𝔎𝔦𝔫𝔨𝔱𝔬𝔟𝔢𝔯 𝔇𝔞𝔶 𝔬𝔫𝔢: 𝔱𝔢𝔞𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔯 / 𝔞𝔤𝔢 𝔤𝔞𝔭
pairing: teacher!steve x 18+ gender neutral student!reader
summary: going into your senior year of high school you know you’re not going to let anything stop you from being successful. until you meet your history teacher, that is
content warnings: implied power imbalance, non gender specific penetrative sex, facial
authors note: day one of kinktober baby and we’re starting off with a bang. this is one of my favorites out of the bunch so i hope you enjoy. sidenote my posts have been very glitchy so if you see any deleted/duplicated paragraphs that’s why
word count: 2.1k
tags: @gayskittlelesbian @heavenlyhandscribbles @canislupus-exe @angeliiaa @mlmmetalhead @keevathediva @frogydude233 @eddieverse @licktomsass @yourmommaissofine @m-rae23 @my-my-only-angel @corrodedhawkins
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When you started your senior year of high school your main goal, and pretty much your only goal, was to get the best grades you could possibly manage. Your marks from junior year had been good; certainly good enough to get early admission to the local community college. But good wasn’t up to your standards. You needed to be great. You needed to be the best.
You told yourself nothing was going to stand in your way.
Until you walked into your seventh period history class, that is.
Until you walked into your seventh period history class, that is.
The news about the newest addition to the teaching staff was cold tea. He’d been hired at the end of the previous school year and had shadowed who he would be replacing for the last two months of term, and until the first day of school you’d only ever seen him in passing or on the opposite side of the gym during pep rallies and other school events that made you want to rip your hair out. You’d never paid him a single thought.
So when you walked into the classroom you choked on the breath that got caught in your throat when behind the teachers desk was the single most handsome man you had ever seen in your entire life. His eyes, his smile, his hair.
You’d nearly fainted when his fingers brushed against yours while handing you the syllabus, offering you a grin that made your heart slam against your ribcage as he introduced himself. You barely managed to choke out your name before practically running to your desk, which Mr. Harrington had decided to be assigned to the front row.
You spent the entire class, and the majority of the ones to come, with your hands between your thighs and praying the heat that had exploded in your lower stomach would eventually cool enough to focus.
When Steve started his first proper teaching job post graduation his main goal, and pretty much his only goal, was to excel. To prove to his parents, particularly his father, that he wasn’t a lost cause. That he was capable of success. And to do so he had to be nothing less than perfect.
He was determined to prove to himself and everyone that had doubted him that he had been underestimated throughout nearly his entire adolescence.
But he knew, only minutes into the last class of his first day, that he had reached the first roadblock on his path to achievement.
The way you looked at him, wide eyes, flushed cheeks, and parted plush lips, had teleported him back to his days in school, particularly high school, when he’d been adored. Sought after. Desirable.
Such a reputation had escaped him when he began to get serious about his studies in sophomore year of college. Or perhaps he had been too focused and preoccupied on school to notice .
But the way you looked at him, how his stomach rolled over when you approached him so shyly, how he found himself talking to you differently than the rest of the students, how you all but sprinted to your seat, it stirred something in him. Something inappropriate and terrifying.
It was something that needed to be shut down immediately. Something that he didn’t allow to be a big enough issue that it needed to be shut down.
In the first few weeks of term you discovered that you and Mr. Harrington had a lot in common. It started when he caught you listening to music and, as he placed your confiscated phone on his desk for the rest of the class, checked what you had been playing in your headphones. Come to find you liked the same music, movies and shows. You both liked warm weather and sweets. And you both liked history. Not that he’d been able to tell since your grades had plummeted due to the distraction that he served, but it was your best class.
And so you lingered after class most days, pretending to have a question before slowly shifting to more mundane topics. He, unlike most teachers, treated you like an equal. There wasn’t an air of superiority surrounding him. He was down to earth, funny, charming, and honestly kind of dorky. But so were you.
You knew better than to expect much of anything at all besides fleeting classroom conversation. But that didn’t stop you from sliding your hand into your pants every night and pretending it was Mr. Harringotn’s that got you off.
After the first few weeks of term Steve had started making a few friends; a handful of colleagues and people that lived in his neighborhood. They showed him around the area, introducing him to a nightlife sleepy Hawkins could never compare to. But that wasn’t exactly saying much.
Dating had long since fallen towards the bottom of his list of priorities but one night at his friends’ favorite bars and after five shots of tequila he found himself in the bed of a stranger. He fumbled a bit in the process, the alcohol having taken its toll on his system and causing his thoughts and movements to be muddied. It had been a bit too long since Steve had gotten his dick wet and he was all too desperate in ripping off the clothes of his partner whose name he wouldn’t remember in the morning.
It took him much too long to realize that while fucking the stranger with reckless abandon he was thinking of you. Of the way blood rushed to your cheeks when he unexpectedly called on you, how you sometimes snorted when he made you laugh after class, of the way you nibbled on your lips or stuck your tongue out while thinking of an answer.
Of locking the classroom door and bending you over his desk.
The thought led to one of the best orgasms of his life.
