it's the second night of your trip with your physics professors and you've had a break-through in the research. but to test their hypothesis, you need to help them recreate the exact same conditions as the first night... for science.
content warning: dark!bucky x f!student!reader x dark!steve, mature themes, dark themes, made-up science bullshit, manipulation, naive!reader, smut, dub-con, rough sex, face fucking, no protection, cream pies (yes multiple), bucky and steve are DIABOLICAL MEN.
NIGHT ONE
a/n: the long-awaited sequel to my personal favorite dark fic i've ever written (exactly two years after part one!). i missed the professors <3 also i know absolutely nothing about physics so please don't take the science talk too seriously just go with it and pretend it makes total sense. and i don't like tooting my own horn but i do think this part is hotter than the first.
divider by @strangergraphics
"This is incredible - the cells transferred the energy to the battery overnight," Bucky says with excitement in his eyes. "We've been working on this for years and this is the biggest breakthrough yet."
"That's amazing, Professor Barnes," You say as you shift your weight onto your right leg, still sore from the night before.
Steve was full of guilt this morning when he woke up still inside you, apologizing profusely when he realized what happened. You assured him that it was okay, but that maybe you should take the couch tonight. After all, it wasn't his fault - he was sleepwalking and had no idea what he was doing.
"We need definitive proof that this works," Steve says as he looks through the microscope, before lifting his head up. "We need it to happen again. And to do that... we need to recreate the exact same conditions as we had last night."
Your eyes widen.
"That's right. The cells were in this room when they transferred the energy," Bucky says, taking off his glasses. "So we need to make sure the conditions are as close to last night's as possible."
"Uh... like, the temperature, and stuff?" You ask with a squeak.
"Yes. But also the activity that took place," Bucky says gravely. "See, every one of our actions takes and creates energy, so whatever we did last night made the perfect environment for the experiment to work successfully."
"You're exactly right," Steve agrees with him. "We need to do everything the same, as close as we can."
Nervously, you clear your throat. "Um, do you mean we also have to do what happened... in bed... again?" You ask meekly.
Bucky's face drops. "Oh, God. I didn't even think about that..." He trails off before looking into your eyes. "But, yes. It'll need to happen again."
Your stomach flips.
"I can't do that to her again, Buck," Steve says, shaking his head with a look of shame on his face. "I already have enough guilt from last night. I don't think I'm capable of doing that again."
"Alright. I'll do it," Bucky says bravely. "It's the same kind of energy being exuded, so it shouldn't make too much of a difference which one of us it is."
"But... it's too much to ask of her," Steve says as he looks at you with pity. "You're our student. We shouldn't put you in that position. No matter how important this research is in creating a sustainable power source that could save the world someday."
You think about it before letting out a sigh and nodding. "No. I'll do it," You decide firmly. "It's for science. And the world. I know how much time and effort you've both put into this already and... it would be my honor to help you with the research."
Bucky smiles. "I knew you'd be one of our best students, flower," He says softly before looking at the bed. "Shall we?"
Once you're in your pyjamas, you timidly get into the bed where Bucky's already laying down. Steve stands by the makeshift lab at the other side of the room, keeping an eye on the cells. There's an alarm that he set up to let out a 'ding' whenever a substantial amount of energy is passed through the cells, and he tells you that that's the sound you're looking for.
You lay on your side facing away from Bucky, just how you were last night, your heart racing.
"Alright, whenever you're ready," Steve calls out before dimming the lights.
When you feel Bucky get closer, you suck in a sharp breath and hold it in, flinching as he wraps an arm around you. "Keep breathing, flower," He whispers into your ear. "It's just me. Remember, this is for science."
"For science," You repeat with a nod.
"Good girl," He mumbles before slipping his hand under the hem of your shirt and cupping your bare boob. You gasp as he pulls and twists your nipple, making you squirm against his hardening boner.
"Nothing yet," Steve says. "Keep going."
Bucky lowers his hand and instead slips it under your shorts, rubbing your pussy over your underwear which is already wet through. You bite your lip to hold back your moans when he pushes your panties to the side and rubs circles directly onto your throbbing clit.
"Don't hold back, flower," He utters lowly. "You're doing so well for me."
With that, he pushes two fingers inside you, making you cry out at the intrusion. Once you've broken the barrier, you can't stop moaning, though it comes out in strangled whines as you do your best to keep quiet. It would be far too embarrassing to make it obvious how good this feels. It's purely for scientific research purposes.
"Gonna need a little more," Steve says in a warning tone. "Still no activity."
Taking his fingers out of you, Bucky pulls down your shorts and brings his hard cock to your pussy. He lifts up your leg before slowly inching into you, grunting in your ear as he stretches you out.
"Fuck, so tight," He groans under his breath. "You ready for it, flower?"
"Yes," You whimper, grabbing a fistful of the sheets in anticipation.
Keeping your leg lifted, Bucky starts fucking you. He starts off slow and gentle, kissing your neck and rubbing your nipples.
"Can you give me some more?" Steve requests. "Still nothing."
Bucky growls before speeding up and fucking you harder. His cock pummels in and out of you while you cry out, utterly taken over by pleasure.
"More," Steve calls out.
Pulling and twisting on your nipples, Bucky fucks you even faster, the sound of skin on skin filling the room. You can hear how wet your pussy is with each thrust.
Steve lets out a sigh of frustration. "I need more, guys," He says with a tinge of annoyance in his tone.
With that, he grabs you by the arm and forces you onto your hands and knees. Bucky then gets behind you, pushing his cock back into you and getting much deeper at this angle. He pushes your head down onto the bed roughly and even spanks your ass, though you're sure it's all for the sake of the experiment.
"Alright, that's a little better," Steve says. "Could definitely be doing more, though."
More? You let out a squeak at the thought of it.
"Steve, maybe it needs to be you," Bucky suggests, still fucking you steadily as he speaks casually. "I think you should come over here and fuck her."
Your heart skips a beat.
"You really think so?" Steve asks him.
"We have to try," Bucky answers. "For science."
With a determined look on his face, Steve nods. "For science." He walks over to the bed while stripping down, and you watch with wide eyes, still being drilled by Bucky.
Bucky thrusts a few more times before pulling out, making you whimper at the sudden loss. He makes his way to the end of the bed where your head is, while Steve climbs up behind you.
"You're doing so well for us, flower," Bucky whispers as he kisses your cheek. "I know this is hard on you, but it's going to be so worth it when we finish this project. And you'll be getting 100% on all your work this year."
"R-really?" You ask him with wide eyes.
"Of course," Bucky replies with a smile as he moves closer to you. "You're our number-one student. You have more than earnt it, flower." His cock rubs against your cheek accidentally, but he does nothing to move it. He's too busy thinking about science so you completely understand and don't complain when his pre-cum drips out onto your face and down your neck.
"Thank you, Professor Ba- aah," You cry out as Steve plunges into you with no warning.
Steve shudders as his cock sits inside your warm pussy. "Just as tight and wet as last night," He groans, making you falter.
"But weren't you asleep?" You ask him, wondering how he could possibly remember.
Instead of answering you, Steve starts railing you. Your mind is empty as he fucks you into the mattress, his hands tightly gripping your hips and keeping you in place.
"No dings yet," Bucky says with a sigh as he glances over at the lab equipment, before he looks back down at you. "Let me try something..."
He grabs a fistful of your hair and lifts your head off the bed, before forcing his cock into your mouth. Your eyes widen as he fucks your face with no mercy.
Ding, ding.
"It's working!" Steve says, and you can hear the grin on his lips. "Keep doing whatever you're doing. Don't change a thing."
"Aye-aye, captain," Bucky groans as he forces your head further down his cock, making you gag. "I'm sorry, flower, but this is what needs to happen."
"You're being so good for us, taking our cocks like a champ," Steve adds as he slaps your ass. "Our brave girl. You are so important to this research, beautiful, so fucking important, and so smart, and... fuck, so fucking tight."
Your mind lights up with delight at his praise. Ding, ding.
"That's it, keep sucking me, it's working," Bucky says lowly. "You're gonna help us save the world, flower. We're so proud of you."
He sees the look in your eyes and he knows he's got you in the palm of his hand.
"Keep making us proud," He utters, stroking your cheek as his cock breaches your throat. "You don't wanna disappoint us, do you?"
You shake your head as best you can, making him grin.
"Good girl," He whispers, before speeding up his thrusts.
"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," Steve warns you. He makes no effort to pull out even though he isn't wearing a condom, but you let it slide. For science.
"Fill her pussy up, Steve," Bucky groans.
Your cunt flutters around Steve, making him shudder before he cums with a loud grunt, thrusting hard as he spurts into you. You moan around Bucky's cock and the sound coincides with three of the loudest 'dings' you've heard all night.
"Shit, that was incredible," Steve groans as he pulls out of you. "And it worked so well. Bucky, I think you need to cum inside her pussy, too."
"You think so?" Bucky asks as he slows down his thrusts, fucking your face a little softer.
"I do," Steve doubles down. "The alarm sounded out the loudest when I was cumming inside her; the energy created from that action must have triggered the cells."
Bucky pulls out of your mouth and cups your chin. "What do you think, flower?" He asks. "Do you think he could be right?"
It does make sense. After all, Steve's right - the alarm was loudest when he was finishing in you. And it does feel good for your professor, renowned quantum physicist, to be asking for your opinion. "I think he's right," You tell him.
"You do?" Bucky pushes, stroking your cheek. "So, you think I should cum inside your pussy, too? Right after Professor Rogers just did?"
"I do," You answer, keeping your eyes locked on his. "I really do, Professor Barnes."
"Alright. Okay, flower, if you think that's best," Bucky says innocently.
Steve moves to the side and Bucky flips you over so you're lying on your back. He then nestles himself between your spread legs and returns his cock to your pussy, which is currently oozing with Steve's cum.
With a shaky breath, Bucky uses the tip of his cock to scoop up as much of Steve's cum as he can and pushes it back into you. He repeats this a couple more times until the excess cum is back in your pussy, and then Bucky plunges his cock into you. There's a constant chorus of dings coming from the lab, proving that this is the right thing to do.
"Go for it, Buck," Steve mutters. "For science."
Bucky nods and repeats, "For science."
They both give you expectant looks and you quickly nod and echo, "For science."
Wasting no time, Bucky starts thrusting, fucking in and out of you. His head falls forward, resting in your neck as he fucks you.
"That's it, you're taking him so well," Steve says as he watches. "Just a little longer, now. You're being so good."
"I'm so close," Bucky groans into your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. "Gonna fill this tight pussy with my cum. Are you ready for it, flower?"
"Yes," You cry out, just as Steve brings his fingers to your swollen clit and starts rubbing it. The dings get louder.
With a roar, Bucky erupts, thrusting faster and harder than ever as his cum spills into you. Steve rubs your clit harder, triggering your own orgasm as you shake beneath Bucky, your eyes rolling back. Ding. Ding. Ding.
Bucky continues thrusting weakly, making you convulse and whimper. "Such a good girl for us," He whispers, lifting his head up and looking down at you as he fucks in and out of you, slow and gentle. "We are so proud of you, flower. You have been incredible tonight."
"That's right. We couldn't have done this without you," Steve says, stroking your cheek. "And by the sounds of it, it was a successful experiment, so well done. You helped to make that happen."
You nod with a smile, basking in the glory of their praise. "Thank you, Professors, for giving me this opportunity," You say, expecting Bucky to pull out but not saying anything when he remains inside you. "It's truly such an hon- honor to work with you both. I- this experience has been phenomenal."
"And you've been amazing," Bucky says with his dick sitting inside you, even though he's talking as though nothing untoward is happening at all. "I'm so glad you accepted our invitation. We knew you were going to be a stand-out on your first day. I couldn't be prouder."
"Shit. We should've documented this," Steve says as he shakes his head. "How are we going to remember exactly what we did to make the experiment successful?"
You don't think you'll ever forget.
"Damn it. We fucked up," Bucky groans, rubbing his face.
"Is there any way at all we could... somehow get the full step-by-step of what we did?" Steve wonders out loud.
They both look at you, waiting for you to suggest something.
"Um... well, if we had filmed it, that could've worked," You suggest. "But we didn't, so..."
"So what you're saying is, we're going to have to do this all over again and make sure to film it this time?" Steve asks you, making your eyes widen.
"No, that's not what I-"
"That's our only option," Bucky cuts in, giving you a grave look. "To make sure we can perfectly replicate this, we have to do it again and film it, so we know the exact conditions needed."
"No. Look at her, Bucky, we've put her through enough," Steve says as he wipes at the residue of Bucky's cum on your cheek. "We can't do this to her again."
Bucky sighs. "You're right. We'll just have to... go back to square one and figure out another way to make this work," He says, his tone heavy with dejection. "It might take years, but we have to keep trying."
"No," You cut in, unable to disappoint them after making them so proud. "We can do it again. I can take it."
"Are you sure?" Steve asks you, concern in his eyes.
"100%," You reply instantly. They had enough hope on you to bring you on this trip over all their other students, so you need to prove your worth.
"You're sure you can take it, flower?" Bucky asks softly. "You can handle Professor Rogers and I taking turns fucking you, hard, and fucking your face, and both of us cumming inside you again with no condoms? On camera?"
"Yes," You assure him, determined to be someone they're proud of. "Whatever it takes to help you with this research, I'll do it. I'll do anything for you, Professor. I'll do anything for science."
You suck in a sharp breath when you feel his cock harden inside you again.
"You're too good to us, honey," Steve says, unable to stop the smirk from pulling at his lips. "Together, we're going to do some incredible things."
"Incredible," Bucky repeats with a grin. "And all in the name of science, of course."
"Of course," Steve adds, his thumb rubbing your swollen bottom lip. "All for science."
happy october 🎃 got a few spoooooky fics planned and im gonna try my hardest to get them all out this month <3 it's my bday month and work is crazy rn but i'll do my best x
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Summary: Steve Harrington never planned to be a college professor, but somehow, a decade after Hawkins, he’s got tenure, too many girls in the front row, and a well-worn reputation as the guy everyone secretly signs up for. He’s charming, infuriating, and cruising comfortably through faculty meetings—until you show up. The newest hire in the Education Department. Sharp-tongued, no-nonsense, and utterly unimpressed by his smirk It’s enemies to lovers. It’s “fuck you” with feeling. It’s hot copy rooms, faculty fanfic, and a battle of wills that leaves them both undone.
Read the Epilogue Here || Read the Bonus Content Here
Steve Harrington rounds the corner of McKinley Hall, leather satchel slung over one shoulder, sunglasses low on his nose. His button-down is rolled at the sleeves, collar popped just enough to look like he didn’t try too hard.
He did. He always does.
Late morning light filters through the leaves, the kind of golden glow that makes the whole campus look like a catalog. A breeze kicks up, ruffling his hair just right—effortless, even though he’d spent seven minutes with a pomade wand this morning trying to tame the one curl that always flips too high.
Girls—and guys—part like the Red Sea when he walks through the quad. Whispers trail him like perfume.
“He’s even hotter this semester.” “Do you think he has a TA? I would literally die to grade for him.” “He wore glasses last week. Glasses. Like, please, sir, ruin me and my GPA.”
He hears every word. Doesn't acknowledge a single one.
Steve smirks but keeps walking. He doesn’t look back. He never looks back. He doesn’t need to.
What started as a happy accident—subbing in for a tenured psych professor on sabbatical—turned into tenure-track real quick once the department clocked his “natural rapport with students.” Which is code, apparently, for hot and somehow competent.
He loves it. Not the attention, per se. (Okay, yes the attention.) But the rhythm of it. The power of it. The control.
He hits the steps of the faculty building, adjusting his collar, when it happens.
You.
You walk by, nose buried in a manila folder thick with class rosters, syllabi, and a color-coded planner peeking out from between pages. Coffee in hand, the kind of cup that’s been through war—stickers, Sharpie scribbles, a small scratch near the lid like it survived a desk drop. Your cardigan sleeves are shoved to your elbows, revealing ink-stained fingers and a glimpse of a tattoo along your forarm—one of those dainty ones, maybe a phrase or constellation, hard to tell from this angle.
You're muttering to yourself like you're the only one on the planet. Something about “course shells not loading” and “students emailing at 2 a.m.” Your brow is furrowed in a way that says no time for bullshit and your shoes? Comfy. Practical. Still somehow hot.
You don’t even look at him.
Steve stops mid-step.
Your lanyard swings on your neck. A new one. Still stiff and shiny. “Faculty.”
New hire, he thinks. Probably from the Education Department. Probably earnest. Probably tired.
But then you unlock a door.
And the office it reveals?
The office is a whole goddamn vibe.
The inside glows warm like a hidden reading nook in a secret corner of a vintage bookstore. There are tiny string lights looped around a cork board. A woven throw blanket draped over the arm of a loveseat. A bookshelf with color-coded spines and one leaning stack of children's books, The Velveteen Rabbit, The Napping House, and something with a cracked spine that looks like it’s been read fifty times. There’s a lava lamp. A basket of granola bars with a handwritten note:
“Take one if your brain feels like mashed potatoes.”
A candle flickers on a high shelf. (Technically against fire code. Bold.) And music —faint music—spills into the hallway as you shut the door behind you.
Steve blinks.
Great. Someone with taste, and clearly not here to fuck around.
He lingers a second too long outside your door. The air smells like bergamot and cedar. And maybe a little vanilla. He rubs the back of his neck. Mutters something about caffeine. Heads to the lounge.
