the right questions ⸝⸝ oneshot
summary: they say you should never meet your heros, but when you'd heard the guest lecturer was cultural anthropologist professor steven rogers, you knew there was no way you were passing that opportunity up.
pairing: professor!steve x student!reader content warnings: ⌞18+ MDNI⌝ semi-forbidden lovers, hes a professor but hes not HER professor, alternate universe - college/professor!au, somewhat friends to lovers, minor author nerding out (feel free to skip the geek speak), age gap, light fluff, steve is a good teacher 😉, semi slow burn (author is incapable of a true slowburn), inexperienced reader, eventual smut, p in v, porn with semi plot, oral ⌞f receiving⌝ virginity loss, cowgirl, fingering, pet names (pretty girl, sweetheart, babydoll), orgasm denial/control, praise kink, dirty talking steve rogers, dom!steve?, light size difference, light rough play, creampie, not beta read we die like men. w/c: 12k a/n: i have so many other things i should be writing right now but THIS fucker wouldnt leave me alone... so enjoy, soz if you dont (ps i wrote this off three hours of sleep and hands down by dashboard confessional playing on repeat... can you tell) (pps i hate the ending how are you supposed to end a pwp why do i do this) dt: hello babygirl @epiphanyrogers 😋 this is for u, enjoy ur pokemon collection 🫶🏽
The auditorium was bustling with hushed conversation as you stepped inside, the quiet voices layering over each other until a faint static-like hum was filling the air. You kept your eyes forward as you walked up the stairs to an open spot, part of you wanted to sit in the front but the abundant occupancy of it veered you further towards the back.
You slipped into your seat halfway down the aisle, clutching the hardback to your chest like it might steady your pulse. Cultures in Transition—dog-eared, highlighted, annotated in the margins with questions you’d never expected to ask the man who wrote it.
Professor Steve Rogers. Guest alumnus lecturer. Cultural anthropology. Nobel Prize winner. Former field researcher whose work you’d cited in three separate papers already. You'd have posters of him in your room if he had any, hearing he was going to be on campus was like hearing Superman was stopping by for a meet n' greet, unheard of and completely unmissable.
And now he was standing at the front of your lecture hall, sleeves rolled just enough to show forearms dusted with dark hair, wire-rimmed glasses perched low on his nose as he smiled politely at the room full of students.
“Thank you for having me,” he began, voice warm, steady, with that faint Brooklyn undertone you’d heard in interviews. “I’m excited to talk with you all today, not at you.”
That earned him a laugh. Mostly from the front row. It was a glittering group of girls who had sat there, angling in their seats to try and catch his eye. Sure the professor was handsome but his level of attraction was the farthest thing you were excited to see, your brain was practically buzzing with all the questions you wanted to ask him, all the knowledge he could offer.
You tried to focus. Really, you did. It started out fine at first, a quick raise of the hand for a clarifying question, then another that turned the conversation sideways and soon it seemed half the class was intent on turning a discussion of post-conflict cultural preservation into some kind of flirting Olympics.
One girl asked whether emotional attachment ever clouded his judgment in the field, batting her lashes as she said it.
Another wondered aloud if he’d ever fallen in love with a culture he studied.
Mr. Rogers handled each question with professional grace, redirecting, reframing, answering thoughtfully without indulging the tone. Still, you noticed the way his jaw tightened just slightly as the questions drifted further from substance.
You waited. Your heart pounded louder with each raised hand, each giggle, each sidelong glance aimed at the podium.
Your fingers trembled as you lifted your hand, finally, the professor gestured toward you. “Last question.”
“In your work on post-displacement communities,” you said, voice steadier than you felt, “you emphasize preservation through adaptation rather than restoration. But how do you reconcile that with cultures that don’t want to adapt—where change itself is seen as a second erasure?”
The room went quiet.
He didn’t answer right away. He leaned back against the desk, arms crossing loosely, gaze fixed on you with a focus so intent it made your breath catch. Not polite interest. Not academic courtesy.
Real curiosity. It sent a cold chill down your spine.
“That’s…” he exhaled, thoughtful. “That’s a damn good question.”
The professor continued, slowly, “The honest answer is—you can’t always reconcile it. Sometimes the role of an anthropologist isn’t to solve the conflict, but to sit with it. To document the resistance as faithfully as the change.”
His eyes never left you.
“And sometimes,” he added, quieter, “the most ethical thing you can do is let a culture grieve what it’s losing instead of pushing it toward what we think it should become.”
Your chest felt tight as you nodded, sitting back down. When the lecture ended, the room erupted, students crowding the front, phones out, questions queued, laughter spilling too loud. You hesitated, then waited at your seat, heart hammering.
You looked down at your book then back up to the crowd at the lectern, it was like they had seen a baby animal at the zoo, cooing over its cuteness and trying to get its attention. You told yourself the lecture was enough, you even got one question in out of the dozen that wracked inside your head, the book didn't need a signature. The book held the memory well enough.
You felt it before you heard it, the unmistakable sense of being watched, of attention shifting and narrowing until it pressed hot between your shoulder blades.
“Hey—excuse me.”
You turned.
Professor Rogers stood a few feet away, book bag slung over one shoulder, expression earnest. Up close, he was somehow both softer and more imposing, lines at the corners of his eyes, beard neatly trimmed, gaze steady.
You froze, your brain stalled out completely, like it had tripped over its own feet.
“Oh,” you said stupidly. Brilliant start. “Hi.”
He smiled, a little tentative, like he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to do this either. “I was hoping to catch you before you left.”
Your fingers curled around the strap of your bag, nails biting into the leather. You nodded once, twice—too fast. “Yeah. I mean. Sure. Um.”
Act normal. Please. Act like a functioning academic.
“I wanted to talk more about your question,” he continued, gesturing vaguely back toward the front of the room as students filtered past, casting curious glances. “The one about resistance to adaptation.”
Your stomach flipped. “That was—” you cleared your throat, heat creeping up your neck. “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot or anything. I was just—”
“No,” he interrupted gently, shaking his head. “Please don’t apologize. That question’s been sitting with me since you asked it.”
That did not help your composure at all. He motioned toward a quieter corner of the hall, away from the lingering clusters of students. You followed on autopilot, brain screaming the entire way.
“You’re right,” he said. “There’s a tension there that a lot of my earlier work didn’t fully account for. The idea that adaptation is always preferable, it’s a very Western bias.”
Your eyes widened despite yourself. “Exactly,” you said, a little breathless. Then immediately winced. “I mean, sorry. Not exactly. I just—”
Steve smiled, clearly amused now. “No, go on.”
You exhaled, grounding yourself the way you’d learned to during seminars. “A lot of displaced communities see adaptation as a concession. Like agreeing that what they lost is gone for good. In some cases, resistance isn’t stagnation, it’s preservation through refusal.”
He nodded slowly. “That’s… very well put.”
Your shoulders relaxed just a fraction. “I saw something similar in Eastern Europe in the late nineties,” he continued. “Villages that refused modernization not because they couldn’t change, but because change meant admitting they’d survived for nothing.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” you said, warming now, nerves giving way to passion. “That sometimes grief itself becomes a cultural practice.”
Steve’s gaze sharpened, impressed. “You’ve thought about this.”
“A lot,” you admitted softly. “Your chapter on transitional identity kind of… ruined me, academically.”
He laughed, low and surprised. “I get that more than you’d think.”
