AN: originally posted on Archive of Our Own under the user feedmyflame

Summary: He may be the professor, but she's the one handing out the assignments.

Rating: M

Pairings: Stefan/Katherine

Every time she goes to his class, Katherine sits in the back.

Most girls who try to get their professor's attention muscle each other out of the choice front row seats, where they can bat their eyes and drop their pencils and chime in every so often with insightful contributions. Not Katherine, though. She sits five rows behind everyone else, maybe twenty rows from the podium, at the highest point in the lecture hall. Back there, no one can see her.

Except, of course, for the professor. He can see her just fine.

There's a shuffle in the room as her classmates get out their notebooks and papers, but Katherine is perfectly still save for the motion of her fingers twirling a pencil. She's not exactly worried about her grade, and she's not exactly there to learn.

As soon as the professor walks into the room, in fact, learning is the farthest thing from her mind.

It starts in her eyes. They're brazen, unapologetic. His suits are no match for them; one guilty glance at her and he knows she can see right through the fabric to the skin underneath, and she spends the first ten minutes of the lecture just looking. She looks in a way that he can't escape; if he bends to shuffle papers, she watches the muscles in his back adjust. If he turns to write on the board, he's noticeably exposed from behind. If he steps from behind the podium, she squints, predatory, at the front of his slacks, practically licking her chops. By the time he's gotten through a complete thought she's fucked him head to toe without even shifting in her seat

Ethics is her favorite class, after all, if mostly for the irony. And Stefan—oops, Professor Salvatore—just looks so pretty teaching it.

Sooner or later, she's almost had her fill of looking (not quite, never quite enough). When he opens the floor for discussion, Katherine bites back commentary about the Metaphysics of Morals. They'll have plenty of time to discuss it in his office, after all. Plenty of opportunities for extra credit. In class, though, she lets the girls in front talk over each other in heated debate while she slowly sets her pencil down.

Casually, so casually, she rests her hand on her bare knee. There's not really a dress code at her university—they're not in high school, after all—but if there were, it's likely her skirt would have violated it. No language on the rulebooks expressly prohibits autoerotic foreplay in the classroom, either, so Katherine isn't technically breaking any rules when she starts to gently drum her fingers on her bent knee.

Stefan keeps his eyes averted, valiantly trying to focus on the discussion among his students, but the motion of her fingers stays in his peripherals; she's pretty sure she has his attention. Any lingering doubt is erased by the beads of sweat that form at his temples when the knee-drumming turns to slow strokes on her thigh, and she fights to keep the shit-eating grin off her face.

"Yes, that's a good point," Stefan says to one of the chattering girls when she runs out of steam. "Can you go a little deeper into that for us?" The girl's off again, blushing at his flattery, and Katherine sees his eyes unfocus a little as he steps back behind the podium, clearly tuning her out.

Tsk tsk, Professor, Katherine thinks with immense satisfaction. So much for nurturing young minds.

Determined to have him rock-hard by the end of the period, Katherine lets her eyes flutter a little as her fingers travel slowly up her thigh; they bunch the fabric of her skirt slightly, and she lets her knees ease apart. Her hand plays around her skin, slipping from the top of her leg around to the inside of it, inches from her underwear. She draws small circles there for his benefit and hers; the scrap of fabric under her skirt is already damp. She bites her lip and arches her back, arranges her face into a pleasured frown, and starts to move her fingers even further up…

"Ok, that's a good stopping place," the professor says abruptly, cutting off one of his pupils mid-sentence. "Thanks everyone, see you on Thursday. Ms. Pierce, would you mind sticking around for a few minutes?"

A couple of the front-row girls glare jealously at her as they file out, but Katherine barely notices. She packs up her things—well, her pencil—and tries very hard to keep her expression neutral as she saunters towards the desk.

But whatever could he want her to stay late for?

"What can I do for you, Professor?" Katherine's the picture of innocence—except for the fuck-me pumps she couldn't resist wearing. And the fact that she's standing just a hair closer than standard personal space convention dictates.

Adorably, he tries to look authoritative. Katherine has a hard time taking him seriously when she can see his boner through his slacks, but she cuts him a break and keeps her eyes on his face when he says,

"You can't do that anymore, Ms. Pierce. I'm your professor. It's…inappropriate."

"Do what?" She blinks widely. "I'm just here to learn. Honest."

