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My name is Lennon, and I'm a college student living a pretty ordinary campus life — until the day I accidentally stumbled onto a private BL forum. By some strange impulse, I followed the directions to a meeting spot. I never expected to see *him* there... But let me start from the beginning. *** PROLOGUE. LENNON Lennon kept telling himself it was for research purposes. Just one anonymous, filthy, no names night to prove–to no one in particular– that the thing clawing at the inside of his skull every time professor Grayson so much as looked in his direction was just stress. Just a weird phase. Because Lennon Kessler was straight. Straight guys didn’t get hard in lecture halls when a man twice their age said “good” in that low, approving voice. Straight guys didn’t stroke themselves raw three times a night picturing that same man pinning them down and ruining them. So he downloaded the gay app everyone whispered about: Velvet heat. If the black icon wasn't enough of a red flag, then the fact that it was invitation-only would have told literally anyone to turn around and never look back. But Lennon wasn't going to do that. It took him two whole weeks to get the invite code from his best friend –Archer Reeves. How Archer got the code was a mystery he had no zeal in solving. The guy was a f*cking enigma. When the app finally unlocked, the profile questions made Lennon's palm sweat. Orientation? He clicked “curious.” Experience level? First timer？ He filled in none. Kinks? He paused at that, his heart hammering. Did he have kinks? Could he just uninstall the app and forget he ever thought about this? No, he wasn't going to back out now, not after promising to do Archer's homework for the rest of the school year. One by one, he selected everything. Every single taboo box. Age gap. Blindfolds. Degradation. Ownership. Breeding. The little red warning popped up: EXTREME MATCH ONLY. He clicked confirm before he could chicken out. Username: prettyboy21. Profile pic: an over the top, seductive picture of his mouth, glossy and bitten red. Then the matching began, after a few seconds the result came. He matched with only one person. Username: Obsidian. No photo, age or bio. A shiver ran down his spine. Was he really about to match a stranger who could be a serial killer or worse, someone that knows him. Lennon didn't know which scenario was worse. No, nope. He wasn't going to risk it either. His fingers hovered above the “return home" button but before he could click it, the app's message icon showed that he had received a text. In that moment, Lennon felt his stomach drop. Fear and something else coursed through him. Anticipation. His finger shivered as he opened the message that had come from none other than Obsidian. Friday. 11pm. The black orchid. Wear nothing underneath. The black orchid was the official club where everything went down. At least that's what Archer had told him. He stared at the message for a good thirty minutes, running down every possible bad thing that could come out of this. The worst being his dad finding out. He shook his head. No, that was his intrusive thoughts speaking, his dad could never find out. He was going to do this. Just once and he'd put it behind him. Somehow, he didn't believe his own thoughts. Friday night, he showed up practically shaking. Hoodie pulled low and palms sweaty against the buzzer. A petite woman whose face was covered in a porcelain mast opened the door. “Name?” the woman asked, her voice surprisingly clear behind the mask. “P.. prettyboy21," he whispered, cheeks on fire. "Welcome sweetheart. Follow me." She led him deeper down the hallway and past a larger space that was illuminated with red lights. Lennon felt it was a bit cli ché but kept his thoughts to himself. He didn't notice the woman stop and almost ran into her. “Please change into these," she handed him a silk, soft black shorts that would barely cover his backside. But that wasn't what bothered him. He stood there, unmoving and red from embarrassment. “Could.." he stuttered, “Could you turn around? I'm not wearing anything underneath." He added the last part then bent his head in shame. Lennon didn't want to admit it, but he just loved following orders and he didn't want to end up being punished for something as Dumb as wearing underwear. He just wanted the night to be over. Blood rushed to his ears and he immediately wished he hadn't come. The woman's eyes brightened behind the mask then she turned. Lennon could practically see the smirk on her face. He