There was a brief pause, comfortable, charged. Then reality crashed back in all at once as your fingers shifted against the weight of your book bag in your hand. This was a tried and true now or never moment, and seeing as he took the leap of seeking you out, you think you can muster up enough courage for it.
“Oh uhm.” You fumbled with your bag, acutely aware of the book inside it. “This is awkward. I actually brought something and now I feel ridiculous.”
Steve lifted a brow. “Ridiculous how?”
You pulled the book out slowly, holding it against your chest for a second before extending it toward him like a peace offering.
“I was hoping you might sign this,” you said, eyes dropping to the floor. “But you don’t have to. I mean, I know you probably get asked all the time and I don’t want to be—”
“A fan?” he offered gently.
You winced. “Yes.”
He took the book without hesitation. “I like fans,” he said, flipping it open. “Especially the ones who argue with me in their heads while they read.”
Your mouth parted despite yourself. “I don't… do that. All the time.”
“I could tell,” he said, smiling as he uncapped his pen.
He paused, glancing up at you. “What’s your name?”
You told him, voice softer now. He wrote carefully, deliberately, far more than a quick autograph. When he finished, he hesitated, then added something else. Tore a small scrap from his notebook and tucked it into the pages.
When he handed the book back, your fingers brushed. Electric.
“If you end up writing on that question,” Steve said, quieter now, “I’d be curious to see where you take it.”
You looked down. Inside the cover was his inscription, warm, personal, and beneath it, an email address written in neat block letters.
“Email me,” he added. “If you have more questions. The good kind.”
You swallowed hard. “I—thank you. For… all of this.”
He nodded once, sincere. “You’re welcome. And keep pushing back. The field needs more of that.”
You floated through the rest of the day like you’d been lightly unplugged from reality.
It wasn’t dramatic, no swooning, no outward signs of distress, but everything felt just a half-step off, like the world had been tilted and you were still adjusting your balance.
You sat through your next class with Professor Rogers’ book open on your desk, his signature catching your eye every few minutes like it was glowing. You’d trace the edge of the page with your thumb, then force yourself to look away before anyone noticed.
Email me. If you have more questions.
Your phone buzzed. A reminder about a quiz. You stared at it for a full ten seconds before remembering what class you were in.
Someone asked you a question about your notes. You blinked at them, startled, then laughed it off like you hadn’t just been replaying the way Steve had leaned against the desk, brow furrowed, genuinely interested in what you had to say.
By the time you made it to the library, your bag felt heavier than it should have, like the book inside it carried more than paper and ink. You tried to work. You really did.
You opened your laptop. Pulled up your readings. Typed half a paragraph about ritual memory and promptly deleted it because all you could think about was the way the professor had said grief itself becomes a cultural practice like the words mattered.
Because they did. Because you did.
You caught your reflection in the darkened screen and shook your head. “Get it together,” you muttered. “He’s just a professor.”
A world-renowned anthropologist, your dream accomplishment in a physical human form. A literal authority in your field. A man who had sought you out after a lecture hall full of students.
Just a professor.
You didn’t even remember the walk home.
Your apartment was quiet when you stepped inside, the late afternoon light slanting in through the windows, dust motes floating lazily in the air. You dropped your bag by the door, kicked off your shoes, and stood there for a moment—still, suspended.
Then you pulled the book out. You sat on the couch, flipping it open again like the words might have changed. They hadn’t. His handwriting was still careful, deliberate. His email address still tucked just beneath it.
Your phone appeared in your hand without you consciously deciding to grab it. You opened your email app. Started a new message. Typed the address.
And froze. Your thumb hovered over the screen, heart suddenly pounding like you were about to step off something very high.
What would you even say? “Hi, you don’t know me but—” No, he does know you. “Thanks again for the lecture”—too stiff. Too eager? Too casual? Too much?
You locked your phone and tossed it onto the coffee table like it had burned you. Five minutes passed. Ten. You paced. You made tea you forgot to drink. You sat back down. Picked up the phone again. Unlocked it. The blank email stared back at you, patient.
You exhaled slowly and began to type. Nothing clever. Nothing rehearsed. Just honest.
Dear Professor, You said to email if I had anymore good questions, hopefully heres another for you. Can grief function like a cultural language when other forms of expression are suppressed? Do you see this a lot in cultures affected by colonization or displacement?
Your fingers trembled as you finished, reread it twice, then a third time. You hovered over Send.
Thought about his smile. His attention. The way he’d said he wanted to hear more. And then, you tapped it. The email disappeared with a soft swoosh, gone before you could second-guess yourself. You stared at the screen, breath held, heart racing.
Too late now. Somewhere, maybe hours from now, maybe days, Professor Rogers would open his inbox. And he’d read your words. You set the phone down gently, like it might shatter, and leaned back against the couch, pulse thrumming, a nervous smile tugging at your lips.
Whatever happened next, you’d asked another good question.
The first day passed with a patience you didn’t trust.
You told yourself it was unreasonable to expect anything. He was busy. He was important. He’d probably respond when he had time, or not at all, and that would be fine. Normal, even.
You checked your email anyway.
Once in the morning. Once between classes. Once while waiting for your coffee.
Nothing.
By the second day, patience curdled into awareness.
You reread the email you’d sent more times than you’d admit to anyone. You analyzed your tone like it was a primary source. Too formal? Too eager? Did the last sentence sound like an invitation instead of a question?
You deleted the draft of a follow-up email three separate times.
By day three, it had lodged itself under your skin. Every vibration of your phone sent a spike of hope through you—each one followed by the dull thud of disappointment. Group chats. Campus alerts. Spam.
You told yourself, He didn’t owe you anything. Which somehow made it worse.
That night, you lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the room dark except for the glow of your phone charging on the nightstand. Midnight came and went. You rolled onto your side, eyes burning with exhaustion.
Just let it go, you thought. Your phone chimed. You were upright before the sound finished. Email notification. Your heart slammed so hard you felt dizzy as you grabbed the phone, fingers clumsy, breath shallow.
From: Professor Steve Rogers
The timestamp read 12:47 a.m.
You didn’t even open it at first—just stared at his name like it might vanish if you blinked.
Then you tapped.
I hope it’s alright that I’m writing this late. I kept thinking about your question, and then about your email, and I realized I didn’t want to give you a rushed answer. You’re right—grief often becomes the structure that holds a culture together when everything else has been stripped away. In many cases, grief becomes the archive—stories, songs, ceremonies that remember what was lost. Thank you for trusting me with your thoughts. They stayed with me longer than you probably realize. — Steve
Your chest ached.
Not from longing exactly, but from being seen. From the carefulness of it. From the fact that he’d taken days not because he didn’t care, but because he did.
You replied immediately, thumb flying before fear could catch up.
Professor, I was worried I’d crossed a line emailing you at all. I didn’t expect a reply—thank you for taking the time. Your work is what made me brave enough to ask the question in the first place.
You smiled into the dark.
I’m glad you did email, And for what it’s worth, bravery tends to come from people who don’t realize they’re being brave. Also feel free to call me Steve.
You hugged the pillow to your chest, heart pounding.
Okay, Steve, Can I ask you something else? Not for class, just… something I’ve been thinking about.
The reply came almost instantly this time.
I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.
It stopped feeling like email after that.
The pauses shrank. The formality softened. Paragraphs turned into shorter thoughts, questions folded into confessions.
You told him about your program, your fear of choosing the wrong focus too early. He told you about the years he’d spent convinced he was studying the wrong things entirely.