The hand that slithers up his arm says different. He freezes, flits his eyes to her cleavage, then looks comically at the ceiling, as far from her as possible. Katherine keeps her hand on his arm—jesus, she can feel his biceps through his jacket—and the sound of two heels clacking, one two, cracks across the classroom as she slinks forward and purrs,

"Of course, there are a few things your lecture didn't cover."

"It's—" he gulps, talking more to himself than to her—"wrong…"

"Come on, Professor," she says sweetly, cutting him off. "I'm just trying to satisfy a little intellectual curiosity. Isn't it your job to encourage that?"

Before he can answer, she's slinking so close to him that he can smell the hint of perfume that hangs around her, the sweet honey on her breath, the touch of something else he tries very hard not to acknowledge.

"You're a fantastic teacher, by the way," Katherine says, stroking his arm. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't find your discussion of Kant to be very stimulating." Her lips tilt up to within six inches of his when she cocks her head with a sly smile and says, "Let me return the favor?"

She might as well be massaging his erection through his pants. He stutters something incoherent and she watches the struggle on his face, practically wishing she had a tub of popcorn. It's almost too easy, she thinks. Any second now…

And there it is. She sees the surrender in his brow the second before he grabs her by the hair with a growl, and the six inches between them drops to zero. It's less of a kiss than an attack; pressure builds when it's bottled, and she gets the impression he's been bottled for quite some time. He can't contain himself to her mouth; he smears deep red lipstick across her cheek, messy and ravenous. She gasps obligingly to feel him get even harder and suddenly the hand that's not clutching curls is fumbling at her shirt, back, ass, thigh, completely unable to focus on any one in its desperation. She's going to have to direct him, poor guy—he's so overwhelmed has no idea what do with her.

Lucky she's good at giving orders.

"Push me against the board," she whimpers between bites of his lip, and he doesn't need to be told twice—he turns her around and presses her against the words he'd written, a couple of the letters shaky from his earlier distraction. He's not quite as forceful as she'd like, but she guesses he's a good listener—she'll just have to be a little more specific next time.

White chalk dust collects on her back as she arches against it, pulling him into her by his shirt and bringing their lips back together. She grinds her hips up into his with purpose and draws another helpless moan into her mouth, which meets a lascivious grin. She keeps her voice low and finds his ear to breathe scorching words:

"You want to fuck me, don't you, Professor?"

He has no words to answer, just meaningless vocalizations, and she continues:

"I'll take that as a yes. Now listen carefully." Katherine pauses as Stefan rakes his teeth below her jaw. "Are you listening?"

Stefan's lost in her neck, hands still flying over her in rapid succession, and he nods distractedly against her. "Yes," he pants, "yes, I'm listening."

"When I tell you, you're going to throw me over that desk as hard as you can."

He angles his pelvis away to keep from coming too soon, keeping a safe distance from her hips and hanging on her every incredible word.

"You're going to shove my face into those lecture notes, push my skirt up, and fuck me from behind until you come so hard inside me you think you're going to pass out."

His mouth goes dry and he lets out what can only be described as a pitiful whine, so fucking close already and desperately trying to hold out for what she's describing, but it feels impossible.

"But first…" she moves her hands onto his shoulders and pushes lightly, guiding him down her frame as she says, "I want your tongue in my cunt until I'm wet enough to take it."

He drops to his knees instantly, hands skimming up her thigh and under her skirt to hook into the band of her scant panties. Gracelessly he shoves them down her legs, clumsy in his enthusiasm, and she works her hands into his hair, letting him support her as she spreads her legs and guides him where she wants him. No tender foreplay, no light stroking of her skin; she shoves him into her cunt without delay, beyond eager to see how the professor takes more precise direction.

"Now circle my clit slowly with your tongue," she breathes, a little less composed than when she'd issued her earlier directions; when he complies, moving brutally slowly around her and collecting her wetness on his lips in the process, her lungs flutter a little gasp and weakness creeps into her legs. He's a very good listener, as it turns out.

"Good," she says, tilting her head against the board, "now a little faster…" She closes her eyes to focus on the feel of his lips against her cunt. They're full, soft, and they play on her sensitive skin like there's nowhere else they'd rather be. He's gentle but deliberate. A hum escapes him; she feels slight vibration against her and her eyes roll back in pleasure. "Yes," she says breathlessly, "like that…" Encouraged, he tongues deeper, increasing his speed a little and working around the bundle of nerves until her whole body's arching up to meet him.

