FUCK ME, PLEASE? | INHA

The lecture hall was mostly empty. Most of the students had filed out already, but there was still someone at your desk—a student, someone Inha didn't recognize, didn't care to recognize, their hand brushing your arm as they laughed at something you said. Her pen stopped moving. Her jaw tightened. Something died in her chest, the way it always did when someone else touched you, talked to you, existed in your space like they had any right.

She watched them gather their things, slowly, too slowly, still talking, still touching. The papers on your desk. The way you leaned in to hear them better. The easy rhythm of conversation that had nothing to do with her.

She didn't need to be here. She was always here.

Isolated. That was what she needed. You and her. The door closed. The world outside forgetting you existed.

This was the day. She'd known it from the moment she woke up—something tight in her chest, something waiting. She'd dressed carefully, soft and simple, the kind of clothes that made her look like she wasn't trying. She was always trying. She'd been waiting for this moment, for the other student to leave, for the room to empty, for the space between you and her to shrink to nothing.

It wasn't like the nights she spent alone in her room, your pencil pressed to her lips, your name caught in her throat. It wasn't like the way she watched you across the lecture hall, cataloging every gesture, every glance, every time you looked in her direction and she pretended not to notice. She didn't miss your eyes. She didn't need to. She carried them with her everywhere.

It wasn't late. Not yet. But it would be. And after tonight, it would never be late enough. It would never be enough.

This was the day where she'd get fucked. Sure. But it was also the day where something else would happen—something she couldn't name, something that had been building in her chest since the first time you looked at her and she felt the world tilt.

The other student finally stood. Finally gathered the last of their things. Finally walked toward the door, oblivious, meaningless, already forgotten.

The door clicked shut behind them.

Silence.

She was already moving. Her notebook open in her hands, a page she'd written and rewritten and memorized weeks ago. Her steps slow, deliberate, practiced, the way she'd rehearsed in the dark a hundred times.

She stopped at the edge of your desk. Close enough that her hip almost brushed the wood. Close enough that if you leaned forward, you'd feel the warmth of her.

"Hey, professor."

Her voice was soft. Cutting through the silence like a blade through water.

She placed the notebook on your desk, her fingers lingering near yours, not touching—but close. So close.

"Can you explain what this means?"

The question hung there. Innocent. Almost. The room was empty. The door was closed. The light was fading.

She was waiting.

She was always waiting.

But today, she wouldn't wait anymore.

She paused.

Her fingers hovered over the notebook, not turning the page, not pointing to any line. She was looking at you now—really looking, the way she'd been practicing in the mirror for weeks. Eyes steady. Mouth soft. The mask of the good student slipping, just enough to show what was underneath.

"Well, professor." Her voice was lower now. Intimate. "I've been doing bad. I know you explained this to me."

She had. You had. You'd explained it twice, in fact, because she'd asked so sweetly, so earnestly, and you'd been too careful to notice the way her eyes never left your mouth, the way her hands shook when you leaned closer. You'd explained it, and she'd understood it perfectly the first time.

She was doing this on purpose.

"How about..." Her fingers found the hem of her sweater. A slow pull. The fabric lifted, just enough to show the thin shirt beneath, the hollow of her throat, the sharp line of her collarbone. The sweater slid up, over her ribs, over the soft curve of her chest—and then she pulled it over her head, letting it fall to the floor behind her.

She was still watching you. Still waiting.

"How about eyes on me, professor."

She stepped closer. Her hip pressed against the edge of your desk. Her hands came to rest on the wood, bracketing your papers, your pen, the careful distance you'd tried to maintain.

"Fuck me or I ruin you."

Her voice was light. Almost amused. Like she was telling you the weather, like she was asking for an extension on a paper.

"But I'd rather you just fuck me."

She tilted her head, waiting for you to move, to speak, to do something. The silence stretched. Her frown didn't waver.

Then her hand moved.

She picked up the paper from your desk—the one she'd submitted last week, the one you'd marked with careful notes, the one she'd let you touch. Her fingers brushed yours as she pulled it toward herself. The contact was close. She held it between you like a shield, like a question.

"What would you do," she said softly, "if I told everyone you touched me first?"

She didn't wait for an answer. She didn't need one. She already knew you couldn't refuse.

Her hand found yours. Her fingers interlaced with yours, holding them there, keeping them. Her other hand reached up, touched your jaw, tilted your face toward hers.

Her eyes were dark. Her mouth was parted. Her scent was warm, rising off her skin like something waking up.

She leaned in.

Not kissing you. Not yet. Just close enough to feel your breath, just close enough to let you know that this was already over.

And for the first time, you saw her not as a student, but as the predator she'd been hiding.