And just like that, the campus heartthrob feels—off-center.
---
The folder in your arms is a chaotic stack of color-coded syllabi, annotated department memos, a crumpled sticky note that just says “DO NOT trust Chad in IT,” and a worn planner threatening to burst at the binding. The corner keeps jabbing you in the ribcage as you try to sip your lukewarm coffee without sloshing it on your sweater.
You're muttering to yourself. Not softly.
“If one more Canvas shell ‘accidentally’ deletes itself I’m going to throw my laptop into the koi pond.”
“Why are students already asking about extra credit? The semester started yesterday.”
You pass clusters of students lounging in the sun, glowing with unearned optimism and oat milk lattes. A few wave at you—the “cool new prof” buzz is starting to catch on, but mostly, you’re flying under the radar.
You're almost at your office when the air shifts.
It’s subtle. A flicker. Like walking through a sudden sunbeam. You don’t see him at first, just feel the collective ripple across the quad. The tilt of heads. The hush of whispers. That specific brand of breathless energy reserved for only two things on campus: free pizza and someone hot enough to melt a MacBook.
You glance up, and there he is. Professor Steve Harrington. Tenure-track. Psychology.
Known around campus as “Professor Panty Dropper,” though you would never say that out loud.
He’s walking across the quad like a Calvin Klein ad and a back-to-school sale had a baby. Aviators, rolled sleeves, that stupid little smirk that says he’s fully aware of every pair of eyes tracking him like a migrating sun god.
And not just students. The woman from HR tripped over her stapler when he leaned across the printer last week.
He’s the kind of handsome that should come with a warning label. Probably smug. Probably has a signature cologne. Probably thinks the faculty lounge is his runway.
You… do not have time for that.
Your office is around the corner and the door sticks unless you hip-check it just right. You bump it open, nudging in backward with your shoulder, coffee still miraculously upright. A breeze chases in behind you, lifting the edge of your curtain.
Inside, it smells like cedar, lemon balm, and ambition.
Fairy lights blink to life as the door swings shut behind you. You toss the folder onto your couch, tap your Bluetooth speaker, something alt rock humming low, and breathe in your space.
It’s small, but alive. There’s personality here. A lava lamp burbles on the corner shelf. Your bookshelf is stacked with children’s lit and theory texts, paperbacks and worn journals. One shelf is dedicated entirely to tiny thrift store figurines of frogs and foxes. You tell people it’s a mindfulness collection. Really, they just make you happy.
You light your “cozy stormy evening” candle (yes, it has a crackling wick, yes, it’s against code, no, you don’t care).
And then for a split second you feel it. A presence outside your door. Lingering. You don’t have to look.
It’s him.
Because of course the campus Adonis can’t resist curiosity. But you don’t give him the satisfaction. You let the door click shut. Let him wonder. Let the song with the wicked guitar riff keep playing. You kick off your shoes, settle into your chair, and smirk to yourself. “Heartthrob Harrington, huh? Cute.”
But you? You’ve got lessons to write, freshmen to wrangle, and a strict no-fraternization policy—with your dignity.…Probably.
Later that week, you find yourself in the faculty lounge mid-morning, between classes. It smells like burnt coffee and academic disillusionment. Beige walls. Beige chairs. Beige energy. A sad vending machine hums in the corner like it’s dying slowly.
Steve pushes open the door to the lounge, a half-empty mug in one hand and the confident slouch of a man who never brings his own lunch. He’s already mid-text with his TA (who's begging to switch to online office hours again—coward), when he hears a laugh.
Not a polite laugh. Not a forced, colleague laugh.
A real one. Low, warm. Kind of musical.
You're standing at the coffee counter, staring down the sad excuse for a Keurig like it's personally offended you. Your sleeves are rolled, again. That same pen is tucked behind your ear. There's a new pin on your cardigan that says “Born to teach, forced to grade”
He smirks. Leans against the counter next to you. “You know the coffee’s been dead since 2012, right?”
You don’t flinch. Don’t giggle. Don’t even glance at him right away. Instead, you casually add a comical amount of powdered creamer to the cup. “Cool. I’ll embalm it, then drink it out of spite.”
He blinks.
You finally look up and your eyes don’t do that thing. That thing where they go wide and starstruck and thirsty. You clock him like he’s just… there. Present. Human. In your peripheral.
“You’re the psych guy, right? Harrington?”
He straightens a little. Not because he's flustered. (Okay. A little flustered.)
“Steve. Yeah.”
“Right.” You stir your disaster coffee. “I’m…New this semester. Education.”
You extend your hand and introduce yourself. Firm shake. Cool fingers.
“Nice to meet you, Steve.”
Not Professor Harrington. Not Oh my god, I’ve heard so much about you! Just Steve. Like he’s some adjunct in khakis and a lanyard, not the main character in every psych major’s late-night fantasy.
He watches as you lean on the counter, sipping your tragic little drink like it’s the elixir of life.
“So,” you add, eyeing him over the rim. “You always get followed by an entourage of undergrads, or is that a syllabus week thing?”
And god help him, he laughs. Actually laughs. Caught. Red-handed. Ego dented.
“It’s… a thing,” he admits. “I try not to encourage it.”
“Mm.” You raise a brow. “Try harder.”
---
You don’t mean to enjoy the way his jaw ticks when you say that.
Okay, you do.
You knew who he was, obviously. The moment you walked onto campus, students were whispering about him like he was a myth. Like he wasn’t just a thirty-something in tailored pants that were just snug enough you hesitated to question their appropriateness. With movie star hair and the smuggest dimples you’ve ever seen.
But now, standing next to him in this godforsaken excuse for a lounge, you realize something: he doesn’t know what to do with you. You’re not impressed. You’re not intimidated. And worst of all? You see right through him.
So you smile - slow, lazy, like you’ve got nowhere to be and all the time in the world to keep him guessing.
“Well,” you say, rinsing out your cup, “enjoy the groupies, Harrington. Try not to break too many hearts this semester.”
You turn to leave. Toss a wink over your shoulder. “And don’t steal my granola bars. I count them.”
He watches you go like he’s not entirely sure what just happened. You don’t even look back. You never look back. You don’t need to.
He stands there in silence for a few seconds, a little dumbfounded. Shit.
This particular Wednesday afternoon, the Campus Center conference room is packed to the gills with first-years. You’ve been “voluntold” to join a faculty mentorship panel and of course Steve’s on the panel too. He agreed because he thought it would be low stakes and high praise.
And as he will quickly find out, it is neither.
Steve drops into the conference room chair with the casual flair of a man who fully expected to be the most interesting person here. His name card is perfectly angled. His shirt fits just right. He consciously buttoned up his shirt one more than usual, for the freshman’s sake. He plants one ankle over his knee. Casual but composed. His smile’s already dialed in at 65% charm, 25% intellect, 10% effortless heat.
He’s ready.
He’s got a few solid anecdotes locked and loaded about student success, mindfulness, and how office hours are important but boundaries are sexy—he means, necessary. A story about a kid who discovered cognitive psychology through a breakup. A bonus quip about coffee dependency, if it feels right.
This is his arena.
Then you walk in.
Late—but not flustered. Smirking like you already know you’re going to own the room. You’ve got a legal pad under one arm and a novelty cup that reads “This Might Be Wine” in sparkly font. Your hair’s up, barely, in one of those messy knots that looks like it took three seconds and still somehow makes you look put together. Your cardigan sways when you move, and you’re wearing those little earrings again—pencils today. Last time? Moons.
You greet the moderator by name. Thank the admin. You nod at Steve like he’s a familiar bench on a walking trail—recognizable, comfortable, unremarkable.
And then—you sit next to him. Of course you do.
Your knee bumps his under the table. You don’t pull back. He doesn’t breathe.
“Just so I’m clear,” you murmur, eyes on the moderator, voice honey-smooth, “this is the part where we all pretend we have our shit together, right?”
He glances at you. You don’t look back.
“Speak for yourself,” he says, smile sharp.
“Oh, I am.” You sip your coffee. Cross your legs. Settle in like you own the goddamn floor.
The panel starts. It’s a blur of pleasantries and awkward icebreakers. Steve’s distracted. Normally, he loves this shit—being asked for advice, watching students lean in when he drops something inspirational, tossing in the occasional wink that leaves half the back row short-circuiting.
But today? Today, he’s watching you.
You field the first question like it’s a beach ball lobbed underhand. You're warm, relatable, but disarming in your honesty. You admit that sometimes you forget to eat lunch. That grading makes you question your life choices. That you once cried in your car over a printer jam—but you still believe teaching is the most powerful thing a person can do.
The crowd? In the palm of your hand. You speak like you're letting them in on a secret. And Steve’s left gripping his chair, trying not to visibly squirm.
Then it’s his turn.
He speaks—well, objectively. He’s charming. Polished. Drops the right buzzwords. Tells the story about the heartbroken psych major.
But something’s off. You’re too calm. Too quiet. Too still. Nodding with just enough delay to make it unclear if you’re agreeing or letting him spiral.
He speeds up. Talks more. Tries harder. And then—you do it.
A student asks a follow-up question—his question—and you jump in. Not rudely. Not competitively. Just with this smooth, practiced, lived-in ease.
“Actually, that reminds me of something that happened last semester—”
You tell a story. Quick. Funny. Undercut with a punch of emotion and just enough vulnerability to make it land. The students laugh. One of them claps.
You turn to Steve, touch his arm like punctuation. “Sorry, didn’t mean to hijack. I just get excited.”
You don’t even look sorry.
And Steve? He is losing. His. Fucking. Mind.
---
You feel him unraveling like a cassette tape in a too-hot car and it’s delicious.
You don’t say that out loud, of course. But you can feel it. That tightness behind his easy grin. The tiny pause before he responds when you raise your eyebrow. The way he’s blinking a little too fast and shifting in his seat like his shirt suddenly doesn’t fit right.
You didn’t do anything cruel. You were just you. Which, lately, is enough.
It’s not that you try to get under his skin. You’re just existing. Thriving, really. Which seems to offend the natural order of Steve Harrington’s universe.
You caught his whole vibe the second you sat down. Tthe twitch in his jaw, the way he adjusted his sleeve twice, then again. The overly casual slouch that’s now bordering on orthopedic discomfort. He smelled like cedar and expensive laundry detergent when you passed him. He smelled…nervous when you sat down.
You knew his type. You were warned about him, in the way that other professors warn you about the broken heater on the third floor or the feral raccoon that haunts the dumpsters.
“Oh, and avoid falling in love with Harrington. Everyone does eventually.”
You didn’t listen. You just didn’t care. Because what’s the fun in handing someone power they clearly expect?
So you sipped your coffee, played your part, and smiled at the students. Told them about your ugly crying in the supply closet. About how real leadership sometimes means admitting you don’t know the answer but you’ll figure it out together.
And when you touched Steve’s arm? That was for you.
Now, as the panel wraps and students swarm the edge of the room with thank-yous and questions, you catch a few lingering near him. But more than a few come to you. One asks about your playlist. Another wants to know where your cardigan’s from.
Steve’s watching. You can feel it. Burning at the edges of your awareness like a sun flare. You turn to him only once the room starts to clear.
“You okay there, Professor Harrington? You look like you just got hit by a bin full of ungraded midterms.”
His stare is sharp. Heated. His voice low, quiet, nearly clenched between teeth.
“You know you’re kind of infuriating, right?”
You smile. God, you love being right.
“Good. I’d hate to be forgettable.”
You wink - again, always just teetering on the edge of too much and walk away.
Not looking back. You don’t need to.
He’s still sitting there, in the wake of your personality, eyebrows scrunched and rubbing his temples. Jesus Christ, I’m gonna marry her or punch a wall.
It’s late, and you're tucked in the reprieve of The Resource Library for the night. It’s a quiet, dimly lit little faculty-only zone with overstuffed chairs, creaky floorboards, and the kind of hushed atmosphere that makes every pen click sound like a gunshot. You’re settled in and you smirk at the muffled commotion you hear through the heavy paned windows, students shouting at each other as they make their way to the bar for the night. Thirsty Thursday and all.
Steve enters the resource library with a stack of essays under one arm and a jawline so tight it could cut glass. He wasn’t looking for you.
Okay. He was.
He knew you sometimes graded here in the evenings. He’d seen the light under the door once—warm and flickering, like you’d lit a fireplace with your bare hands—and now it’s burned into his memory like a fever dream. He tells himself he needs the quiet. The focus. The printer…whatever.
But when he opens the door and sees you? Legs curled under you. Sweater slipping off one shoulder. A pen tucked behind your ear and something straight out of Warped Tour 2006 humming low from your phone speaker. You’re highlighting something in a copy of Pedagogy of the Oppressed and nodding along like you’re absorbing it.
And there’s only one goddamn chair left.
Of course.
You glance up. “Wow. You made it out of your leather throne and into the wild.”
He bites back a groan. “Didn’t realize this was your private lounge.”
“Oh it’s not.” You smile sweetly. “I just don’t usually have company that radiates… fragile masculinity and bergamot.” You say it without venom. Too casually. That’s the worst part.
He lowers himself into the chair across from you. The arm creaks. His knee bumps the table.
“You’ve got a sharp tongue for someone who owns a frog figurine shrine.”
“That’s sacred, actually.”
“You should label it. For when they put your office in a museum. ‘Local chaos witch with excellent taste in cardigans.’”
You don’t blink. You just keep reading.
And Steve? Steve is falling apart.
---
He’s spiraling. Again.
You instantly clock the way he fidgets. How he shifts his weight, rakes a hand through his hair like it betrayed him, clicks his pen three times before remembering to unclick it.
He’s trying so hard to seem casual. But there’s nothing casual about the way he keeps glancing up. Like he’s waiting for you to break. To crack. To swoon, or stammer, or finally lean forward and whisper something breathless like, “I get it now. You’re irresistible.”
You don’t. You won’t.
Instead, you underline a passage and speak without looking up “You know, most people who live off student adoration eventually plateau. It’s science. Diminishing returns.”
“You think that’s what this is? A cry for help?”
“I think you don’t know what to do when someone sees you coming a mile away.”
That gets him.
He exhales sharply. Leans back in his chair like it’s trying to restrain him. The air shifts. The banter slows. There's a second where neither of you says anything. And it hums. Like the bass line of a song that’s about to drop.
You finally look up. Your eyes meet.
It’s electric.
“What is it you want from me, Steve?” You say it plainly. No challenge. No flirt. Just the question, dropped between you like a lit match.
He stares. And for a second, he almost answers. But then? He smirks. Shrugs. And lies. “Just borrowing the printer.”
Coward.
The semester is full swing and it’s Friday evening - the semi-annual faculty mixer. An annual event held in the campus art gallery, it's surprisingly refined. Jazz trio in the corner, string lights overhead, mini crab cakes and charcuterie on trays. Plus…the wine is free.
You arrive fashionably late, because of course you do.
You trade your usual cardigan for a slouchy black blazer and a silk camisole, hair down for once, lips just barely tinted berry. Not to impress. Just to remind the world that yes, you can. You float through the gallery like a whispered rumor. Something light and unbothered. The kind of presence that makes people check their posture.
The Education Dean beams at you. A biology professor asks what scent you’re wearing. You flirt with the appetizer table and offer a slow, purring “thank you” when a visiting adjunct says he loved your article on emergent curriculum.
And then you feel it. Like heat behind glass. Like a summer storm rolling in on silent feet.
Steve Harrington is watching you.
Across the room. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a drink he hasn’t touched. Black button-down rolled at the elbows. Hair tousled like he tried to look like he didn’t try. The exact kind of effort you now recognize as desperate control.
He doesn’t move. So you do. You loop your arm through the adjunct’s, just casually. Just friendly. Laugh a little louder than usual at something not that funny. You don’t even look at Steve. You don’t have to.
He’s vibrating. You can feel it from twenty feet away. So when he finally approaches, posture tight, eyes slightly narrowed. You’re ready.
“Fancy seeing you out of your natural habitat,” you purr, swirling your drink.
“You mean my throne of desperation and first-year psych majors?”
“I mean your office with the tiny couch and the ego to match.”
You sip. He fakes a laugh.
“Making friends tonight?” he asks, nodding toward the adjunct, who’s since been absorbed by a conversation about fungi and academic burnout.
“Something like that.” You arch a brow. “Why? Jealous?”
“Of an adjunct named Greg who quoted Nietzsche with spinach in his teeth? Sure. Terrified.”
“Mm. Thought so.”
You let the silence stretch. Let the tension thrum. And then you lean in, voice velvet-smooth, just loud enough for him to hear “You always this easy to rile up, Harrington?”
He exhales through his nose. His jaw flexes. You can see the war happening in real time—charm battling pride, attraction strangled by ego.
“Only when someone’s doing it on purpose.”
Your smile is sweet. A weapon.
“Good. I’d hate to think all this unraveling was accidental.”
---
He is not okay.
He’s on his third glass of pinot and his fourth imagined fantasy of pulling you into the supply closet just to wipe that look off your face. Not even a sexy look.
Worse. It’s amused. It’s the look you give someone trying too hard. A toddler with jam on their face insisting they didn’t touch the jar.
He watches you flit through the mixer like it’s your stage. Like the night exists to orbit you. And goddammit it does.
Your laugh? Fucking illegal. Your hair down? Criminal. The way your blazer slides off your shoulder like it doesn’t even know it’s misbehaving? A personal attack.
