#yonce

synopsis: a college junior realizes her brilliant young professor’s attention has crossed every line possible, but the more unsettling it gets, the harder it is to deny that the obsession might be mutual.

pairing: beyonce (g!p) x fem!y/n

heheeee……… obsessivenessssssss >>> buckle up this ones overly long

masterlist.

the first time beyoncé knowles noticed you, you were laughing. not a cute little polite laugh either, not the kind girls did when they wanted to be looked at, not the soft measured kind that stayed tucked behind perfect lipstick and lowered lashes.

yours came out full and unashamed, head tipped back in the second row of her advanced cultural theory lecture, hand over your mouth too late to stop it after mara whispered something foul in your ear while attendance was being taken.

the whole room had turned for half a second. so had she. and she hated that she remembered it, hated it more when she caught herself waiting for it again.

“ms y/l/n.”

you blinked up from your notebook at the sound of your name and there she was at the front of the room, one hand in the pocket of her slacks, the other holding a dry erase marker between elegant fingers.

professor knowles, twenty six, youngest faculty hire in the humanities department, stupidly brilliant, terrifyingly beautiful, and somehow mean without ever raising her voice. the whole campus knew her.

students talked about her like she was some kind of myth. the professor who got her doctorate early. the professor who embarrassed seniors in class when they tried to bluff their way through arguments they clearly hadn’t read enough to make.

the professor who could quote theory from memory and had a stare so sharp it made people sit up straighter before she even said a word.

you had her for one class. one. and somehow she said your name like it had been living on her tongue for years.

“you look confused,” she said.

heat crept into your face.

“i’m sorry?”

“you’ve been staring at the same sentence for the last four minutes.” she tilted her head slightly. “would you like to answer the question, or should i give you another minute to gather yourself?”

the room went quiet in that way it always did when she singled somebody out. mara, seated beside you, muttered, “oh she want you bad.”

you kicked her under the table. your mouth went dry. the question was whether institutional power could ever be separated from personal bias. beyoncé’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in her eyes.

“no,” you said, voice steadier than you felt, “because the people in power still carry themselves into the structure. even if the rules are neutral on paper, the people applying them usually aren’t.”

a pause. then another. then professor knowles smiled. not a real smile, not warm, not sweet. worse. interested.

“good,” she said quietly, like she was talking to herself more than to you. “very good.”

mara stared at you like you’d just won the lottery and got cursed in the same breath. you spent the rest of class trying not to feel her eyes on you. you failed. badly.

by the second month of the semester, things got weird. not dramatic weird, not movie weird.

no one was jumping out of bushes or breathing into your phone at midnight.

it was smaller than that, slicker, easy to excuse if you weren’t paying close enough attention. except you were. because how many coincidences could one woman possibly have before they stopped being coincidences?

the first time, you told yourself it was harmless. you’d gone to the campus coffee shop between classes, earbuds in, hoodie on, wanting exactly ten minutes of peace before your statistics lecture.

you got in line, checked your balance, and frowned because your checking account was looking like it had been through a war. before you could decide between caffeine and lunch, the cashier smiled and said, “you’re good.”

you blinked. “what?”

“your order’s already covered.”

you frowned. “by who?”

the girl behind the register just shrugged. “they said not to say.”

you should’ve let it go.

instead, you turned, and across the shop, seated by the window with a black coffee and an open book she wasn’t even pretending to read, was professor knowles.

she didn’t wave. didn’t smile. just looked at you over the rim of her cup like she’d been waiting for you to notice her.

your stomach folded in on itself. you grabbed your drink and left so fast you almost forgot your wallet.

“that’s not normal,” mara said later, halfway through stealing your fries in the dining hall.

“maybe she was just being nice.”

mara stared at you with a level of pity you did not appreciate. “baby, professors are not just nice. not like that.

“you’re dramatic.”

“and you’re in denial.”

you rolled your eyes and shoved her shoulder, but that night, alone in your dorm, you replayed the look professor knowles had given you in the coffee shop. not flirty, not even exactly inappropriate. just focused. like she’d chosen something or someone and didn’t plan on changing her mind.

after that, the little things multiplied. comments on your papers that went on way longer than anyone else’s. emails at odd hours that could’ve waited until morning.

“excellent work. i’d love to hear more of your thoughts on this argument.”

“your writing has a voice most students spend years trying to find.”