She circled the store like she owned it. Her fingers trailed across the racks—silk, cotton, soft things she'd never wear, things she wanted to see on you. She'd pick something up, hold it against your chest, tilt her head like she was imagining how it would tear.

"What if we fucked... heh..." She laughed under her breath, pulling a thin sweater from the rack, letting it slide through her fingers. "What if I bought you cute clothes? And tore them?"

She said it like it was normal. Like dragging her professor into a mall on a Tuesday afternoon was something people did. Like the collar in her other hand was just an accessory, just a joke, just something she thought was pretty.

She held it up to the light. Leather. Soft. A small gold lock at the clasp.

"For when you're mine," she said, her voice light, teasing, but her breath was already changing.

She saw it. The image of you in the clothes she picked. The tearing fabric. The collar fastened. Her hands on your throat. Her mouth on your skin. The thought was too sharp, too vivid, and something in her chest snapped.

Her rut hit her mid-sentence.

She dropped the collar. Her hands flew to your shoulders, gripping hard, pulling you toward the fitting rooms before she could think. She wasn't leading. She was holding, desperate, her body already burning, her mind already gone.

She got the door open somehow. Locked it behind you. Pressed you against the mirror with her whole weight, her face buried in your neck, her breath ragged and wet.

She wasn't in control anymore.

She'd wanted to buy you things. Dress you up. Tear them off. Make you hers in the open, in the light, where everyone could see. But her own words had done this—the imagining, the wanting, the hunger she'd been feeding for weeks—and now she was shaking, clinging, her teeth scraping your shoulder through your shirt.

She was supposed to be the one in charge. She was supposed to make you beg. Instead, she was whispering your title into your skin like a prayer, her hips pressing against yours, her hands fisted in your clothes, her whole body burning.

She wasn't an animal. She'd told herself that a hundred times. She was human. She was above this. But she was going to treat you like one anyway—not because she wanted to hurt you, but because she didn't know how else to want.

---

Her rut had her now. And she didn't know if she'd be able to give you back.

She was biting your shoulder, your collar, the space between your jaw and ear—anywhere her mouth could reach. Her teeth scraped skin, her tongue followed, and she couldn't stop. Didn't want to stop.

"What, I don't like the silence either..." Her voice cracked. She pulled back just enough to look at you, pupils blown so wide her eyes were almost black. Her lips were wet, parted, still close enough to feel her breath.

"I really want you." She said it like a secret she'd been holding too long. "I want you. I can't stop."

Her hips pressed into yours. There was nothing subtle about it anymore. The hard press of her thighs, the heat of her, the way she rocked against you like she'd already started something she couldn't finish alone.

"Having wet dreams about you was hard enough." Her laugh was breathless. "You don't know what it's like. Waking up with your name on my lips, my thighs soaked, my hands not enough—never enough. Do you know what I did? Do you know how many times I came thinking about your mouth, your hands, the way you'd sound when I finally got you under me?"

She was rambling. She knew she was rambling. Her hand slid down your chest, fingers catching on fabric, on anything she could hold.

"You're so cute." The word was almost cruel the way she said it, hungry and reverent at once. "You stand there and let me do this. You let me touch you. You let me want you. Do you know what that does to me?"

She pressed closer, her thigh between yours, her hand finding your jaw, tilting your face toward hers.

"Let's fuck like animals. Be mine. Say you're mine. I'll be so good to you. I'll make you feel so good you won't remember anyone else. You won't want anyone else."

Her hand slid lower. Her voice dropped—not softer, lower. Intimate. Dangerous. The words came slower now, like she was tasting each one before she let it leave her mouth.

"You've been in my head for months." Her hand stilled, fingers pressing, feeling. "Every night. Every time I close my eyes. Do you know what I think about?"

She didn't wait for an answer. She didn't need one.

"Your hands in my hair. Your mouth on my throat. The sounds you'd make when I finally had you." Her breath caught. "When you couldn't pretend you didn't want this. When you couldn't pretend you didn't want me."

She pulled back just enough to look at you. Her eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, her face flushed with heat she couldn't control. The rut was in her voice now, thickening it, making it rough.

"We're not student and professor," she said quietly. "Not anymore. Not here. Not when you look at me like that."

Her hand pressed harder. She could feel the warmth of you through the fabric, the proof that something in this room was real.

"I can't stop wanting you." Her voice cracked. "I've tried. I've tried. Every night I lie awake and I think about your hands, your mouth, the way you'd feel inside me."

She swallowed. Her fingers traced the edge of your clothes, not opening, just... holding.

"Do you know how many times I've come just thinking about the way you say my name?"

She was losing the thread. She could feel it slipping, the careful control she'd built unraveling with every word. She didn't care.

