#LMAO WTF | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

wyn-n-tonic · 1 year

Text

Well Read

Pairing: Teacher Ben (SNL) x f!reader Word Count: 3.0k+ Warnings: Unprotected PiV. Naughty teacher fantasy talk. Breeding kink. Author's Note: The brainrot settled in fast on this one. The gif is just a gif, there are no descriptions of reader.

Please follow @wyn-writing and turn on updates for notifications. You can sign up for my taglist HERE.

Masterlist

Thunder rattles the old windows in the half rotten frames of the classroom. The glass panes barely hanging on as rain leaks through the small openings around the window air conditioning unit you had to buy with your own money.

It’s been three years and barely hanging on, having been run for eight hours or more every day all school year long.

Ben laughed the first cold day when he walked in and heard the heavy hum, even laughed until you turned it off and let him feel for himself that it’s the only airflow in the otherwise gas range oven that is your classroom.

Everybody has already gone home, it’s well passed three and all the kids who aren’t in electives or detention have left to go live their lives.

Not you, though. Your planning hour was spent breaking up a brawl between hormonal teenage boys fighting over… fucking PokeMon cards because it is apparently still the fucking nineties. No planning hour means now you’re here well after work.

Because that’s the rule this year—work stays at work.

The other half of that is that home stays at home but that doesn’t stop Ben from pushing through the door before knocking.

His own backpack is slung over his shoulder, lunchbox in hand, and he asks if you’re almost finished. “Come on, I want to get dinner started.”

“Then go get dinner started.”

Not cold but not warm either. Flat. Voice pressured down from a day of shit just building higher on shit.

“We drove in together, sweetheart,” he reminds you. “Your car’s in the shop.”

“I'll take a Lyft,” you shrug, only glancing back up at him long enough catch the way his face falls. “I'll see you at home, I have a lot of work to catch up on.”

“Hey.” His voice is gentle and you hear the sound of his bags falling on a desktop; hear his footfalls coming closer until his large hand is covering yours. He takes the pen out of your hand and lifts your chin to look up at him with the other. “Let’s call it quits today, it’s been a tough one and I think that you could really use a nice dinner and an even bigger glass of wine.”

“But—“ You gesture to the pile of essays that need to be graded; the blank test template you need to make copies of. There are no more words left in you today, they’re defeated out by the storm and the air conditioner and the bells and the fighting and all the talking back.

Ben smirks. “Mark all of them with an A, give the kids a break because you need a break, sweetheart, let’s go home.”

“That's not fair, Benjamin,” you tell him. “That’s not fair to the kids who put the work in on these essays to give everybody the same score.”

He closes my planning book next and takes my hand. “You know what’s not fair? That you don’t give yourself a break—ever. It’s not fair that I had to put a hard rule down on work stuff being brought into our home the moment we moved in together.”

"Please just let me bring this home today, Benny,” you practically plead. “I’ll finish while you’re making dinner and then I’m all yours, I’ll take a break.”

Eyes hardening, he shakes his head. “No, sweetheart, because your idea of a break isn’t what you actually need. What you need”—he bends down, voice lowered—“is a hot bath, a glass of wine and to get every thought absolutely fucked out of your brain.”

While he lets those words settle into your ears, he takes your hand and examines your nails. “I like this color,” he says, the pad of his rough thumb swiping over the polish. “Brianna’s getting better at this every time and if you don’t think you’re a good teacher because you put yourself first for one night, I want you to think of the very huge impact you have on students like her just by letting her do your nails during study hall.”

Laughing, you tell him you doubt that. “You're her favorite teacher, she said you’re the first one to not make her read dumbass shit she’s not interested in.”

“No, you’re her favorite,” he insists, coming around the desk to start packing up my bag for me. “She told me that you let her paint your nails and listen to music even if it has curse words.” He stops, looks down at you. “I also think she’s trying to set us up… should we let her know we’re getting married?”

“Oh, are we getting married, Benjamin?” You ask him, arms crossed. “People who are getting married usually set a date, we’re just engaged.”

“For now.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

Deep breath. “It will be if you don’t get your ass in the car and let me take you home.”

Wine in hand, you watch him work from the doorway, wondering how long it will take him to notice you there. On nights that he cooks, the routine is always similar; he puts you in the bath with a very large glass of wine and a book and he takes to the kitchen with headphones in his ears and two deep lines of concentration between his eyebrows.

No headphones are in tonight, though. Instead, his audiobook plays loudly from the speaker beside the stove. On the way home, he asked if everything was okay other than the school day getting to you. Even with confirmation that you were fine, he squinted his eyes and tried to study you—to read you.

“Are you going to stand there all night?” He asks, not looking up from the task at hand. “Or are you going to come over here and kiss me?”