I used to think anthropology was about answers, Turns out it’s mostly learning how to live with questions.
You typed back without thinking:
That’s what scares me. And what keeps me in it.
The reply came a beat later.
Good. If it didn’t scare you, I’d be worried.
At some point you realized you were sitting cross-legged on your bed, blanket pooled around your waist, the dark outside your window slowly thinning to blue.
You talked about fieldwork. About ethics. About loneliness. About how easy it was to disappear into research and forget yourself.
I think that’s why I liked your question, It wasn’t theoretical. It was human.
Your throat tightened.
So is yours, Your work always leaves room for the people inside it.
The reply took a little longer to hit this time.
You know, I don’t usually get to talk like this about my work anymore.
You stared at the screen, pulse steady but deep.
I’m glad you are now.
Silence.
Then,
Me too.
The sky outside your window was pale when you finally glanced up, stunned. Birds were starting to stir. Your phone read 6:02 a.m.
You’d talked all night.
Not about anything dangerous. Not explicitly. But something had shifted all the same—an understanding built word by word, question by question.
Before you could overthink it, another message appeared.
We should probably get some sleep, But I’d like to continue this conversation. If you would.
You smiled, soft and certain.
I would.
You set the phone down only when your eyes burned, the glow of sunrise washing the room in gold.
The week after that night, your inbox became both a lifeline and a dangerous temptation.
Emails started off strictly academic, questions about post-displacement communities, debates about ritual versus adaptation, but quickly blurred the edges. Professor— Steve, asked about your readings. You asked about his fieldwork. He’d reply with short anecdotes, and somehow, between sentences about ethnography, you found yourself telling him which classes had you losing sleep, which assignments were crushing you, which lectures made you feel like you were barely keeping afloat.
So, Anthropology 302 is killing me. I can’t get the material to stick for the midterms. I feel like I’m drowning in notes.
A response appeared within the hour.
I can help you work through it if you want. I know a few oldschool techniques that make the material… stick.
Your chest jumped. Part of you screamed: No, that’s too much. You’re a student. He's a teacher, that's almost cheating. But another part—the part that had stayed up half the night thinking about his emails—couldn’t resist. You're not his student.
…I mean, maybe. But it’s kind of embarrassing. I don’t want to waste your time, you must be busy with other stuff.
Not wasting my time. We’ll do coffee—textbook and highlighter required. I’ll bring some of my old notes.
By Friday, you’d caved. You found yourself in a quiet little café near campus, textbook open, highlighters ready, heart thudding faster than usual. And there he was, casually leaning back in the chair opposite you, looking impossibly calm, as if grading papers and mentoring undergrads in cafés was as normal as drinking coffee.
He smiled when he saw you. “You brought the right weapons,” he said, gesturing at your color-coded chaos of notes.
“I brought reinforcements,” you muttered, holding up a worn packet of flashcards like a shield.
Steve laughed, that low, steady sound that had nothing to do with the class. And then, just like that, the tension melted into focus.
You spent the afternoon working through concepts, making charts and diagrams, breaking down case studies. He explained things in ways that made sense, and when you got stuck, he’d patiently guide you through it without ever making you feel small for not knowing.
By the time you left the café, your head was spinning, but in a good way. You felt… prepared. Confident. And maybe just a little giddy at the way he’d leaned over your notes to point something out, fingers brushing yours briefly each time.
The exam itself was a blur of adrenaline and concentration, but every question seemed familiar. Every prompt had an echo of their study session. When the scores came back a week later, you almost didn’t believe it.
A+ / 100%.
The email from the professor of the class congratulating you arrived, but your first instinct was to email Steve:
I don’t know how to thank you. I got a 100. Your study session worked.
Minutes later, the reply appeared:
I knew you could do it. You just needed someone to help you see how much you already knew. Also, I’m proud of you. Seriously.
Your stomach did a little flip. His pride wasn’t the same as a grade on a paper—it was personal. It was soft and warm and a little dangerous.
I think I needed that more than I realized.
His reply came quickly.
I’ll make a deal with you. Next exam, same place. You bring the courage, I’ll bring the notes.
You laughed at your screen. Your pulse was a little too fast. Your mind wandered briefly, remembering the brush of his fingers over your notes.
Deal. But you’re buying the coffee this time.
And just like that, a week of emails had become more than mentorship. You closed your laptop and leaned back, smiling. Steve had just made studying feel… dangerous, in the best possible way.
The second study session feels different before it even starts.
You noticed it in the way you check the café window twice before going in. In the way you smoothed your sweater like it matters. In the way your stomach flipped when you spotted him already seated at the small corner table, sleeves rolled, glasses on, a coffee waiting across from him like he knew exactly when you’d arrive.
He looked up when you approach and smiled. There it is again, that calm, grounding presence that somehow makes you feel both steadier and more exposed.
“You made it,” he said, standing slightly, polite. Careful.
“I wasn’t late,” you replied, a little too quickly. “I triple-checked the time.”
He chuckled, sitting back down. “I didn’t doubt you.”
Something about that landed warm in your chest. You settle down next to him, pulling your notebook out, though you realize quickly you’re not nearly as frantic as last time. This exam doesn’t feel like a looming disaster. You feel… capable.
Steve notices.
“You seem more confident,” he commented softly, eyes thoughtful. “That’s good.”
You shrug, but there’s a smile tugging at your mouth. “I had a really good tutor.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “I hear he’s alright.”
The banter slipped out so easily it surprises you both. You open your notebook, and soon you’re leaning in together, shoulders nearly touching as he walks you through a tricky concept. His voice drops unconsciously, quieter than the café requires, like this explanation is just for you.
“You see how the framework shifts here?” he explained, pointing to your notes. “It’s not about replacement, it’s about coexistence.”
You nod, following his finger. “So it’s less linear than it looks.”
“Exactly, good job.” he praised, and when you glance up, you realize how close he is.
Too close to be accidental. You don’t move right away. Neither does he.
For a second, the world narrows to the space between you, the faint scent of his coffee, the warmth radiating from his arm, the way his eyes flick briefly to your mouth before snapping back to the page.
You pull back first, heart racing.
“Sorry,” you murmured, even though you’re not sure what you’re apologizing for.
Steve cleared his throat softly. “No, my fault. I should—”
He shifts in his chair, putting a little more distance between you, but the awareness lingers. Thick. Unspoken.
You work through a few more questions, but the rhythm is different now. Charged. Every small thing feels amplified, the brush of fingers when you pass a pen, the way he waits for your answers instead of jumping in, the smile followed by a soft 'good job' he gives you when you get something right.
“You always think out loud like that?” he asked at one point after watching you mutter to yourself over the same line three times.
“Only when I’m nervous,” you admitted. "Sorry."
His gaze softened. “I don’t mind it.”
That shouldn’t feel like such a big thing. But it does. When you finally close your notebook, the sun is dipping low, golden light filtering through the windows. You stretched, suddenly aware of how long you’ve been sitting.
“I think that’s enough for today,” Steve offered gently. “You’ve got this.”
You hesitated, fingers lingering on the edge of the table. “I was… worried this might be weird.”
He studies you for a moment, careful again. “Is it?” You considered that. The honesty between you. The way he listens. The way your pulse still hasn’t quite slowed.
“No,” you said quietly. “I don't think so. Just… different.”
He nods, like he understands exactly what you mean.
“Well,” he breathed out, standing, “we can take it one exam at a time.”
