t help but see everything.

his eyes flicker, briefly, before he looks away, fixing his attention on the desk like it’s the safest thing in the room.

you leave without another word.

he doesn’t stop you.

─────────────────────────

WHEN YOU STEP INTO HIS OFFICE THE NEXT MORNING, expecting cruel, impatient silence, nishimura riki remains neutral.

his glasses sit on the edge of his nose bridge, and he’s grading while you study — a rare sight, considering he always manages his time well. it’s kind of funny how you’ve never seen him in the process of it, considering how much time you spend together.

it hits you, embarrassingly fast, that you’ve never actually seen him in the middle of anything other than teaching you despite how many hours you’ve spent here. the furrow of his brow, the way he taps the end of his pen against the paper when he’s annoyed, the quiet sighs he lets slip when something displeases him — it’s all strangely human.

nothing you haven’t known before. it’s just that with all the distance, you forgot.

you hover by the door for a second, unsure if you should sit, wondering if yesterday carved a line between you that you aren’t allowed to cross anymore. you’re sure he can see you awkwardly leaning against the doorframe, so you end up pushing yourself off of it, feet crossing the threshold of his office anyway.

“you’re late,” he says without looking up. “where were you?”

you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, taking your seat on the familiar couch flushed against the window. the silence that follows is different — soft around the edges, still thick with tension, with two people pretending they didn’t almost tear each other apart the day before.

minutes pass. his pen scratches against paper. you start unpacking your things just to fill the emptiness, and to give your hands something to do.

then, unexpectedly gentle, professor nishimura says, “did you get home alright?”

your head lifts a little. you blink. “mhhhm. just fine.”

the bite in your voice is testing him, and it earns the exact reaction you were looking for: a raised eyebrow, a shift in his weight. “you sure?”

it makes you shiver.

you nod, beginning to flip open your textbooks. even if he notices how anxious you are — he doesn’t say a thing.

before long, you’re hunched over the table, your sticky notes and highlighters all over the place.

you remember when you first decided to take a seat in this empty, cold office. it’s a completely different place, a different time, a different you — his awards and certificates still remain, though — but now there’s two mugs on the shelf, a pen in the cup on his desk that you’re certain he never uses because it’s the wrong weight, and before you can think too hard about how much his office (or him) has changed, professor nishimura’s voice jolts you out of your daydream.

“focus.” his stern voice travels from his desk, the sounds of his keyboard mashing underscoring it. “you’re zoning out.”

“sorry,” you tilt your head back down, hair falling in your face, eyes trying to scan for the word you stopped reading at.

you spend an awfully long time staring at one page, trying to make sense of what was printed. your mind’s still flooding with what-if’s from yesterday — whether that was really all that was meant to be said, if that was what everything boiled down to.

what if this was it?

your eyes move mindlessly, jumping from word to word, restarting paragraphs when a thought gets too loud — barely noticing a weight sinking into the empty space next to you.

your gaze drifts to the pair of shoes next to yours, shiny and professional and expensive in all it’s glory; but when you feel a finger tuck your hair behind your ear, gentle, as if you’d crack if just a little force was behind the motion, they trail upwards to the man next to you.

“you look like you just woke up.”

you snort, unintentionally, feeling the burn of your cheeks and the spinning in your head — this stupid professor of yours always seemed to have that effect.

“what are you doing?”

he mumbles in response, “nothing.”

and perhaps it really was nothing, because he slips back into his work without comment, typing quietly while you sink deeper into the sofa — the hours slide by unnoticed, evening tapping softly against the windows until the room grows too dim.

when he sits back down, your head has already tipped against his shoulder, your notes slipping from your hands, and without thinking — or maybe thinking too much — he reaches for the thin blanket folded at the arm of the couch, draping it over you with a care so practiced and gentle it almost feels like he’s done it a hundred times before.

─────────────────────────

EVERYBODY THINKS YOU JUST KNOW WHEN YOU MEET THE ‘RIGHT ONE’. you’ll ask for advice from friends, siblings, even your parents — but there’s a big chance that they’ll tell you that you’ll eventually know, and that there’s no big sign over someone’s head stating that yes, this is the one for you, come get me!

if only.

you hoped falling in love would be easy. people say that if it’s good for you, it would be, and you’re sure that it’s true to some degree —because things did feel easier with nishimura riki. extremely easy.

studying wasn’t a burden — sleeping wasn’t a chore, nor did it feel like a waste of time or a reason to feel guilty. but now, things were starting to get difficult.

you’re beyond fucked.

“just say you like him,” sooha says, and her voice snaps your eyes open again. you’re staring at the popcorn ceiling of your dorm like it personally wronged you. of course you’re back here — sprawled on your bed, overthinking, while sooha lounges beside you like she’s at a spa. “it’s pretty fucking obvious.”

“i just don’t know if this is okay,” you groan, fingers running through your hair. “can you imagine dating your fucking professor? i could get him in trouble—“

“please,” sooha scoffs, not even looking up from her phone. the little snippets of music that keep changing every ten seconds — she’s definitely deep into her edit rewatches again. “he looks two seconds away from quitting his entire academic career for you.”

the sheets rustle under the weight of your head turning towards her.

“what? you think a fully grown man with a salary and a social life—well, questionable social life—spends every free hour he has tutoring one student?” she side-eyes you, finally pausing her scrolling. “come on. he doesn’t do that because you’re struggling. you’re not that hopeless.”

you chew on your bottom lip. “but—“

“you’re so stupid,” she continues. “he looks at you differently.”

your heart does something in your chest — it’s that familiar warmth nishimura riki always managed to trigger, with his soft hands and low voice, like he was personally crafted to make you fall to your knees.

he doesn’t have that sign on top of his head. he isn’t a guarantee, or a ‘at first sight’ thing, or someone with a ton of pros and no cons. he isn’t the easy, simple kind of right that everyone in your life insists you’d “just know.”

he’s just riki — too confusing, too gentle, too quiet riki — and you’re stuck somewhere between wanting him and being terrified that even thinking of him is the biggest mistake you could make, for both yourself and him.

“everything’s just a mess right now. we’re fine, but it doesn’t even feel fine.” you groan, rolling onto your side so you’re facing sooha. your head settles against your bicep, hair spilling across your face like even it has given up. “i don’t know whether to pretend the past few weeks haven’t been eating me alive, or ask him what we are — because we aren’t even anything. he’s my fucking teacher.”

“this anatomy test is really fucking you up, dude.” sooha sighs, dropping her phone her lap with a soft thud. “like, really bad.”

“i’m being serious,” you insist, voice flattening under the weight of all the thoughts you haven’t said out loud. “every time i see him, it’s like—what the hell are we doing?”

“you know what,” she leans her head back further into your chair. “worst case scenario, you can fuck him once, he gets fired and you never see him again—“

“oh my god.”

sooha looks at you like she genuinely doesn’t know where she messed up. you’re holding a handful of your hair in your fist, ready to pull it out.

“i like him. i fucking like my fucking professor,” you grimace, your hands sliding down to your face. “just put me in a fucking porno already.”

“i think you two would look great,” sooha offers, and all you manage to do is peek at her through your fingers with a look that makes her crack up.

“you’re supposed to say thanks.”

“fuck off!”

─────────────────────────

THIS PARTY WASN’T IN YOUR SCHEDULE.

it’s crowded, you’re brushing shoulders with every 1 in 2 people you pass, and it’s too fucking loud — the music is booming in your ears and the bass makes your legs shake, the lights are too dark, and your glass is empty. you feel out of place, out of body, out of everything.

“heeeelloooo,” sooha waves her hand in your face before you finally snap back into this plane of reality. once she finally has your attention, her fingers clasp around your wrist, dragging you into the huge living room that belonged to jiwon’s parents. “jiwon’s looking for you, and you’re zoning out under the stairs—come on!”

you bite on your bottom lip, stumbling on your feet as sooha moves too much, too fast through the sea of people. the music choice is truly horrible, you realise as you approach the huge speakers sitting on top of the marbled kitchen island.

you told jiwon to put this off until after finals. at least then, you wouldn’t have so much on your mind — but sooha cried out, said you needed a break from studying so much with that beloved professor of yours — and jiwon could only shrug and agree.

it wasn’t a secret, you and nishimura. there was nothing to be secretive about, and so you couldn’t blame anyone when sooha and jiwon begun to piece things together: the late night texts, leaving early in the morning only to come back in the ass crack of dawn. they figured you were just studying non-stop, cause if you were truly sleeping with your professor, they would’ve heard it first.