Taking the glass from your hand, he takes the final drink and sets it to the side. “We'll refill that later. How do you feel?”

“Better.” And you can finally appreciate the way his pants are hugging him today; the soft slope of his belly slight but visibly accentuated by the way the belt cuts into him. “You haven’t untucked your shirt.”

“Was I supposed to?” He laughs.

“I mean… you’re home but”—palming the thick bulge over the black polyester, you push closer—“I’m glad you didn’t, I haven’t gotten to appreciate how handsome you look today.”

“That’s okay, I’m sure there will be another fan cam tomorrow,” he whispers, fingers brushing along the swell of your cheek. “Do you want to eat and then”—lips drawn tight, he rocks his head back and forth in suggestions—“or do you want to do that and then eat?”

“You,” you tell him, fingers hooked into his waistband to pull him further as you stand up on your tiptoes. “My head hurts and I want you and everything else comes second.”

You don’t have to tell him twice. He switches the burners off with enthusiasm and follows you through to the living room, large hands crawling up the t-shirt that you stole just to land on your bare hips with wide eyes. “Are you not wearing panties?”

“Wanted to make your job easier for you.”

All his soothing words make the days and the nights and everything that is hard better; they make everything that is good great. Three years ago when this idiot wandered into your classroom to introduce himself as your new neighbor, he caught you on a similarly bad day and it annoyed the shit out of you. Especially after he made fun of all your maps.

Now, he’s pulling his sweater over his head and tossing it to the side after throwing you into the never made ocean of sheets and blankets that is your bed. Your shared bed in your shared home.

He starts to pull at the button up, untucking it slowly and struggling with the buttons out of nerves. That bulge of his is already so much larger than when you groped him in the kitchen and the belt buckle is moving with every shallow, belly breath he takes.

“Come here,” you say, pushing yourself up to your knees and moving forward towards him. “Let me help.”

Even when he’s the one in charge, this confident man with his soft brown eyes, he fumbles under nerves like he’s half expecting you to lash out in impatience. It’s what his ex did and you’re not a fan of her for it—or anything else for that matter—but there’s something about the relief of safety that washes over him in these moments that warm you up to the tips of your ears.

You can trust him with your bad days just as much as your good; he can trust you with his insecurities just as much as his confidences.

“You know,” you start, buttons easily coming undone with the work of your fingers. “Sometimes I think about coming into your classroom on your planning period and having you take me right there on your desk.”

“On my desk?” He asks through a smile. “Baby, you know how much trouble we’d get in.”

“Only if we get caught, Mr. Ben,” you whisper against his lips as you push the fabric off his broad shoulders. “Come on, I’ve always had a hot for teacher fantasy.”

“You are feeling better,” he smiles. “Maybe you don’t need me to fuck your brain empty after all.”

He does it to make you beg and, despite knowing this, you fall for it every time—whine for him every time.

A soft push meets your shoulders and he nods back to the pillows in encouragement.

“Don't take your belt off yet,” you beg him as he follows you up on the mattress but he only laughs, says he has to because he’s been aching after you for hours and needs a little relief now.

Hours but you’ve only been home for one, maybe two. “Are you saying this isn't just about making me feel better?”

He shakes his head, lips pursed, and he throws the belt over to the side as well. “You’re ovulating,” he says, “and the only thing I have thought about since I woke up and checked our fertility calendar is how badly I’ve wanted to get you home and put a baby in you.”

Oh god, that explains so much.

Laying back under his guidance, you spread your legs open for him and watch him take you in. Years now and it doesn’t get old; soft brown eyes studying you in silent awe, mouth open with the occasional smirk pulling up a corner of his lips. It’s like he’s reading how you want it from him and you hope he never stops.

Leaning forward between your legs, he takes a deep breath and then spits on your aching center, eyes up towards you as it falls. He doesn’t wait long after that—doesn’t play with his food as he likes to joke.

Everything is on fire already as he lays an open mouthed kiss to your core, soft moans vibrating into you and up through your own throat as you grab for his hair.

He’s a ravenous kind of lover when he wants to be but tonight he seems more focused on taking you apart slowly with the warm press of his tongue between your legs.

Not long and you’re crying for him, actually crying. Softly sobbing his name out as his nose rubs against your clit with his tongue buried deep into your entrance for more than just a taste.

You can feel him smiling with every shuddering breath as you grasp for purchase on the sheets and pleasure floods your brain.

Then he takes his mouth away, face shining with your slick as your eyes meet with some kind of electric charge between you as your chests rise and fall in time with one another.