“you’re wasting your potential by doubting yourself.”

that last one hit different, because you hadn’t told anybody you’d been doubting yourself. not mara. not your advisor. not even your own reflection when you stood in the bathroom mirror brushing your teeth and wondering if you were smart enough to keep up. and yet somehow, professor knowles had looked straight through you and found the bruise.

you started catching her places she had no reason to be.

outside the library one evening. at the student art showcase. once at the little off campus grocery store three blocks from your dorm

“you should buy the strawberries today,” she said, passing you in the produce aisle. “they’re fresh.”

you didn’t but later, when you got back to your room, there was a clear plastic container of washed strawberries sitting outside your dorm door. no note. no name. just your favorite fruit, cold with condensation.

you stared at it for a full minute before calling mara.

“oh hell no,” mara said immediately. “oh no no no. see this is how white women die in movies.”

“y/n, i’m serious. she’s weird.”

“she’s not weird.”

you looked down the hallway even though you already knew nobody was there.

“she’s just… intense.”

mara went silent for a beat. “you hear yourself?”

you did. and unfortunately, you also heard how weak it sounded.

two weeks later, she called on you in class and recited a line from your admissions essay that you had never shared anywhere else. you froze so hard your pen slipped from your fingers.

“something wrong?” she asked.

“no.”

her gaze stayed on you a second too long. “okay.”

that night, mara climbed onto your bed and looked at you like she was about to stage an intervention.

“i need you to be honest. do you think she’s hot?”

you groaned. “that is not the point.”

“it absolutely is the point. because if she was ugly, you would’ve reported her already.”

you lifted your head and glared at her. she crossed her arms.

“exactly.”

you hated that she was right.

“i’m not into her.”

“mmhmm.”

“i’m serious.”

“and she just happened to buy your favorite fruit, quote your admissions essay, and appear everywhere you go because the universe is quirky?”

you threw your pillow at her.

later that week, you got the email.

“come by my office regarding your midterm draft.”

you went.

her office door was already cracked open.

“come in.”

your pulse kicked.

the room smelled like cedar and paper and something expensive you couldn’t name.

“close the door.”

you hesitated.

“please.”

you closed it.

“sit.”

you sat.

she watched you.

“your draft is strong,” she said, sliding it across the desk.

“okay.”

“okay,” she repeated softly. your fingers tightened around the chair.

“you’re nervous around me.”

“i am not.”

one corner of her mouth twitched. “you fidget when you lie.”

you went still.

“why are you really here?” you asked.

she leaned back. “i emailed you.”

“that’s not why i’m here.”

she studied you then finally said, “no.” your mouth went dry. “then why am i here?”

she stood.

“because,” she said quietly, “you’ve been trying very hard to avoid what’s obvious.”

“what’s obvious?”

her gaze dropped to your mouth, then lifted.

“that i want you.”

everything stopped. l i’ll

“you can’t say that.”

“i just did.”

“you’re my professor.”

“i know.”

“that doesn’t make this okay.”

“i didn’t say it was okay.” the honesty hit harder than any excuse.

“you’ve been watching me.”

“yes.”

“you know where i live.”

“yes.”

“why?”

for the first time, she looked almost human.

“because i couldn’t stop.”

“that’s not romantic.”

“i know.”

“it’s weird.”

“i know.”

“it’s creepy.”

“i know.”

you stared at her. “then why are you acting like this?” she was quiet for a moment.

“you really don’t know?”

“know what?”

she stepped closer.

“what you do to a room.”

your breath caught. “you laugh and i forget what i’m saying. you look at me like you don’t know what you are, and that makes it worse.”

you should’ve left.

you didn’t.

“you don’t get to decide things for me.”

something sharp flickered in her face.

“good,” she said. “don’t let me.”

“what if you want me to stay away from you?”

“say it.”

you opened your mouth. nothing came out.

“say it.”

you couldn’t.

“i should go,” you whispered.

“if that’s what you want.”

“i didn’t say that.”

“no,” she said softly. “you didn’t.”

you grabbed your paper and headed for the door “mara doesn’t trust me.”

you froze.

“how do you know about mara?”

silence.

“you need to stop.”

“i know.”

“then stop showing up everywhere.”

“i’m trying.”

“trying isn’t enough.”

that one landed.

“you think i don’t know that?” she said quietly. you hesitated.

“i don’t know what you want from me.”

“honesty.”

you let out a breathless laugh. “that’s crazy.”