He should walk away. Should retreat. Should win. Instead, he follows. Because he’s already lost. And when you look at him like you’ve already got him pegged?
You do.
“You always this easy to rile up, Harrington?”
“Only when someone’s doing it on purpose.”
“Good. I’d hate to think all this unraveling was accidental.”
He swallows hard. Wants to say something clever. Something cutting. But the truth hits him like a wine glass shattering in slow motion.
He likes this.
He likes the taunting. The chase. He likes you treating him like a puzzle instead of a prize. And that? That scares the shit out of him.
Last time you checked your watch it said 9:42 PM. The office wing is mostly dark. The desks are littered with energy drink cans and half-eaten granola bars. You don’t notice he’s there until you hear the door click shut.
You’re on the floor of your office, barefoot, cardigan tossed over your chair. There’s a half-empty box of tissues, three cold coffees, and a student portfolio spread out like battlefield debris.
You haven’t cried. Not technically. But your eyes are hot. Your neck aches. You’ve rewritten the same feedback note four times and every version feels wrong.
“Didn’t peg you for the collapse-in-the-dark type.” His voice is soft. Too soft.
You look up. Steve’s standing in your doorway, sleeves pushed to his elbows, backpack slung casually off one shoulder. There’s a half-smile on his face—but not his usual weaponized one. This one’s tired. Curious. Worried.
You roll your neck, trying to summon a quip. Nothing comes. “Didn’t peg you for the stalker-who-lingers-after-hours type,” you finally mutter.
“You’re lucky I’m hot, then,” he says. But it’s reflexive. Hollow.
He steps in, closes the door behind him. That makes it feel too real.
“What happened?” he asks, eyes sweeping the mess of your desk. Your floor. Your face.
You hesitate. Not because you don’t want to tell him, but because if you start—you might not stop.
You reach for a student essay. Hold it up. “She plagiarized her final. Her whole paper. And she’s the one who calls me ‘her safe person.’ She brings me tea. Leves notes. I was gonna write her a rec letter.”
He says nothing. You swallow. “And I don’t even care that she cheated. I just—”
Your voice catches. “I feel like I’m constantly giving everything I have to everyone else, and there’s just nothing left for me. And I keep doing it anyway, like some idiot academic martyr with a Pinterest office.”
You laugh, but it’s sharp.
Ugly.
Real.
And you hate how quiet he is.
You expect pity. Or worse—comfort. The kind that makes you feel small.
But instead—
---
He’s never seen you like this.
Not controlled. Not cocky. Not laced with irony or caffeine or your signature brand of bite me but make it witty.
You look tired. Really tired. And so fucking human. Something twists in his gut. He thought he wanted to crack your armor just to see what was underneath. Turns out? What’s underneath makes his chest hurt.
“Can I say something?” he asks.
You glance at him. You’re curled on the floor like a study break ghost, face streaked with the beginnings of not-quite-tears, fingers gripping the corner of a highlighted rubric like it wronged you personally.
“You scare the shit out of me.”
That makes your eyes flick up. That gets your attention.
“You walk into rooms like you’re already ten steps ahead of everyone. You don’t fawn. You don’t perform. You don’t need anyone to tell you you’re good—you just are.”
He kneels across from you now. Elbows on his knees. Voice low. “And I’ve spent so long being the one with the spotlight, I didn’t know what to do when you didn’t hand it to me. And now…”
He stops. Swallows.“Now I think you’re the only person I actually want to see me.”
You blink. The silence swells. Too full. Too vulnerable. So you do the only thing you can do. You break it.
“God,” you groan, dropping your head against your file cabinet. “That was disgustingly sincere.”
He barks a laugh. Real. Loud. Relieved. “Shut up. I’m evolving.”
“Into a thoughtful adult man? I liked you better when you were mad about your TA ignoring you.”
“I am still mad about that,” he mutters. “But also now I’m mad that I want to fix everything for you and I can’t.”
You look at him.
Really look.
He’s sitting cross-legged on your office rug, hair messy, face open. For once, he’s not playing a role. Not flirting. Not managing a brand.
He’s just here.
And that? That’s new
You haven’t spoken since Thursday night.
Not really. Just a clipped nod in the hall. A shared smirk during a joke about burnout. But you haven’t met his eyes. Not like that. And it’s driving Steve insane. At this point, it’s Monday afternoon and you’ve all just come from your respective division meetings. He’s trailing you down the hall. You’re not exactly avoiding him. But you’re not making it easy, either.
He keeps replaying it—the way your voice cracked, the way your hands trembled when you held that essay, the way you let him see you for one slivered second before you buried it all back under your wit and your warpaint.
Now he’s trailing behind you like a lovesick intern, watching the sway of your blazer and the curl of your fingers around your folder.
You stop by the mailroom. He catches up, heart hammering for no good reason. “You good?”
You don’t turn. “Fine.”
He clears his throat. Steps closer. Lowers his voice.“I meant… from the other night.”
You pause. Turn just enough to look at him over your shoulder. The look you give him could sharpen knives. “Oh, that?” you say lightly. “That was just a midterm meltdown. Happens to the best of us.”
You wink. And just like that—you’re back.
Unshakable. Unmoved. Fucking infuriating.
He should back off. Should let it drop. But instead he presses. “You ever let anyone help you?”
You cock your head. “Sure. All the time. They just never make it past the interview.”
He chokes on a laugh. Jesus.
You brush past him toward the copier. You don’t invite him to follow.
He does anyway.
---
You know he’s following you. You could feel it like a spark pressed against your spine. You shouldn’t bait him. You shouldn’t. But something about his presence sets your nerves buzzing in the most dangerous way.
You lean over the copier. Hit the wrong button twice on purpose. His shadow falls across your side.
“You’re hovering,” you murmur.
“I’m helping.”
“Are you?”
You turn to face him—too close now, your hip grazing the edge of the copier, his arm practically brushing yours. The air feels thick. Still. Like you’re both underwater and waiting to see who breaks the surface first.
He watches your mouth. He’s not subtle about it.
“You keep looking at me like you want something, Harrington.”
His breath catches. “And I keep waiting for you to admit it.” His eyes flicker. His soft mouth parting, chest rising, that one heartbeat away from something unforgivable.
You could kiss him.
You could ruin both of you. But instead, you lean in. Real close. Lips almost to his ear. “Go home, Steve.”
A pause. “Take care of it yourself.”
Then you walk away. Again you don’t look back. Again you don’t need to.
He stares at the ceiling. Shirt half-off. Sweat clinging to the hollow of his throat. Mouth parted like he’s still trying to catch up to what the hell just happened.
You’re all he can think about.
Your voice. Your mouth. The way you said his name like it was a weapon and a warning and a promise you had no intention of keeping tonight.
His cock is hard—throbbing in his pants—pressing against the band of his sweats like it’s angry with him for walking away.
He palms himself through the fabric, groaning quietly into the dark.
He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. But you told him to.
“Go home and take care of it, Harrington.”
And he’s never been so obedient in his goddamn life.
He pushes his sweats down, his fist already wrapping around himself like muscle memory, slicking over the head, dragging his hand down the length with a hiss that sounds like your name.
He strokes slowly at first. Controlled. Like he’s punishing himself for not staying. Like he deserves this ache. He squeezes harder.
Thinks about the way you might taste if he kissed you. Like coffee and fire and something he still hasn’t earned.
He’s imagining that you kissed him. Hard. Unapologetic. A kiss with your hands in his hair, maybe even tangled up with your thighs brushing his hips. He thinks you might grind against him. Fuck, that grind. It would be burned into his skin like a tattoo.
He jerks harder now, eyes shut tight, your voice echoing in his head.
His hips lift into his fist, thighs tensing, body coiled with tension that no fantasy can quite shake.
“Fucking hell,” he breathes. “You’ve got me so—fuck—”
His stomach tightens. He can feel it—close, fast, coming apart like a thread being pulled from the inside. “Say it again.”
“Keep going.” He commands no one at all. Your voice is everywhere. And when he comes, it’s with a sharp, breathless grunt, his whole body curling in on itself, hand clenching, back arching like the release physically hurts.
Hot, messy streaks paint across his stomach, onto his shirt. He barely notices. He just lies there, one arm flung over his eyes, breathing heavy. His cock twitching against his stomach, still half-hard, because one orgasm is not enough to get you out of his system.
It never is.
It never will be.
---
On the edge of campus, you finally shove through your front door and it clicks shut. The silence hits like a slap.
You lean back against the door, jaw clenched, fists tight at your sides.
You should feel smug. You left him clearly wanting. But you’re the one with soaked underwear and trembling thighs.
So…who really won?
You stalk to your bedroom, muttering curses under your breath. Strip your shirt. Toss it. Peel off your jeans with furious efficiency. You don’t even make it under the covers, instead you just drop back onto your bed, legs spread, chest heaving.
You drag your pan“Fucking Harrington,” you mutter. “Asshole.”
You circle your clit hard. No pretense. No warmup. It’s pure damage control—get off, get over it, and get some fucking sleep.
But your breath still stutters because you imagine the sound he might make if you bit his jaw. You imagine the way his hips would roll against you like he was already fucking you through two layers of clothing.
You rub faster.
Deeper.
Your other hand fists in the sheets. You picture him sprawled out on his bed right now—shirt half-off, pants shoved down, hand working over his cock because you told him to.
The thought makes your stomach flip.
You imagine him groaning into the dark, jerking off to the thought of your mouth, your body, your voice in his ear telling him to be a good boy and go take care of it himself.
“Yeah,” you whisper bitterly. “Me too.”
You push two fingers inside and grind your palm against your clit. It’s messy. Fast. Almost angry.
Your back arches. Your toes curl.You clench around your hand and come with a ragged gasp that you immediately swallow—because fuck him if he ever gets to know how good you just made yourself feel thinking about him.
You lie there sweating. Unsatisfied. Still fucking pissed.
You wipe your hand on the sheet and roll onto your side.
“Go take care of it, Harrington,” you mutter into the pillow. “Not the only one who did.”
You did it again. You weren’t planning on staying late, but here you are.
Tonight your grading pile was taller than usual. Your neck ached. Your playlist looped twice. And you hadn’t eaten since breakfast. So when you wandered into the café and found the lights on, you didn’t ask questions. You just slipped into the corner booth and unbuttoned the top of your blouse. Not for anyone else. For you. To breathe.
You didn’t expect him to walk in five minutes later.
Steve freezes like he didn’t expect you either. He’s in a hoodie—rare—and joggers. Hair messy. Phone forgotten in his pocket. He looks like he’s just come from a run, or like he’s been pacing his apartment all night and finally gave up.
Your mouth parts. Something behind your ribs stirs. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks over. Drops into the seat next to you like he’s out of lifelines. “I couldn’t sleep,” he says.
You nod. Don’t ask why.
“I keep thinking about that night. In your office.”
You glance down. Your hand tightens around your mug.
“You were real with me for, like, four minutes, and then you put the mask back on.”
You bristle—but not because he’s wrong.
“Yeah? And you’ve been real for how long, Harrington? You want a medal for not flirting for twenty minutes?”
He flinches and looks down. Suddenly you’re exhausted. Not just physically. Emotionally. You drop your voice. Let it crack. “I’m tired of holding everything together. Of pretending this job, this ego, this game doesn’t eat me alive some days.”
He looks up. Slowly. The cocky glint is gone. “Same.”
And it’s the way he says it - soft, almost broken - that makes your stomach twist.
He didn’t come here to cry.
He didn’t come here to beg.
But the moment he sees you with your hair messy, blouse loosened and exhaustion etched into the curve of your mouth, he knows he can’t keep up the act. Not tonight.
He sees the way your shoulders tense. Sees the way you don’t deflect.
Progress.
But when you shoot back—sharp, tired, true—he realizes something: You’re not untouchable. You’re just surviving. Like him. Only quieter.
He exhales. Laughs—but it’s dry. Cracked open. “You want to know something pathetic?”
You look at him. No smirk. Just waiting.
“I don’t think anyone’s ever seen me. Not really. They like the version I give them. The smart, hot, chill guy with the tragic eyes. But that night when you looked at me like I was just… a guy…I didn’t know what to do with it.”
You don’t answer. You just slide your mug to the side and rest your hand on the table. Open. Neutral.
A peace offering.
He stares at it for a beat. Then reaches out. Not a grab. Not a grope. Just a simple, grounding touch. Fingers brushing yours.
---
You let him touch you.
Just barely. Just enough.
And when you speak, your voice is hoarse.
“You keep trying to be impressive. And I keep trying to be untouchable. We’re both full of shit.”
He huffs a laugh.“So what now?”
“Now,” you say, “we stop pretending.”
The air pulses. Slow. Charged. And then, just like that, you’re kissing him.
It’s not soft. Not sweet. Not polite. It’s months of tension, sarcasm, vulnerability, almosts crashing all at once. His hands thread into your hair. Yours tug his hoodie like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you don’t anchor him to something real.
He kisses like a man who thought about this too often, too long, too alone.
And you? You kiss like a woman who stopped trying to win and started needing.
It goes on for honestly, far too long. After some time, you find yourself a little breathless, foreheads still pressed together when you finally speak.
“I still want to ruin you,” you whisper.
He grins. Chest heaving. Hair wrecked. “You already did.”
He knocks before entering now.
Which is wild. Because before? He used to just stroll in like your space belonged to him.
Now he pauses. Waits. Adjusts the coffee tray in his hand like it’s a peace offering. Or a gift to the gods.
You look up from your laptop, glitter gel pen in your mouth, brows furrowed. Barefoot again. That little woven throw blanket around your shoulders like you’re the spirit of overworked professors past.
You nod toward the chair without speaking. He takes the cue.
Sits. Quiet. No smirk. No lines. Just the coffee.
“Got you the weird oat milk thing,” he says.
You hum in acknowledgment. Sip it without looking.
He watches you read. Watches the way your eyes move. Watches the way your lips part when you’re processing something. He should say something.
Instead, he just breathes. And something in him—something unfamiliar—settles.
He’s comfortable. Which should scare him. It should send every red flag up, every muscle in his body screaming run, asshole, this is feelings—
But instead? He closes his eyes. Lets the silence stretch.
---
He’s not saying anything.
And that, somehow, says everything.
You expected him to push. To nudge the line again, cocky and smug and desperate to reclaim ground. But he’s not. He’s just… there. And it’s unnerving.
You’ve never had to figure out what to do with a man who doesn’t demand space. Who just occupies it. He’s being warm and magnetic and so obviously trying not to make it weird.
You glance over your laptop. He’s leaned back in the chair, legs sprawled, fingers drumming on his thigh. Eyes closed like he’s finally stopped performing. Like the show’s over and he’s just Steve now.
It makes your chest feel tight.
You clear your throat. “You know you haven’t hit on me in like... twenty-four hours.”
His eyes open. He looks at you. Llazy, soft. “That a complaint?”
You smile. Small. Crooked. “Just an observation.”
“I can pick it back up if it’s part of your wellness routine.”
“Nah. I think I like this version.”
His brows raise. “This version?”
“The one who sits quietly. Doesn’t flirt. Brings oat milk like some kind of reformed frat boy.”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
You both smile. It's small. Safe. And under the safety, there’s tension. Not the usual brand. Not the "press me to the wall and bite my shoulder" kind. This one’s quieter. Heavier. Like a whisper brushing the back of your neck.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You know I’ve never done this before, right?”
You tilt your head.“Done what?”
“This.” He gestures between you. “The… slow thing.”
“Oh. You mean restraint.”
“I mean not fucking someone the second I want them.” He says it so bluntly, so plainly, it lands like a gut punch.
You blink. The air goes still. “And how’s that working out for you?”
He stares at you. Serious. Unflinching. “It’s killing me.”
You sip your coffee. Unbothered. “Good.”
But behind your eyes? You’re soaked in want. In fear. In maybe. Because this version of him—the one who waits, who breathes in your space, who doesn’t take what isn’t freely given? He’s becoming real. And real is dangerous.
He doesn’t touch himself tonight.
He thinks about it. Of course he does. About your voice, your breath, the way you licked a little foam off your thumb without noticing.
But he doesn’t. Because this craving isn’t just physical anymore. It’s personal. And he doesn’t want to use it. He kind of wants to earn it.
You weren’t supposed to invite him in. You were supposed to take the food, say thank you, maybe touch his wrist with a lingering hand, and then shut the door like a well-behaved woman with excellent boundaries. But you’d been tired. The light was nice. And he looked so… uncomplicated with his hood up and a paper bag of Thai food clutched like a peace treaty.
So now he’s on your couch. Grading with his legs spread too wide, his hoodie half-zipped, hair a little messy. There’s a purple pen tucked behind his ear that isn’t his and chopsticks resting in his mouth like he forgot they were there. He keeps making tiny noises when a student says something smart and you hate how much you love it.
“This kid gets it,” he says, tapping the paper. “I might cry.”
“Don’t ruin my couch. It’s vintage.”
“You say that like I don’t respect antiques.”
“You say that like you’re not an antique dealer’s worst nightmare.”
He laughs. Leans his head back. Exposes his throat.
You don’t look. Except you do.
You sip your tea to distract yourself. Burn your tongue. Pretend you didn’t.
The silence grows. Stretching into something else. Something hungry.
And then your fingers brush his. Reaching for the same pen… The one behind his ear. The one that’s yours.