put the shorts on quickly as if his backside was on fire then cleared his throat to tell her he was done. The blindfold came next, thick and soft, plunging him into absolute darkness. Then a leather cuff was clipped around his wrist. “Walk ten steps then stop. Have fun!" The woman's voice came from behind him. It seemed that having his sight taken away heightened every other of his senses. His brain registered the faint scent of cedar and.. heat. He heard a door open and close. This was his idea. All he had to do was take ten steps and the night would begin. The sooner it started, the sooner it would be over. Right. He internally shook his head, he didn't have the time to think. His match was probably waiting for him in there. He didn't want to keep the guy waiting. He began walking. One step after another. Each step felt heavier than the last, and his heart just wouldn't stop pounding against his rib cage. The moment he stopped, he felt a pair of hands close over his hips. From behind. Obsidian. He guessed the guy would either be in his late thirties or early forties. A body pressed against his back, the ridge of his thick desire lining his innermost curves, grinding slowly against him. Obsidian was not a small man. Lennon felt his own desire strain against the shorts. Hot breath fanned the shell of his left ear. “On your knees, pretty boy." He dropped instantly, his knees hitting a thick rug. The voice alone made slick heat soak the front of the silk shorts. The voice was familiar, but he couldn't remember where he'd heard it from. It also didn't help that his brain was short circuiting every twenty seconds from pleasure. His whole body felt like a live wire. A thumb traced his lower curve then pushed inside. “Suck." He opened obediently, tongue swirling around the intrusion like he’d done this a thousand times instead of never. The man hummed, pleased, and fed him two more fingers, then three, until Lennon was choking and drooling and humping the air like a desperate animal. “You're such a good boy. And good boys get rewarded." The fingers vanished, a belt buckle clinked, zipper pulled down. Then the wet head of his hardness painted his lips, smeared across his cheek and left a trail of slick heat. Lennon opened his mouth and took it to the root in one slide, gagging hard enough that tears soaked the blindfold. The man fucked his throat without mercy, one hand fisted in his hair, the other gripping his jaw to feel himself bulge beneath the skin. Every time Lennon tried to pull off for air, the hand yanked him back down until his nose was buried in trimmed hair and his throat spasmed around the intrusion. When he finally came, it was sudden and brutal, thick pulses straight down Lennon’s throat while the man growled, “Swallow every drop, pretty boy.” Lennon came as well in that instant without being touched. He was crying and shaking and riding the aftershocks of the most mind-blowing peak he's ever had. The man hauled him up by the cuff, spun him, bent him over, something padded, and ripped the shorts down to his thighs. “You didn't wear any underwear did you?” Lennon shook his head, then hissed when the man slapped his bare flesh, making fire course through him. “Use your words!” Obsidian practically growled in his ear. “Y..yes. I mean, no. I didn't wear anything asides my pants.” His voice shivered. The man kneaded his soft rear in a gentle massage that soothed him. “Good.” Cold air hit his hole, then a tongue speared inside him in a slow and deliberate thrust that had him seeing stars. Lennon screamed into the rug, hips jerking as he tried to get away and get closer at the same time. Fingers followed the tongue, first one then two and then it was three, scissoring roughly into him, spreading him. He felt something wet on his opening, then realized that it was lube. When Obsidian reached for the lube he did not know. A hand cracked across his exposed rear hard enough to leave a print. Again and again. Until he was sobbing. “Please,” he sobbed, “please, I can’t—” “You can't what?” “I can't take it anymore!” “What do you want, Pretty boy? Tell me what you crave right now.” “Take me. Please. I need your hardness in me right now.” “You were such a good boy tonight. So I'll reward you.” The blunt head of Obsidian’s hardness pressed against his hole and pushed in slowly. Lennon wanted to scream. It hurt so bad and felt so good at the same time. One brutal thrust and he was split open. The burn was hot and perfect. The man didn't wait, just gripped his hips hard enough to bruise and fucked him like he was trying