“probably.” you stared at her. then said it.

“i think about you too.” she went still. she didn’t move.

“and i hate that part of me doesn’t want you to stop.”

silence.

“look at me,” she said.

you did.

“you should hate me.”

“i’m trying.”

“me too.”

your phone buzzed.

mara: “if she kills you i’m telling campus police.” you laughed. her expression softened.

“your friend is funny.”

“stop knowing things.”

“fair.”

you should’ve left. you didn’t.

“what happens now?”

she considered you. then reached out, wrapping her hand around your wrist, pulling you closer.

“because we both know you aren’t leaving.”

her thumb stroked your pulse.

“and you’re going to stay right here,” she murmured, “and let me show you exactly what i’ve been holding back since the moment you laughed in my class.”

the words sent a rush of heat through you, mixing fear and want in a way that made your stomach twist because she was still your professor, and this was still her office, and the door was closed but not locked. anyone could knock.

but the way she looked at you, like she already owned every reaction your body gave her, made resistance feel impossible.

her other hand came up to cup your chin, forcing your eyes to stay locked on hers.

“don’t look away,” she said softly, but with that hard edge of control that made your knees weak. “i want to watch every second of you realizing how badly you need this.”

her grip tightened just enough to remind you of how easily she could manhandle you right here against her desk.

and when she leaned in and kissed you, it was hungry and claiming, her tongue pushing into your mouth like she was taking something that had always belonged to her.q

you kissed her back before you could stop yourself, your hands fisting in her shirt.

she was your professor. the one who graded your work. the one who could ruin your academic future with a word.

and yet here she was pinning you against the edge of her desk, her body pressing into yours with deliberate strength, making you feel small and possessed already.

her hands slid down to your hips, lifting you onto the desk with no effort. papers scattered under you as she stepped between your legs, spreading them wide around her waist.

her heat radiated through your clothes as she broke the kiss just enough to speak against your lips.

“you are dripping for me already, aren’t you?” she whispered, her deep voice made shame curl hot in your belly. “my eager little student, sitting in my lectures pretending to take notes when all you really want is your professor’s fingers buried inside you.”

the words humiliated you in the most humiliating way possible, yet your body reacted instantly.

a fresh wave of wetness soaked your panties as she pushed your skirt up and hooked her fingers into the fabric, dragging it down your legs slowly, savoring the way you trembled under her touch.

“look at that,” she said, pulling back just enough to stare down at your exposed pussy, her eyes dark with obsession and possession. “so fucking wet and swollen just from a kiss. pathetic, really. how easily i corrupt you.”

she dragged two fingers through your folds, collecting the slick before bringing them to her mouth and sucking them clean.

the sight made your pussy throb.

when she pushed those same fingers inside you without warning, the stretch burned in the best way, her long fingers curling immediately to press against that spot that made your back arch off the desk.

“fuck,” she groaned low and rough, feeling how tight you clenched around her. “that’s it. take them like the obedient whore you are.”

her pace started slow and drawn out, pumping in and out with controlled thrusts while her thumb circled your clit in lazy strokes, building the pressure until your hips bucked against her hand.

but every time you got close to the edge, she slowed down or pulled back completely.

“please,” you whimpered, your voice breaking. “beyoncé, please. i need to come.” her eyes locked onto yours, refusing to let you look away even for a second.

“say my name again,” she commanded, her voice dropping into that deep timbre that sent shivers straight to your core. “and beg properly. tell me who this pussy belongs to now.”

the command, combined with the voice kink that always unraveled you, made you sob out, “beyoncé, please, beyoncé. it’s yours. it’s all yours. only yours.”

“good girl,” she praised, her tone intimate and teasing as she finally gave you what you needed.

her fingers sped up, fucking into you harder, deeper, the wet sounds filling the office obscenely loud as she overstimmed you right through the first orgasm. she didn’t stop even when your walls fluttered and clenched around her.

she kept going, curling and scissoring until you were shaking and crying out, too sensitive yet unable to pull away because her free hand held your hip down with bruising force, marking you already with the imprint of her fingers.

“listen to how sloppy you sound, creaming all over your professor’s hand in her own office. what would your little friend mara think if she knew you were such a desperate whore for me?”

the words hit hard, mixing with the praise that followed.