He doesn’t move. Neither do you. It’s such a small thing. Such a stupid, harmless little thing, but you can feel it. In the charge. In the shift. In the way the air tightens.
You look at him. He’s already looking at you.
---
He should pull away. He should. But your fingers are warm. And your gaze? Bare. Not amused. Not taunting. Just… open.
He hasn’t seen you like this since your office. And this time, you’re inches from his mouth.
He wants to touch you.
Not to fuck you. To feel you.
He wants to place his hand on the back of your neck and breathe you in. Wants to press his mouth to the place just below your ear and wait for you to say yes.
“Say it,” you whisper.
His brows knit.“Say what?”
“Whatever’s sitting behind your teeth like it’s trying to crawl out.”
He swallows.
Hard.
“You undo me,” he says. Voice gravel-soft.
“Good,” you whisper. “Maybe I’ll get to see what’s underneath.”
---
The line stretches. Taut.
You’re breathing too loud. The tea’s gone cold. And your hand? Still against his. You should move. You don’t. Instead, you say “If you kiss me now, it’ll matter.”
He flinches like you hit him. And maybe you did. “I know,” he says.
His eyes drop to your mouth. Flicker. Linger. Then—He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. Maybe less. But enough. And it hurts.
Not because he rejected you, but because he heard you.
Because he listened. Because he meant it.
You nod - slowly - and go back to grading. Like you didn’t just almost change everything.
The faculty parking lot is deserted at this hour. It’s late and everything is rain-soaked but tonight you just finished chaperoning a student showcase together. It was cute. It was fun. It felt like a date. And now you’re standing in the blue-black quiet of night, under the buzz of a dying streetlamp. There’s no one else left. Just you. And him.
He’s soaked.
Not dramatic-romance-movie soaked. Just enough for his hoodie to cling to his chest and for his curls to frizz at the edges. He should be annoyed. But he’s not. Not really. You’re laughing with arms wrapped around yourself, raindrops beading along your jaw, and he’d stand in a goddamn hurricane if it meant seeing that smile again.
“You let a freshman tell you his poem made him cry and then gave him your umbrella,” you say, nudging him as you both head to the far corner of the lot. “You’re such a sap.”
“I’m a mentor.”
“You’re a mess.”
“You’re not wrong.”
Your laughter fades, but the warmth doesn’t. It hangs there—between you. Like fog on glass.
And he can’t do this anymore. He stops walking.
You take two more steps before realizing he’s not beside you. You turn. Brows lifted. “Harrington?”
“I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t mean something.” The words are out before he can filter them. Bare. Ugly. Real.
You blink. Caught. “Steve—”
“No. Let me—just—” He runs a hand through his wet hair.
“You’ve seen me. You’ve rattled me. And I’ve tried to play it cool. To match your pace. To act like I wasn’t spiraling every time you smiled at me like you knew. But I’m not built for this. I want more. I want you. And if that scares you—fine. If you’re not there—fine. But I had to say it. I had to give it to you.”
You’re silent. Too long. Too still, and his heart breaks before you even speak.
It’s not that you don’t want him.
God, you do.
But hearing it like this. So raw, unscripted and real knocks the wind out of you. You’ve made a career out of reading between the lines. Out of parsing subtext and maintaining distance. But now? Now he’s not leaving space for you to run.
He’s standing there in the rain, heart in his hands like an offering. And you freeze.
Because no one ever offered. You’ve always been the one earning affection. Not receiving it like a gift.
“Steve…” Your voice is barely a whisper.
He shifts. His shoulders tighten. You can feel him retreating already, pulling into himself, bracing for rejection like it’s muscle memory. You panic. “This does mean something.”
He stops. “But you’re not ready.”
You hate that he’s right. “I don’t know how to be with someone who doesn’t need me to be perfect.”
The silence between you is loud.
“Then let me be the one who doesn’t expect that,” he says softly. “Let me be the one who stays when you don’t have it all together.”
You blink, and there’s moisture in your eyes. From the rain. Maybe.
“I’m scared,” you admit.
He steps closer. Slow. Gentle. Rain trickling down his temple. Breath fogging the space between you.
“So am I.”
He reaches for your hand, and you let him. But just as your fingers brush—
“I can’t,” you whisper, stepping back. “Not yet.”
His hand hangs in the air for a beat, then drops. The look on his face? It destroys you.
He nods once. Just once. Then turns, and this time it’s him that walks away.
You almost don’t notice him.
In the midst of the bustling Campus café, mid-afternoon, you’re picking up a quick espresso between advising appointments and the line is long. The vibe is normal. Until you see him. You’re too busy scrolling through your calendar, juggling a dozen little fires, sipping the wrong drink the barista handed you because you're too tired to care.
And then—You hear it. That laugh. That laugh. The one he does when he’s flirting. Actual flirting, not the subtle, almost-affectionate banter he’s given you for weeks. It’s his signature sound: light, confident, just a little too self-aware.
You glance up.
He’s leaning across the counter, elbows braced, head tilted just so. And she—a new adjunct, you think—is giggling. A lot. Flushed. Her hands fluttery. She touches his arm and you watch him let her.
You freeze.
Something ugly blooms in your chest. Jealousy is too simple a word. This is primal. Petty. Petulant.
And what’s worse? It’s humiliating. Because you don’t get to be jealous. You were the one who pulled away. Who said not yet. Who told him this mattered. So why the fuck does it feel like he’s rubbing it in your face?
Your stomach turns.
You hate how you’re staring. Hate how your mouth goes dry when he smiles that slow, crooked, charming-as-shit smile and says something that makes her laugh so hard she leans in.
You swallow your bitterness like bile.
He hasn’t even looked your way.
---
He sees you. Of course he does.
You walked in two minutes ago. Same stride. Same coffee order. Same low hum of exhaustion wrapped around your shoulders like armor.
He feels you before he sees you. But you haven’t looked at him, so he keeps talking.
The adjunct is nice. Pretty, even. But empty. There’s no pull. No static. No fight. She laughs too easily. Blushes too quickly. There’s no sport in it. And maybe that’s the point. Maybe he’s tired of being the one who always feels like he’s waiting to be chosen.
So he leans into it. Hard. Smiles like he means it. Makes her feel like the sun. And maybe, maybe, he can pretend he doesn’t feel your gaze like a blade between his shoulder blades.
But when she touches his arm?
He hates it.
Because it’s not you.
And when he finally dares to glance toward the door—You’re already gone.
Later, in your office, you’re ripping open a granola bar like it owes you money. You don’t know what pisses you off more. The flirting? The way she touched him? Or the fact that you care. You shove the granola bar into your mouth. Stare blankly at your calendar. And think about how his eyes crinkled when he smiled. How easy it looked.
Like it never meant anything. Like you never meant anything.
“God,” you mutter, throwing the wrapper in the trash. “Get a fucking grip.”
But your pulse says otherwise. Your jaw is tight. Your chest aches. You’re not okay.
You miss him. And you hate that he made you soft enough to admit it.
All the while, Steve is right there, standing outside of your office door, hand raised to knock. He’s there. He’s ready and then…he doesn’t. He stands there for a full minute. Then walks away.
The moment you step inside and see him, you know it’s too late to turn around.
He’s standing with one hand on the copier lid, sleeves shoved to his elbows, staring down like the machine personally insulted him. There’s toner on his wrist. His jaw’s tight.
He looks up. Freezes.“Of course,” he mutters. “Because of course it’s you.”
You cross your arms, your own stack of handouts balanced on your hip. “I’m not thrilled either, Harrington.”
“Didn’t say I wasn’t.” His voice is low. Rougher than usual. Like sleep deprivation or restraint.
You nod toward the copier. “Let me guess—tray’s jammed again?”
He sighs. Moves aside just enough to let you pass. Your bodies brush. Barely, and it’s too much.
He leans against the counter. Arms crossed. Watching you. You open the tray, jiggle a few things with practiced expertise.
Silence stretches. It screams.
And then— “You saw me at the café.”
The paper you’re holding stiffens in your grip. “I saw you doing what you do best.”
“That what you think?”
“It’s what I know.”
“That’s not fair.”
You slam the tray closed harder than you mean to.“Neither was watching you turn it back on like it never meant anything.” You’re not sure if you mean the charm or you.
He flinches.“It wasn’t about her.”
You turn. Finally.“But it was about me.”
The words sit between you like broken glass.
“I don’t know what you’re doing,” you say, quieter now. “You say it’s not a game, but every time I start to believe you, you remind me what you used to be.”
His voice is rough. “You think this is me reminding you? You think I want to go back to being that guy?”
He takes a step forward. “You think I don’t know I fucked up the second I let her touch me?”
Your chest tightens. You blink too fast. “Why’d you let her, then?”
He doesn’t answer at first.“Because for a second, I needed to pretend I could be wanted without hurting.”
And that—that cuts you clean open.
You’re both quiet. Breathing too loud. The copier hums softly behind you like background noise in a dream. Then he steps closer. One more step. Close enough to touch.
“You still have me.”
You shake your head. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”
“I’ve only ever meant it.”
Your eyes meet.
And there it is. The pull. The moment that could be something. Could be everything.
But instead, you turn. Slowly. Press the print button and whisper “Then show me.”
You don’t notice it at first.
Not really.
It starts with coffee. Again. But now it’s every Tuesday. Always exactly how you like it. No note. No fuss. Just sitting on your desk when you arrive. Still hot.
Then it’s classroom overlap. He prints extras of whatever handout he knows you’ll need. Leaves them in your box. Sometimes with post-it notes that say “Fixed the typo in paragraph three. You’re welcome.”
Then it’s your office light. You forgot to turn it off one night. You were tired. You left in a fog. And the next morning? A text. Short. Simple.
💬 Locked up for you. Light’s off. Sleep, for once.
You stare at your phone for ten full minutes before responding. You don’t thank him, but the next time you see him in the hallway, you hold his gaze for just a second longer than usual.
He notices.
---
He doesn't flirt anymore. Not really.
No lines. No games. He just shows up.
He picks up your favorite gum from the bookstore and leaves it on your chair with your notes after a staff meeting. He starts letting students out three minutes early so you can use the room next door for your class without awkward overlap. He starts reading the books on your shelf—the theory ones. The dense ones. Just to see what you see.
And he listens. Like really, fucking listens. To your rants. To your tangents. To your silences. And somewhere between all that effort he forgets how not to care.
---
“Okay but like… Professor Harrington’s been soft lately.”“Right?! Like he still looks hot but now he’s… dad hot.”“He literally told us to take care of ourselves emotionally before we try to ace exams. Who is he.”“I swear he smiled at the Ed Prof in the break room like she hung the goddamn moon.”“I think they’re dating.”“No way. She’d eat him alive.”“Exactly.”
---
You walk into your office and stop short. Because he’s there. Not waiting. Not leaning against the wall like a smoldering statue. Just sitting. Quiet. Reading something from your shelf. One of the denser volumes on pedagogical theory. The copy you’ve highlighted to hell.
He looks up. Smiles, slow and soft. “This is good,” he says, holding it up. “Hard to read. But good.”
You raise a brow. Toss your bag onto the couch. “Since when do you read anything without pictures?”
“Since you stopped looking at me like I’m a joke.”
Your heart stutters, and he sees it. He sets the book down. Stands. Doesn’t move closer. “I know I can’t fix what I broke. Not fast. Maybe not ever. But I’m here. Still.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to be the kind of person who deserves you.”
The room goes quiet. Heavy. Holy. You don’t answer, but when you walk past him, you let your fingers graze his. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.
And maybe he has.
You shouldn’t have stayed.
You know it the second your hip bumps the edge of his kitchen island and your fingers brush the rim of the glass he just poured you.
It’s bourbon. Warm. A little sweet. The kind that burns slow. Like him.
He’s leaning against the fridge. Hoodie unzipped. White T-shirt clinging a little too nicely. Hair still damp from a shower, and God help you, it’s unfair. Unprepared, you think. You should’ve come armored. Closed off. But instead you’re here - dropped by to drop off a book he asked to borrow. It’s late and you’re both trying way too hard to pretend that means nothing.
“Didn’t expect you to actually read it,” you say, nodding toward the book you dropped off.
“Didn’t expect to like it,” he replies. “But then again, I didn’t expect to like you either.”
Your breath catches.
He watches you. There’s no smile. No smirk. Just intention.
You hold his gaze. “Careful, Harrington. That almost sounded sincere.”
“It was.”
Your pulse pounds. You take another sip. He steps closer. Not a lunge. Just a shift. One that brushes his knee against yours. One that makes your back touch cool granite and your glass feel too warm in your hand.
“You’re doing it again,” you whisper.
“What?”
“Looking at me like you’ve already got me.”
He tilts his head. Inches from your face. “I’m looking at you like I want you. Still.”
Still. After all this. After the café. After the retreat. After all the nights he didn’t knock.
“Why?”
“Because I’m not done showing you.”
He sets his glass down. Slowly. His hand brushes yours. “Can I?” he asks.
Just that.
You nod.
Once.
And then his hand is on your waist. Light. Barely there. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.
You don’t. You lean into it, and when his forehead drops to yours you feel the heat of his breath. Your fingers find the hem of his shirt, you whisper,“We shouldn’t.”
He whispers back, “You’re still here.”
And you kiss him.
Or maybe he kisses you.
Or maybe it doesn’t matter, because the second it happens, you both stop thinking entirely.
Your back hits the counter, his hand tangles in your hair and your name leaves his mouth like a vow, and every second of waiting, of aching, of almost-touching? Gone.
You pull back just enough to breathe. Just enough to need. “This changes everything,” you whisper.
“Good,” he says. “Let it.”
You don’t know who moved first. Maybe you blinked and his hands were on your waist. Maybe you tilted your chin and his lips were right there. Maybe none of it matters, because the second his mouth touches yours—everything breaks open.
It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s starving.
He kisses like he’s drowning in you—like you’re the first breath after years underwater. Like every banter, every brush of your hand, every lecture hallway stare was foreplay to this exact second. His hand slides under your shirt, not greedy, just desperate. Fingertips dragging heat across your skin like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you, one stroke at a time. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging, dragging him closer until his chest is flush against yours and you’re gasping into his mouth.
You gasp into his mouth when his palm finds your ribcage. He groans—low and wrecked. His hands roam—down your waist, over your hips, gripping your thighs like he’s claiming territory. His tongue slides against yours and you moan—sharp, involuntary.
He lifts you—just lifts you like you weigh nothing—and plants you on the edge of the counter, stepping between your legs like he was built for it. Your hands dive under his hoodie, pulling it up, dragging nails along bare skin. He groans—filthy, wrecked—and yanks your shirt up in return, just high enough to mouth at your collarbone, your shoulder, your chest.
“Fuck,” he mutters, dragging his mouth down your throat. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“Then die pretty,” you breathe, raking your fingers through his hair and tugging just hard enough to make him bite.
And he does—your neck, your collarbone, the corner of your jaw. You arch against the counter. He pulls you forward by the backs of your thighs until there’s nothing between you.
His cock presses against you. Just grinding—hard, slow, desperate—against the soaked seam of your leggings and the unforgiving press of his sweats.
You cry out. Loud. Needful.
He swallows it with a kiss.
His hands slide under your ass, angling you closer, pushing right there—deliberate and devastating. You clutch at his shoulders, arch into him, rock your hips, chase the friction like your life depends on it.
You wrap your legs around his hips, and just like that—you’re both undone. His hands are everywhere. Your shirt rides up. His hoodie’s gone. You’re kissing like you forgot how not to. Like every second of restraint has finally snapped.
“You feel so fucking good,” he pants against your skin.
“Keep going.”
“Say it again.”
“Keep going.”
He grinds against you, hard and slow, and you moan before you can catch it. His hands tighten. His mouth finds yours again, all tongue and teeth and hunger.
You’re right there. On the edge. One more roll of his hips and—
You reach for his belt. He catches your wrist and you freeze.
“I want you,” he says. "So bad it hurts." He presses his forehead to yours, chest heaving. “But not like this. Not yet.”
Your whole body is buzzing. Your thighs are trembling. Your lips are swollen. But your heart? Your heart cracks wide open. Because it’s not rejection it’s reverence.
You nod. He kisses your knuckles. One by one. “Let me want you the right way.”
You let out a shaky laugh. “Steve?”
“Yeah?”
“If you don’t walk away right now, I will ruin your life.”
He grins—wrecked and wrecking. “Not if I ruin yours first.”
The next morning, his T-shirt hangs loose on your frame. A little too big. A little too soft. It smells like him—cedar, clean laundry, heat.
You’re standing in his kitchen, one hip popped against the counter, sipping coffee from a mug that says #1 Psych Professor in faded print. You slept in his bed last night, but surprisingly he moved to the sofa. Said something about not having any self restraint before tugging a pillow from the bed and kissing your cheek and walking away.
In your morning daze, you’re pretending you’re not remembering his hands under your shirt. You’re pretending you didn’t moan his name with your lips at his throat. You’re pretending you’re not thinking about the way he said not yet—like it physically pained him to stop.
He walks out of the bathroom, rubbing the back of his neck, still shirtless. Gray sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips.
You glance up and instantly regret it. Because your body remembers. And based on the slow grin spreading across his face…So does his.
“You drink all the good creamer?” he asks, opening the fridge like he didn’t just catch you checking him out.
“Maybe,” you say, deadpan. “I let you dry hump me against a countertop. I figured it earned me hazelnut privileges.”