It’s the Friday before Christmas break when Mr. Harrington asks you to stay after class. Your stomach turns into a butterfly bush while you remain at your desk as the rest of your peers file out of the classroom door. Nearly every other student was probably rushing to get home and start their almost two week vacation. Yet you’re glued to your seat and waiting with nauseating anticipation to be alone with him. He almost never asked you to stay late. You usually did it on your own.
“You look terrified,” he notes teasingly once the door swings shut behind the last student.
“Am I in trouble?” you blurt out.
He raises an already arched brown eyebrow at you. “Did you do something to get in trouble for?”
“Then you have nothing to be nervous about.” He waves you over and, as if under his spell, your feet carry you over to the opposite side of his desk. Your rapidly beating heart makes no attempt to slow as you watch him dig through his bag. “I know I’m not supposed to play favorites, but it is Christmas, and I was already gift shopping when I saw this, and it made me think of you, so…”
He slides a paperback copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray to your side of the desk before leaning back in his chair and drumming his fingers on the wooden surface as you pick the book up tentatively. Your hands feel slightly shaky as you inspect both the front and back cover. “You got this for me?”
“You can’t say you like art history and not read Dorian Gray,” he says, as if it was painfully obvious and near foolish of you to ask. “It’s a right of passage.”
You thumb through the pages as a smile grows on your face, your breath catching when you land on the title page. After almost two months of having your papers marked and graded you recognized his handwriting in an instant.
“The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.”
Your heart lurches to a stop before resuming with a ferocity. You dare to tear your eyes away from the note and back up to your teacher who looks almost bashful. “Your name is Steve?” you ask, and although it feels incredibly stupid your mind otherwise drew a blank.
“Yeah,” Mr. Harrington, or Steve, replies. “But, uh, don’t call me that in front of other students. Just after class.”
“I won’t,” you answer immediately, looking back down at the book and rubbing your thumb across the written note.
“The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.”
Surely the quote doesn’t mean anything.
Steve learns quickly that along with every other risk posed by the situation he’s found himself in your volume is the most dangerous, and that the only solution is to keep his hand clamped on your mouth while you’re bent over his desk with his dick buried inside you. Propped up on your elbows with one knee placed on the surface beside you to give him better access you’re at his absolute mercy. And by the vibration of your cries of pleasure against his palm and how you edge yourself back to meet his thrusts halfway he’s sure it was exactly what you wanted.
“God you take this dick so good,” he grunts, struggling to keep his voice low while the crowd of students that had once covered up the sound of skin against skin dwindles by the minute. “You been waiting for this?” You nodd desperately against his hand, another moan tumbling out of your muffled lips. “You’ve been fucking torturing me. Looking at me with those fuck me eyes, rubbing your thighs together under your desk. But you’re in the fucking front row, you know I see it.”
He leans over your arched back and forces your head to the side so he can latch his lips to your neck, not bothering to worry about doing so in a spot you can cover easily. The grip your walls have on his cock tighten as you whimper into his hand. He devours your neck and can’t help but wonder if he’s the first one to ever mark your silken skin.
“You’ve been teasing me for two months,” he pants into your ear and rams into you with extra force when you shake your head ‘no’ against his. “No?”
You whimper against his hand before he moves it down to grab your chin and hold your face in place. “I didn’t mean to,” you manage to say at an acceptable volume with a voice that shakes with lust.
“Bullshit,” he says, tilting your head back and letting his thumb run across your throat. “Bet you knew I’ve been jacking off after you leave for two weeks.”
You clench around his cock with a pressure that makes his brain melt. “If I did I would never leave.”
It’s enough to send him over the edge, the string of pleasure low in his stomach so taught it’s bound to snap any second. “Fuck, Y/N, I’m close,” he grunts, releasing his grip on your chin and grabbing your hips.
He found that he felt you were too young for him to cum inside of and forces aside the guilt that immediately follows, thrusting into you with as much force as he can muster a few more times before forcing himself to pull out of you. To his absolute shock and delight you not only turn around but fall to your knees. The sight was straight from his dreams and he hardly gave you the chance to decide where you’d want to take him before the string low in his stomach snaps, the damn breaks, and everything comes to a boil.
Strings of seed shot out of him with haste, just as eager to ruin you as he had been, landing first across the bridge of your nose, then on one of your eyes, and then in your hair. The sight was devilishly delicious yet for a moment he still managed to panic in case it hadn’t been something you wanted. But as you let out a gasping breath your lips turn up in a smile and your cum covered cheeks flush crimson and his dick sighs happily as he jerks out the last bit of pleasure he has left.
As he takes a minute for his brain to resume its function you wipe some of his splattered load from off your face and lick your fingers clean as you move to stand. Once you were upright Steve grabs you by the face and drags you in for a rough kiss, hardly caring that some of his seed transfers from your face to his. You whimper against his lips while your fists grab fistfuls on the front of his shirt.
When he forces himself to separate from you he savors the sight of you; puffy and parted lips and adoring and curious eyes. He could have melted. “When can I see you again?” he asks. He simply can’t help himself.
Your smile nearly doubles in size. “Whenever you want.”