You smiled up at him, heart fluttering. “One exam at a time.”
Outside, you part ways with a polite hug that lasts just a fraction longer than necessary. When you pull back, his hands drop immediately, respectful, restrained. But his eyes linger.
"Hey," he called out before you got too far. You turned with a smile. "What made you want to study cultural anthropology? No fancy answers."
You laughed but thought seriously about it for a moment, the best answer one you've kept near your heart for a long while. "'It may be in the cultural particularities of people — in their oddities — that some of the most instructive revelations of what it is to be generically human are to be found.'"
Steve's face contorted with confusion then intrigue. "Clifford Geertz?"
You nodded your head. "Being weird is the universal truth about humanity. It's our mirror to what it means to be human everywhere. Anthropology taught me that being weird, noticing the oddities in people… it’s not just okay, it’s the point. That’s where you see what it really means to be human.”
Steve didn't say anything at first, just stood there with a soft smile before he nodded almost to himself.
"Good job."
You walk home with a ridiculous smile on your face, replaying every almost-touch, every almost-word.
You don’t realize it all at once. It creeps in later, when the noise of the day has faded and you’re alone in your apartment, shoes kicked off, notebook open on your lap for no real reason other than the fact that it still smells faintly like coffee and him.
Your thumb traces the margin where his handwriting lives now. Neat. Precise. Little arrows and annotations tucked between your own messier notes, think about this differently, this matters, good instinct. Things he’d written without thinking, probably. Things that somehow feel… intimate.
You run your thumb over the words again. And that’s when it hits you. Not the nerves. Not the admiration. Not the fluttery, starstruck feeling you’d tried to brush off since the lecture.
Feelings. Real ones. All for him.
Your chest tightens as you replay the afternoon, the way he leaned in without realizing it, the way his voice softened when you got an answer right, the split second where his eyes had dropped to your mouth like it was instinct instead of intention.
You squeeze your eyes shut. Oh no.
You’ve never really done this before. Never dated in any meaningful way. A few almosts. A few maybes that fizzled out before they became anything. You’d always told yourself you were just focused on school, on your future, on becoming someone worth listening to.
But now you’re lying back on your couch, staring at the ceiling, heart doing things you don’t have words for, wondering what it’s supposed to feel like when you like someone.
Is it supposed to feel like this? Like warmth and fear braided together? Like wanting something and having no idea how to reach for it?
You press the notebook to your chest. He’s older. He’s accomplished. He’s careful in a way that makes you feel safe, and unbearably seen. You don’t know what you’d even expect from him. Don’t know what wanting him means. All you know is that the thought of him pulling away makes your throat ache.
And that scares you more than failing any exam ever could.
Steve stared at his own notebook long after he gets home.
It’s open on the kitchen table, pages spread out beneath a dim light, but he hasn’t been reading. He’s been staring at the same sentence for ten minutes, utterly incapable of telling you what it says.
Because all he can see is her.
The way she’d frowned at a problem like it personally offended her. The way she’d looked up at him when something finally clicked, eyes bright, mouth parted just slightly, like she was surprised by her own intelligence.
And damn it, he hadn’t meant to look at her lips. That part scares him the most. Steve scrubs a hand down his face and exhales slowly, grounding himself the way he’s learned to over the years.
Get a grip.
She’s a student. Brilliant, yes—but young. At the beginning of everything. She came to him because she wanted to know more, because she trusted him as a mentor, because he was safe. And he’d almost leaned in. Almost let something cross his face that had no business being there.
He closed the notebook gently. She probably doesn’t feel anything like what’s tying his stomach in knots. She’s focused. Ambitious. She’s trying to survive her program, not… whatever this is. Steve shakes his head, a sad little smile tugging at his mouth.
She’s just grateful. That’s all. Grateful for the help. For being taken seriously. For having someone listen. And if there’s warmth in her emails, if there’s an ease between them—it’s because she’s kind. Because she’s earnest. Because she doesn’t know how carefully he’s holding himself back.
He’s too old for her anyway. Too settled. Too weighed down by experience and restraint and knowing exactly how badly things can go wrong.
Steve poured himself a glass of whiskey he doesn’t drink.
He tells himself he’ll keep things professional. That he’ll give her the support she needs and then step back. That this is nothing more than a temporary closeness born from late nights and shared curiosity. But even as he turns off the light and heads for bed, her voice echoes in his head—soft, thoughtful, alive.
And for the first time in a very long while, Steve falls asleep hoping he’s wrong.
The third study session slips into place like a habit neither of you has named yet.
Same café. Same corner table. Same quiet hum of conversation around you as notebooks open and coffee cools forgotten between you. It feels easier now, like your bodies already knew where to settle, how close is acceptable, how close is tempting.
You’re midway through a discussion about kinship models when Steve pauses, glancing at his watch.
“We’re in good shape,” he said. “You’re ahead of where you think you are.”
You smiled, relieved. “That’s… actually a miracle.”
He chuckled, closing his notebook.
“Same time next week, then?” The words left your mouth before you can second-guess them, hopeful and casual all at once.
Steve’s smile falters—not by much, but you catch it. A fraction too slow. A hesitation that makes your stomach dip.
“Ah,” he started gently. “I actually have an alumni mixer that night. University thing. Panels, speeches, a lot of small talk.”
“Oh.”
You regret the sound immediately. It comes out smaller than you mean it to, like you’ve deflated without permission. You nod too fast, already pulling your notebook closer like it might shield you from the feeling blooming in your chest.
“Of course,” you added quickly. “That makes sense. You’re busy being a professor and all. I mean—you should go. Obviously.”
You try to smile. It doesn’t quite make it to your eyes.
Steve noticed. Of course he does. He watched the way your shoulders sink just a little, the way you busy yourself packing up even though there’s no rush. Something tightens in his chest—sharp and immediate and entirely inconvenient.
He hates that look on you. Hates that he put it there.
“Well,” he said slowly, and you glance up. There’s a flicker of something in his expression, decision, maybe. Or recklessness. “It’s… not a closed event.”
You blink. “It’s not?”
“No,” he shook his head. “Technically, it’s for alumni and faculty, but there’ll be grad students, researchers, visiting fellows. A lot of people in cultural anthropology.”
Your brow furrowed. “Okay…?”
Steve exhales, then does something he absolutely did not plan on doing when he woke up that morning.
“You could come,” he suggested.
The words hang between you.
“I mean,” he continued quickly, too quickly, “it might actually be a good opportunity. Networking. Exposure. Conversations with people who are doing work you’re interested in. It could be… useful.”
You stare at him.
“With you?” you asked softly.
He nodded. “If you’d want to.”
Your disappointment melts into something startled, fragile and bright. “I— are you serious?”
“Yeah,” he said, and then, more honestly, “I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t think you’d belong there.”
Something in your chest loosens.
“I just didn’t want to overstep,” he added, careful again. “No pressure. If it’s weird, or you’re not comfortable—”
“I’d love to,” you said, the words tumbling out before fear can catch them.
His relief is immediate, and deep. It settles in his bones.
“Yeah?” he asked, quieter now.
You nod. “Yeah.”
He smiled then, slow and warm, like he’s memorizing the sight of you happy. What he doesn’t say, what he can’t say, is that he offered because the thought of you going home disappointed twisted something fierce inside him. Because if he were braver, he’d admit that keeping that smile on your face feels instinctive. Necessary.
Like something he could spend a lifetime doing.