He chokes on a laugh, grabs a spoon and stirs his coffee like he’s trying not to lose it all over again. “You’re evil.”
“You’re easy.”
He hums, steps in close. Doesn’t touch you. He just sets his coffee down next to yours, leans forward, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Tell me something.”
“No promises.”
“When I walked away last night…” His breath is warm. Wrecking… “Were you hoping I’d come back?”
You swallow. Hard. “You wouldn’t have made it ten more seconds in that kitchen if you had.”
He groans. Burying his face in your shoulder, biting back laughter—and something else. Then his hands are on your hips again. Casual. Familiar. Possessive. But he doesn’t pull you in. “If I kiss you again,” he murmurs, “I’m not going to stop this time.”
You’re supposed to be in your office in twenty-three minutes.
You’re hardly presentable. You were—before Steve smuggled you into bed and dragged the sheets down, pushing your legs apart with a lazy strength that said, we have time, even though you absolutely do not. Instead, your legs are trembling and his head is between your thighs.
Your hips are tipped toward him, your thighs already sore from how long they’ve been bracketing his head—his shoulders broad and solid beneath them, his mouth ruinously good.
His tongue moves with slow, indulgent precision. Not rushed. Not greedy. Like he’s tasting, not just devouring—like he wants to savor every twitch, every moan, every sharp little gasp he drags out of you.
One of his hands is flat on your stomach, holding you down as you start to arch. The other is gripping your thigh, thumb stroking absently against your skin as his mouth works. He licks you in lazy circles, lips closing around your clit and sucking softly. Just enough to make your spine curve, just enough to make your toes curl.
Your hands are buried in his hair, fingers clenched tight, and your voice is a high, choked whisper of “Steve, I swear to God—” as he drags his tongue slowly, obscenely, across you again.
“That’s not my name,” he murmurs into your skin.
You gasp. Yelp, really. “Steven. Jesus—”
He groans like you just handed him the keys to heaven. The vibration goes straight through you. Your thighs twitch around his head. He doesn’t stop. He presses in deeper, tongue dragging upward in a long, slick stroke that makes your eyes roll back. His grip tightens on your hips. He pulls you closer.
“There you go. That’s better.”
He licks again—slow, deliberate. Your thighs clamp around his shoulders.
He’s taking his time.
He loves taking his time.
He flattens his tongue, works you with long, even licks—up, down, up again—before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking hard enough to punch the breath from your lungs.
Your entire body is flushed. A mess. Shirt wrinkled, hair twisted, one sock still on because he got distracted halfway through undressing you.
Your planner is open on the nightstand. Your to-do list, pristine and untouched. Your phone is buzzing with a department chair text. You couldn’t care less, because right now, Steve Harrington is worshiping you. Not with flowers. Not with words. With his mouth.
And God, is he good.
He’s smug about it too, that little shit. The way he flicks his tongue like he’s testing theories. Like your body is a subject he’s about to publish a groundbreaking paper on. He lets go with a filthy little pop. Looks up at you, completely gone.
“You always sound this pretty when you’re late?” he says, voice full of smug, sleepy sin.
You slap his shoulder. “You’re the reason I’m late,”
“Yeah, but you’re glowing. So technically I’m improving faculty morale.”
You collapse back into the pillow, laughing breathlessly and then he hums low in his throat—that sound, He just smiles. That lazy, post-sleep smirk. Bedhead. Swollen lips. His chin shiny with you.
And then—he goes back down. No warning. No teasing. Just mouth on you like he’s starving.
He works his tongue over your clit in tighter, faster circles now, your body jerking with every pass. Your hand flies to his hair—fisting, tugging, anchoring—and he groans into you again like he lives for it.
You’re already close. So close it’s humiliating.
“Steve—fuck—I really—class—”
“Just one more,” he growls, lips brushing your skin.
“You said that twice ago.”
“And I meant it both times.”
His hands slide under your thighs, holding you open, as his mouth descends. He sucks. He flicks. He hums.
You shatter.
You come with a sound that punches from your chest—half-cry, half-moan, full-body wreckage. Your back arches, hips grinding into his face, thighs clenching around him like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.
He doesn’t stop.
He keeps licking—slower now, gentler—drawing out every last ripple of pleasure until you're twitching, over-sensitive, gasping for air.
When he finally pulls away, his face is flushed, lips slick, pupils blown. He looks up at you with a grin that could end empires. “Good morning to me,” he says, voice low, utterly self-satisfied.
You try to respond. You can’t. Your whole body is boneless, so you glare instead.
“We are so late.”
“Worth it.”
“I hate you.”
“You love it.”
You mutter something unintelligible. He kisses your thigh, then your knee, then flops back into bed like he didn’t just commit oral war crimes.
“You’re glowing,” he says.
“You’re a menace.”
“I told you, you love it.”
You do. And when he finally gets out of bed, pulls on sweatpants, and saunters to the kitchen still licking his lips, it really settles in that you’re going to be very, very late.
You both start clamoring around the apartment. You’re trying to find your left shoe. He’s trying to find his dignity. Neither of you succeeds.
“If I get called out for being late,” you snap, throwing your bag over your shoulder, “I’m blaming your tongue.”
“I’ll write you a note,” he grins, adjusting his shirt. “Excused tardiness: wrecked her with my face. Respectfully, Prof. S. Harrington.”
You kiss him. Quick. Possessive.“We are not telling the students.”
“No promises.”
“I swear to God.”
“What? They’ve already started whispering.”
You freeze in the doorway. “They know?”
He shrugs, smug as ever. “Only that I’m happier, wear fewer button-downs, and keep looking at you like you’re the answer to a question I forgot how to ask.”
You blink. He leans in, kisses the corner of your mouth. “Go teach.”
“You gonna behave?”
He smirks. “Absolutely not.”
Everyone’s tired, under-caffeinated, and suspiciously quiet when you walk in together to the Monday morning Faculty Meeting a few weeks later. Like, suspiciously quiet. Like maybe you should’ve come in separately. But his hand brushed yours in the parking lot and… well. You’re human. Truly, you knew it was a bad idea the moment he held the door open for you. Not because it was chivalrous, but because he smirked. That just-fucked, slept-on-your-pillow, wore-your-shampoo smirk.
And now? You’re trying to look composed while Diane from Math is squinting at your neck, and Steve is across the room pretending he didn’t absolutely tell you to call him “Professor” last night—off the clock.
You sit down, chairs a respectful, appropriate distance from one another. Except his knee bumps yours under the table.
You flinch. He does not.
You glance at him. He’s reading the agenda like he’s not tracing circles on your thigh under the table with his fucking pinky finger.
“I will end you,” you whisper.
“Promises, promises,” he murmurs back, not even glancing up.
Across the table, someone coughs. Someone else mutters, “Tension in here is wild today.”
You cough. Sip your coffee. Do not look at him again.
---
He’s not even trying to hide it. He should be. He knows that. But you’re sitting there in that blazer and those glasses and he can still feel your nails on his back from the night before and, honestly, restraint is done.
You’re both adults. Consenting. Employed. You just happen to be very recently wrecked by each other and now expected to discuss budget reallocations.
He leans back in his chair. Tilts his head and you shoot him a glare that could kill a man at twenty paces.
He grins wider.
Then your dean says “Any… questions about cross-departmental collaborations?”
And before anyone else can speak, Greg, the adjunct from two months ago—the one who tried to flirt with you at the mixer—leans forward. “Actually, yeah. Is Psych and Education… working together on something lately? Seems like there’s been a lot of overlap.”
The room goes dead silent.
Your head turns. Slowly.
Steve just smiles. Cool. Calm.“We’re exploring some deeply engaged, hands-on strategies.”
You choke on your coffee.
Half the room does too.
“Very experiential,” he adds, not missing a beat.
Your face is burning. “Well,” you cut in, voice tight, “we have been reviewing active learning outcomes. Long-term retention. Depth of field experience.”
He nearly loses it. You don’t look at him again. But his pinky? Still brushing your thigh.
Once the meeting wraps you find him in a quiet hallway, tugging him into an empty office. “You’re going to get us fired.”
He presses you against the door. Grinning like a goddamn devil.
“You’re glowing,” he says. “You should see yourself.”
“I’m glowing because I haven’t slept and you won’t let me function like a normal person.”
“Oh, no, sweetheart. You’re glowing because I made you come three times last night and moan my name into my sheets like a prayer.”
You stare at him. Your pulse pounds.“You’re an asshole.”
“You love it.”
And when he kisses you, hard and fast and deep—hand braced against the door, tongue slipping into your mouth like he owns it—You let him. Because for once? You’re not hiding and neither is he.
You’re not technically doing anything wrong. You’re walking. Talking. Drinking bad coffee from the Student Union and arguing over whether your classes should collaborate on a capstone project next semester. Totally professional.
Except you’re standing just a little too close, your laugh is just a little too soft, and he keeps nudging your elbow like he can’t help himself.
“You seriously think your students could handle a shared project with mine?” you tease. “They’re used to watching Fight Club for extra credit.”
“That happened once,” he grins. “And it was deeply psychological.”
You snort. Sip your coffee, and then—you hear it.
“Okay, wait—are you guys, like, together?”
You freeze.
Steve tenses beside you.
You both turn.
It’s one of his students. Freshman. Wide-eyed. Holding a psych textbook and a half-melted iced latte.
“I mean,” she stammers, “everyone’s been kinda wondering? You guys are always... around each other. And you’re smiling. A lot. And he’s nicer now? Which is weird?”
You open your mouth but nothing comes out, and before you can craft the neutral, chill, professional response you should give, Steve speaks. “Yeah. We’re seeing each other.”
Your head snaps toward him.
What. You blink.
“Oh. Cool. Okay. Sorry. Just—yeah. Cool.” She scurries off like she witnessed something she shouldn’t have.
You stare at him. He stares back.
“Steve—”
“What? Was I supposed to lie?”
“No, but—” You look around. Lower your voice. “You just labeled it.”
“Because that’s what it is.” His voice isn’t loud. But it’s firm. Frustrated. Exposed.
“I’m tired of pretending I don’t want to kiss you in the hallway. I’m tired of not calling this what it is because we’re scared someone might see.”
You blink, the beat of your heart hammering.
“So yeah,” he says, shrugging, voice sharper than he means it. “We’re seeing each other. Is that really so bad?”
You don’t answer.You can’t.
Because the worst part? It’s not that he said it.
It’s that a part of you needed him to.
---
💬 I didn’t mean to say it like that.
💬 But I meant it.
💬 So maybe that’s okay?
You tried.
God, you tried.
You retreated into the fortress of your work, your planner, your independent woman armor. Told yourself you didn’t need him to say it. That it was better to keep things unspoken. Safer. But it’s been two days, and nothing feels good. Not your coffee. Not your playlists. Not even the jazz that usually soothes your racing thoughts.
All you can think about is the way he said it.
We’re seeing each other. Like it wasn’t terrifying. Like it wasn’t fragile. Like it was true.
And suddenly, you’re in your car. Keys in the ignition. Your pulse screams in your throat.
You don’t knock. You should, but when he opens the door, you’re already stepping inside. Already yanking your coat off. Already done pretending.
He opens his mouth.
You grab his shirt.
And everything else disappears.
---
He’s halfway through grading when you burst in like a storm, and he knows.
He knows this is the moment you stop running.
He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t speak, just pulls you into him the second your hands find his collar —fisting it, dragging him down, mouths crashing like you’re angry at how long it took.
You kiss him like it’s oxygen. Like you’ve been underwater for days. Like you’re angry at your own restraint and even more furious that it’s finally broken.
Your teeth graze his lower lip. He growls.
“You want to label it?” you gasp. “Then fucking show me what it means.”
That’s all it takes. The dam breaks. Clothes hit the floor—fast, frantic. You’re already walking backward toward his bedroom as he follows, tugging at your jeans, shoving your shirt over your head, lips never leaving your skin. Your bra unclasps without a word. He groans when it falls.
There’s a trail—shirts, socks, his belt undone, your panties half-hanging from one ankle. He kicks the door shut.
He lays you back against the mattress like he’s waited years for permission. Hands framing your face, body hovering, staring down at you like he can’t believe you’re finally here.
You pull him down like you’ll never let him go. Your mouths meet again—harder now, deeper, wet and filthy and full of everything unspoken.
His hands are everywhere. Palms dragging down your sides, cupping your tits, thumbing across your nipples until your back arches off the bed.
You writhe under him—hips rolling, legs spreading, breath coming in ragged bursts. Your fingers dig into his back, nails biting down hard enough to draw blood, and he moans into your mouth like he wants you to leave marks. Like he needs to wear them.
“I want all of you,” you whisper. “No more games.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you—eyes blown wide, breath shaking.
“Then take me,” he growls, thrusting forward, finally, filling you with a groan that sounds like a man being saved.
He fills you completely. Thick. Hot. Stretching you in that perfect, devastating way.
Your mouth drops open on a gasp. Your hands clamp around his shoulders. He holds still, forehead against yours, both of you shaking from the sheer relief of it. Of finally being here.
“Holy fuck,” he pants.
“Move,” you whisper. “Don’t you dare stop.”
He fucks you like he’s learning you. Like he wants to leave something behind inside you. Not just heat, not just release—but a memory.
His rhythm is fast, deep, hungry. His hips slap against yours with delicious force, the wet sounds between you obscene and beautiful. Your legs wrap around him, ankles locking at his back. You meet him every inch of the way. Body to body. Mouth to mouth. Eye to eye.
He groans your name into your skin like a man being saved. You kiss his throat, his jaw, the hollow of his collarbone—dragging your tongue along the sweat-slick skin, biting down when the angle hits just right.
“You feel so fucking good,” he rasps.
“So do you,” you breathe. “Harder.”
He gives it to you. All of it. Every thrust hits deeper, rougher, more desperate, his hands everywhere—your waist, your ass, the back of your neck—gripping like he needs to keep you grounded, needs to know you’re here.
You’re close. So fucking close. And when he slips a hand between your bodies—fingers finding your clit with practiced, perfect pressure—it’s over. You come shaking, gasping, clinging to him like he’s your center of gravity, like letting go would destroy you completely. Your whole body pulses around him, pleasure ripping through you like a damn breaking and clinging to him like he’s your center of gravity
He follows with a whine—hips jerking, cock twitching, spilling inside you with a groan that’s half-relief, half-prayer. He buries his face in your neck and you hold him there. Both of you panting. Wrecked.
It’s hot.
It’s filthy.
It’s honest.
And when he finally lifts his head, presses his forehead to yours, lips brushing yours like a question. You already know the answer. Because there’s no going back. Not now. Not ever.
You’re both still breathing hard.
He hasn’t moved. You haven’t told him to. His chest is pressed to yours, skin tacky with sweat. Your thighs are sore, legs still wrapped around him like your body hasn't figured out how to let go yet. He shifts—just barely—and you both groan.
“Jesus,” he murmurs, voice gravel-thick. “You okay?”
You nod. Then shake your head. Then nod again.
“That was—” You laugh once, breathless. “You ruined me.”
“Good,” he whispers, kissing your jaw. “That’s what you asked for.”
He pulls out slowly, carefully, and you both hiss—too sensitive, too much, too good. You twitch as he slips free, and you feel it—him, everything—slick between your thighs, your skin flushed and trembling.
You reach for him instinctively, fingers brushing his stomach, not ready to break the contact. He catches your hand and brings it to his mouth. Kisses your knuckles like they’re holy. Then your wrist. Then the inside of your forearm, slow and reverent.
“Don’t move,” he says, already rolling off the bed, standing naked and still hard, but now focused.
You don’t. Because you can’t.
He comes back with a warm washcloth and a glass of water. Kneels at the edge of the bed like he’s about to worship again.
You spread your legs without being asked. Your thighs tremble when the cloth touches you—warm, wet, gentle. He moves slow. Careful. His eyes are locked on yours the entire time.
He wipes away the mess between your thighs, catching what he left inside you, what leaked down to the backs of your legs, what you’re still clenching around like your body can’t bear to lose it.
“That okay?” he asks, voice quiet now. Real.
You nod again. And then he leans in—mouth just above your thigh—and licks.
Just once. Just to taste it.
Your breath stutters.
“Couldn’t help it,” he says, eyes dark, lips shiny.
He climbs back into bed, slides under the blankets, and pulls you onto his chest. You melt into him—sated, spent, but still buzzing from the way he holds you like he means it. One hand slides between your legs again—not to start anything, just to rest there. Fingers lazy and warm against your pussy, palm cradling you like he wants to remind you that you’re his now.
“Still full of me,” he murmurs, voice smug and sweet at once.
You hum. Kiss his collarbone. “Still throbbing.”
“Same.” His cock twitches against your hip.
You don’t do anything about it. Not yet.
“I want more,” you whisper.
“You can have it.”
“Later.”
“Later,” he echoes, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “For now just… stay.”
You do. And when you fall asleep with his hand between your legs, his cock warm against your thigh, and his heartbeat under your cheek? Well, it’s the safest you’ve felt in years.
💬 You guys. YOU GUYS.
💬 What.
💬 I just saw them arguing over who gets the last blueberry muffin at the café and it was the most sexually charged thing I’ve ever witnessed.
💬 Was he wearing that tight henley again???
💬 She literally called him a smug bastard and he just said, ‘You love it when I’m smug,’ and winked. I need a cold shower.
💬 Are they married yet or are we still suffering through foreplay energy?