“fuck, it’s too loud in here—”

someone bumps into you from behind and mutters a slurred apology. it’s enough to make you flinch, and sooha finally releases your wrist once you’re standing in the middle of the living room: the air is thick with smoke and perfume and every cologne to ever exist, the lights dimmed with the occasional flash of purple and pink in uneven bursts. bodies are packed together on the couch, the one with faux fur pillows that are nowhere to be seen, and it reminds you how this place is too expensive to be hosting this many drunk college kids.

jiwon spots you two immediately from behind the kitchen island. she tilts her head, taking a good look at your already obviously irritated expression, and lifts her cup to point at you with one finger. “you okay? you look like you hate it here—”

“i do,” you admit, watching sooha step a feet or two away into the crowd, chatting with a guy you’d seen around the engineering block. you shake your head, unimpressed before anything else. “i told you. we should’ve waited till after finals.”

she hums, unconvinced. “you wouldn’t say this if you weren’t so busy studying.”

“with riki!” sooha snorts, and your head snaps in her direction. the guy with her looks momentarily lost, and you offer an apologetic smile. “oh, sweet, brilliant riki.”

when you shift your gaze back to sooha, she’s barely containing herself.

“what?” sooha still does so, anyway, unrepentant. “it’s not like we don’t all know. you disappear every night, come back half-dead in the mornings, and somehow you’re still calmer than i’ve ever seen you. it’s suspicious.”

jiwon raises her eyebrows in a moment of pleasant surprise. “so that’s why you’re not drinking.”

you look down at your empty glass, remnants of coke zero still sitting unsipped. somewhere between the terrible music and people brushing against your back, your mind is drifting to that familiar blonde head of hair, with eyes so pretty and brows so strict it makes your pulse falter. gentle, even if he looks everything opposite of.

you were wrong about him, and you found that out in the best way possible, but now, you’re in too deep and everyone’s starting to see it too.

“how else am i supposed to get that A?” you sigh, and you practically feel the way sooha and jiwon see right through you. “i can’t fail this. i really, really can’t.”

they accept the half-assed answer. you weren’t going to admit you were in love with your professor half way into a party full of judgy nepo babies; you were too smart for that.

the night stretches on without you, and at some point, sooha disappears entirely. you’d guess she’s busy making out with that guy from earlier, and even in your sour mood, you snicker at the thought. somewhere in the kitchen, you see jiwon chatting with a group of girls that you’ve never seen her hang with before.

you’re hovering at the edge of the living room, your back against the cold wall. your phone feels infinitely heavier in your hands, and the music choice hasn’t improved in the last hour. it’s aggressive, insistent, as if it’s trying to get you to come loose and forget about what’s supposed to be stressing you out.

you bring your phone to your face, the screen lighting up immediately, and you realise it’s too late to text him, and far too early to leave without everyone assuming you’re pissed off.

a guy with a lopsided middle parting stops in front of you. “heeey, pretty. i was gonna get a drink. you want one? saw your cup was empty—”

“no thanks.”

you drift towards the balcony for air instead, pushing past stumbling bodies until the glass door finally slides shut behind you. it’s barely snowing, but it’s obviously getting chilly, the air biting your cheeks and freezing your lungs. it’s relieving, compared to the humid warmth of other people inside.

you lean against the railing, breathing slowly, savouring every second before you anticipate sooha coming to drag you back inside. momentarily, you wonder if riki lived his college days like this — at parties, sitting at the sides, thinking of where else he could be.

just then, your phone buzzes in your hand.

you swallow, fingers tightening around your phone. the cold doesn’t feel as harsh anymore, replaced by an oddly familiar warmth blooming in your chest. you shove your phone into your purse, weight shifting between your feet, unsure of whether to stay or to leave. somewhere behind you, the door slides open and shut again, laughter spilling onto the balcony before being lost to the wind. you don’t turn around.

the glow of headlights cut through the dark, and the slow fall of snow reminds you of how warm it was a month ago, when you were still whining over that one sociology assignment, when you still hated seeing professor nishimura’s face.

and now, you can’t imagine yourself staying away.

you’re already thinking about how he’ll look when he gets here. dark brown coat hugging his broad, tall stature, snow falling on his head. his brows drawn together in that quiet, familiar concern that he knows never to overdo, because he trusts that you’re a smart girl, and the realization stabs you in the stomach then.

you want to see him.

why the hell do you want to see him?

─────────────────────────

SUNDAYS WERE RESERVED FOR YOU, but for some reason, you’re waiting for nishimura riki at twelve thirty in the morning, in freezing temperatures.

you lean against a lamppost, its warm glow spilling over you and carving soft shadows into your face. your scarf is gone, abandoned somewhere inside oh jiwon’s penthouse, probably slung over the back of a dining chair you’ll never be able to identify again. somehow, you’d still made it out here, rubbing at your nose in a futile attempt to keep the frost from biting too hard.

you sniffle, shoulders curling inward, arms wrapped tight around yourself. professor nishimura had been right — you were sensitive to the cold. you just hadn’t noticed how much, not when he’d always been there before, quietly closing windows, handing you his jacket without comment, turning the heater up a notch like it was second nature.

and then, an expensive looking car pulls up, the sound of snow crushing under the tires making your ears perk. you don’t look up immediately, but you know.

the engine cuts, and the door shuts closed — his footsteps crunch against the pavement lined with ice, unhurried but still purposeful, and something loosens in your chest before you can even say hello.

“you should’ve told me you didn’t have a scarf.”

when you look up, you see exactly what you’d envisioned, with an addition of a black scarf covering the lower half of professor nishimura’s face. his voice is slightly muffled due to the thick cotton — slightly edged with restrained concern slipping through the cracks. your notes are tucked under his arm, neatly stapled, unlike how you kept them, because you ran out of staples and forgot to refill them a few weeks back.

“i thought you’d nag,” you mumble, guilty.

“i would, and i am,” he says, strictly, to make his point. before you can protest, he’s already unravelling his scarf from his neck, and stepping closer to you. the fabric is still warm when he drapes it around you, careful in his movements, fingers brushing against your jaw as he fits it nicely for you.

his cologne lingers. it makes you dizzy, in a good way that party didn’t.

“you’re still so careless, [name].”

his head hovers just above yours, and you swore if he leaned in any closer that he’d be able to hear how hard your heart was beating. your eyes look at anything else but him — the trees in the distance. the passing cars. the one or two people taking a night stroll with their dogs. anything to avoid the way you can hear his breath in your ears, the warmth of his fingers brushing against your skin. anything.

he tucks the end of the scarf into your coat with careful precision, and you think your timing couldn’t be worse. when you dare to glance up, his eyes meet yours. they’re glassy, faintly red at the edges — exhaustion, probably from the nights you’ve kept him awake with your relentless studying — and despite everything, it makes you smile.

“you’re too careful.”

your eyes peek through your lashes, fluttering slowly, coaxing him into everything he’s taught himself to restrain. in the small space between you two, your breaths mingle, albeit yours just warm your face right back up — still, you watch his skin flush, lips trembling slightly at the proximity.

you’ve never seen him this close. he looks absolutely breathtaking. from the sharp turn of his jaw, the sparkle in his eyes as he looks into yours, to that impossible glow on his skin that you’ve never been able to make sense of.

nishimura riki’s heart is racing faster than humanly possible. this cannot be good. he remembers learning this in his first year of university: tachycardia was what they called it.

yes. he’s tachy. so very tachy.

and he also wants to kiss you. really, really bad.

there wasn’t anything in the textbooks for that.

riki swallows, his throat tightening, and his fingers still hold onto the scarf that he’s draped around you. for now, there’s only you, and the warmth of your face radiating so close to his — only the sound of your soft, gentle breath, the one he’s gotten so used to hearing.

his index and middle finger hook onto the fabric of his (now technically your) scarf, pulling it down slightly, enough to reveal your entire face.

“riki,” your voice is barely audible, a whisper against the cold wind, but it’s enough to make his pulse skip. he’s been holding his breath the entire time. “it’s late.”

he leans in, unintentional, just a fraction closer, enough for your hearts to echo in tandem. “i know,” he murmurs, voice low, quiet, restrained in words but not in feeling; he says it like he wants you to stay, despite.