to carve his name inside Lennon's body. Every thrust punched a broken sound out of him. The angle shifted and Lennon came again untouched, clenching so hard that the man cursed and sped up. “Mine,” The man snarled against his ear, teeth sinking into his shoulder. “Say it.” “Yours,” Lennon slurred. “Only yours, sir.” “Lennon,” The man roared as he slammed into the roots and flooded him. Pulse after pulse of scalding heat. He kept moving with smaller thrusts, milking every drop until Lennon was sobbing from overstimulation. Slowly, Lennon’s senses returned and it hit him. Lennon. Obsidian had called him Lennon. He hadn’t imagined it. He wasn't so pleasure-drunk that he'd imagined it. Obsidian knew who he was. And he probably knew Obsidian too. Before his brain could catch up, he said, “How do you..” He didn't get to finish his sentence, Obsidian, who had remained buried inside him after he came and was probably catching his breath, immediately rose and pulled out so fast. Lennon felt the slick heat drip down his skin, and in an instant, it felt like he was alone in the room. It was all happening so fast and it didn't make sense to Lennon. Who was this guy? Where did he know him from? Had he known it was Lennon before he matched him? Was that even possible? Ten minutes later, his blindfolds were taken off. It took his eyes some time to adjust to the light, and when it finally did, he noticed that the room was softly illuminated with blue lights. And his clothes were lying right next to him, along with a note that said, “twenty steps to your right and walk back the way you came ." That was it. He dressed up quickly and did as he was told. He still had that nagging feeling that something was very wrong. And this wouldn't be the last time he would encounter Obsidian. Chapter 1: The Morning After. LENNON Leonard's leg felt like lead as he climbed the stone steps to the lecture hall. Every muscle in his body ached in a way that was both foreign and humiliatingly familiar. It was a deep, intimate soreness that pulsed with every step. He had showered twice this morning, scalding hot, then ice cold, trying to scrub away the evidence of last night. The marks on his hips were already blooming into bruises shaped like fingerprints. The bite on his shoulder throbbed beneath his hoodie. And lower, he still felt stretched open, claimed like his body had been rewritten in someone else's handwriting. He told himself he was fine. He was not fine. He was everything but fine. The double doors loomed ahead. He was late, and the thought of those cold grey eyes flicking to him in disapproval made his stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with fear. He slipped inside just as the clock hit 9:34. The hall was already full, 200 students hunched over laptops and notebooks. Lennon kept his hood up, head down and beelined for the back row, his and Archer's usual spot. The moment Lennon sat down, he thought he should have known better. Firstly, his raging storm of a best friend, Archer, was not there to distract him. And secondly, from the place he sat, it was like having a perfect view of the podium where Damien Grayson stood. He was dangerously breathtaking. Black suit, crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled once to reveal strong forearms inked with swirling black lines that disappeared beneath expensive cotton. His hair was pushed back a few strands falling forward like he'd drawn impatient fingers through it. And his eyes were unmistakably on Lennon. They didn't move, not once. Not even for the first thirty minutes of lecture that felt like an eternity. Then, as if the universe had smiled upon him, Archer walked into the hall with a shit-eating grin and headed straight for the seat right next to Lennon. The moment Archer settled down, he leaned into Lennon's space and said, “I don't know if you noticed but 10 o'clock, that daddy Grayson is literally eye fucking you in front of the whole class.” Lennon's breath punched out of him. His face went up in flames. "Shut up," he whisper yelled at Archer. "Make me," he replied, eyes sparkling. Lennon elbowed him so hard he wheezed and stared at the notebook on his lap for the rest of the lecture. Lennon squirmed. He couldn't help it. His thighs pressed together under the desk, trying to ease the sudden throb between them. He was half hard and mortified. His notebook remained blank. He was too busy remembering: the rug under his knees, the blindfold, that voice. God. When the lecture ended, students surged toward the doors. Archer had hurriedly left as