“I feel like I should probably take your temperature,” he says finally, large hands held out as if he’s weighing his options. “Make sure your cute body is the right environment for implantation right now but—“

He goes on but you’ve tuned that out, focused in on the deep wells his fingers make as they curve over in a half closed fist. Everything about him is so gentle, including those hands and the way they hold you—the way you know they’d hold your baby.

“You're not a science teacher,” you finally say. “So save the lesson and let me make you a dad.”

It was one of the first things he ever told you—maybe the second or the third date—when you talked about your dreams and does life now look like what you wanted when you were younger. He’d said his biggest dream was to be a dad. Maybe you shouldn’t have fallen in love with him on those words alone but there was something about him that just made sense and fit perfectly into all your big dreams and big plans too.

You could see a future with this man—a family and years of happiness in those soft brown eyes.

Pants off now, he fists himself as he crawls back onto the bed. You just had sex two nights ago and, yet, somehow you feel like you haven’t been full for him in weeks. The thunder hasn’t stopped either and it’s amplifying how intense it all feels with him right now but, then, it always does when he talks about the big, life altering things he wants with you.

Slowly, he pushes in, grip on your hips tightening with every aching inch he gives to you until he’s fully seated. Those hands run up the expanse or your body beneath your shirt as he gathers the fabric and gently pulls it over your head as you lift up towards him. Only then, after a quick look down your body to the place you’re both connected, does he lay himself down on you.

Face still shiny with what you’ve given him already, he smiles into the small, closed lipped kiss he presses into you.

“Your mustache is soaked,” you tell him when he pulls back, trying to ignore the pulsing inside of you.

Those lines of concentration back between his eyebrows, he nods and starts to pull out of you before pushing back in with a groan. “And this needy little pussy is why.”

“Is pussy an appropriate word for a highly educated English teacher to be using?” You ask, goading him into coming back down and pressing that tongue of his into your mouth this time. “Such profanities are unbecoming of such a man—“

“Your cunt,” he interrupts you, one hand coming up to rest around your throat, “is so wet that I can feel it pulling me deeper and all I’m doing is just sitting here, looking at you and trying not to bust early.”

“It's okay if you do," you shrug. “You've already given me an orgasm.”

But he shakes his head and leans back down, tells you to open your mouth and spits there too before pushing his tongue flat down on yours. It catches you off guard just enough that his first real thrust is even more of a surprise and that grip he holds on your throat moves to cradles the back of your head.

The sounds in the bedroom are lewd and only covered by the sound of the rain and thunder that continue to shake the walls of your home.

He’s not rushing, though. Not trying to run through you like just another task. The care he takes with and the concentration he places into you are the reasons you find yourself over the edge in such achingly efficient time. But that doesn’t mean he follows you over and calls it a night.

No, he takes his time until you’re nothing but jelly in his hold. Eyes glazed over, curls wrapped around your fingers and begging for breath and God and him with every thrust that feels like it goes deeper and deeper.

“Are you going to make fun of me if I tell you I love you?” You ask against his lips as his concentration and pace both start to falter. “Because ovulating or not, you would’ve still fucked me like this just for having a bad day and I-I—oh fuck—” Your muscles are seizing up beneath the surface of your skin and it pushes a moan straight into his greedy mouth.

“I would never make fun of you,” he breathes out heavily. “I would fuck you like this even if we couldn’t have kids; I will fuck you like this on every good day or bad day you have for the rest of your life if that’s what you want.”

Languid and slow, the way his tongue moves against yours is confusing your interpretation of his rhythm between your legs even as it picks up again. Every nerve in your body is screaming for him, alive and on fire beneath him and around him with his soft kisses and hard thrusts.

A deep sigh of relief finally leaves his lips as he swells inside of you and warmth rushes through you and out around him to start pooling and cooling beneath your bare body.

Being finished doesn’t mean he leaves though. He stays inside of you, twitching and thrusting occasionally as he continues kissing you with his hands hooked around your shoulders and every ounce of his body weight pressing down into you.

This man treats you with an intimacy you never knew could exist. Not for you, at least. He is hungry and in love and both insatiable for and always satisfied with you. He reads you like he wrote you; knowledge of your body and your brain and your heart encoded so deeply into him and you know—you feel it deep down in the pit of your being—that this will only grow as you do and your family does.

"Did that help get all the thoughts out of your head, sweetheart?” He asks, laying his forehead against yours.

A few deep breaths is all the confirmation he needs until, finally, you say, “I think I forgot to turn off the air conditioner.”

#lol what to tag this as?#teacher ben my beloved #teacher ben (snl)#mr. ben (snl)#teacher ben x reader #teacher ben x you #teacher ben fanfiction #mr. ben x reader #mr. ben x you #lmao wtf #snl #saturday night live #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character #o writes

352 notes · View notes