You sling your bag over your shoulder, cheeks warm. “So… alumni mixer.”
“Alumni mixer.” he echoed.
Neither of you mentions that it doesn’t sound like studying at all. As you part ways outside the café, the air between you feels charged, full of possibility for anything. And as Steve watches you walk away, heart doing things it hasn’t done in years, he realizes something quietly terrifying.
He was head over heels for you.
You don’t rush getting ready. You can’t.
Your apartment is quiet, the kind of quiet that makes every thought echo louder than it should. You stand in front of the mirror longer than necessary, smoothing your hands over the fabric of your outfit like you’re grounding yourself.
The suit dress fits you perfectly—sleek, elegant, intentional.
The white blazer is sharply tailored, structured at the shoulders, the black lapels cutting a bold contrast down the front. Beneath it, the fitted knee-length skirt hugs you just enough to make you feel grown, capable, seen. Not a student playing dress-up. Not a girl pretending.
Someone who belongs.
You adjust the sleeves once more, exhale, and whisper to your reflection, “It’s just a mixer.” Your reflection does not believe you.
Steve adjusted his cufflinks for the third time before realizing his hands have gone still.
The suit had been custom-made… years ago, charcoal, three-piece, clean lines meant for panels and keynote speeches. He rarely wears it anymore. Tonight, he feels suddenly aware of every seam, every polished edge.
This isn’t just another professional obligation. He checks his watch. Straightens his tie. Tells himself, again, that this is for your benefit. Networking. Exposure. Opportunity.
He does not think about how he hopes you likes how he looks.
You spot him across campus first. He’s standing near the steps, posture relaxed but alert, hands clasped loosely in front of him. When he looks up and sees you, something in his expression stills—like the world pauses just long enough for him to take you in.
His breath catches.
White suits you in a way he hadn’t been prepared for. Clean. Confident. Striking. The contrast of the black lapels draws his eye, sharp and elegant, and suddenly he’s painfully aware that you don’t look like a student tagging along.
You look like someone attending with him.
“Hi,” you said, a little softer than usual.
Steve cleared his throat. “Hi.”
There’s a beat where neither of you moves. Then he smiles—warm, proud, unmistakably pleased. “You look… incredible.”
Your cheeks go warm. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”
He laughed under his breath as he offers his arm. “High praise.”
You fall into step beside him as you walk toward the venue, the early evening air cool and buzzing with anticipation. The warmth of your hand wrapped around his arm feels electric. Charged. Inside, the room hums with conversation, voices overlapping, glasses clinking, old colleagues reuniting. Steve moves easily through it, greeting people with familiarity and warmth.
And every time someone approaches, he introduces himself, strong handshake and stronger smile.
“Professor Rogers—”
Then he gestures to you, saying your name with quiet certainty, “ —a brilliant anthropology student. She’s doing some really thoughtful work.”
Each introduction lands like a small thrill. You shake hands. Smile. Answer questions. You notice how Steve subtly stays close, never hovering, never possessive, just… present. Anchoring.
You start to relax. Start to enjoy it. Then someone calls his name from behind.
“Rogers! You son of a—”
Steve turned, breaking into a grin. “Oh my god. Sam Wilson, I can’t believe it.”
The man— Sam, approaching him is older, weathered in that unmistakable field-research way—sun-worn skin, sharp eyes, the kind of confidence that comes from living out of a backpack for years.
They clasp hands, pull into a brief hug. “How long has it been?” Sam asked.
“Too long,” Steve replied. “This is—”
He turned back to you. And before he can finish—
The man smiles knowingly. “And you must be the girlfriend.”
The world stops.
“What—?” “I—” “No, I—”
Your face flooded with heat as you glance at Steve, only to find him already looking at you, equally flustered, ears unmistakably red.
“She’s—” Steve started.
“I’m—” you tried.
The colleague blinks. “Oh. Sorry—”
“No,” Steve said quickly, shaking his head. “It’s just—she’s—”
“A student,” you blurted out. "Not his, but a student… here."
Steve winces internally. Sam raises his brows, amused but apologetic. “Ah. My mistake. You just… arrived together.”
There’s an awkward beat. Steve recovers first, ever gracious. “Easy assumption to make.”
Too easy. Sam laughs it off, launching into a story about fieldwork in Ghana, but you barely hear it. Your pulse hasn’t slowed. Neither has Steve’s. When the conversation finally ends and you drift toward a quieter corner, the air between you is different now. Thicker. Aware.
“I’m sorry,” Steve said quietly. “He shouldn’t have—”
“It’s okay,” you interrupted, breathless. “I just… wasn’t expecting it.”
“Me neither,” he admitted.
The music shifts sometime later.
Not into anything loud or obvious—just a softer rhythm layered beneath the hum of conversation. A cue you almost miss until you notice small clusters of people drifting toward the center of the room, conversations slowing, bodies angling closer.
Steve notices at the same moment you do. He glances toward you, uncertain. “There’s usually some kind of… informal dancing at these things,” he said, like he’s apologizing for it existing.
You smiled, nerves fluttering. “Anthropologists really know how to let loose.”
He huffed a laugh. “You’d be surprised.”
There’s a pause.
Then, carefully, “Would you—”
“Yes,” you said before he even finishes. The word comes out softer than you expect. More honest.
Steve’s eyes warm as he offers his hand. You take it.
His palm is warm, steady, and when he guides you toward the open space, it feels natural, like your body already knows where to go. He keeps a respectful distance at first, hand light at your waist, your other hand resting against his shoulder.
But as the music carries on, as the room fades around you, the space between you closes without either of you consciously deciding it should.
“You doing okay?” he murmured.
You nodded. “Yeah. I just—this doesn’t feel real.”
He smiled faintly. “That makes two of us.”
You sway together, subtle and slow, talking quietly about nothing and everything, about the absurdity of academic mixers, about fieldwork stories that sound like fiction, about how strange it is to share space like this after weeks of emails and study sessions.
His thumb moves slightly at your waist.
Unintentional. But you feel it. Your breath catches. His does too.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur. More conversations. More introductions. Steve’s hand remains at your back, steady and grounding, until eventually the crowd thins and the night softens.
Outside, the air is cool and clean, campus lights glowing softly as you walk side by side.
Neither of you speaks for a while.
"Steve?" you said quietly, breaking the quiet air that had grown around you.
He turns to look at you, twinkling stars reflecting in his glasses. Looking at him pushes all the air out of your lungs and you feel like you can't form a single word in your throat, but you can't keep simmering like this anymore. The lingering buzz of his hand at your back emboldens you in ways like never before.
"Am I crazy," you asked quietly. "or do you feel this too?"
The question hangs there—fragile, terrifying. Steve doesn’t answer right away.
His jaw tightens, eyes searching your face like he’s deciding whether to tell the truth or protect you from it. Finally, he exhales.
“I do,” he said. Simply. Honestly. “I’ve felt it for a while.”
Relief crashes through you so fast it makes you dizzy. You laugh softly, shaky. “Okay. Good. Because I—” You hesitated, then pushed through. “I’ve never done this before. I’ve never really… had a boyfriend, or anything like this. I don’t know what to do with feelings like this.”
He softened instantly, stepping closer, but still careful. “That’s exactly why I’ve been holding back.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t ever want to take advantage of you,” he said, voice low and steady. “Or hurt you. You’re at the beginning of everything. You should be figuring out who you are, what you want. You shouldn’t feel like you have to tie yourself to someone like me.”