“i should get inside,” you mumble, beginning to tilt your head up anyways.

on this chilly december night, nishimura riki tilts his head as well, inches apart, almost as if he’s analyzing the exact way to fit against you. his lips brush yours softly, a fleeting ghost of warmth, breath fanning over the plush of your lips.

“i know.”

you know this is wrong, and still, you meet him halfway.

suddenly, your body ignites with warmth, eyes fluttering shut as your arms instinctively loop around his neck. his hands find your waist without thought, drawing you close, steadying you as you rise onto your tiptoes. the cold air disappears, replaced entirely by this small, perfect cocoon of heat and closeness — it’s warm, comforting, like coming home to something you’ve been missing all year.

the scarf is tickling his chin. his annoying glasses are in the way. but you taste sweet, and he can smell your perfume — and your shampoo. just you, actually. everything he could ever possibly ask for is right here, in his hands, against his body. leaning into him like she needed him as much as he needed her.

your notes are somewhere on the floor. professor nishimura resolves to help you rewrite them later. hell, he’ll rewrite the whole textbook, as long as you let him have this.

“fuck,” he curses as he pulls away, his breath leaving him in the shape of warm smoke — you giggle, hearing him curse for the first time — and it’s almost ridiculous how fast his face flushes at the sound of your amusement. “you’re so pretty.”

his eyes leave yours, drifting down to your glossy, saliva-covered lips — they’re calling for him. so kissable, parted, breathless like he’d just stolen all the air from your lungs.

“riki—” you try to speak, but it’s pointless when professor nishimura’s lips crash against yours again. you feel like you’re on fire, your fingertips brushing against the nape of his neck once more; it sends shivers down his spine, and when his palm presses flat on the small of your back, you’re arching into his touch.

riki’s tongue swipes against your bottom lip, yours opening up for him like clockwork — it’s making your head spin, your nerves raw, legs weak trying to close the already minute gap between your bodies. he’s curious with you, clearly, with the way his hands roam up and down your waist, clingy, like he’s never going to have you again.

and if that ends up being true — he’ll make sure, just this once, it’ll be worth it.

you follow him, silent, as his hands find yours. the cold nips at your fingers before his calloused ones warm them up: the streets are emptying out, snow lining the asphalt, collecting on the roof of his car. he turns, pulling you with him, the crunch of snow breaking underneath both your feet.

he opens the passenger door for you, a gesture that makes your cheeks burn, and you slide in carefully. the leather seat is too comfortable, nice and warm, expensive before anything else. it reminds you of jiwon’s dad’s car, and the thought makes you snicker, just a little.

“hands,” he murmurs, and you instinctually tuck your arms in before he shuts the door. you watch him walk in front of the headlights — crossing over to the driver’s seat, and soon enough, his hands are on the wheel.

the engine roars to life and warmth floods the car, chasing away the bite of december air. your fingers are still entwined with his, resting lightly in your lap, and the contact is enough to send little jolts through your chest. the soft glow of the dashboard lights highlights his profile — jawline sharp, eyes focused on the road, yet you can feel the awareness behind them, the subtle glance he gives you through the rearview mirror.

your phone is buzzing in your coat pocket. you recognise the text tone — oh jiwon, park sooha. that little group chat you’ve been using since first year. it’s enough to remind you how wrong this is, but not enough to forget how right it feels — professor nishimura riki feels like fate.

the streets are quiet. snow glinting under the streetlights, the tires crunching softly over the thin white layers. the silence between you is comfortable, heavy with everything left unspoken: the kiss, the heat between your bodies, the lingering warmth of his scarf. everything that you’ve gone through in the past few weeks.

you blink slowly, trying to figure out if this was one of your fucked up dreams again — you’ve had quite a few of those ever since you started this… whatever this was.

“you’re still cold,” riki says, eyes still trained on the road. you’re somewhere in gangnam, further away from jiwon’s neighbourhood, streets filled with locals and tourists. his fingers tighten around yours slightly when you don’t respond. “i’ll warm you up when we’re inside.”

you flush, head turning towards the window, not entirely sure of the meaning of his words.

what the hell does he mean by warm you up?

is he flirting with you?

“mm..” you hum, smiling anyway, thankful his scarf was there to save you. “i’d like that.”

─────────────────────────

IT’S ALMOST LIKE A MOVIE.

you’re stumbling into the entryway of his home, coat slipping off your shoulders, and riki’s trying to kick his dress shoes off. it’s the ones he just bought, the ones that cost more than he knew was necessary — it’s pathetic how hard you both are fighting to keep your lips together, heavy pants being the only thing you hear as your fingers find the buttons of riki’s top. you almost snap all of them off with how careless you undo them: you want to apologise, but riki’s smiling against your lips anyway, so you take it as a green light to be as reckless as you want.

almost like a movie — no, scratch that. it’s more like those sex dreams you’ve been having.

the ones you told sooha about, where she was oddly interested and claimed she had to try out with someone else. you smacked her in the shoulder after that. funnily enough, she did end up trying one out of the six positions you detailed greatly to her, and said nothing but “good stuff”.

still, right now, nothing’s funny. you feel heat pooling between your thighs, and riki’s fingers are too rough and needy for you to hold yourself back.

you don’t have time to register his furniture, or his paintings, or his strange plants. the lights aren’t even on. nishimura riki’s spent his early adulthood decorating his home to fit his lifestyle perfectly, and he’s a little hurt that you’re too horny to even appreciate it. he’ll have to give you a proper tour tomorrow morning, if you’re not too sore to deal with it.

“fuck,” he moans into your mouth, feeling your nails graze against his chest as you take off his shirt — he’s too sensitive when it comes to you. he can barely word anything right now with the way he refuses to leave your lips alone. “[name]—you’re sure?”

“so sure,” you pant, arms looping around his neck as his arms find your hips. soon, they tuck under your thighs and it’s almost like you’ve done this millions of times before: you rise to your toes, and he lifts you without much effort. you still squeal, feeling him smirk against your lips; in this moment, you remember just who he is, that ego still lingering behind his touch.

your salivas mix, tongues sopping wet as he settles you onto the cold kitchen island. nishimura riki’s head is spinning — you feel too damn perfect underneath him. he’s never had you like this, his rough hands grabbing and playing with the plush of your ass like it was always meant for him, your soft moans filling his ears like a new kind of music he’ll never stop replaying.

he’s addicted, and he hasn’t even had you fully, not yet. he wants to take his time.

he has to.

“riki,” you whimper, pulling away from the kiss. a string of saliva connects the two of you, breaking soon after, your heart skipping at the sight of him — messy hair, bare chest heaving, a thin veil of sweat coating his forehead and making streaks of hair stick. “please—”

everything is painfully quiet, aside from your heart thumping in your ears. you’re certain he can hear it, too.

his eyebrows knit, breathing trying to even itself out — your hands wander up his chest, not believing it’s the same one you and sooha drooled over a month back — it feels ridiculously firm, your nails tracing his skin, making the hair on his neck stand. it makes him shiver, every touch making his nerves fire up again and again.

you’re doing things to him. things he doesn’t have an explanation for. no textbook could encompass the low, simmering feeling in his abdomen, watching you like this.

riki’s impatient, crashing his lips against yours again — teeth clashing, moans mixing, and you arch your body into his chest once more. your arms loop around his neck as he pushes his body closer to yours, almost leaning over the counter, feeling your weight hold onto his body as he feels you closer.

“tell me you want me,” he groans in your ear, tongue pressing flat against the frantic pulse hidden underneath the skin of your neck. he licks one long, delicious stripe from the ball of your throat to the patch of skin underneath your earlobe, savouring the taste of your sweat, breathing in the raw smell of your fading perfume. “come on—don’t act all shy now.”

you whimper when he sucks, lips latching onto your neck, hard enough you’re sure it’ll leave memories of tonight. you’ll have to borrow sooha’s expensive concealer, you think, but for now — your eyes roll to the back of your skull, hips grinding against the tent in his pants, teasing him so painfully slow.

“mm..” you moan, “can’t you tell, professor?”

riki groans when you grind down harder, the title making his jaw go slack, your legs locking behind his back. he’s so achingly hard, he thinks he might cum in his pants like a pathetic teenager from your stupid antics.

professor. professor. professor.

he’s spent so long drilling that title out of you, and now, he’s hard just hearing it.