💬 They’re disgustingly perfect. I love them. I hate them. I want them to adopt me.
It’s finally the end of the semester and you and Steve have your Joint Panel Presentation. The room’s full of students trying to pretend they’re not staring. You and Steve walk in together, completely unbothered, radiating power couple energy like it’s built into your DNA. You finish each other's sentences. Your banter is lethal.
💬 OKAY NO ONE PANIC BUT THEY JUST WALKED IN TOGETHER
💬 they always do that tho??
💬 NO. LIKE. TOGETHER. TOGETHER.
💬 she’s wearing his hoodie. THE GRAY ONE.
💬 I saw him grab her coffee cup and drink from it without asking I am unwell.
💬 he pulled out her chair and she rolled her eyes and said “you’re not charming, you’re annoying” and he just SMILED LIKE IT WAS FOREPLAY
💬 I am filing an HR report against their sexual tension
💬 bold of you to assume HR doesn’t ship them harder than we do
You still fight.
Over coffee. Over pedagogy. Over who forgot to return the whiteboard markers to the supply closet. But now? The fights end with your back against a wall and his mouth on yours, or his smug grin wiped off with one whispered threat in the break room.
The fire never died. It just evolved.
You pass him in the hallway and he grabs your hand like he has every right to it. Like you’re the thing he reaches for without thinking. You grade together. You share playlists. You present on collaborative learning and co-teach a lecture where everyone leaves sweaty and confused about the nature of attraction.
You're not the professors they expected.
You're the professors they fantasized about but never believed were real.
You’re chaos. You’re love. You were so in love it was exhausting for everyone else around you.
You’re in his lap during planning meetings.
He keeps your nameplate on his desk.
He carries your stupid frog pin on his bag like a badge of honor and threatens students who joke about it.
He kisses you in the copy room. On the quad. Behind the lecture hall door after you give a student-teacher speech that makes him feel like he’s never known pride until you put it in words.
The students ask when you're getting married.
He doesn’t even pretend to be flustered anymore.
“Not yet,” he always says. “But she’s already mine.”
summary: Professor Rogers was a lot of things, but for you, he was even more. A secret affair? A fun little side thing? You didn’t know yet. But you'd gladly seek out every possible moment with him until you did.
a/n: once upon a time I had a crush on my professor… this is what came out of it (don’t worry it didn’t really happen) but shame on me for keeping this in the drafts for so long
thank you @sebsgirl71479 for finding this gif and also very special thanks to @urcatslitterbox for taking the time and making one herself! you are the greatest!
word count: 3.3k
warnings: age gap (reader is of legal age of course), student/teacher relationship, a little fluff (because apparently I can’t do it without) this is obviously smut (dry humping, praise kink, unprotected p in v - wrap it before you tap it guys, slight overstimulation, voyeurism - if you squint), I don't know what else to tell you !MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!
･ﾟ✫* 𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ｡✭･ﾟ✶ 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐀𝐎𝟑 ✧*･ﾟ
“Do you know why I asked you to stay, Ms. Y/L/N?” His arms crossed before his chest as his gaze followed the last students roaming amongst the rows of the vast lecture hall, a blonde strand of hair falling loose and settling in a soft curve over his eye. Professor Rogers looked intimidating, but so damn sexy as well. His biceps bulged beneath the checkered white and blue button-up, his sleeves halfway rolled up, restrained by his evenly muscular forearms.
“To be perfectly honest, Professor,” Your voice stayed even, a slight mockery undertone by the use of formality when you had called him far more personal things than that before. Steve, Stevie, Daddy... you shook out of it - there were still people here. “I don’t. I was quite confident that my assignment was to your... satisfaction.” A smug grin hid behind the last word, as you remembered the actual satisfaction that assignment had brought you as well.
Steve had to hide his smile, too. His eyes darted with amusement when he tilted his head forward to peer up at you through his thick lashes. Your eyes wandered to his legs. His tan chinos were tight on his muscular thighs and the way he leaned back with his knees spread even wider - holy mother of god.
He knew damn well how hot he was, and the annoying thing was that he also knew how to make it work for him. Steve reveled in the power his body language had over you.
He watched as your tights clenched together behind his desk. The simple movement of his fingers on a desk could make you keen thinking about the places they had done that before. His confidence seeped though every fucking vein in his body, dripping in thick undertones and slight remarks out of his mouth and invading your senses through his touch and smell.
He was to die for. Tall, muscular, charming, and older.
You looked him up and down again and as his head tilted to the side you knew exactly that he could read your every thought. His arms opened when the door closed behind the last student, one hand gliding to his inner thigh while the other motioned for you to step closer.
You did.
It was like an automatic response of your body. Though you leaned forwards on the wooden desk, your arms pushing inward to help the cleavage peeking through the collar of your top, Steve’s eyes pulled down in an instant as well.
“It certainly was.” He rubbed his beard. “I just thought it would be beneficial to go over it once more, highlight the good parts and make sure you know what made them so... enticing.” He leaned forward now, his fingers brushing yours on the sleek surface of the polished wood, though his eyes remained on your breasts. Steve wet his lips before his eyes flicked up to yours again. “I’m willing to thoroughly talk you through the rougher bits as well.”
“Are you implying they weren’t all good?”
“Oh, they were good, just not as good as other parts.”
It was a game. You knew that, and Steve knew that too. But the little role-playing brought an excitement to this ordeal that couldn’t be denied by either of you. He was like a magnet and your entire body felt like it was made of metal with the pull he had on you. You stood on your toes, pushing yourself further over the table, where Steve stayed entirely still. He was observing you, though. The slight intrigue in the twig of his brow when your lips came dangerously close to his. A fast glint to the double doors leading to the hallways full of students rushing to their next classes. There was no nervousness in his stare though. Steve actually liked the potential threat of getting caught. It spurred him on, enticed him, and turned him on beyond belief. You had learned that just the other week when he had dragged you behind the open door to the janitor's closet of the history building. He had absolutely no shame in getting his hands dirty while all the students walked past the dark room where Steve had his hand firmly pressed above your mouth as his other relentlessly plunged in and out of your wet cunt.
“Huh.” You pushed back. And even though the muscular blonde on the other side of the desk tried not to react, you caught his shoulder slouch in disappointment. You liked playing tough, though. While his perfume worked hard to pull you back into him, your feet shuffled a little further back, looking him up and down again. His legs were still manspreading on the chair and damn did those thighs look inviting. You knew they were.
The clock above the double door clicked louder now that the students outside had passed on to their next classes. You had one, too actually. But the professor was boring as hell and who wouldn’t trade a creepy scarf-wearing weirdo for this specimen of a man in front of you right now? Exactly: no one. But they didn’t have that chance. Steve had chosen you, reserved his glances and touches, and kissed for you and it was exciting. Getting to share his experiences, letting the older man take control of your body in such rough yet gentle ways.
Your legs strode around the desk as Steve’s eyes followed you through the room. His arms had reached out to you once you were close enough for him to grab and once his index finger looped in the belt loops of your jeans, he pulled you onto his lap. As your hands wandered to his shoulders, his snook around your waist, his thumb gently stroking the skin beneath your top. A shiver ran through you when he leaned back, his icy blue orbs piercing the air as they focused on yours, a small smile twinkling in the corner of his mouth.
“You look good.” You whispered, a hand smoothing over the collar. Steve’s lips escaped a laugh, and even though the sexual tension you build up with the sneaky conversation still lingered in the air, there was a softer, sweeter sound invading the atmosphere right this moment.
“I know you like the blue.” He mumbled when he dipped forward, his nose brushed your neck and a trial of goosebumps traveled down your back. The rasp in his voice stirred something in your stomach, a slight tingle shooting up to your brain and telling you ‘hey that’s hot!’ In bright and blaring neon lights.
Steve’s fingers ran down your legs and began massaging your thighs on each side of him. Another strand of hair came loose and fell forward. It tickled your neck as his mouth began to suck its way up to your sweet spot, your hands frantically cramming his shirt at the sudden attack. His tongue shot forward, soothing the place his teeth just nibbled on and the familiar burn ran over your skin as hisses and moans mixed in your mouth. Your hips jolted forward when he finally reached that spot behind your ear, hot breath blowing over the wet skin and a soft kiss right after.
“You smell...” A growl broke through his speech when your hips ground a second time. “So sweet...”
A jolt of confidence placed a grin on your lips. The perfume you wore had turned some heads before, but the only one that mattered was Steve’s. His mouth resumed his caress of your skin as his hand wandered to your ass, slowly pushing you forward and guiding you over the growing bulge beneath his pants.
“Ah, yes!” It was only a breath out when the seam of your jeans was pushed into your clit by the hardness in his lap, but - God did that feel good! Your back arched when he continuously ripped you over the spot, your hands buried in his hair, pressing him deeper into your skin, encouraging him to keep going.
“Goddamn...” His head switched to the other side of your neck, the skin on the neglected one already hot and tingly. But your sole focus lay between your legs, where his cock massaged your clit in perfectly firm rocking motions. The roughness of the jeans just added to the pleasure creeping through your body.
You could’ve gone like this forever, with the heat rising in your belly and Steve’s muffled panting lingering in the air, but Steve pulled away. A whine brushed over to him when his lips left your skin. You were burning from his touch but at the same time, a cool brush of goosebumps covered your body. It was crazy how much you craved his touch even when he was sitting right in front of you. His stare alone lit a fire within your stomach, butterflies flying wild patterns through every nerve ending when his light blue eyes found yours in the distance of the lecture hall. It had happened suddenly and spiraled beyond your control within days. And then, when he had finally kissed you, it was pretty clear that there was no going back. Steve was like a drug. Something you shouldn’t play with and something that was definitely illegal to pursue, but so so so freaking good because he made you feel things you could have never imagined.
His voice pulled you back to reality.
“As much as I like your ass in those jeans...” Steve tugged on your Jeans with dark eyes, the silver button glimmered in the lecture hall light when his rough fingers yanked on the material. “They need to go.” That last part was just a growl in your ear but the tire of it made you eagerly wiggle out of the blue denim.
You stepped out of your jeans once he had finally opened them and when his eyes fell on the underwear covering your heat, he pulled you closer by your hips. His thumbs drove circles over your skin, sending yet another tingle of excitement up your spine. His hands wandered back to your behind, squeezing and needing the flesh all while pressing you into his front.
Your lips attached to his neck like a magnet, your hand scraping the gruff on his chin with excited circles. A growl traveled past his lips when you reached his sweet spot - the one right beneath his ear, making him melt every time. A deviant smile spread about your face but before you could revel in the control you had over him - even if it was just for a short moment - he had you turned around, facing the rows of desks stretching to the walls.
“You’ve been doing this on purpose, haven’t you?” His hand wandered past your breasts down your front and stopped right by the edges of your panties, the other holding you by the hip, pressing his hard-on right to your back. The excitement shooting through you did nothing to hide, slick pooling between your legs, and your nipples already hard pebbles on your skin. “Putting on these scandalous little lace things thinking about how I’ll be seeing them today...” Warm breath tingled at your ear when he leaned closer, pushing his hand past the hem of the lace. “...taking them off of your perfect body.”
You moaned when his fingers slit past your folds, gathering some slick to smoothly roam about your clit.
“Maybe...” The shivers erupting from his touch interrupted your speech until you could collect yourself. “I’m always thinking of you, Stevie.” He bit your neck before his tongue smoothed over the spot again. It was a perfect interplay of pleasure and pain, the wet warm strokes of his tongue soothing the stinging and adding fuel to a desire only he could evoke in you.
“Say it again,” he growled, adding more pressure to the swollen bundle of nerves between your legs. You squirmed as the muscles in your abdomen tightened, clenching around nothing and reminding you what you had been missing. “What else are you thinking about?”
“Your hands all over my body...” Your hand guided his over to your breasts encouraging him to squeeze the soft flesh and breathing heavily when his thumb brushed over your hardened nipple. “Pushing me to bend over that desk while you fill me up with your big cock.”
“Nothing I’d rather do, doll.” Before you knew it your face was gently pressed against the cold and polished wood. Warm hands wandered to your ass where they pulled down your underwear painfully slow, having you fiddle in place impatiently.
“Now, don’t be so hasty, love. I gotta take my time.” You heard his belt unbuckle.
“Unfortunately, Professor, time is the one thing we do not have a lot of...” His hands stopped moving as you called him ‘Professor’, though you knew it wasn’t a bad thing. If anything, it probably turned him on more, which would hopefully speed up the process of him finally filling you up to the brim. Your pussy clenched at the thought of it again - a frustrating reminder of the emptiness you so wished to disappear.
“Too bad, I would have loved to play with you a little more.”
“Tick Tock...”
“As you wish, princess-” And before the words had even reached your ears, you felt his swollen tip nudge at your entrance, stroking up and down your slit to cover in your arousal as a sinful sound escaped Steve’s lips.
His hands found their way back to your waist before he finally pushed fully into you, leaving you no time to adjust to his size as he started pounding into you with an unrelenting pace. The burn wasn’t painful though. You knew he was big, and even though you had not believed that he would ever fit inside of you, Steve had managed to not only do that but also ruin you for every other man to ever come.
“Look at your greedy little cunt begging for my cock, practically sucking me in, doll.”
You couldn’t answer, too focused on holding onto the desk and controlling your body not to melt with his strokes as he pushed into you over and over again.
“Gripping me so tight... perfect little pussy.” A slap landed on your ass cheek to which you responded with another loud moan. If there had been a care for anyone to hear you doing the indescribable in this lecture hall before, Steve had certainly fucked it out of you by now. You turned your head watching as he spit down on his cock before it disappeared in you again, his head falling back with shut eyes while he reveled in every piece of pleasure you gave him.
“Fuck!” He locked eyes with you, a determined smirk painting his face when his hand wandered around your body again, finding your clit and rubbing tight little circles over the nub.
Your vision blurred as the hot pleasure crept up your spine. There was something about Steve’s touch that made you feel as though every nerve in your body fired twice and fast. You clenched around him again, watching with pleasure as his brows furrowed.
He picked up his pace, kicking your legs further apart and hitting an even deeper angle now.
“Oh my god!” Your eyes rolled to the back of your head before you closed them, trying to last longer than this. The feeling was just too good to let go of so soon. But with Steve’s hunky body towering over you and his cock stroking just the right spot with every moan he pulled from you, that seemed like an impossible task. You tried your best, though, but right when you thought that you would last a little longer, his fingers changed the direction of the circles on your clit and turned your brain to mush.
“I’m gonna- ah”
“The hell you are.” He pulled away, leaving you to whimper with the empty feeling you had never wanted back. But Steve pulled you up and turned you around in one swift motion, walking forward until you were pressed against the desk again. This time, though, he made you lay on your back with a hazy smile.
“I wanna see your pretty face when you come all over my cock.” He placed your legs on his shoulders and grabbed his dick to line it up with your entrance again. Then, he made sure to keep eye contact while he pushed himself into you once again, but this time, painfully slow.
You gripped him tight when he bottomed out, stroking the flesh on your thigh while he pulled back just to pound back in again.
“I fucking love this pussy,” he growled as his pace picked up much to your delight, “it’s mine. Tell me, baby.”
“Yes. Yes, it’s all yours, Stevie.” You couldn’t even focus on the words leaving your mouth at this point. You would say yes to anything he said just to make the feeling of his cock stroking your walls last forever.
“That’s a what?” He halted, raised eyebrows watching you expectantly.
“Yes, sir,” you smirked.
“Good girl.” The pressure built up again and when his hand found its way back to your clit, you felt like exploding. His pace didn’t falter, determination taking over while he watched himself slip in and out of you with hungry eyes.
You would be busting in seconds if he kept it up like this, your walls clenching tighter and tighter, your stomach feeling rock solid from the pleasure building up with every circle of his thumb and every stroke of his cock.
“Don’t hold back now, sweetheart. Let go. Give it to me.”
That was all it took for the knot to finally come loose. “Ah!” Your back arched off the table while your hands frantically searched for something to grip, the walls of your pussy fluttering and making your core be on fire with pleasure. It just intensified when Steve slowed his strokes to let you ride on the wave of bliss that made your body tingle.
When you relaxed again, you felt your walls pulsing with lazy delight. A weak smile shining through your hooded eyes when you watched him intensify his strokes again. Shaky whimpers left your throat when his cock brushed over your sensitive parts. He was close, too. You could feel him twitching inside of you, waiting for the perfect moment to let go. And you would give him just that.
“You make me feel so good, sir. Your big cock stretches me out, fills me up. I want you to come inside of me.”
“Fuck, keep going.” He closed his eyes, speeding up his movements and making the pressure build right up for you again.
“You’re so big. I can feel you in my stomach, baby. Make me come by just thinking about you. So sexy and strong and- ah oh!”
Steve’s movements staggered his cock twitching as his face contorted into pleasure while you felt his cum spill inside of you. The scene was erotic, and the sounds coming from the man above of you made you reach another orgasm, milking the last drop from him with every pulse of your walls.
Your chest heaved as you leaned your head back, watching the clock above the door. It was too sad this moment was ending.
Though Steve took his time. He watched his juices drip after he pulled out, whispering a low ‘perfect’ into the room that made your head feel hot.
How was this man making you flustered after shamelessly rearranging your guts in a public lecture hall?
“Put your jeans back on, doll. I don’t wanna get in trouble today.” He winked at you while he zipped up his pants and secured the buckle on top. You stood, fixing his slightly tossed hair and leaving your hand hovering over his jaw.