Your chest ached at the way he says it—someone like me.
“That doesn’t matter to me,” you said, firm now. “You matter to me.”
Steve shook his head slightly. “I’m older. I’ve lived a lot of life already. I don’t want to be the reason you don’t get to—”
“I don’t feel trapped,” you interrupted. “I feel… chosen. When I’m with you.”
That stops him. He looks at you like the words hit somewhere deep, somewhere unguarded.
“I know you’re scared,” you continued softly. “I am too. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel this. And I won’t resent you for caring about me.”
Silence stretches between you, heavy and electric. Then you take another breath, the bravest one yet.
“If you’re worried about crossing a line,” you started, voice barely steady, “then tell me how to cross it.”
His eyes darkened. “What?”
“I’ll make the first move,” you offered, heart racing. “If you tell me how. That way… you’re not taking anything from me.”
Steve’s breath stuttered. He lifts a hand like he might reach for you, then lets it fall again. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
The night seems to hold still.
“If you’re sure,” he said quietly, “then—just… come here.”
That’s all it takes. You step into him, slow and deliberate, giving him every chance to stop you. His hands hover at your waist, unsure, reverent. You tilt your face up.
Your lips brush his. A whisper of contact, testing.
He exhales your name like a confession. And then he kisses you back. Not rushed. Not hungry. Just deep and sure and achingly tender, like he’s been waiting longer than he’ll ever admit. His hands settle at your waist, grounding, protective, as if memorizing the fact of you.
You melt into it, heart full and racing, the world narrowing to warmth and certainty and the quiet truth settling into your bones, you wanted this, nothing but this.
When you finally pull back, foreheads resting together, Steve keeps his eyes closed for a moment longer.
"Can I walk you home?" he asked breathlessly.
You nod, licking your lips and feeling the phantom curve of his against yours. You try not to smile too wide. You fail.
The walk back to your apartment is quiet in the best way. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just… full.
Steve keeps pace beside you, one hand tucked into the pocket of his coat, the other laced with yours, posture relaxed but attentive, like he’s still half-expecting the world to interrupt this moment if he looks away too long.
You’re acutely aware of everything—how close he is, how warm his shoulder feels when it brushes yours, his fingers encasing yours, how your body still hums from the kiss like it hasn’t quite settled back into itself.
You reach your building and stop. So does he. For a second, neither of you moves. The lamplight catches the side of his face, softening it, making him look younger somehow. Or maybe more human.
You swallow.
“Steve?”
“Yeah?” His voice is gentle. Open.
You hesitate, then glance up at him through your lashes. “Can I… kiss you again?”
The question is barely louder than the night around you. Something unmistakable shifts in his expression, surprise giving way to warmth, then to something deeper, restrained but unmistakably there.
“Yes,” he said, voice huskier than last time. “You can.”
You step closer. This time, there’s no uncertainty in the way you move. You rise onto your toes just slightly, fingers brushing the front of his coat as you tilt your face up.
The kiss is different. Still careful, but fuller. Your lips press to his with more intention, more confidence. He responds with a quiet exhale, hands lifting instinctively to your waist, thumbs settling there like they belong. His mouth moves against yours slowly, deliberately, like he’s savoring it. Like he’s grounding himself in the reality of you.
When you deepen the kiss just a fraction, lingering, letting it last, his grip tightens almost imperceptibly, a subtle hitch in his breath the only giveaway that he feels it too.
When you pull back, your forehead rests against his chest. You smile, a little breathless. “Okay. Yeah. I just needed to know.”
He chuckles softly, warmth vibrating beneath your cheek. “You’re trouble,” he murmured, not unkindly.
You step back reluctantly, keys already in hand, then pause.
“Well,” you drawled, turning the key in the lock, suddenly very aware of how late it is. “I, uh… I still have my notes out from earlier.”
Steve raises an eyebrow, amused. “Your notes.”
“Yeah,” you nodded, earnest to the point of absurdity. “From studying. I thought maybe, since you helped me understand that one concept so well, I could show you what I ended up writing.”
He studied you for a long moment. Sees right through the excuse. And instead of calling it out, he smiles, slow, fond, dangerous in its gentleness.
“If you want,” he said.
Your heart flipped. “I want.”
You open the door wider, stepping aside. “Then come in. Just for a minute.”
Steve hesitates for exactly half a second. Then he follows you inside. The door closes softly behind you, the quiet of your apartment wrapping around the two of you like a held breath. And suddenly, notes feel like the least important thing in the room.
Your apartment feels smaller with him in it. Not cramped, just charged. Like every familiar surface has been quietly rearranged around his presence
You shrug your jacket off and drape it over your desk chair, moving through the room like there's an invisible land mine planted somewhere, each step more hesitant than the last.
You sit side by side at the small table, laptop open between you, your essay pulled up on the screen. You talk him through it at first, nerves fluttering as you explain your argument, your methodology, the way you framed grief as an active cultural force rather than a passive response.
Steve listened the way he always does, fully. Leaning in, elbows on the table, eyes flicking between the screen and your face. When you finish, there’s a brief silence.
Then he exhaled. “This is… really good,” he murmured quietly.
You glanced at him. “Just good?”
He turned to you fully now, expression serious in a way that makes your pulse spike. “No. This is exceptional. Your analysis is clear, your voice is confident, and you’re not hiding behind citations. You trust your own thinking.”
Something warm and electric slides down your spine at the praise—stronger than before, sharper, almost dizzying.
“You belong in this field,” he added. “I don’t say that lightly.”
Your breath catches.
“Steve,” you mumbled, heart racing. You’re just about to ask, about kissing him again, about whether this closeness can deepen. He doesn’t give you the chance.
He leans in and kisses you. It’s unhurried but sure, like he’s done pretending this isn’t exactly what he wants. His hand cups your jaw, thumb warm against your skin, guiding you gently closer.
You melt into him, fingers curling into the front of his suit jacket, the kiss deepening as if you’re both learning the shape of each other all over again. His mouth is warm and deliberate, his breath a quiet sound between you that makes your knees feel weak.
When he pulls back just slightly, his forehead rests against yours.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,”
You don’t hesitate. “Don’t.”
That’s all it takes.
You feel the hot press of his tongue against your lips and you sigh against it, feeling it slip past your teeth. You both move in tandem, your laptop quickly abandoned as he pulls you into his lap, your dress bunching up and riding up your thighs. He takes a hand and rakes it down your spine, fingers dancing down into the light divet of your back before grabbing a handful of your ass, your lips part with a gasp and he takes the chance to move his lips down your throat.
It feels like lightning and fire struck your body all at once, bringing your body to a burning temperature, like molten lava running through your veins and settling at the deep core of your lower stomach. Steve bites a mark into your skin before licking it soothingly, his free hand moving up to the zipper of your dress.
"Wait," you pressed a hand to his chest to part your bodies, a full face of concern when he looked up at you. "No it's okay I just,"
You licked your lips before taking in a breath for confidence. "I've never done this before."
"This… as in?"
"I'm a virgin."
You can see the gears turning behind his eyes, a full sea of emotions crashing over him: fear, worry, doubt but underneath it all, desire.
"Please," you stop his train of thought before it can crash and burn. "I want this. I want you."
He still hesitates but you can see the smooth of his furrowed brows and feel the dig of his hand in your waist. "You want to stop at any time you tell me, okay?"
You nod fervently, hands looping around his neck to lean in and kiss him again when he pulls back.