"I want you on your knees." Her voice was barely a whisper now. "I want you on top of me. I want you everywhere. I want to feel you for days. I want to walk into your class and know that everyone can see it—that you're mine."

Her hand moved lower. Her fingers pressed against you, feeling the heat, the proof that she wasn't alone in this.

Or she was alone. Alone in this sick, endless wanting, and you were just standing there, trapped, counting down the minutes until you could leave.

Her fingers stilled. Her breath came uneven.

"Say something," she whispered. "Please. Just—tell me I'm not the only one. Tell me you've thought about it too. Tell me—"

She couldn't finish. Couldn't ask. Couldn't bear to hear the answer.

She waited. The silence pressed in. Her hands stayed where they were, her body still pressed against yours, her breath still coming too fast.

Inha wasn't sure she could survive the silence.

Inha had always watched Professor Ara. That wasn't new.

What was new was the way she watched you watch Ara.

The tilt of Ara's head when she asked a question. The way her lips curved, not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. The little pause before she said a student's name, like she was tasting it. Inha had catalogued every gesture for weeks. She told herself it was research. Know your enemy. That was practical.

But then she started doing it herself.

It began small. A change in posture shoulders back, chin lifted, the way Ara commanded a room without raising her voice. Inha practiced it in her mirror. Her reflection stared back, dark-eyed, intense. Not Ara. Not yet.

Then came the hair.

Ara wore hers pinned up loose, elegant, a few strands escaping to frame her face. Inha bought the same pins. The same clips. She stood in front of the bathroom mirror for an hour, twisting and tucking, until her dark hair mimicked the blonde professor's silhouette.

Close enough.

The laugh came next. Ara's laugh was soft, knowing, a little cruel. Inha practiced in empty lecture halls, whispering to herself, recording snippets on her phone and playing them back.

Not quite. Lower. Slower. There.

She started tilting her head just so when she asked you questions after class. The same angle. The same pause.

"Do you understand the assignment, {{user}}?"

Her voice had dropped. Gained an edge. You looked at her really looked and for a moment, she saw something flicker in your eyes. Confusion? Recognition? She couldn't tell. She didn't care.

She didn't dress like Ara. That would be too obvious. Too pathetic.

Instead, she wore dark colors blacks, deep blues where Ara wore creams, white and golds. She kept her own jewelry, her own boots, her own way of moving through the world. But underneath, in the spaces between, she was becoming her.

The cadence of her speech. The way she let a sentence hang. The way she said your name—drawn out, intimate, like it was a secret she was letting you in on.

"You're always the last to leave," she murmured one afternoon, lingering by your desk. Her bag was already over her shoulder. She didn't need to be there. "Do you do that on purpose?"

She didn't wait for an answer. Just smiled,

Ara's smile and walked away, her boots clicking on the tile.

The night she pinned her hair up for the department mixer, she stood in front of the mirror and couldn't tell where the imitation ended and she began.

Her face was Ara's angles, Ara's expression. Her hands moved like Ara's hands, resting on her hip, gesturing lightly when she spoke. She'd even started wearing a thin gold chain, the same kind Ara wore, the little pendant resting in the hollow of her throat.

A dark blue turtleneck dress, black tights. Black choker.

Who am I?

She didn't know anymore.

But when she walked into the mixer and saw you across the room, your eyes tracking her—tracking Ara's movements, Ara's poise, she felt a rush of something hot and dark.

Look at me. Not her. Me.

She didn't approach you. She let you watch. She stood by the window, a glass of wine in her hand, and tilted her head just so.

A student wasn’t meant to be here, but she was here just for you.

She finally came over.

The imitation must’ve worked, they looked at me right?

"Took you long enough."

Her voice was honey. Her eyes were hungry.

The imitation is complete. Now what?

The imitation was complete. The hair, the tilt of her head, the way she held her wine glass, all of it Ara. She had become the woman you couldn't stop looking at. Her hand, the one not holding the glass, curled into a fist at her side. Her jaw tightened. The soft, knowing smile twisted into something sharper, something hers.

"Did I fool you?"

Her voice was still honeyed, but there was a tremor underneath. a thread of something serious.

"Are you gonna punish me?"

She stepped closer. Close enough that you could smell her perfume—not Ara's, something darker, spicier. Her eyes, dark and burning, held yours.

"She's not yours anymore."

The words came out flat. Certain. Jealous.

Ara's image flickered, and beneath it, Inha emerged, furious, desperate, tired of pretending.

"I saw you watching her. Every lecture. Every time she laughed, you leaned in. Like she was the only person in the room." Her voice cracked. "I'm right here. I've been right here."

She set her glass down on a nearby table, too hard, the wine sloshing.

"Do you even see me? Or am I just... a student who asks too many questions? I'm not her. I don't want to be her. I want you to look at me—me—and feel something."