Chapter Text
Your name is John Egbert, and you think your Music Theory teacher wants your dick.
You're not sure, though; you're the most blushing of virgins it is you, but the way he looks at you, speaks to you, calls you out in the middle of class just.. gives you that vibe.
Not that you're complaining. Mr. Strider is one of the youngest teachers in the school. He's thirty five at the oldest, in his twenties at the youngest, and he's really attractive. Tanned skin, nicked with white scars here and there, golden blonde hair he normally keeps spiked up like a douche, though you can't argue it looks pretty good on him. His slacks were always just the right size, where they made his ass look fantastic but were still decent enough for a teacher, and his dress shirts always fit his broad shoulders well.
Yeah, you had a slight boner for your music theory teacher.
You would normally never act on it, but then detention happened.
He was putting some stupid notes on the board that you really didn't care about, and it just so happened your best bro (and Mr. Strider's little brother--oops) was equally bored in his geometry class, so you two were texting back and forth. It'd been going on for about half an hour before Mr. Strider looked up and apparently saw the reflection of your screen in your stupid glasses.
"Egbert." His voice was calm, almost bored-sounding when he called for you. You slipped your phone sneakily into your pocket, tried to play it cool.
"Yeeeees?" Oh shit, you're screwed.
"I saw that."
"Saw what, Mr. Strider?"
"Don't play innocent. There's no texting in class."
You tried to sink a little farther down in your seat, cheeks heating up. Shit, busted.
"Detention after school today. In with me 'til five." he said sternly.
"Yes, sir."
You were dreading it all through the day, and while you were sitting in your seat idly after a chemistry exam you found yourself wondering if other students would have to stay after, too. If it'd be just you and him alone for two hours.
Let's just say that train of thought ended with you shifting awkwardly, jeans all of a sudden way too tight.
At the end of the day you stall as much as you can, irrationally nervous. You walk to Mr. Strider's room and back to your locker the whole way across the school three times before realizing you have to face him sometime and quietly letting yourself into his room, shutting the door behind you.
"Hey, kid, have a seat," he said without looking up from his paperwork. You did, in a desk at the front of the room, and here you are now, looking up at him expectantly.
"What're you lookin' at me like that for?" he drawls, still not looking up. You're kind of weirded out that he could tell with his head buried in papers.
"Aren't you going to give me books to copy or something?" you ask. You're not actually sure what happens in detention. All you know is what bad pornos and high school movies taught you.
Mr. Strider snorts, amused. You're offended-- that was an honest question!
"You watch too many movies, kid. Nah, you're probably just going to sit there and watch me grade papers. I'll put some music on if y'want."
"Uh, yeah. That'd be great."
He turns some electronic shit on, likely something he mixed himself. You have the feeling you've heard it before, probably during one of your sleepovers with Dave. It's not your kind of music, but it's nice.
You catch him staring at you multiple times in the time you're sitting there, and by the time an hour passes, you're bored as fuck. That's when he calls your name, and you look up attentively, eager for anything that's going to entertain you.
"If you do something for me, I'll let you leave early."
"What?"
"Let me teach you how to fuck, since you weren't paying attention to me teach my lesson on music theory earlier."