“stop fucking teasing, brat,” and he’s trailing down your neck, rough hands pulling the collar of your shirt down. his plush lips leave a trail of kisses along your collarbone, nose nudging the skin of your shoulder, and you feel him breathe you in. “it won’t get you what you want.”

his teeth graze against the round of your shoulder. “you’ll give me what i want, anyway.”

he tsks. you shudder when he bites down, just enough to leave a mark, but not to hurt. your thighs squeeze on instinct, pulling him closer, and you feel him exhale a short, knowing laugh — like he’s finally figured out exactly what gets you — and it makes your stomach twist.

“should we just fuck right here? huh?” riki whispers against your skin, his hands running along the side of your waist. “the way you’re acting—you deserve it. on the cold, hard floor, like the slut you are. sounds good?”

you bite down on your bottom lip, head tilting back as riki makes his way up again. his nose bumps against you, sending little shocks of electricity all the way down to your fingertips. your nose points to the ceiling, lips parted as you try to control every sound that riki’s earning from your pretty lips.

“should we drive back to my office? i’ll fuck you on the desk, on the sofa… against my shelves? i’ll let you pick.”

you feel him right where you need him. impossibly hard, aching, rubbing up against your panties through his slacks. he must’ve been somewhere important before meeting you. that expensive shirt’s tossed onto the floor, somewhere you can’t bother to remember. all of your mind is being taken up by the man in front of you, the one panting in your ear like a dog in heat, like he can’t wait any longer to bury himself inside of you until you’re fucked dumb — not the man of importance, of professionalism, the one that demands respect.

“answer me.”

scratch that. he’s still demanding respect.

you whimper in response — he chuckles, continuing to press gentle kisses to your jaw, up to your cheeks, then your lips. you meet them happily, too eager, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care for your ego when he’s got you chasing an impossible high.

“n-no, riki. want the bed, please—”

his left hand runs up your body, thumb grazing your bottom lip. “my baby wants to feel special?”

you nod frantically, eyes glossy as they stare into his — his pupils are blown. you swore if you looked a little closer, you’d see little hearts dancing around; the thought makes you dizzy.

you feel him twitch against you, just once. so impossibly thick and hefty, you drool at the vision of him stretching you out, holding your hand as you take him slowly, perfectly, sucking him in ‘till he has nothing left to give.

“mhm, please, riki,” you mutter, feeling your body heat in embarrassment. “don’t i deserve it?”

and then, he’s got your jaw in a firm grip, his own tense as he watches you squirm.

“address me properly.” riki tilts his head, smiling mockingly, memories of that class flooding your mind. it’s terrifying how fake it is — but the effect is the same. you’re leaning your cheek into his open palm, needing more, shameless in it all. “then i’ll think about it.”

you swallow, vision blurry from how impossibly needy you’re getting; it’s one of those times where you think you could die from how empty you are, you’d do just about anything to get some relief — grinding shamelessly, whimpering like a mutt against your professor’s pants, leaving a wet patch right where he’s thickest.

“please, professor.”

his lips don’t leave you, but your clothes do. he’s practically ripped your skirt off of you, your shirt is thrown somewhere below the stairs, and everything is a mess. your legs stay locked around his waist as he brings you up the stairs effortlessly, thighs tensing as he climbs each step, briefs stretching as his cock twitches harder by the second.

“tell me if you wanna stop,” he whispers into your ear, and all you do is nod. “i’ll stop.”

it’s a long walk to his bedroom, tucked away at the very end of the corridor — except you’re barely aware of it, because riki is carrying you. one arm is firm beneath your thighs, the other braced around your back, holding you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. your weight doesn’t seem to faze him; if anything, his grip tightens with quiet intention as he moves.

modern abstract paintings blur past in your periphery, bold shapes and muted colors bleeding into one another as your focus narrows to the steady rhythm of his steps. a clock with no numbers hangs near the top of the stairs, its hands gliding forward soundlessly, time stripped of meaning. you don’t look at it for long. you’re too aware of the way his shoulder presses into your chest, the warmth of him bare against you.

his breath is heavy but controlled, brushing against your hair with each step. you curl instinctively closer, fingers clutching at his back, and he adjusts you without breaking stride — a subtle shift, careful, practiced, like he’s been doing this far longer than he has any right to.

by the time he reaches the door at the end of the corridor, the rest of the house feels impossibly far away. he pauses there, forehead dipping briefly toward yours, as if grounding himself before crossing whatever line comes next — before pushing the door open and carrying you inside.

he drops you onto the thick mattress, and a squeal escapes your throat. the sheets rustle under your weight. riki hovers above you, still for just a moment. you catch him admiring you: his eyes wandering, scanning your body, drinking it all in before his hands reach for the clasp of your bra.

“you’ll tell me if it’s too much,” he reminds you, and riki’s fingers are working to undress you fully, peeling your bra off you by the straps. “got it?”

you nod sheepishly, eyes darting to the ceiling, anything to avoid the hungry stare in his eyes. you’ve never seen such a look from him — it’s predatory, hungry, the kind of expression that would usually make your blood run cold, given professor nishimura’s already stoic personality — but all it does is make your thighs press closer together.

“what’d i say about using your words?”

you take one quick look at him, before your stomach flips itself inside out; he’s panting, chest heaving, hair disheveled from all the tugging you’ve done.

the warm light above casts shadows across his face, making his eyes seem deeper, darker, more insistent. his brows are drawn together, expectant, waiting for some kind of answer from you.

you’re not eager to see what happens if you don’t give him one.

“yes… yes, i got it,” you manage, words tumbling out too quickly, blending together like one frantic, made-up syllable.

somehow, you feel like you’ve fucked up on that, because his hands are off of you, and you’re whining like you’re going to die. soon enough, his knees are coming off of the mattress, and he’s sinking to the floor.

riki kisses his teeth, left eyebrow raised as he looks at you with a new found curiosity. he wonders where all the impatience came from — he swears you were willing to bend backwards if he asked you to, and now you’re acting like a spoiled brat that he has to set straight.

“careful,” his warm breath ghosts against your thigh, too close for you not to squirm. his palms are quick to press flat against the inner sides of them, prying you open, pinning you flat to the sheets with minimal strength. “be good and i’ll fuck you right. you can speak to your friends like that, but not me. watch the tone.”

“and if i don’t?” you sigh, already picturing it.

riki purrs lowly, sharp nose running against the inner side of your thigh, inching closer to where your clothed cunt practically calls his name. “then you’re gonna be empty all night. dripping for me, begging, and i won’t do anything about it.”

you bite down on your bottom lip so hard you can taste the metal in your mouth. you sit up slightly, resting on your elbows to get a better view of the blond between your legs — he’s breathing you in, nose flush against your soaked panties, and he swears he’s so hard that he could die right here and be satisfied his life has led to and concluded with this — you smell so good, so tempting, like sin wrapped in a pretty bow arriving at his doorstep.

you’re going to fucking kill him. cause of death: pussy too good for his cock to handle not being inside.

but still, he’s a gentleman, and despite your unsatisfactory tone and attitude, he’ll let you have this — he stands up again, fingers hooked on the band of your panties, sliding it off your thighs. the cold air hits your cunt uncomfortably, and your eyes gloss over the man shifting between your legs, dropping to his knees, never breaking the stare.

“need you to take all of me,” riki kisses up your inner thigh, while your legs hang off the bed. his biceps brush against your calf, arms looping around your lower thigh. “prettiest pussy ever. you’ll look so good around me, hm? bet you’re tight, too.”

you feel feverish. hair sticks to your forehead in clumps, nose flared and jaw slack as you try to even your lungs out.

“rikiiii…” you whine, “hurry. just fuck me already—“

“i’m doing this out of kindness,” and his voice drops even lower, like you were teetering on the edge of his patience. “don’t forget that. could very well fuck you right now, but i wouldn’t want you crying the whole time i split you in half.”

the words make something bubble deep inside of you, and you’re sure that even if he flipped you over and fucked you right now that you’d be just fine — arousal is pooling between your legs, almost dripping onto the sheets, enough to last you a lifetime of quickies with nishimura riki — something tells you that he’s doing this because of his own selfish hunger, despite the cocky words leaving his lips.

“who says you’ll make me cry?” you bite, and riki’s eyes flick up to yours momentarily. it’s crazy, laced with something wild, and it almost feels like you’ve caught him red-handed in a lie.