She makes sure he knows exactly when he hits the right spots, contorting and panting and pulling at his now-fucked hair. The empty classroom echoes with her orders as they mix with distracted expletives: "Shit, Professor, don't stop…"

Stefan wouldn't dream of stopping. The wetter he makes her now the sooner she'll let him fuck her, and he's about two seconds from exploding. Her breathing takes on a new urgency as he moves from quick flicks to slow draws along her. "Fuck," she mutters, thrown off guard as he takes some initiative with his pace. The pleasure spreads deep in her abdomen, and she's suddenly closer than she meant to be before taking him inside her.

"Desk," she barks. "Now."

She might as well have fired a starting pistol. Doubling the urgency with which he threw her against the wall, Stefan's up and grabbing her in an instant; her shirt rips as he yanks at it to pull her the three feet between her and the desk. She laughs appreciatively against the wood when he shoves her into it, forceful hand holding hers behind her back and pushing down into her ribs.

Yeah, he's been bottled up for a while.

He fumbles at his zipper and her sides move in and out with the draws of her lungs as she begs him to hurry. Torso trapped in place by his hand, she wriggles her lower half in impatient frustration. Her perfect ass, barely covered by her skirt, moves cruelly back against him; he's at a loss for fine motor control and nearly takes his dick off trying to get it out of his pants.

Finally he manages to free himself and his pants drop to his ankles, joining Katherine's underwear in proximity to the floor. If he could have stopped to look at her he might not have made it another moment—heels tensing sculpted calves, tanned thighs taut and spread, lip pinched between teeth, breasts almost falling out of her ruined shirt. He can't look much, though. He's busy shoving her skirt up around her waist, running his hand around her hips, holding her in place as he guides himself to her entrance.

Christ, she's wet—she still glistens on his chin as he feels the effects of his tongue on the tip of his cock, and he almost loses it right then and there. When she pushes back against him with a moan, he tries to think of anything, anything but her—anything but her bra straps falling down her shoulders, anything but the way she's rolling against the desk, anything but the sound of her shouts as he drives into her once, hard, and draws out slowly.

Needing both hands to ground her, he lets go of her arm and she snakes it around to feel the wetness he's created."Faster," she breathes. He hesitates—he's trying, trying so hard not to lose control yet, but she's fingering herself and has run completely out of patience. Her voice turns cruel. She yells into the desk: "Fuck me faster right now or I'll finish myself and make you watch."

Resigning himself to the fact that he'll never outlast her, he gives in to her demands with frenzied grunts. Jesus, she feels incredible; soft and tight at the same time, contracting around him in ways that make his eyes roll back, moving along his aching length in concert with his thrusts. She takes it as a point of pride that he's losing control inside her—rather than let him slow down, she speeds her own movements to catch him. When he drops his head against her shoulderblade and clutches for her chest with rapid pants, she pushes her hips into his with punishing speed and whines as firmness nudges repeatedly against a particularly swollen spot deep inside her. She pushes herself to the edge with rapid strokes, then feels his urgency peak and breathes a harsh order he can't help but obey:

"Now."

He gives an involuntary "ah" as contractions rack his body. The helpless unraveling of a man at her feet never fails to push Katherine's buttons, and she almost laughs as endorphins poise to flood her system. She brings herself to orgasm as he collapses weakly against her; she lets out a series of gasps that would have made him instantly hard again if it was physically possible. She writhes on his papers with uncontrolled spasms, and he's barely able to stay standing while he struggles to catch his breath. She gives a final shout and then comes briefly to rest under him with a satisfied half-laugh, half-sigh, enjoying the weight of him on top of her.

They lie against the desk for a few moments, neither eager to try supporting their own weight, until Stefan remembers himself and is once again coherent enough to feel insecure. He climbs awkwardly off her and reaches to pull up his wrinkled pants, stuttering,

"Did you—I mean, did you really—"

She stands and turns to give him a sated smile. The flushed glow makes her even more beautiful, if that's possible, and he's never cared less about ethics.

"If you're looking for an evaluation, Professor, I'd be happy to give one," she purrs, still slightly out of breath. She runs her fingers through his mussed hair and gently presses her lips to his to taste what's left of her on them before she says, "More than satisfactory."

He's saved the trouble of making further conversation by the sound of the classroom door swinging open. A stream of students starts to file in for his next lecture and she sees guilty panic take over his features, his hands frantically trying to rearrange his appearance into something resembling a teacher who didn't just fuck one of his students. Her face twists into a satisfied grin, and she ignores the scandalized stares of this lecture's round of front-row girls as she saunters out, the click of her heels scoring her exit.

She neglects to tell him he forgot to zip his fly.

fin.