well, saying that he had other engagements. Lennon stayed rooted, knuckles white around the edge of his desk. He told himself he'd wait until the room emptied, then he'd bolt. He didn't bolt. Grayson closed his laptop with a soft, deliberate click. “Mr. Kessler.” Lennon's head jerked up. Grayson was watching him with the faintest tilt of his head. Like a wolf deciding whether the rabbit was worth chasing. “A word.” It wasn't a request. The last students trickled out and left them both alone. Him, Lennon Kessler, was alone in the lecture hall with his hot professor, Damien Grayson. Lennon thought the day couldn't get worse. Silence stretched. Lennon stood on shaky legs and made his way down the aisle. Each step felt like walking toward a guillotine. When he reached the front, he stopped a safe three feet away. Grayson didn't let him keep it. He stepped forward once, twice, until Lennon had to tip his head back to hold eye contact. Up close he smelled like cedar and something musky. “You were late,” Grayson said, almost softly. “I… Sorry, traffic.” That was a lie. Grayson's gaze dipped to Lennon's mouth, then lower, lingering on the faint red mark peeking above his collar. When he spoke again, his voice was... deeper. “Traffic,” he repeated in an almost amused tone. “Interesting.” Lennon's heart slammed against his ribs. “I'll make sure it doesn't happen again, Professor.” “See that you do,” Grayson said, then paused, his eyes flicked back up, pinning Lennon in place. “You seem distracted today, Mr. Kessler. Everything all right?” Lennon opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “I'm fine,” he managed a bit too quickly, voice cracking like a fourteen year old’s. Grayson’s lips curved, not quite a smile, but it made Lennon weak in the knees. “Are you?” he murmured. “You look...” His gaze dragged down Lennon's body, again slow and unnerving, “uncomfortable.” Lennon's knees nearly buckled. “I'm good,” he lied again. “Great, perfect, I should...” He gestured vaguely toward the door. Grayson didn't move, didn't even step back, just watched him with that unnerving patience. Lennon's eyes betrayed him then, flicking down before he could stop himself. And froze. The front of Grayson's slacks was stretched tight, the unmistakable ridge of a hard om straining against his pants, thick and obvious. Lennon's breath caught so sharply it hurt. No, no way, it was just biology. Or maybe Grayson had gotten a text from some girlfriend, some hot colleague, some... His brain short-circuited. Because Grayson just shifted just slightly and the movement made the fabric pull tighter, outlining every inch. Lennon's mouth went dry. He jerked his gaze up, cheeks burning. Grayson was watching him with unblinking intensity. Something dark and knowing flickering behind storm-grey eyes. “Something wrong, Mr. Kessler?” Grayson asked softly. Lennon shook his head too fast. No, I'm fine, he stuttered. Grayson's gaze dropped deliberately to his strained front, then back up, the corner of his mouth twitching. Heat flooded Lennon's face, his torso, his stiffening length. He was rock hard himself now. Trapped behind denim, and the idea that Grayson could see it didn't seem to deter his arousal. Lennon's knees nearly gave out when Grayson leaned in, just enough that his next words brushed the shell of Lennon's ear. “Run along now, Mr. Kessler. I wouldn't want to get in the way of your depravities.” Lennon made a strangled sound. Grayson pulled back, expression cool and composed, as if he hadn't just set the entire room on fire. He gathered his laptop, slid it into a leather satchel and started for the door. At the threshold, he paused, not turning around. “See you on Wednesday, Mr. Kessler,” he said over his shoulder. “Try not to be late again.” The door clicked shut. Lennon stood rooted to the spot, shaking, hardness throbbing painfully against his zipper. Depravity. Professor Damien had just used the word. While rock hard. Lennon dragged both hands through his hair and whispered to the empty room, voice cracking: “God.” Chapter 2: Obsessive Possession. Damien. The lectures hall smelled like old paper, Coffee and the faint bite of cedar from his cologne. It was empty and would be filled up in about two hours. Damien sat with one ankle crossed over his knee, phone to his ear, pretending to listen while his mother–Evelyn–talked about Thanksgiving, about the neighbor’s new baby, about how his cousin Elise had finally left that deadbeat husband. Then she said, softer, “I want you happy Damien. You're thirty five. I'm not asking for grandchildren