“Where’d you put my panties?” He kissed you.
“I think I’m gonna keep these,” Steve smiled while stuffing them into his back pocket.
“For revision, I presume?” You smiled with wicked eyes.
“Exactly.”
Here it is - finally! Please tell me what you think (hopefully it was worth the wait)! I've missed you guys so much; life is keeping me busy and excited for more. How have you been?? 💛
Warnings: noncon, roughness, dark elements, some sexiness in this.
Note: Please leave me some feedback either in a reblog or an ask! Likes are always appreciated as well. You know I love yall and hell yeah, you love Professor Steve.
You lay on the bed, entirely still, dazed into a trance. Steve disappeared moments ago, you can hear him down the hall. He slams off the faucet in the bathroom as his sigh flows down the hall. He returns, looming in the doorway.
Your eyes roll down and you see him, naked, playing with himself as he watches you. The thick muscles of his neck tense as he huffs heavily. He growls as he approaches the end of the bed.
“Baby,” he beckons you, “come here.”
You gulp and sit up. Your body is hollow, your mind fuzzy. This isn’t happening. This isn’t real. It’s not supposed to be like this. It’s supposed to be Jensen here. You’re supposed to be the happiest you’ve ever been, not mortified to the bone.
He strokes himself, still soft, growing more frustrated as he pumps his dangling dick. You hold back a cringe as you bring yourself to your knees. You crawl towards him clumsily. He reaches out and grabs the back of your head.
“Open,” he jerks you towards him, nearly mashing your face into his naked pelvis.
“Professor–”
“Open your mouth,” he says, harsher than before.
Your eyes gleam and you close them to keep the tears from falling. You obey, parting your lips. He shoves his soft tip into your mouth, urging inside as you whimper. You nearly gag at the feeling of his limp flesh.
He brings his other hand around your head, framing your skull as he tilts his hips. He rocks, slowly at first. Your arms shake as you struggle to hold yourself up. Your skin speckles with tortuous heat. The thought of what him doing, the reality, you can see yourself from above, being used like you’re nothing.
He grunts and speeds up, growing more and more desperate. He squeezes your head until it hurts, slamming his pelvis into your face. You choke and puff out through your nose.
“Come on, come on…”
You feel a twitch. He keeps his motion, legs hitting the bed frame as he ruts into your mouth. The mattress moves with your body as you grip the edge, shifting with his strength. He sighs as you feel him getting hard.
His grasp slackens on your head and he cradles you gently, petting your cheek with his other hand. He groans as he slows, thrusting in and out as he grows. He prods at the back of your throat as you struggle to breath around him.
“God, baby, you feel what you’ve done? You got me hard for you, huh?” He snarls, “it’ll be better this time…”
He slows you as spit dribbles down your chin. He slides out of your mouth and urges you back. You sit on your heels and stare down at the bed.
He startles you as he grabs the top of your panties. You yelp as he flips you onto your back, stripping your underwear down your legs. You clutch the rumpled blankets in your fists as he brings your feet against his shoulders.
He pushes his hand against your cunt, feeling around with his fingers. He rams two into you, poking in and out meanly. You whine as his intrusion stretches you. He spreads his fingers wide and bends his knees, lining his swollen head up with your entrance.
“Professor–” you squeak, “wait, it hurt–”
You swallow down your fractured protest as he pushes inside between his fingers. You squeal as he rocks slightly, trying to loosen the strain. He brings his fingers together, keeping them curled into you as he wiggles deeper and deeper.
Your tears spring free as your bat your lashes furiously. He thrusts, breaking past the last of your resistance and you spasm, screaming as you push yourself up on your elbows.
“Stop, stop!” You beg as you reach out with your fingertips, “you’re hurting me–”
“You feel so good,” he ignores you as he drags his fingers out of you, “fuck, yes, you’re so tight.”
He keeps a steady but slow motion, easing in a little further with each tilt.
“Please,” you sniffle, “please, I… stop! It hurts so bad–”
His nostrils flare as he growls and pushes your legs together, leaning them against one side of his torso as he hugs them with his bicep. The pressure grows inside of you, adding to the tension of his intrusion. You sob as he keeps going, mindless to your pleas.
He bends your legs higher as he leans over you, planting a hand beside your head as he folds you beneath him. He keeps his feet on the floor as he fucks you deeper and deeper. You bite your tongue until you taste blood, shaking as you weep in agony.
You grab his wrist and squeeze, gnashing your teeth as his flesh claps against yours. His arm falls from around your legs and he fondles your chest as he pants wildly. His grunts grow louder and closer together. He gurgles and you feel the wet warmth explode inside of you.
He’s done. Again. Thank god.
You can’t help the relief that eases the horror. He buries himself to his limit and you wriggle. He stays inside of you and lays over you, heaving into your neck. He kisses your neck as his breath mellows.
“Did you cum? I think I felt it,” he nuzzles into you, snapping his hips so you cry out. “Mmm, sweetie, that was… perfect.”
You moan as you lay limp and prone beneath him. You can’t move. Your insides ache and your soul is cracked. That was a nightmare.
You turn your head, tears pouring out as you hiccup. You can’t stop. He hurt you and when you asked him to stop, he just kept going. That’s not how it’s supposed to happen.
“Baby,” he purrs, “I’m sorry it hurt so much. It’s supposed to the first time–”
You push on his shoulder. He doesn’t budge. He’s too big for you to move.
“Pl-please,” you babble, “please, get off–”
“No snuggles?” He whines against your cheek, pecking it gently.
“Get off,” you grit your teeth.
“Baby,” he begs.
“Get off of me!” You beat against his shoulders with your fists and flail, “get off! Get off!”
“Shhh,” he covers your mouth with his hand, “sweetie, don’t yell–” he grunts as you bite his palm.
He retracts his hand and pushes himself up, still inside of you as he looms over you. Before you can holler again, his knuckles flash across your cheek. The back of his hand leaves a sting on your flesh. You bring your hand up to touch the tender spot and gape up at him.
“Sweetie, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to– you scared me and–”
You cover your face, quaking. You close your eyes as you tremble, waiting for his next strike. He touches your forearm and you flinch, letting out a whimper.
“Sweetie, I would never hurt you,” he coos as he bends over you again, sliding deep until you squeal, “please,” he pulls at your hand trying to uncover your face as he rocks his hips, “forgive me, baby,” he fucks you slowly, his cum leaking out around him, “let me make it better, baby.”
Daphne tries to ignore Steve, only to have her grades drop worse than before.
Steve had noticed a difference in Daphne the next few days. She wasn’t as eager to hold eye contact with him, or to teasingly drop her items and slowly pick them up. She didn’t contribute to the lectures anymore, nor did she attend the meeting times that they had set aside specifically for her. It was odd.
Above that it made him feel guilty for multiple reasons all around. He didn’t want her to think that he was punishing her by any means, but he thought it was best for them to keep their distance. Even if he had been forward on Valentine’s Day. He hadn’t been thinking clearly. He didn’t want to lose his job, or for her to be pressured into anything. But he also didn’t want her to think that he meant she couldn’t come to him for help.
“Hey,” He stopped Daphne before she could leave, eyebrows raised at the frantic way she seemed to be walking, “If you don’t want your tutoring time anymore, I’m going to have to give it to someone else.” He reminded her, knowing that he couldn’t keep holding it. He did have other people that wanted to meet with him, not just her.
“Okay.” She pressed her lips together, darting her eyes back and forth as she gripped the straps of her backpack tightly. He cocked his eyebrows at her response.
“Uh,” He looked at her, slightly taken aback, “Are you alright?” He leaned against the desk, watching the way she rocked back and forth from the heels of her feet to the tips of her toes.
“I just decided to use the student centers,” She said with a nod of her head, “They’re very helpful.” She shrugged her shoulders, leaving him bewildered. He didn’t mean to push her away entirely. But maybe he had been a little cold.
“Oh,” He parted his lips in confusion, shaking his head, “I didn’t realize they could give you more help than the one who created the class.” He added as he crossed his arms over his chest, watching her demeanor crumble.
“I just think-,” She paused as she glanced around, “I’m trying to be respectful of your wishes.” She nodded her head stiffly but still avoided his eyes.
“By letting your grade drop?” He chuckled softly, “I don’t understand.” He told her honestly, watching the deep way she sighed. She looked behind her, ensuring everyone was gone before she spoke up.
“You haven’t said anything since Valentines.” She spoke up at last, taking a deep breath as he chewed on his bottom lip. He had thought about a lot of things, but he couldn’t contact her. And she hadn’t shown up to any of their scheduled meetings.
“I had fun,” He told her seriously, “I just don’t want to confuse you.” He had felt very guilty over the whole ordeal, feeling like he had indeed led her on. And he didn’t want her to think that. He liked being around her, things were just complicated right now.
“You’re not confusing me,” She said as she shook her head, “And I like fun.” She watched him, features relaxing as her eyes glimmered with mischief.
“Not like that.” He said with a small laugh, glad when she laughed along with him. At least there were no hard feelings, not anymore at least.
“But can we be friends?” She questioned as she took a step forward, raising her soft eyebrows. He thought about the guy she had been laughing with that night as a strong wave of jealousy filled his lungs.
“I’m not sure that’s appropriate either.” He replied instead, not wanting to admit that he would be bitter to see her with anyone else. He couldn’t linger on those thoughts, however. It wasn’t right.
“I just think-,” She started slowly as she dragged her finger across the table, walking towards him, “That you’re overthinking this too much.” Her tone was sultry, a little raspy as she spoke. His heart hammered roughly in his chest.
“I don’t think so.” He forced himself to remember the email, remembering the other professor that had been caught. He didn’t want to lose his job. He liked what he did.
“We can just hang out like we did on Valentine’s, no feelings or sex. Just hanging out.” She reasoned as she wrinkled her nose up, shrugging her shoulders a bit.
“Will you stop letting your grades drop?” He asked instead, cocking his eyebrows as he looked at her expectantly. If she was acting out, it wasn’t the best way to do it. But it had caught his attention.
“Yeah,” She replied as she pressed her lips together, “I guess I need the help.” She smiled sheepishly, rocking back and forth on her feet.
“Are you coming tomorrow?” He asked, feeling a little lighter about the situation. He wasn’t excited, certainly not. He couldn’t be.
“Do you want me to?” She played with him instead, fluttering her eyelashes in a manner that drove him crazy. He didn’t think she should be so pretty.
“Your last paper was a bit better,” He shrugged his shoulders softly, “You could pass with a high C.” He remarked back, doing his best to be professional. She sighed playfully.
“Not very reassuring,” She chewed on her bottom lip, “Okay. I’ll be there.” Her smile was brighter, happier as she looked at him. He inhaled deeply, wishing his insides didn’t twist and turn. Like he was a middle schooler with a crush.
He was fucked.
-
“You like maps.” She stated as she held her hands on her hips, looking at the pictures on his walls. As soon as she had entered his office she had dropped her bag and began to snoop, rather than pull her assignment out for him to examine.
“I think it’s a cool souvenir to take,” He grinned as he shifted his glasses over his nose, looking at the one in front of them, “That was from Italy.” He pointed out, fully realizing it was dorky. But he liked being able to remember where he had visited.
“I hear Italy is very nice,” She grinned as she turned towards him, her smile radiant, “I’ve never been out of the country.” She replied a second later, looking thoughtfully as she moved onto the next few pictures.
“Yeah?” He asked, trying not to savor her dreamy state. It had been a long time since he’d had a real conversation with someone he was interested in.
“This is the furthest I’ve been from home,” She admitted as she turned towards him again, “I think my parents were stunned I wanted to leave in the first place.” He watched her with interest, wondering how her parents reacted when she left. Especially since she was the youngest. He didn’t know them, but felt bad for them in a way. It must’ve been hard to support both of their children through such an awkward breakup.
“Why’s that?” He asked curiously, knowing that they probably had money to do it. His parents always took him up on vacations, even tried to make him go now. But things between them were tense.
“They need free labor for the ranch,” She laughed, “They’re very intense about it.” She turned towards him briefly, smiling before she looked back at the walls. He thought about that for a moment, glad that his parents didn’t make him do that. Or maybe it would’ve been good for him.
“They wanted you to be a nurse, right?” He asked, getting an idea that they might be a little hard on her. He could relate to that.
“Yeah.” She breathed out deeply, blue eyes still scanning over the marks on the map. This one was from Thailand. That had felt like a lifetime ago.
“How come you decided not to do it?” He asked her seriously, trying to pry more information from her. She bit her bottom lip.
“Not my dream.” She said at last, turning towards him with a hint of sadness in her features. He frowned at that, but figured she was still young. She could figure things out.
“What is your dream?” He asked softly, trying to ignore the way his body automatically crept closer to her. He liked how she smelled like honeysuckle still, like she had been sitting outside in the sun.
“You ask a lot of questions.” She replied teasingly, moving her hands onto her hips as she tilted her head. She was avoiding his question, which was fair enough. They weren’t that close. Not yet.
“You’re interesting,” He said honestly, smiling at the way her cheeks burned, “Do you have your paper?” He asked a brief moment later, heart hammering at how close she was. She drifted her eyes away from his, lingering at his mouth for a moment before she turned.
“Mhm.” She nodded along, walking back to her bag as she bent over to open it up. His eyes lingered against her slender legs, taking in the gap between her thighs as he watched the way her skirt slid over her stockings. It was short. Everything she owned seemed to be too short.
“Do you have real clothes?” The question rolled off of his tongue before he could stop it, making his eyes widen and his cheeks prickle as the humiliation settled over him.
“Excuse me?” She stood up quickly, holding her paper to her chest as she looked at him in disbelief. She looked offended for a second as he tried to quickly recover. He didn’t mean it in a bad way. Not intentionally.
“I mean,” He stammered for a moment, “Everything you wear makes it look like you’re freezing.” He said instead as he gestured towards her, internally sighing at the way her features softened again.
“Oh,” She nodded her head along slowly before a grin cracked on her lips, “Haven’t you heard that a hoe never gets cold?” She replied as she rested her hands on her tiny hips, giving her head a little shake so her hair ended up behind her shoulders.
“No, I can say with full honesty that I’ve never heard that before.” He said with a little laugh, feeling a lot older than he felt. He didn’t understand half of what she said sometimes. Maybe he wasn’t cool anymore.
“Well,” She paused before she laughed, “It’s somewhat true.” She shrugged her shoulders softly, dropping the paper onto his desk.
“You never get cold?” He asked her seriously, trying to understand how she didn’t end up with frozen limbs.
“I act like I don’t get cold,” She corrected him, “I like looking cute.” She nodded her head as he bit his tongue. He was fairly certain she could look cute with layers on, but he wasn’t going to nitpick her. She did look cute.
“I see,” He chuckled, “Alright. Let me take a look at this.” He mumbled as he sat down, scooting close to his desk. He scanned over the first few lines, deciding that it was much better than the first few that she had given him. She had been practicing.
“Is it alright?” She asked a few minutes later, sitting close as she observed the marks on her paper. He chewed on his bottom lip as he passed it back to her, feeling like she could tidy it up in no time.
“Really good,” He praised her, eyes scanning the light freckles across her nose. He hadn’t noticed them before. He wondered if she got more when she was out in the sun, or if she tanned, “You’re doing a great job.”
“Thanks,” She whispered softly, plump lips pulling into a flirty smile, “I have the best teacher.” She hummed gently as he traced the colors in her eyes. The blue was stunning, like sparkling gems. He swore he saw a hint of gray, maybe even green in them.
The gap between them was electric, fizzling with tension as his eyes drifted down towards her lips. They were full and plump, soft looking. He felt everything that he had said before slowly disappearing, melting away from the heat that came from their bodies.
He gripped the back of her neck, fingers pressing into her skin gently. So softly. His nose brushed against hers, warming his skin as he held her in place.His lips touched hers gently, sending sparks through his body as he dragged their lips together. He could taste the vanilla on her lips, the hint of mint on her tongue as he licked and sucked on her soft skin.
He groaned as the kiss grew deeper, her moans spurring on his movements as he pulled her closer to him. He felt his dick throbbing against her thigh, her warmth becoming electric as he brushed his thumbs across her strong jawline.
Her tongue fell against his, crashing and molding in a messy mixture as he drooled into his mouth. He hadn’t felt so heated from a kiss before, felt so desperate and filled with want. His hands fell slowly against her soft body, skin burning as he gripped her hips tightly.
“Professor,” She whispered against his mouth, making him groan as he thought about how much trouble he’d be in if someone walked in. It only spurred him on at the moment, all sense of guilt gone as he trailed his lips across her neck, “Feels good.”
“You’re so addicting,” He groaned against her lips, dragging his mouth against hers to muffle any sounds that left her lips, “I can’t help myself.” He huffed softly, closing his eyes as he pushed her back towards his desk.
He pushed everything aside, knocking it to the floor with a loud clatter before he lifted her petite frame onto the desk. He licked at her full lips, his tongue brushing against hers messily before he fell to his knees.
He lifted her skirt up over her thighs, inhaling harshly as he flicked his tongue out against her soft thigh. She crooned, blue eyes widening as he tugged her panties aside. He admired her pretty pussy for a second, taking in her smooth skin and pink folds as he spread her apart to see her better.