“you’re practically crying for me down here,” and he’s spat right on your clit, eyes narrowing on the way you’re glistening for him. you have no right to be demanding things from him, not when you’re spread open at his discretion. “can’t answer me during our sessions, and now you’re running your mouth? should’ve i guessed from the beginning that you were just a slut waiting for some dick?”

you clench around nothing, visibly flustered at the way he doesn’t even flinch at the remark. he watches your reaction, smirking, inching closer to heaven.

“can’t even wait a few minutes for something to fill you up. you’re filthy.”

he sticks his tongue out, pressing it flat against your folds, licking one slow stripe towards your clit. you shiver at the warmth — it makes your head spin, the feeling of his nose bumping into your clit, his lips plush lips sucking on your swollen bud.

“too bad you’re g’na have to wait. spread, wider.” his fingers tap at your thigh, and you find yourself doing exactly as he demands. “yeah, just like that—my smart girl. so obedient.”

you whine at the praise, hips wriggling in his grip as he eats you like a man possessed; tongue lapping away at everything your cunt has to offer, which now seemed like an endless stream of arousal — riki’s eyes narrow as he peeks up at you, and the chuckle rumbling through his chest vibrates through your body, and it’s almost reflex how your fingers fly to his locks to get a firm grip.

“fuck,” he hisses as your nails scratch his scalp. you grab by the roots, smiling lazily at him as he does nothing but let it happen. “greedy fuckin’ thing.”

your knees bend and lock behind his neck, the heel of your foot rubbing against his back, feeling every dip and rise of muscle — his tongue circles around your clit faster, the pressure now increasing by tenfold. he finds himself shoving his face into a space that doesn’t exist. riki simply can’t get enough as he rocks his hips against his dark oak bed frame (the one he spent too long picking out online), chasing a high he knows he won’t be satisfied with — pre stains his briefs as his cock stretches the spandex out, wet and sticky like homemade honey.

“y-yeah, riki—“ you moan, “oh my god, fuck,”

you don’t even realise that his face is pulled away until your orgasm barely slips from you.

“wrooong. again.” riki mumbles, lips glossy from your slick and his saliva mixed in something similar to alcohol — he was getting so pussy-drunk that he was starting to slur his words, more focused on how sweet, how perfect you taste on his tongue. he was beginning to strategise just how he’d be able to savour this every day for the rest of his life.

well… the only answer was to make you his, of course.

he lets saliva collect in the shallow well of his tongue, before spitting thickly onto your clit. his aim is comically good.

“my patience is running thin. address me properly.”

nishimura riki can’t possibly let anyone else enjoy this. he’ll fuck you so good, so right, that he’ll be the only man you think of for the rest of your life.

his middle and ring finger apply pressure to the throbbing cunt, and you practically scream with how sensitive you are. riki has that smug fucking look again,

“p-professor,” you whimper, grinding your hips against his face. the tip of his nose runs along your folds, up and down, and you’re practically riding his face now — he can only groan in response, your arousal dripping down his chin and running down his neck. “s-sorry, professor, i’m sorr—“

“i forgive you,” riki coos between sucks, “taught you sooo well. my most perfect girl. all fucking mine.”

it’s almost embarrassing how compliant you are when it comes to professor nishimura. he tells you to cum, and you do, coating his wet tongue with sweet fluid that makes his eyes roll back — he tells you to ride his face, squeeze his head between your thighs, cum again on his sharp nose this time — and you do. you bite back a moan when he tells you not to cum yet. you take his fingers in your mouth as he tells you to be quiet. you grind your hips even when they’re sore. you keep pushing because he tells you to.

the pained, pussy-drunk expression on his face is enough to make it all worth it.

you think you have nothing left to give by the time you cum all over his mouth for the 3rd time, his adam’s apple bobbing as he drinks you up, lips bitten raw from making out with your pussy like it was his first meal in days.

“fuckfuckfuck—i’m gonna cum, riki—!” he lets the name slip, because he thinks you look beautiful when your lips are parted and screaming his birth name. how merciful, he thinks he earned a pat on the back for being so kind.

“then cum.”

how could you ever deny him?

“where’s the attitude gone?” riki grins, rough, large palms gripping at your hips as he comes off his knees. he towers over you again, a dark shadow cast over you from his large stature blocking the lamp’s golden bleed — he looks down at you, tongue running over his bottom lip, heart thumping hard in his ribcage. “fucked dumb already? haven’t even been inside.”

you feel heat crawl up your neck, face visibly flushing as riki fits himself snug between your thighs — your eyes can’t help but to travel down, eyeing the bulge in his slacks, so impossibly thick and long and everything you could ever possibly need for a lifetime of godly sex.

you’ve been with big guys. enough to say you know what’s big and what’s just average, but it was safe to say nishimura riki was big. thick, throbbing, twitching underneath the fabric as if it was trying to spell your name.

“you gotta do better than that, miss [name],” professor nishimura pouts, though his expression is nowhere near one of genuine sympathy. you see the red flush of his cheeks, that pussy-drunk face of his that you know you could definitely get used to, and the way his jaw slacks when he rubs his bulge against your bare pussy — strings of sticky arousal stretch like honey, and you whine at the raw friction of it all — his eyes constantly ping-pong between your face and the way your folds spread open to slot the tent between the slit.

“stop teasing, ki!” you blurt out, and his head tilts, as if lost in thought. he doesn’t look back up at you this time, his pupils instead locked on the mess you’re making down there.

you’re not going to fit him. he knows this, but he’ll make it work. brainstormer, he remembers his old mentors calling him, so he’ll find a way to have you stretched out ‘till his balls touch your ass, or he’ll just make you cum a few more times on his face, or fingers, anything it takes to let him have you fully.

“you’re so fucking wet,” riki smiles, “think you can take me?”

“yes, yesyesyes, please,” you babble, nodding frantically as riki stares on. it seems kind of unreal how desperately you need him — he wonders if he always had this effect on you, if you were always this pliant and good and absolutely breathtaking. if he’d known, he would’ve fucked you right then and there, in his office during that first study session. “want it—i want you, please, professor.”

you’re so fucking perfect, he feels like he’s dreaming.

he doesn’t waste any time unbuckling his belt, the metal clasp clinking loudly as his fingers work at the hook. he rolls his belt into his hand, and for a brief moment, riki wonders just how you’d react to a little leather spanking.

“oh?”

the corner of his lip tugs, and a familiar smirk only grows from there. the one that makes your skin crawl.

he didn’t need to think for long, after all.

he feels your pussy throb against him, your glassy eyes ogling the expensive belt looped around his left hand.

“like it, baby?”

you don’t even manage to respond.

“want me to use it on you?”

there’s a moment of hesitation from you — you’re not really sure why, because it’s just a fucking belt, but you’ve been rubbing up on him like a feral cat in heat. something about professor nishimura using his belt on you makes your mind go blank, as if every word you’ve learnt in your twenty something years of living has suddenly been rendered useless.

all you know is that you want it, so you nod, and pray that this is the meanest he can get.

“should i tie you up? spank you? tell me which you want, sweetheart,” and the corners of his lips are curving upwards, almost sinister in nature, as he unravels the belt so that it just hangs free from his grip. the slight change in tone when the word ‘spank’ slips makes your thighs twitch hard. “i’ll do it. anything to make my good girl happy, hm?”

you’re heaving, chest falling and rising at a rapid rate as you try to conjure the right words. who was going to tell you that it’d be damn near impossible to speak comprehensible english when your professor’s huge cock is twitching against you?

he waits for an answer, head tilted, eyebrows pulled together in this painfully expectant way — the kind of expression that drags you straight back to your case study presentations, where every slip-up had professor nishimura giving you that exact same look. same stupidly handsome face. same unfairly perfect eyebrows lifted like he was judging both your academic ability and your life choices at once.

“i-i—“ you mutter, “want.. i want—“

“clearly didn’t teach you well enough to use your words,” he scoffs, hands working to grab the other end of the belt. it forms a lop-sided circle, long enough to hurt, short enough not to make you bleed. “that’s fine—i’ll pick for you, mmkay?”

he isn’t asking for your permission.

in the next 10 seconds that follow, professor nishimura has you on your belly, ass bent over the edge of the bed. your thighs dangle off the mattress, twitching, as if you’ve just come down from your 5th orgasm (even though that was 10 minutes ago) — and all nishimura riki can do is stare at the perfect canvas laid beneath him, so blank, so ready for him to bruise.

you moan, loud, when his palm fondles your right ass cheek, pressing you further into the mattress.