"Say it. Say you understand."
Heat runs through you where fear probably should, you'd never seen Steve so authoritative before and it makes your inner thighs tingle in way like never before.
"I understand."
He kisses you again, fiercer this time with a soft grunt and its like a dam broke within you, melting you into mush in his hands. Your hands fist themselves in his suit jacket and pull him impossibly closer, your hips moving on their own accord yet restricted by the fabric of his dress.
"Can I take this off sweetheart?" he breathed out against your neck, moving his hands up to the shoulders of your dress, you nod and let out a small yelp when he pinches your skin. "Words."
"Yes, please." you whined, clumsily stepping off his lap as he guided you backwards until your backs of your knees hit the couch. He spun you so gently it felt like you were back on the dance floor, his hands resting on your hips and slowly moving up your sides, thumbs pressing circles into your waist until he was back at the zipper.
He took his time in bringing it down, letting his fingers brush the open skin of your back before helping you shrug the material off, it slid off your body and pooled at the floor with ease. You could hear the hitch in his breath as you turned back around.
"So beautiful," he whispered before taking your hand. "Take me to your room sweetheart."
You blushed like a fool before turning to guide him down the hall, every step making the air around you feel thinner, each breath shakier than the last. You open the door and step aside for him to take in the space, it's not much considering you're still and undergrad living on campus but its nice enough.
He walked into the room and shrugged his jacket off, hanging it over the chair in the corner and moving to unclip his cuff links. You stood awkwardly in the center of the room, watching him like a trance, it was your own home and he took the space up like it had been his for years.
"You can sit down," he motioned to your bed and nodded like it was obvious, padding over to sit down on the edge.
Steve kept standing there, slowly unbuttoning his waistcoat and setting it aside, his eyes never leaving you for a beat.
"You touch yourself in here?" the question caught you off guard, sending a heat down up the back of your neck.
"Sometimes…" you admitted with a hushed whisper.
"Only sometimes?"
He had gotten down his button up shirt, the white material flowing open revealing a plain white tank clinging to his chest. You could see the ripples of his pecs with every shift of his arms, the rolls of his abs as he peeled his long sleeve off, leaving him in just the tank and his slacks.
"Couch," you blurted out after realizing you had been caught staring. "Sometimes… on the couch too."
Steve slowly, finally, made his way over to you, gently pushing your thighs apart as he stood between them. "The couch huh? Naughty girl."
You looked up at him in awe, lips parted as he towered over you. "Sometimes."
"Does it make you wet?" his hand came up to brush your jaw, his thumb tracing your bottom lip. "Touching yourself in front of all those windows? Knowing anyone nearby might hear if you're too loud?"
The brush of his thumb on your lip ignited something in you, something instinctive that had your parting your lips even more, the tip of your tongue sneaking out to flick it across the finger pad.
He let out a low groan, a deep rumble in the back of his throat that made you ache.
"Are you gonna be a good girl for me?" he asked as he smeared the light spit you left on his thumb across your lip.
"Yes," you replied instantly. "Yes, Steve, I'll be your good girl."
He leaned down and pressed his lips to yours, making you lean back into the bed. His hands smoothed over your thighs before gently lifting them up, guiding you up to the center of the mattress.
"Can I touch you pretty girl?" he muttered against your lips, licking and nipping at the bottom one as his fingers drifted to your inner thigh. You spread your legs wider in response. Two fingers press over your clit through your panties, you moan with a flutter of your eyes, Steve watches you as he gently moves in light circles.
"That feel good baby?"
"Yes," you sighed, hips swiveling to find more friction. "Please, Steve."
He took his free hand and hooked it into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down to your ankles. A soft brush against your clit makes you inhale sharply and he quickly pulls away.
"No, no," you plead, scrambling for his hand. "It's okay, I'm okay. Please touch me."
Steve hesitates for just a moment, eyes lingering on your face before his fingers gradually start moving again. His lips drop to your breasts, still tucked in your bra, and you let out a soft cry when two of his thick fingers push into you.
You sink down onto them before he can pull away again, filling your cunt until you reach his knuckles, it's a sweet burn that melts you from the inside out and you never want it to end. He groaned against your skin and reached around to unclip your bra.
"That's it baby," he licks and sucks a nipple into his mouth, making you whine and push down further. "Good girl, making yourself feel good."
Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, the praise in that husky baritone voice making you shudder as you rocked your hips, a strange buzzing starting to hum under your skin.
"Mm I feel you getting tighter baby, gonna cum for me?"
"I… I don't— I'm," you stammered over every word, thighs twitching.
Steve hummed at the valley between your breasts, giving you a reprieve from the love marks he had been biting into your skin. "That's right, my pretty girl's never cum on anyone's fingers before."
"Don't worry baby, I'll show you, keep moving your hips just like that."
His thumb brushes your clit and your nails dig into his biceps, your body tightening and curling around him.
"Steve," you gasped, legs shaking feeling like something was about to explode within you. "S-steve, please."
Your cries filled the room around you as your clit sent bursting pleasure across every inch of your body, your hips grinding against his palm chasing the high. When your breathing settles into a soft even pace he pulled his fingers back and licked them clean.
"Taste so good," he purred through his fingers, sinking to his knees. He pulled the last of your panties off your ankle and tucked them into his back pocket. "Tried not to imagine this, to let myself want you like this but fuck sweetheart,"
His words make your head spin, that he's thought about you like this. Naked on your bed with your panties tucked in his pocket, bare and open begging for more.
Two fingers return to their original place, gently curling inside of you as you melt into it. He takes one leg and drapes it over his shoulder, kissing up your thigh before he reached your cunt, passing his searing tongue over your clit.
He's ravenous in devouring you, sucking your throbbing clit with hardly any mercy, his wrist twisting and fucking his fingers into you like your pleasure fills him with an ecstasy of his own. Your spine bows and your fingers rake through his hair, hips rutting into his mouth. The sounds you let out would make a nun drop to her knees in prayer, but you're too lost in the pleasure to care.
Your bed had grown damp under you and just when you think Steve has given you enough, he slides a third finger deep inside and kitten licks a circle around your clit. The stretch hurts but in the best way possible.
His lips latch around your clit, plush and warm as his fingers caress that deep spot inside you that not even your own hand could hit and you're cumming all over again, your wetness slicking his hand as you moaned out.
"Jesus Christ," you stammered, face flushed every shade of red as he stands up between your legs, his hands deftly sliding his belt off.
He dives for your lips once free from the last of his clothing, a small jolt of surprise running through you when you feel the hard length of his cock brushing your thigh, and when you looked down you swore your jaw could unhook from its hinges.
"Steve…" you mumbled wearily, trying your best not to gawk and stare at it.
"It's okay sweetheart, I'll take good care of you."
You blink up at him, blushing with a soft smile tugging at the corner of your lips, letting your body meld in his touch as he bends your knees beside him.
"Do you trust me?" he whispered against your jaw, peppering light kisses across it.
"Yes, I do." you breathed out. "I want it, I want you."
With that, he positions himself right against your cunt, rubbing soft yet electric circles on your clit with the tip of his cock before he lowered himself in. Your shaky gasp met his low moan, he slid one arm under the pillow and cradled you in close.
You breathe in together as he slowly pushes in further, his free hand tracing down your thigh to hold it gently. He went still when he hit the hilt, the air between you freezing, going thin like the winds on a mountain top. The was a pang of painful heat blooming between your legs, making all the air in your lungs feel like cement blocks.