tomorrow, but I would like to meet someone who matters to you. I don't really a gender preference. Just… bring them home one day. Let me feed them, let me embarrass you infront of them. It's my right as your mother.” He made a low, noncommittal sound. Yeah, relationship weren't exactly his thing. And neither were friendships, to be honest. He did contracts and safe words at The Black Orchid. Those always quelled his constant need to own, to claim and hurt, but he didn't do attachments. Those were expensive. He'd rather have someone shattered open under his hands while they begged for more. His hardness filled instantly as he remembered his last encounter with a certain student who had begged. Lennon Kesler had slowly turned into an obsession that he didn't know how to quit. He wasn't sure he even wanted to quit. His mind supplied an image with vicious clarity: Lennon on all fours on that hotel rug, spine arched, hips bruised with Damien's fingerprints, mouth open on a silent scream while Damien drove into him so deep. His hardness ached against the seam of his slacks. He shifted, jaw ticking. Two night. Two nights since he'd had Lennon blindfolded and sobbing and still it wasn't enough. He'd assumed one ruthless claiming would purge the obsession. It didn't. Instead it had gotten word. Lennon occupied his every waking thought until all he could see, breathe and hear was him. “Damien?” “I’ll call you later, Mom.” His voice came out rougher than intended. He ended the call, tossed the phone onto the desk, and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was still two hours before lecture. He could grade a few more papers, answer emails, or do anything resembling the controlled professor he was supposed to be. He was going to do that before a knock came. Who came to class around this time? “Come in,” The door opened just wide enough for Lennon to slip in through sideways. Of course, it was Lennon, because why not bring in the bane of his existence and the object of his desires in this exact moment? Lennon shut the door behind him and leaned against it for a second, eyes on the floor, hoodie swallowing his frame. The sleeves were pulled over his hands. He was twisting the cuffs like worry beads. Lennon was not small or scrawny. He was quite handsome and was in shape. Damien’s pulse kicked up. Lennon was early. On another day, it wouldn't have anything been much of a surprise if he came an hour early. But judging by their last encounter, if someone told Damien that Lennon would miss today's class, he wouldn't doubt it. And then there was the fact that Lennon looked… wrong. Like he wanted to vanish. His mouth was pulled tight, the skin under his eyes bruised with exhaustion. There was a tremor in the way he held himself, like he was holding himself together with duct tape. Damien had never been one to comfort other people. Comfort was messy. It required softness that he didn't possess. Yet the sight of Lennon looking haunted lit something monstrous behind his sternum. And he wanted nothing more than to eliminate whatever had Lennon looking like that. “I'm gonna ask you a question and I don't want you to lie to me. You are not allowed to lie to me.” Damien said. Of course he could just let it go. Of course he could just mind his business. It wasn't his problem anyway. But that was the thing. He didn't want to just let it go. Lennon swallowed hard then nodded his head. “What's wrong? And I don't want any stories, tell me everything.” Lennon let out a sigh, like he'd finally realized he didn't have any way to get out of this, which he didn't. “It's.. it's.” He dragged both hands through his hair, pushing the hood back. “My dad. He found some texts on my phone from Archer. There was nothing bad about it but because he knew that Archer was gay… he kinda lost it. Said if he ever found out I was into guys, he’d end me himself. And I'm so fucking confused because I don't get why he's so homophobic about literally everything, and I'm actually pretty fucking scared because I think ylike guys too. No, I know I like guys.” Damien felt something primal roar to life in his core. Something about Lennon's dad saying he's going to endl him just didn't sit well with him. Damien felt that Lennon had started babbling at this point and their was a way he looked at him, like he expected him to say something to make him feel better. This was why Damien didn't do emotional stuff. He didn't want to end up saying the wrong thing. How did people even do this? He realized he'd escaped into his head now and Lennon was just... standing