“sorry, i’ll have to keep her waiting.”

his thumb spreads your empty cunt wide, watching how your glistening hole clenches around nothing, and it’s gross how fast his heart fills with pride. you’re so fucking easy it makes him want to take you right now, waste no time, fuck you all night until you’re both on the brink of exhaustion, but that little sick voice in his head tells him to test the waters with you — how far you’d go for him before your nails are drawing blood from his chest and begging him to slow down — because right now, you’re bending over backwards for him, and he finds it adorable.

“‘s okay,” you mumble, cheek pressed flush against the sheets. “hmph—please, just hurry.”

oh, so forgiving. with how kind you were being —he’d make sure to reward you tenfold.

smack. “ooookay, baby,” riki sing-songs, smiling down at your figure, your spine arched and your ass fully rounded out for him.

smack.

the sting follows immediately.

“fuck—!” you squeal, body writhing as the red outline of his belt blooms on your skin. riki’s jaw slacks watching the print form, a dreamy sigh leaving his lips — you’re still wriggling your ass for more, even as he sees the tear slip down your cheek.

“dirty girl,” riki tsks, working to bundle the belt around his palm again. “you get off to this? shameless.”

you don’t respond, anticipating the second smack that riki eventually ends up giving you.

“a-ah,“ your throat rasps, broken moan escaping, “professor—i’m sorry!”

“oh,” smack. “i always knew. just a slut, aren’t you? probably thought about me doing this looong before today. didn’t you? thought about your professor setting you straight in front of everyone?”

you nod desperately, too many times than necessary, and a deep chuckle sounds through the dim room. “that’s my girl. so honest. so good. so obedient.”

“fuuuck,” you moan at the praise. riki watches your thighs squeeze, tensing up as you drip down, down, down. “w-want you to fuck me, please, professor, i can’t wait anymore—“

smack, smack, smack. your hole squeezes around nothing with every harsh hit.

“barely been five minutes,” riki taunts, and when you turn your head to look back at him, you swear there’s hearts in his eyes. “but okay. since you’ve been so good for me, i’ll indulge.”

and just like that, the sting on your skin is replaced by the cool bite of expensive linen sheets — you’re back here again, caged underneath his chest, eyes locked on the way his blonde locks stick to smooth skin. sweat rolls down his chest, down to his abs, your heart racing at the divine sight above you: his chest heaves, gaze hungry and dark with everything you’ve been too afraid to confront, fingers firm on the flesh of your waist as he pulls you closer.

“tell me if it hurts,” riki adds, his hands pulling back from your figure to slide his slacks off his legs. “but i know my girl can take it all, can’t she?”

“yesyesyes, i can take it, i can take it—please.”

oh, he feels his heart swelling. riki sees how your eyes never leave the imprint in his briefs, widening when his thumbs hook into the waistband to pull them down — and when he finally frees himself?

he replays the way your breath hitches again, and again, and again, only snapping out of it when your eyes dart back up to meet his.

he’s stupidly long. thick, heavy, swollen red and leaking pre-cum; it leaves a sticky layer on his tip, shining under the light, veins running down the side of his shaft — for a moment, you’re upset that he didn’t make you suck him off before this, give you a chance to run your tongue along the blood vessels. you’d trace and memorise them, eyes looking up as he’d throw his head back.

“you’re so fucking perfect,” he mumbles, head dropping low, jaw slack from how your cunt is essentially calling for him to fuck you full. “wanna fuck you ‘till you can’t forget me.”

he lines his cock up with your dripping entrance, already tempted to just slam his hips into yours. with how sticky and wet it is from both your fluids, riki’s sure there’d be no problem fitting all of him — but he’s a gentleman, and he doesn’t want you screaming and waking the entire neighbourhood up.

you whine when his hand grabs the base of his dick and taps his tip against your clit, his hips grinding forward just to slide his cock between your folds once or twice. fucking tease.

“you’re so annoying,” you drawl, teeth biting down on your lip as you feel just how thick he was compared to you. you find yourself out of air just thinking of how you’d be able to accommodate the girth.

“you love me,” riki smiles. “jus’ let me make you feel good, hm?” he leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead, biceps caging your head, chests pressed against the others. your head rests against his shoulder, heavy sighs leaving your lips right next to his ear, and all it does is make him even hungrier.

“i do love you,” you whisper. nishimura riki feels something shift inside of him at the words, oddly enough, despite the fact that you two have seen each other fully by this point: no, it makes everything real, despite the constant reassurance that it always has been, but now he knows that he can’t let you go.

“i love you too, [name].”

so when he finally lets himself sink into you, tip pushing past the folds of your heaven-sent pussy, riki fights every sinister voice that begs him to just bottom out and fuck you silly until you remember that he, the man who never loved, loves you.

“fuuuck,” he groans into your ear. he feels you squeeze him tighter, almost pushing him back out at the sound. “you gotta relax, baby. breathe. too fucking tight, it’s gonna kill me.”

“t-too fucking big,” you squeal, legs wrapping around his waist. you try to follow his advice, taking slow, deep breaths in an attempt to calm yourself down. “i can’t, riki, i can’t—“

“you can,” riki corrects you. “you’ll take all of me, won’t you? can’t fuck you right with only a quarter of me.”

well, fuck… quarter?

he pulls his face away from your neck, forehead pressed against yours in something sweet. your eyes lock onto his blown pupils, laced with love and addiction, and you genuinely feel so full that your throat clogs up.

your walls stretch as he sinks further in, now half-way over. his jaw hangs open, heavy breaths mingling between the tiny space between you, and when he feels your heel dig into his lower back for that final push — he breaks.

so warm. so snug. so wet and perfectly moulded to fit his cock. it was divine, to say the least.

“fuuuck,” riki moans, eyes screwing shut, as if he couldn’t believe how warm and heavenly this felt. when he opens them, he sees your pretty face, lips parted with half-lidded eyes staring up at his. “god, i love you—you’re perfect everywhere.”

his hot mouth meets yours in a sloppy kiss, spit and saliva exchanging, smearing all over both your lips and dripping down your chin. riki feels your tongue run over his, your soft moans that go straight his throat and the way your hand tangles in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer as his balls kiss your ass.

“rikiii…” you drag sweetly, lips curling into a familiarly maddening smile. “fuck me ‘till i can’t think, please, want it so bad. i can’t wait anymore—“

he exhales a shaky breath before pulling out, just barely leaving any of himself inside of you. “still so fucking impatient.”

riki slams his hips into you, and the stretch almost knocks you out cold. you’re still adjusting to him as his hips pull back before sinking back inside. the sounds of your pussy and his cock plunging deep into you sounds borderline pornographic: wet squelches and skin slapping against each other, along with the moans that he rips from you.

“fuck, s-so perfect, just like how i imagined.”

riki leans back just to get a better view, and your hands immediately fall to his wrists. your nails dig into his forearm, and riki almost cums on the spot watching your tits bounce and your face morph into one of obscene, shameless pleasure.

plap, plap, plap.

his tip kisses your cervix with every needy thrust, and you’re trying your best to not scream riki’s name every single time his pelvis flushes against yours. you brace yourself, feeling him all the way in your lungs, knocking the wind out of you with every wet slap of skin.

“r-rikiii…” you moan, about to go cross-eyed, “so good, so fucking good—oh my god—“

“yeah?” he mumbles, thumb pressing against your clit to rub frantic circles, and it’s ridiculous how fast your eyes roll to the back of your head. “my good girl, taking me so well—want me to fill you up, too? would my baby like that?”

nishimura riki thought he was the one in control here, but when you scream ‘yes’ and ‘please’ at least ten times over, he finds his pace quickening and his hips slamming into yours with newfound motivation. you’re a mess: a thin veil of sweat coats your skin, and you’re crying riki’s name like a desperate prayer.

“ngh—d’you get tighter thinking about me cumming inside this pussy? so fucking dirty.”

he doesn’t care if his neighbour comes knocking on his door. he’ll fuck you on the balcony if it meant everyone knew that he was the only man who has you like this.

riki’s hand runs over the bulge in your lower belly, applying delicious pressure as your mind slowly unravels underneath him. you can’t speak anymore, a cacophony of moans and cries being the only thing filling the room, and the man above you can only chuckle as he witnesses your descent into madness.

your hands find their way to your face, covering the fucked-out expression on it. riki doesn’t take to well to it, opting to grab at your wrists, pinning them over your head. “don’t get shy on me.” he mutters.