When you finally let out a staggered breath he pulled back to look at your face. "Are you okay? Are you hurting?"
"No," you quickly shook your head, rolling your hips to prove your point. "'M okay, please move."
Steve's face is hesitant for a moment before he leans back to, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss softer than ever before, gently pulling out and sliding back in. "My pretty girl,"
"Taking me so well, pussy feels so good." he moved in and out slowly at first, getting you both used to the feeling of him twitching inside you. He's thick and hard and your tight walls clenching with every odd stroke.
"S-steve," you moaned through a soft breath, the pain fading way to just buzzing heat in your cunt. For it being your first time your body is responding to him like this was the hundredth time, your back arching as your hips roll in time with his thrusts. Soon you're writhing under him, his mouth sucking a deep purple mark into the crux of your collarbone before he pushes himself up onto his forearm, hovering above you.
"Doing so good for me babydoll," he grunted as he lifted your thigh up just enough to make you cry out. "Can feel you squeezing me so tight, wanna cum for me?"
"Yes, yes please Steve I wanna cum for you." you babbled out, eyes deep in the back of your head.
He nearly growls, picking up the pace of his thrusts just enough to send you over the edge, your thighs twitching in his hold as your cum floods over his cock.
"Such a good girl for me, my pretty girl," Steve praised with your name, gentle on his lips. "All mine."
When your vision blinks back into focus he had shifted you on the bed to him on his back and you hunched over his chest. You pushed up on your hands to see him, pupils blown wide with lust and his hair slightly mussed, there couldn't be anything more attractive on this earth.
"You know how this works baby?" he asked, voice low as his hands settled on your hips, fingers lightly digging into your skin.
You made a so-so motion with your shoulders. You knew how it worked with the woman on top, but you don't really know if you can do it right and disappointing him spawns a black hole of fear behind your ribs that could make you cry if you focus on it too much.
"That's okay, I'll show you,"
Steve leaned forward to kiss you again, licking the seam of your lips open making you hum happily, you've already gotten so infatuated with the feeling of his lips on yours you can't imagine anyone else's being there.
Slowly he guided your hips up, making you hover above him as he used one hand to align his cock back up into your wet cunt. You bit his bottom lip with a muffled curse, the angle change making him fill you so differently than before, the width of cock stretching you out with a sweet, sweet burn.
He didn't rush you, let you hold yourself just on his tip for a few moments, kissing you so soft and slow. After another blissful moment of his lips you pulled back, resting your forehead against his as you kept sinking down, a staggering breath leaving your lungs.
When you were completely seated against him it was like the world went silent. He felt big inside you before but now it was like you were complete, like this was the missing piece your body had needed all this time. You felt one of his hands drift down to your ass, gripping the flesh in his hands and pulling you impossibly closer.
"Lift your hips for me pretty girl," he rasped out, his voice thick as he gently guided you up. "Just like this."
You followed his instruction, lifting yourself up to almost the head of his cock before rocking back down, every vein and ridge making you shudder. He kept lifting you up and letting you push yourself back down each time, every stroke flowed into the next, smooth and fluid and perfect.
"Fuck baby," he grunted through a broken moan, thrusting up to meet you every time you came down. "You feel so damn good, pussy taking me so good, takin' every inch I give her."
"Steve, please— 's too big, too much." you pleaded, you weren't sure what you were begging for but you felt that familiar heat creeping up your spine and only knew it was a matter of time before you fell apart all over again.
He sat up further and wrapped his arms around you, pulling your flush to him brushing his lips over the shell of your ear. "Not yet babydoll, I'm gonna keep fucking this sweet little pussy and you're not going to cum until I say so, okay?"
"But it feels so good," you mewled, rocking down onto him, your body desperate to chase the oncoming high. "Please Steve, just a little more, please."
You felt his hand track up your spine to the back of your neck, his fingers digging into the nape— not hard, just enough to get your attention as he went completely still underneath you, making you whine at the loss of friction.
"No," he said, voice breathy but stern as he pulled you back to look at him. "You're not cumming until I say,"
Your heart was ramming against your chest, you were so close and now all that heat was slowly flooding out of you.
"Understand?"
"Yes," you whimpered, hands gripping his broad shoulders and forcing your hips to stay still. "I understand Steve, please."
Steve hummed contemplatively before pulling you into another searing kiss. "Please what?"
"Please let me cum again, I'll be good I promise, please."
"Oh I know you'll be good for me," he cooed as he slowly dragged his hand down your back and to your tummy, splaying his wide fingers across the skin before letting his thumb drop to your clit, pressing it in light little circles. "Because you're my good girl aren't you? You'll listen to me right?"
"Yes!" you cried out clutching his shoulders, the light stimulation already setting every nerve ending within you ablaze.
"That's it baby," he purred, keeping the pace of his thumb even and slow. "Sitting there bein' good for me."
Every time you shifted and squirmed in his lap he brought his hand to your hip, holding you in place as he continued his tortuous circles.
You could've held through, maybe would have made it, if he hadn't started kissing your neck.
"S-Steve…" you shivered, thighs twitching around him. Lightning shot down your spine and all the air in your lungs left with each brush of his thumb. "Please, if you don't slow down…"
"Mm, what? You'll cum on my cock?" he teased in a voice so deep that nearly sent you over the edge itself. "You said you'd be my good girl, and good girls don't cum until they've been told. Is that you?"
Every moan that left your mouth was more sinful than the last, strained and wanton.
"Tell me you're my good girl," he growled against your neck, biting the skin just a little harder than before. "Say you're all mine and I'll let you cum."
"I'm your good girl Steve, I'm all yours, please—" he started rolling his hips back up into you and your head fell to his shoulder, melting in touch.
"Please… Professor," you begged, your hips started moving on their own again, sickly sweet wet sounds echoing off the walls as you fucked yourself down onto him with a vigor like never before.
Steve surged up and caught your lips, the kiss all teeth, tongue and passion. "God I can't get enough of you, of this pussy, so fucking perfect, say it again."
"Professor please let me cum, I've been such a good girl for you, please I'm so close. I wanna cum for you, I wanna be your good girl, please."
The world around you turned to white noise, static in your ears as your body melted into a puddle, toes curled and vision narrowed, it was a wonder you heard Steve at all,
"Cum for me pretty girl." he pinched your clit just enough and you shattered, swells of pleasure dragging you deep into its depths and turning you inside out. Steve bit off a curse as he followed suit, his cock throbbing deep inside you as he spilled into you, marking you as his with every spurt.
Everything felt warm and far away as ripples of aftershocks ran over you, your eyes heavy and body even heavier, limp and worn. You don't know how long you stayed there in the purgatory of pleasure, but soon your eyes slipped shut, yet before you completely succumbed to its enveloping arms, you felt the soft brush of lips against your temple and you fell into a sweet sleep.
Morning comes slowly.
You wake curled into warmth, half-asleep, disoriented for one blissful second, until you realize Steve is still there, propped slightly against the headboard, glasses on reading one of the books off your nightstand, shirt rumpled, watching you like he’s afraid the moment will vanish if he looks away.
You blinked up at him. “You stayed.”
He smiled softly. “I did.”
Your voice is sleepy but certain when you ask, “Can you… stay?”
Not just this morning. Not just today. Stay.
Steve sets his book aside and leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, just like the one last night. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said quietly. “I promise.”
You smiled, eyes closing again, safe in the weight of his arm around you.