there now, the look in his eyes showed that he was really spooked. Damien didn't think about his next move, “Hey. Come here." He beaconed Lennon closer to the podium where he sat. He wished this was his office and not the lecture hall. He didn't want Lennon to feel any more uncomfortable than he already was. Lennon walked forward on shaky legs until Damien caught his wrist and gently yanked. One tug and Lennon was between Damien's spread thighs, pulled down so their faces hovered inches apart. Damien didn't know where he was going with this but his hardness seemed to be on board. “Look at me," he ordered, voice low. Lennon's eyes met his. “No one will ever lay a hand on you. Nothing is going to happen to you. You are allowed to be whoever you want to be and like anybody you want to. Your dad doesn't get to decide that for you. You are a not a kid anymore, stop letting him push you around. Listen I don't know how it is at your house but I'm pretty sure if you stand up for yourself, your dad won't have any other choice than to just let you be.” Lennon's eyes filled with tear. “You don't get it, y..you don't know my dad. He can do literally anything because of his status and–” “He's not gonna touch a hair on your head! Not while I'm here." Damien growled. The idea of someone spooking Lennon this much really made him unhinged. Another tear slid down Lennon's cheek, he opened his mouth to say something else like ask Damien what he meant, but before he could Damian pulled him closer by his hoodie and crashed their mouths together. To shut Lennon up, of course, definitely not because he wanted to taste him again. Lennon made a soft, wounded sound that punched straight through Damian's core and settled on his hardness. Then Lennon melted into the kiss and made a softer sound, like a moan. Damien loved that sound a bit too much. He swallowed it all down and kissed Lennon harder, tongue thrusting deep, teeth scraping, swallowing every gasp and whimper. He wished he could swallow up all of Lennon's fears too. Damien wanted to stop. Literally anyone could walk in at this moment. This was dangerous. He didn't even like the idea of kissing before now. But he just couldn't get himself to pull away. He decided right then that he was going to plow Lennon again. Soon. But that would be a later thing, right then it felt like Lennon would bolt and run if he pulled away. He decided it right then. He didn't expect it, but Lennon pulled away first and stared deep into his eyes. I need a favor, sir.” Lennon said, almost in a whisper, “I want you to take me... hard”. Chapter 3: Sweet Surrender LENNON Lennon’s pulse thundered in his ears. Why the f*k did he just say that? The lecture hall was empty, but anyone could push through those doors at any second. A janitor, another early student or a professor. Did he really want to be fucked by his professor in the lecture hall? Nothing., what if he sends him out? Well, he did kiss him first and it did startle Lennon for the first three seconds, but what made him think professor Grayson wanted totake him... rough?? Lennon wished he hadn't said that out loud. He was trembling in Damien’s grip, hoodie rucked up from the kiss, lips swollen and wet. Damien’s eyes were black with hunger, fixed on him like Lennon was the only thing in the world worth looking at. But that still didn't tell Lennon if he wanted to plow him or not. “Say it again," Damian ordered, startling Lennon from his macabre of thoughts. Say what again? “Tell me exactly what you want." Lennon’s throat worked. “I want you to f*k me, sir. Right now. Please.” Damien's smile was slow, “Such pretty manners when you're desperate." He stood in one fluid motion, towering over Lennon, and spun him around so fast the room tilted. Lennon’s palms slapped onto the wide oak podium, the same one Damien lectured from every Tuesday and Thursday. The wood was cool against his cheek when Damien bent him forward. “Stay still,” Damien murmured. A hand settled between his shoulder blades, pinning him gently. “Don’t move unless I tell you.” Lennon's breath fogged the polished surface. His lungs forgot how to work. He heard the clink of Damien's belt, but Damien didn't undress fully. Damien’s palms slid under the hem of Lennon’s hoodie, pushing it up to his armpits. Cool air kissed his skin; then Damien’s mouth followed, hot and open, tracing the ladder of his spine. Every kiss was almost reverent. “Look at you,” Damien whispered against the small of his back. “Fucking flawless. Every inch of you is beautiful.” Lennon whimpered. He couldn't help