“my good little slut,” riki spits, and the way your hands fit right into his palm makes him go crazy. you’re thrashing against him, thighs twitching hard as you feel that familiar pressure build inside of you. your mind is turning to mush as his cock relentlessly slams into you, and you swear he gets bigger with every second that passes. “o-oh fuuuck, i love you—love this pussy so much—you’re taking me so good, sweetheart.”

you’ve been wanting this for so long. ever since that night your hands slid underneath the band of your sweats, touching yourself to his gym pictures on instagram, and now he’s finally here: fucking into you like you’re all he’s been wanting, too.

“i w-want a kiss, riki, please,” you manage to blurt out. riki’s quick to fulfill your request, plump lips meeting yours in another heated kiss. the closeness lets his hips rut into you, slow and nice as they angle to brush against that sweet spot deep inside of you.

“mmngh—haa, shit—i’ve wanted you for so long, [name],” riki mumbles between kisses, “thought about fucking this perfect pussy… in my office. in class, in front of everyone. make you feel sooo good, you’ll never look at anyone else.”

your heart skips at the confession.

“tell me you’re all mine,” he moans into your mouth, kissing your lips raw. “all mine to fuck,” thrust. “kiss,” thrust. “to have like this—fuck, please, [name]—“

“i’m a-all yours, riki,” you smile lazily, feeling the drag of his cock in and out of you. “y-yes, all yours—oh fuck!”

you’re so sensitive to the point that his touch burns. riki feels hot against you, the weight of his body and the thick stretch of his dick convincing you that this might be your last night alive.

“h-harder, riki,” you cry, “want you harder—“

you drive the man crazy. absolutely feral.

he’s half sure that he’s running on pure horniness, because his thighs hurt and his back stings from all the scratches you’ve left. the pain feels secondary to this, to having you milking him for everything he has, that he refuses to slow down.

you want it harder? he’ll give you harder, no questions asked.

“needy fucking thing,” riki teases, and the flush on your face is almost immediately intensified. your nose scrunches at him, a scowl worn before it’s quickly washed away from how deep you feel him; every hit makes you dizzier, his words going into your right ear and out the left, nothing on your mind but the impending orgasm that’s about to wash over you.

riki kisses the tears on your cheek, cock twitching at the taste of salt and the look of your visibly flushed face. the admission triggers something in him, because now, he’s pistoning his dick like this was the last time he’ll ever have you — he can feel your walls pulsing, squeezing him tight, and it’s turning him into a fucking animal.

“that’s right, baby—all mine, all fucking mine.”

that does it for both of you. his thrusts become sloppy, haphazard, nothing that resembles careful.

you make him so, so messy. a part of him that he’s never bothered to awaken, like a flip of a switch at your hands.

“i’m gonna fucking cum, riki,” broken sobs rip through your body, and he feels himself lose every last bit of sanity he’s kept tucked away.

riki buries himself deep inside, to the hilt, working his hips to close any remaining distance between you two. he chases his high as you thrash violently underneath him with nothing but a cry of his name, walls clamping down on his cock like you’d die if he so much as moved a centimetre out of you — you coat him in your juices, warm and hot, and the guttural groan that rips from his throat only pushes you further over the edge.

“o-oh shit,” riki rasps, feeling you gush around him. “oh fuuuck, yeah, cum all over this dick baby. just like that.”

you can’t stop cumming. his hips begin to falter, his stamina draining as you milk him for everything that he has, but riki refuses to stop; he’s so achingly close to filling up that perfect pussy of yours, ‘till you’re leaking for hours and have to ask him to plug you closed.

oh, he can’t stop thinking about it now.

“fuuuck—” you scream, and riki’s lips are crashing into yours as he continues fucking into you, fast and hard. the sounds of his cock fucking you through your orgasm remind you of rain puddles: those wet and cold mondays on the way to his class, unsuspecting, innocent, still believing that he would never would see you this way.

“thaaat’s it, pretty girl,” riki’s praise lands right between your thighs. your ankles lock behind his back, the squelch of your cunt and his cock plunging deep inside making riki’s head spin. he could replay the sound for days. “s’cute when you’re gushing all over me, baby. so fucking hot.”

you whine, feeling shy at his words, hands coming close to hide your face from his dark gaze. “told you not to hide,” riki mutters, peeking at you through your fingers. “w-wanna see your adorable face when i cum inside—please?”

his voice gets all whiney, eyes softening, and you know he’s close when you feel his pace quickening, although sloppy and with a new rhythm, and his breath gets shaky as his jaw hangs open.

your hands move to grip at his forearms, as if to brace yourself from how hard he was fucking into you — like he wanted a family of six, excluding you both — the bed creaks with every wet slap of skin, his balls clapping against your ass, and you watch how his jaw tenses as he inches closer to his orgasm.

“mmngh—riki, too much—“ your head tilts back, spine arching off the mattress as you feel that sickening coil in your stomach start to tighten again — the way he notices this scares you. his thumb flies to your clit, pressing and circling, doing just about everything to make you cum all over him again.

“s-shit, gonna cum,” riki rasps, head dropping low to let his eyes admire the beautiful sight: you, dripping, and him, glistening.

his fingers interlace with yours, tight, as if you’d disappear if he let you go. riki’s unravelling, every muscle in his body tensing as you clench around him again — soft, sticky gummy walls welcoming him back in, and riki knows he has no choice but to give them what they deserve: his load, his cum, just him.

don’t get him wrong. you’ve cum on his face, in his mouth and on his tongue. but this is different. this time, he’ll be able to give you a piece of him, too, after a long night of being on the receiving end — and it somehow makes everything seem ten times better.

“c-cum inside of me,” your head tilts into the sheets, eyes rolling back and splotches of white.

“can’t ever s-say no to you, mm?” he tsks, eyebrows knitting, knowing what’s to come. “you’re fucking killing me.”

professor nishimura has lost his sanity, officially, when you cum for the second time. your clit throbs against his shaft as he drives himself in and out, slower, because this is just fucking perfect — too perfect for him not to do anything about it — he cums, hard, for the first time in what seems like centuries (it’s only been 1.5 hours since you got out of his car, but he swears otherwise).

“o-oh fuck,” nishimura riki moans right into your ear, and it sounds like a snippet from a porno from how loud and absolutely lewd it is.

his cock pulses, throbbing hard inside of your weeping cunt. hot spurts of him make you squeal, and you thrash underneath him as you both come down together.

he collapses on top of you, still buried inside — because he’s genuinely convinced you’ll start leaking like a broken faucet if he doesn’t plug you up — a heavy, contented sigh leaves his lips, before he presses a gentle kiss to your bare shoulder.

you’re panting, he is too. riki’s fingers lace with yours again, and you hiss when you feel him still twitching inside of you. you feel hot inside and out, the warmth from his body making you feel ten times more tired. for a moment, you just lay, two naked bodies intertwined as you try to even your breaths and sync your heartbeats — his chest is flush against yours, and it almost feels as if you were one.

“are you alright?”

riki’s voice is quiet, gentle. familiarly sweet and caring, still sounding as mature as the first day you met in that bright lecture hall.

“mmm,” you hum. “just tired. and sore.”

the blonde pulls away from the skin of your neck, instead resting his forehead on top of yours. his eyes look impossibly beautiful, laced with love and everything that he’s been too scared to name, but you know this: he wants this, and he wants you.

“was i too rough?”

“you were perfect,” you tell him, and the smile that slowly tugs at his lips is worth every second of the chaos that led you here. “professor.”

he leans in, kissing you with a kind of lazy tenderness — slow, sweet, almost careful, like he’s afraid to break the moment. “saturday,” he murmurs against your mouth. “it’s riki to you.”

“riiight,” you breathe out in a giggle, your lips brushing his skin. your hands, suddenly useless and soft, come up to cradle his jaw. you pull him closer, and your mouths meet again, fitting together in a way that feels dangerously close to perfection — as if neither of you ever stood a chance against this fate. “riki.”

“miss [name],” he mumbles against your mouth, almost dazed. “my girl.”

“[name] after classes,” you correct softly, fingers still curled at his jaw, the words slipping out warmer than you intend. “no need for the formalities.”