“S’pretty,” He praised, enjoying the way she wiggled underneath his touch as he pressed a gentle kiss above her clit, “Smell so nice too.” He hummed, dragging his tongue out slowly to tease the taste of her against his mouth.
He groaned as he moved his hands to her thighs, digging his fingertips into her skin as he pushed her knees towards her chest. He lapped away her sweet wetness, curling the tip of his tongue around her swollen clit.
Her moans sounded heavenly against his ears, making his cock ache as he wrapped his lips around her clit. He sucked softly, kissing her cunt messily before he slid his tongue through her folds again. He craved the taste of her, desperately needing to feel her squirming against his mouth.
“Steve,” She moaned as she rolled her hips forward, gasping loudly as her fingers fell to his hair. He groaned, enjoying the way she tugged on his hair as he continued to suck on her pretty clit. The way she dragged her cunt along his mouth was intoxicating, making him want to devour her completely, “Jesus!” She squeaked out, whining as she rutted her hips up against his mouth.
He dragged two fingers to her slick hole, groaning at the way she leaked around him before he slid two fingers inside of her. The feeling of her wet walls stretching around him left his mind hazy, nearly desperate to press his own cock inside of her. But that was going too far.
He pumped his fingers inside of her deeply, pressing them against her spongy walls as he worked on flicking his tongue against her clit. He glanced up at her, taking in her reddened cheeks and parted lips as she cried out once again.
Then he shut his eyes, pretending like they weren’t here and this wasn’t incredibly wrong of him. He lapped at her cunt, groaning at the tight feel of his own pants as he curled his fingers deeper inside of her. She spasmed, her moans muffled from covering her mouth as she came undone underneath him.
He steadily drew his movements to a stop, but continued to lick away her slick juices. Then his fingers once he removed them. He liked the taste of her on his mouth and wished he had enjoyed it more the only time he’d had her.
“That was nice,” She gasped, chest rising and falling as she fought to catch her breath. He hummed in agreement, trying to keep the rush of guilt at bay as he slowly pressed her panties and skirt back into position, “Do you have water or anything?”
“You alright?” He asked as he adjusted himself in his pants, knowing he’d be thinking about her as soon as she left. He couldn’t let it get too far though. He didn’t want to regret this.
He moved towards his mini fridge, quickly pulling free a water bottle before he passed it to her. Her whole face was flushed as she began to unscrew the lid.
“Just never um-,” She paused for a second to take a few large drinks from the bottle, “Had someone do that before. Get me off like that.” She replied bashfully, making his eyebrows raise.
“No one’s ever eaten you out?” He asked, looking for clarity because he wasn’t sure how it could be true. Anyone would be lucky to have her and he certainly wouldn’t give up the chance to have her on his tongue if he had any say in it.
“No one’s ever made me orgasm from it,” She replied, face only getting brighter as another awkward smile formed on her lips, “Like ever.” She said again, taking another gulp from the water bottle as he watched in amusement.
“I’m honored.” He teased, not sure what else to say as he felt his cock throbbing harder in his jeans. He was thinking about doing it again, if she’d let him.
“It’s dangerous knowing that you can do it.” She breathed out seriously, stealing his thoughts from his mind. His lips curled into a smirk, all of his rationality falling through the window.
“Maybe we can work something out.” He offered, not allowing himself to think about the worst case scenario. He could worry about that later. This seemed more important.
“We can be friends,” She decided for them, lips pressing together smugly, “And a little more.” She added slyly, making him quick to agree with her. He had never been smart when it came to relationships anyways, but he supposed this would be fine. Hopefully.
Run-through: You got an A* on a paper that you worked really hard on, and Steve decides that his favourite student deserves a little treat for having earned such good grades.
Themes: professor!steve, smut, age gap, explicit language, fluff
“Come in.”
You hear him call out at the first knock on his door. You take a deep breath, calming down your nerves as much as you could before you walked in.
There he was. Majestic as always. He was sitting behind his desk as you walked in, lazily stroking his well-kept beard as he watched you. That light blue, tight button-down shirt and that expensive looking tie should be illegal on a man like him. Broad shoulders, muscular arms like he was built solely to intimidate others by being so damn perfect.
“Hi,” You kept your eyes lowered, unable to look him in the eyes. Definitely not after-
“Come here, you’re not in trouble I promise.” He spoke with a playful tone, trying to get you to stop being so nervous.
Steve had noticed the way your behaviour had changed when it came to him lately. You were always quite a shy person, but recently you’d stopped being chatty like you used to. He could never figure out why so this afternoon he decided to use the paper he’d just graded as an excuse to talk to you.
He watched how you cautiously approached his desk and took a seat. You looked everywhere else except towards him, and he didn’t like that.
“You said you wanted to talk to me concerning last week’s paper.” You spoke and finally looked up to meet his stare. Gorgeous blue eyes stared at you like they could read every single thought in your head.
Steve nodded, then said, “The paper, yes. It wasn’t an easy one but you got an A* and I must say, I’m very impressed.” He slid the stapled assignment across his desk, back to you as he spoke, “And as proud as I am regarding your performance, that’s not the only reason why I called you here.”
You slowly dragged the paper closer to you, “I don’t understand, sir.”
Steve sighed and said, “Look at me.” When you met his stare again he asked, “What’s going on? You’ve become so quiet lately. You’re working really well but you barely participate during my lectures. You always avoid talking to me. You nearly run on your way out of my classes. I can’t help but be concerned.”
His tone made your heart flutter. Soar, more like. Because the man’s voice was just as intimidating as his appearance. Smooth, deep voice. Like the kind that could calm you down but also enchant you. His words made you feel caught though.
You shook your head, “It’s… It’s nothing serious. I’m okay, I’m-,” You stopped talking the moment he stood up from his chair. You watched him as he walked around his large desk and came over to lean on the edge of the table on your side. Close to you. So close that if you leaned in just a little to the side, your shoulder would touch his thigh.
“I’ve known you for a couple of years now, I know you. And this isn’t you. You can talk to me, you know. So tell me, what is going on?” He asked, softly looking down at you.
Your heart was racing at the proximity. So much so that you couldn’t withstand it anymore, you stood up abruptly. You held the papers to your chest and said, “I’m alright, I’m okay. You, uh, you don’t have to worry, sir. I’ve got to go now. See you on Monday.” You said all that without looking him in the eyes, and right as you began walking towards the door he spoke up again.
“I didn’t ask you to leave.” He said in that authoritative ‘professor’ voice of his. He watched how you froze in place. “Lock the door and come over here. We’re not done yet.”
You took the remaining steps towards the door, locked it and then turned around to face him again. He was still leaning against the desk, one arm crossed over his chest as the other hand lazily stroked his beard.
You walked back to where you were just seconds ago. But you didn’t sit down this time, you just looked down at your shoes.
Steve reached out to gently grab your chin and force your gaze back to his. He had to refrain from caressing your lips with his thumb as he asked, “Why are you always running away from me lately? Hmm? What did I do? Was it something I said? Did I overstep a boundary?”
You were quick to say, “No, sir.” Quite the contrary actually, if anything, you did the overstepping a couple of weeks back.
Steve’s hand dropped down to the papers you still clutched to your chest. He took them from you and placed it down on the table. Next he took your bag off your shoulder and dropped it down on one of the seats before he placed his hands on your waist and pulled you a little closer to him. He parted his legs just a little so you stepped in between them.
He just held you there, looking into your eyes like he would get the answers to his questions there.
“You better tell me what’s going on before I change my mind concerning that A*,” He teased with a playful smirk on his face.
Damn him for being so damn beautiful. Steve was the kind of man who could spot a lie instantly so you could do nothing but tell him the truth. But you still stalled because you were embarrassed. “It’s… it’s stupid.” You whispered, unable to look away from his pretty eyes.
He raised an eyebrow at you, “Tell me.” He insisted.
“I…” Here goes nothing. “I had a dream… about you.” You whispered, looking down to his dark blue tie instead. You absentmindedly reached out to toy with the end of the cool, silky tie.
Steve chuckled, “You had a dream about me, or did you have a dream about us?”
You looked up at him sheepishly, “Us.” You whispered.
Steve had a smug smile on his face as he pulled you closer, your chests almost touching. You ignored the way your nipples perked up beneath your sweater. “Oh?” He teased, “Well how rude of you to not give me the details about said dream.”
Your entire face felt burning hot under his stare. “I can’t. It’s inappropriate.” You felt your walls clench around nothing down there as you said that.
“Ah,” He leaned forward just a little like he was sharing a secret. “Well, were you letting me do inappropriate things to you in the dream?” He asked.
You bit down on your lower lip nervously as you nodded.
“Oh?” Steve pretended to be shocked. “Is this why you’ve been running from me? Because you’re embarrassed that you had a scandalous dream about us?”
You nodded again.
“Hmm,” Steve pulled you even closer so he could nuzzle your cheek and whisper into your ear, “And when you woke from the dream were you… wet? And needy? Hmm? Did you touch yourself then, right before you came to attend my lecture?”
You let out a gasp at the sound of those words coming from him. Then you groaned and nodded, your cheek rubbing against his coarse beard.
Steve wasn’t having it. “I can’t hear you, baby. Speak up and tell me, did you touch your wet cunt thinking about how I was touching you in your dreams?”
You almost whined, “Yes, sir. Yes, I did.”
“I see.” He said, then pulled away to look into your eyes, “Show me then, show me how you did it.”
Your eyes widened, “I… what?” You swallowed at the sound of that request, and you could feel your clit throbbing already at the memory of that dream. “No,” You said softly, suddenly too embarrassed to function.
Steve smirked, standing up straight and turned the two of you so you now stood against the edge of his desk. “Fine then. Tell me what I did to you in the dream.”
Your lips parted in surprise. Part of you was so shy you wanted to run away. But the other part of you was craving his touch. “You, um, you touched me there.” You said, pointing downwards.
His hand reached out to grab you by the hips immediately. “Where exactly, baby? Here?” He asked, slipping his hand under your skirt and caressing your inner thighs. “Or here?” He moved his hand further up until he cupped your throbbing and wet cunt through your underwear.
You were both way past the point of no return so perhaps that’s what caused you to be bold enough to grab his hand and slide it past the waistband of your underwear so he could really feel how wet you were. “Right here.” You whispered.
Steve approved with a playful smile, “Hmm. Then what did I do? Did I make you come on my fingers?” He asked.
You nodded. And immediately, his finger moved up and down your slit quick enough to gather some of your wetness and spread it around before sliding his finger into you. Steve gave you a few seconds, gauged your reactions first before he slowly stroked along your walls.
You bit your lip as you let out a low whine. His single finger made you tremble as he lazily fucked you with it - all while staring deep into your eyes. He studied each and every inch of your face as he sped up just a little.
“That feels good, doesn’t it? What else, baby? What else did I do?” He asked, leaning in closer but not enough to kiss you. Just enough to make it impossible to focus on anything else other than him.
You gasped as you opened your mouth to talk. But he teased you by adding another finger into you, finger-fucking you with both of them as his thumb toyed with your clit. So instead of saying it, you played along and grabbed his other hand which rested at your hip and brought it up, slid it beneath your sweater until he instinctively grabbed your breast and squeezed gently.
“Did I do this to you in your dream? Did I play with your pretty tits while I made you come on my fingers, huh?” He asked, pinching your nipple before moving to the other breast.
You spoke up this time, “Yes, sir.”
Steve whispered under his breath, “Fuck me,” before he leaned in and finally pressed his lips to yours. You immediately moaned into the kiss as your hands slid into his soft hair, pulling him closer.
Steve kissed you feverishly while he finger-fucked you until your hips moved on their own; riding his fingers as you moaned louder into his mouth. You gasped and whined as he moved to kiss you along your neck.
“You’re gonna come for me, baby?” He asked, moving his fingers faster in and out of you as he sucked and bit your skin. “Gonna come all over my fingers like you did in that dream?”
“Fuck…” You whined, “Yes, yes I-,”
Your sentence ended in a cry of pleasure as you came all over his fingers, just like how he wanted. Steve kept stroking your walls as you came, making you squirm as you held on to his shoulders for balance as you caught your breath.
He grabbed your chin and tilted your head up so you looked at him. “What else did you let me do to you in that dream, huh?”
You bit your lip, fighting back a smile as you felt his fingers pinching and teasing your nipples still. “I don’t know,” You said playfully, “Maybe I let you bend me over your desk and let you have your way with me.”
His hand moved down to your throat where he carefully wrapped his fingers around your windpipe. “Did you now?” He teased as he slid his fingers out of you before lifting the hem of your sweater up until you lifted your arms up and let him take it off your body. “Well,” He pondered as he slowly undid your bra and tossed it aside before lazily toying with your tits like he had all the time in the world, “Maybe I should, you know. After all, you earned such a good grade. Maybe you do deserve a little treat. Don’t you think so?”
Meanwhile you were a squirming, trembling mess in his grasp. All you could do was nod as he pinched your nipples before letting them go.
“Alright baby, get on top of the desk. Sit down, lean back on your elbows and put your legs up on the edge,” he waited until you did as he asked, “Just like that,” He adjusted your feet on the edge of his desk until you were shamelessly spread open just for him. “Look at you,” He said, looking down at you fondly. “So perfect for me.” He reached out to rub your clit through your underwear a few times before he began undoing his own pants.
You frowned then said, “I didn’t get to touch you.”
Steve chuckled at the slight pout on your face. “Another time, baby. I need you right now, and I know you need me too.”
You couldn’t argue with that. Not when he took his cock out and stroked it while staring at you deep in the eyes. You looked down for a moment, and you let out an instinctive whine at the sight of his hand wrapped around his cock.
“Please…” You groaned, scooting your butt closer to the edge, desperately trying to get closer to him.
Steve smirked as he stepped closer, pressed up against you, pulled your underwear to the side and slid the head of his cock up and down your wet slit. “Yeah? You’re willing to beg for it, baby?”
You could barely form a coherent sentence in your head. “Sir… please, please I-,”
He cut you off by pushing his cock inside of you. Slowly, carefully stretching you out. “Oh fuck….” He whispered under his breath as he filled you up. “You okay there, baby?” He asked, studying the way your face morphed into a frown of pleasure.
All you could do was nod as you looked up at him with nothing but lust in your eyes.
Steve smiled before he grabbed your thighs and pushed them further apart so he could fuck you deeper. You moaned shamelessly as he fucked you like an animal; nice and deep.
“Oh…” You gasped, “You feel so good…” You whimpered.
“Better than in your dreams?” He teased.
You nodded, “So much better.”
He fucked deeper into you, pounding into you relentlessly as he grabbed you by the neck. “Your greedy little cunt feels so good, baby,” He whispered, squeezing your throat just enough to remind you to keep your eyes on him. “Tell me how good I feel inside you, baby.”
“Fuck…” You whined as you felt yourself getting so close as he fucked you aggressively. “So good… you feel so fucking good,” You whined, your mind already delirious, “Please don’t stop.” You felt a tear slip out of the corner of your eye as you felt the pressure in between your legs getting too much to bear.
“Never, baby.” Steve promised. “I’ll make sure to always keep you well fucked.” He punctuated each of his words with a thrust in and out of you. He groaned as your walls clenched violently around him. “Fuck,” He growled, “Come for me, baby. Come all over this cock. It’s all yours, you can have it whenever you fucking want angel, now come on. Come for me…”
You didn’t hear the rest of what he said because you were long gone - lust drunk and allowing your orgasm to wash over you. You came with a loud cry of his name.
Steve followed shortly after, coming undone while he was buried deep inside you, gripping your thighs so tightly that his fingers would surely leave a bruise behind as memory.
You fell back on top of his desk, unable to hold yourself up as you caught your breath. He leaned down, still buried inside you, and kissed your lips gently. His hands massaged and caressed your thighs lazily.
“You okay, baby?” He asked, kissed up your cheek and over your closed eyelids. “You were so good to me. My perfect angel.” He whispered, kissing you all over your face. “Open your eyes, baby. Look at me.”
You sighed, smiling faintly as you finally opened your eyes and looked up at him. Steve looked down at you with glazed eyes and swollen lips. “Hi,” You whispered and reached out to slowly caress his cheek.
He smiled, gently leaning into your touch. “You okay?” He asked again.
You nodded, then smirked and playfully asked, “So do I get my A* now, sir?”
Welcome to the mini-series I didn’t know I could be so passionate about!
‘Shit he said’ will be a series of stand-alone fics, each based on a short prompt. The prompts have been (consensually) borrowed from someone who has said each of them to me recently and I’ve found it overwhelmingly sexy! The four prompts I’ve listed are hopefully just a starting point and more will be added in the future.
It’s going to be fun!
It’s going to be filthy!
And above all else, it’s a reminder to myself that good sex absolutely isn’t just a fictional concept! Really good sex exists in the real world! This series will reflect on some of the wonderful encounters I've had but will also drift into exploring things I'd like to try.
✨ All credit for the prompts goes to the incredible person providing them! I have no doubt you’ll see this. I hope I can do your brilliant brain justice. Thank you for being consistently amazing!! ✨
1. “I forgot just how good this can feel.” - Roommate!FWB!Bucky x female reader
2. “Will you let me?” - Sub!Bucky x female reader
3. “You are. Every inch. The fantasy.” - Professor!Bucky x female reader
4. “No one who doubts how beautiful they are fucks like that.” - TBC (Maybe sbf!bucky or CEO!Bucky?)
5. "Here comes trouble." - CEO!Bucky x female reader