it. Praise from Damien Grayson was a lethal fix he hadn't tasted before but was addicted to from his first hit. Damien sank to his knees. Lennon felt the drag of teeth on the waistband of his joggers, then the slow peel of fabric down his thighs. Cool air hit his bare cheeks and he clenched instinctively, but Damien’s hands were already there, spreading him open like. “Relax, sweetheart,” Damien crooned. “Let me see how gorgeous you are here, too.” The first swipe of his tongue was filthy and perfect. Lennon’s knees buckled. Damien held him up easily, one arm banded across his hips, and licked into him like he was starving. Wet, obscene sounds filled the quiet hall, Damien eating him out with slow, savoring strokes that turned hungry and rough. He speared his tongue inside, curled it, pulled back to circle the rim until Lennon was shaking so hard the podium creaked. “Sir, please—” Lennon’s voice cracked. Damien hummed, the vibration making Lennon sob, then pushed one finger in alongside his tongue. A second finger joined the first, scissoring, stretching him open while Damien’s mouth kept working him. Lennon felt like he'd pass out from pleasure. “That’s it. Open up for me, sweetheart. You’re doing so fucking well. Look at you taking my fingers like you were made for it.” Lennon’s aching stiffness was trapped against the edge of the podium, leaking steadily, smearing the wood. Every thrust of Damien’s fingers sent sparks up his spine. He was making high, broken noises he didn’t recognize as his own. Damien added a third finger and crooked them just right. Lennon’s back arched hard enough to hurt. “Damien—” It came out a whine, needy and wrecked. “Take me... hard.. Please, I can’t—need you inside me now.” Damien rose behind him, broad frame to Lennon’s back, mouth wet against his ear. “I actually wanted to hear you beg. You want my thick pulse, sweetheart? Want me to fill this perfect little hole here where anyone could walk in and see?" “Yes..hard, yes..” Damien withdrew his fingers. Lennon heard the slick sound of him spitting into his own palm, then the blunt, impossibly hot press of his thick length nudging between Lennon’s cheeks. “Eyes forward,” Damien growled. “Watch the door. If someone comes in, they’ll see you bent over your professor’s podium getting fucked like a needy little disgrace. And you’ll still take every inch, won’t you?” Lennon nodded frantically then Damien pushed in with one long relentless slide. Lennon's mouth opened on a silent scream just as Damien bottomed out and stayed there. Lennon tried to adjust to the burn, the stretch, the overwhelming fullness. “F*k,” Damien hissed. “Feel that? That’s me owning you. Every time you sit in this room from now on, you’ll remember exactly how I feel buried inside you.” He started to move with hard and punishing thrusts that rocked the podium. Lennon clawed at the wood, moans spilling out of him with every snap of Damien’s hips. Damien’s hand wrapped around his throat. “You're doing so fucking good," Damien rasped against his shoulder, his teeth scraping the skin there. “You're taking me so deep, so perfect. My beautiful boy. Look at you, spread open and dripping for me." Lennon was beyond words, reduced to desperate, whiny noises, tears streaking his temples. The danger, the praise, the brutal rhythm, it was all too much and nowhere near enough. Damien’s hand snaked around to fist Lennon’s hardness, stroking in time with his thrusts. “Come whenever you want, sweetheart. I want to feel you milk me when you lose it.” It didn’t take long. Lennon shattered with a choked cry, spilling over Damien’s fingers, vision whiting out. Damien groaned, hips stuttering, and slammed in deep one last time. “Lennon—” His name broke on Damien’s tongue as he came, pulsing hot inside him, hips jerking through it. They stayed locked together, panting, Damien’s forehead pressed between Lennon’s shoulder blades. Slowly, the world came back: the faint squeak of the building, the distant echo of footsteps somewhere far off. Damien eased out carefully, turned Lennon around, and cupped his face. His thumbs wiped away tears Lennon hadn’t realized were still falling. “Hey,” he said softly. “You with me?” Lennon stared up at him, brain sluggish, body humming. Something clicked into place. The voice. That same voice from The Black Orchid. Now he knew. He was so sure. Lennon’s lips parted. “It’s… it’s you.” His voice cracked. “You’re Obsidian.” Damien’s smile was slow, dark, and utterly unrepentant. “Took you long enough, baby.”

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