“agreed fully,” riki chuckles, the warmth of his breath ghosting against your lips. “fuck, i’ve been waiting to hear you say that.”

you can feel his smile against your skin before his mouth finds yours again, deeper this time — less careful, more certain, like he’s finally letting himself want you out loud.

the kiss ends only when you’re both out of air, foreheads pressed together, sharing the quiet that settles between you. his thumb sweeps once across your cheek, almost reverent.

“so,” he murmurs, voice low, “after classes… i get to keep you a little longer?”

you don’t trust yourself to speak, so you nod, and his answering grin is all boyish triumph and barely contained affection.

“good,” he whispers, kissing you once more, softer than the last. “i’m not ready to let you go yet.”

“you won’t have to.”

oh, yes. professor nishimura will have to hand in his letter of resignation tomorrow.

─────────────────────────

“DRINKS TONIGHT?”

sooha slings an arm around your neck, hanging off you like a very cheerful, very heavy scarf. you stumble forward a step trying to keep both of you upright, while jiwon watches from your right with that warm, amused smile she gets whenever sooha becomes your problem.

“i can’t,” you mumble, staring hard at the floor like it might save you. “i have plans.”

“finals are literally over,” sooha groans, squeezing your shoulders. “what do you mean you have plans?”

jiwon raises an eyebrow, interest sparking. “yeah. plans with who?”

you press your lips together, pursing into a thin line as your brain scrambles to invent some brilliant excuse — any excuse — to feed them this time. because, unfortunately, exams were over, and you could no longer dodge their house parties and drink invites with the trusty “i have to meet professor nishimura” line, for obvious reasons:

one: professor nishimura has left for better job prospects, in a university much less privileged and competitive than yours, and

two: he is no longer professor nishimura to you, much less on weekends.

your pulse jumps at the thought of admitting this to them, heat crawling up your neck. they’ve known of his resignation ever since he bid goodbye a month back, but it’s been surprisingly easy keeping your relationship under wraps.

sooha narrows her eyes, leaning closer. “why do you look like you’re hiding state secrets?”

“i’m not!” you hiss, which — if anything — makes you look way more suspicious.

and the conversation spirals exactly the way you feared: rapid-fire accusations, ridiculous theories, the two of them gleefully feeding off each other as you try to keep walking in a straight line.

“she’s pregnant,” sooha whispers to jiwon, directly across you. you almost want to drag them both by the ears and throw them into incoming traffic at the laugh that makes the entire hallway look in your direction.

you’re about to tell them to stop when you see him — leaning against his car, arms crossed, head tilted, wearing that unfairly composed expression that’s become dangerously familiar.

professor nishimura. riki, on weekends, or rather every single day now that he’s no longer working in this cursed institution.

his eyes lift when he spots you, and he pushes off the car with a small, easy wave.

“you ready?” he calls out, like your friends aren’t right there losing their minds. his keys jingle as he reaches for the passenger handle, completely unfazed.

you freeze, but somehow you still manage to look left and right, taking in the absolute horror plastered across both their faces. you mouth a tiny “sorry,” grip your bag like a lifeline, and dart across the road with so little caution that riki actually winces and shakes his head at you.

“so no drinks tonight?” sooha yells after you, loud enough that half the parking lot turns to stare. jiwon doesn’t move an inch — wide-eyed, stunned, still trying to connect every dot she didn’t even know existed. for a second, you almost forget she had no idea, all this time.

“tomorrow!” you shout back, breathless, already reaching for the open passenger door. riki smiles as you duck your head, hopping into the seat that’s already moulded with your figure.

the door shuts, and you watch riki cross over to his side of the vehicle.

when you turn to look out the window, sooha screams something unintelligible and jiwon finally exhales, before they both turn to each other and start laughing hysterically.

“how was it?” he asks once you’re both settled in the car, hands casually resting on the wheel, glancing at you without turning his head.

“how was what?” you reply, feigning innocence, tightening your grip on your bag like it’s a shield.

“the finals i prepped you for,” he says, voice light but teasing, like he’s expecting you to cave.

you snort, rolling your eyes. “you left a month ago,” leaning back in your seat, pretending nonchalance.

“and?” he challenges, eyebrows raised, daring you to give him credit.

“meaning it was practically all me,” you counter, smirking, because honestly, a little credit never hurts.

riki shoots you a look, one brow arching in that infuriatingly perfect way. “don’t get ahead of yourself,” he warns, but the corner of his mouth twitches in amusement.

“i’m serious,” you say, leaning slightly toward him, voice low, “zero guidance. pure, raw talent.”

“right,” he mutters, finally glancing at you, mock-skeptical. “that’s why you called me five times last night. asking me questions i’ve already touched on months before today.”

“four,” you correct immediately, raising a finger like you’re marking a point in a debate.

“five,” he insists, smug, turning the wheel with one hand, eyes flicking to you again. “you facetimed me to show me your new cereal.”

you groan, slumping back. “okay, maybe four and a half.”

riki hums, satisfied, hands gripping the wheel. he puts the car in gear, the engine purring beneath you both, and glances sideways just long enough to catch your eye. there’s a warmth in the look he gives you that makes your stomach flip, the same teasing edge still lingering, but softened now, like he’s letting you in on something only the two of you share.

“i’ll let you have that,” he murmurs, fingers drumming lightly on the wheel, “only cause you worked hard for today.”

you bite back a smile, shaking your head, but the tension in your shoulders eases just a little as the car rolls forward. “not because i’m your girlfriend and i’m always right?”

he snorts, laughing when you reach to pinch his thigh. it barely hurts, but he winces anyway.

nishimura riki shakes his head, still chuckling, and glances at you through the corner of his eye. “nah, that’s a bonus,” he says softly, voice low enough that it almost gets lost in the hum of the engine.

you let out a small laugh, leaning back in your seat, and for a second the world outside the car blurs into nothing — just the two of you, the soft rhythm of the road beneath, and the warmth lingering where your hands brushed.

riki reaches over, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, and it’s gentle, careful, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he moves too fast. “don’t get used to it,” he murmurs, and you just shake your head, pretending like you don’t know how stupid you look smiling at him.

the sun bleeds through the windshield and into your hair, painting your skin bright and glowing, and riki feels his heart slow at the sight — so you, so beautiful, that he thinks he’s waited his whole life for this.

nishimura riki presses a soft kiss to your lips, warm and close enough to feel the steady rhythm of his pulse.

“i’m so proud of you,” he whispers.

“i know.” you respond.

he pulls away, head turning towards the front; the car rolls forward, smooth as it takes you closer to his place. you know exactly how this’ll end — curled up beneath his sheets, chest to chest, the steady rhythm of him keeping you anchored. riki had always joked about letting you sleep for a full day straight, even if he knew it was extremely unhealthy, a reward for surviving finals.

you think back to the last time it happened. it had been over a short call — him at his new office, grading papers with a quiet intensity, and you, slumped over a random table in the school library, eye bags sinking into your face with lips so chapped that you think you could grate cheese with them. the memory brings a small, fond smile to your face, but riki doesn’t catch it with how focused he is on the drive.

but after a few silent minutes, he speaks. “i’m off tomorrow. took a sick day.”

you gasp. “oh my. who even are you?”

riki glances at you, quickly, before his smirk softens into something warmer. “just thought it’d be nice to take care of you.”

that sounded utterly useless and unproductive, to be quite honest — and yet, somehow, completely necessary. you were an adult, perfectly capable of handling yourself. this wasn’t like him at all. a year ago, riki would be twitching at the edges of his schedule, itching to tick off every item on his never-ending to-do list.

but now… now his to-do list was almost frighteningly simple. it began and ended with you. everything else could wait, fade, or fall apart, and he wouldn’t care. the thought made your chest tighten in a way that was equal parts tender and dizzying.

oh, this is bad.

it happens just like this: nishimura riki, the guy with endless awards and certificates and letters of recommendations, wakes up an hour later than his usual alarm, your head still resting against his bare chest beneath the thick sheets. panic flashes across his face as he scrambles to hit ‘stop’ on the alarm, clearly afraid you’d grumble and jab his chest in protest.

and then he’s two hours late to breakfast because you’re still drooling all over him. next thing you know, he’s splitting leg day into mornings and nights just so he can stop by your apartment after work.

and why don’t his bank statements match up?

also, why the hell is he letting you use his toothbrush?

shit. this is really, really, really bad.

thank you so much for reading once again <3 if you’ve made it this far n liked it, please reblog! it helps me more than u think :) mwamwa until next time :3