“but you are doing so well for me, baby. taking everything i give you like you were made for it.”

her mouth found your neck then, sucking and biting hard enough to leave dark hickeys that would be impossible to hide tomorrow.

symbols of her possession that made your stomach flip with twisted satisfaction because you wanted everyone to know, even if you couldn’t admit it out loud.

she pulled her fingers out suddenly, leaving you empty and clenching around nothing.

then she flipped you over onto your stomach on the desk, your cheek pressed to the cool wood as she yanked your hips back and spread your legs wider.

she got the strap from her desk drawer.

the thick realistic dick slapped heavy against your ass when she positioned it at your entrance.

you felt the head nudge your slick folds, and the anticipation made your breath hitch.

she rubbed it up and down, coating it in your wetness while her voice stayed low and commanding in your ear.

“you are going to watch yourself get fucked,” she said, reaching for the small mirror she kept on the shelf and angling it so you could see your own face and the way her body loomed behind you.

the burn and fullness were so intense that a broken moan tore from your throat.

“that’s right,” she groaned, her hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “take every fucking inch like the corrupt little student you are.”

her thrusts started deep and punishing, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing in the small office as she fucked you with relentless control. her hips snapped forward while one hand reached around to rub your clit again.

the overstimulation hit immediately after your first orgasm, making your legs shake and your eyes water, but she didn’t let up.

not even when you begged in a hoarse whisper.

“beyoncé, too much, please. it’s too much.”

she just laughed softly, dark and teasing.

“too much?” she repeated, thrusting harder to prove her point. “you can take it. you will take it because i own this tight little hole now, and you are going to come again for me right here on my desk with my name on your tongue.”

the jealousy kink flared when she leaned over your back, her tits pressing against you as she growled, “i saw you smiling at that boy in the hallway yesterday. did he make your pussy this wet? no. because you belong to me. only me.”

the rage in her voice pushed you over the edge again, your second orgasm crashing through you harder than the first, your walls clenching around the dick as she fucked you through it, not slowing down even a little.

the overstimulation turned into a constant wave of pleasure pain that left you drooling against the desk, papers sticking to your sweat damp skin.

she pulled out only long enough to flip you onto your back again, spreading your legs obscenely wide and pushing back in with one smooth thrust.

her eyes never left yours as she set a brutal pace, the mirror still positioned so you could see everything. the way your tits bounced with every deep stroke. the way your pussy stretched around her dick. the way you creamed white and messy down the dick.

the sight, combined with her dirty words, made you feel utterly degraded and completely possessed.

“you are such a nasty little thing,” she murmured, her voice rough with lust. “letting your professor fuck you raw while grades are still being calculated. anyone could walk by and hear you moaning like a bitch in heat. but you don’t care, do you? because all you want is to be used by me.”

the restraint came next when she grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head with one hand.

the other wrapping around your throat just tight enough to make your head spin with that perfect edge of control.

her thumb pressed under your jaw, forcing your gaze to stay on hers as she drove into you harder, deeper, hitting that spot inside you that made stars explode behind your eyes.

“come for me again,” she demanded, her tone leaving no room for refusal. “say my name while you fall apart. tell me who owns you completely.”

her voice, her grip, and the relentless pounding sent you spiraling into a third orgasm, your body convulsing under her as you cried out, “beyoncé, fuck, beyoncé, i’m yours, i’m yours.”

the words broke out as a sob as she kept fucking you through it, drawing it out until you were a trembling, overstimulated mess, barely able to form coherent thoughts.

only when your voice turned hoarse and your eyes glazed over with tears did she finally slow her pace, pulling out and replacing the strap with her mouth, sucking your swollen clit between her lips while her fingers pushed back inside you.

she ate you like she was starving, growling against your pussy about how sweet you tasted.

how she had stalked every part of your life just to get to this moment, how she had imagined ruining you like this since the very first lecture.

her tongue flicked fast and precise while her free hand marked your inner thighs with fresh bites.

you came again, shaking and whimpering her name like a prayer, your juices coating her chin and dripping down onto the desk beneath you.

only then did she climb up your body, kissing you deep so you could taste yourself on her tongue.

the kiss messy and claiming as her hand slid between your legs again, rubbing your clit in slow circles.

when she finally pulled back, her eyes were dark.

“you are never going to forget this,” she whispered, her fingers still teasing you lightly. “now that i’ve had you like this, marked you, claimed you, fucked you right here where i grade your papers, every single time you sit in my class, you are going to remember how full i made you, how hard you came while begging your professor to ruin you.”